Page 39 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
‘Since when is “end this protest” translatable to “create a website to further push this protest”?’ Harrison is saying.
He really doesn’t seem to get the concept of going undercover. ‘They’re old. They didn’t know how websites worked. Youtoldme to pretend to be on their side. They have to think I’m part of their protest.’ The words sting as they come out of my mouth. Iampart of their protest, but if I admit that, I’ll lose my job, and if I admit the truth to the residents, they’ll never believe I was ever genuine.
‘Hmm.’ Harrison is clicking the pen again. ‘It sounds windy so I assume you’re there actually doing your job and not wasting thispaidholiday time in some other frivolous way. None of them are listening to this, are they?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ If he knows I’m alone, he’s going to send the builders in to secure the site within a matter of minutes, and if I’m not alone, he’s going to question how I can have this conversation without being overheard. ‘They’re all deaf,’ I say quickly. ‘The wind has played havoc with their hearing aids.’
I’ve clearly taken to being underhanded and deceitful far too easily. I don’t know whether to be concerned or impressed that I even thought of that.
‘How many of them are there?’
‘Right now?’ I look out at the empty strawberry patch. ‘Oh, plenty. It’s very crowded.’
‘And what are their plans?’
‘Plans?’
‘For the protest. What are they going to do next?’
‘I don’t know.’ I brace myself for the yelling that will inevitably follow, but I can’t tell him anything. It’s not for him to know.
‘You don’t know?’ He doesn’t sound as surprised as I expected. ‘I expect you were too busy being headbutted by a sheep to find out?’
I glance down at Baaabra, who’s still watching me judgementally.
‘I’m following @BeachBattleaxe,’ Harrison explains before I have time to question it. ‘Since you got there, the protest now has a website, and you’re its mascot being headbutted by a sheep. Being headbutted by a sheep wasnoton your agenda, Felicity!’
‘I didn’taskto be headbutted by a flipping sheep,’ I snap. ‘Is being headbutted by a sheep onanyone’sagenda?’
‘You’re a gif on Twitter!’
‘I’m trying, okay? You told me to go undercover and Iam. What more do you want?’
He’s quiet for a moment, probably surprised into silence by me snapping at him. There’s a first time for everything – both his silence and me saying boo to a curly-moustachioed goose. ‘I want results.’
‘And you’ll get them, but I need a bit longer.’
‘You’ve had a week and a half! This is not a free holiday, Felicity. Don’t think I’m paying you to have fun with a sheep.’
The line goes dead and I blink at the blank screen in my hand. That went about as well as I expected.
How the heck am I going to get out of this? There are only two options – walk away and go back to London, tell Harrison I couldn’t do it, and hope he lets me keep my job, or … Actually that’s it. That is theonlyoption.
But itisn’tan option. Running away, never stopping to look back, leaving this place and these people behind. Losing touch with Ryan again, knowing he’s going to find out this terrible secret about me. Just like last time when he realised in the most embarrassing way possible that I’d been harbouring a gigantic crush on him for all the years we’d worked together. I ran away then, but I don’t want history to repeat itself. And I don’t want to leave. I don’t want this tree to be cut down, or the strawberry patch to be destroyed after it’s somehow survived all these years, or the quirky bunch of residents to lose their garden space and have a soulless hotel plonked in front of their windows. I don’t want this beautiful landscape to be defined by a modern architecture-style building sticking out like a strawberry in a bowl of sweetcorn. I want to help. Not because Harrison wants me to, but because I can’t bear the thought ofnothelping.
Baaabra Streisand is still watching me like she’s understood every word of this conversation and is severely condemning me.
‘I’m sorry, okay?’ I say to her. ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen.’
And then I realise I’m talking to a sheep. A sheep who intensely dislikes me.
She does the sheep version of a snort and walks around, hunting out the remains of my umbrella and starts shredding what’s left of the fabric, spitting out pieces of it with revulsion, like it somehow demonstrates how much she disapproves of me.
The conversation with Harrison makes me double my efforts with the website, and I hunker down, adding pages and hammering out descriptions so quickly that the laptop rocks under my fingers.
Harrison isnothaving this tree if it’s the last thing I do.
I get the website into a reasonable state with all forms and contact info working correctly, and even though it needs prettying up a bit, it will do. I open the emails Tonya sent last night with some names and details of the people behind some carvings, and dial the first number.
