Page 42 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
‘I didn’t mean today. Fee, I meant always.’ He pushes himself away from the tree and drags a hand through his dark hair, and the ends that are starting to curl over catch on his fingers. ‘We shouldn’t have lost touch, and I know it was my fault, and—’
‘Well, these things happen, don’t they?’ I say, breezier than the gale-force winds that were battering the cliff earlier.
He looks at me for a long moment, waiting, expecting me to say something more.
‘Baaabra Streisand hasn’t murdered you yet then?’ he says when I don’t. He makes his way around the tree and I hear his boots scraping against the trunk’s natural footrest to hoist himself up.
‘Not yet, but I think she wants to. She’s been plotting something all day.’
‘Probably how to snaffle out more strawberries.’ He pulls himself up into the tree easily, unlike the flaily mess I’ve made of it today with a sheep snapping at my heels.
Inside the bag are two hefty portions of chips and vegetarian fish, and I’m so touched that he remembered, that it’s a fight with myself not to well up as I get out the two packages. There’s no one in my life who knows what my favourite restaurant isnow, never mind has remembered it from over a decade ago.
He sits cross-legged beside me and I plonk one of the white paper packages in his lap and start unwrapping my own, the rustling paper attracting Baaabra’s attention, who gets up and comes to the trunk, looking up at us with the sheep equivalent of puppy dog eyes, her furry nose sniffing the air with interest.
It smells like real fish and chips, and it’s liberally drizzled with vinegar and sea salt, complete with a little wooden fork, and steam rises into the night air as I dive in.
‘Thank you,’ I say around a mouthful of the most perfect crisp-on-the-outside and fluffy-on-the-inside chips.
He puts a chip between his teeth and grins around it. ‘You’re welcome.’
He always was the kind of guy who would never leave the office without bringing something back for me. Chocolate, a hot drink, a cream cake from a bakery he’d passed, or any other little thing he’d thought I’d like. The kind of guy who could take one look at me and know there was something wrong, who instinctively knew if I needed a hug, a cup of tea, a bar of chocolate, or all three.
He makes a noise of pleasure. ‘Oh, this is so good. It’s beenyears.’
‘Don’t you go there often? If I still lived here, I’d go thereallthe time.’
He stops mid-chip and looks up at me. ‘I couldn’t. Not after you … It wouldn’t have been right. It would’ve been like a betrayal or something to eat at your favourite restaurant without you. Besides, it was my favourite because it wasyourfavourite. I loved getting takeaways from therewithyou. Without you, it would’ve made me miss you too much.’
I almost swallow my own tongue, never mind the whole mouthful of chips I was stuffing down.
His cheeks redden and he looks away, picking out a chip, testing it for coolness, and throwing it to the waiting sheep below.
I watch the trajectory as it lands, and Baaabra Streisand looks a lot less interested in it than she did moments ago. ‘Is there anything she won’t eat?’
‘She doesn’t eat much, really. However, sheloveschewing things up for the sole purpose of destroying them. Tory leaflets are her favourite. Mr Barley collects them for her at election times.’
Her fussiness is proved when she plods over to the chip, considers it uninterestedly before eventually deigning to pick it up with her teeth and promptly spit it out again. She looks up and gives Ryan what can only be described as such a death glare that it makes me laugh out loud.
We’re quiet for a while as we eat and the tree is filled with noises of content. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was, and how happy something so simple makes me.
‘How’d it go today?’ I ask.
‘Really well.’ He half-stumbles over his words as they fall out in a rush, like he meant to tell me before. ‘Henrietta was having a good day. She knew who Godfrey was and cried because she’d missed him so much. It doesn’t happen often, but he couldn’t stop smiling all the way home. I’m really glad we went. Sorry we’ve been ages. He wanted to stay with her for as long as possible, then there were roadworks and his back gives him gip if he sits still for too long, so we stopped at the services for a leg stretch. Thanks for staying.’
‘It’s fine. It’s been fun.’ I tell him about Edie and the second phone call I made to a number Alys sent over – a man who had scattered his dog’s ashes here because his dog had always loved playing with falling sycamore seeds every autumn. He lives far away now, but wanted to sign the petition and pass it on to his friends and family.
By the time we finish, it’s late evening and the pink-tinged storm clouds are still hanging over the ocean and the mist is rolling in, making it seem darker than it would usually be at this time.
The chain is back around Ryan’s waist and he’s settled in for the night. I should be going home, but I can’t make myself move. The more time I spend with him, the worse this all gets, but he’s here and his leg is warm where it’s pressed against mine. My laptop battery ran out, so now we’re fiddling with the website on his, and he keeps leaning closer to show me things and I have to tilt my head so close that it could almost be resting on his shoulder, and it’s nice somehow. Every part of my brain is screaming at me to keep my distance from him, but every part of my heart is warm and fuzzy because he makes me feel special and important in a way that no one has in many years.
Every boyfriend I’ve ever had, and admittedly they’ve been few and far between, has ended up fizzling out like a candle in the rain. Over the years, even if I’ve liked someone, I’ve always held back. I know what happens when you throw yourself at a man, and it wasn’t a mistake I was going to make twice. I’ve never plucked up the courage to tell anyone I like them, and even in a relationship, I’ve always kept boyfriends at arm’s length. Never made the first move, never gone in for another kiss, never said an “I love you” first. I’m always terrified of being rejected again. One guy I dated told me I was hard work and closed-off as we broke up, and it’s probably accurate. What happened with Ryan made me second-guess every feeling I’ve ever had from then on, because if I can get it so wrong once, what’s to say I won’t again?
And then there’s the whole chef thing. I’m lying to him and he’s never going to forgive me when he finds out. I should get it over with, tell him now, make sure he knows that this has become so much more than my job, but when I glance at him, steeling myself to say something, he catches my eyes and a smile turns his mouth halfway up, and that enormous butterfly starts swishing around inside me, and I don’t say anything.
We’re both distracted by the noise of a door closing up at the care home, and the beam of torchlight as someone makes their way towards the tree.
‘Godfrey?’ Ryan calls, clearly possessing better old people recognition skills than me.
