Page 52 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
I manage to step away without falling over anything this time, pick up the garden fork and put some space between us. ‘I’ll start over here and we’ll meet in the middle. There’s no time to lose if we want to open by Saturday.’
Which is not exactly a lie, but I’ve been getting far too close to Ryan again, too many touches, too many hugs, and it can’t continue. I’m not staying here for much longer, and that’s without the whole aspect of not having told him what I really do for a living and having been lying to everyone since the moment I got here. He thinks we’re friends, but a friend would’ve told him the truth by now.
‘Excuse me?’ It’s that afternoon when an elderly man appears at the gate. ‘Is this where the sycamore tree protest is?’
It reminds me that we need to redo all the signs. Mr Barley found some pieces of plywood and is in the process of painting them up to put out on the road to advertise the strawberry patch reopening this weekend. Ryan’s started laying down the weed-proof fabric between plants and is trying to map out some sort of path for visitors to follow, because the random popping up of plants is the opposite of how they used to be in neat rows, and we’ve had to cut through all the runners so they don’t trip anyone up.
I stand up and lean on the fork I’m still using to twist out the last of the blackberry roots. ‘It is. How can we help?’
‘Only that tree helped me once, and I had a flyer through my door this morning saying what was happening to it, and I’d like to do my bit in return. What can I do?’
‘It helped you?’ I ask.
Ryan has left the roll of weed-proof fabric and is making his way up from the other end of the strawberry patch. He stands next to me and goes to shake the man’s hand but glances down at his muddy ones and thinks better of it.
‘I’m Ellis,’ the elderly gent says. ‘When I heard you were looking for stories about it, I wanted to share mine. That tree saved my life.’
Ryan’s eyes meet mine and we both shuffle closer to hear his story.
‘I was a sailor in the Royal Navy. It was a few years after the war when we had an accident. We were somewhere in the Bristol Channel, and we collided with something under the water, hard enough to crush the fuel tanks. There was an explosion. I was thrown from the ship, dazed and concussed. I came round floating in the water, not knowing where I was. I’d lost my hearing in the blast so everything was muffled, there was blood in my eyes and I could barely see anything. I knew drowning was a real danger if I expended my energy in struggling against the tide, so I floated on my back, but I didn’t know where I was or which way I was going, I could’ve been heading into a busy shipping lane or a riptide for all I knew, and I kept looking around for a landmark or something, and out of nowhere, the sycamore appeared on the horizon. I was who knows how many miles out that way.’ He points out to the sea beyond. ‘I’d seen it many times before in passing, knew it was on the coast of Wales, so I kept my eyes on it, knowing if I kept going towards it, I’d reach land.’
‘And you did?’
He points towards the cliff to our left. ‘By the time I got near there, the coastguard were combing the beaches for survivors. They said I was lucky to be alive, but I don’t think I would be if it wasn’t for the tree. I’d got all turned around in the accident. If that treehadn’thave been on the horizon, I’d have headed further out to sea, and that could only have ended one way.’
‘There’s an anchor carved on the tree.’ Ryan holds a hand out towards it. ‘With the initials “E.M” and the words “January 1949 ~ Thank you.” That wasn’t you, was it?’
‘Gosh, is that still there?’ He looks at the tree in wonder, blinking watery eyes in the afternoon sunlight. ‘Yes, it was me. Itwasmy anchor. I was in hospital for months, and when they finally let me out, I wanted to pay tribute to it in some way – to let it know what it had done for me.’
I don’t know what it is about hearing these tree stories, but I’ve got a lump in my throat and if he says much more, I’m going to burst into tears again. I look over at Ryan and he meets my eyes and gives me a tiny smile, and I have absolutely no doubt that he feels the same.
‘Would you like to see it again?’ Ryan offers to escort Ellis down there.
‘I would. I wondered if it would fade. Apparently they say only the carvings of the truest love stories stay, and mine wasn’t exactly a love story.’
‘A life story,’ Ryan says, his eyes on mine. ‘The most important kind there is.’
‘I’d like to stay and help, if there’s anything I can do,’ Ellis says as he goes to grip Ryan’s outstretched arm.
‘Tonya will sort you out with something.’ I point out the pink-haired lady who’s currently talking on the phone with a notebook in one hand doing such serious negotiating that I feel quite sorry for whoever’s on the other end.
Ellis thanks us both and walks with Ryan down to the tree. Baaabra Streisand, who is still sulking about not being able to snaffle any more strawberries, gets up from her dog basket like it’s an imposition on her time, but she simplymustinvestigate whether he has any food about his person.
Once thoroughly investigated, Ellis strokes the sheep’s head as Ryan points out the carving, and then shows him up to the picnic table to keep Mr Barley on track with the signs he’s painting.
He walks back down to where I’m pretending to still be digging out blackberry roots and not watching his every move. His hands are still covered in rapidly drying mud, but he nudges me with his elbow. ‘Told you there was a story behind that anchor.’
I can see the emotion in his eyes, and the urge to give him a hug is too strong. ‘C’mere, you.’
‘I’m all muddy.’
‘So am I.’ I let my fork drop and hold my hands out in front of me. ‘No touching, I promise.’
He steps into my arms and ducks so my head fits on his shoulder. His arms come up around me and his elbows press into my back, holding his dirty hands away from my pale yellow T-shirt, and he somehow manages to bend double enough for his head to drop onto my shoulder too.
‘Thanks, Fee.’ He breathes the words against my neck.
‘I didn’t do anything.’ I’m not a hundred per cent sure that the words come out because I’m lost in a flood of his warm body, tight hug, and cologne, but his arms tighten around me so I assume he’s heard something.
