Page 61 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
The article is beautiful as well. The headline reads “No more wishes at the magical seaside sycamore tree?” and it gives a perfect rundown of the tree – the carvings and the stories behind them, the strawberry patch and Henrietta’s wish to see it as it used to be, and the plight of the care home residents losing their garden space to a hotel. It finishes with links to our website, Tonya’s Twitter account, and the petition, and there’s an appeal for readers to share their stories if they’ve ever visited the seaside sycamore tree.
Godfrey’s signing copies. He’s such a celebrity that he might start charging for his autograph soon. Even Baaabra Streisand has been relocated to a gatepost at the upper end of the land, so she doesn’t get disturbed by people looking at the carvings.
There’s a steady stream of customers all morning. Other residents come out to support their friends, the staff get involved, and Steffan skulks around, pacing from the driveway to the rear of the building and back again, peering over the hedge every time he passes.
There are so many strawberries on plants, and with the sun out, they seem to be ripening in front of our eyes. The tree is a huge hit with visitors, and there are many disappointed children because it’s still summer and the huge bunches of sycamore seeds dangling high above aren’t ready to fall yet.
By lunchtime, Ryan and I, Tonya, and Godfrey have done countless interviews, both in person and over the phone. We’re going to be on the local news tonight and a special interest program on Monday night. The biggest UK-wide newspapers have already published stories about us on their websites, and the number of signatures on the petition is going up every second. Tonya’s grandson keeps shouting out random numbers like 18,137 and 20,989. It’s a gorgeous day and there are plenty of people on their way down to the beach who come in to pick a punnet of fresh strawberries to go with their picnics.
Tonya’s phone hasn’t stopped ringing, Ryan’s assistant at the campsite keeps putting calls through to his mobile, and I’m in the middle of telling a little girl about how I used to pick strawberries here when I was her age when my phone starts buzzing and Harrison’s name flashes up. Even though I was expecting it at any moment, it still makes me jump.
Of course, I’d forgotten to put it on silent, and the loud ringing and buzzing has attracted everyone’s attention, including Ryan’s. The idea of talking to Harrison in front of the people I’m betraying is detestable, but now I can’t even quietly ignore him because that’s going to make them even more suspicious.
‘Go on, Fliss,’ Godfrey says helpfully. ‘I can manage here.’
I reluctantly put the phone to my ear and say his name so brightly that my voice has probably just registered on the National Grid.
Nothing.
‘Harrison? Hello?’
I pull the phone away from my ear but the screen still shows the call is connected.
‘Are you there?’
Silence.
I can’t talk to him here anyway. Apart from being overheard saying something a chef wouldn’t say, there’s so much din from strawberry pickers and people visiting the tree that I can’t hear myself think.
‘I’m going to …’ I say to Godfrey, waving the phone around and gesturing towards the gate.
Like he can sense my unease, Ryan’s watching me from across the patch. ‘Okay?’ he mouths.
I give him a thumbs up and quickly hurry out of the gate, feeling very muchnot-okay. ‘Harrison? Are you there?’
I put a finger in the other ear to try to block out the noise around me. I can hear the office sounds behind him so I know he’s there, but he’s silent. Like he’s too appalled with me to even speak. This can only be a bad thing, and I brace myself for the yelling that will inevitably follow.
‘Well, this looks like quite a love story.’ He surprises me by talking quietly instead of yelling, although the yelling would be preferable to the menacing tone in his voice.
He’s obviously read the article. I am recognisable then. I was hoping I might’ve got away with it.
‘A love story?Noooo.Noo-oo.’ No one needs to put that much emphasis on a simple “no”. I couldn’t make it sound anymorelike a love story if I’d tried.
I go up the coastal path and huddle in a corner of the hedge between the pathway and the car park, trying to find somewhere quiet. ‘I can’t really talk right now.’
He laughs a mocking laugh. ‘Oh, I assure you, Felicity, youcanfind time to talk now.’
‘I’m doing my job,’ I hiss into the phone. ‘I’m doing what you told me to.’
‘You’re hugging some guy on a strawberry patch! Sharing food with him!’
Ah, there’s the yelling.
‘A strawberry patch that did not exist until you got there. And this is the same guy from the sheep video, isn’t it? Is this the campsite-owning Tree Idiot?’
‘Er … no? That’s someone els—’
‘It says here “Local campsite owner, Ryan Sullivan!”’
