Page 60 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
‘Picking blackberries, apparently,’ Ffion says. ‘We’ve given up on trying to stop Mr Barley now as long as they’re not naked or doing something that would scar innocent children for life.’
The care home owner, Steffan, is skulking around at the top of the driveway, pacing back and forth in front of the entrance to the white brick building. I watch as he does a circle of the building and returns, and I get the feeling he’s trying to keep his eyes on everything at once, and is maybe a bit overwhelmed by it all.
He catches me looking, and I give him a nod, and when he returns it, I try a wave that ends up coming out more like a salute. Maybe we should have got him involved in this. Everyone has treated him as an enemy because he’s selling the land, but he’s obviously having second thoughts, or I wouldn’t be here.
I see Ryan straight away when I walk into the strawberry patch, the temporary metal gates thrown aside to welcome visitors. He’s near the two trestle tables that have been set up as a checkout area and are currently manned by Godfrey and Mr Barley. He’s putting together make-your-own punnets ready for customers to grab and fill and then pay £2.50 for as they leave. There are already a few people putting strawberries into the recyclable handled boxes, taking their pick from the hundreds of plants.
Ryan grins when he sees me, and that familiar warmth floods in again. There’s something so nice about feeling like people are pleased to see you. It doesn’t happen in London. The people at work are about as indifferent to me as they are to the staff water dispenser in the corner, but here, since the moment Cheryl greeted me in the train station car park, I’ve felt wanted and welcome.
He’s wearing a plain blue T-shirt today, which arguably does more for his biceps than his usual tank top look does. The sleeves are positively straining around muscular arms, and he’s got on black three-quarter-length cargo trousers with his feet shoved into trainers instead of hiking boots, and I can’t tear my eyes away from his solid calf muscles that look like he spends half his life mountain climbing. He’s the kind of guy who could make socks and sandals look sexy. Although I hope he never tries it, just in case.
‘Gosh, I’m so awful at this, but you’ll know. What is it?’ I jump when Alys shoves her phone in my face, so focused on Ryan’s legs that I hadn’t noticed her approaching.
‘I sent her a picture of my tomato slicer last night and she got it straight away. I can’t let her win this one too. You’re my “Guess the Gadget” expert – any ideas?’
I look at the photo onscreen and recognise it immediately because my mum had one. ‘It’s a strawberry huller. It’s your friend’s way of showing support on opening day.’
As I watch her walk away happily to text her friend, I feel guilty again. Any guessing of gadgets has been pure coincidence, fluke, and luck, but even that somehow ties into me being a chef. Everything is tainted by this lie, even the most innocent of things that should be fun.
‘Good morning,’ Ryan says cheerily. I’m gravitating towards him even without knowing where I was going. He leans down to give me a one-armed hug, and I can’t stop my hand sliding up his warm arm and giving him a squeeze back. The familiar scent of his saltwater and bamboo-esque cologne surrounds me and when I go to pull back, he holds on for a moment longer, his stubble grazing when his lips press against my forehead.
Neither of us have mentioned the other night again since, although there have been a few stolen kisses behind the tree trunk when the residents aren’t looking, but there’s a cloud hanging over us. I’m holding back because of the lie, and I know Ryan’s holding back because my life isn’t here anymore. And I can’t get the idea of him being supposed to marry someone else out of my head. It was a long time ago and it shouldn’t still bother me, but the fact he could keep something like that a secret puts a totally different slant on the no-secrets friendship I thought we had, and I’ve spent so many years thinking he didn’t kiss me back that day for one reason, I still haven’t quite processed that it was something else entirely.
‘Hi.’ I can’t get the grin off my face even after he pulls away. ‘It’s not nine o’clock yet. Where are all these people coming from?’
‘Seaview Heights started to get some calls last night – people enquiring about parking, payment options, opening times, that sort of thing. Tonya did some digging and discovered that one of the major tourist websites has chosen it as their “pick of the week” for things to do in South Wales, and it’s gathered the right kind of attention.’ He taps the table and I notice the stack of newspapers on one end.
He picks one up and holds it in front of him, accidentally making the cardboard punnet he’d just folded together pop apart. ‘This morning’s paper.’
‘Front-page news!’ I squeal so loudly that several hearing aids go on the blink. ‘This isamazing!’
It’s the most widely circulated newspaper in South Wales, and covering the entire front page is one of Ryan’s photos of the tree at dusk with the sunset sinking into the ocean behind it, and the headline splashed across it reads –Centuries-old strawberry patch reopening amidst stricken seaside sycamore.
I scrabble to turn to page 4 for the full story, my fingers clumsy with excitement. ‘Oh God, Ry.’ I feel my face fall. ‘It’s us.’
There on page 4 and 5 is a whole double-page spread, led by a huge photo of me and Ryan, our arms linked as we took a bite of the first strawberry the other day, and surrounding it are smaller photos of us laughing, digging, laying the weed fabric, and trying to wrestle a gnome from Baaabra Streisand’s mouth. No one is allowed to eat Tony Blair.
On the opposite page, there’s a half-size photo of us hugging. I didn’t even realise Tonya had taken a photo, but it must’ve been after the strawberry tasting when Ryan hugged me because there he is with his arms around me, my head on his chest, his chin resting on my forehead. Both of us have our eyes closed and look totally enrapt with each other. The framing is perfect – a beautiful sunburst on the left and the strawberry patch spread out behind us. It was the morning after rain and Tonya has managed to capture the glistening of the red fruits and the raindrops on pretty white flowers reflecting from the sun and looking like they’re sparkling. The picture is so … joyful. It would make me want to visit if I wasn’t already here.
Underneath it is a picture I took of all the residents standing in front of the tree with Baaabra. The sun is dappled through the branches and shining down on the group, and both pictures together are so magical that you can almost see fairies dancing through them.
‘You look so happy,’ Godfrey says. I hadn’t realised he was listening.
‘So in love with each—’ Mr Barley grunts when Godfrey stamps on his foot under the table they’re sharing, having forgotten that there’s nothing covering the table and their legs are clearly visible.
‘With life itself,’ Mr Barley corrects himself.
I don’t even recognise myself in these photos. My usually sweaty skin looks glowing, and my grown-out hair looks neat and shiny because the camera is kind to split ends, and the blue bits look professionally blended with my dark hair and exactly the kind of metallic shade it looked on the box. Usually I look like someone dyed a bus blue.
All of thisisfantastic, and Ishouldbe ecstatic, even though I’m an introvert and the idea of photos of me being in a paper that thousands of people read makes butterflies swish around inside and not the good kind of butterflies.
However, it won’t be fantastic if Harrison is one of those people.
‘Have you checked the petition?’ Ryan’s eyes are dancing. ‘The paper only went out at seven o’clock this morning and there are already ten thousand more signatures than there were last night. Our website has crashed three times with the amount of traffic, and Tonya’s had so many emails that she’s paying her grandson to be her personal assistant for the week. He’s got at least three enquiries from national newspapers and a TV camera crew are on their way here.’
‘Oh my God,’ I say. He thinks I’m so overjoyed I can barely find words, and Iamfor the sake of the tree and the people here, but there’s going to be no hiding a TV crew from Harrison. Or national newspaper coverage. And then what? I lose my job. I have rent and bills to pay in London, and Harrison is abigname in business; he’s bound to blacklist me with other companies. I didn’t spend the past four years as his assistant only to throw it all away, but how am I ever going to convince him that this is all part of a cunning plan to undermine the protest?
I sigh, attracting attention from Ryan, Godfrey, and Mr Barley because I should be happy, not sighing.
