Ryan loved this place, especially that tree. There is nothing of monetary value that could persuade him to let it go. He’s made it clear what he thinks of the company I work for, and I’ve told him I’m a chef. How am I ever going to un-lie this lie I’ve told? And if there’s one thing I know about Ryan Sullivan, it’s that when he commits to something, he never gives up.
‘Occupy the sycamore tree!’ He shouts and punches a fist in the air, and the group of old ’uns return the cry with mouthfuls of cake being spat everywhere and tea being dribbled out. Alys wallops Mr Barley for spilling crumbs on her skirt.
He grins and starts back down the path towards the tree. ‘C’mon, let me show you my humble abode.’
I hesitate. Is going to the tree with Ryan a good idea? After all, it is the exact spot where I kissed him. The very place I last saw him. Do I really want to stand under those branches with him again? I glance at the care home residents. Someone’s produced a packet of biscuits and now they’re having an argument about which biscuits the Queen would prefer if she eats biscuits. She’s British – it would be a crime if she didn’t eat biscuits. Judging by the heated arguments about the merits of Rich Tea versus Arrowroots, they’re going to be occupied for a while.
I need to make an excuse and get out of here. Go and phone Harrison and tell him I’m on the next train back to London, no matter what. This can’t continue now, not with Ryan here.
Chapter 4
Ryan must take my hesitation as wariness of the brambles because once he’s picked the chain up and reattached it around his waist, he turns back and holds his hand out to me. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks, honest.’
It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about the narrow path towards the tree. My brain has a conniption again because something possesses me to slip my hand into his.
His fingers squeeze around mine as he tugs me with him. Brambles scrape my legs at either side, and the ground underneath my feet is stony and green with a mixture of moss and grass, but nothing registers except for his hand in mine. His skin is warm and his hands are somehow bigger and even more solid than they used to be. The kind of hands that make you feel everything’s going to be all right whenever they’re near you.
The sheep baas as we approach the tree, not sounding very happy at having her grass-munching interrupted again. ‘Do you know there’s a sheep tied to your tree?’
‘Yeah, she’s my sheep.’
‘You have a pet sheep?’ I give the white fluffy thing a wide berth as she takes an inquisitive step towards me. She’s wearing one of those hefty dog harnesses with “SECURITY” embroidered in capital letters across either side, and attached to a dog lead that’s tied onto the chain that criss-crosses the tree trunk.
Ryan looks back at me with a shrug, like this too is not at all unusual.
‘Aren’t they herd animals that live in fields? Generally quite a lot of them?’
‘Well, I did have two sheep that lived in a field and kept each other company, but one sadly died. They came with the campsite land. The guy who sold it to me couldn’t take them with him, so I offered to rehome them for him, but no one wanted two extra sheep so I kept them.’
‘Does she have a name?’
‘Baaabra Streisand.’
I let out such a loud bark of laughter at the name that it makes Ryan, myself, and the sheep jump.
‘You can’t have sheep and not give them funny names,’ he says incredulously. ‘The other one was called Dolly Baa-ton. And I have a long list of sheep puns in case any more come along. I nearly got two more just so I could call them Meryl Sheep and Lady BaaBaa. And yes, I am very proud of my sheep-naming skills.’
I howl with laughter again and it eases some of the awkwardness between us. I’ve forgotten how funny he is. I’ve forgotten his poker face that I used to recognise in an instant, even though it drove others up the wall because they could never tell if he was serious or not.
‘She’s a comedic sheep – you’ll see.’
I’m so distracted by the hand-holding and trying to avoid the sheep that I haven’t realised how close to the sycamore tree we’ve got, and I have to duck sharply as a low branch threatens to decapitate me.
Ryan looks around at the sudden movement and then glances at our still-joined hands. ‘I’m so sorry. I have no right to hold your hand. You must have a husband who’ll want to punch me for that.’
‘I’m not married,’ I say, my words coming out at a pitch that only mice can hear. Maybe I should go the whole hog on the lies front and tell him I am. I’m a successful chef who hasn’t had a string of failed relationships because she wants just one man to make her feel even a fraction of how you did. Happily married, thank you very much, just like you undoubtedly are.
‘Good.’ He coughs. ‘I mean, me neither. At least we’re old spinsters together. Er, can men be spinsters?’
My hand falls out of his in surprise. There is no way he can be single. Look at him. The sheep would probably marry him given half a chance, never mind the rest of the female population of South Wales. I’ve imagined running into him again hundreds of times, and in every single impossible, ridiculous, unlikely scenario, he’s happily married. It doesn’t make sense that he wouldn’t be in real life.
‘I’ve just realised I’ve called you old too.’ He smacks his forehead. ‘What a great first impression I’m making. Well, second impression. Well, we saw each other every day for more than three years, so I suppose nine-hundredth-and-something impression. To clarify, I meant that I’m old; you’re not. You’re young, beautiful, and strapping. Oh good God, now I’ve made it worse by calling you strapping. Not strapping. Just as perfect as you always were. I’m going to shut up now.’
I can’t stop giggling. Ryan’s nervous rambling really hasn’t changed. He’s just as adorably awkward as he always was, and I clearly remember the time we went for a meeting with suppliers and he tried to tell one of the farmers that her cows were a credit to her but accidentally rambled that she was just as lovely as her cows before realising it had not come out as the compliment he’d intended.
I try to concentrate on the tree instead. There’s a blue and white striped deckchair secured to the chain around the trunk too, undoubtedly a seat for whoever takes over because I doubt they’re up to scaling the branches like Ryan does.
The towering tree’s huge trunk is covered with the carvings of thousands of visitors over the years. You’d probably need seven or eight people to put their arms around its circumference. It’s a tree full of nooks and crannies and foot-holds, probably easy to climb if you’re as fit as Ryan obviously is. The trunk goes up and then splits off into several directions, leaving a big space in the middle that every child in Lemmon Cove has climbed up to at some point in their lives.
There’s a canopy of blue tarpaulin to keep the rain off, held taut where it’s tied to the branches above, and I can see a rucksack and sleeping bag rolled up to one side. It’s the sort of magical treehouse den that any child would love, but I can’t believe he’s really living here.
It’s shady under the branches and the wind has picked up the closer we’ve got to the sea, giving a welcome break from the blazing August sun. I avoid Baaabra Streisand when she doubles back and appears from the opposite side of the tree and trots over to me. I’ve never known a sheep that didn’t run away from humans before.
I let my hand trail across the etched bark, my fingers crossing the dips of carving after carving, not a space left anywhere after so many years. There is so much history in this tree. This big old thing has seen everything happen beneath its branches, from first kisses to marriage proposals to weddings and ashes being scattered, and everything in between.
I glance at Ryan, who’s now leaning on the sturdy metal barrier looking out at the sea. Does he remember the “Ry + Fee” he carved in a love heart to commemorate my leaving day? Does he know that heart was what made me kiss him?
Local legend has it that when a couple carve their names into
the tree, it cements their relationship and if a carving stays strong then the relationship will too, but if a carving fades then so will the relationship, so it’s safe to say that Ryan’s carving of our names is long gone by now.
He’s leaning on the metal fence, a strong and secure barrier between the land above and the sand below, and I go to stand next to him. I’ve stood here so many times and watched sycamore seeds twirl down to the sea. When I was growing up, another local belief was that in the autumn when the sycamore seeds were falling, if you threw one over the cliff when the tide was high and made a wish before it twizzled into the sea below, it would come true. Kids flocked here in October when the helicopter seeds turned brown and started to fall.
‘It’s been a long time, huh?’ He shifts closer until his warm arm presses against mine. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Good to see you too,’ I stutter, feeling like I need a drink of water. It sounds like I’m lying. It is good to see him in a way, but it’s also absolutely horrendous to see him.
I look out at the sun-bleached ruins of an old stone castle on the hills in the distance, while simultaneously trying to sneak glances at Ryan. He looks exactly the same. A little older, a little more rough-around-the-edges, like he’s spent the past few years outdoors, but like there might be a Dorian Gray-style painting in his attic that we should be concerned about. His dark hair is short at the back and soft and wavy on top, at just the length that it’ll start to curl if it grows any longer.
‘Are you staying?’ he asks quietly, facing the sea instead of looking my way.
I should leave; I know that. Abandon plan. I can’t stay here with Ryan Sullivan running the place. But at the same time, the idea that he’s still single makes something flitter through me that has no right to be flittering anywhere near me, and it feels a little bit like fate has had a hand in us meeting again, and in this exact spot too.
And aside from Ryan, I get the feeling there’s something going on with Dad, something Cheryl hasn’t said in as many words, and it feels wrong to walk away. And now I know where the hotel’s going, I can’t just stand back and let them destroy this place.
‘For a while.’ Those are the words I hear come out of my mouth, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t really say them, because I’m not, am I? I can’t stay here and infiltrate this protest with him leading it.
He’s smiling when he looks at me. ‘I was hoping you were going to say that.’
A smile that does a stellar job of taking my breath away. It’s the first one that hasn’t seemed hesitant so far today, and it makes me feel better – like he could be genuinely happy to see me.
‘I want to help. The prospect of a hotel going here is unthinkable.’ I’m not lying as I say that. He’s right – they’re all right. How could anyone want to ruin this place by plonking a hotel here? This tree is visible for miles across the ocean, guiding sailors home. No one wants to be guided home by a hotel on a cliff, do they? Well, Sat Nav and Google Maps probably do a better job these days, but still. ‘Do people still come to visit the tree?’
‘They used to, but … Look at how overgrown it is. Until a couple of weeks ago, this tree hadn’t been accessible for years. The weeds and brambles had taken over. Have taken over. All I did was cut a path through. The rest of it is …’ He sighs and glances behind him.
He doesn’t need to say anything. The land is a disaster zone. Between the thorny brambles and spiky gorse, there are clumps of stinging nettles and other unsavoury-looking weeds that seem like they’re about to burst forth and attack you at any given moment. It doesn’t look like anyone’s set foot here for at least a decade.
‘What happened? Why did people stop coming here?’
‘The tree ran out of space for carving.’ He takes a step back and reaches across to pat the big old trunk. ‘You couldn’t fit another thing on here if you tried. The care home lost their gardener. I think the residents agreed to do it between them, but it only takes a few months for weeds to take over, and it was too much for them. And as for visitors, well, one look at this place is enough to make anyone turn back.’
He leans his elbows on the barrier again and rests his chin in his hands. ‘Sycamores only live for four hundred years, and this one has had three hundred already. Can you imagine standing somewhere for that long to be cut down in the last quarter of your life? For someone to see you as being “in the way” instead of for the magic you bring to the area?’
I look up into the boughs high above our heads as huge five-lobed leaves rustle in the sea breeze.
‘I think the residents have an affinity with it. They look happy now, but when they go back to their rooms at night, they’re on their own. Some of them have no family to visit. They look out at this tree, standing here by itself, and they feel less alone. That sort of significance can’t be understood by property developers. See that man on the bench?’ He ducks his head closer to mine and points to a man drinking a cup of tea, but sitting alone, away from the rest of the group. ‘That’s Godfrey. His wife of seventy years has got severe dementia and lives in a nursing home forty miles away. Visits are few and far between because it’s slim-to-impossible to arrange the ambulance for transportation, and he has no idea if she’s going to recognise him when he goes there. Nine times out of ten, she doesn’t.’
I bite down on my lip to stop it wobbling.
‘They have no children and no other family. Most of their friends have passed away or moved away. He’s alone.’
‘Wait … Godfrey … I know that name.’ I also know the wobble in my voice is audible.
‘His great-great-grandfather started the strawberry patch in the late 1800s. It was just a farm then. The care home hadn’t been built, but pick-your-own was big in Victorian times. It passed down through the family for generations. There are strawberries carved into the tree trunk with the names and dates of each couple taking over. He and his wife were the last ones in the 1960s. They ran it together for over forty years. Before that, they got married under this tree in 1951. All they wanted was to grow old together here, looking out over it every day while future generations ran it. They were unable to have children and she needs more specialist care than they can provide here, so they’ve been split up at the very end of their lives.’
‘Flipping ’eck, Ry.’ I can’t hide the fact I’m crying. Stories like this have always got to me. When I was younger, I used to love coming here and running my hands over the bark of the tree and imagining what stories were behind each carving.
He inches nearer and drops an arm around my shoulder and tugs me closer to him like fifteen years haven’t passed between us.
Instead of saying anything disparaging like some men would, he squeezes my shoulders tighter. ‘I was a mess when he first talked to me. We’re talking, like, snot everywhere and serious consideration of buying a shareholder stake in Kleenex.’
It makes me snort amidst the tears, which doesn’t end well, and I have to turn away to hide the snot bubble and surreptitiously swipe my hands over my face.
‘Look.’ He uses the arm around my shoulder to turn me towards the tree, and his arm falls away as he gives me a bit of privacy to compose myself. ‘I know where it is because he puts his palm over it when he wants to feel close to his wife.’
I follow his finger as he points out a carving of a heart with the names Godfrey and Henrietta in it and the date 21st September 1951. Right above it is a carved strawberry and a faded date in May 1962, the day he and his wife took over.
‘For some of these residents, that view is the only reason to get out of bed in the mornings. The social aspect of the garden is important for them. It might not look like much to an outsider, but it’s a lot to them. For some people here, this is the only thing they’ve got left.’
No sooner have I stopped crying, than a lump forms in my throat again.
‘Think of the amount of life that’s gone past under this tree. This sycamore has seen everything. In a few years’ time, future generatio
ns aren’t even going to know it once stood here. Can you imagine what growing up in Lemmon Cove would’ve been like if this tree hadn’t been here? If the strawberry patch wasn’t a part of our lives? Our summers would’ve been different. Our autumns would’ve been void of the magic of sycamore wishes. We can’t stand by and let that be erased.’
‘We?’
‘You said you wanted to help, didn’t you?’
Oh, God. I do want to help, but genuinely. Not because I’m supposed to be infiltrating the protest for Landoperty Developments. He’s right – the thought of anyone destroying this tree is unimaginable. Being here again has unfurled the permanent tightness that sits on my chest as I rush through London on whatever wild goose chase Harrison has sent me on – occasionally for something even more impossible than actual wild geese – and I don’t want to walk away. ‘Er, yes. Yes I did.’
The sunlight hits his face, dappled through the branches, and it seems to make him physically brighten up. ‘Good, because you always made me believe in the impossible, Fee, and I feel like we can succeed with you here.’
‘I’m in.’ I try not to show my uneasiness through my smile.
This is a recipe for disaster. And that is the only thing I’m adept at cooking.
Chapter 5
‘I can’t do this. I’m coming back to the office.’ I’m in Dad’s garden that evening, pacing up and down the neat lawn, while Harrison rabbits on about the hotel in my ear. I’ve got my sensible head back on – the one without Ryan Sullivan’s cologne and hot muscular body dulling its senses and making it say stupid things like I’m staying and I’d be happy to help. I mean, I do want to help, but it’s the opposite of what my job is supposed to be.
The Wishing Tree Beside the Shore: The perfect feel good romance to escape with this summer! Page 6
