I don’t know how much they’re offering either, but he’s surely got a point. ‘Yeah, but how incredible would it be to see families strawberry picking here again? Even if it’s one last time. Even if it doesn’t work and he still sells it. The tree will still have granted that wish. For just this summer, we could make this place like it used to be.’
‘Are you staying for the summer then?’
I look over and meet his bright eyes. Why does he look so hopeful? He looks eager, like he’s anticipating my answer, and it makes that fluttering come again. ‘Guess I’ll have to, won’t I?’ The words are out there before I’ve thought them through. I can’t stay for the summer. I can’t stay for the rest of the week, never mind the summer. As soon as Harrison knows this protest isn’t going away, I’ll be back in the office in London. Which is where I should’ve gone the moment I realised there was a conflict of interests and the only man I’ve ever loved was running the show.
I mean, no, that’s wrong. He’s not the only man I’ve ever been in love with. I think. Probably. There was the guy I dated for a few years in my twenties that I kind of convinced myself I’d end up marrying, until he realised there was no passion between us and left, which was fair enough because I had a more exciting relationship with the microwave.
‘There’s something else. Tree of the Year competition.’
He snorts. ‘There’s no way that’s a thing.’
‘It is.’ I can’t tell him I know because my life is so empty that I spend my free time watching obscure documentaries on channels no one’s ever heard of about weird things like tree competitions. ‘It’s saved trees before. Every year, people submit nominations, a panel of judges do a shortlist and that goes to a public vote. If we tell the story of Godfrey and Henrietta’s last wish, and of the tree granting it … There’s no other tree like that in Britain.’
‘Call me sceptical, but I think people are going to realise it’s us and not the tree. I doubt they’ll think it uproots itself at night and moseys about digging up blackberry bushes.’
The mental image makes me giggle. ‘It’s not about that. It’s about making people believe in hope. This tree has always felt magical and otherworldly. We grew up thinking it could make our dreams come true. All we need is for people to know about it. Even being shortlisted would garner attention that no hotel company is going to want heaped on them with the stigma of cutting it down. People will boycott them. Environmental protestors will go for their jugular. And if it wins Tree of the Year, there’s bound to be something we can do about getting it protected status.’ I suddenly realise I’m clasping his hand with both of mine and my nails have left indents in his skin, and I release him quickly and pull away, shuffling back to sit up straighter.
He goes to say something, but there’s a rustle above us, and we both look up to see a sycamore leaf floating down towards us. Neither of us breathes as it sways back and forth on the wind while it falls, eventually drifting underneath the canopy and coming to rest on the bark between us.
I look at the leaf and then up at Ryan’s eyes, and I can see the same thought reflected back at me.
I reach over and pick it up carefully. ‘Do you think that might be the tree’s way of letting us know it approves?’
‘I think it might,’ he murmurs.
The whole world has gone silent as I turn the sycamore leaf over in my fingers. It doesn’t have any signs of anything wrong with it, and it’s way too early in the summer for the leaves to start falling.
Ryan reaches out and touches a fingertip to the toothed edge of the leaf as I spin it between thumb and forefinger. ‘Do you really think we can do this?’
‘Yes.’ For the first time in a really long time, I have no doubts about what I’m doing.
‘Then so do I.’ He looks up and meets my eyes again. ‘You always made me feel like we could do anything.’ He shakes himself and pulls his hand away. ‘You’re unbe-leaf-able, Fee.’
In the midst of all the seriousness, it makes me cackle with laughter. ‘Oh God, don’t you start. We’ve got enough problems with “Guess the Gadget” and naughty political gnomes.’
To distract myself from how much Ryan makes me laugh, I nod towards the elderly man sitting on the bench under his umbrella. ‘I can’t believe he still sits there in the rain.’
‘That was “their” bench,’ Ryan whispers. ‘Apparently they used to sit there every night after everyone had left and watch the sun go down with a glass of wine and some strawberries.’
‘Do you think he’ll approve of our idea? From what you’ve said, Henrietta may not ever be able to come here and see it.’
‘No, but he would. He’d know. He’d be able to tell her. Take photos. And you never know, she has good days, we could ask her nurses to see if she was up to the journey one day. It’s a long shot, but there’s always hope.’ He sighs. ‘He was supposed to go and visit her today, but they needed the ambulance for something else. He’s worried because the staff told Henrietta he was coming and now he can’t get there. Routines and following through is important to someone in the advanced stages of dementia.’
‘Can you take him?’
‘I’m a little tied up.’ He rattles the chain, sounding like Jacob Marley’s ghost clomping around Scrooge’s bedroom.
‘I’ll stay here.’
‘Seriously?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘I don’t have a car so I’m pretty useless for the driving part, but I can sit in a tree for a while.’
‘It’s forty miles each way. It’ll be a long while.’
‘That’s okay. I’ll have Baaabra Streisand for company.’ I glance down at the sheep, who is indeed now taste-testing my umbrella. ‘And I need to work on the website. I’ve got my laptop and can jump on the care home’s Wi-Fi. It makes no difference if I’m sat here or at my dad’s kitchen table.’
‘You know you can’t leave at all, right? Not even for the loo unless one of the residents comes down to cover for you, and that’s unlikely in this weather. Alys thinks the rain will make her wrinkles develop wrinkles of their own, and Tonya thinks they’ll all go pruney and they might never unscrew at their age.’
It makes me laugh out loud again, as he opens his laptop and transfers the flyer design onto a USB stick. ‘And I’ll drop these at the printer’s on the way out.’
Ryan unlocks the chain from around his waist and does what he did yesterday – crouches behind me and slips it around my middle from behind, his arms sliding around me as he blindly locks the chain into place at my front. And this time, I am definitely not imagining the lingering hug.
‘He’ll be overjoyed,’ he murmurs. ‘Thanks, Fee. You’re a star.’
His lips brush against the shell of my ear and his arms tighten momentarily. It would be easy to snuggle back against him, but every nerve ending is on alert and there are flashing red lights in my head, screaming warnings about getting too close to Ryan Sullivan, and the thought makes a shiver go down my spine.
He must feel it too, because he pulls away, and I force myself not to watch as he moves around, the branches above us more than high enough to be able to stand at full height in the tree. He tucks his laptop away and unzips his blue hoodie. As I look away, he leans down again and drapes his hoodie over my shoulders. ‘In case you get cold.’ His soft Welsh accent is low in my ear and makes me shiver much more than the weather does.
His hands stay on my shoulders as he holds the jacket in place. ‘Be back as soon we can.’
Our hands brush when I reach up to take it from him and his fingers linger as they cross mine and I’m sure I imagine the little squeeze.
The material is warm from his body heat and the fresh greenery scent of his cologne fills my senses while I watch him grab his wallet and keys and climb out of the tree.
It’s impossible not to smile as he ruffles Baaabra’s head and says goodbye to her, covertly removing the shredded canvas of my umbrella from her teeth. He turns around and his eyes don’t leave mine as he wal
ks backwards up the path, his grey T-shirt getting soaked with rain, and isn’t that a thought for another day. He salutes me with a seductive grin that suggests he knows exactly what I’m thinking, before turning again and jogging up to the bench.
He ducks under Godfrey’s large umbrella and talks to him, and then the old man turns in my direction and gives me a wave and a nod of thanks too, and Ryan helps him to his feet, lifts the umbrella, and holds it over both of them as he escorts him up to Seaview Heights to get ready.
I let out a sigh as I watch them disappear, and suddenly realise how alone I am out here. With the weather, there’s not even a brave dog walker on the beach. The waves are lashing at the cliff edges around the coast, and the wind is howling around the outside of the tree, although there’s still a microclimate in here and the worst of it is missing me, protected by the big trunks of wood that rise around me.
Baaabra doesn’t seem bothered either. She’s looking around for what she can eat next, and eventually settles on boring old grass at the base of the tree. No sheep has ever been more disappointed.
I crack open my laptop and start the website developer app. It’s up with a holding page, but it needs a real design, and soon. Tonya’s @BeachBattleaxe account is already linking to it, and there’s no time to waste in getting our story out there.
I have a good idea of what I want the website to look like. Ryan’s already drawn a picture of the sycamore to use as a background image, and we’re going to use each branch to link to different areas of the website – a page for news and updates, a page to share the tree’s plight and talk about why we need to save it, one that links to however many stories we can find out, a form where people can share their own stories and upload their photos, and a “how you can help” page. I thought of asking the residents to write a blog too, even though it will probably be filled with pictures of naughty gnomes and photos of Zimmer frames and courgettes and household gadgets. Why shouldn’t people get to know the residents, warts and all?
Oh God, warts. You can guarantee that those will be the subject of at least one blog post.
I’m writing copy for Godfrey’s story when my phone rings. When I get it out of my pocket and see the name on the screen, I groan so loudly that even Baaabra Streisand looks up worriedly from her grass munching and I have to reassure her there’s nothing wrong.
‘Harrison!’ I overestimate the level of excitability needed in answering a call from your boss and overshoot it by at least six exclamation points. He’s going to know I’ve been dreading this phone call because of how falsely happy I sound to hear from him.
‘Felicity. You’re still alive then – quite a surprise given how long it’s been since our last debrief.’
I rub my fingers over my forehead while I try to think of how long it has been. The days here have sort of melted away in a fuzzy haze of brambles and sea air and Ryan’s aftershave. ‘I thought I was meant to be undercover …’
‘Yes, from them. Not from me. You’re still working for me, are you not?’
Am I? Even though it’s pretty impossible to forget, it hasn’t felt like it for the past few days. ‘Just trying to gain their trust!’ I chortle. What even is chortling? Why do I suddenly sound like a distressed bird with its head up a drainpipe?
‘Only I thought you might’ve checked in. I am paying you to visit your family, after all. Usually you’d have had to use holiday time for that. Two birds, one stone, et cetera.’
Oh, how I love his habit of speaking words you’d only ever expect to find in text. ‘You told me to infiltrate the protest as a local and earn their trust. They’re not going to let me in if I’m on the phone to my property developer boss at every given opportunity, are they?’ I glance down at Baaabra again. She’s watching me with a judgemental look on her sheepy face, but I’m almost certain she’ll have no way of passing on this information.
I feel guilty for talking about it in front of her, like she’s bearing witness to my horrible secret, and she can’t tell anyone because she’s a sheep. I’m exploiting her judgy sheep status and putting her in an awkward position. An ewe-kward position. Oh God, Ryan is rubbing off on me. I let out a hysterical giggle, and can easily imagine Harrison’s mildly disturbed face on the other end of the phone.
‘So where are we with the protest, Felicity? Only from my end, it doesn’t seem to be dying down at all, and that is what I sent you there to do, isn’t it? Why aren’t I seeing results yet?’
‘Well, they’re very … er … determined. And distrustful. And dedicated to their cause.’
‘A few grand for a nice new mobility scooter would be something to be dedicated to. Have you tried gin?’
I snort at the unexpected comment. I could do with a bottle of gin to get through this conversation. ‘I prefer wine.’
‘I meant ply them with gin, obviously. Get them tiddly and tottering off to bed, and then you’ve just got to bribe the trousers off this Tree Idiot and we’ll be away.’
‘They’re care home residents!’ I exclaim, wondering if he’d really expect me to ply them with alcohol. Are there no lows he won’t stoop to? ‘They’re probably on God knows how many medications that would interact with gin. And I’m not going to ask them what because, believe me, when they get onto the topic of prescriptions, they never stop.’ I steadfastly ignore the comment about Ryan. Seeing him sans-pants would be hazardous for anyone’s health.
‘Have you not got anywhere with persuading them to give up?’
‘People love this tree,’ I say. ‘It means a lot to this village. To everyone. It’s stood here for three hundred years and they reckon it’s only got another hundred to live naturally. It would break people’s hearts to cut it down. It’s proving more difficult than you anticipated.’
‘Hmm.’ I can envision his narrowed eyes and hear the click of a pen as he presses the end of it up and down again and again. He’s shrewd and can always tell when a businessman is trying to pull a fast one – there’s no way he’ll believe my lies. That was a pitiful attempt to appeal to his better nature and make him realise how special the tree is. He doesn’t care. He’s exactly the type of corporate city man who thinks only in money, not about nature.
‘Start peppering conversations with info about fines, Felicity. Make sure they know the law is on our side and they’ll be fined for being there. And pretend you care about them and don’t want them to have to lose so much of their paltry pensions. Old people don’t like fines.’
No one likes fines. ‘It’s still their garden.’
‘But not for much longer. I was speaking to Steffan yesterday and he’s wavering. I told him I’d got someone onsite and he was pleased at having the backup. It boosted his determination to sell.’
Backup. Someone onsite. I briefly look around for this person before I realise it’s me. I’m still the undercover man. That feeling of being the worst person in the world washes over me again.
I’m doing exactly what he sent me here to do. I’m gaining people’s trust. The gang of residents have accepted me as one of their own unquestioningly. They trust me. And then there’s Ryan. He trusts me like he trusted me fifteen years ago, like no time has passed at all. This lie is going to come out eventually. They’ll feel like he betrayed them too when this is over and they find out the truth.
I’m not sure which thought makes me feel more ill – the thought of them finding out or the thought of this being over.
‘You are still on my team then?’
Team. I barely conceal the scoff. Harrison’s team consists of him and whichever of his millionaire buddies he can gain the most out of.
‘Of course.’ I swallow hard. I cannot lose my job. The reality of this situation is that I live in London and have bills to pay and an unforgiving landlord. Sitting in a magical tree with my “one that got away” is nice but it’s only temporary. When this is over, I have to go back to London and still be able to afford my rent and bills.
‘Only you’re not meant to be designing a
website for them.’
A shiver goes through me and not the good kind this time. I pull the phone away from my ear and peer at it suspiciously. Has he installed some sort of spyware? A remote secret webcam?
Like he knows I’ve pulled the phone away, he shouts after me. ‘I saw your name on the domain name registry, Felicity.’
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I reluctantly put the phone to my ear again, wishing I could accidentally drop it in the sea.
‘I’m monitoring their activity scrupulously.’ He pauses. ‘I haven’t had much choice since my informant has given up on informing me of anything.’
Informant. That makes me sound like I belong in a gangster movie as some sort of criminal overlord with minions. It also makes me sound like a horrible person who doesn’t deserve the trust of the good people she’s deceiving.
‘Since when is “end this protest” translatable to “create a website to further push this protest”?’ Harrison is saying.
He really doesn’t seem to get the concept of going undercover. ‘They’re old. They didn’t know how websites worked. You told me to pretend to be on their side. They have to think I’m part of their protest.’ The words sting as they come out of my mouth. I am part of their protest, but if I admit that, I’ll lose my job, and if I admit the truth to the residents, they’ll never believe I was ever genuine.
‘Hmm.’ Harrison is clicking the pen again. ‘It sounds windy so I assume you’re there actually doing your job and not wasting this paid holiday time in some other frivolous way. None of them are listening to this, are they?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ If he knows I’m alone, he’s going to send the builders in to secure the site within a matter of minutes, and if I’m not alone, he’s going to question how I can have this conversation without being overheard. ‘They’re all deaf,’ I say quickly. ‘The wind has played havoc with their hearing aids.’
I’ve clearly taken to being underhanded and deceitful far too easily. I don’t know whether to be concerned or impressed that I even thought of that.
‘How many of them are there?’
The Wishing Tree Beside the Shore: The perfect feel good romance to escape with this summer! Page 14
