Beneath the Old Oak

by Lisa Shambrook

  Ragged sobs shook her as she left the empty bedroom. Her own room, empty too, and Meg hammered on the bathroom door, crying. The door swung open and, alone, Meg leaned over the sink and wept.

  When her tears were spent, she left the bathroom and walked slowly to the front window. The cars, both cars, were gone. No one was home.

  Meg gave disappointment its voice and howled. She yelled and sobbed and walked the empty house like a caged wild animal, until she could cry no more.

  So, where’s Mum?” Mr Frost dropped his bag as he strode through the lounge and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Not here.” Meg didn’t look away from the laptop.

  “Not here?”

  “Nope.”

  “So where is she?” he asked.

  Meg scrolled down the page and clicked on a picture.

  “Pinterest?”

  Meg nodded.

  “What about dinner?” Dad frowned.

  “I don’t think there is any.” Meg scrolled again, biting her lip.

  “You okay, Meg? You look…”

  “I’m fine, I’m always fine,” she interrupted, her face lit up by the glow from the screen in front of her.

  Dad stood awkwardly in the middle of the gloomy room then moved to turn on the light, pausing at the window. “Her car’s not there.” His brow furrowed.

  “Didn’t you notice that when you parked?” asked Meg, pulling in a measured sigh.

  He shook his head. “It’s dark.”

  “A car’s a big thing to miss…” she said tersely, conveniently forgetting she hadn’t noticed either when she’d arrived home.

  Dad nodded. “It is. Maybe she popped out…”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Bitterness seeped from Meg’s voice.

  “Don’t be so hard on her Meg, sometimes things get too much for her.”

  “And not for us?” Meg glanced at him and pursed her lips. “You’re too soft.”

  “I just know more about her than you do…”

  “Then tell me…” began Meg as her father put his mobile phone to his ear.

  “Answer phone, where is she?” Dad looked worried. “She’s usually here when you get home from school, isn’t she?”

  Meg nodded. “But not today. It happens.”

  “It does?”

  Meg looked up as his usually calm voice raised an octave. “Dad, I’m sure she’s okay.” Meg’s anger at desertion faded, but her father’s unease was contagious, and Meg clicked off the internet. She closed the laptop and moved to her father’s side. “We can start dinner. She’ll be home soon.”

  “Maybe there’s a problem with the car?”

  “She’d phone. She’s fine.” Meg took her father’s arm and they moved to the kitchen.

  Moments later the front door clicked open, and Mrs Frost breezed into the house accompanied by the aroma of fish and chips. She grinned as she marched past them and began unwrapping parcels of chips.

  “C’mon then, plates please…” she said.

  Her husband reached for plates. “Well that looks good!”

  Meg raised an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been, Mum?”

  “Just out.” Mum waved her away. “Getting fish and chips, obviously!”

  “Obviously.” Meg shook her head as Dad kissed his wife. “But you were out when I got home.”

  “I was ‘just out’—you do it often enough. You’re old enough to be home alone, aren’t you?” she replied, shovelling chips onto the plates. “I don’t need to be home when you get back, do I? You’re not five anymore!”

  Meg mumbled.

  “I don’t, do I?”

  “No, you don’t, I’m fine alone,” said Meg, trying to keep her hurt in check.

  “So, I thought why not get chips for dinner? I didn’t feel like cooking, Paul, that’s all. And doesn’t it smell good?”

  Dad nodded. “Fish and chips are always welcome after a long day at work!”

  Meg grabbed her plate from under Mum’s nose and disappeared into the lounge.

  “Not sitting at the table with us?” called Mum.

  “Not today,” said Meg, sinking into the sofa and switching on the television. “Not today.”

  Meg slammed her hands onto the old oak’s trunk. Her fingers gripped the bark, and her palms stretched flat against the wood. She pressed harder and squeezed her eyes shut. She pushed all her weight against the tree. When nothing happened she kneaded the bark and small pieces chipped off in her hands. Annoyance flickered and she stared in frustration at the tree looming above her. She hit the trunk, slapped it and swiped at it then as tears threatened once more she hit it hard with the heel of her hand. The jarring sensation jolted her and she dropped her hands to her sides, twisting and sliding down the tree until she sat on the cold, musty ground.

  Another bad day at school filled Meg’s mind, another day of oblivion and loneliness. She sat throwing pieces of bark, twigs and stones across the grass. She sniffed, and thrust her hand into her pocket, withdrawing her acorn cup. Her thumb dipped into the cap and she stroked it, the repetitive movement soothing and calming her. She propped her chin on her knees and rested her cheek against its trunk.

  At first she thought the insistent tingling was just the bitter wind teasing her hair, tickling her cheek, but the breeze was still and the prickling continued as she lifted her head. She placed her hand on the trunk beside her, and her vision blurred as her mind began to whirl. Her mind began to fill with images again. Images like half-remembered dreams, colours swirling like an impressionist’s paint palette, and whispers like the wind.

  She heard a girl crying, soft cries like a mewling kitten, cries coming from the foot of the oak. Meg swivelled round, her hands falling away from the tree as she spun. The sound faded, and she slammed her hands back against the tree.

  An image flared in her mind, a small girl with pale blue ribbons tying the end of her blond plaits, finger twirling in one of her loose ribbons, whilst poking a hole in her grey school cardigan with the other. Her shoes, scuffed and grubby, and long socks, wrinkled where they’d parted company with her knees.

  Dejection flooded Meg’s mind, familiar despondency, and compassion swelled for the little girl.

  Meg struggled to hold onto the vision as sadness threatened to overwhelm her then a voice pitched through her haze, and the small girl brightened. The weeping stopped, and Meg watched the little girl run into her mother’s comforting arms. Shapes and colours fused together, and Meg felt dizzy. She grabbed her head, and when she looked up, she was alone beneath the tree.

  She froze, the images gone and long grass swaying in the breeze. Meg blinked—maybe she’d dozed off or closed her eyes—but she was on her knees and wide-awake. The wind whistled through the branches, Meg shivered and tried to reason with herself.

  The vision made no sense; she had no idea who the little girl was or why she’d seen her. She related to the emotions that had spread through her, the desperation for her mother’s embrace, but it still made no sense. Then she remembered Saturday and the small boy climbing the tree; she didn’t know what he meant either.

  She stared at the tree. She tensed and brushed her fingers against the trunk. There it was: a shimmer, a tingle, something, but then nothing. She ran her fingers across the bark, holding her breath, waiting, just waiting for something to happen. She traced the ridges, caressed the gnarls, and anticipated, but the tree was quiet and nothing happened.

  “I didn’t imagine it…” she told herself. “I know what I saw…”

  She balled her hands into fists again and cuffed the tree. “C’mon, show me, show me something else!”

  But the tree would not play and remained cold and still, unwilling to share its burdens on demand. The ancient oak, tall and strong, refused to cooperate, and Meg was left, yet again, alone.

  Meg!” Her name filtered through fragmented dreams. “Meg!” Her mother’s shrill cry interrupted her reveries, and as the light snapped on, Meg yanked the duvet up over her head. “
Wake up! You’ll want to see this!”

  The bed was warm and cosy, her dreams more enticing than reality, and Meg had no wish to wake up, let alone get up.

  “Seriously, you’ve got to see this!”

  There was no chasing sleep beyond the bright light and piercing voice. She peered out from beneath the bed clothes and watched her mother move to the window jerking back the curtains.

  “There!” said her mother. “Look at that!”

  “At what?”

  “You have to look!”

  “I don’t have to look, you can tell me. You’re standing there looking at whatever it is already!” complained Meg.

  “No school.”

  Meg’s eyes widened, and she leaned up on her elbows. “No school?”

  Mum nodded, standing in her fleecy robe, still staring out of the window.

  Meg yawned, pulled her t-shirt down over her stomach, and crawled out of bed. She padded across her bedroom floor and was rendered speechless. The world was white. The snow glared even though dawn had barely broken, and the furthest stretch of lawn glittered as the sun threw its first apricot rays across the roof of the house. Meg smiled.

  “No school. I heard it on the radio,” Mum told Meg.

  “What about Dad?”

  “He’s trying to get into work,” said Mum.

  “Can we go out in it?”

  “Later,” replied Mum. “I think I’m going to do nothing, seeing as I don’t have to get you up and ready for school!”

  Meg stared outside. Daylight began to infuse the sky, and the garden, and the trees and woodland behind the garden shimmered and glistened. She grabbed her duvet, dragging it off the bed, pulled her chair over to her window and wrapped herself up to watch the spread of dawn.

  Indy warbled and stalked across the floor to Meg. He curled around the leg of the chair and rubbed his head against Meg’s foot, peeping out from beneath the duvet. Meg lowered her hand half-heartedly to fuss the cat, and Indy sprang up onto her lap. He pushed his head into Meg’s hand and purred. She smiled and gazed out of the window.

  A golden glow suffused the sky, banishing the indigo skyline, and the garden shone like an ethereal fairyland. Meg grabbed her phone and opened the window wide. Cold air rushed in as Meg lined up the camera to capture snapshots of the beauty that lay before her.

  Icing-sugared trees blended the woods together, evergreens bathed in a blanket of white and leafless trees dipped in sherbet. A cotton-wool carpet swathed the grass. Red berries shone like rubies, clusters of pink blossom tried to burst forth on the viburnum, and hellebores bowed beneath the weight, their dappled throats staring down into the snow. Purple crocuses peeped through the crystal mantle and tried to push through the inches on top of the tubs and containers.

  The room gradually brightened, and Meg’s excitement grew until she could wait no longer. Indy jumped onto the floor as she discarded her duvet and dressed. She bounded down the stairs, breakfast was a quick slice of toast, and then she swung open the back door.

  Snow lay fresh and untouched, and the desire to leap into it almost over-rode everything, but she held back.

  “Go on, Meg, get out there!” said Mum as she put her own slice of bread in the toaster. “Go on. If you don’t, I will!”

  “Let me get my wellies on first!”

  Mum took a seat at the table and leaned on her elbows as she grinned at her daughter.

  It was always the same, that first step onto virgin snow—that squeaky crunch as the soft, white stuff compacted underfoot. Meg’s heart skipped as she anticipated the second step—she almost squealed in delight!

  Meg wandered around the back yard, stepping carefully and precisely, leaving brand new footprints across the patio. She concentrated so fully on her pattern that she didn’t notice her mother until a fat, cold snowball whizzed across her shoulder.

  “Mum!” she shrieked as she turned and ducked to avoid the next snowball. “You’re not a great shot!”

  Mum shrugged and scooped up more snow. Meg grabbed a handful and retaliated. It hit the wall behind Mum, and they laughed at the chunk of snow still stuck to the brick. Mum’s ensuing snowballs missed by as wide a margin as her first efforts, and Meg wasn’t much better at target practise. Suddenly Meg gasped. “Mum, you’re still in your pyjamas and slippers!”

  Mum looked down at her feet and pulled her robe tight. “So I am! That would explain my very cold and wet feet!”

  “You should go and change! We’re not very good at snowballs anyway!” Meg laughed, and her mother nodded.

  “You’re right, I should change.”

  Meg grinned, not used to seeing her mother this animated, and certainly not used to seeing her out in the snow in slippers!

  “But after, Meg, we can do something after?” Mum glanced back over her shoulder as she went inside. “Something together?”

  Meg’s smile broadened and she nodded emphatically. “A snowman?”

  “We haven’t built a snowman since you were about eight or nine—in fact the last one was when Steph was here, years ago.” Mum mused. “Yes, we should build another!”

  Meg smiled wryly as Mum disappeared, and she recalled the snowman with Steph. It had been good, very good. Steph, a gregarious extrovert, had been Meg’s best friend for a few years, but Meg’s mother’s control, and Meg’s shyness and solemnity had been too much for Steph, and the friendship had floundered, much like the subsequent snowmen Meg had tried to build on her own.

  She wandered into the garden. A robin trilled up in the skeletal far reaches of the laburnum and Meg followed the sound, trying to locate the cheery bird. Just as she thought she’d found him, the robin fluttered down and flew closer. He balanced on the fence, puffed out his red breast and fixed his tiny black eyes on her. Meg stared, and stood as still as she could. He hopped along the fence and chirruped. She fervently wished she could imitate birdsong as he jumped down to an ice-encrusted rose bush and bounced as the stem gently yielded. He whistled and bobbed his head, and Meg grinned. Only a few feet away, Meg slowly slipped her hand into her pocket to retrieve her phone. A couple of slight taps and she carefully moved the camera, keeping her eyes on the robin the whole time. He whistled again, long and jovial, and Meg deliberately raised the phone.

  The robin hopped onto a thin dogwood bough beside a crystallised allium seed head, fluffing his feathers. Meg held the mobile phone and tapped the screen. The picture blurred. She tried again as the robin hopped forward onto the snow. He paused and stared at her then the back gate swung open and feet clumped up the yard. The robin whistled, and was gone flying off up the garden, back into the safety of the laburnum tree.

  Meg grinned as her dad stomped up to the back door. “Hey, sweetheart!” he called opening his arms in greeting.

  She grinned and hopped, robin-like, to her father. She hugged him and kissed his cold cheek. “No work then, Dad?”

  He shook his head and rubbed his hands. “No, we’ve closed the office, no call for finance today! Been up long?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Well, Mum woke me just after seven to tell me no school, but I couldn’t sleep after seeing the snow!”

  “So you’ve been up for ages then?”

  “It’s only nine-thirty, Dad!”

  “Still, better go and see how Mum’s doing.”

  “She’s fine. We had a snowball fight in her pyjamas!” Meg giggled. “She’s getting changed then we’re going to make a snowman!”

  “Snowballs? Pyjamas? Snowmen?” He looked surprised. “She wants to make a snowman?”

  Meg nodded. “She does!”

  “Okay, I’d still better go and see how she is…” He regarded his daughter. “Don’t be upset if she changes her mind, we haven’t done snowmen in years…”

  “You’ve never made a snowman, Dad!” Meg laughed.

  He shrugged. “Ah, that’s because I’d put everyone else to shame!”

  Meg grinned. “Just tell her to hurry up. This is Britain, and we never know ho
w long the snow will last—might all be gone in half an hour!”

  Dad kissed the top of Meg’s head and laughed. “You’ve got electric hair, all static!”

  Meg grinned and smoothed her hair as Dad stepped inside. She brushed snow off her jeans and stamped her booted feet, clapped her hands and began to plan.

  She found a carrot in the kitchen—it was good to be prepared —and hurried to her mother’s scrapbook box for two large buttons and thin wire. She threaded wire through the holes in the buttons, so they could fix eyes into place. She moved to the box of hats and gloves and scarves for accessories; all snowmen needed accessories! She found a purple, woolly, bobble hat, an old one from years ago. Gloves were easy as Mum bought new ones every few months during winter as she constantly misplaced the pair she wore. The scarf would have to be Dad’s blue and black and white striped, sort of trendy collegiate, the sort Mum liked but Dad never wore after Christmas.

  Meg heard voices as she dumped her accessories and went in search of twigs. Mum and Dad emerged, Mum flushed and Dad now in walking boots and a big, thick, winter fleece. Dad clapped his hands. “I’ll get a spade then,” he said, stamping into the shed.

  “I’m just finding twigs for arms…” said Meg. “You can start making a pile of snow Dad.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n!” He agreed and began shovelling.

  “Oh, you’ve got a hat and scarf already,” said Mum.

  Meg paused. “Is that okay?”

  Mum nodded. “Of course. I’ll help Paul with the snow. This is your snowman, not mine!”

  Meg hesitated for a moment and watched as Mum and Dad began working together. When she saw her mum grab a handful of snow and sidle up to her dad with a playful smile, she grinned and relaxed. Mum put her arm around her husband and kissed his cheek whilst depositing snow down the back of his collar. He bellowed, jumped and shook his body then laughed grabbing his wife and kissing her full on the lips. Meg returned to searching for snowman limbs.