Beneath the Old Oak

by Lisa Shambrook

  Meg carried her heavy legs towards what was left of the old oak tree bathed in shimmering golden sunlight. She trembled, gulping back fresh tears and stared in disbelief.

  Lightning had struck at the very heart of the tree, slicing through the trunk like a hot knife through butter, piercing its soul, before exploding like Meg’s heart. Huge boughs lay strewn across the ground, broken and shattered, and bark, blown off when the lightning hit, littered the earth.

  Meg cast her eyes over the damage.

  Branches had been blasted away, and all that was left was its torso, still rooted, but hollowed and blackened. One limb, the lowest bough, hung still attached, but couldn’t hold itself up and dragged on the ground.

  She stepped beneath the oak’s bough, ignoring the swirling smoke that still eddied from the tree, and held out her hands. They tingled as she set them against the stump. She fell to her knees leaning forward, closing her eyes and touching her forehead to its warm, charred bark.

  As she touched the trunk her fingers prickled. She made no attempt to check her tears as pain seared through her. Physical and mental anguish scorched her mind, and an agonised howl ripped through her throat as the tree expended everything it had left.

  She saw children playing round a small oak and squirrels darting to and fro. Boys swung on young, tender branches. Lovers caressed. Little girls made daisy chains and families picnicked. She saw swings made of rope and tin cans lined up on a branch as teenage boys took pot shots with air rifles. She saw young love falling apart and tender moments rekindled. There were arguments and passion, falls and rivalry, climbers who made it high and those who struggled. She felt grief and joy and growth.

  Meg felt the oak sing, heard the birds in its branches and saw the squirrels leap from fork to bough. She felt frost form on its limbs and sunbeams dance. She saw moonlight flood the field and dawn’s breaking glow embrace the oak. She felt the sun burn and the cold freeze, and the wind’s blustering games. She saw a bare oak, and budding branches, new leaves unfurling in the spring, and a heavy laden canopy embellishing the oak in the summer sun. She saw the fall of red and gold and brown, and acorns dropping to the ground to be stolen by the squirrel for winter hoards. Snow fell and the boughs were heavy laden once more, and Meg felt the oak’s bare soul.

  She saw herself, running to the tree, claiming it as her sanctuary, and she saw her parents fall in love.

  She saw the lark and the robin, and the sparrow and the wren, and the hawk that sat atop the highest branch.

  She felt small and lost, and large, and huge and powerful, and proud and strong, and ready for anything!

  She saw everything the oak had ever seen in its two hundred years, and then she felt the power of the storm, its thrust of electricity, the surge and penetration, and the lightning ripped out her heart.

  Her hands fell to her sides and she rolled onto the smoking ground, unable to move or even think. Grief consumed her and tears would not stop. She was spent, she was lost and alone, and broken.

  Meg couldn’t bear to leave her oak, couldn’t bear to betray the memories it bequeathed.

  When the sun got hotter and the shadows shrank, Meg released a pent-up sigh and unfurled her body. She rolled onto her knees and leaned against the base of her oak. Emotions fizzled and tingled, and Meg wrapped her arms across the stump, caressing its damaged timber. Memories effervesced and crackled, and she struggled to hold back her tears.

  She pulled her highly polished acorn cup from her pocket, turning it between her fingers, and rubbed her thumb inside it. She touched it to the tree and knew that memories lingered, even in her acorn cup.

  It took strength to stand and walk away. Her legs were heavy with regret and sorrow, and the walk across the field, more painful than she could have imagined.

  She didn’t want to look back, but couldn’t fight the urge and glanced back, as Lot’s wife once did, and pain blistered her heart once more, salt in her open wound.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Her dad didn’t question where she’d been and just welcomed his tearful daughter with open arms. If he wondered why her hands and face were charcoal black, he didn’t ask.

  Was it my fault Mum left?” Meg wrung her hands.

  “Don’t you ever think that!” Her father hugged her. “It’s never been your fault, it’s not anybody’s fault.” He paused. “Mum’s not well and I didn’t do anything, even when it screamed at me…so if it’s anyone’s fault…”

  The phone rang.

  Dad seized it. “Hello?” he said, breathless. Meg watched his expression drop. “I haven’t got time for this, I don’t want compensation!” He dropped the phone and stared out of the window.

  “Does she love us?” asked Meg.

  He sighed, nodded and faced her. “Yes, she does.”

  “Then why did she go?”

  “I can’t answer that, Meg, I wish I could. I don’t understand any more than you do. I thought the antidepressants worked. She was tired, but that didn’t worry me at all…”

  Meg shook her head. “Nor me. Tired is better than stressed!”

  He agreed. “But they’re supposed to be a long-term thing, not five minutes and you’re better.”

  “Dad, is it more than depression?”

  He shrugged. “Wish I knew. She won’t let me see the doctor with her. I think it’s more, but depression runs in her family. Her Mum suffered depression, but she was married to a pretty dour man!” He chuckled glibly. “There’s more to it than that.” He turned back to the window. “But if she doesn’t come home…”

  “Are you going to look for her again?”

  “The police told me not to. I searched everywhere I knew last night. There aren’t many more places she can go in this town!”

  “Did you phone anyone?” asked Meg.

  He nodded. “If she doesn’t come home today, the police will want more details.”

  “She’s not like most mums.” Meg looked wistful.

  “Would you like her to be?”

  “Sometimes.” Meg perched on the edge of her chair. “I don’t want to be different either, but I am.” She couldn’t read her father’s expression. “I don’t want to be different, but I’m like Mum. Everything she is, I am too.”

  “You’re very different to Mum, Meg. Her parents were so much older when they had her. They had no idea how to bring up a child, and she knew that, never came to terms with it, but she knew it. They were set in their ways when she was born. They wanted her, of course, but they didn’t want to change their lifestyle once she arrived. So she spent her whole life being the perfect child, you can’t imagine the stress that put her under!”

  Meg laughed; she was sure she could.

  “She never put a foot out of line, and they put her through some…rough times. When we got together she went a little crazy! She wanted to escape…she’d been through a lot.”

  “So, my grandparents died before I was born?” asked Meg.

  “Yes, but Martha pretty much cut ties when we married anyway. When they died, it was a relief.”

  “Tell me again, how did you meet Mum?”

  His face lit up. “I adored her from the moment I first saw her.”

  “When was that?”

  “One day she walked past just as I left my house, and I thought I’d seen an angel, a real live one!”

  “That’s a cliché, Dad!”

  “It’s how I felt! She was beautiful.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Nineteen, and I was twenty-five. All the way to work I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She walked my way too, and it took me two weeks to realise that if I didn’t take the car, I could walk with her!” His cheeks flushed. “What a waste of two weeks!”

  Meg grinned. “So you walked together?”

  “We did, after pretending the car wouldn’t start…” He chuckled. “I thought she’d see right through my ploy, and she probably did, but it worked, and we walked together most days, and when it rained, I gave her
a lift.”

  “So when did you know she was the one?”

  “Straight away, from the first moment I saw her.”

  Meg smiled. “When did she know?”

  “Later…I think she put up with me at first! I didn’t think I stood a chance, no chance at all, but when she began flirting with me, I thought it’s now or never!”

  “When?” Meg pushed.

  He shifted on the sofa and stared at a picture on the wall. Meg followed his eyes and caught her breath. Mum had created a wall of photographs over by Dad’s desk, and Meg hadn’t taken much notice of the pictures for a while. Meg stood and wandered across to the collage.

  “The one at the top. I took it that day,” he said.

  “It’s Mum,” said Meg, reaching up and running her finger along the bottom of the frame. “Down by the old oak…”

  “Yes, it is. I took it down in the meadow. That, I think, was the day she knew…” his voice cracked. “It was the day we both knew.”

  Meg bit her lip as she stared at the picture. She didn’t need to study it. She already knew what her mother had worn, how she’d sashayed across the field and gazed at Meg’s father. She was amazed she’d never recognised the tree before, as her mother leaned against it with a shy smile. She looked over at Dad, his face open and vulnerable, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  He spoke softly. “When she comes home, we’re getting help for her, we’re sorting this out. I need my girls, Meg, I need my girls…”

  Name?”

  “Martha Louise Frost.”

  “Maiden name?”

  “Patrick.”

  The officer cleared his throat and scribbled down details as her father sat on the edge of the sofa.

  “She’s forty-one and you’ve already got her date of birth…” Meg’s dad pointed at the officer’s pad. “You’ve already got all her basic details.”

  PC Silverdale cleared his throat again and cast his eyes over his notes. “You’re right.” They all glanced up at the ceiling as the constable’s partner wandered around in the bedroom upstairs. “Okay, what was she wearing the last time you saw her?”

  Dad glanced at Meg, sitting cross-legged in her chair, hugging Indy. “Blue t-shirt, long sleeved, cornflower blue, with a V-neck…” she said.

  “You’re thorough!” The policeman laughed.

  “Just observant,” replied Meg. “Blue jeans, she always wears blue jeans, size fourteen, if you’re interested.”

  “Thank you,” he nodded, “what else?”

  Meg’s mind cycled back to the day of the argument when Mum slipped and broke her mug. “Brown shoes, lace-ups, she’s a size five and a half, in case it helps, she’s also wearing black knickers and bra, do you want to know her size in them too?”

  “No! It’s fine, if I need more information on that I’ll get back to you.” PC Silverdale wiped his forehead. “It’s muggy out there, even after the storm.”

  Meg smiled.

  He continued. “Identifying jewellery?”

  “Her wedding ring, just a plain gold band, and her diamond eternity ring…” said Dad.

  “And blue topaz studs,” added Meg.

  “Does she wear a watch?” asked the officer.

  Meg and her father both nodded. “She’s a stickler for time, or at least she was…” he said, and Meg noticed his eyes begin to glaze.

  “Yes, a silver one,” she said.

  “Anything else? What did she take?”

  “Her mobile phone. You already have details of that. Her overnight bag’s missing, she’s taken, she’s taken…” He choked on his words and Meg took over.

  “She took make-up, hairbrush, toothbrush, and handbag.”

  “What’s in her handbag?”

  “How would we know? Her purse?” said Meg shrugging. “I don’t go into Mum’s handbag.”

  “She’d have credit cards, a bit of cash, bank cards, store cards…” said Dad.

  “And her diary,” added Meg.

  “Anything else that you’ve noticed missing?”

  “Just the car,” said Dad wryly. “And you’ve got details of that too.”

  Footsteps hurried down the stairs and the police officer smiled as she joined PC Silverdale and handed him her notepad. He glanced over her notes then stared at Meg’s dad.

  “It looks, so far, as if she planned to leave, an overnight bag, presumably some more clothes…” he began.

  “Yes, some tops and jeans are missing,” sighed Dad, “But she wasn’t planning anything…”

  “But it looks as if she was.” PC Cotton smiled again as she spoke and Meg instantly disliked her. “It looks as though she planned a trip. She took cosmetics, hairbrush, toothbrush…”

  “And didn’t tell us?” Fury burned behind Meg’s eyes.

  “Sometimes people don’t always share everything they’re doing with those they love.” The policewoman shared the flat platitude.

  “She’s not well!” blurted Meg.

  PC Silverdale’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell us she wasn’t well.” His voice deepened. “How about you tell us about Friday, the twenty-seventh wasn’t it? What happened the last time you saw her? Mr Frost?”

  “I went to work in the morning, nothing wrong when I left.”

  “Did you speak before you went?”

  “The usual, general chat, before breakfast, I kissed her as I left and she kissed me back.” Dad shrugged. “There was nothing wrong.”

  Meg squirmed. “I was the one who upset her.”

  “Meg, I told you it wasn’t your fault!” said Dad.

  “But she left after I upset her!”

  “Let’s take it slowly, what happened?” asked PC Cotton.

  “I was reading most of the day, in here, and Mum was cleaning. Then I heard something smash and Mum shouted. When I got into the kitchen, Mum was on the floor with a broken mug. She’d slipped and dropped the mug, it was her favourite,” Meg told them.

  “Then what happened?” coaxed PC Cotton.

  “I helped her clear it up. She blamed me for her slipping on the floor. I cleaned it a couple of days earlier, but it must have still been greasy.”

  “Was she really angry, or just annoyed?” asked the police officer.

  “She was really annoyed, and then she cut her finger on the broken china…”

  PC Silverdale interrupted. “Where was this?”

  “In the kitchen, on the floor,” said Meg, “I tried to apologise, but she didn’t let me, and we argued.” Meg remembered her words and tried to swallow them back down with the bile that rose. “She got really mad at me, and I didn’t think it was fair, so I went out. When I got back she was gone, but I didn’t know she was gone. I just thought she’d gone out for something.”

  “You said she cut herself,” said the policeman and Meg nodded. “How bad and did she bleed?”

  Meg nodded again. “But when I got home and she was gone, I cleaned up. I washed the floor again, really thoroughly…because I’m a thorough kind of person,” she added, narrowing her eyes at him.

  “So you cleaned up the blood too?”

  “Yes, it was only a couple of drops.” Meg explained and her father placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “I don’t like where you’re taking this. We don’t know where she went, or why. What have you done so far?” Dad asked.

  PC Silverdale cleared his throat. “A basic search, swept the area. Put her description and car out among the police, and we’re waiting to see if anything comes up. But I’m more interested in the fact that your daughter said your wife wasn’t well.”

  Meg’s father shook his head. “She’s depressed, anxious…she was on antidepressants, but came off them.”

  “Is there anything else we should know?” asked PC Cotton. “Any other medication? Is she seeing a doctor or anyone else, a therapist maybe?”

  Dad shook his head. “No, nothing.”

  “Is she a danger to herself, or to anyone else? I’m sorry to ask, but I have to
,” she continued.

  Dad shook his head, and Meg’s mind blurred.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, she’s not a danger to anyone,” said Dad.

  “She hurts herself!” Meg couldn’t stay quiet, and she refused to look at Dad. “She self-harms, cuts herself.”

  The officers swapped another look and both made notes. “How badly?” asked PC Cotton.

  “Not badly,” said Meg’s father, “she has a few cuts, but they’re not serious…”

  “Where, where does she do this?”

  “Left arm,” said Meg, “Only in one or two places, over and over. They were healing.”

  “There are a few cuts on her thighs, the left thigh, on the inside, and a couple on her shoulder.” Meg stared at her dad as he spoke in whispered monotone.

  “Has she sought help for this?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think anyone knows.”

  PC Silverdale sniffed. “Has she ever gone missing before?”

  Dad shook his head then nodded. “Yes and no. I mean she’s disappeared for hours on end, but always comes home again.”

  “Do you know where she goes?”

  “Different places, down by the river, or into town—shopping, or just off for a walk or a drive, but she always comes back.”

  “Let me ask you again, is she a danger to herself or others?” The police constable stared right at Meg’s dad.

  Her father didn’t answer. Meg stared from one man to the other, but still silence filled the room.

  “Dad?” Her father squeezed her shoulder. “Dad…what about before, in the car?”

  Dad closed his eyes.

  “The car?” prompted the officer.

  “I wasn’t there…” Her father put his head in his hands.

  PC Silverdale looked at Meg. “Were you there?”

  She nodded and looked at Dad again, finally he nodded.

  “She was upset, and we were out and she started crying while she was driving and…” Meg’s voice caught, “and she almost crashed.”

  “How?” asked the officer.

  “She was crying and yelling and let go of the wheel, and when I tried to get hold of it, she grabbed it and steered across the road. She almost drove us into a lorry coming the other way.” Meg’s voice broke, and she roughly wiped away her tears. “I thought she was going to kill us.”