by Jenny Harper
‘Mum!’
She whirled round from the window. Ninian was standing in the doorway, his face white.
‘I had a bad dream—’
Ninian hadn’t had a nightmare for years. When he was little, there’d been a period when he’d run in to their bedroom with inconvenient frequency, begging to be allowed to share their bed, his small body quivering with some night terror or other. He’d grown out of bad dreams over time, just as he’d grown out of puppy fat and, later, of spots.
‘Come here.’ She opened her arms and he ran across to her. It seemed strange to be comforting her child again, now that he was almost a grown man, but holding Ninian was comforting. ‘It’s the storm. It upsets the nervous system. That’s all.’
‘I know. Sorry.’ He pulled away from her, just as a spectacular flash of lighting lit the night sky. ‘Wow! That was brilliant!’ The thunder was so loud it seemed almost overhead. Ninian, his nightmare forgotten, peered out into the night, his face alight with excitement.
Another flash of lightning lit half of eastern Scotland. Kate’s mouth fell open. The power of the storm was terrifying. ‘Hope it doesn’t do too much damage.’
The rain was battering against the window and the wind hadn’t let up.
‘Is someone out there with a high-pressure hose?’ Ninian asked, more cheerful now. ‘By the way, did you know, Mum, that lightning actually goes from the ground to the sky, not the other way around?’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. At science, we—’
Ninian’s physics lesson was cut short by the next flash of lightning, the most dramatic of all. Electricity mapped the sky with blinding rivers of light that crackled and roared and flared straight to the willow tree down the garden.
‘No!’
Kate gripped Ninian’s arm as the tree appeared to explode. Branches shot into the air and were picked up by the wind and blown in every direction. ‘Oh my God! What happened there? I’ve got to go and look at it!’ She turned to the door and started to run.
‘No way, Mum.’ Ninian caught hold of her arm and pulled her back. ‘It’s far too dangerous. Don’t you see? There might be another strike.’
She watched, appalled, as another flare of lightning sizzled and hissed, then died into the night sky. The storm was moving away, though. The silence before the thunder was longer now and the wind was dying back.
‘My willow!’
Ninian put his arms round her – this time, the protector. ‘It was getting old anyway, Mum,’ he said, as though he was talking about a pet. ‘You know it couldn’t have lived much longer.’
But Kate was inconsolable. The willows were the sentinels and guardians of her home, and one of them had just been destroyed. Of all the terrible things that had happened to her in the past few months, the loss of her tree seemed the hardest to bear. ‘It’s awful, Ninian, just awful,’ she said, over and over again.
In the morning, after Ninian had gone to school, she went out to inspect the damage. It was impossible to believe that the weather could have wrought such carnage. The sky was as blue and clear as a Mediterranean sky in summer and there was not a breath of wind. There was even, for November, a surprising amount of warmth in the sun’s rays. Songbirds celebrated with joyous melody. Where had they hidden, last night, to escape the wind’s fury?
The ravaged garden had no sweet face to turn to the sky. All around her, the aftermath of the storm was all too evident. Kate scooped up a handful of rose petals and sniffed the devastated flowers sadly. Poor things, they hadn’t stood a chance. The rose bush by the study window was all but flattened. Could she save it? She examined the long shoots doubtfully. She’d need to replace the trellis that had supported the climber and tie the whole thing up again. Some growth would have to be pruned away completely, but was that possible without killing the plant? She had no idea how to tackle the job.
The cherry tree in the southern portion of the garden looked just as forlorn. Only a few brave leaves still clung to its branches and one whole branch had snapped off and was hanging by a splinter. The wind must have been whistling round the corner of the house because there was a huge pile of garden debris heaped up against the kitchen door. It had been prevented from whirling any further by the bay window – and it seemed little short of a miracle that none of the windows had been broken.
She left the willow till last. She could hardly bear to inspect it. Salix alba ‘tristis’. Sad white willow. Today its name was a distressingly apt description. By the stream, the damage was worse than anywhere else. The younger willow looked bedraggled, sadder than ever, but the older tree had been completely destroyed. The trunk had fractured right down the middle. One large branch was lying ten feet away, another half on and half off the garden wall thirty feet further on. Smaller branches and twigs crunched and snapped with every step she took and there were leaves everywhere. Her favourite seat between the two trees had disappeared altogether. She started, half-heartedly, to try to organise the chaos, piling leaves here, twigs there, branches nearer the path. It was thankless work. After half an hour, breathless and increasingly frustrated, she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. She’d accomplished very little. Disheartened, she went back inside. She’d start again after a coffee.
As the kettle boiled, the phone rang.
‘Kate Courtenay.’
‘Kate, it’s Helena Banks.’
‘Hi, how are you? How did you fare in the storm?’
‘We have a few roof tiles off. How about you?’
‘I haven’t even looked at the roof yet,’ Kate confessed. ‘I’ve been trying to deal with the willow.’
‘Problem?’
‘The older one was directly hit by lightning. Ninian and I saw it.’ She tried to laugh, but the sound that emerged was more like a choked sob. ‘It was certainly a spectacular cremation.’
‘That bad?’
‘It seemed to explode. Literally. There are branches everywhere.’
‘Have you got anyone to help you clear up?’
Andrew would have organised it , Kate thought. She was beginning to realise how much Andrew had assumed responsibility for in the house and garden without her even being aware of it. ‘No. Sadly not.’
‘Are you going to be in this morning?’
‘I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.’
‘Well listen, I have to go into Edinburgh, but I’ll send someone round. Okay?’
‘That’s really kind of you, Helena, but—’
‘No worries. Listen, I must go, but I’ll be in touch, I promise you.’
It wasn’t until after she’d put the phone down that Kate realised who the ‘someone’ was likely to be: her gardener. Ibsen Brown.
She ran upstairs. She couldn’t see him looking like this, with her ancient Ugg boots and frayed denims. She pulled one item of clothing after another out of the wardrobe, examined it, tossed it on the bed. Nothing seemed right. A skirt was too girly, a dress out of the question. Tailored trousers too much like work wear, a skimpy top too sexy.
Stupid!
She wasn’t Melanie and she never planned to be. A scrawl of sadness drew itself in front of her eyes – girls without names or faces, girls who’d been rejected by Ibsen Brown. No. Not for her. And in any case, she was still married and Andrew wanted to talk – and that was something she had to think about, because of Ninian.
Annoyed with herself, she raked through the pile of clothing again and decided on simple slim-fit black jeans and heeled ankle boots, swapping her threadbare old rib-knit sweater for a more stylish long cashmere number in cream, with an asymmetric hem. The left edge dipped half way between her knee and hip, the right edge clipped the very top of her leg. Not too sexy, not too tatty. And because it was cold, she reached for the Missoni black and ivory striped scarf, a winter favourite.
Then she waited.
She tidied away the heap of clothes. She made the bed. She was about to pull out the vacuum cleaner when she realised she might not hear him a
rrive above its noise, so she found a duster and some polish instead. Wiping the sills and polishing the furniture had an unexpectedly therapeutic effect.
By the time Ibsen appeared an hour and a half later, she had given up altogether and had started to tackle last night’s cooking pots. When she heard his asthmatic car, she was up to her elbows in soapy water. She wiped her hands quickly on a towel and wrenched open the front door just as he was raising his hand to ring the bell.
When Helena Banks asked him if he’d go and help Kate Courtenay, Ibsen’s first instinct had been to refuse. Then he remembered that Helena was paying him, so refusal would be difficult. After that it dawned on him that in fact there was nothing he’d like more than an excuse to see Kate again – but when he walked up the path and lifted his hand to the doorbell, his stomach was churning.
‘Hi!’
She looked sweet enough to eat, all dressed up in some kind of lopsided sweater and little ankle boots with heels that raised her a good two inches towards his chin. When had she last cut her hair? The close crop had grown out and curls had begun to appear round her ears. They softened her appearance.
The jitters in his stomach receded. She was real, and she looked as nervous as he felt.
‘Hi, Kate,’ he managed to say as Wellington finally managed to bypass his legs to nose her crotch, his tail a flapping flag of ecstasy.
‘Hello, Wellington!’
‘I think he’s pleased to see you.’
She straightened and smiled. ‘Like the sweatshirt.’ His wardrobe of sweatshirts came from the same stable as his tee shirts. Today’s was dark green and simply read ‘Hardy Perennial’.
‘Thanks. Like the, erm, top. Did it shrink on one side?’
Kate blushed. ‘Okay, I know, it’s a bit “ladies who lunch”. Want to come in?’
His eyes never left her face. ‘It’s good to see you, Kate,’ he said softly.
The blush extended from her face down her neck. He saw her swallow, then she whispered, ‘And you.’
This wouldn’t do. She’d made it clear that her marriage had to come first and Ibsen was no marriage wrecker. Get a grip. He stepped backwards. ‘Let’s look at the damage, shall we?’
She followed him into the garden. ‘Did any of your dahlias survive?’ she asked as they made their way towards the storm-hit willow.
‘You remembered. Thankfully, all the tubers have been lifted and are safely in storage.’ They rounded the corner of the house and he stopped dead. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Isn’t it awful?’
She sounded teary. He said matter-of-factly, ‘I did warn you it hadn’t got long to live.’
‘Yes, but to end like this—’ Kate gestured at the bits of willow scattered twenty yards in every direction.
Ibsen stepped across one of the larger branches and bent down to examine the trunk. ‘This is really interesting.’ He beckoned her towards him. ‘See this?’
She bent to look, so close that he could smell shampoo and some light fragrance. Damn. This was difficult. ‘What?’
‘When a tree is dying, it sometimes dies from the outside in. Most of any life-giving sap that’s left is deep in its core.’
‘So?’
‘Lightning looks for the most conductive route – in this case, the moisture path. You had a direct hit, at a guess?’
‘Yes. I saw it happen.’
‘Must have been spectacular.’
‘And scary.’
‘The electric charge would have been unimaginably powerful. It found the moist core and simply boiled the water, like a pressure cooker, so that it exploded.’
‘What, so quickly?’
‘Instantly.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘The power of nature is fascinating, isn’t it?’
‘What do we do?’
‘Sorry. I’ve read about this happening, I’ve just never had the chance to witness it first hand. Wish I’d actually seen it happen.’ He stood up and looked around. ‘I’ll tidy everything up, you don’t need to worry about it. I’ll need to dig this out. Once everything’s tidy and the ground is clear, you can replant if you want to.’
‘When can you do it?’
‘I’ll make a start today. I should get all the debris cleared up and some other tasks done, like tying up the roses. Digging the trunk out will take longer and I might have to bring in help.’
‘Do you need anything?’
‘I’ve got a tool kit in the car, but if you can show me where you store yours they may be better suited.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Not in those clothes. But if you really want to get stuck in, we could set up a system. I’ll do the heavy work, you can sort out the leaves and twigs.’
Later, over a mug of soup and some warm bread in her kitchen, he said, ‘I heard there was some kind of trouble at work.’
The easy cameraderie of labour was gone in an instant and her eyes became guarded. Damn.
‘News travels. They suspended me after that incident up at Bonny Brae Woods.’
‘I saw the clip on the telly. It wasn’t the way it happened.’
‘Nope. But it looked bad. Anyway, I guess you’re cheering.’
‘Why?’
‘One obstacle removed in the fight against Summerfield Wind Farm?’
He put his hands up to his face and rubbed the sides of his nose. ‘You’re wrong. I’m against the wind farm but there’s no way I’d want you to lose your job. Besides, someone else’ll just take over.’
‘True.’
‘And anyway—’
‘Anyway what?’
‘You haven’t exactly converted me, I’d still prefer Summerfield to stay as it is, but I’ve been thinking a lot about it and – well, let’s just say I’m less opposed than I was.’
Kate suddenly seemed to find the pattern on the cream granite worktop fascinating. He watched as she traced a white vein with her finger until it wound its way to the edge and became a beige puddle. ‘O-kay,’ she said, ‘I’m happy with that.’
He nodded. Perhaps they could find a truce. ‘There’s a good movie on in Hailesbank on Friday. Fancy coming?’
Interest flared, then died as quickly. ‘I’m still married, Ibsen,’ she said softly.
‘It’s just a movie.’
‘And I’m just another date, right?’
He shoved his chair back. It scraped harshly on the tiles. ‘You took that comment all wrong.’
‘Maybe. But you’re a complicated man, and Christ knows, I’ve got my own problems at the moment.’
‘Complicated? Would you like to translate?’
‘Come on, Ibsen.’ She said it gently. ‘You’re never going to have another relationship till you’ve laid your ghosts to rest, are you?’
She was right. Dammit, he should never have told her about Violet. The first time he’d been honest with someone and look where it had got him.
She was saying, ‘Anyway, Andrew and I might get back together. There’s still a chance.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘A marriage is a big thing. No matter what he’s done, I don’t feel I should throw it away just like that.’
‘No. You’re right.’ He was standing as stiff as a garden broom, legs planted apart, hands thrust deep into his pockets. ‘I’d better get going.’
They stared at each other, tied by an invisible thread of emotion that vibrated and hummed and crackled with pent-up energy. If only he could—
She said, ‘Thanks for coming. Let me know what it all costs.’
‘I’ll get someone to dig the stump out for you.’
He strode down the path with Wellington by his side, cursing his ineptitude. He’d handled that so badly.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Kate’s world grew small. Days that had been populated by whole offices full of people, who knew her name and what she did and who respected her skill and expertise, telescoped down to one house and not even one employee. The telephone seldom rang. Kate even
missed her heavy breather. While she’d believed that the calls were a threat from someone campaigning against Summerfield, her conviction that the wind farm was a good thing and that everyone who disagreed was merely uninformed had carried her through on a wave of moral superiority.
Helena Banks came round. Odd to look forward so much to seeing a new friend.
‘The thing is, I find myself starting to look for Ninian coming through the gates at the end of the afternoon,’ Kate confessed, serving scones she had made in the morning. She was trying to master the basics of a new skill – baking. ‘It’s pathetic. I time my days between him heading off to school in the morning and coming back in the afternoon.’
‘I’m sure most mothers look forward to their children coming home.’ Helena tried to saw through the scone, failed, and put her knife down.
‘But all the time he was a child, I was completely unaware of these comings in and goings out of the tide. Now they define my days.’
‘What’s happening about the job?’
‘I got a call from the HR department. They want me to go in next week for the hearing.’
‘What does that entail?’
‘They’ve been conducting a formal investigation into my behaviour.’
‘Ouch.’
‘I know it sounds arrogant, Helena, but to be honest, I’m a better engineer and a better project manager than guys who are much more senior than me in that organisation. I just lost my cool at the wrong time and in the wrong place.’
‘You think they’re out to get you because you’re a woman?’
‘No, in fairness, I wouldn’t say that. They’re doing what they have to do. It just annoys me. I don’t think I’d have been put in the invidious position of managing such a hot project on home territory if I’d been a man. Or—’ she added in a fit of self-awareness, ‘maybe if I’d been a man I would have stood up to my boss more and told them I wasn’t doing it.’
‘But you do want to go back?’
‘Oh yes. It’s what I do.’ She smiled a pale smile. ‘And I’m going to need the income. Besides, I can’t stand being here, alone in the house. I put the radio on to kill the silence, but there’s nothing I want to listen to. I switch on the telly for company, but I can’t settle in front of it. I put on music, but everything reminds me of Andrew, or something we once shared.
