Tree Magic

by Harriet Springbett

  Rainbow shook her head and concentrated on pulling on her harness. No trees. Not since June, when she’d met Nico and stepped onto his two-seater rocket to her destiny. That’s why she was here at the quarry, rather than in a wood. She daren’t touch a tree for fear of falling from the rocket back into the complications of spiritual obscurity.

  “Why don’t we go further round and try some new routes,” she asked. “I’m sick of always doing the same ones.”

  They studied the guide. Rainbow lifted her head every so often to catch up on the dry smells of late summer around them. Everything was beginning to wither and turn yellow. She relaxed. There was no tempting call of rising sap.

  She loved sitting at a drawing table with Nico. Never before had she been so inspired or felt so important to a person. She was going somewhere, at last. But here, outdoors among the half-asleep bushes and grass and wild flowers, she was serene and safe.

  “How does Domi feel about your choice?” asked Sylvia.

  “He doesn’t want me to go. I don’t know if it’s because I’m leaving the commune, or because I’ve given up trees.”

  “Both probably.”

  Rainbow kicked at a loose stone. Bloody Domi. He’d relegated her to a shelf. He wanted her to sit and heal one tree at a time in between reading peoples’ futures in their grubby hands. Who wouldn’t have preferred a glittering career in art? She could hardly look at him without feeling resentment interweaved with guilt, these days. And she couldn’t get anything right for him anymore.

  Sylvia decided on a series of French-graded ‘5a’s to warm up. They picked up their rucksacks, scrambled around the rock face and began to climb. Once they’d conquered these, they moved further along to a harder route.

  “It’s your turn to lead,” Sylvia said. “Go for it!”

  The route looked difficult. Rainbow’s palms perspired as she studied it from the ground. They were still rough and ridged, despite the lack of contact with trees for two months.

  The crux was three-quarters of the way up. She raced up the first half, clipping into the bolts as she climbed. She knew she had to do the easy bit fast, before her arms tired. Pausing on a small ledge, she dropped her arms to her sides to bring the blood back into them and studied the crux. It was a flake, an upside-down triangle of rock that stood proud of the rest of the face. A fig tree grew out of a crevice in the rock above it. She would need all her arm strength for the layback technique she’d have to use to climb up the side of it. Apart from the physical difficulty it seemed straightforward. She remained wary, nevertheless. Cruxes often looked simple from below.

  Sylvia shouted up and encouraged her to make a move. Her suggestions for holds were often impractical because their size difference meant they rarely used the same holds to climb a route.

  Rainbow took a deep breath. She side-stepped, pulled herself up to the next hold and started to lay back off the flake. After three moves, she was stuck. She groped for a hold with her left hand. All her weight was on her right arm. Her feet, cramped into the little rubber-soled slippers that usually worked miracles on rock faces, had no holds. They simply balanced her against the face.

  “I can’t do it!”

  “Yes, you can! There’s a jug up to your left.”

  “It’s too far away.”

  Sweat trickled between her breasts. The fig bowed down above her, enticing her. She swore. It was unethical to use a tree. Sylvia would never let her forget it if she cheated.

  “Bring your feet up,” called Sylvia.

  Rainbow felt the rope tighten as Sylvia prepared for a fall.

  She scrabbled with her toes. There was nothing for her feet.

  “I’ll be off in a second. Have you got me?”

  “Yes. If you really can’t go on, grab the tree. I’ll forgive you, just this once.”

  Rainbow hesitated, then grabbed.

  Her fingers curled desperately around a thick root. She pulled her body upwards, her feet smearing against the rock. The fig tree took her weight. Sylvia’s voice seemed to float up from a thousand metres away. Rainbow wound her arms around the trunk: it was like coming home.

  Suddenly, an excruciating pain flashed through her insides. The fig was outraged. The trees were outraged. She had betrayed them with her decision to study art.

  She cried out, wrenched her arms away and fell.

  The rope snapped her up a few metres below and she smashed into the quarry face. The pain from the rock was nothing compared to agony of the trees’ anger.

  Chapter 40

  Rainbow

  Domi loitered at the door to Rainbow’s bedroom while she packed her bag for the journey to Lyon. She was going to stay at Nico’s overnight and leave early the next morning.

  “You’re set on going to that school, then,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “You know, it feels all wrong.”

  “I have to do something positive. I’m not like you, Domi. I can’t sit around and wait for a destiny to appear. My gift with trees is useless, whereas important people are excited about my drawing.”

  “Important people? Those are Nicolas’s words, not yours.”

  She stuffed a jumper deeper into her bag and searched for a way to justify herself. Domi continued speaking before she could think of anything.

  “Still, it’s your decision to make, Rainbow. If you feel you need to do this, then you must go.”

  She straightened up and looked directly into his eyes for the first time in months.

  “Thank you, Domi.”

  “So you’re off,” said Christophe.

  Rainbow heaved her bag down the stairs. He must have taken time off work to drop in and say goodbye.

  “I’m only going for a week.”

  “It’s the first step of your flight. This time next year you’ll be off for good. To live someone else’s dream.”

  Rainbow paused mid-step. “It’s not someone else’s dream.”

  “Are you sure? You’re not just following Nicolas because it’s the easiest way to escape?”

  She scowled at him. “My art is as good as his. We were both accepted.”

  “I’m not questioning that. I just wonder if you’re really interested in it. What happened to the girl who was determined to save trees, no matter what?”

  Rainbow pushed past him and tugged her bag out to the parking space.

  “I’ll miss you, love,” said Mum.

  She helped Rainbow load the bag into the Mini.

  “Of course you won’t. We don’t spend time together anymore, Mum. In any case, it’s only for a week. I don’t know why everyone is making such a fuss. I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

  Mum settled in front of the steering wheel to drive her to Nico’s house. Rainbow dropped a kiss on her greying hair and then walked around the Mini and opened the passenger door.

  “I suppose it’s not really a surprise,’ said Mum.

  Rainbow slid into the passenger seat and yanked on the stiff seat belt. “What isn’t a surprise?”

  “That you’ve chosen art. Your father was an artist.”

  Rainbow stopped pulling the seat belt. “My father was an artist?”

  “Kind of. Anyway, it shows these things are in the genes.”

  Rainbow slotted the buckle slowly into place. “You mean that Domi’s not my dad?”

  “Domi? Of course not. What makes you think that?”

  It was a good question. Rainbow searched for what had made her think Domi was her dad. The date, that was it. The date on the postcard: 1977. Now she thought about it, her deduction seemed ridiculous.

  “I don’t know.” She swallowed. “So who was my father?”

  Mum opened her mouth. Then she closed it again. She slammed her car door shut. “We’d better get going or you’ll be late.”

  “Mum! I’ve got a right to know, surely?”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” said Mum.

  She put her hand on Rainbow’s thigh and shoo
k her head. Her eyes swam with sadness. Or was it pity?

  Rainbow pushed Mum’s hand away and glared out of her window. She felt disorientated. The perspective of her past had shifted with Mum’s words. She drifted back to the question she thought she’d resolved years ago: if Domi wasn’t her father, then who was?

  Mum turned the key and the engine burst into life.

  “Are you all right?” asked Nico.

  He took her bag and carried it up to his bedroom.

  “You look pale. I suppose it’s the first time you’ve left your mum.”

  Rainbow followed him up the stairs. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  He dropped the bag and caught both her hands in his. “This is it, Renne. Our second step towards our dazzling future. You’ll see. Lalande and Linnet! We’ll be greater than Goscinny and Uderzo.”

  His eyes sparkled. Rainbow felt her spirit lighten. This was the most important thing now: being with Nico, feeling inspired and alive, feeding on his confidence in her, making him proud. She missed this when he wasn’t with her; she felt lost and unsure. His presence beside her was vital for her to know who she really was. When she looked into his blue eyes they seemed to reflect back her true self.

  But was this her true self? All she could see was a wavering image of herself. Did she really need Nico’s eyes to see who she was? Nothing seemed so certain anymore. Perhaps all she could see was a possibility.

  She let go of his hands and took a step backwards.

  It was difficult to carry her bag back downstairs alone.

  “Good for you,” said Sylvia, once she’d overcome her surprise at seeing Rainbow standing alone at her front door. She took one handle of the bag and shared the heavy load. Rainbow shivered.

  “I’m not at all sure I’ve done the right thing. Can I stay the night with you? I can’t face going back to Le Logis and hearing them get spiritual on me.”

  “Of course. How did Nico take it?”

  “Badly. He accused me of ruining his career.”

  Sylvia put an arm around her.

  “I think you’re better off without him. Maybe the real Rainbow will come back now.”

  Rainbow grimaced. “What have I done? I must be crazy.”

  “Ah, that’s the Rainbow I know. Welcome back!”

  Chapter 41

  Mary

  Mary discovers that Frédéric – or Fred, as he likes to be called now he drives his own car – doesn’t have a personality to match his Greek-god appearance. Why is it that the best-looking guys turn out to be the least interesting?

  It took her ten minutes to realise this. Those ten minutes proved fatal. He sensed her infatuation, latched onto the way they stared at each other and took it for love at first sight. He can’t accept she was simply dazzled, like a rabbit in car headlights. Yes, he’s good-looking, but he’s also arrogant. He can’t pass a window without admiring himself in it. And he only ever talks about himself and his political ambitions.

  The worst thing is that he has taken her subsequent disinterest in him as an encouragement. The more she ignores him, the keener he becomes. She doesn’t want to upset him and risk ruining Katia’s holiday. For weeks she has been thinking up ruses to keep him at a distance. She’s worn-out. The activities with Katia and Corinne have been fun: the riverside lounging, the parties and the music festivals. She should feel fulfilled now she’s living in France. But she’s becoming more and more aware that something important is missing – and it’s certainly not Fred.

  She thought she would like being a foreigner and having the opportunity to reinvent herself once more. But the French Marie she has become isn’t really her. She’s just a token English girl; a girl whose English label hides her personality. The French only relate to the stereotype she represents. They can’t relate to a person who lacks the language to express herself in any depth. She still doesn’t fit in.

  In a few days she and Katia will head back to Paris and their new lives as university students will begin. One final ordeal remains: tonight’s party with Fred’s friends. Then she can return to Paris and hope she’ll find the missing key to fulfilment there.

  Fred’s Cognac gang have a house to themselves for the evening, because the parents are away. They’re going to celebrate the end of the summer holidays before they scatter over France to continue their studies. Mary knows it will be difficult to integrate. This wouldn’t have bothered her in England, where she often chose to be aloof. But this French Marie feels a desperate need to be accepted in her adoptive country. If France doesn’t work out, what’s left?

  She’s alone in Fred and Corinne’s house at the moment, waiting for Katia and her cousins to return from their bike ride in the woods before they head off to the party. She turns on the television and chooses a quiz rather than one of the badly dubbed American soaps. With a slice of Nutella-smeared baguette in one hand, she reads the French subtitled clues to each question before they disappear. It’s hopeless. By the time she’s read and loosely understood the question, the answer has already been given. There’s so much she doesn’t know, even when she manages to understand the words. Learning the language is the easiest part of changing countries. The hardest bit is digesting the culture: the names of actors and TV presenters, the cult films, the French songs, the politicians, the history, the geography and the proverbs.

  She takes a shower, mulling over the incredible fact that the death penalty existed in France until the early 1980s. Then she dresses herself carefully in jeans, high heels, a shirt and open waistcoat to attain a casual look. In an hour a cluster of chic French girls will be looking her up and down. She refuses to conform to the image of the badly dressed English girls in fleeces and jogging trousers that Fred’s gang of Cognac girls gleefully cling to.

  Fred drives them to the party house. Within seconds of him ringing the doorbell, his friend Nathalie opens the door. She throws herself into his arms with a squeal of delight. Fred looks pointedly at Mary while he hugs Nathalie. He’s trying to make her feel jealous. All she feels is a spark of hope that tonight he may attach himself to another girl.

  Given Nathalie’s excitement, Mary presumes the party is well under way. Nathalie is more reserved with Mary and Katia – one kiss only – and then she urges them all indoors. She jigs to the salsa music and flings her arms into the empty space around her. The room is completely bare. Mary realises they’re the first arrivals.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” cries Nathalie.

  “Very. Where’s your furniture?” Mary asks.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your furniture, where is it?”

  The problem isn’t the loud music. It’s the three-sentence interval the French need in order to accustom themselves to her accent and the sequence of her words.

  “Oh, our furniture,” Nathalie corrects.

  Her words sound exactly the same to Mary.

  “We’ve moved it into the garage for tonight,” says Nathalie.

  They follow her into the kitchen and help her serve packets of crisps, peanuts, dried sausage, olives and a savoury cake. This will be the only food they’ll see until after midnight – or even for the whole night.

  Before long, the front door swings into action. The guests are the same age as Mary, but many of them are already in long-term relationships. Everyone here has known each other since primary school. She can’t imagine an equivalent English party being so full of couples. The parties at home are mostly about getting off with someone you fancy.

  The norm at parties like this seems to be one kiss instead of the standard two. She embraces the people she’s already met this summer and tries to recall the seed of a detail that will allow a conversation to germinate. She exhausted any references to their visits to Britain long ago. They’ve all been to England, meaning London, and have terrible memories of the food, especially the shock of being served a wobbling jelly in its glory of artificial colour.

  “Ah, our favourite Rosbif,” says a girl called Carine, and kisses Mary. />
  Mary has learnt that this is a slang reference to the English. Ah, my favourite Frog, she wants to say. Instead, she recalls the mysterious-sounding illness Carine was complaining about the week before, when their paths had crossed in town.

  “How are you feeling?” Mary asks her.

  “Much better, thanks.”

  Carine turns towards Nathalie and they launch into a long discussion about B.B. King. He visited Cognac during the Blues festival earlier in August. Mary listens and stumbles on a key word.

  “Sorry, what did B.B. King reply?” she says.

  Carine stops in mid-flow.

  “Basketball,” she says, after a moment. “Where was I?”

  “Telling me how to apply to work as a volunteer,” Nathalie fills in. “Go on.”

  Mary has missed the link between the two parts of the story. She gives up trying to follow. In the kitchen, she helps herself to some crisps and then goes into the lounge in search of someone who’s alone. She can manage to hold a conversation with a single person; it’s when there are two or more that it gets difficult.

  Fred is in the lounge with the boys. They stand in a tight circle, their backs facing out. She eavesdrops and pretends to examine the face sculpted in the stone chimneypiece. The boys assume the girls will want to gossip together, and that by separating themselves they’re doing the girls a favour. This is fine when the girls know each other well, but Mary prefers masculine company. The boys are easier to understand. They generally have more patience and listen right to the end of her slow sentences.

  There’s no way she can enter their circle. She goes back to the girls in the kitchen and joins Katia, who’s talking to someone she appears to know well. Katia dashes away to dance and the girl smiles at Mary.

  “You must be Katia’s penfriend,” the girl says. “It’s Marie, isn’t it?”

  Mary nods. “And you’re–?”