by Freya North
The house seemed very quiet, very calm, to Oliver yet the silence felt loaded. He busied himself making tea, putting a wash on, opening post; whistling all the while so he didn’t have to listen. When he showered, he found it was easier to hum than whistle. He talked to himself as he dried and changed, just meandering over neutral subjects like the clients he’d seen that week and that the weather really was glorious even for this, the most temperate period of the season. Then he regarded his reflection in the mirror and said, Oh God, do I really want to be doing all this? And suddenly DeeDee was looking at him from the photo on the chest of drawers, and Oliver was desperate to sense her saying, Don’t go, I’m not ready, Ols, please don’t do this just yet. But there was simply unequivocal silence. It wasn’t even heavy any more, it was just a quiet house because he was the only person in it.
He picked up the photo and traced his finger gently over her image. She didn’t come to life, she said nothing to him, just stared out beyond him. He remembered vividly the day that photo was taken – she hadn’t been looking at the camera, she’d been preoccupied with looking over Oliver’s shoulder while he told her to say cheese, because she’d been watching Jonty climbing the rope ladder in the adventure playground behind him. Sometimes he hated photographs – the caught moment, the person frozen in time and place. The realism of the lie.
He put the photo back and sat on the edge of his bed, feeling caught between the past and the present, between two women, wishing there were guidelines on timing, wishing the feeling of limbo would abate yet not wanting to be any further from the time when DeeDee was alive and life was just simple. Back then, the days just passed gently and the concept of the future wasn’t onerous, indeed it wasn’t analysed much beyond when they’d change the car or whether they’d holiday in Europe or blow the budget and go to the States. Last Tuesday, when he’d suggested today to Vita, it had all seemed so far in the future. Now it was upon him, Oliver wondered if he really felt ready. Wouldn’t it just be easier to carry on as Pete Yorke at weekends? Keep mind and body separate, not try to take a chance with his heart again?
‘Look – I’ll just see how I feel. When she opens the door.’ But though he said it out loud, he was aware that he was saying it to himself now, not to DeeDee. She was locked back in the photo of a brilliant morning seven years ago. He was here, on his own, this late July Friday afternoon. He knew, too, sensible as he was, that wondering about Vita had nothing to do with how he felt about DeeDee, just how he felt – might feel – about Vita. And however he felt about Vita – about seeing her in half an hour – did not, would not, negate how he would always feel about DeeDee. He left the house and, as he drove to Vita’s, he considered how all those grief counsellors and bereavement books would declare all this a marker of progress. Though he felt no triumph, he did note that he felt calm. And nerves, those fantastic first-night nerves.
Vita told herself, I bet he doesn’t turn up, I bet he cries off, I bet he’s changed his mind, I bet it will be all awkward. Oh well, she thought, my hair needed a cut anyway. And she thought, I bet I needn’t have dug out my walking boots and brushed off the old mud and given them a good polish. But then her doorbell rang and she caught sight of herself and she said to herself, See! And she spoke to herself as Candy or Michelle might: You have a lovely time, woman. Just be yourself and enjoy.
‘Ready?’ There he was, a step or so away from the doorstep, hands loosely on hips, squinting slightly in the late-afternoon sun. He was wearing a shirt softly striped mint and white, sleeves rolled midway up his forearms. And jeans. Hurrah for jeans!
Vita looked down at his feet. He was in lovely well-worn docksiders. ‘I’ve been dithering about what I should wear – on my feet,’ she told him. He regarded her socks. They were navy blue trainer socks, with pink parts over the heel and toes. ‘I have walking boots? Cowboy boots?’
‘I’d say a pair of trainers would do fine.’
‘Michelle will kill me!’ Vita said happily.
‘She sounds – charming,’ Oliver laughed.
‘If you meet her – never tell her about them. Or the jeans.’
‘Scout’s honour,’ said Oliver, with a three-fingered salute. ‘Shall I take a quick look at your traps?’
‘Be my guest.’
And while Vita walked ahead, chucking her walking boots into the cupboard under the stairs and retrieving her trainers as if they were ruby slippers, Oliver carried on out into her garden. He came back through to find her sitting on the second stair up, lacing her shoes.
‘There are a fair few wasps, you’ll be pleased to know,’ he said, liking the way she was doing double bows. ‘Very dead.’
Vita pulled a face of revulsion.
‘Nice,’ Oliver laughed and he thought it really was nice – to meet someone at ease enough in his company to pull a silly face, rather than obsess about painting it pretty. ‘You’ve had a haircut,’ he noticed. She looked immediately self-conscious. ‘Was that on my account?’ She mumbled in obvious embarrassment but Oliver felt flattered.
‘It suits you,’ he said.
‘Michelle,’ Vita said.
‘Is this Michelle woman your own personal stylist?’
Vita laughed. ‘She’s my very best friend and she has no compunction telling me what not to wear, what my bum looks big in and when my hair looks like rats’ tails. She’d much rather I was in a Stella McCartney top.’
‘But then what would poor Stella wear?’ Oliver said as Vita locked the door, giggling. And, as she walked ahead of him down the front path, liking her shiny hair and the new flicky bits, he thought, Your bum looks pretty good to me. Her lightweight jeans and fitted white T-shirt were fine by Oliver.
‘Oh! A car.’
He laughed. ‘The truck – like the green shirts with the logo – is strictly for work.’ He held the door open for her.
‘Where are we off to?’
‘Wynfordbury Hall.’
It rang a bell. Then she remembered. ‘Where the parakeets escaped from?’
From where they escaped. ‘Exactly.’
‘I thought you said it’s privately owned?’
‘It is – by the umpteenth Lord Seddon. But the gardens are open to the public Thursday to Monday, from July to September, dawn to dusk.’ He reached behind to the back seat and retrieved a clipboard which he placed on Vita’s lap. It had a blank sheet of paper attached. ‘I’m part of the team running a nationwide project to identify, record and protect our ancient trees. We have more ancient trees than any other country in Europe and our historic trees will be accorded the same respect as works of art – given the same status and protection as public monuments. They’re one of our greatest natural assets and I’m estimating there are a hundred thousand of them. There is a wonderful arboretum at Wynfordbury. Though we’re actually going to verify the yew.’
‘Am I your assistant?’
Oliver had pulled away and was driving up the Tree Houses when he looked at her.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you’re my date.’
There.
Unequivocal.
Crystal clear.
‘I chose a career in which I can mix work and pleasure,’ he shrugged, ‘but I just think you might really like this place.’ He reached across her, to the glove compartment, and retrieved a circular tin of old-fashioned travel sweets – hard and square and dusted in powdered sugar.
‘Thank you,’ she said, digging around for a red one.
Vita looked out the window as he drove. She’d never been on a date like this before. She could imagine Candy’s reaction: he gave you a sweet and took you to see some crunky old tree? She could almost hear Michelle: thank God I didn’t lend you my Stella McCartney. But Vita knew how they’d both coo a bit too; they already liked the sound of Oliver, they were happy for her and hopeful. She knew they were waiting in the wings, their mobiles at the ready, excited for her, rooting for her. Vita, though, had left her phone at home. She didn’t want the distraction of three thousand texts.
‘This is Wynfordbury Hall!’ Vita marvelled. ‘I’m ashamed to say I must have been up this way a million times.’ They were driving past a grand old stone wall fringed with ivy, which ran almost the entire length of the long road. ‘I assumed it was a golf course or something.’
Oliver pulled up to towering iron gates; the rust somehow adding to the drama of the flamboyant curlicues and the lichen-scorched stone supports. One side was open and they drove through, continuing up a long drive, sheep grazing on perfectly manicured parkland to either side. The house was not yet visible.
‘The whole estate is landscaped – every rise and fall you see was planned to perfection. The vistas, the proportions – it’s all sublime.’
‘Wow.’
‘Very wow.’
‘Is it Calamity Brown?’
‘No,’ he said, not correcting her, ‘it’s the Indigo Jones school.’
‘Did I just say Calamity not Capability?’
‘You did.’
‘And did you just say Indigo and not Inigo?’
‘I did.’
‘So I wouldn’t feel such a numpty?’ she asked quietly. Michelle and Candy might not appreciate just how much that meant to her.
They drove on and on. A curving lake came up on their right; an ornamental bridge white and delicate, spanning the central narrowed section. The drive swept around it and suddenly, there was the house. The Hall wasn’t huge but the details were imposing – from the chimney stacks to the tall windows, the intricate brick-work, the grand entrance portal. But what took Vita’s breath away was the mantle of wisteria softening the lines and swaying just perceptibly in the early-evening breeze.
‘Chinese wisteria twists anticlockwise. Japanese twists clockwise,’ Oliver said as he carried on driving, past what must once have been a carriage house and stables, finally parking just beyond them. There were other cars there, visitors arriving and leaving.
‘Clipboard and pen?’ he asked.
‘Roger,’ she said.
‘Another sweet?’ he said. ‘And don’t call me Roger.’
They set off, Oliver having to practically drag her in his direction when Vita wanted to veer off to the Knot Garden.
‘As a nation, we’re doing a great job protesting about rainforests,’ he said, as they strolled away from the house, ‘but we’re guilty of taking our own trees for granted. Then, when they die, we feel bereft.’ His voice and his words were compelling, and when she snuck a long look at him as he spoke, she experienced a surge of adrenalin as she wondered what were the chances that at some point that evening they might kiss.
She had assumed the arboretum would be some kind of organized system of planting, as if the trees would be standing formally like obedient schoolchildren lining up in the playground. But actually, it had been designed to look informal and natural. Oliver pointed out the different species, greeting many as if they were old family friends.
‘Oh, look at that one!’ Vita tugged at Oliver’s shirtsleeve.
‘Davidia involucrata,’ he said, ‘known as the handkerchief or dove tree after those exquisite, ghostly white bracts.’
‘It’s so –’ Vita stood still. ‘Not ghostly – heavenly. Ethereal.’
Oliver smiled at her as she looked up and around, the bracts fluttering silently as if made of the finest silk. ‘This one was one of the first in the country – brought over from Indochina in the mid-nineteenth century.’ He let her marvel for a couple of minutes, then he cupped his hand around her elbow. ‘Come on – there’s so much more.’ He led her on, kicking himself for taking his hand from her arm so quickly, missing the chance of taking her hand in a natural way.
‘I know that one!’ Vita pointed to her right. ‘That’s a cedar.’ Now it was Vita leading the way. ‘My dad used to tell me to close my eyes and just breathe in.’
‘Do you know which type this is?’
Vita stopped, turned to Oliver and made much of putting a thinking-cap expression on her face. She looked over to the tree. It was vast, the foliage spreading out in flat plates, appearing stable enough for one to sit upon, lie down on, use to climb up and up. ‘Cedus maximus?’ she tried.
Oliver laughed. ‘That’s Cedrus Libani – cedar of Lebanon. If in doubt, look at the angle of the branches and think of the first letter of the tree’s name. Lebanon – they’re level. Deodar – they droop. Atlas – the branches are ascending.’
They walked over to the tree. ‘He’s an old boy, this one – you can tell because the bark is now dark brown, rather than grey.’ He looked at Vita who was doing what her father had told her, eyes closed, inhaling deeply. He looked at her for a moment longer. Pretty girl – how he wanted to kiss her. Her lips, raised a little into a gentle smile. Might she want to be kissed? Right now? A little later? It was so long since he’d had to read the signs.
Vita’s eyes opened. Oliver glanced away, looked up through the boughs. ‘This time of day, this time of year, I think the fragrance is like boot polish, don’t you think?’ he said.
Vita closed her eyes again and took a deep sniff. When she opened them, Oliver’s were still closed. She snuck a long look at him. If she stood on tiptoes, she could reach his mouth, she could plant a small kiss there – something light – then skip away over to that strange tree over there. She could. She really could. But she was overwhelmed with butterflies so she shut her eyes again and tried to concentrate on boot polish. When she opened them after a few more deep breaths, he was looking directly at her and she gazed back, feeling as light as the bracts on the handkerchief tree. Oh, to be kissed under those boughs, the scent of the neighbouring cedar. But no, not yet.
‘Come and see the Sequoia,’ and Oliver’s hand was at her elbow again, just briefly before his fingertips were whispering down the inside of her bare arm until her hand was encircled by his. Just a few steps hand in hand until he placed the flat of her palm against a giant redwood. ‘Wellingtonia,’ he said. ‘Look up! Sequoiadendron giganteum.’
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ Vita marvelled. ‘Feels like the sky’s going to fall!’
‘Tallest Sequoia I’ve seen makes this look like a sapling,’ he told her. ‘In California.’ Vita went up close to the ridged, fluted base. She loved feeling so small. Oliver picked a sprig of fallen foliage; it was so delicate compared to the immensity of the tree. He crushed it between his fingers and held them to Vita. She took his wrist in her hands and smelt.
‘I know that smell!’ She couldn’t place it. Oliver laughed. ‘It’s – it’s—?’
‘Aniseed?’
‘Yes!’
He folded Vita’s hand into a fist and punched it against the bark. It was a peculiar sensation – something that surely should be hard and abrasive was so soft and giving. It was like a sponge. ‘Does it hurt the tree?’
Oliver laughed. ‘Genius!’ he said. ‘From the mouth of the girl who wants to inflict a grisly death on her pear tree!’ That mouth.
She stuck her tongue out at him and pouted a little but he just kept laughing. And so did she. And then the laughter ebbed away until they stopped and just stood there, smiling at each other, slightly breathless, eyes glinting. Vita’s hand was still in Oliver’s and it felt as though some inner forces were at work, unfurling her fingers and interlacing them with his. Then he was slowly, intoxicatingly slowly, pulling her towards him while the butterflies swarming in her stomach helped her float there. They were sharing the same thought and it was overwhelming: I am going to be kissed. As Oliver lowered his face Vita raised hers and they fought to keep their eyes open until their lips made contact. Then they could have been anywhere in the world at any time of the day during any season of the year. They could have been on a highway or a clifftop or the middle of Marble Arch roundabout. They could have been by a redwood or a telegraph pole. For Vita, her surroundings became irrelevant. Oliver was kissing her and she felt warm, hot, shivering, alight and so overjoyed to be kissing him back. His hands were in her hair, cupping her head, his tongue t
ip darting along her lips. She was clutching at his back, his neck. His arms were now encircling her. He tasted wonderful – warm, fresh and oh my, how he kissed! She had no idea how long they stayed like that, but when they broke off she was surprised to see the world was exactly the same as when she’d closed her eyes and drifted away from it.
When they stopped, they gazed at each other all flushed, eyes glinting, lips parted and moist. The kiss had been a perfect profound silent conversation – but what on earth were they meant to say now? Vita didn’t think, actually, she had to say a thing. She was soaring, she felt overjoyed. It was the right kiss at the right time with the right person in a magical place. She laughed, she couldn’t help it, she laughed and she laughed and then she came close to Oliver and put her arms around him and held him there saying, Oh blimey! Oh blimey!
His nose buried in her neck, Oliver simply felt good. Thank you, he said silently over and again though he had absolutely no idea to whom his gratitude was directed. He held her close. She smelt divine, better than the Sequoia, better than any cedar. He kissed the top of her head and lifted her chin so he could look at her. She was beaming and he grinned back.
‘The yew?’ he said, rubbing his nose against hers. ‘The you,’ she said, lifting her face to kiss him again.
Hand in hand they walked; the trees now their silent and supportive audience as much as the focus of their attention. The yew was some way off, not part of the arboretum, predating all the Earls of Seddon and any mark of man on the land.
‘Yews, like oaks, are considered ancient at five hundred years old. But they say an oak grows for three hundred years, lives for three hundred, then takes three hundred more to die – whereas yews count their age in millennia.’
Vita liked it now she could hang on his arm and his every word.
‘The Fortingall Yew, near Aberfeldy, at five thousand years old is possibly the oldest living thing in Europe,’ he said. Then he stopped. ‘Am I boring you? I am a bit of a tree geek.’
