Chances

by Freya North

‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I’m loving it! I could just about tell my horse chestnut from my oak,’ she said. ‘If you’re a tree geek, I’m a tree dunce.’

  ‘I would say the Wynfordbury Yew is a baby in comparison. Around fifteen hundred years, perhaps.’ They’d arrived.

  ‘That’s a tree?’ It didn’t look like a tree at all. There was barely any trunk on display. ‘It looks like a copse!’ It looked a right old mess.

  But it was a tree; its great boughs bending and stretching, heavy with the weight of having lived so long. They formed a tunnel of sorts into which Oliver and Vita ducked and stooped and shuffled. The tunnel gave way into a chamber almost twenty feet high. Vita had no words.

  ‘Doesn’t cease to amaze me,’ said Oliver, ‘and I’ve seen it dozens of times. Most trees look older than they are – but yews are even older than they look.’

  ‘What should I write down? On my clipboard?’

  Oliver laughed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘The clipboard was an ice-breaker. I know this tree off by heart.’

  ‘Was this some kind of test?’

  Oliver laughed again. There’d been more laughter in the last hour than in the last month. God, that felt good. ‘I had a hunch you’d react the way you have. However, if you’d’ve said, very nice, Mr B, but where’s the gift shop – I’d’ve made you write pages and pages.’ She thwacked his thigh with the clipboard and he jostled her for it and though she tried to prevent him, she didn’t try very hard because she knew that he’d pull her to him and press his mouth against hers again. And so, under the boughs, in the secret space the yew provided, they kissed and kissed and kissed.

  ‘You should have brought a nice picnic rug,’ she murmured. ‘I wouldn’t mind the prickly bits – I’m not in my Sunday best.’

  They heard voices. Oliver winked at her. ‘We’re not the only ones here, missy.’ Two small children came scampering into the yew’s den. Oliver asked them to guess how old the tree was. They said a million-trillion-gazillion years old, which spoiled his point but was funny in itself.

  Back out in the open, Oliver looked thoughtfully ahead, towards the horizon, but then started to head back.

  ‘Where are they going?’ Vita watched a young couple heading away from them, up the swathe of green to a distant tree where Oliver had been looking.

  ‘Oh,’ said Oliver as if it was of no interest, ‘just having a mooch, I suppose. It’s a lovely evening, after all.’ He made to walk off but Vita stood stock-still, frowning a little. Her eyes were fixed on another visitor who had just passed that couple and was now walking towards them.

  Her?

  Here?

  What was she doing here?

  ‘That’s my old lady,’ Vita said in disbelief.

  Oliver looked. ‘Your what?’

  ‘I mean – she comes into my shop.’ Vita realized she hadn’t seen her since the day she’d told her to give up the goods and go. ‘I let her steal stuff.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Can I have a moment? She’s shy – she’s odd. But I’d like to speak to her.’

  As Oliver watched Vita making her way towards the elderly woman he thought, I like this girl, I really like her. He thought, I feel good. And he thought, I feel horny too. He thought about the fact that Jonty was at Mark’s tonight. And then he thought, No – not on a first date. He felt sure that chances were there would be more dates to come and the concept was heartening and exciting for him.

  ‘Hello, lassie.’ The woman’s reaction was little different than if they’d passed in the street.

  Vita, though, was thoroughly disconcerted.

  ‘It’s you. You’re here!’

  ‘I am. Oh, indeed I am.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Vita put her hand out to the woman’s arm, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry?’

  ‘I mean, about the other week. About asking you to leave my shop. To put back what you’d – borrowed.’

  ‘I wasn’t borrowing it, dear,’ the lady said straight, ‘I was having it. Such pretty things. So many pretty pretty things. I look after them, you know? I take great care. Extra special care.’

  ‘I’d had a bad day,’ Vita wondered why she felt compelled to justify, to apologize, ‘and the bird – it’s expensive.’

  ‘I understand. I don’t read the prices. I am drawn to the prettiness of a thing, not the value.’

  ‘But will you come back? Come back to the shop?’

  ‘I will. Thank you for asking.’

  Then Vita stopped and gave herself a little shake as if to jolt herself back to the incongruity of it all.

  ‘Why are you here? What a coincidence!’

  ‘I always come,’ the woman said, ‘each and every year. I always come – just to check.’

  ‘Just to check – what?’

  ‘To check that I – we – are still here.’

  Vita had no idea whether she was talking metaphors or madness but Oliver was now sauntering over to her side.

  ‘This is Oliver,’ Vita introduced him.

  The lady tipped her head. ‘Very good.’ She looked at Vita levelly. ‘I didn’t like the other one. At all.’

  Oliver accepted the compliment graciously.

  ‘Are you here for the tree?’ She posed the question to them both.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vita, looking over her shoulder back at the mighty yew. ‘It’s fifteen hundred years old, it’s the Wynfordbury Yew. It’s a national monument.’

  Again, the woman tipped her head to one side and regarded Vita quizzically. ‘Not the yew!’ She looked to the horizon but Vita could see no other people, just a solitary tree.

  ‘Anyway, we should go,’ Oliver was saying while the old lady was muttering on about someone called Tristan.

  ‘Without paying a visit?’ the woman said again, looking from Vita to Oliver. She shrugged, took her leave and walked away from them.

  ‘I wonder who Tristan is?’ said Vita but Oliver had put his arm around her waist and she was happy for him to lead her slowly back in the direction of the car. ‘It’s odd – to see her here. I’ve only ever seen her in the shop. I wouldn’t have said trees were her thing.’

  ‘And I reckon you’ve seen so many trees tonight – soon you won’t be able to see the wood for them.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Vita said brightly. She would have been happy to go back inside the yew, or within the magical space of the arboretum where kissing came so naturally.

  ‘Another time, hey?’ he said.

  Another time – so much more to come. Vita experienced a gentle whoosh of anticipation. It was only just becoming true evening. What would they do now? Who was to suggest what to do next, where to go? She didn’t want the date to be over.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can get a cup of tea?’

  ‘Not here,’ said Oliver. ‘This really is a private estate save for these few open evenings. Vita looked disappointed. ‘Sometimes there’s an ice-cream van parked outside the gates,’ he said.

  ‘A Mr Whippy?’

  ‘With a chocolate flake in it.’

  Oliver led the way back to the car and then drove through the grounds and away from Wynfordbury Hall in search of ice cream.

  Mr Whippy

  Vita insisted on the ice creams being her treat. Her purse was full of change and Oliver liked the way she used up as many coins as possible. DeeDee used to do that. Oliver could never be bothered – easier just to pull out a note and then empty his pockets into the change bowl at home. They strolled along the roadside, keeping close to the great wall of Wynfordbury Hall. As they walked and licked, Vita told him all about the old woman, how she let her steal goods and about how, the other week, she’d let rip.

  ‘When I was at school,’ Vita told him, stopping, ‘I stole for a lady just like her.’

  ‘How very Dickensian that sounds.’

  ‘I was expelled because of it.’

  This he hadn’t expected.

  ‘I was sixteen.’


  Pretty much Jonty’s age.

  ‘I had a weekend job at the supermarket. They weren’t hyper-huge supermarkets back then – it was a local one, an independent one. One day I saw an old lady nick some biscuits. She saw that I saw. Her face – her eyes. She just wanted the biscuits. I didn’t tell on her. And then, week after week, whenever she came in, I sort of shielded her. Of course, we didn’t have CCTV so I was free to mooch around the aisles with her – a little ahead, a little behind. She didn’t take much – usually sweet stuff. A malt loaf. Biscuits. A packet of fondant fancies. Just one item per visit. Then I was promoted to the tills. And she’d always choose my line. And I’d slip things from the conveyor belt into her bag without ringing them through. But you don’t need Big Brother watching you – you get caught anyway. Other members of staff had noticed – and they told on me. And they watched and waited and logged it all down and eventually – they swooped.’

  ‘It’s heart-rendingly Robin Hood, though,’ Oliver said kindly.

  Vita shrugged. ‘I never saw her again.’

  ‘Did they cart her off?’

  ‘They phoned – for police cars,’ Vita said, forlorn.

  ‘And do you have a criminal record?’ Oliver asked, deadpan, and Vita looked at him and felt OK – about what she’d done, about telling him about what she’d done. About letting this other elderly lady purloin goods from the shop, even if it was her own shop and their turnover really couldn’t justify altruism on such a regular basis. Criminal record? Funny man.

  ‘And do you have fur-lined handcuffs?’ she batted back.

  Oliver looked at her as if momentarily unsure whether he’d heard correctly. Look at this girl, giggling and reddening! She’s funny, she’s – different. Really just refreshingly different. And she’s finished her ice cream already, despite doing all the talking.

  Oliver broke off the bottom of his cornet and used it to scoop up a blob of ice cream. He handed it to Vita. He might as well have presented her with a dozen long-stemmed roses.

  ‘Cheers!’ she said, knocking the miniature cone against his.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  Vita said to herself, Go on! Ask him for a drink after this! But she found herself overcome by sudden timidity and started asking him banal questions about his own schooldays instead. It was lovely, though, hearing details to flesh out the person at her side. She asked him about what training as a tree surgeon had entailed and soon enough she was riveted about the rungs and hierarchy of qualifications. She couldn’t wait to tell Michelle that, actually, he was an arboricultural consultant.

  ‘Did you study?’ he asked her.

  She nodded. ‘History of art.’

  ‘And the appreciation of fine things has assisted you in your chosen career?’ he mused. ‘Surrounding yourself on a daily basis with what we chaps like to call “tutt”?’ He waited for that to sink in and loved it that she thwacked his arm and said, Oi, you!

  They walked on. ‘My late wife loved your shop,’ he said and Vita wondered about the best way to reply.

  ‘Oliver,’ she said and she stopped. ‘DeeDee – your wife.’ She paused. Wasn’t this slightly crazy – she’d felt too shy to ask him for a drink and yet wasn’t reticent about enquiring about his late wife?

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I just don’t know anyone of my generation – who’s lost someone of my generation.’

  Oliver shrugged and nodded. ‘That’s the way it should be.’

  There was a tumbledown section of wall and Vita headed over to it and sat. ‘I’m sorry. For – your loss.’ Her words felt awkward and clumsy to her, but there was a sweetness to the sound of them for Oliver.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. His voice was normal, conversational, and it put Vita at her ease. ‘That’s my situation. My wife died. In a car crash. She was a pedestrian. I was at work. Jonty was at school.’ He looked at Vita who was very pensive. ‘Do you need to know if I’m OK about seeing other people?’

  Yes, that was precisely what Vita wanted to know but she felt embarrassed to admit it. Was it voyeuristic in some way?

  ‘It took a long time. You can’t rush it. It’s a process – well, it has been for me. It has to take the time it takes. But now – yes – I reckon I’m ready.’

  Vita nodded. She felt shy again. The ice cream had gone. It was easier to talk and lick than just talk and listen.

  ‘I feel good about – this – though.’ He nudged her.

  She nudged him back. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Don’t think I’ll chop down your tree or even give you a discount on the pruning in the autumn,’ he said, nudging her again.

  Vita calculated the tone perfectly. She grinned, stood up, looked at him with mock distaste. ‘Well, that’s me gone, then.’

  He laughed, reached for her, pulled her onto his knee and swiftly they were kissing again. His hands running up her bare arms which, combined with the evening’s breeze, scattered goosebumps over her skin. In a swift movement, he’d cupped her breasts fleetingly but the desire it sparked in her was profound and now, thoroughly light-headed between her legs, she kissed him ravenously.

  ‘We are going to have to make a move,’ he said. ‘This wall wasn’t made for ravishing – and my backside’s numb.’

  She didn’t want the date to be over. She was high – on ice cream and information and lips. She wanted to eat and chat and laugh and kiss and plan another date soon. ‘Shall we go and have a pizza or something?’ There!

  ‘Good idea,’ said Oliver. ‘I know a great place.’

  ‘I do too.’

  ‘Cipollini’s?’

  ‘I’m so glad you said that,’ said Vita, ‘because the date would have been over if you’d said Pizza Hut.’

  ‘Come on then,’ said Oliver and Vita slipped her hand into his and responded in kind when he gave hers a little squeeze.

  ‘Your boy?’ she asked, buckling her seatbelt.

  ‘Jonty?’

  ‘Yes – Jonty. How is he?’

  ‘He’s an amazing kid,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Will he mind you – dating?’

  ‘He won’t mind.’ Oliver paused. Then he laughed. ‘He’ll think it’s gross, probably.’

  ‘I was fourteen when my dad died,’ Vita said.

  ‘I remember you telling me – when I was in your kitchen.’ Oliver paused. ‘Do you miss him still?’

  ‘Often.’

  ‘But do you remember him? Truly remember him?’ He looked at her, searchingly.

  Vita put her hand on Oliver’s arm. ‘I do – I really do.’

  Off they drove. Oliver realized that releasing information had freed up space for his own curiosity. This lovely girl beside him – what had she been through? His significant other was dead – Vita’s was down the road.

  ‘Your ex?’ he said, whilst he indicated right and turned, his tone casual. ‘This Tim bloke?’

  Vita thought, Where do I begin? Then she thought, How much detail ought I to impart? And she wondered, Will what I tell him make a difference – will he think I’m a screwed-up madwoman on the rebound? And then she thought, Take his lead, be honest, let him know.

  ‘I’m not prying, am I?’ he said. ‘I just gather that you had a tough old time.’

  Vita nodded. ‘Tim’s charismatic – one of those people you’re never quite sure where you stand with, so you work very hard to win their attention, doubly so to inspire their love.’

  ‘One has to work at relationships,’ Oliver said, ‘but they shouldn’t be hard work.’

  Vita nodded again. ‘He does flings and excitement very well,’ she said. She paused. ‘We were together six years. He cheated early on – I gave him another chance. A one-night stand – a one-off, he promised. Then there was another, but I found that I had another chance to give. However, last year, I found out he was seeing someone else. It was horrible.’

  ‘Not nice.’

  ‘No. Not nice at all. It was all the more horrible because it came at a time in my life when my t
houghts should have been about marriage and babies – not splitting up and dismantling what I’d built. All the hopes – the chances I’d taken, the chances I’d given. For a time, I felt I’d failed at what for me is the most important thing to get right in life.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘I know. I know that now. It was tough – I had a rubbish time of it, really.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘It’s taken a while – it’s taken a while even to like Pear Tree Cottage, my very own place, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘And now – with Tim?’

  ‘It’s awkward.’ Should she tell him about Suzie? About Suzie then and Suzie now? No. Suzie was part of Vita’s past. ‘He can be – unpleasant. But we have the business together, out of necessity. I can’t afford to buy him out.’

  ‘Well, he’s a fool to have let you go,’ said Oliver with a kind lightness now. He was pulling up near to Cipollini’s. ‘But his fuck-up is my gain. So I must shake his hand and thank him.’ It made Vita giggle. She could imagine Oliver doing something like that, wryly but with good grace.

  ‘Am I your rebound then, missy?’ he asked her casually as they crossed the road.

  Vita looked horrified. And then she reddened. ‘Actually, I’ve had one of those.’

  Oliver laughed. ‘Tart. Come on, I’ll buy you a pizza.’

  Post-Mortem

  ‘Oh Michelle!’ And Vita said her friend’s name over and over again. And Michelle repeated, What! What! at the other end of the phone line. The excitement in Vita’s voice was contagious. ‘I really like him.’

  ‘Yes, yes – but you’re skipping the details. So, you left the posh park place, had a licky ice cream, went for a pizza and then what?’

  ‘We came back here – to mine.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I made coffee and we had a chat – the heart-to-heart we’d had earlier had formed this really lovely surface, secure but soft, on which we could just natter. I can’t tell you how exciting it is, learning about someone you know you click with – hearing about their lives, discovering all the funny things that make them tick. The things you share.’