The Faerie Tree (20 page)

“She is adorable, but no, I won't steal her. If I took her home she'd only be in an empty house all day.” I stroke the top of her head.

“Robin could take her to work with him, Mum.”

“Now that'd be a turn up; Robin and Megsy after all these years,” Ed winks.

Robin doesn't laugh. He clears his throat. “I meant to ask you about Meg. How is she?”

Ed puts his hand on Robin's arm. “Not with us anymore. Breast cancer. About six months ago. That's when I got the dog.”

Robin is hiding behind his beard again. “I'm sorry, Ed,” he says, without a hint of emotion. “That must have been tough.”

“Well, when you've been in and out of someone's life since your first day at school it leaves a gap. But you know Meg, she
wouldn't want me to waste too much time grieving. I've still got her board in the shop, up on the wall. It's the best reminder – that and the dog. I needed something to shout at.”

Robin nods. “Come on,” he says, “let's take a look at this hostel.”

It does nothing to reassure me when the receptionist has long braided hair and is wearing a hoodie. But he stands to greet us pleasantly enough, although I am conscious of him eyeing Claire up and down. She is beautiful, as she smiles at him, and for the first time I wonder why she doesn't have a boyfriend. Perhaps she does. Perhaps she is hiding someone from me because she thinks I won't approve. Perhaps she is hiding someone like this.

My head starts to thump again but I have to get through this. I have to send the panic back to the corner of the bedroom in the rented apartment where it belongs. I reach for Robin's hand. His fingers brush mine then he seems to sense how I am feeling so he wraps an arm around me, saying nothing.

Ed disappears into an office and comes back with a woman in a long brightly coloured skirt. I cannot decide if her generous proportions are due to pregnancy or simply the way she is. I search her face for clues but there are none; she is of indeterminate age, although a few wisps of grey run through her hair.

“Hello,” she says, her slow voice like clotted cream. “I'm Martha. Ed says you want to look around.”

“Yes please. Claire would like to come here with some friends in the summer, but I have my reservations.” I sound so uptight I hate myself. Robin squeezes my shoulder.

“Most mothers do,” says Martha, “only most of them are too afraid to admit it for fear of upsetting their precious offspring. Well done you.”

We follow her up the stairs and down a corridor, off which are rooms containing three pairs of bunk beds. Everything is spotlessly clean; even the lino on the bathroom floors sparkles. It feels cold and clinical and I pray that Claire won't like it.

Downstairs is a huge common room with sofas and a TV one end and a dining area the other.

“We take thirty students at a time,” Martha explains, “and everyone chips in with the chores.” She turns to Claire. “Can you cook, my dear?”

“Yes – I'm not too bad at the basic stuff.”

“Then you'll be in demand. There's too many youngsters come here haven't a clue but if you know what you're doing in the kitchen I can promise you won't be cleaning the lavs.”

Claire looks a bit shocked, but she smiles politely. I can't tell what she's thinking.

We return to the reception area.

“Now, when are you looking to come down? We get very busy, you know.”

“There's a provisional booking already,” Claire stammers. She can't look at me.

Martha lifts an enormous diary from the counter. “When for? What name?”

“6
^th
of July… Jack Granger.”

“Who's Jack Granger?” I shoot.

“Oh, no-one Mum. Just one of the lads in Sasha's geography group. His brother came down two years ago so he's organising it.”

I turn to Martha. “What about adult supervision – they'll only be seventeen.”

“There are rules – and there's always someone on duty but to be honest it can be a bit like herding cats. On the other hand if they've been surfing all day they're normally too knackered to get up to much mischief. But we organise quiz nights, and there's a games room we share with the hostel over the road; it's got table tennis, pool, that sort of stuff.”

“What about the surfing?” Robin asks.

Martha consults her diary again. “Well at that time of year we're really busy so we do offload work to other surf schools. How about I book Claire's group in with Ed so you know they're being looked after?”

Robin nods. He's taken over. “I guess that would be helpful. What happens on days when conditions aren't right?”

Ed laughs. “Well we load up that old trailer and the minibus and go somewhere they are. And if it's flat we bodyboard instead, or if it's completely hopeless we play waterpolo. If it pisses down we get more into the theory than we would otherwise, so there's plenty to do. They're not allowed to roam the streets and pubs, don't you worry. Noses to the grindstone.” He winks at Claire. “You don't think this is going to be a holiday, do you?”

Claire looks up at him, her face glowing with expectation. “It sounds wonderful,” she says.

“Come down to my surf shack, little girl, and we'll take a look.” He winks at me over the top of her head.

These people are so kind, so welcoming – and so sensible. It's becoming harder for me to say no. As we cross the main road and head down towards the sea I battle with myself to find the reason for my reluctance.

Newquay may be grubby and grotty but on the beach the sunlight reflects off the damp sand, making everything below the tide line seem washed and new. A few surfers are riding the waves and Claire can't take her eyes off them.

Ed struggles with the padlock on the front of what appears to be several garden sheds tacked onto an ageing cricket pavilion. The white paint has been weathered away in places and a huge wooden board creaks in the breeze. The windows are shuttered; against the wind and waves or vandals I can't decide.

The lock finally clicks open and Ed inspects it. “Needs some WD40. Bit like me, really. Don't look at this mess, Izzie – it hasn't had its spring spruce up yet – no point until the last of the storms have passed – it'll just get sand blasted again.”

We troop in and Ed flings open the shutters. The room is bigger than I expected, with racks of wetsuits on one side and surfboards stacked on the other. In the middle is an old wooden desk and behind it an enormously long board is fixed diagonally across the wall. I know whose it is before I even read the inscription: ‘Megan Tregea 1945 – 2006' and then a list of surf
competition honours spanning the sixties and seventies.

Robin shakes his head. “She never told me.”

“She never told anyone anything very much. She liked to be a bit of an enigma. Come on, young Rob – you know that.”

“Yeah… I guess I do.”

Robin's voice falters and he suddenly sounds very much like ‘young Rob' as Ed called him. It takes me back somewhere – a moment – but although I search my mind for it I can't connect.

Claire is walking along the rows of wetsuits, fingering them. “Are these the sort of suits the guys out there now will be wearing?”

She is so transparent.

Ed laughs. “You'd like to have a go, wouldn't you?”

“Robin's promised to teach me but he says we don't have the right gear for this time of year.”

“We don't have any gear, Claire,” Robin corrects her.

“Well, there's plenty here. Winter weight too, if you fancy taking her in. There's a nice little wave at the moment I have to say.”

“Oh, please, Robin – can we?” She's a child again, asking Connor for an ice cream because she knows I'll say no.

Robin looks at me, across what seems like miles of wooden floor, asking the question. I put on my best smile. “Well if Ed doesn't mind and those wetsuits really are that thick, then I don't see the harm.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Claire rushes across and hugs me. Already she smells vaguely of rubber.

“We can watch them from the shoreline, Izzie.”

I shake my head. “It's a bit cold for me – I'll wait here.”

“Why don't you take Megsy up to the café?” Ed suggests. “You'll have a great view of the beach and they make a mean hot chocolate. No brandy though,” he adds with a wink.

I can't look at Claire. I pick up Megsy's lead and with a quick ‘have fun' over my shoulder I am gone.

I climb the concrete slope. Ed's shack is dwarfed by the aquarium, its sloping glass roofs dominating the beach. I wonder
what was there before, when Robin first came here. Was it where Meg had her shop? Meg who won so many trophies, Meg who was an enigma, Meg who was so alluring that Robin leapt into bed with her so very few weeks after leaving me.

From a table by the window I watch them emerge and troop down the beach while Megsy licks my fingers for traces of shortbread. Claire and Robin are dragging boards across the sand and Ed has changed into a pair of fisherman's waders. They pause as he points to something out at sea but I can tell Claire is impatient to be in the water.

She has a long wait. They put their boards down and lie on them, then make swimming actions with their arms while Ed instructs. Robin is much too long for his board, his legs hanging off the end. He looks ridiculous.

All these years I believed he left me a broken man. A shadow cast over my life. That note he left that said he wasn't worthy of me; it was a lie. He just wanted to move on. Released from caring for his mother, he didn't want to be tied down by me. He wanted sunshine and freedom and a casual fling with a woman like Meg. He lied to her too, when he left her; he told her he'd be back.

Robin has abandoned his board on the beach and is helping Claire point hers out to sea and lift it over the surf. He holds it steady as she climbs on, clinging to it for dear life, and when she is ready he looks behind him, waiting for the right wave. Then she is paddling with all her might; he lets go and she is whooshing towards the shore, skewing to a halt in the shallows next to Ed's feet. She leaps up and already Robin is almost beside her, ready to start the process again.

I stir my hot chocolate round and round in a figure of eight. The past is best forgotten, wiped, erased. I frown – the words sound familiar – a mantra – but I cannot place them. The more I stir, the harder it becomes.

Chapter Forty-Six

Half hidden behind the living room curtain I watch as Robin carries our cases to the car. A thick fisherman's jumper guards him against the chill of the morning. I bought it for him yesterday and he seems to like it. He puts the bags down on the tarmac and stretches. His fingers almost touch the sky.

I didn't want to go to bed last night so I finished the bottle of red on my own. I heard the timer on the heating click off and afterwards just the waves, pounding the beach. I closed my eyes and listened until a car came past and then I picked up the wine and filled my glass with the dregs. There was no point hunting in the cupboard for more.

Robin's hands were gentle on my shoulders. “Come on, Izzie – it's late and we've got a long journey tomorrow.”

In the bathroom there was toothpaste freshly squeezed onto my brush and I wanted to weep. Slowly I scrubbed, right into the corners of my mouth. I scrubbed again, and spat, and rinsed. I had no energy to wash my face so I shrugged off my clothes and climbed in next to Robin, squeezing onto the side nearest the door.

He didn't ask why. Perhaps he knew about the demons in the corner next to the dressing table in the same way he knew how I was feeling at the hostel. He wrapped his arms around me, his
body a solid wall of comfort. In just a few moments, before I could think any more, I was asleep.

“One last walk on the beach?” Claire makes me jump.

“Last? It won't be the last, Claire.”

“Then I can come back in July? You've decided?” Her voice is breathless.

I turn to face her. “Darling – I'm terrified of letting you go but in truth I have no reason not to.”

She hugs me so tight. “I'll be fine, Mum – really I will. I'll be sensible and Ed'll look after me. I won't let you down.”

“You never have, Claire.” I kiss the top of her head and her hair smells like a woman's, sickly sweet with styling mousse.

Chapter Forty-Seven

The white van is parked so close to my driveway I have to angle my car in extra slowly. The wing mirror misses the gatepost by no more than a layer of paint. That's all I need. What the hell's it doing outside my house anyway?

I pull my briefcase and a carrier bag full of workbooks off the back seat. The hall light is on. Robin must be home; why wouldn't he be? I ignore his greeting and haul my evening's work up to the study and drop it on the floor. The handles of the carrier have cut into my fingers and as I flex them I notice they are shaking.

“Izzie?” Robin's voice drifts from the bottom of the stairs.

“I'll be down once I've changed.”

But I don't know if I can be bothered. I want to wrap myself in my dressing gown and watch trash TV – or even better, take a huge glass of red into the bath and lock the door.

I sit on the edge of the bed and massage my toes, looking around me. The photo of Claire as a baby on the wall; Rive Gauche and Angel bottles on the dressing table; Robin's watch on the pillow, claiming it as his own. The black leather strap is soft with wear, and the glass scratched across the middle.

Downstairs its owner is sitting at the kitchen table and to my absolute astonishment there is a shiny new Blackberry in his
hand. He puts it down to hug me, kissing me on the cheek.

“How was your day?”

“I see you've been spending some money.” I wriggle free and sit down.

“You noticed the van, then?”

“It's yours?”