The Faerie Tree (26 page)

“No, Gareth. Izzie must be remembering right. There's things she's said that mean she had to have been there, like how I found Mum after she died, and the music we played at her funeral.”

“Things you could have told her.”

“Now, look…” I started, leaning over the table towards him.

“Gareth – please stop this.” Stephen's voice was firm. “I know it's interesting for you, but it's Robin's life we're talking about here, something he's having to live with every waking moment. And I can't imagine what that must be like for him because I'm really struggling just trying to get my head around it.”

I stretched my hand across the table and covered his. “Thank you, Stephen.”

He pulled his away and stood up. “Come on, let's settle the bill and go home.”

Chapter Sixty

The house was one of a row of Victorian terraced properties, anonymous apart from the wooden plaque by the door: Bognor Therapy Centre. As I stepped into the hall a bell rang so loudly it made me jump and I was glad no-one was there to see me.

The reception area was light and spacious with pale laminate flooring and brightly coloured sofas. The bay window housed a tank in which small orange fish swayed to a gentle undertone of classical music, as though a string quartet was playing next door.

A thin man of about thirty sat behind a desk.

“I'm here to see Gareth… Dr Rhys… he said to come at the end of his clinic.”

“Oh, yes – you must be Robin. Go down the corridor and up the stairs – he has his own waiting area at the top.”

The music seemed to follow me through the house. The steps opened onto a square landing with a kitchenette on one side and a pair of yellow sofas on the other. I ignored them both and gazed out of the window onto the small yard behind. The terrace was almost back-to-back with the houses beyond and next door a couple of tea towels flapped on a rotary dryer. It was how Izzie had described the view from our flat in Shirley, but no ghost of a memory stirred.

It seemed rude to turn around when Gareth showed his
client out, and as her heels clipped down the stairs I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“I'm glad you wanted to come.”

“I wanted to apologise for Saturday. You were only trying to help and I was rather churlish. I don't want any bad blood between us – it would upset Stephen.”

Gareth smiled. “He was noticeably brighter after you phoned.”

I nodded. “That's good. I sense… I don't know… he's kind of looking at me with new eyes because of this.”

“Maybe. But I think that's only because he feels he's growing in understanding of you.”

“And not in a good way.”

Gareth sat down and I lowered myself onto the sofa nearest the window. “Stephen's looking for answers too, Robin. When you went away after Jennifer died it was a double blow to him – a second bereavement, almost. The fact he couldn't reach you, and the worry about what had happened to you… quite frankly, if it had been me who'd found you in Winchester I'd have punched your lights out.”

I stared at the floor as Gareth continued. “However all along the professional part of me knew you were acting that way because you'd reached the point where you couldn't cope any more. The way you cared for Jennifer was extraordinary – and I'd seen enough of you to know you would never hurt anyone deliberately, so don't think I bear any sort of grudge.

“And of course neither does Stephen, but he didn't understand either. He was just so glad when you came back – you're all the family he has, after all. But this apparent gap in your memory is forcing him to accept you have some imperfections – he had rather put you on a pedestal to be honest. And I think he's pretty scared; he asked me if you could have some sort of early onset dementia.”

For the first time I met his eyes. “Could I?”

“Not on what I've seen, no.”

“I did think perhaps it wasn't. It's so different to what
happened to Jennifer. I've… I've been thinking about her a lot. For the first time, really…” From nowhere a wave of misery threatened to engulf me.

It took me some minutes to pull myself together. Gareth stood up and put the kettle on. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea would be nice,” I croaked. I tipped my head up, willing the tears to flow back into my eyes.

“If you want to cry then you should,” said Gareth.

I tried to smile. “Bloody psychobabble therapist.”

He grinned back at me. “It's a job.”

As he waited for the kettle to boil he asked me how Izzie was.

“Is that a polite or a professional enquiry?”

He popped a tea bag into each mug. “Bit of both, really. Depends how much psychobabble shit you want to hear.”

“I just can't believe that she'd do what you say.”

“I'm not saying it's necessarily deliberate.”

“Then what is it, Ga? I don't understand.”

He handed me my tea and sat back on the sofa.

“Now, this is just my theory, remember, but let's suppose that initially the broken memory was yours, that you did forget making love with her when you knew each other before. Revealing that showed Izzie a vulnerability in you where maybe she hadn't seen one before.”

“That's not right – I mean, how vulnerable would you want me to be? When she first saw me I was a down and out, and then she found me in hospital, sick as a dog.”

“And she took you in – rescued you, if you like. She didn't flinch from your weakness, or perhaps even want you to be strong. But think, Robin, emotionally speaking, who wears the trousers in your relationship?” He held up his hand. “I don't expect you to answer that, but think about it. My hunch is, that however tough Izzie wants to be, it's you. Not being ‘in charge' could make her feel insecure. Then suddenly – bang – you're on the back foot again and she senses the power balance tip in her favour.”

“I'm sorry, Gareth – it sounds so Machiavellian and Izzie's not like that.”

“I did say, remember, that this isn't a deliberate or conscious thing.”

“I'm afraid it's completely beyond my understanding.”

“It's only a theory, remember. It's just that, in my experience, it seems the most likely answer.”

I balanced my mug on the arm of the sofa. “You mean you've come across this before?”

“Not in quite such an extreme way – not the recreation of months and months – but I have seen it in my clinics, yes.”

I felt myself clutching at straws. “But surely that isn't the only answer?”

He put his mug down on the table. “There are several recognised psychological conditions which affect memory but I think we can rule most of them out. Bipolar does it, and that might fit with Izzie's depression, but in those cases the memories are more obviously delusional and Izzie's version of events is completely plausible.

“Then there's something called false memory syndrome, but many psychologists don't even believe that exists. More often than not the memories are somehow planted in the subject by charlatan psychotherapists or hypnotists to give reasons in the past for their patients' issues, rather than resolving the problems they have today. I suppose if Izzie's been having some sort of talking therapy…”

“Not as far as I know. From what Claire told me it was the college that suggested she took some time out – I don't even think she saw a doctor. She's under a lot of pressure at work even now and this memory thing isn't helping. Which is why I can't buy your theory; she was just as upset about it as I was.”

“Robin, you must stop thinking of it as deliberate on her part.”

I stared at the dregs of tea in the bottom of my mug. “I'd rather… you know… that Izzie was right. One way or another… her story or mine… I was a total shit back then – a shit and a coward. I feel like I owe her this one.”

Gareth leant forwards. “Hair shirts don't sit happily in relationships, Robin. You'd do well to remember that.”

Chapter Sixty-One

The stiff breeze wasn't enough to keep the hardened surfers out of the water and Claire and Jack watched them ride the waves with envy.

“You are going to teach me, aren't you?” she asked.

“Sure,” I answered, although in truth I was regretting the offer, if only because the sea off Bournemouth looked far too cold.

“So can we start over Easter?”

“If the conditions are right.”

She gazed towards the sea. “Like today?”

“Yes, but not today. Although we'd better get your rash vest sorted and check out what gear we can hire.”

As we walked along the promenade to the shop Jack asked me where I had learned to surf. He was a polite young man, opening doors for Izzie, but there was something about him I felt uncomfortable with. Perhaps I was just unsure of my role in Claire's birthday treat cum meet the parents day. I didn't feel any better when I overheard Izzie whispering to Claire, telling her not to pick too expensive a present.

I was standing beside a display of long boards and it took me right back to Megan's shop and her remark about waiting for a handout from her. My fingers closed around a roll of twenty
pound notes in my pocket and I wandered over to Claire and peeled three of them off.

“That's your budget, birthday girl. I want you to get a decent rash vest then spend every last penny of it before we leave this shop.”

“Robin – that's too much,” Izzie interjected. Claire looked uncertain for a moment but I winked at her and she threw her arms around me.

“Oh, Robin – thank you. Come on – help me choose the best one; I don't know what to look for.”

Inevitably Jack was far more switched on about cool surf wear but at least I made sure she found a vest which was good quality as well as bearing the right logo. With the money she had left she bought herself a pair of pink flip-flops and left the shop bubbling with excitement.

Izzie held me back as we walked towards Harry Ramsden's. “It was too much, Robin. You should have bought her the rash vest and been done with it.”

“Not a cheap one, though.”

She looked away. “You heard me then?”

“Yes, and you made me feel about an inch tall.”

She buried her chin in the collar of her jacket. “I didn't mean to.”

I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I know. And anyway, you're kind of half right – I won't be able to make much of a contribution towards lunch now.”

“You make all the contribution I need just by being here. Today would have been so hard on my own.”

“You must both be thinking of Connor.”

“He was a very hands on father, very committed. I'm sure Claire misses him much more than she shows me.”

“Maybe Jack's come along at just the right time.”

She looked up at me, the breeze snatching her hair away from her face. “Maybe. I hope so, anyway.”

After lunch we wandered into the winter gardens and watched as Jack took Claire in the static balloon as a birthday
treat. She didn't look down at us, only at the sea and the sky, and as Izzie held my hand, my mind flicked back to walking through this very park before my first night sleeping under the stars on the beach. As I had passed the pier ‘I Will Survive' had drifted out over the sand and I had even managed a wry smile. How could that sort of detail be a figment of my imagination?

I lay awake that night and retraced my steps; Bournemouth, Sandbanks, Swanage, Anvil Rock, West Lulworth, Weymouth… then other trips to these places mixed themselves in and I wondered if perhaps I had become confused. Maybe I had lived in a dream world where I was travelling, away from the nightmare my life had become as I trashed my job and let Izzie down so badly.

But through the wreckage of memory a coherent thought began to emerge; was there somewhere I had visited for the first and only time on my trip? Was there a place where my recollections might be pure? Could I think of somewhere, sketch it out, draw a plan, write down as much as I could about it – then go; go and find out if it was real?

Gareth had planted a noxious seed and the way Izzie'd made me feel in the surf shop had given it light and air. I wanted to be able to destroy it just as soon as I could. I didn't want to be thinking constantly about who was in control; I wanted to enjoy my life with Izzie. I wanted our love to be pure and natural and good.

I rolled over and wrapped my arm around her. She stirred just enough to wriggle a little closer and I brushed her hair with my lips, drinking in her scent. Perhaps it was me who was over complicating things now.

Chapter Sixty-Two

West Bay was the place. And it was just close enough for a day trip during the Easter holidays. Izzie was keen – she'd never been there and when Claire said we should take some time for ourselves I was glad. I reasoned she'd probably rather be with Jack anyway.

Jack. I hadn't expected to bump into him first thing one morning in Netley, especially with a bedraggled brunette in impossibly high heels and no skirt that I could see clinging to his arm. He was going to walk straight past me but I barred his way.

“Good party, Jack?” I enquired.

“Oh… morning, Mr Vail. Yes… it was OK.” His eyes seemed glued to the pavement.

“Did you not invite Claire or did she not want to go?”

Colour rose in his cheeks and before he could reply the girl butted in. “Who's Claire?”

I was happy to supply the information. “Claire's his girlfriend.”

The girl's face seemed to collapse in on itself, but to her credit she had spirit. “You fucking, lying bastard,” she spat, before disentangling herself from his grasp and tottering up the road. After four or five steps she stopped and yelled, “And don't try to text me – you were a fucking useless lay anyway.” I didn't wait to
hear his response, but carried on into the Co-op to get myself a pasty for lunch.