The Olive Tree (12 page)

‘Yes. You?’

‘Yup.’

‘You didn’t have to move out until tomorrow, you know. Dad’s not collecting Chloë until after lunch. That’s plenty of time to change the sheets and get the room
straight in the morning.’

‘I want to.’ He started down the stairs.

‘Okay. I put a fan in there for you earlier. I don’t want you getting heat-stroke again.’

‘Thanks.’ Alex stopped and looked up at her. ‘Are you going to look through those boxes in the outhouse?’

‘Yes, when I have time, which certainly won’t be for the next few days.’

‘Can I?’

‘As long as you don’t throw anything away.’

‘’Course I won’t. You know me, Mum, I love history. Especially my own,’ he added pointedly.

‘But Alex’ – Helena ignored the remark – ‘a lot of it won’t mean anything to you. Remember, Angus wasn’t related to me. He was my godfather.’

‘Still, I might find out things about him, which would be interesting, wouldn’t they?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Helena didn’t fail to notice the underlying sentiment. Alex was looking for clues, but she knew he wouldn’t find any amongst Angus’ boxes.
‘Go ahead, but I don’t want you festering away in there all day tomorrow. We have guests coming, and I’ll need your help.’

‘Course. Night, Mum,’ he said, as they reached his new bedroom.

‘Night, darling,’ she replied, as Alex closed the door.

15th July 2006

I am sitting on the bed in my tiny cell. The fan my mother has equipped me with is close enough to give me a blow-dry in one minute flat. In front of me is a box I have just
dragged in from the outhouse, filled with letters and photographs, which may or may not be relevant to me and my past.

My mother is not stupid. She knows what I am searching for. She knows how much I want to know . . .

Who I Am.

Well, she didn’t act as though she was worried that any key to the great mystery might be lurking in those boxes, so there’s probably nothing of interest amongst
Angus’ stuff.

I wonder why she’s so cagey about her own past? She hardly ever talks about her mother and father, or where she grew up, or how. She gave a lot of information out about it
earlier today, for her.

It made me realise how most kids I know have a granny and grandpa present in their lives, or at least a strong memory of them. All I know for certain is that Helena Elise Beaumont
is my mother and I was born in Vienna (she couldn’t hide that as it’s written on my birth certificate) and I lived there until I was three, after which she met Dad, then we came back to
England and they got married. Apparently, I was a bilingual toddler. Nowadays, I struggle to count to ten in German correctly.

I lie back with my head resting on my arms and stare at the cracked, yellowing ceiling above me. And muse that my friend Jake – I use that term loosely, in that we communicate
occasionally and he is less of a moron than the rest of them in my class – has a mother who is comfortably plump and homely-looking, like most mums with teenage sons seem to be. She works
part-time as a secretary at a doctor’s surgery and makes great cakes when I’ve been round for tea, and everything about her is . . .

. . . normal.

Her whole life is photographically displayed on the sideboard, side by side with her freshly baked scones. Jake knows all about his grandparents, and who his father is, as he sees
him every day. The only mystery he has to solve is how to persuade his mum to lend him a tenner so he can buy the latest PlayStation game.

So why is my mother, and my past, such an enigma?

I breathe deeply and realise I am starting to seriously obsess again. Apparently, it’s a normal characteristic for someone like me. A ‘gifted’ child. I loathe
being a statistic, and do my best not to conform to it, but sometimes it’s hard. To take my mind off things, I sit upright and begin to pull endless sepia photos of unknown people who are now
almost certainly dead out of the box. Some of them have dates on the back, some don’t.

Angus was very good-looking when he was younger, especially dressed in his uniform. I’m surprised he never married. Unless he was gay. He doesn’t look it, but you never
can tell. I’ve often wondered how you know if you are. I might be weird, but I’m definitely straight, in a bendy sort of way.

I have finally got to the bottom of the box, waded through the mounds of photographs and correspondence concerning shipments of whisky from Southampton and import duty on this
painting or that piece of furniture. Then I pull out a bulging brown envelope addressed to ‘Colonel McCladden’ at Pandora and reach my hand inside it.

Out flutters a large number of flimsy blue airmail envelopes. I peer into one, and see its contents are still intact. I remove the letter and see there is a date at the top,
12th
December
, but no year or address.

I read the first line:

‘My darling, darling girl.’

Right. It doesn’t take Holmes and Watson to deduce that this is a love letter. The writing is beautiful, in ink, scripted in the fluid way people were taught in those
days.

I scan through it. It’s a eulogy to an unknown woman known as ‘Darling Girl’ throughout. Lots of
‘the days are endless without you and I long to have you
back in my arms . . .’

Not really my type of thing, all this soppiness. I’m more of a thriller man, myself. Or Freud.

Most irritating of all, when I reach the end, there is no signature, just an indecipherable flourish that could be any of perhaps twelve letters.

I put the letter back in its envelope and open a couple more. They read in a similar vein and reveal no more clues as to time or identity than the first one.

I look inside the big brown envelope to check it’s empty, and find a folded piece of paper.

‘I believe these letters are your property. As such, am returning to sender.’

That is all.

So the author of these was obviously Angus. Which would also solve one puzzle and confirm he was definitely not gay.

I yawn. I am tired tonight, having lugged all those boxes around in the heat. I will give these letters to my mother tomorrow morning. They are definitely more her kind of thing
than mine.

I switch off the light and lie on my back, pulling Bee from under my pillow and placing him in the crook of my arm. I enjoy the breeze from the fan wafting across my face and wonder
how a man such as Angus could command armies and shoot people, yet write letters like those at the same time?

It’s a mystery to me so far – this ‘love’ thing – but I daresay I’ll find out what it’s like.

One day.

Where the
hell
was she?

William ran his fingers through his hair in agitation.

The plane had landed over an hour ago. Passengers had streamed out of arrivals and now the concourse was eerily quiet.

He tried Helena on her mobile, but she wasn’t answering. He’d dropped her off with the kids at a local hire-car firm in Paphos, as it had been decided they would definitely need a
car each. She’d said she might take the children to the beach. William left her a message to call him back urgently, then, having made another sweep of the arrivals area, he headed for the
flight information desk.

‘Hello, I’m wondering whether you could check if my daughter was on the morning flight from Gatwick. I’m here to collect her and she hasn’t turned up yet.’

The woman nodded. ‘Name?’

‘Chloë Cooke, with an “e”.’

The woman tapped on the computer, scrolled down and finally looked up at him. ‘No, sir. There was no one by that name on the flight.’

‘Christ,’ William swore under his breath. ‘Is it possible to check if she arrived on another flight from the UK today?’

‘I can try, but we have several, from regional airports around the country.’

‘Has there been a flight from Stansted so far?’ William followed a hunch.

‘Yes, it landed half an hour before the Gatwick flight.’

‘Okay, could you try that?’

More tapping, and the woman finally looked up and nodded. ‘Yes, a Miss C. Cooke was on the Stansted flight.’

‘Thank you.’

William walked away from the desk, a mixture of relief and anger coursing round his veins. His ex-wife had obviously changed the arrangements without letting him know.
Par for the course for
her
, he thought furiously. He stifled his anger and went in search of his daughter.

Twenty minutes later, and on the verge of alerting the airport police to an abducted minor, William stumbled on a small bar next to the arrivals hall.

It was empty, apart from a teenage girl and a dark-haired young man sitting together smoking on bar stools. From a distance, he saw the girl had a mane of long, shiny chestnut hair. She wore a
tight T-shirt and a miniskirt on her sylph-like frame, her endlessly long bare legs crossed as she flipped a flat pump on and off one heel. As he drew closer, he realised it was Chloë: a
Chloë who in the past few years had changed beyond all recognition from a child into a beautiful young woman.

William recognised his daughter’s allure, as – obviously – did the man sitting opposite her. He was resting a hand lightly on Chloë’s bare thigh. William moved
swiftly towards them, realising the man was older than he looked from a distance. Squashing down the primal urge to thump him, he stopped a few yards away.

‘Hello, Chloë.’

She turned, saw him and smiled lazily. ‘Hi, Daddy. How are you?’

Blatantly taking a last drag of her cigarette, she stubbed it out as William walked forward and kissed her formally on the cheek.

Like the stranger she was.

‘Meet Christoff. He’s been keeping me company while I was waiting for you.’ Chloë turned her enormous, fawn-like brown eyes back to her suitor. ‘He’s been
telling me all the cool places to go clubbing round here.’

‘Good. Now let’s go.’

‘Okay.’ Chloë slid elegantly off the bar stool. ‘I’ve got your mobile number, Christoff. I’ll give you a call and you can show me the sights of
Paphos.’

The man nodded wordlessly, and gave a small salute as Chloë followed William out of the bar.

‘Where’s your suitcase?’ he asked her, looking down at the small holdall she was carrying.

‘I haven’t brought one,’ she answered airily. ‘I won’t need more than a couple of bikinis and a few sarongs here anyway. It’s cool to travel light.’

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet your flight. Your mum gave me the wrong details, obviously,’ he said as he led her out into the bright sunlight and towards the car.

‘We thought we’d be in London, but then we ended up at the cottage in Blakeney and Mum discovered I could fly here from Stansted. She tried ringing you to let you know, but she
couldn’t get hold of you.’

William knew his mobile had been with him permanently, on red-alert for the usual last-minute change of arrangements that came hand in hand with collecting Chloë. He swallowed, knowing it
was probably only the first of numerous occasions on which he’d have to bite his tongue for the sake of
détente
.

‘I looked for you everywhere at the airport when I arrived, you know. It was only luck that took me into that bar. You’re meant to be eighteen to go in, Chloë, I saw it on the
door.’

‘Oh well, you found me in the end. Is this your car?’

‘Yes.’ William opened the door.

‘Wow, a people carrier.’

‘I’m afraid so. There are a lot of us. Hop in.’

Chloë threw her holdall on the back seat, put her hands under her chestnut hair to draw it away from her swan-like neck, and yawned. ‘I’m wrecked. I had to get up at half past
three this morning. The flight left at seven.’

‘Did Mum take you to the airport?’

‘God, no. You know what she’s like first thing in the morning. She booked me a taxi.’ She turned to him and smiled. ‘I’m a big girl now, Daddy.’

‘You’re fourteen, Chloë, and two years off the legal smoking limit, I might add.’ William turned the key, started the engine and pulled the car out of the space.

‘Fifteen next month, actually, so chill, Daddy. I only have the occasional ciggy. I’m not addicted or anything.’

‘Well, that’s okay then,’ replied William, knowing his daughter would miss his irony. ‘So, how’s school?’

‘Oh, you know, school really. I can’t wait to leave.’

‘And do what?’ William was painfully aware that normally, a parent would
know
the answer to this question. The thought depressed him further.

‘Dunno yet. I might go travelling, then do some modelling.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ve already been spotted by an agency, but Mum says I have to get my GCSEs first.’

‘She’s right. You do.’

‘Girls start modelling at twelve now. I’ll be past it at sixteen,’ Chloë sighed.

William chuckled. ‘Hardly, Chloë.’

‘Well, you’ll both be sorry one day, when you’ve lost me my chance of making shedloads of money and getting famous.’

‘Your mum has told you about Immy and Fred, hasn’t she?’ William changed the subject.

‘You mean my two baby siblings? Yeah, ’course she has.’

‘How do you feel about meeting them?’

‘Cool. I mean, we’re not exactly unusual, are we? My best friend Gaia is the daughter of a rock star – Mike someone – he was really famous back in your day, and she has
so many steps and halves she’s lost count. Her dad’s in his sixties and his girlfriend is expecting again.’

‘I’m glad you feel normal, Chloë, that’s good.’

‘Yeah. As Gaia says, having divorced and remarried parents is especially good at Christmas, ’cos they all buy you presents to win you over.’

‘That’s an . . . unusual way of looking at it,’ William gulped. ‘Helena’s looking forward to seeing you again.’

‘Is she?’

‘Yes, and Alex, her son. Remember him?’

‘Not really.’

‘Well, I’m warning you that Alex is an unusual boy. He’s been assessed as “gifted”, which means he can come across as a bit odd. But he isn’t. He’s just
got an intellect way beyond his years.’

‘You mean he’s a nerd?’