Читать книгу Wishes Under The Willow Tree - Phaedra Patrick - Страница 10

4. Malachite

transforming, absorbing, soothing

Benedict walked briskly along the canal towpath towards the village and Gemma struggled to keep up with him. Her limbs weren’t coordinated and her boots waggled on her ankles, reminding him of a newborn calf. Watching her made him feel motion-sick.

‘You’re going too fast,’ she complained.

‘Sorry,’ he said and carried on, just as quickly.

Gossip in Noon Sun could spread like oil on water. If anyone spied him and Gemma together, the villagers might pounce like foxes on an injured rabbit. He didn’t want the arrival of his niece to be the new topic of conversation in Bake My Day, the Deserted Dogs charity shop, or the Pig and Whistle pub. He bet that Veg Out greengrocers, Floribunda florists and the Soap’n’Suds launderette were hotbeds for tittle-tattle.

‘Do you have nice customers in your shop, or are they crazy?’

Benedict shook his head at her bizarre question. ‘I don’t actually have that many customers, to categorise them.’

As Gemma pointed and asked what a canal lock was, and he took a moment to explain, Benedict couldn’t help thinking of walking with Estelle, each Sunday. Not having children, they had slipped towards middle age quickly, embracing strolls along the canal and enjoying the scenery. They admired the horses in the fields, a flock of geese, or a kingfisher swooping down to the water. Sometimes they ended up back in bed, in the late afternoon, but it was difficult to be spontaneous, when the pressure of trying for a child weighed down on them.

‘There are hills everywhere,’ Gemma exclaimed, spinning around.

‘If you climb to the top, you’re on the Yorkshire moors.’

The moors made him feel uneasy. They were too wild, too deserted and too vast. The earth shifted, and the colour of the grass and sods of earth morphed from black to violet, emerald to mustard, so the landscape was never the same. One minute the air could be still and calm, and then black clouds descended and a storm could sail over the hills. Estelle said that the moors lured her to paint them, but Benedict shuddered at the thought of her walking up there, with her paints and drawing pad, without him.

‘There’s an interesting old quarry up there,’ he told Gemma. ‘They used to mine a gemstone called Blue Jack in the nineteenth century. It’s indigenous to Noon Sun. Anyway, how did you get to my house last night?’

‘I hitched a ride from a lady at the airport. I told her I’d lost my purse.’

‘That’s pretty lucky.’ Benedict frowned. ‘But you shouldn’t accept lifts from strangers.’

‘She looked nice.’

‘Is this the first time you’ve travelled on your own?’

She shook her head. ‘I went to Paris once, to see the Eiffel Tower.’

Benedict was amazed that Charlie allowed her to do this. ‘I took Estelle there a few years ago, and it was lovely. What else did you see?’

Gemma stopped dead on the towpath and her teal blue eyes flashed angrily. ‘Why are you asking me questions? Stop prying all the time.’

Benedict held up his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, don’t get mad,’ he said. ‘I only asked.’

She tutted and tossed her head.

Benedict sighed and carried on, looking up to see his friends Ryan and Nigel setting up their fold-up chairs on the canal bank. Two fishing rods stretched into the water. A pile of sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil sat between the chairs.

Benedict wondered if he could climb over the wall and take the longer route through the field, to avoid them, though he didn’t fancy his chances in trying to clamber over.

But it was too late. Ryan raised his hand. ‘All right, Benedict? Do you want to join us?’

‘Not today, lads. I’ve got to get into work.’

Ryan was happy to share every detail of his marital problems with his wife, Diane, who had asked him for a divorce. He lamented how sleeping on an inflatable mattress in the spare room gave him a sweaty back. Ryan always smelled strongly of the floral washing powder from Soap’n’Suds, and he ironed pin-sharp creases down the front of his black jeans.

‘We’re going to be here all day,’ Nigel added. He worked at the newsagent’s shop in the village and teamed his faded black Guns N’ Roses T-shirt with a leather biker’s jacket. His long, thinning strawberry-blond hair looked like strings of spaghetti escaping through a colander. Nigel’s latest crush was Josie, the barmaid at the Pig and Whistle, though he didn’t have enough confidence to speak to her. Instead, he bought far too many bags of crisps at the bar in a bid to get closer.

Ryan and Nigel sat back in their canvas chairs and stared at Gemma, as if she was an exotic zoo creature they’d never seen before. Benedict could see they were waiting for an introduction and he wasn’t going to offer it.

‘Maybe, I’ll see you later, lads,’ he said and placed his hand lightly on the small of Gemma’s back, to usher her onward.

When they were out of earshot, Gemma scraped her feet. Benedict slowed down to allow her to catch up to him.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Are you ashamed of me, Uncle Ben?’

‘No. Of course not.’

Her eyes told him that she didn’t believe him.

‘Look,’ he sighed. ‘Not much happens around here so, when it does, the villagers can latch onto it like leeches.’

‘So you’re happy I’m here?’

‘Happy’ was too strong a word, but he said yes anyway.

‘So,’ she said, ‘I can have a job in your shop then, huh?’

Benedict held his fist to his mouth and coughed in surprise. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Let’s not rush things, eh?’

When Benedict and Gemma reached the high street, they neared Crags and Cakes. The café had undergone several refurbishments and now had an Alice in Wonderland theme, complete with a six-foot-tall angry-looking white rabbit on the pavement. The villagers said he looked so cross because of the cost of the cakes. Three pounds ninety-nine for a slice of Victoria sponge was extortionate.

Benedict’s footsteps slowed down.

‘Is this your shop?’ Gemma asked.

‘No,’ he said quietly. He touched his wedding ring. ‘It’s where I met Estelle.’

‘Yeah?’ Gemma pressed a hand to her chest. ‘Was it romantic?’

Benedict gave a quick grin. ‘Kind of.’ He told Gemma that each Sunday morning, the Noon Sun Walkers met outside Crags and Cakes for a quick coffee before going for a hike on the moors. ‘My doctor told me to get more exercise and I thought walking would be easy. I bought some boots and a padded coat and off I went, thinking that I’d be like David Beckham within no time. And I saw this woman outside the café. She had hair like Cleopatra and she wore a purple coat and matching hairband. I couldn’t look away.’ He swallowed as he thought of Estelle’s cobalt eyes and full lips.

‘Aw. That’s cute.’

‘We hiked up to Dinosaur Ridge, a local landmark up high on the moors. The rocks are supposed to look like the profile of a stegosaurus. I was lagging behind but I heard a woman’s voice say, “Quick. Shoulder.” And it was Cleopatra. Well, Estelle. She had a stone in her boot and wanted to lean on my shoulder to steady herself. She said that I looked solid.’

‘I suppose that’s one word to describe you,’ Gemma said.

‘I thought she was gorgeous but I didn’t know what to say.’ He was aware that his words were flowing more freely than usual, because he wanted to talk about his wife. He thought back to that day and tried not to groan when he remembered his riveting first words to Estelle.

‘My legs are killing me,’ he said.

‘You’ll be fine. If you’re not, I can always carry you over my shoulder.’

‘Perhaps if you have a small crane…’

‘I’m stronger than I look.’ She rolled up her sleeve and flexed her arm. They both stared at the slight bump that appeared above her elbow. ‘Pure muscle,’ she laughed.

‘I believe you now.’

‘By the way, I’m Estelle.’

‘And I’m Benedict.’

When they eventually climbed up and reached Dinosaur Ridge, the rest of the group sat on the stegosaurus scales, looking smug and eating their sandwiches. ‘I have a joke,’ Estelle said as she rubbed her knees. ‘It’s completely rubbish. Do you want to hear it?’

‘Go on.’

‘Why are there no tablets in the jungle?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Because the parrots eat ’em all. Get it? Paracetamol.’

‘That’s funny,’ Benedict said, even though it wasn’t.

‘You tell me one.’

Benedict could only think of one that he’d overheard a couple of schoolboys sharing outside his shop. He regretted it as soon as he started to tell it. ‘How do you get a fat guy into bed?’ he asked.

Estelle frowned. ‘I have no idea.’

‘A piece of cake.’

She snorted and then laughed out loud. Her headband slipped off the top of her ears. ‘I may bear that in mind,’ she said.

Throughout the rest of walk, Benedict replayed his joke over and over in his head. It was so lame.

They agreed that a pint of cider in the Pig and Whistle would help to ease their aching thighs, and they talked so much that their cheese sandwich tea led into a pub quiz in the evening. They came second and, when Benedict walked Estelle home, they celebrated by kissing on the canal towpath in the moonlight.

Their dates from then on revolved around food – a new tearoom that Estelle had read about, over in York, or a new sandwich on the menu at Crags and Cakes. Except, whereas Estelle was sensible, choosing small dishes, salads, skipping a dessert, Benedict didn’t have the willpower. He liked large meals and full oval plates, finding the heavy feeling in his stomach comforting. He couldn’t resist a sticky toffee pudding, especially with custard.

They married almost two years later in the small church in Applethorpe, and began to try for a baby on their honeymoon in Santorini.

‘I’d love to have two kids, standing on my knee, under the gem tree,’ Benedict said, as the moon shone through the window, making the white bed sheets shine silver. ‘Like Charlie and I did with our mum and dad.’

Estelle smiled. ‘Who knows…in nine months’ time…’

‘We should stock up on nappies.’

However, the months rolled by and no double blue lines appeared on the pregnancy kits that Estelle bought each month, just in case.

For the first couple of years, it didn’t concern them; they were having fun trying. But slowly, increasingly, it mattered.

‘Never mind.’ They smiled at each other. ‘Next month, definitely.’

But still nothing happened.

They started to make love to a schedule, noting the days when Estelle was supposed to be most fertile.

Doctors’ appointments and hospital appointments began to fill up their calendar. Benedict felt grubby as he sat in a small cubicle with a porno mag in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. But this was nothing compared to the invasive tests that Estelle underwent. She had sample tests and scans and blood tests, a hysteroscopy and a laparoscopy. Benedict stood and watched her disappear into rooms and behind curtains, and coming around, groggily, from her operations.

And the results were always the same. Nothing. Unexplained infertility.

Estelle started to look at the pregnancy tests in private, with the bathroom door locked. When she came out she was quiet and her cheeks were streaked with tears.

They still went out for walks, their pub lunches together, on holiday, to gigs over in Applethorpe. Benedict worked in the jewellery shop and Estelle started to paint.

They went through three rounds of IVF, which failed. The process gave Estelle excruciating headaches and made her feel lethargic, but she was determined to try again. Benedict sold his Ford Focus to pay for another go, but that didn’t work either. There was nothing in the bank and the only thing left to sell was the house. They put it on the market for a year but prospective buyers deemed it old-fashioned, too much work to do.

Benedict and Estelle started to count the years, not celebrating the anniversary of when they met or married, but in terms of how long they’d been trying for children. ‘It’s been three years, since we first started’… ‘It’s been five years now’… ‘I can’t believe it’s coming up to eight.’

Until they both, sadly, agreed that it wasn’t ever likely to happen.

There were strangers missing in their relationship who had never been real. They had invented ghosts and pinned their hopes and futures to them. Benedict and Estelle had fallen in love with children who would never be.

Benedict had thought only of being a father and, without that dream, he felt lost, like he was only a husk of a man. What was his identity now? Being a jeweller or husband wasn’t enough. He needed to be a parent.

A silence settled in the Stone household, like a fine layer of dust, coating everything.

When she was made redundant from the accounts department at Meadow Interiors, Estelle set up their spare bedroom as a studio. As her confidence grew, she started to walk on the moors on her own, with her sketchbook and paints. She travelled to York to buy new brushes and only told Benedict when she got home. She retreated to her studio for hours at a time.

Last Christmas, Benedict looked out of the dining-room window at the gem tree. It was coated in snow and children were laughing in the street, building a snowman. He swallowed and held his back straight. A deep longing welled inside him. ‘I think it’s time that we thought about adoption,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a child who needs us, out there somewhere.’

Estelle stood beside him. She reached up and leaned on his shoulder, as she had done the first time they met. She didn’t speak for a long time. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ she said, in a quiet voice. ‘This isn’t about raising any child. It’s about us having our own.’

‘It would be ours. Not biologically, but we have so much love to give.’

Estelle shook her head. ‘I don’t want to adopt.’

‘Why not?’ Having a family was all they had talked and dreamed of. How could they even contemplate a future without it?

‘It would be a stranger’s child. Not really ours.’

‘I looked after Charlie when my parents died…’ He tried to wrap his arms around her but she squirmed away.

‘You had no choice. And your brother broke your heart…’ Her words trailed off.

Benedict stared out of the window. ‘That’s different.’ He’d never told his wife what happened between him and Charlie all those years ago. Or why his brother left. He wanted a family with Estelle, and he wouldn’t mess up this time. ‘This isn’t about Charlie. This is about us,’ he said, though he felt desperation tug inside him. ‘Please let’s consider adoption.’

‘I have done, Benedict, but I feel that this isn’t about you and me, and our family, any longer. It’s about you wanting a child. Any child.’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘It feels that way. We need to accept that we’re not going to be parents, and to plan a future for just the two of us.’

‘But I can’t…we can’t…’

‘We’ve got to learn how to.’ Estelle hung her head.

In the darkness, Benedict stared out at the snowy gem tree. It looked like its legacy, of the Stone children hanging gemstones into it, was about to end. Unless he could persuade Estelle otherwise.

After thinking about his wife, Benedict wanted to be alone for a while. When he and Gemma reached Stone Jewellery, he took all the money out of his pockets and told her to open her hands.

‘What for?’ she asked.

‘If your purse is missing, you’ll need some cash. You haven’t brought many things with you.’

‘I don’t need them.’

‘Well, go to the Deserted Dogs charity shop, anyway, to see if there’s anything you like. They raise money to help unwanted dogs in the area. It’s opposite the community centre. Look out for a large red-brick building with a big “Closed. Keep Out” sign on the door.’

‘Why “Keep Out”?’

‘The roof is caving in and the council don’t have the funds to pay for a new one. It’s a shame because it was sort of a village hub for things like yoga and baby groups.’

‘That’s real sad. What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll go into the shop, to do a few jobs. You can buy us some nice lunch, too.’ His stomach gurgled at the thought of a chunky chocolate cupcake. ‘Now, put the money in your pocket so you don’t lose it…’ He paused, realising this was something he used to say to Charlie.

‘Don’t forget that I travelled from America. On my own.’ Gemma gave a withering sigh. ‘I am capable.’ She stared around herself hesitantly.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah. It’s a new place. I don’t know anywhere yet.’

‘It’s a very small village.’ Suspicion edged into Benedict’s voice. ‘I thought you went to Paris…on your own.’

‘Yeah, well…’ Gemma glared at him and scrunched up the money in her fist. ‘Paris had a big tower, as a landmark.’ She looked down the street again. ‘You go and do your own thing, Uncle Ben. And I’ll go and do mine.’