Читать книгу Wishes Under The Willow Tree: The feel-good book of 2018 - Phaedra Patrick, Phaedra Patrick - Страница 11

5. Amazonite

integrity, calming, aligning

The shop door scraped against a wodge of leaflets on the doormat. Picking them up, Benedict saw they were all the same. Four grainy faces glared back at him. Rock band, Restore the Hope, was playing a warm-up gig in Applethorpe before their UK tour. Benedict cursed and folded the leaflets in half.

Another leaflet had drifted farther into the shop, and he stooped down, immediately recognising one of Estelle’s paintings of the moors. He read the white words:

Lawrence Donnington presents a preview of ‘Moorland Escape’ by Estelle Stone at Purple Heather Gallery, Noon Sun Village 6.30–8.30 p.m., 28th October

Benedict’s heart dipped. He didn’t know about this. Why hadn’t she told him about her exhibition? Was Estelle embarrassed by him?

Purple Heather used to be a small tearoom, but local entrepreneur Donnington had renovated it and turned it into an art gallery, to display the work of Yorkshire artists.

Benedict had passed by and it was very modern, with white walls and polished floorboards. He spied Lawrence himself, standing in the middle of the gallery and waving his arms around as if conducting an orchestra. He dressed like a French mime artist, with slim hips in tight black trousers, and a Breton striped top.

The women of Noon Sun seemed to like him though. Benedict once overhead a small group in the Pig and Whistle gushing about him and fanning their flushed faces with the laminated menus.

From the shop counter, Lord Puss let out a short meow that sounded more like a bark, and his yellow eyes were like slits. From hearing the noise at least ten times a day, Benedict knew that His Royal Highness wanted food. ‘Now I have a cat and a teenager to feed,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You’ll have to wait a bit longer, Lord Puss. A bit of patience will do you good.’

He caught a glimpse of Estelle’s purple anorak hanging in the store cupboard and he reached out to touch the vivid fabric. He allowed himself a moment to imagine his wife wearing it, then he withdrew his hand and furled it into a fist. What was he going to do to get her back? He wasn’t particularly handsome, and he knew he ate too much. He might mention family too often, but he loved her with all his heart. He just didn’t know how to express it.

He opened the back door and took a food sachet from his pocket. He squeezed it into the cat’s bowl and threw the leaflets for the rock band in the bin. ‘Here, puss, puss,’ he said wearily.

Lord Puss jumped off the counter and walked as slowly as he could out into the yard. He barely sniffed his food bowl then sat down. A dapple of sunshine illuminated the paving flags with a circle of light so it looked like he was under a spotlight, waiting for applause. He turned his face away from Benedict, as if he had smelled something bad.

‘Damn cat.’

Back inside, Benedict carried his laptop through to the workshop and flipped it open. After waiting ages for it to fire up, he was glad that Noon Sun had internet connection today. The phone and broadband in the village only worked intermittently because the surrounding hills blocked the signal.

Benedict had never made a proper effort to track down his brother before, for fear of what might happen. But this time, he Googled Charlie Stone and Charles Stone. He chewed his bottom lip as half a million results showed up.

Part of him wanted his brother’s face to appear on the computer screen, but another part wanted it to remain hidden, so Benedict wouldn’t experience the awful pangs of shame that kept him awake at night.

His fingers shook a little as he tried again, this time typing in Charlie and Amelia Stone and then Gemma Stone. But there were still thousands of results.

It looked like Gemma’s suggestion of sending a letter might be his only way of making contact with Charlie after all.

Next, Benedict phoned the airport and spoke to a young man who had a Northern Irish accent and who spoke at breakneck speed. He informed Benedict that there was no record of a purse with a passport inside it being handed in. He took Benedict’s name and number and said that he’d call if anything turned up. ‘Don’t count on it though,’ he added. ‘Have a nice day.’

Benedict lowered himself into his chair. He opened his drawer and found half a packet of Polo mints pushed into the corner. He munched them one after another then crumpled the foil into a ball, tossed it into the bin and gave himself a small cheer. He opened another drawer and took out the anniversary necklace. Slinking it over the back of his hand and touching its tiny links, he hoped that Estelle would realise how much time and love he’d poured into it.

When his phone vibrated in his pocket, Benedict’s heart leaped. A text from his wife? Finally.

‘How R U Benedicto?’ Cecil asked.

Benedict sighed. ‘I should be asking you that! How did the op go?’

‘Okay but a few complications. Visiting time is 6.00 till 7.30.’

‘I’ll be there tomorrow.’

‘Any news on Estelle?’

Benedict hesitated. ‘Not yet,’ he texted. He couldn’t think of how to tell Cecil, in a few words, about Gemma’s arrival.

Cecil replied, ‘. How is Lord Puss?’

‘He misses you.’

‘Me too. Send my .’

Benedict couldn’t think of anything worse than whispering gooey sweet nothings to the fluffy beast. ‘I will do. Now rest up. All is great here.’

‘,’ said Cecil.

While Benedict waited for Gemma, no customers came into the shop. He thought that he’d relish the quietness away from her, but when he picked up a length of gold wire to make more links, he squashed each one.

As he slid another batch of rejected links from his palm into the teacup, the electronic beep-bop in the showroom sounded. Gemma returning early, he pressed his lips tight.

‘Hello,’ he called out and walked into the showroom. And then his heart and time seemed to come to a standstill.

His wife stood in the middle of the shop.

‘Estelle?’ His word sounded raspy.

‘Hello, Benedict,’ she said.

He used to greet her with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and he wanted to do that now. They’d shared twelve years of love and laughter, but they stood facing each other as if there was a thick pane of glass between them.

His wife used her arms and hands to express herself – a reassuring pat to his shoulder, a hug hello, a rub to his forearm as she spoke. This woman looked like Estelle and sounded like her, but she didn’t move like his wife. It was like a clone had taken over Estelle’s body but hadn’t downloaded her personality.

He felt as if his limbs were held together by glue that was becoming unstuck. If he moved, then he might fall apart. ‘Estelle,’ he repeated. Words wafted around in his head and he couldn’t pin them down to say them to her. If she came home, he would do whatever he needed to, to make things right. He didn’t want to beg, but if that’s what it took then he would do it.

Estelle touched her neck and he saw that she was wearing a bright resin necklace that looked like a firework exploding from beneath her collar. She followed his eyes. ‘Oh, this? Friends bought it for me, to celebrate my exhibition at Purple Heather.’

‘It’s very bold.’

‘It’s nice to have a change sometimes.’

Benedict cleared his throat. ‘Your exhibition looks very exciting. Congratulations. I found a leaflet on my doormat.’

Her brow furrowed in the middle. ‘Sorry. I thought that you knew about it.’

‘No.’ He tried to say it without emotion but felt a tremble in his voice.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Things have been so crazy recently. I hope that you’ll come along.’

Benedict wanted to attend, but what part would he play? He wasn’t sure if Estelle was inching him out of her life. He thought of Cecil’s words about getting on his proverbial medieval horse to joust for her. But what could he do?

He felt like he was sitting on the beach when a huge wave crashed, filling his nose and mouth with salt water. He might try to flail around and scramble away, but he was drowning. How had they come to this? It had happened so gradually – the niggles, the arguments, the silences had all reached a crescendo of awfulness, until his wife had felt the only option was to move away from him.

Estelle was coping with things much better than he was. She had a shiny new apartment to live in, friends to support her and a dazzling new career as an artist. And Benedict felt bereft, like a small child watching a circus driving away from town and not knowing if it would return.

Estelle looked around the shop. ‘You don’t have your lights on in here.’

‘I just called in to feed Lord Puss.’

‘Not much work on then?’

He couldn’t tell if she said it with concern, or if there was a slight barb to her comment. ‘Oh yes. No problem there,’ he said, thinking about his empty appointment book. ‘Busy, busy.’

Over his wife’s shoulder, through the large front window, he saw Gemma lollop past on the opposite side of the road. She carried armfuls of coloured shopping bags and she stopped to wave at him.

Benedict looked away quickly, pretending not to see her. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing her to notice that he was talking to someone and to move on. He didn’t want Estelle and Gemma to meet, until he’d had the chance to talk to Charlie, to find out what the hell was going on. However, Gemma waved again. She edged towards the kerb.

‘I have other things to sort out today, with Cecil being in hospital.’ He swallowed.

‘How is he?’ Estelle asked. ‘Did his op go okay?’

‘Yes, he’s fine.’ The stress of seeing Gemma made his words come out too quickly. ‘I’m going to visit him tomorrow.’

‘Good. Send my love.’

As Gemma crossed over the road, heading towards the shop, Benedict automatically shook his head.

‘What is it?’ Estelle asked sharply.

‘I’ll tell Cecil that you asked after him.’

‘You’re shaking your head.’

‘Sorry.’

Gemma now stood outside the shop, looking at his window display.

‘You seem distracted.’ Estelle pulled her coat around her. ‘I should go.’

‘No.’ Benedict reached out to touch her arm, but felt as if he’d made contact with an invisible force field. He slowly lowered his hand. ‘Please don’t go.’ He opened his mouth to speak again, but the shop door opened.

Gemma heaved her shopping bags inside. ‘Hi there,’ she chirped. ‘I’m Gemma.’

Benedict lost all of the words in his head, at the sight of his niece and wife in the same small space. His eyes flicked between the two of them as if he was watching a game of table tennis.

Gemma strolled around the shop, peering into each of the cabinets.

Estelle didn’t look at her. ‘I stopped by to ask if I can come over to pick up my paintings from the spare bedroom? Canvasses are expensive, so I’m going to paint over my old ones.’

Benedict’s brain started to tick with possibilities. This could be the opportunity he’d hoped for. He could tidy the house, buy some fresh flowers, maybe attempt to make a shepherd’s pie, and then casually invite Estelle to stay for tea. He’d open a bottle of expensive red wine to create a nice ambience for the two of them to discuss things.

But Gemma was sleeping in Estelle’s studio.

His eyes darted over towards his niece again. Looking at her russet hair made him feel dizzy. ‘I’ll drop the paintings off at Veronica’s apartment for you,’ he said.

‘Actually, Lawrence has offered to help me pick them up. He’s an expert in landscape art, and I don’t want to paint over any paintings that he thinks are worth saving. He’s been so wonderful, helping me to set up the exhibition.’

Benedict thought of the clumps of bags, and piles of bills, on every conceivable surface in the house. He winced at the mention of Lawrence’s name. ‘It’s not actually a good time…’ he started.

‘Oh. What’s the problem?’

‘Nothing. I’ll drop the canvasses off for you tonight.’

When Estelle spoke again, her voice was cooler and low. She took a step back towards the door. ‘There’s really no rush,’ she said. ‘Don’t go to any trouble.’

This is all going so wrong, Benedict thought. He wanted to stride over and stand in front of the door to stop her from leaving. He couldn’t bear to see her walking away from him, again.

As he furiously thought what else to say, little by little, Benedict became aware that Gemma had turned away from the cabinets and was clearly listening into their conversation. She stood with her arms folded, gawking at Estelle.

At that moment, Benedict wished that he was psychic so he could send Gemma a message via his mind to stop her from staring. His own heart reverberated loudly in his ears, like there was a military drummer practising in his skull. He sensed that his niece was waiting for an introduction to his wife, and he wasn’t ready to give it. How could he tell Estelle that Gemma had turned up unannounced? His wife would have more questions than he had answers.

Estelle noticed too. She gave Gemma a confused glance.

‘I’ll deliver your paintings tonight,’ Benedict said.

Estelle gave a small, tight smile as she reopened the door. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said. ‘I feel there’s something going on here…’

‘No, I…’

She held up a hand to stop his words.

‘No, I want to say…’ He didn’t actually know what he was going to say. There were no ordered words in his head.

‘Let’s leave things alone, Benedict. If I’m not in when you call, leave the canvasses by the front door of the apartment. It’s a communal hallway, so they’ll be safe there.’

‘I… I…’ Benedict started again, but Estelle left the shop. He watched as she bustled past the shop window, her lips pinched together.

‘About the text I sent you…’ he shouted after her. But if she heard, she didn’t turn back.

Gemma dropped her shopping bags onto the floor and gave a slow handclap. ‘That went well. Way to go, Uncle Ben.’

Benedict couldn’t stop all the frustration of the last few weeks from spilling out in his voice. ‘What the hell did you come in the shop for?’ he demanded. ‘I was trying to talk to my wife.’

Gemma took a small step back and her ankle buckled in her cowboy boot. ‘Hey. I didn’t know it was Estelle, until I overheard your conversation. Then I figured it out.’

‘You listened in,’ he accused.

‘Well, sorta.’ She shrugged. ‘Hey, are you worried about this Lawrence guy? Your nostrils flared real big when she mentioned his name.’

‘They did not.’

‘Yeah, they did.’

Benedict pictured the handsome gallery owner in his striped T-shirt and he suddenly felt exhausted. He wanted to go home and slump on the sofa, whether his wife was there or not. ‘If you’re going to stay with me then we need some rules,’ he said grumpily.

‘You don’t have to worry about me.’ Gemma pointed at her own chest. ‘I think you need to focus on getting your wife back. Especially if this Lawrence guy is hanging around. Why didn’t you introduce me to her? I knew that you’re ashamed of me.’

Benedict opened his mouth to respond but then closed it again. He felt too emotionally drained to speak. It also wasn’t fair to take his infuriation out on his niece. He waited until he felt a little calmer. ‘I’m not ashamed of you, okay,’ he sighed. ‘I want to speak to Charlie first before I introduce you to Estelle. That’s all. Sorry for getting cross with you.’

‘That’s okay. I get it.’

His shoulders slumped. ‘I need to do something about Estelle.’

‘Just do it then.’

‘I’m not good at stuff like that. I can’t think of anything to do for her.’

Gemma folded her arms. ‘Hmmm.’

‘Hmmm, what?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘We need a plan.’

‘We?’ Benedict said. As he plodded over to the counter, to lean against it, he felt like his feet were coated in tar. ‘Need a plan?’

‘Yes. A plan. An operation…to win Estelle back. Hey, Operation Win Estelle Back, that spells WEB. Well, OWEB really, but that doesn’t sound as cool.’

‘WEB?’ Benedict repeated, feeling both scared and intrigued at the same time.

‘Yes. WEB. You need a plan to get your wife back, Uncle Ben. And you need my help to do it.’