Wishes Under The Willow Tree

Benedict barely glanced at them. He liked to stay around the pool, listening to families splashing around and imagining that one day he might throw an inflatable Frisbee to his own kids. He tried not to look at the trim dads in their Speedos, when he himself sported an oversized T-shirt and baggy shorts. ‘Isn’t this hotel great for kids?’ he said. ‘It’s got a children’s club too.’

Sometimes, Estelle’s moving out felt like he’d been rugby-tackled and knocked, breathless, off his feet. At other times, he told himself to be more optimistic. She was just helping out a friend and would be back soon. Things would return to normal and they’d pick up their conversation about adoption again. He would try to persuade her it was the best way forward.

Benedict picked up his mobile and saw that Estelle hadn’t replied to his text from last night. For a moment, he wondered about sending another one, but Gemma groaned in her sleep and he slipped the phone under his pillow.

He slid out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and put on his loafers. Stealing a glance in the studio, he saw his niece was curled up with her back to him. Her rucksack was on the floor and it didn’t seem to contain much, for a trip to England from America.

He crouched and strained one arm into the room and pulled her discarded clothes towards him. They were still damp from the rain. Damn, did he even know how to operate the tumble dryer?

As he gathered them to his chest, something white landed on the floor with a thud. It was the bag that had dangled from the sleeve of Gemma’s denim jacket last night. He froze, scarecrow-still, as she muttered in her sleep. When she started to snore, Benedict pushed the white bag back into the room with his foot.

Downstairs, Benedict read and reread the instructions that Estelle had handwritten and taped next to the dial on the tumble dryer. Since she’d gone, he realised how much she did in the house. It was as if a fairy magically popped in and did all the cooking, cleaning, the grocery shopping and the washing-up. For the past six weeks, he hadn’t done much. When his clothes needed a wash, he took them to his friend Ryan’s launderette, Soap’n’Suds, in the village, and Bake My Day provided most of his meals.

Benedict turned a dial on the dryer and hoped for the best.

The dining room used to be tidy, but now there were piles of his clothes, newspapers and screwed-up plastic bags on most surfaces. Estelle liked fresh flowers on the table but instead there was a pile of cork placemats and a heap of junk mail.

He used to think that the house was friendly and well lived in, but now it just looked ancient. The pine kitchen units had darkened over the years to a burnt orange colour, and the lino was torn and needed replacing. Estelle had suggested many times that they spruce up the place, but Benedict wanted to save money, for when they had a family.

Could he really blame her for moving out, when his motivation had shipped out too? Cecil was right; she deserved a jousting knight on a white horse. But that wasn’t him.

As Gemma’s jacket and dress began to spin, he wondered about her impromptu arrival. Why had she arrived so late, and why was she on her own? Something wasn’t right here and the familiar urge of wanting to eat crept up on him like a mutant blob in a fifties sci-fi movie.

It usually started with his stomach feeling as hollow as an empty beer barrel. Then a chirpy voice in his head announced that food would make him feel better. Benedict didn’t experience hunger as such, rather the need to feel full, to take his mind away from the present.

His fingers twitched as he opened the fridge door. On the top shelf sat two chunky slices of lemon cheesecake. Lemons are nice and healthy, they said to him.

‘Shut up,’ Benedict growled and set to work making an omelette instead. He sniffed and wondered if it would cover the musty smell that Gemma had complained about.

He ate it standing up, in front of the sink. Then he succumbed and ate a slice of lemon cheesecake anyway.

When Gemma woke up, he would make her some breakfast and ask for Charlie’s phone number. Benedict wondered what his brother had told Gemma about him. He rubbed his neck with shame and wondered if Charlie would reject him all over again.

When the tumble dryer rumbled to a stop, it had gone past nine. Benedict pulled out the clothes, folded them roughly and carried them upstairs. He was late for work and eating too much had made him feel cranky.

In the studio, Gemma was still in bed and he bent down to deposit her dried clothes on the floor.

‘What the hell…?’ The bed juddered and she sat up, clutching the blanket to her chin.

Benedict stood up so quickly that his back cricked. ‘Ouch.’ He flailed one hand behind him in a failed attempt to support it. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘I was, until you crept into my room, like a pudgy vampire or something.’ She flopped back onto her pillow and specks of dust burst into the air. She reached up, trying to catch them. ‘This house is dirty.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you married?’

‘Um, yes.’

‘You’re not sure?’

Her question felt like a small punch in his gut. ‘I am married. And I dried your clothes.’ He stepped over them and opened the curtains.

Gemma squealed and covered her eyes with her hands.

When she lowered them, he’d forgotten what she looked like. Her hair was now dry, with strands stuck to her cheeks. It was a russet red, darker than Charlie’s copper mop, and it reminded Benedict of autumn leaves. Her irises shone teal blue against the pink of her eyelids. Again, because of the high angle of her eyebrows, he wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not.

‘When you’re dressed,’ he said, ‘I’ll make you an omelette.’

She screwed up her nose. ‘I hate eggs.’

‘I have cheesecake too.’

‘That’s a dessert.’

Her answering back made his head throb. ‘I’m not running a café. After you’ve eaten, we’ll phone your dad. You can tell him that you’re safe and we can make arrangements.’

‘What arrangements?’

‘For whatever you plan to do.’

Gemma frowned. ‘I planned to come here.’

‘To Noon Sun?’

‘Yeah. For an adventure.’

‘Adventure?’ Benedict’s brow puckered as he thought about the sleepy village, with its row of lacklustre shops. ‘You’ll be lucky. And it’s dangerous to turn up on a stranger’s doorstep unannounced.’

‘You’re my uncle. And it’s not unannounced.’

‘It is, if I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘My dad said that you knew.’

‘What?’ Benedict said. ‘I think I’d remember that. We haven’t spoken for years.’

‘Didn’t he write or something?’

‘No.’

Gemma puffed out her breath. ‘I hate arguments.’

‘It’s not really an argument,’ Benedict replied.

But he hated them too. He detested when he and Estelle had chats that turned to discussions which evolved into heated debates. When they couldn’t find a way forward and she would hug her pillow to her chest and stomp into the studio to sleep there instead.

‘When your father moved away, we lost contact,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’m not trying to get you into trouble, but there’s been some miscommunication. So, as soon as you’ve eaten, we’ll get in touch with Charlie, and your mother, to sort things out. Okay?’

Gemma sat up. She drew her knees up to her chin and hugged her shins. ‘It’s not so easy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Cause Dad lives on a farm in north Maine, but there’s no phone line. He doesn’t even have email.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And he and my mom split, a few years ago.’

‘Oh.’ This threw Benedict. He had always imagined Charlie and his wife Amelia were still together. ‘Sorry to hear that. Does he have a mobile number?’

‘Sure. That’s the only thing he does have.’ She frowned, but her eyebrows remained high and pointed. ‘It’s 605, or is it 4? I think it’s, um…no. Sorry.’

‘Don’t you have it stored in your phone?’

‘Someone took my purse, from the airport restroom. My phone and passport were inside it.’

Benedict stared at her in disbelief. ‘So you don’t have a purse, phone or passport?’

‘Well, I did have them, but not any longer.’

Benedict dug his hand into his hair. ‘I’ll call the airport and see if your purse has been handed in.’

‘I reported it missing last night. They’ll call me if they find it. I’ve thought of everything.’

‘How can they call you, if they have your phone?’

‘Oh.’ Gemma scrunched her mouth into a small circle. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Hey, you could write him a letter,’ she said brightly.

Benedict’s mind conjured up the last slice of cheesecake in the fridge. He wanted it badly. ‘You can’t really stay here…’ he began.

‘You have a spare room.’

‘Yes, but…I’m waiting for my wife to come back.’

‘Where has she gone?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Benedict needed a sit down. He wanted to get into Stone Jewellery and shut himself away in his workshop. He could make another brooch, or links for the anniversary necklace. It would be nice and quiet. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said.

‘Well…’ Gemma jumped off the bed and scooped up her rucksack from the floor. A large hairbrush and a small teddy bear with a purple ribbon around its neck fell out. She picked them up and stuffed them both back inside. Her mouth was set in a thin, determined line. ‘If you don’t want me here, I’ll get my stuff and go.’

Benedict studied the back of her head. ‘Where to?’

‘What do you freakin’ care?’ she snarled. ‘I’m almost seventeen years old and I can look after myself.’

Benedict gulped. He hadn’t calculated in his head how old she might be. Panic began to churn in his stomach. ‘You’re only sixteen?’ How could he turf her out, in a strange country? But he also thought about Estelle, arriving back at the house to find it in a mess and a teenager sleeping in her studio, and wearing her pyjamas. How was he going to deal with that? It was a shame he couldn’t ring Cecil for advice. ‘Look, have your breakfast first.’

‘I don’t want a crappy omelette, okay?’

‘Have some bread then…’

‘Jeez, you sound just like my dad.’ Gemma’s voice fired up a notch. ‘He doesn’t listen to me either.’ She slumped back on the bed and kicked her heels against the base of the mattress. Thud, thud, thud.

‘You must eat something…’

More quickly than Benedict’s eyes could follow, she reached down to the floor and picked something up. She raised her hand to her shoulder as if performing a shot put. Then she thrust it forward. ‘Just stop talking.’

Benedict felt something hit him on his left cheek. Thwump. The pain made him screw his eyes shut. ‘What the…?’

Gemma’s eyes widened. She scrambled off the bed and held out her arms as if carrying a large dog. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Uncle Ben. I didn’t mean to hit you. I meant to hit the door.’

Benedict squinted. On the floor was the small white drawstring bag. ‘Well, that’s okay then. Is this what you threw at me?’ He nudged it with his foot. ‘You can’t go round lobbing stuff at people. That bloody well hurt.’

‘I said sorry.’

Benedict’s cheek throbbed.

‘You should open that white bag,’ Gemma said. ‘I brought it for you.’

‘To throw at me?’

‘I can’t be responsible for all my actions. Open it up.’

Benedict bent down, picked up the bag and eased it open. He immediately recognised the jumble of gemstones inside – an egg-shaped green speckled stone, a chunk of Turquoise and a piece of Rose Quartz in the shape of a heart. His head felt floaty as he picked it out. ‘What is this for?’

‘I want to know what they mean.’

It had been many years since Benedict had seen the gemstones, since he pushed them into his brother’s rucksack before he left for America. ‘They used to belong to my parents.’

‘There must be more to the story than that.’

Benedict felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. He tied the drawstring tight and handed it back to her. Surely Charlie wouldn’t have told her the reason why the two brothers had fallen out? When he spoke his throat was the thickness of a drinking straw. ‘No, there isn’t,’ he said.

‘Well’ —Gemma snatched the bag of gemstones back off him and held them to her chest— ‘I’m sorry for throwing these at you, Uncle Ben. I’ll leave today and not come back. But not until you tell me more about these gems…’

3. Moonstone

release, empathy, intuition

Benedict went downstairs whilst Gemma showered and changed. He made cheese on toast, just as he used to for Charlie’s breakfast, and when his niece joined him in the kitchen, they sat at opposite ends of the table. The atmosphere felt chilly.

She wore last night’s clothes, the crumpled navy cotton dress and the enormous denim jacket. Her legs were bare in her cowboy boots. To Benedict, she looked too young to be travelling alone. If she were his child then he’d have packed a warm coat, jeans, gloves and woolly socks, and he’d heard you could put GPS tracking devices on mobile phones.

He tried to search out elements of Amelia in Gemma’s face, but she hadn’t inherited her mother’s olive skin, dark eyes or walnut hair. He didn’t know where her arched bushy eyebrows had come from.

As he studied her, a memory popped into his head.

When Charlie was eleven or twelve years old, the two of them had watched a magic show on TV in which a man walked on a bed of nails. Afterwards Charlie said he was going to try it. ‘All I need are some nails and a plank of wood,’ he said.

‘But it was just a trick,’ Benedict argued.

But Charlie was convinced he could do it. In the shed, he found a jar of nails and a large piece of chipboard. He tugged the board under the gem tree and spent ages knocking the nails through. When he finished, he hoisted up his creation. ‘Done it.’

Benedict wanted to warn his brother that this could hurt, and that he might need a tetanus injection if the nails were rusty. He always rushed to protect him.

‘I’m going to do it.’ Charlie let the board drop flat on the grass, the spikes pointing upwards.

‘Okay then.’ Benedict tried to sound calm as he stood at the back door.

‘Watch me.’

‘I’m watching.’

Charlie kicked off his flip-flops. He gave Benedict a big grin and his copper hair shone bright in the sun. He placed his bare right foot flat on the nails then stood for a moment, pressing and testing out the pressure. His head was bent in concentration. He put all his weight onto his right foot then raised his left one.

Benedict grasped a wad of tissues, ready to run and mop up any blood. He wondered where he’d put the antiseptic ointment. However, Charlie held out his arms and walked slowly and steadily across the plank. When he reached the end, he jumped off and ran around the garden, whooping and punching the air. ‘Did it,’ he shouted. ‘I told you it wasn’t camera trickery.’

Benedict gave a rictus grin of relief. ‘Yes, you did. Well done.’

Charlie was never more alive than when he tried something new. Perhaps Benedict shouldn’t feel surprised that his brother thought it was okay for Gemma to travel on her own. Perhaps his niece was as spontaneous and determined as her father.

He wondered if he should tell Gemma that she reminded him of Charlie but, instead, he bit into his toast.

‘Kindergarten food.’ Gemma nodded at her plate, but she picked up her toast anyway. She nibbled off the crust first, then turned the toast round and round, eating it in a spiral until a small square remained. She popped the last bit into her mouth with relish. ‘I’m still hungry,’ she said as she munched. ‘Do you have any fruit?’

Benedict hadn’t bought fruit since Estelle left. The produce at Veg Out greengrocers was rather lifeless. ‘Fruit?’ he repeated.

‘Yeah. You know the stuff that grows on trees? Healthy, juicy, bright colours…’

A laugh escaped from Benedict’s lips and it sounded strange to him, like it wasn’t his own.

Gemma gave a small smile too. Her eyes crinkled at the sides, as Charlie’s used to. Benedict had forgotten about that and he felt a flitter in his chest. ‘I don’t have any,’ he said.

‘You’re not a healthy eater, are you?’ Gemma looked him over. ‘It puts a strain on your heart being that chunky. You should cut out the candy.’

‘Thanks for the advice, Gordon Ramsay.’ Benedict carried the empty plates over to the sink. ‘It’s not fat, it’s insulation against cold Yorkshire nights. Now, how are we going to get in touch with your dad?’

‘Don’t worry. He knows I’m fine.’

‘Gemma.’ Benedict held out his palms. ‘You’ve travelled thousands of miles on your own, with hardly any luggage. You arrived on my doorstep in the middle of the night. Charlie is supposed to have arranged your visit, but I’ve not heard from him. And you’ve lost your purse and passport and phone.’

‘Hmmm.’ She threaded a piece of hair into her mouth. ‘You make it sound worse than it is.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how.’

She scraped her chair loudly away from the table and stood up. Her eyes seemed to grow darker. ‘Do you know, I grew up seeing other kids’ uncles come to their school plays, birthday parties and give them twenty dollars at Christmas? And all I had was you,’ she accused. ‘The invisible uncle in the UK, who asks too many questions.’

Benedict felt guilt gnaw inside him as he thought about her growing up in a different country, without him around. ‘Did your dad tell you anything about me?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘He said he used to sit with you, and your parents, under a tree in the garden and you all hung gemstones into it. He called it your family tree, or the gem tree. Is it still here? I wanna sit under it.’

‘Yes, it’s still here.’

Gemma shook the gemstones out of the white bag and onto the table. ‘So, tell me about these gems,’ she said.

Benedict’s stomach churned. He couldn’t tell her the truth, that was for sure. ‘I told you. I gave them to your dad, before he and your mum left for America. That’s it. What do you know about them?’

She stared at him for a while then seemed to accept his answer. She sat down and pointed at each of the gems in turn. ‘This one is Tiger’s Eye. This is Citrine and this is Aquamarine. This is, um, what’s the pink heart-shaped stone called? Rose Quartz, that’s it. Garnet, Poppy Jasper, Blue Lace Agate, Amethyst, Sunstone…um, Carnelian and Golden Topaz.’ She picked up a blue stone, the colour of the Mediterranean Sea. ‘I can never remember this one.’

Its name popped into Benedict’s head. When he’d hung the gems into the gem tree, his father had told him the name of each. ‘It’s Lapis Lazuli.’

‘Okay. Lapis.’ She picked up a round stone, the size of a blueberry. As she turned it between her thumb and finger, it shone white, silver then puddle grey. ‘Do you know the meaning of Moonstone?’

‘The meaning…?’ Benedict tried to recall his trips with his parents and what gemstones they’d come across, but all he saw was his mother, laughing and ruffling his hair. ‘I know that most Moonstones come from India and Sri Lanka. They get their name because they look like the moon…’

‘Duh, everyone knows that.’ Gemma laughed. She set the stone on her palm and lifted it up. ‘Did you know that the Romans thought that Moonstone was made from frozen moonlight?’

Benedict said that he didn’t.

‘It’s sometimes known as the dream stone and can bring you sweet and beautiful dreams. If you give your lover a Moonstone when the moon is full, you’re supposed to always feel kinda passionate about each other.’

Benedict felt impressed by her knowledge; however a sixteen-year-old girl using the word lover made him feel uneasy.

‘Dad only really told me about Moonstone and I wanna know about the others too.’

‘Your grandfather, Joseph, kept a journal when he was younger. He used to make notes about gemstones.’

‘Really?’ Gemma’s bushy eyebrows arched up.

‘I think it’s in a chest in the attic,’ Benedict added. He hadn’t been up into the dusty, dirty space for years.

‘Can we look at it? Please, Uncle Ben. Before I go…’ She jumped to her feet and did a strange shuffle, her feet dancing on the spot. ‘Just one look. I’ll sit under the gem tree, then I’ll get my rucksack and leave. Your house will be empty again, for when your wife comes back. Please, Uncle Ben.’

Benedict was surprised to find that a lump had risen in his throat and he cast his eyes over this teenager who reminded him so much of his long-lost brother. He’d planned, one day, to show the journal to his own children but that was unlikely to ever happen.

And everyone seemed to leave this house. Benedict’s parents died. Charlie moved to America, and Estelle was staying at Veronica’s. He was tired of being the one who watched everyone go. Gemma was the only one who’d actually arrived.

Even though he hardly knew his niece, the thought of her too moving on made his gut twist. Also, familiar feelings of responsibility, which he’d once had for Charlie, were beginning to edge back, like ivy creeping around a gatepost.

He couldn’t allow her to leave without her purse, phone and passport, and with so few belongings. Whether he liked it or not, he was responsible for her. He mused on the word she had used. Empty. He hated it.

‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘We can go into the attic later, but I need to open up my jewellery shop.’

Gemma cocked her head to one side. ‘Yeah?’ she said brightly. ‘So that means I can stay, right?’

Benedict’s spine stiffened and he felt the need to cough. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You can stay.’ Though as he said it, he wondered if he’d live to regret it.

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.