The Wishing Tree Beside the Shore

Campsite? Since when is there a campsite in Lemmon Cove? And Harrison is not one to lecture on exploitation – he’s a cut-throat businessman who will exploit every opportunity he can.

‘One of the old biddy protestors has discovered how to use Twitter for their cause … Well, she hasn’t really discovered how to use it because she keeps tweeting random things that aren’t supposed to be tweets, like that time Ed Balls tried to do a search for his own name and it became known as Ed Balls Day. She keeps posting photos of the bottom of a Zimmer frame and blurry ground where she’s accidentally pressed the camera button and tweeting things like “What do you do with a courgette?” and “What IS a courgette?” and “Is a courgette the same as a zucchini?”’

‘So it’s all very vegetable-based then?’

‘You can laugh, but the public are falling in love with this technically challenged old bat. Her tweets are getting more and more likes and retweets, and it’s only a matter of time until she goes completely viral and the national news agencies pick up the story, and our clients don’t want to be known as the heartless hotel magnates who threw a load of old biddies out of their garden.’

‘Why are they doing it then? Some of those care homes don’t have much garden space at all. The paths down to the beaches are too steep for the residents, so the garden is the only way they can enjoy the view. You can’t plonk a hotel outside their windows.’

‘That’s for the owner to decide, and the owner’s decided that no one’s using the land and he wants a chunk of money for it. There’s untapped tourist potential because there’s nowhere in the area for civilised people to stay – a campsite doesn’t count – and now all these old folks are rioting and it’s gaining traction. Not the sort of publicity we want getting out, you know?’

‘You’ve dealt with protestors before. You usually just get the police in.’

‘Local police are in their pockets, I reckon. They’ve given an excuse about not having a legal right to turf them out when some of the protestors are chained to trees.’

I snort at the idea of anything so lively happening in Lemmon Cove, but I quickly realise he’s not joking. ‘They’re chained to trees?’

‘There’s some old tree that they’re up in arms about losing.’ He waves a dismissive hand.

‘It’s not on the strawberry patch, is it?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Is it a sycamore tree? Where wishes are made?’ I try to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. No one would even contemplate felling that tree, but the old strawberry patch is right behind a care home on a clifftop …

His brow furrows. ‘Why would anyone make wishes on a sycamore tree?’

‘It’s a local legend. All the kids used to rush there in the autumn for the falling sycamore seeds. It’s said that if you make a wish and throw one over the cliff and it makes it to the sea, your wish will come true.’

He looks at me like I’m a few slices short of a full loaf. ‘Honestly, Felicity, I sent you out for my laundry, not to have a few gins down the pub. Don’t mention wishing trees out loud – we’ll be a laughing stock. Now, this protest has been going on for a couple of weeks, and they’re showing no signs of giving up. The youngster has got them all stirred up, and that’s exactly where you come in. We need to deliver this sale quickly and quietly. You’ll go there as one of them. Infiltrate this protest as a local. Pretend to be on their side and earn their trust, and find out what it’s going to take to get them to give up. Everyone has a price – we just need to find it.’

Harrison’s answer to every problem is to throw money at it, and if that doesn’t work, throw larger amounts of money at it. ‘I can’t do that. I don’t want to go back there. I haven’t been home in fifteen years.’

‘You go to visit your father occasionally, don’t you? I distinctly remember you saying that was how you’d spent a holiday once.’

‘Yeah, but not … properly.’

‘I’m going to level with you, Felicity. This is a huge client for us and we couldn’t risk them going elsewhere, so I’ve taken a leap of faith and indicated I have this land for them, but I don’t yet have a signed agreement from the owner. It looked straightforward. I never expected it to go wrong like this. The care home owner has got cold feet with all the protestors and is dillydallying about signing, but if we can stop the protest quickly, he’ll soon be back on our side. This is no time for your silly family disputes. You are going to Lemmon Cove, you are going to go undercover as a protestor, you are going to find out what it’s going to cost to shut these people up, and this is not a request.’

‘You can’t—’ I start, my voice rising with indignation.

He rolls his eyes. ‘This is a chance for you to move on from being my assistant and start to head up your own projects. If we deliver on this without problems for the client, they’ve got their eye on several other spots around the UK and they’re going to be coming to us for all of them. We’re going to be busy, so it’ll be time for me to get a new assistant and for you to oversee your own project, have your own office …’

An office would be nice. Right now I have a desk in the corner of his office and if he wants to take a private call, I get sent out into the corridor to twiddle my thumbs until he’s finished, and then yelled at for wasting time. A project would be nice. Something of my own. Seeing the potential in different spaces and selling that to a client … It’s what I’ve wanted since I started here. I’d love to show him that I’m capable of more than making tea.

‘So you’ll do it then?’

I don’t know why he phrases it as a question when it’s clearly an instruction. He threatens to have me replaced at least once a week. I live in London; I can’t afford to be fired for refusing this.

Maybe it won’t be that bad. I’ve got an idea of where the care homes are, and they’re a good few miles away from Sullivan’s Seeds where I used to work with Ryan Sullivan; also I know the company went into liquidation years ago. The chances of him still living there are slim to none. I always get jittery when I think about going home, but I’ve gone back for visits and never seen him around, and this could be a much easier job than it sounds. A youngster who owns a campsite could be easy to sway. Harrison hasn’t given me a budget yet, but he’s usually pretty generous when it comes to removing obstacles. A chunk of money, even the promise of a spot of land elsewhere. It shouldn’t be difficult to offer enough to put an end to the protest. I could be in and out within a day; no different from family visits.

Harrison takes my quiet overthinking as an agreement. It wasn’t, but I also know I have no options if I want to keep my job, and I haven’t been collecting his dry-cleaning and polishing his shoes for the last four years just to give up now. This is an opportunity I thought would never happen – a chance to prove that I can be a reliable and valued member of the team, capable of more than non-work-related errands and wiping down tables and refilling water jugs.

This is what I’ve always hoped for. I’ve always wanted to travel for work. I left Lemmon Cove all those years ago for an opportunity in a job that involved travel and when that fell through, I ended up in a series of dead-end admin jobs until I landed here, with promises of training and promotions and working my way up the corporate ladder. So far, none of them have come true, but this could finally be my chance.

‘There we go. Now you’re all up to speed.’ Harrison pats me patronisingly on the shoulder like this was the plan all along. ‘I have total faith in you, Felicity. You’ll get this sorted in a jiffy.’

He has more faith in me than I have in myself. And he’s been exceptionally good at hiding it up until now. Generally he doesn’t trust my ability to open a bottle of milk for his morning tea. ‘And if I do this, I’ll get my own projects? My own office?’ I prompt, determined that if I have to face going back to Lemmon Cove, I’m doing it for a good reason.

‘If you succeed, this client is a big firm with unlimited money and a budget to build several hotels in unspoiled spots around the country.’ He gives me a lion-like smile. ‘And if you fail, our firm will have lost their biggest client and we’ll all hold you personally responsible.’

Nothing like that for a bit of motivation.

‘Go on.’ He shoos me away. ‘No time to lose.’

‘But the meeting …’ I point towards the room we came out of, a finger hanging limply in mid-air. I might have agreed, but I expected a few days to worry about it first. I mean, to plan, obviously. To prepare. There’s nothing to worry about, but I didn’t think he expected me to go now. What does he think I’m going to do? Jump on the train today?

‘You can claim your train fare back on expenses,’ he says, making me sure he has an ability to read minds. He also has a look that says “why are you still here?” ‘I’ll explain all to the lads in the meeting. They were impressed by our brilliant plan, don’t you think? I must give myself a pat on the back for such quick thinking.’

He reaches around and pats the back of his own shoulder. People don’t actually do that, do they?

‘Have fun, Felicity. Wear some … daffodils or leeks or whatever it is you Welsh people like. Dragons? Sheep? I’ll have your office ready by the time you get back.’

An office of my own. A job that feels like a “real” job. Colleagues who see me as an equal. It would be so nice …

And all I have to do is deceive a few old people and offer some youngster a chunk of money. Harrison makes it sound business-like and sensible, but it sounds like underhanded and deceitful bribery when I say it.

It’s business, I tell myself as I walk back to my desk. I am a professional. If Harrison really is going to let me head up my own projects, I’m going to have to get used to things like this. Making deals and thwarting protestors and overcoming obstacles. I’ve got to start somewhere. Maybe this is exactly what I was supposed to do with my life and I just need the opportunity to become a shrewd businesswoman who zips up and down the country for work, carries a briefcase, never has a hair out of place, and always manages to walk in high heels. Maybe she’s inside me somewhere and I need the right opportunity to find out. Maybe I was cut out for this shrewd businesswoman lifestyle and this’ll turn out to be a piece of cake … A shrewd businesswoman who doesn’t get distracted by thoughts of cake, obviously.

What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 2

Why does my heart start pounding as the train gets closer to the South Wales coast? There is no way Ryan Sullivan still lives here. There is no way I’m going to accidentally run into him. He was ambitious; he wanted to travel and see the world. His family company is long gone from the area. He wouldn’t have stayed here.

I wipe sweaty palms on my jeans as the announcement of reaching the end of the line comes over the tannoy and I gather up my bags. I had no idea what to bring, no idea how long I’m likely to be staying, so I shoved some summery clothes into a holdall bag along with toiletries and overnight essentials.

I don’t do well with things I have no time to prepare for … I don’t do particularly well with things I do have time to prepare for, but today has been a real flailing around in the deep end moment. At first I was glad that I didn’t have time to overthink it, but I’ve been exceptionally grateful for the four-hour train journey that my brain has spent inventing all the hypothetical things that could possibly go wrong, and having one final stalk of Ryan Sullivan on Facebook, but – like all the other times I’ve checked – he doesn’t exist on social media. I thought everyone had an account on at least one platform, and while there are millions of Ryan Sullivans online, none of them are that one. I know because I’ve stalked all their profiles over the years. But wherever he is now, he clearly doesn’t do the internet. Which is useful, in a way, because I’m not a regular Facebook stalker and it’s only once in a while that I decide to check if he’s got a Facebook account yet, but what would I do if he was actually on there? I’d like to say I’d send him a friend request and a bright and breezy message asking if he remembered me, but if I sent him a message, he’d know I’d been stalking him. He’d know I still thought about him often enough to seek him out online, so I’d probably just lurk and follow his every post and never comment or do anything to let him know I was watching.

And then I’d inevitably end up accidentally hitting a “like” button and he’d see it before I could undo it, and then he’d know that even though fifteen years have passed since I last saw him, when I’m lonely, or at the end of yet another break-up, I still think of him and wish I’d never kissed him. Maybe we’d still be friends if I hadn’t.

And no matter how much I wish I could passive-aggressively follow his every move on Facebook, I never want to see him again. Not after the way things ended. That’s why I usually stay as far away from Lemmon Cove as land borders will allow – because running into him would be my worst nightmare.

It’s late when the train doors open, and I briefly wonder how thoroughly they check the trains and if I could stay here for the night and go back to London on the return trip tomorrow without anyone noticing. It’s a nice thought, but I force myself to get up and hoist my holdall bag up my arm and adjust my T-shirt. My sister texted ten minutes ago to say she’s waiting in the car park, and no matter how apprehensive I am about the idea of being in Lemmon Cove again and pretending to be a protestor, it will be nice to see her and Dad. It’s nearly four months since I last saw them at Easter.

Outside, the night air is warm but thankfully missing the humidity of London, and I spot Cheryl’s little blue car in the car park, the doors open and the lights on inside it. I go around to the passenger side and duck my head in. ‘Hi, Cher.’

She squeals and drops her phone in shock, and then squeals again in excitement and jumps out the car, sending her phone clattering onto the seat as she comes round the side to give me a hug. ‘I can’t believe you’re actually staying and not rushing off in a few hours. Dad’s so excited. He’s been out and got you a bed today; it’s all set up in my room.’

‘We’re sharing a room?’

‘Of course!’ She brushes bob-length blonde hair out of her eyes and the summer breeze scatters it across her face again. ‘I’ve got your old room and the spare room’s full. You didn’t give us enough notice to clear it out.’

‘Believe me, no one had enough notice for this,’ I mutter. Why am I surprised to be sharing a room with my little sister? I know she moved into my room when I left, and her smaller childhood bedroom became Dad’s spare room full of his half-finished craft projects and ill-advised gym equipment. ‘He didn’t have to go out and buy a bed though; I’d have taken the floor.’

‘You haven’t seen it yet. You might well prefer the floor.’ She laughs and stands back to run her eyes over me, just like Mum used to do to make sure I was wearing suitable clothing when leaving the house to go to the beach. ‘I love the hair.’

How much she sounds like our late mum makes me smile and step back to shrug out of her grip. She’s taller than me now, slim and curvy with bouncy hair and the bright eyes that only a twenty-year-old can have. I was twenty when I left Lemmon Cove. Twenty when I kissed Ryan Sullivan and lost the best thing in my life. Did I look like her? Did I have the enthusiasm and Energizer Bunny relentless energy? I remember feeling like my whole life was ahead of me. Now I’m thirty-five and wondering where it went.

I pull one of the blue ends of my hair over my shoulder and waggle it around in front of me. So far my attempt to be edgy and youthful by bleaching the ends of my dark hair and then dying them bright blue hasn’t even been noticed by anyone at work. I wanted to shake things up a bit after my last relationship fizzled out. I don’t even have break-ups anymore; I just seem to get into relationships that have no magic, no spark, and no hope of going anywhere beyond a few dates. They end with mutual agreement and pleasant partings and I can barely remember the guy’s name after a while.

Everything has felt boring lately. My days are the same; my evenings in front of Netflix are the same. My friends have their own lives, their own families, and I’m the odd one out because I don’t have a partner or children. I don’t have a significant other, because all my attempts at dating end in … not even disaster, just dull dates, with men who are nice enough but nothing special, none that I feel anything remotely like chemistry with.

‘You’re so cool. I wish my boss would let me do that.’ Cheryl works as a teaching assistant in the local primary school, and it’s been a long time since anyone thought I was “cool”. Maybe hanging out with my little sister for a few days won’t be so bad.

I look over at her as we pull out of the station and leave the city centre behind us. Cheryl was still a child when I left, and my presence in her life has been to send expensive birthday gifts each year and come home with a suitcase full of presents every Christmas and leave on the next train out. We text occasionally, usually when I ask her how Dad’s doing because I don’t trust him to tell me honestly when I speak to him on the phone, but we’re not exactly close. Not like I always imagined I’d be close with my sister. She doesn’t turn to me for advice and we don’t have girly days out shopping or giggle over hot guys. It’s been years since we did anything together.

The city buildings turn into coastal road with a vast expanse of beach on the left and seafront hotels on the right, and we pass a park with a lake and golf courses before we turn up into the green hills and mansion-like houses of the Gower villages. It’s dark outside and gardens are lit up with solar-powered strings of lights and paths brightened by stake lights. Most houses are shrouded by tall walls that hide their grandness from passing cars, and the road is lined with leafy trees and wildflower patches full of daisies, buttercups, and poppies.

Lemmon Cove is half an hour away from the city centre, and I can’t help looking over towards where Sullivan’s Seeds used to be, on the hills behind the village. A tiny little street that boasts a post office and corner shop, pub, bakery, and surf shop – it’s the last place of civilisation tourists pass through before reaching the empty dunes and sandy beaches of this stretch of the southern Gower coastline.

‘They built on it years ago.’

‘What?’ I jump as Cheryl speaks in the silence.

‘The old greenhouses where you used to work.’ She jerks her head in their direction without taking her eyes off the road. ‘The firm went into liquidation and the site was sold off years ago. There are houses on it now.’

‘Oh. Right.’ I knew that. I mean, I’d guessed as much. I’ve googled enough to know that Sullivan’s Seeds doesn’t still exist, and it shouldn’t make me so sad to hear confirmation of that. Or to think of houses crammed into the wide expanse of land that used to be home to Sullivan’s Seeds and Plant Nursery, acres of fields of crops, greenhouses where we grew experimental varieties of fruit and veg and forced flowers whatever the weather so they were always in season. It was far enough away from the sea that the coastal weather wouldn’t affect the crops, but near enough to have a sea view from the highest points – the hilltop where Ryan and I used to eat lunch on sunny days, looking out at the sea in front and the fields of crops, greenhouses, and polytunnels behind.

I don’t realise I’m smiling at the thought until I feel Cheryl’s eyes on me. I shake my head sharply to clear thoughts away.

It’s good that Sullivan’s Seeds has gone. It means there’s no chance Ryan will still be here, running that huge patch of land, walking around in knee-high welly boots even in the height of summer that he somehow managed to make look sexy, singing some obscure Nineties song that no one but me had ever heard of.

I have to stop thinking about him. Being back here always puts him at the forefront of my mind, because these are the roads we used to walk together. This is where we spent so much time. When I’d accompany him on deliveries in his van for no reason at all, and it would always feel like bunking off work even though he was my boss, or he’d give me a lift home even though it was only ten minutes’ walk and in completely the opposite direction from where he lived.

‘Where’s this protest then?’ I ask in an attempt to distract myself. ‘I haven’t heard anything about it.’

‘Why would you hear anything about it? The Easter Bunny visits Lemmon Cove more often than you do and the Easter Bunny doesn’t exist.’

Ouch. For the first time, I can hear the sting in her voice. ‘I work in London, Cher …’ I start pathetically. It’s an excuse, I know it, but this is the first time I’ve ever realised she knows it too.

She doesn’t pursue it. She doesn’t need to. I’ve often thought that she and Dad must feel abandoned, but she’s so bright and breezy until every so often, the mask slips and a hint of bitterness will sneak out. It makes me feel guilty for how little I come to visit.

‘It’s the old strawberry patch on the clifftop above the beach. Where the sycamore tree is? You must know the place. Dad says it was more your generation than mine. It closed before I was old enough to remember it.’

A chill goes down my spine.

‘Oh, that place.’ I laugh nonchalantly and wave a hand so dismissively to show that I’m not bothered at all that I nearly smack her in the face. I put my hands guiltily back on my lap. ‘Of course I’m not bothered.’ An edge of hysteria has crept into my voice.

‘I didn’t say you were bothered.’

‘Oh.’ No, she didn’t, did she? ‘That’s all right then. Because I’m not.’

Of all the places to haunt my dreams, it’s that place. The tree where I kissed him. Where I was certain he felt the same. After all the years of flirting and laughing and spending time together, all the easy touches, lingering hugs, and flirtatious smiles. I was so sure we were more than friends … I can still feel the imprint of his hands on my shoulders, pushing me away. I can hear his voice saying: ‘I can’t do this now, Fee …’

My foot getting caught in a strawberry runner and tripping me up as I ran away. Juicy berries squishing under the soles of my boots because I was in such a rush to get away that I couldn’t even stick to the paths … Making sure he wouldn’t have a chance to catch up with me and see how much I was dying of embarrassment after throwing myself at him and getting the worst rejection of my life.

I suddenly realise what she means. ‘That’s where they’re going to build a hotel?’

‘I guess.’

‘That’s a terrible place to put a hotel. What about the sycamore tree? It’s hundreds of years old; they can’t take it down. What about all the carvings? All the wishes?’

‘No one carves trees anymore, and it’s been years since anyone made a wish on that thing. The land is all overgrown and prickly now. No wonder they want rid of it.’

We’re not far from the old strawberry farm, and even though it’s dark and I can only see reflections in the passenger window, I look out to the left as we drive up the hedge-lined narrow lanes that give way to a beach car park, and set back from that, the large driveway of Seaview Heights care home. The rocky footpath down to Lemmon Cove beach starts here, and you pass the strawberry farm on the way down. Even in the dark, I can see the shadow of the huge tree’s branches waving in the distance, looming over the horizon.

‘Dad said we all used to go strawberry picking there when I was little …’ Cheryl says.

‘Yeah.’ The strawberry patch was one of my favourite places. ‘You used to love strawberries. Mum and Dad took us at least once a week in the summer months, and then we’d take the punnets we’d picked and go down to the beach to eat them. It’s been years since I thought of that.’