The Wedding Cake Tree (8 page)

He tu
rned to smile as we walked in.

‘
This is Ted,’ Annie said with an indifferent flash of her hand in his direction.

Ted stood, smiled broadly,
and shook Alasdair’s hand.

Ted? The Ted from
Mum’s letter?

Alasdair glanced at me
. We were clearly thinking the same thing.

I sat down at the table,
careful this time to lift and place the chair rather than scrape it along the floor.

‘
I run the farm next door,’ he explained. Annie stopped midway between the table and the AGA – a fresh pot of tea in her hands.

‘
You mean your
son
runs your farm, you live in a cosy little barn he converted for you, and you fill your useless days sitting in
that
chair and getting in
my
way.’ Annie was a blunt teaser, but he smiled and seemed to revel in it. I wondered what their relationship was now; where was his wife?

We enjoyed the pie, cream and yet more tea, and the
afternoon passed by pleasantly. We rose to leave at a suitable juncture, but just as we set off down the passageway towards the front door, I remembered Mum’s letter, and turned to speak to Annie.

‘
I don’t suppose you could show me Mum’s tree could you?’

T
aken aback for a second, surprised but not annoyed, she directed me once more to the garden. The apple tree was just a few feet from the kitchen window and was awash with pale pink blossom. Annie stood staring at the tree as she spoke.

‘
Your grandfather brought this tree home the week before Frances left to join the RAF. It was no more than a couple of twigs then. I remember him saying to her as he dug the hole to plant it that, no matter where she wandered, this was her very special tree and it signified that her roots would always be here, in the Dales. She would trip home, happy as Larry, and the first thing she would do was measure her tree. Dad loved it. She always knew how to make him happy. The apple of his eye …’

‘
Do
you
have a special tree, Annie?’ I asked softly.

‘
No love, they never got me one, and there’s been a lifetime of bitterness eating away in me, just because they never bought me a bloody tree.’ She laughed scornfully and turned to take a seat on a bench positioned in the shade of the tree.

‘
Such a waste. My fault though, no one else’s.’

I remained silent.

‘I drove her away, lass. I knew it was wrong at the time but I kept it up. Pure badness.’ She paused for a second. ‘Frances was supposed to watch this tree grow, but once our parents were gone she never came back. Wasted years and for what? My own terrible bitterness. I always thought there would be time to sort things out but … she’s gone now. Life goes by so bloody quickly.’

Annie exhaled a deep sigh of pure regret and
put her hands to her cheeks.

I took
Mum’s letter out of my pocket.

‘
I think you should read this. It’s a letter to me from Mum, and it describes her time here … and everything.’

Surprised
, she took the letter, but then waved it in the air impatiently.

‘
My bloody glasses are in the kitchen. Read it to me will you love?’

S
ilent tears fell down Annie’s cheeks as I read. She lifted the corner of her apron to dry her face as I finished.

‘
Thank you.’

‘
Did it help?’ I asked hopefully.

‘
Yes, it did.’ She smiled at the memory of Mum. ‘She was such a Dolly Daydream that mother of yours.’

I thought of something
.

‘
Annie, if your dad had bought you a tree, what would you have wanted it to be?’

She let out a laugh.

‘I always wanted a plum tree … the sour old fool that I am. Do you know, I've never planted one single fruit tree in this garden, and all because of my daft, self-centred ways. What a waste.’

S
he turned to me on the bench and cupped my face in her hands, just as Mum would have done; the unexpected demonstrative affection was enough to bring my own pent-up emotion to the fore.

‘
You must have felt so utterly alone after she’d gone,’ she said, ‘and by God I know what that feels like.’

I nodded
; tears were streaming down my cheeks.

‘
Well, I’ve no children of my own and a lot of years to make up for. So just you remember this, lass
–
there’ll always be a home for you here if you ever need it.’ I nodded and felt a great wave of peace and comfort wash over me.

Annie’s innate
northern-ness kicked into gear and she rallied.

‘
Come on now, lass, that’s enough tears from both of us. Let’s dry those pretty brown eyes of yours. I was wrong to say you don’t look like your mother, those eyes are carbon copies.’

She smiled at me with tremendous warmth and, after she w
iped away my tears with what was possibly the last dry part of her apron, we hugged thirty years of hurt away, on the bench, under Mum’s apple tree.

Ted drove us back to the hotel. An idea crossed my mind.

‘
Ted, I don't suppose there’s a garden centre somewhere nearby is there?’

‘
There's a nursery near Leyburn,’ he answered. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘
I'd like to buy Annie a tree, a plum tree. Will you take me there?’

He took his eyes off the road to smile at me.
‘Of course, but we’ll need to put a bit of thought into it.’

‘Why?’

‘Any tree needs to be suited to its new environment. And with fruit trees you have to be extra careful because you may buy one that needs a pollinator close by; so you may have to buy two, or it won’t bear fruit.’

‘How come
Mum’s apple tree has fruit then?’

‘
That’s different. It’s self-pollinating.’

I thought of something
suddenly.

‘So, if my grandparents had put a little more thought into it, and bought two interdepend
ent trees (one for each of the girls), rather than one independent one …’

He finished m
y sentence for me.

‘…
life for Annie and Frances may have worked out differently?’

‘
Yes.’

‘And for me too
…’

‘Let’s have dinner together tonight,’ I said as we walked up the stairs to our rooms. Alasdair paused on the staircase.

‘
I’m sorry, Grace, I can’t. I have things I really have to do. I’ve had a message to contact work.’

I narrowed my eyes.

‘A message?
You bloody charlatan, Alasdair. I thought you’d turned off your mobile phone. I, on the other hand, have been really good. You may have noticed that I didn’t even
touch
mine today.’

His
lips twitched.

‘I
did
turn off my phone, but I have to have a bleeper for work. Didn’t I mention it?’

I smiled. ‘Strangely enough, no, you didn’t
–
and that’s cheating Finn.’

He played with the zip on his fleece
and grinned.

‘
Well, only a bit. Why don’t we meet up in the snug later, I have another letter for you tonight.’

‘
Really? But I’ve already had the letter for here.’

‘
How about nine o’clock?’

‘
See you there.’

Chapter Eleven

I felt
restless in my room so I sauntered back downstairs and took some magazines from a table in the foyer. It had been an emotional day and I didn’t feel like sitting alone
–
I would only mull things over.

I asked June for an early dinner
and made myself cosy in the lounge.
Yorkshire Life
had a number of properties advertised in the Dales area. There was a cottage for sale in West Burton – Annie’s village – and I found myself wondering what it would be like to live there permanently. Truth be told, I had fallen in love with the farm, and felt a small part of me belonged there too.

Glancing
through the ancient mullion window, the imperfection in the bubbly glass distorting the view into a wobble, I noticed that the crags on the top of Penhill could just about be made out above the roofline of the cottages opposite. I thought nostalgically of Mum dashing up there to catch the sunset and was thinking of doing something equally as impulsive when June walked in with my coffee.

‘
Your friend’s having his dinner upstairs again I see?’

‘
Yes. I think he’s busy on his laptop.’

‘
Oh, shall I set the fire alarm off, smoke him out for you?’

‘
Don’t worry, I’m meeting him in the snug later.’ I hoped this would placate her, but no.

‘
Well, don’t let the grass grow under your feet, lass. I reckon he might just need a bit of a push in the right direction.’

The woman was
incorrigible.

A
beautiful day had merged into a glorious evening, and I returned to my previous thoughts. It was 6.40; I reckoned I could be at the top of Penhill by eight o’clock, watch the sun set and then run back to the village before night set.

Stuffing the after-
dinner chocolates into my pocket, I ran upstairs to grab my waterproof jacket, but remembered it was in Alasdair’s rucksack.

Damn.

I didn’t want to disturb him when he had made such a point of needing some time alone. Alasdair’s fleece was strewn across the bed, so I grabbed it and, having nabbed my boots from June’s drying room, headed off across the road and started up the hill.

T
he route was fairly easy to remember and – pushing myself hard – I made it to the top in just over an hour. The colours across the dale were muted in the evening sun; a golden glow rested on the patchwork of fields that carpeted the valley.

I sat in the
same spot Alasdair and I had rested at earlier, and was thrilled to see the wild garlic still in position under the stone. With no coat to sit on this time I felt the moisture in the heather permeate through my trousers almost immediately. The wind skimming my back from across the moor strengthened and cooled. I took the fleece from around my shoulders and put it on to block out the evening chill. The light was fading now; it wouldn’t be too long before the edge of the sun kissed the earth on the horizon.

M
y thoughts turned to Mum’s letter, and I gazed down the Dale and thought about my grandparents. I imagined Mum there all those years before, and felt an immediate and heart-warming connection to her – to the landscape. And I realised that although people had changed with time, the landscape had not, and it was comforting to know that I had a connection with such a beautiful part of the world. Glancing at the river once more, I was reminded of Mum’s favourite song,
Moon River
. I knew the words by heart of course, and pleased to have a moment alone, sang her song to my heart’s content, happy in the knowledge that no one else but Mum, perhaps, could hear.

My childhood at St Christopher’s was filled with music: classical, operatic, old songs from Fifties and Sixties musicals, although nothing particularly modern. Not surprisingly, I grew up singing and playing the piano. By the age of twelve Mum reckoned it was impossible to tell if there was a soundtrack of
The
Sound of Music
playing in the background, or if I was singing away to myself in the living room. I was asked to sing at school assemblies and commandeered for the village choir. The problem was, I was impossibly shy away from home. Over time I was able to sing within the local community without my face becoming too much of a burning inferno, but for me shyness and singing were to remain inexorably linked.

A
cademically, I was average bordering on bright. I passed my exams at sixteen with fairly good grades and was considering where to take my life from there. My music teacher suggested I stay on at school and study for advanced music. Mum paid for additional singing and piano tuition, and took me to a Russian woman – who was an opera singer when she was young – every Saturday for a year. I was persuaded to join the local amateur operatic society to broaden my experience and increase my exposure to singing in public. To my surprise the society was good fun, not too serious, and I thoroughly enjoyed it; which was why I auditioned for a place at the London Academy of Music. I was offered a place on a three-year course and, the following September, I began my new life in London.

It took me a while to settle in
at the Academy – if indeed I ever did. My lifestyle became the exact opposite of the easy-come, easy-go life I had known in Devon, but that wasn’t really the issue. The real problem lay in the fact that I was living in the fast lane musically but didn’t believe I had the talent to pull it off. Singing became something to be endured rather than enjoyed.

I
stuck at it for a while but towards the end of the second year I literally could no longer face the music. My shyness became marginally less with increased exposure, and I realised that, even if I was good enough to audition for opera or musical theatre when I finished the course, I would never have the confidence to perform on a grand scale. Much to Mum’s dismay, I dropped out of the Academy at the end of my second year.

On the plus side
, I moved into a flat with friends outside of the Academy and began to enjoy my social life in London considerably more. Although the easiest option would have been to run home to St Christopher’s (and part of me wanted to), it was time to become financially independent, so I stayed in London and made a concerted effort to find a good job. Initially I worked in retail but eventually landed a job with prospects in the civil service.

One of my flatmates
– a man whom I believed at the time to be the love of my life – was a professional photographer. He worked at a studio nearby. He had started a sideline as a paparazzo photographer and made a tidy profit selling gossip-worthy photographs to the tabloids. This aspect of his work expanded and, in doing so, encroached on his time in the studio. He was torn between his ‘inner artist’ and cold hard cash. He taught me the fundamentals of photography, bought me a good camera and, whenever there was money to be made in the London area and he was busy being artistic, I would make an excuse to leave the office and take the shot. I took an advanced photography night class, got a few letters of qualification after my name and, over time, developed my own network of contacts and became good enough (with a little more coaching from my friend) to make it a full-time concern.

Not remotely interested in climbing the greasy pole of promotion,
I left the civil service at twenty-six and eventually became a respected style photographer. My musical career, or lack of it, was the only thing Mum ever nagged about. Several years on, she would often say, ‘In the grand scheme of things, a year was nothing’. But to me, a whole year of being a second rate under-achiever at a first rate establishment was too much to bear and, although singing would always be my first love, I never regretted my decision to leave.

Music remained
in my life, but on my terms, my way.

My stroll down memory lane was interrupted by a flash of grey. It was followed by an almighty, glass-shattering roar. A military aircraft had crept up on me from deep within the Dale. I watched the nose jerk upwards through ninety degrees; the burners in the engines glowed a hellish orange. Within seconds the aircraft had disappeared through a hole in the clouds.

C
louds? Where had they come from? I felt a tingling sensation on my skin. It had started to rain.

I glanced
around to look in the direction of the prevailing wind and to my horror saw black clouds whipping up over the moors. Not only that, but the sun had set without me noticing and it was getting dark.

No
damn coat.

Darting
down the zigzag path I realised that the encroaching rain was moving faster than my legs could carry me. Within five minutes the hillside became engulfed by low-lying mist, and somewhere in the distance I feared I could hear thunder.

I stopped for a moment
to take in my position. The rain had glued my hair to my face and my trousers were sodden. Alasdair’s fleece was keeping my core dry but it wouldn’t be long before I was completely soaked. Droplets of rain dripped from my hair and onto my neck, only to move on to soak the back of my shirt.

Looking across the plateau
, the initial stages of the path were easy enough to make out – even in the mist – but it was disheartening to know how far from the village the path veered before turning in the right direction. I knew that if I carried on, straight down at a right angle to the side of the hill, then that would be the quickest way back – wouldn’t it? I remembered Alasdair’s lecture regarding contouring, but guessed the concept would only apply going up a hill, not down. I reckoned it would take about half an hour to get back to the hotel if I took the direct route. My hands felt brutally cold, even though they were tucked into Alasdair’s oversized sleeves.

Decision made
: direct route.

Before too long
my path was blocked by a stone wall – not surprising considering my location. Squinting through the mist, I peered down the length of the wall for any sign of a gate or a stile. There wasn’t one. My only option was to climb over. The stone felt like wet sandpaper but it was relatively easy to scale. The next field was steep and I was elated to be losing height rapidly. I started to run. Another wall – over – another steep field, and so my rapid descent down the hill continued. I hit the second plateau within ten minutes of leaving the path and realised I could just about make out the village in the distance – a dim light from a cottage window appeared like a beacon through the low cloud and rain.

The light
ning was frighteningly close though, and a decision had to be made; find myself in the middle of an open field in a storm, or hanker down. I tried to remember a TV programme I had seen recently about thunderstorms.
Crouch down beside a stone wall? Was that what I should do?

With my body
now completely soaked, I carried on. I couldn’t believe how cold I was. It was spring, and yet I felt like I’d been shut in the freezer. Only my feet were warm and dry.

I sprinted across the fields
as if chased by a pack of wolves. The mist closed in again and I could no longer see more than ten feet in front of me. My right foot became caught in a rabbit hole and I fell forwards, landing hard on the sodden grass; a sharp pain darted up my wrist. With no time to lick my wounds, I jumped up and carried on running, but before too long my path was blocked by another wall. I decided to push on – up and over. Although it was easy enough to gain a foothold in the stone, I only had one good hand to steady me – my other wrist was still throbbing from the fall – so I gritted my teeth and hurled myself up, allowing my legs to take all of the strain. I managed to throw one leg over the top and twisted my body to face the wall on the other side. Relief washed over me as my foot touched the earth on the other side, but as I turned to continue my run down the hill, I stopped, petrified.

On turning I
noticed a dilapidated barn; a fraction of a second later I caught sight of an enormous ram, furious at being disturbed from his shelter. He postulated aggressively, lowered his head to display his horns, and snorted whilst grinding his hooves.

W
ith my back to the wall I stood, frozen; unable to act, unable to think.

The ram edged clo
ser. It would be suicide to just stand there, but he would be impossible to out-run. Trapped, I edged a foot backwards to try and gain a hold in the stone behind me. Maybe I could clamber back up the wall?

A voice cried out from the mist.

‘Grace! Don’t move unless he does. Stay still.’

It was Alasdair
.
Thank God.

What happ
ened next was both a blur and a miracle. Alasdair flung me over his shoulder and hurled me – albeit as gently as possible given the circumstances – back over the wall. I landed on my injured wrist and cried out in pain.

T
he falling rain had geared up to something like an Indian monsoon. Lightning pierced the earth around the valley at increasingly regular intervals while the acoustics of the Dale made the claps of thunder horrifyingly loud. I huddled with my back against the wall. Alasdair also crouched low and hurried to unclip his rucksack.