Wishes Under The Willow Tree

6. Peridot

protection, emotional balance, renewal

Benedict could kill for a chocolate éclair, or a slice of lemon drizzle cake. He wanted to eat and take his mind off Estelle. The sugar might stop his directionless thoughts from whirring around in his mind.

When Gemma tried to show him her purchases from Deserted Dogs, he scrambled in his head for an excuse to go into the kitchen and search through the cupboards for a stray bar of chocolate. However, his niece would probably be like a sniffer hound and know what he was up to.

He decided to slump on the sofa and let her chatter wash over him.

‘I got some cool stuff. Here’s this cute red dress and a plaid skirt. Oh, and a leather bag with lots of pockets. There was a box full of expensive underwear and pantyhose. It was all new, with the tags on and everything. I got us some good food too. Fruit. I put it in the fridge.’

‘Lovely,’ Benedict said. He pondered about what he could have said to Estelle, in the shop. Perhaps he should have introduced Gemma…

Gemma shook out a pair of jeans and tried to hoist them on over her cowboy boots, managing to only pull them up to her ankles before they got stuck. She slid her legs back out and the boots remained jammed in the trouser legs. ‘I’ll show you these ones later.’

‘That’s fine.’

She tugged out her boots and dropped them to the floor with a couple of thuds. ‘Are you even listening to me, Uncle Ben?’

‘I am,’ Benedict lied. ‘You’ve bought some nice things. Well done.’

Gemma gave a small low growl, like Lord Puss when he saw another cat.

‘Okay, okay.’ He held up his hands. ‘I was thinking of other stuff.’

‘About Estelle, right? And my dad, I bet.’ Gemma folded up her clothes into neat squares and set them on the armchair.

She sounded dismayed, but there was nothing he could do about it. ‘Both. Now, will you write down Charlie’s address for me?’

‘You don’t need it. I texted him before I lost my phone.’

‘I’m sure he’ll want to hear from you again. Can you remember any other phone numbers, so we can get a message to him?’

Gemma’s pointed eyebrows twitched upwards. ‘Nope.’

‘Then I’ll have to write.’ Benedict picked up a pen and scrap of paper from the table and handed them to her. ‘Scribble down his address.’

Gemma flicked her hair, but she wrote on the paper and tossed it back to him.

‘Sunnyside Farm,’ he read. ‘North Maine’.

The words made him feel a little calmer. He finally had a name, a place and a way to get in touch with Charlie, even if it was by letter. He smiled at Gemma, but her face was screwed into a scowl.

He addressed the envelope then added his own details, his phone number and email address to the top. Stuck for what to write, he brushed away a speck of imaginary dust from the paper with the side of his hand. Gemma peered over his shoulder, so Benedict couldn’t write about his real feelings and worries and regrets, and he kept the letter short.

Dear Charlie

This is just a small note to let you know that Gemma arrived here safe and sound. I understand that she texted you to let you know, but I thought that you might like to hear it from me, too. Unfortunately, she’s lost her phone so we don’t have your number to call you.

We’ve agreed that she’ll stay for a few days, maybe longer, depending on what you’re happy with. I’ll help her out all I can; however, it would be useful if you could contact me as soon as you can, so we can discuss her next moves. I’ll keep this letter short and sweet, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Then he added:

I hope you are well. Best wishes from your brother, Benedict

‘That sounds okay,’ Gemma said. ‘You’ll need an airmail stamp.’

‘I’ve got one, from when Estelle writes to her friend Veronica.’ He sealed the letter into an envelope and set it on the kitchen table. ‘Done.’

Gemma idly picked up her new bag. She unzipped its many pockets and peered into them. ‘So, why did Estelle leave you? You’re not such a bad guy.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Is it because of your…size?’

Benedict sucked in his stomach. In the ten years they’d been married, Estelle had never mentioned his weight as an issue. ‘No.’

‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘So, she’s just gone?’

Benedict cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t have any children?’

It never ceased to amaze Benedict how often questions about kids rolled off people’s tongues, as if they had no other dialogue in their heads.

‘So, when will we hear the patter of tiny feet for the two of you?’ Margarita Ganza had asked Estelle as she picked up a bunch of withering daffodils outside Floribunda.

Ryan often told Benedict stories about his kids, over a pint at the pub. He finished his tales with a knowing, ‘You have all this to come, Benedict.’

‘No,’ Benedict said. ‘We don’t have any kids.’

‘Don’t you want them?’

He didn’t want to discuss this. His niece seemed to hook on to things like a prickly burr on a woollen sweater.

‘I think that having children is probably overrated, anyway,’ she said, before he could answer. ‘It’s a big responsibility. Do you and Estelle…?’

Benedict didn’t want to answer another question about the family he and Estelle didn’t have, so he tried to think of something, anything, to change her path of conversation. ‘So, you want to look in the attic for your grandfather’s gemstone journal?’ he asked brightly. ‘Shall we go up there now?’

Benedict stored the metre-long stick with the hook on the end, under his bed. It had been there, unused, for at least five years. The last time he ventured into the attic was when rainwater had leaked through the ceiling into the master bedroom. He had gone up through the hatch and patched up the hole in the roof, walking around his parents’ wooden chest and pretending it wasn’t there. Even a glimpse of the dark, curved box could make him feel shivery with emotion.

His parents had brought it home from one of their trips overseas. Benedict and Charlie used to pretend that it was a pirates’ chest and they crawled around it with plastic cutlasses clenched between their teeth.

When his mum and dad died, Benedict didn’t want the chest in the house any longer, but he couldn’t bear to get rid of it either so he gathered together their tools and belongings and stored them away in the attic.

In the studio, Benedict moved Estelle’s canvasses to one side. He pushed the stick up, against the hatch, so the door creaked and opened up into the attic. ‘Step back,’ he warned Gemma. He let the door reverse down, so it hung back, perpendicularly, into the room.

In the darkness, he could just about see the ends of a wooden ladder, and he used the hook on the stick to tug them. They shuddered down, stopping halfway between the ceiling and floor. Specks of dust and grit showered onto the sheets of newspaper Benedict had laid down on the floorboards. He flicked a catch on the ladder and slid them all the way down to the floor with a thud.

‘It looks spooky.’ Gemma peered up into the dark space.

‘The ghost who lives up there doesn’t think so.’

Gemma’s eyebrows grew more angled. Then she caught sight of Benedict’s face, his lips twitching into a smile. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

Benedict gave a short burst of laughter. ‘Of course. There’s nothing up there but piles of stuff.’

‘It’s so not funny. It’s a long way up.’

‘It’s not as high as the Eiffel Tower.’

Gemma scratched her nose. ‘Yes, but…’

‘Well, if you want to know more about your grandparents and about the gemstones,’ Benedict said, ‘you’ll have to be brave. Follow me.’ He stepped onto the ladder and the rungs creaked and bowed as he climbed up.

Gemma didn’t move. She stared at the ceiling.

‘Are you coming?’ Benedict squeezed through the hatch and hung his head over it.

‘It’s really dark up there. I don’t like it.’

Benedict switched on a light. ‘Come on. It’s safe,’ he said. ‘I think.’

Gemma slowly climbed the ladder. One of her boots fell off and clunked down the steps, but she carried on. When she reached the top rung, her hands were black with dirt. She clambered into the attic on her hands and knees and Benedict handed her a piece of dusty paper towel to wipe them.

The attic had a pointed roof, and Benedict could just about stand up under its peak. There wasn’t a proper floor, only pieces of chipboard that rested on the joists. There were rows of boxes stored along the rafters, and Benedict couldn’t even remember what was in most of them. Some were labelled ‘Mum’ and others were labelled ‘Dad’. He’d given all their clothes to charity, soon after they died, but some things he couldn’t bear to get rid of, such as his mum’s jewellery-making tools.

The wooden chest was larger than he remembered, reaching above his knees in height. His chin trembled slightly as he stared at it. He bent down to blow dust off its top and gagged as the particles went down his throat.

‘It looks like a treasure chest,’ Gemma said.

Benedict struggled to kneel down and Gemma sat down, too, on the other side.

She peered at the base of the chest. ‘What’s this piece of paper stuck under it?’ she asked, plucking at something. ‘OMG. It’s an old photo.’

‘A photograph?’

Gemma giggled.

‘What’s it of?’

‘It’s you, Dad and Mom. But you all look so young. Look at your hair. You look like a woolly mammoth.’

Benedict’s heart beat faster at the mention of Charlie and Amelia. He nonchalantly reached out and took the photo from her.

The colours had faded to browns, mustard and pale pink. Charlie laughed and pointed at the camera. Amelia’s eyes were closed and she rested her head on his shoulder. Benedict’s mouth was open and his eyes shone red from the flash. The three of them looked like they were sharing a joke. ‘Oh, yes. Funny,’ he said lightly, but there was an iron-like taste of regret in his mouth.

‘That is so ancient.’ Gemma grinned but then her smile fell away. ‘I suppose they were really young when they had me. Probably too young and that’s why things didn’t work out. Maybe they shouldn’t have had me at all.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘It’s true. Less trouble for everyone, huh?’ She pressed her chin down towards her chest.

Benedict wasn’t sure what to say and he looked at the photo again. ‘You said that your parents split up? Where is your mother?’

‘Oh, Mom met someone else. He’s a bit of a dork, but okay really. I don’t wanna talk about it.’ She peered through her curtains of hair. ‘I want to find out more about my other family. What happened to my grandparents?’ Gemma asked. ‘I mean, my dad told me, but will you tell me too?’

Benedict took a deep breath and let his hands drop into his lap. He swallowed and it hurt his throat. He hadn’t shared this story for a long time and he still found it painful. However, Gemma should know her family history.

‘They went to buy gemstones, overseas,’ he said. ‘Me and Charlie sometimes went along but Charlie got it into his head that the school football team couldn’t win an important match without him, so we stayed behind.’ Benedict closed his eyes, remembering. ‘I was half watching the news on TV at teatime, while Charlie played football outside. The report was about a tsunami in Sri Lanka. I didn’t have the sound turned on, but I watched these huge grey waves sweeping houses and cars away, as if they were twigs in a river. People were running and screaming, clutching children to their chests. The sea even swilled around houses inland, reaching their second-storey windows. Mum and Dad were out there, and I just knew that things weren’t okay.’

A lump formed in his throat and he gulped it away. He pushed his hand into his hair and stopped talking, unable to continue for a while. ‘Charlie was only ten.’

Gemma sat still, listening.

Benedict looked down at the floorboards, watching as a spider scuttled towards his knee. ‘I made Charlie his supper and tried not to worry,’ he continued. ‘But then, the next morning, one of my parents’ business associates phoned the house. They said that Joseph and Jenny Stone had drowned. They were identified from documents in their rucksacks.’

‘Oh God, Uncle Ben.’ Gemma clasped her hands to her mouth. She shifted around the chest and sat next to him, the top of her arm pressing against his. ‘That sucks.’

‘The worst thing was telling Charlie,’ Benedict said. ‘He probably thought I was getting him up for breakfast. Instead, I told him that both his parents were dead. He cried out and I can still hear the sound.’ He shook his head, as if to get rid of the noise. ‘I felt numb and I can’t remember anything else of that day, except me and Charlie huddled together on the sofa. We just stared into space.

‘After that, friends and distant relatives offered help but they couldn’t bring up two orphaned brothers. I took charge of everything.’

‘You became, like, my dad’s parent?’

‘Yes, sort of. Our parents’ rucksacks arrived back at the house a few weeks later. They were all white and crusty from sand and seawater. There was a small bag full of gemstones in the front pocket of my mother’s rucksack. They’re the ones you brought with you.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘They died looking for pretty coloured pieces of rock.’

He felt Gemma’s fingers creep on top of his, and tightly hold the back of his hand.

‘So now you know what happened,’ he said.

‘And why don’t you and Dad speak? You sounded so close, when you were younger. You went through a lot together. What happened?’

Benedict shrugged. ‘Your dad found a different life, in America, with your mum.’ He could make it sound so simple.

‘But why would he want to move away and never come back? Why couldn’t he visit or something? He could have brought me to meet you.’

There was nothing that Benedict could say, without thinking back to what had happened between him and Charlie to break their friendship and family bond. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘Why did you come here from America?’

He felt her fingers tense and she pulled her hand away from his.

‘I told you. I came here for an adventure,’ she said frostily. ‘Not to escape or anything.’

‘Escape?’ Benedict frowned. ‘Who said anything about that?’

Gemma shuffled away from him, back into her own space on the opposite side of the chest. ‘You’re twisting my words, Uncle Ben.’

‘I’m only asking you a question. What do you mean by escape?’

‘Nothing. I picked the wrong word, that’s all. Stop prying.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are.’

‘You barged into my shop and listened in while I was trying to reconcile with my wife,’ Benedict said, exasperated. ‘That’s what I call prying.’

‘Like you were doing such a great job there.’

‘You didn’t give me much opportunity.’

‘Your great master plan to get her back is to do, well, zero.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘Unlike Operation WEB, or whatever it is you called it?’

Gemma’s lips twitched into a small smile and, oddly, he found one too. It sounded so ridiculous.

‘Yep, like that,’ she said. ‘Now can we look in this freakin’ chest?’

Benedict was relieved to stop arguing. He placed the key in the lock and turned it. Together, they heaved the lid open. He caught his breath, unprepared for the wave of emotion that hit him as he saw the green-handled pliers his mother used to use and his father’s rusty hacksaw. There was a battered wooden mallet and a roll of wire.

He stared and a memory came into his head, as vivid as the day it happened. His mother sat by the window in the dining room, the sunlight in her hair. She laughed as she heated and made delicate curls of silver wire. She always laughed – at birds hopping around the garden, if she burned their dinner, at her sons and their antics. As time went by, he recalled less and less of what his parents and Charlie looked like. He could look at photographs, but they were two-dimensional, a moment frozen in time.

‘You’re quiet,’ Gemma said. ‘Say something.’

He delved inside the chest, scooped up a handful of gemstones and held them out on the flat of his palm. Most were already polished and cut to shape, smooth or with their facets glinting. Others were dull. They looked like ordinary stones dug out of the ground, their potential not yet unleashed. Some had holes drilled through them, ready to hang in the gem tree. For a moment, Benedict wished he could be small again. Innocent. ‘You’re right. It’s a treasure chest,’ he said.