The Wishing Tree Beside the Shore

‘And now you have to go undercover like some kind of superspy?’ Cheryl’s clearly changing the subject, and I’m not going to push it because Lemmon Cove is crawling with memories I’d rather forget. I’m absolutely certain that no promotion is worth having to spend any extended amount of time here.

‘The name’s Kerr. Fliss Kerr.’ She dissolves into giggles at her own James Bond impression before I have a chance to answer the question.

‘It’s not exactly like that. I just have to earn the protesters’ trust and pretend to be on their side. As a local.’

She gives me a look that says a stegosaurus is more local to Lemmon Cove than I am. ‘You haven’t lived here for fifteen years.’

‘No, but as far as they’re concerned, I’m visiting you and Dad and heard about the protest so I’ve come to join in because I used to love that strawberry patch and can’t bear the thought of a big, ugly hotel being parked there.’ I hate the way the lies roll off my tongue. It sounds like something Harrison and his business-suited cronies would say. Deceitful and flippant, without a care or concern for who the protesters are or why they’re protesting. I rush to make it sound less underhanded. ‘And that bit’s not a lie – I did genuinely love that place when I was younger. And that tree. They can’t seriously be considering destroying the sycamore tree. They must be working around it and my boss has got it wrong. No one would actually cut down that beautiful old thing.’

The idea that they might not be working around it makes an uncomfortable sting bristle at the back of my neck, and not for the first time, I wonder how on earth I got into this. Not just the Lemmon Cove job, but working for Landoperty Developments in the first place. As the Joni Mitchell song goes, how many “paradises” has Harrison been responsible for seeking out and “paving over”? If I succeed in this, I’ll be doing the same thing. I think about the girl growing plants at Sullivan’s Seeds fifteen years ago. Cross-pollinating plants and flowers by hand to breed new varieties. Creating things, not destroying them. If she could see me now …

I shake my head to clear it. Again. My head has needed a lot of clearing since Harrison’s bright idea this afternoon. Was that really only a few hours ago? It feels like weeks have passed.

‘Do you know who’s leading the thing?’ I say, thinking the youngster could be around her age. If she knows him and can direct me straight to him, this could be over before it’s even begun. Before I’ve stayed long enough for my conscience to get the better of me.

‘Not a clue. People chained to trees and stuff isn’t my scene. All I know is from one of the little girls in my class – her grandma lives at the care home and has roped her into helping make their placards and banners. There’s a surprising amount of glitter for a protest.’

It makes me laugh and something inside softens at the adorable mental image of a young girl helping her grandma to make sparkly protest signs. ‘They’re not really chained to trees, are they?’

The car starts climbing the hills up towards our little house. Our little house. I tut at myself. Dad and Cheryl’s little house. It’s been many years since I was part of it.

‘It’s a peaceful protest, but yeah, as far as I know, they’re making sure the site is never unoccupied.’

It makes that coldness expand in my chest again. That was another one of Harrison’s instructions. He’s given me the number of a local contractor who I’m supposed to call to secure the site the second I’ve got the last old person cleared out of it, so his sidekicks can muscle in and throw barbed wire around to prevent them getting back in. It wouldn’t be the first time. I sigh and chew on my lip.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ she says. ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds.’

I don’t say anything. It feels worse than it sounds, especially with how well I know the area and what kind of impact a shiny bells-and-whistles hotel is going to have on the landscape here.

Dad is waiting in the doorway with the outside light on when Cheryl pulls into the driveway and turns the engine off. I go to open the car door but her hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. ‘He doesn’t get out much these days. Maybe you can encourage him to get involved in something. He’s … disengaged and isolated. All he does is garden and I’m the only person he ever sees.’

She’s out the door and round the back getting my holdall out before I have a chance to question her. I sit in the darkened car and look around for a few moments, taking in the front garden with meticulously trimmed hedges, paving so clean it looks ultraviolet in the darkness, and flower borders full of a rainbow of flowers without a deadhead in sight. A world away from my concrete balcony in London, barely big enough to turn around on, and overlooking a busy main road.

Every year I buy some plant or another as a throwback to my previous life here; every year I imagine going out to pick ripe, red tomatoes or crisp green peppers from the pot on the balcony and coming in to make a homemade and healthy pasta dish for my adoring family. In reality, every plant I’ve put out there has died from a combination of pollution and me not being home from work often enough to water it; I can’t cook to save my life and the last time I had any sort of pasta dish, it was a case of piercing the film and putting it in the microwave for five minutes; and my fantasy adoring family is … well, the neighbours watching TV in the adjoining flat or the children stampeding around like a herd of dinosaurs in the flat above probably don’t count, do they?

‘Good to see you, Fliss.’ Dad steps off the doorstep and comes over to wrap me in a tight hug, and I relish in it for a long moment. I can’t remember the last time I hugged someone – probably the last time I visited these two. The nickname makes something in my chest swell, the earlier coldness being replaced by warmth. It was Mum’s nickname for me, and no one but my family have ever used it.

‘How are you?’ I pull back and try to get a good look at him, concerned by Cher’s comment just now.

‘All the better for seeing you, m’dear. Both my girls home again. I’ve got your bed all set up in Cheryl’s room, and I’ve cleared out some of my wardrobe so you’ve got space to put your clothes, and there’s a free shelf in the bathroom for your toiletries. You’ve had a long journey; why don’t you go and have a shower and I’ll get some supper on?’

Same old Dad. Can never do enough for you. When Mum died, it was like he became both mother and father to us. I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m not planning on staying long enough to need bathroom shelf space and anywhere to hang my clothes.

I can’t get this protest sorted out and get back to London fast enough.

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