Wishes Under The Willow Tree: The feel-good book of 2018

Benedict nodded. He folded the eye mask and put it in his pocket, and tucked the plastic sword under his arm. ‘Now, don’t wait up for me. If Estelle invites me in for a talk, then I may be a while. You’ll be okay on your own?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Gemma sighed.

‘No reason,’ Benedict said. ‘No reason at all.’ Benedict panted as he pushed the painting-laden trolley along the high street and past the crumbling community centre. It was a struggle to negotiate the kerbstones and he could only travel slowly. The sky was darkening quickly and an owl hooted. The waning moon reflected in the canal like a misshapen pearl. He focused on reaching the apartment block, intent on returning Estelle’s paintings and sparking a conversation with her.

The mask, hat and sword sat in a shopping bag, balanced on top of the paintings. The flowers in the bouquet shook as he trundled along.

Veronica’s apartment was the second one along, on the second floor. It had the largest balcony of the block, on which sat a wrought iron table and two chairs, and a metal sculpture of a heron.

Benedict pushed the trolley to the back of the apartment block, on the canal towpath. He positioned it next to a large bush and glanced inside the bag. The orange glow of a street lamp illuminated its contents and, as Benedict touched the feather on the hat, he tried to think of what to do next.

His biggest temptation was to about-face and go back home. He could lie to Gemma and say that Estelle wasn’t in, even elaborating a little to say that he’d waited for a long time outside the apartment. Or, maybe he could tell his niece that he’d donned the outfit and that Estelle was impressed by his effort. Gemma would be pleased that he’d followed her idea, and they wouldn’t have an altercation when he got home. She’d be none the wiser.

But Benedict also knew that if he didn’t do anything, then it would be his own fault if Estelle stayed away for longer, or didn’t come back at all. How long could he carry on just waiting and seeing?

A small bolt of anger flared in his chest at his own uselessness, that he couldn’t give his wife what she wanted, what they both wanted. As if a bloody feathered hat and mask would solve their relationship issues. It was ridiculous. How could waving a sword suddenly make being childless feel okay? He slid the sword out of the bag and plunged it into the ground. It was surprisingly sturdy and it shook as he let go of it.

He heard a swishing noise and lifted his head to see the patio doors to Veronica’s apartment open up. He recognised Estelle’s silhouette as she stepped out onto the balcony.

Not having prepared or rehearsed what he was going to say to her, Benedict automatically sidestepped behind a bush. It wasn’t tall enough to conceal his height, so he bent his knees and squatted the best he could. Peeping through the leaves, he watched his wife move to the front of the balcony. She held a wine glass in one hand.

Adrenaline whooshed through his veins and he tugged the sword out of the earth, not wanting to use it, but to hold on to something. ‘Go on, Benedict,’ he said to himself, through his teeth. Step out there and say something. Shout up and offer her the flowers. Show her that you love her.

He steadied himself to pluck up courage to step out of the bush. He lifted his right foot, but then he halted as another figure joined Estelle on the balcony. It was tall and angular and, in the faint yellow light that shone from the apartment, Benedict could make out a striped T-shirt. Lawrence Donnington.