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

‘I don’t know how I’ll cope without you,’ Benedict admitted. He imagined Stone Jewellery being as still and quiet as his own home and the thought made his jaw ache. He wished that he could chit-chat with customers like Cecil did, but his own words queued up in his head like cars in a motorway traffic jam.

‘I don’t like to leave you on your own here, especially with Estelle moving out. How are things between the two of you?’

Benedict’s smile slipped. He picked up the triangular silver brooch and gave it a polish on his trouser leg. He would only allow his friend to see his hurt. Even though Cecil was a gossip, cooing and flattering customers, Benedict knew his assistant had integrity and always looked out for him. ‘All fine, I suppose,’ he mumbled.

‘Benedicto. You don’t have to put a shine on things, for me. How are things really?’

Benedict’s shoulders sloped. He wished that his life could be as shiny and simple as his jewellery. ‘Not good. Estelle’s still staying at her friend’s apartment, whilst Veronica’s working away in America. She’s been gone for six weeks now…’

‘Couldn’t she just check on the apartment each day?’ Cecil asked.

Benedict looked down at his big hands. ‘She wants a proper break, to clear her head. But the longer she’s gone, the more it feels that she won’t come back. Anyway’— he lifted his voice, to try to sound more positive— ‘I hope she’ll be back for our tenth anniversary, in three weeks’ time.’

‘Fingers crossed. Have you got anything spesh planned?’

Benedict opened the drawer in his workbench and took out a long grey box, lined with white satin. The necklace inside wasn’t yet long enough to reach a quarter of the way around Estelle’s collarbone. It was made up of hundreds of interlinked jump rings, each the circumference of a ladybird, in platinum, rose gold, yellow gold and silver. If Benedict didn’t think that a ring was good enough, he dropped it into an old teacup on his bench. It was almost full to the brim of the ones he’d rejected.

Cecil nodded. ‘Très elegant. But what else are you planning to do, to win her back?’

Benedict frowned. ‘I’ve bought her flowers, I took her out for coffee… What else can I do, but wait for her to make up her mind?’

Cecil moved the lamp out of the way and sat on the workbench. ‘You’re going to have to make a proper effort to stop her slipping away. In the medieval days you’d get on a fine white charger and joust for her.’

‘I can’t ride,’ Benedict said as he picked up a link. ‘I’d squash the horse. I want her to come home, but the thing we want more than anything, is the one thing we can’t have…’ His throat suddenly felt like there was a pebble stuck in it and he couldn’t swallow it away. ‘We’ve really tried, but I don’t think it will ever happen for us…’

‘Children?’ Cecil asked quietly.

Benedict nodded. ‘We want a family so much.’

No matter how many times he thought about his and Estelle’s unsuccessful attempts to have a baby, it always felt like he’d been shoved off a railway platform onto the track, in front of a speeding train. He was forty-four years old now and time was flying by. He longed to feel tiny fingers curled around his own and a small heart beating against his chest. The ache of wanting a child weighed him down like wet cement.

‘Estelle says she’s come to terms with being childless. But I haven’t.’ He swallowed. Not wanting Cecil to see that his eyes were growing watery, he shifted his seat closer to the bench and stared at the necklace. ‘I’m happy to adopt, but Estelle doesn’t want to. I hope that staying at Veronica’s gives her time to realise that it’s the best way forward…’

Cecil gave his shoulder a firm pat.

Benedict moved his lamp back into place. ‘I’m sure everything will work out for us,’ he said, sitting more upright in his chair. ‘I just need to bring Estelle home.’

That night, finding it difficult to sleep on his own again, Benedict ambled downstairs in the dark. He wore his grey suit jacket over the top of his striped pyjamas, and his burgundy loafers with no socks. The only sounds he could hear were the creak of the hallway floorboards, the Noon Sun village clock striking twelve, and his own heavy breathing from taking the stairs.

He picked up a torch, a tartan picnic rug and a shopping bag full of food, and opened his front door. He took three gulps of the chilly October air and padded out to the weeping willow tree, in the middle of the lawn. Using his head and shoulders to part its leaves, Benedict clambered into the hollow space. It was once an easy thing to do when he and his brother, Charlie, used the tree as their childhood den. But now, squeezing under proved quite a challenge.

He sighed and shone the torch inside the bag. After pulling out a four-pack of chocolate brownies, he prised open the lid. They were perfect, chunky brown squares with a dusting of icing sugar on top. He fought the urge to eat them, but it was as if he was a robot – hand out, pick up a brownie, munch, repeat.

When he had finished, his shoulders sagged with shame and he leaned back against the tree trunk. His parents had planted it when Benedict was eleven years old and his brother Charlie was three.

Their dad, Joseph, travelled overseas to source and buy gemstones, which he sold on to museums, shops and auction houses. When they could, Benedict, Charlie and their mum, Jenny, joined him.

Benedict was attracted to the solidness and definiteness of the neutral gems; the greys, blacks and browns – Smoky Quartz, Brown Jasper and Onyx. Charlie’s hand shot out for the biggest and brightest – the Red Aventurine, Tangerine Quartz and Golden Beryl.

Joseph drilled holes through each of the imperfect stones and Jenny snipped random lengths of silk thread. Benedict tied gems, a few inches apart, to form sparkling strands and Charlie stood on Benedict’s knee to tie them into the weeping willow.

It was a family tradition that, one day, Benedict hoped to carry on with his own children. But now his future stretched before him, and there was no tinkle of children’s laughter to be heard. The thought made his heart feel as heavy as a cannonball.

He looked up at the room that Estelle used as her art studio and thought how it would make a perfect nursery. But then his eyes moved across to their own bedroom. He wished she was in bed now, waiting for him, so they could rub their feet together under the covers.

Benedict climbed out from under the tree. He left the rug on the ground and crumpled up the bag. He took out his mobile phone from the pocket of his jacket and his big fingers flexed. They seemed to take on a life of their own and he knew that he shouldn’t send a text under the influence of excess calories. But he couldn’t stop. He scrolled to his wife’s number and tapped out a message.

‘I love you. Please come home x’

Inside the house, Benedict trudged upstairs. In Estelle’s studio, he stared at her canvasses, stacked against the wall. She said that her paintings weren’t good enough, but they looked wonderful to him. He cleared some clothes and paintbrushes off the bed, kicked off his loafers and lolled sideways until his cheek touched the pillow. Then he lay there, motionless, until his eyes began to flicker and close.

The loud banging noise startled him out of his sleep. Benedict sat up with a jolt and looked at his mobile phone to see the time – 1 a.m. Ugh. His tongue felt like it was covered in chocolatey fur. He paused, wondering whether to lie back down, or go to his own bed.

But there was the noise again. It was a knock on his front door.

A shot of adrenaline made him stand up. His heart pumped fast and he remembered his text to his wife. ‘Estelle,’ he said aloud and his lips flickered into a small smile.

He finger-combed his hair and felt his way out of the room. Negotiating the stairs in his bare feet, he yelped as he trod on something sharp – a small stone. He brushed it off his foot with his hand.

The knock came again, louder and more persistent.

The rain hammering against the door sounded like zombies drumming their fingers, trying to get inside. He hoped that Estelle was wearing a coat, or had taken a taxi. She would be soaking wet.

He fumbled for his keys and clumsily unlocked the door. Outside, the security light pinged on, illuminating the raindrops so they looked like a shower of diamonds. It took a while for Benedict’s eyes to adjust, and he rubbed them with his fists.

She stood with her back to him. Her dress was wet and clung to her legs. Droplets hung from the hem.

The skin on Benedict’s forearms tingled with anticipation. ‘Estelle…’ he said.

She turned. ‘I thought you were never going to answer.’

Benedict felt recognition glimmer inside him. He took in the shape of her chin, the jump of her nose, the raindrops glittering in her hair. He stared until he felt like he was in a trance.

He knew her face.

But it wasn’t his wife.

2. Ruby (#ulink_ebbe848a-0f79-5635-b581-dc12a8e83165)

visualisation, dynamism, vibrancy

Benedict wondered who the girl was. He seemed to know her from somewhere. She barely reached his shoulder in height and her wet, dark dress clung to her knees, so they poked through the cotton like knobbles of tree bark. Her legs were bare and she wore battered tan leather cowboy boots. Her arms hung by her sides, in a denim jacket at least two sizes too big for her, and the sleeves covered her fingertips. With her ears poking out through her long, damp hair, her face had an impish quality. Eyebrows, bushy and set too high and angled on her forehead, gave her an air of surprise. Dangling from the end of one sleeve was a small white drawstring bag, the type you get when you buy jewellery in a posh shop.

The outside light clicked off and they both stood in darkness.

‘I thought no one was home.’ Her voice was deeper and slower than Benedict expected. She had an American accent. ‘Where were you?’

‘Um, I was in bed, asleep.’