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

‘How can they call you, if they have your phone?’

‘Oh.’ Gemma scrunched her mouth into a small circle. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Hey, you could write him a letter,’ she said brightly.

Benedict’s mind conjured up the last slice of cheesecake in the fridge. He wanted it badly. ‘You can’t really stay here…’ he began.

‘You have a spare room.’

‘Yes, but…I’m waiting for my wife to come back.’

‘Where has she gone?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Benedict needed a sit down. He wanted to get into Stone Jewellery and shut himself away in his workshop. He could make another brooch, or links for the anniversary necklace. It would be nice and quiet. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said.

‘Well…’ Gemma jumped off the bed and scooped up her rucksack from the floor. A large hairbrush and a small teddy bear with a purple ribbon around its neck fell out. She picked them up and stuffed them both back inside. Her mouth was set in a thin, determined line. ‘If you don’t want me here, I’ll get my stuff and go.’

Benedict studied the back of her head. ‘Where to?’

‘What do you freakin’ care?’ she snarled. ‘I’m almost seventeen years old and I can look after myself.’

Benedict gulped. He hadn’t calculated in his head how old she might be. Panic began to churn in his stomach. ‘You’re only sixteen?’ How could he turf her out, in a strange country? But he also thought about Estelle, arriving back at the house to find it in a mess and a teenager sleeping in her studio, and wearing her pyjamas. How was he going to deal with that? It was a shame he couldn’t ring Cecil for advice. ‘Look, have your breakfast first.’

‘I don’t want a crappy omelette, okay?’

‘Have some bread then…’

‘Jeez, you sound just like my dad.’ Gemma’s voice fired up a notch. ‘He doesn’t listen to me either.’ She slumped back on the bed and kicked her heels against the base of the mattress. Thud, thud, thud.

‘You must eat something…’

More quickly than Benedict’s eyes could follow, she reached down to the floor and picked something up. She raised her hand to her shoulder as if performing a shot put. Then she thrust it forward. ‘Just stop talking.’

Benedict felt something hit him on his left cheek. Thwump. The pain made him screw his eyes shut. ‘What the…?’

Gemma’s eyes widened. She scrambled off the bed and held out her arms as if carrying a large dog. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Uncle Ben. I didn’t mean to hit you. I meant to hit the door.’

Benedict squinted. On the floor was the small white drawstring bag. ‘Well, that’s okay then. Is this what you threw at me?’ He nudged it with his foot. ‘You can’t go round lobbing stuff at people. That bloody well hurt.’

‘I said sorry.’

Benedict’s cheek throbbed.

‘You should open that white bag,’ Gemma said. ‘I brought it for you.’

‘To throw at me?’

‘I can’t be responsible for all my actions. Open it up.’

Benedict bent down, picked up the bag and eased it open. He immediately recognised the jumble of gemstones inside – an egg-shaped green speckled stone, a chunk of Turquoise and a piece of Rose Quartz in the shape of a heart. His head felt floaty as he picked it out. ‘What is this for?’

‘I want to know what they mean.’

It had been many years since Benedict had seen the gemstones, since he pushed them into his brother’s rucksack before he left for America. ‘They used to belong to my parents.’

‘There must be more to the story than that.’

Benedict felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. He tied the drawstring tight and handed it back to her. Surely Charlie wouldn’t have told her the reason why the two brothers had fallen out? When he spoke his throat was the thickness of a drinking straw. ‘No, there isn’t,’ he said.

‘Well’ —Gemma snatched the bag of gemstones back off him and held them to her chest— ‘I’m sorry for throwing these at you, Uncle Ben. I’ll leave today and not come back. But not until you tell me more about these gems…’

3. Moonstone (#ulink_2cae0db9-cfd7-5398-a8ff-88fb40e3dbe6)

release, empathy, intuition

Benedict went downstairs whilst Gemma showered and changed. He made cheese on toast, just as he used to for Charlie’s breakfast, and when his niece joined him in the kitchen, they sat at opposite ends of the table. The atmosphere felt chilly.

She wore last night’s clothes, the crumpled navy cotton dress and the enormous denim jacket. Her legs were bare in her cowboy boots. To Benedict, she looked too young to be travelling alone. If she were his child then he’d have packed a warm coat, jeans, gloves and woolly socks, and he’d heard you could put GPS tracking devices on mobile phones.

He tried to search out elements of Amelia in Gemma’s face, but she hadn’t inherited her mother’s olive skin, dark eyes or walnut hair. He didn’t know where her arched bushy eyebrows had come from.

As he studied her, a memory popped into his head.

When Charlie was eleven or twelve years old, the two of them had watched a magic show on TV in which a man walked on a bed of nails. Afterwards Charlie said he was going to try it. ‘All I need are some nails and a plank of wood,’ he said.

‘But it was just a trick,’ Benedict argued.

But Charlie was convinced he could do it. In the shed, he found a jar of nails and a large piece of chipboard. He tugged the board under the gem tree and spent ages knocking the nails through. When he finished, he hoisted up his creation. ‘Done it.’

Benedict wanted to warn his brother that this could hurt, and that he might need a tetanus injection if the nails were rusty. He always rushed to protect him.

‘I’m going to do it.’ Charlie let the board drop flat on the grass, the spikes pointing upwards.

‘Okay then.’ Benedict tried to sound calm as he stood at the back door.

‘Watch me.’

‘I’m watching.’

Charlie kicked off his flip-flops. He gave Benedict a big grin and his copper hair shone bright in the sun. He placed his bare right foot flat on the nails then stood for a moment, pressing and testing out the pressure. His head was bent in concentration. He put all his weight onto his right foot then raised his left one.

Benedict grasped a wad of tissues, ready to run and mop up any blood. He wondered where he’d put the antiseptic ointment. However, Charlie held out his arms and walked slowly and steadily across the plank. When he reached the end, he jumped off and ran around the garden, whooping and punching the air. ‘Did it,’ he shouted. ‘I told you it wasn’t camera trickery.’

Benedict gave a rictus grin of relief. ‘Yes, you did. Well done.’

Charlie was never more alive than when he tried something new. Perhaps Benedict shouldn’t feel surprised that his brother thought it was okay for Gemma to travel on her own. Perhaps his niece was as spontaneous and determined as her father.

He wondered if he should tell Gemma that she reminded him of Charlie but, instead, he bit into his toast.