Wishes Under The Willow Tree. Phaedra Patrick
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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.
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.’
‘You’re wearing a suit jacket.’
‘I know.’ He wondered why she was questioning him, as if she knew him.
‘Benedict Stone?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Gemma.’ She offered her hand in a karate-chop move.
It was slim and wet, and Benedict’s brain ticked as he shook it. Gemma. Did he know a Gemma?
Estelle used to tell him that she’d bumped into so-and-so in the village, who went to school with such-a-person, who was married to thingamajig. He would smile and nod and not have a clue who she was talking about. Gemma? He couldn’t place her.
‘I’m Gemma Stone.’
Gemma? Gemma Stone? Gemma…Stone.
‘Your niece,’ she said sharply.
‘You’re Charlie’s daughter?’ He gasped. Now that he looked, she had the same nose and chin as his brother. ‘Is he here?’
‘No.’
‘You’re alone?’
‘Yes.’
She stuck out a foot and shook it. ‘And I’m very wet. Are you going to invite me in?’
Benedict took a few seconds to peel his hand away from the doorframe. He shook his head with confusion. ‘Um… yes.’
Gemma bent down and picked up a small, saggy rucksack that lay at her feet and slung it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll follow you, Uncle Ben.’
‘It’s Benedict, actually.’ He headed into the house and Gemma followed. Her boots squelched and left wet oval-shaped footprints on the floorboards. ‘This is the kitchen.’ Words swam in his head. ‘Can I, er, get you anything?’
‘I got a sandwich at the airport.’ She stuck her head around the door. ‘It smells musty in there. And it’s dark.’
‘I’ll switch a light on.’
‘Yeah.’
Benedict squinted as the kitchen light seemed twice