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

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ