Chances (13 page)

The parakeets were noisier and earlier than ever. The wasps Vita could sometimes hear bickering beyond the glass of the kitchen window which she was keeping resolutely shut until the tree was down. Though she could see honeysuckle starting to rampage over the shed at the back and though it was one of her favourite scents, she didn’t dare go out. The plundered, festering pears lay where they fell and there was no way Vita was venturing over to clear them away. The heatwave was coming and she was discovering that Pear Tree Cottage was a place that both mimicked and magnified the weather outside. In the winter, it had been bone-chillingly cold, necessitating layer upon layer of clothing and toilet paper stuffed into the gaps of the old window frames. Summer, the house transformed into a sauna. The windows, ironically, let no air in and were warped tight in their frames to the same extent that they had rattled and moved during winter. Not that Vita would have opened them anyway, too afraid was she of the vindictive wasp community outside. Now she was peeling off clothing, often resorting to doing her chores in just her bra and knickers. In the evenings, if she was reading or watching television, she’d taken to sitting with her feet in a washing-up bowl of lukewarm water, a damp cool flannel at the back of her neck. Despite the discomfort, she was starting to feel less like a lodger at Pear Tree Cottage.

One week on from meeting Oliver Bourne, the tree still stood and the post brought no word from the council. One week on, after ignoring a text sent by Tim late on the night of the zebra crossing (U ok?? Txx), Vita was into a new regime to deflect any need for him to phone or visit, by texting him pre-emptively.

New stock flying out. V

     Have ordered more beeswax candles, also bubble wrap. V.

       Jodie in tomorrow a.m. V

         Will email balance Fri pm. V

At strategic locations at home and at work, she’d stuck Post-its with the same two words.
Unhelpful Thoughts
. And, so far, it was helping. She’d put one on the mug rack, to prevent her brooding that she was only making tea for one. Another on the bathroom mirror, to steel herself before she went to bed and to bolster her for the new day when she woke. Another she used as a bookmark (currently, she was midway through a bittersweet David Nicholls novel that might well have made her self-indulgently reflective otherwise). One was in the spare compartment of the cash register at work. Jodie never read the notes she left her, so she certainly wouldn’t bother with this one. Vita even placed one on the top right-hand corner of the television. The one she placed inside the door of the store cupboard at work still managed to sing out to her from all the others whose subjects ran the gamut from
Use less wrapping
to
Double-check bottom lock
and
Christmas starts in October
and
Marmite & de-caff.
The patchwork of small squares of paper, slightly curled, resembled a shingle roof in need of attention. But it worked for Vita, she always paid note. Jodie ignored them all and Tim had never bothered to read any.

As she headed into the weekend (tea with her mum, babysitting for Candy, a barbeque at Michelle and Chris’s) after a good week at work, the call from Martin the tree officer in the planning department was the cherry on an already nicely iced cake.

‘Miss Whitbury?’

‘Yes?’

‘Martin Standon here, TPO department.’

‘Hullo! Brilliant!’ Vita thought her tone was possibly inappropriate, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know if the letters stood for Tree Planning or Tree Protection but the process was now underway and that’s what mattered.

‘I have your forms – and wonder if I could come and take a look at the tree.’

‘Now? Today?’ It was nearing closing time on Friday. What better way to start the weekend. ‘I could be home in about twenty minutes?’

‘No, my dear. Not today. Would Monday at ten suit you?’

‘Absolutely! Not a moment too soon, Mr Martin. I’m sure Oliver Bourne has impressed upon you the utter nightmare that tree is causing.’

There was silence. ‘I shall see you on Monday at ten, then, Miss Whitbury.’

‘Okeydoke, Mr Martin. Many thanks – and hey! have a great weekend.’

Standon! Martin Standon! Not Mr Martin but Mr Standon. Oh well, thought Vita. Whatever he’s called, he’s still coming on Monday and by next weekend hopefully it’ll be me hosting a barbeque with the heady scent of honeysuckle charming my guests. She phoned Jodie to book her in for Monday morning and the part-timer was astounded that recently she was being paid so much to do so little. Then Vita texted Tim. Have appt Mon a.m. Jodie working. Then she cashed up, set the intruder alarm, double-checked the double lock and headed home. There was no need to even skim-read the Post-it on her purse. She wasn’t having any unhelpful thoughts at all.

In the early months after they split, Tim had relished his weekends. No Vita hopping out from bed at ridiculous-o’clock on a Saturday morning, full of enthusiasm for the day and brimming with plans about how to spend it. Walks in the country, painting the kitchen, visiting farmers’ markets, oiling the garden furniture – something, always something. He’d loved it at first, her energy, her joie de vivre – but soon enough he tired of it; it grated, it annoyed him. He went from gently teasing her – Sit still, woman, just relax would you! – to berating her – For fuck’s sake, Vita, I don’t want to traipse across the sodding woods, I just want to read the paper. He didn’t want to rub down a teak bench on a Saturday, he wanted to slob out on the sofa. He didn’t want to spend Sundays at some village fête or other, he wanted to fall asleep in front of the grand prix.

After they split, began a most refreshing period for Tim where stultifying snuggling in front of Friday-night telly with a takeaway curry was replaced with drinking until closing time, having messy sex and then sleeping off the hangover until Saturday lunch-time. Suzie tended to outsleep him, even. Marvellous. He could have as long as he wanted with the papers. He needn’t acknowledge if it was Walking Weather, he was blissfully unaware of what craft shows were on and Homebase could have all the twenty-per-cent-off promotions possible – he wouldn’t be going. Suzie and friends, younger by a good decade, hung on his every word or else set the conversation at a level so banal that it became strangely addictive. Switch your brain off, get an ego massage, get wasted, get laid, get up late. And do it all again on Saturday night.

Back when Vita had left and there was no longer any need to snatch furtive hours with Suzie, Tim was temporarily hounded by a small voice asking him whether this way of living was a bit unseemly and actually far poorer than the mundane domesticity he’d engineered with Vita over the years. But he quickly justified, what sane-minded bloke would turn down a good-looking girlfriend many years his junior and a bunch of new people with whom he could unwind and take the piss out of the drudge of everyday life by partying? He didn’t regard Suzie as the rebound, or consider his current lifestyle as a midlife crisis. She really, really liked him and Tim really, really liked that. He was enjoying the flimsiness of everything. He saw it all as a timely lightweight alternative to everything he’d grown to hate about the last couple of years with Vita. An antidote to heading for forty. A cure, even if temporary, for the headaches at work. A suitably mind-numbing substitute for having to spend all bloody evening and most weekends going over and over subjects like marriage vows and garden furniture sales.

Life was OK. It really was. Until that Friday evening, just over a week on from the Night of the Zebra Crossing, when he found himself saying to Suzie, You know what, I fancy just staying in with a curry and a DVD.

*

Suzie was happy enough with Tim’s suggestion. The more Tim wanted evenings in, the sooner she could bring up again the moving-in-together issue. The curry had been delivered and eaten out of the foil containers. The DVD was halfway through and not a bad film really. Good old Matt Damon. The action-packed chase was in full swing: motorbikes, speedboats, and a whole lot of bionic base-jumping. Tim’s brain was pleasingly on go-slow.

But then he’d caught sight of Suzie’s feet.

And while Matt Damon was blowing the world up and Suzie was shrieking, Oh my God! Fucking hell! Tim’s world came crashing down.

What have I done? Oh God – what have I done?

I am between two women.

I thought I’d gone from one to the other pretty bloody well, only I haven’t, I’m caught between them but there’s been a mistake.

It was Suzie’s feet.

I suddenly saw her feet – really saw them. And now all I can think about is Vita’s feet. The difference between them. I remember how I’d marvel at Vita’s. Sweet Petite Feet – and all the other corny rhymes I once used for various bits of her. She used to giggle and twitch her toes and I’d tickle them and we’d laugh. Then I stopped noticing them until at some point they became merely these cold annoying things she’d press up against me in bed.

Suzie’s feet are big. I never noticed. They’re not ugly – they’re just really big. So different to Vita’s. Suzie is not in Vita’s league but it’s Suzie here on my sofa beside me, dropping hints about moving in. Tomorrow we’ll get hammered and shag each other senseless and for a millisecond it’ll all seem so preferable to the day-to-day grown-upness that was Vita and Me – that I ran away from and have now forfeited.

But the truth is I miss her and maybe life is meant to be a little boring and maybe that’s meant to be better. Maybe it shouldn’t have been about taking chances on getting away with it – perhaps I should have taken the chance Vita was giving me. I would never have left her.

I haven’t really given any of it much serious thought. Until tonight. Matt Damon, a chicken jalfrezi and Suzie’s feet. Would I have kept on with Suzie had Vita not found out? It probably would have fizzled, really. I would never have left Vita – never. Not for Suzie, not for anyone. But would I have abstained from all future Suzies? I’m a hedonist. I’m self-centred. I’m scared of growing old.

Suzie is now unbuttoning my jeans.

And she’s taken off her top and her bra.

And her hands are easing down my jeans, my boxers. I can’t see her feet.

I can’t think of anything else.

Vita woke excited on Monday morning. Martin Standon was due in two hours and she wondered whether to phone Oliver Bourne straight away and book him in for as soon as possible. Or maybe that would be something Mr Standon would do just as soon as he’d seen the size of the problem. So she walked to the corner shop instead and stocked up on digestive biscuits, plain and chocolate as, in this case, she was happy to make the man a nice cuppa with extras. She boiled the kettle every now and then so that it wouldn’t take long once he arrived. She checked outside. Pears, wasps, nothing had changed. The parakeets had been even earlier this morning, bickering amongst themselves and taking their tempers out on the pears. She waited, she phoned Jodie who was late opening the shop because apparently she needed a latte and the instant coffee at the shop wouldn’t do. Vita didn’t wonder or worry whether Tim might see that the shop was still shut, because he was far from her mind. To her, just then, this mid-July Monday seemed a most auspicious day. The summer, from this day on, would be a good one, because she’d be able to enjoy the garden pain free, pear free and parakeet free too.

He arrived on the dot of ten. As soon as the doorbell rang, Vita boiled the kettle, hurried to rearrange the fan of biscuits on the plate and then welcomed him in.

‘Hullo!’ she said. ‘It’s so nice to meet you!’

‘Good morning, Miss Whitbury.’

He had a clipboard. And a pen in his shirt pocket. All the better to tick boxes and sign it all off. She had scissors in the kitchen drawer, if he wanted to cut through any red tape.

‘Cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Coffee, then?’

‘No, thank you, I’m fine.’

‘Oh. A soft drink? Apple juice?’

‘No, really.’

‘Water?’

‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

She’d offer him a biscuit in a while then.

‘The tree?’ he asked, still standing in the hallway.

‘Of course!’ she said. ‘This way. Did Mr Bourne fill you in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, good! This way, Mr Martin. Standon. This way!’ He looked at the tree through the window in the kitchen door, then he looked at Vita. ‘And do you have a key for this door?’

She thought, Ought I to advise him against going out there just in shirtsleeves?

‘A key, Miss Whitbury?’

‘Oh – yes, of course. Here. I must advise you there is a catastrophic wasp situation out there. You may want to cover up a bit.’ She was putting on a sludge-green voluminous ancient cagoule, hood up, tucking her jeans into wellington boots before pulling her hands far up inside the sleeves, clutching the elasticated wrists tight shut. Mr Standon was unlocking the door, having declined her father’s old fishing anorak that she’d offered him.

They went out into the garden. At ten o’clock, it was already hot. Vita dressed as if having to venture out into a monsoon, Martin Standon dressed according to a record-breaking hot July. Martin thought to himself, How on earth can I have a serious conversation with a woman who looks like her face is poking out of a tent? Vita though, stood back, hovering close to the kitchen door, just in case the wasps started attacking. She watched the man assessing the tree. He didn’t grin at it the way Oliver Bourne had. A good sign. Not long, she thought. Not long before I can go back inside. Not long before this sorry episode is put to rest.

He was making notes. Taking measurements. Using something camera-like from different distances. He was standing still, looking hard, seemingly not bothered by the wasps. Vita started to wonder whether that was a bad thing – and maybe if he was stung – even if just the once – it might hasten the outcome. He could fill in his forms at her kitchen table, over a refreshing cup of tea and a couple of nice biscuits and balsamic vinegar on cotton wool for the sting. But he was coming back towards her and before she could offer him a drink, he gave his verdict.

‘Miss Whitbury, this is a very fine pear tree. Very fine indeed. I understand your discontent with the seasonal issues which arise, specifically the parakeets and wasps that share your fruit – but I have to advise you that I am compelled to place a Tree Preservation Order on this tree.’

Standing there, in her kitchen, still dressed like a mannequin in a camping shop, Vita was unsure what all this meant.

‘Any questions?’

He wasn’t asking her to sign anything.

‘Will Oliver Bourne be able to chop it down then?’

‘Gracious, no – I am placing this tree under protection. You will be obliged to care for it, to tend to it, to have it professionally pruned regularly and strictly according to the stipulations set out in the TPO. I must advise you, Miss Whitbury, that failure to do so can result in a hefty fine, prosecution even. I firmly believe that the trees of this borough must be accorded a status commensurate with national monuments.’

Who the hell speaks like this nowadays, Vita wondered, as reality began to sink in.

‘I am aware that this outcome is not as you hoped. But I ask that you learn to live alongside this tree harmoniously.’ He looked at her. And then he added, ‘It’s been around a lot longer than you and it will outlive you too. It deserves a little respect.’ And at that point, Vita wanted the man out of her kitchen, out of her life.

‘Mr Bourne is one of our most highly skilled and highly respected aboricultural consultants – not just in the county but nationwide. When it comes to pruning, he’s your man and he’ll be most fastidious when it comes to the paperwork,’ Mr Standon said, making his way along Vita’s corridor, out her front door, down her path and into his car while she just stood there, mouth agape and horrified.

Protection? Not allowed to touch it without permission? Obliged to care for it, to
respect
it? Hefty fines? For heaven’s sake! Bloody stupid jobsworth tree hugger. Vita slammed the door and paced up and down the corridor. On her third march, she noticed a Post-it on the floor. Assuming it was one of her
Unhelpful Thoughts
notes, she picked it up, about to restick it by the front door when she noticed that one was still there.

She looked at this one. It wasn’t her writing. And they weren’t her words. And the words she read stopped her dead. After a moment’s silent disbelief, she gave out a roar of indignation. It must have fallen from Mr Standon’s clipboard. It must have been attached to the forms Oliver Bloody Bourne had sent in on her behalf.

Martin,
I don’t want this tree taken down.
Oliver.

* * *

‘Come on, kiddo, you had a lie-in yesterday, you’ll have another tomorrow – but today you’re up with me.’ Oliver opened the curtains of his son’s bedroom and gave the teenage lump under the duvet a gentle nudge. How easy it would be to sit on the edge of the bed and hug the slumbering boy, the way he had for all those years until he suddenly wasn’t sure quite when. He still kissed his son, but when did he stop the all-out hugging? He couldn’t remember. Would DeeDee have been cuddling him at this age? If so, was Jonty being in any way deprived of parental affection? Christ, he hoped not. What a mess. He looked around the room.

‘What a mess,’ he said.

‘Dad,’ came a muffled objection, ‘I’ll clear up later.’

Oliver didn’t correct him. ‘Come on, Jont,’ he said instead. ‘Rise and shine, kiddo. Tell you what – we seem to be out of anything breakfasty so what do you say we start the day with a fry-up at the café? The lads will probably be there anyway.’

Jonty was out of bed and stumbling into clothes before Oliver had left his room.

Boz, Tinker and Spike thought Jonty a good little worker. He never minded how menial the jobs were that they gave him and never took any offence at the gentle ribbing they gave his dad behind his back. Jonty liked being with them. They were cool. One played in a band. One had amazing tattoos. They all spoke entertainingly about lairy nights out and yet also about all the amazing places they’d been to on their travels. They cracked great jokes. They were interested in him too. Jonty also really liked the work; the hoicking of branches, the splitting of logs, the smell of freshly spliced wood, the hard hat and goggles, the long shower at the end of the day, the calluses he’d earn on his hands by the end of the summer.

And his dad paid him. On top of his monthly allowance.

And it was nice seeing his dad in action. He had more confidence outdoors than in. He seemed happy at work.

At the yard, having discussed not just the day ahead but what was booked in for the week, Boz and Spike were checking equipment, Tinker was loading the van, Oliver was inside returning a phone call and Jonty was outside helping anyone who needed it. And then everyone stopped what they were doing because stomping into the yard in her wellies, still encased in the cagoule, came Vita. Her face, red from heat and malcontent, was just about visible – which was more than could be said for her hands which were still up her sleeves.

Oliver, on the phone in his office, was distracted by the sight. He could only see the person from behind and, from this angle, cloaked and hooded in some kind of voluminous tarpaulin, he or she looked like a mad hobgoblin from a schlock horror film, or some kind of crazed amputee.

‘I’m so sorry, Miss Maybridge – would you mind if I phoned you back?’

‘But you’ve only just phoned me back!’ Miss Maybridge protested. ‘I don’t like the espaliers! They’re all wrong! They look like people on a cross! They won’t do! It’s disturbing. Bugger the fruit, they simply won’t do!’

‘I’ll have to phone you back
again
, I’m afraid. I have to go – some rather odd wildlife has just come into the yard. I must see to it. I won’t be a moment.’

He came down the steps of his office just as Vita announced, in a breathless bellow of sorts, ‘Where? Is? Oliver? Bourne?’

It sounded like a battle cry and it was accompanied by a stamp of a wellington-booted foot. No one could see her fists scrunched angrily up her sleeves. Just then, no one was sure whether she had hands at all.

Boz thought, I think I know that face – or what I can see of it.

Tinker thought, Oliver, you crafty old fox – good for you, mate.

Spike thought, You don’t see this every day.

Jonty thought, Top start to my holidays.

Oliver thought, Who is it and why does it want
me
?

And all of them wondered, Why is this person dressed like that in this heat – and who would dress like that anyway?

Oliver stood where he was, observing. He hadn’t yet been seen.

She was asking where he was, demanding to see him.

‘Is there a problem?’ Spike asked.

‘I’m his son?’ Jonty said, helpfully.

‘You tell your dad there is a huge problem.’ She gestured with her arms in a mighty circle and suddenly her hands appeared which was a relief to the others.

‘Dad?’ Jonty looked over to behind Vita. ‘There’s a lady here who has a huge problem.’

Vita spun.

‘Oliver Bourne,’ she said, ‘this is
your
writing!’ She brandished the Post-it note at him.

He approached calmly, knowing in an instant what it was, who this was and understanding immediately why she was here. Nevertheless, he walked to her, took the Post-it and read it carefully. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Martin must have been.’

‘He’s just gone,’ Vita said, strangely quietened by Oliver’s steadiness. ‘He’s slapped some stupid bloody Protection Preservation Anti-Cruelty thing on the bloody stupid tree because
you
told him
you
didn’t want it chopped down.’

Oliver regarded her slowly. ‘That’s right.’

‘But you said you’d help me!’

Oh God, she’s not going to cry, is she? He glanced over her shoulder, to where his son and his workers were all riveted.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No!’

‘Coffee?’

‘No!’

‘A drink of water? A biscuit?’

‘No! No! I don’t want anything. I just want – You! You!’

Boz and Spike loved that bit. Jonty was gobsmacked but it was only Oliver’s startled expression which made Vita realize that she hadn’t finished her sentence and she was feeling very, very hot.

‘I just wanted you to cut down my sodding tree,’ she concluded, crestfallen.

‘Would you like to take off your jacket?’ Oliver said tactfully. She’d gone puce coloured and looked a little unsteady. It was hot already. It was going to be scorching. It was going to be a gorgeous day.

He put his hand gently on her arm, peering into the cavern of green waterproofness that half-hid her face. And it was then that Vita realized what she must look like, that she’d stomped out of the house and all the way to his yard, almost two miles away, without realizing she was still in her Wasp Protection Gear. She was mortified. She looked behind her. Four young men had gathered in a crescent, ears peeled, eyes popping.

‘Why are you dressed like that?’ Oliver asked with no edge.

‘Because you won’t cut down that tree and it’s the only way I dare go into the garden.’

He remembered the stings.

With as much grace as she could muster, she unzipped the cagoule, tucked back the hood and slipped out of it, handing it to Oliver who was offering to take it. Now she stood there, in a plain white T-shirt, realizing she was so hot that even a whisper of breeze was bliss against her sweaty skin. She’d like very much to just stand there awhile, cool down, then start up again. But now someone else was interrupting her plan, someone else was deflecting the heat, being really friendly. It was thoroughly disconcerting.

‘I know you!’ one of them was saying. ‘You’re the lady from that shop.’

He’d come to stand beside her; they’d all gathered around. Oliver still standing there, holding her anorak, the others now close.

Usually, it was the little children in the shop who referred to her as a lady. Mummy, ask That Lady if there’s a
green
one. Now a young man was calling her a lady and it was all so soothing; the quiet yard, the gentle breeze, concerned yet friendly faces. It was all such a tonic to the rage and indignation that had propelled her here in her ridiculous get-up. Suddenly, she felt enormously tired, the outside of her head felt very very heavy, the inside of it unnervingly light; she was boiling hot so why did she just shudder?