Free The Boy in the Olive Grove by Fleur Beale Page B

symphony concert she had tickets to. Clodagh wrote: I can love my brothers wholeheartedly when there are fifteen kilometres separating us.
    It didn’t work as a distraction. Neither Iris’s story nor olive grove boy would be silenced. Okay, then. The only thing to do, other than pour it all out to Iris’s shrink, was to face it, to deal with it as simply a problem to be analysed.
    For the moment, I put Iris’s story to one side, tacitly accepting that somehow we must have shared a past existence together. If that was the case, then logically I had to accept that the boy was some past memory as well. If so, then he ought to be somebody I already knew. But I didn’t recognise him — there was no sense of familiarity, not like there’d been with Iris. He couldn’t therefore be Nick, who would have been top of my list. I drifted off into a daydream where olive grove boy did turn into Nick. He had a girlfriend who was me and we lived happily ever after.
    Dreams — such useless, dangerous things. Much better to stay in the present where OG boy was a mystery and Nick was with Lulu.
    I reviewed the other men in my life, checking for possible matches with OG boy. I felt no connection with Dad’s factory employees. My two past boyfriends — not a flicker of recognition there either. If one of them was OG boy, then he hadn’t fared well over the centuries. Brothers of my school friends? Again, nothing.
    If the past-life theory was right, then the boy in the olive grove ought to be somebody I’d known since I was ten, when I first saw him. That pretty much excluded everyone except Nick — but why, then, hadn’t I recognised him?
    I gave up and went to bed, drifting between waking and sleeping till I was jerked into full consciousness. ‘Oh my god!’ I sat up, clutching my head, my heart, my sanity. What if that boy was Hadleigh? I loved him. He loved me, usually anyway.
    I groaned, got out of bed and turned on the light. It was going to be one of those nights when I had to read myself to sleep. Jane Eyre was my go-to book on such occasions.

Chapter Nine
     
     
    A TEXT FROM EDDY woke me at 7.43 a.m. Sorry didn’t get back to you ystdy. C u at factory @ 10 ? It took a moment to focus on reality. Jane and her troubles still wove around in my head, mixed with an image of Rochester, who now had the face of the boy among the olive trees.
    I texted him back. OK. Thanx.
    I checked the tablet while Mum was in the bathroom , but there was still nothing from Hadleigh. Lots of messages of concern from every girl in my class, though. Dad doing okay , I posted. Iris determined he’ll live even if she has to force feed him with healthy food. Don’t laugh, but I’m kinda running the outfit while he’s recovering. If you know anybody who needs bespoke, quality furniture plse tell me!!!
    I emailed Clodagh, Maddy and Charlotte with a more detailed account of the dramas of my current life, except for the past-life element of the story. Who was the boy, anyway? Nick, Hadleigh, or somebody I hadn’t met?
    It was a strange relief to get angry at Mum. She didn’t speak to me and I felt the ice. This was a hostile silence, no doubt about this one. I tried to make conversation, but she didn’t acknowledge any remark, even by a look. It had been more satisfying talking to the gladioli.
    I took my tea out into a blue and shining day to let the sun warm me. It was perfect weather for tennis. I could understand her frustration, about that anyway — normally I’d have been thrilled to play competition matches. I might even meet kids from the school I’d be going to next year too. Oh well, no use dreaming of what might have been.
    I dealt to the dishes, made my bed and left my room immaculate.
    ‘See you, Mum. I’ll let you know if I’m going to be late.’
    No reply.
    Hey ho, on we go . Living with her next year was shaping up to be a challenging exercise in navigating the shoals of her moods.
    Eddy was already waiting when I arrived