Free The Faerie Tree by Jane Cable Page B

Cornwall that hard, but waking up to the radio news about what had happened in the south of England turned my thoughts firmly to home.
    The last group of surfers of Ed’s season were a stag party from London and their tale of travelling through increasingly windy conditions the night before was regaled long and loud while they put their wetsuits on. One had called his girlfriend in Putney and was amazed to find she had no power, not a tube running, nor indeed much in the way of buses so many trees were blocking the roads.
    Driving the van back on my own I was trying to picture tree after tree, crashing down in the wind, like so many dominoes. The devastating impact of nature on nature made me feel strangely agitated: for the first time, something was hauling my mind kicking and screaming out of the grey. It was awful, exciting and stimulating all at the same time. Back in the shop I talked to Megan about it like a man possessed. I remember her smiling and nodding – she was probably just pleased I was communicating again.
    But then it started to get personal. That evening, on the TV, there were pictures from all over the south of England. Mainly London, but also some of Southampton and a vague unease crept into the edges of my mind. I watched the Nine O’Clock Newsthen turned over for News at Ten. Megan said I was becoming obsessive and rather than argue with her I switched off the television and we went to bed.
    I woke in the deepest blackness of the night with an image of the Faerie Tree implanted into my brain. Not the Faerie Tree as I had last seen it, but lying skewed and broken in the middle of a tangled heap of twisted vegetation, the offerings pinned to its bark shredded and smashed under the fallen branches.
    I tried to focus on Megan’s easy breathing beside me but the image was so strong I knew it was real. With such devastation, how could the tree have survived, so close to the top of the steep bank up from the Hamble? It had never felt exposed with the woods all around it, but with a great wind ripping and roaring up the river, it would surely have had no chance. But I had to find out for sure.
    I said nothing to Megan as I worked my last weekend taking the trailer back and forth to Watergate and my last Saturday in the shop. It was very quiet – I guess a lot of weekenders’ plans had been spoilt by the weather. On Monday I helped Megan sort out and mark up stock for the end of season sale in virtual silence.
    Megan never knew how close she came to the truth when she accused me of being away with the fairies but she gave me the opening I was looking for.
    I put down the pile of shirts I was carrying and took hold of her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m so worried about what’s happened back home – I’m going to have to see for myself.”
    She nodded. “That’s understandable. When are you thinking of leaving?”
    â€œTomorrow.”
    She never asked if I would be coming back, and I never told her that I wouldn’t. The weather was awful so she lent me some waterproofs from the shop. I felt bad about those for a long while, until someone made me understand that perhaps Megan knew, after all, that they were a parting gift.

Izzie
    Chapter Nineteen
    On Boxing Day morning Claire and her friend Sasha want to go to Winchester for the sales. Early. Very early. I buy them breakfast at Nero’s then leave them to shiver in the queue outside Next. Thick tights or not, their skirts seem impossibly tiny for this time of year. What are they thinking? Perhaps I’d rather not know. I escape down a side street towards the cathedral.
    Inside the world is muffled. A few worshippers thread their way through the unmanned pay stations to morning prayer, but I’m not here to join them. Instead I study the parish notice board and amongst the posters for carol services and Christmas appeals I strike gold – the Winchester Churches Nightshelter is not far away in