The House and the Tree

A sequel to The Bridal Tree

“Well, what about it?” said Emily as she was chopping the carrots.

“What about what?” her mother asked.

“That whole other story?”

Her eyes narrowed; forehead furrowed. “Other story?”

“About why we got the house and the tree.”

“Oh. Oh. You want to hear some more bs.”

Emily refused to rise to the bait, she kept her fingers neatly chopping. “I want to hear the story.”

“Ah, well,” her mother started in on peeling the potatoes, “Let’s see then, where shall we begin…?”

#

Emily’s grandparents had never had any intention of retiring quietly, they’d made plans for several years now that they were going to do it with a bang. “See the world,” her grandpa had told his three daughters, “all the things we’ve missed, bringing you lot up.”

“Love you too, Dad.” Valerie pulled an imaginary trigger with her finger and thumb.

“You girls,” their mother told them, though by now another seven or eight years had passed and they were all well and truly women, “you need your own space too. And we: we need our time to fly.”

Brenda and Tara rolled yes at each other.

“And yes, I see that.”

“Anyways,” their father said, “we would like for one of you to look after the house while we… explore.”

It wasn’t going to be Valerie and Jimmy, because they’d just bought a big old country house, run-down for sure, bordering on dilapidated, but with land (lots of land) and a tiny little orchard out the back beyond the fountain and fishpond. They were situated and settled; with a baby on the way.

And not Brenda and Peter, because they were all set on travelling the world as well. There were jokes told across the table about how they’d be travelling in opposite directions, constantly running into each other.

“How to kill the mood,” the father nudged the son-in-law, “keep running into your wife’s family when you’re out in the middle of nowhere. Just can’t get away from them.”

Peter’s wan smile was hard to fully interpret.

Which left Tara.

#

“By default, then,” said Emily. “That’s how you came to get the house and the tree.”

“You could put it like that.”

“It’s not much of a story. And I don’t see how you could have met Dad through the tree.”

“Oh, I was already seeing him by then. I’m not sure if the old folks knew about it or not. Maybe they did. I was sneaking him in through the window at night, and back out again before morning.”

“But weren’t you…?”

“Pushing thirty?  Sure was.”

“Mum!  I don’t know if I’m proud of you or ashamed.”

“It seemed easier that way. Actually, it seemed a lot easier after they left. When he could come in the front door and lounge around, and we could feel like we lived here and belonged here. So, there you go, I suppose in a way this house and that tree did have something to do with getting us married. There were times, before you and your brother, when he’d bring me in a branch from that tree, all thick with blossoms. We didn’t have a vase so we’d put it in an empty Coke bottle.

“We tried to grow another one from one of those cuttings, once. But it never took off.”

“Maybe I’ll try. Carry on the tradition.”

Her mother shrugged, “maybe you will.”

#

In evening, when the red sunset mingled with the pink of the blossoms to produce a shade of murky, fire-backed orange, Emily went out to the tree and did what she’d said she would do, selecting a petal-weighted twig and cutting it diagonally free of the branch. She held the blossoms up to her nose to smell them – a soft scent, but it was full of fruit and spring. She could imagine a wedding dress absolutely covered in blossoms like these.

As she was starting to walk back inside, she saw a stranger standing at the wall, leaning over towards the garden.

She turned, “Hello?”

“Oh, so sorry to be nosey,” he was shaggy-haired but clean-shaven, with a face of all smooth lines and clean contours. Hazel eyes, tinted with green. “I couldn’t help stopping. That fruit tree you’ve got there is gorgeous.”

Emily smiled as she approached the wall.  Hm, well it’s not the only thing around here right now that’s gorgeous.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work