Chapter 1 #2
The inside of the house is similar to the outside.
It’s clear that Grandad has tried to keep up with all of the little things Granny did to make it homely.
Her doilies are out on the sideboard, but they’re dusty.
The potted plants are just sticks in soil.
And the photos lining the walls are perfectly straight, but covered in a thick layer of dust.
I park my suitcase in a corner, find the feather duster in the cupboard under the stairs and run it over a few of the frames and shelves.
They’re mostly family photos, and almost all of them have Dad in.
The family seems to shrink every time I’m here.
Seeing him in the photos, smiling away, I wonder what he’s doing now.
Sitting alone in our old house with the TV on low because now it echoes around the empty room?
Thinking of a way to win Mum back and come and save his family?
Or maybe nothing has changed for him at all.
He’ll be working, he won’t be home until late, and it will be no different crawling into bed in an empty house than to a sleeping one.
Another picture makes me stop in my tracks: it’s Jacob and me a few summers ago, back when I still had braces and he was still shorter than me.
I have my arm slung around his neck, grinning at the camera, he’s looking at me, his smile sneaking through, though he still tries to hide behind some of his fringe.
We’re both dressed in our best. That was always rare for him – you always knew it was something special when Jacob left his shorts at home and actually ran a comb through his feral mane.
Placing the feather duster back, I risk another peek at my phone. Freya has replied, and I can practically see her eyes rolling through her message.
Oh shush. Things might be different this time round x
Abandoning Mum and Callum to unload the rest of the car by themselves, I sneak through to the back door, unhook the latch and slip into the back garden.
Sheds and timber frames of old barns are strewn across the landscape, but as I scramble over the few fallen beams and hop over one of the crumbling dry stone walls, I see it.
The old weeping willow still stands strong, with a trunk as wide as Callum, Jacob and me all standing shoulder to shoulder.
Its branches curve over so low that the bottom leaves skim the floor, and behind the curtain of greenery lies the treehouse.
It’s exactly half way between Grandad’s farm and Hope Farm next door and so much time has passed, I’ve forgotten who built it.
It’s been there so long that the willow’s branches have begun to grow around the slats of wood, swallowing the joints of the structure so it’s almost as if it grew like that, with a paned window and pointed roof.
Before I know it, I’m making my way there, driven by a forgotten sense of longing.
There is no ladder to the treehouse, so I balance my way up the lowest branch, which bends down like an old gnarly limb reaching out to scoop you up.
Once I’m inside, I realise it used to feel bigger.
I can hardly stand inside it now; I have to crawl across the leaf-littered floor to not bump my head on the low ceiling.
The interior of the treehouse is untouched.
I suppose its usual residents don’t visit much these days.
None of us are children any more, and we’re all too busy to play spies, or pirates, or knights and princesses.
The wooden chest in the corner is unmoved, though a little weed has grown around it.
Instinctively, I move towards it, lifting the lid, and holding my breath as I check to see its contents.
I can’t help but hope there’s a note for me here.
Alas, nothing. Well, a family of woodlice have taken up residence in one of the corners, and there’s an old wrapper from a cheese string, that was definitely left there by Callum, but no note.
Why would he leave one anyway?
I look around the rest of the treehouse.
The photos wrapped in sandwich bags that were pinned to the wall are faded, and the printer ink has smeared so the faces are barely legible.
We’d printed them at the library a few years ago, after stealing the rusty bikes from the shed and pedalling into town as fast as we could.
We had to beg the librarian to let us use the computer.
We did everything we could think of to protect the streaky sheet of A4 paper from the elements, though back then, all we could think of was the leftover plastic bag from Jacob’s jam sandwiches that was still sticky on the inside.
I don’t need to see the photo now though. It’s still so engrained in my mind.
It was Halloween. Both of us were in our matching costumes that no one understood but us. Jacob should have another copy somewhere, but knowing him, he lost it before he even made it home. And I doubt he would care for its sentiment now anyway.
A shiver runs through me at the memory of the last time I was here. The last time we were here; when he kissed me.
My body prickles at the thought as goosebumps cover my flesh.
If I close my eyes now, I can almost feel him here, his hand wrapped in my hair, his lips mapping out my own with such urgency it was as if he had waited a lifetime for the opportunity.
Though my heart pounds now, it didn’t then.
His touch had filled me with such peace, such tranquillity, that it felt like coming home to a love that would protect me for the rest of time. How wrong I was.
‘Ava!’ Mum’s voice shouts across the back garden and snaps me out of my thoughts. ‘Ava?’
Peeping my head out of the treehouse door, I see her frantically pacing.
She visibly sighs when she sees me. ‘Oh, there you are. What are you doing up there?’ She doesn’t give me chance to reply as she runs a stressed hand through her thinning hair.
‘Come on in and get unpacked. The Thorogoods are coming for dinner.’