BooksBarbecue
Back Grow Save as PDF
Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Title Page
  5. Intoroduction
  6. ONE
  7. TWO
  8. THREE
  9. FOUR
  10. FIVE
  11. SIX
  12. SEVEN
  13. EITHT
  14. NINE
  15. TEN
  16. ELEVEN
  17. TWELVE
  18. THIRTEEN
  19. FOURTEEN
  20. FIFTEEN
  21. SIXTEEN
  22. SEVENTEEN
  23. EIGHTEEN
  24. NINETEEN
  25. TWENTY
  26. TWENTY-ONE
  27. TWENTY-TWO
  28. TWENTY-THREE
  29. TWENTY-FOUR
  30. TWENTY-FIVE
  31. TWENTY-SIX
  32. TWENTY-SEVEN
  33. TWENTY-EIGHT
  34. TWENTY-NINE
  35. THIRTY
  36. THIRTY-ONE
  37. THIRTY-TWO
  38. THIRTY-THREE
  39. THIRTY-FOUR
  40. THIRTY-FIVE
  41. THIRTY-SIX
  42. THIRTY-SEVEN
  43. THIRTY-EIGHT
  44. THIRTY-NINE
  45. FORTY
  46. FORTY-ONE
  47. FORTY-TWO
  48. FORTY-THREE
  49. FORTY-FOUR
  50. FORTY-FIVE
  51. FORTY-SIX
  52. FORTY-SEVEN
  53. FORTY-EIGHT
  54. FORTY-NINE
  55. FIFTY
  56. FIFTY-ONE
  57. FIFTY-TWO
  58. FIFTY-THREE
  59. FIFTY-FOUR
  60. FIFTY-FIVE
  61. FIFTY-SIX
  62. FIFTY-SEVEN
  63. FIFTY-EIGHT
  64. FIFTY-NINE
  65. SIXTY
  66. SIXTY-ONE
  67. SIXTY-TWO
  68. SIXTY-THREE
  69. SIXTY-FOUR
  70. SIXTY-FIVE
  71. SIXTY-SIX
  72. SIXTY-SEVEN
  73. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  74. CLIMATE EMERGENCY
  75. Copyright

I don’t know what you say to a tree.

He’s under there, somewhere. In the ground. The roots won’t have got to him yet, so I guess there’s not much of Dad in the tree. I dreamt, a while ago, that the tree was wearing all of Dad’s clothes; a clean, white shirt that smelled like ironing; one of his old-fashioned ties with the little flowers on that I used to try and count when I was younger; the polished, black shoes with tiny holes in that he’d wear to work if he had important meetings.

I still haven’t dreamt about Dad properly, just the tree. I told this to Mum a while back, and she told me it was normal. She’d had the same dream over and over again about carrying his pannier bag around. It was the pannier that he always took to work, either to the office or if he was off to London; the one that had always sat in the hallway at home every evening before bed, every morning before he left, until it was lost along with him. She was trying to find him so she could give it back. Her counsellor had told her it might be ages until he started coming to her in dreams. She might hear his voice in the background, or see his things, but that he – the whole of him – wouldn’t come for a while. She said – the counsellor – that it’s only after we’ve let go of the objects around the person that the memory of that person will become clear again. And then he’ll come and see us in our dreams.

Mum said it made it easier, knowing that he’d come back when she was ready for him. But I don’t know. Like so many things at the moment, I’m not sure. I just want to see Dad. Especially now.

I want to ask him what I should do. If he’s angry at me. If he’s OK down there under the tree. But I can’t. I stand, useless, watching the bare twigs flop around in the wind.

It’s started properly raining now, heavy and slow, the wind starting to build behind it. As I stand, looking, the heat in my stomach and chest slowly cooling, the pain in my legs subsiding, I notice that the tree isn’t completely bare. There’s one leaf left, a big one, brown and hand-shaped, its five long, curled fingers waving, flailing. The kind of leaf you only get on this sort of tree.

But I don’t know what kind of tree this is.

‘I don’t know what tree this is,’ I say aloud.