THE TRYSTING TREE by Linda Gillard

more until further notice?’
    ‘What a good idea.’
    ‘But we’ll have to find other reasons to drink champagne.’
    ‘We need a reason?’
    ‘That’s my girl!’ Phoebe said, slapping the arm of her chair. ‘Let’s have some the next time Connor’s here. I need him to be in a good mood.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I’m thinking of asking him to sit for me. Just a few sketches. I have an idea for a portrait, if I ever feel up to tackling it. Do you think he’d do it?’
    ‘I’m sure he’d feel very flattered to be asked.’
    ‘Good! We’ll ply him with champagne first though, then catch him off-guard.’
    ‘You really like him, don’t you?’
    ‘I do, and for some unknown reason, he likes me , so I think he might do it. He has an interesting face, I think. A lot of conflict there. And he’s still grieving for poor old Ivy, isn’t he?’
    ‘I suppose so. I haven’t really given it much thought.’
    ‘You don’t have to think about it, Ann’, Phoebe said, sounding tetchy. ‘You can see it in his face.’
    ‘Well, you can.’
    ‘So could you if you looked properly. But I don’t suppose you’ve seen past the pleasing exterior. Can’t say I blame you. Six foot, broad shoulders and a nice arse. He’s very easy on the eye.’
    Shocked that my mother’s assessment of Connor so closely resembled my own, I squirmed with guilty embarrassment. ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about men as if they were specimens . Connor is our friend.’
    ‘It’s my job. I study faces and bodies, but I see past the surface of things. Connor’s a nice-looking chap. Regular features, apart from that long nose. And he smiles a lot, doesn’t he? Makes an effort to be pleasant. There’s almost something angelic about him, all that unruly fair hair and those high cheek bones. Like a Burne Jones angel. But a fallen angel… If you ask me, Connor’s angry. He’s suffered loss. And rejection. I can see it in his face.’
    ‘You can really see all that?’
    ‘Oh yes, plain as a pikestaff. Anyone who smiles that much has to be pretty miserable, don’t you think? Perhaps some champagne will cheer him up.’
     
    ~
     
    Large amounts of fresh air and exercise ensured I was sleeping better than I’d done for years, but that night I was woken by the sound of screaming. I lay in bed, struggling to make sense of the eerie sound that had woken me.
    It was the wind. A gale was tearing round the house, ripping off slates, flinging flowerpots from one side of the garden to the other. I recalled the so-called hurricane of 1987. A teenager then, I’d slept through it all and got up the next morning to find trees lying on the ground, like fallen soldiers on a battlefield.
    This storm sounded bad. I got up, went to the window, drew back a curtain and looked outside. I didn’t recognise the moonlit landscape. Trees were leaning at a crazy angle but when the wind relented, they sprang back, swaying until the impact of the next powerful gust sent them keeling over again. As I watched, there was a cracking sound like a gun shot and a branch sailed past the window, its smaller twigs scraping the glass. Startled, I stepped back, then leaned forward again to rearrange the curtains, so that if the window broke, the glass couldn’t travel far into the room.
    As I drew the curtain, I took a last look at the garden, casting an anxious eye towards the studio. If one of the closer beeches came down, the studio could receive a direct hit. The thought of Phoebe’s unfinished canvases buried under brick dust and rubble made me think of going out to rescue them, but I dismissed the idea as too dangerous. I measured with my eye the distance between the nearest beech and the studio and was estimating its length when, to my horror, I saw the studio door open and a large canvas appear. It appeared to be wrapped in a blanket and was moving very slowly on carpet slippered feet.
    I threw open the window, whereupon the wind tried to wrench it from my hand, almost