Rowan shrugged. “Eh, it’s only a problem if we knock into someone, but the roads are quiet once we get up there and it’s not far. You could walk it if you had the time. And weren’t lugging several trees with you.”
I bit my lip. A cool breeze ruffled my hair.
Rowan seemed to notice the thoughts buzzing around my head.
“If you’re not comfortable with it…”
He’d asked me for a favour. I wanted to be someone people could ask for a favour. That was part of building friendships, wasn’t it? And this favour could turn into a bit of paid website work. Maybe the whole new-life-new-me thing wasn’t completely out of my grasp after all.
“Sure,” I said.
“Great!” His shoulders relaxed. “Thanks, Tamsin. You’re a lifesaver. A tree lifesaver, but a lifesaver, nonetheless!”
I smiled, genuine this time. It would be good to get out of the house for a bit. Get away from whatever was happening and gather my thoughts.
“Let me get my stuff,” I said.
I went indoors and grabbed my hoodie—despite sleeping on it, it was the only clean top layer I had left—and my house key.
As I tucked the key in my jeans pocket, my fingers caught against something heavy and metallic and sharp. Spring traps flashed through my mind and my hand quickly retracted. Then I remembered. I took out the needle I’d found in the basement. Still in my pocket. Still as vicious as ever. I hooked the eye of the needle onto the key’s ring. It felt like a fitting keyring for now. Then I popped them both back into my pocket and left the house.
I headed down the steps to Rowan’s truck, kicking through the papery seeds from the elm tree. For the first time in a long while, I had a feeling that perhaps today was going to be alright.
CHAPTER 29
The sun burned away what remained of the morning mists and by the time we reached Maggie’s house it was a glorious day.
I sat shotgun, window down, arm out, fingers combing the breeze as Rowan drove us along a quiet country lane. After enquiring about my breakfast—and then the lack thereof—he directed me to a box of oatcakes in the glovebox and wouldn’t let up until I ate at least three. The hedgerows sped by in a blur as the sun arced high in the hazy sky.
I was feeling better. A lot better. It’s criminal how much sunshine and a bite to eat can change a person’s mood. Maybe that was the problem. I wasn’t mad, I just had a Vitamin D deficiency. Seasonal Affective Disorder. Could that make someone hallucinate a whole party next door or smacking an axe into someone’s face? I’d google it later.
We dropped Maggie off at her house—a converted barn between two barley fields, with a greenhouse full of neglected tomato plants.
“Cheers, pal,” she said to Rowan. Then she got out of the truck and casually slammed the door behind her. Before she could head up the gravel path to her door, I stopped her.
“Sorry about the other day,” I said.
Her eyebrows scrunched together even more, which was impressive.
“At the café,” I explained. “I made a bit of a scene.”
“Oh that. Pah.” She batted the notion away with a lazy flick of her hand. “I just thought you were getting frustrated with your computer. You should see me with mine. Turn the air blue when my niece asks to video chat.” She leaned in the window. “Whatever it was, it’s probably not worth the stress. You take care of yourself, alright? Make sure that one”—she pointed to Rowan—“feeds you properly for your labour.”
Rowan saluted. “I consider myself telt.”
“Aye, good,” she said. “Go on to your trees then.”
Rowan pulled away. She waved, we waved, and then we got back on the lane. Rowan drove further up the hill and the whole world felt light.
Not far from Maggie’s house, tucked in amongst other farm buildings, we pulled up at a squat, long garage made of cinder blocks and a corrugated iron roof. A plastic sign with a simple green icon of a fir tree and poorly kerned text read: CARLINSREST FORESTRY (CIO).
“Here we are,” Rowan said. “Are you ready to dive into the exciting world of tree planting?”
I laughed and followed him up to the building. There was something exciting about being invited here, like being shown around backstage at a theatre or brought into the teacher’s lounge at school. Rowan lifted the painted garage door with a grunt, first pulling it up from the ground then shunting it into the ceiling space. Inside the cave of cinderblocks and cobwebs was a tiny forest of deciduous saplings, wrapped in netting, spindly branches sticking out the top, neatly stacked against organised shelves of ropes, cables, bags of compost and firewood. On the other wall hung various shovels, spades, hoes and rakes. It had the same lovely, musty, earthy smell as a garden shed. Tourists never saw this place. Only staff. And their friends.
Rowan hefted one of the saplings up onto his shoulder.
“You alright to help me get the trees in the bed?” He nodded back toward the flat bed of the truck.
