A Christmas Wish by Erin Green (34)

Flora

‘What’s this?’ I ask, thrusting the piece of paper towards Annie as she peers over the bar, her bemused expression collapsing into a fit of giggles.

‘Don’t shoot the messenger, please,’ she splutters. ‘Joel came in, asked if you were about and left that envelope for when you surfaced. That’s it, otherwise no comprende.’

I read it aloud, again.

‘Is it some poetic prank?’ I ask, waving the poem about. ‘Something else to make me look like a gibbering idiot at the expense of others?’

‘I think it’s called romance… he’s trying to show some interest.’

I cut Annie short.

‘Get stuffed! Joel’s not interested in me! He’s only interested in solving a case and closing a police file,’ I scowl. The weeks were passing with hardly any developments about my birth mother or Joel. ‘Has he asked me on a date?’

Annie shakes her head, and slopes off along the bar.

‘Annie?’

‘You’re obviously in a mardy… got out of bed on the wrong side, did we?’

‘What’s the note supposed to mean?’ I deflect her comment and attempt to back pedal.

‘Go figure.’

‘Annie, look…’

She waves a hand in defeat and continues her bar cleaning as far away as possible from me.

I’ve never been any good at poetry. Throughout school my English teachers were asking me to feel the emotion, depict the imagery and decipher the poet’s language – nothing made sense because it was never in plain English. And now, at the ripe old age of thirty when school days are a distant memory, my humiliation about hidden meanings finally forgotten – I’m supposed to take delight in delivery of a poem before the clock has struck ten in the morning. Seriously?

I ignore Annie blatantly staring from the far end of the bar and continue to scoff my breakfast of egg on toast as a niggling headache brews above my right eye. A dull headache that I’d had since my friends went back home after their weekend visit.

Why couldn’t I enjoy a simple breakfast? Begin the day like a normal person? No chance. I’ve got to be bright and sodding breezy while others laugh at me. Proving yet again, that I’m some nitwit when it comes to anything cultured.

As I chew, I stare angrily at the torn envelope and discarded poem.

‘What the hell is it supposed to mean anyway? Since when has Joel been into poetry?’ I mutter. ‘How am I supposed to know unless he asks me for a date?’

‘Read it again?’ The male voice startles me.

I look up to find Mick seated behind me reading his newspaper by the window.

‘Bloody hell Mick, you made me jump. Is your bad back better?’ I hadn’t seen him for near on a week.

‘Better than it was… read it again.’

He listens intently as I reread each line.

‘I’ll take you if you want?’

‘Where?’

Mick taps the side of his nose and winks in an exaggerated fashion.

‘I wouldn’t bother Mick, she’s in a devil of a mood and she’ll snipe at you instead of thanking you,’ shouts Annie, polishing the beer pumps.

‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’

‘What’s the answer?’ I snort, as the reflection of Medusa looms in the bar mirror.

‘See what I mean?’ calls Annie, shaking her head. ‘Good luck Joel – she’s got her arse in her hand today, that’s for sure.’

*

In no time, Mick and I were seated in his red minivan charging out of The Square via the stone archway, cases of fizzy pop from the budget Cash ‘n’ Carry rattling in the back.

‘It’s been a hell of a long time but I still think I’m right,’ shouts Mick, over the noise of the spluttering engine.

‘Where will he be?’

‘At the manor house…’

‘Yes but why?’

‘Their maze.’

‘A maze?’

Mick nods.

‘We used to play in it as kids… many a time we got lost within those hedges… it was such a scream.’

‘A maze?’

‘Yes, left and right turns and a huge space in the centre with benches and bird baths and…’

‘A beating heart,’ I murmur, more to myself than Mick.

‘Joel.’

‘Thanks for that Mick, even I got that metaphor,’ I add sarcastically.

‘Just saying.’

We drive in silence, out of the village and along narrow country lanes with hedgerows and aged bare-limbed trees whizzing by my window. It seems like the snow had long gone, maybe spring was around the next corner.

Had I ever mentioned wanting to see a maze to Joel? Had I ever said I’d seen one previously? No and no, but anyway I’ll go along with his game.

‘Here we are,’ announces Mick, indicating and turning right into a grand entrance complete with ornate gates and a quaint stone lodge beyond.

‘Isn’t this private property?’

‘Yep, Major Matthews’ place but he allows the public to use the open space and visit the maze which is along the driveway… it’s away from the manor house so they retain their privacy.

‘Wow! Veronica’s living here?’ I gasp.

‘Yep, though I can’t imagine Major Matthews being the typical sugar-daddy type – so I wouldn’t feel too jealous.’

‘Jealous of Veronica? Nah!’ I retort, ‘Though I’m grateful that he coughed up the funds for the DNA testing – I could never have paid for a mass testing.’

‘He’s generous when he chooses to be. The local news clip where you named and thanked him is his kind of publicity – a good deed but he’ll ensure everyone knows about it.’

‘But still, he didn’t have to offer,’ I add, feeling guilty for any criticism being aimed at him.

The windscreen frames a vast open space dotted with ancient trees standing at obscure angles.

‘This is amazing… why has no one mentioned it before?’

‘I can’t imagine that many village folk still visit.’

How true is that? Back home, I live within a short walk of a museum and art gallery but have only ever visited them during trips from primary school. Funny, that.

‘So, he doesn’t mind?’

‘As long as you don’t do any damage.’

The driveway eventually forks; we take the right-hand road leading to a gravelled car park. I presume the left is to the house, though I can’t see a thing through the mass of mature trees through which the left-hand road disappears.

We park alongside a solitary silver Audi: Joel’s.

Across a stretch of grassland, a bank of emerald hedging rises skywards.

‘Ha-ha, I’m not as daft as I make out,’ laughs Mick.

‘Thank you, I would never have guessed,’ I unbuckle my seatbelt. ‘Aren’t you getting out?’

‘No, here’s where I’ll leave you. I don’t remember a ‘plus one’ being attached to your invite. No doubt he’ll drop you back to the pub later. Enjoy.’

‘Thanks Mick, bye.’

I climb from the minivan, wave as Mick reverses and is gone within seconds.

‘To the maze.’

I pull my jacket on and head towards the tall hedging.

As I get nearer a tiny wooden arrow nailed to a stake kindly points me round the corner to the ‘entrance’. From here the sheer size of the maze can be seen as the hedging stretches forever across the manicured grass.

‘Here goes,’ I say, stepping inside.

The sunlight is instantly muted but it’s not as dark and drab as I had feared. I expected the hedging to be overgrown and hanging like forgotten ruins but like the outside every hedge-wall is straight and pristine, a red gravel pathway crunches beneath my pumps.

I plod along the pathways, deciding left or right as I meander through the corridors.

The coolness prickles at my skin but it’s not unpleasant. Being surrounded by vibrant green is quite soothing, a definite improvement on the recent snow drifts. It’s refreshing to have nothing to think about except left, or right? Gone is the search for my birth mother, gone is my decreasing bank balance, the nagging regret about Julian’s cheating, Annie’s suggestions regarding Joel… everything is focused on left, or right?

I have all the time in the world. Is this what’s meant by living in the moment?

I imagine that Joel is seated at the centre with a cheesy grin of self-assurance that I would find him and then what? A drink? A quick drive to find lunch? A relationship?

I stop dead.

‘Get a grip Flora, keep it simple – left or right?’

A dark cloud moves overhead, casting a lingering shadow on the gravel pathway.

‘Left,’ I murmur, vocalising my decisions. ‘Right.’

I could do this all day.

I might have to if I don’t find the centre by nightfall.

I stop and listen. Nothing. No music, no drunken conversations, no glasses clinking. Nothing.

I listen harder. Bird song, the movement of tree branches, a distant hum of faraway traffic but nothing unpleasant. Even the constant nagging voice in my head which spends half its time correcting me and the rest of the time trampling on my positive nature has gone.

Just… silence.

I arrive at a hedging ‘T’ junction.

‘Bloody hell,’ I say aloud, as a giggle escapes from my chest.

Left or right? I survey each and decide to do alternate sides: right, then left, then right. Would that work?

Five minutes later, I’m recognising corners or to be precise specific twigs jutting from the hedging or random stones on the gravel pathway.

Didn’t I pass this way earlier? Is this section new or revisited?

I have the worst sense of direction in the world, confirmed as I go back and forth along the pathways, a sense of déjà vu greets me at each turning.

My mouth becomes dry. My palms begin to sweat. My heart rate increases.

I jog towards the end of the hedging corridor. I turn round and run back.

I have no idea what I’m doing or where I am heading.

What had seemed like a sense of adventure and delight suddenly turns to panic.

I’m lost.

*