The Bridal Tree

“They call that the Bridal Tree,” her mother said, “it’s the reason both of your aunts got married.”

“Bull. Shit,” said Emily, not looking up from the screen of her phone.

“Watch your language.”

“That’s hardly language…”

“You heard me.”

Emily shrugged. “Well, it remains bs.”

“You don’t believe me?”

She looked up at last. “What do you mean? How’s it the reason?”

“Now, you want to hear the story? The bs one?”

“Maybe.” She did her best to shrug. Her mum would keep a little mental tally of this victory. But she looked out the window at that tree – a plum tree, in full, graceful, fluffy white blossom. It made every sense in this time of year to refer to this as the Bridal Tree. But what did that have to do with either of her aunts? Okay, Mum, you win. “I want to hear the story.”

“Even if it’s…”

“Yeah. Even so.”

“Put the phone down then and listen up.”

#

Emily’s mother, Tara, was the youngest of three girls. Valerie, Brenda, Tara. Each three years apart. So, she’d been about twelve on the day her oldest sister met a young man named Jimmy Grant.

It’d been a spring day. And Jimmy had been driving along the road. He later said it was a cat that had startled him and caused him to swerve and go crashing into the tree that fatal day. All three sisters had been in the house. Tara had been lying on her bed reading a book when she heard the vehicle come smashing through the fence. She was up on her feet like anybody would be, running out to see what the noise was about. There, in the middle of the lawn, a glaring red car, smoke coming out of the bonnet, the same bonnet dented into an uncomfortable, metal grin.

And the tree? That was flattened.

It wasn’t the plum though, not at that stage, it’d been an apple, and it’d been a youngster, just a couple of years old.

Valerie had planted that thing. It’d been her pet. So that might explain why her first thought was to run to the car and fall on her knees beside it, looking under; instead of into the driver’s seat to check on poor Jimmy.

So that fell to Brenda, just fifteen. Knocking on the window, lip bitten in anxiety.

Jimmy managed a crooked smile and a slight wave. He gingerly opened his door and stepped outside into the churned-up garden, with flowers tossed everywhere.

“You okay?” Brenda whispered.

He nodded, “Yes. Fine. Fine. I’m so sorry about your garden.”

“It’s all right.”

It wasn’t for Valerie though. She had tears in her eyes for the little apple tree. She was rising from her knees, hands wet and dirty, stains forming on her skirt. She looked a mess; but to Jimmy she looked like an angel.

“Ma’am. I’m really sorry about this.”

“It’s okay,” she sniffed.

“But it doesn’t seem to be.” Emily’s future uncle could see how distressed she was. He was somewhere between guilt and mild offence: it was an accident, and he could have been hurt. He wasn’t. He was fine. But still…

Valerie explained, “The apple tree. It’s under your car now. It was just a little sapling, but it was going to be a big tree one day. It was like a gift to Mum and Dad, so they’d have this mature, apple-giving memory of me when I left home. And I’d come home from wherever I was and there’d be apple pie, and I’d take some apples with me, maybe bake a flan for them next time round. Okay, it sounds silly when I hear it out loud.’

“No. It doesn’t. I feel terrible.”

“It’s all right.”

“Your parents are most likely to kill me. I’ll pay for all the damage.”

“Oh,” she said airily, not owning the house or paying her own way yet, “I’m sure they have insurance.” And she noticed now that Jimmy had very nice eyes, and a pleasantly sculpted face, dark, with a quirky curl to his short-cropped hair. “Maybe I should get you a drink of water or something. For the shock.”

#

Emily said: “Well it wasn’t even the same tree.”

“Who’s telling this story?”

“Okay fine.”

“Shall I continue?”

“Please.”

#

A couple of days passed after that disturbance. The girls went on with their lives. Although Valerie did find herself thinking rather a lot about the stranger who’d come crashing into her world. Good-looking. Apologetic. Maybe not the best driver…

There came a knock on the door.

There stood Jimmy. He had a pot in his hands, and in the pot was a little blossoming sapling. “I wanted to make this up to you,” he said. “It’s a plum, not an apple, I hope that’s okay.”

“I… Well, I… Thank you.”

“I’ll help you plant it.”

“Yes. Of course. That would be… nice.”

“Sure. And I’d offer to take you out for a drive, but I’m temporarily between cars, and anyway, I’m not sure our last meeting was the best advertisement for my driving.”

“No indeed,” said Valerie, who at eighteen was an enthusiastic flirt, “but I would be willing to settle for a nice walk.”

#

“And so,” said Emily’s mother, “that’s how they got together.”

“And it explains all the plum puddings.”

“I suppose it does.”

“I’ll give you that one,” Emily said, “but it doesn’t explain Aunt Brenda.”

“Ah,” said her mother, “well, let me continue.”

#

Ten years went past.

Valerie married Jimmy, they moved away, travelled the world a bit. Came home to plum tarts, fruit salads; left family dinners with a basketful of plums, because it turned out that plum tree was a prodigious little worker and produced more fruit than the family knew what to do with.

Then one day, Brenda was at a loose end. She was sitting out in the garden looking at the plum tree, looking at all that red-purple fruit, and it occurred to her that they could sell it. In truth, Brenda was at a bit of a loose end altogether. She’d finished school, she’d gotten her degree, but now she wasn’t really sure what to do with herself. A few dead-end jobs had gone unsurprisingly nowhere; she didn’t feel ambitious. She didn’t know what she was looking for.

But selling plums out of the front garden would do for the meantime.

Tara helped her. She was in her final year at university, she had some exams coming up, and she really didn’t want to study for them. This plum enterprise made for a convenient delaying tactic.

And that’s how these two twenty-something girls came to be sitting on the garden wall – a sturdy, concrete thing, built sometime after the fence’s demise – with a cardboard sign selling plums at $10 a plastic bag-full.

And maybe they didn’t make a lot. But more importantly, along came Peter Addington. He stopped to check out the plums. And as he did so, Brenda noticed his pale, milky skin, the soft blue of his eyes, that dreamy quality that lurked behind his glasses.

“So, $10 for a bag.”

“Sure.”

Brenda handed the bag over, she smiled broadly, “I hope you enjoy them.”

“You do this often?”

She shook her head, “Just a whim. So, I’ve never seen you walking this way before.”

“I’m new in town.”

“Oh yes?”

“Just got a new job at the local paper.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a big deal. Always wanted to be a journalist.”

“You like writing?”

“And discovering people.”

And left to her own devices Brenda might never have seen him again. But the next day, there were more plums to sell, and Peter came by again to buy another bag. And the day after that. And the day after that.

And Brenda thought to herself: nobody eats that many plums…

#

“And so,” said Emily, filling in the gaps, “Uncle Pete wrote that article about your little business, and then Brenda started hanging with him, and helping him with his stories – his local guide, or C.I as he called her – and they ended up dating, then getting married. And he inspired her to become a writer.”

“Bingo. All because of that tree.”

“Okay. I rescind that bull- that bs call.”

Her mother smiled, curling her legs up to her chest on the couch. “We’re not as boring a family as you might think.”

“Well, okay,” said Emily, “since that’s true. How is it that we ended up with the house and the tree and not either of them?”

“Ah,” said Emily’s mother, putting one hand on her shoulder, “now that’s a whole other story.”

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work