I am in the middle of a wood not far from where I work. I am bent double, rummaging beneath low-hanging branches. Every now and then my rump bumps a tree and its leaves shake a load of freezing rainwater on me. In this position it streams under my collar and down my spine, making me shiver. Sometimes I swear. Sometimes I just think about swearing.
I love it here really. Often I’ll come here during my lunch hour because I know there is no chance of bumping into anyone I know. I don’t have to do much when I get here, to make it worth my while. I’ll usually just kick the leaves about, enjoying the fact that I’m alone and won’t be disturbed. There are all sorts of trees here. I don’t know their names. Some of them carry their thick plumage all year round. There is a word for trees like this. Is it evergreen? Can it really be as self-explanatory as that? There are bare trees here too. They are stark and jagged in comparison. Almost deformed-looking. Their exposed branches jerk in the wind, clawing at the sky like arthritic fingers. Coniferous. It pops into my head just like that.
Today I have a purpose though. I am on a special mission. It’s for Grace. Most everything I do is. She has been fretting lately. About school and other things – who knows exactly what bright nine-year-olds fret about. I want to find her a piece of wood. That’s my mission. Not just any piece of wood. It needs to be just right. I don’t know what just right will look like, but I’ll know it when I see it.
It’s been raining all morning. The earth is sodden and sucks my shoes down with each step. They squelch when I lift them again. I imagine the state I’ll be in when I return to work, when I walk past their desks to my own. Dragging behind me something that could easily be mistaken for a club. I see the stares. Perhaps they’ll worry I’ll use it on them. Before he turned the weapon on himself. But I’m not that person.
There is a dog here now. Where did he come from? He is at my heels. He is playful, but also a little uncertain. Like me, he probably thinks this is his territory. I look up. A woman is nearby. She isn’t coming any closer. She is hiding beneath a hood.
‘Hello,’ I say. I say it cheerfully and deliver a smile with it.
She whistles quickly and the dog hurries after her as she walks away. There! There! That’s it! Just what I was after. I knew I’d know it. It is smooth and bone white and just the right thickness. Its knuckles and gnarls lend it a certain mystical charm. It’s perfect. Only it is the middle part of a much longer branch. I lean down and tug at it and more of it stirs beneath the foliage. It must be all of ten feet. At one end it fans out and thin fingers entangle themselves in other trees. But this is for Grace. There are no lengths. I want this branch and only this branch. I plan to make it into something special that will magic away my daughter’s fears. And I won’t be denied. I begin dragging the entire thing through the wood. Finally I get it into the open. By wedging it into a farmer’s gate and jumping on its middle I manage to break it down to the solid mid-section. It is still longer than my arm, but I can whittle it down further at home. For now, this will have to do.
It is evening now. Quite late. Grace is asleep. It was just her and me tonight. I made her favourite dinner. Takeaway. Haha. Dolores is away. Another work trip. Where is it this time? She did tell me. Frankfurt? Cologne? Yes, Cologne. I made stupid jokes about smelling an opportunity and being on the scent of money. She stared at me dead-eyed. I don’t mind really. Her job matters to her. And she’s good at it. At least I assume she is. Why else would they fly her all around the world? By they I mean he.
I slip out the front door and retrieve the branch from my boot. Yes. Much too long. I come back inside and start searching for a saw even though I know we don’t have one. Have never had one. I look in all the kitchen cupboards and drawers. I look in that black hole beneath the stairs. I go out into the back garden and walk around the perimeter. Why? I don’t own a saw. I know I don’t. I’m not my father. I see him now bent over the workbench. Something is in a vice. What was he making, or fixing?
I return to the kitchen and unsheathe a breadknife from the wooden block. I put my thumb against the blade. It is sharp but flimsy. It will have to do. I put the branch in the sink and begin to cut. An hour passes. It feels like an hour. I take the branch out and examine my progress. Lack of. I get a screwdriver – I still have one of those – and hammer it through the branch. I take the branch outside and bang it against the wall. The shock jars my elbow. I’m not as robust as I was. I return to the kitchen and pick up the knife again. No, I won’t be denied.
I start thinking that I must be the best dad in the world. Nay, parent. The things I do. Other dads would give up. Or not even start. They can’t be bothered. But I bother. I don’t mind the hardships. Each one separates me from them.
Eventually I manage to cut through the branch. I scrub it clean and put it on the radiator to dry. Then I sit down and begin writing a letter with my left hand.
It is morning now. I don’t know what time. Early. Grace is here. She woke me up by jumping on me.
‘Oomph,’ I said, rolling onto my side, away from her.
‘Wake up, Daddy! Wake up! I have news!’
She clambers off the bed and even with my head under the pillow I see the light come on.
‘Too bright,’ I say.
Her weight lands back on the bed and I feel her little hands on my shoulders through the blanket as she starts shaking me. I remain limp. I start snoring.
‘I know you’re awake, Daddy, you’ve already spoken to me.’
I emerge from beneath the pillow and look at her. Grace is not a pretty child. Worse than that, she is very nearly ugly. Her eyes are too small and her nose and mouth are pinched and thin. There is, altogether, not enough feature and too much face. I hate to acknowledge this fact, even privately. I wonder about the pain it will cause her as she gets older and these things start to matter more. Children can be so nasty. But they grew up so fast these days. Perhaps it has already started.
‘What’s up, my friend? What news?’
She holds the section of branch I made and the letter I wrote. She is smiling. That’s not a big enough word. She is tired, there are dark shadows under her eyes – she hasn’t slept well for such a long time – but she is fully beaming at me. I savour her expression. I did that. I think of the muddy work shoes. The soaked shirt. Being up till all hours. I don’t care about any of that. This is why I bother.
‘They wrote to me, Daddy!’
‘Did they?’ I rub my eyes and act out a great yawn. It turns into a real one. ‘Who did?’
‘Here,’ she says, ‘I’ll read it to you:
‘Dear Grace,
It was lovely to receive your letter. We do enjoy reading them so much. But I’m sorry you have been worried. I would like to say don’t worry. Remember, we are magic and have special powers. We can see things that humans can’t, and we know that in the end you are going to be very happy. But in the meantime, we want to give you this. It is one of our special benches. It has been in the fairy kingdom for more than a thousand years. I can’t imagine how many of us have sat on it in that time! It is one of the benches we go to when we have problems to solve or unhappys to make happy again. I am sure that some of our good feelings must have gone into the wood by now – it’s a living thing, after all – so perhaps, if you hold it in your hand when you are worried it will help you to relax. We hope so. Because you are our favourite human. Remember, we are always nearby, watching over you.
Love, Chantal, Queen of all the Fairies.’
When Grace stops reading she looks up at me.
‘See?’ she says.
‘I do,’ I answer, nodding gravely. ‘I do.’
She looks at the wood. Holds it up to her too-small nose and smells it. ‘Don’t tell anyone else, Daddy. This must always be a secret.’