The Skeleton Tree by Diane Janes (reading women TXT) 📕

after property which he had removed from the premises. And she wasn’t exactly certain of her ground … had she really left the photograph on the windowsill? She had occasionally put things down in the past, only to find them weeks later somewhere that they shouldn’t have been … And anyway, what did it matter? It was only an old photograph of someone she didn’t know.

I had already bought the tree, its roots wrapped in sacking, in readiness to conceal the freshly dug grave. A tree would deter any future gardeners from disturbing the spot I had chosen. I don’t know how long it takes to happen, but eventually the flesh and internal organs of the body rot away, leaving only the bones. Sometimes I imagined the tree roots, creeping down, winding their way around the rib cage, twisting in and out of the eye sockets, working their way through the skull. The blossom is profuse every spring, as if drawing life from what lies beneath it.

FOUR

July 1980

The builders had started the process of clearing the back garden early on, hacking a way through to what would eventually be the centre of the lawn and burning a load of old floorboards on a bonfire which had lasted three days. As moving day approached, the entire family laboured alongside Wendy to complete the clearance, in order for the newly delivered turf – ‘like lots of giant swiss rolls’, said Katie – to be laid. Wendy was delighted that her initially reluctant brood had become more enthusiastic, now that actually inhabiting the house was an imminent possibility.

On the first Monday of the school summer holidays, The Ashes was filled with industrious noise. Kenny was installing the last of the long-awaited kitchen units (there had been a problem over the delivery of part of the original order), while Peter could be heard proclaiming that it was peach-picking time in Georgia as he installed insulation in the roof space of Tara’s wing. With the turf down and the surrounding beds prepared, Wendy had engaged in an orgy of planting, while Jamie and Katie were released from acting as garden labourers and spent the latter part of the afternoon riding their bikes up and down the drive, just as Wendy had envisaged them doing during her first viewing of the house. Tara had spent the day with friends, but she called to check on progress as she made her way home down Green Lane. Tara’s arrival was a reminder that tea would soon be required in Jasmine Close and, calling to the children that it was almost time to go, Wendy put her tools away in the designated shed. She smiled to herself as she walked through the house. It was all turning out just as she had imagined. In a few days’ time they would actually be living here. Not just Peter, but the house itself seemed to be singing. Sunshine flickered around the rooms. The smell of decay had been superseded by fresh paint. She breathed in deeply.

As she crossed the hall she heard Tara’s voice coming from somewhere out of sight upstairs. She didn’t catch what her daughter said but, pausing at the foot of the stairs, she heard John’s reply: ‘Whereabouts in Coventry were you born?’

‘I don’t know. We moved back up here when I was still a baby. I don’t remember anything about living in Coventry at all.’

‘Is that where your dad’s from – Coventry? I knew he wasn’t from round here, but I couldn’t place the accent.’

‘Oh, that’s not my real dad. My mam and dad got divorced. Bruce is my stepfather.’

Wendy placed a hand on the bannister. She was about to call Tara’s name, but something prevented her.

‘There’s a lot of it about,’ John said. ‘My sister, the one who lives in Erdington, she’s divorced. Mind you, she says she won’t get married again. He was a right one, her old man.’

‘When Mam married Bruce, I was bridesmaid,’ said Tara. She laughed. It was a funny, half-hearted kind of laugh.

Wendy was unexpectedly stung with surprise and embarrassment. It was perfectly true, but something in the way Tara had spoken made her second wedding sound vaguely sordid.

John laughed too. ‘A bit funny, being bridesmaid at your own mother’s wedding.’

They both laughed again.

From the foot of the stairs, Wendy called, ‘Tara, is that you?’

‘Hello, Mam.’ Tara’s head came into view above the bannisters on the top landing.

‘I’m just going to wash my hands in the kitchen,’ Wendy said. ‘Then I’ll be ready to go.’

‘Water’s off again, I’m afraid, missis.’ Kenny had come into the hall behind her.

Wendy felt her cheeks flush. She wondered if he had seen her eavesdropping. More sharply than she needed to, she said, ‘Come on, Tara. We may as well go home.’

Partly to get away from Kenny, she walked briskly towards the rear passage, where she found the cellar door standing open. The light was switched on, but when she called ‘Hello’ there was no response. She wondered whether someone had been down there for something and forgotten to turn out the light. Descending half-a-dozen steps brought the main section of the cellar into view. It was interesting, she thought, how much clutter had already accumulated down here, even though they hadn’t moved in. Mostly it was packing material from items which had already been delivered, but there was also an unidentified pile of sacks – or were they dust sheets? She would have to remind Kenny to remove any builders’ stuff before they finally departed.

Peter emerged from the doorway linking the main cellar to the smaller ones. She managed to stifle an exclamation of surprise. Surely she’d heard him singing upstairs only a few minutes ago? It was very unnerving, the way the man could loom up out of nowhere.

‘Aw reet, Mrs Thornton? Did you want summat?’

‘No. I saw the light was on and I wondered if anyone was down here, that was all.’

‘Oh aye. It’s only me.’

‘You won’t forget to take this stuff