Wishes Under The Willow Tree. Phaedra Patrick

shook out a pair of jeans and tried to hoist them on over her cowboy boots, managing to only pull them up to her ankles before they got stuck. She slid her legs back out and the boots remained jammed in the trouser legs. ‘I’ll show you these ones later.’

      ‘That’s fine.’

      She tugged out her boots and dropped them to the floor with a couple of thuds. ‘Are you even listening to me, Uncle Ben?’

      ‘I am,’ Benedict lied. ‘You’ve bought some nice things. Well done.’

      Gemma gave a small low growl, like Lord Puss when he saw another cat.

      ‘Okay, okay.’ He held up his hands. ‘I was thinking of other stuff.’

      ‘About Estelle, right? And my dad, I bet.’ Gemma folded up her clothes into neat squares and set them on the armchair.

      She sounded dismayed, but there was nothing he could do about it. ‘Both. Now, will you write down Charlie’s address for me?’

      ‘You don’t need it. I texted him before I lost my phone.’

      ‘I’m sure he’ll want to hear from you again. Can you remember any other phone numbers, so we can get a message to him?’

      Gemma’s pointed eyebrows twitched upwards. ‘Nope.’

      ‘Then I’ll have to write.’ Benedict picked up a pen and scrap of paper from the table and handed them to her. ‘Scribble down his address.’

      Gemma flicked her hair, but she wrote on the paper and tossed it back to him.

      ‘Sunnyside Farm,’ he read. ‘North Maine’.

      The words made him feel a little calmer. He finally had a name, a place and a way to get in touch with Charlie, even if it was by letter. He smiled at Gemma, but her face was screwed into a scowl.

      He addressed the envelope then added his own details, his phone number and email address to the top. Stuck for what to write, he brushed away a speck of imaginary dust from the paper with the side of his hand. Gemma peered over his shoulder, so Benedict couldn’t write about his real feelings and worries and regrets, and he kept the letter short.

       Dear Charlie

       This is just a small note to let you know that Gemma arrived here safe and sound. I understand that she texted you to let you know, but I thought that you might like to hear it from me, too. Unfortunately, she’s lost her phone so we don’t have your number to call you.

       We’ve agreed that she’ll stay for a few days, maybe longer, depending on what you’re happy with. I’ll help her out all I can; however, it would be useful if you could contact me as soon as you can, so we can discuss her next moves. I’ll keep this letter short and sweet, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

      Then he added:

       I hope you are well. Best wishes from your brother, Benedict

      ‘That sounds okay,’ Gemma said. ‘You’ll need an airmail stamp.’

      ‘I’ve got one, from when Estelle writes to her friend Veronica.’ He sealed the letter into an envelope and set it on the kitchen table. ‘Done.’

      Gemma idly picked up her new bag. She unzipped its many pockets and peered into them. ‘So, why did Estelle leave you? You’re not such a bad guy.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Is it because of your…size?’

      Benedict sucked in his stomach. In the ten years they’d been married, Estelle had never mentioned his weight as an issue. ‘No.’

      ‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘So, she’s just gone?’

      Benedict cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you don’t have any children?’

      It never ceased to amaze Benedict how often questions about kids rolled off people’s tongues, as if they had no other dialogue in their heads.

      ‘So, when will we hear the patter of tiny feet for the two of you?’ Margarita Ganza had asked Estelle as she picked up a bunch of withering daffodils outside Floribunda.

      Ryan often told Benedict stories about his kids, over a pint at the pub. He finished his tales with a knowing, ‘You have all this to come, Benedict.’

      ‘No,’ Benedict said. ‘We don’t have any kids.’

      ‘Don’t you want them?’

      He didn’t want to discuss this. His niece seemed to hook on to things like a prickly burr on a woollen sweater.

      ‘I think that having children is probably overrated, anyway,’ she said, before he could answer. ‘It’s a big responsibility. Do you and Estelle…?’

      Benedict didn’t want to answer another question about the family he and Estelle didn’t have, so he tried to think of something, anything, to change her path of conversation. ‘So, you want to look in the attic for your grandfather’s gemstone journal?’ he asked brightly. ‘Shall we go up there now?’

      Benedict stored the metre-long stick with the hook on the end, under his bed. It had been there, unused, for at least five years. The last time he ventured into the attic was when rainwater had leaked through the ceiling into the master bedroom. He had gone up through the hatch and patched up the hole in the roof, walking around his parents’ wooden chest and pretending it wasn’t there. Even a glimpse of the dark, curved box could make him feel shivery with emotion.

      His parents had brought it home from one of their trips overseas. Benedict and Charlie used to pretend that it was a pirates’ chest and they crawled around it with plastic cutlasses clenched between their teeth.

      When his mum and dad died, Benedict didn’t want the chest in the house any longer, but he couldn’t bear to get rid of it either so he gathered together their tools and belongings and stored them away in the attic.

      In the studio, Benedict moved Estelle’s canvasses to one side. He pushed the stick up, against the hatch, so the door creaked and opened up into the attic. ‘Step back,’ he warned Gemma. He let the door reverse down, so it hung back, perpendicularly, into the room.

      In the darkness, he could just about see the ends of a wooden ladder, and he used the hook on the stick to tug them. They shuddered down, stopping halfway between the ceiling and floor. Specks of dust and grit showered onto the sheets of newspaper Benedict had laid down on the floorboards. He flicked a catch on the ladder and slid them all the way down to the floor with a thud.

      ‘It looks spooky.’ Gemma peered up into the dark space.

      ‘The ghost who lives up there doesn’t think so.’

      Gemma’s eyebrows grew more angled. Then she caught sight of Benedict’s face, his lips twitching into a smile. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

      Benedict gave a short burst of laughter. ‘Of course. There’s nothing up there but piles of stuff.’

      ‘It’s so not funny. It’s a long way up.’

      ‘It’s not as high as the Eiffel Tower.’

      Gemma scratched her nose. ‘Yes, but…’

      ‘Well, if you want to know more about your grandparents and about the gemstones,’ Benedict said, ‘you’ll have to be brave. Follow me.’ He stepped onto the ladder and the rungs creaked and bowed as he climbed up.

      Gemma didn’t move. She stared at the ceiling.

      ‘Are you coming?’ Benedict squeezed through the hatch and hung his head over it.

      ‘It’s really dark up there. I don’t like it.’

      Benedict switched on a light. ‘Come on. It’s safe,’