Wishes Under The Willow Tree: The feel-good book of 2018. Phaedra Patrick

into an art gallery, to display the work of Yorkshire artists.

      Benedict had passed by and it was very modern, with white walls and polished floorboards. He spied Lawrence himself, standing in the middle of the gallery and waving his arms around as if conducting an orchestra. He dressed like a French mime artist, with slim hips in tight black trousers, and a Breton striped top.

      The women of Noon Sun seemed to like him though. Benedict once overhead a small group in the Pig and Whistle gushing about him and fanning their flushed faces with the laminated menus.

      From the shop counter, Lord Puss let out a short meow that sounded more like a bark, and his yellow eyes were like slits. From hearing the noise at least ten times a day, Benedict knew that His Royal Highness wanted food. ‘Now I have a cat and a teenager to feed,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You’ll have to wait a bit longer, Lord Puss. A bit of patience will do you good.’

      He caught a glimpse of Estelle’s purple anorak hanging in the store cupboard and he reached out to touch the vivid fabric. He allowed himself a moment to imagine his wife wearing it, then he withdrew his hand and furled it into a fist. What was he going to do to get her back? He wasn’t particularly handsome, and he knew he ate too much. He might mention family too often, but he loved her with all his heart. He just didn’t know how to express it.

      He opened the back door and took a food sachet from his pocket. He squeezed it into the cat’s bowl and threw the leaflets for the rock band in the bin. ‘Here, puss, puss,’ he said wearily.

      Lord Puss jumped off the counter and walked as slowly as he could out into the yard. He barely sniffed his food bowl then sat down. A dapple of sunshine illuminated the paving flags with a circle of light so it looked like he was under a spotlight, waiting for applause. He turned his face away from Benedict, as if he had smelled something bad.

      ‘Damn cat.’

      Back inside, Benedict carried his laptop through to the workshop and flipped it open. After waiting ages for it to fire up, he was glad that Noon Sun had internet connection today. The phone and broadband in the village only worked intermittently because the surrounding hills blocked the signal.

      Benedict had never made a proper effort to track down his brother before, for fear of what might happen. But this time, he Googled Charlie Stone and Charles Stone. He chewed his bottom lip as half a million results showed up.

      Part of him wanted his brother’s face to appear on the computer screen, but another part wanted it to remain hidden, so Benedict wouldn’t experience the awful pangs of shame that kept him awake at night.

      His fingers shook a little as he tried again, this time typing in Charlie and Amelia Stone and then Gemma Stone. But there were still thousands of results.

      It looked like Gemma’s suggestion of sending a letter might be his only way of making contact with Charlie after all.

      Next, Benedict phoned the airport and spoke to a young man who had a Northern Irish accent and who spoke at breakneck speed. He informed Benedict that there was no record of a purse with a passport inside it being handed in. He took Benedict’s name and number and said that he’d call if anything turned up. ‘Don’t count on it though,’ he added. ‘Have a nice day.’

      Benedict lowered himself into his chair. He opened his drawer and found half a packet of Polo mints pushed into the corner. He munched them one after another then crumpled the foil into a ball, tossed it into the bin and gave himself a small cheer. He opened another drawer and took out the anniversary necklace. Slinking it over the back of his hand and touching its tiny links, he hoped that Estelle would realise how much time and love he’d poured into it.

      When his phone vibrated in his pocket, Benedict’s heart leaped. A text from his wife? Finally.

      ‘How R U Benedicto?’ Cecil asked.

      Benedict sighed. ‘I should be asking you that! How did the op go?’

      ‘Okay but a few complications. Visiting time is 6.00 till 7.30.’

      ‘I’ll be there tomorrow.’

      ‘Any news on Estelle?’

      Benedict hesitated. ‘Not yet,’ he texted. He couldn’t think of how to tell Cecil, in a few words, about Gemma’s arrival.

      Cecil replied, ‘

. How is Lord Puss?’

      ‘He misses you.’

      ‘Me too. Send my

.’

      Benedict couldn’t think of anything worse than whispering gooey sweet nothings to the fluffy beast. ‘I will do. Now rest up. All is great here.’

      ‘

,’ said Cecil.

      While Benedict waited for Gemma, no customers came into the shop. He thought that he’d relish the quietness away from her, but when he picked up a length of gold wire to make more links, he squashed each one.

      As he slid another batch of rejected links from his palm into the teacup, the electronic beep-bop in the showroom sounded. Gemma returning early, he pressed his lips tight.

      ‘Hello,’ he called out and walked into the showroom. And then his heart and time seemed to come to a standstill.

      His wife stood in the middle of the shop.

      ‘Estelle?’ His word sounded raspy.

      ‘Hello, Benedict,’ she said.

      He used to greet her with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and he wanted to do that now. They’d shared twelve years of love and laughter, but they stood facing each other as if there was a thick pane of glass between them.

      His wife used her arms and hands to express herself – a reassuring pat to his shoulder, a hug hello, a rub to his forearm as she spoke. This woman looked like Estelle and sounded like her, but she didn’t move like his wife. It was like a clone had taken over Estelle’s body but hadn’t downloaded her personality.

      He felt as if his limbs were held together by glue that was becoming unstuck. If he moved, then he might fall apart. ‘Estelle,’ he repeated. Words wafted around in his head and he couldn’t pin them down to say them to her. If she came home, he would do whatever he needed to, to make things right. He didn’t want to beg, but if that’s what it took then he would do it.

      Estelle touched her neck and he saw that she was wearing a bright resin necklace that looked like a firework exploding from beneath her collar. She followed his eyes. ‘Oh, this? Friends bought it for me, to celebrate my exhibition at Purple Heather.’

      ‘It’s very bold.’

      ‘It’s nice to have a change sometimes.’

      Benedict cleared his throat. ‘Your exhibition looks very exciting. Congratulations. I found a leaflet on my doormat.’

      Her brow furrowed in the middle. ‘Sorry. I thought that you knew about it.’

      ‘No.’ He tried to say it without emotion but felt a tremble in his voice.

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Things have been so crazy recently. I hope that you’ll come along.’

      Benedict wanted to attend, but what part would he play? He wasn’t sure if Estelle was inching him out of her life. He thought of Cecil’s words about getting on his proverbial medieval horse to joust for her. But what could he do?

      He felt like he was sitting on the beach when a huge wave crashed, filling his nose and mouth with salt water. He might try to flail around and scramble away, but he was drowning. How had they come to this? It had happened so gradually – the niggles, the arguments, the silences had all reached a crescendo of awfulness, until his wife had felt the only option was to move