The Desolate Tree: Book One – Union and Reunion
First, the ‘blurb’ for the book –
The year is 1989. Michael and Jennifer Radcliffe are living with their two teenage daughters in York when a letter arrives from his former employers in London, inviting Michael to a company reunion which he reluctantly decides to attend. There he renews his acquaintance with a shy Japanese woman, someone he barely knew during his time with the company six years before, and it is this chance meeting which triggers a roller-coaster of events which will bring profound changes to all their lives.
To read a preview of this book in the Kindle store, follow the link below:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00NKDJP1Y
And a few random snippets of dialogue and conversation, in no particular order . . .
“Whenever I would come here, it was as if I could feel the tree, feel its kami. It always felt so – so desolate, so sad. I could feel – almost an attraction, as if the tree seemed to be pulling me forward – summoning me, begging me for comfort.”
“Just look at her happy smile and her rosy cheeks! As a doctor of course, I can never actually advise a patient to go out and get laid as part of the treatment, but I often wish I could!”
“I meant it Michael, good luck on your first day. But be positive this time, try to forget that it’s April Fool’s Day – just try not to be the fool yourself for once.” Michael nodded. He needed this job to work out, after so many disappointments in the past few years. He opened the front door. “I’ll be off then, don’t want to be late – I’ll see you later, about half six I should think. Bye, love.”
She said “That’s just a little book – are you sure it’s the one you want?” Michael chuckled. “It’s like Granville – it’s small, but perfectly formed.”
He had never meant to sleep with her. Michael smeared the greasy condensation across the window of the crowded train, and watched London’s skyline fade into the mist.
“Or you could call him Mick-san,” said a female voice from behind the speaker. Michael leaned over to his right, looking past the group to see who had spoken. A lady dressed in a traditional formal Japanese kimono smiled up at him. Slowly she stood up and made a low formal bow, and Michael laughed. Placing his hands flat on his thighs, he returned the bow.
“All I have ever been told is that there are only three things that can be called Scotch – and that’s Scotch whisky, Scotch broth and Scotch eggs. Everything else is Scottish and the people call themselves the Scots nowadays.”
He frowned and glanced back through the doorway. Now he thought about it, she did seem different, perhaps a little – well, older. Perhaps her hair was shorter too. He shook his head, after all it was nearly six years since he had seen her, he hadn’t really known her that well and he wasn’t used to seeing her in kimono either, that made her look different. He smiled, he was sure that he must look older as well.
Michael closed his eyes and relaxed in the steaming bath, allowing the heat to seep into his muscles. He smiled to himself, I bet I’ve lost a few pounds this week. He just lay there unmoving, until an inquisitive toe between his legs interrupted his reverie and he opened one eye.
Gently Taeko stroked the top of the frame. “This photo used to be in the lounge, but after – well, I couldn’t bear to see it every day. But I think I will take it downstairs again now, and put it back where it should be, where it belongs.”
Radu-san. Michael smiled as he remembered how difficult it had been for the Japanese to get their tongues round the name Radcliffe, so he had soon become known as Radu-san, which he had always thought sounded like a brand of cheap toilet cleaner.
“They’re a weakness of mine. Old books – especially leather-bound ones – have a special attraction, they almost smell of history. My favourites are old dictionaries, I don’t know why really, but they fascinate me, always have done.”
“You know the trouble with ducks don’t you?” “No, what?” “They’re really man-eaters – and they don’t understand when the bread’s all gone.” Taeko laughed. “Oh, it is so good to laugh again. I feel so alive today, truly alive!”
He talked to her a little about the Wimbledon of his childhood. “I used to go swimming in the public baths, just down there in Latimer Road. I would be given a shilling for the outing – thruppence for the swim, thruppence for the bus fares there and back and sixpence for a few sweets or a bag of chips afterwards. I would go by trolleybus. That would be about 1955, ‘56, I suppose.”
“No-one could ever mistake you for a boy, I mean not with a figure like that. I had never realized –” he paused, “– I suppose I have only ever seen you with clothes on before.” She laughed. “I think that was meant to be a compliment, so I will accept it as one.”
“Young man, how often do you have middle-aged Japanese ladies coming in here asking for pints of Guinness?” The barman leaned both elbows on the bar and rested his chin on his hands. “Well now madam, let me tell you, I have been in England for thirty-two years, and in this business I never cease to be amazed at which people will be drinking what, and so in all that time I’ve learned never to take nothing for granted no more.” He straightened up. “But I’ll be taking that as a half, then.”
He frowned, and then laughed as a leg with a high-heeled shoe appeared from beside the wardrobe. A husky American voice said, “Hi there, big boy, looking for a good time?” The leg disappeared, and Jen emerged, a faint smile on her face. She was wearing the black shoes, and her thick coney-skin fur coat with the collar turned up. She walked slowly towards him, turning the collar down to show off her cleavage, and the pearls. Her hair was brushed forward over one eye, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He spun round when he heard her voice, and then froze as he realized he was naked except for his underpants, which unfortunately were scarlet and decorated with a picture of Desperate Dan holding a cow pie, with the legend “Bet you couldn’t eat one of these!” in yellow lettering.
“Oh – was he captured by the Japanese?” “No, by the Germans, he was lucky – ” Michael stopped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that how it sounded.” “No, I am sure he was very fortunate not to have been a captive in the Asian war. I know the Japanese soldiers did some terrible things to their prisoners.”
Michael lay awake in the dark, staring up at the canopy of the four-poster, with one hand behind his head. He looked at the clock; it was nearly four-thirty. A lone car sped by, either some late-night revellers finally going home perhaps, or an airport shift worker hurrying off to work.
She picked up his robe and held it out, but he still had to come right out of the water to take it from her. He held his hands in front of himself, like a footballer awaiting a free kick.
He cleared away the grass from the bottom of the headstone to see the last line. “Never forgotten.” He shook his head and smiled. “Never forgotten. No-one’s been here for years, and my Mum can’t even remember who she is now, let alone remember her parents.”
“It’s called a butsudan. It’s a Buddhist ancestor shrine.” “But I thought Shinto was the religion of Japan.” “Shinto for life we say, and Buddha for death. That’s the Japanese way. Perhaps she will explain more fully, perhaps not. It is still a difficult subject for her.”
Reluctantly the waiter took Michael’s coat, and then picked up the suitcase which he held well away from his body, as if it was a rather dirty and undesirable mongrel which had sneaked into the establishment behind his back.
“I will even admit this to you now – without too much embarrassment – but at work I could never even sit on a chair where another person had recently been sitting. I hated the feeling of the residual warmth from someone else’s body in the chair. Isn’t that silly?”
Miss Ogawa had disappeared with their coats and Taeko led the way down the wide hall, walking silently along in her tabi socks, the length of her paces limited by the constrictions of the kimono.
Gerald was a dapper little man with a sports jacket, a colourful bow tie and a twinkle in his eye. “Such a marvellous necklace needs to be seen, to be shown off and admired –” involuntarily he glanced down at the low neckline of her dress, “– and at the risk of sounding somewhat impertinent, you have the right – ah – attributes, to show it off admirably.”
“Japanese people have a belief in kami – if you like they are the spirits of Shinto, but Shinto is not really just a religion, it is much more. I mean, there is no central deity in Shinto, there’s no God, if you like, and no religious text like the Bible or the Koran. It’s much older than Christianity or Islam too, older even than Buddhism. To the people of Japan it is not just a religion, it is more a heritage, a culture. So you could easily be both Shinto and Buddhist – many people are – you could even be both Shinto and Catholic I suppose.”
“All right then, you’re on. After you, Lady Godiva.” Michael bowed. She laughed and returned his bow. “My hair isn’t long enough for me to be Lady Godiva, it wouldn’t cover my – my blushes at all.” “It doesn’t even cover your ears,” he replied and she laughed.
The two women walked off quickly together as they chatted in Japanese, and Michael followed a pace or two behind. He linked his hands behind his back as he walked along, and then as he followed them he caught sight of his reflection in a shop window, and it made him smile. Look at you – you look like Prince Bloody Philip.
“Can I ask you something, about the English language? I know there are many things which I have just learned without knowing why, but can you tell me – why are trousers plural? And pants? I can understand socks and shoes, because you can talk about one sock or one shoe. But trousers are one garment, you can’t have a trouser.” She giggled. “Or a pant.”
Now he could study her more closely, and unobserved, he could see her hair really was much shorter than it had been before, now with just a sprinkling of greys among the black. A few tiny lines showed in the corners of her eyes too – hardly crow’s feet, Michael’s subconscious suggested, more like wren’s feet?
The Desolate Tree 