HEATHER’S TREE

I had breakfast with Paul today. We took a mile long walk around Goring and Streatley and then ended up in Pierreponts cafe.

Just as we wandered from politics to cars to guitar practice, and my mind was about to non sequitur  into the last British hangman also being called Pierrepont and how odd a name for a cafe that is, Paul suddenly said,

“Do you want to see Heather’s tree?”

After the funeral, Paul and his brothers had phoned the Environment Agency and asked whether they could plant a tree by the river, in her memory. And so they had.

We paid up, then walked on, past George Michael’s old house, the mill, and on under the wooden bridge. And there, off to one side, was a tall spindly sapling - a crab apple tree, still supported by a pole and plastic ties.

It was beautifully young and fresh. I’d say about my height, but slender, like a pencil. Tiny apples hung from its wiry branches, delicate like buds, but unmistakeably still apples. Fresh green leaves sprouted happily, and it swayed gently in the sunshine.

My eyes twitched, and I blinked away the tears. What a lovely thing - a beautiful new life shooting from the memory of one that had ended. I looked at Heather’s tree and I somehow saw Heather: young, full of life and hope, and faith, smiling like she did when we first met her that summer in Northern Ireland. She should be here, still, on the bank of the Thames, with us.

“I understand I think,” said Paul, “Why people visit graves and need to talk. It actually does you good, somehow.”

I get that a little bit, but not to the extent he meant it. There’s a depth to his understanding of grief that I just won’t be able to compute. And that’s okay; I get that. But I did want to talk to Heather, and this little tree in Goring seemed like a connection point. I hadn’t realised how much I miss my friend.