Читать книгу Wishes Under The Willow Tree: The feel-good book of 2018 - Phaedra Patrick, Phaedra Patrick - Страница 8

2. Ruby

visualisation, dynamism, vibrancy

Benedict wondered who the girl was. He seemed to know her from somewhere. She barely reached his shoulder in height and her wet, dark dress clung to her knees, so they poked through the cotton like knobbles of tree bark. Her legs were bare and she wore battered tan leather cowboy boots. Her arms hung by her sides, in a denim jacket at least two sizes too big for her, and the sleeves covered her fingertips. With her ears poking out through her long, damp hair, her face had an impish quality. Eyebrows, bushy and set too high and angled on her forehead, gave her an air of surprise. Dangling from the end of one sleeve was a small white drawstring bag, the type you get when you buy jewellery in a posh shop.

The outside light clicked off and they both stood in darkness.

‘I thought no one was home.’ Her voice was deeper and slower than Benedict expected. She had an American accent. ‘Where were you?’

‘Um, I was in bed, asleep.’

‘You’re wearing a suit jacket.’

‘I know.’ He wondered why she was questioning him, as if she knew him.

‘Benedict Stone?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Gemma.’ She offered her hand in a karate-chop move.

It was slim and wet, and Benedict’s brain ticked as he shook it. Gemma. Did he know a Gemma?

Estelle used to tell him that she’d bumped into so-and-so in the village, who went to school with such-a-person, who was married to thingamajig. He would smile and nod and not have a clue who she was talking about. Gemma? He couldn’t place her.

‘I’m Gemma Stone.’

Gemma? Gemma Stone? Gemma…Stone.

‘Your niece,’ she said sharply.

‘You’re Charlie’s daughter?’ He gasped. Now that he looked, she had the same nose and chin as his brother. ‘Is he here?’

‘No.’

‘You’re alone?’

‘Yes.’

She stuck out a foot and shook it. ‘And I’m very wet. Are you going to invite me in?’

Benedict took a few seconds to peel his hand away from the doorframe. He shook his head with confusion. ‘Um… yes.’

Gemma bent down and picked up a small, saggy rucksack that lay at her feet and slung it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll follow you, Uncle Ben.’

‘It’s Benedict, actually.’ He headed into the house and Gemma followed. Her boots squelched and left wet oval-shaped footprints on the floorboards. ‘This is the kitchen.’ Words swam in his head. ‘Can I, er, get you anything?’

‘I got a sandwich at the airport.’ She stuck her head around the door. ‘It smells musty in there. And it’s dark.’

‘I’ll switch a light on.’

‘Yeah.’

Benedict squinted as the kitchen light seemed twice as bright as usual. ‘About Charlie…?’ he tried again. How long was it since his brother walked out on him, to go and live in America? Eighteen years?

Benedict still pictured Charlie as a young boy. He’d brought his brother up, since their parents were killed in an accident when Charlie was ten and Benedict was eighteen. He sometimes reached up and touched the underside of his chin, positive that he could still feel the tickle of his brother’s copper hair tucked there.

Gemma stretched out her arms and gave a noisy yawn. ‘I’m so tired after travelling,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to bed and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?’

‘Bed?’ Benedict repeated. ‘You’re staying the night?’

But she was already making her own way up the stairs.

Benedict stared up at the ceiling as the floorboards creaked in his bedroom, Charlie’s old room and then Estelle’s studio. What the hell should he do? Should he follow her up, or try to sleep on the sofa? Should he offer her a change of clothes?

He rubbed his neck and went upstairs anyway, trying to climb them as noisily as he could, so she could hear him approaching.

When he reached the landing, he heard clattering inside the bathroom. Something fell and skittered around in the sink. The toilet flushed, water gushed and the plughole gurgled. There was a bang and Gemma said, ‘Crap.’

Benedict cleared his throat loudly. ‘Ahem.’

Gemma opened the bathroom door by a few inches and pressed her forehead against the doorframe. ‘Before you ask me anything else,’ she said, sighing. ‘I have mental and physical exhaustion.’

‘I just want to know… Well, is your dad okay? Where is your mother?’ Questions bolted around his head like piglets let loose on a farm.

Gemma switched off the bathroom light and pulled the door shut behind her. She carried her clothes in a clump and she wore a pair of Estelle’s pyjamas. They were white with large pink roses and the sight made Benedict feel light-headed. The pyjamas should have his wife inside them, not a stranger.

‘I’m going to take this room.’ Gemma jerked her thumb towards Estelle’s studio.

‘Er, okay,’ Benedict said, too taken aback to add anything else.

His niece dropped her pile of clothes on the floor and pushed her soggy rucksack and boots against the wall with one foot. Leaving the door open, she peeled back the covers and clambered into bed. ‘Thanks, Uncle Ben,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’

When Benedict woke the next day it was 7.30 a.m. and his mouth was as dry as a sand dune. He lay for a while and shielded his eyes with his hand against the mustardy light that sliced around the curtains. At first, the morning felt like every other lonely one since Estelle left, too still and silent. But then Gemma murmured in her sleep, and the strange noise made the roots of his hair stiffen.

Turning, he saw one of Estelle’s empty perfume bottles sitting on top of her bedside table. He reached over, picked it up and held it under his nose. The musky rose scent transported him back to the heat and bustle of a Greek market where his wife laughed and haggled for the amber-coloured bottle. He could almost see the glint of sunlight on the sunglasses pushed back into her black bobbed hair.

When they were on holiday, Estelle liked to go out and explore. ‘What’s the point of sitting still when we’re someplace new?’ She’d smile as she set off to walk to the nearest town. She liked to find local craft shops and, when she returned, present to Benedict what she’d bought – a small ceramic butterfly, or a hand-painted dish for olive oil.

Benedict barely glanced at them. He liked to stay around the pool, listening to families splashing around and imagining that one day he might throw an inflatable Frisbee to his own kids. He tried not to look at the trim dads in their Speedos, when he himself sported an oversized T-shirt and baggy shorts. ‘Isn’t this hotel great for kids?’ he said. ‘It’s got a children’s club too.’

Sometimes, Estelle’s moving out felt like he’d been rugby-tackled and knocked, breathless, off his feet. At other times, he told himself to be more optimistic. She was just helping out a friend and would be back soon. Things would return to normal and they’d pick up their conversation about adoption again. He would try to persuade her it was the best way forward.

Benedict picked up his mobile and saw that Estelle hadn’t replied to his text from last night. For a moment, he wondered about sending another one, but Gemma groaned in her sleep and he slipped the phone under his pillow.

He slid out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and put on his loafers. Stealing a glance in the studio, he saw his niece was curled up with her back to him. Her rucksack was on the floor and it didn’t seem to contain much, for a trip to England from America.

He crouched and strained one arm into the room and pulled her discarded clothes towards him. They were still damp from the rain. Damn, did he even know how to operate the tumble dryer?

As he gathered them to his chest, something white landed on the floor with a thud. It was the bag that had dangled from the sleeve of Gemma’s denim jacket last night. He froze, scarecrow-still, as she muttered in her sleep. When she started to snore, Benedict pushed the white bag back into the room with his foot.

Downstairs, Benedict read and reread the instructions that Estelle had handwritten and taped next to the dial on the tumble dryer. Since she’d gone, he realised how much she did in the house. It was as if a fairy magically popped in and did all the cooking, cleaning, the grocery shopping and the washing-up. For the past six weeks, he hadn’t done much. When his clothes needed a wash, he took them to his friend Ryan’s launderette, Soap’n’Suds, in the village, and Bake My Day provided most of his meals.

Benedict turned a dial on the dryer and hoped for the best.

The dining room used to be tidy, but now there were piles of his clothes, newspapers and screwed-up plastic bags on most surfaces. Estelle liked fresh flowers on the table but instead there was a pile of cork placemats and a heap of junk mail.

He used to think that the house was friendly and well lived in, but now it just looked ancient. The pine kitchen units had darkened over the years to a burnt orange colour, and the lino was torn and needed replacing. Estelle had suggested many times that they spruce up the place, but Benedict wanted to save money, for when they had a family.

Could he really blame her for moving out, when his motivation had shipped out too? Cecil was right; she deserved a jousting knight on a white horse. But that wasn’t him.

As Gemma’s jacket and dress began to spin, he wondered about her impromptu arrival. Why had she arrived so late, and why was she on her own? Something wasn’t right here and the familiar urge of wanting to eat crept up on him like a mutant blob in a fifties sci-fi movie.

It usually started with his stomach feeling as hollow as an empty beer barrel. Then a chirpy voice in his head announced that food would make him feel better. Benedict didn’t experience hunger as such, rather the need to feel full, to take his mind away from the present.

His fingers twitched as he opened the fridge door. On the top shelf sat two chunky slices of lemon cheesecake. Lemons are nice and healthy, they said to him.

‘Shut up,’ Benedict growled and set to work making an omelette instead. He sniffed and wondered if it would cover the musty smell that Gemma had complained about.

He ate it standing up, in front of the sink. Then he succumbed and ate a slice of lemon cheesecake anyway.

When Gemma woke up, he would make her some breakfast and ask for Charlie’s phone number. Benedict wondered what his brother had told Gemma about him. He rubbed his neck with shame and wondered if Charlie would reject him all over again.

When the tumble dryer rumbled to a stop, it had gone past nine. Benedict pulled out the clothes, folded them roughly and carried them upstairs. He was late for work and eating too much had made him feel cranky.

In the studio, Gemma was still in bed and he bent down to deposit her dried clothes on the floor.

‘What the hell…?’ The bed juddered and she sat up, clutching the blanket to her chin.

Benedict stood up so quickly that his back cricked. ‘Ouch.’ He flailed one hand behind him in a failed attempt to support it. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘I was, until you crept into my room, like a pudgy vampire or something.’ She flopped back onto her pillow and specks of dust burst into the air. She reached up, trying to catch them. ‘This house is dirty.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you married?’

‘Um, yes.’

‘You’re not sure?’

Her question felt like a small punch in his gut. ‘I am married. And I dried your clothes.’ He stepped over them and opened the curtains.

Gemma squealed and covered her eyes with her hands.

When she lowered them, he’d forgotten what she looked like. Her hair was now dry, with strands stuck to her cheeks. It was a russet red, darker than Charlie’s copper mop, and it reminded Benedict of autumn leaves. Her irises shone teal blue against the pink of her eyelids. Again, because of the high angle of her eyebrows, he wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not.

‘When you’re dressed,’ he said, ‘I’ll make you an omelette.’

She screwed up her nose. ‘I hate eggs.’

‘I have cheesecake too.’

‘That’s a dessert.’

Her answering back made his head throb. ‘I’m not running a café. After you’ve eaten, we’ll phone your dad. You can tell him that you’re safe and we can make arrangements.’

‘What arrangements?’

‘For whatever you plan to do.’

Gemma frowned. ‘I planned to come here.’

‘To Noon Sun?’

‘Yeah. For an adventure.’

‘Adventure?’ Benedict’s brow puckered as he thought about the sleepy village, with its row of lacklustre shops. ‘You’ll be lucky. And it’s dangerous to turn up on a stranger’s doorstep unannounced.’

‘You’re my uncle. And it’s not unannounced.’

‘It is, if I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘My dad said that you knew.’

‘What?’ Benedict said. ‘I think I’d remember that. We haven’t spoken for years.’

‘Didn’t he write or something?’

‘No.’

Gemma puffed out her breath. ‘I hate arguments.’

‘It’s not really an argument,’ Benedict replied.

But he hated them too. He detested when he and Estelle had chats that turned to discussions which evolved into heated debates. When they couldn’t find a way forward and she would hug her pillow to her chest and stomp into the studio to sleep there instead.

‘When your father moved away, we lost contact,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’m not trying to get you into trouble, but there’s been some miscommunication. So, as soon as you’ve eaten, we’ll get in touch with Charlie, and your mother, to sort things out. Okay?’

Gemma sat up. She drew her knees up to her chin and hugged her shins. ‘It’s not so easy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Cause Dad lives on a farm in north Maine, but there’s no phone line. He doesn’t even have email.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And he and my mom split, a few years ago.’

‘Oh.’ This threw Benedict. He had always imagined Charlie and his wife Amelia were still together. ‘Sorry to hear that. Does he have a mobile number?’

‘Sure. That’s the only thing he does have.’ She frowned, but her eyebrows remained high and pointed. ‘It’s 605, or is it 4? I think it’s, um…no. Sorry.’

‘Don’t you have it stored in your phone?’

‘Someone took my purse, from the airport restroom. My phone and passport were inside it.’

Benedict stared at her in disbelief. ‘So you don’t have a purse, phone or passport?’

‘Well, I did have them, but not any longer.’

Benedict dug his hand into his hair. ‘I’ll call the airport and see if your purse has been handed in.’

‘I reported it missing last night. They’ll call me if they find it. I’ve thought of everything.’

‘How can they call you, if they have your phone?’

‘Oh.’ Gemma scrunched her mouth into a small circle. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Hey, you could write him a letter,’ she said brightly.

Benedict’s mind conjured up the last slice of cheesecake in the fridge. He wanted it badly. ‘You can’t really stay here…’ he began.

‘You have a spare room.’

‘Yes, but…I’m waiting for my wife to come back.’

‘Where has she gone?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Benedict needed a sit down. He wanted to get into Stone Jewellery and shut himself away in his workshop. He could make another brooch, or links for the anniversary necklace. It would be nice and quiet. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said.

‘Well…’ Gemma jumped off the bed and scooped up her rucksack from the floor. A large hairbrush and a small teddy bear with a purple ribbon around its neck fell out. She picked them up and stuffed them both back inside. Her mouth was set in a thin, determined line. ‘If you don’t want me here, I’ll get my stuff and go.’

Benedict studied the back of her head. ‘Where to?’

‘What do you freakin’ care?’ she snarled. ‘I’m almost seventeen years old and I can look after myself.’

Benedict gulped. He hadn’t calculated in his head how old she might be. Panic began to churn in his stomach. ‘You’re only sixteen?’ How could he turf her out, in a strange country? But he also thought about Estelle, arriving back at the house to find it in a mess and a teenager sleeping in her studio, and wearing her pyjamas. How was he going to deal with that? It was a shame he couldn’t ring Cecil for advice. ‘Look, have your breakfast first.’

‘I don’t want a crappy omelette, okay?’

‘Have some bread then…’

‘Jeez, you sound just like my dad.’ Gemma’s voice fired up a notch. ‘He doesn’t listen to me either.’ She slumped back on the bed and kicked her heels against the base of the mattress. Thud, thud, thud.

‘You must eat something…’

More quickly than Benedict’s eyes could follow, she reached down to the floor and picked something up. She raised her hand to her shoulder as if performing a shot put. Then she thrust it forward. ‘Just stop talking.’

Benedict felt something hit him on his left cheek. Thwump. The pain made him screw his eyes shut. ‘What the…?’

Gemma’s eyes widened. She scrambled off the bed and held out her arms as if carrying a large dog. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Uncle Ben. I didn’t mean to hit you. I meant to hit the door.’

Benedict squinted. On the floor was the small white drawstring bag. ‘Well, that’s okay then. Is this what you threw at me?’ He nudged it with his foot. ‘You can’t go round lobbing stuff at people. That bloody well hurt.’

‘I said sorry.’

Benedict’s cheek throbbed.

‘You should open that white bag,’ Gemma said. ‘I brought it for you.’

‘To throw at me?’

‘I can’t be responsible for all my actions. Open it up.’

Benedict bent down, picked up the bag and eased it open. He immediately recognised the jumble of gemstones inside – an egg-shaped green speckled stone, a chunk of Turquoise and a piece of Rose Quartz in the shape of a heart. His head felt floaty as he picked it out. ‘What is this for?’

‘I want to know what they mean.’

It had been many years since Benedict had seen the gemstones, since he pushed them into his brother’s rucksack before he left for America. ‘They used to belong to my parents.’

‘There must be more to the story than that.’

Benedict felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. He tied the drawstring tight and handed it back to her. Surely Charlie wouldn’t have told her the reason why the two brothers had fallen out? When he spoke his throat was the thickness of a drinking straw. ‘No, there isn’t,’ he said.

‘Well’ —Gemma snatched the bag of gemstones back off him and held them to her chest— ‘I’m sorry for throwing these at you, Uncle Ben. I’ll leave today and not come back. But not until you tell me more about these gems…’