Becoming Jo

by Sophie MacKenzie

  I’m not interested in any of these and pass by without breaking my stride. But then I come to Bookbound bookshop, and what I see displayed in the entrance not only makes me stop but actually takes my breath away.

  Right at the front is a display of Rowena Riddell’s Blacktower series with the latest book in the series at the centre, underneath a picture of the author herself. I’ve seen photos of Rowena Riddell before. She’s maybe thirty to thirty-five with long black hair. In this particular picture her hair is all to the side, held in place with a red clip that matches her scarlet jumper. A small, mysterious smile creeps across her lips as she looks into the camera with sparkling eyes.

  But it’s not the books or the photo that draws my attention the most. It’s the sign underneath them that reads:

  Rowena Riddell will be signing the latest book in her Blacktower series next Tuesday.

  Next Tuesday is just six days away, the night before term begins.

  I scan the notice anxiously for the time; thank goodness. The signing is at four p.m., so I won’t be forced into an argument with Mum over going out late the night before I begin at a new school.

  I almost skip the rest of the way to Aspen’s, barely noticing the fact that the air is now bitingly cold. I’m in such a dream world that I’ve no sooner signed for Aunt Em’s four silk cushions than I almost leave them on the counter, causing the poor guy serving to have to shout out to me.

  I only drop one cushion once on my way to Aunt Em’s, which isn’t bad considering I’m trying to balance all four of them in my arms as Aspen’s didn’t have bags big enough. I turn the damp edge of the dropped cushion away as I pass them to Aunt Em’s housekeeper and scurry off home before Aunt Em can stop me.

  Snowflakes are fluttering down as I pass the clock tower and within minutes the flutter has turned to a deluge. I’m soaked through, though my tartan cap at least keeps my head warm. By the time I turn on to our road there’s a thin layer of white over everything, from the wheelie bins set out for rubbish collection to the rooftops far above my head.

  Lateef is outside his house, wheeling a bin into position at the end of the gravel drive. I can see, looking across the road, that Amy has already put out ours. I scoop a handful of fresh snow off the hedge I’m passing, mould it into a small, hard ball, and chuck it at Lateef.

  I’ve always been good at throwing and catching but even I’m surprised at how accurate my aim is. The tiny snowball catches Lateef squarely on the side of the neck – the only bit of his body that’s exposed above his black jacket and below his grey beanie.

  “Hey!” Lateef slaps his hand over his neck, spinning round.

  I double over laughing. A second later, he’s cracking up too, scooping a handful of snow and running at me, trying to shove it down my neck. I reach around to make another snowball but there isn’t really enough snow. Anyway, Lateef is pinning my arms down. He’s panting for breath with the effort and we’re both still laughing. Lateef turns me to face him. He’s barely taller than I am, but surprisingly strong. We’re so close I can see the snowflakes on his eyelashes.

  Lateef stares at me for a second, then lets me go. I spring back, grinning.

  “Good to see you, Jo March. Where’ve you been?”

  “To the shops for my aunt.” The mention of “shops” reminds me of the sign in the bookshop window and I tell him all about Rowena Riddell’s book signing next week.

  Lateef says he’s never heard of her. “I told you already,” he says, laughing at my outraged expression. “I’m not a big reader. Movies though, now you’re talking.”

  “Well, I love movies too,” I say. “I just love stories, really.”

  “You know we have a home cinema in the basement? It’s really cool.”

  “Seriously?” I’m wide-eyed. I’ve heard of people having cinemas in their houses, but I’ve never actually been in one.

  “Seriously.” Lateef grins, a dimple appearing in his cheek. “Come round now. Check it out.”

  I hesitate – I know the others will kill me if I don’t ask them along too. But it’s too good an offer to turn down. And living in a small house without much money and so many siblings means sharing almost everything. I want to keep Lateef and his fancy house for myself – just for now.

  “OK, thanks,” I say. We make our way up Lateef’s driveway. As the whole house comes into view my jaw drops.

  It’s even more enormous than I’d realized: three massive storeys with at least six windows across each level, surrounded by lawn and a thick copse of trees on both sides.

  “Jumping Jack Jellybeans,” I mutter under my breath, borrowing a classic phrase from the Blacktower series. Lateef and his adopted family must be really rich.

  And, for the first time since I met Lateef, I feel nervous.

  Chapter 6

  My nerves don’t lessen as I follow Lateef through the wood-panelled entrance hall and down a flight of stone steps to the home cinema. It’s enormous. It runs under at least half the house, with a massive screen at one end that’s bigger than some I’ve seen in actual cinemas! The walls are carpeted with the same thick, soft purple fabric as the floor, and the seats are stepped in four rows, each of which is six seats wide. I do the maths quickly in my head.

  “You could have twenty-four people in here,” I gasp, unable to keep the awe out of my voice.

  “That doesn’t happen very often,” Lateef says, clearly enjoying my wonderment. “A couple of my birthday parties maybe and once a year when Uncle Jim hosts one of his charity functions. He’s a lawyer but he does lots of stuff for kids’ charities in his spare time.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Check this out.” Lateef presses a button and the far wall slides back to reveal a long set of shelves, stacked with DVDs. “Most of our newer films are downloads, but Uncle Jim has a collection going back eighty years.”

  I examine the shelves. The films are arranged in date order, a set of black-and-white movies I’ve never heard of at the start.

  “Wow,” I say again.

  Lateef chuckles. “D’you want to get a drink? Rosalie – she looks after the house – makes this great lemonade, like, proper stuff. Tastes awesome. And homemade cookies.”

  “Sure.” I follow Lateef back up to the ground floor and into a large kitchen with gleaming stainless-steel surfaces. It’s at least three times as big as our kitchen and way tidier. “Is it just you living here and your d—” I hesitate.

  “Uncle Jim?” Lateef finishes for me. “We talked about me calling him ‘Dad’ but I remember my actual father really clearly, so it didn’t feel right calling someone else that… Anyway, yup, just the two of us. Uncle Jim was married and they had a daughter, but his wife and the daughter died in a car accident a long time ago.” He pauses. “I never knew either of them. It had a big impact on Jim. People think he’s a bit rough, rude even … but he’s just shy and … and he doesn’t say, but I know he still misses them a lot.”

  I don’t know what to say; it’s so incredibly sad. I imagine losing Dad and shiver. I wander across the kitchen to a set of folding doors that are just slightly ajar. I push the doors open to reveal a dining area with a massive wooden table running down the centre.

  “Uncle Jim likes the doors closed. He’s fussy about stuff like that,” Lateef explains. “Says that there’s no point wasting money heating rooms we don’t use, that smaller spaces make the place more cosy.”

  Cosy is probably the last word I’d have chosen to describe either the neat, sparkling kitchen or this smart dining room with its big glass cabinets full of ornaments and photos. There’s a full-sized upright piano beyond the table to the left-hand end of the dining room. I stare at the glossy white wood; I can almost see my face in the shine of it. A vase of flowers stands on the piano lid, which is perfectly smooth apart from a small chip in one corner. A trio of portraits hang on the wall above: a middle-aged man and woman, formally dressed, on either side and a girl in the centre.

  “Is that them?”
I ask, staring at the picture of the man. In the painting he’s wearing a three-piece navy suit, and his hair is dark and slicked back from his narrow face. He looks handsome and doesn’t bear much relation to the grey-haired, ruddy-cheeked person with the stern eyes who called Lateef away at the charity lunch.

  “That’s them.” Lateef follows my gaze. “The girl’s name was Francesca.”

  I move closer, studying the portrait of the child. She has the same shiny dark hair as her father and soft grey eyes.

  “How old was she when she died?” I ask.

  “Fifteen,” Lateef explains. “Our age.”

  I shiver again, thinking how terrible it would be to lose someone that way: the shock of it, the sudden empty space in the world where they used to be. I look back at the picture of Lateef’s Uncle Jim. He isn’t smiling in his portrait. In fact, he’s frowning. It strikes me that he sounded cross at the charity lunch too.

  “He looks really fierce,” I said. “And very strict. I bet he can be a nightmare when—”

  “A nightmare, am I?” a loud male voice booms behind me.

  I spin round, a flush leaping up my neck and burning my cheeks.

  Uncle Jim is standing in the doorway. He’s obviously just walked in as he’s wearing an overcoat with a dusting of snow along the shoulders. His grey hair is plastered over his damp face and his eyes glitter dangerously.

  He still isn’t smiling.

  Chapter 7

  “I didn’t… I’m… I…” I stammer. “I was just…”

  “Hey, Uncle,” Lateef says cheerfully. “This is Jo March, from over the road. She was at the refugee charity lunch and—”

  “I remember,” Uncle Jim barks. He’s wearing a suit under his overcoat, similar to the one in the portrait. He was formally dressed at the lunch too. “So you don’t like my picture, young lady, is that it?”

  “No! It’s just…”

  “Just the subject?” Uncle Jim says curtly. “Go on, then, tell me what you make of us.” He points at the three pictures. “Me and my wife and our daughter. What do the paintings tell you about us?”

  My heart beats fast as I turn back to the pictures on the wall. I catch Lateef’s eye and he gives me a reassuring wink. I take a deep breath, trying not to let Uncle Jim intimidate me.

  “Well,” I say, “you come across as fierce and stern in your picture, but your wife looks kind.” I glance at him, but his face gives nothing away. “And your daughter – Francesca, isn’t it? – looks like she was quite dreamy and shy. She reminds me of my younger sister a bit – shy around most people, but if she trusts you she’ll chatter away.” I pause. “Lateef told me they passed away. I’m very sorry.”

  There’s a long silence and when Uncle Jim speaks again there’s a catch in his voice.

  “You’re right about my wife. She was kind. And you’re right about Franny too,” he says, “she was shy and liked nothing better than to play that.” He nods at the beautiful piano. “She was good too, worked hard at it.” He casts a glance at Lateef and gives a wry smile. “Not like some people.”

  “Do you play, Lateef?” I ask him, glad to turn the subject.

  “Kind of,” Lateef says with a rueful grin. “I don’t practise as much as I should.”

  “You don’t practise at all.” Uncle Jim snorts. “Anyway, I’m sorry I startled you, Jo. I’m James Laurence, but please call me Uncle Jim.” He strides forward and holds out his hand for me to shake, which I do, making sure my hand grips his properly. Dad’s always saying that there’s very little that makes a worse first impression than a limp handshake.

  “We appreciated you girls coming to the charity lunch,” Uncle Jim carries on. “A long time ago, my late wife used to run the local branch of Refuge Now. She did the job that Liz Gardiner does now. It’s important to me to support their good work.” He pauses. “I spoke to your mother at the lunch. Seems like a fine lady. Must be hard for her with your father abroad.” He smiles at last, and his face softens. “I bet you girls are a handful, too. Three of you, are there?”

  “Four,” I explain.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Goodness, four girls?”

  “Yes, Meg’s the oldest, she’s into design and style, very talented and beautiful and kind. Amy’s the youngest. She likes drawing and having nice stuff and impressing people; though, to be fair, she’s incredibly loyal too. And then there’s Beth…” I trail off, unsure how to describe her.

  “And what’s Beth like?” Uncle Jim raises a bushy eyebrow.

  “She’s the opposite of me. Always careful.” I say slowly. “About what she does and what she says, whereas I rush into things. And she’s shy, like your daughter was. That’s who Francesca’s picture made me think of, in fact. And Beth loves playing the piano, too. At home we’ve only got this cronky old keyboard that’s like a million years old, but Beth still practises every day.”

  “Hear that, Lateef? Practising every day. That’s what it takes.”

  Lateef shrugs with good humour. “I know, I know – it’s just that I’m busy…”

  I laugh. “Mum would say that’s an excuse,” I say.

  To my surprise, stern-looking Uncle Jim lets out a deep chuckle. “You tell him, Jo! His teacher says he’s got talent, but he doesn’t work at it. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in thirty-five years as a lawyer it’s that you have to work to get anywhere in life.” He peers at me. “What’s your ambition, Jo?”

  “I’m going to be a famous novelist,” I say, without hesitation.

  Uncle Jim laughs again. “Good for you. Well, you’re very welcome here. And so are your sisters. And if Beth wants to come and play this proper piano here instead of her … cronky old keyboard, we’d be delighted to have her.”

  I’m buzzing when I get home, though Aunt Em does her best to bring me down by calling and complaining that I damaged one of her stupid silk cushions earlier.

  “What on earth happened, Jo?” Mum asks despairingly.

  “I just dropped one on the floor,” I explain, demonstrating how it happened using four of the battered cushions from our faded sofa.

  “It was only a tiny bit damp in one corner,” I insist.

  Mum sighs and lets the matter drop.

  I help Meg make dinner and, later that evening, I tell Beth about Uncle Jim, our conversation and the portraits above the piano. She listens, wide-eyed.

  “It’s an awesome piano,” I explain. “And Uncle Jim says you can go round there and play it whenever you like.”

  “I couldn’t.” Beth’s cheeks whiten. She sets down her knitting. “No way could I play with people listening.”

  “Oh, Beth,” I say, “you play in front of us all the time.”

  “That’s different. I don’t know Lateef or his uncle Jim. I couldn’t play in front of strangers.”

  “Well, once you’ve met them both properly they won’t be strangers any more, I point out, but” Beth shakes her head.

  “So, what’s Lateef like now you know him a bit better?” Meg asks, having drifted in towards the end of our conversation.

  “He’s great, you guys will love him. He lives in this mansion with an actual, proper home cinema and loads of space and expensive stuff, but he’s not at all stuck up. And he’s been through such a hard time – he lost his entire family when he came here.”

  “Ooh, what expensive stuff?” Amy asks, following Meg into the room.

  “For Pete’s sake, Amy,” I groan. “Unlike you, I don’t spend my time in other people’s houses checking out their belongings.”

  “It must have been a big shock for Lateef, coming from a country where there’s conflict and lots of poverty,” Beth muses. “And no matter what possessions they have or how big their house is, Lateef’s still lost more in his life than he’s gained.”

  “Of course,” Amy says with a dismissive wave. “But – if he had to leave his homeland, imagine how amazing it must have been for Lateef to be suddenly rich and surrounded by nice things.”

&nbs
p; “Jeez, you are so superficial, Amy,” I snap, seriously irritated now. “There’s more to life than ‘nice things’.”

  “I’m not superficial. And even if I was I’d rather be superficial than super-chilly-us like you,” Amy snaps.

  “The word is supercilious.” I roll my eyes.

  “Exactly. And I know there’s more to life than nice things. I’m just thinking that if he’s got so much money and we got to know him really well … then, well, maybe Uncle Jim might be prepared to pay for me to have a nose job…”

  At this, Meg and I break into laughter. Even Beth smiles. And Amy, chin firmly stuck in the air, stalks out of the room.

  Chapter 8

  It’s the final weekend before we start at our new school on Wednesday and everyone’s making the most of our remaining free time before homework kicks in. Meg has been poring over some old copies of Vogue magazine from the eighties and nineties that Aunt Em was throwing out – yawn, fashion. Meanwhile Beth’s been knitting like mad and doing lots of piano practice – Mum’s organized free lessons at the new school and Beth is worrying already about having to play for a new teacher. As for Amy, she’s taken to wandering around the house making irritating comments and staring at herself in the mirror. Well, to be fair, she’s also spending a lot of time starting new paintings and drawings, though she does tend to get bored quickly and drop them before they’re finished.

  I’m the opposite with my writing. I spend ages on my stories, often working for hours to get a single paragraph just right. Right now, for instance, I’m stationed in the kitchen, which is often noisy but has the advantage of being close to food, and I’ve been writing for the past forty-eight hours with hardly any break: Rodriguo has found Rachel’s dormitory at the boarding school now. He didn’t get shot, but he sprained both ankles trying to leap from a second-floor window to get away from one of the tutors, who heard him making a noise. He’s now hiding out in the caretaker’s disused coal shed, which is very dirty, but he can rest his ankles there while Rachel brings him food and water. She’s risking a lot to help him, but then he risked a lot to find her. When he can walk again, they’re going to escape. At least, they’re going to try!