by Sarah Webb
“Soft day,” he says with a grin. Even drenched and wearing that old oilskin he still looks edible.
I drag my eyes upwards and meet his. Zing! Oh dear God, he’s even better-looking close up, if that’s possible. I nod mutely, my heart thumping loudly.
He rests his pitchfork on the grass, prongs upward, like a devil’s, and stares at me. “Hate fruit flies.” He eyes the top of the open compost bin. “Not so many in the rain.”
I nod again. Say something, Amy. He’s going to think you’re some kind of mute weirdo. “I’m Amy,” I manage. “I’m staying in Haven House with my family.” It comes out as a squeak.
“Aye,” he says. “I know that.”
“And you’re Kit. Martie told me.”
“Did she, now?” His eyes narrow, probably because he’s wondering what else she said, but he still doesn’t speak. Instead, he goes back to staring at the compost bin.
Talk about awkward conversations: water from a stone and all that. But I’m not going to give up yet. “Um, we have compost bins at home,” I say, then wince. Brilliant, Amy. Inspired. Not! But he looks at me and seems interested, so I carry on. “And a wormery. We use the compost for Mum’s roses.”
He still says nothing. (He’s clearly blown away by my scintillating conversational skills. As if.)
“They’re my favourite flowers,” I add, then stop. I’ve completely run out of things to say.
“There’s a rose garden here,” he says after an agonizingly long silence.
“Really? Cool. I love the way roses smell. I like white ones the best. And pink and red. But white mostly. Have you ever seen a blue one? They’re quite unusual, but I have—” I clamp my mouth shut before I can spout any more rubbish. I stand there feeling useless while he forks the last bits of grass into the compost bin and slams it shut.
“Follow me, so,” he says.
“Where’s your dog?” I ask as he throws the fork into the rusty old wheelbarrow.
“Jack? Sheltering. Doesn’t like rain. Sensible lad.”
He leads the way round the high granite wall to the side wing of the house, where there is another narrow gateway.
“Door to the rose garden,” he says. Pulling a jangling set of keys out of his pocket, he searches for one, then unlocks the padlock. He grinds back the rusty bolt and stands back to let me walk in first.
I half-expect him to push me from behind and ram the bolt home, trapping me for ever in a creepy dungeon full of bats and flesh-eating rats – but clearly I’ve been watching too many horror movies with Clover. He’s just being polite – which instantly reminds me of Seth. Seth’s manners are Fairy Tale Good. Polly has terrorized him into it.
Seth.
I feel a twist of guilt in my stomach. But as I walk through the gate I forget everything; I’m so overwhelmed by the remarkable smell. It’s like walking into Clover’s bedroom after she’s just sprayed herself with her posh perfume. Only better. Because this scent is the real thing. I take long, heady breaths and start to walk down the wet cobblestone path; the rounded stones press into the soles of my flip-flops, giving my feet a pebble massage.
I look about me. I’m in a tiny walled garden, full of waist-high rose bushes. The beds have been separated into four quadrants, each one full of white, red, light pink or dark pink roses, each smelling subtly different. In the middle is a paved circle with a fountain: a stone dolphin with a trickle of water splashing out of its mouth. I walk towards it and study the water in its mossy pool, expecting to see goldfish or a magical frog, but it’s full of murky water and dark green weeds.
“It’s beautiful – like the Secret Garden.” I beam at him. (I can’t help it; it’s just so unexpected.) “Thank you so much for showing me this place. The smell” – I give a big sniff – “it’s just amazing…”
Kit smiles. “No bother. There’s something else I want to show you.” He beckons me and leads the way past the fountain.
Hidden behind a carpet of climbing roses is an open-fronted shed. Well, not a shed exactly, more of a summerhouse – freshly painted eggshell blue – with lattice-work on its three walls and a conical turreted roof. There’s a little seat in it.
“This was Mam’s favourite place,” Kit says. “Used to sit here and sniff, just like you did. Said the roses smelled like heaven in the rain. She were a chatterbox too.”
I laugh. “Used to?”
“She’s dead,” he says simply.
“How terrible – what happened?” The question’s out before I can stop it.
“Drowned in the lough.”
I gasp.
Something flickers across his face, but he recovers quickly and says, “It were an accident. A boating accident.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, not knowing what else to say.
“’S OK. Ancient history now. Haven’t been in the water since, though. Don’t like boats, neither.”
“But it’s an island. How do you get here in the mornings?”
“I live here, in the old boathouse. Esther doesn’t mind. Martie brings me shopping most days. And if I need to reach the mainland, I can. At low tide you can walk to the shore on the far side of the island. Over the rocks. But don’t try it; it’s dangerous.” He looks awkward again; his eyes shift towards the ground and he rubs a bit of moss away from the path with the toe of his Reef. “Best get back to work,” he adds.
As I follow him out of the garden, I wonder absently if the lovely Kit has a girlfriend to talk to, someone special. What a waste if he doesn’t. There’s something so attractive about his quiet, self-contained manner. He’s solid and earthy; almost rooted to the ground. Maybe if he doesn’t… No, Amy. Stop, I tell myself. Think of Seth.
You think I’d be happy with one boyfriend. But it just goes to show, we’re never really happy with what we’ve got, are we?
Chapter 15
I’m sitting on my zebra-print duvet in the Room That Taste Forgot, feeling a bit sad and down. I’ve been trying to write Seth a letter, but I can’t concentrate. I run my finger along the exotic feathers hanging from the edge of the bedside lampshade and then study one of the scary black and red wooden African masks on the wall. Suddenly, Denis smashes through the door with his shoulder, slamming the metal handle against the wall.
“Hey!” I shriek. “I could have been changing. Knock, Shrek-features!”
He ignores me. “Brains is here. Clover told me to tell you.”
“What’s that?” I point at the white plastic bag he’s clutching in his sweaty hands.
He holds it against his chest. “Mine,” he snaps like Gollum in The Lord of the Rings.
I roll my eyes at him. “You’d better not have stolen anything.” Jumping down off the bed, I push Denis out of the room (no joke, I can tell you) before walking out myself and closing the door firmly behind me. “Barge in again without knocking and I’ll tell your mum about the Horror-witz book. Comprende?”
He pokes his tongue out at me and strolls off towards his own room.
“How’s my favourite hot potato?” Brains is walking up the stairs, a black kitbag slung over his shoulder. His coconut-brown afro hair is held back off his face with a thin scarlet hair elastic and he’s wearing a banana-yellow T-shirt, billowing white silk shorts and gold Converse boots. Ah yes, the legendary Brains “style”.
“Hey, Brains.” I grin at him. “How was your trip?”
“Groovy. ’Cos I’ve got a ticket to ride.” He bursts into an old Beatles song and starts waggling his head, making it go all floppy like a string puppet, and shaking his shoulders.
“He’s got Beatles-mania,” Clover explains. “The Golden Lions have a wedding gig next week. They’ve been given a playlist. Loads of old stuff.”
“Oldies but goldies,” Brains says. “Big spondulicks too. We can cut a demo on the proceeds, so don’t knock it, buttercup.” He breaks into another, even odder song, with the lyrics “Build me up, buttercup”.
I giggle. “What on earth is that?”
; Clover shakes her head. “Awful, isn’t it? Don’t encourage him.” She points into the Lilac Room. “Brains, you’re in there.”
He sticks his head through the door. “Me on my lonesome tonight?”
“Yup. And no Elvis songs, please.”
He dumps his bag on the floor and jumps on to one of the double beds. “Pretty comfy, Clover,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows and giving her a suggestive wink.
“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head, laughing. “Brains, while we’re under the same roof as my sis and Prue, the Amish aunt, I don’t think so.”
“Not even a liddle-iddle cuddle?”
“No! So don’t go getting any ideas.”
“Prue doesn’t approve.” He chuckles. “Hey, there’s a song in that.” He fists a hand in front of his mouth as if he’s clutching a microphone. “Wanna kiss my babe,” he sings in a husky rock voice. “But that Prudie Prue doesn’t approve. Gotta no groove. Doesn’t approve—” He stops suddenly and stares at the doorway.
You guessed it. Prue is leaning against the door frame, her lips pressed together like two thin pink worms. She does not look impressed. Oops.
“Who gave Denis the sweets?” she demands, holding up a familiar-looking now empty plastic bag.
Clover gives a little cough. She opens her mouth to say something, but Brains is too quick for her.
“Moi,” he says. “Je suis guilty. Arrival present.”
You’d hardly think it possible, but Prue’s lips go even thinner. “Denis is not allowed sugar. He’s on a diet. You may have noticed that he’s not exactly thin.”
Brains shrugs. “Hey, don’t sweat the small stuff. I was a right podge until my teens. Then I went Svelte City.” He waves a hand down his slim body.
“You were fat?” a little voice from behind Prue pipes up. It’s Denis.
“I sure was, little buddy. Fat as Fats Domino.”
Prue looks flabbergasted. “Denis isn’t fat; he just has big bones.”
Brains smiles at her. “Never said he was, ma’am. But me, I was fat.”
“None of this is very constructive,” Prue says, flustered. “Go back to your room, Denis.”
“This is my room,” he says.
“That was only until … um … Brains … arrived,” Prue says, stumbling over Brains’s name. “You’re in with Ollie now, you know that. And no arguments, please.”
Denis mumbles something under his breath, but Prue glares him into submission. “OK, OK, I’m going,” he mutters, heading off down the corridor.
“Hey, the little dude can camp in here with me,” Brains says. “Plenty of room for a nipper. I don’t mind.”
Denis turns back, his face brightening a little.
Prue blinks a few times. She’s clearly never met anyone quite like Brains before. Maybe she doesn’t understand what he’s just said.
“Brains is offering to share the room with Denis,” I say, trying to be helpful.
“I have ears,” Prue practically spits. “I heard what he said! But I don’t think it’s a very good idea. It might give Denis … notions.”
Denis scowls at his mum’s back and then runs off, just as Dan appears behind her.
Dan puts his head on Prue’s shoulder. She winces but doesn’t shrug him away.
“There you are,” he says to her.
“Hey, Dan,” Clover says. “Brains said Denis can bunk in here with him. Might be more fun for him than sharing with Ollie. What do you think?”
Dan looks at Brains. “Are you sure? He can be quite a handful.”
“No problemo,” Brains says. “I’m used to kids. Have a little sis at home.”
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” Prue says. “Denis is a restless sleeper.”
Brains shrugs. “I sleep like a log; won’t bother me one iota.”
Dan smiles. “And you can always send him outside if he’s farting too much.”
“Dan!” Prue looks horrified. “Please.”
“It might be exactly what Denis needs. A bit of boy time. Go on, Prue.”
“Why don’t you have a trial run?” I suggest. “If Denis behaves himself tonight, he gets to stay with Brains. If he doesn’t, then banish him to Ollie’s room.”
“You always were the smart one, Beanie,” Clover says, ruffling my hair.
Prue can hardly refuse now without looking petty, so she glares at me instead. Double oops. Then behind her back I spot Denis peeping round the corner. He catches my eye. I smile at him and he smiles back for a second before pulling his face into a scowl. Two scowling Sticklebacks, and a partridge in a pear tree. Lucky old me!
Chapter 16
Later that evening the parentals are watching an ancient seventies film called The Big Chill; Brains says the soundtrack is hopping – Motown and the Rolling Stones – so he’s watching it too.
Clover and I are holed up in the Lilac Room. Brains has set up his Wii on the portable telly and Clover’s thrashing her opponent in the boxing ring. Gramps is reading in his room, the littlies are all in bed and I have no idea where Denis is lurking.
“Thump.” Clover hits the air with the Wii controller. “Thump, thump, thump. Bash.”
“You’re pretty good at that,” I say, watching her annihilate the other boxer.
“Brains is obsessed. Plays it all the time. What is it with boys and computer games?”
I shrug. “Not all boys. Seth’s not a huge fan.”
She pauses the match. “How is lover-boy getting on in Roma?”
“Fine, I think. He sent me an email today, but it was a bit funny.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?”
“Funny peculiar.”
“Why?”
I shrug again. “Don’t know. Maybe he’s going off me.”
“Did you print it out?”
“Yes, why?”
“Read it to me while I sock it to this sucker. I’ll translate for you. Boy-talk can be rather cryptic.” She starts punching again.
I’m glad Clover hasn’t asked to read the email herself – I’ve scribbled all over it. I know I’m probably reading too much into it, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.
“Jin’s this girl in the arty-farty commune,” I explain to Clover. “She’s seventeen and wears bikini tops every day.”
“Hmm,” Clover says and bites the inside of her lip. “Keep reading.”
“OK, enough already!” Clover pauses the game again and puts her hands in the air. “Why does he keep going on about this Jin girl? Is he trying to make you jealous or what?”
“Maybe he just likes her more than me.”
Clover frowns, her face creasing up like pug dog’s. “No way. She’s a serial bikini-abuser; she’s clearly riddled with low self-esteem.”
“Or oodles of it,” I suggest. “Her boobs probably wobble when she walks. Boys like girls who wobble.”
“Oh, Beanie.” Clover sighs. “I hate to say it, but you’re right. Boys are pretty sad. Even Brains ogles girls with jelly puppies.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Puppies?”
“Boobs. Blame Brains; it’s his word.”
“So what can I do about Jin?”
“While he’s away, nothing, I’m afraid. Just act normal. Don’t let him know the whole Jin-a-ding-thing is getting to you.”
“I could tell him about Kit.”
“Kit? You mean the gardener?”
I nod.
Clover smirks and raises her eyebrows.
“I don’t like him or anything,” I protest. “Just to make Seth jealous.”
She shrugs. “You could. But you’re bigger than that. Don’t stoop to his level. Stay aloof. It might be just a fleeting crush. If Brains was here, he’d start singing ‘Puppy Love’.”
I start to smile but it turns into a sigh. “I hope you’re right.” I don’t tell Clover about the Xs. Today Seth only gave me three Xs. Three! In his letter he gave me three rows. I’m utterly depressed.
“Can I play?”
I’v
e been moping on the lilac bed for half an hour, watching Clover play on the Wii, when I hear Denis’s shrill voice.
“Can I play?” he asks again.
“No. Go away, Spawn,” I mutter. I’m in no mood for him.
“Poor Amy-damy’s got the boyfriend blues,” Clover tells him. “I wouldn’t go too close to her; she might bite.”
“Amy’s got a boyfriend,” Denis chants. “Amy’s got a boyfriend.”
“So have I,” Clover says mildly. “Brains, remember? And in a few years you’ll be smooching girls yourself.”
“Will not! Girls smell like farts.” He blows a raspberry and then whips round and pulls down his shorts, showing us his dimpled moon-white bum cheeks.
Yuck! I squeal and look away.
Clover sighs. “Do you want a go or not, Denis? If you do, put away that pasty toosh. And if you let any stinkers rip in this room, you’re out. Comprende? ”
Denis is hopeless at boxing, so he tries baseball (even worse!) and then tennis. He’s a little better at tennis.
Denis has just about beaten his opponent when Brains walks in, one hand buried in a huge bag of spicy tortilla chips. “Looking good, Deni-Deni.” He pronounces it Dinee, like the old Blondie song. (I know it well; Polly’s a huge fan, and Seth and I have listened to some of her CDs.)
Brains offers the bag to me and Clover, and we dig in. I crunch down on a triangular wedge. It’s so hot it makes my eyes water. Then Denis pulls out a huge handful and starts wolfing it down.
“Your old dear says it’s bedtime, dude,” Brains tells him.
“Bum, bum, bum,” Denis says through the tortilla chips. He’s clearly showing off, but at least he’s keeping his shorts on this time. “I’m not going to bed.”
“Then you’ll have to go the pinky-winky room again,” Brains says calmly. “With ickle baby Ollie. Shame.”
Denis swiftly changes his mind.
An hour later the olds are still in the living room. Clover and Brains have taken over the kitchen, and I’m sure they want some privacy, so I’m on my safari bed, reading over Seth’s email one more time.