Life, Death and Gold Leather Trousers

by Fiona Foden

  “She’s not what you think,” Riley says quietly.

  “How d’you know what I think?” I snap, leaping up and grabbing my guitar. “I think she’s got a big problem with me. That’s all I know, and you’re obviously trying to play a game with me. Do you and Sophie laugh about me behind my back?”

  “Of course we don’t!” Riley protests, jumping up too. “Our parents were close friends, OK? But there’s other stuff I can’t tell you. I just can’t. I’m sorry, Clover…”

  I can still see that photo out of the corner of my eye. It’s as if she’s laughing at me, without even being here. “Well,” I snap, “I’m sorry too. And I’m going home.”

  We’re standing so close, I can feel his warm breath on my face. I leave a small space where he’s meant to explain everything, like why he hasn’t been honest with me. But he doesn’t. “All right,” he murmurs.

  “See you, then,” I say, my lip wobbling. Riley nods and I leave his room and hurry downstairs and out into the street, without saying goodbye to his dad.

  Whatever’s going on between Riley and Skelling, it’s obviously far more important than me. Well, I don’t need friends like him – friends who keep whopping secrets and string you along and end up making you feel bad. “Have a nice life,” I mutter, blinking away furious tears as I march home.

  At home, Mum and Ed are snuggled up together like lovebirds on the sofa. Lily’s at a birthday party, so God knows how much snogging and mauling’s been going on while I’ve been out. Ed’s arm is slung around Mum’s shoulders, and she’s resting her head against his chest. I imagine it’d be as comfy as having a paving slab for a pillow.

  “Everything OK?” Mum asks, having the decency to disentangle herself.

  “Yep,” I say curtly, turning to head up to my room.

  “Um, stay down here for a minute, would you?” she adds. “I … I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “What is it?” I ask hesitantly.

  Mum glances at Ed, as if needing reassurance. “It’s about Jupe, love…”

  I swallow hard. “What about him?”

  “Um, it’s come as a bit of a shock. I’ve had a letter from a solicitor. He’s been dealing with Jupe’s will and it’s taken him a bit of time to track us down.”

  I frown, trying to make sense of this. Has he left us something? I can still picture Crickle Cottage with its shabby sofas and worn-out rugs. I can’t imagine what he’d want us to have.

  “Clover,” Mum continues, her eyes misting now, “you know me and Jupe were really close, don’t you, until … the thing happened?”

  “Yes…” My heart flips over. I think about that letter I wrote after Mum told me he’d died, which is tucked under my socks in my drawer. No one ever remembers that I lost him too.

  A lone tear drips down Mum’s cheek. “It’s all right,” Ed says gently. “Don’t get upset, Kerry…”

  Swiping her sleeve across her face, Mum picks up a letter from the coffee table and hands it to me.

  I read:

  For the Attention of Mrs Kerry Jones

  This is to inform you that I have been appointed as executor for the estate of the late Mr Jupiter Hughes. Mr Hughes has named you as the beneficiary in his will and testament to the effect that he wished you to have the entire contents of his rented home, Crickle Cottage, at Herring Point, Hicklow, North Cornwall. A condition attached to the will is that you take responsibility for the clearing of the house. The owner is anxious that the house is cleared within two months, so I would be obliged if you could contact me as soon as possible.

  Yours faithfully,

  Mr Eric Barlow, solicitor acting on behalf of the late Mr Jupiter Hughes

  I know this is something big. So big, in fact, that I don’t know what to do apart from blurt out, “What does beneficiary mean?”

  “Clover,” Mum says gently, “it means that, for some reason, and I haven’t the faintest idea why, Jupe’s left everything to us.”

  For a moment, I panic that we’ll have to leave Copper Beach and move into Crickle Cottage. It’s a free house, isn’t it? Jupe left it to us. And I know how short of money we are these days. “I’ll have to change schools!” I exclaim. “I won’t know anyone and—”

  “Clover,” Mum cuts in, placing a hand on my arm, “don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re not moving anywhere. And Jupe’s will – it’s probably no big deal. The other band members invested their money and got into management and stuff. But Jupe – well, I don’t think he had much by the end. It’s probably just a few bits and bobs.”

  “But what about the cottage?” I ask, my head swimming. I’m so glad Lily’s not here. It’s hard enough to get a grip on what’s happening without her firing questions.

  “Jupe didn’t own Crickle Cottage,” Mum explains gently. “It was rented, love. Look, it says here in the letter.”

  “Oh,” comes my mouse-sized voice.

  “It does mean we’ll have to go on a trip to Jupe’s, though,” Mum adds.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “To sort through his things,” Ed explains, “and see if there’s anything we want.”

  “We?” I exclaim. “Are you coming too?” Mum throws Ed a sharp glance and he looks sheepishly at the floor.

  “I just mean I’d be happy to help sort everything out,” he mutters.

  “Well, we could all go, I suppose,” Mum adds, her voice wobbling slightly. “We could go for a week, make a sort of holiday out of it…”

  My stomach twists uneasily. I want to go back, to see Jupe’s cottage again after all these years. Yet it feels a bit creepy, having a holiday in my dead uncle’s house. A shiver runs through me.

  Mum frowns, beckoning me on to the sofa beside her. “Are you OK, Clover? I know this is upsetting for you…”

  I nod. “I’m fine, Mum. It’s just all a bit weird…”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What about Fuzz?” I ask suddenly.

  “Fuzz?” Mum looks confused.

  “Jupe’s cat, remember?”

  “Yes, of course.” She musters a smile. “Well, it’s three years since we saw Jupe and Fuzz was getting on by then, so maybe he died a while ago…”

  “But what if he’s not dead?” I blurt out. “What if he’s roaming about with no one to look after him?”

  Mum pulls me close. Thankfully, Ed has edged away to the far end of the sofa. “You know what cats are like,” she says. “They’re always going off and finding other families to look after them. I’m sure, if Fuzz is still alive, he’s found himself a nice new home.”

  I look at Mum and Ed, and try to imagine us all cooped up in Jupe’s house for a whole week. “It’ll be an adventure, won’t it, Kerry?” Ed adds, turning to Mum.

  “Will it?” I ask.

  “Well … yeah! Seeing all his stuff, his guitars and all that … it’ll be amazing!”

  “I’ve seen all Jupe’s stuff loads of times,” I say coolly.

  “Don’t be like that, Clover,” Mum says, frowning.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, realizing now what Ed has in mind for our trip. He’s planning to get his hands on my uncle’s guitars. And the thought of him wailing and playing from the heart in Crickle Cottage almost makes me wish Jupe had left us nothing at all.

  We’re leaving school on Monday lunch time when Skelling catches up with Jess and me. She’s wearing thick lipgloss that has a sparkly (and, I have to say, cheapening) effect, and so much mascara she could trigger a hurricane just by blinking.

  “Hey, Clover,” she sneers. “Going anywhere nice for your holidays?”

  Jess throws me a just-rise-above-it look.

  I try to mentally raise myself, but remain firmly planted on the hot school tarmac.

  “You deaf or something?” Skelling snarls. “Been playing your guitar so much you’ve damaged your
eardrums?”

  “We haven’t made any plans yet,” I say airily.

  “We break up on Friday, you know,” she adds. She’s working up to something here, and I don’t like it one bit.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I do know that.”

  Small pause for effect. “We’re going to France. My parents have a holiday house there.”

  “Big deal,” Jess mutters. Everyone knows about her French house because when her parents bought it, she talked about nothing else. She even brought in the estate agent’s details and flashed them around as if they’d bought Buckingham Palace.

  Skelling chomps her gum noisily. “C’mon, Clover,” Jess says, nudging me.

  I turn and fall into step with her, conscious of Skelling glaring at the backs of our heads. “Anyway,” she calls after us, “it’s gonna be great this year ’cause we’re going for the whole summer holidays.”

  “Poor France,” I snort.

  “Yeah,” Skelling crows across the yard, “it’ll be the best ever. Didn’t Riley tell you he’s coming too?”

  “She’s lying,” Jess hisses as we speed-walk to the canteen. “He would have told you, wouldn’t he?”

  “Probably not,” I say airily, “seeing as he hadn’t even told me that he and Skelling used to play on the beach and build sandcastles together back in Haven…”

  “I can’t believe he’d even want to go,” Jess reasons, snatching a greasy tray. “He’s getting sick of the way she’s always leeching around him. You can tell.”

  I exhale loudly and plonk a plain cheese baguette on to my tray. I don’t have the stomach for anything more “experimental”, not after that cheese soufflé topping that slopped around in my stomach for about a week.

  “Or maybe,” Jess continues, “it was too good an offer to turn down. Free holiday and all that. Bet his dad can’t afford to take him abroad…”

  “But it still means he’s going to be stuck with—” I stop myself as Skelling marches into the canteen with Riley at her side. Steering Jess to a table in the furthest corner of the canteen, I try to convince myself that the pair of them aren’t discussing the fabulous time they’re going to have in France.

  By the time I get home, I’ve managed to get a grip on myself. I’ve made a mental list of all the positive things about Riley going to Skelling’s French palace and they are as follows:

  Have spent far too much time angsting over Riley and the thought of not having him around is almost a relief. I said … almost.

  I don’t want 34C boobs like Skelling’s. Why would I? It’s fantastic being so flat that, when a man bumped into me in Tony’s chippie, he looked at me in my beanie and said, “Sorry, sonny.”

  I realize now that point two is not a positive reason or, in fact, anything to do with France at all. But who cares? I’ll have a fantastic holiday sorting through Jupe’s possessions with music tuition from Ed thrown in. Can’t wait.

  So I’m feeling pretty bold as I march round to Riley’s after dinner and rap firmly on his front door. No one answers. I peep in through the living room window and scan the dining table laden with newspapers and coffee cups.

  I knock again. My heart hop-skips with the stress of being kept waiting. I’m about to leave when there’s a shuffling noise inside. The door opens, and there’s Riley, ruffle-haired with beautiful, toffee-coloured skin. His eyes, though, aren’t beautiful any more. They are hard.

  “Um, hi,” I say, taken aback by his coldness. “I left my guitar strap in your room and wondered if you’d found it.”

  “Right,” he says flatly. “I’ll just go and look.” He disappears, leaving me standing on the doorstep, and reappears with my strap.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. There’s an awkward pause, and I have to keep my mouth tightly shut to stop myself from asking him about France.

  “Um, is that it?” he asks.

  “Guess so.” I take a deep breath. It doesn’t feel right, us being like this. I wish I’d never seen that photo, never gone on about Skelling, never acted like such an idiot by marching out of his house. She’s ruined everything – just as she wanted to. Why couldn’t I have just played guitar with him and never mentioned her at all?

  “Riley?” calls his dad from upstairs. “Who is it?”

  Riley doesn’t answer. He just keeps shooting me a cool look. In fact, it’s an icy look that chills my bones. “I, um … shouldn’t have stormed off the other day,” I say quietly. “I was just a bit … surprised, that’s all.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he snaps. “Anyway, I’m a bit busy right now.” He steps back into the hallway as if preparing to slam the door in my face.

  “Fine, then. See you around, if you’re so busy…” I inhale deeply, determined to show no emotion. I fail pathetically because my left eye’s vibrating madly, and tears are threatening to well up.

  “Who’s at the door?” his dad calls out again as I turn and walk away from the house.

  “Nobody,” Riley yells back.

  Nobody?

  The word rings in my ears. Nobody. You’re nobody, Clover Jones.

  I don’t look back because I’m too busy running. I run down Riley’s road and along the seafront and up the steep hill to our street. I burst in through our front door, into our hall and then our living room where I skid on something brown and furry, which sends my foot flying up and me tumbling backwards against the TV. “Clover!” Lily screams. “You stupid idiot! You’ve trodden on Cedric! You’ve killed him!”

  I collapse forward with my hands over my face. Clever, brilliant Cedric who I’ve had since I was eleven. Oh my God.

  I daren’t look. My poor, defenceless animal who was perfectly happy scampering through his tunnels and on his exercise wheel. I murdered him.

  At least it was a quick death. And painless, I hope. Tears spring from my eyes and stick to my hot, damp fingers. I feel like I’m completely liquefying.

  “What’s happened?” Mum cries, charging into the living room.

  “Cedric!” I wail over Lily’s sobs. “I’ve killed Cedric!” Fat tears are dribbling down my cheeks.

  “Um, Clover…” Mum ventures, her mouth twitching as Ed saunters in.

  “I’m sorry!” I croak. “I’m really, really sorry. I just ran in and didn’t see him…”

  “Clover, sweetheart. Listen to me.” Mum puts an arm around me. “It’s OK. You didn’t kill him… That wasn’t Cedric.”

  Slowly, I remove my hands from my face and dare to scan the floor. I’m expecting blood and crushed bones. Maybe a tiny heart, still beating. “So what … what was it?” I whisper.

  Mum’s smiling now. “It’s one of the ears from Lily’s bear costume. It fell off and she put it there to play a joke on you.”

  I glare at Lily, who’s quit her fake hysterics and is giggling madly. “Very funny,” I snap. “Very, very funny!”

  “Sorry,” she splutters.

  “Oh, Clover, it was just a joke,” Mum says.

  Just a joke? Do they think this is what I need right now? I barge upstairs, where I grab my guitar and fix on my strap and start strumming and strumming, trying to shut everything out – custard bikinis and Riley Hart and our almost-squished hamster. I play and play, as loud as I can, thrashing the strings as a new song pours out. I stop, breathless, my heart juddering.

  “Hey, Clover!” Ed calls upstairs. “See you’ve taken on board what I told you, yeah? Now you’re playing from the heart.”

  A week later, the summer holiday’s started and Riley hasn’t spoken to me since I collected my guitar strap. Not that I care. Let him hang about with Skelling if she means that much to him. Real friends don’t keep secrets about their past, and they don’t have French holidays planned and not tell you. I’m sick of trying to guess everything, and anyway, something much more important than Riley is about to happen. I’m going back to Jupe’s p
lace for the first time in three years.

  We’re heading there now, in Ed’s rusty white van. The writing on the side of his van says NO JOB TOO BIG OR TOO SMALL and there’s a picture of a man with a hammer. I reckon most jobs are either too big or too small, because Ed never seems to have one.

  The whole journey so far, he’s blabbed on about Jupe. Like, what was the big fallout about, anyway? (Mum makes vague noises that maybe a bird could interpret, but they’re not on any human frequency.) “I mean, imagine having a talent like that in the family…” Ed emits a low whistle. Mum stares out at the pastel blue sky.

  The four of us are lined up on the van’s cracked leather front seat – illegally, as there aren’t enough seatbelts – and Lily keeps jabbing her elbow into me. “Stop it,” I mutter.

  “I’m not doing anything!” she protests.

  “Cheer up, Clover,” Mum barks. “We’re going on holiday.”

  I try to, I really do. I focus on all the good things I remember about Jupe’s place, like Silver Cove with its soft white sand, and the rock pools where we found a starfish.

  We’ve been driving for over two hours when we stop outside the solicitor’s office in a small, dreary-looking town. As Mum goes in to pick up the key, I close my eyes and try to taste the vanilla ice cream that Jupe would buy us when we walked up to the village. But ice cream sets me thinking about Skelling and Riley in France, and now I’m imagining them licking from the same cone and that makes me feel really sick.

  “Come on, love, crack a smile,” Mum insists, climbing back into the van. “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

  Which we are, in a way, as we didn’t go to Jupe’s real funeral. We only found out he’d died after it was over. The couple who ran the ice cream shop in the village had remembered us coming on visits, and together with Jupe’s landlord, they’d found our phone number and called Mum. So it’s only when we’re out in open countryside again, and I spot Crickle Cottage perched on the hill, that it hits me that he’s really dead. It seems impossible that we’re coming to stay at his house and he won’t be there.