by Fiona Foden
“Only fishing,” she says grandly. “And look what we’ve got!”
“Ta-daaa!” Ed cries, pulling a tea towel off a plate on the table. On the plate is a fish. It’s not what you’d call massive. I mean, if we were to have it for lunch, we’d get about half a mouthful each.
“Ed’s first catch!” Mum beams.
“It’s tiddly,” Lily giggles.
“Yeah, but not bad for a beginner,” Ed says, sounding hurt.
“It’s fantastic,” Mum gushes, as if he’s been out hunting and dragged back a wildebeest, whatever they are, for our lunch. Still, at least cooking it will keep them occupied while I sneak back upstairs and free Fuzz.
Mum rubs her eyes. “I’m feeling a bit scratchy,” she says. “There hasn’t been a cat in here, has there?”
“Maybe it’s Jupe’s cat,” I suggest quickly. “There’s probably still some hairs lying around from when he lived here.”
“Funny,” she adds. “I’ve felt fine until now.”
“Or perhaps another cat came in through the cat flap,” Ed adds.
“I hope not,” Mum says with a scowl.
I glance at Lily. You can almost see the guilt radiating from her eyeballs.
“Must be the dust, babe,” Ed says, gazing proudly at the fish as if it’s their newborn baby. I almost expect him to ask, “So, what shall we call it?”
This time, I leave Lily downstairs while I sneak back up to the attic, my heart hammering with fear in case Mum or Ed hear me dragging the chair from my bedroom so I can open up the attic and pull down the ladder by myself. Luckily, they’ve put the radio on, and everyone’s laughing away in the kitchen. Fishy smells start to drift up as they start cooking. I’m so grateful that Fuzz allows himself to be lifted to safety, I could almost kiss him. He winds around my legs as I shut the attic, and obediently follows me downstairs. I tiptoe to the back door, waggle the cat flap and breathe a sigh of relief when he jumps through it.
Lunch is so weird. It reminds me of when you’re little and do splodgy paintings at nursery and your parents say, “Oh, that’s lovely! Is it a fire engine?” And you’re thinking, No, actually, it’s a fat red blob where I dropped my paintbrush. And before you know it, it’s Blu-Tacked to the fridge above the poetry magnets. Well, that’s what it’s like with Ed’s catch. Mum worked in Tony’s chippie for four years, so you wouldn’t think it’d be possible for her to get excited about cooking fish. She does, though, because this is Ed’s fish. It’s lifted lovingly from an antique frying pan and cut into four tiddly pieces. Amazingly, there’s no trumpet fanfare as it’s served. Everyone’s too polite to ask for a magnifying glass so they can examine their portion.
It takes us about three seconds to eat it, and as we clear the plates, Mum announces that she wants to go out for a walk. “My eyes are still itchy,” she adds. “I really need some fresh air.”
“Sure,” Ed says. “You girls want to come?”
“Um, I’ll just stay here,” I mutter.
“Me too,” Lily says firmly.
Mum shakes her head. “Why on earth d’you want to be cooped up on a gorgeous day like this?”
“You kids,” Ed chuckles with a shake of his head. I know he’s glad, though, that we’re not going. They’ll go for a snog on the beach or something, and I don’t have the stomach for a freak show right now.
The instant they’re gone, me and Lily are out in the garden, hunting around for Fuzz.
“What if he’s hungry again?” Lily asks.
“He had all that ham,” I remind her, “and Mum’s probably right. Cats usually have loads of homes to go to. I bet he’s adopted another owner by now and just popped back for a visit. Anyway,” I add quickly, “fancy another go on the drums in the attic?”
“Yeah,” she enthuses, charging back into the house. “C’mon.”
We’re giggling hysterically as we pull down the ladder. Then, just as I’m climbing up ahead of Lily, there’s a distinct mewing from downstairs. “It’s Fuzz!” Lily announces. “Look – he’s coming up … shall I bring him?”
“Looks like that’s what he wants,” I laugh as Lily picks up the cat and holds him close to her body as she climbs up after me.
This time, instead of doing her mad-bashing thing, Lily figures out which drum makes which kind of sound and takes it more steadily. And me? Well, I play my own songs, ones I wrote ages ago but have never played to anyone. They feel different and good and I can tell Lily likes them because right away she’s picked up the beat.
“Clover,” she says as we finish, “what’ll happen to all these instruments and stuff?”
My heart slumps. In the excitement of playing, I’ve been trying to forget the real reason we’re here. The landlord wants the house cleared out so he can redecorate and get new tenants in, and it’s our job to do it. “I s’pose we’ll have to tell Mum and Ed,” I tell her. “I mean, we can’t just leave it all here.”
She swallows hard, her eyes lowered. “Do we have to tell them today?”
“No.” I smile at her. “Let’s keep it our secret for a bit longer.”
“But what’ll happen when we do tell them?” she demands.
I shrug. “I guess we’ll take all the instruments and amps and stuff home in Ed’s van. Then…” I pause. “Maybe they’ll sell it all.”
Fuzz springs off his chair and slides past my ankles, his tail twitching irritably.
“Wish we could keep everything,” Lily sighs.
“Yeah, me too.” I glance around the attic. It should feel spooky – I’ve spotted huge, hairy spiders – but it’s kind of cosy, the way Jupe crammed it with so much stuff all set out and waiting to be found.
Waiting for us to find, maybe. The thought sends a chill down my spine. Of course: he stressed that Mum had to sort out his house. On the condition that you take responsibility for the clearing of Crickle Cottage, the lawyer said.
And the only person in our family who’d be thrilled to discover the sunset guitar would be … me.
I glance at Lily, who’s tapping a gentle rhythm on the snare. Maybe Jupe knew I’d find it. Perhaps that’s why he brought us here – so I’d see that the sunset guitar was mended and almost perfect again.
Maybe he wanted to say sorry for the row, for us all storming off, for never getting in touch or even answering any of my letters.
A lump clogs my throat. I start to strum, and try to sing, but the words come out all knotted up. “We’d better get down,” I say quickly, “in case they come back. C’mon, let’s get Fuzz.”
“Let’s stay a bit longer,” Lily whines.
“No, we can’t risk it, OK?”
She throws down the drumsticks, grumbling in frustration as I lift Fuzz from Jupe’s chair. Or rather, try to lift, as he thrashes out, slicing into my wrist with his claws and flying across the floor in a furious blur. “Ow!” I yelp as blood springs from the gash.
“What happened?” Lily exclaims.
“He scratched me!”
She lurches over. “You’re bleeding! What’ll you tell Mum?”
“Nothing,” I say firmly. “Hopefully, she won’t even notice.” I pull down my sleeve, which is immediately splodged with bright crimson. My wrist is already stinging like blazes.
I’m wrong, too, about Mum not noticing. “Oh, Clover,” she cries later, swooping on me when she spots the tatty bandage I made from a strip of pillowcase. “What on earth have you done?”
“Nothing,” I fib. “Just scratched it when I was out playing with Lily.”
“Why didn’t you say?” she cries. “Here, let’s take that horrible bandage off, make sure it’s not dirty or anything.” Obediently, I let her unwind the material, wash it thoroughly under the tap and pat it dry. “It’s pretty nasty,” she adds. “Are you sure it’s not really hurting?”
I shake my head firmly. “It�
�s fine, Mum, honestly.” Which only counts as a tiny lie, doesn’t it?
The next few days slide by in a blur of swimming at Silver Cove, and sneaking up to Jupe’s den whenever we get the chance. So far, apart from his solitary fish, Ed’s only managed to catch seaweed and ripped polythene with Jupe’s rods, and I’ve tried to swivel my gaze in the opposite direction when he’s strutted through the cottage in his glossy second-skin trunks.
I spend evenings poring over Jupe’s old newspaper interviews, hoping to find out why it happened. The row, I mean. The falling-out-with-us-for-ever thing, despite him apparently doting on his little musical niece. I call Dad, hoping he’ll explain what went on after the car crash. “Your mum was so upset and angry,” he says, “she made it absolutely clear she never wanted any contact with him again.” I don’t ask why he thinks Jupe never replied to my letters. Mum and Dad didn’t even know I’d sent them, and I’d feel stupid telling him now. Sometimes, when I’m engrossed in one of Jupe’s newspaper interviews, I start playing that game again, where it’s me being interviewed. Me, Clover Jones, with the scabby wrist, which is now covered up with a fresh bandage applied by Mum.
The interview starts really well.
So, Clover, congratulations on the new album. I have to say it’s a move on from anything you’ve done before.
Thanks. I’m really pleased with it.
A solo effort too. That’s some achievement…
It was easier in a way. No one to please but myself. And I found that—
But can I just ask… (Interviewer butts in rudely.)
Er, as I was saying…
It must be awful for you, with this brilliant album – yet it’s Riley who’s on the sell-out tour and all the magazine covers…
Um, yeah, well, me and Riley sort of went off in separate ways. He was doing all that cheesy girlie stuff – I mean poppy stuff – with Sophie Skelling, which is great and everything, but really wasn’t my thing, cough, splutter… (Interviewer is looking at me very oddly. I suspect he’ll write: “At this point, Clover turns a very strange sickly colour and is clearly completely heartbroken…”)
And of course, they’ve been hugely successful…
Yes, and I’m really, really pleased for them. Him. Er, I mean… (Teeth firmly gritted.)
All the same, Clover, don’t you feel a tiny bit jealous that they’re selling out huge venues and are about to embark on a world tour?
Of course I’m not jealous! Why would I be? I’m completely delighted for them! (Voice rises, verging on hysteria.)
And rumour has it that you were really close to Riley…
I’d really appreciate it if we didn’t turn this interview into the Riley Hart show, OK?
OK, sorry. Just one more question. Were you and Riley ever more than just… Ah. Looks like our interview’s over. Clover Jones has left the building.
On our second to last day at Jupe’s, I find them. The gold leather trousers, neatly folded at the back of his wardrobe. They’re all cracked and wrinkly like an old lady’s handbag you’d find at a jumble sale. “God, were they really in there?” Mum laughs, shaking her head. “I was sure I’d cleaned it out. I packed up the rest of his clothes for charity a few days ago.”
“Yeah, we could’ve made a fortune out of those band T-shirts,” Ed grumbles.
“They were ripped,” Mum protests, “and smelly.”
“All the better!” Ed declares. “That was genuine Jupe sweat.”
“Well, these aren’t going anywhere,” I say, gripping the trousers.
“Hey, let me try ’em on,” Ed guffaws, trying to snatch them from me.
“No!” I squeal.
“What are you going to do with them, Clover?” Mum asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Just keep them, I guess.”
She smiles. “OK. I s’pose you’ll want a little memento…”
“Can we keep more stuff?” I blurt out.
She squints at me. “Like what? Just about everything’s gone, love. We don’t have the space anyway, and I’m not keen on filling up our house with clutter…”
My insides slump. Nothing guitar-shaped then. Or as huge and unwieldy as a drum kit. Lily glances up from the kitchen table where she’s been drawing, and I’m shocked at how upset she looks. I’d always assumed nothing really bothered her – not even Dad leaving – as long as she can still go to Brownies and chocolate fountain parties.
“Clover,” Mum says suddenly, “hasn’t your wrist healed yet? Here, let me see…”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly.
“Come on, let me check.” She removes the bandage and examines the scabby red lines. “This isn’t fine, Clover … it’s still quite nasty.” She frowns at me, and my heart starts to thud. “It looks like something scratched you,” she adds.
“It was, um…” I pause a beat too long. “It was just a stray cat prowling about outside.”
“So why did you lie?” she exclaims.
“I just, um … didn’t want to make a fuss.”
Sighing, Mum hugs me to her chest. “Don’t keep secrets, love. If something’s hurt you, I want to know about it, OK?”
I focus on the dull orange kitchen floor. “Yeah, I know.” What, like the fact that the attic’s stuffed with instruments that we can’t take home – because she can’t be doing with clutter? And besides, if Ed was excited about finding Jupe’s stinky old T-shirts, how would we stop him selling a load of guitars?
Jupe wanted me to find the sunset guitar. I just know it. And it’s up to me to keep it safe.
On our last day in Cornwall, Lily and I go for a swim while Ed messes about with Jupe’s fishing rods. By the time we head back, leaving Ed cursing on the rocks, Mum’s pretty much packed up. Crickle Cottage looks strange and empty. Mum still hasn’t ventured up into the attic. Maybe she hasn’t even noticed the hatch. It’s not as if any of us even went up there when Jupe was alive.
“Hi, girls,” she says as we wander into the kitchen. I can tell she’s putting on a brave face. “You’d better start packing up your things. We’ll be leaving after dinner.”
“Um … do we have to?” I ask.
She pulls a tight smile. “Of course we do, sweetheart. Nothing to stay for now, is there?”
“Miaow!” Fuzz appears in the doorway.
“What’s that cat doing in here?” Mum cries. “Did one of you leave the front door open?”
“Don’t think so,” I start.
Mum marches towards him, then stops and stares. “Is it Jupe’s cat?”
“Erm, I don’t know,” comes my tiddly voice.
Fuzz arches his back and hisses. “It is, isn’t it?” Mum declares. “Is this the cat that scratched you?”
“Um, I’m not sure…” I babble.
“Is it Fuzz?” She turns to Lily, who blushes furiously.
“Er…” Lily croaks.
“Yes, it is,” I say miserably. “What’ll we do, Mum? He was just prowling around outside, all skinny and miserable looking…”
“Is that what’s been happening to our bits and pieces from the fridge?” she demands.
I nod bleakly. “We can’t leave him here. He’s got nowhere to go.”
“Well,” Mum says, sniffing, “I’m sorry, love, but we can’t keep him either…”
The front door flies open, and Fuzz scampers out. “Hey,” Ed says on the doorstep, “whose cat is that?”
“It’s Jupe’s,” Mum says, shaking her head, “and it clawed Clover’s hand to shreds.”
Ed tuts loudly. “What’ll we do with him?”
“I don’t know, Ed,” she retorts. “I’ve got enough to think about at the moment…”
“Hey, listen,” he says gently, “it’s our last supper, OK? I’m going to cook a surprise.”
“That’d be great,” Mum sa
ys wearily, “but what are you cooking?”
“Come and see.” We all cluster around him as, grinning, he opens his canvas fishing bag – correction, Jupe’s fishing bag; he’s probably going to try and flog that too – on the kitchen table and pulls out a newspaper parcel. Unwrapping it slowly, he holds out his prize.
It’s a huge fish, glinting silver as if it’s been daubed with Lily’s glitter glue. “That’s fantastic, Ed,” Mum says, her voice wobbling with emotion. He plonks his catch on the table and pulls her towards him with his stinky-fish hands. “What’s wrong, love?” he asks gently.
“Oh, Ed,” Mum says, crying now, “it’s been awful today, doing the last of the packing up. It just feels so … final, that’s all.” I stare, feeling helpless. There’s a horrible choking sob as Mum clings to Ed.
“Shhh, Kerry…” He buries his round, shiny face in her hair. “It had to be done and you’ve been so brave…”
I glance at Lily, who’s gnawing fretfully on a fingernail. “Mum,” I venture cautiously, “if, um, there was anything else of Jupe’s in the house, couldn’t we just take it home?”
“What, like Fuzz?” she asks wearily.
“No, I mean, er, other things,” I blurt out.
She gives me a faint smile. “I’m sorry, Clover. Everything’s gone. Now, if Ed starts cooking, you girls can set the table…” She glances up, and there’s a black blur as Fuzz leaps from a chair to the table, then streaks for the kitchen door, Ed’s fish clamped firmly in his mouth.
“Damn cat!” Ed roars, flying out after him. As Mum tears out too, and the pair of them charge across the scrubby ground, Lily and I collapse in helpless, teary laughter.
Ed can’t contemplate driving home on an empty stomach, so he and Mum have driven to the village to fetch fish and chips for dinner. Which leaves me and Lily alone in the house.
Our last chance. Thanks, Fuzz – we owe you one.
The instant they’re gone, we’re zooming up to the attic. “What shall we play?” Lily asks, brandishing her drumsticks impatiently (they’ve become her drumsticks).