by Lowe, L. Lee
A moment longer on the board, the smell of pine gradually fading. Then Jesse came off the pipe.
‘You’re right,’ he said to Mick, tossing the board at his feet. ‘It’s easy.’
~~~
‘It’s an analemma,’ Jesse said.
‘A what?’ Sarah asked.
‘An analemma,’ he repeated. ‘The figure-8 path that the sun makes in the sky throughout the year. Have you got a globe at home?’
‘There’s one in Finn’s office.’
‘Have a look at it. Very often it’s marked. Here Ursula has incised the figure-8 on the inner surface of the sundial.’
‘How do you know these things?’
Jesse shrugged. ‘I spend a lot of time in the library. Keeps the rain off.’ He never talked about his memory—another of his rules.
The sundial was a dramatic and arresting piece of sculpture, an ellipse of carved white marble mounted on a stone pedestal. Beautifully proportioned, it stood about two metres high in the middle of a terraced plaza, where a group of jazz musicians was improvising to an appreciative gathering. The cellist had disappeared before Jesse and Sarah arrived.
‘He’s first-rate,’ Jesse said, gesturing towards the trumpeter.
‘Yeah, a lot better than my dad.’
‘Your father plays?’
‘A little piano, a little more trumpet. He’s always threatening to take lessons again and get really good. If you ask me, he’s tone deaf.’
‘What else does he do, aside from motorbiking?’
‘Plenty.’
Sarah glanced at Jesse, wondering whether to elaborate, whether to suggest that Jesse get to know Finn. But Jesse had moved closer to the sundial in order to read the inscription carved on the pedestal.
Lay your shadows upon the sundials . . .
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren . . .
[Rainer Maria Rilke]
Jesse read the lines aloud in German, then English. ‘From Autumn Day,’ he said. ‘Fitting.’
‘You read German?’ Sarah asked, again impressed.
‘Some.’
‘Is that the same kind of some as in not knowing how to skate?’
‘I was wondering when you’d ask me about that.’
He ran his hands through his hair, so that it became even more flyaway.
‘Why did you tell me you’d never been on a skateboard before?’ Sarah asked.
‘Because it’s true.’
‘Then how on earth could you skate like that?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sarah snorted. ‘Any other things you don’t know how to do? Neurosurgery? Piloting the space shuttle? Diamond cutting? Or what about classical Greek? I bet you whip through Sophocles between beers. Oh that’s right. You don’t drink.’
‘Don’t exaggerate. I read a bit of German. It’s no big deal. I happen to enjoy Rilke.’ He looked at her shrewdly. ‘You can’t tell me that no one in your family opens a book. Your mother quoted Shakespeare to me this morning.’
‘You’re changing the subject.’
‘Yeah, that’s another thing I’m rather good at.’
Sarah couldn’t help grinning. It was impossible to stay annoyed with him for long. ‘Well, I hope you’re good at maths too. I could certainly use some help once school begins.’
He frowned and looked away.
Shit, she thought. There I go again. Open mouth, insert foot. She hurried to make up for her misstep. ‘Ursula doesn’t just make sundials. She lectures part-time at university. Landscape design.’
‘Is she from Germany?’ Jesse asked.
‘Berlin, originally. But her partner’s local.’ She regarded Jesse thoughtfully, as if to gauge his reaction.
‘If you’re trying to tell me she’s lesbian, I’m not going to fall over in a dead faint.’
‘Good. It’s sometimes hard to predict how people take it.’
‘There’s nothing to take. It’s a completely personal matter.’
Sarah thought how easy it was to talk to Jesse when he wasn’t being secretive, or defensive. Like a brother, almost. Her throat tightened. Then she recalled his earlier comment. ‘What did you mean by fitting?’
No answer. He had tilted his head, listening to the musicians and either didn’t hear her question, or didn’t want to hear. Sarah resolved to locate a copy of the poem at the next opportunity or ask Ursula upon her return. Come to think of it, her father liked poetry. And spoke German. He might know. Autumn Day, she repeated to herself.
But Jesse was right. The trumpeter was impressive. Sarah began to pay attention. She’d had a good five years of piano lessons—not that anything much had taken—but as a dancer she’d learned quite a bit about music. She let herself be carried away by the intricacies of the riffs, by the voice of the trumpet rising above the other instruments like an unbroken spiral of sound, keen as a metal shaving, fluid as a river. Vaguely she was aware that Jesse had moved closer to the musicians, Nubi at his side, but otherwise she lost all sense of time and place as the music swept her along. She imagined a few steps, then a dance . . . in blue . . .
Sarah felt the touch on her hip at the same instant as she heard the grunt of pain from nearby. She whirled. A man was clutching his right hand in his left, his face contorted. His eyes were wide with shock, and his face greyish white under a rough stubble. Sarah could see the raw and blistered skin on his palm. It might have only been her imagination, but for a moment there seemed to be a faint wisp of smoke clinging to the blisters. The man muttered something unintelligible—it sounded like caplata—then turned, pushed his way through the crowd, and broke into a run.
‘Are you OK?’ Jesse was addressing her, but his eyes followed the man’s flight.
‘Yes,’ she said, puzzled. ‘Did you see what just happened?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Me neither. I think that man’—she nodded in the direction the man had taken, though he was no longer to be seen—‘I think he wanted to grope me or steal my wallet or something. But he’d hurt his hand. It looked badly burnt. Anyway, he got scared and ran off.’
‘As long as he didn’t hurt you . . .’
‘No, nothing like that.’ But she pulled her bag off her shoulder and looked inside. ‘Everything’s here. Maybe he just bumped against me with his injured hand. He must have been in agony.’
‘Maybe.’
Jesse reached down to stroke Nubi’s head, but not before Sarah caught a glimpse of a tiny spark of light deep within his eyes, blue within blue. Then he blinked, and his lashes swept away any trace of flame.
~~~
‘He never dared to beat me properly,’ Jesse said. ‘A slap or two, a kick was as far as he went.’
‘Your father?’ Sarah asked.
‘No. Mal, my last foster father. A vicious sod when he drinks.’
Sarah pressed her lips together.
‘I left because I was afraid.’
‘That he’d hurt you more?’
‘That I might lose control and kill him if I stayed.’
For a long time neither of them spoke. They sat at the base of a horse chestnut, leaning against its thick solid trunk. Sarah combed the grass with her fingertips, grooming her flyaway thoughts. Nubi lay at their feet, his ear cocked as a bird scolded her mate in the canopy overhead. The soft light which reached their skin felt as fresh as the fine spray off a waterfall. A few embryonic conkers lay scattered on the ground. Fallen too early, they would never ripen, never be collected for a playground game.
Sorry. The word tasted dry in her mouth, stale. She wished she knew what to say. Something like this was beyond her. Something you saw on TV, something you read about. Unreal. She looked at Jesse, who was staring off into the distance, and noticed a shadow just below the neckline of his T-shirt. She wondered if there were a bruise or birthmark on his back—not a question she could ask him easily. His hands were gripping his knees hard enough to whiten his knuckles. She would have liked to take his hand. There was a prom
inent callus on the middle finger of his left hand. Fingers that wrote a lot. Elegant, strong fingers. What do you say to someone who carries this around with him? She had no idea.
Sarah thought about her own father, his booming laugh and laughing eyes. He could roar in anger, and there had been more than enough dreadful fights in their family. But blows? Once when she’d opened his camera to look inside and spoiled a whole roll of film from Manchuria—she must have been four or five at the time—he’d smacked her bottom with a slipper and then hugged her afterwards, tears in his eyes. He’d never hit her again.
It had been years before she learned that other men hid their tears. She’d never forget the way he cried during that ghastly time . . .
‘Jesse,’ she said, ‘talk to my mother.’
He shook his head.
‘She’ll help you. I know she will.’
Jesse tore his gaze from whatever vista he’d been contemplating. He mustered a smile but Sarah saw the winter in his eyes, and more.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said.
Jesse laid his head upon his knees and his hair fell forward, screening his face. At Sarah’s side lay a conker in its green case, one of several. She picked it up, turned it in her hand—perfectly formed if tiny. Leaning forward, she whispered Jesse’s name and offered him the chestnut. Perplexed, he took the stunted little thing, and for a brief moment her fingers curled around his. Then he pulled away.
Chapter 6
‘You’re not eating,’ said Sarah’s mother.
The three of them were sitting in the kitchen at a battered wooden table, probably a family heirloom. A jug with sweet peas scented the room.
‘Jesse?’ Sarah’s mother prompted.
‘I’m not very hungry, Mrs—’ He broke off, realising that he didn’t know their surname.
‘Andersen. But please call me Meg.’
He glanced at Sarah. ‘We had a late meal.’
‘That reminds me,’ Meg said. ‘Thomas rang. You forgot your mobile again.’
‘Oh shit. I was supposed to meet him in the afternoon,’ Sarah said. ‘He was going make his famous coconut ice cream cake.’
‘He was very nice about it, considering he’d gone to all that trouble,’ Meg said.
Sarah flushed. ‘I got the message.’
Hurriedly she finished the food on her plate and reached for seconds. For such a slender girl, she ate a lot. Nor did she pretend about it. She chewed with gusto—like most things she did, Jesse suspected. Was Thomas the boyfriend?
‘At least try some,’ Sarah said, her mouth around a large forkful of salad.
Jesse took a bite of his quiche. The pastry was rich and flaky—obviously homemade. Sarah’s mum was a good cook. He wished he had more appetite, but his headache, which had toyed with him off and on all day, was now scratching impatiently at the door. It was one of the reasons he had, in the end, gone back home with Sarah. He simply couldn’t face another night on the street.
‘Aren’t you on duty tonight?’ Sarah asked her mother.
‘Not till tomorrow.’
Sarah saw the question in Jesse’s eyes. She was about to explain when her mum’s slight frown checked her. The not yet was as clear as if Meg had spoken the words aloud.
‘I’ll ring Thomas, then how about some TV?’ Sarah asked.
‘Or sleep.’ Meg’s eyes rested on Jesse, who found it very difficult to interpret her thoughts—not that she hid them from view, for her gaze was direct and candid. No, it was far more like watching a school of fish whose iridescent scales flashed just below the surface, yet which slipped away as soon as you tried to lower the net.
Meg pushed back her chair and crossed to the electric kettle, filled it at the tap, and switched it on. ‘I’ll make you some tea,’ she said to him.
‘Yuk,’ said Sarah. ‘not that dreadful stuff.’
But Jesse would be glad to drink it, anything at this point to avoid a migraine; nightmares. Then a bath and bed: he shivered with pleasure at the thought of an entire night in comfort and safety. To sleep as long as he liked . . .
As Meg handed him the mug of herbal tea, she let her hand rest on his shoulder for a moment. Unprepared, he camouflaged his reaction with a neck roll, almost smoothly enough to fool her that his muscles were stiff. A small crease puckered her brow.
Sarah’s voice cut across the open waters between them like the fierce carved prow of a longboat. ‘Are you’re OK? You’re very pale.’
Tomorrow. He would leave first thing tomorrow. He could feel the weight of Meg’s solicitude bearing down on him like a second ship.
Why were they bothering with him, a complete stranger? Nobody just took some kid in off the street. He liked them, but well-meaning people were often the most dangerous sort. With the nasty ones you knew where you stood, had no compunction about dealing with them. But those fools who imagined they knew what was best for everybody else, who were only doing it for your own good—if he heard that phrase one more time—they were the ones to watch out for. You wanted a little relief, you wanted to trust them, and then wham! rammed by a bloody frigate. And the self-righteous never forgave.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sarah persisted.
‘Drink your tea, Jesse,’ Meg said. ‘I’ve added some honey for energy. Then get a good night’s sleep. There’ll be time enough to talk tomorrow.’
At least she hadn’t said that things would look different in the morning, Jesse thought. And then he understood that Meg had reproved Sarah, however mildly.
Sarah rose, collected the plates, and scraped the remains of Jesse’s quiche into Nubi’s dish. The dog didn’t need any prompting when it came to food, and he’d licked the basin clean and bumped it noisily across the floor with his muzzle, trying to get the very last smear, before they had a chance to wonder whether he’d eat French cuisine. They all laughed, even Jesse, and the slight tension in the room dissipated.
Sarah brought out a chocolate mousse and arched an eyebrow. Jesse shook his head, then ducked it with a rueful grin. Headache or no headache he could never resist chocolate.
‘Do you have something to sleep in?’ Meg asked him when he’d finished. ‘If we get rain, the temperature will probably drop.’
‘I raided those trunks in the attic,’ Sarah said. ‘I thought it would be OK under the circumstances. But I forgot pyjamas.’
Sarah was studying her spoon from all angles, as if a secret password were etched somewhere on its surface. She avoided looking at her mother. There was a short silence.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jesse said. ‘I can manage without.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Meg said. ‘Would you mind fetching a pair, Sarah? There should be some in the smaller trunk, underneath the underwear and T-shirts. I’ll bring Jesse an extra blanket in the meantime.’
Sarah nodded, and Jesse could see the relief on her face.
A door slammed from the front of the house. Nubi rose from his place at Jesse’s feet and stretched. He padded towards the kitchen door, cocking his head curiously.
‘I’m back,’ a man’s voice bellowed.
‘Dad!’ Sarah whooped, evidently forgetting to use his first name in her enthusiasm.
Even Meg, normally soft spoken, couldn’t repress her delight. ‘Finn!’ she exclaimed.
The next few minutes passed in a jumble of hugs and kisses and parcels and cases and exclamations and cameras and questions and snatches of sentences. Jesse had risen with the others and stood a little apart, watching the effervescence with unexpected pleasure. He couldn’t help being caught up in their excitement. When things had quieted down, Sarah’s father turned to Jesse.
‘And this is—’ he began.
‘Jesse.’ Meg said, her smile drawing him into their circle. ‘A new friend. He’ll be staying the night.’
Sarah’s dad nodded as if this were the most natural thing in the world and extended his hand. Jesse wasn’t used to such courtesy and took a second to hold out his own. Finn noticed his hesitation.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I travel so much that I’ve grown accustomed to greeting people this way.’ His handshake was firm and welcoming. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘My pleasure, sir,’ Jesse said, touched by the man’s attempt to put him at ease. A handshake was surely normal in the kind of society the Andersens frequented.
Sarah gawped. ‘Sir?’
Her father laughed. ‘Now where did you find him, Sarah? I haven’t been called sir by anyone not hoping for a tip since my military days.’
‘I didn’t know you’d served in the army,’ Sarah said.
‘I didn’t,’ Finn said.
They all laughed. Finn’s face was deeply tanned, his tonsure shaggy, his beard a rich redgold. When he laughed, everything about him laughed—his bright blue eyes, his gap teeth, his belly. He was a large—a very large—man who didn’t seem to mind the roll of fat that drooped over his jeans. Jesse wondered whose clothes they’d lent him. Obviously not Finn’s.
‘You’re thinner,’ Sarah said, jabbing her finger at her father’s stomach.
‘Yeah, short rations and lots of hiking will do that to you.’ He glanced at the kitchen table. ‘Quiche. Quiche. And chocolate mousse. Thank god I’m home before I starved to death.’
He went to the sink to wash his hands, then cut himself a thick wedge and took a bite. He closed his eyes dramatically, smacked his lips, sighed.