Nettle finally came to her senses. She jumped off the bed to collect her possessions and protectively pile them into a mound on her bed. Jazz just walked around her, tearing a wooden framed picture from the wall and flung it at the siblings. Bram ducked, just managing to avoid the charcoal sketch as it slammed against the wall behind him. “She’s bonkers!” Bram denounced before slipping beneath the bed to hide.
Nettle approached her cousin as if she were a wild animal she was trying to capture. She spoke softly. Jazz had her back to her, trying to pull the heel off Nettle’s combat boots. “Jazz, you’ve got to calm down and tell me what is going on. I have no idea what you think we’ve gone and done.”
Jazz spun around, her red curly hair whipped about like Medusa’s snakes, and shrieked, “LIAR! You’ve ruined all of my make-up, smeared it all over the walls, just because you’re nasty and spiteful. You couldn’t stop there, neither of you. You just had to tear all my clothes to shreds… SHREDS! And my bed reeks with perfume. Do you have any idea how much Chanel and Dior costs? ANY IDEA AT ALL?!”
Nettle gave her cousin a disbelieving gape. “You’re insane! Why would we do that?”
Jazz stormed across the room and leaned an inch away from Nettle’s nose, her enraged blotchy face creased with hostility. “Because you hate me.”
Nettle stood her ground. The best thing to do, she thought, was to remain calm in front of the maelstrom that was Jazz. “Hate’s a strong word Jazz. More like… intensely dislike.”
Jazz let out a shriek of outrage. Spittle struck Nettle’s cheek. “Ugh,” She stepped back to wipe it off with the back of her hand. “Come on Jazz, calm down. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation-”
Jazz rounded on Nettle, interrupting her. “Oh, I suppose you’re going to tell me talking rats did it.”
Bram slid out from beneath the bed and excitedly tugged at his sister’s arm. “They must have!”
Jazz snarled, “Stop it with the talking rats! As if anyone with half a brain would believe something as stupid as that!”
“But, we didn’t do anything!” Nettle yelled.
“As if I’m going to believe that either!”
A ball of spitting and snarling youngsters blew through the front door and onto the porch. Fred had been asleep on the old swing chair. He awoke with a start, leaping to his feet wondering what on earth was going on. The din of squabbling children was punctuated with a flurry of accusations, pointed fingers and stomping feet. Fred could barely work out what the kids were shrieking at one another. For the moment, none of them realized he was there.
He bellowed as loudly as he could, “OI!!” His explosive command startled a small flock of sparrows from a tall hazel shrub. They spiralled upward in a flurry of beating wings and squawking protests to fly across the yard and settle on the higher branches of an old ash tree.
All three of Fred’s charges fell suddenly silent. They turned as one, surprised to see him. A moment later, speaking all at once, they directed their grievances at him.
“Dad, she’s mental, crazy, insane, loco,” Nettle glowered, rotating a finger by her head. “We didn’t do anything.”
“Uncle Fred, she’s lying,” scowled Jazz. “She’s ruined every single thing I own!”
“She blames us for everything,” Bram advised. “Whatever Jazz thinks we’ve done, it’s not us. It’s those talking rats.”
Fred held up his hands demanding silence. The kids, reluctantly, with dirty looks darting between the girls, settled down. He slowly looked at each of the girls. His gaze rested upon Jazz. Fred inwardly steeled himself, Jazz looked so much like his sister and had the temperament to match. He had no idea what had transpired, but as Jazz looked up at him in that expectant way, mouth pressed firmly in that peevish manner that he and the kids only knew too well, he knew he was going to be in for it. “OK, what’s happened now?”
Jazz glared pointedly at Nettle, then said, “You may as well come and see for yourself, Uncle Fred,” and stalked off inside.
At Jazz’s insistence, Nettle opened the bedroom door. She was met with an overwhelming stench of sickening flowery perfume. It practically thumped her in the face. She staggered back, pressing an arm across her nose.
“That’s $2000 worth of perfume,” Jazz sullenly informed her. Nettle couldn’t help her horrified expression at the cost. “I don’t think your measly allowance is going to cover what I’ve lost.”
Inside the bedroom, the whirlwind of destruction looked like a gang of unruly toddlers had taken to everything inside. All of Jazz’s possessions were strewn about the room. Necklaces and bracelets, smashed or snapped in two, dangled from the lantern hanging from the ceiling, and pearls and diamonds free from their settings were scattered about the wooden floor. Handbags had their handles snipped off, clutches had their clasps busted and Jazz’s precious Jimmy Choo shoes all had their heels broken off. Expensive clothes, Nettle didn’t even want to think about, just how expensive, had either their arms torn off, ripped knees, or make-up smeared across the fabric and everything within the room, including the bedding and curtains, was coated in a fine layer of pressed powder that had exploded from Jazz’s toiletry bag when that had been rummaged through.
To make matters worse, crude drawings using Jazz’s beloved red lipstick were drawn all over the bedroom walls. Simple stick figures, clearly supposed to be Jazz, were drawn in a variety of poses, all with angry faces surrounded by puffy red hair and childish writing: Jazz is stupid, except it was spelt ‘stoopid.’
Nettle chortled, spluttering to suppress it under Jazz’s blistering glare, who snapped, “It’s not funny.”
“It is… kind of funny...” said Bram, who was doing only just a little bit better at hiding his amusement.
“Besides, I can spell,” said Nettle with a grin, scooping up a snapped lipstick from the floor. She went over to the wall and wrote ‘Jazz is stupid.’ Her handwriting wasn’t anywhere close in resemblance to the infantile print. “And this isn’t really my style,” she added. “I would have gone for something a little more subtle… like, shearing off your hair.”
“Uncle Fred,” squawked Jazz, her big almond-shaped eyes flaring wide in horror. “Do something!”
Fred was still gazing about the destruction, shaking his head ever so slightly. His thoughts were far away from the wrangling cousins.
“Uncle Fred?” Jazz impatiently sing-songed, stamping her bare feet. “Uncle Fred!” she barked.
Nettle saw her father come back to them with a start. He blinked dazedly at Jazz, then turned to Bram. “Right, well, did either of you two do this?”
“No, of course not,” replied Nettle wondering why her father was sounding vaguely disorientated. He wasn’t surprised at the mess for some reason.
Bram shook his golden-locked head in denial.
Fred turned to Jazz with a grim smile. “There’s nothing much that can be done then, Jazz, apart from the kids helping you tidy up.”
“Are you serious?!” Jazz’s voice rose a shrilly octave. “You’re going to just accept that… absolutely outrageous lie!”
“My children are not liars, Jazz,” Fred snapped. “I did not raise either of them that way. If they say they didn’t do it, then they didn’t.”
“I may not be a qualified CSI Agent,” sulked Jazz, “but who else would have done this? If it wasn’t me, or you, then that only leaves them.”
She has a point, thought Nettle, wondering what her father was going to do. There was no one else that could be blamed for the destruction.
Fred stared hard at his niece, until Jazz clamped her mouth tightly shut and dropped her glare to the ground. “Nettle, Bramble, help your cousin clean up.” Fred’s tone was final. There was no arguing with it.
When their father left, Nettle and Bram both started picking up Jazz’s torn clothes and broken shoes. Nettle cradled a ripped hockey jacket and cakes of mashed make-up. While Bram totally believed the talking rats were behind the whirlwind of destruction, she pond
ered why their father so readily believed them both. He was right, he hadn’t raised liars, but he was well aware that at times both of them had bent the truth somewhat and weren’t exactly angels. There was something very odd going on here at the cottage and her father was behaving very strangely.
Jazz snatched the armful from Nettle, not caring when one of her bracelets fell to the floor, diamonds scattering. “Just go,” she said stonily to Nettle. “I don’t need help from the likes of you two.”
“Come on, Jazz,” Nettle began, trying to appease her cousin. “I know you don’t believe we had nothing to do with this. But we want to help.”
Jazz jabbed a finger into the soft spot on her shoulder. “Hey,” cried Nettle, wincing.
Jazz drove her back with the tip of her finger. “I don’t care what Uncle Fred says, you’re both liars.”
“We didn’t do this,” Bram protested.
Jazz spun around, her nostrils flaring and glared daggers at her little cousin. “Get out NOW!”
Bram gave her a fierce stare, his blue eyes big behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He dumped his armful of snapped heels and broken sling-backs on the ground with a scattered thump and marched out.
Unable to do anything else, Nettle followed. Jazz slammed the door shut behind her so forcefully it made her jump with fright. She rubbed her tender shoulder and found Bram leaning against the hallway wall with his ear pressed against it. He still wore a dark scowl from Jazz’s accusations as he listened intently.
“What are you doing?”
Bram quickly held a finger to his lips demanding silence. Nettle immediately complied - when he was in one of these moods, Nettle dared not speak nor move. After a while, with nothing heard, Bram stealthily moved into his bedroom.
Nettle quietly followed, curious. She sat on the rocking chair in his nursery watching him go from wall to wall. He shot her a little glare when the rocking chair squeaked beneath her weight. Nettle stopped rocking, holding the chair still with her calves.
He leaned, listening, not moving for what seemed an age. Nettle sat so still her muscles started to ache. Come on Bram, hurry up. She was anxious to learn if he’d heard anything, and what on earth was he up to? Finally Bram relaxed. He turned with an appreciative smile. “Thanks. Thought I heard them.”
“Heard who?”
“The rats. I’m sick of Jazz blaming us. I’m going to catch them and prove to her that we’ve had nothing to do with her stupid earrings and her stupid bedroom.”
The image that sprang to Nettle’s mind of an enraged Jazz and walls drawn with crude pictures enticed a case of the giggles. “It really was funny,” she laughed.
“Stoopid Jazz,” added Bram slumping to the floor chortling. It was some time before the guffaws subsided. Though they gasped deep breaths, their faces sore from laughing, it felt so good.
Nettle rose assisting Bram to his feet. “Why don’t we go up to the attic, we may find something there that could help.” Nettle didn’t think talking rats, let alone average non-talking rats had anything to do with Jazz’s destroyed possessions and vandalised bedroom walls. But as to who, or what, could have caused the chaos, she was at a loss. Still, rummaging around in the attic would be an interesting way to while away the day and fill in Bram’s time.
CHAPTER NINE
An Unwanted Gift
When the siblings climbed the ladder into the attic, they found someone else had been up here before them. Footprints had been scuffed into the dusty floor and a few storage boxes had been dragged out and rifled through. Dad, surmised Nettle. He’d been looking for something. I wonder what?
The siblings spent the rest of the morning in the musty attic, crowded with brown boxes stacked upon one another and old leather trunks. The rafters were thick with spider webs, and the small dirty window provided a dull light, bright enough for them both to work with.
Bram had found an old bird cage, not made from metal but woven from thin dried branches with thorns which put Nettle in mind of rose branches. She had sourced him a toolkit and he sat on the floor creating a trap of sorts from a collection of odd bits of wood, cardboard and string.
Nettle sat beside him, cross legged, as she sifted through a tattered old shoe box filled with photographs. The collection had been taken when she was a toddler, obviously by her father, as they mainly captured her and her mother, Briar.
She hadn’t appreciated, until looking at the photographs, just how much Bram resembled their mother. Petite, with slight frames, there was an air about them both that was mischievous. While Bram had her full lips and extraordinarily wide mouth, his radiant skin lit his hair into a deeper shade of amber than his mothers, and whereas her face was heart shaped, his was a little more broad and boyish.
Nettle stopped flicking through the photographs, to rest upon one in particular. Her mother was caught mid-laughter, her head pulled sideways as Nettle, a chubby baby with a mop of dark unruly curls, tugged on a lock of molten honeyed hair. Her mother’s vivid turquoise eyes, framed by feathery brows, were flicked wide with merriment. She was hugging Nettle with long golden arms that seemed to sparkle.
A wretched longing overwhelmed Nettle’s senses and her throat began to choke up. Briar looked beautiful and young and vivacious and so in love with her baby daughter. It wasn’t fair, why did she leave?
She hated feeling this way, of loss and want and emptiness. Was life really that bad Briar couldn’t bear to be around them any longer? These questions weren’t new, she’d asked herself the same thing over and over again, year after year. Had she done something, that made her mother not want her anymore? Was she the reason Briar left? And even when she rallied a resolve to let Briar go, forget about her, and all those silly feelings of inadequacy, inevitably it always ended with anger and rage.
How dare she walk out on us! A fire of abhorrence and fury exploded within, it was like a ball of crackling energy that had to be released in some physical way. Nettle tore the photograph into two pieces, then three, then four, before being crumpled and thrown into the air to scatter all over the attic floor. It felt good, satisfying, justified even. But Nettle couldn’t erase the memory of her mother gazing adoringly at her baby. Nor could she ever permanently let go her bitter resentment toward Briar.
Bram had his head in a large cardboard box, his voice was slightly muffled. “Hey take a look at this.”
Pleased for some sort of distraction, Nettle shuffled over. When Bram’s head reappeared from the box, he gave her a baffled look. “Are you OK?”
“Of course I am,” she replied, a little taken aback and annoyed.
“Oh, OK,” he said in that way, she knew, he didn’t believe her. “It’s just you’ve got that moody-brow-thing going on.”
“Huh?” She had no idea what he was talking about.
He pointed at her nose. “When you’re cranky, you have that furrow across the bridge of your nose, is all. And your lips kind of pucker up.”
Nettle ran a finger between her brows and eased the sullen crease, while relaxing her mouth. “I didn’t know I did that.”
“Yeah, well, we sure do,” he said. He cast a glance at the torn photograph behind her. “You’ve been doing it a lot, since coming back home.”
Why wouldn’t I, she scowled, Briar is everywhere here. There was nowhere to be free of her. She realized she had fallen into that moody-brow-thing again, and rearranged her features into a more pleasant expression. She turned her attention back to the cardboard box. “What is it? What’s in there?”
He shifted the box over to her. Like him, she was kneeling. She gave him a perplexed glance before peering into the depths of the box. For a moment she thought it was empty until she spied something very small at the bottom, possibly made from wood.
She leaned into the box, her head and shoulders disappearing inside to retrieve a small wooden box that fitted nicely into the palm of her hand. There was a name carved into the wooden surface with a decorative motif of flowers and thorns.
&nbs
p; “Looks like it belongs to you,” said Bram, with an expression just as bewildered as her own. The letters of Nettle’s name were carved in an elaborate script. Nettle turned the box over in her fingers. It felt light and when she shook it, she heard something small bouncing around inside. The wood was smoothly varnished but she could see no line separating the lid from the box. “Strange,” she mused, “there doesn’t seem to be any way into it.” She spent a little longer inspecting the box and feeling it with the soft tips of her fingers. She could find nothing that indicated a way to open it. Bram also tried, to no avail. The thrill of a mystery sent a prickling ripple down her spine. “I’ll see if Dad knows anything about it.”
Slipping the mysterious box into her pocket, she left Bram tinkering away with his makeshift trap.
Fred was sitting in his old leather chair in the small library, leafing through a large dusty book. His glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose and his fingers were stained with black ink from his pen. Fred flicked a page over and compared it to something in another old tome cradled in his lap, before hurriedly scribbling in a small notebook he had on the armrest. There was a stack of books in a wobbly pile beside the chair he’d evidently been copying information from, as well.
“Dad,” Nettle called softly as she approached. Fred was too engrossed to hear her, lost in the words and illustrations of the book before him.
The sun filtered through the stained glass window, casting a gloomy bluish tinge over Fred. All of a sudden, he seemed to her so small and lost, almost like a child, holding onto the slightest thread of hope. He’d dragged them all over the country searching for their mother. It was depressing. To Nettle it was plainly obvious, Briar didn’t want to be found.
“Hey Dad,” she said again, startling him out of his research. He snapped shut the books and slid them down the side of the armchair. He wasn’t as quick with the journal, and she was able to gain a glimpse of a scribble of text and some rough sketch of something with wings, before it too disappeared.
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