‘Aye Aye, Cap’n O’Bunion.’ Alf raised his hand in salute as Brian joined the queue.
‘Aye Aye, Cap’n Sandwich.’ Brian saluted back and put a chocolate bar on the belt.
‘Curly Wurly. Good choice.’ Alf nodded approvingly. ‘Firm and filling, light but chewy. Not like Mars bars – dense as cement. Or Toblerone – you might as well eat an Alp.’
A man in a suit coughed behind Brian.
‘Curly Wurly, though, that’s a winner after dinner. Nothing better with a cup of milk and honey and the nine o’clock news. I wonder if every bar’s the same shape.’
Brian fingered the packet. ‘I’ve never checked.’
The suit snorted.
Alf smiled along the queue. ‘Any idea, folks?’ Heads shook, toes tapped.
‘For goodness sake,’ muttered Snortysuit. ‘I have a meeting.’
Alf didn’t seem to hear. ‘You OK, Cap’n?’ He frowned at Brian.
‘Fine.’
‘Hold on. I’ll be with you in a sec.’
Brian stood back while Alf served Snorty and four more customers, for once letting a melon through without remarking, ‘She’s lovely with a slice of ham’ (fruit was always female).
When the queue was gone, Alf lifted the flap and came out from behind the till. ‘Now, Cap’n, what’s up?’
Leaning against the confectionery shelf, Brian told him about the prize-giving. Alf patted his arm. The back of the old man’s hand was yellowish with blue veins, like those stinky cheeses that grown-ups seem to like. ‘What a thing to do.’ He shook his head. ‘And in front of the whole school. Poor lemon too – I bet she was embarrassed.’
‘No one else was,’ said Brian. ‘They loved it. Even Tracy Bricket, and she’d just won the Pleasantness prize – or rather the Pleasant-to-People-Worth-Impressing prize.’
‘Hmm.’ Alf patted his stomach thoughtfully. Round and neat, it looked as if it had been strapped on, like a giant clown’s nose. ‘Tracy Bricket, eh? She was in here yesterday. Her parents had a ding-dong in the household aisle. Not much pleasantness between them, I’d say. Her mum looked ready to throw the Toilet Duck.’
‘At least she’s got a mum.’
Alf opened his mouth. Then he closed it. He knew why Brian and Dad hadn’t set foot in Tullybough Woods for two years, one month and nineteen days. He also knew better than to speak of the Great Unspeakable.
‘Anyway.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Shame on that teacher of yours. What is she thinking of, filling your heads with all that claptrap about winning and beating each other all the time?’ He shook his head. ‘Imagine if I taught my girls that: Kitty or Sue, or Jenny or the twins. There’d be war.’
Alf had a huge family. That’s what he called it, anyway. It lived at the end of his garden. With no children, and a wife who’d died eight years ago, the forty thousand bees in a hive by the river were his nearest and dearest, the loves of his life.
‘Your dad should go in and complain,’ he said. ‘Tell her that fighting bees make feeble honey.’
Brian grunted. ‘Dad’s terrified of her.’ And he couldn’t see Alf’s bee metaphors working on the principal.
‘Well he should talk to one of the governors, then. It’s his duty – his privilege – as your dad.’ Alf took another Curly Wurly from the shelf and wagged it at Brian.
‘But she’ll hate me even more if she finds out that Dad’s complained.’
‘He can do it confidentially, ask not to be named. And even if she does find out, so what? You’ll be leaving the school in a few weeks.’
A tiny light rose in Brian’s chest. Alf was right. Florrie had gone too far. She must be stopped, if only for the sake of future victims. And Dad must stand up for me. That’s what dads do. ‘OK.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll talk to him. Thanks, Alf.’
‘Pleasure, Cap’n. Now you can do me a favour.’ Pressing the second Curly Wurly into Brian’s hand, he winked. ‘Find out if they’re the same shape.’
CHAPTER 5
BRAVE AS A FEATHER
The house was empty when Brian got home. Dad must still be working. Dumping his schoolbag in the kitchen, he went out the back door, crossed the lawn and knocked on the door of the workshop.
‘Hi,’ came Dad’s voice.
Brian opened the door and breathed in the smell he’d known all his life: burnt leaves and coffee with a sour, acidic kick. He stood in the doorway inspecting the room’s clutter. The drills and pliers hanging from the walls could be the torture instruments of a lunatic dentist. On his left was a machine like an old-fashioned mangle. But instead of squeezing the water from shirts and breeches, its job was to flatten gold and silver wires between the two rollers. In front of him, on a stand, was a horizontal rugby ball with ear muffs. At the press of a switch the earmuffs trembled, polishing rings and bracelets within an inch of their lives. Best of all was the Table of Evil. Tucked in the far left corner, it was strictly out of bounds. Dad had warned him that the bowls of sulphuric acid and ammonia could burn your skin off. Just smelling those vicious fumes sent a delicious chill across Brian’s shoulders. It was as if an invisible dragon lived in the shed.
Dad’s workbench stood along the back wall. He looked round and smiled. Then he bent back over his work. Brian came over, bouncing slightly on the floorboards. Even on the grimmest days they sent little bursts of fun up your legs.
The table was a jumble of bric-a-brac: gold studs and silver hooks, screwdrivers and tubes of glue. Brian stood beside it and watched. This was where he felt closest to Dad. There was no forced chitchat, just the odd explanation here and there and a shared delight in the intricacy of the work.
‘Soldering.’ Dad held a broken gold ring between the finger and thumb of his left hand. With his right hand he took a brush from a pot. ‘Flux,’ he said, dabbing the two edges of the ring with the brush. ‘It cleans the gold.’ He replaced the brush and picked up a pair of tweezers. Poking them round the litter of the workbench, he found a tiny gleaming square. ‘Gold solder.’ He laid it across the gap in the ring. Brian watched enthralled. The steadiness of his hands, the precision of his search through the debris on the desk … Dad truly had brains in his fingers.
He unhooked a small tube from a stand. It was wired to a foot pedal. As he pressed the pedal, a thin flame sprang from the tube. He trained it on the ring. The gas gleamed like a dragonfly’s wing: blue-pink-orange. The gold square melted and sank seamlessly, filling the gap in the ring.
Dad lifted his foot. The flame vanished. ‘Neat job. Mrs Griggs’ll be pleased. It’s her wedding ring.’ He leaned back in his chair, relaxed, approachable. It was now or never.
‘Dad.’ Brian bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Something happened at school.’ Perching on the desk, he told him everything without as much as a sniff. He felt quite proud of himself.
Until he saw Dad’s face. It had gone tight and small.
Brian swallowed. ‘Alf says you ought to complain.’
Dad’s hands, so sure a minute ago, twisted in his lap. ‘Who – I mean what can I …?’
‘Tell the school governors what a bully she is. How she yells at me all the time even though I’m doing my best, I really am. It’s just I’m no good at my work.’
‘I know.’ Dad scratched the back of one hand with the other. ‘I really do.’ Brian watched the skin wrinkle and redden. ‘I was the same. Maths, spelling – didn’t have a clue. We’re not cut out for school, Brian.’
‘So? That doesn’t give her the right to treat me like that. Please, Dad, go in.’
‘I …’ Dad blinked. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’
Brian slipped off the desk. ‘I just told you.’
‘What if they don’t believe me?’
‘But it’s true.’ Brian glared at him. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘Of course.’ Dad’s eyes were soft and scared. ‘It’s just I’m no good at this sort of thing.’
‘Who cares? It’s your job.’ A bomb went off inside Brian. ‘Mum w
ould’ve gone in! She’d never have let this happen in the first place. She’d have sorted Florrie out ages ago.’
Dad bunched his hands in his lap.
‘But you just sit there,’ Brian yelled, ‘hiding behind your desk, all pathetic and hopeless and scared!’
Dad closed his eyes.
Wheeling round, Brian strode out of the workshop, slamming the door so that the whole shed shook. He marched across the lawn, numbed by the venom of his words. Then, like a wasp sting, their poison sank in. Rage and guilt fought inside him. Dad deserved all that. He clenched his fists. Well maybe not all. Maybe not pathetic. He shoved the back door open. Or hopeless. He ran through the kitchen and down the hall. But definitely scared. He climbed the stairs, two at a time.
On the landing he stopped. Instead of going into his room and hurling himself on the bed, he crossed to Dad’s – Mum’s – bedroom.
Opening the door, his anger gave way to guilt. If it wasn’t for him, Mum would still be here.
He sat on the bed, winded for a second by grief. Then, breathing slowly and carefully, he opened the drawer in Dad’s bedside table and took out a wooden box. The lid was curved and embossed with gold like a mini pirate chest. Brian opened it. To Lily, it said inside, with you know how much love. Bernard.
Mum had once told Brian that Dad’s name meant brave as a bear. ‘Brave as a feather,’ he muttered savagely.
Inside the box were pieces of Mum.
Before you go and ring the police, please understand that to Brian Mum’s jewellery was part of her, just like her nose or her laugh. She’d worn most of it most of the time because, of course, it was made by Dad. There was the amethyst butterfly on a chain that swung forward every time she bent to kiss Brian. There were the gold bangles which clinked as she climbed the stairs, heralding the bedtime story.
But Brian was looking for something else. Closing his eyes, his fingertips explored each familiar piece. It felt as if he were touching not metal and gemstones but Mum herself. There was the sharp tip of her dragonfly brooch, and there the cold moons of her agate necklace. His fingers closed round a smooth hoop. Yes. He took it out, slipped it onto his middle finger and opened his eyes.
Mum’s engagement ring. It was the only piece of jewellery Dad had ever bought. The oval amber, set in silver, was held by four tiny clasps. It was as plain as a barley sugar – except for one thing.
Mum had often told Brian the story of their fourth date. Dad had taken her for a picnic by the river. Kneeling down on the rug to propose, he’d been so nervous that he’d knocked over a pot of honey. She’d laughed and said, ‘Oops, and yes I will.’ When he’d clasped her hand and promised to make her a dream ring, she’d said, ‘Thank you, Bernard, oh look there’s a bee stuck in the honey.’ Then she’d lifted it out and licked – yes licked – the creature clean. That afternoon, while shopping in town, she’d glanced in the window of a jeweller’s shop and squealed, ‘There’s my engagement ring. You don’t mind, do you, Bernard? It’s just so beautiful and it’ll always remind me of our picnic, and you can make me lots of other jewellery, and, oh, the poor poppet, what a dreadful way to die.’
Because trapped inside the amber was a tiny honey bee.
It looked at first glance like a tangle of black cotton. But on closer inspection it took shape as a breathtaking complication of wiry legs, ghostly wings and hunched body. It was enclosed in an air bubble. Only one back leg, fatter than the others, was actually touching the amber. Mum had explained to Brian how the creature had once been caught in sticky resin, probably from a tree. The resin had hardened and fossilised around it. The jeweller had told her it was twenty million years old.
‘Twenty million?’ he’d gasped. ‘That’s older than my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great–’ and he’d gone on and on until he was gasping for breath … ‘grandpa.’
The first time he remembered her taking it off was on a trip to the beach. She’d handed it to Dad for safekeeping before jumping into the sea. She might as well have pulled her finger off. Seeing Brian’s shocked face, she’d laughed and said, well, yes, in a way it was part of her – her third most precious jewel, after him and Dad – and she’d never lose it, just like she’d never lose them.
‘Except you did.’ Anger boiled inside him again. He hated Dad. He hated Florrie. A tear ran down his cheek. Brushing it furiously away, he stared at the ring.
His rage cooled and hardened, gleamed and grew into a cold, smooth pearl of a plan. A plan that would stick two fingers at them both, make a fool of Florrie and make Dad super-sorry for letting him down. A plan that would bring Mum right back to his side.
Brian slipped off the ring and put it in his pocket. He closed the box, replaced it in the drawer, smoothed the duvet where he’d sat on the bed and left the room. Shutting the door softly, he crept downstairs to Dad’s study. After printing what he needed from the Internet, he went back upstairs to do his homework like the good, obedient, well-behaved boy he was.
CHAPTER 6
DON’T TRY THIS ON YOUR SISTER
Dad tried to patch things up at dinner. He kept glancing at Brian with twitchy smiles. ‘More potato?’
‘No thanks.’ Brian fixed him with cold, polite eyes.
Dad pushed a pea round his plate with a knife. On good days Brian thought of peas as little green moons, cratered and calm. But this one looked shrivelled and mean, like a mouldy belly button.
‘Shall we watch Celebrity Bathrooms?’ Dad’s voice was bright and thin.
‘OK.’ Brian collected the plates, binned the broccoli that Dad hadn’t dared make him eat and stacked the dishwasher, like the kind, helpful boy he was. He even insisted on sweeping the floor, brushing the dirt into tight piles while Dad went to the lounge and switched on the TV.
Watching Tilly Capilly pull the ruby-tipped toilet chain that played her number one hit ‘U Bend My Heart’, Brian slipped his hand into his trouser pocket. His fingers closed round the ring.
I can’t, he thought. Dad’ll be gutted. Florrie’ll be livid. And Mum would be … delighted. ‘It was only gathering dust,’ she’d say. Then, frowning at Dad, ‘At last someone’s standing up to that wicked old wasp.’ They were the only insects she disliked. Bullybugs, she called them. ‘Did you know,’ she’d once told Brian, ‘that bees put guards at the hive door to beat up any wasps that come looking for honey?’ Then she’d shaken her head. ‘It’s so unfair that bees die when they sting you, while Bullybugs buzz off without a care in the world.’ Brian could almost hear her adding, ‘Just like certain teachers.’
When Abs Abercrunch had finished weightlifting his solid gold towel rack, Brian stood up. ‘I’m going to bed.’
Dad got up too. Brian stepped back. Don’t you dare kiss the top of my head. Dad sat down again. Rubbing his palms on his thighs, he murmured, ‘’Night then. Sleep well.’
But he didn’t. After a few hours of restless, shimmering half-dreams in which lemon-shaped wasps chased him through a Curly Wurly maze, his alarm went off. He’d been careful to set it loudly enough to wake him, softly enough not to disturb Dad, who was the lightest sleeper.
Three o’clock. Slipping out of bed, Brian put on his dressing gown. From his desk he took the Internet instructions he’d printed out and the sponge bag he’d packed in the bathroom before going to bed. He put them in his pocket and crept through the door he’d left carefully ajar. He tiptoed downstairs and along the hall. Thank goodness the kitchen door was open; the whisper of a creak might wake Dad. Not daring to switch on the light, Brian felt his way through the darkness, his hands stretched out in front of him. At last they met the smooth edge of the fridge door. His fingertips crept round, easing it open with a sticky sigh. He held his breath. But the only sounds were the hum of the fridge and the drum of his heart. He opened the freezer section and took out the ice tray he’d filled when sweeping the floor after dinner. Good. The cubes had frozen. By the light of the fridge, he found the keys on the kitchen counter. He unlocked the back doo
r, closed the fridge softly and went out.
Leaving the door open to stop the latch clicking, he stood for a moment. His lungs filled with cool, still night.
The difficult part was over. The impossible lay ahead.
When the kickboxing had stopped in his chest, he ran across the lawn, holding the ice tray in one hand and the keys in the other. Clouds stained the sky like milk on black paper. The workshop loomed from the night. Fumbling with the keys, Brian unlocked the door and climbed in. As he turned on the light, a ghostly alchemy transformed the room. Everything in it – the pine walls, the steel machines and shiny clutter on the workbench – turned to gold.
He crept across the floor. A board creaked. He froze. Why? Dad would never hear him here. It was as if the workshop itself was watching him – the tools and trinkets, bowls and machines – with glinty, probing eyes.
Brian had never been in here on his own, let alone at night. He’d always come with Dad, perching on a stool to watch him at work, heating and moulding, bending wires and twisting sheets into brooches and earrings. Dad and his tools were a magical team, conjuring beauty and order from glittering bric-a-brac. And now he was intruding on that team. He knew what to do – he’d watched Dad enough times – but would the tools cooperate with his rebellion?
Brian put the ice tray on the table. He took the ring and sponge bag from his dressing-gown pocket. Putting them on the workbench, he switched on a desk lamp and held up the ring. The amber glowed around the dark knot of the bee. From the sponge bag he removed what he’d borrowed from the bathroom: a little mirror, a bottle of surgical spirit, some balls of cotton wool and a safety pin. He stood them by the lamp.
‘Stop it,’ he told his shaking fingers. He held the ring between his left index finger and thumb. He slid his right thumbnail under one of the silver clasps that held the amber. ‘Ow!’ His nail bent uselessly. He rummaged on the desk. Finding a Stanley knife, he slid the sharp blade under the clasp. It bent back. Yes! He unhooked the other three. Then he slid the knife under the amber itself, easing it off the silver base. Time must have weakened the glue that held it there.
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