Just like you felt, it’s a privilege and an honour to keep international waters safe, whether our own or our allies’, and to stop bad people doing worse things. Most importantly, to help people in need when there’s been a crisis or disaster. Those are the hardest jobs, but also the most fulfilling.
As much as I talk about monotony, I don’t feel trapped like I did back home. Ironic, given that on a ship, I’m more trapped (physically anyway) than I ever was before. Let’s be honest, if I wanted a change of scenery from the ship, other than when we make port, my only option is shark-infested waters …
It’s funny though, when you have a rigid routine, it makes you think about time. It makes you feel like you have more. I’ve been reading loads, and one of the engineers is into philosophy and recommended Seneca’s Letters From a Stoic. Yeah, I’d never heard of him either. Turns out he was this Roman scholar who had a challenging life by all accounts, but he had some interesting thoughts about the important stuff. There was one thing that struck me in his letter on saving time. ‘Make yourself believe the truth of my words – that certain moments are torn from us, that some are gently removed, and that others glide beyond our reach.’ I know I’ve let time, and parts of my life, slip through my fingers and it’s like I never realised before that time is finite. There will never be enough of it, and our lives are limited. Seneca said that nothing is ours except time. Not possessions, not money, not love. Just time. It’s the one thing we have control over, that we can choose to use wisely and well, or fritter away on unimportant things.
It made me think about my dad, and what you said last time we spoke. I know I need to sort things out with him. I’m just not ready. It isn’t time yet. But one day, it will be. It’ll be the right moment to look him in the eye and confront what he is and ask him why. To try again to make him stop. For now, please continue keeping an eye on my mum, if you can. I trust you, and I have another plan to try and get her away from him. I feel guilty for leaving them both, but she told me once that I had to get out. On the day I left, she told me to run away. Far, far away. And I did, but maybe I went too far.
But enough of that maudlin stuff. Write back and tell me what you’ve been up to. How are Henry and Leila? Is Leila painting? She’s so talented. I bet she’s studying hard on her A-level courses.
Your letters might take a while to get to me, but I look forward to them. Don’t wait too long – remember what I said about time.
Jake
As I finish reading the letter, tears are streaming down my face. I don’t need any more convincing. I remember Grandad’s joy at catching that fish, the thrilling story he told us about how he landed it. It’d taken him two and a half hours and the moral support of his fishing buddies. Earlier this year, after I helped him set up an account, he posted a picture on Facebook of him cradling the carp against his stomach like a baby. Until then he’d been a massive technophobe, but once he was on there, he got all excited about tracking his old Navy friends down and started sharing stories with them. Now I wonder if he and Jake used social media to keep in touch. Does that mean they stopped writing letters? It would be a shame if they did, looking at the number of envelopes Jake sent over the years. There’s something so much more meaningful and personal about letters, compared to texts or messages.
The way Jake asked Grandad to keep an eye on his mum and talked about his relationship with his dad so freely … it’s obvious they meant a lot to each other. Even if I feel horribly ashamed about how oblivious I’ve been, it’s the truth. Jake and Grandad were close, and he deserved to mourn him as much as the rest of us. He deserved to be there in the church with us, and at the wake.
And there’s something else. Something surprising. Along with his confession about his family on the day Grandad died, the letter offers me more insight into how Jake thinks, and what he does every day. And it strikes me he might be many things – exasperating, sometimes cocky, a bit of a know-it-all – but above everything, he’s a good man. A brave one. Grandad admired him, I know it.
Jake’s got hidden depths, I’ve just never seen them all, I acknowledge.
‘Shit.’ I feel sick when I think about my behaviour in telling Jake he barely knew Grandad and being so angry with him at the wake. No wonder Dad thinks poorly of me.
Throwing the letter on the table, I race from the garden and through the house, stopping only to shove my bare feet into flip-flops in the dark hallway. Flinging the front door open, I jog clumsily along the pavement, before pounding on the peeling red door. ‘Come on, come on.’ I keep knocking until there’s an answer.
‘Yes?’ Jake’s mum looks tired and worn, black hair dull and pulled back in a ponytail. Her skin is patchy and there’s a fading bruise under one eye. I’ve never met her properly, have only ever seen her from a distance. I know more about her than she thinks, and I long to say something about how she could escape this life, but I don’t know how to broach the subject – and now isn’t the time.
‘Hi. I’m Leila, from down the road?’
‘I know who you are.’
I flush, and I’m not sure why. ‘Is Jake here?’
She looks defeated. ‘He left. Yesterday. He came back from the wake –’ she pauses ‘– packed his kit, and went. I haven’t heard from him since. I assume he got back okay. Don’t think he’ll be back for a while, by the look of him,’ she finishes in a whisper.
My stomach rolls at her sadness and I want to give her a hug and offer help. But it’s not my place. Besides, I’m only eighteen, what can I do? What kind of difference can I make, if she’s never been able to help herself? And if capable Jake hasn’t been able to? Then I feel awful for the thought. If she hasn’t left, it’s because she’s petrified or hasn’t been offered the right help yet. Surely there’s something Dad and I can do, living just along the road?
‘Who’s at the door?’ an irritated voice yells from inside. ‘Is the boy back again? I’d like to teach him some manners after the way he spoke to me yesterday.’ His speech is slurred in a halfway-through-a-bottle-of-whisky kind of way.
‘No one,’ she calls quickly, ‘Jehovah’s Witnesses.’ Leaning toward me, she blinks, a nervous twitch. ‘You need to go,’ she says, before raising her voice. ‘No, thank you.’ Shooing me away with a thin hand with chipped nails, she slams the door in my face.
I watch as flecks of red paint drift to the floor, looking for all the world like dried blood. It reminds me of the day Jake first left, an echo of a similar thought. I frown as I realise he’s left once again, and I have no idea when I’ll next see him. The thought makes me feel bereft. I’m not sure why it affects me so strongly.
Jake
June 2009
There’s a knock on the bedroom door. Before Jake can answer, it flies open and his mum comes stumbling in.
‘What is it? Is everything okay?’ He springs off the bed where he’s been reading a book and digging up the courage to go and see Leila. He hasn’t seen her since Ray’s funeral the previous September. ‘Is it Dad?’
‘No.’ She twists her hands together. ‘He’s passed out on the sofa.’
‘Then why do you look so worried?’ There are frown lines on her forehead and her mouth is pursed.
‘Leila’s dad is here, asking if we’ve seen her.’
‘What? Why would she be here?’ His brain fills in the gaps. ‘Wait, she’s missing? Move, please.’ Rushing past her, he charges down the stairs and sees Henry waiting at the door, face screwed up with concern. ‘Henry. What’s going on?’
‘Have you seen Leila?’ His broad shoulders are hunched over, his big hands twisting anxiously together.
‘No. I only got back from shore leave yesterday and wasn’t sure what kind of reception I’d get, after the way we left things.’ He rubs a hand around the back of his neck, recalling every single detail of the scene at the wake, of how shit the whole day had been. Although it’s been nearly ten months, and he considers himself a tolerant person, there’s still a little part of him that
hasn’t forgiven her for that scene. He still misses Ray too. Misses hearing his voice and reading his letters. He misses writing them back as well. Writing allows him to think, to crystallise his thoughts in a way talking never has. He hasn’t sent Leila any postcards either, given their falling out.
Henry makes to leave, but then looking awkward, he stops. ‘For what it’s worth, she did come by to apologise the next day but you’d already left.’
‘She did?’
‘I told her about Ray leaving you his medals and then she understood about your friendship. Did you receive them safely? I had to send them to the base, and they called me to ask a lot of questions.’
‘Oh.’ Jake shifts uneasily from one foot to another. ‘Yes, thank you. It meant a lot. I should have contacted you, sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, I knew it would.’ Henry turns once again, but then blurts. ‘Can you help, Jake? I’ll understand if you don’t want to, if you’re still cross with her, but—’
‘That doesn’t matter now.’ Jake waves the comment away. Besides, he already feels lighter at the idea of Leila trying to build bridges. He’ll also never forget the kindness this man showed by inviting him to be part of the celebration of Ray’s life. ‘Although I’m not sure why it’s me you want help from?’
‘I thought that with your job, being a Marine, you’d be good at finding people.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Jake hides how much that stings. It’s not because Henry sees his daughter and Jake as friends, but because Jake has skills other people don’t. ‘Of course I’ll help. Tell me what’s going on.’
Henry steps back. ‘Leila left the house just after lunch and I can’t get hold of her. She’s been gone for seven hours. None of her friends have heard from her either.’
‘Well, maybe she’s out of battery, or is somewhere painting? She likes peace and quiet for that, right?’
‘I’ve texted asking her to let me know she’s safe. No reply. That’s not like her.’
‘You really think she’s in danger?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just that …’
Jake leans forward, ‘Just what?’
‘Her mother had a habit of running away, and Leila did too in her early teens, before we moved back here. She was very upset when she left earlier. We’d argued.’
‘About?’
Henry clears his throat, and peers around. His eyes flicker to the kitchen doorway behind Jake. ‘It’s delicate.’
‘Okay, let’s talk at yours.’ Grabbing his keys off the side and shoving his feet into trainers, Jake hollers through to the kitchen, ‘Mum, I’ll be back later.’ As Henry strides down the path, Jake locks the front door and follows the older man.
A minute later they’re standing in Henry’s kitchen. ‘We have privacy now. Tell me, Henry. What is it? If I’m going to find her, I need to know.’
The older man sinks down into a chair at the table and starts talking in short sentences. As he does, a tear spills down his cheek. After some muffled explanations, he finishes with, ‘And then I said I was disappointed in her, and Ray would be too.’ Henry looks up, shamefaced. ‘I was too hard on her, Jake. I was just so shocked. She ran out crying. What if she’s done something silly? Doesn’t come back?’
Jake pushes away from the cabinet he’s been leaning against. He puts his best poker face on, the one his squadron say makes him a great leader, because they never worry they’re in trouble, even if they should be bricking it. ‘She won’t do anything silly, and of course she’ll come back. We just need to find her. No clues as to her whereabouts? Do you think her friends might lie for her, say she isn’t there when she is?’
Henry shakes his head, expression anguished. ‘I know she’s nearly nineteen and has been living her own life in Brighton, but they could all tell how worried I was, so I don’t think they would. They were genuinely worried and have all been texting for news for the last two hours. No one can get hold of her.’
‘Okay,’ Jake nods. ‘Stay there.’ Taking the stairs two at a time, he searches her room, thinking, looking for clues. Henry said she’d been back for the summer break for a few weeks. There aren’t many belongings in her room. Apparently, she left the bulk of her stuff at the shared digs. She never went into halls during her first year, Henry had told him; she used some of Ray’s inheritance to house-share with other students. It’s part of the reason father and daughter have fallen out, not only because he considers it a waste of money, but because living with other students away from campus, she’s got mixed up with a guy on another course who sounds like a liability.
Jake doesn’t want to think too much about who Leila may or may not be sleeping with, so concentrates on her room instead. There’s a shelf of assorted paperbacks and some clothes piled up on a chair in the corner, a pair of discarded sandals on the floor, an unmade four-poster bed, a glass of half-finished water on the bedside cabinet, a few stray hair bands, a lip-gloss in shimmering raspberry, and a sketch pad.
‘Where are you, Jones?’ Something tickles his memory, a comment she made once, but he can’t focus on it. The more he tries to remember, the more it slips out of reach. He thumbs rapidly through the pages of the sketchpad. Inside are charcoal pictures of Brighton. The first, is one of the lanes with a homeless woman in the doorway, clutching a small dog, her sadness apparent; then there’s the main pier with the amusements on it, stretching out to sea above a stony beach; the final one is a row of narrow houses lined up on a street leading down to the sea. They’re beautiful, and perfectly capture the vibrancy of the city, but they’re not helpful. ‘Damn it!’
Then he has a thought. Dropping to the carpeted floor, he wriggles around until he can get under the bed. ‘Aren’t we both starting to get a bit old for this, Jones?’ He mutters. ‘Or too big, at least.’ Using his phone screen as a torch, he shines it onto the wooden boards above his head. There’s a tiny pencil sketch taped there. The sea is still, with only a few waves, and the archway is surrounded by water, stoic and strong. ‘Of course,’ he smiles. ‘Got it.’
Racing down the stairs, he almost knocks into Henry, who’s standing in the hallway holding his phone and looking anxious.
‘It’s okay.’ Jake clasps his shoulder and squeezes. ‘I know where she is. I’ll get her.’
‘I should come—’
‘If she’s upset with you, that might not be the best thing. Let me go. I’ll bring her back, I promise.’
‘Are you sure?’ Henry’s eyes are watery.
‘Absolutely.’ Jake grabs his keys and opens the door. ‘See you soon. Oh, by the way –’ he pauses with his foot on the doorstep, his back to Henry ‘– I know where she is because I know your daughter. Not because of my job.’
He doesn’t expect an answer, but as he swings round to pull the door closed, the other man is looking straight at him, a small smile curving his mouth.
‘I know that, Jake. Why do you really think I asked for your help?’
Leila
June 2009
The Rainbow Charm
Lowering myself onto the beach, I shiver. The day has been warm and the sun’s still up despite it being gone nine at night, but the multi-coloured stones feel cold beneath my thighs. Perhaps they simply match the ice surrounding my heart. I’m afraid to feel, because if I let the numbness slide away, I’ll be left heartbroken. Or maybe just broken, full stop. A fragility is simmering just beneath the surface and I can’t let it take over.
But it’s all just been such a huge shock. I’ll never forget the dread and disbelief on the day I took the pregnancy test. The way I gulped and slumped to the floor, curling up on the grotty bathmat in my student digs as I stared at the two lines declaring the result positive. I couldn’t be pregnant. It couldn’t be true. I was on the pill, and while I might be flighty about some things and get caught staring off into the distance more often than not – particularly when I was working on a painting – contraception formed part of my daily routine. How was it possible? And why? Why me, and why now?
I was about to finish the first year of uni. It was all going well. Despite losing Grandad last year, and how awful I felt during the autumn and winter, by the time spring came around I felt settled and happy, interested in my studies, and getting great marks. I was also in a relationship with someone I could see myself perhaps falling in love with one day.
Every swear word I knew had filled my head, blasting from my mouth. It was the wrong time; it was absolutely impossible. I wasn’t ready to have a baby, and neither was Ricky. We’d only been together a few months, and there was no way we could become parents.
It was typical. I’d only taken the test because I kept being sick but was gaining weight, and wanted to rule pregnancy out as an option before darkening the GP’s doorway with fears about something sinister. But it was a baby. Ridiculous.
No, no, no. Sweaty panic had gripped me tightly as I wrapped the test in loo roll, put it back in its box, and secured it in the chemist’s paper bag. Running out of the house, I shoved it deep into the refuse bin under black bags packed with stinky food rubbish. If I couldn’t see it, it wasn’t happening. Casting a nervous look up and down the street, I wheeled the bin out a day early just to make sure Brighton and Hove Council took it away.
Although a quick calculation told me I might already be a couple of months along, I chose to bury myself in my course and concentrate on painting in my spare time. I made excuses not to see Ricky. How the hell could I decide what to tell him and cope with how he’d deal with it, when I couldn’t even face it myself? I managed to pull it off for a whole two weeks, ignoring every wave of nausea, every tingling ache in my boobs, every moment my nose twitched at an odd smell. It’s funny what desperation can make you do.
And now, here I am, where I belong. Getting what I deserve, my eyes staring blankly out to the horizon, past the graceful arch of Durdle Door.
Reaching into my pocket, I take out the ancient iPod I’ve somehow never been able to let go of and select the playlist El started for me years ago. She occasionally adds to it, mostly when I get dumped. She’s really good at finding great break-up songs. I laugh bitterly as I realise there are quite a few on the list. Unwinding the earphones, I tuck the buds into my ears, hoping if the music is loud enough it’ll drown out the guilty voice threatening to occupy my head. As soon as ‘You Could Be Happy’ by Snow Patrol starts, I know I’ve made a mistake. Tears fill my eyes as every jagged bit of hurt and loss I’ve been shying away from fills my head, clenching around my heart. My eyes screw up, my throat closes, and silent sobs choke me. Tears roll down my face, unwanted, unbidden. It physically aches – God, it feels like I can’t breathe – and I want to curl in on myself and disappear. The pain in my chest is what I imagine a heart attack feels like. I bring my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms around them, holding onto myself because no one else can, or is here to. Pressing the button to loop the song on repeat, I play it again, letting the music and words release my grief.
The Last Charm Page 13