The Last Charm

by Ella Allbright

  ‘Whatever.’ Shaking my head, I subside, digging one hand into the sand and letting the warm golden silky grains sift through my fingers. ‘You’re so weird sometimes. How do you know what I look like painting anyway?

  ‘You paint in the garden sometimes, and when I’m back on leave I can see you from my bedroom window.’

  ‘Not the roof?’ I raise my eyebrow.

  ‘Not any more. Now, stop trying to change the subject. Whenever I bring up your painting, you—’

  ‘Yes, enough about me, what about you?’ I interrupt. ‘How’s work? Can you talk about it?’

  ‘You’re such a pain in the arse sometimes, Jones.’ But he goes with it anyway. ‘I can, as it happens. I have news.’ He pauses, looking uncertain.

  Doubt is a strange expression on his face, because he’s usually the most confident person in the room. Or as I used to tell him, the cockiest. ‘So?’ I prod.

  ‘I’m leaving the Marines.’

  ‘What?’ He couldn’t have stunned me more if he tried. ‘But you love it.’

  ‘It’s time for a change. It’s time to come home. I’ll be with Mum for a while, until I can get my own place.’

  As I study his face, I wonder if there’s something he’s not telling me. And the thought of him being down the road all the time is both gladdening and unsettling at the same time. ‘Won’t you miss it? You once told me your crew, or troop, or whatever you call them, are like family.’

  ‘They are. And nothing will ever change that, but I have another family too. Mum especially.’ Jake smiles at me gently, and a look passes between us. I know we’re both thinking about how I helped her, and his dad leaving. He’s never returned. ‘All the travelling I’ve been able to do has been brilliant –’ for some reason he touches a hand to his left shoulder ‘– but as much as I love the sea, and the sense of value and contribution I get from the job, it’s time to settle in one place. I know it’s going to be hard living on civvy street, but don’t worry, I have a plan.’ He pats me on the back with a large hand to reassure me, and the force of it almost sends me sprawling into the sand. He’s strong. Really strong. But then, I found that out last August when he carried me on his broad shoulders. Why can’t I stop thinking about it?

  Shifting away from the danger zone, I stare at him curiously. ‘What’s your plan then?’

  ‘First, I’m going to do a personal-training qualification—’

  ‘What?’ I choke. There’s the second shock of the day, after him leaving the Navy. ‘You mean you’re going to be one of those tanned, arrogant, muscle-bound guys who stride around the gym barking orders at everyone? In those little shorts and tight T-shirts, admiring yourself in the mirror and sleeping with all your female clients?’

  ‘Wow –’ he raises an eyebrow ‘– talk about stereotyping. I’m surprised that you of all people would be so judgemental. And what kind of gyms have you been visiting, or more relevantly, which books have you been reading, to give you that impression of PTs? Some of my mates were PTs before joining the Marines, and I’m sure some of them will be afterwards too.’

  Flushing under his gaze, I grab another handful of sand and let it slip through my fingers again. I force myself to look him in the eye. The smirk on his mouth says it all. ‘Okay,’ I admit, ‘so I haven’t ever been to a gym. That’s a fair point. And yes, my perceptions might be from books or magazines I’ve read, or an occasional TV show. But I also have friends who go to the gym and tell me about what goes on in those places. Maybe those comments were a bit unfair. Still, you’re the last person I imagined working as a PT; being cooped up in a gym all day just isn’t you, is it?’

  ‘Careful, you almost sound like someone who knows me,’ he answers solemnly, eyes twinkling, ‘but you’re right, it’s not me. Which is why, if you’d let me finish, I was about to tell you I’m going to become an occupational therapist. I’ll do a PT qualification to get a general grounding in fitness, and then I’ll do a postgraduate course in OT.’

  ‘Erm –’ I raise both eyebrows ‘– not to be condescending, but don’t you need a degree to do a postgraduate course?’

  ‘Yes, Sherlock, you do. So, it’s a good thing I have one.’

  ‘Really?’ I must look as astonished as I feel. ‘But how? When?’ Asking the questions, I realise how little I know about him, and feel guilty. Am I still so wrapped up in my own internal little world that I don’t stop to ask what’s going on for the people around me? It’s not a comfortable feeling.

  ‘The Armed Forces have undergrad schemes they’ll fund you through. I did a business degree through Southampton Uni. I also have a level-5 Diploma in Leadership and Management.’

  ‘That’s amazing. But you hated school!’

  ‘They weren’t the best years,’ he admits, ‘but I just had a lot going on, and as you know, reasons for not wanting to be there.’ He pauses, and we both know he’s alluding to his dad. ‘And actually, I like learning. You know I like to read.’

  ‘Yes.’ I stare at him, but when he picks up a stone and throws it towards the sea, I realise I’ve made him uncomfortable. ‘Sorry.’ Wanting to end the awkward moment, I stand. ‘I’m boiling. Come on, let’s dip our toes in.’ Not waiting to see if he follows, I stride towards the water’s edge, breathing a sigh of relief as the foamy sea swishes over my feet, immediately cooling me down. A slight breeze brushes my cheek, and I tilt my face towards the sun. A second later, the hairs on my arms prickle as he joins me.

  ‘That’s better.’ He steps into the sea beside me.

  ‘I know you can’t tell me about any missions or exercises, but can you tell me a bit more about it?’ I ask, closing my eyes to bask in the glorious summer weather. ‘How you joined the Marines? Why you do it? You’ve never said.’

  There’s a pause, and then he starts speaking, his voice deep. ‘When I left town and went up north, I was getting my A levels and thinking about what I wanted to do with my life. I knew I wanted to travel, and help other people, that I needed something intellectually challenging which would wear me out physically too. I needed a family as well, given …’ He trails off. ‘Anyway, I stumbled across the Royal Navy recruitment website and was thinking about all the stories Ray told me and it seemed like it’d be a good fit.’

  We’re both silent as we think about Grandad. I still really miss him. Jake must feel like he has a hole in his heart, losing the only positive role model in his life. It makes me ashamed again about how I was with him at the wake.

  ‘I was fit with no medical conditions and met all the entry criteria,’ Jake carries on, oblivious to my guilty musings. ‘I managed to get the grades I needed, got through all the tests, and panel interviews. I liked the ethos and values; it’s all about excellence, integrity, self-discipline, and humility. They look for people who have courage and determination. Basically, guys who can be cheerful even in the shittiest of shit situations.’

  Opening my eyes, I glance at him. ‘That must be …’ I struggle to find the right words, but there aren’t any to do it justice. ‘Tough.’

  ‘Sometimes. But it’s really a mindset thing. You’ve got to be positive in the face of adversity and make strategic decisions under pressure. There was a tag-line I liked on the site about being the first to understand, adapt, and respond, and overcome. I thought that was cool.’

  ‘It wasn’t the I was born in Birmingham, but I was made … tagline then?’ I tease, before smiling at how much he’s underplaying what he does for a living.

  ‘It’s a hard job, but the sense of satisfaction, knowing you’ve helped, is worth it,’ he replies. ‘And that’s as much as I’m going to say. Because now we’re talking about you, about the topic you’ve avoided all afternoon. What’s happening with your art?’

  Fixing my eyes on the white-capped blue-green sea, staring out to the horizon where the sunlight glints off the waves, I sigh. I know he won’t let it go. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What does that mean? How long’s it been?’

  ‘A whil
e.’ I squirm to think how many months it’s been since I picked up a paintbrush. It was the last time I saw him, at Christmas. The mural.

  ‘What the hell? Jones, you’re so talented. You have this amazing gift. Why wouldn’t you use it? For as long as I’ve known you, it’s been your passion. It’s what makes you who you are.’

  ‘I work full-time, okay?’ I say defensively. ‘It’s long hours at the gallery, and I’m exhausted. There’s zero chance of me having the energy I need to be creative after a day at work. I need to pay the bills, and believe me, my pittance of a salary doesn’t go far. Plus, I want to see my friends, go out with Ethan, spend time with Dad. And he’s …’ I choose my words carefully. ‘He’s starting to slow down, just a little. He’s in his mid-fifties and is finding the manual work harder to deal with. He’s been a plumber for a long time, and his body’s beginning to show it. So, I look after the house, and cook. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for anything else. The last thing I need is you judging me for it. I’m doing the best I can, and you’re wrong. Everything about me, what I’ve been through, makes me who I am. I’m not just defined by my paintings.’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry.’ He holds his hands up in surrender. ‘Look, I just don’t want you to waste the gift you have. I understand you need to balance the day job with your creative side, but I honestly think sometimes you need to be a bit more selfish. The washing up can wait; your dad can cook a couple of times a week; your friends and Ethan –’ the word has a loaded emphasis ‘– will understand if you ditch them occasionally. I know you get to work in the art world with your job, but it’s not enough. When I think about some of your work, and how inspired it made me feel—’

  ‘Well, maybe not everyone will feel that way,’ I cut in. ‘Other people might not like my drawings or paintings. I could spend countless hours painting, just to have someone tell me it’s rubbish. No, thanks.’ The thought scares me rigid. If I shared my art with people, exposed myself like that and they didn’t like it, I’m not sure how I’d cope, if I’d ever be able to hold a paintbrush again.

  ‘But even if it never sells, that doesn’t matter. You should do it anyway. You love it, Leila, you know you do. You can’t deny yourself that. You shouldn’t,’ he says in a fierce voice.

  The way he says my first name, when he normally uses my surname, wrong-foots me. I realise how strongly he feels. My irritation and defensiveness melt away as I realise he’s not saying any of this for him. It’s for me. I soften my tone. ‘I understand, but it’s not for you to push me. It’s my decision.’

  He runs a hand through his black hair, ruffling it, showing his frustration. ‘Fine, but I want you to think about something. One important thing.’ His hand drops to his side as he turns to squint at me in the sunshine. ‘Every person is a universe of possibilities.’

  I blink. My emotions are all over the place, especially with things not going well between me and Ethan – the death of another relationship. I don’t like crying in public, so I joke to lighten the mood, ‘Every person is a universe of possibilities. What cheesy sci-fi show did you get that from?’

  He waves the comment off. ‘Laugh all you want, but what it means is that it’s your life, your choice, and all of your choices lead onto different possibilities and paths. There’s no such thing as finite. There are no limits. You can do anything you set your mind to. If you want something badly enough, you’ll find a way.’ His gaze is intent. ‘And wouldn’t you hate to be on your deathbed one day and be looking back thinking I wish I’d painted more, and shared my art with someone?’

  This is too much. It’s too close to my fears, and so far from my dreams. Art is my greatest passion, but also my greatest pain. I can’t do this. Shaking my head, I turn away. ‘Jake,’ I say over my shoulder, ‘it’s summer, we’re at the beach, and the weather is lovely. I appreciate the thought but let’s drop it.’ Why does he always try and tell me what to do? Get involved in my life? I haven’t asked for his advice. He’s not my boyfriend. Bending over, I scoop up my shoes and stand. As I do, my vision spins, and I stagger.

  ‘Careful.’ His hand grabs my elbow, holding me until the spots clear from in front of my eyes.

  ‘Thanks,’ I murmur, slipping my arm from his hold and edging away. ‘I’m just a bit hot. I need water.’

  He flushes, cheekbones colouring. ‘Let’s go get some then,’ he answers in a stiff voice, before making his way back up the beach, skirting around towels, picnics and people with easy strides. He checks over his shoulder to make sure I’m following and leaps up the stone slope onto the promenade. Unlike before, he doesn’t hold out his hand to offer me help. I don’t know whether to be sorry or glad.

  Leila

  June 2014

  The French Flag Charm

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ I stare at the alert on my mobile before glancing at the half-packed case on my bed, and the garment bag hanging from the wardrobe door. The back of my neck prickles with sweat. I’m supposed to be setting off for the airport in the next hour. ‘No.’

  Rushing downstairs, I flick the TV onto the news channel, calling for Dad at the same time. He comes in from the garden, face flushed and looking alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Pointing at the TV screen as if it’s personally responsible for mucking up my plans, I spin around to face him. ‘There’s thick fog basically covering half of Europe. They’ve grounded all flights. What the hell am I going to do? I’m supposed to arrive tonight for tomorrow’s wedding prep. Chloe will never forgive me if I don’t turn up. I’m one of her bridesmaids!’

  ‘Leila, the main thing is not to panic. Let’s see if there’s another way.’

  We spend half an hour online working out routes and methods of transport. We come to the conclusion that the quickest and most convenient way to travel – without me lugging a case, wedding present, and the dress around on my own from station to station – is driving. Except I’m not a confident driver. Anyone who’s seen my car can attest to that. The prang with Jake in the sixth-form car park was only the beginning. There are probably more scrapes and dents on it than there is pristine paint showing. I can just about cope with town driving, or the occasional zip up the M27 to West Quay for a shopping session, but the thought of driving abroad on foreign soil on the wrong side of the road makes me shudder.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ I groan. ‘This can’t be happening. I can’t afford another flight to a different airport, if there even are any still operating. I’ve spent far too much on this wedding already.’ The rooms in the gorgeous chateau hotel on the shores of Lake Annecy in south east France don’t come cheap, and Chloe was adamant the wedding party all had to stay there together. As it is, I’ve been saving for the last eight months to pay my way comfortably. I only have a bit left over for spending money. Tears spring to my eyes. The journey is going to be awful. God, what about all the fuel it’s going to cost?

  ‘I have an idea,’ Dad says, standing up and leaving the room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ But he doesn’t answer, and instead I hear the front door slam in his wake. He’s going out now? During my crisis?

  I’m tempted to follow him but traipse back up to my bedroom instead. I’ve no choice but to drive, so I may as well start making calls to my insurance company about cover in France and roadside assistance. I’ve no idea about any of this stuff, but sorting it out will take my mind off my shaking hands and the stress coating my stomach. At least I have my passport ready. I’d better get on with booking the Eurotunnel too, and planning my route south from Calais. By the time I organise everything I’m unlikely to set off until tomorrow morning, meaning I’m going to have to drive all day to get there and miss out on whatever activities Chloe has planned. Hopefully she’ll forgive me because it’s out of my control, and at least I’ll be there for the actual wedding on Friday. I should really call to tell her what’s happened, but I’m not looking forward to it. ‘It can wait.’ Saying it aloud, I know I’m being a chicken. I throw some more clo
thes into my case and clamber up onto the bed.

  ‘Jones?’ Jake’s deep voice makes me jump. He sticks his dark head around the open door.

  ‘Jake?’ I squeak, suddenly short of breath. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Your dad came around and told me about your dilemma,’ he says, stepping into my bedroom. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

  ‘Of course,’ I gulp. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’ He smiles slightly.

  I’m kneeling on top of my case trying to zip it. Walking across the room around the heaps of stuff I decided not to bring with me, he steadies me with one hand on my waist as I sway, his touch burning through my thin top. Dropping his hand, he steps closer. ‘Here.’ Taking the zip tab from my fingers, he leans over, eyebrows knitted together as he works on zipping the case up, my weight pinning it down.

  As he bends over, I stare at his short dark hair and incredibly tanned skin. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, heat is radiating off him. I always forget how tall he is when I haven’t seen him for a while. His shoulders are broader than I remember, and his arms are taut with muscle.

  It’s been almost a year since he came to the Sandbanks beach polo with me. We hardly spoke on the journey home, and I knew I’d upset him. There’s also a weird feeling in my stomach at the thought he’s back for good now. Will we get to spend more time together? Will he be dating, and looking for someone to settle down with?

  ‘Thanks.’ Clambering off the case once it’s zipped, I’m aware it’s not the most dignified I’ve ever looked. ‘So, uh, what did Dad say?’ I’m afraid to look at him directly with the turmoil running through my head.

  ‘He told me what happened with your flights. He thought I might be able to help, seeing as I’m going too. After all, I’m Owen’s best man.’

  ‘What are you going to do, fly me there yourself?’ I joke, folding my arms across my chest as I raise my eyes to his.

  ‘Close.’ He folds his arms to mimic me. ‘I’m going to drive you. I’d already booked a car and have a Eurotunnel ticket for this afternoon. I’m driving down to the Black Forest tonight and stopping over, and then driving from Pforzheim to Lake Annecy in the morning. We should get there for lunchtime tomorrow if we have a good journey.’