I used every colour felt-tip pen I owned on that piece. In some places I used two or three colours on top of each other to make a new one. In other places I applied craft glue to stick feathers, gems, and ribbons to the scene. There are stickers too, of animals, hearts, and smiley faces. I drew a unicorn and gave it a rainbow tail. I added a peacock with green, purple, and blue glitter on its tail feathers. The sky is the biggest part and there’s no sun. It’s a deep, intense indigo with sticky glow-in-the-dark stars. Right in the middle, if you look for her carefully, there’s a little girl with silvery blonde hair peering out from behind a tree. She has fairy wings on her back and stars in her eyes. There’s a paintbrush in her left hand and a charm bracelet around that wrist, which I added recently. In her right hand she holds a magic wand, gold sparkles trailing from it.
But that was then, and this is now, and I’ll probably never see my creation again. I couldn’t remove it from under the bed without ruining it, and couldn’t bear to do that. It’s so unfair. I really hate Mum sometimes.
Sighing, I climb out of bed and have a quick wash in the faded green bathroom, then dress in a violet T-shirt and my favourite blue jeans with a sparkly heart on the pocket. Brushing my hair, I put it in a ponytail and feed it through the hole at the back of the baseball cap I wore yesterday, tilting the peak down over my face. I feel like hiding this morning. Maybe if I can pretend I’m invisible, none of this will be real.
A few minutes later, I step into the kitchen holding Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to my chest. I’ve read it three times and can’t wait until the next one in the series comes out.
Dad turns to look at me from his seat at the table, his big hands curled around a cup of tea. ‘Morning, princess,’ he says, ‘sleep okay?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ He used to call me princess when I was seven or eight and has started again since Mum left, usually on the days I get really upset. I know he understands how sad and angry I am at leaving everything behind, but I also know it’s not his fault and he’s just looking out for us. No, I blame her.
This morning he looks rumpled. His clothes aren’t ironed, and his face is creased with lines. I feel guilty. He’s been sleeping on the sofa because there are only two bedrooms.
‘Morning, Leila.’ Grandad Ray steps out of the pantry holding a jar of homemade strawberry jam and puts it on the table. ‘I’ll get some toast on. Tea?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say, watching as he moves around the kitchen. Everything’s dark in here, even with the overhead light on. The units are dark brown wood, the floor’s covered in a thin greyish carpet with navy swirls, the walls are painted damson, and the table matches the units. I wonder how he sees in here. He’s so old. I heard him telling Dad yesterday that he’s only sixty but feels much older with everything going on.
I put my book down, careful to keep it away from the crumbs on the tablecloth. I’m quiet as I eat breakfast, lost in my own thoughts until Dad clears his throat and stands up, making me jump.
‘I’m off to work now,’ he says gruffly, ‘I have a few last jobs to finish before wrapping up the business.’
As if it’s not bad enough we had to sell our home, Dad also has to lose the business he set up fifteen years ago. He explained to me that because Mum’s not around to do the books or admin, and he can’t afford to employ someone to do those things or to pay the mortgage alone, we’re moving to Basingstoke so he can work for his friend (who I call Uncle Martin) doing the plumbing for some new housing projects.
‘You’ll be all right for the day, won’t you, love?’ Dad’s looking at me with a worried expression on his face.
I paste on a bright smile and nod. The truth is, I feel adrift. Like Harry Potter when he stays at Hogwarts for the first Christmas holidays because he doesn’t want to go back to the horrible Dursleys. Dad and Grandad are adults and have each other, but I have no one. No one to talk to, no one to tell how scared I am about starting a new school. No one to share my feelings with about whether I’ll make new friends.
‘Of course. I’ll probably read or draw, watch TV or something.’ My eyes drift over to the window, aching for fresh air.
‘We can always go for a walk later, Leila, if you want?’ Grandad offers.
‘Maybe.’ I drop my gaze to the table. ‘Have a good day, Dad.’
‘Thanks, love.’ He leans over to kiss me on top of the head, which I try to dart away from because I’m way too old for that now, and then walks to the door, grabbing his tool bag on the way out.
Grandad Ray and I stare at each other. Even though we’ve lived along the road from him since I was little, we hardly ever came over here before Mum left. I don’t know why. I’d never seen them argue; they just didn’t really seem to talk.
There’s a knock on the front door and he frowns. ‘I wonder who that is.’ He wanders off as I finish my milky tea and take my cup over to the sink. In the distance I hear him speak. ‘Oh, hello.’
He’s back a minute later, an amused expression on his face. ‘It’s for you.’
Turning around, I look at him. ‘Who is it?’
‘A young lad. He said he met you yesterday? He wants to know if you’ll come out.’
‘Oh.’ I blush, feeling like I’ve done something wrong, or like the boy is calling on me because he’s got a crush. I doubt that’s what it is though. He’s probably lonely because he’s just moved to the neighbourhood. Into my house.
‘Do you want to see him?’ he asks. ‘If you do, you could probably spend some time with him here or maybe a short visit to the park? If we agree a time you need to be back by, that is. I’m sure your dad would be okay with it.’
The thought’s tempting. Eloise is away and I’m lonely without her. I don’t have much else to do and would rather be out and about doing something than stuck inside. Besides, the boy seemed okay – nice – although he did ask a lot of questions.
‘Leila? I can send him on his way if—’
‘I’ll see him,’ I reply in a rush. ‘Maybe we’ll hang out in the garden first?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Grandad says. Picking up his cup of tea, he tries to hide a smile behind it but fails.
Blushing again – my pale skin is so stupid – I walk through the dark dining room and into the hallway, pulling open the door Grandad’s left a few inches ajar. The boy is leaning against the doorframe and I surprise him so much he stumbles over the threshold and lands at my feet.
He looks up at me from the carpet, odd-coloured eyes wide, and shrugs his shoulders, laughing at himself. ‘Hello, again.’
I giggle. ‘Hi.’
As he picks himself up, he dusts off his faded clothes and smiles. The action pulls the scar above his lip tighter. ‘I w-wondered if y-you wanted to come out? We didn’t finish chatting yesterday.’
I shrug casually, ‘Sure. Do you wanna go in the garden? There are some cool trees to hang in?’ My cheeks scald bright red. I must sound like such a baby. I think he’s older than me, so he’s probably used to going down the park with gangs of kids.
‘Sure,’ he nods. ‘I’m Jake.’
‘I’m Leila,’ I answer shyly.
***
Jake and I end up spending the week together. He’s intriguing, different to other boys I know from school, who are all loud and loutish. He’s quiet, more thoughtful. He also has a confidence I wish I had. He just seems comfortable with who he is and what he thinks about things.
After that first morning in Grandad’s back garden when we sit in the lower branches of the apple tree, idly chatting and getting to know each other, we spend most days down the local park. We wrap up in parka coats (mine brand new and boxy, his worn out and too small for him) and ride our BMX bikes (mine shiny and bright, his with a broken handle and covered in rust). I don’t say anything or ask any questions though, because I don’t want to embarrass him.
We talk about films, music, and books when we get to the park. Jake hates school because he says he’s no good at it, but he likes to read a
t night when his parents think he’s sleeping, borrowing books from the school library. Of course, he’s between schools now. Feeling sorry for him, I lend him one of my Harry Potter collection on the promise he’ll return it on Friday when we leave.
White mist from the cold hangs in clouds in front of our faces while we sit on the swings chatting, hands wrapped around the icy chains. Shivering is something we become used to. On a couple of the days, Jake is quieter than usual and doesn’t want to talk, wincing occasionally but not saying why, so I bring my sketchpad with me. I draw for hours on end in the wooden Wendy house that’s usually for the smaller kids. It’s empty save for us, because of the wintry chill.
Wearing fingerless gloves so I can draw, I share my sandwich and thermos of hot chocolate with him as he watches my left hand fly over the pages. He doesn’t seem to mind the silence when I draw, just appearing relieved to be out of his house. Every afternoon when it gets closer to home time, a strange tension comes over him. His shoulders creep up, his face gets hard and he becomes even quieter. By Thursday, I feel like I know him enough to be concerned.
‘Is everything all right at home?’ I ask hesitantly, leaning towards him.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he snaps, looking away.
He doesn’t talk to me for the next hour, so I don’t ask him about it again.
Even though we’ve worked out he’s nearly two years older than me, he never makes me feel stupid or childish. He asks questions about my drawings and where I get my ideas from and why I enjoy it so much, and says my art is really good. I tell him stuff about Mum leaving as I twirl my bracelet around my wrist, and sometimes when we talk, Jake puts his finger out and flicks the heart charm so it swings like a pendulum. On the morning I’m leaving, I go into a panic when we’re at the park, thinking I’ve lost it, frantically checking my wrist and pockets and looking around on the ground but not able to find it. Jake calms me down and puts his hands up inside my coat sleeve, slowly easing the bracelet into sight from where it got caught on the inside of the sleeve elastic. Beaming at him, I go to hug him a thank you, but he backs away. Awkwardly, I let my hands drop to my sides.
When it’s time for me and Dad to leave, I’m sad to say goodbye to Jake, and realise I’ll miss him. He’s been so easy to talk to, and the thought of leaving him behind fills me with sadness.
‘This week’s been nice,’ I say, as we stand facing each other next to Dad’s loaded van. There’s a lump in my throat. I’m leaving everything I know behind and going into the unknown. ‘Thanks.’
Jake nods his head, putting his hands in his coat pockets. His odd-coloured eyes – one green, one brown – are solemn and the scar cutting into his lip looks paler today, especially against the starkness of his messy, thick black hair.
I’m about to gather my courage to ask if we should maybe stay in touch when Jake steps back, and Dad opens the van door behind me. We’ve already said our goodbyes to Grandad Ray inside the house, and he said it’s better he doesn’t come out. I know he finds it hard to show his feelings.
‘Come on, love,’ Dad chides, ‘we need to get on the road. We’ve got a couple of hours ahead of us and unpacking to do at the other end.’
‘Okay, sorry,’ I murmur, my gaze still on Jake’s face. I wait for him to say something but he’s in one of his quieter moods again. ‘Okay, bye then,’ I mumble.
‘Bye,’ he replies, as he steps back.
Turning away, I climb up into the van. Buckling my seatbelt, I wind the window down and glance at him, checking one more time that he’s not going to say anything, but his mouth is in a straight line. His eyes are blank. It’s like I’ve already left.
As Dad starts the engine and releases the handbrake, I raise my hand to wave at Jake, and he suddenly darts forward and slams his hand on the door. In turn, Dad slams the brakes on.
‘What?’ I hold my breath.
‘I’ve still got your book!’ he says anxiously.
I smile, ‘You’re enjoying it. Finish it and then give it to Grandad Ray. I’ll get it from him next time I’m back.’ I nod. ‘Maybe I’ll see you then?’ I say in a rush, holding my breath.
‘You really want to?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like that.’ The blankness from his eyes fades a bit. ‘You sure about the book?’
Dad revs the engine.
I roll my eyes. ‘Yes. Keep the book. Bye, Jake, and take care.’
I don’t know it in that moment, but they’ll be my last words to him for two and a half years.
Jake
31 August 2003
The Pencil Charm
Jake’s sitting on the pitched red roof outside his bedroom window for the fourth day in a row. It’s steep and his mum doesn’t like him being out here, particularly when it’s hot. The beating sun does sometimes make him feel dizzy, but it’s the best place to stay out of his dad’s way. Terry’s less fit than he used to be, so can’t get out here anymore.
Anyway, he’s been out here hundreds of times over the last year and has perfected the art of climbing in and out of the window without even a wobble, just like Joey in Dawson’s Creek. Besides, his dad is out of work after punching someone down at the yard and being fired, so he’s at home a lot more. His jobs never last long, and their spare room is full of DVDs, CDs, electrical goods, and gym equipment he sells down the market or on eBay. He’s always wheeling and dealing, and Jake’s mum joked last month he’s like that TV character Del Boy from Only Fools and Horses. The comment earned her a black eye, because Jake’s dad prides himself on his good looks and took offence at being compared to the actor who plays Del Boy.
Jake’s own ribs are still healing from a few weeks ago when Terry came home drunk from the pub and accused Jake of not being his son. He was yelling and screaming that Jake was an impostor, and his mum must have cheated.
He doesn’t remember the actual punches, or what it felt like to be curled up on the kitchen floor with his dad standing over him. He only knows that once it was over, his whole body ached, a mass of sore parts and bruises. In the bathroom afterwards – the only room in the house with a lock on the door, because his dad likes privacy to shower – he spat blood into the sink and held his side. It was hard to breathe, a sharp pain stabbing at him every time he inhaled. But he’s used to it now, and broken ribs heal with time.
His mum stayed in bed for two days, but he had to get up for school to see out the end of term. He didn’t mind, because it was a relief to be away from home. Even though he doesn’t get on with many of the kids in his classes, he stays on for as many extracurricular activities as possible, to extend the school day. He knows parents are supposed to love and protect their kids, but that’s not his experience. Maybe his mum used to try and stand in his dad’s way when he was little to stop him being hit, but he’s not sure if that’s a real memory or just wishful thinking. Nowadays, she seems to have simply accepted their life as it is. She has never done anything to change it, never taken action that he knows of to rescue them. There’ve been no hastily packed bags, hidden tins of cash, or bus journeys to refuge shelters. Jake and his mum are like two strangers locked in a prison together, passing the time and trying to avoid eye contact. He doesn’t expect anything from her. He’s simply waiting until he’s big and strong enough to stop his dad. Surely if Terry sees he can stand up for himself, and for his mum, he won’t bother them. He’ll find someone else to take his anger out on. Jake just needs to survive until then. A couple of years ago, he’d hoped that becoming a teenager would mean the arrival of muscles. It hadn’t, but he still has hope that he might shoot up at some point. It’s hard to get strong and grow when some days he doesn’t eat though.
He sighs, wishing he were anywhere but here. There are birds singing in the leafy trees nearby, and in the distance he can hear the buzz of a lawnmower, so he pictures a patch of bright green grass in his head. It helps pass the time. Grey smoke floats up from the garden a few houses over, and he imagines a party of people crowded ar
ound a BBQ. He can almost taste the meaty sausage, and his mouth fills with saliva. He hasn’t eaten anything since last night, and his stomach is growling and clenching in spasms. If he’s lucky, Terry will go out for a bit and he can sneak to the kitchen. There’s no predicting the pattern of his comings and goings, so it can be difficult. And the last time his mum tried to give him some food, Terry broke her finger. ‘I hope you’ve learnt your lesson,’ he said, glaring as she cowered against the kitchen counter cupping her hand. ‘If your son wants food, he can come down and get it himself.’ After that Jake decided he’d rather go hungry than see his mum get hurt or get an extra bruise himself.
Now, he picks at the knee of his black shorts as a distraction. They’re tattered, fraying at the edges and at least two sizes too small for him, tight around his thighs and hips. His T-shirt is a brand that went out of fashion when he was twelve. Unlike his school mates, he doesn’t wear the latest trainers or sports gear. It’s why he doesn’t go out with anyone at weekends, or in the evenings. He’s too embarrassed about his clothes, and what people might say about them. What they might think of him and his family.
The only person he trusts, who never judges him, is Ray. Leila’s grandad. When he’s with the older man, he knows he won’t get sympathetic glances or be asked awkward questions. Ray knows Jake’s situation is difficult, although not the full extent of what happens behind closed doors. He doesn’t try to stick his nose in, although he mentioned once there are services that can help Jake and his mum. Jake shut down when Ray said that, and left quickly, so Ray hasn’t brought it up again. Recently though, Ray has offered Jake the opportunity to do occasional chores, giving him little brown envelopes of coins, feeding him hot meals after every task he completes. Jake keeps the money at Ray’s house so his dad can’t take it and spend it on alcohol.
Ray’s house is only three properties along, and Jake can easily see into his back garden because of the bend in the road. Jake often hears what’s going on in Ray’s house, particularly as he tends to leave his windows open. Most of the time, it’s not much – the muted sound of a presenter talking on TV, a jazz tune on the radio, Ray telling a cold caller that no thank you, he doesn’t need what they’re selling – but today is different. There are two voices approaching the back of the house from inside, getting louder as they reach the garden. Ray and a large pink man with scruffy blond hair step onto the shorn grass, walking over to the green plastic circular table and matching chairs. Jake recognises Leila’s dad, Henry, although they only met once in passing.
The Last Charm: The most page-turning and emotional summer romance fiction of 2020! Page 2