by Holly Webb
It closes around something soft, maybe suede? There’s metal inside, it clanks. A jewellery case? Perhaps it’s a velvet purse full of gold rings and emerald necklaces? Some booty from a long-forgotten heist. I pull it out and run my fingers over it with my eyes closed. No, not jewellery, but a case, holding something metal.
It could still be precious.
I open my eyes. It’s brown and oily, not at all like a jewellery case. A leather roll, tied with two long straps. I fumble to undo them, and it tumbles from my hand, falling open across the floor.
Tools?
TOOLS?!?
Just a load of long thin scratchy tools; not a screwdriver in sight.
A lot of rude words go through my head and then I remember what they are.
They’re picklocks.
I’ve seen them before. I close my eyes and I’m back, tiny, so small I can just see over the side of Mum’s patchwork quilt. Mum’s there, sitting on the bed; she’s doing something, maybe brushing her hair?
Dad’s there too, his long fingers wrapping the tools, slipping the leather strap around the outside and buckling it closed. I can smell him, something he puts on his hair, or is it his jacket? It’s warm and musky.
He picks me up and throws me so I land on the bed and the laughter bursts up from my chest and I reach out for more, but he’s leaving again, like he always does.
He smiles at me, his eyes creased and blue and bright before vanishing through the bedroom door. The memory hovers at the side of my head.
The tools feel really big and heavy in my hand, like something that’s waiting to be mentioned, something that only grown-ups have, but I know Mum won’t like them and she’ll take them away from me, so I slip them under the bed.
I reach back into the box and grope about. My fingers pass over some thin bundles of shiny card wrapped in elastic bands, but I grab the largest thing I can find.
Gone with the Wind.
I know this book, it’s about a stroppy girl called Scarlett O’Hara. My namesake.
Why on earth would Dad give me that? There’s already a copy here, one he gave Mum when I was born.
I reach back into the box and pull out two bundles of photos and postcards.
I peel off the elastic bands. There’s one of Mum looking really young and gorgeous and another of someone who I think is probably Dad, looking sharp. Sideburns and pointy shoes. Some people I don’t recognise; some places I’ve never been to.
The tingly feeling’s almost gone away now. There was no golden necklace or emerald ring. I’m back on my bedroom floor with the sound of Syd’s cars clanging into the bath.
All I’ve got is a pile of pictures and a set of tools.
Bing bong.
Maybe the man’s back to tell me I have won the Sugar Puffs challenge.
I stuff the box under my bed. Syd’s on the landing with his arms out, so I pick him up and stumble past the stair gate, letting him clamber backwards down the stairs.
I open the front door.
It’s Uncle Derek and Ellie.
Rats. I’d forgotten about Ellie. She’s coming to sleep over so that Mum and Uncle Derek can both get to work today. He’s on duty now, and Mum’s cooking in the care home this evening. Ellie’s clutching a big pink flowery duvet, and a white fluffy bear. “Hi, Scarlett,” she says.
She’s got this drippy voice that always ends on a low note and she draws smiley faces over her “i”s. I almost can’t stand her, but then, nor can anyone else.
“Hi, Ellie. Hi, Uncle Derek,” I say, letting them in, forcing myself to smile.
“Morning, Scarlett,” says Uncle Derek.
“Oh,” calls Mum from the kitchen. “Derek!”
She comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her leggings. She stops in the hall and Uncle Derek pecks her on the cheek. She goes red.
So does he.
He’s not really my uncle.
“Oh, Carole, thanks so much, just off to see the new CCTV set-up, in the council offices, yes…” Uncle Derek rubs his chin and twitches in the doorway. He can’t stay still. He’s a plain-clothes policeman and likes running marathons. I expect he’ll run to work today through all the puddles, and then catch a criminal or two and run back with them under his arm. “So, I’ll be back at five-fifteen, all right?”
Mum smiles and picks up Syd.
Ellie and I stare at them.
They don’t notice us.
Copyright
POPPY’S GARDEN
First published in the UK in 2014 by Nosy Crow Ltd
The Crow’s Nest, 10a Lant Street
London, SE1 1QR, UK
This ebook edition first published 2014
Nosy Crow and associated logos are trademarks and / or registered trademarks of Nosy Crow Ltd
Text © Holly Webb, 2014
Cover and interior pattern © Hannah Chapman, 2014
The rights of Holly Webb and Hannah Chapman to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblence to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978 0 85763 319 4
www.nosycrow.com
