by Jane Bidder
Then, just as he got on the bus and put his hand in his pocket for change, he realised he’d spent it all on the journey to Exeter. Better to walk instead.
It took one hour and twenty minutes. There weren’t any pavements and one driver nearly shaved his side, except that Ben had the presence of mind to jump into the hedgerow just in time. Actually, he rather liked walking. It settled his mind somehow and by the time he walked past a sign that said this was Poppy’s village and found the house, which had a thatched roof and a front garden full of roses just like she’d said, he knew exactly what he was going to say.
But then she opened the door and all the words just went right out of his head.
‘Are you sure your father isn’t in?’ was all he could manage as he followed her into the kitchen.
Poppy shook her head and her pink fringe swayed from side to side. ‘Even when he is in, he’s not really here.’
She jerked her head towards the pile of empty wine bottles slumped at the bottom of the recycling basket by the back door.
‘Is that because of the accident?’ He stopped, wishing he could take those words back.
The pink fringe swayed from side to side. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. He was like that before she met him. Thought she could change him like the others but I could have told her to save her breath.’
‘The others?’
Poppy was putting a teaspoon of de-caff into a mug. ‘The other women before her. They didn’t last long either.’
He held his breath as she put the coffee in front of her, not wanting to say he didn’t drink coffee in case he broke the spell.
‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ he began.
She looked up sharply. ‘Why? It wasn’t your fault.’
He flushed. So she didn’t blame him!
‘Why haven’t you come back to school?’
Poppy seemed to consider the question. ‘No one’s made me.’
‘What about your real mum?’
She passed him a packet of sugar which had a brown surface as though someone had dipped a wet spoon in instead of pouring it out into a sugar bowl. ‘She lives in Greece.’
She spoke as though it was perfectly normal for a girl to live with her father and a series of stepmothers and a mother who lived in Greece. On the wall behind her hung a black and white photograph of Joanna, leaning into her husband’s shoulder, and smiling down at him as though willing him to go on.
‘Did you get on with her?’
There was a shrug. ‘She was all right.’
Poppy was watching him closely now, sipping her own coffee. She’d got another nose stud, he noticed. It was very small and blue and sparkly. Quite pretty above the little diamond one below. ‘What about you?’ she was saying. ‘Do you get on with your stepfather?’
He tried to think clearly. Even before The Accident, he was never really clear on this one. ‘He’s all right. He makes Mum happy. At least he used to. But he’s always telling me to do stuff. Put my clothes away. Bring down mugs from my bedroom. Take my shoes off when I come in. Mum says it’s ʼcos he’s set in his ways.’
Poppy’s fringe got excited. The little upward curve at the end of her nose seemed to shine with approval. ‘That’s just how I felt with Joanna. She was better than some of the others but she was always having a go at me too and I told her it was because she didn’t have kids of her own. Then she’d cry and Dad would get mad at me even though he was always making her cry too.’
She put down her mug. ‘The night it happened, they had a filthy row before they went out and she said that if he didn’t stop drinking so much, she’d leave him. That scared him. I could tell because he gets this nervous twitch in his right hand. Then he said he wouldn’t drink so he could drive back and she could get pissed instead.’
Ben didn’t want to think about that even though this was what he’d come about. Instead, he tried to focus on Poppy’s legs which were rather short and dumpy under that dress she was wearing.
She was looking at him now in an odd way and he realised with a start that she thought he was eyeing her up. ‘Why are you here, Ben?’
There was nothing for it. ‘The bricks. I’m here because of the bricks.’
The pink fringe moved from side to side. ‘I don’t get it.’
So he told her about the first brick which had smashed the sitting room window and then the second that had cut him. And then he told her about how they’d had to move house and were living in some old woman’s place and how barmy Mrs Johnson was nice to him because he looked like her dead son.
‘How did he die?’ asked Poppy softly.
‘I’m not sure,’ he lied. ‘Do you miss Joanna?’
The second bit came out in a rush to hide the fib.
‘I can’t really believe she’s gone, to be honest.’ Poppy looked around the kitchen as though expecting her stepmother to come in. ‘Nor can Dad. He says it’s like she’s gone to visit her brother in Dubai like she did last year.’
Her black eyes turned towards him. He hadn’t realised how black they were until that moment. ‘Do you think Dad is throwing the bricks then?’
Now she said it out loud, it seemed silly to think of a grown man doing that. But who else would? ‘He’s left horrible messages on our phone. Told us that he’d get Simon when he comes out of prison. Mum’s really upset.’ There was a short silence. ‘She’s had to go out to work ʼcos Simon’s lost his job.’
Poppy bit her lip. ‘Dad’s staying late in the office. I don’t think he wants to come back at night because Joanna’s not here.’
‘Aren’t you lonely?’
‘I like being on my own.’
‘Me too.’
They looked at each other in a flash of recognition and then the moment passed. Desperately searching for something to say, he stood up to give himself time. The kitchen looked out onto a largish garden. There was a basket by one of the borders with a trowel lying next to it as though someone had just got up from weeding and was about to go back.
‘She loved the garden,’ said Poppy, following his train of thought. ‘She was nearly late for dinner with your mum because she was trying to finish something out there before they went.’
He nodded. His mum had been like that when they’d had a garden. Then he looked through the pair of French windows which led to a conservatory, like the one Mum had loved in Beech Cottage. Suddenly he saw something propped up against one of the wicker chairs. ‘Is that her guitar?’ he asked.
Poppy jumped up. ‘It’s mine! Great isn’t it? Dad gave it to me for my last birthday.’ She was back within minutes, cradling a huge maroon-coloured Fender. ‘I’ve been having lessons but I’m still struggling with some of the chords.’
She played something to demonstrate and it made Ben want to reach out and take it from her so he could show her how it was done. ‘Do you play?’
He nodded eagerly. ‘My guitar’s at home. My real home. Waiting for someone to get it along with my other stuff. It’s not as good as yours but I love it.’
‘I’m really sorry. Here.’ She gave the magnificent maroon beast to him. ‘Show me.’
It was amazing how comforting it felt to feel his fingers move across the strings. Part of him also felt thrilled that she was so clearly impressed. ‘Wow! You’re amazing. Can you teach me how to do that?’
She moved her kitchen stool so she was next to him. He could breathe her in and his body ached to kiss her. If it hadn’t been for Simon, he might have done that but now it was unthinkable. ‘Hold it like this. No. Like this.’ Uncertainly, he cupped her hand round the strings to show her. ‘Pluck it with the plectrum. Lighter than that. That’s right!’
Somehow, she produced a sound that wasn’t too dissimilar from the one that his ear told him was OK. ‘Now try this …’
It wasn’t until they heard the car in the drive outside that either of them realised how long they must have been, sitting like that. ‘Dad!’ Poppy sprang to her feet. ‘Through the back.’ Her v
oice was urgent. ‘Wait till he’s in the house and then go round the front.’ She touched his arm and her warm hand on his bare skin sent his spine tingling. ‘I’ll ask him about the bricks. And I’ll tell him some of the other stuff like your mum being upset and you having to move.’
His mouth went dry. ‘Don’t tell him where we are.’
The pink fringe bobbed from side to side. ‘I won’t. But listen. If I go back to school, can you give me some lessons at breaktime?’
He nodded. At another time, this would have sent his heart soaring in excitement and disbelief. Poppy, the most amazing girl at school, wanted him to give her guitar lessons!
‘See you.’
They both heard the key turning in the lock. ‘See you,’ he repeated back.
And then he began the long walk home except that Mrs Johnson’s house wasn’t home because that had gone along with everything else. Yet somehow, after seeing Poppy, everything felt a lot better.
When he got back, Mum still wasn’t back from work.
‘She rang to say she had a staff meeting dear,’ said Mrs Johnson who opened the door to him. ‘Fancy a slice of Victoria sponge? She laughed gaily. ‘My Derek’s favourite! He used to suck the jam out first, you know, and I’d tell him off.’
Ben shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. Didn’t she realise he was fifteen, not five? Mum said she was just lonely but he reckoned she was a control freak. ‘I’m not really hungry, thanks.’
His stomach rumbled in disagreement. ‘You sound hungry,’ pointed out Mrs Johnson. She sang the sentence so the ‘hungry’ bit went up at the end. ‘What did you have for lunch?’
Chips and a Mars bar, he was about to say but Mrs Johnson didn’t seem to expect a reply. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘in a funny way you remind me of my Derek. You even look a bit like him.’ She pointed to the photograph of the small freckly boy standing on the hall table with a dog in his arms.
That was crazy! He looked nothing like the boy. He was bigger for a start and he didn’t have freckles and he’d always been hopeless at doing anything with Lego. ‘I like the dog,’ he managed. ‘I’ve always wanted one.’
Mrs Johnson beamed. ‘My Derek adored Mungo. Went everywhere together they did. When my boy died, Mungo slept on his bed for months, waiting for him to come back.’ Her eyes grew misty. ‘I’ve sometimes thought of getting another.’
Now she was talking! Ben nodded. ‘Dad was going to get me a dog but then my parents split up.’ His memory flashed back to the time he’d heard his father tell his mother that thing about loving her but not being in love with her any more. He’d been outside their bedroom door at the time, unable to sleep because of the rows.
Mrs Johnson nodded sadly. ‘It must be very difficult for you, dear. I’m so sorry. But perhaps they might get back together.’
It suddenly occurred to him that she was talking about Simon. ‘Mrs Johnson thinks we’ve split up,’ his mother had said. ‘We’re going to have to let her think that instead of telling her the truth. You do understand that, don’t you, Ben?’
No. He didn’t. ‘Simon’s not my real dad,’ he heard himself telling Mrs Johnson. ‘He’s my mum’s new husband.’
The woman’s grip on the plate appeared to waver. ‘New husband. Oh dear. And they’ve split up already? How sad.’
What had he said? ‘Sorry. I’ve got to go.’
He scurried back up to his ‘boxroom’, as Mrs Johnson called it. It was smaller than his old room but he liked it. It made him feel warm and cosy even though it wasn’t cold outside yet.
Then his phone vibrated. Someone had texted him.
‘Cn’t wait to strt plyng gitar!’
She’d left the ‘u’ out of ‘guitar’ but maybe that was just an abbreviation. Ben felt a thrill go through him. He just wished he hadn’t said that stuff to Mrs Johnson.
Chapter Seventeen
Horrendous as the gym incident had been, Simon was aware of a quiet respect afterwards. A couple of stocky men nodded at him when they passed and a massive bloke who had tattoos on every inch of visible skin actually told him to go before him in the dinner queue.
‘It’s ʼcos you kept your trap shut,’ Spencer informed him that night. ‘Everyone thought that ʼcos you’re a solicitor, man, you’d grass.’ He grinned. ‘Doesn’t help that you’re a white chocolate button either!’
A ‘white chocolate button’ was, he knew, a name for someone who had mixed blood. It put you in a difficult position because you had to prove yourself to both sides of the fence.
But it was the ‘grass’ comment that really upset him. Simon couldn’t get rid of that nasty crawling sensation below his ribs. He should have told the prison officer what had happened instead of being relieved that the man in Union Jack boxers now wouldn’t be able to come after him for new trainers.
But it was too late now. Even if he did come clean, he’d have been hard-pushed to have identified the attacker who was also his saviour. He’d been wearing a white t-shirt and black jogging bottoms for a start – the kind that most of them wore in the gym. He’d had a tattoo on one arm which wasn’t unusual in here although he couldn’t remember if it was the left or the right. And his head was shaved which, again, wasn’t uncommon. The only thing he could have said for certain was that he was white. Maybe it would be safer if he kept all this to himself without even telling Claire.
As for Kevin, he could only be grateful that he and Bob Marley were no longer there although he felt apprehensive about who would come in next. In this place, he’d learned, you had to share a cell for the first six months at least and then you got a cell of your own. It was a stage which they all yearned for. Once he’d glimpsed a single cell through the window and had felt a huge wave of envy for the lucky chap who was lying there on his bed with the door shut, listening to the music he wanted to listen to or simply enjoying the silence away from everyone else.
How funny that a space which was no bigger than their utility room should seem now like a palace! Then he remembered that the utility room belonged to the old house and that Claire and Ben were having to rent rooms in a strange town and immediately he began to feel the tightening in his chest.
It was at that stage when the door of his cell opened and Spencer had sauntered in, a big grin on his impeccably white teeth. ‘Yo there, man! Guess where I’ve been told to kip out.’
He slung a black backpack on the floor and then went back in the corridor outside to bring in several cardboard boxes. ‘Couldn’t believe it when they said I was sharing with you. Cool, innit? ’
Simon managed a nod, wondering why Spencer was so enthusiastic. It wasn’t as though they had anything in common apart from the fact that they had arrived in the same van. ‘You should be glad I’m kipping with you,’ he said, looking up from the floor where he was bringing out a rather expensive looking stereo unit. ‘I can look after you. Make sure you don’t get into any more trouble.’
‘Why?’ Simon found himself saying. ‘What do you want in return?’
Spencer’s face clouded and for a second, Simon felt he’d made a terrible mistake. This place had already infected him. He was suspicious of a boy who was genuinely trying to help him. Then Spencer grinned and his white teeth flashed. ‘You’re learning quick, mate!’ Slapping him on the shoulders, he roared with laughter and Simon could smell something strange on his breath. ‘All I ask is that you give us a bit of advice about my case. You’re a solicitor, aren’t you? You might be able to get me out earlier.’
Simon’s heart sank. This wasn’t the first time that someone had latched onto the fact he used to be a solicitor and had asked his advice. ‘I can’t,’ he said to Spencer, fighting back the lump in his throat. ‘I’ve been struck off.’
The boy stared at him. ‘You’ve been hit? Who did it, mate and I’ll belt them one.’
That made him smile. ‘No one hit me, Spencer. When I say I’ve struck off, it’s because the Law Society decided I wasn’t fit enough to practise any more.’ It d
idn’t feel real saying the words.
‘Practise?’ Spencer’s face was even more troubled. ‘Wasn’t you any good then?’
‘It’s an expression that means I can’t work any more as a solicitor.’
Spencer waved his hand as though this was irrelevant. ‘Yeah but they can’t stop you giving advice, can they? Take this.’ He pulled out a letter from the back pocket of his jeans and waved it in front of him. ‘This is from my brief like and I don’t understand a word of it.’
Simon scanned it quickly. It appeared that Spencer’s wish to launch an appeal was unrealistic.
‘I still don’t get it.’ Spencer was frowning over the letter. ‘What does this say?’ He jabbed a chubby index finger at the phrase ‘reasonable doubt’ and Simon suddenly realised something.
‘Mind if I ask you something, Spencer?’
The boy’s eyes hardened. ‘Depends what you’re going to say.’
‘Did anyone teach you to read at school?’
A shadow of something – embarrassment – flitted across his face. ‘I told yer in the van. I used to bunk off.’
‘Up trees, as I remember!’ Simon said teasingly.
‘Yeah.’ The boy’s face relaxed and then he gave Simon another slap on the shoulder. ‘Hey, if you can’t be my solicitor, I’ve just thought of something else you could do for me. You could teach me to read and write.’ His eyes were shining. ‘Go on, man. ‘
‘What about Education? Isn’t there a class for that?’
‘Yeah but it’s going to make me feel stupid ʼcos the others will laugh at me ʼcos I don’t know nuffing. But if you helped me, I could go into one of them classes and then they’d all be surprised ʼcos I could do it. Go on, mate. If you do, I’ll make sure no one dares to do anything to hurt you in this place. Let me know when I get back from my piss test.’
