Rise and Shine, Benedict Stone

by Phaedra Patrick

  Estelle was coping with things much better than he was. She had a shiny new apartment to live in, friends to support her and a dazzling new career as an artist. And Benedict felt bereft, like a small child watching a circus driving away from town and not knowing if it would return.

  Estelle looked around the shop. “You don’t have your lights on in here.”

  “I just called in to feed Lord Puss.”

  “Not much work on, then?”

  He couldn’t tell if she said it with concern or if there was a slight barb to her comment. “Oh, yes. No problem there,” he said, thinking about his empty appointment book. “Busy, busy.”

  Over his wife’s shoulder, through the large front window, he saw Gemma lollop past on the opposite side of the road. She carried armfuls of colored shopping bags and she stopped to wave at him.

  Benedict looked away quickly, pretending not to see her. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing her to notice that he was talking to someone, and to move on. He didn’t want Estelle and Gemma to meet until he’d had chance to talk to Charlie, to find out what the hell was going on. However, Gemma waved again. She edged toward the curb.

  “I have other things to sort out today, with Cecil being in hospital.” He swallowed.

  “How is he?” Estelle asked. “Did his op go okay?”

  “Yes, he’s fine.” The stress of seeing Gemma made his words come out too quickly. “I’m going to visit him tomorrow.”

  “Good. Send my love.”

  As Gemma crossed over the road, heading toward the shop, Benedict automatically shook his head.

  “What is it?” Estelle asked sharply.

  “I’ll tell Cecil that you asked after him.”

  “You’re shaking your head.”

  “Sorry.”

  Gemma now stood outside the shop, looking at his window display.

  “You seem distracted.” Estelle pulled her coat around her. “I should go...”

  “No.” Benedict reached out to touch her arm, but felt as if he’d made contact with an invisible force field. He slowly lowered his hand. “Please don’t go.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but the shop door opened.

  Gemma heaved her shopping bags inside. “Hi there,” she chirped. “I’m Gemma.”

  Benedict lost all of the words in his head at the sight of his niece and wife in the same small space. His eyes flicked between the two of them as if he was watching a game of table tennis.

  Gemma strolled around the shop, peering into each of the cabinets.

  Estelle didn’t look at her. “I stopped by to ask if I can come over to pick up my paintings from the spare bedroom. Canvases are expensive, so I’m going to paint over my old ones.”

  Benedict’s brain started to tick with possibilities. This could be the opportunity he’d hoped for. He could tidy the house, buy some fresh flowers, maybe attempt to make a shepherd’s pie, and then casually invite Estelle to stay for tea. He’d open a bottle of expensive red wine to create a nice ambience for the two of them to discuss things.

  But Gemma was sleeping in Estelle’s studio.

  His eyes darted over toward his niece again. Looking at her russet hair made him feel dizzy. “I’ll drop the paintings off at Veronica’s apartment for you,” he said.

  “Actually, Lawrence has offered to help me pick them up. He’s an expert in landscape art, and I don’t want to paint over any paintings that he thinks are worth saving. He’s been so wonderful, helping me to set up the exhibition.”

  Benedict thought of the clumps of bags, and piles of bills, on every conceivable surface in the house. He winced at the mention of Lawrence’s name. “It’s not actually a good time...” he started.

  “Oh. What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing. I’ll drop the canvases off for you tonight.”

  When Estelle spoke again, her voice was cooler and low. She took a step back toward the door. “There’s really no rush,” she said. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  This is all going so wrong, Benedict thought. He wanted to stride over and stand in front of the door to stop her from leaving. He couldn’t bear to see her walking away from him again.

  As he furiously thought what else to say, little by little, Benedict became aware that Gemma had turned away from the cabinets and was clearly listening in to their conversation. She stood with her arms folded, gawking at Estelle.

  At that moment, Benedict wished that he was psychic so he could send Gemma a message via his mind to stop her from staring. His own heart reverberated loudly in his ears, like there was a military drummer practicing in his skull. He sensed that his niece was waiting for an introduction to his wife, and he wasn’t ready to give it. How could he tell Estelle that Gemma had turned up unannounced? His wife would have more questions than he had answers.

  Estelle noticed, too. She gave Gemma a confused glance.

  “I’ll deliver your paintings tonight,” Benedict said.

  Estelle gave a small, tight smile as she reopened the door. “I’m leaving,” she said. “I feel there’s something going on here...”

  “No, I...”

  She held up a hand to stop his words.

  “No, I want to say...” He didn’t actually know what he was going to say. There were no ordered words in his head.

  “Let’s leave things alone, Benedict. If I’m not in when you call, leave the canvases by the front door of the apartment. It’s a communal hallway, so they’ll be safe there.”

  “I...I...” Benedict started again, but Estelle left the shop. He watched as she bustled past the shop window, her lips pinched together.

  “About the text I sent you...” he shouted after her. But if she heard, she didn’t turn back.

  Gemma dropped her shopping bags onto the floor and gave a slow handclap. “That went well. Way to go, Uncle Ben.”

  Benedict couldn’t stop all the frustration of the last few weeks from spilling out in his voice. “What the hell did you come in the shop for?” he demanded. “I was trying to talk to my wife.”

  Gemma took a small step back and her ankle buckled in her cowboy boot. “Hey. I didn’t know it was Estelle until I overheard your conversation. Then I figured it out.”

  “You listened in,” he accused.

  “Well, sorta.” She shrugged. “Hey, are you worried about this Lawrence guy? Your nostrils flared real big when she mentioned his name.”

  “They did not.”

  “Yeah, they did.”

  Benedict pictured the handsome gallery owner in his striped T-shirt and he suddenly felt exhausted. He wanted to go home and slump on the sofa, whether his wife was there or not. “If you’re going to stay with me then we need some rules,” he said grumpily.

  “You don’t have to worry about me.” Gemma pointed at her own chest. “I think you need to focus on getting your wife back. Especially if this Lawrence guy is hanging around. Why didn’t you introduce me to her? I knew that you’re ashamed of me...”

  Benedict opened his mouth to respond but then closed it again. He felt too emotionally drained to speak. It also wasn’t fair to take his infuriation out on his niece. He waited until he felt a little calmer. “I’m not ashamed of you, okay.” He sighed. “I want to speak to Charlie first before I introduce you to Estelle, that’s all. Sorry for getting cross with you.”

  “That’s okay. I get it.”

  His shoulders slumped. “I need to do something about Estelle...”

  “Just do it, then.”

  “I’m not good at stuff like that. I can’t think of anything to do for her...”

  Gemma folded her arms. “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what?” he asked suspiciously.

  “We need a plan.”

  “We?” Benedict said. As he plodded over to the counte
r to lean against it, he felt like his feet were coated in tar. “Need a plan?”

  “Yes. A plan. An operation...to win Estelle back. Hey, Operation Win Estelle Back, that spells WEB. Well, OWEB really, but that doesn’t sound as cool...”

  “WEB?” Benedict repeated, feeling both scared and intrigued at the same time.

  “Yes. WEB. You need a plan to get your wife back, Uncle Ben. And you need my help to do it.”

  6.

  PERIDOT

  protection, emotional balance, renewal

  BENEDICT COULD KILL for a chocolate éclair, or a slice of lemon drizzle cake. He wanted to eat and take his mind off Estelle. The sugar might stop his directionless thoughts from whirring around in his mind.

  When Gemma tried to show him her purchases from Deserted Dogs, he scrambled in his head for an excuse to go into the kitchen and search through the cupboards for a stray bar of chocolate. However, his niece would probably be like a sniffer hound and know what he was up to.

  He decided to slump on the sofa and let her chatter wash over him.

  “I got some cool stuff. Here’s this cute red dress and a plaid skirt. Oh, and a leather bag with lots of pockets. There was a box full of expensive underwear and panty hose. It was all new, with the tags on and everything. I got us some good food, too. Fruit. I put it in the fridge.”

  “Lovely,” Benedict said. He pondered about what he could have said to Estelle in the shop. Perhaps he should have introduced Gemma...

  Gemma shook out a pair of jeans and tried to hoist them on over her cowboy boots, managing to only pull them up to her ankles before they got stuck. She slid her legs back out and the boots remained jammed in the trouser legs. “I’ll show you these ones later.”

  “That’s fine.”

  She tugged out her boots and dropped them to the floor with a couple of thuds. “Are you even listening to me, Uncle Ben?”

  “I am,” Benedict lied. “You’ve bought some nice things. Well done.”

  Gemma gave a small low growl, like Lord Puss when he saw another cat.

  “Okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “I was thinking of other stuff.”

  “About Estelle, right? And my dad, I bet.” Gemma folded up her clothes into neat squares and set them on the armchair.

  She sounded dismayed, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Both. Now, will you write down Charlie’s address for me?”

  “You don’t need it. I texted him before I lost my phone.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to hear from you again. Can you remember any other phone numbers so we can get a message to him?”

  Gemma’s pointed eyebrows twitched upward. “Nope.”

  “Then I’ll have to write.” Benedict picked up a pen and scrap of paper from the table and handed them to her. “Scribble down his address.”

  Gemma flicked her hair, but she wrote on the paper and tossed it back to him.

  Sunnyside Farm, he read. North Maine.

  The words made him feel a little calmer. He finally had a name, a place and a way to get in touch with Charlie, even if it was by letter. He smiled at Gemma but her face was screwed into a scowl.

  He addressed the envelope then added his own details, his phone number and email address to the top. Stuck for what to write, he brushed away a speck of imaginary dust from the paper with the side of his hand. Gemma peered over his shoulder, so Benedict couldn’t write about his real feelings and worries and regrets, and he kept the letter short.

  Dear Charlie

  This is just a small note to let you know that Gemma arrived here safe and sound. I understand that she texted you to let you know, but I thought that you might like to hear it from me, too. Unfortunately, she’s lost her phone, so we don’t have your number to call you.

  We’ve agreed that she’ll stay for a few days, maybe longer, depending on what you’re happy with. I’ll help her out all I can; however, it would be useful if you could contact me as soon as you can, so we can discuss her next moves. I’ll keep this letter short and sweet and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

  Then he added:

  I hope you are well. Best wishes from your brother,

  Benedict.

  “That sounds okay,” Gemma said. “You’ll need an airmail stamp.”

  “I’ve got one, from when Estelle writes to her friend Veronica.” He sealed the letter into an envelope and set it on the kitchen table. “Done.”

  Gemma idly picked up her new bag. She unzipped its many pockets and peered into them. “So, why did Estelle leave you? You’re not such a bad guy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is it because of your...size?”

  Benedict sucked in his stomach. In the ten years they’d been married, Estelle had never mentioned his weight as an issue. “No.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “So, she’s just gone?”

  Benedict cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  “And you don’t have any children?”

  It never ceased to amaze Benedict how often questions about kids rolled off people’s tongues, as if they had no other dialogue in their heads.

  So, when will we hear the patter of tiny feet for the two of you? Margarita Ganza asked Estelle as she picked up a bunch of withering daffodils outside Floribunda.

  Ryan often told Benedict stories about his kids over a pint at the pub. He finished his tales with a knowing You have all this to come, Benedict.

  “No,” Benedict said. “We don’t have any kids.”

  “Don’t you want them?”

  He didn’t want to discuss this. His niece seemed to hook on to things like a prickly burr on a woolen sweater.

  “I think that having children is probably overrated anyway,” she said before he could answer. “It’s a big responsibility. Do you and Estelle...?”

  Benedict didn’t want to answer another question about the family he and Estelle didn’t have, so he tried to think of something, anything, to change her path of conversation. “So, you want to look in the attic for your grandfather’s gemstone journal?” he asked brightly. “Shall we go up there now?”

  * * *

  Benedict stored the meter-long stick with the hook on the end under his bed. It had been there, unused, for at least five years. The last time he ventured into the attic was when rainwater had leaked through the ceiling into the master bedroom. He had gone up through the hatch and patched up the hole in the roof, walking around his parents’ wooden chest and pretending it wasn’t there. Even a glimpse of the dark, curved box could make him feel shivery with emotion.

  His parents had brought it home from one of their trips overseas. Benedict and Charlie used to pretend that it was a pirate’s chest and they crawled around it with plastic cutlasses clenched between their teeth.

  When his mum and dad died, Benedict didn’t want the chest in the house any longer, but he couldn’t bear to get rid of it either, so he gathered together their tools and belongings and stored them away in the attic.

  In the studio, Benedict moved Estelle’s canvases to one side. He pushed the stick up against the hatch, so the door creaked and opened up into the attic. “Step back,” he warned Gemma. He let the door reverse down so it hung back perpendicularly into the room.

  In the darkness, he could just about see the ends of a wooden ladder, and he used the hook on the stick to tug them. They shuddered down, stopping halfway between the ceiling and floor. Specks of dust and grit showered onto the sheets of newspaper Benedict had laid down on the floorboards. He flicked a catch on the ladder and slid it all the way down to the floor with a thud.

  “It looks spooky.” Gemma peered up into the dark space.

  “The ghost who lives up there doesn’t think so.”

  Gemma’s eyebrows grew more angled. Then she caught sight o
f Benedict’s face, his lips twitching into a smile. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Benedict gave a short burst of laughter. “Of course. There’s nothing up there but piles of stuff.”

  “It’s so not funny. It’s a long way up.”

  “It’s not as high as the Eiffel Tower.”

  Gemma scratched her nose. “Yes, but...”

  “Well, if you want to know more about your grandparents and about the gemstones,” Benedict said, “you’ll have to be brave. Follow me.” He stepped onto the ladder and the rungs creaked and bowed as he climbed up.

  Gemma didn’t move. She stared at the ceiling.

  “Are you coming?” Benedict squeezed through the hatch and hung his head over it.

  “It’s really dark up there. I don’t like it.”

  Benedict switched on a light. “Come on. It’s safe,” he said. “I think.”

  Gemma slowly climbed the ladder. One of her boots fell off and clunked down the steps, but she carried on. When she reached the top rung her hands were black with dirt. She clambered into the attic on her hands and knees, and Benedict handed her a piece of dusty paper towel to wipe them.

  The attic had a pointed roof, and Benedict could just about stand up under its peak. There wasn’t a proper floor, only pieces of chipboard that rested on the joists. There were rows of boxes stored along the rafters, and Benedict couldn’t even remember what was in most of them. Some were labeled “Mum” and others were labeled “Dad.” He’d given all their clothes to charity soon after they died, but some things he couldn’t bear to get rid of, such as his mum’s jewelry-making tools.

  The wooden chest was larger than he remembered, reaching above his knees in height. His chin trembled slightly as he stared at it. He bent down to blow dust off its top and gagged as the particles went down his throat.

  “It looks like a treasure chest,” Gemma said.

  Benedict struggled to kneel down and Gemma sat down, too, on the other side.