Rise and Shine, Benedict Stone

by Phaedra Patrick

  “Gore?” he repeated. He’d thought that Gemma would have chosen a park or a river cruise instead. “How about tea and a scone in a nice teashop? Or a walk and ice cream?”

  “We can do that afterward.” Gemma tutted. “This will be a fun date. It’s dark in the crypt and a bit scary, so if Estelle gets frightened, you can protect her.” She gave him a sideways glance. “I bet Lawrence Donnington would never think to take her to the crypt.”

  “No,” Benedict said as he imagined his wife and Lawrence sipping champagne in a wine bar with chrome stools and neon signs. “I bet he wouldn’t.”

  * * *

  They met Estelle outside Brenda’s Tearoom. She was already waiting, standing in front of the window. She wore a purple dress that Benedict hadn’t seen before, and a plum-colored coat. The firework necklace burst with color from under her scarf.

  Benedict’s heart thumped so loudly he was sure that Gemma and Estelle would be able to hear it. It felt like he was on his first ever date. His wife looked beautiful and he thought how lucky he was, or rather how lucky he would be, if she came home.

  “Hi,” he said as casually as he could.

  He’d made a special effort in getting dressed that morning. He took the suit that he saved for special occasions out of the wardrobe and polished his loafers. He trimmed his stubble and was surprised to find that he had to fasten his belt in a tighter hole.

  Even though Gemma pushed Benedict to make contact with Estelle, she was acting strangely shy, lagging behind and allowing her russet hair to swing over her eyes. He wondered if she was still mulling over Reggie’s visit to the shop and her own reaction to it.

  “How did this morning go?” Benedict asked as they started to walk together along the cobbled street, with Estelle and Gemma on either side of him. The autumn sun sparkled on the river like silver bottle tops, and tourists strolled along the turreted city walls. An ice-cream van tinkled past.

  “Really well. The gallery liked my work. After the exhibition at Purple Heather, they’ve offered me space there, alongside some other landscape artists. Some of them are quite well-known. It’s a bigger gallery than Purple Heather, too, and it’s in the city center. I’m really excited about it.”

  Benedict felt a little childish, secretly reveling that the gallery was better than Purple Heather. “That’s fantastic. Well done.”

  Gemma was uncharacteristically quiet. She shuffled along in her cowboy boots and chewed on her hair.

  Benedict tried to link her into the conversation. “Gemma has found us somewhere exciting to go before we eat,” he said, and handed the leaflet to Estelle. “We’re, um, going to the York Crypt.” He wanted to add that they didn’t have to go and could choose somewhere else, but he didn’t want to embarrass Gemma.

  “Oh.” Estelle stared at the leaflet. She read through it as they walked and it seemed to take an age.

  Benedict thought about how loud their footsteps sounded.

  “This looks fantastic,” Estelle said. “Some of the girls from Meadow Interiors went there and I couldn’t make it. They said it was hilarious. Great idea, Gemma.”

  Gemma peeped out from behind her hair and smiled. “Thanks, Aunt Estelle,” she said, and Benedict sighed with relief.

  * * *

  They were greeted at the door by a man dressed in a ragged brown monk’s habit and his face marked with black spots. “Don’t get too close to me,” he hissed as Benedict handed over their entrance fee. “Or ye’ll get the Black Death.”

  Benedict shuddered. The room was dark and he could make out a broken stained-glass window and some chains hung from the wall. This was not an ideal place to bring his wife.

  Estelle and Gemma seemed to be enjoying it, though. Gemma’s eyes were wide and Estelle wore a huge grin. They giggled and chatted to each other as the monk ushered them into a makeshift pub. A woman wearing a black wool cloak told the story of a drunken landlord who murdered strangers by putting poison in their beer, and Benedict wished he could hear what his wife and niece were talking to each other about.

  After the pub, they witnessed a fake leg amputation, a burning of a witch—really a member of the audience who unwisely raised her hand as a volunteer—and the execution of Guy Fawkes.

  “Guy Fawkes was born in York and was part of the plot to burn down the Houses of Parliament,” Benedict told Gemma as he caught up with her. “It’s why we have Bonfire Night in the UK, on the 5th of November, to remember the event.”

  “I know,” Gemma said. “Estelle told me.”

  They ducked in single file to squeeze through a small doorway and found a man with his head on a chopping block. The mock executioner wielded a huge ax and wore a crazed expression.

  “Just do it, man,” a teenager shouted out.

  “This is sick,” his friend said.

  Gemma covered her face with her hands.

  The executioner cackled. “This is how they carried out justice in the court of Edward IV, in the fifteenth century.” He swung his ax and the lights went out, leaving the room in total darkness. There was a thud and Benedict felt something spurt, warm, against his cheek.

  “Blood,” Gemma shrieked.

  In the darkness Benedict felt her grasp his sleeve. “It’s just water,” he laughed. But when the lights blinked back on and he looked down, it was Estelle who had hold of his arm. He wanted to cover her fingers with his, but he kept his arm still, enjoying her touch.

  * * *

  After the dinginess and unexpected fun of the York Crypt, Benedict wanted to treat Estelle and Gemma, and they returned to Brenda’s Tearoom. It had a gilded sign over the door and swirly lettering that announced its establishment in 1895. A group of middle-aged ladies sat at a table in the window. They all wore crisp white trousers and held their expensive handbags between their gold-pumped feet. They nibbled at tiny triangular sandwiches and scones, displayed on tiers of floral bone-china plates.

  “We’re going in here?” Gemma asked.

  Benedict tried not to wince when he glanced at the menu, on display on a gold box on the wall, and saw the price of the salmon sandwiches. “It looks nice, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, but...am I dressed okay?” She looked down at her cowboy boots and bare shins. “Will they let me in?”

  “Of course they will. You’re not exactly Kate Moss, but you’ll do.”

  “Who is Kate Moss?”

  “You look lovely, Gemma,” Estelle soothed. “Of course they’ll let you in.”

  Benedict asked for a table for three and the bow-tied waiter led them to a corner. The wood-paneled walls were the color of acorns and the chair seats were covered in thick burgundy leather. The waiter slid out a chair and Estelle sat down first, winking at Gemma. Benedict tried not to smile as he noticed his niece trying to position herself elegantly. She sat with her hands on her lap and her back rod straight.

  “I keep thinking they’re going to ask me to leave,” she whispered as the waiter glided away and she opened her menu. She peered closely at it. “What’s eggs Benedict? Are you named after it?” she hissed. “What is Welsh rarebit? Is it like a rabbit?”

  “It’s a kind of posh cheese on toast,” Estelle explained.

  “Be patient and read the descriptions,” Benedict said. “And I’m not named after an egg dish.”

  “Oh, okay.” Gemma read through the menu twice then closed it. “Can I have a cake?” She looked over at a large rounded glass cabinet. “They look amazing.”

  “That’s usually my line.” Benedict smiled.

  Gemma glanced quickly at Benedict then focused on Estelle. She gave a tiny cough. “You know, Estelle, Uncle Ben has been trying to eat real healthy, with fruit and all,” she said earnestly. “We even walked up to Dinosaur Ridge so he could get some exercise.”

  Benedict didn’t know whether to g
lare at Gemma or to smile at his wife.

  “Oh,” Estelle said. “That’s good. I’m glad you’re getting to see more of Noon Sun than the inside of Benedict’s shop.”

  “He’s making a real effort,” Gemma said.

  Benedict was glad when the waiter returned.

  “And are you ready with your food order, sir?” the waiter asked.

  Order me. I’m so sweet and gorgeous, a pancake topped with blueberries and maple syrup, being whisked past by a waitress, said. I contain fruit, so I’m quite good for you.

  Benedict focused on the menu and used all of his willpower to order scrambled eggs on toast instead.

  Estelle pointed to the smoked salmon sandwich and requested it on brown bread.

  “Thank you. And for your daughter?” the waiter asked.

  Benedict’s fingers grew rigid and he dropped the menu. Estelle gave a small, embarrassed smile. But Gemma laughed out loud, a blast so huge that a white-trousered lady threw her a stare.

  The waiter’s smile stiffened when he realized he might have made a mistake. “I’m sorry. I...”

  “Duh. He’s my uncle, not my dad,” Gemma interrupted. “And I’m capable of ordering for myself. I’ll have a cup of English tea, with plenty of milk, and a slice of strawberry cheesecake, please.”

  “Yes, of course,” the waiter murmured. “Is that everything?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Benedict said. He was surprised to find that he felt like he had a marble stuck in the back of his throat. It was a small lump of emotion, a reaction to a thought that dropped, unwanted, into his head. He and Estelle didn’t have, or wouldn’t ever have, a daughter of their own to take out for lunch.

  He coughed, rubbed his Adam’s apple and looked around the tearoom. There was a lady feeding honey on a spoon to her adorable toddler daughter. Three beefy men, devouring full English breakfasts, were obviously a father and two sons; they all shared the same flat nose and jutting chin. Two young sisters played a game of peekaboo with the pepper pot and their Monster High dolls.

  They were all happy families, and Benedict sat there with his wife, who had moved out, and the daughter of his estranged brother.

  He tried to anchor himself back in the moment. He looked at the beautiful swirly writing on the menu, the heavy silver forks and the chandeliers, but it was still a struggle to escape his original thoughts.

  “Are you okay?” Estelle asked.

  “Yes, just a tickly throat,” Benedict said. “I could do with my cup of tea.”

  * * *

  After lunch, Estelle bought Gemma a slim lilac-colored box of six macarons. When she eased off the lid, they were set in a line in the colors of English beach huts.

  “They’re almost too pretty to eat.” She leaned closer and sniffed them. “I’m not sure what they are.”

  “They’re like a posh biscuit made with almonds,” Estelle said.

  “I think I like posh,” Gemma said. When they reached the pavement outside, she offered the box to Estelle, who took a pink one. Gemma took out a lemon-colored one and insisted that Benedict take the green one. “I don’t like the look of it. The color reminds me of caterpillars.”

  They nibbled their macarons and walked down toward the river. When they found a spare bench, Gemma kicked off her boots and wriggled her bare toes in the cool air. “Did you guys ever come here together, before you got married?”

  “I remember bringing Estelle once, when we first started dating, to York for afternoon tea,” Benedict said. “I didn’t really know what it was. I thought it was just a cup of tea that you got in the afternoon. So when the waitress brought out a tier of plates stacked high with tiny sandwiches, and scones and cakes, I thought they’d got the order wrong.”

  Estelle laughed. “I didn’t know that. I thought you were really sophisticated.”

  “You did? I thought you’d think me an idiot, if I told you.”

  “Don’t be silly. You can tell me anything. You know that...”

  Benedict’s chest tightened and he patted his hand against it. He instinctively thought about how he pushed the bag of gemstones into Charlie’s rucksack, and the secret that burned in his heart. Could he really tell his wife everything?

  He glanced at a passing boat, and a seagull swooped down and stole a flake from a Japanese man’s ice-cream cone. Benedict tossed a tiny piece of macaron onto the floor, where it was pecked by three pigeons. “Do you and your dad go out to restaurants?” he asked Gemma.

  “Oh, yes,” Estelle said. “I want to know all about your dad, Gemma. I’ve seen photos but I’ve never met him.”

  Gemma gave a quick smile. “He used to take me out for meals, like on my birthday and stuff. But not so much now. He has Janice to replace me.”

  It was the first time Benedict had heard this name. “Janice?” he asked.

  Gemma’s face fell. Her toes stopped wriggling and she picked up a boot and stuffed her foot back into it. “Oh, she’s no one,” she said breezily. “My dad doesn’t like to travel much. He likes to stay close to home.”

  “Is Janice your dad’s girlfriend?” Estelle asked simply.

  Gemma looked up. “Um, yeah.”

  “I noticed that you screwed up your nose a tiny bit when you said her name,” Estelle said.

  Benedict felt full of admiration for his wife; she was so perceptive and subtle. If he’d asked Gemma something so sensitive, it would probably have resulted in the two of them having a stand-off argument. “Your dad has a girlfriend?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The adorable Janice.” Gemma stood up and stamped her feet. She looked off into the distance. “Mrs. Freakin’ Perfect.”

  “Oh,” Estelle said. “Are things difficult between you?”

  The sides of Gemma’s mouth drooped low. She wrapped her too-large denim jacket across her chest. “We were doing alright until she came along. She kinda bewitched my dad and...” She stopped midsentence and shook her hair. “Anyway, I’m having a good time and I’m not going to spoil it by thinking about her.”

  “Bewitched him?” Benedict repeated. He imagined a faceless woman swooping down on a broomstick to cast a spell on Charlie.

  “Let’s go somewhere else,” Estelle said, casting a quick glare in his direction. She stood up. “Shall we head to York Minster and do a bit of sightseeing along the way?”

  “Yeah.” Gemma ran ahead. “Can I go in this bookstore?” she asked over her shoulder. “There’s a book on gems in the window.”

  “Sure. You go inside,” Benedict said.

  He thought this would be a good chance to spend a few minutes alone with Estelle, but before he could say anything, she asked, “What’s going on, Benedict?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gemma’s a sixteen-year-old girl, on her own in England. You don’t find that odd?”

  “She’s with me. I’m looking after her.”

  “But what about her father? Where is Charlie?”

  “Don’t worry. He’s at home in the US, but it’s all okay.”

  “It seems strange that she’s here alone. Especially when you’ve not spoken to your brother for years. I don’t feel comfortable about this.”

  Benedict’s heart began to beat faster. He suspected that things were far from fine, but he didn’t want his wife to know that. “I think Charlie sees it as part of her growing up. He wasn’t much older when he moved away.” He was aware that he was inventing things here, on behalf of his brother and niece.

  “That jacket she’s wearing is too big, and she has bare legs...”

  Benedict rubbed his neck. “She’s a young girl looking for an adventure, and it’s a big step toward me getting reacquainted with Charlie,” he said.

  “Hmm...well, I suppose that’s a good thing.”

  Benedict wanted to try to ke
ep his wife happy. “Yes, it is. I’m not concerned in the slightest,” he lied.

  15.

  FIRE OPAL

  individuality, awakening, progress

  BENEDICT FELT FLASHES of excitement in his stomach for a couple of days after the trip to York. His niece and wife got along well; it had been a fun day; and when he said goodbye to Estelle when they got back to Noon Sun, she kissed him on the cheek.

  His positive feelings made him optimistic for the day ahead. He actually felt in the mood for creating something a bit different today that wasn’t a simple brooch or bangle.

  As he reached up to touch the spot on his cheek where Estelle had pressed her lips, Benedict told himself not to worry about his wife’s questions. She was caring and was sure to think of Gemma’s needs.

  He just had to hold out until Charlie got in touch. Then he could sort everything out with his brother, without Estelle having to know a thing.

  * * *

  No customers came into the shop until Alistair and Alexander Ledbetter tramped in after lunchtime, both wearing too-white, too-large running shoes and with their hair stiff and spiky. They pointed at the display cabinets and chatted to each other in a strange language that reminded Benedict of Planet of the Apes.

  Gemma seemed to understand them, though, and the three teenagers stood chatting while leaning with their elbows on the counter. Gemma handed a large oval faceted amethyst to Alistair and he peered through it. “Everything looks purple,” he said. “It’s cool.”

  Alexander snatched it from him. “I can see lots of Gemmas.” He spun it between his thumb and index finger. “I reckon this is how insects see the world.”

  They hung around, mumbling and giggling, and Benedict busied himself straightening necklaces in his window display. When he saw Margarita locking the door of Floribunda and heading toward the shop, he raised his head. “Margarita,” he said to Gemma. “She’s coming over.”

  “Yeah?” She stood up straight.