Ray’s carrying a round cake with a white base, hot pink icing and matching candles, while Henry balances a tray with porcelain cups, silver spoons, a teapot, jugs and sugar, which he places on the table. It’s the same set Ray uses when Jake sneaks around for tea.
His heart lifts. He’s been waiting weeks for this, ever since Ray mentioned their visit. He hopes he got it right. He would have given it to her himself, but his dad gave him a black eye yesterday. He’s too ashamed to show the purpling bruise and bloodshot retina to anyone. There would be too many questions. Usually his dad is more careful to hit him in places where bruises can be hidden. In the end he decided to just post the gift through the door late last night in an envelope with a simple L on the front.
Jake sits forward to get a better look as Leila comes into view. She’s grown a little since last year. Her long silvery blonde hair is as lovely as ever. She’s wearing it in a high ponytail, with her fringe pinned back in a mini-quiff. There are red and purple streaks of hair mascara in it right through to the ends. Her jeans have lines down the side of the legs and she’s wearing a black T-shirt that ends a few inches above her waistband, exposing her stomach.
‘Happy Birthday, Leila!’ Ray smiles, holding a big knife aloft before pointing it at the cake. ‘How does it feel to be thirteen? Officially a teenager?’
‘Yeah, y’know. It’s okay.’ She shrugs, dropping down into the seat next to her dad.
‘Leila, manners!’ Henry says.
She flushes, ‘Sorry.’
‘Do you want me to light the candles?’ Ray asks his granddaughter.
Jake shuffles further forward to watch, careful to dig his toes into the roof tiles.
‘Yes, please.’
When Ray holds a match to them and they’re all lit, her dark eyes sparkle and her pale skin flushes with excitement as she leans forward to blow them out. Managing them all in one go, she grins.
‘What did you wish for?’ Henry asks as she sits down, and Ray starts cutting the cake into neat slices.
Leila looks at her dad steadily for a moment, her grin fading. ‘A dog,’ she mutters at last.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ But her eyes skitter away from his, like she’s lying.
‘This arrived last night.’ Ray produces an envelope from his back pocket.
‘Thanks.’ Grabbing it from his hands, she rips it open eagerly.
Jake leans further forward, watching, holding his breath, wanting to hear. A car roars along the road, at risk of drowning out her reaction. Bugger off!
‘This is really cool,’ she says, holding up a small silver charm. ‘A tiny pencil! Mum must remember I like drawing. She remembered it’s my birthday!’ She beams, looking delighted. ‘There’s no note but that’s okay. Oh my God, I love it!’
Oh. Jake wraps his arms around his raised knees, biting his lip.
Ray opens his mouth to say something but subsides. Henry glances at him, and they exchange a look.
Leila fastens the charm on the bracelet and grins at it, before jumping up and crossing to the apple tree on the other side of the garden. She traces a shape on the knotted bark with her finger. Jake knows there are intricate patterns carved into the tree, a series of waves, circles, and hearts. He once asked Ray what they were and who put them there, but the older man’s face set into concrete lines and he changed the subject. Jake suspects it was Leila’s mum who engraved the bark.
Henry and Ray settle in the chairs with cups of tea in front of them, leaving the cake on its plate in the middle of the table as they chat. Jake’s stomach rumbles at the sight of it. Because he can hear and see everything, he feels somehow part of the scene. Almost there, but not quite touching. He knows that, even without a mother present, this is how a family should be. People who take care of each other and enjoy each other’s company.
‘We need to talk about that charm.’ Ray squints at Henry in the summer sunlight. ‘I’m not sure if—’
‘I know,’ Henry interrupts, glancing around, ‘but not right now.’
‘Soon,’ Ray says, and Henry nods. ‘So, what present did you get her this year?’
Henry lets out a short laugh. ‘I didn’t. She just wanted money to spend on stuff herself. CDs, clothes, and lip gloss, I think,’ he sighs.
‘She’s growing up.’ Ray’s smile is wry. ‘I remember those days. Except with Amelia it was the early 80s, so it was stomach-baring white T-shirts with rolled up sleeves and low-slung jeans with big hair. She used to get through so many cans of hairspray. Anna and I called it the Madonna effect.’ He chuckles, before trailing off. Henry’s staring at him. ‘Sorry,’ Ray says, ‘I forgot who I was talking to.’
‘No, it’s okay.’ Henry clears his throat. ‘She was my wife. I would’ve liked to have known her back then. Perhaps if I’d understood her more, then what happened—’
‘You can’t blame yourself. My daughter is who she is, and I doubt anything you’d have said could have changed things. At the end of the day, she lived three doors down from me. You were out at work trying to earn a decent living and pay for the house, and your family. If she was struggling, she only had to come and knock on my door. I would have listened. Would have tried to help.’ He pauses, ‘It is a shame about the house though. I know how much you loved it.’
‘It’s just a building.’ Henry shifts in his seat, craning his head to watch his daughter. ‘My home is wherever Leila is.’
Up on the roof, Jake’s hands curl into fists, and he blinks away the tears suddenly glazing his eyes. Leila’s so lucky.
‘It’d be nice if the house was being looked after though,’ Henry adds gruffly. ‘I spent lots of time on it.’
Ray exhales, fiddling with a button on the sleeve of his brushed cotton shirt before looking at his son-in-law. ‘They’re not the type of family to take pride in their home.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘They don’t really speak to anyone, and never come to the neighbourhood BBQs. The few times someone’s gone round to invite them, they’ve had the door slammed in their face.’ He grimaces, ‘You know I don’t like to speak ill of people, Henry, but their only saving grace is their son.’
‘The boy Leila spent that week with before we moved?’
‘Yes. Jake. He’s a lonely boy, but so bright and engaging. He struggles academically but whatever you tell him, he absorbs. He’s a thinker. If he can get out of that situation, he’ll do well.’ Pausing, he adds, ‘I don’t think everything is quite right in that house.’ Henry raises both eyebrows in question, but Ray shakes his head. ‘It’s not my place to say.’
‘Sounds like you’ve spent quite some time with Jake.’
‘He comes here sometimes to visit and helps me out with chores. We talk. He’s a good lad.’
Jake’s face heats with embarrassment at hearing the truth of his family summed up so neatly, but at the same time, Ray’s words send a thrill through him. He thinks he’s bright and will do something with his life.
‘It’s been two years since Amelia left,’ Henry mutters, checking to see where Leila is before switching the topic. ‘Do you think she’ll ever come back? Leila still asks.’
Ray looks uncomfortable, and it’s a strange expression on his face. Jake’s never seen him look anything but self-assured.
‘I don’t know,’ Ray answers Henry’s question after a long pause. ‘But I know she’s okay.’
‘How do you know that?’ Henry sits forward in the chair, the plastic groaning under his weight. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘She sent me a letter. I don’t where she is. There’s no postmark or forwarding address.’
‘You’ve had a letter from Mum?’
They both jump in their seats.
‘Leila, I didn’t see you there,’ Ray exclaims.
‘Where is it? I want to see.’ She puts her hands on her hips, stepping closer to her grandfather. ‘What does it say?’
‘That’s probably not a good idea. I wouldn’t
want you to get upset.’
‘I’ll be upset if I don’t see it. It’s my birthday. Please. I’m old enough. I just want to see it. I swear I won’t get upset.’
Henry winces. ‘Is there anything … worrying in there?’
Ray rolls his eyes up to the left, thinking. ‘No. It’s just general things. How she’s doing, what she’s doing. As I said, no location.’
Henry touches Leila’s shoulder gently, and for a fleeting moment, Jake’s stomach flips over in pure jealousy. ‘Sure about this?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ She holds her dad’s gaze, her lips pursed.
‘Okay, then.’ His fingers twitch, as if he too is aching to read the letter.
‘All right.’ Ray pushes himself from his chair and heads towards the back door. ‘Why don’t you start eating while I go and look?’ he suggests, before walking into the house.
Father and daughter glance down at the birthday cake, and Leila shakes her head. Jake wonders if she’s too nervous to eat. She starts twirling the ends of her purple and red ponytail around her fingers, over and over, and Jake knows he’s right.
A minute later, Ray reappears clutching a white rectangular envelope. There’s handwriting on the front, but Jake’s too far away to see what it looks like. Taking the letter out, he holds it toward Leila before moving to hover over her left shoulder. Henry rises to stand next to his father-in-law.
Leila unfolds the paper. Her eyes moving from left to right, she reads its slowly, mouthing the words. Her face screws up and a single tear rolls down her cheek. ‘Not ready to come home yet?’ she shouts, throwing the letter onto the mown lawn and stamping on it with her high-top trainer. ‘She’s had long enough. She’s the most selfish person ever. That’s it. I don’t want anything to do with her!’
Twirling around, she flees into the house before Henry or Ray can react. But Jake’s already scrambling down off the roof, sliding in through his bedroom window with little regard for the skin scraped off his back, flying down the stairs into the lounge. He wants to make sure she’s okay, having forgotten about his black eye and other injuries.
Even though he’s sometimes jealous of her, she’s helped him and he’d like to think they’re friends. Yanking the net curtain back from the window, he sees Leila throw herself against the door of her dad’s van, scrabbling for the handle, sobbing. Henry follows her out, reaching for her.
Just as he does, a heavy hand clamps down on Jake’s shoulder. ‘There you are, son,’ Terry says.
Leila
November 2004
The Shell Charm & The Book Charm
Frowning as the teacher scrawls famous Lady Macbeth quotes across the whiteboard in blue marker pen, I absentmindedly fiddle with the new charm that arrived this morning. With a solemn nod, Dad slid the envelope across the breakfast table towards me. For a moment I thought it was from him. However, when I sliced open the envelope with a butter knife, it contained a curled-up silver conch shell with a swirly pink interior, tiny and so very cute, with a typed note. Happy Homecoming. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how Mum knows we’ve moved back to Bournemouth and if that’s the case why doesn’t she just visit, but Dad stood up abruptly and left the room.
As he was closing the front door, he called over his shoulder he’d see me in time for dinner, and to try to be good at school, leaving me and my grandad staring at each other over my cornflakes and his marmalade on toast. The silence between us before I got up and tossed the dregs of my cereal and milk into the bin was uneasy. I’ve only seen him a handful of times since we moved away, and I never knew him that well when Mum lived with us.
I was probably a bit snappy with him as I pulled on my forest-green school blazer over my striped blouse and said I had to go, but what do people expect? I didn’t ask for this. It wasn’t my choice. I didn’t want to be transplanted, taken away from everything I know. Again. I still can’t believe Dad made me move back here. Although it isn’t his fault Ray’s ill, and coming back to look after him is the right thing to do, did we really have to move in with him? Every time I catch sight of the peeling red front door of our old house, the gaping tiled roof, or the weed-choked garden, it makes me wince. Even so, I can’t stop looking. It’s like a scab you shouldn’t pick but do anyway, even though you know it’ll leave a scar.
I wonder if Jake still lives there. I’ve not seen him since that half-term we spent together, which seems like a lifetime ago now.
I also wonder if Eloise – or anyone else I might recognise – will be at this school. Despite our promises to be best friends for ever, Eloise and I didn’t keep in touch after I left. Still, there’ve been moments over the years when I’ve thought about her, wondering how she is.
Now, flexing my toes inside my new black flats, heels stinging and rubbed raw by the walk to school, I tune out the teacher droning on about the core themes of Shakespeare’s play. Instead, I focus on the music playing in my left ear through an earphone hidden by my long hair. I’ve been listening to ‘This Love’ by Maroon 5 on loop since it came out at the beginning of the summer and haven’t tired of it yet. We covered Macbeth at my old school last term, so I know it back to front and sideways and don’t need to hear it again. Besides, I found sketching pictures of the witches more interesting than the tragedy, greed, and madness of the story.
‘Miss Jones, am I boring you?’ Mr Strickland’s sarcasm booms and bounces off the walls.
His tone annoys me. Lifting my chin, I raise one eyebrow, careful to tuck the earphone wire out of sight. ‘I’m not sure. Are you boring yourself yet?’ There are titters around the room, along with the sound of pupils shifting in their seats to watch the drama unfold.
The teacher’s nostrils flare as he straightens his back, his salt-and-pepper hair sitting on his forehead in an old-fashioned 50s-style wave. ‘Don’t be so rude. Pay attention and contribute, or else you can stay back for detention today and explain to the head teacher why you feel you’re above getting a good education, and why,’ his eyebrows draw together, ‘you feel you’re entitled to disrupt the lesson for all your classmates.’
‘I’m happy to explain to the head that you can’t keep me in for a DT today because you need to properly notify a parent in advance to keep a child back after school,’ I respond flatly, intimately familiar with school rules and regs after the last fourteen months, feeling the burn on my lower back itch at the thought. ‘Plus, I hardly think the head would be interested in my first offence on my first day, do you?’
He sucks in a breath, a puce flush washing up his neck into his face. ‘It’s because it’s your first day here you should be trying your best to—’
The smallish, dark-haired boy behind me, whom I only gave a cursory glance to when I rushed in late at the start of lesson, clears his throat.
The teacher’s face tightens. ‘Is there something you want to add, Mr Harding?’
‘Nah, I just wondered whether we could get on with it now? Lady M is kind of hot for a homicidal chick and I wondered whether there are any sex scenes.’
‘For God’s sake—’ Mr Strickland shakes his head as the class explodes with laughter. ‘You know, for someone who’s been held back for failure to academically achieve, despite being one of the oldest in your year group, you always have a lot to say for yourself, don’t you?’ The teacher marches down the aisle between the rows of laminated tables.
‘Yeah, thickie,’ a chunky yellow-haired boy sat leaning against the opposite wall yells, ‘why don’t you spend time with people your own age?’
‘Good one, Davey,’ his friend sniggers beside him.
I feel bad for the flack he’s getting on my behalf, given that he interjected to save me, so I turn around to peer over my shoulder.
I gulp with shock. It’s Jake! He looks older but it’s definitely him. I take in the details of his face with my artist’s eye. The scar running down into his lip. His different coloured eyes – left one brown, right one green – and the thick dark eyebrows framing them. His cheekbon
es and jaw seem too angular, telling me he’s not eating any better than he used to. His black hair is shaggy and a touch too long.
He flicks me a quick acknowledging glance before craning his head to look up at Mr Strickland, who’s now hovering above him. ‘Sir, the truth is,’ he says with a straight face, ‘I find your lessons so inspiring that I fuck up just so I can repeat year ten and spend more quality time with you.’
I hide a snigger behind my hand. Jake’s former quiet confidence has become a more daring manner, and I marvel at the chances of us being in the same class.
Switching my attention to the teacher, I watch a mixture of emotions flutter over his face. Anger, resentment, and then resignation. It’s a war he either can’t win or just can’t be bothered fighting. ‘Right, that’s enough messing about,’ he barks, ‘let’s just get back to it, shall we? You, behave.’ He glares, nodding at Jake. ‘You’re on your last warning from me. Any more trouble and you’ll be suspended again, or worse.’ He nods down at me, ‘And you, behave yourself too.’
He’s so patronising it makes me seethe.
Mr Strickland claps his hands and strides back to the front of the room, pointing at the board. ‘Now, who wants to comment on Lady Macbeth’s behaviour? About the way she goads her husband into killing the Scottish King, Duncan?’
‘Goads?’ I mutter under my breath, yanking the earphone out and jamming it into my blazer pocket. ‘Whatever happened to free will?’
The Last Charm: The most page-turning and emotional summer romance fiction of 2020! Page 3
