The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton

by Eleanor Ray

  “Takes all sorts,” muttered Bob, backing out of the garden with his hands held up as if Amy had pointed a gun at him. “I’ll need to call it in to the office.” He looked at her again. “You do know you’re breaking the terms of your leasehold? You will have to let us in eventually.”

  “Good-bye,” said Amy. She watched until he was back in his van before she finally turned to her door and slipped inside her house.

  * * *

  AMY STOOD IN her kitchen, looking out of the window. It had been a hot summer’s day, and now the setting sun had painted the sky a shade of violet that echoed the buddleia growing in the far corner of her back garden. A solitary tortoiseshell butterfly, still awake, fluttered haphazardly in the breeze before pausing to drink from the cluster of scented blooms. Amy had restacked the fallen pots and they looked solid again, silhouetted against the sunset. There was a time when she would have been desperate to paint that skyline, but now it just made her feel empty.

  She couldn’t have anyone inside her house. They wouldn’t be able to find the chimney in any case. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d even seen her fireplace.

  What she needed was a wall. A wall would keep the children out of her garden. It would protect the pots, protect the children, and, she hoped, would mean that Bob left her alone. The chimney stuff was nonsense. She glanced at the hallway, sure that the local newspapers she’d amassed were full of stories about the council being underfunded and overworked. If she made sure the children couldn’t get in, then the council could worry about real issues instead.

  But how? The idea of builders made her shudder. It would be as bad as Bob—stomping through her house, getting dirty footprints on her newspapers, knocking over bottles and pots, crushing her nettles as if they didn’t house precious butterfly cocoons. She’d be obliged to make them tea, which they’d drink from her delicate mugs in their big, careless hands.

  No.

  She didn’t know much about building walls, but how hard could it be to do herself? Some bricks, some concrete, a bit of elbow grease, and a how-to video on YouTube. That was all she’d need.

  She paused. The materials were heavy. Awkward. Her house was terraced; she’d need to get them through her house to reach the garden. Amy stepped out of her kitchen into the hallway. However careful she was, something could still be broken as she heaved sacks of cement and bags of bricks through. That’s if they’d even fit.

  She heard a noise from next door. The voice had a scolding tone, it was probably Nina telling off one of the children.

  Of course.

  Richard had said he’d fix the fence.

  A wall could be put up from his side. They’d just moved in, so their house was bound to be relatively empty; it would be easy to bring the materials through. It was his children that were the issue, after all. It was officially her side to maintain, so she’d offer to pay for the materials and the labor.

  Amy hated asking for help, but as she looked around the house she realized that she needed to. She had a responsibility to keep her beautiful possessions safe. They trusted her.

  She’d do it now.

  Amy stepped past her bag of shopping, saving up the pleasure of unpacking her new treasures for later, and opened her door. By now the violet sky had faded to a papal purple and the world looked as though it were cast in shadows.

  “There you are, Amy,” said Rachel, making her jump. Rachel and Nina were standing outside Nina’s house, both with cigarettes lit. Amy watched the lit ends, which seemed to dance in the night air like fireflies.

  “I’ve started smoking again, okay?” said Rachel. “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

  Nina put her hand on Rachel’s arm. “You deserve a break,” she said.

  “So do you,” replied Rachel. “It’s a big responsibility you’ve taken on. Not everyone would do that.” Both women sucked on their cigarettes, then puffed out smoke that swirled around in the breeze before disappearing up into the night air.

  “I’ve come to see Richard,” said Amy, suppressing a cough.

  “Oh?” said Nina, looking amused. “What do you want with Richard?”

  Both women were looking at her, and Amy found herself uncomfortable under their scrutiny. She pulled at her loose black T-shirt.

  “I just want to ask him something,” said Amy.

  “He comes with two kids, you know,” said Nina. “Before you get any ideas.”

  “What?” said Amy.

  “Sorry, just teasing,” said Nina. Rachel laughed.

  “What did that man say?” asked Rachel, before Amy could get past her. “Was he here to get rid of your mice?”

  So she had been watching. Of course she had. “The mice do not come from my house,” insisted Amy.

  “Okay,” said Rachel. She tapped her cigarette until ash fell to the ground. “If you say so.”

  “Can I go through?” Amy noticed that the door was ajar.

  “Be my guest,” said Nina, stepping aside. “It’s past eight, but he’s in the garden, not putting the kids to bed.” She dropped her cigarette and ground it into the earth with her shoe.

  Amy walked past them, feeling their eyes on her back. There was something about the new friendship between her neighbors that reminded her of school.

  Nevertheless, she felt a little pang of excitement. It had been a long time since she’d seen the inside of a house that wasn’t her own, and she’d never been inside Mrs. Hill’s place before.

  She almost gasped as she entered. The hallway was huge. The house was a mirror image of her own, it must be, but it felt enormous.

  Cavernous.

  Empty.

  A small bike and a tricycle leaned on the wall, and shoes that seemed impossibly small for a person to wear littered the floor. But she could see the floor, and the walls. She glanced up the stairs. The whole width could be used. Nothing to clamber over.

  For a moment she imagined her life in a house like this.

  Simpler. Safer.

  Emptier.

  She almost turned back, keen to have her possessions around her again.

  No. She had to protect them. She had to ask Richard to help her with the wall.

  Amy had a quick glance in the living room. Again, it seemed huge. A smattering of toys and balls adorned the floor, but they must be lonely. It felt sad to have so few possessions. She hurried on through to the kitchen, where she noticed a few dirty pans and a gorgeous smell of roasted vegetables that made her think suddenly of her grandmother. Amy hadn’t cooked for herself in years. The kitchen led to the garden; no boxes blocked the path to the French doors.

  Mrs. Hill had been a keen gardener in her time, but had done less and less as she got older. The light was fading fast, but Amy made out a couple of large rosebushes covered in pink flowers, lavender in full bloom, and an apple tree laden with abundant, inchoate fruit that would ripen come autumn.

  Amy stepped into the grass, unmowed and at ankle height. No sign of Richard. “Hello?” she queried.

  Three heads appeared from the grass. “It’s Amy!” exclaimed Charles.

  “Amy!” repeated his little brother, sounding excited.

  “Amy?” said Richard. “From next door?” He got to his feet and started brushing grass from himself. “Welcome. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Amy Amy Amy,” chanted Daniel.

  “No,” said Amy, feeling flustered at the sudden attention. “I’m not staying.”

  “Stay!” ordered Daniel, wrapping his small sticky hand around hers and squeezing. “Ice cream?”

  “No ice cream,” said Richard firmly. He looked at Amy. “Unless you’d like some?”

  “No,” said Amy. “Thank you.” She tried to extricate her hand, but the toddler’s grip was surprisingly strong. She glanced at him and saw he was wearing a T-shirt featuring Mickey Mouse winking merrily at her.

  “We’re waiting for the stars,” Charles told her. “Lie down and you can watch them appear. What’s your favorite juice?”r />
  Amy felt a little dizzy at the non sequitur. “I don’t know,” she said, remaining standing.

  “If you had to pick one or else you’d die?”

  “Pineapple, I suppose,” said Amy. “I need to talk to your father.”

  “That’s mine too!” exclaimed Charles. “Daniel’s is apple. Dad’s is orange. Nina likes grapefruit.” He crinkled up his nose in disgust. “But you and me like pineapple. It’s the best.” He grinned at her. “I like you.”

  Amy took a step backwards.

  “You’re a bit of a hero round these parts,” explained Richard, “since you stopped the boys getting into trouble over that broken mug.”

  Amy thought of the mug with a flash of guilt. It was still sitting in her kitchen. “I’ll bring it back,” she offered reluctantly.

  “No rush,” said Richard.

  “I’m sorry about your pot,” added Charles. “Was it a special one?”

  “They are all special,” said Amy.

  “Like my JCBs,” agreed Charles. He grinned at her again. “I’ll show you.”

  “No thanks,” said Amy quickly.

  “I see one star!” said Daniel. He released Amy’s hand and flung himself backwards so he was lying down facing the sky.

  “Bit of a Saturday night tradition,” explained Richard, lying down himself. “I’m enjoying it so much that I’ve already designed a conservatory so we can stargaze year-round. Maybe even catch a few sunsets.”

  “Dad’s an ar-chi-tect,” explained Charles, pronouncing the word carefully, as if it might break.

  “Want to join us, Amy?” asked Richard, lifting his head again. “There’s plenty of room on the blanket.”

  “No,” said Amy, feeling a bit thrown by the allusion to sunsets. “I just wanted to ask you something.” She hesitated. “A favor, I suppose.” All three were lying down now in a little circle, their heads close to each other and their bodies fanning out like the spokes on the wheel of a bicycle. After an awkward moment watching them, Amy crouched down. Her knees clicked in objection.

  “Come on,” said Charles. “Lie next to me.”

  “And me,” said Daniel.

  Amy didn’t feel right lying in a neighbor’s garden, but she did have to talk to Richard. She sat down on the blanket next to him, clasping her arms around her knees. Richard had his hands folded under his head, and when he breathed out she could feel the rough skin of his elbow gently grazing her ankle. She shifted farther away. “About the fence…” she began.

  “There are billions of stars,” Charles told her, sitting up and wriggling closer to her. He turned towards her as he spoke, and she could smell chocolate raisins on his breath. He thrust his head backwards to look up.

  “Squillions,” said Daniel.

  “That’s not a real number,” said Charles. He smiled at Amy. “He’s too little to understand. Not like us.”

  Amy looked up. More stars were appearing as the light faded. The sky was vast and surrounded them, like a giant salad bowl over their heads. She tried to bring up the wall, but found it harder than she expected to talk of a divide when they were all sharing the same sky. Instead she blinked and looked back at the stars, feeling tiny. She used to do this a lot when Tim first went missing, finding comfort in the fact that he could be looking at the same sky.

  “Shh,” said Richard, although none of them had said anything. “Listen.”

  Amy obeyed. There was a gentle rustling sound in the leaves. “That could be a hedgehog,” said Richard.

  “Or a frog,” said Charles.

  “Or a dinosaur,” contributed Daniel.

  “Rachel has mice,” said Amy, feeling wicked. “It could be one of them.”

  Birdsong rang out. “That’s a robin,” said Richard. “Out past its bedtime.”

  Amy listened, and her mind went to her own birds. “The fence,” she said. “I was thinking perhaps a—”

  “I’ve already bought a new fencing panel,” Richard told her. “I’ll put it up next weekend.”

  “Maybe something sturdier?” began Amy. “I was thinking that a wall—”

  “Oh, the fence will be fine,” said Richard. “It will keep the monsters out.” He reached a hand out and tickled Daniel, who chortled with delight.

  “We can ring the front doorbell if we want to visit Amy though, can’t we, Dad?” asked Charles.

  “You’ll have to ask her,” Richard replied.

  “Can we? Please?”

  Amy stood up. “I don’t really think—”

  “I’ll bring pineapple juice,” said Charles.

  “And ice cream too,” added Daniel.

  “And JCBs,” continued Charles. “A digger and a crane. The excavator is special so it stays in my room.”

  Amy didn’t have the strength to fight back. She’d just have to spend more time pretending not to be home. “We’ll see,” she said as she made her way back inside, blinking in the light.

  August 2000

  “I can’t believe they’ve put us on at the same time as Blur,” complained Simon, the bass player in Tim’s band. He looked out of the train window at the gray skies.

  “I know who I’m going to choose,” said Chantel. “Damon Albarn is fit.”

  “No one is going to come see us,” said Simon, tragedy in his voice. “Our first gig at a festival will be a disaster.” He leaned forwards, resting his forehead on his camping bag in a pose of dejection. “And it’s raining,” he muttered. “Course it is.”

  “I can’t believe my mum is sunning herself in Dubai with Aunt Laura and I’m stuck here in the rain,” complained Chantel.

  “I thought your mum hated the sun?” asked Amy.

  “Not as much as she hates her brother-in-law.” Chantel laughed. “I think Aunt Laura bought her the ticket just to torture her. Mum would probably rather be at this gig.”

  “I know where I’d rather be,” replied Amy loyally, taking Tim’s hand. “Because this gig will be the best thing there ever was.” Tim leaned in and nuzzled her ear gratefully.

  “You two are disgusting,” declared Chantel. “I can’t believe I have to share a tent with you.”

  “Me neither,” said Tim. He’d complained about it to Amy a lot, but she’d been adamant. Chantel had never been camping before and was terrified—and there was no way Amy would make poor Chantel share a tent with Simon. “Couldn’t you buy a plane ticket?” continued Tim. “You’re working now.”

  “Minimum wage on reception,” replied Chantel. “Hardly the stuff of long-haul dreams.”

  “Cheer up,” said Amy, glancing out the window. “The rain has stopped.”

  They all perked up at the sight of the sunshine cutting through the clouds, and Amy felt a little wave of excitement. Most of the people on this train looked just like them: young, scruffy, and with enormous backpacks presumably full of camping equipment, wellies, and weed.

  The train finally pulled in at the station, and they followed the throngs of people through the town, across the bridge, and to the fields, joining the huge queue to get in. “Can’t we line-jump?” asked Chantel. She didn’t have a backpack and was hauling an out-of-place wheelie suitcase. “ ’Cos you guys are IN A BAND.” She said the second half of the sentence loudly, but no one looked around.

  “We’re hardly the Chemical Brothers,” said Tim, sounding rather embarrassed. “I think we wait like everyone else.”

  “Spoilsport,” said Chantel. “What’s the point of being a rock star if you don’t get special treatment?”

  “The music,” said Tim.

  “Whatever,” said Chantel.

  “You girls are festival virgins, right?” asked Simon. Chantel and Amy glanced at each other and nodded. “A few tips from an expert,” he continued, as they finally made their way into the fields. “One. Travel light. You’ve already failed that one, Chantel, by bringing that ridiculous suitcase.”

  “I need somewhere to keep my hair straighteners,” she replied.

  “Course you do,�
� said Simon with a laugh. “And where are you planning to plug them in, genius?”

  “There must be plug sockets,” said Chantel. “How do you plug your guitars in?”

  “She’s got a point,” said Tim, laughing. “I can just see Chantel at the corner of the stage, straightening her hair while the Red Hot Chili’s are playing.”

  “Got to look my best,” said Chantel with a smile.

  “Number two,” continued Simon. “Provisions. The food on-site is overpriced and shit. Once we’ve dumped our stuff, we go to the Tesco in town and stock up. Sausage rolls, beer, sausage rolls. No one is eating poncy quiches and hummus near my tent. I’m looking at you, Tim.”

  “One time,” said Tim, “and you’ll never let me forget.”

  “Number three. Where to camp. You think you want near the loos in case of nighttime pees, but you don’t. These are festival toilets and they stink. You think you want near the bushes for shelter. You don’t. Bushes are makeshift loos for the lazy. They stink too. You think you want near where the bands are playing. Wrong again. People get drunk while they listen and vomit on their way back. You don’t want to be on the vomit trail. It stinks.”

  “So where do you want to be?” asked Chantel.

  “High ground,” said Simon. “You want all the crap running somewhere else.” Both girls pulled a face. “Midway, midfield. Minimize the risk of anyone pissing on your tent.”

  “I can’t believe you talked me into coming to this,” said Chantel. “I wish I was with my mum in Dubai.”

  “Just think of Damon Albarn,” said Amy. “It will all be worth it.”

  * * *

  “YOU, ME, AND a druid wedding at Glastonbury next year,” Spike told Chantel. She giggled. Amy rolled her eyes, but Chantel was lapping it up. “I’ll be back from Ibiza by then.”

  “I’d love to go to Ibiza,” said Chantel. The girls were sitting in the chill-out tent a bit the worse for wear, and Spike had zoned in on Chantel. Handsome, probably fifteen years their senior, and with dirty blond dreadlocks and a sunburn that had faded to a deep browny-red, he exuded confidence and stank of weed. Chantel was smitten.