The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton

by Eleanor Ray

  “Isn’t that right, Amy?” prompted Rachel.

  “Are you okay, dear?” asked Leah.

  Amy pulled herself together. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said. “And yes,” she added, looking at Rachel, “I have help.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear,” said Leah. “But I do think we should take a little look now, just to know what we’re dealing with.”

  “She clearly doesn’t want us here,” said the man. Amy had forgotten he was there. “And she’s got a plan. That’s all we need. Let’s write that up and check back in, say, two weeks?”

  “Three,” said Rachel.

  “Great,” he replied. “Come on, Leah. The match starts in ten.”

  “We will be back,” warned Leah, looking a bit miffed at being overruled. “To do a further assessment. And the chimney will still need to be repaired.”

  “You’re just going?” asked Nina. “You’re leaving it like this?”

  “There’s not much else we can do for the moment,” said Leah regretfully. “But don’t worry. The council’s wheels are in motion.”

  Nina snorted and disappeared back to her house. Leah and the man got back in their van.

  “Thank you, Rachel,” said Amy.

  “No worries. I used to be employed by the council, so I know how it works.”

  Amy waited till the van had driven off. “I’m not going to get a skip,” she whispered.

  “I know,” said Rachel. “But I’m sure there’s something we can do.” She grinned at Amy. “I’m off to feed Smudge. We wouldn’t want him getting an appetite for any more mice.”

  * * *

  “I ALWAYS HOPED I’d meet you one day, but I thought it would be with my son on your arm.” Amy found herself in a hug that lasted too long. It was a Saturday afternoon and she’d spent all morning traveling here, but she suddenly wished she could turn around and go home again. Eventually Tim’s father released her. “We should have met years ago,” he added. “All that time. Wasted.”

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Carver,” said Amy. He’d been easy to track down on Facebook; he was the generation that embraced the technology without understanding privacy settings.

  “Call me Alan.” They looked at one another, assessing the damage. Alan was in his late sixties. Tim had told her that he’d been young when he married Tim’s mother. Love at first sight, apparently. And it had lasted until Tim’s mother died, eleven years later. Alan had disappeared into his own grief, having little love left to deal with his devastated ten-year-old. Tim had never forgiven him for that, made all the more bitter when Alan eventually remarried. Amy hadn’t met Alan or his new wife in all the years Amy had been with Tim.

  “Come in,” said Alan with forced joviality. “We’ve a lot to catch up on.”

  Amy entered the house. It was generously sized, one of many identical detached homes in what would be described by an estate agent as a luxury development. The walls were a pinky shade of cream with light carpets that felt thick and soft under Amy’s feet. “Shoes off, if you don’t mind,” said Alan apologetically. “Roberta’s at Pilates, but she’d have a fit if she knew we were walking around in our shoes on the new carpet.”

  “Okay,” said Amy, slipping off her trainers and noticing the teddy bears on Alan’s socks for the first time. Being without shoes felt overly intimate, and Amy felt strangely vulnerable in her black socks as she followed Alan to the living room.

  The room was large, but there were one too many plump velour sofas in the room so it felt crowded. Amy almost laughed out loud. Who was she to criticize? She padded up to the mantelpiece. There was a family photo: Alan, Roberta, and twin boys in school uniforms a size too big gazed back at her. To the side was another photo: Tim in his own school uniform, scowling at the camera.

  Suddenly Amy wished she hadn’t come.

  “Have a seat,” said Alan. “Tea?”

  “No,” said Amy. She perched on the edge of one of the huge sofas, which did its best to suck her back into its depths. “I can’t stay long,” she added.

  “Of course,” replied Alan. They sat in silence for a moment.

  “Each time the doorbell rings, I hope it’s him,” he said all of a sudden. He looked at Amy. She gave him an involuntary flicker of recognition. Then he looked back down at the bears on his socks. “I know. Ten years and we hardly spoke. I never even met you. His girlfriend. But I always thought we’d make up one day. I knew he’d come around. I was rather hoping the arrival of the twins would do it, but then that’s when he disappeared.” Alan paused. “I didn’t have time to deal with it then. And I wasn’t very helpful.” He looked at Amy. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought he’d be back.”

  “I hoped you might have heard something,” said Amy finally. “From Tim. That’s why I’ve come.”

  “He’s been in touch?” Alan leaned forwards on the sofa.

  “No,” she said quickly. “Sorry. That’s not why I’m asking. I just thought that maybe it was me that he…” Amy couldn’t bring herself to say that perhaps it was her he didn’t want to see. That maybe she was the reason he’d left.

  “It would be you he called,” said Alan, “if he’s…” His voice drifted off too. He looked to his socks again. “But I don’t think he’s coming back. Not after all this time.” Alan got up and went over to the photo. “He was handsome,” he said. “I know the twins are fair, but they’ve got something of Tim about them, don’t you think?”

  Amy looked at the photograph of two smiling blond boys. “Maybe,” she said doubtfully.

  “Glad you think so,” said Alan with a smile. “Although people always said Tim looked like his mother.…” His voice trailed off. “Are you sure you won’t have that tea?”

  “If you haven’t heard anything—” started Amy, standing up.

  “Have tea with me,” said Alan. “Please. I didn’t see my son for almost ten years before he went missing. Maybe you can fill me in?”

  Amy stood still. It had been a long time since she’d spoken about Tim.

  “Could you tell me about his music?” continued Alan. “I wish now I’d been more supportive. I’d kill to have been to one of his gigs. Not much use now.” He picked at a bit of fluff on his sweater. “I wanted him to have a good job, not struggle as a musician. He was bright, he could have been a lawyer.” Alan gestured round the house. “All this. Security. Everything I wanted for him came from a good place.”

  “He wrote the most beautiful songs,” said Amy, sitting down again. “There was one, about a missed sunset…” She found she couldn’t speak for a moment.

  “I’ll get the tea,” said Alan. He stopped on his way to the kitchen and came back and squeezed Amy’s hand. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

  * * *

  IT HAD BEEN a long time since Amy had spent a night away from her house, but by the time she glanced at her watch that evening it was too late to make the long journey back. Alan had ignored her pleas to call a taxi to the nearest hotel and had insisted that she stay in their spare room. Roberta had put a shepherd’s pie in the oven, and she and the twins, now eleven, chatted amicably about school and people Amy didn’t know over dinner. Alan and Amy had eaten in silence, surrounded by an exhausted haze of memories. Eventually she’d accepted the fluffy towels Roberta pressed on her and slipped into a fitful sleep in a soft and overly hot bed.

  Now she found herself with a belly full of bacon and eggs and smelling of Roberta’s unfamiliar lily of the valley soap as her journey home was finally coming to a close. She’d fought back tears all the way. She could feel them now, brewing behind her eyelids and ready to escape as soon as she reached home. She turned the corner into her street. Alan hadn’t been what she was expecting, and she found herself wishing again and again that she’d encouraged Tim to make peace with his father.

  Alan Carver was what Tim had needed in his life. And he could have had his father back. If only his father had tried harder. Or if Tim had been able to forgive.r />
  Amy felt a wave of forgiveness wash over her like Roberta’s soap. If she had a second chance with the people she’d lost, she wouldn’t waste it. She’d forgive them and at the very least have her friends again.

  At least, she hoped that was what she’d do.

  “Amy!” Charles bounded up to her, nearly knocking her off her feet. “There you are.”

  “I’m sorry, Charles,” said Amy, feeling exhausted. “I can’t talk today. I just want to go home.”

  “But that’s it,” said Charles. “Your home. Something’s happened. Come see.”

  Amy felt the fatigue pushed from her body by adrenaline. And dread. She started to run after him and her mind ran too. A gas leak. An explosion. A fire. A burst pipe. A flood. A burglary. Her treasures burnt. Sodden. Stolen. Ruined.

  “Amy!” said Richard, running up to her just as his son had done moments before. “Don’t panic,” he said, his words futile. “But something happened last night.”

  Amy pushed past him. She had to see for herself.

  The building still stood. She couldn’t see smoke, nor water.

  Then she saw.

  Her hand clapped over her mouth so hard it hurt. She felt Richard’s hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I heard noises in the night, but I just thought it was foxes. I should have done something.… I didn’t realize you were…” He paused. “Staying elsewhere last night.”

  Her pots.

  Amy could barely take in the damage. She put her hand on her gate, unwilling to go inside. Richard’s hand was still on her shoulder.

  “We didn’t know whether to clear up,” he said, his voice quiet, “so we’ve left it. Do you want the police?”

  Amy shook her head, in a daze.

  “I expect it was just kids,” he continued, as if that made it better. “Vandals. Your house hasn’t been broken into, we’ve checked.”

  “I’m sorry, Amy,” said Charles, close to tears himself. “The pots were awesome. And the flowers. Almost as awesome as diggers.”

  “Can I call someone for you?” asked Richard, as if she’d had a bereavement. She felt as though she had. “Your boyfriend perhaps? Liam, is it?”

  “What? No.” Amy found that a small, sticky hand had intertwined itself with her own. She looked down. It was Daniel. His other hand was to his face and he was sucking his thumb. “Ice cream for Amy,” he said, the words barely intelligible through his hand.

  “Good idea,” said Richard. “Come to our house and I’ll make you a cup of tea.” He looked at her again. “Maybe something stronger is needed.”

  “I just need to…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Of course,” said Richard. He shepherded his kids away from her gate, and Amy felt the little hand release her own. “We’ll be right over here. When you’re ready.”

  Amy opened her gate and heard it swing shut behind her. She stood and looked at her garden.

  All of her pots. Smashed. She bent down to the nearest one. It had a green glaze, but she could see the terra-cotta orange within, its true color exposed. She traced the break line with her finger, and more soil fell from the broken pot to the ground. The rose bush that had sat within it was draped on the ground. Its thorns had offered no protection.

  She moved to the next. A family of crimson pots. The geraniums had been turning brown for a while, but the pots had kept their color. Brighter than blood.

  Things were worse farther in. Shards of colors were scattered around until it was unclear which piece came from what pot. The plants were strewn about the garden like fallen soldiers after a battle. Roots exposed, leaves wilted, petals scattered.

  Amy started to collect the pieces. She gathered as many as she could carry and clutched them to her chest, pressing them into her. She hurried, unable to abide seeing them so disparate. So broken. There were too many: shards started falling to the ground as she gathered more. She felt panic flood through her. She had to get them inside. To safety.

  A hand on her back. “Come on, Amy,” said Richard. “This can wait. You’ve had a shock.” He took the shards from her and set them gently down. “We’ll help you,” he said. “But you need a moment to recover first. I’ll get you a brandy.”

  Amy allowed herself to be led from her garden to the house next door and settled onto a sofa. A boy sat on each side of her, and Amy found herself being hugged by them both. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth from their little bodies.

  Her pots.

  What had she been thinking, keeping them in the front garden? She’d enjoyed looking at them as she arrived home each evening, but it had been selfish. She knew the terrible things people could do, and she’d just abandoned them to whoever was walking past.

  Walking past. Or walking to her house. She remembered DCI Jack Hooper’s warning. Could this be connected to the questions she’d been asking?

  “Here you go,” said Richard. He handed her a brandy in a heavy cut-crystal glass. She took a sip and felt the alcohol burn a path down her throat. She clutched the glass, feeling its solidity against her hand. She sipped again.

  Richard scooted Daniel onto his lap and sat down next to Amy. “I mean it,” he said. “We’ll help. I thought I could pop to the garden center and get some plastic pots and a few bags of soil, and we’ll replant everything. The plants will be fine. And then when you’re ready, maybe you can put them in some of those spare pots from your back garden. We can even pass them across the fence and bring them through our house, if that would be easier.”

  “Thank you,” she managed eventually. “That’s very generous.” She put the glass down, wondering why Richard was being so kind to her. Then she heard Charles whisper to his brother, and Daniel wriggled off his father’s lap. Both boys slipped away.

  “I can’t believe anyone would do something like this,” said Richard. His hand had reached around her shoulders. Amy allowed herself to nestle her head in the nape of his neck. She breathed in deeply. He smelled of freshly cut grass. She remembered sitting like this with Tim when her grandmother died. Tim had smelled of cigarette smoke, but the warmth of his neck felt the same as Richard’s. She closed her eyes, and pretended that the last eleven years hadn’t happened. That this was Tim sitting next to her, his arms around her. That he loved her. That she didn’t need pots. Or mirrors. Or mugs.

  “What on earth?”

  Amy’s eyes flung open. Nina was standing in the living room doorway. Richard uncoiled himself from Amy. “Oh, hi there,” he said. He stood up. “You saw what happened to Amy’s front garden? I was just—”

  “I can see that,” said Nina.

  “ ’Scuse me,” said Charles, banging into Nina’s back. He was carrying something heavy and set it on the floor with a thud.

  “What’s that dirty thing doing in my house?” exclaimed Nina.

  “It’s not a dirty thing,” said Charles. “It’s the lovely pot Amy gave us, with the pretty plant inside.”

  “Geranium,” said Amy.

  “Exactly.” He looked at her. “I know it was a present, but since yours were smashed I thought you might like to have it back for a bit.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Richard, grinning at his son. “Sometimes I think I haven’t done such a bad job of parenting after all.” He laughed and tousled his son’s hair.

  “Strawberries too,” said Daniel. He followed behind his brother holding the little potted strawberry plants Amy had given them. Strawberry juice trickled down his chin. “Saved you one,” he said, solemnly handing the plants to Amy.

  “Touching,” said Nina, her face twisted.

  “We all like Amy,” Charles told her. “Dad too.”

  “Charles,” said Richard.

  “But it’s true,” said Charles.

  “I can see that,” said Nina.

  “Nina, you know that…” Richard’s voice trailed off.

  “I should be going,” said Amy.

  “Amy is very upset, after SOMEONE broke her pots,” continued Cha
rles. Even Amy noticed the glacial look he gave Nina as he spoke.

  “What are you saying?” asked Nina, her voice rising.

  “Nothing,” said Richard. “Were you, Charlie?”

  “Nothing,” repeated Charles, his voice as sweet as strawberries.

  “I have some clearing up to do,” said Amy. “I’d better be going.”

  “We’ll help,” said Richard.

  “You’ve done enough,” said Amy.

  “Quite,” added Nina.

  Amy got up to leave. She hesitated as she walked past Nina, then placed a hand on her arm. “You’re lucky to have such lovely boys,” she said.

  Nina scowled at her. “I am,” she replied.

  Amy couldn’t help but feel she’d said the wrong thing.

  * * *

  AMY LAY ON the sofa. It felt better, sleeping down here. Not that there was much sleeping going on. But if something happened, if whoever it was came back, she’d be better able to protect her things.

  Not her pots: they were beyond repair. Richard had been true to his word and had replanted her plants in plastic containers. The boys had diligently watered them with the little watering can she’d given them. She didn’t have the heart to tell them that really, it was not the plants that mattered to her. It seemed strange that some people could be so kind while others destroyed beautiful objects for no reason.

  No reason. Amy let those two words echo around her mind. No one else’s garden had been targeted. The cars on the street were untouched. What had she done to deserve this? Amy wondered if maybe she should have phoned the police. But if they weren’t interested in tracking down Tim, she doubted they’d have time to investigate some broken pots. Jack’s words circled in her mind again. Was it possible she’d brought this on herself?

  It was ridiculous, she decided, to think it was anything other than vandals. Vandals breaking garden ornaments. She’d collected the pieces and they were stacked on the hallway floor, in the space vacated by the mail and the bottles she’d cleared out.

  The bottles. They would still be sitting in Richard’s recycling, waiting to be taken away. Taken away forever. Broken down. Smashed.