by Liz Eeles
‘Are you sure that’s all that happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘Caleb, I saw that tall boy hit you and then his friends surrounded you and were saying things. What were they saying?’
‘Nothing. And it wasn’t a hit. Not really. It didn’t hurt anyway.’ He sniffs, still with his head buried in his book.
Gently taking the book from him, I kneel down on his fluffy cream rug so we’re face-to-face. ‘Is it happening a lot at school?’
Caleb bites his lip and shakes his head.
‘But it’s happening sometimes?’
‘It’s only ’cos I’m new,’ he whispers.
‘It doesn’t matter if you’re new, it shouldn’t be happening at all, and we need to speak to your dad about it.’
‘No,’ shouts Caleb, snatching the book back in a panic and hugging it into his chest. ‘You can’t tell my dad anything.’
‘Why not? He’d want to help.’
‘But he wouldn’t help. He’d tell them at school and it would just make things worse when the teachers weren’t looking. And it would make Dad sad again. He’s more happy now we’re here with Granny and you.’
Well, with Granny, maybe. I sit back on my heels and run my hands through my hair. ‘Your dad would still want to know, Caleb. He loves you.’
‘I know but kids have rights and I want to do this my way. Whatever you say to my dad, I won’t tell him anything. Not a thing. And I’ll run away where no one can find me.’
A single tear is tracking down Caleb’s cheek and I wipe it away with my thumb. I can cope with broken coffee machines and stroppy customers and even difficult husbands, up to a point. But distressed nine-year-olds are a different thing entirely. He seems so alone without a mum to confide in.
‘Will you at least tell me what’s going on if I don’t say anything to your dad at the moment?’
Caleb eyes me warily. ‘You have to promise on my life not to tell my dad or anyone else.’
‘I’m not going to promise anything on your life. That’s far too serious.’
‘You have to or I won’t tell you anything.’ He folds his arms across his skinny chest and we stare at each other as the summer storm outside grows more fierce. Wind moans around the weathered eaves of the cottage and the room gets darker.
I’m the first to blink. ‘OK. I won’t say anything but you have to tell me what’s going on. You shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff on your own.’
Caleb sits down on the floor, crosses his legs and tucks his ankles under his thighs – just like I used to in school assemblies, thirty-odd years ago.
‘It’s just Rupert and his friends,’ he says, so quietly I have to lean forward to hear him. ‘They don’t let me play with the other children and they’re mean to me sometimes because they think I’m not cool like them.’
‘I’m not sure any nine-year-old boys are cool.’
Caleb gives me a withering look. ‘They are, and they’re ten.’
‘Who says they’re cool? Them? Do you think they’re being cool when they’re saying mean things to you? Or stealing your lunch?’
When he shakes his head, I take his sticky hands in mine – there’s an open packet of chocolate buttons on the floor.
‘Those boys are definitely not cool, Caleb. They’re bullies. Have they taken your lunch before?’
‘Only a couple of times,’ he murmurs, screwing up his face. ‘And they say that Gran is a witch and Starlight Cottage is haunted. But she isn’t and I haven’t seen any ghosts. There aren’t ghosts in here, are there?’
When his bottom lip starts to quiver, I pull him onto my lap and wrap my arms around him. The book he’s holding digs painfully into my ribs, but when I don’t let go, he starts to soften against me.
‘This is definitely not a haunted house and, between you and me, I don’t think ghosts exist anyway. All you’ll find at Starlight Cottage are your gran’s candles and crystals, and lots of love. Oh, and chickens.’
Caleb half giggles and half sobs into my shoulder. ‘Sorry,’ he sniffles. ‘Rupert says big boys don’t cry.’
‘Rupert knows nothing,’ I tell him, squeezing him tight. ‘Some of the strongest men in the world cry and that’s perfectly fine.’
Caleb’s reply is so muffled, I can hardly hear it and I bend my head towards him. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said my dad cries sometimes, when he thinks I’m not looking.’ Caleb stares up at me with his big blue eyes. ‘I think being a grown-up is quite hard work, actually.’
‘It can be,’ I laugh, ruffling his blonde hair. ‘But being a kid isn’t all fun, is it?’ He stays sitting on my lap when I loosen my hug.
‘So what are we going to do about Rupert and his friends being mean to you?’
‘They’ll get bored and start picking on someone else soon,’ says Caleb, displaying wisdom beyond his years. ‘But you promised you wouldn’t tell my dad or anyone else. And you keep your promises, don’t you, because you’re a grown-up?’
He glares up at me fiercely through wet eyelashes.
‘I’ll only keep your secret if you promise that you’ll talk to me about what’s happening at school, so that you’re not coping with it on your own. Is that a deal?’
I hold out my hand and Caleb regards it coolly for a moment before putting his small sticky hand in mine. He gives my hand an exaggerated shake; his face is a picture of concentration. ‘Deal!’
When he gives me a toothy smile, my broken heart breaks a little bit more.
‘Do you cry? he asks, suddenly. ‘Even though you’re a grown-up?’
‘Gosh, yes. Loads.’
‘That’s probably because you’ve had a fight with your husband. Was he mean to you?’
I go to say no – but Malcolm had sex with someone else in our bed. If that’s not mean, I don’t know what is. ‘He was a bit mean, but it’s complicated.’
Caleb nods as though that makes sense and jumps when a deep thrumming sound echoes through the cottage. Luna picked up an old dinner gong a few days ago in an antiques shop and has been whacking the hell out of it ever since.
‘Grub’s up,’ I tell him, setting him on his feet and getting up off the floor. ‘I’ll tell your gran you’re on your way down so you’ve got time to go and wash your face.’
I’ve reached the landing before Caleb calls me back.
‘Yep?’ I ask, poking my head back through the doorway.
‘Thanks, Flora. I feel much better now.’
He scampers into the bathroom to wash away his tears while I head down for tea, feeling like the best in-loco-parentis person ever. Caleb opened up to me and what I said made him feel better.
Yay, Flora. Maybe you’re not so rubbish with kids after all.
But my heart sinks when I push open the kitchen door and see Luna and Daniel sitting at the table. Basically, I’ve just promised to keep a really big secret from Caleb’s gran and dad. Is that the sensible thing to do? Probably not. The In-Loco-Parentis Person of the Year Award remains a long way out of reach.
When I pull out a chair and sit down, Daniel gives me a tight smile and I give a wobbly smile back. Luna glances at the two of us and starts piling chopped red peppers and lamb’s lettuce onto our plates.
‘Still tired?’ she asks me.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said you didn’t sleep well last night. Any particular reason?’
‘No, not really,’ I reply, shovelling down a mouthful of Luna’s home-made nut roast and avoiding catching Daniel’s eye.
Starlight Cottage suddenly feels full of secrets.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Hey, Flora!’
Someone’s waving at me madly outside Amy’s sweet shop but the sun is in my eyes and they’re nothing more than a blur. I fish my sunglasses from the bottom of my bag and shove them on. It’s Katrina, dressed all in black even though the temperature is nudging twenty-eight degrees Celsius. I wave back and wander over.
‘I was ju
st about to come into your shop to find you,’ she says, stepping to one side so she’s not blocking Amy’s customers. There’s a large paper bag in her hand and she frowns when she spots me looking at it. ‘It’s not for me, though this shop is always tempting. It’s chocolate limes and liquorice dip dabs for Alan, who’s getting into character for his role as King Henry on Charter Day.’
‘Did King Henry have a thing for confectionery?’
‘Heaven knows. He probably didn’t have a sweet tooth at all, but Alan has decided to play him very much in the vein of his descendant, Henry the Eighth. And he reckons he’s far too method to wear padding.’
‘O-K,’ I say, slowly, thinking that Alan probably wouldn’t need much padding anyway. ‘Is he trying to put on weight for the role? That is true suffering for his art.’
‘Hardly suffering when he loves stuffing his face with sugar. His doctor’s already told him he’s borderline diabetic.’
‘Should he be eating sweets at all, then?’
‘Meh, probably not. But who am I to keep a master of the arts from his craft?’
She raises her eyebrows at me while I try to work out whether she’s devoted to her husband, or doing her best to bump him off.
‘Anyway, Flora, the reason I yelled at you across the street is because I wanted to give you this back and say thank you very much.’ She delves into her huge handbag, pulls out Day of Desire, which is looking rather battered, and starts stroking the cover.
‘Have you finished it already? You’ve only had it a few days.’
‘I know but I started it and I just couldn’t put it down. I was reading until one thirty this morning to get it finished and, oh, that ending!’ Tears fill her eyes and she delves into her bag again for a clean tissue.
‘I’m so glad you enjoyed it, Katrina. I wasn’t sure if it would be your thing but I wasn’t sure it would be mine either and I loved it.’
‘I didn’t just enjoy this book, Flora. I thought it was absolutely beautiful. The writing was sublime, the way the love affair was described was so touching, and April Devlin – whoever she is – truly understands women and relationships. Plus’ – Katrina gives me a conspiratorial grin – ‘Alan saw me reading it in bed, glanced at the cover and thought I was reading hot porn. It gave him quite a shock.’ She smirks. ‘He thought he had a lot to live up to.’
Visions of Katrina and Alan making out have filled my head. Rather disturbingly, Alan is in full Henry VIII regalia with a jousting pole in his hand.
‘Flora? You’re miles away,’ laughs Katrina, pushing her face closer to mine. ‘I was asking if you’ve managed to solve the mystery of April Devlin?’
‘Not really.’ I still can’t shake the feeling that the author might be Emma, but Daniel told me it wasn’t and he’d have no reason to lie. Would he?
‘Not really, as in not yet but you’re getting closer to her identity?’
‘Afraid not. She doesn’t have an online presence and she doesn’t seem to have published anything else, unless she’s written other books under a different name.’
‘Well, we need to track her down and insist that she writes more books, if she hasn’t already. I’m spreading the word about her like mad and encouraging everyone I know to call into your shop and buy a copy of Day of Desire. How did you discover her?’
‘Oh, you know. Working in a bookshop I come across all sorts of brilliant novels.’ I don’t want to say I discovered her beside the bed of the man I’m sharing a house with. The man I almost kissed while he was topless in that bed, and who is now being ultra-polite whenever we’re in the same room together. As though he’s embarrassed that the near-kiss ever happened. The very same man who is unaware that his son is being bullied at school because I made a rash promise not to tell him. What a mess!
‘If you do find out any more about our elusive author, please let me know. You’re very clever to have discovered her, and I think you’re doing a brilliant job in the bookshop, whatever people say.’
‘Why, what do people say?’ I ask, feeling slightly sick as hot sunshine beats down on my head.
‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. You’re always going to get people in a close-knit place like this who take a while to get used to change.’ Cool-as-a-cucumber Katrina is looking flustered, and a single bead of perspiration starts rolling slowly down the side of her cheek. She dabs it away with her tissue. ‘Ruben was an old dinosaur and a dreadful old sexist, to boot, but he’d run the bookshop for years.’
‘And I’ve only been there a short while and I’m already making big changes.’
‘Changes for the better, but it takes a while to be properly accepted around here.’
‘You and Alan seem to have managed it.’
‘We’ve been here a lot longer than you, and Alan didn’t really give anyone any choice in the matter. He can be rather forceful.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
Katrina throws back her head and laughs. ‘You’ll be fine, especially with all you’ve got planned for Charter Day. S.R. Kinsley will knock everyone’s socks off and your standing in the town will skyrocket.’
‘I hope so. Fingers crossed lots of people enter the bake-off, too.’
‘And I hear that you’re taking part in the parade, dressed as punks, or something?’ Katrina scrunches up her button nose. ‘You’ll make a fabulous Johnny Rotten.’
‘Punks! Really?’ I swallow hard, wondering who Stanley’s been talking to. That kind of rumour has Stanley written all over it. ‘It’s The Cosy Kettle’s afternoon book club who are taking part in the parade. We’ve got a meeting about it tomorrow, actually.’
‘Well, have fun.’
‘Oh, we will,’ I tell Katrina, already slightly dreading tomorrow’s get-together. Millicent will totally go off on one if Stanley insists that she parade through Honeyford in ripped trousers with her hair teased into spikes. It’s going to be a tricky couple of hours.
So far, Stanley hasn’t mentioned anything about transforming his book club companions into punks. He’s far too busy staring open-mouthed at Millicent’s sunny sitting room, which is absolutely gorgeous.
We all jumped at the chance when Millicent suggested the book club meet at hers to discuss the parade. And now here we are, sitting drinking Earl Grey tea from bone china in her house, which is even more impressive than I’d imagined.
It’s set back behind a screen of trees, so all you see as you go past is a gravel drive and a glimpse of butter-yellow stone. But, as I turned into the curving drive and saw the beautiful building in front of me, I was hit by a severe case of house envy.
Millicent’s home is nearly new, yet built to look like it’s been a part of picturesque Little Besbridge for centuries. It has gables and a stone-tiled roof, a double garage with dove-grey doors, and a riot of deep pink roses climbing around the front door.
Inside, the walls of her bright, square hall are lined with watercolours of Cotswolds countryside, and her sitting room is terribly tasteful, with a modern vibe.
Pristine paperbacks are lined up in the black modular bookcase that’s dotted with huge chunks of coloured glass, sculpted into waves. Hardback travel books, which also look untouched, are scattered across the low coffee table, and the sofas – the room is large enough for two – are covered in immaculate cream fabric.
I carefully place my fragile cup in its saucer. Millicent probably wouldn’t much like her sofa being splashed with tea.
‘This is a bit posh, innit? Old Millie’s not short of a few bob,’ says Stanley, stretching out in his big squashy armchair. ‘Have you seen the garden, Flora? You could fit my house and your shop in it and still have room for a quick game of squash. Did I tell you I’ve taken up squash?’
‘You did, Stanley.’ I stand up and wander over to the French windows. ‘Are you enjoying it?’
‘I am, though Callie’s sure I’m about to croak on court.’
‘Maybe you should take it a bit easy. Wow!’ The exclamation is out of my mouth before
I can help it. Millicent’s garden is amazing! There’s decking, and patio circles with garden furniture, huge stone pots bursting with flowers, ornamental trees in vibrant shades of red and orange, and a bridge. A bona-fide wooden humpbacked bridge over a small stream that runs along the end of her land.
Millie’s absolutely rolling in it. And yet, for all her wealth, she never seems particularly happy. I glance at the silver-edged photo standing on the black baby grand piano in the corner. Millicent, her children and her husband are staring out from the picture. The children, at a guess in their late teens, are smiling at the camera – glossy-haired, in logoed clothing. Millicent is standing, ramrod-straight, next to her husband, who looks ill at ease in jeans, as though he’d rather be wearing a suit. And they’re not touching. There’s a formality to the picture that goes beyond the awkwardness of posing for the camera.
‘Would you like one of these, Flora?’ asks Phyllis, dropping crumbs on Millicent’s oatmeal carpet as she passes me a plate piled high with a selection of biscuits. ‘They’re dead posh, from some overpriced shop in London. Millicent has them specially delivered.’
‘More money than sense,’ mumbles Dick, who’s already powered his way through three foil-wrapped chocolate biscuits and is attacking his fourth. Mary’s snoozing on the sofa but wakes with a start when Millicent comes into the room with Luna, Daniel and Caleb following behind her. Caleb gives me a shy smile and a wave, and I wave back.
‘Right, we’re all here now,’ says Millicent. She frowns at Dick, whose foil wrappers have fluttered to the floor, and picks them up with a sigh. ‘Luna and Daniel, grab yourselves a seat while I bring in your drinks, and then we can start planning the Charter Day parade.’
We’re not arranging the whole parade, thank goodness. Heaven knows how that would turn out. Stanley would probably hire a tightrope walker, a stunt driver, and a Harry Houdini tribute act. But the idea of the book club taking part has snowballed to also include Luna’s Magical Emporium. She reckons that being visible in Honeyford’s biggest event for several years can only be good for business and she’s keen to support the local community.
