– “it’s just amazing…”
Kit smiles. “No bother. There’s something else I want to show you.” He beckons me and leads the way past the fountain.
Hidden behind a carpet of climbing roses is an open-fronted shed. Well, not a shed exactly, more of a summerhouse – freshly painted eggshell blue – with lattice-work on its three walls and a conical turreted roof. There’s a little seat in it.
“This was Mam’s favourite place,” Kit says. “Used to sit here and sniff, just like you did. Said the roses smelled like heaven in the rain. She were a chatterbox too.”
I laugh. “Used to?”
“She’s dead,” he says simply.
“How terrible – what happened?” The question’s out before I can stop it.
“Drowned in the lough.”
I gasp.
Something flickers across his face, but he recovers quickly and says, “It were an accident. A boating accident.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, not knowing what else to say.
“’S OK. Ancient history now. Haven’t been in the water since, though. Don’t like boats, neither.”
“But it’s an island. How do you get here in the mornings?”
“I live here, in the old boathouse. Esther doesn’t mind. Martie brings me shopping most days. And if I need to reach the mainland, I can. At low tide you can walk to the shore on the far side of the island. Over the rocks. But don’t try it; it’s dangerous.” He looks awkward again; his eyes shift towards the ground and he rubs a bit of moss away from the path with the toe of his Reef. “Best get back to work,” he adds.
As I follow him out of the garden, I wonder absently if the lovely Kit has a girlfriend to talk to, someone special. What a waste if he doesn’t. There’s something so attractive about his quiet, self-contained manner. He’s solid and earthy; almost rooted to the ground. Maybe if he doesn’t… No, Amy. Stop, I tell myself. Think of Seth.
You think I’d be happy with one boyfriend. But it just goes to show, we’re never really happy with what we’ve got, are we?
Chapter 15
I’m sitting on my zebra-print duvet in the Room That Taste Forgot, feeling a bit sad and down. I’ve been trying to write Seth a letter, but I can’t concentrate. I run my finger along the exotic feathers hanging from the edge of the bedside lampshade and then study one of the scary black and red wooden African masks on the wall. Suddenly, Denis smashes through the door with his shoulder, slamming the metal handle against the wall.
“Hey!” I shriek. “I could have been changing. Knock, Shrek-features!”
He ignores me. “Brains is here. Clover told me to tell you.”
“What’s that?” I point at the white plastic bag he’s clutching in his sweaty hands.
He holds it against his chest. “Mine,” he snaps like Gollum in The Lord of the Rings .
I roll my eyes at him. “You’d better not have stolen anything.” Jumping down off the bed, I push Denis out of the room (no joke, I can tell you) before walking out myself and closing the door firmly behind me. “Barge in again without knocking and I’ll tell your mum about the Horror-witz book. Comprende? ”
He pokes his tongue out at me and strolls off towards his own room.
“How’s my favourite hot potato?” Brains is walking up the stairs, a black kitbag slung over his shoulder. His coconut-brown afro hair is held back off his face with a thin scarlet hair elastic and he’s wearing a banana-yellow T-shirt, billowing white silk shorts and gold Converse boots. Ah yes, the legendary Brains “style”.
“Hey, Brains.” I grin at him. “How was your trip?”
“Groovy. ’Cos I’ve got a ticket to ride.” He bursts into an old Beatles song and starts waggling his head, making it go all floppy like a string puppet, and shaking his shoulders.
“He’s got Beatles-mania,” Clover explains. “The Golden Lions have a wedding gig next week. They’ve been given a playlist. Loads of old stuff.”
“Oldies but goldies,” Brains says.
Kit smiles. “No bother. There’s something else I want to show you.” He beckons me and leads the way past the fountain.
Hidden behind a carpet of climbing roses is an open-fronted shed. Well, not a shed exactly, more of a summerhouse – freshly painted eggshell blue – with lattice-work on its three walls and a conical turreted roof. There’s a little seat in it.
“This was Mam’s favourite place,” Kit says. “Used to sit here and sniff, just like you did. Said the roses smelled like heaven in the rain. She were a chatterbox too.”
I laugh. “Used to?”
“She’s dead,” he says simply.
“How terrible – what happened?” The question’s out before I can stop it.
“Drowned in the lough.”
I gasp.
Something flickers across his face, but he recovers quickly and says, “It were an accident. A boating accident.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, not knowing what else to say.
“’S OK. Ancient history now. Haven’t been in the water since, though. Don’t like boats, neither.”
“But it’s an island. How do you get here in the mornings?”
“I live here, in the old boathouse. Esther doesn’t mind. Martie brings me shopping most days. And if I need to reach the mainland, I can. At low tide you can walk to the shore on the far side of the island. Over the rocks. But don’t try it; it’s dangerous.” He looks awkward again; his eyes shift towards the ground and he rubs a bit of moss away from the path with the toe of his Reef. “Best get back to work,” he adds.
As I follow him out of the garden, I wonder absently if the lovely Kit has a girlfriend to talk to, someone special. What a waste if he doesn’t. There’s something so attractive about his quiet, self-contained manner. He’s solid and earthy; almost rooted to the ground. Maybe if he doesn’t… No, Amy. Stop, I tell myself. Think of Seth.
You think I’d be happy with one boyfriend. But it just goes to show, we’re never really happy with what we’ve got, are we?
Chapter 15
I’m sitting on my zebra-print duvet in the Room That Taste Forgot, feeling a bit sad and down. I’ve been trying to write Seth a letter, but I can’t concentrate. I run my finger along the exotic feathers hanging from the edge of the bedside lampshade and then study one of the scary black and red wooden African masks on the wall. Suddenly, Denis smashes through the door with his shoulder, slamming the metal handle against the wall.
“Hey!” I shriek. “I could have been changing. Knock, Shrek-features!”
He ignores me. “Brains is here. Clover told me to tell you.”
“What’s that?” I point at the white plastic bag he’s clutching in his sweaty hands.
He holds it against his chest. “Mine,” he snaps like Gollum in The Lord of the Rings .
I roll my eyes at him. “You’d better not have stolen anything.” Jumping down off the bed, I push Denis out of the room (no joke, I can tell you) before walking out myself and closing the door firmly behind me. “Barge in again without knocking and I’ll tell your mum about the Horror-witz book. Comprende? ”
He pokes his tongue out at me and strolls off towards his own room.
“How’s my favourite hot potato?” Brains is walking up the stairs, a black kitbag slung over his shoulder. His coconut-brown afro hair is held back off his face with a thin scarlet hair elastic and he’s wearing a banana-yellow T-shirt, billowing white silk shorts and gold Converse boots. Ah yes, the legendary Brains “style”.
“Hey, Brains.” I grin at him. “How was your trip?”
“Groovy. ’Cos I’ve got a ticket to ride.” He bursts into an old Beatles song and starts waggling his head, making it go all floppy like a string puppet, and shaking his shoulders.
“He’s got Beatles-mania,” Clover explains. “The Golden Lions have a wedding gig next week. They’ve been given a playlist. Loads of old stuff.”
“Oldies but goldies,” Brains says.
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