Read Online The Truth About Melody Browne by Lisa Jewell - Free Book Online
Authors: Lisa Jewell
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like nice cereal and going to the zoo. Then Melody had been taken out of nursery because her mum couldn’t afford to pay for it and then they’d packed up all their stuff, left the flat in London and moved in with Melody’s aunt Susie, who didn’t have any children and lived in a bungalow on the Kentish coast, just outside Broadstairs.
Susie was Jane’s oldest sister and she was known as ‘the Quiet One’. She’d never married and had lived in the same rather damp bungalow for twenty years. She read the Bible for fun and experimented a lot in the kitchen. She was also very, very fat and moved so slowly that she rarely left the house. She was only four years older than Jane, but looked like she might be her mother.
Melody didn’t like staying at Aunt Susie’s house. There was nothing to do and nothing to play with and nothing to see out of the windows, except another bungalow and some ragged hedges. Plus, there was no normal food any more, because Jane couldn’t afford to go shopping so they just ate what Aunt Susie cooked – things with weird names, like rissoles and soufflés and confits and tagines, things with sauces and herbs and blobs of cream, and even, once, with a whole lemon in it. There didn’t seem to be a plan in the offing, or any kind of future goal. Routine, such as it was, revolved around Susie and her church-going and TV viewing. Days spilled over into more slippery days without anything solid to hold on to.
Until one day, in early September when Melody and her mum were walking through Broadstairs with an envelope full of money that had arrived in the post that morning from Melody’s dad to buy her school uniform with. A man stopped them in the street, a man with grey eyes and a bunch of peachy roses. He asked Jane how she was and Jane flushed and said, ‘I’m fine thank you,’ in her prim, now-I’ll-be-on-my-way voice.
‘No, but really,’ he said, one hand touching the cuff of her cream sweater. ‘Really, how are you?’
Jane squinted at him. Melody held her breath, wanting her mum to walk away because this was clearly a strange situation, but wanting her to stay too, to see what on earth would happen.
‘I told you,’ said Jane, ‘I’m fine.’
‘You look like someone has put their hand inside your gut,’ he moved his hand from her sleeve to her belly where it retracted into a fist, ‘and pulled out your soul .’ He turned his fist ninety degrees clockwise and then let it drop.
Melody gulped.
Jane inhaled heavily, audibly through her nose and her head fell back slightly as if she’d been punched. ‘I …’ she began, but the man quietened her with a finger to her lips.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching you.’
Jane pushed his hand away from her face and grabbed Melody’s hand. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘I can help you,’ he called to her. ‘Whatever it is that’s hurt you, I can make it better.’
Jane kept walking, squeezing Melody’s hand too hard inside her fist.
‘Here,’ said the man, appearing at their side. ‘Here. Take a flower. A rose. From my own garden. Take it. It’s fine. I’ve taken off the thorns. You don’t need any more hurt in your life.’
Jane took the flower without looking at it and led Melody firmly, briskly, away.
Melody turned as they reached the end of the street to see if the man was still there. He was. She smiled at him, just once and then they turned the corner.
Melody couldn’t stop thinking about the man with the rose for days after that. She watched the rose in the vase at Susie’s house grow smaller and browner and wither away. And then, on the same day that the very last discoloured petal fell from the stem and onto Aunt Susie’s Formica-topped sideboard, Jane announced that they needed to go back to Broadstairs to buy Melody some new shoes.
Melody didn’t say anything to her mum about the man with the rose, in case she changed her mind about going to
Susie was Jane’s oldest sister and she was known as ‘the Quiet One’. She’d never married and had lived in the same rather damp bungalow for twenty years. She read the Bible for fun and experimented a lot in the kitchen. She was also very, very fat and moved so slowly that she rarely left the house. She was only four years older than Jane, but looked like she might be her mother.
Melody didn’t like staying at Aunt Susie’s house. There was nothing to do and nothing to play with and nothing to see out of the windows, except another bungalow and some ragged hedges. Plus, there was no normal food any more, because Jane couldn’t afford to go shopping so they just ate what Aunt Susie cooked – things with weird names, like rissoles and soufflés and confits and tagines, things with sauces and herbs and blobs of cream, and even, once, with a whole lemon in it. There didn’t seem to be a plan in the offing, or any kind of future goal. Routine, such as it was, revolved around Susie and her church-going and TV viewing. Days spilled over into more slippery days without anything solid to hold on to.
Until one day, in early September when Melody and her mum were walking through Broadstairs with an envelope full of money that had arrived in the post that morning from Melody’s dad to buy her school uniform with. A man stopped them in the street, a man with grey eyes and a bunch of peachy roses. He asked Jane how she was and Jane flushed and said, ‘I’m fine thank you,’ in her prim, now-I’ll-be-on-my-way voice.
‘No, but really,’ he said, one hand touching the cuff of her cream sweater. ‘Really, how are you?’
Jane squinted at him. Melody held her breath, wanting her mum to walk away because this was clearly a strange situation, but wanting her to stay too, to see what on earth would happen.
‘I told you,’ said Jane, ‘I’m fine.’
‘You look like someone has put their hand inside your gut,’ he moved his hand from her sleeve to her belly where it retracted into a fist, ‘and pulled out your soul .’ He turned his fist ninety degrees clockwise and then let it drop.
Melody gulped.
Jane inhaled heavily, audibly through her nose and her head fell back slightly as if she’d been punched. ‘I …’ she began, but the man quietened her with a finger to her lips.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching you.’
Jane pushed his hand away from her face and grabbed Melody’s hand. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘I can help you,’ he called to her. ‘Whatever it is that’s hurt you, I can make it better.’
Jane kept walking, squeezing Melody’s hand too hard inside her fist.
‘Here,’ said the man, appearing at their side. ‘Here. Take a flower. A rose. From my own garden. Take it. It’s fine. I’ve taken off the thorns. You don’t need any more hurt in your life.’
Jane took the flower without looking at it and led Melody firmly, briskly, away.
Melody turned as they reached the end of the street to see if the man was still there. He was. She smiled at him, just once and then they turned the corner.
Melody couldn’t stop thinking about the man with the rose for days after that. She watched the rose in the vase at Susie’s house grow smaller and browner and wither away. And then, on the same day that the very last discoloured petal fell from the stem and onto Aunt Susie’s Formica-topped sideboard, Jane announced that they needed to go back to Broadstairs to buy Melody some new shoes.
Melody didn’t say anything to her mum about the man with the rose, in case she changed her mind about going to
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