Coming of Age (15 page)

Read an Extract of
Lost and Found
. . .

Daniel is completely alone in Oxford after the death of his beloved grandmother. But one morning in Woodstock he meets Laura, who quickly becomes a surrogate gran. And over the road, he discovers two newcomers: bright, beautiful Jade, with the voice of a nightingale, whom he calls his “rainbow girl”, and the little boy he assumes is her brother, Finn.

Could they offer him a new beginning and become his family?

But nothing is ever as it seems. It is Laura who guesses the truth of Jade and Finn's relationship – a truth Daniel at first finds impossible to believe. When Jade finally takes him into her confidence, Daniel, compassionate and understanding, feels more protective towards her than ever.

But someone is after Finn: a figure from Jade's past she hoped she would never see again. A man who corners Daniel in Oxford, asking for his support. A man who manages to kidnap Finn from under Daniel's nose while Jade is in London. A man Daniel eventually manages to track down to a narrow-boat on the Oxford canal. A man who holds the key to a secret that could threaten Finn's future – and wreck Jade and Daniel's chance of new-found love.

Can they find the courage to confront him? Do they have the strength to acknowledge and deal with the truth, and to continue their lives together in Oxford as a family?

Prelude

Daniel stood by the side of the hospital bed.

He looked down at her.

At the frail, wizened hand trying to hold the spoon.

At the mouth trying to pull the grey mince on to its tongue.

Into dark-ringed eyes which said: “I am sorry. I can no longer eat.”

He reached towards her.

He took the spoon from her hand, inch by inch, and put it on the tray.

Metal clinked against metal.

A gust of wind punched through the curtains.

Daniel took a breath of it.

Then he said, “Goodbye, Gran,” and turned away.

The words filled his mouth and tasted of mince.

Daniel

He jumped off the bus from Oxford and swung briskly down Woodstock's High Street, winding through the Saturday shoppers, looking neither to left nor right.

I'm on a ridiculous mission. I shan't find anyone suitable. And even if I do barge up to some little old lady, she'll accuse me of harassment and tell me to get lost.

At the gates of Blenheim Palace he bought a ticket and moved through the arch to the breathtaking stretch of lake and trees and sky.

I'll make straight for the shops in that courtyard next to the palace. I might find a tourist there. Someone I can spend half an hour with and never see again. Get this stupid assignment over and done with.

He reached the courtyard. It was empty apart from a heavy mottled basset hound who'd been tied up in a corner and sat with his head dismally slumped on the cobblestones.

He leaned up against one of the stone walls, watching. A young couple darted out of the gift shop and strolled away arm in arm, talking in German. Not much chance there.

He pulled a pencil from his pocket and stuck it behind his ear like they did in newspaper offices. It was extremely uncomfortable, but at least he felt more interesting.
It might make me look as if I mean business.

A dumpy elderly woman pushed through the food shop's door. She wore a floppy cotton dress partly covered by an old pink cardigan. Three shopping bags dangled from her arms. Balancing their handles over her wrists, she untied the dog, who leaped joyfully to lick her face.

The sound of splintering glass cut through the air.

“Barnaby!” the woman shouted. “You
stupid
pooch!” She stamped her foot. “
Now
look what you've made me do!”

Six pots of pink clover honey had crashed through the bottom of one of the raffia baskets. The dog squatted on his haunches, looking up at her adoringly. A flush of colour spread swiftly from the woman's neck to her dampening hair.

“Expensive stuff, that honey. Top-notch Oxfordshire … Hell's
teeth
, I knew this was going to be a lousy day.”

Every day is lousy. Every morning I wake up and there is the poison dart. Wham! it goes, into my heart. I spend all day trying to wrench it out.

Daniel stepped across the courtyard. “Here, let me help.” He stared at the glistening puddle of honey, lit by shards of glass.

“You can't do much with
that
.” The woman stooped to stare at the globby mess, as if trying to see her reflection, and poked her finger tentatively into it.

He looked down at her head, at the pile of grey hair shoved into a lopsided doughnut. “I'll get someone to clean it up.” He hesitated, reluctant to commit himself. “And then I could help carry the rest of your shopping home.”

“You could?” She seemed to register his existence, sucked at a sticky finger.

“That is, if you want to buy some more honey.”

She squinted at him sideways, appraising him. “I do. I eat it straight from the jar.”

“So do I.”

“It's by far the best way, isn't it? Even if it does make you fat.” She ran an eye up and down his body. “'Course, you're skinny as they come.”

He fought through his embarrassment. “The thing is, our school have organised something for today.” He swallowed. “It's a special Saturday.”

“Special?”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath to make sure his voice didn't wobble. The scent of honey seeped into his throat, making him want to cry. “It's ‘Adopt a Granny Day'.”

The woman gave a snort of laughter. “You mean you're trying to adopt
me
?” Her flush deepened. “What a bloody nerve!”

“I'm sorry.” He looked at the tiny lines creeping around her eyes. The July sunlight seemed to magnify the wrinkles which crisscrossed into a spidery web. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

“I might
look
eighty but I'm only fifty-five.” Her mouth twitched. “You can't march up to people and make vile assumptions about their age. Who
do
you think you are?”

The energy began to seep out of Daniel's hands. They pricked with pins and needles. They'd done that a lot since …

“That's exactly what I said at school.”

“
What
did you say?” Sweat trickled down the sides of her cheeks, hung there as if trying to decide where to go.

“That I thought it was a lousy idea.” Daniel's voice rushed out louder than he expected. “But Hugo Dodds got up in class and said he thought it would work and that he knew a lot of old people who needed a helping hand. Mr Anderson, he said he thought it was a wonderful idea, so kind and thoughtful and all that crap.” His voice choked. “Look, why don't we forget the whole thing?”

“Why don't we!” The woman tugged at the dog's lead. “Leave that mess there. It'd serve somebody right if they trod in it.”

“It would, wouldn't it?” Daniel imagined Hugo Dodds up to his ankles in the sticky pink sludge , getting one of his shoes stuck, hopping around on the other leg. Suddenly he wanted to laugh. The pins and needles softened.

“My read gran,” he said, “she was my only family. … She died two months ago.”

He looked into the woman's eyes, a speckled grey, bright, attentive, like a bird's. He heard the soft intake of her breath.

“It was the first of May. I got up at dawn to cycle into Oxford, to listen to the Magdalen choir, join in the celebrations. Gran loved doing that. She made me promise I'd go and tell her about it. Later, I went to see her in hospital. It was five o'clock. When I said goodbye, she was still alive. When I looked back from the door she …”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” The woman shoved at her hair with sticky fingers. “Oh, go on then. There's a first time for everything. Adopt me. Let's give it a whirl.”

“
Thank
you.” Relief swept through him.
At least I'll have something to report in class.
He slid his notebook from his pocket, cleared his throat in a professional way. “Right. Would you mind giving me your name?”

“Now look here.” She bit her lip. “If you put me down as Granny Watkins, I'm off, and so is this stupid pooch of mine. We come as a package, and what's more there's another member of this distinguished entourage back at my place. My cat.”

The dog gave a dirty-sounding whine.

“I see.”

“That's
right
.” She threw back her head. Her hair, which had been threatening to escape the doughnut, slithered down her back. “I'm Laura. He's Barnaby. And madam back home, her name's Muffin.”

The dog howled.

“Shut
up
,” Laura shouted. “Muffin exists whether you like it or not, you
stupid
pooch.”

She turned to Daniel. Her hair hung all over the place, some grey, some a mustard yellow. For a fleeting moment he saw her as a young girl, playing by the river, a dimpled sandy bank rippling behind her.

He removed the pencil from the excruciating groove it had dug into his skull. He could smell the pencil's lead, Laura's hair, the pool of clover honey. For some reason he couldn't fathom, the light in the Blenheim courtyard seemed brighter, clearer, more significant.

He said, “My name's Daniel.”

Laura gasped as if she had been shot. “My father was a Daniel. He died last year. He was
my
only family. Still can't get used to it, don't suppose I ever will. It was always him and me.” Her mouth crooked in a brave attempt at a smile. “Right then, Daniel the Second … Who needs more honey? Let's go home.”

“I haven't really got a home,” Daniel said. “Not any more.”

Outside the courtyard, the Blenheim landscape stretched calmly away, the lake smooth and glittering. Seagulls swooped languidly down to it, cawing satisfaction.

“I mean, I've got somewhere to live and people to live with, but it's not the same.”

“Let's go the longer way. Over the bridge, round by North Lodge. We can watch the ducks. And a pair of swans I particularly like.” Laura pushed the hair out of her eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“Not much
to
tell. My parents died in a car accident when I was three. I've lived with Gran in Oxford ever since, in Chalfont Road.”

“And now?”

“I've moved over the road. Clare and Martin took me in. They were friends of Gran's. I've known them all my life, it's what she wanted. A couple from social services came to talk to us. I'm seventeen, too old to be fostered, so without Clare and Martin I'd be living in a bed and breakfast. … I suppose I should count my blessings.”

“I assume you
like
them, this Clare and Martin?”

“Yeah, sure. They're kind and all that – but it feels weird. I can't settle. I keep thinking it'll only be for a few weeks.” His face burned. “I think about Gran a lot, little things remind me. She was a great cook. Everything I've eaten since she died has tasted of grey mush.”

Like that ghastly stuff, in hospital, on her plate.

They walked briskly now, Barnaby tugging at his lead. It was easy to talk to Laura. She was still a stranger, so he felt he could tell her anything, what would it matter? But she was listening, too, as they crossed the bridge, took the path towards the Lodge. A clutch of white geese with fastidious yellow beaks stood, silent for a moment, on the grass to watch.

“After the funeral,” he clutched Laura's two remaining shopping bags more tightly, the words spilling out fast as if he had very little time to talk, “I helped to clear the house. Clare and Martin and I, we dumped the furniture into storage, cleaned the carpets, put the house up for sale. … It was bought inside a month.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Sad. The money's in trust for me until I'm twenty-one, and I've got a weekly allowance. But every time I go to the bank, I just want to have my house back with Gran in it.”

“It must be hard, living over the road.”

“It is. The new family moved in yesterday. It was horrible. I saw the van arrive before I went to school.”

Laura pointed to the lake. “Look, the swans. Aren't they glorious?”

The birds glided past, necks curved and sooty black, feathers a deep gleaming grey, beaks tomato red, eyes watchful and aloof.

“Yes.” He stared at their dark reflections in the water. “You kind of expect swans to be white, don't you?”

“Things are never what you expect, Daniel. Don't they teach you
anything
in school?”

“Here we are. Chaucer's Lane.”

They turned left from the High Street just outside the spread of Blenheim's arch.

“Mine's the tumbledown Cotswold-stone cottage at the end. …” Laura shoved a key into the battered paint-crumbling door. “Come in. Ignore the mess. I can't be bothered with housework.”

He picked his way over a pile of muddy boots and stared into the untidy living room. On a faded sofa sprawled an enormous ginger cat. She peered up at them, stretching her front legs, claws out, gaping her mouth into a wide pink yawn.

“This is Muffin.” Laura stroked the cat's nose. “My beloved ancient heap of orange fur.”

Barnaby waddled up to them, growling jealously. Muffin snarled.

“Thanks for carrying the bags, Daniel – or what's left of them. … Have a seat.”

He squashed on to the sofa beside a pile of newspapers, three much-thumbed paperback novels, a dirty teacup and a handful of toffee wrappers. He glanced around the room. A basket of logs spilled into the grate. Shabby curtains, half drawn, looped across grubby windows that overlooked an unkempt garden.

He felt suddenly and gloriously at home.

Laura emerged with glasses of lemonade.

“My father was a spick and span kind of man.” She gave him a glass. “This place used to be immaculate.” She grimaced. “It's frightening how fast things can get out of hand.”

“How did he—”

“Peacefully in his sleep.” Laura collapsed into a chair. “You may have heard of him. Daniel Latimer, famous historian. He wrote six history books, all bestsellers. He was halfway through a new edition of the third one – a history of Europe since the Second World War. Said he felt tired, went to bed early. Never woke up.”

The lemonade caught the back of Daniel's throat. “I'm sorry.”

“I was his chief researcher. Trundled into Oxford, to the Bodleian Library, every day. Loved it. Always sat in the same seat, had a sandwich lunch at Blackwell's. Came home, cooked supper for Daddy, gave him my notes, discussed their finer details. … Not the same any more.”

“I know how you feel.”
Wham! goes the dart. Nothing will ever be the same.

“His publishers want me to finish the book. Only four more chapters to go. I know exactly what he wanted to say.”

“So why don't you?”

Laura flashed him a warning look. “Easier said than done, young man. No Daddy, no energy. No motivation.” She gulped the lemonade. “Gets bloody lonely on my own.”

“Where did
he
work?”

“Next door. Haven't touched a shred since he died. Come and see.”

He followed her into the adjoining study, dominated by an enormous table laden with maps, papers and books. More books lined the walls, tumbled into piles on the floor. The air smelled of dust and old tobacco.

“It's a wonderful room.”

Laura looked startled, as if she were seeing it for the first time. “I suppose it is.” She picked up a handful of papers, peered at them, hesitated. “Maybe I should pretend Daddy's still here, waiting for my notes on the next chapter.”

“Yes.”
I've been pretending Gran is still alive. … It doesn't work.