Summer Secrets (8 page)

“Ouch!” I jump back, rubbing my skin. “That hurt. Be careful.”

He pokes me again.

“What are you doing? Stop or I’ll—” I look closely at his face. There’s a dark brown ring round his mouth. “Have you been eating chocolate? I thought you weren’t allowed sweets.”

“No!” He rubs the back of his hand quickly across his lips.

“Look, if you do your teeth and get into bed I won’t say anything, OK? Why don’t you read a book?”

“Mum only packed Enid Blytons and they’re way too babyish.”

“I saw some Anthony Horowitz books on the shelves in the living room. If I get one for you, will you go to bed?”

His eyes light up and he nods. “Don’t tell Mum. She thinks they’re too violent.”

“Deal.”

Violent? I think as I creep downstairs, feeling like a French Resistance spy. (The Nazis used to ban books too.) Denis has just attacked me with a stick. At least Alex Rider is polite to girls and tries to combat evil, not cause it. Denis might learn something.

I grab
Stormbreaker
off the bookshelf, run back upstairs and thrust it into his eager hands. “If Prue finds it, cover for me.”

He smiles. It lasts only a split second, but it’s definitely a smile. Maybe I’m getting somewhere.

When I walk back into the kitchen everyone looks up at me.

“What?” I say.

“You’re playing with Dan and Prue,” Clover says. “To even out the numbers.”

“But what about Dave?” I ask. “He should play with his sister.”

Mum glares at me, eyes flashing. “He’s playing with us.”

I glance round the table. You could almost eat the tension in the room. Everyone looks very serious. Especially Mum. Great, just my luck. But I know when to keep quiet so I pull out a chair and sit down beside Dan.

Mum rubs her hands together and says, “Let the battle commence.”

“I should warn you I used to work for an estate agent, Sylvie,” Prue says. “I believe that gives our team a distinct advantage. Want to concede defeat while you still can?”

“Prue, you used to show houses on a Saturday,” Dan says. “It’s hardly relevant.”

She glares at him. He murmurs, “Sorry,” then stares down at the table.

I giggle nervously. No one else so much as grins.

Mum, Clover and Dave win easily. Surprise, surprise.

Prue can’t understand it. “But we own Shrewsbury Road, Ailesbury Road
and
Grafton Street, the most expensive properties on the whole board.” She’s staring at the small cluster of little green houses in her hand and shaking her head.

“But they have so many hotels,” Dan tells her gently. She’s taking the loss very badly.

“I demand a rematch,” she says, suddenly all feisty. She looks at Mum. “Trivial Pursuit.” Mum opens her mouth to protest, but Prue doesn’t let her speak. “I’m sure Amy will manage, won’t you, Amy?”

I just nod. There’s no way I’m getting involved in Mum and Prue’s board-game mud wrestle.

“To make it fair,” Prue adds, “Amy can answer the kids’ questions. We brought Junior Trivial Pursuit for Denis.”

I try not to laugh. I can’t imagine Denis being interested in board games.

“We’ll still win,” Mum says.

“Let’s see about that,” Prue challenges her.

Chapter 14

Wednesday
lunchtime. It’s bucketing down outside and Mum still isn’t talking to me. It’s hardly my fault I’m so good at Trivial Pursuit. Mum said I didn’t have to answer
all
the questions correctly; I could have got the odd one or two wrong. But that goes against all my principles. I suppose I was showing off a bit, answering some of the adult pie questions as well as my own.

Clover tried to get me to help their team on the sly, but I was having none of it. They cheated their way through Monopoly; I was not going to let them win Trivial Pursuit too. Besides, I like Dan. He’s funny. A bit grumpy – but that’s on account of his being a Northerner, according to Dave.

Mum’s still holding it against me, though. She wouldn’t let me drive into town with Clover to collect Brains, so I’m stuck inside, staring out at the grey drizzle. I’m all on my ownio. Mum and Dave have gone for a drive with the babies; Prue and Dan are doing educational arty-crafty things with Ollie and Bella in the living room. I’ve no idea where Denis is. Probably in a damp corner somewhere, stamping on snails.

But hang on a second, there’s someone lurking in the shrubbery. Staring through the rain-splattered glass, I see that it’s the gardener, Kit. I’m bored stiff, so I decide to brave talking to him. I wiggle my toes into my flip-flops and pull on a raincoat.

Before stepping outside, I try to calm my racing heart by taking deep breaths. I close my eyes and press my thumb and my first finger together, hoping to channel some inner calm.

“You look mental.”

I peel my eyes open. Denis is standing in front of me. (His tummy is straining at the waist of his khaki shorts; it doesn’t look very comfortable.)

“Takes one to know one,” I retort. Not very original, I know, but I’m under pressure. “Now, run along, Denis. Go and find some slugs to torture.”

“I prefer babies. Slugs don’t scream. I’m gonna gouge Bella’s eyes out with my spear.” He sniffs loudly before sticking a finger up his nose and twisting. Pulling it out again, he studies the tip, then wipes it on his shorts.

“Nice,” I say. “I’m going for a walk. See you later.”

Luckily, he doesn’t follow me. As I look around the garden for Kit, I do feel a wee bit guilty. But Seth’s in Italy. (Probably winking at Tinker Bell.) And Kit’s right here, in the rain somewhere. I gulp nervously and try to remember Clover’s advice on getting a boy to notice you. “Be yourself,” I mumble as I search the flower-beds. “Smile. Listen. Be natural. Show an interest in his hobbies.”

I stop. Hobbies? Did we really say that?
Hobbity hobbies?

I wonder if Clover has filed the problem page yet. Hobbies sound so lame, so 1980s Girl Guide badges. Knitting is a hobby; if you’re Denis, carving sticks with a penknife is a hobby; building model yachts is a hobby. (Boys – are boys a hobby?) Music, rugby, clothes, hockey, they’re not hobbies. They’re a part of who you are. Interests, that sounds better. (Boys are definitely an interest.)

And as my mind is clicking away, planning how to edit the agony-aunt reply and make it better, there he is, right in front of me – Kit. Forking grass clippings into one of the compost bins. He’s wearing an enormous yellow fisherman’s oilskin, laced at the neck. Underneath, I can just see the bottom of a pair of white and navy Hawaiian board shorts. Streams of water are running down his bare, muscular calves, and he has black Reefs on his tanned feet. I stare at his silver toe ring and the inky black Celtic tattoo round his ankle.

“Soft day,” he says with a grin. Even drenched and wearing that old oilskin he still looks edible.

I drag my eyes upwards and meet his.
Zing!
Oh dear God, he’s even better-looking close up, if that’s possible. I nod mutely, my heart thumping loudly.

He rests his pitchfork on the grass, prongs upward, like a devil’s, and stares at me. “Hate fruit flies.” He eyes the top of the open compost bin. “Not so many in the rain.”

I nod again.
Say something, Amy
. He’s going to think you’re some kind of mute weirdo. “I’m Amy,” I manage. “I’m staying in Haven House with my family.” It comes out as a squeak.

“Aye,” he says. “I know that.”

“And you’re Kit. Martie told me.”

“Did she, now?” His eyes narrow, probably because he’s wondering what else she said, but he still doesn’t speak. Instead, he goes back to staring at the compost bin.

Talk about awkward conversations: water from a stone and all that. But I’m not going to give up yet. “Um, we have compost bins at home,” I say, then wince. Brilliant, Amy. Inspired. Not! But he looks at me and seems interested, so I carry on. “And a wormery. We use the compost for Mum’s roses.”

He still says nothing. (He’s clearly blown away by my scintillating conversational skills. As if.)

“They’re my favourite flowers,” I add, then stop. I’ve completely run out of things to say.

“There’s a rose garden here,” he says after an agonizingly long silence.

“Really? Cool. I love the way roses smell. I like white ones the best. And pink and red. But white mostly. Have you ever seen a blue one? They’re quite unusual, but I have—” I clamp my mouth shut before I can spout any more rubbish. I stand there feeling useless while he forks the last bits of grass into the compost bin and slams it shut.

“Follow me, so,” he says.

“Where’s your dog?” I ask as he throws the fork into the rusty old wheelbarrow.

“Jack? Sheltering. Doesn’t like rain. Sensible lad.”

He leads the way round the high granite wall to the side wing of the house, where there is another narrow gateway.

“Door to the rose garden,” he says. Pulling a jangling set of keys out of his pocket, he searches for one, then unlocks the padlock. He grinds back the rusty bolt and stands back to let me walk in first.

I half-expect him to push me from behind and ram the bolt home, trapping me for ever in a creepy dungeon full of bats and flesh-eating rats – but clearly I’ve been watching too many horror movies with Clover. He’s just being polite – which instantly reminds me of Seth. Seth’s manners are Fairy Tale Good. Polly has terrorized him into it.

Seth.

I feel a twist of guilt in my stomach. But as I walk through the gate I forget everything; I’m so overwhelmed by the remarkable smell. It’s like walking into Clover’s bedroom after she’s just sprayed herself with her posh perfume. Only better. Because this scent is the real thing. I take long, heady breaths and start to walk down the wet cobblestone path; the rounded stones press into the soles of my flip-flops, giving my feet a pebble massage.

I look about me. I’m in a tiny walled garden, full of waist-high rose bushes. The beds have been separated into four quadrants, each one full of white, red, light pink or dark pink roses, each smelling subtly different. In the middle is a paved circle with a fountain: a stone dolphin with a trickle of water splashing out of its mouth. I walk towards it and study the water in its mossy pool, expecting to see goldfish or a magical frog, but it’s full of murky water and dark green weeds.

“It’s beautiful – like the Secret Garden.” I beam at him. (I can’t help it; it’s just so unexpected.) “Thank you so much for showing me this place. The smell” – I give a big sniff – “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?