The Bone Dragon (11 page)

‘I nipped out,’ I say quickly. ‘Last night.’

‘Last night?’ Amy asks. ‘I didn’t hear you come down the hall.’

‘I didn’t,’ I say, then hurry on, ‘I mean, I’ve just been checking something in the evening, sometimes early in the morning too. Out the bottom of the garden. Mushrooms,’ I add. ‘There are these really cool mushrooms. Or there were. There are all sorts of wonderful things out there. It all looks so different, so magical, at night. And there are blackberries too.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Amy says, quirking an eyebrow as she picks up a trailing sleeve and shows me a big purple stain near the cuff. ‘You don’t go beyond the garden though, do you, Evie? I know there’s that nice spot of brambles just out on the towpath, but you know you mustn’t go beyond the trees.’

I shrug then wriggle awkwardly on the spot.

‘Darling,’ Amy says, reaching out to touch my arm, ‘I don’t mind you getting a bit muddy, so long as you don’t get chilled and catch a cold, but I don’t think you should be wandering around beyond the garden. Especially at night. I don’t want to make you scared because we
do
live in a nice, safe place but it’s still important to be careful. I mean, you never know who or . . .’

I tuck myself under Amy’s arm so she can hug me to her, putting my own arm about her waist to lead her to the door, anxious to get downstairs so I can put the incriminating laundry on and have the whole subject over and done with. ‘I’ll be safe and careful, I promise,’ I say. ‘I promise I won’t get into trouble.’

Amy sighs. ‘You got changed and went out while I was in the bath after dinner, didn’t you? Because it wasn’t
before
dinner and it wasn’t this morning. Darling, why . . . ?’ She trails off with another sigh and squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’m a terrible busybody, aren’t I, my love? You
do
know I can’t help it, don’t you? That I only do it because I love you?’

‘I know,’ I say, smiling up at her. I set my head on her shoulder for a moment before moving away so she can go ahead down the stairs: she always prefers to go first if I’m carrying so much as a handkerchief on the basis that if I fall I can fall on her.

While Amy measures out the washing powder, I shove the laundry into the machine. ‘Amy,’ I say, putting just a hint of wheedling into my voice so she knows I’m about to ask for something I really want, ‘I was thinking . . . I’m going to be fifteen soon – well, soonish – and . . . and I want to be a bit more independent now that I’m getting well again.’

‘OK,’ Amy says, looking puzzled.

‘I want to do my own laundry. I mean, do it by myself.’

Amy frowns. ‘But I like doing things for you, darling. If you want to walk – or even cycle – over to Phee’s house and then go on from there to school together by yourselves, I don’t mind that, so long as it’s not raining, of course, but why . . .’

I shove the door to the washing machine shut with a little too much gusto and see Amy’s eyes go first to the machine and then to me, trying to figure out why I care so much.

‘I want to do it for myself,’ I say, a hint of grumpiness in my tone. ‘Now that I can stretch a bit because the ribs don’t hurt, I just want to do it.’

Amy’s eyebrows go up and she blinks at me for a moment, but then she smiles and shrugs. ‘If that’s really what you want, darling. But you mustn’t feel as though I’ll be cross if you change your mind again. It’s not that exciting, doing laundry.’ Then the frown is back. ‘But I hope that’s not some way of trying to get away with roaming about in the dark out on the towpath,’ she says.

‘Oh, you know how it is,’ I say airily. ‘Teenagers have to be careful about making promises of that sort. Some of us need to be free to go out in the middle of the night to . . . to exercise our hidden mystical powers or . . . or become a righter of wrongs, a rescuer of . . . er . . . abandoned, uneaten blackberries.’

‘Try to keep the blackberry rescuing to the daylight hours, darling,’ Amy says, ‘or at least let one of us know you’re creeping out to stain yourself black and purple in future, won’t you?’

I pull a face. ‘So you can come and steal some of the kudos, you mean, for all that hard rescuing?’ I heave a heavy sigh. ‘I suppose it might just be possible for me to bring a few of the poor souls I save from the clutches of certain moulding to stand witness to my greatness.’

This leads on to a discussion of whether we should make marmalade this year when the Seville oranges are in season, so the subject drops. But when Amy goes out into the garden to pick the black-spotted leaves off the rose bushes, I sneak an empty bottle from the recycling bin, fill it with water, then hide it in my wardrobe. The last thing I need is a repeat of this near debacle if Amy realises how muddy and wet I keep getting my trainers. Trying to wash them off each night in the bathroom is just asking to get caught, as is hiding them somewhere in the garden: everything is far too well kept. But if I rinse them out of the window, no one need be any the wiser.

Today is Uncle Ben and Aunt Minnie’s anniversary. Or what would have been their anniversary. I wish that Uncle Ben would tell stories about Aunt Minnie but, like Amy and Paul with Adam, he can’t seem to bear to think about her, let alone allow her name or her memory to pass his lips.

This year is like every other since Amy and Paul got me. Uncle Ben arrives the night before, his usual cheerful self, though he fills his wine glass again and again at dinner. I do my best, while Amy is busy cooking, to hint that I’m old enough to talk about serious things: that it wouldn’t burden me, that I’m willing to listen. That I’m even willing to share the subject of my rage since theirs is beyond reach, but neither Paul nor Uncle Ben takes the hint. Our conversation stays stubbornly fixed on brighter, lighter things, then, when Amy and I have gone to bed, it’s Paul and Uncle Ben who stay up late talking. But I don’t dare eavesdrop from the stairs: not tonight, when Amy may well be periodically checking on them.

When I get up the next morning, Uncle Ben is already sitting at the kitchen table, turning a mug of coffee around and around in his hands while Amy cooks pancakes.

This is the first time since Amy and Paul got me that the anniversary has fallen on a weekend. So, instead of Amy packing me off to school and Paul off to work while Uncle Ben takes the day off, we all eat breakfast together. Slowly. And quietly. Amy and Paul have obviously discussed how the day will go because once everything is cleaned away – for once, Uncle Ben makes no move to help and simply sits staring into his coffee, turning and turning the cup around on the table as if he’ll be able to see visions in it if he gets the liquid spinning just right – Amy collects her hat, scarf and coat and bullies Uncle Ben into his. Then they set off down the garden path.

I stare after them out of the kitchen window until Paul comes over and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘We could go for our own walk if you’d like,’ he offers.

I shake my head. It’s dank and drizzly outside with none of the charm of a nursery-rhyme ‘misty, moisty morning’. The fens smell of rotting reeds and stagnant pools on days like this when the air is heavy with damp. The fog gets into your clothes, soaking through until everything down to your skin is warm and moist as fever-sweat. I wriggle uncomfortably at the thought. ‘Too wet,’ I say.

‘I was thinking we could go out and get a few movies. Something to cheer Uncle Ben up.’

‘And take his mind off things?’ I ask.

Paul smiles. ‘Go wrap up warm.’

As we drive, I think that Paul looks almost as much in need of cheering up as Uncle Ben. But somehow, now that I’ve finally got the perfect moment to ask what they’ve been up to together on their night-time excursions, I find I can’t. Or won’t. As if I suddenly don’t know what I want the answer to be.

‘Do you think we should try to find someone for Uncle Ben to date?’ I ask instead.

Paul flicks a grin at me that makes me cross as well as relieved that the moment for other questions is gone. ‘Amy’s been watching
Fiddler on the Roof
again, hasn’t she? That “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” song.’

I roll my eyes, itching against the unease of knowing that I’ve missed my chance and the simultaneous relief of having evaded something troubling. Something dangerous. ‘Uncle Ben’s so nice. He deserves to have someone to appreciate him. I mean, someone just for him.’

The smile fades slowly from Paul’s face, from his mouth first, then it bleeds away from his eyes. ‘Your Uncle Ben’s a wonderful man, Evie. But a lot of people . . . Well, they wouldn’t necessarily . . . I mean . . .’

‘You mean that Uncle Ben’s not very good-looking.’

The car drifts a little to the right as Paul jerks round to look at me. He mutters something under his breath and fixes his eyes on the road again, huffing with what should have been a laugh. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘But he’s not
bad
-looking,’ I protest. ‘I mean, he’s not fat or bald or anything. He’s just . . . a bit ordinary sometimes. But if he got his hair cut more often and remembered to iron his clothes and not wear colours that don’t go . . . I think it’s just when he frowns and stuff or goes all distracted. He’s always laughing around me and being funny. I never think about what he looks like, so . . .’

Paul is smiling again. ‘But you’ve hit the nail on the head, Evie. He’s always happy around
you
.’

I twist in my seat to look at Paul, then wince and flop back in frustration at all the stupid little things the ribs won’t let me do. It’s nothing that really matters in the scheme of things, only it does sort of matter when I can only sit and sleep and do things in such specific ways. I sigh, reminding myself that maybe when the ribs finish healing that won’t be true any more, then turn my thoughts back to Uncle Ben.

‘He’d smile around someone he really liked. Someone who made him happy. You and Amy must know some nice women who are single. You could invite one of them over for dinner when Uncle Ben’s there too . . . and maybe you could even invite some other people too so it’s not so obvious.’

‘It’s a good idea, Evie,’ Paul says, though I can tell he doesn’t really mean it, ‘but I don’t think Uncle Ben is ready to think about dating.’

‘So?’ I press. ‘If he met someone really nice . . .’

Paul sighs. ‘I know it can’t seem like it, because Uncle Ben’s always so happy with you, Evie, but he’s not like that all the time. Not with other adults. I don’t think he’d mean to put anyone off exactly, but people can tell when someone isn’t really interested in dating.’

I purse my mouth mutinously.

Paul catches sight of my expression and grins. ‘Here’s what we can do, though. The moment Uncle Ben says the least little thing about women or dating or anything like that, Amy and I will throw a party and invite all the eligible ladies we know. Will that suit, M’mselle?’

I scrunch my face up at him. ‘Maybe someone needs to make Uncle Ben think about dating first.’

Paul is pulling into a parking spot and doesn’t reply. As I stand by the boot, fumbling with my gloves, he comes around the car and puts his arm across my shoulders. ‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, Evie, but . . . Well, how about we get some romantic comedies. Will that do in terms of dropping a hint?’

I shrug and lean into his side as he starts us towards the shops. In the DVD store, we usually have a pretty lively debate about what to rent, but my heart’s not in it. My thoughts have turned to Paul and Amy and the fact that all of Adam’s things are packed away at the top of the upstairs cupboard. Looking about the house, you’d never know that Amy and Paul had had a son.

There aren’t any photos even, except the one in Paul’s wallet that I saw one day when he asked me to fetch his credit card. Amy’s one picture of Adam is in the locket she always wears: Adam is on one side, her parents on the other.

I’ve only seen inside the locket twice. The first time was just after I’d come to live with Amy and Paul, even though I’d known them for more than a year by then and stayed over several times on trial visits. I was sitting at one end of the kitchen table, fluffing some maths homework, while Paul did tax stuff at the other and Amy pottered about cooking and fiddling with the radio. I wanted to slam my book shut then throw it at the wall, and everything else on the table with it. But while I knew that, at the worst, Amy would tell me off – and it was tempting to test the theory just to be sure – my stomach lurched the second I gripped the book in preparation to hurl it. I hadn’t gone about throwing things in Fiona’s parents’ house. I wasn’t going to start with Amy and Paul, who’d only ever been good and kind to me.

So I let go of the book, crossed my arms over it and put my head down on them, heaving a sigh. A moment later, Amy was sitting down next to me, wiping her hands on a tea-towel.

‘Can I?’ she asked, smiling encouragingly as she gestured at the book.

I sat up and pushed it towards her. ‘I just don’t
get
it.’

‘Must run in the family. Adam always hated fractions, too,’ she said.

I could tell that she hadn’t meant to – that it had just come out – because she went very still and Paul took his feet off the spare chair.