The Bone Dragon (29 page)

‘Well, Uncle Ben needs someone to love him: I don’t think he ever goes out on dates. And he should get married again because he really should have kids. Kids of his own, I mean. Not just me.’

Ms Winters is smiling, but frowning a bit too. ‘Well, that’s a lovely thought, Evie, but that’s a goal for your Uncle Ben, not for you.’

‘No, it’s not,’ I say. ‘Uncle Ben’s not getting on with any of it. He needs my help. I don’t think he’s even thought about how to meet anyone who could understand him and what he’s been through, so of course he’s not going to have much luck finding the right person.’

‘Evie . . .’ says Ms Winters in a warning sort of voice that makes me want to roll my eyes. ‘Evie, it’s lovely that you want to help your uncle and make him happy, but matchmaking can be a very tricky business. He might not appreciate . . .’

This time I do roll my eyes. ‘That’s why I need to be subtle. Well, subtle-ish. Just to get him to meet someone nice and see if they hit it off.’

‘Evie . . .’

‘Anyway, I had the best idea ever. And it sort of is a goal. I want you to go out with my Uncle Ben.’

Ms Winters’s mouth falls open. ‘Me?’ she squeaks. She really does.

‘Well, you said what a lovely person he must be one time when I was telling you about him . . . and, well, you looked all
wistful
. And you’re not married or anything, are you?’

Ms Winters closes her mouth and stares at me. Her right hand goes to her empty ring finger. ‘Evie . . . Evie, that’s ever so sweet. It really is. But it’s just not
appropriate
.’

‘Why not?’ I retort. ‘You’d be able to understand all about Aunt Minnie. And you already know the whole family.’

‘That’s exactly why it’s not appropriate, Evie,’ Ms Winters says, trying to sound calm and collected and not managing it at all.

Though I keep my face eager and open, inside I can’t help a thrill of deepest satisfaction that I’ve finally flustered her out of all recognition.

‘I’m here to help you with
your
problems,’ Ms Winters is protesting. ‘And I’m your teacher . . . And that . . . that would cross all
sorts
of professional boundaries. It just wouldn’t be
ethical
.’

‘It’s my idea,’ I say. ‘And
I
think it’s a brilliant idea. And you’re meant to be helping me. So help me with my goal. Go and have a coffee with Uncle Ben.’

‘Evie, that is
not
what Amy and Paul were envisaging when they asked me to have extra sessions with you out of school,’ Ms Winters says, not even trying to mask her exasperation.

I’m totally unmoved by it because she’s also blushing down to her shirt collar. Plus it’s clearly not the Uncle Ben bit of the plan that she objects to.

‘I’m meant to be helping you with your schoolwork and with your own problems, not meddling in your life . . .’

‘It’s not meddling. It’s just coffee.’

Ms Winters lets the following silence go on and on and on. I just grin because this time I know she’s not waiting me out: she just has absolutely no idea what to say.

Besides, I’ve already figured out what to do if she does keep saying no. Uncle Ben hardly ever says no to
me
: if I tell him I want him to come over at particular times on particular days that just so happen to coincide with Ms Winters being here, he might be a bit confused but he’ll do it. And then I just need to keep him talking once Ms Winters arrives so he doesn’t leave right away or go off to another room. Of course, she’ll suggest we make a start on our work, but she’s too polite to insist in someone else’s house. Plus I can always just
have
to duck into the loo or lie down somewhere for a few minutes if my ribs are aching. And then Ms Winters won’t have any choice but to talk to Uncle Ben or be rude. And she’ll never bring herself to be rude, so Uncle Ben will end up making coffee for the two of them to cover the awkwardness.

It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but it’ll do at a pinch. Like Ms Winters says, it can be a little goal on the way to a bigger one.

‘Evie love, do you think you could come into town with me?’

I look up from my homework to find Paul standing on the opposite side of the kitchen table. Although his voice is cheerful enough, something about his tone isn’t at all casual. And he’s gripping the back of the chair he’s standing behind. The tips of his fingernails are white.

Something in his face shifts. ‘Sorry, love. Shouldn’t interrupt your homework really, should I?’ He says it as if he means to laugh, but he doesn’t. ‘And you’ve got plans with Phee and Lynne later, haven’t you?’

He’s nervous, I realise. He’s afraid I’ll say no. And he really, really doesn’t want me to.

‘Never mind then,’ Paul is saying, pushing away from the table. ‘Maybe next weekend.’

And I realise that I’m frowning and he thinks it’s because I’m cross, so I put a smile on my face and slam my book closed. ‘Can we get flying saucers?’ I ask, shoving my chair eagerly back from the table.

Paul starts then, just a little, but he smiles too. ‘Whatever you want, love,’ he says softly, his voice full of warmth.

I grin. ‘Really? So we can get cheesecake and chips too and you’ll explain to Amy why I can’t eat lunch and why I haven’t finished my French?’

Paul takes a step back, widening his eyes and forcing a huge gulp. ‘Couldn’t I just buy you a Ferrari?’

I tilt my head to the side for a moment and then screw my eyes nearly closed. ‘Perhaps I’ll settle for a cheesecake to bring home,’ I say.

Paul pantomimes wiping sweat from his forehead as he drapes his arm around my shoulders and leads me over to the coat rack.

‘Don’t you want your blue coat, love?’ Paul asks. ‘I thought that was your favourite.’

‘Nah.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘Can’t be bothered to go upstairs for it.’

‘Then stop keeping it up there!’ Paul scolds, rolling his eyes as he pulls my scarf snug about my neck.

We stop at the garage first and get the promised flying saucers. We always do this together. Amy won’t let me have them. She’s says they’re nothing but nasty chemicals and she’s probably right. But I still like them and so does Paul: it’s one of our little things together.

Paul punches the radio on to our favourite channel, but he doesn’t sing along like he usually does. And he keeps looking over at me, though he doesn’t say anything. Because he doesn’t, I don’t either: I don’t even ask where we’re going.

We park in the supermarket as usual and walk through to the high street. When he stops for a moment and takes a deep breath, I slip my hand into his and squeeze his fingers. He smiles down at me and squeezes back. Then we turn into the art shop and he leads me over to the wall display made up of the corners of different types of picture frame.

‘I want you to help me pick out something special,’ he says.

And I know from his tone that this is what we’re here for, but I can’t for the life of me work out why it’s such a big deal, these little bits of wood.

‘Is it for a present? For Grandma Suzie’s birthday?’ I ask when Paul doesn’t say anything. I know that’s not it, but in the absence of even a single idea, a stupid question seems as good a way to get Paul talking as any.

He squeezes my fingers, but though his face is turned to me, somehow his eyes don’t meet mine. ‘It’s for us,’ he says quietly. ‘For you and me and Amy. Something to go in the living room.’ He pauses and his eyes drift back to the frames. ‘I want to put a big photo up on the wall. And then I want to get two smaller frames to go on the coffee table.’ His eyes move from the bits of frame on the wall to the shelves of standing picture frames. ‘I want to put that photo the waiter took of Uncle Ben and the three of us at your adoption birthday up on the wall,’ he says, but then he goes silent and just stands there staring blankly at the frames: just stands there and stands there.

I lean into his side and my weight seems to push the next thing out of him. ‘And I want a photo of Adam on the coffee table,’ he says. ‘I want a photo of my son. And the family one that Ben took just before the accident. I want photos of my kids in the living room.’

I feel the tears in his voice in my eyes and hug his arm tightly.

‘I want you to pick the frames, Evie,’ Paul tells me softly, and I realise he is looking down at me now: really looking at me and seeing me, instead of gazing vacantly as he has all morning while he thought this through.

‘But shouldn’t you and Amy . . .’

‘You know the sorts of things Amy likes. You won’t pick anything she’ll hate,’ Paul says, and there’s something a little sharp in his tone. ‘So it’ll just have to be good enough, because I want to pick it with
you
, Evie. I don’t want to talk about it and discuss it and negotiate it. I want photos of my kids. And I want my daughter to help me pick the frames.’

I stare up at him but don’t know what to say. His eyes soften.

‘Amy won’t mind,’ he tells me quietly. ‘It’ll give her a start but she won’t . . .’ He draws in a deep breath and looks away then, but his hand comes up to stroke my hair. ‘This last week she’s talked about Adam. You’ve let her talk about him, Evie. And look at his pictures without . . .’ He takes another breath. ‘She couldn’t do that before. She just couldn’t. So I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to her about him. Or to you. Even though Ben kept telling me I could. That I should. Smart man, your Uncle Ben,’ he says, making a funny gulping sound I know was intended as a laugh. His hand is slick with sweat in mine.

‘This week we’ve talked about our son. With you. With each other. And . . . And that’s how I want it, Evie. I want you to know all about your brother. And I want us to have his photo and your photo together in the living room where I can see them all the time. That’s what
I
want.’

I stand there, leaning into him, until his breathing settles and he presses a kiss to my hair.

‘You did that, Evie,’ he says fiercely. ‘You fixed that. And I want you to pick the frames for the photos of our family.’

‘I’ve been thinking . . .’

‘Kind of the point when we’re doing homework,’ Phee says testily. I sigh. So does Phee, tossing her pencil to the side. ‘Sorry,’ she says.

I bump her shoulder with mine and she grins at me wanly, then crosses her arms on the table and drops her head on to them. Her mum’s in hospital because of the operation to take out her tumour. Phee says she’s doing OK, but there’s still the radiation therapy to come.

‘I was thinking about what we could do to help your mum when she gets out of hospital,’ I say. ‘And I think we should cook.’

Phee blinks up at me. She opens her mouth, closes it and then opens it again. ‘But we can’t cook,’ she says as if she thinks I’ve somehow forgotten this. ‘I mean, neither of us can. We’re rubbish.’

‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘But Lynne isn’t.’

‘So we’re going to turn Lynne into a kitchen slave?’ Phee says slowly. The contemplative look in her eyes sharpens into something mischievous and infinitely less sad.

‘I was thinking we could do a blog together,’ I try to explain, but my mind’s not really on what I’m saying as I grin at Phee’s grin. ‘A blog about cooking for teenagers who want to help their parents out for whatever reason. And we could make it all about cooking really healthy food.’

Phee frowns. ‘And why would any of us want to do this?’ she says dubiously. ‘I was just going to keep doing the hoovering and washing and stuff when Mum comes home. And Dad’s getting the shopping delivered. Why would we want to cook when we can just get microwave meals or take-out or call my aunt?’

‘Because we could write all about cooking so you can eat healthily.’

Phee rolls her eyes. ‘You said that already. And I bet there are a million webpages that do that already anyway.’

‘But think about it: we could all work on it together.’

Phee drops her head back down on to the table. ‘And?’ she prompts.

‘And we can write about Being Healthy.’

Phee sighs. ‘I got
that
bit. What I
don’t
get is why you think this is a good idea.’

‘Maybe if Lynne thinks about teaching other people about healthy eating – about meals that aren’t low-cal because they need to be good for people like your mum who need enough calories, but they’re healthy for normal people who don’t want to get fat, like your dad – maybe we can get her to start, you know, focusing on Being Healthy. Not dieting, just eating things that are good for you. But we could make it about teaching other teenagers how to do that.’