sounds okay,’ Gemma said. ‘You’ll need an airmail stamp.’
‘I’ve got one, from when Estelle writes to her friend Veronica.’ He sealed the letter into an envelope and set it on the kitchen table. ‘Done.’
Gemma idly picked up her new bag. She unzipped its many pockets and peered into them. ‘So, why did Estelle leave you? You’re not such a bad guy.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Is it because of your…size?’
Benedict sucked in his stomach. In the ten years they’d been married, Estelle had never mentioned his weight as an issue. ‘No.’
‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘So, she’s just gone?’
Benedict cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’
‘And you don’t have any children?’
It never ceased to amaze Benedict how often questions about kids rolled off people’s tongues, as if they had no other dialogue in their heads.
‘So, when will we hear the patter of tiny feet for the two of you?’ Margarita Ganza had asked Estelle as she picked up a bunch of withering daffodils outside Floribunda.
Ryan often told Benedict stories about his kids, over a pint at the pub. He finished his tales with a knowing, ‘You have all this to come, Benedict.’
‘No,’ Benedict said. ‘We don’t have any kids.’
‘Don’t you want them?’
He didn’t want to discuss this. His niece seemed to hook on to things like a prickly burr on a woollen sweater.
‘I think that having children is probably overrated, anyway,’ she said, before he could answer. ‘It’s a big responsibility. Do you and Estelle…?’
Benedict didn’t want to answer another question about the family he and Estelle didn’t have, so he tried to think of something, anything, to change her path of conversation. ‘So, you want to look in the attic for your grandfather’s gemstone journal?’ he asked brightly. ‘Shall we go up there now?’
Benedict stored the metre-long stick with the hook on the end, under his bed. It had been there, unused, for at least five years. The last time he ventured into the attic was when rainwater had leaked through the ceiling into the master bedroom. He had gone up through the hatch and patched up the hole in the roof, walking around his parents’ wooden chest and pretending it wasn’t there. Even a glimpse of the dark, curved box could make him feel shivery with emotion.
His parents had brought it home from one of their trips overseas. Benedict and Charlie used to pretend that it was a pirates’ chest and they crawled around it with plastic cutlasses clenched between their teeth.
When his mum and dad died, Benedict didn’t want the chest in the house any longer, but he couldn’t bear to get rid of it either so he gathered together their tools and belongings and stored them away in the attic.
In the studio, Benedict moved Estelle’s canvasses to one side. He pushed the stick up, against the hatch, so the door creaked and opened up into the attic. ‘Step back,’ he warned Gemma. He let the door reverse down, so it hung back, perpendicularly, into the room.
In the darkness, he could just about see the ends of a wooden ladder, and he used the hook on the stick to tug them. They shuddered down, stopping halfway between the ceiling and floor. Specks of dust and grit showered onto the sheets of newspaper Benedict had laid down on the floorboards. He flicked a catch on the ladder and slid them all the way down to the floor with a thud.
‘It looks spooky.’ Gemma peered up into the dark space.
‘The ghost who lives up there doesn’t think so.’
Gemma’s eyebrows grew more angled. Then she caught sight of Benedict’s face, his lips twitching into a smile. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’
Benedict gave a short burst of laughter. ‘Of course. There’s nothing up there but piles of stuff.’
‘It’s so not funny. It’s a long way up.’
‘It’s not as high as the Eiffel Tower.’
Gemma scratched her nose. ‘Yes, but…’
‘Well, if you want to know more about your grandparents and about the gemstones,’ Benedict said, ‘you’ll have to be brave. Follow me.’ He stepped onto the ladder and the rungs creaked and bowed as he climbed up.
Gemma didn’t move. She stared at the ceiling.
‘Are you coming?’ Benedict squeezed through the hatch and hung his head over it.
‘It’s really dark up there. I don’t like it.’
Benedict switched on a light. ‘Come on. It’s safe,’ he said. ‘I think.’
Gemma slowly climbed the ladder. One of her boots fell off and clunked down the steps, but she carried on. When she reached the top rung, her hands were black with dirt. She clambered into the attic on her hands and knees and Benedict handed her a piece of dusty paper towel to wipe them.
The attic had a pointed roof, and Benedict could just about stand up under its peak. There wasn’t a proper floor, only pieces of chipboard that rested on the joists. There were rows of boxes stored along the rafters, and Benedict couldn’t even remember what was in most of them. Some were labelled ‘Mum’ and others were labelled ‘Dad’. He’d given all their clothes to charity, soon after they died, but some things he couldn’t bear to get rid of, such as his mum’s jewellery-making tools.
The wooden chest was larger than he remembered, reaching above his knees in height. His chin trembled slightly as he stared at it. He bent down to blow dust off its top and gagged as the particles went down his throat.
‘It looks like a treasure chest,’ Gemma said.
Benedict struggled to kneel down and Gemma sat down, too, on the other side.
She peered at the base of the chest. ‘What’s this piece of paper stuck under it?’ she asked, plucking at something. ‘OMG. It’s an old photo.’
‘A photograph?’
Gemma giggled.
‘What’s it of?’
‘It’s you, Dad and Mom. But you all look so young. Look at your hair. You look like a woolly mammoth.’
Benedict’s heart beat faster at the mention of Charlie and Amelia. He nonchalantly reached out and took the photo from her.
The colours had faded to browns, mustard and pale pink. Charlie laughed and pointed at the camera. Amelia’s eyes were closed and she rested her head on his shoulder. Benedict’s mouth was open and his eyes shone red from the flash. The three of them looked like they were sharing a joke. ‘Oh, yes. Funny,’ he said lightly, but there was an iron-like taste of regret in his mouth.
‘That is so
