release, empathy, intuition
Benedict went downstairs whilst Gemma showered and changed. He made cheese on toast, just as he used to for Charlie’s breakfast, and when his niece joined him in the kitchen, they sat at opposite ends of the table. The atmosphere felt chilly.
She wore last night’s clothes, the crumpled navy cotton dress and the enormous denim jacket. Her legs were bare in her cowboy boots. To Benedict, she looked too young to be travelling alone. If she were his child then he’d have packed a warm coat, jeans, gloves and woolly socks, and he’d heard you could put GPS tracking devices on mobile phones.
He tried to search out elements of Amelia in Gemma’s face, but she hadn’t inherited her mother’s olive skin, dark eyes or walnut hair. He didn’t know where her arched bushy eyebrows had come from.
As he studied her, a memory popped into his head.
When Charlie was eleven or twelve years old, the two of them had watched a magic show on TV in which a man walked on a bed of nails. Afterwards Charlie said he was going to try it. ‘All I need are some nails and a plank of wood,’ he said.
‘But it was just a trick,’ Benedict argued.
But Charlie was convinced he could do it. In the shed, he found a jar of nails and a large piece of chipboard. He tugged the board under the gem tree and spent ages knocking the nails through. When he finished, he hoisted up his creation. ‘Done it.’
Benedict wanted to warn his brother that this could hurt, and that he might need a tetanus injection if the nails were rusty. He always rushed to protect him.
‘I’m going to do it.’ Charlie let the board drop flat on the grass, the spikes pointing upwards.
‘Okay then.’ Benedict tried to sound calm as he stood at the back door.
‘Watch me.’
‘I’m watching.’
Charlie kicked off his flip-flops. He gave Benedict a big grin and his copper hair shone bright in the sun. He placed his bare right foot flat on the nails then stood for a moment, pressing and testing out the pressure. His head was bent in concentration. He put all his weight onto his right foot then raised his left one.
Benedict grasped a wad of tissues, ready to run and mop up any blood. He wondered where he’d put the antiseptic ointment. However, Charlie held out his arms and walked slowly and steadily across the plank. When he reached the end, he jumped off and ran around the garden, whooping and punching the air. ‘Did it,’ he shouted. ‘I told you it wasn’t camera trickery.’
Benedict gave a rictus grin of relief. ‘Yes, you did. Well done.’
Charlie was never more alive than when he tried something new. Perhaps Benedict shouldn’t feel surprised that his brother thought it was okay for Gemma to travel on her own. Perhaps his niece was as spontaneous and determined as her father.
He wondered if he should tell Gemma that she reminded him of Charlie but, instead, he bit into his toast.
‘Kindergarten food.’ Gemma nodded at her plate, but she picked up her toast anyway. She nibbled off the crust first, then turned the toast round and round, eating it in a spiral until a small square remained. She popped the last bit into her mouth with relish. ‘I’m still hungry,’ she said as she munched. ‘Do you have any fruit?’
Benedict hadn’t bought fruit since Estelle left. The produce at Veg Out greengrocers was rather lifeless. ‘Fruit?’ he repeated.
‘Yeah. You know the stuff that grows on trees? Healthy, juicy, bright colours…’
A laugh escaped from Benedict’s lips and it sounded strange to him, like it wasn’t his own.
Gemma gave a small smile too. Her eyes crinkled at the sides, as Charlie’s used to. Benedict had forgotten about that and he felt a flitter in his chest. ‘I don’t have any,’ he said.
‘You’re not a healthy eater, are you?’ Gemma looked him over. ‘It puts a strain on your heart being that chunky. You should cut out the candy.’
‘Thanks for the advice, Gordon Ramsay.’ Benedict carried the empty plates over to the sink. ‘It’s not fat, it’s insulation against cold Yorkshire nights. Now, how are we going to get in touch with your dad?’
‘Don’t worry. He knows I’m fine.’
‘Gemma.’ Benedict held out his palms. ‘You’ve travelled thousands of miles on your own, with hardly any luggage. You arrived on my doorstep in the middle of the night. Charlie is supposed to have arranged your visit, but I’ve not heard from him. And you’ve lost your purse and passport and phone.’
‘Hmmm.’ She threaded a piece of hair into her mouth. ‘You make it sound worse than it is.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how.’
She scraped her chair loudly away from the table and stood up. Her eyes seemed to grow darker. ‘Do you know, I grew up seeing other kids’ uncles come to their school plays, birthday parties and give them twenty dollars at Christmas? And all I had was you,’ she accused. ‘The invisible uncle in the UK, who asks too many questions.’
Benedict felt guilt gnaw inside him as he thought about her growing up in a different country, without him around. ‘Did your dad tell you anything about me?’
Gemma shrugged. ‘He said he used to sit with you, and your parents, under a tree in the garden and you all hung gemstones into it. He called it your family tree, or the gem tree. Is it still here? I wanna sit under it.’
‘Yes, it’s still here.’
Gemma shook the gemstones out of the white bag and onto the table. ‘So, tell me about these gems,’ she said.
Benedict’s stomach churned. He couldn’t tell her the truth, that was for sure. ‘I told you. I gave them to your dad, before he and your mum left for America. That’s it. What do you know about them?’
She stared at him for a while then seemed to accept his answer. She sat down and pointed at each of the gems in turn. ‘This one is Tiger’s Eye. This is Citrine and this is Aquamarine. This is, um, what’s the pink heart-shaped stone called? Rose Quartz, that’s it. Garnet, Poppy Jasper, Blue Lace Agate, Amethyst, Sunstone…um, Carnelian and Golden Topaz.’ She picked up a blue stone, the colour of the Mediterranean Sea. ‘I can never remember this one.’
Its name popped into Benedict’s head. When he’d hung the gems into the gem tree, his father had told him the name of each. ‘It’s Lapis Lazuli.’
‘Okay. Lapis.’ She picked up a round stone, the size of a blueberry. As she turned it between her thumb and finger, it shone white, silver then puddle grey. ‘Do you know the meaning of Moonstone?’
‘The meaning…?’ Benedict tried to recall his trips with his parents and what gemstones they’d come across, but all he saw was his mother, laughing and ruffling his hair. ‘I know that most Moonstones come from India and Sri Lanka. They get their name because they look like the moon…’
‘Duh, everyone knows that.’ Gemma laughed. She set
