treating him better now.’ She grasped the lapel of his blazer and peered at the coat of arms on the breast pocket. ‘See, proper stitching – none of that stick-on.’
‘Private school.’ Leonie sank into the chair by the desk, and clasped her hands over her belly. ‘Folks doing OK, then.’
Jonah opened his mouth, then closed it again. Explaining about the scholarship would sound like boasting.
‘Cordial?’ Pat reached for the jug.
‘I’m OK, thanks.’
Pat looked at Leonie. ‘Must be thirsty, on a day like this?’
Leonie shrugged. ‘Maybe he don’t like cordial. Maybe too sweet for him.’
‘What about his hand?’
Leonie shrugged again. ‘Why you asking me?’
Jonah drew his bad hand out of his pocket, and presented it.
‘Your right one, is it?’ Pat took hold of it, and Leonie tipped forwards to look. ‘You right-handed?’
‘Yes, but it’s fine. I can do most things.’ He waggled his remaining finger and thumb.
‘Hope you don’t get teased for it.’ Pat set his hand down on his lap. ‘Do your school friends know how brave you were, trying to save your little brother?’
‘He don’t want to talk about that,’ snapped Leonie, and Pat clapped her hand over her mouth, chastened.
‘It’s OK,’ said Jonah. ‘Anyway,’ he nodded at the case, ‘I play the trumpet.’
‘The trumpet!’ Pat reached for the case and pulled it onto her lap. She opened it, and the trumpet nestled, gleaming, in the dark blue fur. ‘Play for us!’
Jonah hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if …’
‘Just one quick tune! Or you need a drink first? Will I get him plain water?’ Pat looked at Leonie again.
‘It’s just that the Martins are expecting me.’
‘The Martins. I remember them,’ Leonie was nodding. ‘With the little girl. Same age as you. Yellow tails, each side. So they still live round here? They never come this way. Or if they do, I never seen them.’
‘Her mother was sick,’ said Pat. ‘Must have passed by now.’
‘No, she’s better,’ said Jonah.
‘Better? I heard it was curtains.’ Leonie looked dubious.
‘Dora’s fine. She’s … we’re having roast chicken.’
‘Bit hot for roast chicken,’ said Pat. ‘Better with a salad, on a day like this.’
‘But nice you stayed friends with them,’ said Leonie.
‘What about the dad? Remember, Leonie – with the veg boxes. He still in that business?’
Jonah shook his head. ‘He lives in the country now. In an eco-village.’
‘Eco-village?’ asked Pat.
‘Living off the land,’ explained Leonie. ‘No electricity or nothing. Do their business in the woods.’
Pat shook her head. ‘So he left his sick wife.’
‘No, she was already better,’ said Jonah. ‘And anyway they’re still married. Dora and Em go and stay with him quite a lot.’
‘In the eco-village.’ Leonie nodded thoughtfully, as if she was planning a trip there herself. ‘And does he come back to London? Will he be there now? To see you?’
‘I expect so.’ He tried to remember if Dora’s email had said. Then he stood up, which was an effort, given how far he’d sunk into the sofa, and put his backpack on.
‘You got to go,’ Leonie sighed, and heaved herself up too.
‘Or roast chicken might get cold.’ Pat held out the trumpet case.
‘Yes.’ He suddenly felt how male he was, next to these middle-aged women: how tall, and strong and young. He took the case, and turned towards the door, trying to formulate a suitable goodbye, but was suddenly enveloped by Leonie. Her metal smell, her breasts, her damp armpits … He had to plant his feet firmly in order not to stagger back. She seemed to be crying. Still gripping the handle of his trumpet case, he put his free arm around her waist.
‘Leonie, she still feels so bad.’ Pat’s pointy face had gone soft and slack.
‘Bad? Why?’
‘Here all day, looking out the window, and never saw nothing was wrong.’ She patted Leonie’s shaking shoulder. ‘Enough now, Miss. Young man needs to go and eat roast chicken. And your 6.30 will be here. Need to bubble down.’
‘That 6.30 always late.’ But Leonie released him, and reached for a tissue from the box on the desk. She wiped her eyes, looking old, and Jonah felt a terrible tenderness for her.
‘Don’t feel bad. You were very good to us. Very kind.’ She was so alien, so not of his tribe – and yet so familiar. He patted her other shoulder.
‘Just glad …’ Her voice was shaky, still full of tears. ‘Just glad you doing so well.’
‘Better get going.’ Pat gave him a little push, but Jonah hesitated.
‘You know …’ He looked out into the sunny street and then down at his watch. The two women gazed at him. ‘Maybe I have got time to play something quick. If – if that’s what you’d like.’
‘Yes!’ Embarrassed by her own delight, Pat clapped her hand over her mouth again.
On Monday morning Jonah woke up trying to say something. He was making tiny croaking noises, trying to get the words out, and his sheet was all tangled up in his legs. The room was full of sunlight, because of the fallen-down curtain, and outside the birds were screeching like crazy.
He sat up, kicking the sheet away, and looked over at the clock: 04.37. The sun must have just that minute risen, or rather Earth had just tipped far enough towards it. He was naked. It had been so hot in the night he’d pulled off his vest and wriggled out of his pyjama bottoms. His dream was like a word on the tip of his tongue. The birds had calmed down, but a dog was barking, and now there was a man talking, down in the street, right under the wide open window.
Jonah lay back down and tried to remember what it was he wanted to say, but the strange,
