A Kiss, a Dare and a Boat Called Promise Page 8

“I don’t see how she could be. She was rotten, we saw that for ourselves. And anyway, you said this boat was called … what was it again?”

  “Lily-May.” Bella pauses, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.

  “A boat’s name can be changed, of course. It’s as simple as painting it over…”

  “Bad luck, though,” she adds.

  “For who?” I ask. “The person who did it?”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  We fall silent for a moment. “Bella,” I start, “this doesn’t seem right, does it? It’s too coincidental. Maybe that boat was Promise, and Bill was lying…”

  “…And perhaps she was fixable after all,” she cuts in. “God, Josie. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper as too many questions fly around my head: were Maggie and Phil mistaken? And if they weren’t, and Lily-May really is our boat, how could we go about getting her back?

  “The must be some way you could prove it,” Bella adds.

  “Yes … I know.”

  Mum is calling me now, saying, “Breakfast’s ready, Josie, hurry up unless you want rubbery scrambled eggs…”

  “Your tin!” Bella exclaims, as if reading my thoughts. “Your tin should still be there under your bed.”

  I can hardly eat breakfast for replaying Bella’s phone call in my head. Luckily, Mum is too busy scribbling to-do lists at the kitchen table to notice and, after shovelling in his eggs at breakneck speed, Ryan rushes off to work.

  Shall I tell Mum about the boat Maggie and Phil saw? She looks engrossed in work, trying to figure out the supplies she’ll need for the next few days. Anyway, I know she’d say it’s just wishful thinking that Lily-May might have been Promise after all. “Mum,” I say hesitantly, placing my fork beside my barely touched breakfast, “d’you think Bill will have had Promise taken away by now?”

  She glances up at me and frowns. “Why aren’t you eating, Josie? You don’t still feel ill, do you?”

  “No, I’m fine. So what d’you think? About Promise, I mean?”

  “I don’t know. Yes, probably.” With a sigh, she turns back to her list. I snatch my phone from my pocket as it bleeps, assuming it’s Bella again, maybe with more info from Maggie and Phil.

  The text reads: Hi, it’s Leon. U coming out?

  My mouth curls into a grin. Sure, I reply, pushing away my plate. When?

  Now? Leon pings back. Am outside.

  I bite my lip, glancing at Mum while trying to appear as calm as possible. “Er … is it OK if I go out?” I ask casually.

  “Who with, love?” Mum’s frowning, still scribbling away with a cracked biro.

  “Just Leon.”

  “Just Leon, huh?” She looks up, her eyes crinkling as she laughs. “He’s bright and early, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, guess so.” I shrug and take a swig of my juice, as if being texted by a boy at breakfast time is completely normal for me.

  “That’s fine,” Mum says, “but remember to take your phone, all right? And let me know where you are.”

  “OK, thanks, Mum,” I say, forgetting about my oh-so-casual act as I leap up from the table, nearly knocking over my glass of juice. Pretending I haven’t heard her as she calls after me, telling me to at least eat something first, I charge out of the kitchen and head downstairs. By the time I’m pulling back the bolts on the pub’s heavy front door, I’ve already decided not to mention Chantelle today. So what if she and Leon are friends? I barely know either of them, really. Even so, Leon’s dark eyes make my heart flip as I step out into the faint drizzle.

  “I wondered if you’d be up,” he says.

  “I can’t lie in here,” I explain. “S’pose I’m still not used to all the traffic noise…” I sense myself blushing. How dumb that sounds, as if Promise was moored on some distant, people-less planet.

  “You’ll stop hearing it after a while,” he says with a smile. “Anyway, fancy coming over to my place today? We can hang out in the summer house if you like.”

  “A summer house?” I exclaim. Now it’s Leon’s turn to look embarrassed.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” he says quickly as we head along Castle Street. “Just an old shed really. You’ll see.” I’m intrigued now, my curiosity growing as the dingy streets soon make way for bigger houses, then huge posh ones, their gardens hidden behind ivy-covered walls with elaborate iron gates. It’s raining harder now, and we hurry along, not saying much. These houses have names instead of numbers – like “The Nook” and “Briar Villa”. Leon’s place, which sits proudly at the end of a curving gravelled drive, is called The Willows. The enormous garden is neat at first, with bright yellow flowers edging each side of the drive. But it soon turns into a tangle of weeds as we make our way to a cream-coloured wooden building at the bottom.

  “Is that your summer house?” I ask.

  He nods. “Told you it was just a shed.”

  “No it’s not,” I retort. “It’s beautiful.” I stop for a moment, taking in the arched windows, the blue pointed roof and the pots of red flowers outside. Sure, the paintwork is flaking, and now we’re closer I can see that the roof’s sagging a bit. But it’s still incredibly pretty and peaceful, like something out of a fairy tale. Down here, you can hardly hear traffic at all.

  “Come in,” Leon says, pushing the door open. I follow him inside, breathing in the warm, woody scent of the place. It’s actually a bit like being inside Promise.

  “You’re so lucky,” I exclaim, glancing down at the brightly patterned floor cushions strewn around, and the assortment of maps and postcards pinned up in-between the windows.

  “I guess it depends on what you mean by lucky,” he says.

  “I mean having a summer house all of your own.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s on the verge of collapse. Dad’s planning to take it down sometime this year—”

  “No,” I say. “He can’t do that!”

  Leon shrugs as we settle on the biggest, squashiest cushions. “It’s been neglected, sadly. My parents have been too busy building up their business to pay much attention to this place…”

  “What kind of business do they have?” I ask.

  “They import stuff from all over the world – ornaments, bowls and rugs and all sorts, from places like India. Then they sell them at vastly inflated prices. Clever, huh?” He laughs dryly.

  “Um … I guess so.”

  “So they’ve kind of left me and my sisters to our own devices,” Leon continues. He grabs a cloth from the table and mops up a splosh of rainwater beside it. “See what I mean about the state of this place? Anyway,” he adds, “tell me more about your boat.”

  I pause, realizing there’s so much I’m bursting to share, I don’t know where to begin. But once I’ve started, it all pours out: about Maggie and Phil spotting Lily-May at Bill’s boatyard, and the tin I’d stashed under my bed. Of course, this means I have to explain about Dad dying, too. “That’s terrible,” he says. “It must’ve been awful for you.”

  I nod, unable to speak for a moment. I’m not used to talking about Dad, that’s the problem. When we lived on the river, everyone knew, so there was no need to explain things. “It was a long time ago,” I say softly.

  “So … what kind of things did you have in your tin?”

  “Mainly newspaper cuttings. Dad was a cross-country running champion and there were articles about that. There were a couple of photos of him as a little boy, and this thing he made, a book of drawings of the seven wonders of the ancient world…” I stop abruptly, realizing only Bella knows this part. “I’ve only ever told my best friend about that,” I add, feeling suddenly shy.

  “You didn’t even tell your mum?” he asks gently.

  I shake my head. “At first, when I was younger, I just wanted something secret of my own – the way little kids do, you know?” Leon
nods, encouraging me to go on. “Especially living on a boat, where there’s hardly any space and nothing’s private. Anyway, I knew it would probably upset Mum if she found out I had this personal collection of Dad’s things. And then…”

  “…Then what?” Leon says.

  “It seemed…” I gnaw at a fingernail. “So much time had gone by, it seemed too late to tell her. I mean, what would I have said – ‘Er, Mum, here’s a tin of Dad’s stuff that I’ve kept all these years’?”

  “I see what you mean,” he says. We fall into silence, broken only by the soft patter of rain on the summer-house roof. “So,” he says, jumping up from his cushion, “what about these wonders of the world? Can you name them all?”

  “Of course I can,” I say, laughing. I mean, how many times have I looked through Dad’s little book?

  “Go on then,” he says with a grin, indicating a map on the wall.

  “Um…” As I scan the brightly coloured countries, the only wonder that comes to mind is Leon’s insanely long eyelashes, which perfectly frame those melting brown eyes. “Er … the pyramids,” I mutter finally, feeling my cheeks glowing pink. He takes a coloured pin from a jar on the table and sticks it on to Egypt.

  “OK … and the next one?” he asks in a teasing voice.

  I bite my lip. “The Hanging Gardens of Babylon,” I blurt out, expecting him to not have a clue where to stick a pin this time, but he does. It goes into what’s now Iraq.

  “I thought you’d just be able to rattle them off straight away,” he teases.

  I laugh and shake my head. “My mind’s gone completely blank.”

  “Well,” he says, “what about the Lighthouse of Alexandria, the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus … the Statue of Zeus at Olympia…”

  “How d’you know them?” I exclaim.

  He grins. “In seven years of being home-educated, it’s about the only thing I learnt.”

  “You mean you don’t go to school?” I ask incredulously.

  “Yep, that’s right.”

  “So … who teaches you? Your mum and dad?”

  Leon shrugs. “In theory, yeah. At least, they started off with good intentions. But then, as they had more and more kids – there are four of us – the novelty wore off…”

  “So none of you have been to school at all?” I ask.

  “Oh, I did a few years of primary.”

  “Is that allowed, though? I thought school was compulsory.”

  “Well, it is,” he says, “but anyone can home-educate their kids if they want to.”

  “But…” I pause, wondering if I’m firing too many questions. “I thought there were checks and stuff, to make sure kids are learning.”

  He shakes his head. “Amazingly, no. Or maybe we’ve been forgotten about. Anyway, it’s pretty good, having loads of freedom…”

  My heart turns over as his eyes meet mine. “Is that why you go out at night? Just because you can?”

  He laughs softly. “I guess so. This might sound mad, but it’s also pretty much the only time I get some space to myself. You see, being the oldest, a lot of the home-educating has kind of fallen to me.”

  I’m digesting this – the fact that a fourteen-year-old boy has found himself teaching his sisters – when there’s a burst of high-pitched yelling outside, followed by the scrunch of feet on wet gravel. “Talking of which,” Leon adds as the shouting reaches fever pitch, “block your ears, Josie. Here they come.”

  The summer-house door crashes open as three rain-dampened girls tumble in.

  “Hey, we’re hanging out in here today,” Leon protests.

  “But it’s raining,” declares the smallest one. She turns to me with a gap-toothed grin. “Hi,” she says boldly.

  “Hi,” I reply, overwhelmed by these wet-haired girls who have stopped their babbling and all turned to stare at me.

  “This is Josie,” Leon says, and I can see now that he’s a good head taller than the eldest of his sisters. “Her family’s just moved into the Stag. Her mum’s the new chef there.”

  “Oh!” the little one exclaims, giving her big brother a significant, wide-eyed look. “That’s Chantelle’s mum and dad’s pub.”

  “Yeah,” Leon replies. “Yeah … it is.” I know I’m being stupid, wincing at the mention of Chantelle’s name, but I can’t help it. “This is Rosie,” Leon adds, indicating the smallest girl. “So-called not ’cause she’s sweet-smelling or anything, but because she’s a thorn in my side.” He goes to play-punch her and she dissolves into giggles, dispelling the brief sense of unease that filled the summer house.

  “Hi, Rosie,” I say.

  “Hi, Josie,” Rosie splutters, highly amused by our rhyming names.

  “Next up,” Leon says, “is Lexi…”

  A girl with fluffy short hair pops her chewing gum. “Hi, Josie!”

  “Hello, Lexi…”

  “And this is Beth.” As Leon introduces her, the tallest sister tosses back a thick fringe.

  “Hiya,” she says with a huge smile.

  “Nice to meet you all,” I say, wondering what we’ll do now, as it’s pretty crowded with five of us in the summer house. I brush away a twinge of disappointment as the three girls sprawl on to the scattered cushions, making no move to leave.

  “So,” Rosie says, grinning up at me, “are you Leon’s girlfriend or what?”

  “Excuse me,” he cuts in quickly while my cheeks burn red hot. “Since when was my life any of your business?”

  “I only asked,” she says smugly while her older sisters snigger away.

  “Yeah, well,” Leon says gruffly, “like I said, we’re hanging out in here today. I know you wanted to check Josie out, and now you have – so bye-bye.”

  “Aw, Leon, you’re so mean.” Rosie fixes her big brother with a wide-eyed look, her skinny light-brown plaits hanging like damp tails at her shoulders. The way he acts with his sisters – impatient, but kind enough to not send them packing right away – is making me warm to him even more. “But what does Chantelle think about—” Rosie starts, at which Leon’s expression darkens immediately.

  “Rosie – shut up,” he barks, turning to me and rolling his eyes. “Anyway, it’s stopped raining now, OK? Go find something else to do.”

  While Beth and Lexi gather themselves up and head outside, Rosie stays put. “Please, Leon,” she says. “Let me stay. Let’s … um…” He throws me a quick apologetic look. “Let’s play dares!” she announces.

  He sighs loudly. “OK. I dare you to get out of here and leave us in peace.”

  “No!”

  Well, that’s what I want too, of course. I want it to be just the two of us, and I also want to ask why Rosie mentioned Chantelle in that way, as if she knows it winds him up. But how would I do that without sounding jealous? I haven’t a clue how to be with him, that’s the problem. Leon has burst into my life with his incredible smile, like no one I’ve ever met before. As he and Rosie chatter away, my gaze skims the seven pins he’s stuck in the map, each one correctly placed.

  “What d’you think, Josie?” Leon cuts into my thoughts.

  “Sorry?” I snap back to the present.

  “The dare. D’you reckon she’ll do it?”

  “Oh, I think so,” I bluff as Rosie, who clearly adores her brother, giggles at his side. Then she clatters out of the summer house, and we stand watching in the doorway as she scampers across the wet lawn towards the imposing stone house. “Er … what did you dare her to do again?” I ask.

  He grins, those intense brown eyes meeting mine and making my stomach swirl. “You’re funny. You were daydreaming there, weren’t you?” No, I was thinking how horribly unfair it would be if, when I’ve only just met you, it turns out you already belong to someone else…

  “Yeah,” I say, sensing my cheeks reddening.

  “Well, I dared her t
o fetch her trumpet from her bedroom, then balance on the garden wall and blast out twenty-five notes.”

  “Oh, right.” I laugh as Rosie reappears, waving a gleaming gold instrument above her head. As she clambers up on to the crumbly old wall, I find myself holding my breath. “What if she falls?” I gasp.

  “She won’t. She’s like a little monkey.”

  I chuckle as Rosie teeters on the wall, her face a huge, sunny grin as she beams at us. The rain has stopped now, and the sun peeps out from behind thin, pale clouds as I glance at Leon. Here in this huge, leafy garden, I feel a million miles from the Stag and my gloomy mustard bedroom. After the rain, everything looks bright and fresh as Rosie puts the trumpet to her lips and starts to blow. We both burst out laughing as her first note fills the air, sounding like a squawking duck.

  “What’s going on out here?” A sharp female voice comes from the house.

  Rosie stops dead and scrambles down the wall, bashing her trumpet against it as she leaps on to the damp, springy grass. “Nothing, Mummy,” she says, bold as anything.

  I glance at Leon as he raises an eyebrow at me. “Mum,” he whispers.

  “Had I better go?” I murmur.

  “Just hang on a minute…”

  I can see her now – a tall, skinny woman in a grey dress, her hair cut in a sharp bob and swinging around her pale, pointed face. Daisy is standing meekly at her side. “It didn’t look like nothing to me,” she snaps, her harsh voice at odds with the sweet-scented day. “You were up on the wall, Rosie, I saw you. What are you playing at?”

  “My trumpet,” she replies.

  “Yes, but what were you doing on the wall with it?”

  “Practising,” she says simply.

  The woman shakes her head, frowning as she glances in our direction. She gives me a quizzical look, as if to say, And who the hell are you?, before turning back to Rosie again. “Don’t be cheeky.”

  “But you said I should practise more,” Rosie says, and I feel a giggle start somewhere deep in my belly.

  “Just go inside and put your trumpet away,” her mum says coolly, at which Rosie scampers towards the rickety-looking porch at the back of the house. “And Leon,” she adds, not even acknowledging that I’m standing beside him, “I need you to come in and help with some orders. Now.”