Praise for Phaedra Patrick’s debut novel The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

‘A feel-good story with oodles of charm that had me rooting for Arthur all the way.’

The Daily Mail

‘Charming by name, charming by nature, this book is a balm for the soul and the heart.’

The Sun

‘A gorgeous journey told through charms.’

Heat

‘Eccentric, charming and wise, this will illuminate your heart.’

Nina George, author of The Little Paris Bookshop

‘A charming, unforgettable story.’

Harper’s Bazaar

‘With many poignant as well as laugh-out-loud moments, in the vein of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, this is a lovely feel-good read.’ Compass

‘As charming and witty as the title suggests.’

My Weekly

‘We love this sweet story about self-discovery.’

Take A Break

PHAEDRA PATRICK studied art and marketing and has worked as a stained-glass artist, film-festival organiser and communications manager. She is a prize-winning short story writer and her debut novel was translated in twenty languages worldwide. She lives in Saddleworth with her husband and son, where she writes full-time.

Wishes Under the Willow Tree is her second novel. For more information, please visit www.phaedra-patrick.com and you can also follow Phaedra on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

For Mark and Oliver

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

1. White Opal

2. Ruby

3. Moonstone

4. Malachite

5. Amazonite

6. Peridot

7. Turquoise

8. Zircon

9. Aquamarine

10. Lapis Lazuli

11. Blue Jack

12. Carnelian

13. Blue Lace Agate

14. Jade

15. Fire Opal

16. Kunzite

17. Azurite

18. Red Aventurine

19. Tourmaline Quartz

20. Bloodstone

21. Tiger’s Eye

22. Sunstone

23. Garnet

24. Poppy Jasper

25. Citrine

26. Blue Topaz

27. Onyx

28. Amethyst

29. Smoky Quartz

30. Diamond

31. Black Obsidian

32. Emerald

33. Sugilite

34. Jet

35. Golden Beryl

36. Alexandrite

37. Rose Quartz

Author’s Notes

Reading group questions

Acknowledgements

Copyright

1. White Opal

hope, desire, fidelity

As Benedict Stone huffed his way to work, the sweet smell of the cherry scones in Bake My Day made him forget for a moment that his wife, Estelle, had packed her purple suitcase and moved out of their home.

His mouth watered and he stopped, sniffed and needed something weighty in his stomach, to help sugar-coat his sorrows. He curled his fingers into his palms and tried to resist, but it was like an ultra-strong magnet pulled him inside the baker’s shop.

A fella like you needs more than just a slice of toast, a sausage roll, bought by a schoolboy, said. You need something sweet too, a chocolate cookie, on display in the glass counter, chipped in.

Benedict tried his best to ignore them, but the lure of a succulent bacon sandwich and an oozy jam doughnut was too strong. He bought both and devoured them before he reached the front door of his shop, Stone Jewellery, just a few metres away.

When he unlocked the door, his stomach dropped as he glanced at the 25% Off Sale sticker he’d taped into his window three months ago.

He switched on the light and took off his jacket. Grey aluminium and glass cabinets lined the walls of the two-man deep and two-and-a-half-man wide space. The walls were all painted dolphin grey, and the floor was grey too. Benedict thought that the colour scheme was calm and elegant though his assistant, Cecil, claimed it needed more va-va-voom.

A black door behind the counter led through to Benedict’s workshop. The small, square room housing his workbench was his sanctuary. When he shut himself away in there, he could block out the outside world and almost convince himself that all was still fine with his wife.

He went inside and straightened up a file on his bench. He liked his tweezers, pliers, snips and soldering iron laid out in lines like a surgeon’s instruments. If Cecil moved his mallet by as little as a centimetre, Benedict could tell. Even with few entries in his appointment book, he felt driven to work. He crafted silver bangle after silver bangle, which he stacked like miniature tyres on the shelf.

Benedict slumped into his chair and placed his hands on his rounded stomach. He imagined the food dancing in there, laughing at him. Ha ha. Benedict Stone is a big guy but he has no self-control.

Shaking his head with remorse, he picked up a brooch he’d been working on. He switched on his gooseneck lamp and his face reflected in the shiny black metal.

Stone was a good name for him. His hair was short, swept back and graphite grey, the same colour as the stubble that peppered his upper lip and chin. Estelle said that he had a kind face, like when kids draw eyes and a smile into uncooked pastry. His hands were so large they looked as if they’d been inflated by a bicycle pump, but his fingers were surprisingly nimble when handling delicate silver findings.

Everything he wore was neutral, from his suit to his socks, except for his size fourteen burgundy loafers. He’d ordered them custom-made, online, but the company had sent the wrong shade.

‘I’m sure you can live with a bit of colour in your life for once,’ Estelle had said with a sigh. ‘Dark red shoes won’t kill you.’

But each time Benedict wore them, he felt conspicuous. His width and height attracted attention, and now he sported berry-hued loafers.

As usual, Cecil arrived at the shop ten minutes late. He had a tropical dress sense, wearing a powder-blue suit, with a peach shirt and an emerald-green tie. His white hair was waxed into a small triangle which reminded Benedict of a budgerigar’s quiff. Cecil spent a lot of time with his two young nieces, so often spoke as if he was on social media.

Each day, he brought his cat, the fearsome Lord Puss, into work. A white Persian, who thought he was superior to humans, Lord Puss sat on a purple velvet cushion on the counter, where he greeted customers with narrow lemon eyes and a flex of his claws.

‘Aloha,’ Cecil called through into the workshop.

‘Hello. The kettle’s boiled,’ Benedict shouted back, pleased to hear Cecil’s voice. He’d spent the weekend alone, mooching around listlessly and wondering what Estelle was doing without him. He watched too many action films and wondered where the heroes got their energy from.

‘Coolio.’ Cecil set his cat basket down and Lord Puss swanked out. The cat blinked around with disdain and settled onto his cushion.

Cecil made two cups of tea – one black for him and one white with three sugars for Benedict. He placed coasters on the workbench and set the cups down. ‘Ooh, what are you making?’ he asked.

‘A silver brooch.’ Benedict held it up for Cecil to see.

‘Another triangular one?’

‘Yes.’

‘It looks a bit Star Trek-y.’

‘Great,’ Benedict said.

‘Yes, if you want to look like Captain Kirk…’

Now that Cecil said this, Benedict thought the piece did look a bit space age. He placed it at the back of his bench.

‘We should make more effort to follow trends,’ Cecil said. ‘What about festival jewellery, or friendship bracelets? How about ear cuffs, or adding gems to your work?’

Benedict stared at him, as if he was speaking a foreign language. ‘This is Noon Sun,’ he said. ‘The villagers like simple, classic things.’

Cecil opened the appointment book and flicked through it. ‘Well, I can see that you’re not going to be rushed off your feet, when I go into hospital for my hernia op. I’ve told Lord Puss that you’re going to look after him.’

‘I don’t know how I’ll cope without you,’ Benedict admitted. He imagined Stone Jewellery being as still and quiet as his own home and the thought made his jaw ache. He wished that he could chit-chat with customers like Cecil did, but his own words queued up in his head like cars in a motorway traffic jam.

‘I don’t like to leave you on your own here, especially with Estelle moving out. How are things between the two of you?’

Benedict’s smile slipped. He picked up the triangular silver brooch and gave it a polish on his trouser leg. He would only allow his friend to see his hurt. Even though Cecil was a gossip, cooing and flattering customers, Benedict knew his assistant had integrity and always looked out for him. ‘All fine, I suppose,’ he mumbled.

‘Benedicto. You don’t have to put a shine on things, for me. How are things really?’

Benedict’s shoulders sloped. He wished that his life could be as shiny and simple as his jewellery. ‘Not good. Estelle’s still staying at her friend’s apartment, whilst Veronica’s working away in America. She’s been gone for six weeks now…’

‘Couldn’t she just check on the apartment each day?’ Cecil asked.

Benedict looked down at his big hands. ‘She wants a proper break, to clear her head. But the longer she’s gone, the more it feels that she won’t come back. Anyway’— he lifted his voice, to try to sound more positive— ‘I hope she’ll be back for our tenth anniversary, in three weeks’ time.’

‘Fingers crossed. Have you got anything spesh planned?’

Benedict opened the drawer in his workbench and took out a long grey box, lined with white satin. The necklace inside wasn’t yet long enough to reach a quarter of the way around Estelle’s collarbone. It was made up of hundreds of interlinked jump rings, each the circumference of a ladybird, in platinum, rose gold, yellow gold and silver. If Benedict didn’t think that a ring was good enough, he dropped it into an old teacup on his bench. It was almost full to the brim of the ones he’d rejected.

Cecil nodded. ‘Très elegant. But what else are you planning to do, to win her back?’

Benedict frowned. ‘I’ve bought her flowers, I took her out for coffee… What else can I do, but wait for her to make up her mind?’

Cecil moved the lamp out of the way and sat on the workbench. ‘You’re going to have to make a proper effort to stop her slipping away. In the medieval days you’d get on a fine white charger and joust for her.’

‘I can’t ride,’ Benedict said as he picked up a link. ‘I’d squash the horse. I want her to come home, but the thing we want more than anything, is the one thing we can’t have…’ His throat suddenly felt like there was a pebble stuck in it and he couldn’t swallow it away. ‘We’ve really tried, but I don’t think it will ever happen for us…’

‘Children?’ Cecil asked quietly.

Benedict nodded. ‘We want a family so much.’

No matter how many times he thought about his and Estelle’s unsuccessful attempts to have a baby, it always felt like he’d been shoved off a railway platform onto the track, in front of a speeding train. He was forty-four years old now and time was flying by. He longed to feel tiny fingers curled around his own and a small heart beating against his chest. The ache of wanting a child weighed him down like wet cement.

‘Estelle says she’s come to terms with being childless. But I haven’t.’ He swallowed. Not wanting Cecil to see that his eyes were growing watery, he shifted his seat closer to the bench and stared at the necklace. ‘I’m happy to adopt, but Estelle doesn’t want to. I hope that staying at Veronica’s gives her time to realise that it’s the best way forward…’

Cecil gave his shoulder a firm pat.

Benedict moved his lamp back into place. ‘I’m sure everything will work out for us,’ he said, sitting more upright in his chair. ‘I just need to bring Estelle home.’

That night, finding it difficult to sleep on his own again, Benedict ambled downstairs in the dark. He wore his grey suit jacket over the top of his striped pyjamas, and his burgundy loafers with no socks. The only sounds he could hear were the creak of the hallway floorboards, the Noon Sun village clock striking twelve, and his own heavy breathing from taking the stairs.

He picked up a torch, a tartan picnic rug and a shopping bag full of food, and opened his front door. He took three gulps of the chilly October air and padded out to the weeping willow tree, in the middle of the lawn. Using his head and shoulders to part its leaves, Benedict clambered into the hollow space. It was once an easy thing to do when he and his brother, Charlie, used the tree as their childhood den. But now, squeezing under proved quite a challenge.

He sighed and shone the torch inside the bag. After pulling out a four-pack of chocolate brownies, he prised open the lid. They were perfect, chunky brown squares with a dusting of icing sugar on top. He fought the urge to eat them, but it was as if he was a robot – hand out, pick up a brownie, munch, repeat.

When he had finished, his shoulders sagged with shame and he leaned back against the tree trunk. His parents had planted it when Benedict was eleven years old and his brother Charlie was three.

Their dad, Joseph, travelled overseas to source and buy gemstones, which he sold on to museums, shops and auction houses. When they could, Benedict, Charlie and their mum, Jenny, joined him.

Benedict was attracted to the solidness and definiteness of the neutral gems; the greys, blacks and browns – Smoky Quartz, Brown Jasper and Onyx. Charlie’s hand shot out for the biggest and brightest – the Red Aventurine, Tangerine Quartz and Golden Beryl.

Joseph drilled holes through each of the imperfect stones and Jenny snipped random lengths of silk thread. Benedict tied gems, a few inches apart, to form sparkling strands and Charlie stood on Benedict’s knee to tie them into the weeping willow.

It was a family tradition that, one day, Benedict hoped to carry on with his own children. But now his future stretched before him, and there was no tinkle of children’s laughter to be heard. The thought made his heart feel as heavy as a cannonball.

He looked up at the room that Estelle used as her art studio and thought how it would make a perfect nursery. But then his eyes moved across to their own bedroom. He wished she was in bed now, waiting for him, so they could rub their feet together under the covers.

Benedict climbed out from under the tree. He left the rug on the ground and crumpled up the bag. He took out his mobile phone from the pocket of his jacket and his big fingers flexed. They seemed to take on a life of their own and he knew that he shouldn’t send a text under the influence of excess calories. But he couldn’t stop. He scrolled to his wife’s number and tapped out a message.

‘I love you. Please come home x’

Inside the house, Benedict trudged upstairs. In Estelle’s studio, he stared at her canvasses, stacked against the wall. She said that her paintings weren’t good enough, but they looked wonderful to him. He cleared some clothes and paintbrushes off the bed, kicked off his loafers and lolled sideways until his cheek touched the pillow. Then he lay there, motionless, until his eyes began to flicker and close.

The loud banging noise startled him out of his sleep. Benedict sat up with a jolt and looked at his mobile phone to see the time – 1 a.m. Ugh. His tongue felt like it was covered in chocolatey fur. He paused, wondering whether to lie back down, or go to his own bed.

But there was the noise again. It was a knock on his front door.

A shot of adrenaline made him stand up. His heart pumped fast and he remembered his text to his wife. ‘Estelle,’ he said aloud and his lips flickered into a small smile.

He finger-combed his hair and felt his way out of the room. Negotiating the stairs in his bare feet, he yelped as he trod on something sharp – a small stone. He brushed it off his foot with his hand.

The knock came again, louder and more persistent.

The rain hammering against the door sounded like zombies drumming their fingers, trying to get inside. He hoped that Estelle was wearing a coat, or had taken a taxi. She would be soaking wet.

He fumbled for his keys and clumsily unlocked the door. Outside, the security light pinged on, illuminating the raindrops so they looked like a shower of diamonds. It took a while for Benedict’s eyes to adjust, and he rubbed them with his fists.

She stood with her back to him. Her dress was wet and clung to her legs. Droplets hung from the hem.

The skin on Benedict’s forearms tingled with anticipation. ‘Estelle…’ he said.

She turned. ‘I thought you were never going to answer.’

Benedict felt recognition glimmer inside him. He took in the shape of her chin, the jump of her nose, the raindrops glittering in her hair. He stared until he felt like he was in a trance.

He knew her face.

But it wasn’t his wife.

2. Ruby

visualisation, dynamism, vibrancy

Benedict wondered who the girl was. He seemed to know her from somewhere. She barely reached his shoulder in height and her wet, dark dress clung to her knees, so they poked through the cotton like knobbles of tree bark. Her legs were bare and she wore battered tan leather cowboy boots. Her arms hung by her sides, in a denim jacket at least two sizes too big for her, and the sleeves covered her fingertips. With her ears poking out through her long, damp hair, her face had an impish quality. Eyebrows, bushy and set too high and angled on her forehead, gave her an air of surprise. Dangling from the end of one sleeve was a small white drawstring bag, the type you get when you buy jewellery in a posh shop.

The outside light clicked off and they both stood in darkness.

‘I thought no one was home.’ Her voice was deeper and slower than Benedict expected. She had an American accent. ‘Where were you?’

‘Um, I was in bed, asleep.’

‘You’re wearing a suit jacket.’

‘I know.’ He wondered why she was questioning him, as if she knew him.

‘Benedict Stone?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Gemma.’ She offered her hand in a karate-chop move.

It was slim and wet, and Benedict’s brain ticked as he shook it. Gemma. Did he know a Gemma?

Estelle used to tell him that she’d bumped into so-and-so in the village, who went to school with such-a-person, who was married to thingamajig. He would smile and nod and not have a clue who she was talking about. Gemma? He couldn’t place her.

‘I’m Gemma Stone.’

Gemma? Gemma Stone? Gemma…Stone.

‘Your niece,’ she said sharply.

‘You’re Charlie’s daughter?’ He gasped. Now that he looked, she had the same nose and chin as his brother. ‘Is he here?’

‘No.’

‘You’re alone?’

‘Yes.’

She stuck out a foot and shook it. ‘And I’m very wet. Are you going to invite me in?’

Benedict took a few seconds to peel his hand away from the doorframe. He shook his head with confusion. ‘Um… yes.’

Gemma bent down and picked up a small, saggy rucksack that lay at her feet and slung it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll follow you, Uncle Ben.’

‘It’s Benedict, actually.’ He headed into the house and Gemma followed. Her boots squelched and left wet oval-shaped footprints on the floorboards. ‘This is the kitchen.’ Words swam in his head. ‘Can I, er, get you anything?’

‘I got a sandwich at the airport.’ She stuck her head around the door. ‘It smells musty in there. And it’s dark.’

‘I’ll switch a light on.’

‘Yeah.’

Benedict squinted as the kitchen light seemed twice as bright as usual. ‘About Charlie…?’ he tried again. How long was it since his brother walked out on him, to go and live in America? Eighteen years?

Benedict still pictured Charlie as a young boy. He’d brought his brother up, since their parents were killed in an accident when Charlie was ten and Benedict was eighteen. He sometimes reached up and touched the underside of his chin, positive that he could still feel the tickle of his brother’s copper hair tucked there.

Gemma stretched out her arms and gave a noisy yawn. ‘I’m so tired after travelling,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to bed and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?’

‘Bed?’ Benedict repeated. ‘You’re staying the night?’

But she was already making her own way up the stairs.

Benedict stared up at the ceiling as the floorboards creaked in his bedroom, Charlie’s old room and then Estelle’s studio. What the hell should he do? Should he follow her up, or try to sleep on the sofa? Should he offer her a change of clothes?

He rubbed his neck and went upstairs anyway, trying to climb them as noisily as he could, so she could hear him approaching.

When he reached the landing, he heard clattering inside the bathroom. Something fell and skittered around in the sink. The toilet flushed, water gushed and the plughole gurgled. There was a bang and Gemma said, ‘Crap.’

Benedict cleared his throat loudly. ‘Ahem.’

Gemma opened the bathroom door by a few inches and pressed her forehead against the doorframe. ‘Before you ask me anything else,’ she said, sighing. ‘I have mental and physical exhaustion.’

‘I just want to know… Well, is your dad okay? Where is your mother?’ Questions bolted around his head like piglets let loose on a farm.

Gemma switched off the bathroom light and pulled the door shut behind her. She carried her clothes in a clump and she wore a pair of Estelle’s pyjamas. They were white with large pink roses and the sight made Benedict feel light-headed. The pyjamas should have his wife inside them, not a stranger.

‘I’m going to take this room.’ Gemma jerked her thumb towards Estelle’s studio.

‘Er, okay,’ Benedict said, too taken aback to add anything else.

His niece dropped her pile of clothes on the floor and pushed her soggy rucksack and boots against the wall with one foot. Leaving the door open, she peeled back the covers and clambered into bed. ‘Thanks, Uncle Ben,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’

When Benedict woke the next day it was 7.30 a.m. and his mouth was as dry as a sand dune. He lay for a while and shielded his eyes with his hand against the mustardy light that sliced around the curtains. At first, the morning felt like every other lonely one since Estelle left, too still and silent. But then Gemma murmured in her sleep, and the strange noise made the roots of his hair stiffen.

Turning, he saw one of Estelle’s empty perfume bottles sitting on top of her bedside table. He reached over, picked it up and held it under his nose. The musky rose scent transported him back to the heat and bustle of a Greek market where his wife laughed and haggled for the amber-coloured bottle. He could almost see the glint of sunlight on the sunglasses pushed back into her black bobbed hair.

When they were on holiday, Estelle liked to go out and explore. ‘What’s the point of sitting still when we’re someplace new?’ She’d smile as she set off to walk to the nearest town. She liked to find local craft shops and, when she returned, present to Benedict what she’d bought – a small ceramic butterfly, or a hand-painted dish for olive oil.

Benedict barely glanced at them. He liked to stay around the pool, listening to families splashing around and imagining that one day he might throw an inflatable Frisbee to his own kids. He tried not to look at the trim dads in their Speedos, when he himself sported an oversized T-shirt and baggy shorts. ‘Isn’t this hotel great for kids?’ he said. ‘It’s got a children’s club too.’

Sometimes, Estelle’s moving out felt like he’d been rugby-tackled and knocked, breathless, off his feet. At other times, he told himself to be more optimistic. She was just helping out a friend and would be back soon. Things would return to normal and they’d pick up their conversation about adoption again. He would try to persuade her it was the best way forward.

Benedict picked up his mobile and saw that Estelle hadn’t replied to his text from last night. For a moment, he wondered about sending another one, but Gemma groaned in her sleep and he slipped the phone under his pillow.

He slid out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and put on his loafers. Stealing a glance in the studio, he saw his niece was curled up with her back to him. Her rucksack was on the floor and it didn’t seem to contain much, for a trip to England from America.

He crouched and strained one arm into the room and pulled her discarded clothes towards him. They were still damp from the rain. Damn, did he even know how to operate the tumble dryer?

As he gathered them to his chest, something white landed on the floor with a thud. It was the bag that had dangled from the sleeve of Gemma’s denim jacket last night. He froze, scarecrow-still, as she muttered in her sleep. When she started to snore, Benedict pushed the white bag back into the room with his foot.

Downstairs, Benedict read and reread the instructions that Estelle had handwritten and taped next to the dial on the tumble dryer. Since she’d gone, he realised how much she did in the house. It was as if a fairy magically popped in and did all the cooking, cleaning, the grocery shopping and the washing-up. For the past six weeks, he hadn’t done much. When his clothes needed a wash, he took them to his friend Ryan’s launderette, Soap’n’Suds, in the village, and Bake My Day provided most of his meals.

Benedict turned a dial on the dryer and hoped for the best.

The dining room used to be tidy, but now there were piles of his clothes, newspapers and screwed-up plastic bags on most surfaces. Estelle liked fresh flowers on the table but instead there was a pile of cork placemats and a heap of junk mail.

He used to think that the house was friendly and well lived in, but now it just looked ancient. The pine kitchen units had darkened over the years to a burnt orange colour, and the lino was torn and needed replacing. Estelle had suggested many times that they spruce up the place, but Benedict wanted to save money, for when they had a family.

Could he really blame her for moving out, when his motivation had shipped out too? Cecil was right; she deserved a jousting knight on a white horse. But that wasn’t him.

As Gemma’s jacket and dress began to spin, he wondered about her impromptu arrival. Why had she arrived so late, and why was she on her own? Something wasn’t right here and the familiar urge of wanting to eat crept up on him like a mutant blob in a fifties sci-fi movie.

It usually started with his stomach feeling as hollow as an empty beer barrel. Then a chirpy voice in his head announced that food would make him feel better. Benedict didn’t experience hunger as such, rather the need to feel full, to take his mind away from the present.

His fingers twitched as he opened the fridge door. On the top shelf sat two chunky slices of lemon cheesecake. Lemons are nice and healthy, they said to him.

‘Shut up,’ Benedict growled and set to work making an omelette instead. He sniffed and wondered if it would cover the musty smell that Gemma had complained about.

He ate it standing up, in front of the sink. Then he succumbed and ate a slice of lemon cheesecake anyway.

When Gemma woke up, he would make her some breakfast and ask for Charlie’s phone number. Benedict wondered what his brother had told Gemma about him. He rubbed his neck with shame and wondered if Charlie would reject him all over again.

When the tumble dryer rumbled to a stop, it had gone past nine. Benedict pulled out the clothes, folded them roughly and carried them upstairs. He was late for work and eating too much had made him feel cranky.

In the studio, Gemma was still in bed and he bent down to deposit her dried clothes on the floor.

‘What the hell…?’ The bed juddered and she sat up, clutching the blanket to her chin.

Benedict stood up so quickly that his back cricked. ‘Ouch.’ He flailed one hand behind him in a failed attempt to support it. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘I was, until you crept into my room, like a pudgy vampire or something.’ She flopped back onto her pillow and specks of dust burst into the air. She reached up, trying to catch them. ‘This house is dirty.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you married?’

‘Um, yes.’

‘You’re not sure?’

Her question felt like a small punch in his gut. ‘I am married. And I dried your clothes.’ He stepped over them and opened the curtains.

Gemma squealed and covered her eyes with her hands.

When she lowered them, he’d forgotten what she looked like. Her hair was now dry, with strands stuck to her cheeks. It was a russet red, darker than Charlie’s copper mop, and it reminded Benedict of autumn leaves. Her irises shone teal blue against the pink of her eyelids. Again, because of the high angle of her eyebrows, he wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not.

‘When you’re dressed,’ he said, ‘I’ll make you an omelette.’

She screwed up her nose. ‘I hate eggs.’

‘I have cheesecake too.’

‘That’s a dessert.’

Her answering back made his head throb. ‘I’m not running a café. After you’ve eaten, we’ll phone your dad. You can tell him that you’re safe and we can make arrangements.’

‘What arrangements?’

‘For whatever you plan to do.’

Gemma frowned. ‘I planned to come here.’

‘To Noon Sun?’

‘Yeah. For an adventure.’

‘Adventure?’ Benedict’s brow puckered as he thought about the sleepy village, with its row of lacklustre shops. ‘You’ll be lucky. And it’s dangerous to turn up on a stranger’s doorstep unannounced.’

‘You’re my uncle. And it’s not unannounced.’

‘It is, if I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘My dad said that you knew.’

‘What?’ Benedict said. ‘I think I’d remember that. We haven’t spoken for years.’

‘Didn’t he write or something?’

‘No.’

Gemma puffed out her breath. ‘I hate arguments.’

‘It’s not really an argument,’ Benedict replied.

But he hated them too. He detested when he and Estelle had chats that turned to discussions which evolved into heated debates. When they couldn’t find a way forward and she would hug her pillow to her chest and stomp into the studio to sleep there instead.

‘When your father moved away, we lost contact,’ he said vaguely. ‘I’m not trying to get you into trouble, but there’s been some miscommunication. So, as soon as you’ve eaten, we’ll get in touch with Charlie, and your mother, to sort things out. Okay?’

Gemma sat up. She drew her knees up to her chin and hugged her shins. ‘It’s not so easy.’

‘Why not?’

‘Cause Dad lives on a farm in north Maine, but there’s no phone line. He doesn’t even have email.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘And he and my mom split, a few years ago.’

‘Oh.’ This threw Benedict. He had always imagined Charlie and his wife Amelia were still together. ‘Sorry to hear that. Does he have a mobile number?’

‘Sure. That’s the only thing he does have.’ She frowned, but her eyebrows remained high and pointed. ‘It’s 605, or is it 4? I think it’s, um…no. Sorry.’

‘Don’t you have it stored in your phone?’

‘Someone took my purse, from the airport restroom. My phone and passport were inside it.’

Benedict stared at her in disbelief. ‘So you don’t have a purse, phone or passport?’

‘Well, I did have them, but not any longer.’

Benedict dug his hand into his hair. ‘I’ll call the airport and see if your purse has been handed in.’

‘I reported it missing last night. They’ll call me if they find it. I’ve thought of everything.’

‘How can they call you, if they have your phone?’

‘Oh.’ Gemma scrunched her mouth into a small circle. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Hey, you could write him a letter,’ she said brightly.

Benedict’s mind conjured up the last slice of cheesecake in the fridge. He wanted it badly. ‘You can’t really stay here…’ he began.

‘You have a spare room.’

‘Yes, but…I’m waiting for my wife to come back.’

‘Where has she gone?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Benedict needed a sit down. He wanted to get into Stone Jewellery and shut himself away in his workshop. He could make another brooch, or links for the anniversary necklace. It would be nice and quiet. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said.

‘Well…’ Gemma jumped off the bed and scooped up her rucksack from the floor. A large hairbrush and a small teddy bear with a purple ribbon around its neck fell out. She picked them up and stuffed them both back inside. Her mouth was set in a thin, determined line. ‘If you don’t want me here, I’ll get my stuff and go.’

Benedict studied the back of her head. ‘Where to?’

‘What do you freakin’ care?’ she snarled. ‘I’m almost seventeen years old and I can look after myself.’

Benedict gulped. He hadn’t calculated in his head how old she might be. Panic began to churn in his stomach. ‘You’re only sixteen?’ How could he turf her out, in a strange country? But he also thought about Estelle, arriving back at the house to find it in a mess and a teenager sleeping in her studio, and wearing her pyjamas. How was he going to deal with that? It was a shame he couldn’t ring Cecil for advice. ‘Look, have your breakfast first.’

‘I don’t want a crappy omelette, okay?’

‘Have some bread then…’

‘Jeez, you sound just like my dad.’ Gemma’s voice fired up a notch. ‘He doesn’t listen to me either.’ She slumped back on the bed and kicked her heels against the base of the mattress. Thud, thud, thud.

‘You must eat something…’

More quickly than Benedict’s eyes could follow, she reached down to the floor and picked something up. She raised her hand to her shoulder as if performing a shot put. Then she thrust it forward. ‘Just stop talking.’

Benedict felt something hit him on his left cheek. Thwump. The pain made him screw his eyes shut. ‘What the…?’

Gemma’s eyes widened. She scrambled off the bed and held out her arms as if carrying a large dog. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Uncle Ben. I didn’t mean to hit you. I meant to hit the door.’

Benedict squinted. On the floor was the small white drawstring bag. ‘Well, that’s okay then. Is this what you threw at me?’ He nudged it with his foot. ‘You can’t go round lobbing stuff at people. That bloody well hurt.’

‘I said sorry.’

Benedict’s cheek throbbed.

‘You should open that white bag,’ Gemma said. ‘I brought it for you.’

‘To throw at me?’

‘I can’t be responsible for all my actions. Open it up.’

Benedict bent down, picked up the bag and eased it open. He immediately recognised the jumble of gemstones inside – an egg-shaped green speckled stone, a chunk of Turquoise and a piece of Rose Quartz in the shape of a heart. His head felt floaty as he picked it out. ‘What is this for?’

‘I want to know what they mean.’

It had been many years since Benedict had seen the gemstones, since he pushed them into his brother’s rucksack before he left for America. ‘They used to belong to my parents.’

‘There must be more to the story than that.’

Benedict felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. He tied the drawstring tight and handed it back to her. Surely Charlie wouldn’t have told her the reason why the two brothers had fallen out? When he spoke his throat was the thickness of a drinking straw. ‘No, there isn’t,’ he said.

‘Well’ —Gemma snatched the bag of gemstones back off him and held them to her chest— ‘I’m sorry for throwing these at you, Uncle Ben. I’ll leave today and not come back. But not until you tell me more about these gems…’

3. Moonstone

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 the stone on her palm and lifted it up. ‘Did you know that the Romans thought that Moonstone was made from frozen moonlight?’

Benedict said that he didn’t.

‘It’s sometimes known as the dream stone and can bring you sweet and beautiful dreams. If you give your lover a Moonstone when the moon is full, you’re supposed to always feel kinda passionate about each other.’

Benedict felt impressed by her knowledge; however a sixteen-year-old girl using the word lover made him feel uneasy.

‘Dad only really told me about Moonstone and I wanna know about the others too.’

‘Your grandfather, Joseph, kept a journal when he was younger. He used to make notes about gemstones.’

‘Really?’ Gemma’s bushy eyebrows arched up.

‘I think it’s in a chest in the attic,’ Benedict added. He hadn’t been up into the dusty, dirty space for years.

‘Can we look at it? Please, Uncle Ben. Before I go…’ She jumped to her feet and did a strange shuffle, her feet dancing on the spot. ‘Just one look. I’ll sit under the gem tree, then I’ll get my rucksack and leave. Your house will be empty again, for when your wife comes back. Please, Uncle Ben.’

Benedict was surprised to find that a lump had risen in his throat and he cast his eyes over this teenager who reminded him so much of his long-lost brother. He’d planned, one day, to show the journal to his own children but that was unlikely to ever happen.

And everyone seemed to leave this house. Benedict’s parents died. Charlie moved to America, and Estelle was staying at Veronica’s. He was tired of being the one who watched everyone go. Gemma was the only one who’d actually arrived.

Even though he hardly knew his niece, the thought of her too moving on made his gut twist. Also, familiar feelings of responsibility, which he’d once had for Charlie, were beginning to edge back, like ivy creeping around a gatepost.

He couldn’t allow her to leave without her purse, phone and passport, and with so few belongings. Whether he liked it or not, he was responsible for her. He mused on the word she had used. Empty. He hated it.

‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘We can go into the attic later, but I need to open up my jewellery shop.’

Gemma cocked her head to one side. ‘Yeah?’ she said brightly. ‘So that means I can stay, right?’

Benedict’s spine stiffened and he felt the need to cough. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You can stay.’ Though as he said it, he wondered if he’d live to regret it.

4. Malachite

transforming, absorbing, soothing

Benedict walked briskly along the canal towpath towards the village and Gemma struggled to keep up with him. Her limbs weren’t coordinated and her boots waggled on her ankles, reminding him of a newborn calf. Watching her made him feel motion-sick.

‘You’re going too fast,’ she complained.

‘Sorry,’ he said and carried on, just as quickly.

Gossip in Noon Sun could spread like oil on water. If anyone spied him and Gemma together, the villagers might pounce like foxes on an injured rabbit. He didn’t want the arrival of his niece to be the new topic of conversation in Bake My Day, the Deserted Dogs charity shop, or the Pig and Whistle pub. He bet that Veg Out greengrocers, Floribunda florists and the Soap’n’Suds launderette were hotbeds for tittle-tattle.

‘Do you have nice customers in your shop, or are they crazy?’

Benedict shook his head at her bizarre question. ‘I don’t actually have that many customers, to categorise them.’

As Gemma pointed and asked what a canal lock was, and he took a moment to explain, Benedict couldn’t help thinking of walking with Estelle, each Sunday. Not having children, they had slipped towards middle age quickly, embracing strolls along the canal and enjoying the scenery. They admired the horses in the fields, a flock of geese, or a kingfisher swooping down to the water. Sometimes they ended up back in bed, in the late afternoon, but it was difficult to be spontaneous, when the pressure of trying for a child weighed down on them.

‘There are hills everywhere,’ Gemma exclaimed, spinning around.

‘If you climb to the top, you’re on the Yorkshire moors.’

The moors made him feel uneasy. They were too wild, too deserted and too vast. The earth shifted, and the colour of the grass and sods of earth morphed from black to violet, emerald to mustard, so the landscape was never the same. One minute the air could be still and calm, and then black clouds descended and a storm could sail over the hills. Estelle said that the moors lured her to paint them, but Benedict shuddered at the thought of her walking up there, with her paints and drawing pad, without him.

‘There’s an interesting old quarry up there,’ he told Gemma. ‘They used to mine a gemstone called Blue Jack in the nineteenth century. It’s indigenous to Noon Sun. Anyway, how did you get to my house last night?’

‘I hitched a ride from a lady at the airport. I told her I’d lost my purse.’

‘That’s pretty lucky.’ Benedict frowned. ‘But you shouldn’t accept lifts from strangers.’

‘She looked nice.’

‘Is this the first time you’ve travelled on your own?’

She shook her head. ‘I went to Paris once, to see the Eiffel Tower.’

Benedict was amazed that Charlie allowed her to do this. ‘I took Estelle there a few years ago, and it was lovely. What else did you see?’

Gemma stopped dead on the towpath and her teal blue eyes flashed angrily. ‘Why are you asking me questions? Stop prying all the time.’

Benedict held up his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, don’t get mad,’ he said. ‘I only asked.’

She tutted and tossed her head.

Benedict sighed and carried on, looking up to see his friends Ryan and Nigel setting up their fold-up chairs on the canal bank. Two fishing rods stretched into the water. A pile of sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil sat between the chairs.

Benedict wondered if he could climb over the wall and take the longer route through the field, to avoid them, though he didn’t fancy his chances in trying to clamber over.

But it was too late. Ryan raised his hand. ‘All right, Benedict? Do you want to join us?’

‘Not today, lads. I’ve got to get into work.’

Ryan was happy to share every detail of his marital problems with his wife, Diane, who had asked him for a divorce. He lamented how sleeping on an inflatable mattress in the spare room gave him a sweaty back. Ryan always smelled strongly of the floral washing powder from Soap’n’Suds, and he ironed pin-sharp creases down the front of his black jeans.

‘We’re going to be here all day,’ Nigel added. He worked at the newsagent’s shop in the village and teamed his faded black Guns N’ Roses T-shirt with a leather biker’s jacket. His long, thinning strawberry-blond hair looked like strings of spaghetti escaping through a colander. Nigel’s latest crush was Josie, the barmaid at the Pig and Whistle, though he didn’t have enough confidence to speak to her. Instead, he bought far too many bags of crisps at the bar in a bid to get closer.

Ryan and Nigel sat back in their canvas chairs and stared at Gemma, as if she was an exotic zoo creature they’d never seen before. Benedict could see they were waiting for an introduction and he wasn’t going to offer it.

‘Maybe, I’ll see you later, lads,’ he said and placed his hand lightly on the small of Gemma’s back, to usher her onward.

When they were out of earshot, Gemma scraped her feet. Benedict slowed down to allow her to catch up to him.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Are you ashamed of me, Uncle Ben?’

‘No. Of course not.’

Her eyes told him that she didn’t believe him.

‘Look,’ he sighed. ‘Not much happens around here so, when it does, the villagers can latch onto it like leeches.’

‘So you’re happy I’m here?’

‘Happy’ was too strong a word, but he said yes anyway.

‘So,’ she said, ‘I can have a job in your shop then, huh?’

Benedict held his fist to his mouth and coughed in surprise. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Let’s not rush things, eh?’

When Benedict and Gemma reached the high street, they neared Crags and Cakes. The café had undergone several refurbishments and now had an Alice in Wonderland theme, complete with a six-foot-tall angry-looking white rabbit on the pavement. The villagers said he looked so cross because of the cost of the cakes. Three pounds ninety-nine for a slice of Victoria sponge was extortionate.

Benedict’s footsteps slowed down.

‘Is this your shop?’ Gemma asked.

‘No,’ he said quietly. He touched his wedding ring. ‘It’s where I met Estelle.’

‘Yeah?’ Gemma pressed a hand to her chest. ‘Was it romantic?’

Benedict gave a quick grin. ‘Kind of.’ He told Gemma that each Sunday morning, the Noon Sun Walkers met outside Crags and Cakes for a quick coffee before going for a hike on the moors. ‘My doctor told me to get more exercise and I thought walking would be easy. I bought some boots and a padded coat and off I went, thinking that I’d be like David Beckham within no time. And I saw this woman outside the café. She had hair like Cleopatra and she wore a purple coat and matching hairband. I couldn’t look away.’ He swallowed as he thought of Estelle’s cobalt eyes and full lips.

‘Aw. That’s cute.’

‘We hiked up to Dinosaur Ridge, a local landmark up high on the moors. The rocks are supposed to look like the profile of a stegosaurus. I was lagging behind but I heard a woman’s voice say, “Quick. Shoulder.” And it was Cleopatra. Well, Estelle. She had a stone in her boot and wanted to lean on my shoulder to steady herself. She said that I looked solid.’

‘I suppose that’s one word to describe you,’ Gemma said.

‘I thought she was gorgeous but I didn’t know what to say.’ He was aware that his words were flowing more freely than usual, because he wanted to talk about his wife. He thought back to that day and tried not to groan when he remembered his riveting first words to Estelle.

‘My legs are killing me,’ he said.

‘You’ll be fine. If you’re not, I can always carry you over my shoulder.’

‘Perhaps if you have a small crane…’

‘I’m stronger than I look.’ She rolled up her sleeve and flexed her arm. They both stared at the slight bump that appeared above her elbow. ‘Pure muscle,’ she laughed.

‘I believe you now.’

‘By the way, I’m Estelle.’

‘And I’m Benedict.’

When they eventually climbed up and reached Dinosaur Ridge, the rest of the group sat on the stegosaurus scales, looking smug and eating their sandwiches. ‘I have a joke,’ Estelle said as she rubbed her knees. ‘It’s completely rubbish. Do you want to hear it?’

‘Go on.’

‘Why are there no tablets in the jungle?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Because the parrots eat ’em all. Get it? Paracetamol.’

‘That’s funny,’ Benedict said, even though it wasn’t.

‘You tell me one.’

Benedict could only think of one that he’d overheard a couple of schoolboys sharing outside his shop. He regretted it as soon as he started to tell it. ‘How do you get a fat guy into bed?’ he asked.

Estelle frowned. ‘I have no idea.’

‘A piece of cake.’

She snorted and then laughed out loud. Her headband slipped off the top of her ears. ‘I may bear that in mind,’ she said.

Throughout the rest of walk, Benedict replayed his joke over and over in his head. It was so lame.

They agreed that a pint of cider in the Pig and Whistle would help to ease their aching thighs, and they talked so much that their cheese sandwich tea led into a pub quiz in the evening. They came second and, when Benedict walked Estelle home, they celebrated by kissing on the canal towpath in the moonlight.

Their dates from then on revolved around food – a new tearoom that Estelle had read about, over in York, or a new sandwich on the menu at Crags and Cakes. Except, whereas Estelle was sensible, choosing small dishes, salads, skipping a dessert, Benedict didn’t have the willpower. He liked large meals and full oval plates, finding the heavy feeling in his stomach comforting. He couldn’t resist a sticky toffee pudding, especially with custard.

They married almost two years later in the small church in Applethorpe, and began to try for a baby on their honeymoon in Santorini.

‘I’d love to have two kids, standing on my knee, under the gem tree,’ Benedict said, as the moon shone through the window, making the white bed sheets shine silver. ‘Like Charlie and I did with our mum and dad.’

Estelle smiled. ‘Who knows…in nine months’ time…’

‘We should stock up on nappies.’

However, the months rolled by and no double blue lines appeared on the pregnancy kits that Estelle bought each month, just in case.

For the first couple of years, it didn’t concern them; they were having fun trying. But slowly, increasingly, it mattered.

‘Never mind.’ They smiled at each other. ‘Next month, definitely.’

But still nothing happened.

They started to make love to a schedule, noting the days when Estelle was supposed to be most fertile.

Doctors’ appointments and hospital appointments began to fill up their calendar. Benedict felt grubby as he sat in a small cubicle with a porno mag in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. But this was nothing compared to the invasive tests that Estelle underwent. She had sample tests and scans and blood tests, a hysteroscopy and a laparoscopy. Benedict stood and watched her disappear into rooms and behind curtains, and coming around, groggily, from her operations.

And the results were always the same. Nothing. Unexplained infertility.

Estelle started to look at the pregnancy tests in private, with the bathroom door locked. When she came out she was quiet and her cheeks were streaked with tears.

They still went out for walks, their pub lunches together, on holiday, to gigs over in Applethorpe. Benedict worked in the jewellery shop and Estelle started to paint.

They went through three rounds of IVF, which failed. The process gave Estelle excruciating headaches and made her feel lethargic, but she was determined to try again. Benedict sold his Ford Focus to pay for another go, but that didn’t work either. There was nothing in the bank and the only thing left to sell was the house. They put it on the market for a year but prospective buyers deemed it old-fashioned, too much work to do.

Benedict and Estelle started to count the years, not celebrating the anniversary of when they met or married, but in terms of how long they’d been trying for children. ‘It’s been three years, since we first started’… ‘It’s been five years now’… ‘I can’t believe it’s coming up to eight.’

Until they both, sadly, agreed that it wasn’t ever likely to happen.

There were strangers missing in their relationship who had never been real. They had invented ghosts and pinned their hopes and futures to them. Benedict and Estelle had fallen in love with children who would never be.

Benedict had thought only of being a father and, without that dream, he felt lost, like he was only a husk of a man. What was his identity now? Being a jeweller or husband wasn’t enough. He needed to be a parent.

A silence settled in the Stone household, like a fine layer of dust, coating everything.

When she was made redundant from the accounts department at Meadow Interiors, Estelle set up their spare bedroom as a studio. As her confidence grew, she started to walk on the moors on her own, with her sketchbook and paints. She travelled to York to buy new brushes and only told Benedict when she got home. She retreated to her studio for hours at a time.

Last Christmas, Benedict looked out of the dining-room window at the gem tree. It was coated in snow and children were laughing in the street, building a snowman. He swallowed and held his back straight. A deep longing welled inside him. ‘I think it’s time that we thought about adoption,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a child who needs us, out there somewhere.’

Estelle stood beside him. She reached up and leaned on his shoulder, as she had done the first time they met. She didn’t speak for a long time. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ she said, in a quiet voice. ‘This isn’t about raising any child. It’s about us having our own.’

‘It would be ours. Not biologically, but we have so much love to give.’

Estelle shook her head. ‘I don’t want to adopt.’

‘Why not?’ Having a family was all they had talked and dreamed of. How could they even contemplate a future without it?

‘It would be a stranger’s child. Not really ours.’

‘I looked after Charlie when my parents died…’ He tried to wrap his arms around her but she squirmed away.

‘You had no choice. And your brother broke your heart…’ Her words trailed off.

Benedict stared out of the window. ‘That’s different.’ He’d never told his wife what happened between him and Charlie all those years ago. Or why his brother left. He wanted a family with Estelle, and he wouldn’t mess up this time. ‘This isn’t about Charlie. This is about us,’ he said, though he felt desperation tug inside him. ‘Please let’s consider adoption.’

‘I have done, Benedict, but I feel that this isn’t about you and me, and our family, any longer. It’s about you wanting a child. Any child.’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘It feels that way. We need to accept that we’re not going to be parents, and to plan a future for just the two of us.’

‘But I can’t…we can’t…’

‘We’ve got to learn how to.’ Estelle hung her head.

In the darkness, Benedict stared out at the snowy gem tree. It looked like its legacy, of the Stone children hanging gemstones into it, was about to end. Unless he could persuade Estelle otherwise.

After thinking about his wife, Benedict wanted to be alone for a while. When he and Gemma reached Stone Jewellery, he took all the money out of his pockets and told her to open her hands.

‘What for?’ she asked.

‘If your purse is missing, you’ll need some cash. You haven’t brought many things with you.’

‘I don’t need them.’

‘Well, go to the Deserted Dogs charity shop, anyway, to see if there’s anything you like. They raise money to help unwanted dogs in the area. It’s opposite the community centre. Look out for a large red-brick building with a big “Closed. Keep Out” sign on the door.’

‘Why “Keep Out”?’

‘The roof is caving in and the council don’t have the funds to pay for a new one. It’s a shame because it was sort of a village hub for things like yoga and baby groups.’

‘That’s real sad. What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll go into the shop, to do a few jobs. You can buy us some nice lunch, too.’ His stomach gurgled at the thought of a chunky chocolate cupcake. ‘Now, put the money in your pocket so you don’t lose it…’ He paused, realising this was something he used to say to Charlie.

‘Don’t forget that I travelled from America. On my own.’ Gemma gave a withering sigh. ‘I am capable.’ She stared around herself hesitantly.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah. It’s a new place. I don’t know anywhere yet.’

‘It’s a very small village.’ Suspicion edged into Benedict’s voice. ‘I thought you went to Paris…on your own.’

‘Yeah, well…’ Gemma glared at him and scrunched up the money in her fist. ‘Paris had a big tower, as a landmark.’ She looked down the street again. ‘You go and do your own thing, Uncle Ben. And I’ll go and do mine.’

5. Amazonite

integrity, calming, aligning

The shop door scraped against a wodge of leaflets on the doormat. Picking them up, Benedict saw they were all the same. Four grainy faces glared back at him. Rock band, Restore the Hope, was playing a warm-up gig in Applethorpe before their UK tour. Benedict cursed and folded the leaflets in half.

Another leaflet had drifted farther into the shop, and he stooped down, immediately recognising one of Estelle’s paintings of the moors. He read the white words:

Lawrence Donnington presents a preview of ‘Moorland Escape’ by Estelle Stone at Purple Heather Gallery, Noon Sun Village 6.30–8.30 p.m., 28th October

Benedict’s heart dipped. He didn’t know about this. Why hadn’t she told him about her exhibition? Was Estelle embarrassed by him?

Purple Heather used to be a small tearoom, but local entrepreneur Donnington had renovated it and turned it into an art gallery, to display the work of Yorkshire artists.

Benedict had passed by and it was very modern, with white walls and polished floorboards. He spied Lawrence himself, standing in the middle of the gallery and waving his arms around as if conducting an orchestra. He dressed like a French mime artist, with slim hips in tight black trousers, and a Breton striped top.

The women of Noon Sun seemed to like him though. Benedict once overhead a small group in the Pig and Whistle gushing about him and fanning their flushed faces with the laminated menus.

From the shop counter, Lord Puss let out a short meow that sounded more like a bark, and his yellow eyes were like slits. From hearing the noise at least ten times a day, Benedict knew that His Royal Highness wanted food. ‘Now I have a cat and a teenager to feed,’ he said with a sigh. ‘You’ll have to wait a bit longer, Lord Puss. A bit of patience will do you good.’

He caught a glimpse of Estelle’s purple anorak hanging in the store cupboard and he reached out to touch the vivid fabric. He allowed himself a moment to imagine his wife wearing it, then he withdrew his hand and furled it into a fist. What was he going to do to get her back? He wasn’t particularly handsome, and he knew he ate too much. He might mention family too often, but he loved her with all his heart. He just didn’t know how to express it.

He opened the back door and took a food sachet from his pocket. He squeezed it into the cat’s bowl and threw the leaflets for the rock band in the bin. ‘Here, puss, puss,’ he said wearily.

Lord Puss jumped off the counter and walked as slowly as he could out into the yard. He barely sniffed his food bowl then sat down. A dapple of sunshine illuminated the paving flags with a circle of light so it looked like he was under a spotlight, waiting for applause. He turned his face away from Benedict, as if he had smelled something bad.

‘Damn cat.’

Back inside, Benedict carried his laptop through to the workshop and flipped it open. After waiting ages for it to fire up, he was glad that Noon Sun had internet connection today. The phone and broadband in the village only worked intermittently because the surrounding hills blocked the signal.

Benedict had never made a proper effort to track down his brother before, for fear of what might happen. But this time, he Googled Charlie Stone and Charles Stone. He chewed his bottom lip as half a million results showed up.

Part of him wanted his brother’s face to appear on the computer screen, but another part wanted it to remain hidden, so Benedict wouldn’t experience the awful pangs of shame that kept him awake at night.

His fingers shook a little as he tried again, this time typing in Charlie and Amelia Stone and then Gemma Stone. But there were still thousands of results.

It looked like Gemma’s suggestion of sending a letter might be his only way of making contact with Charlie after all.

Next, Benedict phoned the airport and spoke to a young man who had a Northern Irish accent and who spoke at breakneck speed. He informed Benedict that there was no record of a purse with a passport inside it being handed in. He took Benedict’s name and number and said that he’d call if anything turned up. ‘Don’t count on it though,’ he added. ‘Have a nice day.’

Benedict lowered himself into his chair. He opened his drawer and found half a packet of Polo mints pushed into the corner. He munched them one after another then crumpled the foil into a ball, tossed it into the bin and gave himself a small cheer. He opened another drawer and took out the anniversary necklace. Slinking it over the back of his hand and touching its tiny links, he hoped that Estelle would realise how much time and love he’d poured into it.

When his phone vibrated in his pocket, Benedict’s heart leaped. A text from his wife? Finally.

‘How R U Benedicto?’ Cecil asked.

Benedict sighed. ‘I should be asking you that! How did the op go?’

‘Okay but a few complications. Visiting time is 6.00 till 7.30.’

‘I’ll be there tomorrow.’

‘Any news on Estelle?’

Benedict hesitated. ‘Not yet,’ he texted. He couldn’t think of how to tell Cecil, in a few words, about Gemma’s arrival.

Cecil replied, ‘. How is Lord Puss?’

‘He misses you.’

‘Me too. Send my .’

Benedict couldn’t think of anything worse than whispering gooey sweet nothings to the fluffy beast. ‘I will do. Now rest up. All is great here.’

‘,’ said Cecil.

While Benedict waited for Gemma, no customers came into the shop. He thought that he’d relish the quietness away from her, but when he picked up a length of gold wire to make more links, he squashed each one.

As he slid another batch of rejected links from his palm into the teacup, the electronic beep-bop in the showroom sounded. Gemma returning early, he pressed his lips tight.

‘Hello,’ he called out and walked into the showroom. And then his heart and time seemed to come to a standstill.

His wife stood in the middle of the shop.

‘Estelle?’ His word sounded raspy.

‘Hello, Benedict,’ she said.

He used to greet her with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek and he wanted to do that now. They’d shared twelve years of love and laughter, but they stood facing each other as if there was a thick pane of glass between them.

His wife used her arms and hands to express herself – a reassuring pat to his shoulder, a hug hello, a rub to his forearm as she spoke. This woman looked like Estelle and sounded like her, but she didn’t move like his wife. It was like a clone had taken over Estelle’s body but hadn’t downloaded her personality.

He felt as if his limbs were held together by glue that was becoming unstuck. If he moved, then he might fall apart. ‘Estelle,’ he repeated. Words wafted around in his head and he couldn’t pin them down to say them to her. If she came home, he would do whatever he needed to, to make things right. He didn’t want to beg, but if that’s what it took then he would do it.

Estelle touched her neck and he saw that she was wearing a bright resin necklace that looked like a firework exploding from beneath her collar. She followed his eyes. ‘Oh, this? Friends bought it for me, to celebrate my exhibition at Purple Heather.’

‘It’s very bold.’

‘It’s nice to have a change sometimes.’

Benedict cleared his throat. ‘Your exhibition looks very exciting. Congratulations. I found a leaflet on my doormat.’

Her brow furrowed in the middle. ‘Sorry. I thought that you knew about it.’

‘No.’ He tried to say it without emotion but felt a tremble in his voice.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Things have been so crazy recently. I hope that you’ll come along.’

Benedict wanted to attend, but what part would he play? He wasn’t sure if Estelle was inching him out of her life. He thought of Cecil’s words about getting on his proverbial medieval horse to joust for her. But what could he do?

He felt like he was sitting on the beach when a huge wave crashed, filling his nose and mouth with salt water. He might try to flail around and scramble away, but he was drowning. How had they come to this? It had happened so gradually – the niggles, the arguments, the silences had all reached a crescendo of awfulness, until his wife had felt the only option was to move away from him.

Estelle was coping with things much better than he was. She had a shiny new apartment to live in, friends to support her and a dazzling new career as an artist. And Benedict felt bereft, like a small child watching a circus driving away from town and not knowing if it would return.

Estelle looked around the shop. ‘You don’t have your lights on in here.’

‘I just called in to feed Lord Puss.’

‘Not much work on then?’

He couldn’t tell if she said it with concern, or if there was a slight barb to her comment. ‘Oh yes. No problem there,’ he said, thinking about his empty appointment book. ‘Busy, busy.’

Over his wife’s shoulder, through the large front window, he saw Gemma lollop past on the opposite side of the road. She carried armfuls of coloured shopping bags and she stopped to wave at him.

Benedict looked away quickly, pretending not to see her. He rubbed the back of his neck, willing her to notice that he was talking to someone and to move on. He didn’t want Estelle and Gemma to meet, until he’d had the chance to talk to Charlie, to find out what the hell was going on. However, Gemma waved again. She edged towards the kerb.

‘I have other things to sort out today, with Cecil being in hospital.’ He swallowed.

‘How is he?’ Estelle asked. ‘Did his op go okay?’

‘Yes, he’s fine.’ The stress of seeing Gemma made his words come out too quickly. ‘I’m going to visit him tomorrow.’

‘Good. Send my love.’

As Gemma crossed over the road, heading towards the shop, Benedict automatically shook his head.

‘What is it?’ Estelle asked sharply.

‘I’ll tell Cecil that you asked after him.’

‘You’re shaking your head.’

‘Sorry.’

Gemma now stood outside the shop, looking at his window display.

‘You seem distracted.’ Estelle pulled her coat around her. ‘I should go.’

‘No.’ Benedict reached out to touch her arm, but felt as if he’d made contact with an invisible force field. He slowly lowered his hand. ‘Please don’t go.’ He opened his mouth to speak again, but the shop door opened.

Gemma heaved her shopping bags inside. ‘Hi there,’ she chirped. ‘I’m Gemma.’

Benedict lost all of the words in his head, at the sight of his niece and wife in the same small space. His eyes flicked between the two of them as if he was watching a game of table tennis.

Gemma strolled around the shop, peering into each of the cabinets.

Estelle didn’t look at her. ‘I stopped by to ask if I can come over to pick up my paintings from the spare bedroom? Canvasses are expensive, so I’m going to paint over my old ones.’

Benedict’s brain started to tick with possibilities. This could be the opportunity he’d hoped for. He could tidy the house, buy some fresh flowers, maybe attempt to make a shepherd’s pie, and then casually invite Estelle to stay for tea. He’d open a bottle of expensive red wine to create a nice ambience for the two of them to discuss things.

But Gemma was sleeping in Estelle’s studio.

His eyes darted over towards his niece again. Looking at her russet hair made him feel dizzy. ‘I’ll drop the paintings off at Veronica’s apartment for you,’ he said.

‘Actually, Lawrence has offered to help me pick them up. He’s an expert in landscape art, and I don’t want to paint over any paintings that he thinks are worth saving. He’s been so wonderful, helping me to set up the exhibition.’

Benedict thought of the clumps of bags, and piles of bills, on every conceivable surface in the house. He winced at the mention of Lawrence’s name. ‘It’s not actually a good time…’ he started.

‘Oh. What’s the problem?’

‘Nothing. I’ll drop the canvasses off for you tonight.’

When Estelle spoke again, her voice was cooler and low. She took a step back towards the door. ‘There’s really no rush,’ she said. ‘Don’t go to any trouble.’

This is all going so wrong, Benedict thought. He wanted to stride over and stand in front of the door to stop her from leaving. He couldn’t bear to see her walking away from him, again.

As he furiously thought what else to say, little by little, Benedict became aware that Gemma had turned away from the cabinets and was clearly listening into their conversation. She stood with her arms folded, gawking at Estelle.

At that moment, Benedict wished that he was psychic so he could send Gemma a message via his mind to stop her from staring. His own heart reverberated loudly in his ears, like there was a military drummer practising in his skull. He sensed that his niece was waiting for an introduction to his wife, and he wasn’t ready to give it. How could he tell Estelle that Gemma had turned up unannounced? His wife would have more questions than he had answers.

Estelle noticed too. She gave Gemma a confused glance.

‘I’ll deliver your paintings tonight,’ Benedict said.

Estelle gave a small, tight smile as she reopened the door. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said. ‘I feel there’s something going on here…’

‘No, I…’

She held up a hand to stop his words.

‘No, I want to say…’ He didn’t actually know what he was going to say. There were no ordered words in his head.

‘Let’s leave things alone, Benedict. If I’m not in when you call, leave the canvasses by the front door of the apartment. It’s a communal hallway, so they’ll be safe there.’

‘I… I…’ Benedict started again, but Estelle left the shop. He watched as she bustled past the shop window, her lips pinched together.

‘About the text I sent you…’ he shouted after her. But if she heard, she didn’t turn back.

Gemma dropped her shopping bags onto the floor and gave a slow handclap. ‘That went well. Way to go, Uncle Ben.’

Benedict couldn’t stop all the frustration of the last few weeks from spilling out in his voice. ‘What the hell did you come in the shop for?’ he demanded. ‘I was trying to talk to my wife.’

Gemma took a small step back and her ankle buckled in her cowboy boot. ‘Hey. I didn’t know it was Estelle, until I overheard your conversation. Then I figured it out.’

‘You listened in,’ he accused.

‘Well, sorta.’ She shrugged. ‘Hey, are you worried about this Lawrence guy? Your nostrils flared real big when she mentioned his name.’

‘They did not.’

‘Yeah, they did.’

Benedict pictured the handsome gallery owner in his striped T-shirt and he suddenly felt exhausted. He wanted to go home and slump on the sofa, whether his wife was there or not. ‘If you’re going to stay with me then we need some rules,’ he said grumpily.

‘You don’t have to worry about me.’ Gemma pointed at her own chest. ‘I think you need to focus on getting your wife back. Especially if this Lawrence guy is hanging around. Why didn’t you introduce me to her? I knew that you’re ashamed of me.’

Benedict opened his mouth to respond but then closed it again. He felt too emotionally drained to speak. It also wasn’t fair to take his infuriation out on his niece. He waited until he felt a little calmer. ‘I’m not ashamed of you, okay,’ he sighed. ‘I want to speak to Charlie first before I introduce you to Estelle. That’s all. Sorry for getting cross with you.’

‘That’s okay. I get it.’

His shoulders slumped. ‘I need to do something about Estelle.’

‘Just do it then.’

‘I’m not good at stuff like that. I can’t think of anything to do for her.’

Gemma folded her arms. ‘Hmmm.’

‘Hmmm, what?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘We need a plan.’

‘We?’ Benedict said. As he plodded over to the counter, to lean against it, he felt like his feet were coated in tar. ‘Need a plan?’

‘Yes. A plan. An operation…to win Estelle back. Hey, Operation Win Estelle Back, that spells WEB. Well, OWEB really, but that doesn’t sound as cool.’

‘WEB?’ Benedict repeated, feeling both scared and intrigued at the same time.

‘Yes. WEB. You need a plan to get your wife back, Uncle Ben. And you need my help to do it.’

6. Peridot

protection, emotional balance, renewal

Benedict could kill for a chocolate éclair, or a slice of lemon drizzle cake. He wanted to eat and take his mind off Estelle. The sugar might stop his directionless thoughts from whirring around in his mind.

When Gemma tried to show him her purchases from Deserted Dogs, he scrambled in his head for an excuse to go into the kitchen and search through the cupboards for a stray bar of chocolate. However, his niece would probably be like a sniffer hound and know what he was up to.

He decided to slump on the sofa and let her chatter wash over him.

‘I got some cool stuff. Here’s this cute red dress and a plaid skirt. Oh, and a leather bag with lots of pockets. There was a box full of expensive underwear and pantyhose. It was all new, with the tags on and everything. I got us some good food too. Fruit. I put it in the fridge.’

‘Lovely,’ Benedict said. He pondered about what he could have said to Estelle, in the shop. Perhaps he should have introduced Gemma…

Gemma shook out a pair of jeans and tried to hoist them on over her cowboy boots, managing to only pull them up to her ankles before they got stuck. She slid her legs back out and the boots remained jammed in the trouser legs. ‘I’ll show you these ones later.’

‘That’s fine.’

She tugged out her boots and dropped them to the floor with a couple of thuds. ‘Are you even listening to me, Uncle Ben?’

‘I am,’ Benedict lied. ‘You’ve bought some nice things. Well done.’

Gemma gave a small low growl, like Lord Puss when he saw another cat.

‘Okay, okay.’ He held up his hands. ‘I was thinking of other stuff.’

‘About Estelle, right? And my dad, I bet.’ Gemma folded up her clothes into neat squares and set them on the armchair.

She sounded dismayed, but there was nothing he could do about it. ‘Both. Now, will you write down Charlie’s address for me?’

‘You don’t need it. I texted him before I lost my phone.’

‘I’m sure he’ll want to hear from you again. Can you remember any other phone numbers, so we can get a message to him?’

Gemma’s pointed eyebrows twitched upwards. ‘Nope.’

‘Then I’ll have to write.’ Benedict picked up a pen and scrap of paper from the table and handed them to her. ‘Scribble down his address.’

Gemma flicked her hair, but she wrote on the paper and tossed it back to him.

‘Sunnyside Farm,’ he read. ‘North Maine’.

The words made him feel a little calmer. He finally had a name, a place and a way to get in touch with Charlie, even if it was by letter. He smiled at Gemma, but her face was screwed into a scowl.

He addressed the envelope then added his own details, his phone number and email address to the top. Stuck for what to write, he brushed away a speck of imaginary dust from the paper with the side of his hand. Gemma peered over his shoulder, so Benedict couldn’t write about his real feelings and worries and regrets, and he kept the letter short.

Dear Charlie

This is just a small note to let you know that Gemma arrived here safe and sound. I understand that she texted you to let you know, but I thought that you might like to hear it from me, too. Unfortunately, she’s lost her phone so we don’t have your number to call you.

We’ve agreed that she’ll stay for a few days, maybe longer, depending on what you’re happy with. I’ll help her out all I can; however, it would be useful if you could contact me as soon as you can, so we can discuss her next moves. I’ll keep this letter short and sweet, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Then he added:

I hope you are well. Best wishes from your brother, Benedict

‘That 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 ancient.’ Gemma grinned but then her smile fell away. ‘I suppose they were really young when they had me. Probably too young and that’s why things didn’t work out. Maybe they shouldn’t have had me at all.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘It’s true. Less trouble for everyone, huh?’ She pressed her chin down towards her chest.

Benedict wasn’t sure what to say and he looked at the photo again. ‘You said that your parents split up? Where is your mother?’

‘Oh, Mom met someone else. He’s a bit of a dork, but okay really. I don’t wanna talk about it.’ She peered through her curtains of hair. ‘I want to find out more about my other family. What happened to my grandparents?’ Gemma asked. ‘I mean, my dad told me, but will you tell me too?’

Benedict took a deep breath and let his hands drop into his lap. He swallowed and it hurt his throat. He hadn’t shared this story for a long time and he still found it painful. However, Gemma should know her family history.

‘They went to buy gemstones, overseas,’ he said. ‘Me and Charlie sometimes went along but Charlie got it into his head that the school football team couldn’t win an important match without him, so we stayed behind.’ Benedict closed his eyes, remembering. ‘I was half watching the news on TV at teatime, while Charlie played football outside. The report was about a tsunami in Sri Lanka. I didn’t have the sound turned on, but I watched these huge grey waves sweeping houses and cars away, as if they were twigs in a river. People were running and screaming, clutching children to their chests. The sea even swilled around houses inland, reaching their second-storey windows. Mum and Dad were out there, and I just knew that things weren’t okay.’

A lump formed in his throat and he gulped it away. He pushed his hand into his hair and stopped talking, unable to continue for a while. ‘Charlie was only ten.’

Gemma sat still, listening.

Benedict looked down at the floorboards, watching as a spider scuttled towards his knee. ‘I made Charlie his supper and tried not to worry,’ he continued. ‘But then, the next morning, one of my parents’ business associates phoned the house. They said that Joseph and Jenny Stone had drowned. They were identified from documents in their rucksacks.’

‘Oh God, Uncle Ben.’ Gemma clasped her hands to her mouth. She shifted around the chest and sat next to him, the top of her arm pressing against his. ‘That sucks.’

‘The worst thing was telling Charlie,’ Benedict said. ‘He probably thought I was getting him up for breakfast. Instead, I told him that both his parents were dead. He cried out and I can still hear the sound.’ He shook his head, as if to get rid of the noise. ‘I felt numb and I can’t remember anything else of that day, except me and Charlie huddled together on the sofa. We just stared into space.

‘After that, friends and distant relatives offered help but they couldn’t bring up two orphaned brothers. I took charge of everything.’

‘You became, like, my dad’s parent?’

‘Yes, sort of. Our parents’ rucksacks arrived back at the house a few weeks later. They were all white and crusty from sand and seawater. There was a small bag full of gemstones in the front pocket of my mother’s rucksack. They’re the ones you brought with you.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘They died looking for pretty coloured pieces of rock.’

He felt Gemma’s fingers creep on top of his, and tightly hold the back of his hand.

‘So now you know what happened,’ he said.

‘And why don’t you and Dad speak? You sounded so close, when you were younger. You went through a lot together. What happened?’

Benedict shrugged. ‘Your dad found a different life, in America, with your mum.’ He could make it sound so simple.

‘But why would he want to move away and never come back? Why couldn’t he visit or something? He could have brought me to meet you.’

There was nothing that Benedict could say, without thinking back to what had happened between him and Charlie to break their friendship and family bond. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘Why did you come here from America?’

He felt her fingers tense and she pulled her hand away from his.

‘I told you. I came here for an adventure,’ she said frostily. ‘Not to escape or anything.’

‘Escape?’ Benedict frowned. ‘Who said anything about that?’

Gemma shuffled away from him, back into her own space on the opposite side of the chest. ‘You’re twisting my words, Uncle Ben.’

‘I’m only asking you a question. What do you mean by escape?’

‘Nothing. I picked the wrong word, that’s all. Stop prying.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are.’

‘You barged into my shop and listened in while I was trying to reconcile with my wife,’ Benedict said, exasperated. ‘That’s what I call prying.’

‘Like you were doing such a great job there.’

‘You didn’t give me much opportunity.’

‘Your great master plan to get her back is to do, well, zero.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘Unlike Operation WEB, or whatever it is you called it?’

Gemma’s lips twitched into a small smile and, oddly, he found one too. It sounded so ridiculous.

‘Yep, like that,’ she said. ‘Now can we look in this freakin’ chest?’

Benedict was relieved to stop arguing. He placed the key in the lock and turned it. Together, they heaved the lid open. He caught his breath, unprepared for the wave of emotion that hit him as he saw the green-handled pliers his mother used to use and his father’s rusty hacksaw. There was a battered wooden mallet and a roll of wire.

He stared and a memory came into his head, as vivid as the day it happened. His mother sat by the window in the dining room, the sunlight in her hair. She laughed as she heated and made delicate curls of silver wire. She always laughed – at birds hopping around the garden, if she burned their dinner, at her sons and their antics. As time went by, he recalled less and less of what his parents and Charlie looked like. He could look at photographs, but they were two-dimensional, a moment frozen in time.

‘You’re quiet,’ Gemma said. ‘Say something.’

He delved inside the chest, scooped up a handful of gemstones and held them out on the flat of his palm. Most were already polished and cut to shape, smooth or with their facets glinting. Others were dull. They looked like ordinary stones dug out of the ground, their potential not yet unleashed. Some had holes drilled through them, ready to hang in the gem tree. For a moment, Benedict wished he could be small again. Innocent. ‘You’re right. It’s a treasure chest,’ he said.

Gemma reached out and touched the gems. ‘Cool. Can you use these in your jewellery?’

‘Stone Jewellery has survived for long enough without gemstones.’ He shook them back into the chest. Next, he pulled out a large ball of tissue paper. It looked like a cheerleader’s pompom. This was something he hadn’t seen for a long time.

‘What is that?’

Inside it were separate bundles of soft tissue paper. Benedict took one out and peeled it apart. A silver clam-shell brooch nestled in the folds. It was a test piece he had made with his mother. Benedict was about to say that it was nothing, to crumple the tissue back up and hide it away, but Gemma snatched it from him.

‘This is so cool.’ She placed the clam shell on her palm. ‘Did my grandmother make it?’

‘No, I did,’ Benedict said. ‘It was a long time ago, when I was learning. You can see that it’s clumsy.’

‘It’s different to the jewellery in your shop.’ She turned it over in her hands. ‘That’s all kinda boring.’

‘Thanks for your kind words.’

‘I mean, compared to this.’

‘I’m not sure that’s any more complimentary.’ He took it back off her. ‘I was probably only sixteen or seventeen when I made this.’

‘My age,’ Gemma sighed. She shook her head. ‘You know, everyone at home keeps asking what I wanna do next. All my friends are going to college, but I don’t know what I want. I mess up everything I do…’

Benedict ran his finger over the edges of the silver. His niece’s confidence seemed to have melted as quickly as an icicle in the sun. ‘You’re being too tough on yourself,’ he said. ‘What have you messed up?’

Gemma stared at him. She opened her mouth and slowly tilted her head from side to side, like a metronome, as if considering whether to tell him something. Benedict waited for her to speak, but her head came to a stop. ‘Nothing,’ she muttered finally. ‘I was just saying, that’s all.’

‘When you’re younger, things can seem worse than they really are.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ She gave a short sharp laugh. She reached out and took hold of another ball of tissue. Inside this one was a silver blossom brooch, and a pendant set with a large, round, yellow Sunstone. She lifted the necklace over her head and patted it against her chest. ‘You should display these in your shop.’

‘They’re not good enough.’

‘Things don’t always have to be perfect.’

‘What’s the point, if they’re not?’

Gemma tugged off the Sunstone necklace and thrust it back out to him, at arm’s length. ‘Here. Take it.’

Benedict dangled the necklace back into a piece of tissue. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Nothing.’ She folded her arms firmly. ‘You only like perfect things, and I’m not one of them.’

Benedict wasn’t willing to be drawn into another confrontation, so he pulled out all the balls of tissues and placed them behind him, unopened. Then he saw the item he’d been thinking about. ‘My father’s journal,’ he said, as he took it out and set the heavy, burgundy leather-bound book on his lap.

The cover was faded and cracked. It creaked when he opened it. Inside, the paper was as yellow at Citrine, stained around the edges from age and thumbs wet from coffee and oil. The front page said:

Joseph Stone’s Book of Gemstones and Crystals

Benedict swallowed as he saw his father’s adolescent handwriting.

Gemma’s eyes widened. Her arms slipped out of their tight fold. ‘It looks like it’s from when Jesus was alive.’

Benedict moved closer to her and opened it up.

Around a third of the pages featured sketches and photos torn from books and magazines, as well as notes and figures. His father started every few pages with a large italic letter of the alphabet. Some of the sections were full, ‘A’ for Agate, Aquamarine, Amethyst… ‘J’ for Jade, Jasper and Jet. Other sections had hardly any entries.

‘Even as a boy he was interested in gemstones,’ Benedict said. He opened to a page on Peridot, and he and Gemma read the words.

PERIDOT

A rich green stone, sometimes called Chrysolite, Peridot is widely known as the birthstone for August. It can often be found in volcanic landscapes. It was used in ancient times to ward off evil spirits. It can assist us to recognise negative patterns in our lives, override unwanted thought patterns, help let go of the past and ease fear and anxiety. It enhances the healing and harmony of relationships of all kinds, but particularly marriage. It can lessen stress, anger and jealousy in relationships, and also helps us to find what is lost…

‘That last sentence isn’t complete,’ Gemma said. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

To Benedict, it did. It was silly, he knew, but it was as if his father had written the words just for him.

‘You could so do with a piece of Peridot, Uncle Ben,’ Gemma added. ‘You need some harmony, with Estelle.’

Benedict was thinking the same thing.

‘There are a lot of blank pages in that journal,’ Gemma mused. ‘If I stay with you for longer, I could fill in stuff about the missing gems…about my gems…’

‘Hmmm.’ It sounded like a long project. He looked at his watch and saw that it had already gone nine-thirty. ‘Damn it.’

‘What?’

‘I said that I’d take Estelle’s paintings around for her tonight. It’s too late now.’

‘She also said that Lawrence would help her to collect them.’

‘I want to take them over. It will give us a reason to talk. I could perhaps take a small bunch of flowers too.’

‘Flowers? You need to do more than that.’

Benedict closed the journal. What could a sixteen-year-old girl know about relationships that he didn’t? But, her insistence that he do something echoed Cecil’s words. ‘Like what?’

‘I dunno.’ Gemma gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘Like, show her that you love her. Where is she staying?’

‘In her friend’s swanky modern apartment. It has a balcony, overlooking the canal—’

‘What?’ Gemma interrupted. ‘Like in Romeo and Juliet or something?’

‘I suppose it’s a bit like that.’

‘Hmmm. Well, that’s it then.’ Gemma gave a big smile, pleased with herself.

‘What is?’

‘If you don’t want this Lawrence guy sniffing around your wife, you’re gonna have to take action.’

‘I’m not really an action man. And I don’t know what you mean…’

‘Duh, Uncle Ben,’ Gemma said. ‘You gotta try to be like Romeo.’

7. Turquoise

healing, friendship, communication

Benedict caught the bus to Applethorpe Hospital and hoped that Cecil was okay. He rested his hand on his chin and stared at the green hills rolling past, but his daydreams soon turned to more unsettling thoughts. I wonder if Lawrence Donnington has any children, he mused. He looks virile, like he only has to glance at a woman to make her pregnant.

Benedict walked towards the rows of low stone buildings that reminded him of army barracks, through the entrance gates and past the maternity building. The windows of the middle floor were dotted with pink and blue helium balloons. They bobbed at the windows like blank faces. A baby cried out and Benedict stood still for a minute and listened. A wave of sadness overwhelmed him and he dug his hands into his pockets. The cries were a sound he might never get to hear.

He and Estelle had visited the antenatal clinic here often, for their tests and scans. Many times they had gripped hands tightly as they pulled open the heavy glass doors, took a deep breath and prepared themselves to hear the latest results, delivered with ever-increasing sombreness by the doctors and nurses.

All the posters on the waiting-room walls were aimed at women who were pregnant or who had given birth … don’t smoke when you’re expecting, breastfeeding is best, cut down on sugar, check your gums…but there was nothing for anyone who couldn’t get pregnant. That was like a secret, hidden away so as not to mar the happiness of those who could have children. It was only when you entered the realms of being unable to get pregnant that you heard the devastating stories of couples trying for years to have a baby, of miscarriages and of stillbirth. They were the tragedies that you might read about in a magazine and think that they happened to others and that you were okay, because you were one of the lucky ones. Then came the dull, creeping, painful realisation that you weren’t.

And so with every visit, each appointment, each consultation, each reassuring hold of each other’s hands, Benedict and Estelle learned that it was unlikely, very doubtful, they would ever be parents. What once was a possibility became uncertain and then improbable. And even though they sat with their fingers interlocked, Benedict felt very much alone, and suspected that his wife did too.

Estelle used to pore over leaflets and read out statistics to Benedict. ‘Around one in seven couples struggle to get pregnant… That’s 3.5 million people in the UK,’ she said. ‘It’s not just us. I feel like a failure, but there are others too.’

Benedict often looked in the mirror and wondered what was going on inside his body. He was like a clock that looked simple on the outside, but inside was a multitude of cogs, tiny screws and workings, and if just one was wrong, out of place, then the clock wouldn’t work. Except that no one could ever find his bloody faulty cog, to fix it.

In the hospital car park, a man strode across, his face half obscured by a huge bunch of pink roses wrapped in cellophane. He grasped a bottle of champagne tightly around the neck. ‘I’m a dad,’ he announced to Benedict. ‘My wife’s just had a little girl. It’s brilliant.’

Benedict said congratulations. It was so easy to imagine that Estelle might be in hospital, in bed on the maternity ward, holding their baby. He could almost feel the curl of tiny fingers around his own.

‘I can’t believe it. Me, a dad,’ the man repeated. ‘It’s the best feeling in the world.’

‘Well done,’ Benedict muttered, his heart feeling heavy. He pressed on and looked for the sign for Cecil’s ward.

Benedict had expected Cecil to be loafing around in his lilac silk pyjamas, entertaining the nurses with his stories about Lord Puss. He hadn’t considered how weak and tired his friend might look after his operation. It was as if Cecil had been replaced by a paler, skinnier version of himself, even though his hair was still coiffed into its budgerigar quiff.

‘Benedicto.’ Cecil waved from his bed.

Benedict walked over. He gave his friend a brief hug then sat down on the plastic chair at the side of the bed. He felt the legs splay under his weight and he reached into his shopping bag. ‘I’ve brought Hello! magazine for you, and cupcakes.’

‘Fashion, gossip and sugary treats. Fabby.’

Benedict felt a twitching sensation in his fingers when he handed over the cakes. The lemon icing on top was pleasingly shiny and topped with a ruby-red glacé cherry. Cecil won’t mind if you eat one of us, they said. Just ask him.

Cecil tore them open. ‘Want one?’

Don’t do it, Benedict thought. He considered sitting on his hands, to stop himself, but he reached out for a cupcake anyway. He ate it in three bites but strangely it tasted a little too sweet. He batted the crumbs off his trousers with the flat of his hand. ‘So, how are you feeling?’

Cecil sighed. ‘Okaaay. I thought I’d be out and doing my Usain Bolt impersonation by now. I feel like I’m falling apart. How is my white ball of fluffy gorgeousness?’

‘He’s, er, the usual. White and fluffy.’

‘But the two of you are getting on, aren’t you? I worry about him not getting the love and attention he’s used to.’

‘We’re getting on just fine.’

‘And so…’ Cecil prompted. ‘Everything is just as it was?’

‘Let’s not talk about work – you’re supposed to be trying to get better.’

‘I mean, any progress with Estelle?’

Benedict shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

‘So you’re still waiting and seeing?’

Benedict thought of Gemma’s insistence that he should be Romeo. He dreaded to think what that meant. ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said.

‘What?’ Cecil leaned forward in his bed.

‘My niece, Gemma, has come to stay with me, from America. She’s only sixteen and says she’s here for an adventure.’

‘Adventure, huh?’ Cecil stared off into space. ‘I remember that, once. A long time ago. You’ve not mentioned Gemma before.’

‘She’s my brother Charlie’s daughter. Our family isn’t close and Gemma just arrived out of the blue. It was a big surprise.’

‘That sounds a bit strange.’

‘I know.’

‘So, what is she like?’ Cecil picked up Hello! and took a quick glance at the cover. A soap star had given birth to quads.

‘She’s kind of infuriating. But she knows her own mind and she wants to learn. I’d forgotten what it’s like to have a passion for new things.’

‘Coolio. Like what?’

‘She’s interested in the meaning of gems.’

‘Like gemstones?’

Benedict nodded. ‘My father made notes on them in an old journal, and she brought some with her.’

‘That sounds intriguing. And what is she up to now, this niece of yours?’

‘I left her in the house on her own. So she can have some space to herself.’

‘That’s what you wanted to give Estelle.’

‘I know.’ Estelle’s space had extended for much longer than he thought it would. ‘Gemma says the same as you, that I need to win Estelle back.’

‘She’s right.’

‘She says that I should try to be like Romeo,’ he muttered, hoping that Cecil would agree with him, that the idea sounded absurd.

Cecil laughed, a machine-gun fire blast. ‘Oh, Benedicto,’ he said. Then he started to laugh again.

‘I know that I have to do something.’ Benedict shifted in his chair. ‘Estelle came into the shop and we were like strangers. I can’t let her go, Cecil.’

Cecil’s laughter subsided. ‘Well, if you don’t try to be Romeo, what else are you going to do?’

Benedict pursed his lips. He had no other plans. ‘Nothing, I suppose.’

‘Exactamondo. Perhaps you should give Gemma’s idea a go, whatever it is.’

He knew that his friend was right.

‘And, I simply must meet her,’ Cecil added. ‘What does Estelle think about your niece’s arrival?’

‘Well, they kind of met but I didn’t introduce them to each other.’

‘So, your sixteen-year-old niece is staying with you, but you haven’t told your wife. That’s pretty brave.’

‘Hmmm. Now you say it like that…’

The two men chatted for an hour, about Cecil’s nieces and football, and how Ryan and Diane’s marriage was doing.

‘You might have to sweet-talk the nurses into letting me out of here,’ Cecil said. ‘They keep talking about complications and I don’t want to let you down.’

‘Take your time,’ Benedict said. ‘Come back when you’re ready. The shop is doing fine.’

‘It sounds like Gemma might be a good replacement for me…’

‘No one could replace you, Cecil. And I’m not looking to.’

Cecil nodded with relief.

With visiting time coming to a close, Benedict was about to leave when he remembered something. He delved into his pocket then took out and placed a small mottled blue-green stone in Cecil’s palm. ‘Gemma asked me to give this to you.’

Cecil leaned in closer to examine it. ‘Is it Turquoise?’

‘Yes, it’s one of the gems Gemma brought with her. She’s copied some notes down, from my father’s journal.’ He gave an embarrassed cough as he handed the piece of paper to Cecil.

TURQUOISE

Early Europeans believed that this stone came from Asia Minor so gave it the name ‘Pierre Turquoise’ which means ‘Turkish Stone’. Turquoise is formed by water acting upon copper and aluminium within rocks which causes the gem to develop and gives it its blue colour. The stone was used in protective amulets or rings to ward off accidents. It is said to speed up your recovery after illness and helps to alleviate pain and reduce infection. It should be given as a gift to bring good fortune and peace.

‘Coolio. A miracle worker then?’ Cecil said. He slipped the gem and note into his pyjama top pocket. ‘Tell her, cheersy. And what gemstone has she given to you?’

‘Me?’ Benedict frowned. ‘Nothing.’

‘Perhaps you should ask her for one. If it will help you to get what you want.’

Benedict thought of the meaning for Peridot and how it sounded ideal for what he was going through. He recalled again Gemma’s explanation for Moonstone.

He didn’t believe for one minute that a small stone could make Cecil feel better, or help make Estelle fall back in love with him. Surely that would be crazy, wishful thinking.

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