Eleven Days in June: The Tales of Little Leaf

By R.P. Gibson Colley

Dan is happy with his life. He just hasn't started living it yet.

Dan Whitaker is 20, lives in a sleepy village in Devon and works in a small DIY shop. He likes numbers and hero worships Lord Nelson. But he finds ordinary people difficult to understand and he's certainly never had a girlfriend. His mother mocks him, and he misses his father and he pines for Ollie, his only childhood friend who truly understood him.

But, despite it all, Dan thinks he's happy enough. Until one June day, the beautiful and mysterious Libby walks into his shop - and into his life.

Libby's sudden appearance turns Dan's ordered existence upside down. But Dan soon realises that Libby isn't who she seems. Who exactly is she? What is she hiding, and, more importantly, who's that threatening man always looking for her?

In trying to help Libby, Dan comes to realise what's missing in his own life, and, in turn, appreciates what's really important…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rupert Colley
• Release date: Feb 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393974475

Book preview

Nine years earlier

1976

Ollie was my only friend. We were eleven years old that autumn and had just started secondary school, and I was already worried about losing him to other boys at school. I needed to make him my friend again, so one day I suggested we cycle to Totnes the coming weekend, a whole ten miles away. Ten miles! It seemed like the other end of the world.

Our dads made sure that our bikes were roadworthy. I watched what my dad did so I might learn for another time. It seemed like an important job ahead of our big adventure. Dad pumped up the tyres, oiled the chain, replaced a pair of brake pads, tightened various nuts and lifted the saddle an inch. He packed me a little box consisting of a spanner, a puncture repair kit and a spare inner tube.

The following day, the day itself, I woke up anxious. What if it was too far; what if Ollie thought it boring?

Mum made me a big packed lunch of ham sandwiches, a banana, crisps and a chocolate bar.  The day was sunny. I met Ollie at the bus shelter in our village. I was embarrassed because my bike was better than his; it had five gears; Ollie’s only had three.

‘Totnes, here we come,’ he said.

And off we went, with the wind in our hair and the sun on our backs. We talked, or rather shouted, the first six or seven miles, mainly football, our shared obsession. We talked about our favourite players and how many goals they had scored that season. Ollie was impressed because I knew every player who played or had played recently for Plymouth Argyle. ‘How do you remember all that shit?’

‘It's my special talent; that's what my mum calls it.’

We argued about the merits of our favourite pop bands and gossiped about the boys at school. We stopped after about three miles and wolfed down our packed lunches. Ollie was jealous of my chocolate bar and made me swap. I felt as if I had no choice. I didn’t mind really.

Devon is a hilly place so it took us hours to cover those ten miles and Ollie struggled with his three gears. I couldn’t offer to swap bikes though; that would only have made it worse. But we finally got there. We entered Totnes with whoops and yelps of happiness, half expecting, I think, to be met by the town mayor, lots of bunting, and a ticker-tape parade. We ambled around, looked in shops, both bought a couple of comics from the bookshop and I bought a plate with a painted picture of Totnes on it for my mum. We were hungry again, so we bought a large portion of fish and chips each and ate them in the town park. Finishing, we sucked the salt from our fingers and fell asleep for a while, the sun burning our faces.

We cycled back, not so talkative now. We cycled into Little Leaf like returning heroes and drew to a stop at the bus shelter. ‘That was good,’ said Ollie.

‘Yeah, it was bloody brilliant. Thanks, mate.’

‘And you.’

We parted and went home. I went to bed that night exhausted but happy. Mum had loved her plate and Dad said me and Ollie had done well. It was perhaps the happiest day of my life. Whatever happened in the future, Ollie and I would always have Totnes.

One week earlier

June 1985

My mother had gone out to Plymouth for the night as she always did every other Wednesday. Bingo. She was usually back about half past ten, but tonight it was nearing midnight, and I was going to bed when I heard the taxi draw up outside.

She came in singing 'Who Wants to Be a Millionaire'.

I was at the bottom of the stairs, about to go up. ‘Good night, Mum.’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘No, I mean–’

‘I won the jackpot.’ She laughed to herself. ‘In more ways than one.’

I didn’t know what she meant by that but I knew I didn’t like it. I stayed at the foot of the stairs, a hand on the bannister, and watched her remove her shoes and put on her slippers, humming to herself, and it seemed to take an awfully long time.

‘Are you OK, Mum?’

‘Hmm? Oh, still here, Daniel? I thought you’d gone to bed. Yes, I’m OK. Never better, in fact.’ My mother’s always insisted on calling me Daniel. Why do mothers always do that? I could be called Bart and she’d probably still insist on calling me Bartholomew. ‘I might as well tell you as I’ve got no other bugger I can tell: I met a gentleman tonight, and he was very nice; terribly nice, indeed.’

My hand tightened on the bannister. ‘What do you mean?’

She fell onto the settee with a huge sigh. ‘As in I met a man. Jesus, it’s not so difficult to understand, is it?’

‘A m-man?’

‘Yes, Daniel, a living, breathing man.’ She belched. ‘Unlike your father,’ she added, under her breath. She reached for her cigarettes and lit one. Blowing out a mouthful of smoke, she turned to look at me, her eyes piercing me. ‘I am single, in case you’ve forgotten. So if I want to go out with a man, I bloody well will. Go on, you go to bed; you’ve got work in the morning.’

I did.

I got into bed and lay there unable to get to sleep, my stomach churning. I felt ill – the idea of my mother going out with a man – it wasn’t right. He could be anyone; he was bound to be horrible. This house was our home. I didn’t want any strangers coming into my life and upsetting things. And what did he want? I knew perfectly well. He was after my mother’s money. That was it. He was a gold digger. Well, it wasn’t going to happen, no way, I wouldn’t let it.

I didn’t want things to change; I liked things as they were, just me and my mum. He’d been a fairly rubbish dad, looking back on it, but after he left us, it took a long time to get used to life without him. I missed him. We both did and we still do. Sometimes I just long for him to walk back in with that jolly red face of his. Now all I had was Mum. Those days were gone. It’s not the same. How could it be, but we do OK; we’re happy enough.

And I was damned if I was going to let some strange bloke come in and spoil everything. No way.

Thursday

1.

A hot Thursday in June. A day forever etched in my memory. A day when the haze of heat suffocates like an invisible blanket. It was the day I fell in love – or so I thought at the time. It was a normal day at work – up to the point she walked in and, after that, everything seemed to happen. At first I couldn’t see it; I was simply too bound up in the excitement of it all. I suppose that’s what happens when you fall in love. Even now, just thinking of her on that first glorious afternoon, I feel that thrilling feeling running up my spine.

My name is Dan Whitaker. I live with my mother in a small village called Little Leaf in the depths of South Devon within the shadows of Dartmoor. I work in a hardware store called George Spencer’s overlooking the village square. George is the boss, and he’s usually found in his office at the back. The shop itself is run by me and Roy, wearing our brown overalls with a large green logo on the breast pocket, which reads George Spencer’s in a semi-circle. Roy, like me, hasn’t long turned twenty. He usually has a pencil behind his ear because he thinks it makes him look important. He’s very dark with long, jet-black hair, and a perpetual stubble, which I reckon he leaves on purpose. I suppose he’s what people would call good-looking and he always ends up serving any pretty girls who might wander into our little shop. He reckons it’s on his job description. But not on this occasion…

The shop was quiet – although it usually is – a shaft of afternoon sun shone through the front door, and you could see the minute specks of dust dancing in the sunlight. George was out the back as usual, and Roy was near the door measuring up some planks of plywood for a customer who was coming back later. He was whistling like he always does when he’s concentrating. I thought I recognised the tune as 'Take My Breath Away'.

‘I reckon I might go to the pub after work,’ said Roy. ‘I reckon I deserve it.’

I waited for him to invite me along, just the two of us, like old mates, like Ollie and I used to be. I coughed. ‘Will you be OK all by yourself?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Well, you know, you don't want to get lonely.’

‘It's all right, Dan. I reckon I can cope.’

I gave in. I began tidying up the screw drawers under the counter as I often have to do after Roy’s been rummaging around in there. He’s always so untidy, especially in the screw drawer. I know what it is – he’s too lazy to make sure he puts the right screw back in the right compartment. So it’s always left to me to sort out his mess. Anyway, it was while I was sorting out the two-and-a-half inchers that the bell above the door tinkled. ‘Be with you in a minute.’

‘No hurry,’ she said.

Roy noticed her in a shot. He would. He can smell a pretty girl on the other side of the village during the middle of silage. I heard the sound of his aluminium tape measure pinging back into place. ‘Can I be of any assistance?’ he asked in his best voice. So I knew immediately it was a young girl. Had it been any ordinary person, he’d simply grunt. But, for the moment, I took no notice as I was moving on to the three inchers.

‘No, I’m fine, thank you. Just browsing.’

On hearing the posh edge to her voice, I looked up. It wasn’t a local accent; it sounded like London – not cockney, but posh London. Talk about take my breath away. She had such flawless, beautiful skin – tanned, almost olive, but not sunburnt like you see on the grockles. And just one glance at her long, perfectly shaped face made me all muddled. Instead of pushing in the screw drawer, I pulled it out. The crashing noise of all those hundreds of screws made us all jump.

‘Uh-oh,’ I said as the jumble of silver tumbled around my plimsolls. 

‘You bloody idiot,’ said Roy – rather unnecessarily, I thought.

But the concern in her eyes touched me. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked. I noticed she wore a tiny nose stud that glinted in the sun.

‘Yes. Sorry.’

She flashed me a smile and I noticed the arc of a thin, perfectly shaped eyebrow. She then moved – no, glided – along the shelves and towards the back of the shop towards the decorating section. As she passed, her perfume lingered in the air behind her. I can’t tell one perfume from another, but it seemed light and gentle and made me think of the heather on the moor. She paused at the cans of paint and considered our not inconsiderable array of satin finishes and matt vinyls, all reasonably priced as I’m sure she would have agreed.

Roy and I exchanged knowing glances and, for a moment, we were as equals in the acknowledgement of feminine splendour. But it didn’t last long before Roy reasserted his authority. ‘Well, ain’t you gonna pick ‘em up?’

‘Hmm?’

‘The screws, Dan?’

Oh yes, of course, the screws. I bent down and cursed at the sight of all those shiny screws scattered across the floor behind and beneath the counter. I scooped up a handful and placed them carefully on the counter behind a pyramid of household oils – which constituted our counter display for the week. I glanced back at the girl; she was now perusing the variations of white spirits and sugar soaps. I noticed the straightness of her hair, the way it fell down her back, the colour of shiny straw. She was wearing a sparkling, short-sleeved grey shirt and dark jeans cut off at the knee, and a thick white belt. But the two items of clothing didn’t meet, leaving a thin strip of midriff. Roy was watching her, too, fidgeting with the tape measure, idly pulling out the tape a few inches and allowing it to ping back into place. For a moment, we thought she was about to turn around, and we both quickly resumed our work: Roy with his strips of plywood, and me with my screws.

Then the door to the back swung open, and in came the boss. While George always makes Roy and me wear brown overalls, he wears a nice white one – always pristine. How he never gets it dirty, I can never work out, although Roy reckons it proves he never does any real work. George also wears trousers too short so you can always see his Argyll-patterned socks, and he likes to wear one of those tennis visors with a green plastic peak. It makes him look like a banker in a spaghetti Western. Now, George doesn’t usually bother with customers, unless he thinks they’re going to spend lots of money or if they look like they need his expert help that Roy and I wouldn’t know about but even he looked twice at this girl.

‘You all right, miss?’ She nodded with a pleasant smile, and George, clearly disappointed, left her to it. ‘What was all that noise earlier on?’ he asked me.

Roy was in there like a shot. ‘Dan dropped the screw drawer, boss.’

George didn’t say anything – his look said it all and I withered under his stare. ‘Back in a minute,’ he said brusquely as he left the shop, pulling down the green plastic to shield his eyes against the glare of the sun.

‘Have you got any of that white stuff for filling in holes?’ I was so busy watching George scuttle off across the village square, I hadn’t noticed her approach.

‘P-Polyfilla? Yes, of course, it’s just, just…’ I was about to point in the vague direction of the correct shelf when, instead, I decided to show her directly. It’s something George is always telling us to do. Take them to the shelf, don’t just point at it. ‘I – I’ll show you,’ I said as I came out from behind the counter, scattering screws as I went. ‘It depends on what you need it for, miss. If it’s just to fill in a few small holes, then the quick-drying paste is sufficient, but if it’s for large holes or cracks, then you’d be better off with this bag of plaster. You have to stir it well, otherwise it doesn’t set properly.’ Although I couldn’t see him, I could feel Roy’s eyes burning on my back. Serving pretty girls, like I said earlier, was his job.

‘I think I’ll take the paste.’

‘This one’s a good one. Have you got a filling knife?’ She shook her head and I noticed the long, curling earrings shake beneath her hair. As she read the writing on the tube of Polyfilla, I