The Complete Tales of Little Leaf: The Tales of Little Leaf

By R.P. Gibson Colley

"I expected a basic (but enjoyable) romantic comedy. Instead, I found something much deeper."

"A genuinely uplifting and beautiful book."

"A gem of a book; an absolute delight to read."

Eleven Days in June

 

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?

 

Winter in July

 

Dan's life is going to the dogs.

Dan is back. And now, at last, he's got a girlfriend. Problem is, he doesn't know how to talk to her, so he enlists the help of his mother's new boyfriend. It's not going to end well.

Yet Dan is more worried about a friend's dog that goes missing. But it's when a second dog goes missing that Dan's genteel life starts to unravel.

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

 

Departure in September

 

Dan and all his friends are back in a third, thrilling adventure.

A week before marrying Dan's mother, Julian is forced into hiding. Dan becomes the unwitting go-between his future stepfather and the men who want to speak to him.

Dan soon finds himself out of his depth as the tendrils of history and terror reach the small village of Little Leaf.

Can Daniel save his mother's marriage and, indeed, Julian's life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rupert Colley
• Release date: Apr 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224269389

Book preview

Eleven Days in June

The Tales of Little Leaf, Part 1

R.P. Gibson Colley

(c) 2020 Rupert Colley

rupertcolleybooks.com

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 found myself asking her a direct question. ‘Are… are you new…’ I was surprising myself at the boldness of the question, but once I’d started it, I damn well couldn’t finish it. ‘To… to the… the, y’know… v-village?’

She looked up at me. ‘Yes, moved in yesterday. I’ll take this tube and the filling knife and some white spirit, please.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ I heard Roy’s tape measure ping back into place. Wasn’t he actually meant to be doing something with it, I thought.

I ran her goods up on the till and, as I took her money and handed back her change, I was aware of how wet my palms were. ‘Hot day, isn’t it?’

She smiled a lovely smile. At least I think it was lovely. I’ve never been very good at working out what people mean, especially women.

She turned to leave and I caught sight of Roy smiling inanely at her. Then she stopped in the doorway and, ignoring Roy, turned to face me. The shaft of sun caught her, throwing extra sparkle to her shiny top, and I noticed the glint of a piece of jewellery in her belly button. ‘Thank you for your help,’ she said. ‘Oh, by the way, my name is Libby.’ And with that, she was gone.

Roy and I watched her, open-mouthed, as she crossed the square, following the direction that George had taken a few minutes earlier.

‘You bastard,’ said Roy, ‘you should’ve let me serve her.’

‘It wasn’t my fault. She asked me for help, not you.’

‘"The quick-drying paste is sufficient",’ said Roy in a high-pitched voice, rolling his eyes, and swaying his head side to side. Why, I don’t know, it’s not as if I speak in a squeaky voice. ‘Christ, when did you learn such posh words? Anyway, next time she comes in, she’s mine. Got that?’

I began sorting out the screws I’d piled onto the counter, pulling out the obviously bigger ones and making a separate pile.

‘Dan, are you listening to me?’

‘You don’t know she will be back,’ I said, trying to feign disinterest.

But somehow I knew it wouldn’t be long until we saw her again.

2.

I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the day. As I sorted out all those blasted screws, I kept thinking of her. Libby, Libby, Libby – what a lovely name, short, no doubt, for Elizabeth. The name Elizabeth always makes me think of Edwardian ladies in long, flowing dresses strolling along blazing green lawns, twirling their parasols. I know because I’ve watched those costume dramas on television. Roy and I didn’t speak for the rest of the day; I was too lost in my thoughts and I think Roy was too annoyed to talk to me. Roy’s customer came back in the late afternoon to pick up his plywood and was most irked when he found that Roy hadn’t yet finished the job. Roy said feebly that we’d been busy. The man looked around at the empty shop and pulled a funny face. It always amazes me how easily Roy can lie. He lies to the customers, to George, and probably to me. In fact, now that I think of it, he probably lies to me all the time. And nothing’s ever his fault. He’d rather blame the cat that wanders in occasionally than admit to anything.

I was relieved when it was five-thirty and time to go home. I waited while George locked all the doors and set the alarm, and then I was free to go. My commute home takes some four minutes, but I do walk fast. My mother and I live down Chancery Lane, which leads onto the village square. Today I was in no mood to rush; I was happy to idle my way home.

I like our square; I like the way it’s the nerve centre of the whole village. It’s where all the shops are – Mr Hamilton’s bakery, Atkins’ grocery store, the post office, the florists, a couple of pubs: The Bull and the much nicer Ship, the newsagent and, of course, George Spencer’s Hardware Store. The square slopes up and at the top end is the church which overlooks everything. At the opposite end is Plymouth Road, which goes up to the primary school, the village hall and, behind the hall, the swimming pool. In the middle of the square, there are a few car parking spaces and then there’s the bus shelter. But I reckon the real purpose of the bus shelter is to provide a home for Albert, our very own village idiot. He’s just what you’d expect a village idiot to look like – shaggy beard, oilskin hat, a stained dark-brown coat, and big boots. And, of course, he smells somewhat. Everyone’s a bit frightened of him and yet the place wouldn’t be the same without him. He often stops me as I pass just to tell me a joke. He seems to have an encyclopaedia’s worth of jokes in his mind. I don’t always understand them but sometimes they make me laugh. And, sometimes, I save a couple up for when I go to The Ship on a Friday.

Problem is, no one else seems to find them funny.

When I first walked in, I thought the house was empty but then I heard her voice. ‘Hello, Daniel, is that you? I’m just getting ready,’ she added.

Ready? Ready for what? I could hear her stomping around upstairs singing 'Teenager in Love' with full abandon. Teenager? – my mother was forty-five if she was a day. I plonked down on the settee and was idly flipping through the television supplement when Mother came downstairs and wafted in smelling of a perfume that made me think of the candyfloss you get in fairs.

‘How do I look?’ she asked, twirling around.

‘All right.’ In fact, she looked rather nice. She was wearing a paisley-patterned skirt and a light-blue shirt, or should I say blouse, but she’d put on too much make-up – lots of blue gunk around her eyes and that pink stuff women put on their cheeks. And she’d been to the hairdressers; her hair was all fluffy and even blonder than before. But the point was, why was she all dressed up?

‘All right – is that all you can say?’

I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to read the television listings.

I heard Mother sigh. ‘I’ve left you some dinner in the microwave. Your favourite – fish fingers, chips, and peas.’

‘Aren’t you eating?’

‘Me? No, I’m going out.’

I didn’t like the sound of this. ‘You went out last week,’ I said quickly, sitting up. ‘You’re not going out again?’

‘Actually, I am. I’ve got a… a…’

She looked worried and I began to feel the butterflies in my stomach. ‘Yes?’

She sat down next to me and tried to take my hand, but I wasn’t interested, and pulled it away. ‘Just tell me, Mum, what… what is it?’

‘Well, it’s like this: I’m going out for a meal.’

‘A meal?’

‘Yes, Daniel, a meal – at a restaurant.’

‘A restaurant? But who with?’

‘The gentleman friend I told you about last week.’

This was getting worse by the minute. ‘A gentleman friend?’

‘Do you have to repeat everything I say? It’s like talking to a parrot. Yes, the gentleman I met at bingo. He’s… he asked me out and–’

‘He asked you out?’

‘Yes, is that so strange?’

‘And you said yes?’

‘Yes I did, why not? He’s very nice.’

Ugh, I thought I was going to be sick. ‘Nice?’ I spat the word out and, springing up from the settee, paced to the window, and back again. ‘Just because he’s nice, you don’t have to go to a restaurant with him. Mrs Atkins at the grocers is nice but you don’t go to a restaurant with her, do you?’ OK, it was a silly thing to say, I know that, but at the time I couldn’t think of anything better. Mother just gave me one of her sideways looks. ‘OK, perhaps not Mrs Atkins but, but…’

‘Yes?’

‘But what am I going to do?’

‘Do as you always do – have your dinner, watch some television, and do some more modelling work on your boat–’

‘Ship, Mother, it’s a ship, not a boat.’

‘And before you’ve finished with your… ship, I’ll be back in no time. I’m only going out for something to eat.’

‘I’ll tell Dad.’

She looked at her watch. ‘You tell Dad if you think it’ll help but I’ve got to go. I don’t want to be late.’ She made to leave but then paused at the living room door. ‘I won’t be late back, I promise.’

But I’d turned my attention back to the magazine I was pretending to read. I didn’t look up until I heard the front door close.

I went into the kitchen to fetch my dinner, not that I was the least bit hungry. Even the kitchen looked different; Mum had been cleaning as if we were expecting the Queen. All the surfaces looked new, the white goods whiter than ever. It even smelt of flowers. There was a yellow sticky note stuck to the microwave door – 2 mins on full.

Friday

1.

I’ve no idea what time Mother came in that Thursday night in June. I’d gone to bed early, too fed up to face the rest of the evening by myself. Not even my ship model could cheer me up; I couldn’t think straight.

I woke up and felt a whole lot better. Yes, the thought of my mother and her new man still made me feel depressed, but for now my thoughts had returned to Libby. I dressed quickly, keen to start the day, and went hurtling downstairs. But where was Mother? Usually, she would be in the kitchen, stirring my porridge, and with the tea brewing in the pot. I always have porridge – even in the middle of summer. But not today. I went back upstairs and knocked on my mother's door. I heard her groan and when I asked if she was OK, she said she was feeling poorly and that I should see to my own breakfast, and something about being a big boy, but I’m not sure what exactly. I knew it – one night out with this gold-digger chap and things were going wrong already.

So I did. I made my own breakfast – but what a palaver. I tried to follow the instructions on the packet but it didn’t go according to plan. The porridge started bubbling in no time and, before I knew it, it was all sticking to the bottom. And when I dished it up, it was all one congealed sludge and lined with a layer of burnt brown skin. It tasted what I imagined it would taste like in prison. And the tea was so strong it gave me a headache. 

But none of this dampened my enthusiasm to get to work. Today was going to be a good day. It was sunny. It was Friday, and Libby would come back to the shop.

I pounded up Chancery Lane, but even at five to nine, it was hot and the sweat began pouring off my forehead like a fat man in a sauna. I charged around the corner and into the square. The shop lay ahead diagonally opposite with the bus shelter in between. A few people were waiting for the bus to Plymouth. Chances were I wouldn’t be disturbed by Albert. At this time, he was usually somewhere else foraging for food among people’s litter bins. And then I saw her, waiting with a couple of others at the bus stop and my heart sank. No, I don’t mean Libby; she could break my rhythm any day. No, I mean Wendy. She’s very nice, Wendy, but she’s a bit intense. Her bus was meant to depart at eight fifty-two and it was now eight fifty-six, so it was unforgivably late. If I were in her shoes, I’d write and complain. But more importantly, it meant she’d stop me and talk. There was only one thing for it: keep my eyes down and pretend not to notice her.

‘Hello, Dan.’ Damn, she’d seen me. Pretend I haven’t heard. ‘Dan, are you deaf or what?’

‘Sorry,’ I said, slowing up. ‘I was miles away.’

‘You late for work or something?’

‘No, no, I was just… well, yes, I suppose I am.’

She sidled away from the others at the bus shelter and came up to me, and I mean really up to me. Wendy’s one of these people who always stands too close so that you never know where to look and when you glance up, your whole vision is taken up by this huge, looming face. ‘My bus is late,’ she said.

‘I know. Four minutes.’ She’s short, is Wendy, and she has black hair, which she wears in a bob, and I’ve always noticed how her top lip protrudes over the bottom one, giving her mouth a duck-like appearance. ‘I ought to go,’ I said, looking at my watch with as much subtlety as the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland while backing away towards the shop.

But she didn’t take the hint and, instead, edged even closer. ‘Listen,’ she said with her eyes darting left and right as if deciding which of my eyes to focus on, ‘some of us are going out tonight.’

I took a step back. ‘Really?’ Not that I really cared.

‘Yeah, we’re catching the bus down to Plymouth,’ she said, stepping forward again.

‘That’ll be fun.’ A step back.

‘You haven’t heard what we’re doing yet.’ Forward.

‘No, sorry.’ Back.

‘We’re going to the bowling alley. Fancy coming?’ Another step forward. At this rate we’d both find ourselves in the shop. But then her bus whirled around the corner amidst volcanic amounts of exhaust fumes and into the square. ‘We’re meeting in The Ship first, eight o’clock,’ she shouted as she made her way back to the bus stop.

‘Eight o’clock,’ I said, waving. So finally, I had my body space back to myself. I took a deep breath, realising that while she’d been so close to me, I’d hardly breathed for fear of suffocating her with burnt porridge breath. By the time I walked through the shop door, I was a minute and a half late and it was all Wendy’s fault.

2.

George was in a bad mood – he often is, but this morning he was in a particularly bad strop. He told me off for being late, which I suppose he had every right even though it wasn’t my fault. It didn’t help that the plywood customer had complained about Roy, and when I asked him whether I should clean the circular saw, he snapped at me and told me to use my initiative. So I did and didn’t bother. He also got cross at the number of screws still littered on the floor behind the counter. I’m sure they’d multiplied during the night. And for once we were quite busy, although Friday is usually our busiest weekday. I suppose it’s people gearing themselves up for their weekend DIY jobs. I sold two spirit levels, three hacksaws, and a glass-fronted door and all by eleven o’clock coffee time.

Roy, whistling to himself, seemed to have forgiven me after yesterday’s sulk but, like me, he hadn’t forgotten about her. He brought up the subject a couple of times. ‘I hope she comes in again,’ he said.

‘Hmm.’ I thought it best not to sound too eager about it.

‘What a woman.’

‘Roy? Dan?’

‘Yes, boss?’

‘Have you got a minute? I’d like a word.’

We dutifully trooped over to the far side of the shop to where the tall planks of wood stand on end and found George studying the long piece of paper that’s fed out by the till, his plastic visor tilted downwards. ‘Something’s not quite right.’ He looked at each of us in turn. ‘Have either of you sold anything you forgot to ring up on the till?’

‘No, boss,’ said Roy immediately. I tried to think. I didn’t think I had, but sometimes in the rush, one can forget things. Not that we often have a rush.

‘Dan?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘No, really, boss.’

‘Come on, think, both of you – it’s easy to do. I’ve done it myself but these figures don’t add up.’

Roy’s eyes lit up. ‘Have you taken into account the three tape measures for the price of two, boss?’

George pushed up his green visor. ‘Hmm, possibly, but that wouldn’t make that much difference. As a promotion, I reckon it’s not worth the effort.’

‘Yeah, people don’t tend to need three tape measures at the same time,’ said Roy.

‘Christmas presents?’ I said, trying to be helpful.

Roy laughed. ‘In June? Maybe we should do three for the price of two wheelbarrows.’

But George wasn’t listening. ‘Whatever. Listen, just be more careful. That’s all I ask, all right?’

‘Yes, boss.’

With that, he pushed his visor up and disappeared into the office. Roy and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and went back to work. Roy sulked off into the yard at the back of the shop to load up the van with a flat-packed garden shed which he had to deliver later that afternoon, and I went back to tidying our display of wood varnishes. OK, I know it’s not cutting edge but heck, it’s a job and it happens to be a job I love.

It was such a hot day, we’d propped the door open. In the corner of my eye, I noticed Becky wander in but I took no notice. She’s a frequent visitor to the shop but she never buys anything. She had a quick look around and then settled down near the front door and stretched herself out in the sun and yawned. Silly cat, she always lies where people might tread on her.

I was just stacking the tins in a nice pyramid shape when she walked in. I tried to warn her. ‘Mind the–’ But it was too late, her pointed shoe caught Becky in the midriff, and there followed a squeal and a bolt of ginger fur.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see her,’ she said, clasping her hand to her mouth. ‘Is the cat all right, do you think?’

‘Hmm? Becky?’ The expression of concern on her face touched me to the core. ‘Oh, she’ll be OK. She’s always getting stepped on.’

‘I suppose she likes it there in the sun. Tell me, do you sell shelves?’ I hadn’t noticed the small smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose before. She coughed. ‘Shelves?’

‘Shelves? Oh yes, shelves. Wooden or metal?’

‘Wooden.’

‘Follow me,’ I said.

The shelf units were in the second alley, behind the central display, so once I’d returned to the counter, she was out of my sight. I looked up at the curved security mirror in the corner above the door, and I could see her pulling out and examining various examples. I could smell her fragrance again, that bouquet of moorland heather wafting across the shop. I stood behind the counter and waited, unsure how to make myself look busy. I thought of Roy and smiled at the thought of how cross he’d be to have missed her.

After a while, she came back to the counter. ‘Would you have a tape measure?’

‘Oh yes, right now we’re selling three for the price of two. Very good value,’ I replied, perhaps too excitedly.

She sniggered, which, in turn, made me blush. ‘No, I just wondered if I could borrow one?’

‘Oh.’ How stupid. Roy was right, why would anyone buy three tape measures at the same time? George had some dumb ideas sometimes. Unable to talk for my embarrassment, I passed her our special work tape measure, which is a whole foot longer than your average tape measure. She disappeared back to the shelves just as the back door to the yard opened and Roy barged in.

‘Bloody hell, I can’t believe…’ I waved my arms furiously and tried to shush him. He stopped dead in his tracks. ‘What?’ he mouthed. I pointed to the security mirror. But then Libby came into view from behind the central display lugging a pack of two wooden shelving units. ‘Oh, hi there,’ said Roy. ‘Do you need help?’

‘No thanks, your colleague is helping me.’

‘Right,’ said Roy, unable to disguise his disappointment. He shot me a resentful look. ‘I’ll bet,’ he added under his breath.

Then one of our regular customers came in, Mr Donaghue, a tough-looking sort, totally bald, with a face like a bulldog and a massive neck. ‘Got any plugs?’ he said abruptly in a gruff voice.

As it was obvious I was serving Libby, Roy had no choice but to see to him. ‘Five amp?’

Libby was standing in front of me at the counter. ‘I think I’ll take these,’ she said.

‘Ah yes, they come with ready-made brackets, but… but will you be able to carry them home?’

‘I’m tougher than I look,’ she said, handing me a twenty-pound note.

‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ After George’s earlier comments, I took particular attention to what I was doing with the till. In the corner of my eye, I saw Mr Donoghue leave.

As Libby took her change, she asked, ‘Is there a good pub to go to in the evenings?’

Roy was in like a shot. ‘The Bull,’ he said quickly.

‘I prefer The Ship.’ Although I didn’t tell her it was mainly because they had a lovely framed print of the HMS Victory.

‘The Ship, you say?’

‘Yes, it’s… it’s nice.’

‘Thanks.’ And then, suddenly, she winked at me. ‘Bye-bye.’ And with that, she was gone.

Open-mouthed, I watched her leave, and then, still staring out into the sunny street, I tried to speak, ‘She… she…’

‘Yes?’

She’d winked at me. At me. I don’t think a girl has ever winked at me before. But no, I wasn’t going to tell Roy; it was my secret. And anyway, he’d only belittle it.

After lunch, I was out at the back cleaning the circular saw – using my initiative – as George was always telling me to do. As I used a stiff brush to rid all the clogs and crevices of sawdust, I could think of nothing else but Libby. I laughed at the way she’d ignored Roy’s suggestion of The Bull. It was as if he hadn’t even been there. But did it mean she was planning on going to The Ship? And tonight? I certainly hoped so because I always go to The Ship on a Friday night, every Friday night.

By now, the circular saw looked as good as new and there wasn’t a hint of sawdust within three feet of it. I stepped back into the shop and, for some reason, Roy, who was behind the counter, jumped a mile, like when Becky got kicked by Libby.

‘Christ, Dan, don’t do that.’

I was surprised by how squeaky his voice sounded. ‘What? What did I do?’

He took a deep breath and leaned his arms against the counter. ‘Creep up on me like that.’ His voice was already back to normal.

‘But I didn’t–’

‘Forget it.’

I went up to the wood varnish shelves to the side of the counter, and that was when I noticed a twenty-pound note at Roy’s feet. ‘Is that yours, Roy?’ I said, pointing it out.

‘What?’ He looked down and saw it. ‘No. I mean, yes… it must’ve dropped out of me pocket.’ He picked it up and stuffed it in his jeans and, for the briefest of moments, our eyes met.

That was when I knew.

3.

Today it was my turn to go to the bakery for lunch.  Roy and I always took turns. We didn't need to ask each other what we wanted; we always had the same, day in, day out – a chicken mayo sandwich for me, a tuna mayo for Roy. George always had his own sandwiches, which he makes for himself.  ‘Think of the money you'd save, boys, if you stop going to that bakery every day. A couple of quid a day soon mounts up, you know.’

‘Yeah, but it helps the local economy, don’t it? said Roy.

‘Yeah,’ I agreed, although I had no idea what he meant.

So off I went. It's not exactly far, on the opposite side of the square to be exact. ‘Hello, Albert,’ I said as I passed the bus shelter.

‘Oi, boy. ’Ave you ’eard the one ’bout the Irishman in the pet shop?’

‘Er, no.’

‘Paddy walks into a pet shop and he says, I would like to buy a wasp. The shop assistant says, We don't sell wasps, and Paddy says, But you've got one in the window.’

He laughed raucously at his own joke but I didn’t really understand it; was it meant to be funny? Surely, the wasp was just there accidentally. Anyway, I laughed politely and left him, still chortling to himself.

Hamilton’s Bakery. They’d propped the door open; it was such a lovely day. I picked out our cling film-wrapped sandwiches plus a bottle of Tango for me and Coke for him. I waited my turn to pay, my foot tapping out the chorus of ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’ by The Bangles, playing a loop in my head. I was only vaguely aware of another customer, a man, at the sandwich display near the door. He picked up a chicken mayo sandwich, just like me, and turned, almost bumping into me. He was huge, a mountain of a man, with piercing blue eyes. He nodded at me and then walked out. ‘And a good day to you,’ I muttered before my brain switched back to The Bangles.

Old Mrs Hamilton was serving and chatting away to her customer. Roy said it didn’t seem right that Mr Hamilton should employ his mother in the shop. Surely there had to be a law or something about employing someone that old, he said. Anyway, my waiting had no effect on Mr Hamilton's mother and her customer, and they continued chatting away, chatter, chatter, chatter. Two seconds later, I suddenly cried out, ‘Hang on a minute. You can't just…’ I ran outside and saw the man talking to Albert at the bus shelter. I didn't stop to think; I ran up to him. ‘Hey, excuse me…’

‘Yeah?’ Oh, his voice, so deep, it made the ground rumble.

‘You… you forgot to pay for that sandwich.’

‘Did I, little man? Silly me. So what are you going to do about it? Arrest me, perhaps?’ And with that he turned, touching the brim of an invisible hat to Albert, and strode off.

Albert laughed loudly. ‘Hey, little man, someone wants you.’

‘What?’ I turned to see Mr Hamilton's mother shuffling across the square, waving her fist.

‘Hey, you boy.’

I looked about me. Was she talking to me?

‘Stop, thief, stop.’

‘What? Me?’ I said when I noticed I was still holding onto my four items. ‘No, I was…’

She drew up in front of me, quite out of breath, reached up, and placed a lizardy hand on my shoulder. ‘Caught you, you thieving toerag.’

‘No, wait, I was trying to…’

‘Shut up. I saw you. You're under arrest.’

‘Arrest? Me?’

‘Citizen's arrest. You do not have to say anything but…’ She continued reciting the whole damn lot. ‘I've always wanted to say that,’ she said, on finishing. ‘And you,’ she said, turning to Albert, ‘You're my witness.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Albert will tell you; there was this man, no hair. Albert, you spoke to him.’

‘I did too.’

‘A week of free pasties, Albert,’ said Mr Hamilton’s mother.

Albert grinned. ‘What man?’ he said. ‘I never saw no man.’

4.

Mother was in an irritatingly jolly mood when I got home. I caught her gliding around the living room with an invisible dancing partner, singing 'I’m in the Mood for Dancing', while swilling a glass of gin and tonic around in one hand and clutching one of those smelly foreign cigarettes in the other. But I didn’t say anything because I was beginning to realise what ‘being in love’ was like. It does that to you, doesn’t it? Makes you sing and walk around with a stupid grin on your face – although that may have been the second gin. I may not have approved of this boyfriend of hers: I didn’t have to meet him to know he was up to no good, but I didn’t have the heart to say anything.

Now, Friday is normally fish day – coated haddock pieces with either peas or sweetcorn and boiled potatoes, but tonight it was spaghetti bolognese. We’ve had spaghetti bolognese before but it always came out of a box, but this time, Mum was actually making it. And it seemed to be taking an age.

‘From now on, we’re having real food,’ she said, cutting up a clove of garlic.

‘I don’t like garlic.’

‘You can’t have spaghetti bolognese without garlic.’ She popped an olive in her mouth.

‘I don’t know, can’t you?’

‘No.’

‘But how long will it be?’

She spat the olive stone out into her palm. ‘Another ten minutes but then it has to cook.’

‘Phew, what a relief, I’m getting hungry.’

‘No, Daniel, it takes forty-five minutes to cook.’

‘Forty-five minutes?’ I checked the time on our kitchen clock with a picture of a kitten on it. ‘It usually only takes three minutes.’

I didn’t like this; it was upsetting the routine. Well, I had almost an hour to kill, so I went up to my room.

In the evening, my bedroom catches the sun and feels lovely and warm. The thick purplish carpet is wall-to-wall and last year, I painted the walls a pale blue colour – the colour of the Mediterranean. I have a Plymouth Argyle scarf pinned to the wall, and I have a desk which runs the length of the wall and it’s covered in my modelling paraphernalia. I’ve got my stereo on it, and the shelves are stacked with my books and modelling magazines. (In the middle of the magazines is another type of magazine – but I caught a bus all the way to Plymouth to buy that one). When I lie on my bed I can watch the TV, which I’ve put on a bracket high up in the corner. It’s just at the right height but my mother doesn’t like it. She says it makes my bedroom look like a Chinese takeaway. I don’t know where she gets these ideas.

But I’ve been saving the best bit for last. Sitting on the middle of the long desk is my pride and joy – a twelve-inch-high model of the HMS Victory. It’s not painted yet and it’s not quite complete. And that’s because I’m building it! Yes, me, all by myself. I’m constructing it entirely from matchsticks. Yes, matchsticks. I do cheat with the decks. They’re made from