CHAPTER 5

BRAVE AS A FEATHER

The house was empty when Brian got home. Dad must still be working. Dumping his schoolbag in the kitchen, he went out the back door, crossed the lawn and knocked on the door of the workshop.

‘Hi,’ came Dad’s voice.

Brian opened the door and breathed in the smell he’d known all his life: burnt leaves and coffee with a sour, acidic kick. He stood in the doorway inspecting the room’s clutter. The drills and pliers hanging from the walls could be the torture instruments of a lunatic dentist. On his left was a machine like an old-fashioned mangle. But instead of squeezing the water from shirts and breeches, its job was to flatten gold and silver wires between the two rollers. In front of him, on a stand, was a horizontal rugby ball with ear muffs. At the press of a switch the earmuffs trembled, polishing rings and bracelets within an inch of their lives. Best of all was the Table of Evil. Tucked in the far left corner, it was strictly out of bounds. Dad had warned him that the bowls of sulphuric acid and ammonia could burn your skin off. Just smelling those vicious fumes sent a delicious chill across Brian’s shoulders. It was as if an invisible dragon lived in the shed.

Dad’s workbench stood along the back wall. He looked round and smiled. Then he bent back over his work. Brian came over, bouncing slightly on the floorboards. Even on the grimmest days they sent little bursts of fun up your legs.

The table was a jumble of bric-a-brac: gold studs and silver hooks, screwdrivers and tubes of glue. Brian stood beside it and watched. This was where he felt closest to Dad. There was no forced chitchat, just the odd explanation here and there and a shared delight in the intricacy of the work.

‘Soldering.’ Dad held a broken gold ring between the finger and thumb of his left hand. With his right hand he took a brush from a pot. ‘Flux,’ he said, dabbing the two edges of the ring with the brush. ‘It cleans the gold.’ He replaced the brush and picked up a pair of tweezers. Poking them round the litter of the workbench, he found a tiny gleaming square. ‘Gold solder.’ He laid it across the gap in the ring. Brian watched enthralled. The steadiness of his hands, the precision of his search through the debris on the desk … Dad truly had brains in his fingers.

He unhooked a small tube from a stand. It was wired to a foot pedal. As he pressed the pedal, a thin flame sprang from the tube. He trained it on the ring. The gas gleamed like a dragonfly’s wing: blue-pink-orange. The gold square melted and sank seamlessly, filling the gap in the ring.

Dad lifted his foot. The flame vanished. ‘Neat job. Mrs Griggs’ll be pleased. It’s her wedding ring.’ He leaned back in his chair, relaxed, approachable. It was now or never.

‘Dad.’ Brian bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Something happened at school.’ Perching on the desk, he told him everything without as much as a sniff. He felt quite proud of himself.

Until he saw Dad’s face. It had gone tight and small.

Brian swallowed. ‘Alf says you ought to complain.’

Dad’s hands, so sure a minute ago, twisted in his lap. ‘Who – I mean what can I …?’

‘Tell the school governors what a bully she is. How she yells at me all the time even though I’m doing my best, I really am. It’s just I’m no good at my work.’

‘I know.’ Dad scratched the back of one hand with the other. ‘I really do.’ Brian watched the skin wrinkle and redden. ‘I was the same. Maths, spelling – didn’t have a clue. We’re not cut out for school, Brian.’

‘So? That doesn’t give her the right to treat me like that. Please, Dad, go in.’

‘I …’ Dad blinked. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

Brian slipped off the desk. ‘I just told you.’

‘What if they don’t believe me?’

‘But it’s true.’ Brian glared at him. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

‘Of course.’ Dad’s eyes were soft and scared. ‘It’s just I’m no good at this sort of thing.’

‘Who cares? It’s your job.’ A bomb went off inside Brian. ‘Mum would’ve gone in! She’d never have let this happen in the first place. She’d have sorted Florrie out ages ago.’

Dad bunched his hands in his lap.

‘But you just sit there,’ Brian yelled, ‘hiding behind your desk, all pathetic and hopeless and scared!’

Dad closed his eyes.

Wheeling round, Brian strode out of the workshop, slamming the door so that the whole shed shook. He marched across the lawn, numbed by the venom of his words. Then, like a wasp sting, their poison sank in. Rage and guilt fought inside him. Dad deserved all that. He clenched his fists. Well maybe not all. Maybe not pathetic. He shoved the back door open. Or hopeless. He ran through the kitchen and down the hall. But definitely scared. He climbed the stairs, two at a time.

On the landing he stopped. Instead of going into his room and hurling himself on the bed, he crossed to Dad’s – Mum’s – bedroom.

Opening the door, his anger gave way to guilt. If it wasn’t for him, Mum would still be here.

He sat on the bed, winded for a second by grief. Then, breathing slowly and carefully, he opened the drawer in Dad’s bedside table and took out a wooden box. The lid was curved and embossed with gold like a mini pirate chest. Brian opened it. To Lily, it said inside, with you know how much love. Bernard.

Mum had once told Brian that Dad’s name meant brave as a bear. ‘Brave as a feather,’ he muttered savagely.

Inside the box were pieces of Mum.

Before you go and ring the police, please understand that to Brian Mum’s jewellery was part of her, just like her nose or her laugh. She’d worn most of it most of the time because, of course, it was made by Dad. There was the amethyst butterfly on a chain that swung forward every time she bent to kiss Brian. There were the gold bangles which clinked as she climbed the stairs, heralding the bedtime story.

But Brian was looking for something else. Closing his eyes, his fingertips explored each familiar piece. It felt as if he were touching not metal and gemstones but Mum herself. There was the sharp tip of her dragonfly brooch, and there the cold moons of her agate necklace. His fingers closed round a smooth hoop. Yes. He took it out, slipped it onto his middle finger and opened his eyes.

Mum’s engagement ring. It was the only piece of jewellery Dad had ever bought. The oval amber, set in silver, was held by four tiny clasps. It was as plain as a barley sugar – except for one thing.

Mum had often told Brian the story of their fourth date. Dad had taken her for a picnic by the river. Kneeling down on the rug to propose, he’d been so nervous that he’d knocked over a pot of honey. She’d laughed and said, ‘Oops, and yes I will.’ When he’d clasped her hand and promised to make her a dream ring, she’d said, ‘Thank you, Bernard, oh look there’s a bee stuck in the honey.’ Then she’d lifted it out and licked – yes licked – the creature clean. That afternoon, while shopping in town, she’d glanced in the window of a jeweller’s shop and squealed, ‘There’s my engagement ring. You don’t mind, do you, Bernard? It’s just so beautiful and it’ll always remind me of our picnic, and you can make me lots of other jewellery, and, oh, the poor poppet, what a dreadful way to die.’

Because trapped inside the amber was a tiny honey bee.

It looked at first glance like a tangle of black cotton. But on closer inspection it took shape as a breathtaking complication of wiry legs, ghostly wings and hunched body. It was enclosed in an air bubble. Only one back leg, fatter than the others, was actually touching the amber. Mum had explained to Brian how the creature had once been caught in sticky resin, probably from a tree. The resin had hardened and fossilised around it. The jeweller had told her it was twenty million years old.

‘Twenty million?’ he’d gasped. ‘That’s older than my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great–’ and he’d gone on and on until he was gasping for breath … ‘grandpa.’

The first time he remembered her taking it off was on a trip to the beach. She’d handed it to Dad for safekeeping before jumping into the sea. She might as well have pulled her finger off. Seeing Brian’s shocked face, she’d laughed and said, well, yes, in a way it was part of her – her third most precious jewel, after him and Dad – and she’d never lose it, just like she’d never lose them.

‘Except you did.’ Anger boiled inside him again. He hated Dad. He hated Florrie. A tear ran down his cheek. Brushing it furiously away, he stared at the ring.

His rage cooled and hardened, gleamed and grew into a cold, smooth pearl of a plan. A plan that would stick two fingers at them both, make a fool of Florrie and make Dad super-sorry for letting him down. A plan that would bring Mum right back to his side.

Brian slipped off the ring and put it in his pocket. He closed the box, replaced it in the drawer, smoothed the duvet where he’d sat on the bed and left the room. Shutting the door softly, he crept downstairs to Dad’s study. After printing what he needed from the Internet, he went back upstairs to do his homework like the good, obedient, well-behaved boy he was.