The gaps in her fence had a lot to answer for.
Amy leaned over her sink to tap the window and warn them off, but they didn’t notice. She called out, but again, to no avail. Smudge must have heard, because he suddenly leapt to the top of one of the green towers of ivy-covered pots, which wobbled precariously. Perhaps she should move the pots inside, she thought, and looked around for where they might live. But of course, towers of mugs lined every surface of the kitchen, and boxes and a couple of stray clocks took up most of the floor space. It had been a while since she’d seen the floor properly, let alone cleaned it.
Really, her house was too small, she decided. The pots, beautiful as they were, would have to take their chances outside.
Charles had been swallowed completely by the bush, and it shook as if possessed. Daniel was dangerously near a large patch of nettles, his eyes fixed on Smudge. Amy wished for a large wall between the two gardens, rather than the rickety fence that clearly couldn’t contain the curiosity of the children. This had gone far enough. Amy went to open the kitchen door and go out to shoo them away.
It was easier thought than done. Her kitchen was small, and since she rarely went into the garden, she’d started to use the area in front of the door for extra storage. She heaved down a box, glancing briefly inside. It contained a rather beautiful tea set: cups and saucers with elegant gold rims and roses and strawberries meandering across the fine bone china. She’d found it in a charity shop, complete but for the milk jug, which she’d trawled the internet for in the vain hope of finding a match. She really must use the set, she thought to herself. Maybe to drink Earl Grey tea, then she wouldn’t need milk. She had a box of the stuff somewhere. She glanced around her kitchen. Perhaps she’d just buy a new packet.
A crash.
So loud that Amy jumped and the little teacup she was holding flew into the air, and it was pure luck that she caught it again. She rushed to the window.
Smudge dashed across the garden, his tail fluffed up short and fat in fear as he fled up a tree.
Charles staggered out of the blackberry bush. Even through the grimy kitchen window, Amy could see that he was scratched by the thorns.
She looked at a heap on the ground, not recognising it. Then she realised.
Her pots. A tower of pots had fallen.
Amy wondered why Charles was so panicked. He was screaming as he pawed at her garden. It wasn’t as though the pots were his. They were hers.
Amy felt sick with guilt and worry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out to check on the pots, couldn’t even remember what each one looked like. She didn’t deserve them; they had a right to a better life. She’d been imagining them to be happy under the ivy, but what if they’d felt starved of attention, of sunlight, of the plants that should have made them complete?
Neglect.
That was what it was. And now, perhaps, she would lose them.
Amy put the teacup back in the box and moved it to one side. There were more boxes underneath, and she hurried to slide them across the floor to give her access to the door. Charles was frantic now, tugging at her pots. He’d do more harm than good: she needed to get out there and stop him.
He was shouting. Amy paused and listened. Then she realised why he was so upset. Who was missing from the scene in her garden.
His brother.
The tower had fallen on Daniel.
February 1999
‘I can’t believe I missed out on meeting a handsome older guy in a band because I was busy snogging bloody Dean Chapman!’ It was Saturday afternoon and Chantel and Amy were both lounging around in Chantel’s bedroom. Her mother’s flat was much smaller than Amy’s parents’ home, but the girls preferred to hang out there. It felt warmer, somehow. Amy’s house always felt empty. Perhaps it was because her parents were always working at the hospital.
Cursing Dean Chapman had become a familiar refrain from Chantel over the past four months as Amy and Tim had grown closer.
‘I think you like Dean really,’ said Amy, looking up from a magazine she’d been flicking through on the bed. ‘If you don’t, how come you always end up kissing him?’
‘Because he’s always got weed,’ said Chantel. ‘And I always have booze.’ She paused. ‘And he is a good kisser,’ she admitted.
‘Chemistry,’ said Amy. ‘That’s what you’ve got. I reckon you’ll end up getting married and having loads of little Chapmans.’
Chantel shuddered. ‘Talking of little ones, have you guys still not done the deed?’
‘Not yet,’ admitted Amy.
Chantel had been lying back, but sat up at this news, her eyes bright. ‘Do you think he’s gay?’ she asked.
‘Do I think my boyfriend is gay?’ repeated Amy, incredulous. ‘Of course not.’
‘Think about it,’ continued Chantel, warming to her theme. ‘He’s nineteen, he hasn’t slept with you, and you’re tall and elegant and flipping gorgeous. And he uses coconut oil conditioner. I don’t want to stereotype, but . . . ’
‘I wish I hadn’t told you that,’ said Amy. She could smell coconuts even now, and could almost feel his silky hair between her fingers. It reminded her of stroking Samuel, the rabbit her grandmother had bought for her birthday one year. That was until her mother had forgotten to close the cage, of course, and she’d found him squashed next to a zebra crossing on the high street.
‘We’re taking our time,’ said Amy. ‘I want it to be special.’
‘Sunsets and rose petals?’ asked Chantel, miming throwing up. ‘He does
