Gaze Upon My Works And Emote

Jon and Melanie crossed the platform and hugged him. He hugged them back just as tightly as ever, but Jon couldn’t help the slight surge of anxiety. He tried to keep his voice neutral, though. Lately their dad had been a bit quicker to anger than usual, and since they hadn’t had a lifetime of keeping ahead of his moods, he wasn’t sure what would touch him off. “What are you doing here?”

“I was already in Manchester, so I thought we should go out to dinner to celebrate the end of term,” their dad said. He pulled back from the hug, one hand on each of their shoulders, and looked down at them, his smile fading. “And, since I know you’re both intelligent enough to work out something is wrong, I need to talk to you about something important, but I thought we’d do it over a nice meal.”

In that moment, Jon knew that whatever was wrong was going to be something that would affect their lives forever. The last time they’d gone out for a “nice meal” and a serious discussion had been when the doctors dropped the news that dialysis likely wouldn’t keep their mum going long enough for her to get a new kidney even if they found someone willing to directly donate, what with the time it would have taken for compatibility tests to come back, and their mum had made the decision to go on hospice. Mouth suddenly too dry to respond, he simply nodded and, as they walked off the platform with their dad’s arms around their shoulders, reached behind his back to take Melanie’s hand.

She clutched it tightly, which meant she was having the same thoughts.

Jon held his tongue to keep from asking where they were going, since he didn’t recognize the route their dad took; he was a bit surprised when they wound up at one of their favorite restaurants in Manchester, one that normally didn’t take any time at all to get to from the station. Maybe he’d made reservations for a specific time and was killing time before they got there, although normally he would have said something first. Instead, he simply led them inside and spoke to the hostess on duty, who grabbed three menus and three rolls of silverware and led them to a nice, discreet table in the corner. The restaurant wasn’t particularly full this time of day, but it was still nice to have a modicum of privacy.

They ordered drinks and an appetizer, and once the waiter had gone off to fetch them, Melanie leaned forward. “I’m guessing this isn’t about work. Or about our schooling. Please tell me it’s one of the aunts.”

“The aunts?” their dad repeated with a puzzled frown. Suddenly his expression cleared. “Oh—in Sheffield. No, they’re all fine, as far as I know. We should write to them tonight. They’d like to hear from you.”

“Did they write back already?” Melanie asked.

Their dad paused in the act of unrolling the silverware. “Write back?”

“We posted letters to them Tuesday,” Jon reminded him. “For Easter, and for Auntie Liz’s birthday.”

“Christ, that was this week,” their dad murmured. He sighed and rubbed his face. “I had completely forgotten.”

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Jon said, not quite under his breath. Melanie kicked his ankle under the table.

“I have,” their dad agreed, which was a surprise. Jon had expected him to vehemently and furiously deny any such thing. “And I know I’ve been a bit…short with you both.”

“It’s—” Melanie began.

Their dad held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t say it’s all right, Little Moth. It isn’t and we all know it. You’re old enough to deserve to be treated like adults.”

Jon couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve always treated us like adults. Or, well, like people, I guess, which is…kind of the same thing, honestly.”

Their dad chuckled. “You’re not wrong about that.”

The waiter came back with their drinks, and they paused the discussion while they gave their orders. Once he had departed for the kitchen, their dad continued. “It was the temper that was worrying me. The forgetfulness I put down to just trying to keep up with the two of you as you got older, but I’ve never had a temper and it was a bit concerning, especially after I took it out on another barrister. I made an appointment with my doctor, just to…rule out any issues. I assumed it would come back as nothing, maybe stress and a bit of grief combining to finally boil over, and I’d just wind up seeing a therapist.”

Part of Jon was tempted to ask when he was going to start therapy. The bigger part of him, the part that was reading ahead in the Psychology textbooks, knew better. “So…what did the doctor say?”

Their dad was quiet for several moments. Finally, he spoke softly. “We’re not…entirely certain. There are a few more tests still yet to come back. But the preliminary diagnosis is some form of dementia.”

Melanie stared at him. “Dementia? Like Alzheimer’s? You’re not old enough for that!”

“There’s an early onset type that can run in families, but I don’t think that’s it,” their dad said, which was less reassuring than it could have been. “It’s possible, though. My mother officially died of pneumonia, but, well, she had dementia as well, which is how she got caught out in a rainstorm without her coat and hat in the middle of winter. That’s one of the things they’re testing for—Alzheimer’s—but it could be any number of genetic factors. Or it could just be bad luck.”

Jon bit his lip. Several questions crowded his brain, but he tried to think rationally. “So what’s the plan, then?”

“Well, that’s part of what I wanted to talk to you two about,” their dad said seriously. “You’re adults—well, practically adults—you’re certainly mature. And you’re my closest family. I’m not asking either of you to be responsible for me—none of us are ready for that—but I would like you both to participate in the care planning. I want you to be part of the conversations around treatment and care. If you’re up for that.”

“Dad, of course,” Melanie said swiftly.

Jon nodded seriously. “We couldn’t help with Mum, but…we want to help you. And it’s best if we understand, right?”

“Right.” Their dad smiled. “I knew I could count on you two.”

The conversation turned to other matters, and they actually managed to have quite a nice meal. Their dad was encouraging about their end of term marks, and he shared a few details about what he’d been working on around his appointments. Jon could almost have fooled himself that it was just any old ordinary night out for dinner with his family, except for two things. First, their dad forgot where he was three more times over the course of the conversation. And second, Melanie’s expression every time he did got a little more scared.

“Who wants to practice their driving on the way home?” their dad asked brightly as they exited the restaurant.

Jon exchanged a glance with Melanie. Both of them realized that it was almost certainly because he didn’t feel confident in his ability to drive home. Since Melanie didn’t look like she was in any shape to follow the rules of the road—and their dad either wouldn’t say anything or would explode at her, which would make her yell back and make him start yelling at both of them—Jon held out his hand. “I will.”

Their dad fished the lanyard with the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Jon, who led the way to the car. If the Harlequin ever gave up the ghost, he mused, their dad would never be able to find their car again. Melanie climbed into the backseat without protest, and Jon tried to concentrate on the lessons he’d been taught as he carefully backed out of the parking space and onto the streets. He’d always had a fairly good sense of direction, so he was able to maneuver them the relatively short drive home without too much trouble.

As he pulled into the driveway and switched the car off, Melanie spoke, in a quiet, carefully controlled sort of voice. “Dad?”

“Yes, Little Moth?” Their dad twisted around to look at her with a faint smile on his face.

“Are Jon and I going to need to be tested for…whatever it is you’ve got too?”

Jon had to confess that that exact question had been worrying him most of the evening. Their dad’s face grew serious immediately. “Yes. If this comes back as a genetic condition, I am going to insist both of you be screened for it. In the first place, at least one of them might show up even earlier in successive generations, so if you did get it you need to be prepared. And in the second place, there’s always a chance you could pass it on to your own children, and I want you both to know that’s a possibility before you start considering it.”

Jon bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder at Melanie, then turned back to their dad. “Dad, I’m…you and Mum adopted me, remember?”

“I remember,” their dad said, patting Jon’s hand. At least he didn’t look annoyed or upset at the reminder. “But…well, you might as well know now. There’s a chance you and Melanie share the same paternity after all. Your mothers and your papa and I were, well…maybe you don’t need that many details, but I think you get the picture. You could both be mine. Or you could both be Paul’s. It’s why we were always so adamantly against having you tested for compatibility to donate a kidney to your mum. Not just because you were really too young, but because we were never sure what Mabel Sims would do, or try to do, if she found out.”

It was probably the first time he hadn’t called her your grandmother, and something in Jon relaxed, even as it conflicted with the new tension from this revelation. “Isn’t it more likely that, if we’re…I mean, I’ve got Papa’s eyes. The color at least.”

“My da had green eyes, too,” their dad said gently. “I agree that it’s more likely, but, well, I’d rather be safe than sorry, so if anything comes back as hereditary, we’re getting you both checked. And since I’m on the birth certificate, nobody will think twice about it.” He unfastened his seatbelt. “Come on, let’s go inside before the cats figure out how to work the oven.”

Jon hung the keys carefully on the designated hook, doubling up the lanyard so Skimbleshanks wouldn’t try and play with it. Melanie went to the kitchen to feed the cats, while their dad collapsed onto the sofa with a sigh. Jon started for their room, hesitated, then turned back. “Dad, do you mind if I practice piano for a bit?”

Their dad opened his eyes wide and stared at him. “Of course not! Why would I mind? Don’t answer that,” he added, holding up a hand. Either he’d seen something in Jon’s face or he’d guessed from their earlier conversations. “Go ahead, Little Flame. I’d love to hear you. It’s been a while.”

Jon and Melanie had both taken lessons when they were small, and Jon had continued on up until the previous year when he’d needed more time free to study, but he hadn’t played much since then. Partly due to time constraints, mostly due to their dad irritably shouting for him to knock off that racket. Tonight, though, he needed the calm of routine.

Scales, arpeggios, rhythm exercises—Jon went through his usual warm up and fundamentals, then pulled out the sheet music for the Chopin piece he’d been working on when he’d stopped taking lessons. He wasn’t exactly going to be playing at the Albert Hall anytime soon, but he did all right, or so he’d always been told. Anyway, wasn’t like anyone was going to be critiquing him. So he played. He stopped and started, went over a few passages to be sure he was getting the rhythms down, but then he went back to the beginning and managed to play through the entire first movement in one go without his tempo altering.

“Your mothers would be proud of you,” their dad said when he had finished. “I know I am.”

Jon couldn’t help but smile. He definitely felt more centered than when he’d sat down. “Thanks, Dad.”

Melanie pulled out the Parcheesi board and they played three rounds before having hot cocoa and biscuits, like they usually did at end of term. Melanie spent a long time in the shower when they went to bed, and when she came out, Jon was sitting up in bed trying to interest himself in a book their English Literature teacher had said he would enjoy. The opening pages were dry as dust and he hoped it got better, but he wasn’t so stubborn that he bothered pretending to be annoyed when Melanie tugged at the top of the book to lay it on his lap out of his way.

“It’s bad, right?” she said quietly. “This is bad? I’m not just making things worse in my head because I’m associating dementia with old people and assuming that means he’s going to die?”

Jon sighed and set the book on his nightstand. “It’s bad. Maybe not ‘he’s going to die tomorrow’ bad, but definitely ‘we’re going to have to take care of him long before we thought we might’ bad.”

“We’ll have to look into universities closer to home. He’ll never let us not go.”

“He also won’t let us give up on a good school just to stay close. I think he still feels bad we didn’t do Eton and Harrogate.”

Melanie grunted, then grunted again as Cosy, who was getting extremely fat these days, jumped onto the bed and walked over her lap to her accustomed spot. Paddiwack, slim as ever, followed, and the two cats curled up together as they always did, Cosy with her back against Jon’s hip and Paddiwack with his against Melanie’s. Jon stroked Cosy’s silky head. “Well, at least we know he’s not too terribly bad.”

“What do you—oh. Because she’s in here with us still.” Melanie pet Cosy, too, then rubbed Paddiwack in the spot under his jaw he liked and was rewarded with purrs that practically shook the bed. “I remember. Whenever Mum was sick, she’d sleep with her, and she was there all the time at…at the end.”

Jon nodded. “And…you know, he’s young, and he’s strong. He’s probably got ages yet. And maybe now that they caught it early they can…at least slow it down.”

Melanie sighed. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll be something reversible.”

It had been, by most metrics, a blissful summer, the second they hadn’t had to go to Bournemouth. Instead they had gone to Sheffield—initially just for a week, but their dad’s cousin Linda had rung up while they were visiting with the news that she’d somehow managed to get tickets to not only some of the first week’s events of the Olympics but the opening ceremony itself, and when all of her aunts had declined for one reason or another (Melanie suspected at least some of it was put on) had asked and obtained permission to take them along. It had been their first time flying, their first time out of the country, and their first time discovering just how much fun Cousin Linda was when her aunts weren’t around. She’d dragged them—well, not really dragged, both Jon and Melanie had been eager to go—to a few different museums in between games, and even taken them to the dig she was working on, and Uncle Edmond had taken all of them to what he swore was the best taverna in all of Greece. Melanie had no reason to doubt him. They’d hated having to leave, and felt bad about Uncle Edmund not being able to stay longer, but he’d assured them that he had to get back to work as well, since he wouldn’t be retiring until the end of the year.

They’d been back for about a week and a half, and they’d spent most of it chasing one another around town on their bicycles, fencing in the park using sticks and dubious techniques, and arguing over things like if trees could dream and whether cheese tasted yellow. It had been, in Melanie’s opinion, a wonderful excuse to just shut her brain off and not think, about anything at all, let alone anything serious. But today was the day, and not thinking was no longer an option.

At least there wasn’t any kind of dress code. Some people, she knew, would dress up for this, others…wouldn’t. Melanie had opted for walking the line between comfort and confidence and donned a pair of low waisted jeans she’d embroidered with Auntie Liz’s help, a bright pink midriff shirt with a glittery heart in the middle, and the oversized denim jacket their dad promised she’d grow into that she’d begun adding patches to, and was currently trying, with limited success, to get the hang of winging her eyeliner. Jon, beside her, wore the shirt he’d got in Athens, a pair of artfully ripped jeans, and his jacket to match hers, except that hers was a light stone and his was a dark charcoal. The lipstick suited his skin tone better than it did Melanie’s. Both of them had gelled their hair into spikes, and that particular hairstyle…well, it didn’t really suit either of them, honestly, but it at least looked a little better on Melanie.

“I think I might cut my hair shorter before school starts,” she said distractedly, trying to get the left eye to match the right. “Assuming I’m going.”

“Of course you’re going. You’re not going to fail.” Jon tilted his chin briefly to examine in the mirror, then turned to face her fully with a mischievous smirk. “Anyway, I’ll be going, and where—”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up,” Melanie grumbled, without heat.

They finished their morning ablutions—that had been one of the vocabulary words on their exams, and Melanie had liked it a lot—laced up their shoes, and headed to the living room. Cosy was prowling around restlessly, going back and forth between the living room and the door to the dining room; Paddiwack, who was, like his namesake, a heartthrob and a bit of a snob and had never been one to indulge in kittenish playing, was nevertheless engaged in a wrestling match with Skimbleshanks behind the partial wall separating the living room and the utility closet. Their dad was turning up the sofa cushions.

“Dad?” Melanie said, frowning slightly.

Their dad paused, looking up. “Oh—hello, Little Moth.” His glasses, which had somehow been knocked askew upwards, dropped down and settled into place on his nose. “Have you seen my car keys? I swear I left them by the door.”

“No, not since last night.” Their dad had taken them out to practice their driving for a bit, but he always hung the keys on the rack by the door. Melanie could see at a glance they weren’t there, though. “Here, let me help you look.”

Jon glanced at Cosy with a slight frown. “I’ll help in a minute…Dad, did you feed the cats this morning?”

“Yes. That is, I thought I had. I didn’t check their water bowl, though.”

“Right, let me do that and then I’ll help.” Jon disappeared into the kitchen.

Melanie dropped to her knees, on the grounds that her jeans could stand it more than the knees of their dad’s suit trousers, and peered under the sideboard. It wasn’t impossible for Skimbleshanks, in a fit of mischief, to have jumped up on the top and batted the keys off the hook—it would be difficult, certainly, because their mum had definitely purchased a set of hooks with a deep curve to deter such mischief, but not impossible—and there was enough of a gap behind it that it might have fallen under. Her efforts were in vain, however. Nor were the keys under the sofa, the bookshelf, or the piano.

She got up and brushed off her knees. “Maybe Skimbles ran off with them?”

Their dad frowned. “Why should he have done that?”

“They’re shiny.” It was a weak argument and Melanie knew it, but it was the only thing she could come up with in the moment. “Who knows what goes on in that cat’s mind?”

“I suppose,” their dad said slowly. He turned around at the sound of footsteps. “Was it water Cosy was wanting?”

“The water bowl was fine,” Jon said. He stood in the doorway with two oranges held in one hand and something in the other, which flashed and gave a soft clink as it swung free when he held it up. It was the ring of keys.

“Oh, there they are!” Their dad laughed, holding out his hand. Jon tossed them with an easy underhand throw, and their dad caught it fairly easily. “I must have set them on the kitchen counter when I fed the cats. Thank you, Little Flame.” He flicked through the keys and took hold of the one for the car. “So, what adventure are you two off on today?”

Jon tossed one of the oranges, less gently, at Melanie. She caught it with one hand and a defiant smirk, which he returned. “Heading off to the school…you want to take the train or bike?”

"Train,” Melanie said firmly. It was easier for them to talk that way, and would make it easier to bring…things…home with them.

A look of confusion crossed their dad’s face. “Surely it can’t be time for you to go back to school yet. And on a Thursday?”

“Not quite yet.” Jon raised himself up on his toes—he hadn’t hit his final growth spurt yet—just enough to press a quick kiss to their dad’s cheek. “It’s Results Day.”

Melanie raised on her own toes—she and Jon had somehow managed to match each other inch for inch the entire time they’d been growing up—and pressed a kiss to his other cheek. “Wish us luck.”

“Luck?” Their dad scoffed and ruffled their hair affectionately. Melanie tried not to wince at the press of the keys into her scalp. “My children don’t need luck. Get on with you.”

Out of habit, both of them jumped up slightly to swat the Thorn Valley sign and set it swinging before skipping off down the path. Their dad waved to them from where he was getting in the car; they waved back, then headed off. As they rounded the corner, Melanie elbowed Jon. “How cold was the kitchen? Felt like he was pressing a block of ice on my head.”

“Not very. The keys were in the fridge.” Jon shrugged at Melanie’s incredulous look. “He must have dropped them when he was making himself breakfast.”

“I guess.” Something niggled unsettlingly in the back of Melanie’s mind, but it was quickly eclipsed by worries about her marks as she slid a thumbnail into the peel of the orange.

There were a fair number of other teenagers on the train, unsurprising given the circumstances, and it took them a bit to find seats. When they did settle down, Jon said, “Can you imagine what this would be like if I had gone to Eton?”

“I wouldn’t have got through secondary school, that’s for certain,” Melanie said. “Even if I’d gone to Harrogate. And we’d still be in both places.” She pulled a face. “I know I should want to go…”

“Do you?”

“No. If I’m going anywhere, I’m going to Stockport with you, like we talked about. And anyway, do I really have the right?”

“As much as I do to go to Eton,” Jon pointed out. Melanie grunted. “Have you decided what you might want to study?”

Melanie kicked at the seat idly. “I had a look at that catalog Mr Crewe gave us, and…I’ve been thinking. I know we talked about, like, getting a job at some ivory tower think tank to study the paranormal—”

“Only because we couldn’t think of anything else.”

“Yeah, but I did. You know that show that pops up every Halloween, the one where they go to different places and look into ghost stories and urban ledges and that sort of thing?” Melanie grinned at the look on Jon’s face as the same thought that had occurred to her dawned on him. “We could do that, right? Get a crew together, seek out some ghosts…and, you know, if one of us has a degree in things that go bump in the night, maybe we can still do research into…things…and figure out how to stop them. But we need money to do that. So I thought I’d look into a degree in Media and learn how to do it properly.”

Jon kissed her cheek. “You’re brilliant.”

Marple wasn’t far away—just a couple stops down the line—and every teenager still remaining on the train swarmed off when it stopped. None of the adults, few as they were, seemed to mind; in fact, one gentleman even lowered his newspaper to wish them luck as they departed. Jon craned his neck as they joined the throng stepping out of the station, then waved. “Sam! Hi, Sam, how are you feeling?”

Melanie turned with a smile. She liked Sam—not like that, but at least to talk to. He was a bit of an outcast like they were, and for many of the same reasons, more of a loner, with a dry sense of humor that appealed to her, and he was the only person who could consistently keep up with Jon academically. He was also possibly the most obsessively neurotic, perfectionist person in the entirety of Greater Manchester’s Year Eleven by dint of being desperate to make his parents proud, so he was probably an absolute mess.

Sure enough, he looked not only like he was about to be sick, but like he had probably been sick several times in the bushes. “Like crap. Hi, Jon. Hi, Melanie.”

Melanie fished a tin of mints out of the recesses of her jacket and offered them to Sam; he took two. “You’re going to be fine.”

“But what if I’m not?” Sam fretted. “What if I got so nervous during exams that I failed them all? My parents will never forgive me.”

“And if the sky falls down, we’ll all catch larks,” Melanie said lightly, like she hadn’t been worrying about her exams just as much. “Don’t worry so much, Sam. Sài wēng shī mǎ.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sam said, but his lips did at least quirk upwards in a slight smile.

“Only because she’s practiced it most of her life,” Jon said, drawing a laugh out of both of them. “Look. Let’s make a bet of it. Five pounds says you got more A-starred than I did.”

Sam pursed his lips. “And if we get the same number?”

“Then I pay you both,” Melanie interjected. “We all know I’ll be lucky to get one.”

“Oh, that’s not a safe bet at all. Five pounds you got at least three.” Sam nudged her lightly. “Fine. You’re both on. Let’s go before I lose my nerve.”

“Right. Morituri te salutamus.”

Jon threw his arm around Melanie’s shoulder and hooked the other through Sam’s. “Sounds like you probably did pretty well on your Latin paper.”

They weren’t the only ones going together. There were pairs—siblings and romantic—clusters of friends, and a group of the boys in the rugby club that could only be described as a “pack” who were hyping each other up. But there were also a few solos, people walking towards the schools while wringing their hands or clutching good luck talismans or pretending they didn’t care. Melanie snagged Sophie as they passed her, since she looked like she was about to bolt and refuse to even go, and Cedric attached himself to their group of his own accord while pretending it was just a coincidence. Jon waved to Mason as they passed him, but he didn’t really notice, too focused on counting the beads of his rosary as he murmured a prayer to whatever saint he thought might help him out.

“It’s good to know I’m not the only one nervous,” Sam admitted, looking at Mason over his shoulder as they passed. “I wish I thought there was something out there listening that could help.”

Jon and Melanie exchanged glances, and she knew he was thinking the same thing as her: there was plenty out there, and some of it was likely listening, but it wasn’t likely to be helpful.

They weren’t the first ones to make it to the school, but neither would they be the last. There were a few clumps of students in the bus ports and on the road ringing the building, some yelling with excitement over results and others clearly hyping themselves up to go up the stairs. Melanie had to practically drag Sophie through the double doors, where they threaded through yet more students excitedly yelling about results before they reached the gymnasium, where they had been told to report. There were tables lining the room, each with a letter or set of letters over them. Jon glanced up at them, then turned to the others. “Guess they split them by last name.”

Sam nodded, looking a little sick. “Meet out front to take a look?”

“See you in a few.” Melanie knocked her fist against Sam’s, then Cedric’s, then gave Sophie a quick hug before following Jon over to the table labeled S.

Unsurprisingly, there was a longer line, but Melanie finally got to the front and was able to show her ID to the teacher, who marked her name off on the list and handed her an envelope. Melanie smiled her thanks, waited for Jon to get his, and headed back out front.

Sam and Sophie were already there, both of them looking sick. Melanie joined them. “Do we wait for Cedric or just go ahead?”

“We promised,” Jon reminded her. Melanie rolled her eyes. “He was almost to the front when we were coming out, it shouldn’t be too much—”

“It’s so not fair that there are more last names starting with M than there are anyone else. I mean, come on, shouldn’t there at least be a good number of S names?” Cedric complained, stomping towards them.

“—longer,” Jon finished. Melanie giggled. “Right. Count of three?”

“No, let’s take turns,” Cedric said. “That way we can celebrate together. And you two can go last.” He ripped open his envelope before the others could say anything and pulled out his results, then scanned the sheaf of papers quickly. “Not bad, at least for me. All Bs. Go on, Melanie, you next.”

“Why me?” Melanie grumbled, even as she tore open the envelope.

“Because you’re more likely to have grades closer to mine.”

Jon glared at Cedric for that. Melanie ignored him in favor of pulling out her results and scanning them. “Hey, pretty good! Three As and—holy shit.”

“What?” Cedric demanded.

Instead of answering, Melanie tucked the paper under her arm to secure it, fished out her wallet, and extracted a five pound note she’d meant for a cup of tea or something after getting the results. She handed it to Sam. “You win. Three A-starred.”

“I knew you could do it.” Sam grinned at her. Jon gave her an excited hug, and she caught her papers before hugging him back.

Sophie opened her own papers and studied them. “Hey, me, too! Well, almost. Three A-starred and four As.”

“Does she get five pounds?”

“Shut up, Cedric.” Melanie looked from Jon to Sam and back. “Well? Go on, you two. Let’s see who wins your bet.”

They both tore the envelopes open at the same time, but Sam got his papers out first and scanned them. He gave a shaky exhale of relief. “Seven A-starred!”

Jon looked at his and let out a crow of delight. “Nine!”

She sat on the window seat, knees tucked under her chin, and stared vacantly out of it. Not that there was much to see, really. The sun wasn’t even up yet, although it was trying to be, and the sky had been completely clouded over as long as she’d been sitting there. As she watched, a heavy mist rolled up to obscure the view from the window.

She sighed heavily. Another day trapped indoors.

Honestly, it was worse than when they were kids (she thought, as if they were so very grown up at the ripe old age of fourteen). Being trapped indoors when they were small had at least lent itself to games of hide and seek, even if they’d quickly got bored of not having new and innovative places to hide. But now they were too mature for games like that, and besides, Mrs Sims was even more convinced they were doing sinful and unholy things when left alone than she had when they had first started coming to visit. If she believed for one minute they were running around the house, crawling into closets and under furniture still covered in dust sheets and giggling as they pounced at each other, she’d be dragging them both to the priest screaming for an exorcism, at best.

Melanie bit back a groan as the thought chased another out of hiding. It was Sunday. Which meant that even if it did start raining too hard for Mrs Sims to be willing to venture out (doubtful, it was only ten minutes’ walk and she was quite likely to call one of the women from whatever committee she was on this year if she felt it to be too much for her), they would be expected to sit quietly in the living room and watch whatever service being broadcast on the telly she was able to find, or failing that a radio broadcast. And once it was over, they wouldn’t be allowed to do much anyway. No work—or play—on Sundays, only quiet reading. At least she’d given up trying to force them to read the Bible after Jon had asked her too many questions about Song of Solomon.

A creak from behind her almost drew her attention, but she made herself keep staring out the window, just in case the old bat had somehow climbed the stairs and was coming in to check on them, which was a distinct possibility. A moment later, however, she saw—just—Jon’s reflection in the window as he seated himself opposite her, tapping her foot with his as he drew them up to mimic her pose.

“Nightmares?” he asked by way of greeting.

“How’d you guess?” Melanie turned to look at Jon and noted the way his hair stood on end. “Never mind. You, too?”

“Just the ocean this time, anyway.” Jon sighed. “I wish there was a way to make them stop for good. You know, without a lobotomy.”

Melanie turned that word over for a moment. “Okay…the tomy at the end probably means taking something out, like hysterectomy or appendectomy. So…what, taking out dreams? Memories?”

“Something like that, I guess. It’s actually taking out part of the brain.” Jon smiled grimly as Melanie recoiled. “Yeah, that was my reaction too. It was most common in the United States, less common but still popular in England, and even less common in the rest of Europe. The Soviet Union banned it outright as being too inhumane.”

“And that gave nobody a clue that maybe it was a bit much?”

“Apparently not. It was a recommended treatment for mental illness, especially in women.” Jon picked at his sleep pants briefly. “And for homosexuals.”

Melanie sighed. “Don’t give That Damn Woman any ideas.”

Jon actually snickered. “Do you remember where we picked up on that? I still can’t. She’s just always been…well, That Damn Woman.”

Melanie cracked a grin. “Must’ve been one of our parents. Since Dad doesn’t swear and Mum always made a point of making us leave the room before she chewed anybody out, I’m guessing it was Mama.”

“You don’t know that Mum didn’t start making us leave the room before exploding because we started calling Her that. We’ll have to ask Dad.”

“If we remember by the time we get home.” Melanie let her head fall back against the wall with a light thump and a bounce. “Assuming we get to go home.”

Jon scoffed. “She can’t actually keep us here forever. We do have to go back to school at some point. Anyway, the papers say we only have to stay three weeks, so…two more?”

“You keep acting like she’s going to be remotely reasonable about this. You know half her sewing circle or…charity group or whatever they are thinks we’re being raised by wolves.”

“I should leave the earring in and really make her mad,” Jon mumbled, tugging at his left ear. The tiny jeweled stud winked, picking up the slightest bit of light and flashing it back like a star. “Except I’m not altogether convinced she wouldn’t use it as an excuse to go back to court.”

Melanie’s heart lurched. “And do what?”

Jon shrugged. “Say Dad’s not taking proper care of me. Say the house isn’t good for me with only one parent, because Dad works all the time whereas she stays home and can watch me properly. Say the custody arrangement was based on Mum and Dad being married. And, honestly, fuck Dad’s life up even more than it already is.”

Since Jon didn’t normally swear when they were in Bournemouth out of fear of what Mrs Sims would do—even saying That Damn Woman was a step beyond what he usually allowed himself—the force of the fuck knocked Melanie back on her metaphorical heels. “You don’t think she’d…win, do you?”

“Melanie, of course not.” Jon gave her the same exasperated look he’d given her a year ago when telling her he wasn’t going to Eton. “It’s not a guardianship anymore, remember? Mum and Dad adopted me good and proper. There’s nothing to contest. Their names are on my birth certificate, and I’m—”

He stopped abruptly. A vacant look came over his eyes, and they strayed towards the window. It was still foggy—or maybe hazy—and there wasn’t anything to see out there, but nevertheless he seemed to be looking at something. Or maybe he’d heard something. Or maybe, Melanie thought, he was just focusing on something other than her so he didn’t disconcert her, because his lips were moving ever so slightly as he stared, like he was running calculations on something. She considered what he’d said, trying to figure out what sudden revelation had struck him in the middle of the sentence. She didn’t think it was bad, necessarily, because he didn’t look upset or frightened or angry. Pursing her lips, she reeled the conversation back, one ponderous sentence at a time. Dad, Jon’s newly pierced ear, going back to court, the papers—the papers.

“The order from the court said Jonathan Sims,” she said triumphantly, slapping one hand against the knee. “That’s not your name anymore.”

“No.” Jon turned back to Melanie, his eyes gleaming almost as bright as the earring behind his glasses. “It’s Jonathan Sims-King. Which means we’ve been coming here for eight years when we don’t even have to. God, if we’d known that, if we’d thought about it when we were kids, maybe we wouldn’t have…”

“Don’t,” Melanie said swiftly. Jon wasn’t wrong, necessarily—maybe they could have spared a lot of trauma if they hadn’t come to Bournemouth—but neither of them needed to be blaming themselves for that, not now. And they didn’t need to think about what had happened to Andrew and get into an argument over whether it was their fault. “We were kids, and even if we had thought about it…you know Dad would have insisted we come anyway. Remember what he used to say before we got on the train? ‘Give her a chance, Little Flame. She’s family.’” She imitated their dad’s voice as best she could.

Jon snorted. “She’s not family. She’s blood. There’s a difference. You’re family, you and Dad. Auntie Jean and Auntie Rose and everyone up in Sheffield, they’re family. And Mum and Mama and Papa, and the cats…and Lucy.” He bit his lip. “Can you imagine what That Damn Woman would have done to her if she’d lived?”

Melanie shuddered. “She’d have tried to get custody of her. Or you, and leave Lucy with us. Or—”

“Or both of us,” Jon completed, “and the judge might have looked at things differently if there were three of us and two of us were going to be sent to live with her. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.” He was quiet for a moment. “You realize she’d be turning twelve this year?”

“I think about it a lot,” Melanie confessed. “What she would have been like. You remember those books I said I could read on my own, about the schoolteacher in Canada?”

“Yeah?”

“In one of them, she gets married and has a baby. Only something goes wrong, and the baby is too weak to live more than a day, just like Lucy.” Melanie folded her legs beneath herself and leaned forward over them. “Anyway, she’s crying to one of the other characters later and says something about how she’s afraid she won’t recognize her, and he says something like ‘I reckon the Almighty will manage better than that.’ And then towards the end of the book she has another baby, and her mum—well, not her mum really, but the woman who raised her—says the baby will take Joyce’s place, and she says no, he has is own place, and says she can picture in her mind what Joy would be like if she’d lived.” She took a quick breath, aware she was rambling but also aware that Jon never minded. “It’s like that with Lucy sometimes. I don’t remember what she looked like—I don’t know if we even got to see her—but I picture her sometimes, tagging along after us or running ahead or just waiting for us to come home. It always feels like she’s there on her birthday. You know?”

“I know,” Jon said quietly. “Mama and Papa and Mum always seem like they’ll stay the way they were—but Lucy’s growing with us, in a way. I wish she’d had the chance, but I’m glad she’s spared this.” He scrubbed his eyes briefly with his arm, then spoke more seriously. “Anyway. Not the point.”

“No,” Melanie agreed. “The point is that we don’t have to come back any more after this. We can tell Dad when we go home that we’re done. I reckon he’d have let us stop in a couple years anyway, but we only have to stick it out a couple more weeks, right?”

Jon tilted his head to one side, studying her. After a moment, he asked, “Why?”

Melanie blinked. “Why would Dad have let us stop?”

“Why do we have to stick it out a couple more weeks?”

“Be…cause that’s when we’re supposed to go back?”

“Right, but why do we have to wait?” Jon asked. “We’ve got open return tickets, so they’re good for up to a month, right? We could just…leave whenever we want. Like today. Hold on, I’ve got a Railtrack in my bag.”

“Yeah, but—wait, Jon, hold on a moment.” Melanie put out a hand to catch Jon’s arm and stop him as he hopped to his feet. “She’ll never take us to the station. She’ll insist we have to stay out the full length of her time with us.”

“So we’ll walk.” Jon shrugged. “It’s only, what, a few miles to the station? We can walk that in an hour, easy. We’re about halfway between Bournemouth and Poole, we could go to either. She doesn’t have the right to keep us here against our will. She’s got no legal right to us.”

There was probably a flaw in the logic, but Melanie couldn’t think of it. Oh, wait. “Don’t we have to…have an adult to meet us at the other end?”

“We can call Dad from the station. We should probably do that anyway, so if the police call him and say we’ve run away he doesn’t panic.” Jon went over to where he’d left his bag and began rummaging through it. “And we packed light, so it shouldn’t even be that hard to carry. We’re far and away old enough to travel on our own, so—aha.”

He emerged, triumphant, with the thick booklet in hand, then came over to the window seat again and began leafing through it. “Let’s see, let’s see…here! Bournemouth. Couple options for routes. Let’s see which one gets us out of here faster.”

Melanie darted back to the nightstand where she’d left her watch and brought it back to the window seat. There was just enough light to see the dial. “It’s just going on five now. That means—probably need to catch a train after seven, just to be on the safe side, right?”

“Mm. Well, there’s a train out of Poole at nine, Bournemouth at quarter past, that goes direct to Manchester Picadilly without having to change trains. That might be our best bet. Not a lot of runs on that route, and it is Sunday, after all.” Jon made a face. “I really want to be out of here before she tries to drag us to church.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Melanie agreed. “I suppose we could leave now and just sit around the station, but what if she follows us, or sends the cops after us and has us dragged back? Unless we call Dad and he calls them and says…but that might be too much. I reckon we ought to leave with just enough time to get there, get our tickets, and leave.”

“Agreed. Let’s see what else there is.” Jon placed a finger on the page and flipped back to the index, then forward to another table. “Hmm…there’s one leaving a bit after seven, but—no, that’s a transfer, it’s the same as the one on table 158…right, so if we leave from Bournemouth at seven, we can get to London Waterloo by quarter past nine.”

“But we want to get to Manchester, right?”

“The only train direct from here to Manchester is that nine o’clock one…blast, if we go through London we’d have to go out of Euston, not Waterloo.” Jon looked up at Melanie. “So. Leave later and go direct, or leave now and change stations?”

“If we change trains, Dad can meet us in London maybe,” Melanie pointed out. “We’ll have to hurry. You’re sure you know how to get there from here?”

“Easy. Straight down the Promenade and up Bath once we hit the pier.” Jon slid a scrap of paper into the book. “Come on. Get dressed and grab your things, and for goodness’ sake, be quiet about it.”

Melanie considered arguing about why he thought she needed to be told that, but decided, on the balance, she’d rather be gone than win a pointless argument.

It didn’t take them long to get themselves put together. They had made this journey every summer since they were five years old, and they had quickly learned not to take more than they could easily carry on their own; after the first year, until last year when they’d been old enough to travel unaccompanied, they had been placed in the care of an aunt, and most of them weren’t willing to help with luggage. They also were reluctant to use the dressers or other storage areas, so they mostly lived out of their suitcases. They weren’t going to be winning any prizes for speed, hauling these, but, well, that was why they were leaving now. Melanie slung her knapsack over one shoulder and hefted her suitcase. “Ready?”

Jon adjusted the strap to his messenger bag and nodded. “Let’s go.”

The house was old, and had all the requisite problems of an old house—creaky floors, loose steps, rattling windows, the lot. After nine years, though, they knew most of its quirks, and more importantly, knew what to avoid. The owner might also be old, but she still had sharp ears and keen eyesight and she would hear them if they stepped wrong. So they treaded carefully, avoiding particularly iffy boards and joists. The fifth step from the top was loose and hollow and would flip up slightly if they stepped on it wrong; usually they jumped it altogether, but Melanie saw Jon turn his foot sideways and gingerly set it against the back of the riser. She understood. Jumping it with the suitcases could result in too loud of a thump on the next step down, and she would hear that just the same. They had to be careful.

They weren’t careful enough. Or maybe they just got unlucky. They hadn’t taken more than one step from the foot of the stairs when a sharp voice stopped them in their tracks. “And where do you think you are going?”

Melanie gasped. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a silken wrapper and a pair of house slippers, curlers in her hair and a face like thunder, was Mrs Sims.

Jon shrank back momentarily, then rallied and faced her, thrusting his chin out defiantly. “We’re going home.”

It was said with fierceness and firmness and a tone that he clearly meant to brook no argument. Unfortunately, his voice, which was beginning to settle into a low tenor, chose that moment to crack back into a boy’s treble. Melanie knew it for hormones and the snapping of an elastic cord that was still getting used to a new shape, but Mrs Sims took it for fear. For weakness.

“Are you now,” she said icily. “By whose leave?”

“We don’t need your permission,” Jon said, enunciating every word carefully. Melanie knew it was to keep his voice from squeaking again. “You don’t have any legal hold on us. You can’t keep us here against our will.”

“I am your guardian, Jonathan,” Mrs Sims said. “While you are under my roof, you are my responsibility.”

“Well, we’re leaving your roof,” Jon shot back. “Solves that problem, doesn’t it? We’re old enough to travel on your own, so you don’t even need to put out for someone to watch us.”

Mrs Sims narrowed her eyes. “I am entitled to three weeks with you every summer.”

“The court order said Jonathan Sims.” Melanie decided to add her voice to this one. Mrs Sims didn’t like her anyway. “’S not his name anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

“Whatever you choose to call yourself, it does not change the name on your birth certificate,” Mrs Sims snapped.

“No, but the legal adoption from eight years ago does,” Jon said. “It’s Jonathan Sims-King. Mum and Dad adopted me, fair and square, and we all changed our names. They let us keep coming as a courtesy, but we’re done. We’re going home.”

“Talking of courtesy,” Mrs Sims said sharply, “I have allowed her to come along with you as a courtesy to your guardians. I am only required to allow you to visit.”

“Tough! Where I go, she goes.” Jon’s hand tightened around the handle of his suitcase. “And I don’t want to visit you! I never did! You’ve never, ever been even the least bit kind to us, you were horrible to Mama—even Papa didn’t want you anywhere near me! And the first thing you did when I was scared and hurt and grieving was try to take me away from the people who loved me. Why would I want anything to do with you, you—you damned old bat!”

CRACK!

The sharp, wet sound of flesh on flesh echoed through the foyer. This was no ladylike discouragement, no quick but firm tap to get attention or make a point. The flat of Mrs Sims’ hand landed hard and heavy on Jon’s cheek with the force of a metal gauntlet, in a way that was clearly in anger and not worrying about being excessive and also, Melanie remembered with sudden crystal clarity, in a way it hadn’t done since the first time they’d been left alone with her, nearly twelve years ago now, when he had dutifully replied with a yes, Grandma to an instruction and she hadn’t known that he still pronounced his G-R combinations as a D sound. Just like he had back then, Jon stood stock still, his eyes wide and fixed on her even as his head still turned slightly to one side, too shocked and frightened to cry.

To her credit, she also seemed shocked that she had done it, standing frozen before them with her hand still hovering in midair where it had landed after leaving Jon’s face. Her face was as white as her hair, but her eyes still blazed with fire, and Melanie could see the words forming behind them: Now look what you’ve made me do.

Fury, white hot and choking, rose in Melanie’s throat. She wanted to lunge forward and tackle the woman—send her to the ground and bash her head against the hardwood—wrap her hands around her neck and squeeze, her thumbs pressing into the jugular, and not slowly either—wanted to not just hurt her for the slap, but for her words, for the lost summers, for Mister Spider and the ocean, for the phone call, for the criticisms, for the baptisms. For every moment she had stolen from them and every precious memory she had tainted.

Before she could do anything, Jon reached over and suddenly grabbed her arm in a surprisingly strong grip. Without another word, he dragged her out the front door and into the fog. He didn’t even bother shutting it behind them.

They didn’t speak. Not just because Melanie’s rage was still threatening to suffocate her, not just because Jon was setting a pace down the road and then the Promenade that made talking difficult, but because there was no need for words. A few people passed them on their way down to stake out spots on the beach before it filled up, but thankfully, none of them tried to speak either. The sun struggled, but didn’t manage to burn off the haze by the time they made it to the railway station. By unspoken agreement, Melanie took Jon’s suitcase from him, handed him her open return ticket, and sat on a bench to wait while he went to the ticket booth. The platform bustled with early morning commuters likely heading for London, but none of them noticed her, let alone tried to talk to her. It gave her time to practice some of the breathing techniques Mr Dumphrey had tried to teach her.

She wasn’t very good at them.

“We have to take the same route back that we took getting here,” Jon said quietly as he settled down on the bench next to her and handed her a ticket. “It’s the way the returns work. Want to get something to eat? I’ve got the money I didn’t spend on the way down.”

“Are you okay?” Melanie asked, turning to look at him. She reached up and cupped his chin lightly, turning his face so she could examine his cheek. It had been at least an hour, but there was still—to her eyes, anyway—the faintest outline of a handprint on his skin.

“Are you?” Jon parried. He rubbed slightly at his cheek.

“She didn’t touch me.”

“If she had, I would have killed her.” Jon’s voice didn’t change in inflection or intensity; it was a quiet, simple statement of fact. “I was asking about you.”

Melanie hesitated. “I wanted to kill her.”

“I know.”

“You stopped me.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

Jon shrugged. “She’s not worth it.”

Melanie glared at him. “You just said you would have killed her if she’d touched me!”

“Yeah,” Jon agreed. “She’s not worth it. You are.”

“Well. You’re worth it, too.” Melanie hugged Jon tightly. “Do you remember when she came down for Papa’s funeral? She hit you like that because you called her Damma.”

“I—n-no.” Jon hugged her back, and she felt the hesitation in his fingers, the slight tremble, and knew he was telling the truth. “How do you remember that?”

Melanie huffed. “I didn’t, not until she hit you again. Well, I guess it’s no use asking you why we didn’t tell anyone, since you don’t remember it in the first place, but…we’re going to tell Dad about this, right?”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Jon admitted. “In the first place, it’ll add weight to our arguments for not going back, even if I don’t think she’d do it again. Not to me, anyway. But I’m also pretty sure I’m still going to have a mark by the time we get home, and I can’t lie to him about how I got it.”

“Are you going to tell him now?”

“No, not until we get home. But we should call him. Our train should be getting into Manchester Picadilly about quarter past three, and since we both know the trains don’t run to Woodley on Sundays he’ll have to pick us up. And then we really ought to eat something. There’s a tea shop over there.”

“I know. It’s the one we always wanted to stop at when we were little and she said was a waste of money.” Melanie grabbed Jon’s hand and squeezed it quickly, one two three—he returned the gesture—then stood resolutely. “I’ll go. You wait here. Be back in a jiffy.”

They were beginning to be phased out, but Bournemouth still traded enough on its tourist image that there was a row of shiny red phone booths against the station. Melanie went over to one that was unoccupied, shut herself into it, found a couple of coins in her purse, and dropped them into the slot. She waited for the tone, then dialed the familiar digits and waited through the ringing, studying her return ticket as she did so.