Chapter 6
Henry
Twenty Summers Ago
His father had presented him with the key that morning. It had fallen out of the envelope containing his birthday card and landed with a soft clunk in his lap.
Henry had experienced a tightening sensation across his entire body as he held the small brass object up and examined it, his fingers tracing its grooves and edges.
‘This is a house key,’ he said in Spanish, to which Antonio nodded.
‘Sí,’ he confirmed. ‘Tu casa.’
Your house.
It had not felt real then, and seemed barely plausible now that he was standing right in front of it, staring up at the crumbling walls and boarded windows, marvelling at the sheer size of the place.
‘Un gran reto,’ his father had gravely proclaimed. A big challenge. But one he believed Henry was ready for. And if Antonio had faith in him, that was enough to convince Henry that he could and would succeed. But it was going to take a lot of work – a fact that became undeniable as soon as he let himself inside.
The stone staircase opposite the front door was still standing, but most of the banisters were broken or rotted and some sort of plant with dark green leaves had pushed its way through a crack by the bottom step. Paint peeled off walls, light fittings hung bare, and the frayed ends of wires stuck out where sockets had once been. Whoever had owned the house previously had done a thorough job of stripping it down before they left – either that, or looters had come in later and helped themselves to anything of the remotest value. In what Henry guessed was the lounge, he found nothing but a rusting watering can and a pile of yellowing newspapers, and there were no appliances or cabinet doors in the kitchen. Stooping to peel gingerly at the putrid corner of a filthy rug, he was pleasantly surprised to find smooth terracotta tiles below it, most of which appeared to have miraculously survived intact. They represented something, he decided. A point at which to start.
He was about to venture upstairs when he heard what sounded like a squeal coming from outside. Instead of opening the back door, Henry lifted aside what was left of the flimsy curtain strung across the window and peered through the gap. On the far side of the overgrown garden, where the boundary wall curved around the bough of a lemon tree, a leg appeared, and then another, followed by a small, neat bottom, encased in stonewashed denim. The girl stretched a foot down until the tips of her toes were touching the ground, then she let go, landing nimbly on the earth.
Henry had enough time to take in her vibrant red hair and slim, pale arms, before the girl crouched and was obscured by the bulbous paddles of a large cactus. Indecision rooted him to the spot, his fingers immobile on the grotty curtain until it occurred to him that this was his house. The mysterious redhead, whoever she was, was trespassing on his land, which meant he was well within his rights to go and confront her. What would his father say if he could see him now, hiding like a cobarde because he was scared of some girl?
Henry looked down at himself, at the T-shirt he’d put on clean that was now flecked with dirt, the cargo shorts with the ripped pocket and the trainers that had seen better years, let alone days. A quick sniff of his armpits reassured him that he had, at least, remembered to put on deodorant that morning – but had he brushed his hair? Henry ran an exploratory hand through it and encountered sticky remnants of gel, but perhaps the girl wouldn’t notice. Not that it mattered. She was a trespasser – how could she judge him?
Henry opened the door. ‘Hola,’ he called loudly, making his way towards the spot where he’d last seen her. The terrain was so tangled that he tripped twice, and almost stumbled over sideways when what he thought was a solid thicket fell away beneath his foot. The girl was on her haunches in one of the flowerbeds and looked up in alarm as he bore down on her.
‘Sorry. God, sorry.’ She cowered as if he was about to strike her. ‘I was just— I didn’t think anyone lived here.’
‘They don’t – at least, they didn’t until about ten minutes ago. Don’t worry,’ he added, as the girl eyed him dubiously, ‘I’m not going to call the policía on you or anything.’
‘This is your house?’ she asked, making no move to stand. ‘It can’t be.’
Henry folded his arms, head tilting to one side as he considered her.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re too young.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Only lottery winners or rich brats own houses when they’re still teenagers,’ she said primly. ‘Which camp do you fall into?’
Henry smirked. ‘Do you really think,’ he said, ‘that if I’d won the lottery, I’d have bought a place as decrepit as this one? I could just as easily have blown the lot on a Malibu beach house – or better yet, a private island.’
‘So,’ she mused, shifting until she was in a more comfortable position, ‘that must mean you’re a rich brat, then?’
Henry laughed. ‘Nope. Guess again.’
The girl glanced around disparagingly. ‘I think it’s safe to assume you’re no gardener.’
‘That’s a fair assessment.’
‘And you can’t be a pool boy, because there’s no pool.’
‘Observant.’
‘Which means,’ she said, beady gaze searching his face for clues, ‘you must have climbed over the wall to have a poke around in here, exactly like I did.’
‘Oh, so that’s why,’ he replied, scooting down beside her. ‘You broke into my house to poke around.’
‘I did not break in,’ she said, affronted. ‘Not into the house, at any rate.’
‘Was it my lemons you were after?’ he said. ‘Or my oranges?’
‘You have those?’
He nodded. ‘There’s a tree out front.’
She smiled at him then, and Henry felt himself blush as he registered how pretty she was. A scatter of fox-red freckles decorated a petite, open face, the fiery hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders, which he could see had caught the sun. She wore a black vest tucked into her shorts, and a silver chain bore a ‘V’ pendant that was nestled in the hollow of her throat.
‘There’s also a much lower wall around that side,’ he went on. ‘And a gate. Feel free to use it next time you decide to burglarise the place.’
‘It’s not breaking in if you issue an invitation.’
‘Who says I am?’
‘Well, aren’t you?’
‘That depends,’ Henry replied laughingly.
‘On what?’
‘On three things.’
‘Only three?’ she mocked, moving from a squat to a sitting position in a single, fluid movement. She might be small, but she was toned, and seemed to somehow radiate energy. It came off her in waves, as if she was a thoroughbred at the start of a race.
‘If you agree to answer three questions, then I’ll agree to let you roam around my garden and help yourself to as many citrus fruits as you want.’
Having thought for a moment, she offered him an elfin hand and he took it in his own, marvelling at the fierceness of her grip as they shook on the deal.
‘First question,’ she prompted, stretching over to rub the dust from her shoes.
‘Your name.’
‘Violet. And yours?’
‘Henry.’
‘That’s not very Spanish.’
‘Feel free to call me Enrique if you prefer.’
‘Are you Spanish?’ she asked. ‘You don’t sound it, but you look like you are – you’re very handsome.’
Henry stammered out a ‘what?’.
‘Don’t be all modest about it,’ Violet said, her tone matter of fact. ‘You’re easily a nine out of ten – maybe even a nine point five. It’s all about symmetry,’ she explained, scrutinising him without a trace of embarrassment. ‘Your features are all perfectly balanced, nothing too big or set at a wonky angle, and your eyes are the same goldy-brown colour as Freddie Prinze Jnr’s, who everyone knows is the best-looking man on the planet.’
Henry had no idea who she was talking about, but that didn’t stop him enjoying the comparison.
‘I’m only half Spanish,’ he explained. ‘My mum’s English, and England is where I lived until I was sixteen.’
‘And you’re now . . .?’
‘Eighteen.’ Henry allowed himself a small smile of pride. ‘Eighteen today, in fact. How about you?’
‘Oh, happy birthday to you then. I turned seventeen a few days ago, my mum made the waiters in our hotel sing to me, which was probably the most embarrassing experience of my life to date. Was that your second question?’
He blinked, lost somewhere mid-ramble.
‘The age thing?’ she said.
‘Sure, I guess so.’
‘OK, and what’s the third?’
‘I want to know what drew you into this garden.’
For the first time since they’d started talking, Violet appeared to lose a fraction of her inimitable cool.
‘I told you.’ She sounded cagey. ‘I thought it was just an abandoned old house.’
‘That’s not really an answer.’
‘I would argue that it is.’
‘Come on,’ he insisted. ‘There must have been something that caught your eye.’
She glared at him momentarily, but there was no malice behind it. ‘If I come clean, you have to promise not to take the piss.’
Henry raised his palms. ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he said honestly, and was gratified when she laughed.
‘The sad fact is,’ Violet began, pulling up a handful of baked grass and scattering it on the ground between them, ‘I’m really into plants.’
Henry was nonplussed. ‘What’s sad about that?’
‘A girl called Violet having a secret flower-press hobby? Come on!’
‘I think it’s sweet,’ he said, recoiling at her ferocious ‘oi’ of response.
‘Sweet?’ she repeated, practically spitting out the word. ‘Don’t make me vomit.’
Henry laughed; he couldn’t help it. ‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe sweet is the wrong word – maybe you’re simply a geek?’
‘Geek is better,’ she mused. ‘Geek I can live with.’
‘Go on, then,’ he urged. ‘Show me which plant it was that you deemed worthy of trespass?’
Violet fixed her gaze on him, and Henry saw as she did so that her eyes were a bright, grasshopper green. There was so much about her that intrigued him; he could feel himself becoming bewitched by this girl, with her easy wit and rosebud lips. If only he was bold enough to remark on her beauty, repay the compliment she had so unashamedly bestowed on him, but he worried it would sound disingenuous now, as if he were merely saying it to be polite when in truth he had thought her to be gorgeous from the very moment he set his eyes on her.
‘Look over there,’ she instructed, ‘under the lemon tree. Do you see those pink flowers?’
Henry squinted through the dancing heat. ‘The ones that look like frilly bells?’
‘Frilly bells,’ she scoffed. ‘Those are funnel petals.’
Henry shuffled on to his feet.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Violet.
‘To pick you one,’ he said. ‘For your flower press.’
She started to protest, but he was already kneeling in the dirt, his fingers sliding down the stem of the largest specimen until they encountered soil. With a quick flick of his wrist, the plant snapped, and Henry held it out proudly to an approaching Violet.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ she said, accepting the flower and cradling it as one might a precious artefact.
Henry gestured towards the base of the tree. ‘There are plenty more,’ he said. ‘Consider it your reward for educating me on funnels.’
‘The plant is actually called a whistling jack,’ she told him. ‘Or you can refer to them as foxglove sword lilies, or even eastern gladiolus, if you want to be boring.’
Henry could not imagine a girl like Violet ever becoming boring, nor standing for it long from someone else. He was struck, then, by an overwhelming urge to impress her, to carry out some sort of daring stunt or dredge up a nugget of profound wisdom. But before he could do or say anything at all, Violet had stepped forwards on to her tiptoes, and kissed him, very gently, on the cheek.
Henry felt his insides turn to liquid.
‘What was that for?’
She glanced from the flower in her hands back to him and smiled. ‘I just wanted to see if I was right.’
‘About what?’
The look Violet gave him then was almost coy.
‘About the nine-point-five thing. Turns out I was wrong.’
‘Oh?’ Henry deflated. ‘On closer inspection, am I more of a two-point-six?’
‘No,’ she said, before adding in the cool, casual way to which Henry was fast becoming accustomed, ‘I’d say you’re a solid, golden-eyed ten out of ten.’