His shirt crinkled and wrapped between the slats of the fence behind his back. Leonard felt the ache of tumult, as a certain happiness brought upon him by the rain collided with a very still and very heavy unease. It was this unease that twisted his face, if only briefly, and then threw it back to him, so that he might form his own expression. Quite purposefully, Leonard shifted slightly the arm that bore the weight of his forehead. His fingers curled at his brow, the gently strained tendons running down into his arm, till his elbow met his raised knee. The garden, to which the fence behind Leonard belonged, was overrun and edging furtively towards a wildness. But it did not matter; they’d be demolishing this whole row for a new development. (He only found out three months later when the men and machines and lorries arrived). It had been her smile - three years older and playing the lead role – that had lifted and enthralled him and probably compelled him to this spot in this moment. For a series of instances she had invited him into her favourite tale, one that started with the promise of a happiness but that would always culminate in a dismal, ever-surprising sadness. The smile would invite him to the story and willingly he would be drawn in, and then, as serendipitously as it had formed, it would melt, leaving a twisting embarrassment in the pit of his stomach. For not only did these quiet injustices make themselves known with varying speed, but they inhabited a vast spectrum of ugly forms: they might breed jealousy or guilt or choking sadness. This time: sadness; it threw him to this point, like a stone skimming a lake’s surface. He’d say, when they found him, I’m sick with it, sick with it all - he hoped he would. He would be fourteen in three weeks.
17 62
Made with FlippingBook flipbook maker