Page 19 of Secrets of Starshine
It’s not quite as amusing when I notice him glancing in my direction, walking towards me with one eyebrow raised. He opens his arms in invitation, and I feel a rush of terror – Lord, no. I am not the kind of petite thing that enjoys being thrown into the air and caught.
“No thank you!” I say firmly, clutching on to the edges of my seat as though he’s about to physically drag me away. “That’s not for the likes of me!”
“What?” he asks, hands on hips, head tilted to one side. “Are you questioning my manliness? Do you doubt my ability to pick up women?”
He grins as he says it, and even with the fake black tooth, it is quite the effective grin. I melt a tiny bit inside, and realise that I haven’t done that for a very long time. I have been very much un-melted for years now.
“Of course not – I’m sure you’re an absolute expert at picking up women!”
He shakes his head, and there is a flicker of something sadder there.
“Used to be,” he says, “back in the olden days. Think I might be a bit rusty now. Anyway…now it really is time to go.”
I wish him farewell, and watch as he crouches down to where his birthday girl is sleeping, and gently lifts her up into his arms. She rouses briefly, waves her arms in the air in protest, and then falls back asleep against his chest. The sign of a good party.
He calls over to Lilly, and supervises as she puts on her coat and hat, then juggles Meg in one arm while he pulls his own coat over both of them. I see him chat briefly to Connie and a few of the others, and Connie goes over and kisses him on the cheek. George joins them, and the three of them stand together near the door, briefly all gripping hands and shoulders, as though consoling each other. It is a strange tableau, and I swear I see Connie swipe away tears as they leave.
Like I said, everyone’s got their story.
TEN
I wake up dazed and confused, with that weird feeling you always get the first night you’re away from home. I roll around under the soft sheets, and gradually come to, examining my surroundings.
We’d been welcomed into George’s home late last night, by which time I was exhausted and Sam was tipsy. I remember it being one of the cottages I’d walked past earlier in the evening, one of the larger ones, with a traditional thatched roof and a bright red front door and a pretty front garden. We’d all sat in the kitchen and had a cup of tea before bed, and George was such a gracious host that it didn’t feel at all awkward.
He told me stories about his National Service in the Navy, and the time they’d stopped off in Liverpool for a few days and gone drinking in a dodgy pub by the dock road. I told him that still happens quite a lot, and he made noises about how he’d love to see the place again. Naturally, I invited him to stay – it probably won’t ever happen, but it would be a pleasure to show him around my city and listen to him reminisce.
Eventually, we’d climbed the higgledy-piggledy stairs, and been shown to our rooms. It’s a much bigger house than an elderly man apparently living alone would need, but I assume that it is the home where he raised his family, and where he is still happy.
My room has a beamed ceiling, and walls painted pale pink, and a big bed with an old-fashioned brass frame. There’s a bookshelf filled with children’s fiction books, some of them new, some of them clearly ancient and well-read, with a distinct leaning towards fairy tales and all things magical. I smile as I pick up a battered copy of Enid Blyton’sMagic Faraway Tree, remembering how much I’d loved these tales as a kid myself. Escaping into the Enchanted Wood with the Saucepan Man and Moon-Face and the children who were lucky enough to find them was a joy.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, and flick through it. The inside cover has writing on it, childish scrawl that announces, “This book belongs to Suzie” – except the “Suzie” has been scribbled out, and replaced with “Sandy”, and then that’s had a line drawn through it too. The last officially registered owner of this edition seems to have been Lilly, my friend from last night – which makes sense as George is her grandad, and possibly Archie’s father. Except Archie said he was from Kent, and George says he’s lived here for the whole of his life, so maybe not…
I shake my head, and put the book back. Short of asking someone to sketch me a family tree, I’ll have to settle for not knowing everything all at once. Anyway, it’s time to get dressed, and do some more exploring – and also, at some point, some Christmas shopping. It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and although I have a few bits for Sam already, he has been asking for new headphones – all the better to ignore me with.
Once I’m done, I make my way downstairs and find George already up and about, sitting at the kitchen table with a cuppa, reading a newspaper. His face breaks out into a smile when he sees me, and he ushers me into a seat.
Within minutes, he presents me with a bacon roll and a can of Diet Coke, which makes me laugh out loud.
“I don’t actually have a hangover, George,” I say, “but thank you all the same! Any sign of Sam?”
“Yes. He’s up and about, and he’s been going through my wardrobe.”
“He’s been doing…what?”
“Going through my wardrobe. He was admiring my shoes last night – good taste, that lad, because they were hand-made by James Taylor & Son in London only a few short decades ago…anyway, we got to chatting after you’d gone to bed, and he was telling me about his TikTok-thingy. Sounds very intriguing. He was interested in exploring what he called the ‘country gentleman’ look, so I told him to have at it – I have far too many clothes for my needs anyway.”
Sam posts the usual stuff on his Instagram account – nights out, what he had for dinner, random screenshots – but a lot of people follow him on TikTok because of his views on clothes. He never buys anything brand new – his thing is charity shops and vintage, and recycling older garments into something different and cool. He gets a lot of pleasure out of it, and, quite clearly, so do thousands of other people. He’s planning to study business and marketing at university next year, but I wouldn’t be surprised if eventually he ends up working in a fashion-related industry. He’s even put together a few outfits for me for work nights out, and I always get compliments.
Just as George finishes his sentence, Sam walks into the room. He is wearing a tweed jacket that I know doesn’t belong to him, and a traditional flat cap. He looks very pleased with himself.
“You have some great items, George,” he announces, sitting himself down and taking my Diet Coke. “Really classy vintage stuff – even some Savile Row!”
“Well, I was quite the dapper gent back in the day,” George replies, dishing up another bacon roll.
“You still are,” says Sam, “not many people wear a tie while they make breakfast.”
George looks down as if surprised, and he is indeed sporting a very fine purple paisley number. I can see that these two are going to get on.
