Page 12 of An Enchanted Moment on Ever After Street
That laugh again. ‘You tell me and I’ll tell you.’
‘Thirty?’ I suggest.
‘Flattering.’
‘Forty?’
‘Insulting!’ He’s laughing, and I want to continue saying random numbers just to keep hearing his laugh.
‘Ah-ha! I knew you were around my age. Thirty-five?’
‘Still flattering, mildly.’
‘Thirty-si—’
‘We’ll still be having this conversation in January at this rate,’ he interrupts. ‘I’m thirty-eight, all right?’
‘Victory!’ I punch my hand in the air. ‘I know your name and your age! Baby steps and all that.’
‘Give it ’til November and you might know my shoe size.’
‘I’m not overly interested in your shoe size.’
‘Whyareyou interested? People are always better off if they don’t know anything about me.’
‘They are oryouare?’
He doesn’t reply. Not that I expected him to.
‘Because it’s weird not to know anything about a new friend.’ I reply to his original question when the silence has grown heavy.
‘We’re not friends.’
I probably shouldn’t be as stung as I am by his harsh response. Of course we’re not friends. This is our second conversation, no one becomes friends that fast, but maybe in time? ‘A new acquaintance, then. You’re someone I know now who I didn’t know two days ago.’
‘Beginning to think it should’ve stayed that way,’ he mutters, and I’m pretty sure I hear a growl under his breath.
I look up at the cloudy and rapidly darkening sky. I’m reluctant to put an end to this conversation, but it’s going to get dark soon, if it doesn’t rain first, and Ididcome out here to do some gardening. ‘Well, I’d better get on.’
‘Yeah, I’ll be out here for a while yet pruning my roses. Shout if you want any pointers.’
I might not be allowed to call him a friend yet, but the fact he hasn’t completely closed down the conversation makes me really happy, and I force myself to walk away. I go back inside, check on Mrs Potts, and pull on my coat and the gardening gloves he gave me. They’re fleece-lined and thick and cosy around myfingers that are already cold from being outside and then go back out.
I unsheathe the shears and snip them together a few times to get a feel for them and approach a patch of brambles nearest the gate. I crouch down, pull the handles apart and then snip them back together, slicing off stalks and sending the cut stems spilling to the ground.
I must make a noise of amazement because his good-natured laugh lifts over the hedge again, and I carry on, chopping through weeds with reckless abandon.
The shears aren’t the fastest thing to use. After a few minutes, my arms are aching and my lower back is protesting the repetitive movement, and when I’ve done a patch, I gather up armfuls of chopped weeds and leave them in a pile to one side.
I get into a rhythm with it. The gloves are miracle workers and I can pull away stinging nettles without fear, and I can still hear theplinkof Darcy’s secateurs as he works on his roses, and it feels comradely, neighbours side by side, tending our gardens, except his is neat and tidy, and you could land a plane in mine and it would never be seen again.
‘Have you ever been to a book festival?’ The idea I had earlier won’t leave my head, and I don’t know who else to blurt it out to.
He sounds confused by the randomness of the question. ‘Do I seem like the kind of person who goes to book festivals?’
‘No, I guess not. Sorry, forget I said anything.’
He doesn’t reply and I’m kind of glad he really is going to forget I said anything. This is a silly idea that needs to be forgotten all about. Daydreams that Mum and I shared years ago are not a magic wand for saving the shop now.
