Wishes Under The Willow Tree. Phaedra Patrick

her a piece of dusty paper towel to wipe them.

      The attic had a pointed roof, and Benedict could just about stand up under its peak. There wasn’t a proper floor, only pieces of chipboard that rested on the joists. There were rows of boxes stored along the rafters, and Benedict couldn’t even remember what was in most of them. Some were labelled ‘Mum’ and others were labelled ‘Dad’. He’d given all their clothes to charity, soon after they died, but some things he couldn’t bear to get rid of, such as his mum’s jewellery-making tools.

      The wooden chest was larger than he remembered, reaching above his knees in height. His chin trembled slightly as he stared at it. He bent down to blow dust off its top and gagged as the particles went down his throat.

      ‘It looks like a treasure chest,’ Gemma said.

      Benedict struggled to kneel down and Gemma sat down, too, on the other side.

      She peered at the base of the chest. ‘What’s this piece of paper stuck under it?’ she asked, plucking at something. ‘OMG. It’s an old photo.’

      ‘A photograph?’

      Gemma giggled.

      ‘What’s it of?’

      ‘It’s you, Dad and Mom. But you all look so young. Look at your hair. You look like a woolly mammoth.’

      Benedict’s heart beat faster at the mention of Charlie and Amelia. He nonchalantly reached out and took the photo from her.

      The colours had faded to browns, mustard and pale pink. Charlie laughed and pointed at the camera. Amelia’s eyes were closed and she rested her head on his shoulder. Benedict’s mouth was open and his eyes shone red from the flash. The three of them looked like they were sharing a joke. ‘Oh, yes. Funny,’ he said lightly, but there was an iron-like taste of regret in his mouth.

      ‘That is so ancient.’ Gemma grinned but then her smile fell away. ‘I suppose they were really young when they had me. Probably too young and that’s why things didn’t work out. Maybe they shouldn’t have had me at all.’

      ‘Don’t say that.’

      ‘It’s true. Less trouble for everyone, huh?’ She pressed her chin down towards her chest.

      Benedict wasn’t sure what to say and he looked at the photo again. ‘You said that your parents split up? Where is your mother?’

      ‘Oh, Mom met someone else. He’s a bit of a dork, but okay really. I don’t wanna talk about it.’ She peered through her curtains of hair. ‘I want to find out more about my other family. What happened to my grandparents?’ Gemma asked. ‘I mean, my dad told me, but will you tell me too?’

      Benedict took a deep breath and let his hands drop into his lap. He swallowed and it hurt his throat. He hadn’t shared this story for a long time and he still found it painful. However, Gemma should know her family history.

      ‘They went to buy gemstones, overseas,’ he said. ‘Me and Charlie sometimes went along but Charlie got it into his head that the school football team couldn’t win an important match without him, so we stayed behind.’ Benedict closed his eyes, remembering. ‘I was half watching the news on TV at teatime, while Charlie played football outside. The report was about a tsunami in Sri Lanka. I didn’t have the sound turned on, but I watched these huge grey waves sweeping houses and cars away, as if they were twigs in a river. People were running and screaming, clutching children to their chests. The sea even swilled around houses inland, reaching their second-storey windows. Mum and Dad were out there, and I just knew that things weren’t okay.’

      A lump formed in his throat and he gulped it away. He pushed his hand into his hair and stopped talking, unable to continue for a while. ‘Charlie was only ten.’

      Gemma sat still, listening.

      Benedict looked down at the floorboards, watching as a spider scuttled towards his knee. ‘I made Charlie his supper and tried not to worry,’ he continued. ‘But then, the next morning, one of my parents’ business associates phoned the house. They said that Joseph and Jenny Stone had drowned. They were identified from documents in their rucksacks.’

      ‘Oh God, Uncle Ben.’ Gemma clasped her hands to her mouth. She shifted around the chest and sat next to him, the top of her arm pressing against his. ‘That sucks.’

      ‘The worst thing was telling Charlie,’ Benedict said. ‘He probably thought I was getting him up for breakfast. Instead, I told him that both his parents were dead. He cried out and I can still hear the sound.’ He shook his head, as if to get rid of the noise. ‘I felt numb and I can’t remember anything else of that day, except me and Charlie huddled together on the sofa. We just stared into space.

      ‘After that, friends and distant relatives offered help but they couldn’t bring up two orphaned brothers. I took charge of everything.’

      ‘You became, like, my dad’s parent?’

      ‘Yes, sort of. Our parents’ rucksacks arrived back at the house a few weeks later. They were all white and crusty from sand and seawater. There was a small bag full of gemstones in the front pocket of my mother’s rucksack. They’re the ones you brought with you.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘They died looking for pretty coloured pieces of rock.’

      He felt Gemma’s fingers creep on top of his, and tightly hold the back of his hand.

      ‘So now you know what happened,’ he said.

      ‘And why don’t you and Dad speak? You sounded so close, when you were younger. You went through a lot together. What happened?’

      Benedict shrugged. ‘Your dad found a different life, in America, with your mum.’ He could make it sound so simple.

      ‘But why would he want to move away and never come back? Why couldn’t he visit or something? He could have brought me to meet you.’

      There was nothing that Benedict could say, without thinking back to what had happened between him and Charlie to break their friendship and family bond. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘Why did you come here from America?’

      He felt her fingers tense and she pulled her hand away from his.

      ‘I told you. I came here for an adventure,’ she said frostily. ‘Not to escape or anything.’

      ‘Escape?’ Benedict frowned. ‘Who said anything about that?’

      Gemma shuffled away from him, back into her own space on the opposite side of the chest. ‘You’re twisting my words, Uncle Ben.’

      ‘I’m only asking you a question. What do you mean by escape?’

      ‘Nothing. I picked the wrong word, that’s all. Stop prying.’

      ‘I’m not.’

      ‘You are.’

      ‘You barged into my shop and listened in while I was trying to reconcile with my wife,’ Benedict said, exasperated. ‘That’s what I call prying.’

      ‘Like you were doing such a great job there.’

      ‘You didn’t give me much opportunity.’

      ‘Your great master plan to get her back is to do, well, zero.’ She rolled her eyes.

      ‘Unlike Operation WEB, or whatever it is you called it?’

      Gemma’s lips twitched into a small smile and, oddly, he found one too. It sounded so ridiculous.

      ‘Yep, like that,’ she said. ‘Now can we look in this freakin’ chest?’

      Benedict was relieved to stop arguing. He placed the key in the lock and turned it. Together, they heaved the lid open. He caught his breath, unprepared for the wave of emotion that hit him as he saw the green-handled pliers his mother used to use and his father’s rusty hacksaw. There was a battered wooden mallet