Of Things Gone Astray. Janina Matthewson
be better if he didn’t know himself. Part of him wanted to never have another birthday at all.
Jake’s last birthday had been the worst day ever. The second-worst day ever. No one had known how to celebrate it. No one had really wanted to celebrate it anyway. Jake hadn’t. Last year he’d felt as if he’d never wanted to celebrate anything ever again. His mum had always made amazing food. Jake hadn’t wanted anyone trying to make food as good as his mum’s food.
This year, though, he wanted something to happen. He didn’t really mind what it was. He didn’t mind if someone tried to make amazing food and it actually turned out to be quite bad food. He just wanted them to try. He just wanted it to still be important to someone that he was having a birthday.
THE BUILDER, WHO’D INTRODUCED HIMSELF simply as Bruno, sucked air through his teeth and looked at Mrs Featherby’s absence of wall speculatively.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Featherby. ‘How soon can you have a wall for me?’
‘Christ,’ he said, as if that was a sufficient answer. He walked across Mrs Featherby’s yard with callous disregard for her roses, and he gazed in at her exposed rooms. Mrs Featherby was glad to see her roses put up a bit of a fight, in the form of a thorn snagging on the corner of the man’s t-shirt as he passed, pulling a thread loose.
‘I mean, holy shit, you know,’ he continued. Mrs Featherby did not deign to reply. She waited, arms crossed low on her hips, one brogued foot resisting the urge to tap impatiently. She reminded herself that she ought to be grateful for the builder’s quick arrival, grateful she’d not had to wait until tomorrow.
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ he said. ‘It’s not going to be quick. I mean, I’ve never even seen this happen. How did this happen?’
‘I have put the police in charge of ascertaining that.’
Bruno scoffed lightly.
Mrs Featherby suddenly found him a much more sympathetic character; she felt an unexpected urge to give an answering smirk. ‘How long?’ she asked. ‘How long will it take? When will you have a wall for me?’
‘Well, it’s not like I can just order in one wall, please, and slot it into place. I have to match the materials; I have to integrate what I do with the existing house, which, by the way, is over 150 years old. And the other walls are plaster over brick, which I can do, or I can put up a dry wall and then just put bricks over the outside.’
‘But that wouldn’t be the same as the rest of the house. It wouldn’t be the same as it was.’
‘No. But it would be easier for you. There would be something up to protect you.’
‘Please rebuild it as it was. Keep it the same.’
‘Well, it’s up to you,’ said the builder.
‘How long will it be?’
‘Hard to say. I’ll have to find the exact brick, or as close as I can, so I’ll need to call a few people before I can say. I don’t like to give an estimate, you know, and then have it take longer.’
‘I appreciate that, young man, but I have to live here. This is my home. You may think you have a problem of an old house that’s missing a wall; I have a problem that my home is broken.’
‘You might want to think about where else you can stay. You got family or friends that’d put you up? That’s what you’re going to need to do.’
‘That’s not possible,’ said Mrs Featherby cooly. ‘Nor am I willing to stay in a hotel. This is my home and I do not wish to leave it.’
‘Well. I guess, if you’re sure. The most I can do for now is rig up some kind of temporary protection for you. Something to keep the weather outside. Bloody lucky it’s still warm. No telling how long that’ll last, mind.’
‘Indeed.’
Mrs Featherby tried to get on with her day while the builder attached a thick sheet of plastic to the gaping side of the house. She baked a chocolate cake and darned a batch of old socks. She laundered the guest linens she kept, in spite of the fact that she never had any guests.
Finally, after the builder was done, he gave Mrs Featherby a sympathetic nod as he went to leave.
‘Not sure what this’ll end up costing. If you put me in touch with your insurance company I can deal with it all directly with them. Save you some stress, right?’
‘Thank you. I shall call them directly and let them have your number.’
Mrs Featherby gave Bruno the builder a slice of cake and sent him on his way.
CASSIE HAD ALMOST STOPPED SEEING her surroundings. Her eyelids drooped and flickered, and although her gaze was still fixed on the arrivals gate, she was having trouble differentiating between the people who walked through it.
She was just becoming aware of an ache in her neck when a woman walked up to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Cass?’
Cassie gave a start and blinked a couple of times.
‘Oh, Mum. You didn’t have to come all the way out here.’
‘You stopped answering your phone. I was worried.’
‘No, I’m fine. I’m just waiting. I’ll wait here.’
‘Cass, I think you should come home.’
Cassie was so tired. Too tired to argue really, but she didn’t want to give in. She bit her lip and stared stubbornly at the gate.
‘It’s going to get late, love. You’ve been here for hours. Come home and we’ll figure out what’s happened. Maybe she’s going to come tomorrow. You can come back tomorrow. I’ll come with you.’
Cassie swallowed.
‘You must be hungry, Cass. There’s dinner at home. I did a crumble.’
Cassie breathed in deeply and closed her eyes.
‘Come on. We’ll sort it out in the morning.’
Cassie sighed and took her mother’s arm. ‘I can’t move,’ she said. ‘I can’t move my feet.’
They both looked down at Cassie’s feet. The brown leather of her sandals had become rough as bark. Her skin had merged with them and her toes had put forth roots into the floor. She was growing into the ground.
AFTER A WHILE ROBERT DECIDED to call his assistant. Assistants were supposed to always know what was going on, so Derek would know. It was Derek’s job to know. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contact list. He was halfway through the Fs before he realised he’d gone too far. He scrolled back up. Derek’s name wasn’t there. This was obviously ridiculous, it had been there yesterday; he’d hardly have deleted it. You don’t delete your assistant’s number, otherwise how can you call him when you’ve sent him out somewhere and tell him to bring you back an almond croissant? You can’t. He looked again. There was no Derek. Derek was gone. Feverishly, he scrolled through the names on his phone, looking for his boss, his intern, the receptionist, but none of them were there. His colleagues were gone. Work was gone. Everything was gone.
Robert walked back down the street in a daze. He wandered past buildings that had not disappeared, through