Eleven Days in June (The Tales of Little Leaf Book 1) | eBook

You'll receive a download link via BookFunnel. Send to preferred e-reader or app and enjoy!

Nine years earlier
1976
Ollie was my only friend. We were eleven years old that autumn and had just started secondary school, and I was already worried about losing him to other boys at school. I needed to make him my friend again, so one day I suggested we cycle to Totnes the coming weekend, a whole ten miles away. Ten miles! It seemed like the other end of the world.
Our dads made sure that our bikes were roadworthy. I watched what my dad did so I might learn for another time. It seemed like an important job ahead of our big adventure. Dad pumped up the tyres, oiled the chain, replaced a pair of brake pads, tightened various nuts and lifted the saddle an inch. He packed me a little box consisting of a spanner, a puncture repair kit and a spare inner tube.
The following day, the day itself, I woke up anxious. What if it was too far; what if Ollie thought it boring?
Mum made me a big packed lunch of ham sandwiches, a banana, crisps and a chocolate bar. The day was sunny. I met Ollie at the bus shelter in our village. I was embarrassed because my bike was better than his; it had five gears; Ollie’s only had three.
‘Totnes, here we come,’ he said.
And off we went, with the wind in our hair and the sun on our backs. We talked, or rather shouted, the first six or seven miles, mainly football, our shared obsession. We talked about our favourite players and how many goals they had scored that season. Ollie was impressed because I knew every player who played or had played recently for Plymouth Argyle. ‘How do you remember all that shit?’
‘It's my special talent; that's what my mum calls it.’
We argued about the merits of our favourite pop bands and gossiped about the boys at school. We stopped after about three miles and wolfed down our packed lunches. Ollie was jealous of my chocolate bar and made me swap. I felt as if I had no choice. I didn’t mind really.
Devon is a hilly place so it took us hours to cover those ten miles and Ollie struggled with his three gears. I couldn’t offer to swap bikes though; that would only have made it worse. But we finally got there. We entered Totnes with whoops and yelps of happiness, half expecting, I think, to be met by the town mayor, lots of bunting, and a ticker-tape parade. We ambled around, looked in shops, both bought a couple of comics from the bookshop and I bought a plate with a painted picture of Totnes on it for my mum. We were hungry again, so we bought a large portion of fish and chips each and ate them in the town park. Finishing, we sucked the salt from our fingers and fell asleep for a while, the sun burning our faces.
We cycled back, not so talkative now. We cycled into Little Leaf like returning heroes and drew to a stop at the bus shelter. ‘That was good,’ said Ollie.
‘Yeah, it was bloody brilliant. Thanks, mate.’
‘And you.’
We parted and went home. I went to bed that night exhausted but happy. Mum had loved her plate and Dad said me and Ollie had done well. It was perhaps the happiest day of my life. Whatever happened in the future, Ollie and I would always have Totnes.

One week earlier
June 1985
My mother had gone out to Plymouth for the night as she always did every other Wednesday. Bingo. She was usually back about half past ten, but tonight it was nearing midnight, and I was going to bed when I heard the taxi draw up outside.
She came in singing 'Who Wants to Be a Millionaire'.
I was at the bottom of the stairs, about to go up. ‘Good night, Mum.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘No, I mean–’
‘I won the jackpot.’ She laughed to herself. ‘In more ways than one.’
I didn’t know what she meant by that but I knew I didn’t like it. I stayed at the foot of the stairs, a hand on the bannister, and watched her remove her shoes and put on her slippers, humming to herself, and it seemed to take an awfully long time.
‘Are you OK, Mum?’
‘Hmm? Oh, still here, Daniel? I thought you’d gone to bed. Yes, I’m OK. Never better, in fact.’ My mother’s always insisted on calling me Daniel. Why do mothers always do that? I could be called Bart and she’d probably still insist on calling me Bartholomew. ‘I might as well tell you as I’ve got no other bugger I can tell: I met a gentleman tonight, and he was very nice; terribly nice, indeed.’
My hand tightened on the bannister. ‘What do you mean?’
She fell onto the settee with a huge sigh. ‘As in I met a man. Jesus, it’s not so difficult to understand, is it?’
‘A m-man?’
‘Yes, Daniel, a living, breathing man.’ She belched. ‘Unlike your father,’ she added, under her breath. She reached for her cigarettes and lit one. Blowing out a mouthful of smoke, she turned to look at me, her eyes piercing me. ‘I am single, in case you’ve forgotten. So if I want to go out with a man, I bloody well will. Go on, you go to bed; you’ve got work in the morning.’
I did.
I got into bed and lay there unable to get to sleep, my stomach churning. I felt ill – the idea of my mother going out with a man – it wasn’t right. He could be anyone; he was bound to be horrible. This house was our home. I didn’t want any strangers coming into my life and upsetting things. And what did he want? I knew perfectly well. He was after my mother’s money. That was it. He was a gold digger. Well, it wasn’t going to happen, no way, I wouldn’t let it.
I didn’t want things to change; I liked things as they were, just me and my mum. He’d been a fairly rubbish dad, looking back on it, but after he left us, it took a long time to get used to life without him. I missed him. We both did and we still do. Sometimes I just long for him to walk back in with that jolly red face of his. Now all I had was Mum. Those days were gone. It’s not the same. How could it be, but we do OK; we’re happy enough.
And I was damned if I was going to let some strange bloke come in and spoil everything. No way.