Free Meanwhile Gardens by Charles Caselton Page B

you go to?”
    Jake grinned, “Mr Marks the bandleader. He’s buried –”
    “He’s dead?”
    Jake nodded, “One of his supporters leaves an offering every now and then.” He took a swig from the rum before offering it to Ollie.
    Feeling curiously like an egyptologist in the Valley of the Kings Ollie looked at the bottle, “This isn’t graverobbing is it?” Deciding it wasn’t he raised the bottle in a toast to the departed steelband leader, “ To Marks!” He took a gulp, nearly choking as the l50 proof Jamaican rum burned his lungs and throat. A shudder started in his shoulders worked its way down his spine through his groin and all the way to his toes that curled involuntarily.
    With eyes watering he offered the bottle to Rion. “How old are you?” he gasped.
    Rion took the bottle. “Old enough,” without taking a sip she passed the rum to Jake, “and wise enough.”
    Another rum judder sent heat coursing through Ollie’s body. He waited for the aftershock to subside before asking Jake, “Are there any other – er – things people leave?”
    “Lots of flowers of course, some Cuban food – ”
    “Cuban – ?”
    “Yup, food, it’s delicious,” added Rion.
    “Letters and mawkish poems – ”
    “You read them?” Rion asked Jake
    “If they’re not sealed sure, why not? Don’t you ever read other people’s postcards?”
    Ollie and Rion spoke at the same time.
    “Yes!” Ollie said.
    “No!” Rion answered.
    Not that she had the chance, Rion thought. No one in her family ever got sent any cards. The only card she had ever received was from Tanya when she went to Greece two summers ago and everybody had read that before it got to her.
    Ollie was still curious to find out about the young girl. “Rion was just going to tell me her story when you arrived.” He looked over at the young girl, “Could we continue?”
    “How much time do you have?”
    Ollie opened his hands palm up as he looked at Jake, “I’m not going anywhere, are you?”
    “Nope.”
    Although slightly hurt that Rion felt she could open up to Ollie when she had only just met him when he, Jake, had done so much to earn her trust, Jake hid his feelings. He picked up one of the small joints, lit it and gestured for Rion to go ahead.
    As Rion vanished behind the pink blanket Jake passed the joint to Ollie who took three quick puffs before handing it back.
    “To Marks,” Ollie toasted again, struggling not to cough. Within seconds the small spliff had sizzled to an end, the sinsemilla mingling with the rum to produce a most enjoyable buzz. Ollie and Jake stretched out in the fireglow and waited for Rion to return.
    They didn’t have to wait long. When Rion returned she had with her the cutting of Blondin crossing Niagara. She knelt on the ground beside the fire and took a deep breath.
    Rion told her story quickly and simply. She looked at the fire, occasionally glanced at the picture of Blondin in her hand, but steadfastly avoided Jake and Ollie’s eyes.
    “I’m the youngest, by several years, of four girls. My mum says my dad always took a lot of stick from his mates about his three girls and no boys. They somehow questioned his masculinity at not producing any sons so I was sort of his last ditch attempt at proving himself.”
    Ollie nodded. He understood the fragile male psyche.
    “Anyway when I came along my dad took even more stick.”
    “Producing three girls might be regarded as foolishness but four looks like carelessness?” Ollie enquired.
    Rion smiled but still refused to meet their eyes. “Something like that,” she paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. “So growing up I was a constant reminder to him of his failure. He always went on about wanting a ‘pride and joy’ – that’s what he called his longed for son – and I most certainly wasn’t that – ”
    Jake interrupted, “In his eyes.”
    “Sorry?”
    “You might not have been
his
pride and joy – ”
    “I’m no-one’s pride and