LITMIR.BIZ

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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 and a roll of wire.

      He stared and a memory came into his head, as vivid as the day it happened. His mother sat by the window in the dining room, the sunlight in her hair. She laughed as she heated and made delicate curls of silver wire. She always laughed – at birds hopping around the garden, if she burned their dinner, at her sons and their antics. As time went by, he recalled less and less of what his parents and Charlie looked like. He could look at photographs, but they were two-dimensional, a moment frozen in time.

      ‘You’re quiet,’ Gemma said. ‘Say something.’

      He delved inside the chest, scooped up a handful of gemstones and held them out on the flat of his palm. Most were already polished and cut to shape, smooth or with their facets glinting. Others were dull. They looked like ordinary stones dug out of the ground, their potential not yet unleashed. Some had holes drilled through them, ready to hang in the gem tree. For a moment, Benedict wished he could be small again. Innocent. ‘You’re right. It’s a treasure chest,’ he said.

      Gemma reached out and touched the gems. ‘Cool. Can you use these in your jewellery?’

      ‘Stone Jewellery has survived for long enough without gemstones.’ He shook them back into the chest. Next, he pulled out a large ball of tissue paper. It looked like a cheerleader’s pompom. This was something he hadn’t seen for a long time.

      ‘What is that?’

      Inside it were separate bundles of soft tissue paper. Benedict took one out and peeled it apart. A silver clam-shell brooch nestled in the folds. It was a test piece he had made with his mother. Benedict was about to say that it was nothing, to crumple the tissue back up and hide it away, but Gemma snatched it from him.

      ‘This is so cool.’ She placed the clam shell on her palm. ‘Did my grandmother make it?’

      ‘No, I did,’ Benedict said. ‘It was a long time ago, when I was learning. You can see that it’s clumsy.’

      ‘It’s different to the jewellery in your shop.’ She turned it over in her hands. ‘That’s all kinda boring.’

      ‘Thanks for your kind words.’

      ‘I mean, compared to this.’

      ‘I’m not sure that’s any more complimentary.’ He took it back off her. ‘I was probably only sixteen or seventeen when I made this.’

      ‘My age,’ Gemma sighed. She shook her head. ‘You know, everyone at home keeps asking what I wanna do next. All my friends are going to college, but I don’t know what I want. I mess up everything I do…’

      Benedict ran his finger over the edges of the silver. His niece’s confidence seemed to have melted as quickly as an icicle in the sun. ‘You’re being too tough on yourself,’ he said. ‘What have you messed up?’

      Gemma stared at him. She opened her mouth and slowly tilted her head from side to side, like a metronome, as if considering whether to tell him something. Benedict waited for her to speak, but her head came to a stop. ‘Nothing,’ she muttered finally. ‘I was just saying, that’s all.’

      ‘When you’re younger, things can seem worse than they really are.’

      ‘Yeah, maybe.’ She gave a short sharp laugh. She reached out and took hold of another ball of tissue. Inside this one was a silver blossom brooch, and a pendant set with a large, round, yellow Sunstone. She lifted the necklace over her head and patted it against her chest. ‘You should display these in your shop.’

      ‘They’re not good enough.’

      ‘Things don’t always have to be perfect.’

      ‘What’s the point, if they’re not?’

      Gemma tugged off the Sunstone necklace and thrust it back out to him, at arm’s length. ‘Here. Take it.’

      Benedict dangled the necklace back into a piece of tissue. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

      ‘Nothing.’ She folded her arms firmly. ‘You only like perfect things, and I’m not one of them.’

      Benedict wasn’t willing to be drawn into another confrontation, so he pulled out all the balls of tissues and placed them behind him, unopened. Then he saw the item he’d been thinking about. ‘My father’s journal,’ he said, as he took it out and set the heavy, burgundy leather-bound book on his lap.

      The cover was faded and cracked. It creaked when he opened it. Inside, the paper was as yellow at Citrine, stained around the edges from age and thumbs wet from coffee and oil. The front page said:

       Joseph Stone’s Book of Gemstones and Crystals

      Benedict swallowed as he saw his father’s adolescent handwriting.

      Gemma’s eyes widened. Her arms slipped out of their tight fold. ‘It looks like it’s from when Jesus was alive.’

      Benedict moved closer to her and opened it up.

      Around a third of the pages featured sketches and photos torn from books and magazines, as well as notes and figures. His father started every few pages with a large italic letter of the alphabet. Some of the sections were full, ‘A’ for Agate, Aquamarine, Amethyst… ‘J’ for Jade, Jasper and Jet. Other sections had hardly any entries.

      ‘Even as a boy he was interested in gemstones,’ Benedict said. He opened to a page on Peridot, and he and Gemma read the words.

       PERIDOT

       A rich green stone, sometimes called Chrysolite, Peridot is widely known as the birthstone for August. It can often be found in volcanic landscapes. It was used in ancient times to ward off evil spirits. It can assist us to recognise negative patterns in our lives, override unwanted thought patterns, help let go of the past and ease fear and anxiety. It enhances the healing and harmony of relationships of all kinds, but particularly marriage. It can lessen stress, anger and jealousy in relationships, and also helps us to find what is lost…

      ‘That last sentence isn’t complete,’ Gemma said. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

      To Benedict, it did. It was silly, he knew, but it was as if his father had written the words just for him.

      ‘You could so do with a piece of Peridot, Uncle

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