Read Amelia Grey's Fireside Dream Online
Authors: Abby Clements
Amelia Grey's Fireside Dream
Chapter 3 Only Half in Hackney
Chapter 9 Cresswell Road, London N8
Chapter 14 The Spare Bedroom – Starting
Chapter 15 The Spare Bedroom – Finishing
Chapter 17 Rachel and Fred’s Farm
Chapter 20 Making a House a Home
Fifteen Facts about Abby Clements
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW
Copyright © 2013 Abby Clements
The moral right of Abby Clements to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
PB ISBN 978 1 78206 430 5
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78206 431 2
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
Abby Clements
worked as a book editor before switching to writing. She lives in Crouch End with her partner and son in a home that (thankfully) needed less work than the one in this story.
Amelia Grey’s Fireside Dream
is her third novel.
Also by Abby Clements
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For anyone who’s ever made a house a home
Summer
Chapter 1
St Catherine’s secondary school, Hackney Wednesday, 1 May
The classroom slowly emptied, my students from 10E filing out into the school corridor in a hum of chatter, spirits high as the temperature outside soared. I walked from desk to desk collecting the copies of
The Great Gatsby
I’d handed out to them an hour before.
‘Do you reckon anyone even opened these?’ I asked Trey, who was lingering by his desk. At least a few of them had watched the film, so it had been possible to get some kind of discussion going.
‘Dunno, Miss.’ Trey shrugged, putting his exercise book away in his navy Nike rucksack. Behind him was the green sugar-paper display I’d put up at the start of term with examples of the class’s creative writing:
If I were Prime Minister
;
Mo Farah for Mayor
;
iPhones Allowed in Exams
… There was nothing from Trey there. Four years he’d been in my English class, and he still hadn’t completed a piece of work without me sitting over him.
I checked the wall clock: 11 a.m., enough time to grab a coffee in the staffroom during break. Hopefully Carly would be around and I’d have a chance to catch up with her on the weekend. She’d been planning to see Alex again and I couldn’t wait to hear how it had gone.
‘Hand over your report book, then.’ I held out my hand for it.
Trey made his way to the front of the classroom. His tie was loosely knotted and he wore a gold signet ring on his right hand. He towered over my five foot three frame these days.
I took the small book he passed me and signed it, before handing it back. ‘You know how happy it’s going to make me, the day we get you off report?’
Trey shrugged. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong this time.’
‘So what happened?’
I sat down and pulled out a chair next to me.
‘Nothing,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it, Miss.’ He dragged the chair out anyway, the legs scraping on the floor, and slumped down in it. He let his rucksack fall to the floor.
I looked him in the eye, waiting for him to speak. Noise
drifted in through the open windows of the classroom, shouts and chatter as morning break got underway outside, the early burst of summer heat heightening the students’ excitement levels. Trey’s gaze dropped, his eyes shaded by thick eyelashes, and he shrugged his shoulders again.
‘Go on.’ I unlocked my desk drawer, taking out my wallet and phone – a precaution I’d started to take this term, after my bag was stolen during class time. ‘I’m not in a hurry.’ I put my things away in my handbag. Trey stayed silent.
‘Like I said, I didn’t do anything. Garrett walked in at a bad time. It looked like I hit Andy, but I never. Garrett’s got it in for me anyway; he’s been trying to get me expelled for ages.’
‘I don’t think that’s true. If Mr Garrett thinks someone is being hurt, he can’t stand there and watch it happen. He has to do something.’
‘Like put me on report again. Andy and me were just messing about. Garrett wants me out. I don’t even care any more, Miss.’
‘Well,
I
do. You’ve got potential, Trey, and we can get you a few passes next year if you’re willing to put the work in.’
‘Potential,’ he said, almost under his breath. ‘
What
potential … ?’
‘Come on.’ I gave him a gentle nudge. The faintest of smiles appeared at the corner of his mouth. For a moment
he looked like the smart, cheeky kid he used to be, the one who’d joined my class in Year 7. ‘You’re bright. You’re great with group work. You make us all laugh – when you’re in a better mood than today. Now, just give me something on paper so that we can prove it to everyone else.’
‘I know.’ He scuffed the toe of his trainer against the table leg. ‘I need to work harder.’
I tried to catch his eye. ‘You can do it, you know. If you want support, I’m here. And your form tutor is too.’
He nodded silently, and bent to pick up his bag. ‘Thanks, Miss.’
‘Any time.’ I turned to switch off the interactive white-board, and closed my laptop, checking the time before I did – five minutes, no time for a coffee. My chat with Carly would have to wait – but I could still manage a quick dash to the toilet before the next class arrived.
Trey got up. I watched him step out into the buzz of the corridor, his dark St Catherine’s uniform quickly lost in the crowd by the metal lockers.
Maybe we can do it, I thought, picking up my handbag and heading for the toilet. Trey could still pull through his exams, come out with something. That glimmer of hope was why, after seven years of preparing classes and marking, sometimes barely seeing Jack, and often feeling a lot older than twenty-nine – with the wrinkles to boot – I was still teaching.
I reached into my handbag for my mobile – Jack usually messaged me about this time. I searched inside, but my hand touched nothing but a small notebook and the fabric lining. The bag felt light.
You’re kidding me
.
My phone and my wallet were gone.
*
‘A large one,’ I said to Jack, as he brought a bottle of wine out that evening over dinner in our flat.
‘Here you go.’ He filled my glass, then came around to my side of the kitchen table and smoothed my dark brown hair – the short fringe never lay quite flat. ‘Sounds like you could do with it after today.’
‘Oh
yes
.’ I shook my head, and gave a wry laugh. With his black curls and the trace of stubble on his jaw, Jack hadn’t changed much since we’d met as students. One touch from him could still make me melt. ‘I’m so annoyed, Jack. I feel like such an idiot.’
