Casting Shadows (3 page)

But how would he act with Dad himself?

We reached each other. Flynn leaned over and gave me a sedate kiss on the cheek. Then he turned to Dad and held out his hand.

‘Hello, Mr Armstrong,’ he said smoothly, all traces of his earlier awkwardness completely evaporating as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk
properly the other day. It’s a pleasure to finally spend some time with you. I know River loves you very much and, as I love her more than anything in the world, it’s important to me
that you know my intentions to her are entirely honourable.’

Entirely honourable?

I realised my mouth had fallen open and closed it. Flynn sounded like something out of a different century – and way older than his years. I was guessing that he had rehearsed that speech
to Dad before arriving. He would certainly never talk in such a formal way normally. Still, he had made everything he’d said sound effortlessly natural and, more important, completely
sincere.

Dad looked even more shocked than me as he shook Flynn’s hand. Not surprising, really. All he’d heard about Flynn for the past five months was that he was hot-tempered to the point
of violence. He couldn’t possibly have expected this level of charm, maturity and manners.

‘Good to see you too, Flynn,’ Dad said. ‘The car’s this way.’

As we followed him out to the car, Flynn slipped his arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him and he lowered his face to whisper in my ear.

‘How am I doing?’ he said softly.

I looked up, into his eyes. Didn’t he know how well he was coming across? He was trying so hard – and all so we could be together. I’d never loved him more. I smiled, reaching
up to whisper back.

Ace, I think Dad likes you already.’

After the fifteen-minute drive to the commune, I was
sure
Dad liked him. Flynn had continued with his charm offensive. He answered all Dad’s questions about his jobs and his A
levels politely and with a meek respectfulness I’d only ever seen him display at the gym where he worked, Goldbar’s.

As soon as Dad sat back, clearly relaxing in the face of Flynn’s good manners, Flynn asked a few questions of his own. Simple, interested questions about the commune – how it worked
and how many people lived there.

A few minutes later we arrived. I took Flynn’s hand as we went into the kitchen via the back door. Flynn looked around, taking in the big stone floor and huge Aga stove. I wondered what he
was thinking. The kitchen looked good – clean and warm and inviting in the morning sunshine that flooded in through the long window near the table. Still, compared to Mum’s house with
its fitted cupboards and stainless steel appliances, it was all quite basic.

‘Hi, River!’ It was Ros, one of my favourite residents, coming in from the garden. I liked Ros a lot. She was outgoing and funny and always treated me like a grown-up. And this must
be Flynn?’ Ros said, striding over with her arm outstretched.

Flynn shook her hand.

‘Very
attractive, River.’ Ros winked in my direction.

I blushed. Flynn rolled his eyes but he was smiling.

Dad cleared his throat. ‘Why don’t you show Flynn round for a bit, River?’ he said. ‘Meet back here for lunch in half an hour?’

I nodded and tugged Flynn through the kitchen door. We wandered along the corridor. Flynn was moving slowly, gazing at the bare plaster on the walls. I showed him the two communal rooms –
one with three large sofas and a huge fireplace in the centre. The other was smaller, full of books and magazines and two long desks.

‘That’s where Stone and I do our homework when we stay here,’ I said nervously.

Flynn’s eyes were sharp, soaking it all up. I swallowed. Looking at it fresh like this I was horribly aware of how tatty the whole place was. It really could do with a lick of paint
– and some of the upholstery on the sofas was fraying badly. I knew Flynn would never look down on people for not having much money, but I was worried he might see the shabbiness of the
commune as proof that the residents lacked drive and ambition, just like he’d always suspected.

I pointed along the corridor to the doors that led to two of the private apartments. ‘John and Julia live on the left,’ I explained. ‘And Ros is opposite.’ I glanced at
him, feeling nervous. ‘What did you make of her?’

Flynn shrugged. ‘Seemed okay,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘Ros is cool, actually. She used to be an actor.’

‘Yeah?’ Flynn turned his attention to the abstract paintings that hung along the wall. I watched him taking them in. He was a brilliant actor himself, of course. That was how
we’d met, last autumn, acting in
Romeo and Juliet
at his school.

I led him up the big stone stairs. At least upstairs was carpeted, even if the carpets were threadbare.

‘There are two flats at this end.’ I indicated them in turn: the small studio that belonged to the nerdy IT guy who kept himself to himself and the largest apartment in the commune
which, as far as I knew, was still empty.

Flynn nodded absently. ‘So where are we staying?’ he said.

I led him along the building to Dad and Gemma’s apartment. The door opened into a fair-sized living area – cosy and messy with throws over the couches, and shelves heaving with books
and rows of plants around the huge window. I pointed to the two doors on the left. ‘That’s their bedroom and the bathroom,’ I said.

‘What’s in there?’ Flynn indicated the door on the opposite wall.

‘That’s the “storeroom-cum-spare room”,’ I said.

Flynn grinned at me and pushed open the door. It was its usual mess. The camp bed was made up with a white duvet and someone, Gemma presumably, had placed a vase of sweet pea flowers on the
window ledge. Planks of wood, piles of boxes containing old magazines, papers of all kinds and scraps of fabric littered the floor at the base of the opposite wall.

‘Dad’s always saying he means to clear this room out,’ I said. ‘But he’s busy outside most of the time.’

Flynn strode over to the little window above the bed. He’d sneered so often at the idea of the commune, where people came together to share their resources and work at being as
self-sufficient as possible. What would he make of the reality?

I followed him over to the window. He was looking out over the vegetable garden, which lay to the right of the kitchen and the two fields beyond. The yard with the hens and the goat was out of
sight from here, as was the barn which was hidden from view by the big oak tree at the bottom of the east field. The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky.

‘What do you think?’ I said, unable to stand it any longer.

I held my breath, waiting for his reply. I wasn’t sure why but everything suddenly seemed to ride on Flynn’s answer.

‘I think the place is beautiful,’ Flynn said at last, beaming at me across the storeroom. The smile lit up his face, already bathed in the sunshine flooding in from
outside. He suddenly looked much younger than before, like a child just landed in a sweet shop. ‘Almost as beautiful as you.’

He put his hands on my arms and stared at me for a second. I held my breath, wanting him to kiss me so badly I could hardly stand. Then he grinned again and strode away to the door.

‘Show me outside,’ he said.

We went downstairs and I walked him past the hens then down through both fields. There were Jacob sheep in the second. Flynn was fascinated by their black and white wool and curling horns. He
said he’d never seen a real live sheep close to before.

We kissed in the apple orchard. I’d been there a million times – it was just about my favourite place in the commune, especially at this time of year, with the trees full of budding
fruit and the sweet scent of the wild flowers in the air.

As we strolled back, hand in hand, the gong for lunch sounded.

‘What’s that?’ Flynn asked.

I gulped, my anxieties flooding back. I wasn’t sure who would be here today – people were often out at weekends – but it was hard to imagine Flynn sitting down to any kind of
communal meal with strangers. I prayed that Gemma or Ros had been cooking. At least then I could be sure the food would be good.

‘It’s another chance to make a positive impression,’ I said lightly.

‘Right.’ Flynn grinned. ‘No problem.’

To my relief, the kitchen wasn’t too full when we arrived. Dad and Gemma were already sitting down at the long table, laid with the usual mismatched bowls and spoons. Ros was next to Gemma
with the nerdy IT guy opposite. They looked up as we walked in.

Dad beckoned for me and Flynn to sit down. I had butterflies in my stomach but Flynn was as charming as he had been earlier and my anxieties soon eased.

After a few minutes, John and Julia hurried in from the utility room with two large loaves of home-made bread and a tureen of soup. John, who is kind of annoyingly full of himself, was
explaining how they’d made the soup in great detail.

‘. . . so then we added a pinch of – genius touch, I don’t mind saying –
tarragon
. . .’

Flynn and I sat down with the others. To my relief, the food was excellent. Everything seemed relaxed but, as we ate, I shot Flynn a quick look. He was eating fast, wolfing down his soup. I
could tell from the way his knuckles were white as they gripped his spoon that, despite his easy manner, he was finding this whole meal a strain. He didn’t like joining in
anything
,
not even with people our age at school. He’d only done the school play we’d both been in because the drama teacher had insisted. I could only imagine how hard this big sit-down lunch
was for him.

‘So what d’you think of the place, Flynn?’ Dad asked.

Everyone looked at Flynn. I held my breath.

‘I like it,’ he said. ‘It’s beautiful, especially outside – the sheep are amazing – and . . . it’s huge.’

Silence fell around the table.

Ros chuckled. ‘Still, size isn’t everything, ha-ha!’

I looked down at the table, blushing. The nerdy IT guy said something under his breath to Gemma and she rolled her eyes.

Flynn looked awkward again. I put my hand over his, trying to reassure him that everything was still okay. The silver heart from my bracelet felt cool against my skin. Flynn looked up at me, the
gaze from his greeny-gold eyes all soulful.

‘It’s fine,’ I mouthed. ‘Everyone loves you.’

Flynn leaned over, his lips brushing my ear, sending shivers down my spine. ‘I only care that you love me.’

‘Hey, guys, share the joke,’ Ros said.

I smiled over at her. ‘Nothing,’ I said.

Flynn smiled too, then asked more questions about the commune. He found out things I’d never known, such as why some of the sheep had six horns, and the way everyone joining had to make a
down payment as investment into the group, then commit to working a certain number of hours every week.

‘We try to make the best use of everyone’s skills,’ Dad said, warming to one of his favourite topics.

‘So Gemma cooks, Ros makes everyone laugh and John tells everyone what to do,’ I said.

Everyone laughed, even John.

After lunch, Dad took me and Flynn out to the east field to mend a fence. Flynn was eager to learn and totally cooperative, doing everything Dad told him. By the time we went in to wash for
supper, they were charting away like they’d known each other forever.

Gemma had been cooking and the kitchen was filled with the scent of curry spices. Flynn and I made ourselves mugs of tea and took them down to the apple orchard while Dad and Ros laid the
table.

‘You seem so relaxed here,’ I said, as Flynn leaned against a tree. ‘Not when we were eating with everyone so much, but here . . . outside . . . Do you really like
it?’

It was twilight and the birds were singing out. Above our heads, the sky was shot through with swirls of pink and orange. Flynn took a gulp of tea.

‘I like your dad and Gemma,’ he said. ‘And that Ros is a laugh. And . . . and I like how much space there is outside and I like the way everyone knows what they’re
supposed to do and just gets on and does it.’

I nodded, surprised he was sounding so positive.

‘So you don’t think the people here are drop-outs anymore?’ I said.

‘Man, they’re total drop-outs,’ Flynn said with a grin. ‘I mean, I get the concept but it’s all a bit . . .’ he paused, searching for the right word, ‘I
dunno, it must get a bit dull just living here day in, day out.’

‘Unambitious?’ I said. This was a word my mum often threw at my dad.

‘Yeah, I guess.’ Flynn drained his tea, then drew me towards him. ‘Never mind all that. How much time do we have till dinner?’

The evening meal passed as easily as lunchtime had. Flynn was offered – and refused – a beer. I noticed Dad raise his eyebrows when Flynn announced that he never
drank alcohol. I could tell Dad wasn’t sure whether to believe him.

‘It’s true, Dad,’ I said. ‘Flynn never has anything to drink when we’re out.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked John imperiously. ‘Bit odd for a guy your age, isn’t it?’

Flynn turned to him. I could tell he was dying to snap out some snarky remark but he didn’t. He waited a second before replying, then he gave the same response he’d given when
I’d first asked him that question months ago.

‘I don’t like drunks,’ he said.

I knew – and I was guessing Dad and Gemma did too – that this was a reference to Flynn’s alcoholic father. My eyes flirted to the place on Flynn’s shoulder, hidden by his
shirt, where his dad had cut him years ago with a glass bottle, leaving a long, jagged scar.

I looked around the table, praying that nobody asked any further questions. Flynn’s father was definitely one topic I didn’t want us to get into. Both John and Ros looked like they
wanted to know more, but something about Flynn’s steel-eyed glare stopped them.

We went up to Dad and Gemma’s rooms as soon as we’d washed up after the meal. Dad had made it clear Flynn was to sleep on the sofa, while I took my usual bed in the storeroom. We sat
and played a game on my phone for an hour or so, then we went for a walk outside. Flynn was sweet and tender and delighted that I kept saying I was sure Dad liked him.