Wilde

by Eloise Williams

  He starts the class off clapping, but most of them don’t need an excuse to make a noise. I join in and whoop a couple of times. It feels really good.

  Once the applause has reached raucous, a woman so short and round she looks like an egg on legs, bursts into the room and bounces to centre stage with her arms open wide, as if she is going to ask us all to come in for a group hug.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you. Diolch, which means thank you in Welsh.’ She picks up her orange velvet skirt and curtsies.

  The class stop clapping abruptly because this is basic Welsh, not worth the meal she is making of it. I feel bad for her, so clap again, then sit on my hands.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ricketts. I am DEEPLY honoured to be here.

  Did you see that children? How I reflected my feelings with the pitch of my voice. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Ricketts, I’m educating them already. I simply can’t help myself. It’s in the blood, isn’t it? Teaching. Such a noble cause.’

  Mr Ricketts beams at her. He gives the class his best warning-without-words and leaves with Lewis in tow because, now he’s had his behaviour card signed, he is playing up and needs to be taken to Time Out.

  ‘Rapt audience. Well, you might be! For we are here to create art. Real art.’

  ‘Are we drawing, Miss?’

  ‘No, we are going to become thespians. Actors. Devisors. Playwrights and performers.’ She rolls her Rs and hits every consonant crisply. ‘Ah, I remember giving my King Lear at Sadler’s Wells. It was the first time a woman had played the role on that stage, I believe. It is one of many characters to which I have given birth…’

  She begins to reel through a huge list of other parts. I’m disappointed she is more interested in sounding successful than in the characters she was playing. I think about the Globe Theatre in London. I went there once. There is no roof in the middle. It’s round and open to the skies, the clouds and the birds. The owl on the station platform. The jackdaw and the crow joining it. The weirdness I can’t lose.

  ‘Are you alright, dear?’

  Gwyneth Fox-Rutherford is waving her hand in front of my face. I must have been daydreaming. Everyone is staring at me. Jemima is loving every second of it.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’ll open a window. The air will revive you. And then we will begin our retelling of the wonderful legend, The Witch Called Winter.’

  No.

  Groans from the class and a discontented mumble. Gwyneth bounds over to the windows, oblivious to the fact the class don’t like her choice any more than I do. She’s too short to reach the window latches so some of the children have to help her. Jemima is staring at me like she knows how weird I am. There is a cold sheen of sweat on my skin. I manage a weak smile. Everything tastes of Mae’s lemonade. Bitter and sharp and medicinal.

  Gwyneth sits cross-legged on the edge of the stage again. ‘Focus in, folks. Let us begin with our terrible tale of witchery.’

  ‘Miss, can’t we do Spiderman or something?’

  ‘Seriously, we’ve been doing Winter in assembly since we were born.’

  ‘What about Titanic, Miss?’

  ‘The suffragettes. Were they terrorists or freedom fighters?’

  ‘Mary Anning and her fossils.’

  ‘Rosa Parks.’

  ‘Martin Luther King. I have a dream.’

  These all get whoops from the class. I’m impressed too and am going to add about Amelia Earhart being the first woman to fly the Atlantic and landing in south Wales, but Gwyneth holds her hands up patronisingly. She shifts position and looks doleful.

  ‘Such a shame. All this calling out is making me feel very uncomfortable on the inside.’

  She shifts position again. She is clearly uncomfortable on the outside too.

  ‘I can’t share with you young people unless you are willing to listen. This makes me feel very sad.’

  ‘Yeah. Listen, everyone.’ Jemima has a way of stopping people talking. I don’t know why everyone listens to her. They just do.

  ‘Thank you, Jemima.’

  ‘You are very welcome, Gwyneth.’

  Jemima smugs in my direction.

  I imagine saying to her, No, I’m not weird. I’m perfectly Normal, thank you. That thing where I zoned out? I just don’t feel very well. It’s probably a stomach bug. You know what schools are like for incubating germs.

  A crow flies into the hall through the open window and lands in my lap. Chaos erupts.

  After ten minutes of arms and wings, Gwyneth Fox-Rutherford still stands centre stage, cowering with her hands up to her face.

  ‘Miss, it’s gone, Miss.’

  She unpeels her fingers and shudders, then straightens up and looks very proud of herself.

  ‘Did you see how I played the part of a person who is afraid of birds? Did you? Convincing, wasn’t it?’ She beams at us. ‘I think it deserves a small mark of appreciation.’

  Starting the clapping off herself, she gets a smattering this time and lots of doubtful faces.

  ‘Now, focus in, guys. Good news! A proclamation! Because it is so ridiculously hot today, we have Mr Ricketts’ permission to work in the yard.’

  A mixture of cheers and the groans which seem to be Year Six’s speciality. Everyone starts calling out complaints about bee stings, anaphylactic shock, sunglasses, lack of water, skin cancer, as we all stand up and check our clothes for peas. Gwyneth is ready with suntan lotion and instructs everyone to slather it all over themselves. Some end up looking like ghosts.

  ‘Let us enjoy the open air and give our drama to the sun.’

  The class traipses out, Gwyneth leading the way. I lag behind and try to stop myself shaking. Why did the crow have to land right in my lap? Why not someone else’s?

  I’m so tired of causing trouble everywhere I go. I want to be happy. Can I get rid of the weird here or will it be with me for life?

  3

  Raised voices skitter upstairs. I ask Mrs Danvers, ‘Seriously, who has the energy in this heat?’

  Mrs Danvers answers me by jumping on to the bed, where she curls up like a comma, then stretches into an exclamation mark, her tail tapping the dot. We are beginning to tolerate each other.

  ‘I suppose I’d better go down and find out what’s going on.’ I close the folder on pictures of Peru and put it back on the shelf. I spoke to Dad earlier. He’s glad that I’m doing a Page to Stage project at school because he thinks it will make me happy. I suppose because theatre made my mum happy. I didn’t tell him it’s about witches.

  I change out of my uniform, smelling the armpits of my shirt to see if it will last another day, nearly vomiting, and throwing it in a ball on the floor. I put on my favourite black T-shirt and a pair of black shorts and check myself in the mirror. Something shifts at the corner of the silver glass. I spin around.

  Nothing. The heat up here is making me hallucinate. I need to cool down.

  Some old-person track is turned on in the kitchen. Creeping downstairs, I startle a duck having a nap in the hall. Animals turn up in every nook and cranny here. I share the bathroom with a field mouse and when I went to brush my hair this morning there was a frog sitting on the bristles.

  Peering into the drawing room I see a big dog loping about with his tail wagging, his ears so long they practically scrape the floor. I put my knuckles to his nose so he can smell me. He leans in to let me give him a good scratch behind his ears. The name on his collar reads ‘Denzel’.

  ‘Hello, Denzel.’

  He licks my hand hello then lopes off to lie under the piano. I hear loud voices again and find Mae teetering on a chair in the kitchen, trying to reach some daisy-shaped flowers on a high shelf. She must have been shouting at herself. There are flowers everywhere. It smells like a wedding. She takes a deep gulp of some blue, bubbly concoction.

  ‘How many of those have you had?’

  ‘Too many and also not enough. Would you like one?’

  ‘I’m fairly sure it’s against the law for me to drink.’


  ‘Oh, for goodness sake. Who cares about laws?’

  ‘Normal people.’

  ‘Who wants to be normal? It’s more than a little dull.’

  Dull sounds good to me. Epic, in fact.

  She’s in a mood because they’ve employed Gwyneth Fox-Rutherford to do the drama project. Mae has run some of their other drama productions and when I told her about this new one, she was furious. That’s why I’ve been hiding out in my room.

  Mae gets down from the chair and sprays her face with the stuff she’s been using for the flowers. ‘Ah, essence of gardenia. Do you think it’s wrong to spray a flower with another flower?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask them?’ I smile sweetly.

  ‘Ask the flowers. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?’

  I open the door of the fridge and try to fit myself in it.

  Mae starts to sway, her voice warbling strange, strangled chicken sounds. An actual chicken walks in and cocks its head, as if assessing whether Mae is in pain or not. Mrs Danvers runs out through the cat flap. Mae’s skirt hem is torn at the back and opens like a mouth as she moves. She belches, then sits heavily opposite me, as if she is going to start a deep and meaningful lecture. I am saved by the arrival of Mae’s partner, Jules. She has stayed at ours before and we get on like a house on fire.

  ‘Guess what? Wilde’s school is doing a drama production and they’ve only gone and got another practitioner in to run it!’ Mae scowls. ‘They shouldn’t have people coming in. We could have done it here. In the garden. That would have been perfect, wouldn’t it, Wilde?’

  I give Jules a pleading look and she gets it immediately.

  ‘Wilde, could you please go and check on the animals? Take some water.’ Jules winks and I rush out.

  Most of the animals are hiding in any available shade outside. The duck splashes in a washing-up bowl of water. A donkey is lying down under a cherry blossom tree, which is unusual. Not that there’s a donkey in the garden, which seems to be quite ordinary here, but the fact it is lying down. The chicken wanders about, buk-buking into a hole under the hedge. Mrs Danvers, seeing me, slinks off in a different direction. I top up the water bowls, pat the donkey’s nose and jump at the size of her teeth.

  The treehouse will be the best place for shade, I’m certain. It’s majestic and inviting, way above me in the ancient oak tree. I want to sleep out here, but I have to wait till I’ve got Mae on side. She’s worked hard to make the house welcoming for me.

  The first rung of the ladder is easy, but I get sweaty by the second. My clothes stick to my skin and my lungs threaten to pop by the time I get to the top. Standing on the platform, which runs around the outside, I whistle at the view through dry lips. It is gorgeous. Forgotten and a bit weather-beaten, but perfect.

  Inside, hazy green light shuffles delicate patterns across the floor. I’m going to ask Mae if I can bring the telescope up from the porch and stargaze from here. I bet I’ll be able to see Jupiter and the Milky Way.

  The treehouse hasn’t been used for a while. There’s a pile of decaying twigs in the corner where something has made a nest and then abandoned it. Everything needs a bit of tender loving care, but I make a solemn promise that I am going to bring it back to life and treasure it for as long as I’m here.

  Poking my head out of one window, I can see an enchanting dark green forest crawling up the hills behind Witch Point. Poking my head out of the other window, I find Mrs Danvers staring back crossly.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs D.’

  I leave her in peace and go out onto the platform again, imagining the garden as the theatre space it used to be.

  Over the hedge, a head of familiar effervescent curls is passing. It’s now or never. I’m so sick of being lonely.

  ‘Hello,’ I call, half hoping that Dorcas won’t hear me.

  She looks up and the surprise on her face makes me laugh. I guess this place is camouflaged from the outside by the leaves.

  I give her a big wave.

  ‘Wilde! You have a treehouse! That is the most amazing thing in the world. Can I come up? I’ve always wanted a treehouse and we could never have one in our garden because it’s too small and we only have a lemon tree that comes up to my waist. I mean it will grow, but at the moment a treehouse would squash it splat flat and I guess then it would be a shed, not a treehouse.’

  Even Dorcas has to stop for breath.

  I’m shy. I’m always shy. It comes from being hurt too many times.

  It’s cool in here. I have shade. I should share the shade.

  ‘Come up.’

  I go back in without waiting for an answer.

  I wish I’d had time to tidy the treehouse so that Dorcas could be wowed by it. She’s taking a long time. Perhaps she’s realised I’m not worth it and gone away. I hold my breath and listen for her. I hear the tree sighing. An ice-cream van in the distance. Dorcas on the rungs.

  ‘This isn’t easy.’

  I dash out on to the platform. Dorcas is climbing the ladder with a tray on her head.

  ‘I mean, I know that in some areas of the world people carry things like this all the time, but I’ve not had any practice.’

  The tray tips and the jug slides precariously close to the edge. I lie flat on my tummy and reach down, trying to grab it from her when she gets close enough. We both end up in fits of laughter. Eventually I’ve got it, and then she is up.

  ‘Your aunt gave it to me. The ice cubes are melting already. She offered to help me up with it, but I said I was fine. You live and learn.’

  ‘Yes. You do.’

  I remember all my past failed friendships. All the people who saw my weird. I look at Dorcas and her brilliant smile. I’m going to let myself try. ‘Come into the treehouse.’

  She lets me walk in first. I put the tray down on a stump in the corner.

  ‘Wow. This place is amazing.’

  ‘I’ve only just come up here myself. I haven’t had time to tidy it. I’m sorry it’s a bit of a mess.’ I don’t know why I’m apologising. I just want Dorcas to like it. To like me.

  ‘What’s untidy about it? It’s awesome. Do you sleep up here? I would definitely sleep in here if I could. Can we? I mean, shall we? One day? Night, I mean? Sleep up here?’

  I laugh. Her energy is infectious.

  ‘Yes. OK.’ My heart lifts, like a swift soaring on thermals, but I manage to act nonchalant all the same. ‘Shall we drink this before the ice cubes melt?’

  I pour, grateful the drink is water and not homemade lemonade. Dorcas gulps hers down in one and then lies back on the wooden boards. I sit and sip mine, listening to the fragments of ice tinkling the glass. The sun is slowly giving up work for the day, the shafts low and peach. Dorcas runs her hand through one of them, blocking the light and then setting it free again, as if she can make light appear by magic. I steer clear of that word even in my brain.

  ‘Did you know that most dust is made up of human skin?’

  She sits up abruptly. I nod.

  ‘Why are you called Wilde? I mean, it’s a cool name and everything, but it’s unusual, right?’

  I nod again. I don’t talk about my mum much. I take a deep breath of dusk and go for it.

  ‘My mum went to a famous cemetery in Paris. It’s called Père Lachaise. It’s got lots of famous people in it. Singers and composers and writers. Loads of people go there to see the mausoleums, tombs like houses with stained-glass windows. Dad said it’s very moving. Anyway, they were there on a beautiful autumn day and my mum was really into Shakespeare.’

  I wait for scorn or a dig of some kind, but Dorcas just looks interested, so I carry on.

  ‘She was kicking up leaves and trying names out. Dad said she was about eight months pregnant and looked like a cavorting angel with a very big belly.’

  Dorcas laughs then leans in encouragingly. I think she can sense this is a big deal to me.

  ‘She wanted to call me something Shakespearean. Desdemona or Ophelia. But she told my dad she was
waiting for me to kick so that she knew I agreed. She had to stop and have a rest and she sat on a bench by Oscar Wilde’s grave. Apparently, it’s big and like a sphinx. And people are so moved by his life story and the things that he wrote that they leave notes and presents and candles all over it. So many that they have to clear it every day to make room for new ones.’

  I can hear the birds singing their strongest songs to welcome the dark and let morning know they’ll be waiting for it.

  ‘She said “Oscar” for a joke. I’m really glad I didn’t kick for that. It could have been so much worse. And then she tried “Wilde”. It was a joke again, Dad said, but I kicked. Every time she said it, I kicked again. So, I chose my own name really. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t, but I’m glad she gave me the chance.’

  The calm, green dappled light filters the amber outside. I feel as if I’m floating.

  ‘I never told anyone that before.’

  ‘It is such a good name and such a good story.’ Dorcas is very grave and thoughtful. Perhaps she has her own name story.

  ‘Why are you called Dorcas?’

  ‘Absolutely no idea.’

  We burst out laughing.

  ‘I’d better get back. While we can still see our way down the ladder.’