Wilde

by Eloise Williams

  We all rummage in our bags. Lewis holds one up. His first one had sick all over it so The Witch must have sent another. He unfolds it.

  ‘Read it, Lewis. Oh no, you can’t, can you?’

  That’s not fair. He doesn’t deserve that.

  ‘I’ll read it for him.’ I go and stand next to him. ‘If he wants it to be read, that is.’

  ‘I don’t have nothing to be ’shamed of.’ He does his best to look dignified and I despise the person doing these horrible curses with every bone in my body.

  ‘Dear Lewis.’ Everyone is looking at me, which I absolutely hate, but I have to do this. ‘You think you are funny, but do you know that everyone is laughing at you rather than with you? You are a fool. I curse you to be laughed at for the rest of your life. THE WITCH.’

  Lewis is thoroughly deflated.

  ‘I think you are funny, Lewis. Really, I do. In a really good way,’ I say, giving him the note back gently then I wish I’d ripped it up and stamped it into the ground hard.

  ‘I have one.’ Dorcas. Oh no. Not Dorcas. My heart is breaking. I don’t want her to read it.

  ‘Read it.’ Jemima hasn’t had one yet, but she seems eager to get everyone else to read theirs. Dorcas pretends to be brave, but I know her better than that now.

  ‘Dear Dorcas. You think you are so interesting with all your facts but let me give you a fact. Everyone knows why you had to…’

  ‘No.’ I snatch the note out of her hand and hold it tightly. ‘That’s enough. Whoever is writing these just wants to cause hurt. To turn us against each other. They are trying to humiliate us.’

  ‘Well, not all of us.’ Jemima challenges loudly. ‘Have you had a note yet, Wilde?’

  The scorch of the sun hammers at the windows. My collar is extra constricting even without my tie. The floor beneath me tips and slides. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Implying. That’s a good word, isn’t it, everyone?’ Jemima addresses the ogling crowd. ‘You are very good with words, aren’t you?’

  Eyes all over me. I am accused.

  ‘What’s going on here?

  Gwyneth practically shoves me out of the way in her need to be in the spotlight. ‘Are we improvising the execution scene? How marvellous.’

  She catches sight of the notes, still in people’s hands, and smiles. It’s her and her idiotic play, I know it is. All publicity is good publicity. I glance at Dorcas, who is still reeling from her note. I’m going to get Gwyneth and expose her as The Witch. I’m going to…

  A call over the tannoy interrupts my thoughts. ‘Can Lewis Jones please come to reception? His mam is here with his sun hat.’

  None of the usual shrieks of laughter and jeers as he shuffles out.

  ‘A team-building game, I think, and then we rehearse!’

  We play pointless games and are then given scenes to improvise.

  I overhear Jemima trying to persuade Gwyneth into giving her a bigger part. Gwyneth is adamant that no part is a small part, so Jemima strops out of the room.

  The day is stifling and filled with misery. Dorcas is uncharacteristically quiet. She doesn’t meet my eye for more than a second. At lunchtime, she goes to a bench at the far side of the yard. I sit next to her.

  ‘Let’s set a trap.’ I’ve been thinking about it all morning. ‘Let’s spread a rumour. Say that we know who it is and that we are going to tell. Then we’ll leave the classroom together and The Witch will come running after us and beg for forgiveness. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s worth a shot.’ She keeps her eyes on the middle distance, looking at the windmill, lilac-blue stone against the dazzling hill. ‘My note. It said that I had to…’

  ‘Whoever is writing these notes is an uneducated idiot,’ I say over her.

  I don’t need to know what her note says. There was a space between us, but it closes in this silence and takes us back to where we were. Right next to each other.

  ‘How do we start the rumour?’

  ‘Jemima.’ We say it at the same time.

  ‘I’m on it.’ I hug Dorcas hard then leave.

  Jemima is in the lunch queue. I slide my tray up next to hers. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’ I furtively pretend to check for eavesdroppers. ‘I know who The Witch is.’

  ‘Like hell you do.’ She pushes my tray back with hers so that they aren’t touching. I persevere.

  ‘I do. And me and Dorcas are going to report them this afternoon.’ Putting a juice on my tray, I saunter off, knowing that she is watching me leave. That should do it. Glancing back, I see she is already gossiping with Holly and Ivy. I give it about fifteen minutes before the whole population of Witch Point Primary knows.

  When afternoon rehearsals begin, just before Gwyneth gives notes, I stand up, interrupting her.

  ‘Miss, me and Dorcas have a very important message we have to deliver to Mr Ricketts.’

  You can hear a pin drop.

  ‘Does it have to be now?’

  ‘I’m afraid it does.’ Dorcas stands too.

  ‘Then be quick about it.’

  We leave the room and feel the weight of expectation coming with us.

  Out of sight of the hall, we hide around a corner. We can see the others begin to rehearse. ‘Any minute now.’

  Gwyneth walks towards the hall exit and we both hold our breath, but she turns and starts talking to Jemima.

  ‘What are you two doing here?’ We jump almost out of our skeletons. It’s the receptionist with his Witch Point folder.

  ‘Just taking a message, Sir.’ Dorcas is better at spontaneous lying than I am.

  ‘Have you delivered it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then back you go. Chop chop.’

  We go back with our tails between our legs, to rehearse and squabble and slander with the rest of them.

  At end of day I go straight home. Everyone has been in strange moods today. There have been random outbursts of crying, snide remarks, sniping. I scuff my school shoes on the path a bit. I need to get out of this horrible play.

  What will my note say when it arrives? I dread to think.

  I get into Mae’s hammock to chill. As I climb in, I’m surprised to find my Shakespeare book there already. I put it on the grass. I don’t mind Mae reading it, but I wish she’d asked first. I won’t have a go at her though. Why shouldn’t she read my book? I’m being an idiot. Getting my balance, I lie back and let the leaf shade dapple me in happiness.

  Restless, I reach for The Collected Works, and topple out to the ground. The grass is parched but pungently sweet. I feel the familiar cover of the book and open its warm vanilla-perfumed pages. My mum has doodled pictures in the margins. I don’t know what they are, but they fascinate me. Swirls and birds, stars and flowers. Some of the doodles are a little bit odd. A girl surrounded by people with their backs turned to her. What looks like a round cage with teeth? I don’t know why she would draw these things, but I really wish I did.

  I try to let the images speak to me beneath the shade of the trees. There’s something there hidden in those pictures. I feel as if I should know what it is.

  11

  ‘It looks splendid.’

  We stand back and look at our work. We’ve spent all weekend on it. The treehouse has had a new lick of whitewash on the inside to brighten it up and we’ve hooked battery-powered fairy lights at the windows which we’ll turn on after dark. We’ve strewn colourful cushions around, and I’ve brought some of my bits and pieces from my room: the seagull skull, which Dorcas thinks is fascinating; my Shakespeare works, so I can continue to mull over the drawings. I’ve strung a few feathers I’ve collected up at the window, where they spin.

  ‘Come on.’ Dorcas has whitewash freckles.

  We go outside and admire the multi-coloured ribbons rippling from the branches like a rainbow waterfall. ‘Good work.’

  We have a right to be chuffed, it is mesmerising. We go back in and flop down on the cushions. I go for turquoise and Dorcas egg-yolk yellow.
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br />   ‘We should give it a name.’ I pass Dorcas a paintbrush. ‘Then we can make a sign to put up outside.’

  ‘Good idea. What about calling it the most fantabulous treehouse in the world?’ We both look at the piece of wood and laugh. ‘It’s not going to fit, is it?’

  ‘The Snug?’ I’ve always liked that word.

  ‘Or The Wilde Place?’

  I like that and it’s kind of Dorcas to suggest it, but I want it to be both of ours. ‘What about WildeDorcas?’

  ‘It doesn’t really trip off the tongue.’

  ‘OK. The Crow’s Nest?’

  ‘Ooh. I like that. Like on a ship, Captain Wilde.’

  ‘Correct, Captain Dorcas.’ I salute. ‘We can bring the ship’s wheel down from the attic and the telescope from the porch to help us look out for pirates.’

  ‘Good idea, but you can’t really have two captains.’

  ‘It’s our treehouse. We can do what we like.’ We salute each other in solidarity.

  ‘Well, isn’t this sweet.’

  I jump and knock a bottle of red paint over. It splats the yellow cushion like blood.

  Jemima stands in the doorway, backed by Holly and Ivy. ‘A lovely little playhouse for two lovely little friends.’

  ‘What do you want, Jemima?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Nothing in particular. We thought we’d come and have a chat with you. Didn’t we, girls?’ She struts into the treehouse, sneering. Ivy and Holly stay in the doorway. ‘So, what actually is this place?’

  ‘It’s a treehouse. What does it look like?’ Dorcas is scraping red off the cushion and her leg.

  ‘Thank you, Dorc-ass, for that brilliant explanation, but I meant what are you doing up here together?’ Jemima pronounces ‘Dorcas’ emphasising the syllables separately. I can see that it really riles Dorcas.

  ‘Look. You aren’t invited here,’ I shout. ‘You are trespassing on my property and if you don’t leave, I will call the police and have you arrested.’ This is silly. There aren’t any police in Witch Point. I fold in on myself like an envelope.

  ‘Ooh. I’m scared.’ Jemima inspects the treehouse, sniffing her disgust at everything. ‘What’s this?’

  She picks up my seagull skull as if it is the filthiest specimen she has ever had the misfortune to come across, as if we are forcing her to handle it.

  I bristle. ‘Put that down.’

  It’s one of my favourite possessions. I’m certain that’s weird, but it’s also true.

  ‘Eww. Why have you got a dead bird in here?’

  ‘Everything dies eventually.’ It comes out like a threat.

  ‘Oh no. I’m even more scared now.’ She doesn’t look scared. She looks thrilled. ‘Are you, I don’t know, I don’t mean to pry, but are you using this place to cast spells? Is there a cauldron here somewhere?’

  That horrible spiteful nasty sow. The tree creaks, sending out warning signals through its roots. Danger, danger. The birds pick up the call and caw and cwarak. I try to laugh it off but I’m not convincing. ‘Don’t be so childish.’

  ‘I’m not the one playing in a treehouse, little girl.’

  Ivy’s phone pings, closely followed by Holly’s. ‘We have to go home. It’s teatime.’

  Jemima is on a mission to cause trouble. ‘Go on then. Run along. I think I’ll hang out here a bit longer.’

  They leave with apologetic expressions to me and Dorcas. They aren’t so bad. Nowhere near as bad as Jemima. Do they even like her very much? It makes me feel sad for her. I know what it’s like to struggle to find a friend. Surprising myself, I say, ‘You can stay if you want to. We are just painting a sign for the door.’

  She contorts her face. We wait for a blistering insult, but she pulls up a scarlet cushion and sits on it. Dorcas has to pick her jaw up off the floor. I want to tread carefully.

  ‘You don’t have to paint, but you can if you like?’ I pass Jemima a paint brush. ‘We are trying to make the place as colourful as possible so use as many as you want. We did those earlier.’

  Our paintings look clumsy, but this is my space, I want it to be cheerful and they are anything but dull. ‘Yours can go there. Paint anything you like.’

  Jemima holds the paintbrush as if it might sting her. I put a piece of paper down in front of her. Dorcas looks at me as if I have gone completely mad, but puts the jar of water in front of Jemima and carries on painting our sign. She even whistles. I love her for it.

  ‘I … I don’t know what to paint.’ Jemima holds the brush limply.

  ‘I’ve done some paintings of places around the world and some flowers too. They’re the easiest.’ I point to the one I did earlier. ‘I mean, mine is just a collection of blue dots, like Impressionism. Any way you want. The brighter the better.’

  I pretend to be absorbed in stringing beads, even though the tree doesn’t need another garland. Dorcas carries on whistling. Jemima carries on staring at the blank paper.

  Through the window I can see a jackdaw hopping along the branch. It is joined by another, and then another. I carry on stringing beads and Dorcas keeps whistling, but you can hear that her lips are getting dry and it’s getting harder for her to produce any sound.

  I start singing. Just like that.

  ‘Summertime and the living is easy. Fish are jumping…’

  I clear my throat. We’ve been learning this song in school with Mr Ricketts at registration, so we all know it. ‘Fish are jumping, and the cotton is high.’

  ‘Your daddy’s rich and your momma’s good looking.’ Dorcas joins in and I smile sing.

  ‘So, hush little baby, don’t you cry.’ We take a breath to carry on, but we don’t need to.

  ‘One of these mornings…’ Jemima’s voice is rich as toffee. Deep and soulful. ‘You’re gonna rise up singing. Then you’ll spread your little wings and take to the sky.’

  She starts to paint as she sings. Big strokes of orange, before twizzling her brush in the water and painting spirals of yellow buttercup. It’s joyful, the three of us here like this.

  We join in with her, but we are only the backing singers to a star. More birds gather on the tree outside. I think they are charmed by the beauty of her voice. Her phone beeps sharply and she stops.

  ‘Sorry, losers. Something better has come up…’ She scribbles out her painting and tosses the brush, so it spatters the floor.

  ‘We were just trying to be nice.’

  ‘I don’t need your nice.’ She stands up and glowers at us as if we have conned her into something. ‘I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.’

  ‘We didn’t.’ I stand up too and the beads come loose from their string and scatter to the corners. ‘We just thought you might like to be friends.’

  ‘Hah! With you?’ So scornful. ‘Not likely. And for your information, I know it’s you.’ Jemima jabs her finger at me. ‘You pretend you are just silly little kids with your silly little treehouse, and your silly little paintings and your silly little… What even is this?’

  She picks up the skull again and throws it down. It splinters along the lower jaw. It’s like I feel the break in my own bones.

  ‘No!’ I can’t move I’m so shocked. Dorcas runs to pick it up.

  ‘You are the one writing the curses. My mother says the curse has come back stronger than ever since you’ve been here. Your mother was evil and so are you.’

  The birds jabber outside.

  ‘When I catch you, and I will catch you, I am going to make sure that you suffer.’

  I can’t move. I can’t speak. Her accusations are ringing in my ears, but I can’t defend myself.

  Dorcas walks towards her and Jemima backs away, but keeps stabbing her finger at me like a dagger.

  ‘Witch.’ Stab. Stab. ‘Put a spell on me, go on. Just like your mother did. Put spells on everyone. I know. My mother told me. She was a wicked witch and one day her spells went wrong and she cursed herself and died.’

  My heartbeat has stopped. Dorcas is crying. How
dare Jemima talk about my mother like that? I could kill. I could kill.

  I raise my finger and point at her with every ounce of power I can summon. ‘I curse you to die.’

  The words are savage, bitter. They shock me. The birds screech and agitate the branches.

  Jemima is going to die. Right here. I will have murdered someone.

  She claws at her throat with both hands and panic flashes in her eyes.

  No. No. I don’t want her to die. Please. No.

  ‘Pathetic.’ Jemima takes her hands away from her throat and sneers at me. ‘Did you really think that would work? Just saying: “I curse you”.’

  She does an impression of me in a weaselly, babyish voice.

  ‘You’ll have to try harder than that, hag breath, because I am pretty powerful myself, you know.’ She is wild with anger, loud above the screech of the birds. ‘I’m going to catch you and your servant.’ She pushes Dorcas into the wall. ‘And when I catch you, I’m going to make sure everyone knows what a horrible, poisonous witch you are.’

  She grabs hold of my Shakespeare book and throws it full force out the window. I charge after it. Watch it spilt apart and take wing, a flock of birds. My mum’s book.

  I start to shake all over as pages flock to the grass.