by Jo Cotterill
I’ve never written a story with someone else before. But if I were to choose a writing partner, it would be Mae. Of course it would. I smile back at her, and that’s that settled.
Mae brings in a brand-new A4 hardback notebook, and over the coming weeks we sit together every lunchtime and write another chapter. I do the writing because my handwriting is neater. Mae sits with her eyes closed and thinks out loud.
‘When she meets the stranger,’ she says, ‘she should be really nervous and frightened because he reminds her of someone bad from her past.’
I smile. It’s good, and it sparks off a new idea in me. We work well together, contributing ideas and discussing plot points. I borrow a book called How to Write from the public library and we devour it.
‘We could get this story published,’ Mae says.
‘No,’ I say. ‘We need to write for years and years before we’re good enough.’
But Mae is impatient. The next day, she comes into school brimming with enthusiasm. ‘We could put it online! People would pay to read it – we could make some money!’
I am tempted. Money would be very helpful. There never seems to be much of it at home, and there are things I would like to buy.
‘I don’t know how to do that,’ I say.
‘I do,’ Mae tells me confidently. ‘I looked at a forum last night on the computer.’
I think of Dad’s computer in his library, hardly ever switched on. I wish I could use it, but it’s on his desk, and he’s always there. If I had money, I could have a computer of my own.
‘Let’s do it,’ I say.
‘Can I go round to Mae’s tomorrow after school?’ I say to Dad.
He frowns at his manuscript. ‘Who’s Mae?’
‘The new girl. Well, not new any more.’
‘Why do you want to go to her house?’ He licks his finger and turns a few pages, his eyes scanning the lines of text. ‘Ah – there’s the reference.’
I’m not quite sure how to say the words. ‘She’s my best friend.’
He looks up at this. ‘Best friend? You have a best friend?’
It’s almost like he’s saying, ‘You have a unicorn?’ – he sounds that surprised.
‘Yes. She likes books. We’re writing a story together.’
He stares at me for a moment as though he can’t quite understand. Then he smiles. ‘Well, that’s nice.’
I hadn’t realised I’ve been holding my breath. ‘So I can go?’
He nods. ‘Why not?’
I am euphoric.
Mae’s house is semi-detached, separated from the road by a small front garden. There’s a tidy flower bed with pink and red flowers in it, and paving slabs leading to the front door. I have to take my shoes off when I go in, which seems strange to me. If I took my shoes off at home, my feet would freeze. But here there are soft carpets and no draughts.
We’ve come in Mae’s mum’s car, which is shiny and clean and doesn’t make any weird noises when you drive it. I sit between Mae and her brother Christopher, who is eight and picks his nose but is otherwise okay – I mean ‘all right’. Mae’s mum asks us about our day and smiles at me in the rear-view mirror. She is middle-sized, with a soft, round face and untidy hair and she smiles a lot. She’s so warm and friendly in a ‘mum’ sort of way that it gives me a kind of pain deep inside. I make an effort to smile back at her.
Mae says to her mum, ‘We’re going up to my room,’ as soon as we get in the door, so I follow her upstairs.
Mae’s room is a hotchpotch of things. There’s one wall of beautiful patterned wallpaper, which appears to be stuck on with sticky tape along one side. On another wall, Mae has drawn large black rectangles onto the white background. One of the rectangles is full of felt-tip patterns in blues and greens. Another rectangle is only partially completed. There’s a wardrobe and a chest of drawers and a bed, with a pale green bedspread covered in daisies. A big green oval rug on the floor takes up most of the space and has tiny white daisies on it. The room feels like an art gallery in a forest.
And there are books, of course. Lots of books, stacked two deep on a bookshelf and spilling out in paper waterfalls onto the floor. Just seeing them makes me feel instantly at home.
‘Oh, Wonder!’ I cry, pulling it out. ‘I haven’t read it!’
‘You can borrow it.’ Mae reaches into a bedside drawer and produces a laptop. It’s sleek and shiny and silver, and I marvel. I didn’t realise she had her own laptop; I thought there was a family computer. How many people would have to buy our story in order for me to afford one of those?
‘Borrow anything you like.’ Mae nods at me while she waits for her computer to start.
I crawl along beside the bookshelf, staring hard to make sure I don’t miss anything. There are books here by Jacqueline Wilson, Louise Rennison, Celia Rees, Hilary McKay and Linda Newbery. There are stories about mermaids, girls with magical powers and boys getting into trouble. I pluck out Holes, The Tail of Emily Windsnap, Liar & Spy and Pea’s Book of Holidays. Mae’s taste in books is so similar to mine it gives me a rush of warmth. I had thought I was the only one whose life was consumed by stories. The only one who preferred imaginary worlds to the real one.
Stuffed in the wrong way round is a book by Susan Cooper. ‘This is one of the Dark Is Rising books,’ I say. ‘It’s one of my favourite series.’
‘I liked it,’ Mae agrees, ‘but I didn’t cry at it.’
I smile to myself. To get a ten out of ten from Mae, the book must leave her in floods of tears.
‘Here we are.’ Mae pats the bed next to her. ‘Come and look at this.’
For the next hour we pore over the internet, reading all kinds of advice about how to publish your book online.
‘See? If we made it into an ebook, we could sell it properly through a store,’ Mae says. ‘I have a bank account. Or we could set up a new one.’
There’s lots of help out there, though after a while all the information makes my head spin, so Mae suggests going downstairs for some fresh air.
Mae’s mum is in the dining room. There’s a mass of silky fabric spread across the table, and she’s picking silver pins out of a pot and carefully pinning it together.
‘This is beautiful,’ I say, staring. The fabric is pale green, with a sheen so it looks gold from some angles, and tiny purple embroidered flowers. ‘What are you making?’
‘A new skirt.’ Mae’s mum straightens up and rubs her back. ‘It’s pretty, isn’t it?’
‘Gorgeous.’ I want to touch it but don’t dare. I haven’t washed my hands. Instead, I stare and stare at the green-gold waves. It reminds me of a painting my mother did that now hangs in the hallway where you can’t really see it in the gloom. She painted a field at sunset, with wild flowers and the green of the grass turning to gold in the sun’s rays. A lump comes to my throat and I swallow it down quickly.
Luckily, Mae hasn’t noticed. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s go outside.’
I follow her, casting a longing look back at the dining table. ‘Does your mum make a lot of clothes?’ I hesitate after I say ‘a lot’ because Dad doesn’t like the phrase. But Mae doesn’t correct me.
‘I guess so,’ says Mae. ‘She used to make loads for me and Christopher, but not so much now.’
‘Why not?’ I’d expire with happiness if I had a skirt made out of that amazing material.
Mae shrugs. ‘It’s kind of embarrassing when your mum makes your clothes. I’d rather have something from a shop, wouldn’t you?’
No, I think, but I don’t say it. Things from shops are all the same. I like the idea of making and owning something unique, something that no one else in the world will have. Like a story that no one else could write, or a painting that no one else could paint.
Christopher is out in the garden with a magnifying glass and a big plastic tub. His fingers are muddy.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Mae.
‘Making a worm farm,’ he says, without looking up.
‘A wormery,’ I say, watching him scrabble around in the dirt. ‘Dad proofread a book about sustainability once. It had all kinds of ideas in it for growing your own food, making your own butter and that kind of thing. A wormery is like a compost bin, only with worms, so the stuff breaks down faster – more quickly.’
Mae screws up her little nose. ‘Eurgh. You’re not bringing it in the house, are you? Mum’ll go mad.’
‘Of course not.’ Christopher reaches into the flower bed and pulls out a worm by one end.
‘You shouldn’t touch them with your bare hands,’ I tell him. ‘Our skin is too acid – you’ll hurt it.’
‘Oh, that’s rubbish,’ says Christopher, putting the worm into his tub. ‘Besides, I’m not touching it for long.’
‘It’s not rubbish, it’s true,’ I say. ‘And I don’t think that’s the right kind of worm anyway.’
He turns to stare at me. ‘What are you talking about?’
I feel a bit nervous because Dad worked on the book a long time ago – at least six months – and I can’t remember it very well. ‘I think you have to get special worms. From a shop.’
Christopher turns away again with a snort. ‘I’m sure these’ll be fine. All worms do the same thing, after all. Stuff goes in one end, and soil comes out the other.’
He’s wrong, but I don’t feel confident enough to argue with him. Mae told me once that Christopher only likes books about facts, so now I’m not quite sure what to say to him. How do you talk to someone who doesn’t like stories?
‘Yuck,’ says Mae, looking away. ‘Come on, Calypso, let’s do something else. This is disgusting.’
Their garden has an apple tree in the middle with a rope swing. I have a go but I keep falling off – and then I spot something hidden down the end of the garden, half buried in shrubs.
‘Is that a Wendy house?’ I say with a gasp.
‘Oh – yeah,’ says Mae. ‘It’s kind of overgrown, though. You can’t really use it.’
‘You don’t use it?’ I can’t believe it. She has a real Wendy house! When I was younger, I read a story about a girl and her friends who had a secret meeting house in the woods: a dilapidated, falling-down sort of place of their own. And there was another story about a boy who lived in a treehouse and ate berries and roots and had a pet squirrel. I tried to persuade Dad to build me a treehouse, but he said he didn’t know how. For months I dreamed that I had my own miniature den in the garden – and Mae actually has one that she doesn’t use!
I run over and push open the little door. It’s square inside and quite big – bigger than you’d think from the outside – and the shrubs have grown up to cover the windows, so it’s very dark. But there’s room for me to get in and sit on the floor, and there’d be room for three or four other children our age too.
‘Don’t sit down,’ says Mae. ‘I think it’s damp.’
It’s too late, and my school skirt is going to need a wash and a dry. Something I’ll have to remember to do when I get home.
‘Oh,’ I say in some disappointment. ‘You need a rug in here.’
‘That’d get damp too,’ says Mae. ‘There’s damp coming up from underneath.’
‘Can’t we fix it?’ I say. ‘This would be such a great place to do our writing!’ Images are bursting into my head like fireworks: cushions; curtains; lamps; notebooks; me and Mae sitting together with pens and pencils, plotting and planning and writing for hours and hours.
‘It’s too dark,’ says Mae. ‘But we could cut down some of the plants, maybe? Then the light would get in.’
‘Why haven’t you done it before?’ I say, enthusiasm bubbling out of me. ‘It’d be the first thing I’d do if I moved to a new place and found a real Wendy house in the garden!’
Mae shrugs. ‘Well, Christopher wasn’t interested and I didn’t want to play in it on my own.’
I give a little sigh. I’ve always played on my own. There’s never been a sibling to play with. After me, Mum and Dad decided not to have any more children. Mum used to say something about us being a ‘perfect family triangle’, though now I wonder if she said it in a happy or a sad way. I can’t remember her voice any more – if I had a brother or a sister, I could talk to them about it … I tried to ask Dad once why I was an only child, but he shrugged and said that was just the way things were. But now I have Mae. And she is almost as good as a sister.
‘I’ll do it up with you,’ I say. ‘Give it a makeover.’
Mae smiles. ‘I like that idea. Mum could make some curtains. And maybe Dad can find out how to make the floor waterproof.’
‘I’d swap my library for a Wendy house,’ I say, looking around at the bare walls and feeling a rush of excitement. Visions dance before my eyes: flickering candlelight, shelves of books in every size and colour, strings of beads hanging at the windows … It would be the most perfect place in the world: a retreat, a secret just for me and whoever I chose to invite.
‘You have a library?’ asks Mae, her eyes widening.
‘We have two,’ I say proudly. ‘Dad has one and I have my own. In the spare room.’ The room that used to be Mum’s studio. For a split-second, I think of Mae’s mum – her smiling, warm face – and I feel a sudden pang. Of pain? Or jealousy?
I would swap my library – and a Wendy house – to have my mum back.
Mae’s mouth has fallen open. ‘You have a whole room for your books? Can I see?’ she says reverently. ‘Can I come round one day?’
‘Oh. Well …’ I’ve never invited anyone to my house before. I’ve never really wanted to. What would Dad say? For a moment I don’t know how to answer. Then something in me strengthens. I have a best friend! It doesn’t mean I don’t have inner strength. Best friends are good! ‘Of course,’ I say confidently. ‘Any time you like.’
‘Mae! Calypso!’ Mae’s mum is calling from the back door. I crawl out of the little house and we head back across the grass. ‘I should be taking you home soon, Calypso, shouldn’t I?’
‘Oh, Mum, can’t Calypso stay for supper?’ asks Mae.
I feel almost light-headed at the idea and my stomach growls in response. I bet they don’t have beans on toast for dinner.
Her mum looks at me. ‘I don’t know. Is that all right with your dad, Calypso? Didn’t we agree I’d bring you back at five?’
But at home, I’ll have to make my own dinner, and just this once it would be so nice …
‘Oh, I’m sure he won’t mind,’ I say airily. ‘He’s working.’
Mae’s mum says, ‘I’m happy for you to stay for supper if you think it’ll be all right. I should give your dad a ring, though, just so he knows.’
Dad hates to be interrupted while he’s working. And what if he said no? What if he said I had to come home at five, like we arranged?
A sense of rebellion grips me. ‘No, it’s okay,’ I say, using the word deliberately and relishing it. ‘He’ll be busy. I don’t usually see him until after supper time.’
She gives me a strange look, but before she can ask me anything else, Christopher, walking towards us, trips over his shoelace and drops the tub of worms all over the grass and his mum’s feet.
Mae’s mum shrieks, ‘Christopher!’ and I feel an unbidden bubble of laughter build up inside me. Thank goodness for worm distractions! I hold back the giggle: Mae’s mum is cross, and she might be cross with me too if I laugh at her. And then she might take me home.
‘Oh no!’ Christopher says, scrabbling around, trying to pick them all up.
I press my lips together at the funny sight.
‘Help me, Mae,’ he begs.
‘No way!’ says Mae, looking horrified. ‘Come on, Calypso, let’s go to my room and draw plans for the Wendy house.’
She pulls me away, and as we run I glance back once more to see Christopher dumping handfuls of worms into his bucket while his mum scolds him and shakes worms off her shoes. I feel grateful to Christopher for diverting attention away from me. And
the situation with the worms really is very funny. It’s like a cartoon, and I wish I could capture the silliness of the moment. I like laughing. If I had a brother, would I laugh more at home?
Mae and I have a lovely half an hour drawing diagrams and making plans for the renovation of the Wendy house. I completely lose track of time, just like when I’m reading. But this isn’t something I’m doing alone, in my own head. I’m beginning to see why so many people have a best friend. Mae’s ideas make me smile because they’re brilliant and I know I wouldn’t have thought of them myself. Lots of her suggestions spark my own ideas, and together we develop them. It feels great. It’s twice as much fun to create something when you do it with someone else. I want the afternoon to go on for ever.
Supper is beef stroganoff. I’ve never had it before. It’s creamy and warming and tastes so delicious I wonder if there can be anything better in the world.
Mae’s mum smiles. ‘You were hungry.’
‘Yes,’ I say, looking at my plate. There isn’t a single grain of rice left. I know there’s more on the stove – I’ve seen it – but Mae’s mum doesn’t offer any more and it would be rude to ask. Instead, though, she does bring out a big chocolate mousse. Pudding!
‘We never have pudding in my house,’ I say enthusiastically, putting a spoonful into my mouth. The taste is heavenly.
‘I love pudding,’ says Mae. ‘Treacle tart, yum. Apple pie. Ice cream.’
I can’t remember the last time I had any of those things at home.
‘Crumble,’ says Christopher with his mouth full. His nails are still brown with dirt, even though his mum has made him wash them three times. She made him put the worms back in the flower beds too, and he spent the first half of the meal complaining about the unfairness. It made me want to giggle again.
‘What do you usually have for supper, Calypso?’ she asks, and her voice sounds light and friendly.
‘Oh, all kinds of things,’ I assure her. Being here, in this nice warm house, with this wonderful food, makes me feel ashamed of my own. I can’t tell her I cook my own supper and that it’s usually beans on toast.