by Jo Cotterill
‘Does your mum like cooking?’ she asks.
I dig my spoon into the bottom of the bowl. ‘My mum died,’ I say without looking up.
Mae gasps. ‘What? I didn’t know that!’
There is a pause. I keep scraping the bottom of my bowl so that I don’t have to look up. I imagine them all exchanging frantic glances: what do we say next?
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mae’s mum says, after a moment. ‘Was it recent?’
‘No. Years ago, when I was five.’
There isn’t any mousse left in the bowl, but I keep scraping for the tiny bits to avoid looking up.
‘I didn’t know,’ Mae says in an agonised whisper, and I get the impression she isn’t saying it to me but to her mum.
I don’t know what to say. What else is there? My vision seems to have narrowed to the white china bowl in my hands. Everything around it is in shadow.
And then Christopher does a huge burp and the shadows disappear.
‘What?’ he says defensively.
‘That’s revolting,’ his mum says sharply.
Christopher tries to protest. ‘It just came out of nowhere.’
‘No, it didn’t. You always know when it’s coming, and the polite thing to do is to close your mouth and apologise afterwards.’
‘I didn’t know it was coming!’
I was relieved at first when everyone was distracted from me, but now I feel anxious. I wish Christopher would just apologise and keep quiet, not argue back. I can see him getting crosser, and his mum’s voice is getting higher.
‘It’s just a question of manners, Christopher, and you’re turning into a savage.’
‘I am not!’
‘Don’t talk back to me!’
I clench my hands into fists under the table and feel chilly waves pass over me. Their voices are harsh, like they hate each other.
‘Shall I take the bowls out?’ says Mae in an ‘I’m bored by this’ voice. She gets up and starts to clear.
‘I’ll help.’ I almost knock over the water jug in my haste.
The argument subsides, to my great relief, and Christopher slinks off sulkily.
When everything’s cleared away and I’ve made sure to say how nice all the food was, Mae’s mum says it’s time to take me home.
‘Christopher!’ she calls. ‘Can you come and get in the car? It’s time to take Calypso home.’
To my utter astonishment, Christopher appears looking perfectly cheerful again, holding some kind of puzzle toy.
‘I solved it,’ he tells us, putting on his trainers. ‘It’s supposed to take half an hour and I did it in ten minutes. That makes me a genius.’
His mum laughs. ‘You wish!’
I am baffled. How can their argument be over so quickly? Why aren’t they still cross with each other? All that emotion, all those angry words – where did they go? I feel quite weak as I sink into the car seat, and I barely hear a word anyone says on the short journey through the fading light. Dad and I never argue. If I get cross with Dad, he never argues back. He just retreats into silence and I go to my room feeling like a cloud, thundery and dark. Sometimes it takes hours for me to feel normal again. I could never switch from anger to cheerfulness in the space of a few short minutes.
‘Is this the right place, Calypso?’ asks Mae’s mum.
I look through the window at our house. Set back from the road, detached, surrounded by overgrown trees and shrubs, with a small iron gate that has sunk on its hinges so it no longer shuts properly. Our house looks dark, unloved and unhappy, in sharp contrast to the warm and cosy house I’ve just left. For the first time ever, I feel reluctant to come home.
‘This is your house?’ Mae is leaning out of the window. ‘It looks like the house from The Amazing Mr Blunden.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a really old ghost story. Ooh, do you have any ghosts?’
‘No,’ I say sharply, undoing my seat belt. ‘No, we don’t.’
Her face falls. ‘Shame.’
‘I’ll come up to the house with you,’ Mae’s mum says, turning off the engine and undoing her seat belt.
‘No – no, you don’t need to.’
I’m out of the car as quick as a flash and standing on the pavement with my bag. I don’t want her to see inside. What would she think of our cold, untidy house with its dusty corners and peeling paint?
I lean in through the open door. ‘Honestly. I’ve got my own key.’ I hold it up to prove it.
‘I just think it’d be nice if I said hello to your dad,’ she says, and her door clunk-clicks open. She puts one foot on the ground. ‘We’ve only spoken on the phone briefly – it seems rude that we haven’t yet met when you and Mae are such good friends.’
‘Look.’ I point to the window to the left of our front door. A light is on, twinkling through the branches of the dark tree. ‘That’s Dad’s library. The light means he’s working, and he hates to be disturbed.’
Mae shouts from the back of the car, ‘He’s going to be published!’
Mae’s mum hesitates.
I smile at her reassuringly. ‘He’ll be all grumpy if we disturb him in the middle of writing, honestly.’
She glances at the library window and then makes up her mind. ‘All right, if you’re sure. I’ll watch you go in, though.’
‘Bye, Calypso!’ Mae calls, waving.
Christopher is picking his nose again, trying to pretend he isn’t by turning his head to one side.
I walk up the garden path, put my key in the door and turn it, pushing down on the handle at the same time. I step inside the house, turn to wave at the car, see Mae’s mum get back in and drive away. Then I close the door and stand in the gloomy hallway on the cold stone flagging, listening to the silence and feeling the draught swirl around my ankles.
I am halfway up the stairs when Dad comes out of his library.
‘Calypso!’ he says, sounding surprised. ‘I thought I heard the door. Have you had a good time?’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘thank you.’ Good doesn’t even come close.
He smiles. ‘I’m glad. Shall we have some food?’
‘I … er … I ate at Mae’s.’
He ducks back into the library, and reappears, his eyebrows pulled right together in the middle. ‘It’s nearly seven o’clock! That’s not what we agreed!’
I knew it! I just knew he wouldn’t have noticed the time. Mae’s mum would have noticed. Mae’s mum would have been worried. But Dad has been too absorbed in his work, as always.
‘I thought it would be okay,’ I say, deliberately using the word to aggravate him. ‘You were working anyway.’
‘You’re two hours late! That’s not acceptable, Calypso. I’m surprised that Mae’s mother didn’t contact me. Very irresponsible attitude to a child’s safety.’
I can’t bear him to have a go at one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.
‘She wanted to,’ I say crossly, ‘but I didn’t want her to disturb you.’ And I was afraid you’d say no. I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘I was thinking of you, Dad. You knew where I was. You know I’m sensible.’
‘That’s not the point.’ My father is using his ‘authoritative’ voice. ‘You may be sensible but you are only ten years old and you are a Vulnerable Person.’
I am suddenly exhausted. ‘Whatever.’ I know he hates this expression too, and I see his jaw clench. But I turn away. ‘I’m going to bed.’
As I trudge up the rest of the uncarpeted, smudged and dusty stairs, I wonder briefly what Dad is going to have for supper. Then I feel angry with myself for even having the thought. He’s a grown-up, he can sort it himself.
I get into bed with Over Sea, Under Stone, one of the books I’ve borrowed from Mae. I must lend her something in return. I have loads of books I know she’ll love. I must have another look through the shelves in Dad’s library too, because there are lots of Mum’s books there, waiting for me to be old enough to read them. Murder mysteries and historical
stories about highwaymen and beautiful women, and ghost stories that might have frightened me when I was younger. I haven’t looked at the shelves for a couple of years, so I might be old enough for them now.
I am soon engrossed in the book, and my room is swept away by the sounds of gulls crying, the metallic slap of sail ropes against masts and ancient magic. I borrowed it from the town library once before, but that was ages ago. I keep reading and reading, mainly because deep in the recesses of my mind I know that when I stop reading I will remember the lovely afternoon I had at Mae’s house, where there was laughter and beautiful fabric and a Wendy house and a worm disaster. And it will make me sad, and I don’t want to feel sad.
So I keep reading and reading until my eyes close halfway through a sentence, and I fall asleep with my head creasing the pages.
The next Saturday I stand in front of Mum’s hallway painting for a long time: the one of the field in the sunset. Even though I’ve switched on the overhead light, the colours don’t sing in the way I remember. In the end, I climb on a chair and take the picture down. It’s big and heavy.
‘What are you doing?’ calls Dad from the library. He’s in there again, working away on his History. He works most weekends, so I’ve got used to occupying myself. I wonder what Mae’s doing today. Going swimming, maybe, or to the park. I can’t do that, but I can escape in other ways.
‘Just borrowing a picture,’ I call back.
I lug the picture up the stairs and into Dad’s bedroom at the front of the house. The sun is out today and its rays are sliding and dancing through the top of the apple tree that blocks the library window below. I prop the picture up against the end of the bed and step back to look at it.
Yes. That’s better. It IS as beautiful as that shiny fabric. Green and gold and hazy and beautiful, with tiny white, red and blue wild flowers. I sit on the floor and gaze at it for a long time. I can imagine how Mum must have felt when she painted this. Dad’s bedroom, with its worn carpet and faded bedsheets, dissolves and now I can hear the sound of birdsong and the wind in the grass. The sun warms my head and I know that if I reach out one hand, I’ll be able to touch the waving heads of the poppies. In the far distance, just out of sight, a gypsy caravan pulled by a carthorse slowly makes its way down a grassy lane. And three children are building a den in the middle of a nearby copse, scratching their legs on brambles and getting muddy splashes from the stream.
I stay in that grassy, sunny world for as long as I can. Mum is there too, I’m sure, somewhere just behind me. If I turn round she’ll vanish, but right now I know she’s there. I can almost remember her face from my own memory and not from her photograph. I think she’s laughing.
As the days go by I spend more and more time at Mae’s house. It becomes easy to say to Dad in the morning, ‘I’m going round to Mae’s after school, all right?’
To begin with, he looks slightly puzzled, as though he can’t quite work out why I want to be with her so much. And then he looks pleased, and gives a firm nod, saying, ‘Good. It’s nice that you have a friend.’ But sometimes he looks pained, and I can’t quite work out why. He doesn’t miss me when I’m not there, I know that. He’s told me so many times that he’s an independent person and doesn’t need others around him to be happy. So I’m not really sure why my being out would bother him. And to be honest, I don’t let it worry me because I enjoy going to Mae’s so much.
Mae and I are keen to start work on the Wendy house and turn it into our secret writing hideaway.
Her dad tries to persuade us it’s not worth saving. ‘It’s only fit for firewood,’ he says. ‘I’ve been meaning to chop it up since we got here.’
Mae’s lip wobbles. ‘No, no!’ she cries. ‘You can’t – we’re going to make it good again.’
Her dad frowns. He’s not a big man, but he’s kind of wide, with very broad shoulders and very short hair. He’s nice but not warm in the way that Mae’s mum is. I feel a bit nervous around him, especially when he frowns.
‘Maybe you can have a new one for next summer,’ he says. ‘Honestly, Mae, it’s rotting through.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Mae stamps her foot. ‘It’s going to be our special place! It’s fine.’
‘It isn’t! Look!’ He reaches out to the corner of the roof and breaks off a piece, crumbling it in his hand.
Mae gives an outraged gasp. ‘Don’t do that! Leave it alone! If you’re not going to help us, we’ll do it ourselves!’
I feel that cold wave of nausea that I get when people argue. They argue quite often in Mae’s house, and although it never seems to last long, I always get anxious. And sometimes, like now, Mae can be quite rude to her father, and I can’t quite believe she speaks to him that way. I wouldn’t want to argue with him.
But he gives a resigned shrug and says, ‘If you insist. I’ll help if it’ll keep you quiet.’
Mae beams at him. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ And just like that, it’s over, and she’s got her way, and I can’t decide if I’m appalled or impressed.
After a lot of puffing and panting, he manages to raise the whole thing off the ground and put it on bricks, so the floor can start to dry out. Mae and I cut down the plants and shrubs that have grown up all around it, so that light can get in through the windows.
Her dad’s right. It’s not in very good condition. The roof part has a thick felt layer that’s rotted away, and there are some nasty nail spikes sticking out of one corner. But Mae and I are fired with enthusiasm at the opportunity to build something together, something just for us, and so our diagrams and plans grow by the day, along with our ambitions.
Mae’s mum finishes the skirt she’s been making and puts it on for me one day. It’s so beautiful I want to cry.
She sees my expression. ‘I have some fabric left over,’ she says gently. ‘Would you like me to make you something? It’s not enough for something to wear, I’m afraid, but I could make you a bag.’
I swallow and nod. And then I have to hide in the toilet for a few moments to get control of myself. I don’t want her to see me cry. I want her to think I have inner strength. I’m not sure Mae understands about inner strength, though. She cries in front of me quite a lot. Like the day we find a dead pigeon in the garden that’s obviously lost a fight with a cat.
‘I hate cats!’ she sobs. ‘That poor bird!’
I put my arms around her and she grabs me back, wetting my shoulder with her tears. Her body heaves and shakes as she cries and cries, and I hold her close. Something inside me is tight and sore, like I’m feeling what she feels, like I want to cry too. But I don’t. Instead, I stay strong for her.
Mae’s mum cuddles her too when she finds out about the pigeon. She hugs Mae and Christopher quite a lot, I’ve noticed. Sometimes they say they don’t want her to, but she does it anyway and then they smile. I feel envious. I miss hugs so much, and seeing Mae’s mum hug them makes me happy-sad all at once. I try to hug Mae every day when I see her, because I know it makes me feel good.
Dressing up makes me feel good too. On the Monday of the half-term break, Mae’s mum offers to make some curtains for the writing den and produces a huge bag of fabric for us to choose from.
‘This is amazing!’ I sigh, running my fingers over a thick satin brocade. ‘Far too beautiful for our den. It should be made into a ballgown or something.’
‘Wrap it round your waist,’ suggests Mae. ‘Like a big skirt.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t. What if I spoil it?’
Mae’s mum comes in with another bag of fabric. ‘This is more cotton stuff,’ she says.
‘Mum, can we dress up in this?’ asks Mae.
Her mum hesitates. ‘I suppose so, as long as you’re careful. Don’t take it outside. And wash your hands so that you don’t get any of it dirty.’
Mae and I have a BRILLIANT time. There are soft silky pieces, some velvet, more satin, summery flowery cottons and some very thin material like the stuff wedding veils are made out of.
I swathe myself in
a kaleidoscope of rainbows and imagine I am a princess of a faraway kingdom. ‘We should do the poem The Lady of Shalott,’ says Mae, ‘like they do in Anne of Green Gables.’
‘Only without the boat,’ I say. ‘Anne ended up in the river. Your mum would kill us if we damaged her material.’
‘We can make a pretend boat in here, though,’ Mae says, waving a silver-draped arm at the sitting room. ‘We could build it out of chairs. Do you know the poem?’
‘Some of it.’
She stares at me. ‘Can I do something with your hair?’
I touch my tight red curls. ‘Do what with it?’
She fetches a brush. ‘Sit down.’
Brushing my hair does not improve its appearance. It simply makes the springy coils stand out from my head in a carroty cloud.
‘It’s amazing,’ says Mae, getting the brush stuck more than once. ‘Like in old books where the girls had to sleep with their hair in rags to get ringlets. Yours just does it by itself. I wish mine did that.’
‘No, you don’t,’ I say. ‘You have the most beautiful hair ever.’ And it’s true. Mae’s hair is thick and black and straight and glossy like treacle. Her brother has the same black hair and so does her mum – an ebony waterfall that hangs right down to her waist. I think her mum is Chinese, or maybe Japanese. I’d like to know but I worry that it would be rude to ask.
Mae teases my carroty cloud of hair and smoothes some kind of perfumed cream through my wiry curls. I gasp when I look in the mirror above the fireplace. Suddenly I look like a completely different person – more grown up, sophisticated.
‘That’s – that’s …’ I stroke my hair, which smells delicious, like a very expensive dessert. I don’t think anyone has ever done my hair before. The person in the mirror looks like someone I would like to know. And in a tiny way – just for a flash, a minuscule moment – she looks like my mother. I stare at myself, noting the big eyes with the gingery eyelashes, the sprinkling of freckles over my nose and cheeks, the slightly pink mouth that lifts up at one corner, just like my mother’s in the photograph I have of her in my room. She is staring back at me from the mirror, through time, and I can’t look away.