It was just that I hated being an only child; it was so lonely – especially since we’d moved. When I’m older I’m going to have a massive family. I want at least four children, two girls and two boys, and loads of pets. I want dogs and cats and rabbits and maybe even a bird. I want my house to be filled up with noise and mess and loud, blaring music – the louder the better as far as I’m concerned.
I washed up the dishes and swept the floor, but it was still only half nine – eight hours until Mum was due back from work. Every time I stopped to listen, the silence seemed to grow louder. I had to get out. I knew Mum would have kittens if I went off to meet a total stranger at some random place I’d never been, but what did she expect me to do, stuck here for the entire summer without a single friend? And anyway, Stella seemed so nice, it wasn’t as if her son was going to be some crazed psycho-killer.
It didn’t take me long to get ready. I stuffed Mum’s note and the mystery note in my pocket, grabbed my phone and set off just after ten. I started to feel better as soon as I left the house – like I could breathe again. The sun was already high in the sky, but I figured there was still an hour or so to go before it became too unbearable. I stopped in at the Jacksons’ village shop to buy a Coke and ask for directions. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson had lived in Oakbridge their entire lives, so I was pretty sure they’d know where the Butterfly Garden was.
Mr. Jackson was at the counter, sorting through some photos of their new grandson Albert. “We’re in for another scorcher by the looks of things,” he said in his gruff, grizzly-bear voice. He’d said the exact same thing when I’d come in a few days earlier to buy some headache pills for Mum. Mrs. Jackson came bustling out of the back, carrying some tins of soup.
“Hello, my love, how are you getting on with the unpacking?”
“It’s more or less sorted,” I said. “My mum’s starting her new job this morning so I’m going to meet a friend at the Butterfly Garden. Do you know the way from here?”
Mr. and Mrs. Jackson glanced at each other. “The Butterfly Garden, you say?” said Mr. Jackson, frowning slightly. He had one of those small fans facing the till and he kept stooping down so that the air could blow on his face. He stayed there cooling off for a minute while I paid for my Coke, then he shuffled round the counter and led me out of the shop.
“Walk straight past the green,” he said slowly, pausing to catch his breath. “Then turn right at Amble Cross and keep going until you come to a tiny lane near the bottom, called Back Lane. The signpost is more or less hidden behind a load of blackberry bushes, but if you follow the bushes all the way round you shouldn’t have too many problems finding it.”
Oakbridge was so different from where we’d lived before. It was about a hundred times smaller for a start. There was no cinema or big supermarkets or anything like that. So far I’d spotted the Jacksons’ shop, a pub called The Eagle’s Nest and the church. I knew there was a primary school hiding down one of the lanes, but that seemed to be it, as far as I could tell. No wonder Mum had left the first chance she got.
I’d only taken a few steps towards the green when Mrs. Jackson called out to me. She was standing at the front of the shop, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Look after yourself, love,” she said. “Mind yourself near that lake.”
I was about to ask her what lake she was talking about – there was no lake in Oakbridge, not as far as I’d seen – but she was already back in the shop. And what did she mean, “mind yourself”? I started to burn up, even though there was no one there to see. Mum must’ve told Mrs. Jackson that I can’t swim; that I’m terrified of water. Mum can’t swim either, she’s even worse than me – but it’s the one thing I never tell anyone. I was so furious I thought I was going to cry for a minute. Mum was obviously better at keeping her own secrets than she was at keeping mine.
Blinking back tears, I stomped off down Amble Cross, squishing myself into the hedges every time a car drove past. The sun beat down, prickling the backs of my knees. Further along, near the bottom of the road, there was a row of old-fashioned cottages, small and neat with little square gardens and lace curtains in the windows. There was something so perfect about them I felt my stomach twist up. I bet the people who lived behind such pretty curtains had no nasty surprises hiding underneath their beds.
Mr. Jackson was right. It wasn’t difficult to find the Garden. The tiny lane at the end of Amble Cross was more of a pathway than an actual road, and tucked away at the bottom of it was a small cottage with a faded wooden sign at the front:
Welcome to Oakbridge Butterfly Garden.
I’d obviously never been to the Butterfly Garden before – I’d never even been to Oakbridge until we moved here (apart from when I was in my mum’s tummy, which doesn’t count) – but there was something familiar about the whole place. Something really familiar. I shivered in the heat. The cottage and the sign, even the stepping stones leading up to the door...it was all so familiar, like a dream, or a faraway memory. I stood there for a moment, trying to understand what it could mean.
And then I went in.
“Have you been here before?” The lady at the entrance held out a map and some leaflets. She was very old; every inch of her face covered in spidery wrinkles.
I shook my head, half shrugging. “No, I don’t think so. No, I’m sure I haven’t, although there is something very familiar about it.”
“That’s funny,” she said. “I was just thinking the same about you.” She peered at me over her glasses. “Mind you, when you get to my age everyone starts to look familiar.”
I smiled to be polite and carried on past, through to the tiny shop selling butterfly souvenirs and ice creams. A different lady, just as old, stamped my hand with a small, red-inked butterfly.
“Entry is free for under fourteens,” she explained, “but we do like to keep track of how many people visit each day.”
At the back of the shop I saw there was a small door with a sign above it saying Butterfly Garden This Way. I ran my fingers over the inky red butterfly on my hand.
“We’ve got twenty-four species this summer,” the lady went on. “We might even have a Silver-studded Blue.”
“Erm, thanks,” I said, edging away. And with the map in one hand and my phone in the other, I used my foot to push open the door.
Walking into the Butterfly Garden was like stepping into the Tardis, or waking up in the middle of a Disney movie. It was incredible to think that somewhere so magical and enchanting could be hidden away down a tiny lane in Oakbridge of all places. I couldn’t believe Mum never mentioned it when she told me we were moving back here.
Wild, grassy meadows stretched as far as I could see, dotted with flowers so bright they didn’t look real. There were old, cobbled paths weaving their way through the tall grasses. And right at the bottom, misty in the early morning sun, was the most beautiful lake I’d ever seen. I thought of Mrs. Jackson and her warning, and my face grew hot again.
A small yellow butterfly settled for a second on my shoulder and then flew off again. It seemed to be saying Follow me, so I chased after it down one of the stony paths. Soon I was surrounded by yellow butterflies and I lost sight of the one I’d been following. I imagined they all belonged to the same family; lots and lots of butterfly brothers and sisters – and a mum and dad who had to find more and more ingenious ways to tell them apart.
I sat down on a bench in the shade and tried to send a text to Laura. I didn’t say anything about the photo of the mystery baby, just that I was in the most amazing place and that I missed her. Laura and I have been friends ever since we took up wildlife photography together at the beginning of Year Seven. We’d sailed through the basic module and were just about to start the advanced course when Mum dropped the bombshell that we were moving. I couldn’t wait to show Laura the Butterfly Garden when she came to visit. Oakbridge itself might be the most boring village in the universe, but she would absolutely love it here.
A delicate orange and black butterfly landed
on a flower by the bench. It was the perfect picture to send with the message. I turned my phone towards the flower as carefully as I could, trying to focus without scaring the butterfly away. It was such a great shot. I held my breath and leaned in even closer.
“Boo!”
A girl jumped in front of my phone, hands on her hips, posing for the picture. She was about my age, with a tangle of long, dark hair and flashing brown eyes.
“Hey, what did you do that for?” I shrank back, closing my phone. “You’ve scared it away now.”
“Oh, you don’t want to bother with a boring old Monarch. It’s easily the most common butterfly in the Garden.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and fixed me with a stare – challenging me to disagree.
“What are you, an expert or something?” I muttered.
She grinned, nodding. “Yes, I am actually. I know everything about butterflies. Go on, ask me anything you want. I bet you didn’t know that butterflies can taste with their feet or that the fastest butterfly can get up to speeds of twelve miles per hour. And do you know what the Ancient Greeks used to believe?” She paused dramatically, leaning towards me. “That butterflies represent the souls of the dead.”
I sat there, speechless. I mean, what could I say to that? There was something wild about her, standing in front of me, wearing a faded blue sundress, her skin golden-brown. Like she’d already spent weeks and weeks outdoors, even though the holidays had only just started.
“I’m Rosa May by the way,” she went on. “Also known as Fish.”
“Why Fish?” I said, finding my voice finally.
She pulled me up from the bench. “Come on, I’ll show you!” She literally dragged me towards the lake, laughing as she tore through the long grass. I pulled back, shaking her hand off my arm.
“What’s the matter?” She turned back and grabbed me again. “What are you waiting for?”
I hesitated for a second, and then I let her pull me along. I don’t know why – she was just so forceful. We ran together for a bit and then she raced ahead, her hair streaming out behind her. She ran all the way down to the edge of the lake and dived straight in without stopping. I caught up and then took a few steps back. What was she doing? No one else was swimming.
I clutched my side, out of breath, waiting for her to come up, but the water was still, not even a ripple. I looked around. There were a few people wandering past, but I wasn’t sure if anyone else had even noticed. I didn’t know what to do.
“Come on,” I said quietly. It was taking too long. “Come on.” I began to feel sick. “Come on!” I said a bit louder, my voice panicky, and then all of a sudden she was there, surging up from the bottom of the lake, water spraying in every direction as she broke the surface.
“It’s beautiful!” she called out. “Why don’t you come in?” I shook my head, feeling dizzy, and stepped back from the edge.
“I’m meeting someone,” I called. “See you around.”
I started to head back the way we’d come, anxious to get away, but she was out of the water and by my side in seconds. “Wait a sec, slow down! You haven’t even told me your name.” She stopped suddenly and bent over, shaking her head like a dog.
“Watch it, you’re splashing me!”
“It’s only water! Hey, you’re not like that witch in The Wizard of Oz, are you? You’re not going to melt in a puddle at my feet?”
“Of course I’m not going to melt; I just don’t want to get wet!”
She linked her arm through mine, laughing, as if we were old friends. “I was just cooling you down, silly!”
I unlinked my arm and stared at her. “What were you doing back there in the lake? Does everyone just dive in when it’s hot?”
“Not everyone, but then not everyone swims as well as me,” she boasted.
“But why did you stay under so long? Are you in training for something?”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes I am! Well, not in training exactly, I’m just trying to beat my own personal best. Three minutes was my limit last summer, but I’m aiming for four this year. Who are you supposed to be meeting anyway?”
We were back at the bench. I sat down and fished the note out of my pocket. “This came through my door this morning,” I said, showing her. “We’ve only just moved here and I think it’s from this boy, Mack, but I’m not sure.”
“Ooh, a date!” Rosa May cried. “Why didn’t you say? What does he look like?”
I shrugged, feeling a bit silly. “I don’t know; I’ve never met him.”
“You’re kidding! A blind date! You mean you’ve come here to meet someone you don’t even know? I love it! Let’s sit here and see if we can spot him. If you’ve never met each other, he won’t know which one of us is you.”
We sat on the bench, chatting. I wasn’t sure about tricking Mack, but it was nice to have someone else to talk to after being stuck in the house with Mum all week. Rosa May explained that her dad had set up the Butterfly Education Centre on the other side of the Garden, where children came to learn about life cycles and butterfly habitats and stuff.
“That’s why I’m here all the time, especially during the holidays, and why I know so much about butterflies. Is this your first time here?”
I nodded. “I don’t know anything about butterflies, but I’m really into wildlife photography.”
“Oh, where’s your camera then? Didn’t you bring it?”
“I’m using my new phone; it was a birthday present from my mum.” I held it out to show her. “It’s supposed to be one of the best camera phones you can get; I think she bought it to make up for the fact we were moving – so I could stay in touch with my friends.”
“Cool,” said Rosa May, glancing at my phone. “How old were you on your birthday anyway?”
“Twelve.”
“Same,” she said, and we smiled at each other for a moment.
“Hey, why don’t I give you the grand tour!” She leaped up suddenly, skipping off across the grass before I could answer.
“But what about Mack?” I shouted after her, although the more time I spent with Rosa May, the less I felt like meeting up with him.
The afternoon soon disappeared. Rosa May showed me all the different areas of the Garden: the wild-flower meadows that stretched for miles, the thick patches of nettles dotted with shiny red ladybirds. She showed me how the butterflies laid their eggs on the underside of leaves – and how they made sure to choose plants that they knew the baby caterpillars would enjoy munching on when they hatched. She pointed out lots of different species and even managed to wait, rather impatiently, while I took some photos.
When it got too hot, we walked over the pretty, arched bridge that crossed the lake and found a shady spot on the other side under some trees. We lay there for ages, chatting about butterflies and boys and how neither of us had ever actually had a proper date. She was so bubbly and confident – not like me at all – jumping from one subject to another as if she couldn’t get the words out fast enough. I forgot all about meeting up with Mack. I even forgot about the mystery baby photo for a bit, but then it came back to me, niggling away at the back of my mind.
I couldn’t believe it when I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly five o’clock.
“I’d better get back,” I said, stretching my arms up over my head. “My mum will send out a search party if I’m not home when she gets in.”
Once I’d pulled myself up, I started to hurry. Mum really would send out a search party, and anyway, I needed to ask her about the photo. I was scared, but I had to find out what it meant.
Rosa May was quiet for the first time all day. “You will come back tomorrow, won’t you?” she asked, linking arms as we walked back towards the entrance.
“Of course,” I said, amazed that I’d made a friend so quickly. “I’ll be here by ten, I promise.”
She cheered up after that, chatting about the holidays and how great it was to have someone to hang out with at the Garden. “Hey, Becky, have you e
ver heard of the Silver-studded Blue?” she asked. We’d just crossed the lake and were pushing our way through the long grass.
I shook my head. “Not really, except the old lady in the shop mentioned it when she was stamping my hand. Why? What’s so special about it?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she teased, “if you’re lucky!” And before I could say anything else, she took a small run and dived back into the lake.
“Bye-bye, Fish,” I said, smiling to myself – but I turned away quickly so I wouldn’t have to see how long it took her to come up.
I half-ran all the way back, spitting on my hand and rubbing at the red-ink butterfly, smudging it enough so that you couldn’t tell what it was. If Mum found out I’d been to the Butterfly Garden, and that there was a lake there, she’d never let me within a mile of the place again. Lakes and swimming pools and beaches were all strictly off limits as far as she was concerned – they were far too dangerous.
Mr. Jackson was sitting outside the front of his shop doing the crossword. He’d taken his shirt off and he had one of those old-man vests underneath. “I’m stuck on four down,” he said, lowering the paper and squinting at me in the sun. “To cast away, leave or desert. Seven letters, first letter A.”
I shook my head, shrugging. “Sorry, but I’m rubbish at crosswords.”
He closed his eyes, groaning. “Darn heat. How’s a man supposed to think?” He used the folded newspaper to fan himself. “How were my directions by the way? Did you find your friend?”
I nodded, smiling, and hurried on. I liked chatting to Mr. Jackson but I really needed to get back.
I was planning to ask Mum about the photo as soon as I got in, but Stella was there.
Butterfly Summer Page 2