Kite Spirit

by Sita Brahmachari

  Dear Reader,

  Have you ever watched a kite soaring through a bright blue sky, the wind behind, ripping and bobbing on streams of air, riding the currents, threatening to lift its ineffectual owner off the ground? If you have then you’ll know the power of the kite; you’ll have met her spirit. But you’ll also know that if its bright canvas is torn then the wind will show no mercy, ripping through it like a wounded sail, slicing the sky as it careers to the ground.

  I saw a small child once, with a fallen kite, run over to inspect her precious treasure. There it lay all torn and jaggedy on the ground. She collected up its tangled strings and lifted it in her plump arms, rocking it backwards and forward and sending up such a mournful cry you would have thought something had died.

  ‘I’ll try to fix it,’ comforted her dad, gathering both the child and her kite in his arms.

  ‘But it won’t ever fly the same again.’

  Things can’t always stay the same or have ‘happily ever after’ endings, but no matter how hard the fall there is always someone who can help . . . if . . . you have the courage to speak.

  Love,

  Sita x

  To the landscape of the Lake District, where I lived for a while as a child – long enough for the mountains, lakes, slate and stone to have seeped into me . . . and to my Cumbrian family, past and present, whose lives on fell and farm are part of the inspiration of this book.

  There are in our existence spots of time,

  That with distinct pre-eminence retain

  A renovating virtue, whence – depressed

  By false opinion and contentious thought,

  Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight,

  In trivial occupations, and the round

  Of ordinary intercourse – our minds

  Are nourished and invisibly repaired;

  A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced,

  That penetrates, enables us to mount,

  When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.

  Wordsworth’s The Prelude,

  Vol. 12, 208–18 (1805 edition)

  Contents

  Part One: Falling

  Prologue: The Falling Day

  Interview

  Facebook Memorial

  Annalisa Pain

  Tragic Loss of Perfect Dawn

  Sleepless Night

  Climbing Frame

  The Valley of Death

  Kite Song

  Bitter Sixteenth – 20 July

  The Angel of the North

  Part Two: Lost

  Lost

  Find Your Way

  Mirror Falls

  Blind

  Imprint

  Owl Feather

  Carrec Arms

  Owl Lore

  Kite Carrec

  Wandering

  Stepping Stones

  Bonny Lass

  Headstones

  Dry Dam

  The Reed Box

  The Valley of Mist

  Dance

  The Gig

  Prelude

  ‘With You in Spirit’

  All Dammed Up Inside

  Kite Tails

  Clearing

  Scar View

  Curtain of Cobwebs

  The Passing Bell

  Skeletons

  Cloudburst

  Birthday Card

  Part Three: Returning

  Epilogue: The Hardest Things

  Prologue

  The Falling Day

  Dawn’s never late. I check the time again: 8.51. I think I know what’s happened now. She must have turned up early, all stressed out, and I had the radio cranked up so loud I didn’t hear her knocking. I bet she’s already gone and she’ll be livid with me later for cutting it so fine. I knock for one last time but it’s quiet in her flat. I expect she’s been sitting in the exam hall since school opened. That’ll be why she’s not answering my text either.

  I take the remaining communal stairs in twos, practically falling down them as Jess, Dawn’s cat, wraps herself around my ankles.

  ‘Go home, Jess! Dawn will be back soon,’ I call to her as I sprint down the road, only to find myself stuck behind a pile-up of students. The zebra-crossing lady holds back the traffic for an ambulance followed by a police car, lights flashing, sirens blaring. I wince as the sound grates on me. What is the matter with me this morning? I pull myself up straight and take a deep breath. As soon as the crossing’s clear I break into a run again, weaving in and out of the stream of students and through the school gates. Once inside I veer off to the right and straight into the hall. The place is eerily quiet considering it’s so full. I scan the rows and rows of desks for Dawn but I can’t see her anywhere.

  ‘Kite Solomon. One minute later and I would have closed the doors on you,’ Miss Choulty whispers.

  ‘What about Dawn?’ I ask, checking my phone again to see if she’s texted me back yet.

  Miss Choulty grabs the phone out of my hands and guides me along the line of little tables.

  ‘The embarrassment of it! Two of my tutor group turning up late . . . and Dawn of all people!’ Miss Choulty sighs. We pass an empty desk. ‘And as for you, I could have you disqualified for bringing a phone into the exam hall,’ she adds, shaking her head. ‘Come on, Kite! Sort yourself out. You look half asleep!’ Then she seems to read something in my expression and her face softens. ‘Never mind about Dawn now – I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation. I’ll try to find out what’s happened; and if I hear anything I’ll let you know.’ She smiles as she takes hold of my shoulders and physically lowers me into my seat. ‘Take a few deep breaths, get a hold of your nerves and you’ll do just fine.’

  Miss Choulty is my geography teacher and she’s also been our tutor since Year 7. There’s not much she won’t talk to us about . . . I mean she’s even told us that she doesn’t think that she can have children of her own. ‘Still,’ she said after that revelation, ‘I’ll just put everything I’ve got into making sure you all grow like sunflowers!’ There’s something so honest and caring about her that melts even the toughest kids in our school, and she never gives up on anyone. I wasn’t even interested in geography before I met her, but she’s one of those teachers who makes her subject come alive. She says geography should be renamed ‘reading the landscape,’ and she presents every lesson as if we’re explorers setting out to discover the mysteries of the earth.

  Everyone’s settled now – everyone, that is, except for Dawn. The place where she should be sitting is three rows forward and one desk to my right. A shrill buzzer sounds, making me jump.

  ‘You may begin,’ announces Miss Choulty.

  I just stare at Dawn’s empty seat, watching pages being turned and notes taken. Everyone else is turning over the pages and making notes. ‘A perfectly logical explanation’ – Miss Choulty’s reassuring words keep running through my head. Maybe there’s been some out-of-the-blue family news. But then Dawn hardly ever sees her extended family. Maybe she’s ill or something, though it’s strange that she didn’t say so on Facebook last night. Unless . . . she’s just got herself all wound up about the exams. Miss Choulty keeps staring at me. She shakes her pen in the air and starts to mime-write. I pick up my biro. She smiles encouragingly as I print my name: ‘Kite Solomon’ – and oddly, it feels as if it belongs to someone else. Get a grip, I tell myself as I turn the page and start to scan the paper. The lines of text swim in front of me. I can’t make sense of how the words connect together or what they mean. It feels like when I first learned to read. I could say the words out loud, but by the end of the page I would have to get Dawn to explain what it all meant. Dawn’s always been miles cleverer than me. If she was here right now she’d already be head down, making notes in the margins and p
reparing herself to write probably the best GCSE paper ever. I look up at the empty seat. She must be feeling really ill not to turn up. Miss Choulty catches my eye again and frowns. I try to do what she said and hold my nerve. I skim through the whole exam paper from beginning to end before I make an attempt to answer anything.

  Glaciation (of course this is one of the topics I haven’t revised)

  1. What is another name for basket of eggs scenery?

  I search my brain for everything we’ve learned, but my mind’s meandering all over the place and I can’t seem to block out the noises from the street outside. There are always sirens on the main road, but the piercing high-pitched noise blaring out right now seers into me, jangling nerves deep in my jaw, making my teeth ache down to the roots.

  ‘There’s probably a perfectly logical explanation,’ I repeat over and over in my mind.

  Just get on with it Kite, I tell myself as I read the next question.

  2. Calculate the following coordinates.

  The tiny squares of the graph paper mutate into a smudged wave as I try to follow the path along and up, charting where the points should meet. I look at my watch. I can’t believe I’ve been sitting here for over twenty minutes just staring at the questions. Miss Choulty peers at me from beneath her clear-framed glasses as if to say, ‘Kite Solomon, what do you think you’re doing?’ Her voice in my head merges with the sound of the siren, getting louder and . . . closer. I raise my hand. Miss Choulty looks annoyed, but comes over anyway.

  ‘Sorry, miss, I just wondered if you’ve heard yet why Dawn’s not here?’

  She looks down at my blank exam paper, scowls and shakes her head.

  ‘I told you I’ll let you know if I hear from her,’ she whispers. ‘Now try to focus. This is important, Kite.’

  I wonder if it could be something to do with Dawn’s orchestra. All I can hear is the melody of the same phrases she’s been practising for months now. Considering I don’t even listen to classical music, I probably know more about it than most people just from hearing Dawn on her oboe. When she first started it used to drive me crazy – that high-pitched squeak when she was blowing out her reeds went right through me. But I like the sound now, because I know she’s just clearing the airways for what comes next, and that is always beautiful.

  A tall woman teacher I’ve never seen before – probably supply – walks into the back of the hall along the rows of tables and whispers something in Miss Choulty’s ear. I can tell by the way Miss Choulty’s mouth clamps tight shut that she’s trying to hold herself together. She’s got one of those faces where you can read every emotion. The blood drains from her cheeks as the woman places a note in front of her. She reads it several times and looks up at me, a deep frown furrowing her forehead. She opens her mouth and seems to gulp the air.

  The sirens are quiet now. My gut twists, my stomach tenses. I can’t sit here for a moment longer. I push my chair back. I hear it squeak on the wooden floor. I see Miss Choulty raise her hand towards me. I run as fast as I can out of the exam hall, heads turning as I pass like dominoes toppling, the weight of each one felling the next. I feel as if I have stepped out of myself and I’m watching as I run along the corridor across the school bridge. Miss Choulty’s calling my name.

  I turn to face her and shout at the top of my voice, ‘Where’s Dawn?’

  Miss Choulty runs towards me, reaching out her hands as if she thinks that I might fall. My question echoes back at me along the corridor as she guides me towards Mr Scott’s office. Through his half-open door I see a police officer; she has her hand on Mr Scott’s shoulder as he sits hunched over his desk. I think how odd it looks for our giant, broad-shouldered head teacher to be comforted by a tiny woman police officer who looks younger than some of the girls in our Sixth Form.

  ‘One moment.’ Miss Choulty squeezes my arm and shuts me out of the room. Miss Hopkins on reception, who’s usually so cheery and chatty, looks up at me and then quickly away, as if she doesn’t dare meet my eye. On her desk is a yellow Post-it note with ‘Dawn Jenkins, 22 Fairview Heights’ and Dawn’s telephone number written on it. Miss Hopkins sees me looking and quickly slips the note in a drawer under her desk.

  ‘A perfectly logical explanation . . .’ I hear Miss Choulty saying.

  ‘Why have they closed the door on me?’ I whisper. I don’t even recognize my own voice. Miss Hopkins’s eyes are trained on her desk, she doesn’t look up at me even for a second, but she has her hand over her mouth as if she’s trying to hold something in.

  I feel like I did the day I jumped off a rope swing at too high an angle, and I knew that it was only a count of seconds before I’d hear the break of bone against hard earth. Right now I can hear Dawn crying out to me just as she did in those . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . flying seconds.

  I’m spiralling down.

  Miss Hopkins is offering me tiny sips of water. My legs are splayed out on the floor and one of my black school pumps has fallen off. I should have worn tights today because an icy cold is creeping into me. Miss Hopkins is trying to lift me off the floor. I’m like Dawn’s Raggedy Ann doll that’s lost her stuffing, as if the insides have been shaken out of me and all my muscles and bones have melted to nothing.

  I know. Don’t ask me how, but at this moment I know that Dawn is gone.

  The door opens and Mr Scott is staring down at me. I’m being placed on the comfy sofa. Dawn’s been here loads of times with her migraines and her stomach cramps, but I’ve never sat here before. I sink into the cushions, wishing that I could disappear, but Mr Scott has pulled up a chair and is leaning in close. Miss Choulty perches on the arm of the sofa and holds my hand. Everything inside me says, ‘Run! Kite! Run away now before they can tell you anything.’ I try to move my legs but they’re useless.

  ‘She’s always early so she comes up to knock for me, but not today, so I called for her. I knocked and knocked but there was no answer.’ I hear myself talking . . . burbling on and on.

  Mr Scott nods and pats my shoulder awkwardly. ‘Have you called Kite’s parents?’ he asks Miss Hopkins.

  ‘On their way,’ she replies, finally meeting my eye. She’s been crying.

  The young police officer, her hair pulled neatly into a tight bun, is speaking quietly into a recording device. She has a tiny oval-shaped birthmark on her neck, just below her ear.

  ‘Dawn has a birthmark,’ I say, ‘in the shape of a crescent moon. It’s funny because that’s the same shape she has to make to scrape a perfect reed for her oboe. She spends hours and hours on them, sealing the reed, tying the end so tight to make sure all her breath goes down into the instrument. If a single wisp of air escapes it’s terrible because then she can’t get the oboe to speak . . . see that’s what they call it if you blow and blow and no sound comes. She’s shown me how it works loads of times. There’s a whole orchestra and you’re waiting to come in at exactly the right second but really smooth, no squeaks or splutters.’ I hold my fingers to my mouth just as Dawn does whenever she speaks about playing.

  I feel Miss Choulty’s collarbone stick into me as she wraps her arm around my shoulder.

  ‘You should see how she makes those reeds, Miss Choulty, the look of concentration on her face. I bought her a little box for her birthday. It holds three, but she’s only kept one; she calls it her “golden” reed. When she holds it up to the light you can see inside its little bamboo body: it’s got a spine and a heart and everything; that’s what they call all the parts – weird, isn’t it? – as if it’s human!’

  I hear my own heart thudding hard against my chest and my voice splinter. I watch the police officer’s mouth moving. She’s saying my name. ‘Yes! Kite – as in what you fly on a windy day.’ She’s talking to someone at the other end of the phone. Her purple birthmark stretches as the sinews of her neck tense.

  ‘Kite is Dawn’s best friend,’ Mr Scott explains in his crisp Glaswegian accent. He always chooses his words carefully, he has a way of making opinions sound
like facts, but in this case it’s true: whatever’s happened to Dawn, I am her best friend.

  The police officer nods sympathetically and walks out of the office and into the corridor.

  ‘Kite Solomon,’ I hear her say. ‘No! We can’t interview her yet. We’ll have to wait a few hours – she’s still in shock.’

  Interview

  ‘Can you tell me when you last spoke to her?

  Kite focused on the police officer’s birthmark.

  ‘Take your time,’ she soothed, patting Kite on the arm and switching on her recorder.

  ‘We Facebooked each other last night. It didn’t seem like anything, just chat about the exams and what we’d been doing at the weekend. The only “out of the ordinary” thing, now I think of it, is that she didn’t play her oboe.’

  ‘Can you talk me through what happened this morning?’ the police officer asked gently.

  ‘I woke up at about seven thirty in a bit of a panic about the exam. Ruby and Seth were already out.’

  ‘Ruby and Seth?’

  ‘My mum and dad. I call them by their first names,’ Kite explained as she read the police officer’s name badge. ‘PC Alison Forster.’

  ‘OK. So you were on your own . . .’

  ‘Yes. I got myself breakfast and switched on the radio. It was Adele’s ‘Set Fire to the Rain’. I love that song, Dawn does too, so I cranked it up really loud thinking she might hear it through the ceiling. We do that sometimes, especially if no one’s around! I was singing along at the top of my voice and then I played a bit of dance music on my iPod and got really into it and the next thing I knew it was eight thirty. I always think I’ve got ages and then I’m late. Anyway, I thought something was up because if it wasn’t for Dawn I would never be on time for school; she’s normally around just before eight thirty. I unplugged my iPod – I thought maybe she’d been knocking and I had the music up so loud I didn’t hear. So I grabbed my bag, locked up and ran down the steps between our floor and Dawn’s flat. Hazel, Dawn’s mum, she’s grown sweet peas all along her balcony and I remember thinking it smelt like perfume.’ Kite took a deep breath.