‘Venus,’ whispered Molly. Her mama always pointed it out. But tonight it was different, because it was Molly who had seen it, and because she had seen it and said its name, she felt she had introduced herself, and now she and Venus would forever know each other. It was like this with everything around her. It was as if she was seeing it all for the first time, seeing it with her very own self, taking the sense of it inside her. The black shadowy tips of trees against the glow of light coming from the houses, the dark-forever-and-ever sky, the cluster of homes in the valley, where Molly imagined children snug in their beds, dogs flopped out tired on their rugs, someone rising from a piano, someone else sinking into a couch.
This cosy, golden light seeping out from windows made Molly feel she was watching the very great drama of inside and outside. The wild, dark sky and the star and moon and mountains and trees were all out of reach and beyond and wondrous and soaring like dreams. And the houses with their small lights were the steady comforting bones of life, set snugly, one next to the other, together and connected like beads on a string. Yet inside wouldn’t be inside without the wild, quiet roar of outside.
Somewhere out there, there was another child just like her, one who didn’t live in a house, who didn’t have a lamp on, who didn’t have a mother or a father putting her to bed and who didn’t feel all right at all. Out there in the wide world, there were hundreds of worries much, much worse than Molly’s, maybe even thousands or millions of them. Molly’s problem was a tiny dot in the night. And if you joined up all those dots it would make the big inexplicable shape of lives being lived.
Lives went in all ways. Life was a jagged dance of joys and sorrows, up and then down and sometimes in knots or jolts or dizzying rushes over or round again. And in Molly’s town at that moment among all those houses that sat there in the valley, there was Ellen Palmer’s house, where everything was always snug. But Molly’s best friend was gravely ill in her own bed with the pink curtains and the dressing table and everything as nice as you could wish for.
Molly closed her eyes and wished for Ellen. She clung on tightly to her branch as if she and her mama were holding hands and both wishing for Ellen to get better. And it seemed that the branch clung back, just as it seemed that the sky swelled a little to fit that wish in, and the stars shone more with the feel of it.
‘A million tiny stars,’ said Molly to the night, ‘and one more now.’ And they swirled in her head and jiggled in her heart. She slid along her branch and made her way down the tree, swinging from branch to branch easily, nimble as a monkey. Perhaps it was magic, perhaps it was that she knew her mama wouldn’t let her fall.
Imagine if you were never scared of falling, how much higher you might climb, she thought. Or, if you weren’t afraid of being clumsy and awkward, how much more gracefully you might dance?
Molly jumped to the ground. The dark crept towards her, long black fingers of it. She leaned into the tree’s trunk. The sound of her breath echoed back from the tree. She could break the dark’s quiet. She could shake it all off her.
Molly stood so close to the tree the bark tickled her nose. She circled the trunk. She stomped, she shook. Her mind gave way to the night. She cried out. She flung her arms and shook her hands. She leapt and crouched and sprang as wide as she could and twisted and twirled till she was too tired to move anymore.
Then she stood very still and let her breath subside, but she watched the dark carefully. Had she frightened it away?
The night was still. The Mama tree was still, but Molly could feel something within it. It had a strange paleness, and it moved high in the branches. Molly rose on her tiptoes and angled her head to get a better look. Something lifted high above the tree and rose, spinning in the dark sky like a small spaceship. Then it fell, gliding down to Molly’s feet.
It was her mama’s sunhat, with the red ribbon dangling a little over the brim. She picked it up and clasped it to her chest. And then she climbed back up to her bed and lay down again.
A shriek pierced the dark. It was, no doubt, Prudence Grimshaw, alert as a hyena, attempting to scare a wallaby out of her garden. A chill crept along Molly’s spine. She cuddled Maude and held on tight to the sunhat.
CHAPTER 19
The Wrong Weed
The next morning Molly yanked Mama’s sunhat out from beneath her, and tied the red ribbon around her wrist. Because the Mama tree had sent the hat spinning down to her, like a trophy, Molly knew she was a step closer to wherever she needed to be.
‘Well, Mama, I’m still here, and I’m not giving up either.’ She patted the branch reassuringly, and for a moment she felt as if she was the mother. She wasn’t going to give any attention to her loneliness today; she wasn’t even going to think about it. She was going to think about someone else’s loneliness. Ellen Palmer’s. She was going to do something about it too.
Molly got up quickly and picked herself some fruit from the Mama tree for breakfast. The flavours had changed. The white flesh now tasted like coconut and the green was like celery-and-potato soup. Then she swung herself down and hurried inside to feed Claudine.
It was time to find the rest of the weeds for the green oil. Molly took Maude, and they walked over the bridge to the woods where her mama had last collected herbs. Molly carried her mama’s basket, and she wore the sunhat, which was slightly too big and the brim made it hard for her to see ahead. She stomped along, looking down and crouching every now and then to pick some curled dock.
Molly and Maude walked for a while alongside the railway track where the path was stony and the only weeds Molly found were plantain and some prickly lettuce, which she didn’t pick as she had forgotten to bring gloves.
Molly wished she could remember the exact recipe. She had a feeling there was nettle in it and comfrey, which both grew in their vegetable garden. And she was certain there was spurge and calendula and tansy. She needed strong herbs that could, for instance, grow on a parched stony path. These would give the strength that Ellen needed.
Once home again, Molly set about making the green oil. She took down from the shelf some of the tinctures from her mama’s collection, and the milky spurge sap that she and Pim had squeezed, drop by drop, into a jar. She boiled up the fresh weeds and mixed the strained water with the herb tinctures and some olive oil. She hoped that would do it.
She put the jar of sap with the bottled tinctures and read the names out loud to make sure they all sounded as if they belonged. She closed her eyes and tried to feel love; her mama said it was important. But all she felt was a strange tapping at her heart as if someone was locked up in there and wanted to get out.
Molly opened her eyes and let out a short, loud, busy sort of sigh. It was hard to summon feelings exactly when you needed them.
She lifted the bottle of calendula tincture and poured it into a mixing bowl. She hardly noticed Claudine, who had been circling Molly’s leg beneath the table and who now leapt onto the table, knocking over the jar of spurge milk sap. The sap spread in a pale white, useless puddle on the table.
Molly looked at it in horror. Claudine sniffed it disparagingly, as if to say, ‘It’s not even real milk.’ She leapt down again and sat with her tail curled in, looking elsewhere, as cats sometimes do when they think they might be in trouble.
‘Well, Claudine, if you t
hink this is going to make me get you some milk, you are very, very wrong, as now I think you are just a spoiled cat, and I am not in the mood at all for trying to find you some milk.’ Molly threw her arms up. ‘You’ve ruined my green oil. Ruined!’ she added dramatically.
Molly pushed aside her mama’s notebooks, which were smeared with milk sap, and as she shook one dry, a piece of paper fell out. She picked it up and read it. It was in her mama’s handwriting.
Uses for petty spurge, also known as milkweed, wart weed, radium weed: sap burns off sunspots, warts, corns and some skin cancers. Active ingredient: ingenol mebutale. The sap is toxic and should not be used internally.
‘Oh, wow,’ said Molly out loud. Claudine glanced slyly back towards her. Molly had got it wrong. The sap from spurge was used for removing things, not for nourishing. Molly shuddered as she imagined what might have happened if Claudine hadn’t knocked it over. She squatted next to Claudine, who turned her head away huffily.
Molly patted her under her chin, just where she liked it. ‘Okay, Claudine. I’m sorry for being mean. You were right. You even saved the day. And I will try to get you some milk.’
It was some time before Molly set to work again on the green oil. First she began reading her mama’s books about plants. But she knew she was avoiding the oil because she’d almost lost her nerve. And, even worse, she was waiting for Pim to show up. Molly didn’t like to admit this to herself, because she didn’t like to feel she could possibly be depending on Pim Wilder. She was the one who knew about plants, not Pim. It wasn’t as if he would know what to do. And even if he did make suggestions, it wasn’t his best friend who was ill, so he wouldn’t put the right feeling into it.
And yet, Molly did like having someone to talk things over with, and she liked it when Pim was there because he always had a way of seeing things that made her look at them from another side. He was so different from Ellen. Ellen was like a nice warm home: she was safe and sure and always the same. Pim was like a walk in the woods at dusk: full of darkness and brightness both at once, he was restless and unfitting, pouncing on ideas and lifting them out of the dark. Pim’s world was the mysterious world of owls, stars, animals and earth. And Ellen’s world was close by and welcoming, a place you could burrow into.
Where did Molly’s world fit alongside these? Was she betraying Ellen if she became friends with Pim?
Her head spun. She went back to the green oil. She chopped and pummelled the weeds, her mind full of wonder and resolve. She had a job to do and some thoughts to think. It seemed that everything in her was expanding, straining to become large enough to hold all that at once, all the worlds, weeds and wonder spinning within her.
And now it was already the afternoon. Molly would have to hurry if she wanted to make it to Ellen’s and back again before dark.
But where was Pim? Molly stifled a pang of worry. Had he got tired of helping her? Had something else come along that was more interesting? It couldn’t have; nothing could be more interesting. Perhaps he just didn’t want to come anymore? What if this was true? Would she be able to do this all on her own? Molly felt torn. She wanted to help Ellen, but she wanted Pim to help her. Could she have both?
Right now she couldn’t imagine life without either of them. But she had promised herself she would be strong today. Today was not a day for her to get stuck in her own fears. She would go to Ellen’s now, and she would leave a note on the tree for Pim, just in case he did come.
CHAPTER 20
Spaghetti
Ellen Palmer’s mother was surprised to see Molly at the door again. Not only because she wasn’t expecting a visit, but also because this time she noticed that Molly looked quite dishevelled. Her hair stood out from her head, and she had slept in her dress, which was full of creases and covered in dirt and green blotchy stains from the juices of the tree fruit. Molly clasped her mama’s sunhat in one hand and in the other a dark bottle with a white lid. Around her wrist was a red ribbon and she wore short boots with no socks. None of this Molly had taken any notice of. Her eyes were tired and hopeful and almost glittered with an unnatural wakefulness, so that she had the look of a worn-out traveller with an important message.
Molly was ushered into the kitchen, where Ellen’s family sat eating spaghetti bolognese. Ellen’s father dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and said hello, and Ellen’s younger brother, Jeremy, stared at her, with his fork pointing upwards. There was Ellen’s world, cosy and just right. Molly could have just sunk down and curled up there, if there wasn’t an urgent task at hand.
Ellen’s mother offered Molly some spaghetti.
Molly shook her head. ‘I have brought some special healing oil for Ellen. She has to rub it on her chest and on the soles of her feet and also where the snake bit her.’
Ellen’s mother looked unsure, Jeremy smirked, and Ellen’s dad frowned at Jeremy.
Molly wrinkled her nose back at Jeremy before stepping towards Ellen’s mother. ‘My mama has cured many ailments with this oil,’ Molly said. It was true that the green oil had cured lots of illnesses, but Molly didn’t know if it had any effect on snakebites. She lifted her shoulders proudly and handed the bottle to Ellen’s mother, who still looked a little startled and confused, but she took the bottle with gratitude.
‘Thank you, Molly. Please thank your mother too. I have heard marvellous things about her cures.’ She glanced at her husband.
‘I’m sure it won’t do any harm,’ Ellen’s father said with a small smile. Molly could tell it was hard for him to smile. There was a very sombre tone to the whole family, as if they had turned grey and old.
‘Would you like to take it in to Ellen? I’ll see if she is awake.’ Ellen’s mother’s voice wavered and she quickly looked away.
Inside Ellen’s room, a large floral armchair had been pulled up by the bed. Molly perched on the edge of it.
‘Back again…’ Ellen seemed grateful and a bit surprised.
‘I told you I’d be back, remember. Here, Ellen, look what I have. This potion will make you better.’
‘A potion?’ Ellen tried to sit up.
‘Yes. Don’t be scared,’ said Molly. ‘Mama knows about plants and how to make potions from them. She makes people better.’
Ellen looked doubtful. She undid the bottle and sniffed at the oil. ‘Where do I rub it?’
‘Here. And Ellen, it’s best if you sing while you do it.’
‘Sing? Sing what?’
‘Doesn’t matter what. Sing something cheerful and full of life. You’re a great singer and it makes you feel good, so do it. Can I go and tell your mum to bring you some spaghetti?’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Ellen propped herself up. ‘You never give me a chance to think. You always rush into everything.’
Molly dropped her head; she was surprised. ‘Do I?’
‘Yes, but it’s what I like about you. Sometimes your thoughts get to the finishing line before I’ve even started, and I get stuck not moving. You pull me forwards. I’ll eat some spaghetti; I don’t want you getting sad too.’
Molly grinned and stood up.
‘But I don’t know why you didn’t tell me about your mother’s potions. I would have loved to know about them,’ said Ellen.
‘Maybe I was scared,’ Molly said. ‘Maybe everyone has something they’re scared of. You are scared of snakes and crossing creeks on logs. But I’m scared that people won’t like me because… well, because my family isn’t like everyone else’s. My mama eats scrambled tofu, my dad is lost in Cuba, my brothers are far away flying hot air balloons.’ Molly still couldn’t quite say that her mama had also accidentally turned herself into a tree.
Ellen frowned. Her lip quivered. And then she closed her eyes to think. ‘But Molly, I don’t think you’re different. Or if I do, it’s exactly what I like about you. Sometimes I feel that you think I’m not interesting. I thought you were bored with me. I thought that was why you didn’t let me come to your house when your mother was away.’
Molly’s heart pitched about within her. She felt unsteady. Was that what was making Ellen sick? Ellen thought Molly didn’t find her interesting.
Ellen had felt as boring as Molly had felt weird. But none of the differences mattered. Or, they did matter; they mattered because they were important and wonderful. They were all part of a magnificent plan that made the world more interesting. Molly could like Ellen with her plaits and practicalities as well as liking Pim with his owl sounds and curious taste for adventure. It was like being able to eat different meals. Molly should have given Ellen the chance to see her unusual ways, instead of always hiding them away.
If Ellen hadn’t have been so ill, Molly would have jumped on the bed and given her a big hug and confessed that right now her mama was a tree. But that could all wait.
‘Ellen, here’s the deal. You stop being sad, and I’ll stop trying to be just like everybody else. I like you just as you are, and you like me, peculiarities and all. Everyone has their own world: you, me, Pim Wilder, everyone. We’re all like little stars, shining as hard as we can, with our own particular kind of light.’
Molly and Pim and the Millions of Stars Page 8