The True Tale of the Monster Billy Dean: Telt by Himself

by David Almond

  He trusted me enuf to send me owt to speshal customers with my sissors & loshuns.

  Won day a carl came from the priests house that was besyd the church & just rownd the corna from Eden House. Ha! Arl the playses that wer so important to my life. Arl the playses to be shattad by the very first bom on the day of doom. Enyway, the carl caym & its me that was sent. The dore was anserd by the housekeeper Dolly Atkinson who crossd her arms & lookd me up & down & askd was I realy the 1 that Mister Gabrielli sent.

  “I am,” I anserd.

  “And ar you up to it?” she said.

  I cud see she thout I wasnt. I told her that I was.

  She shruggd & let me in. She led me throu corridors lined with smarl statews of the sayntes & that smelt of insens & polish & candles. She knockd on a big wooden dore then opend it & usherd me throu.

  “Its the hairdresser Father,” she said & then she was gon.

  And ther he was dressd all in blak. He was sittin at a little desk in a sunny room with wooden panels in it & hy brite windos. Jesus hung on a cross on the warl nereby.

  The priest raysd his brite blue eyes to me.

  “Cum in my dere,” he said. “You ar most welcom.”

  I cud hardly speke nor moov nor even look at him at first. I cud sens him smylin at me.

  “My name is Father Wilfred,” he said.

  Hed not been long in Blinkbonny. Id sene him distant on the altar but hadnt sene him fase to fase.

  “And you are Veronica,” he said.

  I stammerd my anser.

  “Yes, Father. Veronica Dean.”

  He said that my reputayshon preseeded me. He said they spoke of me with grate fondness in Eden House & that my talents wer recomended by Mister Gabrielli himself.

  “Thank you, Father,” I stammerd.

  I lookd down at the grownd. I was sertan he must be laffin at me. But his voys was kind.

  “I need no mor than a little trim today,” he said. “Wy not cum to me & begin?”

  I trembld as I laid a wite cloth across his sholders across his blak shirt. A lass like me in a plays like that! A lass lyk me doin the hair of a man like him!

  He lowerd his hed & I began to carm as I always do wen I hold the cowm & sissors in my hands. I set to work.

  He askd abowt my ambishons & abowt my fayth & I stammerd silly ansers. He caut my hand wons as it passd across his brow.

  “Ther is talent in these hands, Veronica,” he said.

  “Thank you Father,” I wisperd bak.

  His hair was deepest blak as you wel no & it shon even deeper blak wen I rubbd the jel into it & cowmd it throu. I rememba the way the tiny blak cuttings lay scatterd on the wite. I rememba the gleem of his blue eyes and the jentlenes of his tuch as he took won of my hands in his own and put his payment in the other.

  “You have a gift Veronica,” he said. “You shud begin a bisness of yor own won day.”

  He pressd an extra silver coyn into my parm.

  “For you, my dere,” he said.

  I thankd him. I continued to stammer & trembl & blush & cud not meet his eye but I new that he was smiling kindly at me. He took owt a box of blak sigarets with golden tips and held them towards me.

  “No thank you Father,” I said. “I don’t.”

  He took won for himself and lit it & the smoak drifted across me.

  “And how old mite you be, Veronica?” he said.

  “17,” I anserd. “I mean 17, Father. And nerly 18.”

  “Amen” he wisperd. And then he askd me, “And do you kepe yourself in a stayt of grase, Veronica?”

  I must hav blushd so hard at that. But I told him O yes. I told him I said my prares & I went to church & I confessd my sins.

  I remember how he laffd at that.

  “Im sertain ther cant be many of those, Veronica. Not qwiyt yet. Am I rite?”

  I had no way to anser that. He laffd agen.

  “Forgiv me,” he said. “I do not wish to discomfot you. I can see that you are a good girl.”

  I think I thankd him for those words. Then he held my hed between his hands & made the mark of a cros on my brow with his finga.

  “Veronica,” he wisperd. “I am very pleesd with you.”

  Then he thankd me & he let me go. And thats it all.

  She turns her eyes downward agen. She siys.

  “And that was the start of it,” she says. “And that I supows was the start of you.”

  I want to ask mor & to no mor but shes silent & I dont no what to ask nor how to ask.

  “Pepl said he was a saynt,” she says. She runs her hand across the taybl. She tuches the flesh the wing the rubbl the dust. She jently tuches arl the shattad holy things.

  I wake that nite to the hootin of owls the shinin of the moon & the grayt big qwestion ringin in my brain. I wark to her bed & sit at her syd.

  “So how did that make me?” I say.

  She rolls away. I no shes awake but she dosnt want this boy askin that qwestion this nite.

  “Billy,” she says. “Go bak to slepe. Ill tel you another tym.”

  “But how? How did that make me?”

  No anser. Im not goin to go away.

  “How Mam?”

  “Hoot” go the owls. “Hoot hoot hoot hoot.”

  And minuts pass. I ask agen. She rolls bak towards me.

  “O Billy to no that you wud hav to no abowt bodies & what bodies do & what ther for.”

  “What do bodys do, Mam?”

  “They hold us within themselves. They cary us throu our lives.”

  “And what ar they for?”

  “O Billy you canot understand not yet.”

  “Hoot hoot. Hoot hoot.”

  “What ar they for?”

  “They make other bodies, Billy.”

  “How do they do that?”

  “You cannot possibly understand.”

  “How, Mam? How did you make me?”

  “O Billy!”

  She groans. But she sits up. She tels me to pas the cup of warter on the taybl by her bed. I do this and she drinks. Her eyes shine in the moonliyt that cums throu her thin curtans.

  “Tell me, Mam,” I say.

  She siys.

  “Iyl tel it but it is no good. You must imajin what you cannot imajin & no what you cannot possibly no & see what you cannot possibly see.”

  I laff. Iyv been doin enuf of that sins I came owt of my confiynment. Iyv bene doin enuf of that sins the day of my birth.

  “Just tark,” I say.

  And so she tarks.

  “First of arl” she says, “you must see me as I was bak then. A lass. A bonny lass. Not much older than yourself in fact. Its a few months layter than that first time I went to cut his hair. Im 18 by now. Im werin a flowery bluw & wite dres cos its summer. Hair in a nete bob blak pumps on my fete red lether bag in my hand. Can you see that?”

  I look into her shinin eyes into the fays turnd payl as payl by the moon & yes I can weardly see her as she used to be with the sunlyt shinin on her & the bildins of Blinkbonny arownd her & the pepl passin by as she warks so qwik & smoothly throu the streets.

  “Yes Mam” I say. “I can.”

  “You can? Well mebbe you can if you say you can. OK then. Lissen close agen.”

  And she starts to tel some mor.

  Ther I was yung Veronica Dean in the blue & wite dress hedin to the priests agen. Been several tyms by now. Wilfred had been in Blinkbonny for meny months & he was lovd and admired by all. Such a lovely man, they said. So devowt & splendid in his roabs & so devoated to his priestly duties. So elegant so distingwishd so poliyt. You can sens the hoalines in him. How lucky we ar to hav him here amung us.

  The tyms Id bene wer much as the first. I went I cowmd I cut I jeld got payd then left. Hed let it be known that he was very pleesd with me & Mister Gabrielli was as wel.

  Enyway I got to the house & Dolly Atkinson let me in.

  She reached owt & tucked a strand of hair behynd my ear.

  “Thats beter,” she said. �
��Its good to look smart for Father Wilfred isnt it?” She said how lovely my dress was. She said how pretty I was becoming. “You no the way by now,” she said. “Off you go my pet.”

  I went throu the corridors past the little statews, throu the sents of insens & polish & candles.

  He was waytin as always in the room with the crucifix & the hiy windos. But it was different this tym. He was in his vestments. A gorjus hevy cloke of green and golds hung ova his showlders.

  He raysd his hand but didnt look at me.

  “I hav just said Mass, Veronica,” he wisperd. “Bare with me. I must take off these things in particular ways to particular prares & then I wil hav time for you.”

  By now I was not so timid with him. I stood ther carmly & wayted.

  He mutterd & murmerd unda his breth. He wisperd the names of God & Jesus and lifted the cloke over his hed & layd it on a taybl. He was werin a long wite lovly linen dress thing. He kept on mutterin his prares & he unwound the rope that formd a belt arownd his wayst. He handed this rope to me & his eyes wer straynj like he was in a dreme or looking sumwer far beyond me. He took off the linen dres thing slo as slo liftin it over his hed & prayin & prayin as he did it. He folded the dres & layd it down besyd the cloke.

  Now he was standin ther in blak shoes blak trowsers blak shirt wite colar.

  He siyd deeply. He shiverd. He stoppd his prayin at last then crossd hisself then he lookd at me like he was seein me for the first tym sins I enterd.

  “Veronica,” he said.

  “Father.”

  “Forgiv me,” he said. “Ther ar rituals I had to observ.”

  He siyd agen.

  “At tyms,” he wisperd, “I fele that I am almost becum arl spirit. I fele that I am abowt to step throu into glory. I fele that I am on the very frinjes of eternal blis. Do you no wat I mene?”

  I cudnt anser that. Didnt hav a clue what he was on abowt.

  He laffd.

  “Forgiv me,” he said agen. “I see you hav my cord in yor hands, my dere.”

  I told him that he was the 1 that gave it to me.

  “Did I?” he said.

  I held it owt to him & he tuchd it.

  “Thees things I wear on my body hav meenings,” he said. “This cord is a sine of my binding to the world of things.”

  I stil didnt hav a clue what he was on abowt. I just kept on holdin it to him.

  He laffd agen & his eyes glitterd.

  “Yor a good girl Veronica” he told me. “Arent you?”

  “Yes Father.”

  He got the cord & rappd it rownd my wayst & arownd his own as wel so we wer held together. He tuggd me to him. I remember how I smelt him so close how I felt his body so close. I felt like I wud faynt with the straynjness & confyushon of it.

  “Do you fele cloas to the world of things?” he wisperd in my ere.

  I cud not speke & cud not anser.

  “Or to eternal blis?” he said.

  He started his murmurin & mutterin agen & saying prares lyk spels into my ere.

  He loosend the cord & it fell away from us.

  Then he dippd his finger in preshus oil & started stroaking my cheke my nek my arms with it.

  “Let me bless you Veronica,” he said.

  He mutterd some weard words I cudnt understand. He mingld my name up with the weard words lyk I was part of the prare & part of the spel.

  He was close so close. I was leanin bak agenst the tabl wher the vestments wer lade.

  “Mebbe the world of things can also be the world of bliss,” he said. “Mebbe the world of bliss can only be fownd here in the world of things. Mebbe this plase here is Hevan, Veronica. Mebbe we can make it so. Do you think so, Veronica? For I do. Yes I do.”

  I started forgettin wer I was & who he was & who I was.

  His lips wer rite agenst my ear.

  “I hav just workd a miracl upon the altar,” he wisperd. “Now let me work a miracl upon you.”

  She stares into the darknes abuv the bed. I try to speak but she puts her fingas to my lips and hushes me.

  “But how, Mam?” I ask at last. “But how?”

  Shes silent for a long time.

  “He caym insyd me, Billy.”

  “Insyd you?”

  “Yes. It is what bodies do.”

  What can I make of that? Poor me. I try & try to imajin how that cud be.

  “But . . .”

  She puts her finga on my lips.

  “He caym insyd me. He caym insyd me meny times from that day forward. And after won of those times what was insyd me was you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes you. A tiny you that was part of me. A you so tiny you cudnt even be seen.”

  She smiles. The moon is passin throu the sky & no longer shinin down so brite on us.

  “You wer the thing that caym from it arl,” she says. “You ar the miracl that says it wasnt all a sin.”

  Its hard to lissen. I wonder wonder wonder.

  “But how?” I say.

  “O Billy Dean what a boy you ar!”

  She stares up into the seelin.

  “OK. Lissen,” she says.

  “Im lissenin.”

  “OK. Insyd a woman ther ar eggs.”

  “Eggs? Lyk the eggs of the birds that fly in the air.”

  “Yes. And insyd men there are tiny tiny swimmin things.”

  “Lyk the fish that swim in the river & sea?”

  “Kind of. Yes! Like the fish that swim in the river & sea.”

  I wayt. She ponders.

  “And,” I say.

  “And the fish and the eggs get together in the body of the woman & make a brand new tiny body ther that grows into a Billy Dean.”

  We say nothing for a wile.

  “You understand?” she says.

  “Yes” I say.

  I keep on thinking.

  “Of cors I do” I say.

  We both laff at that. Just laff and laff.

  The nite comes to an end. The owls stop hootin the birds start singin & the day is nerly bak agen.

  I wake up proply & I say, “What a weard world. You solv won mistry & up jumps another mistry to tayk its plays.”

  “Thats rite” she says. “So what wud you like for brekfast?”

  “Sossijes,” I anser.

  “Me too.”

  And she kisses me & holds me cloas to her lovely body tiyt in her lovely arms.

  Sumtyms Blinkbonny days ar just a blur with hardly eny form to them. One thing blends into another thing. Time slips & bends & buckls & twists. Mebbe what seems like days took months & mebbe months was really days. Mebbe things caym after what I think they caym befor. Shades & shados farl across the payj. Thers clowds & darknes & confyushon & telling of it all is like tryin to shyn a lyt into plases wer thers never been no lyt. Its like tryin to mayk shayps wer ther is no shayps. And I shyn my lyt & move my pensil & the pensil brakes or blunts & I sharpen it agen & the shayvins curl across my hand and farl to the erth & I press the point to the payj agen & start agen. And sumtyms I fynd nothing to rite & I am just lost & can find no sens nor shayp nor meanin & at such times the pensil wanders across the payper lyk a little beest creepin hoaplesly across the rubbl til suddenly a sent or a sownd catches its attenshun & it halts & lissens. Lyk wen it hers the knock on a dore.

  Knock!

  That knock.

  The knock that eckos throu the blur of time & marks the first day of my dealin with the dead.

  Knock.

  Im at Missus Malones dore with Mam. My hairs all cleen and brushd. Mam knocks lowder.

  Knock!

  No anser.

  Knock!

  Shes abowt to knock agen but suddenly the dores open & Missus Malone peeps owt.

  “I am not bluddy def!” she says. “Cum insyd, William.”

  Mams abowt to step in with me but Missus Malone puts her hand up.

  “Not you,” she says. “Just William me & the bereaved. You cum bak for him tonite.”

  And she shuts the dor
e & leads me in & we go into the room with the taybl the curtans the chares & the liyt. She puts her hand on my chin & turns my fase bak & forwad. She looks at the bak of my nek.

  “Very good,” she says. “Yor mother has always bene good at the clenliness. Now put this on.”

  She lifts up a wite shirt thing. She helps to put it over my head. She tugs it into plase. It dangls down to my nees.

  “Its always good to wer the wite,” she says. “It reminds us arl of aynjels gosts & godliness & of that clenliness I menshond. I of cors remane in blak to signify the dark forses we must confrunt. Wons the bereaved hav arriyvd, we wil begin proseedins with the planshet. Now sit down and lissen.”

  I sit down at the taybl.

  “It is arl very straytforwad,” she says, “& thers no nede to be nervos. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Missus Malone.”

  “This evenin,” she says, “thers a cupl thats serchin for a son. Thers a woman whos lost a mother. And thers a mother with her dorter who seem to be after a father. It is our juty and our joy to help them in ther qwest.”

  She lifts the planshet from under the tabl & puts it at the senter. She lites the lamp & the taybl shines & the letters glow.

  “We wil now do sum revishon,” she sayes. “Name these letters.”

  She poynts. I speak the wons I no. I no most of them by now which pleases her. She tests me by pushing the planshet slowly arownd the taybl then suddenly pointing at won leter. I speak it if I no it. I discover I am alredy lernin mor. But often I hav to paws to think & often I naym the leter rong.

  “Not too bad,” she says. “But you must qwiken up, William. Sum of the gosts ar fast as litnin wons ther unda way.”

  And she shows me that by wizzin the planshet arownd the watery taybl & stabbin at letters so fast its impossibl to kepe up.

  “See what I mene?” she says. “Sum spirits get so exited by the hole experiens that they go qwite bluddy barmy. And sum can spel & sum carnt spel & sum forget arl abowt propa spellin wons ther under way. But it is up to us as the intermedyaries between the livin & the dead to make sum sens of it arl. This is qwite a responsibility, William. Do you understand that?”