Rampion. Campion. Perhaps I’ll be a poet. Dad used to read me poems but I don’t know where he’s gone.
“Well spotted,” Miss O-L says. Her real name’s Muriel but she ought to have a flower name like Violet or Lily. Flowers are her whole life. She’s never married or anything.
“We should see Red Campion, too. The red goes on flowering much longer - right through to November.” She turns to me and smiles, “Feel the stem, Tilly - it’s sticky, isn’t it?” (She’s always trying to teach me things.) “And look at the tiny hairs on the leaves.”
She has hairs, on her chin. Not small and pale, like on the plant, but two long dark ones, sticking out of a mole.
Now Duncan’s asking her something. Duncan mumbles, so I can’t hear what he’s saying.
“Yes, that’s right,” she nods. “The male fern’s more upright and the female fern’s more graceful.”
Mum and Kenneth aren’t like that. Kenneth’s forever stooping to look at some plant or other. And Mum’s not what you’d call graceful. She’s always been a bit clumsy and she’s got worse since Kenneth appeared. Kenneth isn’t right for her. She just wants a man around again, so she started going out with him after they met at the singles club. They haven’t really got anything in common, not even flowers. Mum wouldn’t know a Daffodil from a Dandelion. She only joined the Wildlife Trust to please him.
We dawdle on again. Yesterday I ran ahead, then Miss O-L said I’d missed the Stinking Iris and dragged me back to look at it. It didn’t stink at all and it was a sort of dreary brown, not blue like normal Irises. Stinking Kenneth smells of peppermints. He keeps a tube of Polos in his pocket and he’s always sucking and crunching. Mum says he’s given up smoking and the Polos are a crutch. This morning he bought me a bag of Maltesers, but that was just to get in with Mum. I know he hates me really. Sometimes I see him looking at me like I’m an insect he wants to swat. He’s even more ancient than Miss O-L but he’s never been married, either. I wish he’d fallen in love with her and not with Mum. Or perhaps they’re not in love. I don’t know how you tell.
I lag behind again. There’s lots of trees I’d like to climb, but they’d probably say it’s Cruelty to Trees. They care more about plants than people. I mean, the whole point about flowers is to pick them, isn’t it? But yesterday when I picked a bunch of Bluebells, they all went ballistic, even Mum. And then I trod on something called Spotted Medick, and Duncan did his nut. He said it was a flower that grew under the cross when Jesus was crucified, and the little black dots on the leaves were spots of blood. That’s just stupid. The spots didn’t look a bit like blood, and anyway, it would have dried by now. He was just trying to make me feel bad. I did feel bad and I said sorry about twenty times, but he kept muttering about how children had no business coming on serious botanical walks. Well, I didn’t ask to come; Mum wouldn’t let me stay at home on my own.
Today I stick to the path. I don’t want to make trouble for Mum. I still love her. It’s only her-and-Kenneth I can’t stand.
“Imagine!” says the woman in the glasses, “our ancestors walking these hills fifty thousand years ago.”
I shiver. History’s my worst subject. I hate everyone being dead. Sometimes I wonder if Dad’s dead, too. I keep asking if I can see him, but Mum says give her time.
I whistle to my imaginary dog. I’m out for a walk on my own, and Charlie’s rushing around in circles, wagging his tail. I’m walking to Dad’s. He’s not dead - he’s expecting us. He’s bought Jelly Pots for tea because he knows they’re my favourites, and a meaty chew for Charlie.
“Yes, that’s Betony,” Miss O-L is saying. “Stachys officinalis. It’s been used by herbalists since Roman times for liver complaints and bronchitis. It’s a member of the Labiatae family, of course.”
Plants are lucky to have families. I don’t think two people on their own’s enough. I asked Mum once why I didn’t have a sister or brother, and she went red and changed the subject. Betony’s a pretty name, so she can be my sister, and Herb Robert my brother. I’m beginning to feel better now. Five is definitely a family, and by the time we reach the top of the Downs I have lots of cousins - Daisy, Bryony, Hazel, Rose and Ivy, and a best friend, Germander Speedwell.
“And now,” says Miss O-L, motioning us all to stop, “We’ve reached the high point of our walk. Indeed, I might even go so far as to call today a pilgrimage. You’re about to see the Eighth Wonder of the World.”
I gaze around. All I can see is the slope of the hill and the stony path going up it and a great blue lid of sky, and some hazy trees and bushes in the distance. There’s no pyramids or temples, nothing you’d call a Wonder.
“Normally I’d hesitate to show it to a group. But most of us have been together so long, I know I can trust you not to reveal its whereabouts to anyone.’ She gives a little giggle. ‘Let’s just keep it as our secret.”
I still don’t know what she’s talking about, but I like the thought of a secret. Secrets mean you’re special. Best friends tell you secrets. I haven’t got a best friend - well, apart from Germander Speedwell.
“What you’re going to see” - Miss O-L pauses and her voice goes all deep and breathy - “has never, ever, been seen before in Sussex. The Botanical Recording Society are tremendously excited and a taxonomist from Kew has already been down here to visit. So I’m sure you’ll realize how privileged you are today. Most people would give their eye-teeth to witness a sight like this.”
Although it’s hot, I feel goose-bumps on my skin. I don’t know what eye-teeth are, but I’d give all my teeth and both my eyes in return for Dad walking in the door.
Miss O-L falls to her knees. It reminds me of church - the hush, the circle of unsmiling Sunday faces. If she doesn’t show us the Wonder soon, I think I’ll burst.
She bends forward and moves aside a clump of grass. Behind it is a small, skinny plant - just a spike really, with no leaves to speak of and a few weird-looking flowers near the top. “This,” she breathes, “is a most extraordinary hybrid.” She pauses again and looks round at us - her eyes are bulgy anyway but now they’re almost popping out of her head. ‘It’s a cross between a Bee Orchid and a Fly Orchid.”
There’s a little gasp from the group, and then some oohs and aahs.
“A hybrid like this was produced artificially in East Germany, in 1962. The first sighting of a natural specimen was in Leigh Woods, near Bristol, in 1968, but it hasn’t been spotted in Sussex until now. This is unique for us, a one-off. Isn’t it thrilling?”
No, it’s not. It’s a cheat. I stand there, trying not to cry. I was expecting something fantastic that would change Mum’s life and mine. And instead it’s just another boring plant.
“Be very careful where you kneel,” Miss O-L warns as they cluster round to examine it. “There might be seedlings of other orchids nearby.”
Kenneth’s big blue backside is sticking up in the air. He’s on his hands and knees in front of the orchid, gazing at every detail through his lens. “Incredible!” he goes, and he gives this silly laugh, like he’s overjoyed to be kneeling in the dirt.
And Miss O-L puts her face so close to the flowers, I think she’s going to bite them off, but she starts on one of her lectures again. “You’ll notice that the outer perianth segments are characteristic of the Fly Orchid and the upper inner segments more akin to the Bee Orchid. Can you see the small furry humps on either side of the base of the lip, and the broad blue band across the middle …?”
I look at Mum. Like me, she hasn’t a clue what the old bat is on about. I know she feels embarrassed and left out, but she’s put on her fake face, pretending to be pleased like all the others.
Kenneth’s taking photos now, millions of them - click, click, click, click, click. He’ll never love you that much, I want to yell at Mum. You’ll always come second to some rotten plant or flower. He’ll never go down on his knees to you, or lie on his fat stomach and photograph you from every angle.
But I stand in silence, watch
ing Ruth take over from Kenneth, then the woman with the glasses, then Duncan, then Elaine. All of them goggle-eyed, and whispering words like “phenomenal” and “fascinating”. All taking photos or making little sketches. When it’s her turn, Mum says nothing. She hasn’t got a camera and she can’t draw to save her life. She does borrow Kenneth’s lens, though, and peers through it for some time, while he shows off, pointing out the bee-like lip and the sepals. I can’t bear to see his thick, fat, fleshy finger and imagine it touching Mum.
Miss O-L can hardly get a word in. Then she swivels round to look at me. “Don’t you want to see it, Tilly?”
I shake my head, still scared I’ll cry. I hate crying in front of people.
“Silly girl,” Duncan tuts. “You don’t know what you’re missing. This is something you can tell your children.”
“I’m not having any children,” I mumble. “And I’m never getting married.”
Mum reaches across and takes my hand, but I shake it off. She held Kenneth’s hand yesterday and there’s probably traces of him there still.
“Now, Tilly, let me explain,” Miss O-L gurgles. “If you understand how nature works, you’ll be interested, I’m sure. Do you see this little lip? It’s shaped like the back of a bumble bee, and that’s to tempt a real bee to land on it and try to mate with the flower. Then pollination can …”
Mate’s a disgusting word. I close my eyes and see Mum and Kenneth mating in Mum and Dad’s big bed. There are hairs all over his body like on the Campion leaves, and little black spots of blood all over Mum. “I feel sick,” I say, but no one hears.
“I thought the Bee Orchid was self-pollinating,” Kenneth says. “I mean, despite all that fancy bee mimicry.” I don’t get what he’s saying, but I can tell he’s showing off, as usual.
Miss O-L beams at him like he’s the cleverest boy in the class. “Yes, normally it is - in Britain anyway. But this hybrid must be the result of pollination by an insect. You see, Bee Orchids and Fly Orchids don’t grow close together as a rule, and even when they do, their flowering times rarely overlap.”
Elaine squats down again. “Gosh!” she goes, “the markings on the flowers are just amazing.” She’s wedged herself between Duncan and Ruth and their three fat bottoms stick up in a row. Mum said to me last night they ought to call it bottomizing, not botanizing. That gave us a fit of the giggles. It was a good job Kenneth had gone home because I don’t think he likes jokes.
“It must be priceless,” Ruth sighs, as she focuses her camera. She’s another one that can’t stand children. Every time I’m anywhere near her, she sort of edges away, like I’ve got mumps or measles or something.
“Yes,” Miss O-L agrees. “One can’t value it in cash terms. It’s just a wonder of nature, to be admired in its natural habitat.”
“It’s the imported tropical varieties that fetch big money,” someone else chips in. “I’ve seen them in growers’ catalogues for hundreds of pounds apiece.”
“And did you hear about that new hybrid, Paphiopedilum Princess Sophia? - it fetched thousands!”
I still don’t know what a hybrid is, but I’m too shy to ask in case it’s something rude. Miss O-L loves questions, though. She sort of dribbles with excitement if she thinks you’re interested.
At last she gets up from her knees, creaking a bit and nearly overbalancing. Her skirt’s all creased and there’s a smear of earth on her cheek. “I think this would be a good point to break for lunch,” she says. “There’s a picnic area round the other side of the hill.”
I drag myself up the path, listening to them still twittering on, and eventually we reach the benches and tables. “I’d rather sit in the shade,” I whisper to Mum. “I don’t want any more freckles.” I already get teased about them at school. Some of my class are really vile. I heard Sharon telling Rick the other day that her Mum said we were well shot of my Dad, because he was a sponger and a slob.
Mum offers to sit with me but I know she’d rather be with Kenneth, so I say I’m OK on my own. I watch him unpack his rucksack. It was his turn to bring the picnic today, so it’s yuk like pongy cheese and chunks of sweaty liver sausage and stale brown bread with a smear of margarine.
Mum brings me over my lunchbox and a plastic cup of orange juice with horrid little shreddy bits floating on the top. “I’m not hungry.”
“Well, try and eat something, love.”
OK, I think - for your sake, Mum. I bite into the bread. The crust is rough and hard. When Dad was around he used to take me roller-skating and afterwards we’d go to McDonald’s and have Coke and Mega Macs. I can taste the soft whiteness of the bap all jumbled up with the dark sweetness of the Coke, and feel the melted cheese gooey on my tongue.
I glance at Mum. She has her hand on Kenneth’s knee while he stuffs his face with liver sausage. I ram the lid on my lunchbox and bung it into my rucksack, then I march over to where they’re sitting. “I’m going for a walk,” I tell her.
“Aren’t you tired?”
“No.” I point down the hill, the way we’ve come. “I saw a fallen tree and I want to climb along it.”
“Well, be careful, love, and don’t go far.”
As soon as I’m out of their sight, I race back towards the orchid. An idea’s been forming in my mind. Whatever hybrids are, they’re obviously worth a lot, and if this one’s meant to be so special, it could sell for thousands of pounds. Dad’s always broke. That’s why Mum kicked him out. She said as fast as she earned money, he chucked it down the drain. But if I could give them money, things might be all right again.
I look up and down the hill. I can’t see anybody. Quick as a flash I get my lunchbox out and dump Kenneth’s rotten picnic in the middle of a bush. Then I scrabble at the soil around the orchid. I mustn’t damage the roots. Roots are important, Miss O-L says. But my hands aren’t strong enough to loosen them, so I hunt around for a pointed stone and use it as a digger. At last the roots come free and they’re even weirder than the flowers. There’s two round bits like little new potatoes (one of them sort of old and shrivelled), and above them, growing from the stem, some pale, damp, creepy things that remind me of Kenneth’s fingers. I keep looking up to make sure no one’s watching as I wrap the plant in my paper serviette and put it in the lunchbox. And, once I’ve smoothed the patch of soil, you can hardly tell the orchid’s gone. It isn’t very big and it was hidden by the clump of grass. And anyway we’re not coming back along this path. Miss O-L’s already said we’re going down the other side of the hill, so she can show us some Common Twayblades - whatever they are.
I stuff the lunchbox in my rucksack, right down at the bottom under Panda and my sweatshirt. Mum doesn’t know I take Panda everywhere - out of sight, of course. Dad gave him to me the day I was born. He said he was my birth-day present.
I have one last look round, then I walk across to the fallen tree, like I’ve just finished my lunch and I’m going exploring. I won’t climb along the trunk, though. It’s too risky with the rucksack - I don’t want to bang the lunchbox. Dad’s lunchbox. I imagine him munching the orchid, and little gold coins spilling from his mouth like crumbs. Charlie’s excited too. He’s barking like mad and leaping over the tree trunk, and then he licks my hand because he knows my insides are all fluttery.
“Tilly! Tilly!”
I jump up in a fright. Mum must be coming to find me. The pale pink of my rucksack seems to be blushing deep, deep red as I try to hide it behind my back.
“Are you OK, love?” Mum asks.
“Mm.”
“Eaten your lunch?”
“Yes. Some.”
I let her squeeze my hand this time. I love her ever so much.
We walk back together to the others. They’re packing up their things. Elaine is putting sun-cream on, but she hasn’t got a mirror so her face is white and smeary. Duncan is eating chocolate. He doesn’t offer me any. He just breaks off the squares and gobbles them up without stopping, one after another. Ruth pounces on the wrapper and
puts it in the rubbish bin, along with every tiny scrap of paper she can find. She’d put me in, too, if I’d fit. They’re complaining about litter and transistor radios and people who leave gates open and don’t control their dogs. I know they’d complain about Charlie, because he’s noisy and messy and bounces about all over the place.
“Ready?” Miss O-L says. Some of her hair has come out of its clip and there’s a bit of lettuce caught in her front teeth.
They all answer “Yes,” except Ruth, who says “I’ll catch you up, if you don’t mind. I want to take a few more pictures of the orchid.”
My heart stops beating, honestly it does. And the little piece of bread I ate starts swelling in my stomach, and soon it’s as big as a whole knobbly loaf and fills up my insides. Ruth is getting bigger, too. She’s tall anyway, and as I watch her walk away her head seems to touch the sky. Stop her, Miss O-L, I want to shout. Tell her she’s not allowed to go off on her own. Tell her you’re in a hurry. Tell her …
But I can’t say a single word. I can’t even grunt or croak. The loaf of bread is still growing and growing and now it’s blocked my throat. And there’s great lumps of concrete stuck to my feet, so when the group sets off in the other direction I’m left stranded on my own.
Mum comes back for me. “Tired, love?”’ she asks. She looks tired herself.
I make a sort of choking noise and she links her arm through mine. My legs won’t work but somehow we catch up because her legs shunt us along.
“‘Now, if we’re lucky,” Miss O-L is saying, “we may see a Common Twayblade with a third leaf. My colleague spotted one last week in West Dean Woods.”
I pull my arm out from Mum’s and look back over my shoulder. Ruth has disappeared. Any minute she’ll find that the orchid’s gone.
“Yes, Duncan, that’s correct - the Common Twayblade grows in every part of Britain except Shetland. And it’s pollinated by beetles and ichneumon flies. They’re attracted to the nectar secreted in a groove in the centre of the lip …”
Wendy Perriam Page 2