The Bone Dragon

by Alexia Casale

  I pull a face. ‘So you can come and steal some of the kudos, you mean, for all that hard rescuing?’ I heave a heavy sigh. ‘I suppose it might just be possible for me to bring a few of the poor souls I save from the clutches of certain moulding to stand witness to my greatness.’

  This leads on to a discussion of whether we should make marmalade this year when the Seville oranges are in season, so the subject drops. But when Amy goes out into the garden to pick the black-spotted leaves off the rose bushes, I sneak an empty bottle from the recycling bin, fill it with water, then hide it in my wardrobe. The last thing I need is a repeat of this near debacle if Amy realises how muddy and wet I keep getting my trainers. Trying to wash them off each night in the bathroom is just asking to get caught, as is hiding them somewhere in the garden: everything is far too well kept. But if I rinse them out of the window, no one need be any the wiser.

  Today is Uncle Ben and Aunt Minnie’s anniversary. Or what would have been their anniversary. I wish that Uncle Ben would tell stories about Aunt Minnie but, like Amy and Paul with Adam, he can’t seem to bear to think about her, let alone allow her name or her memory to pass his lips.

  This year is like every other since Amy and Paul got me. Uncle Ben arrives the night before, his usual cheerful self, though he fills his wine glass again and again at dinner. I do my best, while Amy is busy cooking, to hint that I’m old enough to talk about serious things: that it wouldn’t burden me, that I’m willing to listen. That I’m even willing to share the subject of my rage since theirs is beyond reach, but neither Paul nor Uncle Ben takes the hint. Our conversation stays stubbornly fixed on brighter, lighter things, then, when Amy and I have gone to bed, it’s Paul and Uncle Ben who stay up late talking. But I don’t dare eavesdrop from the stairs: not tonight, when Amy may well be periodically checking on them.

  When I get up the next morning, Uncle Ben is already sitting at the kitchen table, turning a mug of coffee around and around in his hands while Amy cooks pancakes.

  This is the first time since Amy and Paul got me that the anniversary has fallen on a weekend. So, instead of Amy packing me off to school and Paul off to work while Uncle Ben takes the day off, we all eat breakfast together. Slowly. And quietly. Amy and Paul have obviously discussed how the day will go because once everything is cleaned away – for once, Uncle Ben makes no move to help and simply sits staring into his coffee, turning and turning the cup around on the table as if he’ll be able to see visions in it if he gets the liquid spinning just right – Amy collects her hat, scarf and coat and bullies Uncle Ben into his. Then they set off down the garden path.

  I stare after them out of the kitchen window until Paul comes over and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘We could go for our own walk if you’d like,’ he offers.

  I shake my head. It’s dank and drizzly outside with none of the charm of a nursery-rhyme ‘misty, moisty morning’. The fens smell of rotting reeds and stagnant pools on days like this when the air is heavy with damp. The fog gets into your clothes, soaking through until everything down to your skin is warm and moist as fever-sweat. I wriggle uncomfortably at the thought. ‘Too wet,’ I say.

  ‘I was thinking we could go out and get a few movies. Something to cheer Uncle Ben up.’

  ‘And take his mind off things?’ I ask.

  Paul smiles. ‘Go wrap up warm.’

  As we drive, I think that Paul looks almost as much in need of cheering up as Uncle Ben. But somehow, now that I’ve finally got the perfect moment to ask what they’ve been up to together on their night-time excursions, I find I can’t. Or won’t. As if I suddenly don’t know what I want the answer to be.

  ‘Do you think we should try to find someone for Uncle Ben to date?’ I ask instead.

  Paul flicks a grin at me that makes me cross as well as relieved that the moment for other questions is gone. ‘Amy’s been watching Fiddler on the Roof again, hasn’t she? That “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” song.’

  I roll my eyes, itching against the unease of knowing that I’ve missed my chance and the simultaneous relief of having evaded something troubling. Something dangerous. ‘Uncle Ben’s so nice. He deserves to have someone to appreciate him. I mean, someone just for him.’

  The smile fades slowly from Paul’s face, from his mouth first, then it bleeds away from his eyes. ‘Your Uncle Ben’s a wonderful man, Evie. But a lot of people . . . Well, they wouldn’t necessarily . . . I mean . . .’

  ‘You mean that Uncle Ben’s not very good-looking.’

  The car drifts a little to the right as Paul jerks round to look at me. He mutters something under his breath and fixes his eyes on the road again, huffing with what should have been a laugh. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘But he’s not bad-looking,’ I protest. ‘I mean, he’s not fat or bald or anything. He’s just . . . a bit ordinary sometimes. But if he got his hair cut more often and remembered to iron his clothes and not wear colours that don’t go . . . I think it’s just when he frowns and stuff or goes all distracted. He’s always laughing around me and being funny. I never think about what he looks like, so . . .’

  Paul is smiling again. ‘But you’ve hit the nail on the head, Evie. He’s always happy around you.’

  I twist in my seat to look at Paul, then wince and flop back in frustration at all the stupid little things the ribs won’t let me do. It’s nothing that really matters in the scheme of things, only it does sort of matter when I can only sit and sleep and do things in such specific ways. I sigh, reminding myself that maybe when the ribs finish healing that won’t be true any more, then turn my thoughts back to Uncle Ben.

  ‘He’d smile around someone he really liked. Someone who made him happy. You and Amy must know some nice women who are single. You could invite one of them over for dinner when Uncle Ben’s there too . . . and maybe you could even invite some other people too so it’s not so obvious.’

  ‘It’s a good idea, Evie,’ Paul says, though I can tell he doesn’t really mean it, ‘but I don’t think Uncle Ben is ready to think about dating.’

  ‘So?’ I press. ‘If he met someone really nice . . .’

  Paul sighs. ‘I know it can’t seem like it, because Uncle Ben’s always so happy with you, Evie, but he’s not like that all the time. Not with other adults. I don’t think he’d mean to put anyone off exactly, but people can tell when someone isn’t really interested in dating.’

  I purse my mouth mutinously.

  Paul catches sight of my expression and grins. ‘Here’s what we can do, though. The moment Uncle Ben says the least little thing about women or dating or anything like that, Amy and I will throw a party and invite all the eligible ladies we know. Will that suit, M’mselle?’

  I scrunch my face up at him. ‘Maybe someone needs to make Uncle Ben think about dating first.’

  Paul is pulling into a parking spot and doesn’t reply. As I stand by the boot, fumbling with my gloves, he comes around the car and puts his arm across my shoulders. ‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, Evie, but . . . Well, how about we get some romantic comedies. Will that do in terms of dropping a hint?’

  I shrug and lean into his side as he starts us towards the shops. In the DVD store, we usually have a pretty lively debate about what to rent, but my heart’s not in it. My thoughts have turned to Paul and Amy and the fact that all of Adam’s things are packed away at the top of the upstairs cupboard. Looking about the house, you’d never know that Amy and Paul had had a son.

  There aren’t any photos even, except the one in Paul’s wallet that I saw one day when he asked me to fetch his credit card. Amy’s one picture of Adam is in the locket she always wears: Adam is on one side, her parents on the other.

  I’ve only seen inside the locket twice. The first time was just after I’d come to live with Amy and Paul, even though I’d known them for more than a year by then and stayed over several times on trial visits. I was sitting at one end of the kitchen table, fluffing some maths homework, while Paul did tax stuff a
t the other and Amy pottered about cooking and fiddling with the radio. I wanted to slam my book shut then throw it at the wall, and everything else on the table with it. But while I knew that, at the worst, Amy would tell me off – and it was tempting to test the theory just to be sure – my stomach lurched the second I gripped the book in preparation to hurl it. I hadn’t gone about throwing things in Fiona’s parents’ house. I wasn’t going to start with Amy and Paul, who’d only ever been good and kind to me.

  So I let go of the book, crossed my arms over it and put my head down on them, heaving a sigh. A moment later, Amy was sitting down next to me, wiping her hands on a tea-towel.

  ‘Can I?’ she asked, smiling encouragingly as she gestured at the book.

  I sat up and pushed it towards her. ‘I just don’t get it.’

  ‘Must run in the family. Adam always hated fractions, too,’ she said.

  I could tell that she hadn’t meant to – that it had just come out – because she went very still and Paul took his feet off the spare chair.

  ‘What did Adam look like?’ I asked because it was the first time the subject had come up since they had brought me to live with them. They didn’t hide it, of course: I knew right from the start that they’d had a little boy who’d died. And I knew too that they didn’t like to talk about him, so I’d never asked, but I’d been waiting and waiting for one of them to mention him.

  Paul and Amy exchanged a look over my head. Emotions bled so quickly across Amy’s face that, for a moment, it twitched and twisted as if she were trying to be funny. Then she took a deep breath, smoothing her hands down her arms, all the way from her shoulders to her elbows.

  Because there’s still water on them, I thought, then wondered if maybe it wasn’t more than that: an attempt to push the pain away from her chest. Push it down and away, out of her fingers.

  And I opened my mouth to apologise, to tell her I didn’t really need to know, that it wasn’t any of my business . . . But Amy was already getting up.

  I thought she was going to walk away, but she just turned her chair to the side and sat down again so that we were neatly at right angles to each other: every movement precise and careful, as if it was important to get the actions just right. Then she drew the locket out from under her jumper, peering down at it as she flicked open the tiny catch with her nail. I twisted, turning in my chair so I could peer close as she held it out to me.

  ‘Who’re they?’ I asked, pointing at the second photo.

  ‘My parents.’

  I reached out to tug Amy’s hands closer because the light was reflecting off the glass over the pictures, obscuring the tiny faces. Her fingers were cold and rigid as if they’d frozen.

  Little by little, Amy leaned forwards, further and further forwards, until our heads touched. Then she jumped, jerking back into her chair, hand reflexively shielding the locket against her chest.

  For a moment, there was nothing in her face or her eyes, then she started.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said in this strange voice, the words too light for the heaviness in her tone. ‘I really let myself get swept away for a minute there. Let’s have a look at this maths, then.’

  When I turned back to my book, I realised that Paul was gone.

  That was one of the only times either of them has mentioned Adam in front of me while the other was there. Separately, they’ve added a few facts over the years. Hints at happy memories. Fragments. Tatters of a different life. They’ve never refused to answer the few questions I’ve dared to ask – only when I’m with just one of them, of course – but they’ve always cut those conversations short. Uncle Ben’s the one I go to when there’s something I’ve just got to know about Adam, just like it’s Amy or Paul I ask when I want to know something about Aunt Minnie.

  But while Amy and Paul adopted me only two years after the deaths, I’m pretty sure Uncle Ben hasn’t gone on a single date. Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about how Uncle Ben seems like he needs some help to start moving on a bit. But this is the first time it’s struck me that the only way Uncle Ben is different from Paul and Amy is that they’ve found themselves a new child to love while he hasn’t found a new wife. I never really thought about it before but in some ways Amy and Paul haven’t moved on with life any more than Uncle Ben has: they’ve just tried to start a new one, as if they’ve pushed all their memories of Adam into a room and closed the door on the wreckage and then papered over that door to pretend it’s not even there any more: that there never was another door to another room. Maybe they think they can eventually open the door and all those broken things will have mouldered away, or been dissolved by time, so that all the wood splinters and the glass shards will be rounded at the edges, safe to pick up again. Soft as ashes.

  I tried that. With my memories of Fiona and her parents. But it never worked. Not properly. The pain in my ribs made it impossible to pretend that none of it had happened: to pretend that I had always been Amy and Paul’s daughter. There were all sorts of stories I tried to pretend. But then my ribs would shift and grate, the ends of the bones rubbing together – or I’d twist and there would be sharp, long needles of pain through my chest – and it would all still be here and now instead of there and then. And here and now can’t be pretended away.

  As I drift from one aisle of the shop to another, for the first time it strikes me that maybe it’s worse to be able to do that thing with the room and the locked door all papered over. Even though it seems easier to lock misery away, perhaps it’s just as much work to pretend you can’t ever hear things shifting and sliding behind the door behind the wallpaper when a wind creeps in through some unstoppered gap. Perhaps it hurts less, but there’s something infinitely sad about that store of discarded, broken things that used to be part of happiness.

  Paul asks me a question and I hum in reply. This seems to satisfy him, and he turns away towards the till. I trail behind.

  When I first saw the pictures in the locket, oh how I longed to have mine added. But I’m not jealous any more. Amy keeps Adam’s picture close, but locked away. And I have everything else.

  ‘Is this because of what Paul and Uncle Ben are up to?’ I huff to the Dragon as I stump along the furrow between two rows of cabbages or cauliflowers or whatever the low-growing crop is: the lines of plants are merely darker stripes of near-black across the fenland fields. It is so dark I could easily be walking between little bushes with squirls of pasta hanging off them. ‘Couldn’t we stay out of their way somewhere nicer?’ The Dragon does not deign to reply. With a sigh, I give in to the silence.

  The world is purple and velvet blue, the darkness like black mist. One minute I think my eyes are starting to adjust to the night and I can see. The next, the image of the landscape around me fades away and reforms into something different. The horizon, usually a faint grey-orange cast by the distant lights of Cambridge, is rust and brown tonight, like long-dried blood.

  But with the Dragon on my shoulder I am not afraid. Rather I am slowly growing dizzy with disorientation. Down keeps shifting, just slightly, as I step on the bank of the crop-row to my right then stumble into the rise on the left.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I hiss in exasperation as I stagger to a stop, panting with the effort of wading through the darkness. ‘I thought we were going to do something special tonight.’

  This dark moon is not the one for action, the Dragon says.

  I snort. ‘Sounds like a big, fat excuse to me.’

  The Dragon tightens its grip on my shoulder until I feel the pinch of its claws even through my coat.

  ‘OK, then tell me what wonderful plans we’re going to be working on in the middle of this field in the pitch black!’

  That is not the way to persuade me to share anything of value, the Dragon returns sniffily, managing to convey the fact that dragons require a certain level of respect whether one is standing ankle-deep in mud or not. A wish must always have a purpose, the Dragon finally deigns to tell me. And a purpose is the se
ed of a plan.

  ‘Well, I wished you were a real dragon and you are, so that was the purpose of the wish, but I don’t see where the plans come in unless they’re the same as the purpose . . .’

  The Dragon efficiently communicates the message that I am being immensely stupid.

  ‘OK, so . . . So if I wished you, then your purpose is to grow plans?’ I venture. ‘At least with seed packets you know what you’re growing,’ I say grumpily.

  A part of my purpose – and the keystone of our contract – is that you should only understand as much as is to your benefit. You must trust. You wished me and I am here.

  I roll my eyes but continue along the furrow. ‘Don’t I even get a hint instead of all this cryptic . . .’ – the word ‘rubbish’ comes into my head: the Dragon seems to read it from my thoughts and its disdain magnifies – ‘. . . stuff?’ I amend, trying to make my tone as polite and conciliatory as it’s possible to be while sliding about in a field on a moonless night.

  Reach out your hand, the Dragon commands.

  I touch tree bark.

  Move ahead carefully.

  Long grasses tug at my legs, treacherous with rotting leaves. Roots distort the ground. There are branches in my hair, thin and cold, as if I have plunged underwater in the blackness and the long, long reeds of the fenland waterways are reaching out to caress my face.

  We may stop here.

  I stand in the embrace of the trees, the branches grounding me in the darkness. ‘What are we waiting for?’ I whisper. ‘I can’t see a thing!’

  No, says the Dragon, you cannot.

  ‘So what do you expect me to look at?’

  I do not expect you to see anything.

  ‘Then . . .’ I start, but understanding comes rushing in before I have formed the question. I feel the Dragon settle itself in contentment.

  Somewhere off to my right, I can hear and smell water. A rustle to the left. A hiss. A shriek. A skirmish in the grasses.