The Bone Dragon

by Alexia Casale

  The lawyer looks deeply uncomfortable. ‘It is a most . . . unusual . . . request . . .’

  ‘There’s more than enough money in the estate for the work, and for whatever changes are necessary to effect the result my daughter wants,’ Paul says firmly.

  ‘I don’t want to know, though,’ I say quickly. ‘I don’t want to know what the grave says now: whether you have to change it . . . I don’t want to know.’

  Paul squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’ll take care of it, Evie.’

  And he does. One day, I come back from school and Paul is home early.

  ‘The grave’s exactly how you want it, Evie,’ is all he says.

  And I say, ‘Can we go and visit?’

  So here we are, standing at the church gate.

  ‘Can you wait here for me?’ I ask.

  Paul puts an arm around Amy’s shoulders as she opens her mouth to protest. ‘Call when you want us,’ he says, and leads Amy away up the path.

  I smile as she strains over her shoulder to stare back at me and see her sigh then smile in return before she turns away.

  I go through the gate.

  There’s no one in this part of the graveyard. On one side is a tennis court, but no one is playing there. I know that the grave is at the far end, on the third row. It doesn’t take me long to find it. When I get there, I kneel to stare at the stone. Just her name and the dates. If anything had to be removed, it doesn’t show. Pulling my bag off my shoulder, I take out the trowel and start digging. I go deeper than I need, but no one disturbs me.

  Amy offered to get flowers of course, if I wanted: ‘But only if you want, darling. You will ask, though, won’t you, if you do want anything?’

  But all I wanted was my school bag. Amy stared a bit when I came out to the car with it, but Paul just gave me a one-armed hug and reminded me to put my seatbelt on.

  I don’t talk to Fiona. I thought about it, but it seems wrong to talk to her like Amy talks to Adam, even though I’d say such very different things. But now I am here I find I don’t feel the need to say anything to her at all.

  Instead I take out the wooden box of ashes, unlatch the little clips and reach down into the hole to tip it out. Then I pile the soil back in and punch the whole thing down with the trowel again, and again, and again.

  I wipe my hands on the grass until most of the dirt is gone, then take the bottle of water from my bag and use it to rinse the rest of the mud off before picking the last flecks out from under my nails and wiping my fingers dry on a tissue. I inspect my hands – all clean again – then get to my feet.

  The muddy trowel goes into a shopping bag and then back into my school bag. The box stays in my hand. When I let myself back through the gate, I detour away from the church towards the tennis court. There’s a bin there, right by the fencing, and I push the wooden box into it. Its fall is cushioned by the rest of the rubbish and makes no sound, as if it has just dropped down, and down, and down into nothing and beyond.

  I thought about just tipping the ashes in our wheelie bin the day the lawyer handed them to me. Instead, Fiona and her parents can rot in the dark together.

  As I walk back up the path towards the church, I see Amy twisting her scarf anxiously about her hands. She says something to Paul that makes him hug her to his side and kiss her hair. Then he glances back and sees me, bends to tell Amy. She comes hurrying down the path so fast she is almost running, while Paul strolls behind, grinning at her.

  I stop and smile as I watch them come towards me. Amy slows to a walk and smiles too, her face alight with relief, and with love.

  They put their arms around my shoulders, one on either side, as we walk back to the car.

  ‘Ms Winters did say she would come over tonight, didn’t she?’ I ask as we crunch across the gravel.

  ‘Of course she did,’ Amy says softly, smiling down at me. ‘She’s very proud of you for coming here today. We all are.’

  I got Amy and Paul to invite her. And I made sure that they went on and on about how important it was to me: how much it would mean for all the people who understand the significance of my going to see Fiona’s grave to be there tonight to support me . . .

  Although I know she must suspect the real reason I want her to come is that Uncle Ben will be there too, I figured she’d agree anyway because she is proud that I came today. And that’s the perfect excuse for her to give in because I know she wants to see Uncle Ben again. And over a family dinner she’s not just my teacher or even my not-counsellor but a friend. Someone who’s slowly becoming part of all of our lives. I mean, I know that it’s mostly because of me right now, but I doubt that’s how it’ll turn out in the end.

  She can talk about it ‘not being ethical to develop a romantic connection’ (as she puts it) all she likes, but she was always quite clearly and purposefully not my counsellor: that was the whole point. So she can’t have it both ways, can she?

  And what’s the harm in my favourite teacher dating my uncle? There aren’t even any rules against teachers dating parents. Oh, I don’t doubt she’ll fret and stress over it for a while yet. But I’ll just keep reminding her that she’s hardly letting me down since it was my idea in the first place. Maybe I’ll even volunteer to see a real counsellor for a bit, just to make her and Uncle Ben happy. And maybe I can even get the counsellor to report back to Amy (who can report back to Ms Winters and Uncle Ben) that I’m really and truly happy about them being together. I’ve never understood the whole fuss she’s making or how she could think that going on a date with Uncle Ben would cross ‘ethical and moral boundaries’, but I figure she’ll get over it in time as happiness smoothes everything over into contentment and laughter.

  They’re laughing as they spill into the hall this evening, having arrived at our garden gate at exactly the same moment. They laugh as they shed hats and gloves and scarves and coats and inner layers. And then all of us are laughing together as we collide in the kitchen trying to set the table and finish cooking. More laughter as we eat.

  I wait until after dinner, when Amy, Paul and Uncle Ben are finishing up in the kitchen, then ask Ms Winters to come and lay out the mah-jong set with me.

  I fetch the case while Ms Winters clears the table, then I tip the tiles out in a roar like monsoon rain. We both laugh awkwardly at the noise as we bend to pick up the pieces that have spilled on to the floor. The conversation ahead is heavy in the air.

  Suddenly I am struck with the urge to be wicked. It’s partly because of the tension and partly because there’s something I’ve been wanting to know for months now. I sit back on my heels, abandoning the fallen tiles. ‘Do you and Uncle Ben know each other from somewhere?’ I ask. ‘I mean, had you met before that day when Uncle Ben bought me the Dalí book?’

  ‘Oh,’ Ms Winters says, blinking at me as she redirects her thoughts from Fiona’s grave. A smile gentle with pleased surprise comes across her face. ‘I’ve been thinking about that myself, actually, and I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I just don’t know. Sometimes it seems like I must have met him before – several times I’ve felt like I recognised him and he me – but I just can’t put my finger on it. Perhaps we talked one day over oranges in the supermarket. We both live and work so close by, I suppose it would be surprising if we hadn’t met in passing or at least seen each other on the street one day, but . . .’ She shrugs.

  I return her smile then turn my attention back to making sure all the tiles are face down. But when I glance up, Ms Winters is looking away towards the window with that same expression of wistful tenderness I wondered about before, though now it’s mingled with curiosity and humour. Then suddenly the line of her jaw tightens and something else enters her eyes: something a little like hope and a little like wonder. I watch it mellow into longing before I look away, busying myself with the game.

  ‘So I went to Fiona’s grave today,’ I say, as I straighten the wall of tiles I’m building.

  Then I wait until Ms Winters sighs. I know that however she feels about poss
ibly ‘muddying the waters’ by talking to me outside one of our not-counselling sessions, she can’t resist this invitation. After all, she’s not just my teacher now. Not after tonight. Not even before tonight. She’s a friend and one day she’ll be family. She’s not sure of that yet, but that’s OK. I can be sure enough for all of us.

  ‘I was pretty surprised when I got Amy’s call about your plans, but I expect you’ve been thinking about it for a while,’ she says eventually and I smile, wondering how long Amy and Paul will make me wait after she and Uncle Ben start dating before they let me ask if I can be a bridesmaid.

  ‘I hope you weren’t disappointed with how you felt afterwards,’ Ms Winters is saying cautiously, feeling her way through the words even as she sinks back into the sofa cushions now that we’re ready to play the game. ‘I know how easy it is to build up all these hopes and expectations, and then find that real life just doesn’t match up to your imagination.’

  I meet her concerned look with a smile. She smiles tentatively back.

  In my pocket, I cradle the Dragon in the palm of my hand. ‘Sometimes it does,’ I say. ‘But sometimes there’s not such a difference between imagination and reality after all.’

  That night, when I go to bed, I find the fortune-cookie message sitting on my alarm clock.

  I quirk an eyebrow at the Dragon. ‘Did you put that there?’ I ask.

  The Dragon puffs smoke into the air. It does that now sometimes. I’m still not quite sure what it means. Perhaps something like purring. I doubt I’ll get an answer if I ask.

  Sighing, I pick up the little piece of paper and pull out the storage drawer under my bed to tuck it back into my secrets tin. Of course, I end up sitting cross-legged by the bed, going through all the special things I keep in there. And then I come to the little matchbook from the Chinese restaurant. Only it’s crumpled and a little dirty. The bit where you strike the matches is marked. I open the book and see that three of the matches are missing.

  I turn to the Dragon, frowning.

  ‘What on earth did you want with the matches?’ I ask. ‘Why would a dragon even need matches?’

  The Dragon sends a tiny puff of smoke into the air and smiles.

  Author’s Note

  Before moving on to more important things, I have one factual note to mention. As plant-lovers (and poisoners) are probably aware, the botanical name for deadly nightshade is atropa belladonna, though it’s often referred to simply as belladonna. In Italian it means ‘beautiful woman’.

  Before any book-related thank yous, I want to give special thanks to Jill Shields, Ian Gavin Wright, Emma Beddow and Neal Evans for all their help with potting ribs. And for a great deal more kindness than anyone could ask for, but for which I am very grateful.

  Among the many, many wonderful people who have helped, directly and indirectly, with the writing of this book, particular mention must go to my ‘first reader’, the fiercely wonderful Pat Neal, for never being anything less than completely supportive and, in this case, for loving my wicked little book, including its ending, before anyone else had reassured me that other people might like it too. And to Riccardo Bennett-Lovsey and Frances Housden for reading and commenting even when frantically busy (and for providing me with one of the best things ever: a real bone dragon), James Wildman for also somehow finding the time to provide a wealth of ideas and act as a sounding board, Tony Barry for listening and talking and standing around in a swimming pool coming up with new scenes (the smoke-alarm stuff turned out rather well!), and Sarah Goldsmith for tips on dialogue. My parents provided, among many other things, a room of my own and, thus, the means to pursue a very, very stupid career choice. Thanks for letting me be dumb and only saying ‘We told you so!’ about the good stuff.

  Huge thanks to Michael and Malsi Foreman, Irv and Dena Schechter, for always reading my work and encouraging me. To Jacob Bauman for giving me confidence when I was most afraid I’d never get there. To Fionnuala Duggan and Steve Kanis for their super-quick responses to pleas for advice. To Jonathan Davis for taking the time to read and personally pass the manuscript along. And to Susan Schonfield for her medical expertise and tips about the carving of bone and cartilage, and Claire Preston for helping me find my way about the Cambridgeshire fens.

  Many, many thanks to Lizzie Hasnip-Hill and Guy Brandon for many, many dragons over the years. To Dany Khosrovani (my wonderful godmother), Jens Turowski, Neil Rickards, Andrew Shepherd, Krysia Szurlej, Clare Reed and Jenny White, and the Anglo-Italian hordes for making me feel good about life. To Fauzia Rahman, Janine Oliver, Heather Steady, Chris and Carmel Siggs, and especially Katie and Peter Gray for believing I could do it. To Jimmy Nederlander, Michael Codron, John Packer, David Good, Bobbie Wells, Jonathan White and Shohini Chaudhuri for all the opportunities and encouragement. And to Maureen Cooke, for giving me the words.

  Last but by no means least, I wish I had the words to express how grateful I am to the many wonderful people who liked my book and helped get it into print. My first thanks must go to agent extraordinaire Claire Wilson, who is not only brilliant but amazingly kind and patient; she not only gave superb advice and feedback, but gave it with such understanding of what mattered most to me about the book that it made the initial editing process far, far more fun than I ever realised it could be. Huge thanks and heartfelt gratitude are due to Rebecca Lee, my fabulous editor at Faber & Faber, who took such tremendous time and care over the edits that I was in the ideal situation for any author – able to actively enjoy revising the manuscript through sensitive comments that helped me produce the book I’d hoped to write. Lucie Ewin project edited at the speed of lightning and made the process unbelievably calm and organised. Eleanor Rees, copy-editor par excellence, did the most brilliant, meticulous job on the manuscript, especially with hyphens and repeated words (where did they all come from?). Many other people contributed to the book including (in strictly alphabetical order) Luke Bird (design), Lizzie Bishop (rights), Marta Gala (sales and publicity), Susan Holmes (marketing), Laura Smythe (publicity, including the first little piece in The Bookseller), Leah Thaxton (Children’s Publisher), and Dave Woodhouse (sales). I am sure there will be other people who I’ve missed out because we hadn’t met at the time of writing, but many thanks to you too! I shall update this note in the paperback, I promise.

  So many well-deserved thank yous: what a very lucky writer I am.

  Along with all these thanks, there’s just one thing I want (for obvious reasons – see the ending for further details) to state for the record. I do have a rib in a pot, but I am not Evie: I am three full rib-points ahead of Evie with a grand total of four potted ribs (well, four pieces of rib since we’re not talking entire ribs here). I’d always planned to make the first rib into a necklace ornament (of a Dragon, of course, engraved with eldritch symbols) and then I figured I’d get not only earrings but a bracelet out of pieces 2-4. No such luck: they were stolen by medical science. However, if there are any critics reading this note and feeling particularly critical, please bear in mind that I do still have one very nice rib-in-a-pot just waiting to become a Dragon.

  About the author

  A British-American citizen of Italian heritage, Alexia is an editor, teacher and writing consultant. After studying psychology then educational technology at Cambridge, she moved to New York to work on a Tony-award-winning Broadway show before completing a PhD and teaching qualification. In between, she worked as a West End script-critic, box-office manager for a music festival and executive editor of a human rights journal. Alexia has always wanted a Dragon; luckily, she has her very own rib in a pot . . .

 

 

 
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