by Pam Smy
She screamed more. She shouted and raged, begged me to let her out and to get away from this hideous thing, asking what I was doing. What was this stuff?
Then I sat down again, the matches ready in my hands. I sat quietly and listened as the door bumped and trembled against my back. And I felt good. I enjoyed her fear.
And then she went quiet.
I heard her slide down the door and sit with her back to it. She must have been sitting in a pool of kerosene. Her shouts eased into hiccupping sobs, but mostly she was still. And we both sat there, back-to-back. Her on one side of the door, me on the other.
Then she started to talk.
“Mary, is that … thing … is that made out of your puppets? Is that what you have made from the pieces I left? Mary, it’s hideous and your puppets were so beautiful.
“Mary, I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to break them. I didn’t want to ruin everything. I went in your room and it was so … amazing. Your books, your puppets. You didn’t need any of us because you had it all there—everything about you is in that room. And I couldn’t bear it that you would never let me in … I know I have been horrible. I know I have made you miserable. But you were the only one I could never get a reaction from, who wouldn’t just follow me blindly. Of all the things I did, we all did to you, you never reacted. It was only once Kathleen left that I heard you crying. And I realized you wouldn’t cry because of me. So I stopped, Mary, didn’t I? But I still came up to your room at night. I wanted us to be friends. I even wrote it on your door. But you walked away. Like everyone else you turned your back on me. I even asked you to stay and you went. You called me a monster and you are right. I have become a monster so that they will notice me. Listen to me. But no one really hears what I am trying to say. They see this face, Mary. They read my records. I am trying to ask for help and they don’t see it. They don’t see me.
“We are the same, Mary. We are the voiceless ones. We are invisible. It doesn’t have to be like this, Mary. Last night I packed a bag. It’s in my room now. I would be away from here if I hadn’t gotten your note. I want a new start—not the one they have planned for me, but one where I can start afresh. Mary, you could come—we could leave Thornhill together. We could be friends. Please, Mary. It’s this place. It’s Thornhill. It made a monster of me years ago and now it is doing the same to you, Mary. Let’s get away.
“Please Mary.
“Please.”
What she said was so unexpected. I didn’t know what to do. I quietly got up and walked away and left her there. I have come up here to think it through.
Could I have misunderstood? Maybe she really did want to be friends, to ask me, and didn’t know how. I have a sinking feeling that I have made a terrible mistake and just as Jane and Mrs. Davies misunderstood me, I have misunderstood her. She has been unkind to me, but has she been trying to change and I just couldn’t see? I thought of her tear-stained face at the doctor’s office, the sound of her sobbing in the night.
Is she right? Is it really this place, this life that made her that way? Am I turning into a monster too?
I thought of my anger as I made my ugly puppet. It would be down there now, slowly turning on its noose. One hour ago I was so consumed with a fiery rage, I would have set light to her, to me, to Thornhill. Now the anger has gone, evaporated, and I just feel bewildered. Have I really become so inhuman as to think of destroying another person?
It is not her fault.
It is not my fault.
Somehow it is all wrong.
I went back downstairs, my steps echoing loudly through the empty house.
She was silent on the other side of the pantry door. My hand shook as I turned the key in the lock.
She was standing there, facing me, as I opened the door. Her face was bruised and her jeans were wet with kerosene.
I smiled at her.
She smiled back.
For a moment I thought we really could be friends. We could leave Thornhill together.
I reached out as if to give her a hug.
But then I noticed that her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her expression was cold. Hard. Her stare dropped to my arms and then back to my face. The smile became a sneer.
“Don’t be an idiot, Mary. You didn’t really think I would take you with me, did you?”
She shoved past me. Pushing me down those steps. I was tumbling just as she had hours before.
She looked down on me from the top of the stairs.
“Freak!” she shouted, and she was gone.
I lay on the floor, listening as she ran around the ground floor, trying doors. Eventually I heard glass break and all went quiet. She had gone. I was alone.
She had taken my last scrap of hope with her. I lay on the floor in the pantry, unhurt but broken. She had fooled me again. All that anger. All that planning and I hadn’t had my revenge—I couldn’t even get that right. Am I so desperate for a friend that I would believe anything she said?
I watched the monster puppet spinning slowly on the end of her rope.
It is just me here in Thornhill.
And I know what I have to do.
It took me a while to unhook my monster puppet from her noose. But I did it. I carried her, like a child in my arms, up the pantry steps and out into the main hall, past all the locked and empty bedrooms on the second, third, and fourth floors.
Once I was back up here, I wrapped her in a blanket, and, just as I had seen that mother do in the dark all those nights ago, I stood at my window and rocked my ugly monster back and forth. I wanted to show her some kindness. I sang her a lullaby and then laid her in my bed, tucking the blankets around her so that she was snug, her head resting on my pillow. I covered her with a blanket so she could rest in the warm and the quiet after I had gone.
I straightened everything in my room. I made sure my puppets hung neatly above the bookshelves, my dolls sat up straight between my books. I folded everything away in the drawers. My room is in order.
For the last time I stood and looked out over the treetops and watched the birds fly free. Somewhere out there she is free too. Free from Thornhill. Would she ever be free from what it has made her?
And me?
I cannot leave.
I cannot walk away from Thornhill.
I cannot leave my patched and broken puppets. They are my friends and my family. They have been my companions no matter what. They have heard it all and seen everything. They are here and Thornhill has been my home.
So this is my last entry in this diary.
When I have finished this page I will leave it on my windowsill and hope that one day someone will care enough to read it and that one day someone will understand.
I am going to lock this room and hide the key in the secret garden where I have been so happy.
And then?
I will end it where it all began.
I will go back down to the pantry where it all started to change.
I will make sure they can’t ever send me away.
And I’ll make sure that I stay here, at Thornhill, for as long as I choose.
It is my choice and I choose Thornhill. I will never leave.
All I wanted was a friend.
Acknowledgments
This book would not have happened without the help and support of some wonderful people.
I would like to thank those who helped me with the application for my sabbatical, especially Simon Pratt-Adams and Philip Pullman. Andrew Erby of The Leys gave me access to draw on the school site, which proved to be invaluable.
I am grateful to Libby and Clemie for patiently modeling for me and to Helen Merrin for letting me use some of her fabulous pattern designs. Chie Hosaka has been a reliable and entertaining help in preparing the artwork for this book.
My agent, Elizabeth Roy, has been a steady friend and support during the course of this project, as have my colleagues at Cambridge School of Art, especially Chris Owen, John Clarke, and Hannah Webb.
; This book may have my name on it, but it has been a team effort from the outset. I owe so much to all the staff at David Fickling Books, but especially to David Fickling for believing in the story, to Bronwen Bennie for her professionalism and enthusiasm, to Alice Corrie for guiding me through with a steady hand, and to Ness Wood for being an inspirational designer and friend.
Most of all I am grateful to Dave and Mila for being so patient and understanding while I have been working on Thornhill—your constant kindness and support have been a gift. Thank you.
About the Author
Pam Smy is a Senior Lecturer in Illustration at the Cambridge School of Art at Anglia Ruskin University, which she combines with a career as an illustrator. She earned a BA in Illustration and an MA in Children’s Illustration, both from Anglia Ruskin, and since she graduated in 2001, her work has been published by many leading U.K. publishers, including David Fickling Books, Walker Books, The Folio Society, Penguin Random House, and Egmont.
Pam lives in Cambridge with her husband, author-illustrator Dave Shelton, her daughter, Mila, and her dog, Barney, and she likes drawing, reading novels, and watching old movies.
Thornhill is the first novel Pam has both written and illustrated. You can sign up for author updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
February 8, 1982
February 9, 1982
February 14, 1982
February 16, 1982
February 17, 1982
February 25, 1982
February 26, 1982
March 1, 1982
March 2, 1982
March 8, 1982
March 11, 1982
March 13, 1982
April 4, 1982
April 18, 1982
April 30, 1982
May 1, 1982
May 3, 1982
May 4, 1982
May 8, 1982
May 9, 1982
May 10, 1982
May 15, 1982
June 3, 1982
June 4, 1982
June 16, 1982
June 23, 1982
June 24, 1982
June 25, 1982
June 28, 1982
July 2, 1982
July 10, 1982
July 12, 1982
July 15, 1982
July 16, 1982
July 17, 1982
July 18, 1982
July 19, 1982
July 20, 1982
July 21, 1982
July 22, 1982
July 23, 1982
July 24, 1982
July 28, 1982
July 29, 1982
July 30, 1982
August 7, 1982
August 9, 1982
August 11, 1982
August 15, 1982
August 16, 1982
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Text and illustrations copyright © 2017 by Pam Smy.
Published by Roaring Brook Press
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All rights reserved
eISBN 978-1-626-72653-6
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Control Number: 2017001991 (print)
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First published in Great Britain in 2017 by David Fickling Books
First American edition 2017