I fumbled about among the boxes and bags on top of the wardrobe. I had to do it by feel because it was too high up to see. I pulled at a bag that seemed promising but turned out to be the theater I’d made from a shoe box in Year 5. Another was the overcomplicated board game Auntie Jen had given us last Christmas (and we’d never played). But here was one that felt more like it: a plastic bag, loosely tied at the handles. I opened it up and peered in.
I hadn’t seen the duster for years but the binding had lasted: The feathers were still in their bunch, Squawky’s green ones and all. How I loved that duster! But I only allowed myself one quick look before retying the bag, jumping down off the chair, and hurrying back out.
In Bogsy’s shed I closed the freezer and put everything back how I’d found it, although there was no need to worry anymore. To pretend that no one had been here was pointless now. The plastic bag was from Sainsbury’s and bright orange: Bogsy would notice it straightaway. I put it on top of the freezer, right in the middle, on top of everything else. I half wished I’d written a label: “Please help yourself.” But there was no need. Or “From an Admirer,” but then it wouldn’t have been anonymous, would it? (Or would it? I get confused. Never mind.)
I didn’t even mind the thought that my lovely duster would be destroyed. It was going to be part of something much greater. And I would be part of it, too. That’s what I wanted: not thanks, not praise, but just to know I’d contributed something. The work and the triumph would be Bogsy’s, of course. And the flight—because obviously Bogsy was going to fly. (Maisie was wrong!) But, when he did, the flashes of green would be proof that I’d been involved.
That’s all I wanted. The excitement of that remained, all the way to the bus stop. So did the faint smell of spearmint in my nostrils, which made it more real.
I found I had missed the first B17. I’d have to wait for the second. But any trouble I might get into at school was a small price to pay.
“Icarus and Alex Meadows!” said Mr. Smith. “What do they have in common?”
I stood uncomfortably in the doorway, longing to go to my place, but held where I was by Mr. Smith’s pointing finger. He was like Zeus, threatening me with a thunderbolt.
“They’re both idiots!” shouted Alan Tydman.
“Wrong!” Mr. Smith shouted back. “Alex isn’t an idiot, though he may behave like one.”
“Neither of them can get up in the morning?” shouted somebody else.
“Wrong again! Icarus got up too high! That’s what caused his downfall. Alex hasn’t had his downfall—yet. That’s a clue, though. Come on!”
I looked at Bogsy. He was staring through the window at the sky. He had good reason to be interested in it—though perhaps he was only distancing himself from what was happening here in the room. I knew no more of his character than the rest of the class knew of mine—or, for that matter, any of us knew of Icarus’s. Icarus was the boy who flew; Alex was the boy who stayed in bed. We’ve both become known for one thing, I could have suggested to Mr. Smith.
“They’re both boys ending in ‘s,’ sir!”
“Neither of them’s got a ‘z’ in their name!”
“All right! That’s enough!” Mr. Smith’s pointing finger became an upturned Stop Where You Are sign. “I’ll tell you what Icarus and Alex have in common. They both pushed their luck. Alex, Miss McGowan has spoken to me”—Lydia and Candy went Ooh; he ignored them—“Miss McGowan has spoken to me about what’s been going on—and it’s got to stop. She’s given you too many chances. I’m giving you one. This is it. Take one more, and you’ll find yourself smashed”—he smacked his hand down on his desk—“into tiny pieces, covered in a horrible, brown, sticky mixture of beeswax and blood! For all we know, there were nasty rocks in the Icarian Sea.”
Nobody laughed. I went and sat down. Bogsy was still looking out the window, but of course he must have heard. I wondered what he’d used to fix his feathers in place: something better than beeswax.
I decided not to tell Maisie about the duster. I’d never kept something important from her before. But since she’d gone all funny about Icarus, I didn’t trust her to react to things in the right way. She might say I shouldn’t have done it—and leaving those feathers for Bogsy had been my masterstroke. Besides, when I got to The Laurels on Saturday morning, she wasn’t alone. Donald was there.
“G’day, Al!” he sang out cheerily. He didn’t really have an Australian accent, but he could put one on. He was having a laugh. Nobody calls me Al, and just for a moment I thought Alan Tydman had followed me in. I even glanced over my shoulder. But Donald didn’t know Alan Tydman existed and, with luck, never would. It wasn’t a good start, though.
“Hello,” I said, coldly.
Even without the duster, there was so much news to tell Maisie: Bogsy’s shed, his freezer, the wing, the sunset notes. Oddly, he still hadn’t handed those out—and that was something I needed to discuss. But with Donald there, I couldn’t say any of it. It was really annoying. “You haven’t gone back to Australia, then?” I asked rudely.
“Don’t think so!” he said. He frisked himself quickly. “Nope. Still here!”
“What’s the matter?” said Maisie. “Come in and sit down. Stop scowling. It doesn’t suit you. Don’t mind Donald. He knows everything. You can talk in front of him.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Donald knows what’s been happening. With whasisname. I told him. You can talk to us both.”
“You told him?”
“Now, look here,” she snapped. “What’s wrong with that? For better, for worse, he’s my boy and I trust him. You should tell one of your teachers. But I bet you haven’t! Well, have you?”
There was no point carrying on if she wasn’t on my side, and it seemed she wasn’t. I needn’t even answer her question, since it was one of those rhetorical ones Mr. Smith talked about. She knew the answer already.
Lucky I’d never sat down. It made it easier to go. But just as I was about to, Donald said, “Now, Ma, remember what I was like at Al’s age. Don’t be hard on him now. If he doesn’t want to go to his teacher, why should he? It’ll all be harmless fun. I’ll eat my hat if it isn’t!”
I looked at him, surprised. I hadn’t thought he would stick up for me. I tried to imagine him wearing a hat: It would have to be one of those ones that Australians wear to keep the flies off, with corks hanging down all round the brim. The worst kind to eat!
But he wouldn’t have to, would he? I was glad. And I made a decision.
“I’ve been to Icarus’s place,” I said. “I know what he’s doing!”
Maisie just huffed, but Donald said, “You do?”
And so I told him. I told them both, only Maisie was sulking and wouldn’t respond. I told them about Bogsy’s shed, the mess (and the math), and even the spy tube fixed to the wall. But I didn’t mention Wonderland, since that was silly.
“You saw me, sitting in Dad’s old shed?” said Donald. “Well, I’ll be … ” He laughed. “Good job I was behaving myself! D’you know, I spotted his bone-handle penknife and I so nearly took it! If I’d known I was under surveillance … Well, anyway, I didn’t.”
“Didn’t take it or didn’t know?”
“Both. I only wanted a keepsake and I didn’t think anyone would mind. But I’m glad to say I resisted the urge.” He held up his hands. “Not guilty, m’lud!” He let them fall. “So, what next? What else did you find?”
I told them about the freezer and the wing. They were impressed. Maisie tightened her lips to try to hide it, but Donald again said, “Well, I’ll be … ” only with even more feeling now. “He really is going to fly!”
Maisie couldn’t contain herself at that. “Boobies! Both of you!” she cried. “Can’t you see?” She snatched up her necklace and clasped it.
I ignored her. “And I know when!”
I said about the sunset notes.
“Have you brought yours?” asked Donald in excitement. “Come on! Where is i
t?”
I had to explain that for some reason Bogsy had still not handed them out. “I think he forgot,” I added. “He’s quite absentminded.”
Maisie gave up completely. “Absentminded? Not he!” she spluttered.
“He forgets to hand in his homework,” I pointed out.
“Homework! This one’s got his mind on higher things than homework! Let’s hope not too high—but don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
She let go of the necklace to raise both her hands in a gesture of hopelessness, then let them fall—flump—in her lap. She really was overreacting to this. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Anyway, when is sunset?” I asked.
“When the sun sets,” she said, getting her own back.
“Ma!” said Donald. “Don’t tease. You know what Al means.”
He said he wasn’t the best person to ask, since back home (I thought Maisie winced at the word) it was summer. But “What d’you think, Ma? Six o’clock?” he mused. “It gets earlier and earlier each day. Maybe half past five?”
Maisie didn’t answer, so I said, “He’s forgotten the notes, I just know! I’m going to remind him. I’m going to put a note in his bag … ”
Maisie said nothing to that, but it got Donald going.
“No, no, you mustn’t!” he said, alarmed. “If he knows he’s been rumbled, he may go to ground. Then we’ll never find out what he’s planning.”
How right I’d been to keep quiet about the duster! Feeling smug, I said innocently, “Well, I’ve got to do something!”
“Tell a teacher!” said Maisie for about the hundredth time.
“Spoilsport!” said Donald, and they began to argue. She called him a booby and he returned with, “Booby yourself!”
I said good-bye, but they barely noticed. Certainly nobody asked me to take a message home to Don.
At half past five that afternoon, I went to Don’s shed. I wanted to watch the sunset and I wanted to find Don’s penknife and I wanted to feel that Bogsy might be working away on his wings in the shed next door. Working and wondering who could have brought him his gift.
I wouldn’t even mind if he took a look at me through his tube. I knew that artists did things their way. You just had to let them.
As for the setting sun, I was only surprised I had never noticed it before. I sat on my usual box and looked out at it. Perfectly framed in the doorway, it was. It was like a show put on especially for me. And it was amazing.
I don’t think you’re meant to stare at the sun. It makes you go blind or something. But I couldn’t help it. (And I’m not blind yet.)
It was like a great, glowing apricot, only not any color you could name. Not apricot color, nor peach, nor orange; not pink and not red, not yellow and not even gold. When Bogsy was painting his suns on the wall, he must have wished they’d invent a new color because none of the ones they’d invented already were right.
I tried to imagine him flapping along out there. How majestic he’d be! His wings would beat slowly; his body, I thought, would be carried underneath. (There’s a type of bird that flies like that. I think it’s a heron.) You might even hear a wheezing of air as you do when geese fly over. You wouldn’t see anything in detail, only the black shape against the sun. You certainly wouldn’t make out individual feathers, nor that, just here and there, some were green.
I looked around for Don’s penknife and found it at last, in a pencil pot. It wasn’t a pencil pot really, but a mug that had lost its handle and had a bunch of old pencils (and the knife) stuck in. The mug was dirty and chipped but still said clearly, “World’s Greatest Dad.”
I’d been wrong about Donald. I held the penknife in my hand and examined it closely. It was old but not rusty; not nearly as good as a Swiss Army knife, but okay. Although it had only two blades, its handle was lovely—the color of honey and warmish to touch. I’d have liked to keep it.
But I wouldn’t. I’d give it to him.
And then I got the idea that I’d put together a whole collection of keepsakes—things from the shed that he hadn’t had time to look through before. He could take them back to Australia and remember the old days.
I put the knife in a cookie tin, which already contained a mousetrap and a packet of parsley seeds. I added a small blue plate that said, in swirly writing, “A present from Bournemouth”; also a little glass bottle of something called Tomorite. I pulled out a drawer from the old chest of drawers and balanced it over my knees so I could scrabble about for more things.
I wondered again if Bogsy was there. I was careful not even to glance toward the back wall. There was so much missing mortar, I couldn’t have said which gap he looked through, even if I had wanted to, which I didn’t. Let him look. That was fine by me.
Shadow was there, curled up, fast asleep, in an old, round washing-up bowl. But the nibbler was silent, as it had been for weeks. I was glad. Mason bees were bad news. Since I’d gotten all excited about Icarus—found out so much and pushed things along—the idea of creatures that did so little made me twitchy. I put out a hand to stroke Shadow, and she curled up tighter for a moment.
I found another packet of seeds, but by now it was too dark inside the shed to make out what kind they were.
Too dark! I’d forgotten about the sunset. When I looked up, the whole sky was pink but the sun itself had dropped behind the trees so that only its top edge showed. It had certainly gotten a move on while I’d been looking in the drawer.
I checked my watch. I had to press the button to light up the display. 6:01. I checked the sky. Donald was right. Between half past five and six o’clock, the sun had set.
The sunset notes were delivered on Monday. Everyone had them by lunchtime and no one could talk about anything else. The girls enjoyed the spookiness of it: “Ooh, it’ll be getting dark!” The boys were tense because of Alan. Alan Tydman was in a rage.
Behind the science wall, he gave up trying to pretend he wasn’t interested now.
Tom and Damien turned up with money, but Rob Bone sent them away.
“What time’s sunset, then?” Alan jabbed his note back in its envelope and screwed the whole thing up in his fist.
“Six o’clock, Al,” I dared to say, “or maybe before.”
“Bed-ows!” he snarled. “Shut your gob! What do you know?” He threw the screwed-up paper in my face. I caught it and clutched it, as if that would help.
“Why can’t he say six o’clock if he means it? What’s his problem?” Alan went on.
But I was too scared to say any more. I could feel the ball of paper already moist from the sweat of my palm.
“What’s your problem?” Suddenly, Alan rounded on Rob Bone and Jack and the rest. “What d’you think you’re doing?” He swore and called them a load of insulting names.
Someone was going to get hurt, for sure. It was going to be soon. It was going to be bad. Pointless to try and guess who it would be. It would be whoever was unlucky enough to be nearest when Alan lost control. In a way, he already had. That’s what this was about. He commanded his Battalion: gave us our ranks, our places, our orders. That was the way it was meant to be and we knew where we were. Alan commanded Alan’s Battalion, but he wasn’t directing the Icarus Show.
And he wouldn’t be able to tolerate it much longer.
But nothing happened that lunchtime because the bell went before it could. Silently and gratefully, we left the wall and went in.
For old times’ sake, I took my envelope down to Don’s shed. I hadn’t opened it at school because I didn’t need to. I almost didn’t open it now, but I liked the idea of repeating patterns. The spider was there. Maybe Bogsy was, too, peering down his tube. I hoped he was: I thought I could put on a little show of my own.
I wiggled my finger under the flap and broke the seal. There was the slip of white paper inside. I brought it out with a tiny flourish and held it up to read.
Nothing.
I turned it over.
Still nothing.
/> The paper was blank on both sides. I felt confused.
My first thought was, Has he gone to ground? Donald had said he might. Foxes did, when the hounds got too close. The nibbler had, when summer was over.
A person would go to ground if they felt a pursuer hot on their heels. Had Bogsy felt me hot on his? How had he guessed who the feathers were from? And anyway, they were a present—something nice, something useful, not threatening at all.
No, he had not gone to ground. He’d given out notes to everyone else, hadn’t he? This was personal. You wouldn’t have thought it could be: a blank piece of paper in a blank envelope. But in fact I’d never received such a personal thing in all my life. “You!” it screamed. “You! You! YOU!” In the silence, I put my hands up to my ears, it seemed so loud.
Did it cross my mind that there’d been some mistake? Yes, it did, but I knew that there hadn’t been. Bogsy might be forgetful, but this was deliberate, a thought-out thing. It was a response.
And then I was angry.
I’d given Bogsy a present. And somehow he’d worked out who I was—and done this. He’d pushed me away, cut me out of the circle, given me—made me—even less than the others. I deserved more!
And then I lost control, but not in an Alan Tydman way. I mean my brain wasn’t in control of what I did next.
I sprang from my box and ran out of the shed. I pulled the garbage cans apart and burst through. Then I was outside Bogsy’s shed and, without hesitation, opening the door. Before I could properly see inside (but I knew he was there), “Where’s my note?” I exploded. “My sunset note? I should get one, like everyone else!”
He was sitting in his chair, which was the sort they have in offices—gray, with cushiony bits and a swivel device. He was sitting up straight, with his arms on the armrests. He looked like a king on a throne, waiting for one of his subjects to appear. It was disconcerting, but I stood my ground. He’d been expecting me.
The Icarus Show Page 7