At the Firefly Gate

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Well, it’s time we went back and did something about lunch,’ Mum was saying, and Dad added, ‘We’re still a bit chaotic, indoors. It’ll be a relief to go back to work tomorrow, I can tell you.’

  ‘Bye then, Henry,’ Dottie called from her chair. ‘See you tomorrow!’ Again that look — as if she’d known him for ages, as if they were great friends and could have had a good old natter if there’d been more time. Just for a second, as he smiled back, he felt like that, too.

  They went through the house to the front door. Grace was nowhere to be seen. Mum and Dad must have noticed how rude she was. She could hardly have made it more obvious that she wanted nothing to do with him.

  But all Dad said, opening their own front door, was, ‘Nice family, aren’t they? Did I get round to putting any beer in the fridge?’

  FOUR

  LEFT OUT

  Henry knew, with a part of his mind, that he was in bed and dreaming. But the dream was so real that he could smell the crushed grass and the doughnuts and feel the sun hot on his face.

  He was in a line of people — all young men his own age — waiting at the serving hatch of a mobile café. Standing in line, he felt in his pocket for change.

  Rusty nudged him. ‘Hey up! She’s a nice change from old Mike, I’ll say that for her.’

  Henry looked, and saw a girl at the counter, beside Mike who was always there. She had wavy brown hair clipped back from her face; she wasn’t especially pretty, but had amazingly blue, blue eyes that seemed to take in everything. She wore a yellow blouse and, over it, a clean white apron. When she crossed to the urn to top up a teapot with boiling water, her movements were full of energy. She turned back and just for a second looked straight at Henry, giving him a quick, shy smile. He was too slow to smile back. He felt himself going scarlet.

  The lad at the front of the queue must have made a joke; she burst out laughing. She had the most wonderful laugh Henry had ever heard. It rippled up from inside her and made him want to join in, even though he hadn’t heard what the boy said.

  ‘She’ll cheer up our tea-breaks, eh?’ Rusty said in his ear.

  ‘What you got for us today then, love?’ the next person asked.

  ‘Rock cakes, doughnuts, currant buns, fresh from the oven,’ the girl recited, in a Cockney accent. ‘And Mike’s special doorstop cheese sandwiches.’

  Henry couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  ‘Tea and a doughstop — I mean, tea and a doughnut, please,’ he asked shyly, when it was his turn. He knew he was still blushing.

  ‘That’ll be tuppence,’ the girl said. Henry handed over his shilling and she counted out his change — a sixpence, two pennies and four ha’pennies. As he took the coins from her he managed to drop them, scattering them on the grass.

  ‘Sorry,’ he and the girl said, both at once.

  He bent to pick them up, conscious of how daft he must look, bum in the air, scrabbling around after the glint of silver and copper in the grass. When all the coins were safely in his hand he straightened and smiled, and the girl looked relieved. ‘I’m such a clumsy ha’porth!’ she said. ‘It’s my first day, see — all fingers and thumbs, I am! See you tomorrow, then!’ And she smiled directly at him before whisking round to the caddy to spoon fresh tea-leaves into the pot.

  The doughnut was large and sticky and the tea was strong, in a chipped enamel mug. Carrying them, Henry walked slowly away, turning to look back at the girl as he waited for Rusty. Rusty said something to her and she smiled politely, but it wasn’t the special smile she’d given Henry.

  ‘Hey up, Hen!’ Rusty said, catching up. He nudged Henry with his elbow, as his hands were taken up with a tea-mug and two doughnuts. ‘She’s taken a bit of a shine to you, if you ask me! See you tomorrow! It’s practically a date!’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Henry said. ‘And leave off calling me Hen, will you!’

  They sat down on the grass. Henry’s change was still in his hand; about to put it in his trouser pocket, he glanced down and saw that the sixpenny-bit was a shiny new one. He liked those — they were meant to be lucky if you got one in your portion of Christmas pudding. ‘Here,’ he said on an impulse, handing it to Rusty. ‘This is for you. For luck.’

  ‘What, really?’ said Rusty. ‘Tea and a doughnut on me this afternoon, then.’

  ‘No. Don’t spend it,’ Henry said. ‘Keep it. Keep it safe.’

  It seemed important; he didn’t know why. But the dream was fading, the voices far away, and he was looking at bright daylight filtered through his bedroom curtains. He’d been about to bite into that doughnut and his throat was dry, thirsting for the tea.

  Sometimes Henry had a dream so vivid that he didn’t want to leave it, and this was one. He lay there thinking about it. Rusty? He’d never heard the name before, but could still see the freckled face and the thatch of ginger hair. He didn’t know why, but that grinning face seemed as familiar as Nabil’s, as if Rusty were his best friend. And he knew that Rusty’s name was Rusty Dobbs and that he came from Lowestoft and had a younger brother who walked with a limp because he’d had polio. All that must have been in the dream, though Henry couldn’t remember dreaming it. And it was weird about the girl, because Henry didn’t much like girls, but he liked the one at the canteen — her smile and her friendliness — and felt sorry that she was only in a dream.

  Funny, too — in the dream he had seemed to be older, though he felt just the same inside . . . but the memory was dissolving before he could clutch at any more detail, and the reality of Today was taking over. Stacked in the corner facing him were the boxes he’d got to unpack today. There was a crack in the plaster that snaked down from the ceiling. Dad, suddenly a DIY enthusiast, had said he’d soon repair it, and that Henry could choose any colour he liked for the walls. Chelsea blue was what Henry had in mind.

  All the days had got a bit jumbled, and Henry had to cast about in his mind before remembering that it was Monday. No school, because he wouldn’t be going in until tomorrow, for the first of the introductory days at Hartsfield High. It felt like a big weight in his chest, the thought of facing a class full of people he didn’t know, and everyone staring. He’d get a whole new lot of teasing, he knew he would, about his smallness. But he needn’t let that spoil today. He had a day’s free holiday, and the sun was already shining with such confidence that it seemed no rain cloud would dare get in its way for weeks to come.

  It was so quiet here. At home in London he had woken to the rumble of traffic on the road outside. Here, he heard one solitary car in the village street and birds singing, and — yes! A cuckoo! The first he’d ever heard, but unmistakable. He went to the window and looked out at the garden, the orchard trees, the field beyond, all hazy and soft in the early light. Cuck-oo! There it was again, a long way off — from the wood on the other side of the wheatfield.

  ‘Cuck-oo!’ he called back at it, waited and heard the answer float across the field a few moments later.

  He splashed some water over his face, brushed his teeth and put on his jeans and a T-shirt. Dad had gone off to Ipswich, early, to start his new job, and Mum would be back at work tomorrow. Henry had often wondered how his parents could be so different when it came to tidiness and order: Dad, like Henry, was the sort of person who scattered belongings around the house — a book here, a sweater there — and was for ever looking for things he’d misplaced. Mum, on the other hand, was meticulous about tidiness. A place for everything and everything in its place was her motto, and her mission in the new house was to decide just where those places ought to be. While Henry ate his Shred-dies, she finished arranging the herbs and spices in alphabetical order, then began ironing next day’s clothes. While Henry put an extra slice of bread in the toaster, she began next day’s ironing. She made short work of a crisp white shirt for Dad and a lilac one for herself; then, Henry saw with foreboding, his own, bright-red Strawberry Hill sweatshirt, with its printed strawberry design.

  ‘You can wear this tomorrow,’ sh
e explained. ‘The letter said you should wear uniform.’

  ‘It didn’t mean Strawberry Hill uniform! I’ll be the only one!’

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ Mum conceded. ‘It might be too hot for a sweatshirt. But I’ve washed and ironed it just in case. Now, are you going to start on those boxes?’

  It was odd, but having a day off school wasn’t as much fun as he’d expected. He sorted out his room — his books, models, CDs and some games he was really too old for, which he shoved out of the way in the bottom of his wardrobe — and it was still only halfway through the morning. He wandered downstairs. Mum had finished ironing and was now marshalling pots of jam, marmalade, mustard and pickle into one of the top cupboards. The back door was open, and on the mat, watching her with an expression of great seriousness, was a black-and-white cat with long white whiskers. It gave Henry a haughty look, then — obviously not much impressed — began licking one of its front paws, curving its wrist delicately.

  ‘Whose is that?’

  ‘The cat?’ Mum turned to check. ‘No idea. Pat’s, maybe? It just strolled in as if it belongs here.’

  Henry liked cats. ‘Shall we give it some milk?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no, we’re nearly out. You could go and buy some from the village shop, if they’ve got it? And a loaf of bread.’

  She gave Henry a two-pound coin. Outside, he broke into a run, past the row of cottages to the village green. The primary school was on the nearest side, the Post Office shop on the farther. It was playtime; everyone was out in the railed playground at the front. A football slammed against the wall and a boy ran over for it, grinning, while others called for attention; a girl yelled to another girl; smaller children crouched over games at ground level. The boy controlled the ball and looked around, deciding who to kick it to, then passed to a ginger-headed boy who dribbled neatly past two others before booting it between rucksack-goalposts by the far wall.

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ he crowed, arms held high, while one of the others protested, ‘That was off-side, just now!’

  None of them noticed Henry as he slowed to watch. A teacher came out of the main door with a bell — an old-fashioned hand-bell — which she clanged loudly. Still arguing about the off-side rule, the boys drifted inside, following the smaller children. The school was tiny: a stone building with its own clock-tower, high windows each side of the main door and two mobile classrooms at the edge of the playground. It looked friendly. But Henry had finished with primary school now; he’d already left it behind. At the moment, he belonged nowhere.

  Feeling lonely and left out, he crossed the grass towards the shop. At Strawberry Hill, the seat next to Nabil’s would be empty. What would they be doing now, in class 6G? He felt a pang of homesickness that was like tummy-ache.

  For the rest of the day he helped Mum to empty and flatten the remaining boxes and to put everything in cupboards and drawers. The cat lapped its milk, then curled up on the sofa. ‘It’ll leave hairs,’ Mum said, not used to animals in the house, but Henry pleaded for the cat to be allowed to stay. Later, he found it settled comfortably on his bed. It seemed to have moved in. It was a smart-looking cat, glossy black, with a white shirt-front, bristly white whiskers and white forepaws that looked dipped in milk. Its green eyes watched Henry lazily.

  ‘Can we keep it?’ he asked Mum when he next went downstairs.

  ‘Of course not! It must belong to someone, a well-fed cat like that. Doesn’t look like a stray, to me. I’ll ask Pat.’

  At that moment there was a knock on the front door. Henry went to answer and found Grace, leaning against the wall of the porch. She was in school uniform: short grey skirt, untucked white shirt and clumpy black shoes.

  ‘Mum says d’you want to come round,’ she said, without looking at him.

  Henry opened his mouth to say no thanks, but Mum was there first. ‘That’s kind of you!’ she exclaimed, as if the idea had been Grace’s own. ‘Do you mean just Henry, or both of us?’

  Grace examined her fingernails. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Actually I really ought to stay and finish this. Can you explain to your mum? But Henry can come. It’s been a bit dull for him, all day sorting stuff out. And,’ Mum added, ushering him out of the door, ‘you can ask about the cat. Go on, Henry.’ At least she didn’t call him Hen.

  Grace turned away with a suit yourself shrug. Reluctantly, Henry followed.

  FIVE

  PUDDING

  Henry wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, not even to Nabil, but he was scared of girls.

  Not all girls. Some — like Zubaida and Winifred and Antonina, in his class at Strawberry Hill — were OK. But there was a particular kind of girl he had learned to fear. Older girls. Loud girls. Girls who huddled together in scornful, cackling groups. Girls like Grace. Not that he’d actually seen Grace doing any of that, not yet, but her sulky voice and snooty expression warned him that she could huddle and cackle with the worst of them.

  Back in London there had been four Year Eight girls who always stood in the door of the video shop when he was on his way home from school. It was bad enough when he was with Nabil; worse every Wednesday, when Nabil went to his auntie’s and Henry had to go home on his own.

  ‘Oh, isn’t he cute!’ they’d call out, loudly enough for everyone in the street to hear.

  ‘Look at his sweet little face! Ickle Henrykins!’

  ‘Are you a trial size? A free sample?’

  ‘Watch out, Henrykins. Leanne gobbles up little boys for breakfast.’

  ‘Yeah, and big boys for dinner!’ Titter, giggle, shove.

  ‘Hey, I bet —’ And they would go into one of their whispering huddles, emerging from it with whoops and cackles that made Henry go scarlet as he scuttled past. That only provoked more taunts.

  ‘Ah, look, we’ve embarrassed him!’

  ‘Look at his little face! Matches his sweatshirt!’

  ‘Sssssss!’

  ‘Hurry home to Mummy — infants like you shouldn’t be out on your own!’

  When Henry had tried to tell Dad about it, he couldn’t make it sound nearly as bad as it felt. ‘Answer them back!’ Dad advised. ‘Don’t let them get to you. Anyway, you won’t always be small. When I was a year or two older than you, I suddenly shot up about a foot, in a matter of weeks. They’ll soon drop it and start on someone else.’

  ‘Good things come in small packages,’ Mum would say, ruffling his hair.

  Back in their London flat, there were pencil-marks on his bedroom wall to show his height, each line with a date written neatly beside. Although the marks were creeping up the wall, it wasn’t nearly fast enough to keep up with the rest of Year Six. Nabil, for instance, seemed to grow two or three centimetres for every one of Henry’s. Mum and Dad were always assuring him that he’d catch up eventually, but eventually seemed to be a long time coming.

  Now, unwillingly, Henry trudged behind Grace to Number One. At the front gate she paused, and told him, in her throwaway manner, ‘You can talk to dotty Aunt Dottie in the garden, Midget. I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘She didn’t seem dotty.’ Henry thought of the old lady’s bright eyes and her friendliness. ‘Not to me.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Well, ill, then. I mean, really ill. That’s why she looks so incredibly old. I bet you thought she was a hundred, didn’t you? Well, she’s not.’

  She pushed open the front gate. Pat was there at the door, smiling and cheerful in a bright yellow T-shirt with a blue whale on the front. ‘Come on through. We’re just having some tea.’

  They went through the kitchen to the garden. A table and chairs were set out there, and washing on a spinner. The old lady was sitting in her padded chair, just like yesterday, having a cup of tea and a game of Scrabble with Pat. She smiled at Henry and said, ‘Henry. It’s Henry,’ as if she liked saying his name; as if he were the person she had most been hoping to see. Henry looked at her, thinking of what Grace had just said. Dottie couldn’t be that ill, could she? Or she’d be indoors, in
bed.

  Pat brought Coke and cake for Henry and refilled Dottie’s tea-cup. Dottie took a piece of cake too — a big piece — and said to Henry, ‘How’s things? Getting yourselves straight along there?’

  Wondering how long he ought to stay, he took a gulp of Coke, too quickly; the bubbles fizzed up his nose, making him sneeze.

  ‘Bless you!’ said Dottie, and laughed. Henry’s wariness vanished as he looked at her, before another sneeze exploded out of him. She had an amazing laugh, rippling up from somewhere deep inside her, and she grinned at him as if she knew exactly what it was like to have Coke bubbles up her nose.

  ‘You going to play on the computer?’ Pat said to Grace. ‘Henry might like to join you.’

  Grace shook her head. She stuffed cake into her mouth until her cheeks bulged like a hamster’s, then sprawled on the grass, facing away from everyone, to read a magazine.

  Remembering the cat, Henry told Pat and Dottie about it. ‘It’s not yours, is it?’

  Pat shook her head. ‘No, we haven’t got a cat — John’s allergic to their fur. But from what you say, it sounds like Pudding, though it’s hard to believe after so long.’

  ‘Pudding?’ Henry echoed. The cat at home seemed far too dignified to be called Pudding.

  ‘Pudding belonged to the old man who lived in your house — Mr Jessop,’ Pat said. ‘Over a year ago he moved out, to a nursing home, and the house was empty from then till it was put up for sale and your Mum and Dad bought it. His son and daughter-in-law were going to take the cat because the nursing home had a No Pets rule. But he was nowhere to be found. They searched and searched, put notices up in the shop and on lamp-posts, but not a sign of Pudding. Seemed he’d wandered off.’