‘Like cows,’ I said.
‘If you like,’ said Kat. ‘Sometimes mysteries are better left unexplained. They’re only interesting because they are mysteries.’
‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘it all seems like a dream.’
Kat smiled. ‘Real world, dream world. It’s like I said: sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. You’ve heard the expression, ‘he’s not all there,’ haven’t you?’ I nodded. ‘Well, it’s a bit like that. Those people aren’t mad, they’re just not all there. They’re half here and half somewhere else. But they live a life, a complete life, just like you and me, only half of it’s lived here; the other half somewhere else. The mistake so called sane people make is to think the part that’s not here isn’t anywhere. It is. And who’s to say that that somewhere isn’t just as important as here.
‘It’s like you, Peter: sometimes I look at you and you’re like … Where do you go when you’re not here, Peter?’
I blinked. I didn’t know what to say.
‘What I meant to say,’ said Kat, ‘was how Christians and people like that are the same: they’re only half here. Of course, they don’t see it. They don’t think their reality is any less real than ours. In fact, they probably think theirs is more real, and they don’t suffer for a lack of reality any more than a, I don’t know, a badger suffers for the lack of the latest David Cassidy album.’
‘That sounds a bit like Mrs Carpenter,’ I said. ‘She believes in God, but she’s cross all the time.’
‘It’s not enough for some people,’ said Kat nodding, ‘living for living’s sake. They give it a name like “God”. But you have to pity those people not resent them. After all, “God” is just another word for “Help!” He’s a way of hiding the truth, hiding the madness, but it’s a bit like trying to hide World War Two.
‘You see, it’s all random, it’s all chance; beauty, ugliness, pain and suffering, whatever. It’s all chaos, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t revel in beauty and recoil from the rest.’
She stood up and took her cup and my glass to the sink. I was worried that the conversation might be over so I said, ‘What’s your biggest secret?’ I made it sound just a normal question.
Kat sighed. It wasn’t a little sigh either but a sigh like rolling a boulder up a mountain. ‘How much I love you,’ she said, ‘in spite of everything.’
Well, I wasn’t sure about that. I thought about Alice and the secret room and, well, everything. I didn’t think she was telling me the truth at all.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Kat. ‘Come to the workshop. I’ve got something to show you.’
The workshop was just like it’d been when I’d first seen it: all boxes and junk. The only new thing was a large light on a stand glaring at the object—Kat’s sculpture—beneath its canvas sheet. It looked like a mountain, one side in daylight, the other washed in night time.
‘This is why I was smiling,’ said Kat. ‘I’ve finished it,’ and she gripped the corner of the sheet. ‘Do you want to see?’
Of course I did.
She took the sheet, and my breath, away.
‘It’s … It’s so,’ being a boy, I didn’t want to say, ‘beautiful,’ but once I had I knew that no other word would have done.
It was a wing, a butterfly’s wing, emerging from the heart of the rough, knotted slice of tree trunk as if from a cocoon, or uncurling like a petal beneath the rising sun, so fine you could dry tears with it. I looked at it and felt a thrill in my heart. I couldn’t believe she had made this.
‘It’s,’ I didn’t know what to say, ‘really good.’
You know how a television show is sort of 3-D even though the screen is flat? It was like that. Although it wasn’t alive and it didn’t move, although it was carved from a single piece of wood it was like life, movement and colour. It captured a moment of time, a moment of time when magic was possible, like a reflection in a flowing river.
‘Why do you like them so much?’
‘What? Like what?’
‘Butterflies,’ I said. I’d always wanted to ask her.
Kat looked puzzled for a moment but not in a bad way. It was like she was thinking how to answer. And then she said, ‘It’s like I was saying before about when I was a little girl. I always wanted to believe in … something, I suppose. Something magical. And butterflies, well, how could the universe just roll the dice and come up with something so beautiful. I mean, what are the chances, Peter?’
I didn’t know.
‘I think we’re all of us, most of us, like caterpillars. You know, we just eat and crawl along and hope we’re not going to get finished off by the first available sparrow. But, if we’re lucky, we get a second chance. Do you know what I mean? I mean, we can change. If we’re lucky, really lucky, we can be butterflies.’
‘You mean like when we die.’
‘No, no. I mean when we’re alive. It’s—’
‘It’s like laughing your head off,’ I said, ‘but not literally.’
‘Yes,’ she said. And then she laughed. ‘Something like that. I mean, some people are caterpillars their whole life. They can’t help it: they’re just born that way. But other people, people like your dad, maybe … Whatever he went through in his life—how ever horrible it must’ve been—it changed him. But it changed him for the better.’
‘What about me?’ I said.
‘Oh, you’re like me,’ she said. ‘You’re a caterpillar. But what’ll it be like when you get a second chance? Think what it’ll be like to fly.’
‘Do people get second chances?’
Kat hesitated. And then she said, ‘Have you ever wondered what would have happened if your dad had been killed in the war? Millions were. You wouldn’t be here because he wouldn’t be here. What if I’d never been born? You just wouldn’t exist.’
‘But I do exist.’
‘Because dad was lucky. Millions weren’t. You were lucky. You got your chance: your first chance.’
‘But I do exist. So, even if I didn’t exist I’d exist somehow, wouldn’t I?’
‘Oh, sweet, I don’t know about that. I don’t see how. Do you have any idea how many people don’t exist. If everybody who’d never been born still existed somewhere? How many ways in which the world might be different?’
‘Well, maybe that’s where the people who aren’t all there go the rest of the time.’
Kat smiled. ‘That’s a nice thought. It’s nice to think that they’ve got company. But listen, Peter, we can’t change stuff that’s happened,’ she said, gently touching the wing of her creation. ‘It’s not like writing a story where you can have as many goes as you like to get it right. You can’t just put in the things you want, like in your scrapbook, and leave out the things you don’t want …
‘Imagine you had a jewel,’ she said. ‘Oh, the most precious jewel in the world. And somebody stole it from you; just took it away. Maybe they didn’t even mean to take it. Say, it was a joke or a game, but once the jewel had gone—’
‘But you could go to the person who stole it,’ I interrupted. ‘I mean, if it wasn’t on purpose, then they might give it back.’
‘But it got broken, Peter. Shattered into a billion pieces.’
‘Well, maybe they could stick it back—’
‘Not this jewel, Peter. No.’
‘Well, then,’ I didn’t know what to say, ‘maybe there’s nothing—’
‘But they could say sorry, Peter.’
‘Well, yes, but you still wouldn’t get it back—’
‘No, but I … but you could see that the person was sad too and that they knew how sad they’d made you and that would help, wouldn’t it? But imagine if they didn’t even care. Not one bit. They couldn’t even be bothered to remember what they’d done. Wouldn’t that make you sad, Peter? Wouldn’t that be the saddest thing in the world?
‘Why would someone do that, Peter? Can you think? Why would someone not explain why they did something?’ She was speaking quickly, her w
ords tumbling into each other like circus clowns. ‘And even if they couldn’t answer or explain or … justify what they’d done,’ she cried, ‘wouldn’t they at least say sorry?’ with fire in her eyes. ‘Wouldn’t they at least admit that they’d been wrong?’ It was like when she was talking about her sculpture. ‘Why wouldn’t they say that, Peter?’
‘Maybe they’re mean,’ I said, ‘or cruel or—’
‘Cruel is only the beginning, Peter. Cruel is only the first word in the dictionary.
‘If you’d done something, Peter, something wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’
I nodded.
‘Anything at all? I mean, even if you thought it’d make me angry,’ she seized my hand, squeezed it tight, ‘if you had to choose between doing the right thing or the wrong thing?’
‘Yes,’ I said, but my voice was kind of squeaky when I said it. Pinky and Perky squeaky. Would it be easy to know what was the right thing and what was wrong?
‘And if it made me very sad, this thing, would you be sorry?’
‘Yes,’ I said. Of course.
‘Well,’ and she hesitated, ‘is there anything you want to tell me about? Right now?’
But I could hardly think where to start: I thought about the vase but that wasn’t really my fault, and I thought about the Beast and the secret room and each of them made my face blaze in shame.
‘No,’ I said.
‘You’re such a tease, do you know that, Peter.’ Her voice was cracking like that broken mirror. ‘There’s only one thing I ever wanted from you. Just one thing. But you never … You don’t even …’
‘What is it?’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘See? You don’t even remember.’
‘You know, Peter, the greatest loss, the hardest loss to accept, is the loss of something you never had: something that you thought was yours, something so close you could touch it and hold it. And then to have it just ripped away as if it was never there. Do you know what I mean?’
Kat stood for a moment, as still as her sculpture, before taking the edge of the canvas and drawing it back over the butterfly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘about what I said earlier. I mean, when I said how loving you was my biggest secret. I mean, I’m sorry I kept it a secret for so long.’
And I said, ‘I love you too.’
I would have done anything for her. Anything. Except that’s only what I thought because when it came to it and I had to choose, I didn’t do the right thing for her at all. I mean she was important and Alice was important too, they both were, but it was too late for them, and when it came to it there was someone else, someone just as important that I could still help.
If you see what I mean.
Kat put her hand on my head and ruffled my hair. ‘What am I going to do with you, blue-eyes?’ she said.
I smiled too and said, ‘We could ask Mummy.’
And then she gave me the funniest look. It was like I’d farted or something.
27
So, anyway, I decided I was going to do something nice for Kat. You remember that ring I told you about? I’d been saving my pocket money all term long and, after she’d shown me the butterfly sculpture and told me about my dad and everything, I couldn’t think about anything else but buying it for her. So this one morning I clambered out of bed, put on my school uniform as quickly as I could and didn’t even stop to have my Rice Krispies or wait for Anna-Marie and Tommie to walk to school.
But when I got to Kirrins’: disaster!
A note written on a torn flap of cardboard had been hung on the inside of the glass door: Gone out! Back in fifteen! Fifteen? Fifteen what? Fifteen seconds? Fifteen hours?
I placed my school-bag and my piggybank on the ground and began to bang on the door, politely at first but then louder and louder until I was unleashing tiny, little fists of fury. There was no point, of course. The sign was quite clear: GONE OUT! But I banged anyway until the glass rattled and the frame shook, not because I thought it would change anything but because, well, it was all I could do.
But then I looked up to see Norman, Norman Kirrin, frail and pale, blinking at me through the glass. He reached up quickly and then down shoving back the bolts and opening the door, saying, ‘Peter, Peter, where’s the fire?’ and glancing from one side to the other as if checking that I wasn’t the first in a long queue sneaking all the way back to Buckingham Lane. And then he wrapped his arms around me and stroked my hair until, as my fury began to pass, whispering, ‘Calm down, Peter,’ and, ‘It’s all right.’
As my trembling faded he said, ‘Tell me, Peter, do you never read signs or is it just their content you ignore?’ but he didn’t sound unkind. ‘My brother’s out,’ he said, ‘apparently. And I was just out for a walk myself …’
But he placed his hand on my shoulder and led me into the shop. Once inside he pulled open a can of fizzy drink and pushed it into my hand. I took a deep drink and burped back the bubbles. Chuckling, Norman returned to the door and re-bolted it before pulling down this blind so that we couldn’t be seen. He shuffled behind the counter and rung up the cost of the drink. When the till’s little drawer popped open he dropped a few pennies in.
‘I have learnt to my chagrin,’ he explained, ‘that Greg is mightily fastidious in his totting up.’ He looked me up and down. It was kind of as if I was someone in disguise that he only half recognised. ‘So,’ he said, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure, and it always is a pleasure, Peter, of your visit?’
I thrust my piggybank at him. ‘I want to buy—’
But he held up his hand. ‘Peter, before you go any further,’ he said, ‘I have what you might call a small confession to make. You see, I hate to admit it to you, Peter,’ he murmured, scratching his jaw all peppery with stubble, ‘you of all people but I’m … Well, I’m not really supposed to serve. Greg doesn’t like it.’
‘I only want one thing,’ I said.
‘Well,’ he twitched, ‘I suppose, as it’s you,’ and then gave a little smile. ‘I’m a bit rusty,’ clapping his hands together, ‘but in the tradition of this proud nation of shopkeepers,’ he placed his knuckles on the counter and struck a pose before saying in this London accent: ‘What can I do you for?’
I grinned before turning and rushing to the back of the shop. I was suddenly filled with terror that the ring—that precious ring—would have gone, snapped up by some passing millionairess, her fat fingers already crusty with jewellery. But, no, it was there just like always. I grabbed it, relieved but a little disappointed at how light it felt, and carried it back to Norman. He looked surprised as I tipped it into his open palm.
‘Is this it?’ he said. ‘Are you sure?’ I nodded. ‘This is what all the banging and yelling was for?’ Again I nodded. He held it up to the light, squinting, and then moved his glasses kind of back and forth as he examined it. ‘Well, Peter,’ he said at last, ‘I quite understand.’ He nodded wisely. ‘It’s a very fine piece. What Greg is playing at leaving such a valuable accoutrement at the back of the shop with the toys and games, I can’t imagine.’ And then he smiled. ‘That’ll be fifty new pences,’ he said, as he dropped the ring into a tiny bag.
‘Doesn’t it come with a box?’
‘Erm, I’m sorry, Peter. I strongly suspect that it doesn’t.’ He smiled again. ‘But this little bag, although it may seem like paper to you and me,’ he leant towards me and whispered, ‘is in fact spun from the finest Moroccan silk. Okay?’
Absolutely. I popped open the cork that was stuck in the pig’s tummy and gently shook until the right money had rattled into my hand. I handed it over. Fifty pence wasn’t nearly as much as I’d thought.
‘So,’ said Norman as he pushed the big buttons on the till, ‘how’s it going in the world of secrets?’
Well, I just stared at him, didn’t I? I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? What would you have said? I didn’t want to know about secrets anymore. I didn’t even want to think about secrets. And, well, it was like what Miss Peve
nsie’d said: sometimes secrets are secrets for a reason.
He stared right back as if he was listening, as if I was actually telling him everything with just the look on my face. Eventually he nodded. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So, is that it?’ He pushed the till drawer to a close, my money still in his hand. ‘Is that the end of the matter?’
I nodded. And then I smiled. I mean I really tried to smile.
‘I wonder,’ said Norman. ‘Listen, Peter,’ he placed my coins on the counter and slid them slowly back towards me, ‘before we conclude out transaction, I wonder if … You see, I am of the persuasion that believes, as an article of faith, in fact, that, on occasion, it’s perhaps hard to tell whether you’ve actually really solved a problem or whether you’ve simply managed to convince yourself, erroneously, that it wasn’t such a very big problem in the first place.’ He sighed and ran his hand through his thin grey hair. ‘Do you know what I mean?’
I didn’t say anything. I did know what he meant. Of course I did. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to. My smile was beginning to hurt a bit, like my face was about to break.
‘Tell me, Peter, did I ever tell you about Lois? No, no, don’t worry. I know full well I did. But I didn’t … I didn’t go into the detail, did I? No, Norman, not the nitty-gritty, you didn’t. And, well, I wouldn’t now, but … I don’t want you to make a mistake. You need to be sure that you can just pack everything back in the box, your … box of secrets, and that it won’t … explode in your face.’
‘But I need to—’
‘No, no,’ he said waving his hand. ‘Hush. Listen, Peter, I wouldn’t … I’d be failing in my responsibilities as … a friend? We are friends aren’t we, Peter?’ I nodded. Of course. ‘As a human being even if I just … I don’t know what you’ve found out. It’s not … I wouldn’t expect you to tell me … I’m not asking but … If you can spare me five minutes, I’d like to …’ And then he looked at me as if he’d asked me a question and was waiting for an answer, but before I could—
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