by Susie Bower
Then I had a shocking thought.
Sonia and Claude must have known about my name all along. Sonia would have seen it when I was little every time she washed my neck. No wonder she’d refused to let me have my hair cut. But why had she and Claude kept my name a secret from me for seven whole years?
‘Clau-dia!’
Sonia was shouting from the kitchen. ‘Hurry up! Supper’s ready.’
I reached to unfasten the gold satin ribbon and let my curls down. Then I stopped.
Let Sonia and Claude see my name. Maybe then, at last, they’d tell me the truth.
Sonia and Claude were sitting at the dining table under the most horrible of Sonia’s paintings—a bare man holding a dead fish while two bare women danced around him. Sonia was pouring water into three glasses and didn’t look up. Claude did. He went pale and gave Sonia’s elbow a sharp nudge, sending one of the glasses flying.
‘You’re so clumsy, Claude!’ Sonia snapped, grabbing a tea towel and mopping at the spreading stain.
My name felt like it was burning, like it was shouting, Flynn! But Sonia was too busy fussing over the tablecloth, and Claude’s mouth was hanging wide open like a fish’s.
‘Er, piggy wiggy…’ he muttered.
Sonia finally looked up. She glared at my ponytail.
‘What have you done to your hair?’ she said. ‘Untie it immediately.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I won’t.’
My knees were shaking under the table. I’d never disobeyed Sonia, ever. Maybe my new name was making me brave.
‘Whaaaaaat?’ squawked Sonia, stretching her eyes and turning to Claude. ‘Speak to her, Claude.’
‘Do as you’re told, Claudia,’ he said.
‘My name isn’t Claudia.’ My teeth were chattering, but I carried on. ‘It’s Flynn. And I… I want to know about my family.’
Sonia’s eyes flashed. ‘Family? We are your family.’
‘No, you’re not!’ My fists were clenched and I felt hot all over. I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve asked you and asked you, but you always refuse to tell me. Who are my real parents? Where are they? And why did they leave me here with you?’
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
THE TRUTH
‘What’s past is past,’ said Claude. ‘No point in raking all that up.’
‘All what?’ I said.
A burning smell meandered in from the kitchen.
‘The coq au vin!’ shrieked Sonia, and Claude leapt to his feet and hurried out.
Sonia was about to follow him, but I stood up and grabbed her sleeve.
‘Stop pretending my parents don’t exist,’ I said.
Sonia shook my hand off. ‘Has it never occurred to you,’ she hissed, ‘that we might be trying to protect you?’
‘Protect me from what?’ I said. My voice sounded shaky and scared.
Sonia’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. ‘Enough, Claudia!’
Claude lumbered in with the coq au vin and began ladling it onto our plates.
‘Sit down, Claudia,’ he said. ‘And please demonstrate that you can behave in a civilized fashion.’
We ate the coq au vin in silence, apart from Claude loudly slurping his gravy and Sonia tutting at him. I pushed most of mine to the side of my plate. I felt sick. Why wouldn’t Sonia and Claude tell me about my parents? What could be so terrible that they refused to even mention them? I had to wriggle on my seat and clench my fists over my mouth to stop myself shouting.
At last, Claude clattered his knife and fork together. ‘What’s for dessert, my heavenly honeybee?’
Sonia frowned. ‘Rice pudding. But we’re not having it until Claudia finishes her coq au vin.’
‘My name is Flynn,’ I muttered, pushing my plate away. ‘And I’m not hungry.’
Sonia pursed her lips. ‘Then you can go to your room!’
‘I want to know the truth,’ I said. ‘And I’m not going anywhere until you tell me.’ And I folded my arms and stared at the horrible painting without blinking.
There was a long silence. Claude and Sonia looked at each other. Claude’s belly gave an enormous gurgle.
‘Tell her, Sonia-kins,’ he said. ‘Then we can have our rice pudd… I mean, then we need never speak of the matter again.’
Sonia sighed, picked up a napkin and dabbed at her lips.
‘Very well,’ she said, and turned to me. ‘You are a very foolish child. You will regret hearing what I have to say. But, if you insist…’
I nodded. My heart was thudding and my mouth was dry. Under the table, my feet twitched and jumped, as if they wanted to kick Sonia.
‘Your birth parents are dead,’ Sonia said.
A cold, hard pebble seemed to drop into my tummy.
‘H-how did they die?’ I whispered.
‘I’ll tell her, sweetest snookums,’ said Claude, patting Sonia’s hand. ‘They died in a fire.’
My fingers went up to my burn.
‘Yes,’ said Sonia coldly. ‘The same fire that scarred your face.’
‘You were fortunate to be rescued,’ added Claude. ‘Otherwise you would have died that night, along with your parents and your twin—’
He slapped a fat hand over his mouth and Sonia gave him a killer stare.
‘My twin?’ The words seemed to come from a long way away. I had a twin.
Sonia stood up. ‘I hope you are satisfied now,’ she said, and began to gather up the dishes. ‘Perhaps you will learn, one day, that some things are better left unsaid.’
‘Ignorance is bliss,’ said Claude. He gave a sharp sniff and dashed into the kitchen, returning with a blackened casserole dish. ‘And now, thanks to all this nonsense, the rice pudding is ruined.’
And they both looked at the smoking dish with more interest than they’d ever shown in me.
My insides were doing That Feeling again, boiling and curdling and wanting to erupt. But this time, the words wouldn’t stay in.
‘Why couldn’t it have been me who died? I’d rather be dead like my parents and my… my twin than living here with you. You’ve never loved me. You don’t even like me. I hate you. I hate you both! And I’m glad your rotten old rice pudding is burnt. I hope it chokes you!’
Sonia looked like she’d swallowed a wasp. ‘Impertinent child!’
‘Go to your room, Claudia,’ said Claude.
I stood up. ‘My name is Flynn,’ I shouted.
‘Go to your room—now!’ said Sonia.
‘And stay there till morning!’ added Claude.
In my bedroom, I wrapped the duvet round me as tightly as I could, and thought and thought. I thought about my parents, who I had never known, who I would never know, because they had died in the fire. And I thought about my dead twin.
This felt worst of all. What would it have been like to have a twin? The sister I’d always dreamt of, who looked just like me—only without my burn. A sister who would always be there, just the way Tree was, to talk to and play with and hug—who would never whisper about my messed-up face, or call me names like they did at school.
The empty hole in my heart felt twice as big. And my room seemed to get smaller and smaller, closing me in. I ran over to the window and opened it. Down in the garden, an owl called. The other windows were all dark. Sonia and Claude must have gone to bed. With my duvet still wrapped around my shoulders, I slipped down the stairs, through the back door and down the path.
In the secret part of the garden, Tree waited, a tall black shadow in the night. The owl hooted again, somewhere nearby. I found the soft place between two roots, made a little nest with my duvet and snuggled into it, my back against Tree’s trunk.
‘Oh, Tree,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so alone. What will I do?’
There was no reply. Tree’s bark was warm against my back. I shuffled around and put my arms about Tree’s trunk, hugging as if I was hugging my twin, who died.
And then I couldn’t help it. I cried myself to sleep.
THE SECOND MESSA
GE
Someone was gently brushing the burn from my face, back and forth, back and forth… or was it Tree’s leaves, softly waving over my skin? I opened my eyes.
At first I thought I was dreaming.
Dangling from Tree’s lowest branch, blowing back and forth in the wind, was something golden and feathery, sparkling and turning in the early-morning sunlight.
I scrambled to my feet, rubbing my eyes. It must be a dream.
But it was still there. It was a leotard—just like the ones the acrobats and trapeze artists wore at the circus. It was as fine as a cobweb, embroidered in golden thread. Running across it were strange patterns of pearls and sequins and crystals, like back-to-front words. Who could have left it here?
Then I heard a soft, haunting cry.
Turrrr! Turrrr!
There, on a branch just above my head, was a dove. Was it the same one that had helped me untangle the balloon? It sat very still, peering down at me with its dark eyes as if it wanted to tell me something important. It bobbed its grey head, as if pointing to the leotard.
I turned back to it. A word was embroidered inside the neckline: flynn.
That warm, hot-chocolatey feeling filled my tummy and spread through my whole body, just the way it had when I saw the dove for the first time. I began to tingle with excitement. Could this really be for me? Was it another birthday present? I reached out to touch my name, half expecting it to disappear under my fingertips like a mirage. But it didn’t.
I slipped the leotard off the branch. Shards of golden sunlight bounced over my skin. I had to try it on. But not here—Mrs Weebly was always on the lookout. I spread open the crumpled duvet, which was damp with the dew and with my tears, and folded the leotard carefully inside it.
I looked up at Tree. The dove had disappeared.
I bundled the duvet under my arm and made for the house.
Claude’s snores rumbled across the landing. He and Sonia stayed in bed until ten at weekends. I tiptoed up to my room, silently shut the door, lay the duvet down on my bed and unfolded it. Maybe the leotard would have disappeared, like a dream disappears when you wake up. But it was still there, shining soft and gold in the white duvet.
I slipped off my pyjamas and held the leotard up in front of me. It was so fine and cobwebby that my fingers felt like sausages. Hardly daring to breathe, I drew it up over my body.
It fitted me perfectly, without a wrinkle or a sag, as if whoever made it knew every inch of me. It made me want to cartwheel and handstand and jump. Then I remembered my burn. However beautiful the leotard was, I’d still look like me.
The mirror hung where I’d left it, in the Wet Room. I took a deep breath, and looked at myself.
A girl stood in front of me. She had my burnt face, but from the neck down she was golden and gleaming and glittering. She looked like a real circus performer.
I ran my fingers over the sequins and crystals. And then I read the back-to-front words embroidered in pearls, reflected the right way round in the mirror:
You aren’t alone—it’s not too late!
Your twin’s ALIVE, in Middlethwaite.
In the mirror, my mouth made a big O. I’d never believed in magic. But three magic things had happened since yesterday: I’d discovered my real name; I’d been given a golden leotard; and now—could it possibly be true?—my twin was alive!
Did she know about me? Did she look like me? I knew I’d recognize her straight away when I found her, and she would recognize me. We would run into each other’s arms and hug and hug and hug, and that empty space in my heart would be filled at last.
But what, or where, was Middlethwaite?
Shaking with excitement, I opened my laptop. I was just about to type in Middlethwaite when Sonia shouted up the stairs.
‘Claudia! Are you ready? We’re leaving in two minutes!’
My heart sank as I remembered that we were going to the shops to buy me a new dress. Quickly, I slipped out of the leotard, pushed it carefully under my pillow and pulled on one of my muesli-coloured skirts. As soon as I got back, I’d find out about Middlethwaite. And then I’d make a plan to find my twin.
Sonia was tight-lipped and still cross after the row last night. I hardly noticed. My mind was fizzing with my discovery. Maybe my twin was living somewhere nearby! Maybe she too was out shopping with her adopted parents—just like me!
‘A nice girl,’ hissed Sonia, yanking my arm, ‘doesn’t stare.’
There were plenty of girls my age in the changing rooms, trying on skinny jeans and pink sparkly tops. Any one of them might have been my twin. Sonia and the shop assistant had gone to the most old-fashioned section of the store and picked out three dresses for me: a salmon-pink one with pleats; a shiny orange one with puffed sleeves; and a long dreary one, the colour of sicked-up porridge, which was of course the one Sonia chose for me. The assistant wrapped up the dress and Sonia and I went out into the street.
On the way to the car park, we passed a newspaper stand. Right across it, in big black letters, was a headline:
LION CAPTURED NEAR MIDDLETHWAITE!
I stopped in my tracks. Middlethwaite! That was where the message had said my twin was!
‘Get a move on, Claudia!’ snapped Sonia.
‘Can… can I buy a paper?’ My eyes were stuck to the name in the headline.
‘Whatever for?’
‘It looks like an exciting story,’ I said. ‘A lion on the loose!’
Sonia glanced at the news stand. ‘What nonsense. A made-up story probably.’
‘I’d like to read it anyway.’
I counted out some change and handed it to the man at the news stand. Carefully, I tucked the newspaper into my rucksack.
‘A ridiculous waste of time and money,’ said Sonia. ‘Really, Claudia.’ And she pressed her lips together, which meant the conversation was over.
‘Flynn,’ I muttered under my breath.
TWO SCHOOLS
As soon as I got back to my room, I shoved Porridge Dress to the very back of the walk-in wardrobe, shut the door firmly and opened the newspaper. There, on the front page, was a photograph of a lion, caught in a net. The article said:
A lion has been captured in a dense forest near the village of Middlethwaite. The animal was spotted by picnickers in the forest, who immediately called the police. Staff from a nearby safari park sedated the lion with a dart and took her away. She is said to be thin but otherwise healthy. How she came to be in the forest is a mystery.
‘We were terrified when we heard about it,’ said Mrs Petunia Pomfrey, a resident. ‘A dangerous animal like that living so close to the village! We have two schools here, both backing on to the forest. Only think what could have happened!’
I opened my laptop and typed in Middlethwaite. It was only about fifteen miles away. Then I typed in Middlethwaite schools, and immediately two appeared. Both were boarding schools. My heart began beating very fast. Surely my twin must be at one of them! The odd thing was that the two schools were right next door to one another, in a row of grand old houses joined together, but they couldn’t have been more different.
The school on the right was called the Academy. It was painted gleaming white, and surrounded by a high brick wall. Its windows shone and its roof had new, red tiles, with spikes to stop the birds nesting. The photographs showed an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a computer room and a cinema. It cost £10,000 a term.
The other school was called the Cruet Establishment for Lost and Wayward Children. It looked as if it had once been painted white too, only the paint was peeling off in lumps. There was no brick wall around it, just a rickety fence. A creeping vine grew up the walls, almost hiding the crumbling sash windows. Its roof was missing a few slates, and was green with moss and bird poo. No way would my twin be there: I was sure she’d been adopted by rich people, like Sonia and Claude—people who could afford to send her to a posh, expensive school like the Academy.
I had to get there and find her. I just needed
to come up with a plan.
One rainy day, a week later, I cycled back from school with the clay head I’d made in pottery class hidden under my coat to keep it dry. I was quite proud of it. It was skinny and cross-looking, with dangly earrings and a cat’s-bottom mouth. When Miss Merryweather told us to be sure to wash our hands, I’d stood at the sink with everyone else, but I didn’t wash them.
Back at the Gables, I put my bike in the garage, opened the front door and stepped into the hall.
remove shoes and wash hands! said the notice by the door.
I didn’t take off my muddy shoes and put them on the shoe rack. Instead I carefully placed the clay head on the hall table. Then I looked at the white walls and the clean white carpet.
I hesitated. Being this bad felt strange and guilty. All my life, I’d been polite and quiet and good—at least, until the row about my family. Now I planned to be so disobedient that Sonia and Claude would have no option but to send me away to the Academy in Middlethwaite, where I was sure I would find my twin.
I took a deep breath. Then I walked slowly down the hall, running my muddy, clay-covered fingers along the wall. My wet, brown footprints made an interesting pattern over the white carpet…
Sonia and Claude did not find the pattern interesting. Sonia screamed and retired to bed with a migraine, and Claude made me wash all the prints away with soapy water. Soon after this, I overheard them talking about me.
‘I am approaching the end of my tether, Claude.’
‘I know you are, my delectable duckling,’ said Claude. ‘She really is getting beyond the pale.’
‘Something must be done, and quickly,’ said Sonia.
‘We will consider our options,’ said Claude. ‘There’s always the boarding school in Middlethwaite.’