Butterfly Summer (2 page)

I didn’t really have any more unpacking to do; it was just an excuse to get away from Mrs. Wilson. I lay on my bed listening to her and Mum talking. They were standing by the front door, and Mrs. Wilson was asking Mum about church again. I couldn’t make out what Mum was saying back – her voice was too quiet – but I knew she’d be trying to get rid of her. She’d been really funny about visitors dropping by, apart from Stella. She said it was one of the things she hated most about village life: the way people just assumed they could turn up, without calling first to make sure it was okay.

I found the box that night, much later, after Mrs. Wilson had gone home. It was wedged under Mum’s bed with a load of other stuff – it probably got shoved under there when we were unpacking. I was looking for a magazine to read and the only way I could reach the one I wanted was by pulling the box right out.

It looked like one of those old-fashioned jewellery boxes, the kind with music and ballet dancers twirling around inside. It was made of very dark, shiny wood, with the prettiest gold pattern engraved on the lid and a tiny padlock. I ran my hands over the surface. It didn’t look new but I was sure I’d never seen it before.

I could hear Mum in the living room. She was ironing her shirt for the morning. She was going to be in charge of a brand-new department at Hartons, this big firm of accountants, so she had to look as smart as possible. I thought about taking the box down, to ask her if I could have it – but I opened it first, just to see if there was anything interesting inside.

I don’t know what I expected to find – Mum’s old wedding ring maybe, or some earrings I could borrow – but there was nothing in there, not even music and dancers, just a tatty piece of fabric and an old photo. The fabric was soft; bits of thread fraying from the edges. There was a message stitched across the middle: neat little hand-sewn crosses spelling
I LOVE YOU
in faded red cotton. The kind of thing you make when you’re at primary school.

I placed it back in the box and picked up the photo. It was small and slightly old-fashioned, and I knew there was something strange about it straight away. It was a picture of Mum lying in a hospital bed with a baby in her arms. A baby girl wrapped in a pink blanket. Mum was smiling at the camera, her eyes shining with excitement. I couldn’t believe how young she looked. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her look that young or that happy.

I sat there clutching the photo, a million questions piling up in my head. Because I know about my own birth. Not much, but enough to realize that something was wrong. I know that I came too quickly; that there was no time to get to the hospital. It was the end of June, boiling hot, just like this summer. I was born at home and I stayed at home – the midwife said she’d never seen a baby in so much of a hurry to come out. Just me and Mum,
at home
. No hospital. No pink blanket. Not unless they
made
Mum go to the hospital, after the birth, just to make sure we were both okay? Not unless they made her go and she somehow forgot to tell me?

I turned the photo over, my hand trembling suddenly. There was a date in the top right-hand corner. A date written in Mum’s small, neat handwriting. The words and numbers jumped about in front of my eyes and I had to blink a few times to refocus.

April 23
^rd
1986

Twelve years before I was born.

I don’t know how long I sat there trying to make sense of it all, but at some point I heard Mum come out of the lounge and the light went off downstairs. I dropped the photo back in the box, shoved it under her bed and ran down the hall to my room. I couldn’t face Mum right then, not without bursting into tears, or blurting out something stupid.

It was impossible to get to sleep. I lay on top of my covers, thinking about the box, stuffed under Mum’s bed, waiting to go off like a bomb. I tried to dream my best falling-asleep dream, but it didn’t work. It’s the one where there’s a knock at the door and I open it to find my dad standing there. His face isn’t clear exactly but he says, “Becky Miller, I’ve been searching for you for the last twelve years!” And I say, “It’s okay, Dad, better late than never, eh?” I’m not really sure what he says after that because I’m usually asleep by then.

I’ve been dreaming the meeting-my-dad dream for as long as I can remember – it never fails to send me off to sleep – sometimes I’m asleep before I’ve even finished talking to him. But lying there that night in the suffocating heat, the only image I could conjure up was a baby girl wrapped in a soft, pink blanket. Who was she? How could Mum hide something
so
important from me? Keep it secret for all these years?

The next morning, I stayed in bed until I heard her leave for work. I was determined to ask her about the photo, but there was no way I could bring it up just before she set off for the first day at her
important new job
. I was worried she might react really badly; she usually did when I asked her about the past. Or that she might just refuse to tell me anything at all.

As soon as I heard the front door close behind her, I got up and trailed downstairs. There was a note on the kitchen table and some money.

Didn’t want to wake you – go and explore the village, but be careful. I’ll be home at 5.30. Mum x

The note really annoyed me. How could she write something so normal when she was hiding such a big secret? I turned the piece of paper over and scribbled my own note on the back.

Who is the baby in the photo?

Is she your baby?

Where is she now?

Is she with my dad?

If she is yours, why don’t I know about her?

What else don’t I know?

I was just getting on to question number seven when the doorbell rang. It was so loud it totally freaked me out. I had this sudden panicky feeling that it might be my dad, I don’t know why. I guess it was the whole thing – moving house and finding the photo and being in a strange place by myself. Or maybe it was just because I was so tired.

My mum and dad met in Oakbridge when they were really young. Mum was only sixteen and he was her first proper boyfriend. I had no idea what happened to him after they broke up; whether he stayed in Oakbridge or moved somewhere else. He could have been on Mars for all I knew. But if he
was
still living in the village, I was sure he would’ve heard that we were back by now.

The bell rang again but I stayed where I was, holding my breath. I could see the door from where I was standing. Someone was peeking through the letter box. I shrank back so they wouldn’t know I was there. It was probably only Stella, or sour Mrs. Wilson from the church, but I couldn’t face any visitors. Not this morning.

“Get a grip, Becky,” I said out loud, taking a breath to calm myself down. I waited another minute or so and then went out to the hall. There was a scrap of paper lying on the doormat. It was another note. This one was written on lined paper, the kind you get in exercise books, and it said:

Meet me at the Butterfly Garden – any time after eleven this morning.

I peered through the window above the front door, but whoever had left it was long gone. I wondered if it was from Stella’s son Mack. She said she was going to send him round when she left the other day, but leaving me a note to meet up when we didn’t even know each other seemed a bit weird. I had no idea where the Butterfly Garden was for a start – and even if I managed to find it, how would I know who he was?

I got busy in the kitchen tidying up a bit for Mum, but even with the radio on, the house felt too quiet. I couldn’t stop thinking about the photo. I’d always longed for a sister. I used to nag Mum about it all the time, as if she could pop out and buy one from the shops, or make one appear
just like that
. She wasn’t even
with
my dad by then, but I still thought she could somehow magic a baby out of thin air.

It was just that I hated being an only child; it was so lonely – especially since we’d moved. When I’m older I’m going to have a massive family. I want at least four children, two girls and two boys, and loads of pets. I want dogs and cats and rabbits and maybe even a bird. I want my house to be filled up with noise and mess and loud, blaring music – the louder the better as far as I’m concerned.

I washed up the dishes and swept the floor, but it was still only half nine – eight hours until Mum was due back from work. Every time I stopped to listen, the silence seemed to grow louder. I had to get out. I knew Mum would have kittens if I went off to meet a total stranger at some random place I’d never been, but what did she expect me to do, stuck here for the entire summer without a single friend? And anyway, Stella seemed so nice, it wasn’t as if her son was going to be some crazed psycho-killer.

It didn’t take me long to get ready. I stuffed Mum’s note
and
the mystery note in my pocket, grabbed my phone and set off just after ten. I started to feel better as soon as I left the house – like I could breathe again. The sun was already high in the sky, but I figured there was still an hour or so to go before it became too unbearable. I stopped in at the Jacksons’ village shop to buy a Coke and ask for directions. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson had lived in Oakbridge their entire lives, so I was pretty sure they’d know where the Butterfly Garden was.

Mr. Jackson was at the counter, sorting through some photos of their new grandson Albert. “We’re in for another scorcher by the looks of things,” he said in his gruff, grizzly-bear voice. He’d said the exact same thing when I’d come in a few days earlier to buy some headache pills for Mum. Mrs. Jackson came bustling out of the back, carrying some tins of soup.

“Hello, my love, how are you getting on with the unpacking?”

“It’s more or less sorted,” I said. “My mum’s starting her new job this morning so I’m going to meet a friend at the Butterfly Garden. Do you know the way from here?”

Mr. and Mrs. Jackson glanced at each other. “The Butterfly Garden, you say?” said Mr. Jackson, frowning slightly. He had one of those small fans facing the till and he kept stooping down so that the air could blow on his face. He stayed there cooling off for a minute while I paid for my Coke, then he shuffled round the counter and led me out of the shop.

“Walk straight past the green,” he said slowly, pausing to catch his breath. “Then turn right at Amble Cross and keep going until you come to a tiny lane near the bottom, called Back Lane. The signpost is more or less hidden behind a load of blackberry bushes, but if you follow the bushes all the way round you shouldn’t have too many problems finding it.”

Oakbridge was so different from where we’d lived before. It was about a hundred times smaller for a start. There was no cinema or big supermarkets or anything like that. So far I’d spotted the Jacksons’ shop, a pub called The Eagle’s Nest and the church. I knew there was a primary school hiding down one of the lanes, but that seemed to be it, as far as I could tell. No wonder Mum had left the first chance she got.

I’d only taken a few steps towards the green when Mrs. Jackson called out to me. She was standing at the front of the shop, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Look after yourself, love,” she said. “Mind yourself near that lake.”

I was about to ask her what lake she was talking about – there
was
no lake in Oakbridge, not as far as I’d seen – but she was already back in the shop. And what did she mean, “
mind
yourself”? I started to burn up, even though there was no one there to see. Mum must’ve told Mrs. Jackson that I can’t swim; that I’m terrified of water. Mum can’t swim either, she’s even worse than me – but it’s the one thing I never tell
anyone
. I was so furious I thought I was going to cry for a minute. Mum was obviously better at keeping her own secrets than she was at keeping mine.

Blinking back tears, I stomped off down Amble Cross, squishing myself into the hedges every time a car drove past. The sun beat down, prickling the backs of my knees. Further along, near the bottom of the road, there was a row of old-fashioned cottages, small and neat with little square gardens and lace curtains in the windows. There was something so perfect about them I felt my stomach twist up. I bet the people who lived behind such pretty curtains had no nasty surprises hiding underneath
their
beds.

Mr. Jackson was right. It wasn’t difficult to find the Garden. The tiny lane at the end of Amble Cross was more of a pathway than an actual road, and tucked away at the bottom of it was a small cottage with a faded wooden sign at the front:

Welcome to Oakbridge Butterfly Garden.

I’d obviously never been to the Butterfly Garden before – I’d never even been to Oakbridge until we moved here (apart from when I was in my mum’s tummy, which doesn’t count) – but there was something familiar about the whole place. Something
really
familiar. I shivered in the heat. The cottage and the sign, even the stepping stones leading up to the door...it was all
so
familiar, like a dream, or a faraway memory. I stood there for a moment, trying to understand what it could mean.