Season of Secrets (16 page)

 

 

 

 

Emily's birthday is in February. She doesn't invite
everyone to her party like Matthew did his. She just
asks me and Alexander.

“What about us?” says Matthew.

Emily shakes her head. Her eyes get big and round.

“Don't be so rude,” says Mrs Angus. “Emily can
invite who she likes. I'm not surprised she doesn't
want you there, after what you do to her.”

Matthew and Josh were showing Hannah kung fu
yesterday. Only Josh got fed up with the whole
unarmed-conflict thing and whacked Matthew over
the head with Emily's chair. While Emily was trying to
sit on it.

I don't say anything to Emily when I get my
invitation, but I can't stop smiling, all through
spellings-and-tables.

 

The party is a skating party.

“Have you ever been skating before?” Emily's mum
asks us, in the car.

“Once,” I say.

Emily can skate already. She slides straight off on
to the ice and spins around. She looks like a ballerina.

“Come on, you two!” Emily's mum says, to
Alexander and me.

Alexander looks terrified. He holds on to the side
and edges his way round. Even I can do better than
that. I don't hold on to the edge. I inch forward, arms
held out. Emily skates round me.

“Push sideways with your feet,” she says. “Like this.”

I try and I go forward. Emily holds on to my hand.

“Let's go fast,” she says. I'm sure I'm going to fall.
I'm sure. But I push with my feet and I seem to do
OK.

Emily on ice is completely different to everyday
Emily. She talks, like a proper person. We skate all the
way around and then we pick up Alexander, who's
still clinging to the side. We hold one hand each and
pull him.

“Oh,” he says. “I don't like it. I don't like it.”

“Not even fast?”

“
Especially
not!” he says, and falls over.

He goes off with Emily's little brother to buy
crisps. Emily and I go round again. Emily shows me
how to go backwards and I
almost
do it. And I only fall
over twice, the whole time.

“That's a lovely skating skirt, Molly,” says Emily's
mum. She can skate too. My skirt is the red one Mum
made me. “It goes lovely with those dark curls.”

“I hate my hair,” I say. “I wish I had blonde hair.”

“I wish I had curls,” says Emily.

Afterwards we have chips in the café, and I teach
Emily Mum's spy game, where you have to work out
which of the people around you are secret agents in
disguise. The hunched-up old lady with the wrinkles
and the pink lipstick definitely is – why would
someone so small and shrivelled-looking want to go
ice-skating?

“Unless she's an alien,” says Emily, and we both go
off into giggles.

“Emily, behave,” says Emily's mum, but she smiles
at me and Alexander. “I'm so pleased Emily's met you
two. She had a hard time when she started at that
school.”

“School's horrible,” says Alexander. I look at him,
surprised. I thought Alexander liked school. I thought
everyone did except me (and maybe Hannah). And
actually there are lots of things at school that I like.
Miss Shelley, and art, and nature, and playing games all
together and the play and Emily and Alexander and
. . .

“
. . .
if she'd say yes?”

Emily's mum is looking at me.

“What?” I say.

“I said, you seemed to enjoy skating,” she says.

“Oh yes.”

“Well,” says Emily's mum. “Emily comes here every
Wednesday. It's a bit lonely, being the only one from
here. We'd be happy to take bring you along, if your
grandma doesn't mind.”

Emily sits straight up. “Yes!” she says. “Come,
come, come!”

“And you too, of course, Alexander,” Emily's mum
says, but Alexander looks horrified.

“Will you?” says Emily. “Will you, will you?”

I don't say anything. I'm thinking – about having
friends. About learning to spin and go properly fast. If
I could be a skater when I grow up, it wouldn't matter
that I don't have blonde hair. Or maybe I'll be an
artist, or run a shop like Grandma, or write books,
about all the magic in the world. Or maybe I'll do
them all. I could do anything, I think, and I feel the
corners of my cheeks turning up, turning into a smile
so big it's like my whole face is beaming.

“Yes, please,” I say.

 

 

 

 

There are rabbits in Grandpa's garden. I can see them
in the twilight as I wheel my bike back to the shed.
Bright eyes, long ears and the flash of a white tail.
They're after Jack's vegetable patch.

March has come. Rain and wet grass and the first,
few leaves on the oak trees. The day after Emily's
party, I find the first daffodils under the tree in the
garden. Emily-daffodils.

Dad brings us three purple crocuses in a bowl.

“One for you. One for Hannah, and one for your
grandma, for looking after you.”

“What about Grandpa?” said Hannah. “Grandpa
does all the work!”

Perhaps my boy in the wood made these crocuses.
Is he the god of garden centres too? And if he isn't,
who is? Does he really make all the flowers in the
world? Or are there different summer gods in
Australia and Africa and America? How far does he
stretch – all of Britain? Or just Northumberland?

There are more than just rabbits in the garden.
There's something tall and shadowy moving in the
trees.

It's him. He's tall – almost as tall as my cousin
Tom, who plays football for the comprehensive. His
face is different too, older and longer. He's got
muscles now and strong brown arms. But his eyes are
the same.

“Molly,” he says. “It's Molly, isn't it?”

He kisses his hand and blows the kiss to me. I can
feel it land on my cheek and something falls on to my
collar. It's a flower. A little red flower.

“Thank you,” I say.

He's got something strung over his shoulder – a
horn, perhaps, or a bow or a quiver of arrows, I can't
see which. Did he make it himself? There's no wind,
but the trees move around him and the rabbits lift
their brown heads and stare.

“The Holly King,” I say. “He's still here.” I'm sure
he is – I'm sure he hasn't gone. Sometimes, when I'm
out in the lane, I see the trees rustling in the wind, and
I know it isn't me or my green god who's moving
them. He hangs in the air like an unanswered
question.

“Let him be,” says the boy, who's almost a man. He
holds out his hand to me, and then he's gone, leaving
me holding the red flower and wondering if he was
ever really there at all.

 

 

 

 

Every Wednesday now, Emily and I go ice skating. We're
in a class with lots of other kids – mostly girls. We hang
around with the others, but we're Best Friends, us two.

Emily wants to be a farmer like her dad. Or an
actress, or a dancer, or maybe an ice skater, she can't
decide.

“We could run a skating shop!” says Emily. “You
could sell skating boots and food from my farm and
your dad's newspaper.”

“We could write our own newspaper!”

“We could write a play and I could act in it,” says
Emily.

I've never met anyone who likes stories and make-believe
as much as me, except for Mum, and she's a
mum, so doesn't count. We have so much to say, we're
still talking when we get home. Emily's mum talks to
Grandma, and we plan everything out.

“It wouldn't matter even if our shop never sold
anything,” says Emily. “That's the nice thing about
farms, no one ever starves.”

 

After Emily's gone, Grandma comes and stands in the
kitchen doorway with her coffee.

“Got time enough for all that?” she says, looking at
our plans.

“Course,” I say.

Grandma snorts.

“We aren't doing it all this year,” I explain. “Maybe
some of it. But, like, it takes ages to become a good
enough skater to go to the Olympics.”

“Hmm.” Grandma gives me a funny look. “How
long have you two been here now?” she says. “Four
months?”

I count. “September, October, November,
December, January, February, March. Seven months!”

“Seven!” Grandma starts. “What's that dad of
yours thinking?”

I squirm. “How should I know?”

“Hmm,” says Grandma. “I think,” she says. “It's
time I talked to your father again. This has gone on
long enough.”

All the muscles in my shoulders tighten. I've got
used to us being here now. Surely she isn't going to
throw us out too? Doesn't
anyone
want us?

“What do you mean?” I say. And then, when she
doesn't answer, “Grandma? What are you going to
do?”

“Me?” says Grandma. “I'm going to London.”

And she finishes the last of her coffee in one long
gulp.

 

 

 

 

It's late. Hannah and I are sitting on the stairs, waiting
for Dad to come.

“D'you think Grandma doesn't want us any more?”
I say.

Hannah's drawing a broken heart on the knee of
her new jeans.

“Grandpa wants us,” she says, half-comfortingly.

Car-noises come down the lane. Someone bangs
on the door. We jump up and open it.

It's Dad.

“Has something happened?” he says. “Are you all
right?”

“Grandma's going to London!” I say.

Dad catches hold of my hands, but he doesn't get a
chance to say anything, because Grandma's door opens
and Grandma comes out, dragging a suitcase.
Grandpa follows, wearing his coat and cap and
carrying a big green bag.

“Mum!” says Dad.

Grandma beams. “Toby!” she says. “At last! I was
wondering if you were ever going to show up.”

Dad drops my hands. “Mum,” he says. “What's
going on?”

“We're going to London,” says Grandma. “It's
about time we had a holiday.”

Dad looks confused. “But—” he says. “You could
have asked—”

“We could,” says Grandma. “And we are. We'll be
back Thursday.” And she comes downstairs – bump –
bump – bump like Christopher Robin, dragging her
suitcase behind her.

Dad just stands there staring.

“But—” he says, and I want to giggle, he looks so
confused. “Are you taking the girls?”

Grandma stops. “Really, Toby,” she says. “I did
think I'd taught you more sense than that. Of
course we aren't taking the girls. Arthur's taking me
to the V&A
. . .
and Knightsbridge
. . .
and maybe
Kew Gardens. I haven't been to Kew Gardens in
years.”

“But
. . .
” says Dad.

“You don't have to open the shop,” says Grandma.
“But if you do close, can you leave a note in the
window saying we'll be back Friday? And the girls
need to be in school at nine. They've got PE
tomorrow, but I'm sure they'll fill you in on all the
details. Come on, chicks. Say goodbye.”

She hugs Hannah and then me.

“Have fun,” she whispers, and lets go before I can
ask her to stay.

When Grandpa hugs me, I cling to him. “You are
coming back, aren't you?”

Grandpa squeezes me. “Course we are,” he
whispers back. “Grandma just wants your dad to
spend some time with you. That's all.”

I keep my arms around his neck, remembering what
happened last time.

“You're coming back Thursday?”

“Thursday,” says Grandpa. “Promise.”

 

In the house, I'm sure it's going to be like that horrible weekend in Newcastle, only this time Grandpa isn't around to rescue us. Dad doesn't know what to do. He stands in the hall, his funny, ugly face screwed up helplessly.

“Do you people know what that was about?” he
says eventually.

“Who cares?” says Hannah. “D'you want a cup of
tea?”

She makes tea in the teapot, the way Grandpa does.
I sit as close to Dad as I can. I wonder, if I love him
hard enough, if I can persuade him to stay.

“Are you staying here?”

“I'm going to have to, aren't I?” he says. “Lucky I've
got so much holiday saved up.” He pats my hand.
Then he looks around him, probably pleased to be
back in a clean kitchen again. “This is great tea,
Hannah,” he says.