Wendy Perriam (2 page)

The promenade seemed longer than before, and the sea had turned from blue to sullen-grey. Her shoes were chafing and her legs felt cold and clammy.

At last she reached the Guess Your Age booth, but the wrinkled old fellow had gone. In his place was a much younger person, although of identical height and build. His skin was smooth, his hair thick and brown, his posture upright, not stooped. Perhaps it was the old man’s son; they were uncannily alike in face and feature, and even wearing the same clothes, except that this man’s blazer was crisp and new, and his red bow-tie sat smartly to attention. He waved a hand in greeting - a hand unblemished by age-spots.

“So how’s my young lady?”he smiled.

For some moments she stood there, dumbfounded, blushing scarlet as his eyes searched the depths of hers again.

“I … I’m very well,” she stammered. “In fact,” she added daringly, “I’ve decided to stay - for the night. I’m looking for a hotel and I wonder, could you help?” Still he held her gaze and, thus encouraged, she stepped a little closer. “Something tells me that your name is Mr … Smith.”

M
iss Orange-Legs holds up her hand for silence. “‘Today,” she announces, showing her big horse-teeth, “we’re going to see the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

I stop fiddling with my hair. ‘What is it?’ I ask. My voice comes out in a nervous squeak. It’s the first time I’ve dared to speak to her. I’m not supposed to be here. The others are all old - except Mum.

“Wait and see.”

I hate it when grown-ups say that. And other stupid things like “Because I say so.”

“And it’ll be a long wait, Tilly. It’s right on the top of the Downs, so it’ll take a good hour to get there.”

“My name’s Natalie,” I mutter.

“Shh,” Mum hisses. “Don’t be cheeky.”

It’s not cheeky; it’s a fact. I was christened Natalie Teresa. It was Dad who thought up Tilly, and Dad’s disappeared. When strangers use his special name for me, it makes me feel horrible inside, like seeing his half of the wardrobe empty, and his “Best Dad in the World” mug hanging on its hook.

“Well now, if everybody’s ready, let’s make a start, shall we?” Miss O-L ambles along the path in her bright orange knee-socks and great clomping leather boots. They all wear walking-boots except Mum and me. I can’t see why - it’s not proper walking because we have to go so slowly and every time we see a flower she makes us stop and look at it. (I mean, yesterday we stood for ages round a boring thing called Toothwort, even though it was brown and shrivelled up.) And they’re all loaded down with so much gear they couldn’t go fast if they tried. Kenneth is the worst. He’s got a huge rucksack on his back, and a pair of binoculars dangling round his neck, and two cameras and three wild-flower books, and a sort of metal stick thing that turns into a seat, and fold-up yellow waterproofs in a poncy little bag, and a specimen box and a notebook. He keeps getting out the notebook and writing down what Miss O-L says, like he’s trying to be teacher’s pet. When he walks close to Mum I can’t bear to look, and if he holds her hand I feel sick. I keep away from them, trailing behind the others and wishing there’d be an eclipse of the sun, so it would suddenly get dark and the weekend would be over and Mum and I could go home on our own. Kenneth hasn’t stayed the night yet. If he does, I’ll kill him.

Miss O-L stops again to point at a plant that hasn’t even got a flower on it. “Round-headed Rampion,” she says. “It’s one of the Campanula family - the bell-flowers.”

Mr and Mrs Bell-Flower. They’ve stayed married and still love each other. I can see them lying side by side in bed.

“The Harebell’s in the same family. And so are Sheep’s-bit and Heath Lobelia. But the only other Rampion that grows in Britain is the Spiked - Phyteuma Spicatum.”

Scribble, scribble, scribble, goes Kenneth. He thinks he’s clever because he knows the Latin names of flowers. He’d talk to Mum in Latin, given half a chance, so I couldn’t understand.

Everybody peers at the plant. It’s nothing special - a few green leaves, that’s all. It’d be worth stopping for if the leaves were bright blue or something.

“When it flowers in July, each floret has five linear petals that form a sheath around the style and stamens. As the floret matures …”

Miss O-L drones on. The rucksack’s hurting my shoulder. I feel silly with a rucksack, but Mum wanted us to look the same as the others, so she bought us one each in Oxfam. Theirs are made of thick khaki stuff with loads of straps and pockets, and ours are only nylon. Mum’s is red and mine’s yukky pink.

We move off at last, but shuffle to a stop again when the lady in the glasses goes, “Oh, look! White Campion - almost hidden behind the Bur Chervil.”

Rampion. Campion. Perhaps I’ll be a poet. Dad used to read me poems but I don’t know where he’s gone.

“Well spotted,” Miss O-L says. Her real name’s Muriel but she ought to have a flower name like Violet or Lily. Flowers are her whole life. She’s never married or anything.

“We should see Red Campion, too. The red goes on flowering much longer - right through to November.” She turns to me and smiles, “Feel the stem, Tilly - it’s sticky, isn’t it?” (She’s always trying to teach me things.) “And look at the tiny hairs on the leaves.”

She
has hairs, on her chin. Not small and pale, like on the plant, but two long dark ones, sticking out of a mole.

Now Duncan’s asking her something. Duncan mumbles, so I can’t hear what he’s saying.

“Yes, that’s right,” she nods. “The male fern’s more upright and the female fern’s more graceful.”

Mum and Kenneth aren’t like that. Kenneth’s forever stooping to look at some plant or other. And Mum’s not what you’d call graceful. She’s always been a bit clumsy and she’s got worse since Kenneth appeared. Kenneth isn’t right for her. She just wants a man around again, so she started going out with him after they met at the singles club. They haven’t really got anything in common, not even flowers. Mum wouldn’t know a Daffodil from a Dandelion. She only joined the Wildlife Trust to please him.

We dawdle on again. Yesterday I ran ahead, then Miss O-L said I’d missed the Stinking Iris and dragged me back to look at it. It didn’t stink at all and it was a sort of dreary brown, not blue like normal Irises. Stinking Kenneth smells of peppermints. He keeps a tube of Polos in his pocket and he’s always sucking and crunching. Mum says he’s given up smoking and the Polos are a crutch. This morning he bought me a bag of Maltesers, but that was just to get in with Mum. I know he hates me really. Sometimes I see him looking at me like I’m an insect he wants to swat. He’s even more ancient than Miss O-L but he’s never been married, either. I wish he’d fallen in love with
her
and not with Mum. Or perhaps they’re not in love. I don’t know how you tell.

I lag behind again. There’s lots of trees I’d like to climb, but they’d probably say it’s Cruelty to Trees. They care more about plants than people. I mean, the whole point about flowers is to pick them, isn’t it? But yesterday when I picked a bunch of Bluebells, they all went ballistic, even Mum. And then I trod on something called Spotted Medick, and Duncan did his nut. He said it was a flower that grew under the cross when Jesus was crucified, and the little black dots on the leaves were spots of blood. That’s just stupid. The spots didn’t look a bit like blood, and anyway, it would have dried by now. He was just trying to make me feel bad. I did feel bad and I said sorry about twenty times, but he kept muttering about how children had no business coming on serious botanical walks. Well, I didn’t
ask
to come; Mum wouldn’t let me stay at home on my own.

Today I stick to the path. I don’t want to make trouble for Mum. I still love her. It’s only her-and-Kenneth I can’t stand.

“Imagine!” says the woman in the glasses, “our ancestors walking these hills fifty thousand years ago.”

I shiver. History’s my worst subject. I hate everyone being dead. Sometimes I wonder if Dad’s dead, too. I keep asking if I can see him, but Mum says give her time.

I whistle to my imaginary dog. I’m out for a walk on my own, and Charlie’s rushing around in circles, wagging his tail. I’m walking to Dad’s. He’s
not
dead - he’s expecting us. He’s bought Jelly Pots for tea because he knows they’re my favourites, and a meaty chew for Charlie.

“Yes, that’s Betony,” Miss O-L is saying. “
Stachys officinalis
. It’s been used by herbalists since Roman times for liver complaints and bronchitis. It’s a member of the
Labiatae
family, of course.”

Plants are lucky to have families. I don’t think two people on their own’s enough. I asked Mum once why I didn’t have a sister or brother, and she went red and changed the subject. Betony’s a pretty name, so she can be my sister, and Herb Robert my brother. I’m beginning to feel better now. Five is definitely a family, and by the time we reach the top of the Downs I have lots of cousins - Daisy, Bryony, Hazel, Rose and Ivy, and a best friend, Germander Speedwell.

“And
now
,” says Miss O-L, motioning us all to stop, “We’ve reached the high point of our walk. Indeed, I might even go so far as to call today a pilgrimage. You’re about to see the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

I gaze around. All I can see is the slope of the hill and the stony path going up it and a great blue lid of sky, and some hazy trees and bushes in the distance. There’s no pyramids or temples, nothing you’d call a Wonder.

“Normally I’d hesitate to show it to a group. But most of us have been together so long, I know I can trust you not to reveal its whereabouts to anyone.’ She gives a little giggle. ‘Let’s just keep it as our secret.”

I still don’t know what she’s talking about, but I like the thought of a secret. Secrets mean you’re special. Best friends tell you secrets. I haven’t got a best friend - well, apart from Germander Speedwell.

“What you’re going to see” - Miss O-L pauses and her voice goes all deep and breathy - “has never, ever, been seen before in Sussex. The Botanical Recording Society are tremendously excited and a taxonomist from Kew has already been down here to visit. So I’m sure you’ll realize how privileged you are today. Most people would give their eye-teeth to witness a sight like this.”

Although it’s hot, I feel goose-bumps on my skin. I don’t know what eye-teeth are, but I’d give all my teeth and both my eyes in return for Dad walking in the door.

Miss O-L falls to her knees. It reminds me of church - the hush, the circle of unsmiling Sunday faces. If she doesn’t show us the Wonder soon, I think I’ll burst.

She bends forward and moves aside a clump of grass. Behind it is a small, skinny plant - just a spike really, with no leaves to speak of and a few weird-looking flowers near the top. “This,” she breathes, “is a most extraordinary hybrid.” She pauses again and looks round at us - her eyes are bulgy anyway but now they’re almost popping out of her head. ‘It’s a cross between a Bee Orchid and a Fly Orchid.”

There’s a little gasp from the group, and then some oohs and aahs.

“A hybrid like this was produced artificially in East Germany, in 1962. The first sighting of a natural specimen was in Leigh Woods, near Bristol, in 1968, but it hasn’t been spotted in Sussex until now. This is unique for us, a one-off. Isn’t it thrilling?”

No, it’s not. It’s a cheat. I stand there, trying not to cry. I was expecting something fantastic that would change Mum’s life and mine. And instead it’s just another boring plant.

“Be very careful where you kneel,” Miss O-L warns as they cluster round to examine it. “There might be seedlings of other orchids nearby.”

Kenneth’s big blue backside is sticking up in the air. He’s on his hands and knees in front of the orchid, gazing at every detail through his lens. “Incredible!” he goes, and he gives this silly laugh, like he’s overjoyed to be kneeling in the dirt.

And Miss O-L puts her face so close to the flowers, I think she’s going to bite them off, but she starts on one of her lectures again. “You’ll notice that the outer perianth segments are characteristic of the Fly Orchid and the upper inner segments more akin to the Bee Orchid. Can you see the small furry humps on either side of the base of the lip, and the broad blue band across the middle …?”

I look at Mum. Like me, she hasn’t a clue what the old bat is on about. I know she feels embarrassed and left out, but she’s put on her fake face, pretending to be pleased like all the others.

Kenneth’s taking photos now, millions of them - click, click, click, click, click. He’ll never love you that much, I want to yell at Mum. You’ll always come second to some rotten plant or flower. He’ll never go down on his knees to you, or lie on his fat stomach and photograph you from every angle.

But I stand in silence, watching Ruth take over from Kenneth, then the woman with the glasses, then Duncan, then Elaine. All of them goggle-eyed, and whispering words like “phenomenal” and “fascinating”. All taking photos or making little sketches. When it’s her turn, Mum says nothing. She hasn’t got a camera and she can’t draw to save her life. She does borrow Kenneth’s lens, though, and peers through it for some time, while he shows off, pointing out the bee-like lip and the sepals. I can’t bear to see his thick, fat, fleshy finger and imagine it touching Mum.

Miss O-L can hardly get a word in. Then she swivels round to look at me. “Don’t you want to see it, Tilly?”

I shake my head, still scared I’ll cry. I hate crying in front of people.

“Silly girl,” Duncan tuts. “You don’t know what you’re missing. This is something you can tell your children.”

“I’m not
having
any children,” I mumble. “And I’m never getting married.”

Mum reaches across and takes my hand, but I shake it off. She held Kenneth’s hand yesterday and there’s probably traces of him there still.

“Now, Tilly, let me explain,” Miss O-L gurgles. “If you understand how nature works, you’ll be interested, I’m sure. Do you see this little lip? It’s shaped like the back of a bumble bee, and that’s to tempt a real bee to land on it and try to mate with the flower. Then pollination can …”