Birdy Flynn Page 10

  ‘So, you and me,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘A whole day. What shall we do with it?’ Her eyebrows and shoulders lifted. She hummed and tapped the newspaper on the table while she thought. It was the Daily Telegraph. Her thinking went on for ever.

  I begged my brain to say something clever. To think of something from the paper. A headline or an interesting letter.

  ‘Some reading, miss?’ I said and then begged her to think of something else so I wouldn’t have to tell her that I’d never read a book.

  ‘We could,’ she said, pointing at the shelves with her eyes, ‘and we probably should. But what’s your favourite thing to do?’ As she spoke, she swivelled round in her chair to look straight at me. Sue Ellen from Dallas came into my head.

  I wanted to tell her that every day I read her newspaper, that I liked learning new words and making discoveries and writing letters.

  ‘I like writing letters, miss.’

  ‘Letter-writing? Gosh.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘To?’

  ‘Anyone.’ I looked at her newspaper but couldn’t say the words out loud. ‘I don’t post them. I keep them in a box.’

  ‘Right. How about a favourite subject at school?’

  My brain turned doughy, like all my words had run out.

  ‘Are you OK, Bernice?’ she said. ‘Do you still feel unwell? Do you need to lie down?’

  ‘Lie down?’

  ‘Shall I take you upstairs?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I’m OK, thank you.’ I didn’t want our time to end. ‘I enjoy music at school,’ I said, although I didn’t. Why did you say that? I asked myself.

  ‘Music?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘There’s a piano over there.’ She pointed.

  I looked.

  ‘Shall we have a tinkle? Start there and see where the day takes us?’

  I nodded.

  Her smile stretched further, lifting her smooth shiny cheekbones. ‘We should do some geology at some point,’ she said as she took out a band and tied her hair back. ‘But I’m afraid, for me, it is a bit of a weakness.’

  The piano was scruffy and worn, the colour of my suitcase, with the same dents and scratches. She lifted the lid and nodded at the stool for me to sit down. Not a square or round stool, but a rectangle, covered in worn-down velvet. Not enough room for two bums, but too much room for one. I sat on my hands. She stood bent over the piano and tested the keys, slowly at first.

  ‘Gosh, this needs tuning,’ she said, ‘but let’s give it a pop.’

  She speeded up and started moving and plonking her fingers like she was Liberace and she sang a song I’d never heard of and she swayed left and right so that when she went leftwards her body bumped my arm. She kept doing it and laughing at herself. Then, as quick as she started, she stopped. She took in a huge breath, and released an enormous sigh. I wanted her to play more songs, her own songs, made-up songs. She was the cleverest person I’d ever known.

  ‘Budge up,’ she said and she used her bum to move me along. She wiggled and pressed against me, which felt warm and good. She put her left arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer. ‘There,’ she said. ‘You want to try?’ She patted my leg.

  Her words washed over me.

  ‘Bernice?’ She patted again. ‘Do you want a go on the piano?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘No such thing as can’t.’ She took my two hands in hers and placed them on the keys.

  I sat like a dog in a circus.

  ‘OK?’ she asked.

  The state of my stumpy fingers embarrassed me.

  ‘I can’t play the piano,’ I said, putting my hands back on my lap.

  She tightened her hairband and I smelt her clean, fresh clothes. She pulled our stool closer to the piano. Her shoulders rose up as she lengthened her arms and placed her hands where mine had been.

  ‘Put your hands over mine,’ she said.

  I hesitated.

  ‘Go on, but gently,’ Mrs Cope said, as if my little fingers could crush hers.

  Every book in the library was watching me.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let me show you how it feels.’

  I lifted my hands and placed them lightly down until each finger sat on one of hers. Her hands weren’t working hands, wrinkled and worn. Her fat gold wedding ring was hard and cold, but the rest of her hands were soft and warm.

  ‘OK?’ she said again.

  The quiet felt safe. It was calm.

  She moved her fingers gracefully and mine rose with them like ten miniature rides at the fairground.

  ‘Stay with me,’ she whispered, and my hands flowed in a way I never knew they could. My fingers played like fish swimming in a musical shoal. My arms ached a little with the effort of holding them, so I hovered above until she nudged me with her hip and said, ‘Relax and let them go.’

  So I did. My fingers dropped and sat on hers, like babies on the backs of floating mothers, going for a summertime glide.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she said. The word beautiful filled my whole body with butterflies. ‘Lovely,’ she continued and, as if the batteries were winding down, she slowed. ‘Now you try on your own,’ she said with a poke of her elbow.

  My heart dived. I looked down at the floor.

  She lifted my arms, placed my hands. And I tried. My fingers flumped on the keys like floppy raw sausages. It was a mess of sounds. She said nothing. My mind hurt with concentration. I prayed that my fingers would remember where they’d been before. I tried touching the keys lightly, gliding, rolling. Still the sound was a clinky, clanky jumble. Spanners hitting saucepans.

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘you can stop there.’

  ‘Sorry.’ My hands went back on my lap.

  ‘Your hands are as light as a sparrow but’ – she paused – ‘as heavy as a lion’s paws.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You bang away at the piano as if you’re beating a drum.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Do you ever watch The Muppet Show?’

  ‘Can I go to the toilet, miss?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  We both jumped up. She followed me to the door. She gave me exact directions, like I was going to the North Pole.

  The library was empty when I got back. The piano lid was closed. The Daily Telegraph was left on the table. And it was gloomier; the sun had moved over.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Mrs Cope said behind me, and I flinched, the way you do when a dream wakes you up. Her smile had changed to a frown. She looked frightened of me. ‘This is a bit odd, isn’t it?’ she said.

  I didn’t know what she meant.

  ‘We should do some schoolwork.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘But,’ she said, dangling some keys, ‘I’ll give you a choice.’ She waited. ‘Tidy the library books or the tuck cupboard?’

  I ran what she said through my mind. ‘OK.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Tuck, miss,’ I said. ‘Tidying tuck would be fun.’

  ‘Right, good,’ she said as she turned and marched down the corridor.

  I followed. She rattled the keys as we walked. At the tuck cupboard she held open the door and I went in first.

  ‘I love tuck cupboards,’ she said.

  I smiled as she closed the door.

  Then there was complete darkness. ‘Open the door to find the light,’ I wanted to say, but she was a teacher so I thought she would anyway. The room stayed black; I couldn’t see or hear a thing.

  Then a click, and sharp brightness, like a camera flash shoved up against your face. It was a tiny cupboard, more like a wardrobe.

  I couldn’t breathe. I could taste the sticky sugary smell that hung in the air. I thought I would suffocate. I imagined the air running out. I fanned my face with my hand.

  She looked around the shelves. I looked where she looked an
d tried to breathe. Plastic jars of sweets; she ran her hand across them. Boxes of KP crisps; she tapped on the cardboard. Bottles of cherry and Panda Cola; she looked at the labels and read the ingredients. Twixes, Marathons and Mars bars.

  ‘My favourites,’ she said. Then, after thinking for a minute, she asked, ‘Why are you called Birdy?’ She took down another tub and twisted the black lid off. ‘You’re not exactly a delicate little bird, are you?’

  ‘It’s short for birdbrain,’ I said.

  Her eyes gasped open and she tried not to go into hys-terics. ‘Oh, bless you.’ She smiled a proper smile and rolled her shoulders to take her jacket off. Her red blouse had big frills down the middle and puffed-up shoulders. ‘Gosh, it’s got hot.’

  ‘Open the door,’ I wanted to shout.

  She untucked her blouse from the waistband of her skirt.

  ‘So, Bernice.’ Another smile like a secret message. ‘I promised that matron woman that we’d tidy things up.’

  She took a step towards me. I was up against the wall. Her face looked shinier, more red than before.

  ‘Those aniseed twists must melt in this heat,’ she said.

  She pointed to the high shelf and I looked up. When I turned my head back down, she took my chin in her hand.

  My heart pumped blood at a thousand miles an hour. Her hand moved to my earlobe, holding it like a precious jewel. Then she stroked my cheek and ran her fingers down to my mouth. She looked in pain. ‘What?’ I wanted to ask. She grim-aced as if she was being tortured. I tried to move away but my back hit the wall.

  Sucking in a deep, long breath, she reached down to my dangling left arm and lifted it. She stepped closer. I tried to stop my thoughts speeding towards fright and terror. I fixed my eyes on the twists in her gold necklace. I tried to think ordinary thoughts. She took my hand, made sure she held it tight and placed it on her. The top of her leg. Her sharp hip bone. I counted the twists in her necklace, but they started to blur. She moved my hand down her thigh, then up again, tugging at her skirt.

  ‘Small movements at first,’ she said. ‘Relax, it won’t hurt.’ She made me do longer stretches, down to the bottom of her skirt, around the back of her knee. ‘Let your hands flow.’

  When my head was lowered, she held it in place.

  ‘My ankles,’ she said.

  I ran my hand down to her thin, bony feet and then she let me up high, above her knee again. She took my hand in a firmer grip, pressing me harder against her.

  ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘Let yourself go.’ And her voice was different – more slurry and slow.

  I didn’t know what she was doing. But I thought it would stop. She’d snap out of her daydream and I’d run to the toilet. Was that her liking me? Had she chosen me? She brought my hand higher each time. She made me lift her skirt. My body started shivering even though I was boiling hot.

  I wanted her to hit me, a full smack to break my nose and leave bruises and marks. But she kissed me. Just below my right ear. She rubbed her nose in the fluffy bits of hair I have there. She made her lips move towards my mouth, and in one split second I pulled my face away. That shocked her. I pushed her off me and grabbed the handle on the door.

  ‘I thought you liked me?’ she said, as I twisted it madly, begging it to open.

  It did, and I ran faster than I knew I could.

  The coach came crunching along the driveway at four minutes past five o’clock, and I went to the landing and leant against the balcony. Seeing them below brought me back into the world. The boys filled the floor with their bodies and the air with their noise. Wide shoulders, fat necks, muddy, baggy clothes and puffed-up chests. They looked strong and free. The girls looked like stick insects. They stuck to each other in twos and threes. Mr Fry told Siobhan Higgins to pick up an empty crisp packet from the floor. She protested. Nathan Wright had dropped it and he thought he was hilarious.

  They were electric with excitement and stories and prodding and teasing each other, bobbing and dancing to the sound of their voices. Nobody noticed me up above them. When they herded into the dining hall, I crept down the stairs and followed.

  ‘Where were you?’ Liam said in the queue for food. He bumped me with his hip. ‘Birdy, hello.’

  ‘What?’

  I saw Mrs Cope. The three teachers laughing and sharing some joke. Even Mr Calthorpe was smiling. I felt guilty, stupid and wrong, and like a ghost in that massive room.

  ‘Why weren’t you on the trip?’ Liam said over the noise of cutlery and voicey echoes.

  ‘I was sick,’ I said without taking a breath.

  ‘You missed the best assault course ever. An army one, it was. Mr Fry fell on his arse. You would have loved it. It was hilarious. What did you do then?’

  ‘Some reading,’ I said.

  Gypsy Girl, who was up ahead, turned around.

  ‘All day? You and her?’ Liam looked over to Mrs Cope. She was still finding Mr Fry hilarious, nudging him and leaning into him. ‘She must have missed her boyfriend.’

  ‘Her boyfriend?’

  ‘Mr Fry. Everyone knows they’re going out.’

  ‘Shut up, Liam.’

  ‘Except her husband. Bet he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Her husband? What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘I need the loo.’ I slammed my tray down, and as I walked away I could feel Gypsy Girl watching me.

  I didn’t go back in. I stayed out in the hallway and sat on the bottom stair, a ledge as big as a bench. I looked up to the ceiling and the painting on the wall. It was in a heavy, golden, swirly frame. A king, I imagined. Most likely an English sort of king. A parasite, Dad would call him.

  I was desperate to be at home. I thought of Uncle Timmy and Aunty Peggy drinking tea. I wanted Mum’s boiled potatoes with skins and warm milk and cheese on toast and a blanket in front of the telly. I hated the mansion, its hugeness, its smells and noises and its dull, faded colours.

  One of my fingers had a big splinter that I wouldn’t let Mum get rid of. I liked having a woodwork injury. But as I squeezed it I wondered: was Mum right – would it go rotten with gangrene and fall off? My small, scruffy hands were shaking, and I wondered what they would ever be good for.

  I thought of Nan. What she would say when I was little and on my own at home. When I sat on the stairs and called her on the phone. She would tell me how brave I was. She would tell me how brave she was as well and how she was all alone herself and missing her real home. Nan’s way of speaking was like a load of magical fairy tales. She didn’t mind having the chat for hours and hours. She listened and sipped her drink. The chink of ice in a glass made me think of nice things. ‘Pretend I’m holding your hand,’ she would say. I would tug the sleeve of my jumper down, crunch it up in my palm. ‘We’re holding hands now,’ she would tell me. ‘Every-thing will be grand.’

  ‘What you sitting there for?’

  I looked up. It was Martin. He sounded like Noely. He jutted his head like a turkey. I looked back at my hands.

  ‘Birdy,’ he went on. He gave one of my feet a kick. ‘You thinking about what you’ll do when your mum throws you out?’ Martin’s voice was changing. He said the ‘out’ in a high pitch. The other words were much deeper. ‘When your family disowns you?’ he squeaked.

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘Why you laughing?’

  ‘I’m not laughing,’ I said in a squeaky voice, and he went to punch me but I pulled back and his swing missed. I stood up. ‘Do that again,’ I said as I made my shoulders wide and puffed out my chest. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Wow, are you a man already then?’ He pointed to my trousers.

  I faked a punch and knew he would come at me. And I knew how, so I twisted and caught him straight in a headlock. He was strong. I could feel him getting stronger than me. He tried to punch me in the stomach, but I shook him left to right like I was trying to pull his head off. He had no fight in him. His arms swung hopelessly.

  ‘Get
off,’ he said. ‘Let go, you pikey. Get off.’

  I squeezed hard and shook him more. My skin stung with heat.

  ‘You’re mad,’ he screamed at the top of his voice.

  I slammed his face against the thick wooden banister and heard his nose crunch.

  He fell like a sack of spuds, holding his face, blood pouring out of him. I felt like the champion of the world. I stood over him and wanted to kick him, finish him off. As I went to pull my right leg back, my right arm was gripped tight enough to cut the blood off. Mr Fry’s fingers pressed into my muscle. Martin curled up and whimpered as I was dragged to the side, marched past the gawpers and pushed into the kitchen.

  ‘That was for Murphy,’ I shouted back at him.

  ‘What is wrong with you, Bernice Flynn?’

  I looked at my feet and brushed some dust off my trousers.

  ‘You need to tell me what is going on, Flynn, you really do.’

  ‘Nothing is wrong, sir.’

  ‘Nothing is wrong?’

  ‘No.’ I looked up and said it straight to his eyes.

  ‘Why did you attack Martin?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged.

  ‘Did he say something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you troubled by something? Has anything happened at home?’

  ‘No,’ I said louder.

  ‘This isn’t acceptable, young lady.’

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ I said, and his mouth went wide open.

  ‘That a girl . . .’ he paused, ‘a girl could behave in that way . . .’ He caught his breath. ‘I’ll need to call your parents,’ he went on. ‘You’ll be going home.’ He walked away and my blood bubbled in me with excitement and a burning, fierce dread.

  A woman in a hairnet and white overalls gave me a glass of water. ‘You handled him well,’ she said in an accent like Mum’s.

  I smiled; she winked.

  Gypsy Girl walked past the door, looked in and walked away.

  Mr Fry came back with Mrs Cope. They talked in front of me, deliberately quietly.

  Then he spoke up. ‘There’s no answer at home. We’ll ring again tomorrow. You’ll go home tomorrow. Do you hear?’