Lisa Heathfield - Paper Butterflies

‘Like mother, like daughter, and we can’t be having that.’ Kathleen stands up and walks out of the room. I see her going across the hallway and into the living room.

‘You’re at the bottom of the heap,’ Megan says. ‘And your mom was ugly too.’

It’s too late to stop myself. I jump up so quickly that Megan’s eyes flash with fear and I’m on her, pulling her hair and thumping her with my tight fists.

‘She wasn’t, she wasn’t, she wasn’t.’ I don’t care that I’m crying. And I don’t care that Megan is curled up, screaming on the floor.

I hear the front door opening, but I carry on.

‘June!’ my dad shouts. He pulls me from her, just as Kathleen comes back in. She has her sewing basket in her hand.

‘Megan!’ she exclaims as she drops the basket and scoops her daughter up.

‘What’s going on?’ my dad asks. He’s holding me at arm’s length.

I’m breathing hard. I’ve never laid a finger on Megan before. But, today, fire got into me. I stare back at my dad, bewildered by what I’ve just done.

‘I came back early to surprise you,’ he says, and he looks so confused.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. And I am, because I’ve made him look sad.

‘Why did you do it?’

‘It was just a silly quarrel, Bradley. Don’t be hard on her,’ Kathleen says, putting her hand softly on his arm. ‘It’s over now.’

Megan is still crying slightly. It’s strange to see her curled up there.

‘Fine,’ my dad says. ‘But you’re to go to your room, June. And if I ever see you hurting Megan again, there’ll be hell to pay. Do you understand?’

I nod and run away, leaving them huddled together on the kitchen floor.

The next day after school, I know I can’t stay in the house. I put a note on the kitchen table – ‘ I’m going to Jennifer’s. Back later .’ And then I leave it all behind me, the wind rushing past my ears.

I can hear Blister humming to himself from the edge of the path. He’s sitting on the trailer steps and he sees me as I start to climb over the gate. In his hand is a little penknife and it points straight to the sky as he waves.

He grins at me. ‘You came back.’ He puts down the stick that he’s carving and walks through the grassy path.

‘I hoped you’d be here,’ I say, wriggling my arms to get the bag off my back. ‘I brought you something.’ He watches me as I unzip it and pull out the small bottle of orange juice. ‘I thought you’d like this,’ I say. Suddenly, it seems a bit strange. It felt like a good idea earlier, but now I feel awkward as I give it to him. ‘You said orange juice would be better.’

He looks up at me as if I’ve given him a bar of gold.

‘Thanks, June,’ he says. I follow him back to the steps. ‘Look what I did.’ He picks up the stick he’s been carving. It’s a small spear, with a sharp, pointed end. ‘To keep the ghosts away,’ he laughs, and throws it straight into the ground, where it stays, sticking upright. ‘Nothing will get past that.’

We go into the trailer and I watch as he pours the orange juice into two glasses.

‘Presto,’ he says, and clinks my glass.

‘Presto,’ I say, as though it’s our own secret code, the key to our club.

‘Shall we drink it in the art room?’ Blister asks. Before I even nod, he’s off and I’m following him, looking at the muddy streak stretched straight across his arm.

‘After you.’ He bows deeply, one arm swept to the side, the other tilting too much and spilling juice on the steps.

‘Why thank you, sir.’ And I climb up into the second trailer. The smell of glue mixes into the warmth, and I notice that the piles of paper on the floor are stacked with their colours in order.

‘You’re very tidy.’

‘It’s how I like it.’

‘Maybe because your home is so busy?’ I say.

Blister rubs his cheek. ‘Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that.’

We put our glasses next to the cushions. Blister kneels down, picks up a piece of paper from each pile and lays them out in the middle of the floor.

‘So, what do you want to make?’ he asks. I stretch my legs out straight and wriggle my toes in my sandals.

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

Blister crawls over to a tiny table and picks up a tube of glue. I watch as he takes one piece of white paper and one piece of gold. He starts to fold them and it’s as if I disappear. He screws up his nose slightly as he concentrates and it squashes some of his freckles.

His fingers move carefully. He folds and twists and sticks the paper, as though it’s a precious jewel. I’m not really thinking about the shape – I just like watching something beautiful appear out of something so ordinary.

It’s finished and Blister holds it up in front of him.

‘It’s an angel. For your mom,’ he says.

I reach out to touch her wings and the clothes of white and gold. Her face is blank, but I know she’s happy.

‘I didn’t want to make you sad,’ Blister says.

‘I’m not,’ I say quietly. But I am. I’m so sad that I don’t know how my heart carries on beating.

Blister puts the angel in my hands. I want her to be big, so I can hug her.

‘Was your mom nice?’ Blister asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, and I pull my knees up tight into my chest and look down, so he can’t see my eyes.

‘I don’t mind if you cry,’ he says. He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s not fair that she died.’

But I press my head into my knees, until I know the tears have stopped.

When I look up, Blister is sitting with a little rag in his hand.

‘It’s the cleanest I’ve got,’ he says.

I take it from him. It feels rough against my eyes, but I don’t mind.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

A silence now sits between us and I don’t know how to fill it.

‘What’s your stepmother like?’ Blister finally asks.

‘She’s OK,’ I lie, holding my angel tightly. Blister looks at me as though I should say some more. ‘I’d better go. She’ll be worried about where I’ve got to.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry. I’ll come again, I promise.’ I stand up and Blister gets up too.

‘Can I keep my angel?’ I ask.

‘Of course. I made her for you.’ Blister smiles and his dimples dip in. He pushes his glasses up a bit on his nose.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

I put her carefully into my bag, worried that I might hurt her. I don’t want her to get crumpled. I want to get her to the house safely, where I’ll tuck her away in a secret box.

My very own angel.

Mickey and I walk side by side. The sun is warm on my face and there’s not a cloud in the sky.

‘Where shall we go today?’ I ask.

‘The fields at the back of my house?’ she replies.

‘I’d like that.’

We walk slowly – Mickey’s hip makes her seem older than she is. She shuffles slightly, the dry dust lifting around her ankles.

High above us, two birds swoop and twist before they disappear from view.

‘Birds are like memories,’ I say. Mickey chuckles. She’s used to my thoughts by now. ‘They are,’ I insist. ‘How sometimes they’re close enough to see clearly, but at other times they fly just out of reach.’

‘You’ve been reading too many books again.’

‘I can’t work out whether memories are good or bad,’ I say.

‘I suppose it depends which ones they are.’ Mickey sounds tired now. ‘Maybe you should try to remember the good and forget the bad.’

‘But sometimes even the good ones hurt,’ I tell her.

Mickey nods as she puts her hand gently on my arm.

‘Let’s make happy memories for today, then,’ she smiles.

‘How?’

‘You see those horses over there?’ She points into the distance. At first they’re difficult to see, but then the herd of them becomes clearer. ‘How about we go and ride them?’