Nicky Singer - Feather Boy

“‘Oh my beloved,’ cried her grandmother, ‘you know not what you ask.’

“‘Indeed I do, Grandmother,’ said the girl. ‘And that is why I’m here. I have come to listen and to learn. For you and Grandfather have lived long in the forest and understand how it is that night turns into day and winter into spring. And if this were not enough, you have lived long in each other’s hearts and so understand the dark and light of love, and if this were not enough you have read many books and told many stories and so know what makes a beginning and what an end. I beg you, Grandparents, share what you can with me, for I am eager to know what you know and to carry your wisdom to the Prince.’”

“Nurse,” cries Mavis. “Shut the curtains!”

“I’ve nearly finished now,” says Catherine, gently. “If you want to sleep. But you see, the grandparents did tell the girl their wisdom. All night long they spoke and she listened. And I was hoping we could do something similar here.”

“What?” says Albert.

“She wants you to tell the children your secrets,” shouts Matron.

“No I won’t indeed. They’d be shocked.”

“Not secrets,” says Catherine. “Wisdoms. Things you’ve learnt over the years.”

“Not to be nosey,” says Weasel’s Elder. “That’s what. Mind your own business. That’s what. Little piggies have big ears. That’s what.”

“Well, that’s a start,” says Catherine.

“That’s what,” says Weasel emphatically.

“Wesley…” says Liz Finch.

“I’m just repeating the wisdom,” says Weasel. “Learning from Dulcie here. That right, Dulcie?”

“Cheeky little blighter,” says Dulcie.

“Anything you’d share with me,” I say to Edith Sorrel, “if I was going to be beheaded tomorrow?”

“No.”

I put my finger to my throat and make the sound of ripping flesh. “That’s me gone then.”

“What?” For the first time she seems caught off-guard.

“Dead,” I repeat. “I’m dead. Just twelve years old and dead. D.E.A.D. Dead. Finished. Kaput. Head on the carpet.”

“Stop it,” says Edith Sorrel. “Stop it at once.”

“Can’t stop it. Sorry, without The Wisdom, I’m a goner. Didn’t Catherine say? Just one or two old forest truths and I’ll be OK. You can save me. You do want to save me, don’t you?”

She gives me that stare. “Of course. I’d give my life to save you. You know that.”

“Oh. Right. Great. Well, you’ve got to tell me something important then.”

“What?”

“I don’t know! You’re supposed to be telling me. Whatever the most important thing in your life is. Was. Whatever.”

“Top Floor Flat. Chance House, twenty-six St Albans.”

“What?”

“You can go there. Walk. It’s not far.”

Geography has never exactly been my strong point but I’d say St Albans has to be two and a half hours’ drive from here. So maybe Niker’s right about the vegetable shop after all.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll go right after school.”

“You’re such a good boy,” she says and then she reaches up towards my head and gives me this little dry, tender tap. “Beautiful,” she murmurs, hand in my hair, “beautiful.”

I pull away. “It’s horrid,” I say, “my hair.” And I tell her how they used to call me “Chickie”.

“I don’t see Chickie,” she says and then: “Pass me my bag.”

Jammed down the side of the seat is one of those triangular witches’ bags, faded black leather with a large gold clasp. I extract it and hand it to her as instructed. From the musty interior she draws out a mirror in a suede case.

“Now,” she wipes the surface with the back of her liver-spotted hand. “What do you see?”

She holds the mirror up to her own face. And this is what I see: A spooky old bat with snow-white hair, weird black eyebrows and about a million wrinkles.

“Come on,” she urges, “come on.”

“I just see a lady.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Well an old… erm, an elderly lady then.”

“Liar,” she says. “Tell me what you see.”

But I can’t.

So she says, “You see an old hag. A wrinkled old hag. Yes?”

“Maybe.”

“So do I.” She puts away the mirror. “It always surprises me. You see, I expect to see the girl I was at twenty. With skin and hair like yours. And yet whenever I look – there’s the old hag.” She laughs quietly.

“Right.”

“So you’ll go to Chance House for me?”

I’m not sure where the “so” comes from in this. There doesn’t seem any “so” about it. But I nod like the sad guy I am.

“Good. Thank you.”

“Everything OK?” asks Catherine, coming by.

“Oh yeah. Great.”

“Good.” She moves on but not before Albert bursts into song:

“Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run.”

“Stop it,” says Edith Sorrel. “Stop that at once!”

“Don’t be afraid of the farmer’s gun!” squawks up Mavis.

“Right on,” says Niker.

“He’ll get by…” continues Albert in a gravelly lilt, “without a rabbit pie…”

“Stop the singing,” says Edith. “Don’t sing. I asked you to stop.”

“Ole misery guts,” mutters Albert.

“Run,” Niker encourages the Chicken, “run rabbit…”

Edith draws herself to her feet. She is tall. She reaches for her stick. For one insane moment I think she intends to hit someone. But of course she only means to walk away.

“Run,” sings Albert jovially to her stiff, retreating back, “rabbit, run, run, run.”

I follow Edith into the corridor. Each stride looks painful.

“Can I help?”

“No,” she says “No. Go away. Leave me alone.”

“Don’t mind her,” says Matron. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

But, as Edith shuts the door of her room, I have this horrible feeling that she does mean something by it. All of it.

I don’t go to Chance House. Not right after school anyway. But I find myself wanting to go. The whole walk home to Grantley Street I keep thinking, “I ought to be going to Chance House. Why aren’t I going to Chance House?” And it’s not just because I told some batty old woman that I would go, it’s because I feel, about as powerfully as I’ve ever felt about anything, that the house is standing somewhere close, waiting for me. Maybe being batty is catching.

Grantley Street is a thin strip of houses, wedged between two roads. Our front door opens straight on to the pavement of Grantley and our rear patio on to The Lane, which is lucky considering it could open on to The Dog Leg. The Dog Leg can be scary. More about that later.

Our back gate is a nine-foot barricade of wood with a deranged row of nails banged in along the top. It’s about two years since Mum made with the hammer, so the points are a bit rusty now. I perform complicated manoeuvres with the gate lock, the bolts and chain and then, once inside, remove a loose brick from the garden wall to get at the house keys. A moment later I’m letting myself into the kitchen.

“I can see you,” I announce in a loud voice.

I wish I could stop doing this. I’m not quite sure who I’m expecting to find in our kitchen. Niker. A burglar. Dad. But it’s part of the routine now, a habit, a mantra. Saying it protects me, gives me one-up on Whoever’s There. Proves I can’t be startled, taken advantage of. Trouble is, I have to do it in every room in the house.

“I can see you!” I yell into the sitting room. Then I thunder upstairs and repeat myself in Mum’s bedroom, in mine and finally in the bathroom. This little quirk started about three years ago, when Dad left and Mum took the extra shifts at the hospital. “No choice, now,” Mum said. The good news is I don’t do the cupboards any more. I used to shout into the larder, Mum’s wardrobe and the airing cupboard. This has to be progress.