‘Just taking a message, Sir.’ Dorcas is better at spontaneous lying than I am.
‘Have you delivered it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then back you go. Chop chop.’
We go back with our tails between our legs, to rehearse and squabble and slander with the rest of them.
At end of day I go straight home. Everyone has been in strange moods today. There have been random outbursts of crying, snide remarks, sniping. I scuff my school shoes on the path a bit. I need to get out of this horrible play.
What will my note say when it arrives? I dread to think.
I get into Mae’s hammock to chill. As I climb in, I’m surprised to find my Shakespeare book there already. I put it on the grass. I don’t mind Mae reading it, but I wish she’d asked first. I won’t have a go at her though. Why shouldn’t she read my book? I’m being an idiot. Getting my balance, I lie back and let the leaf shade dapple me in happiness.
Restless, I reach for The Collected Works, and topple out to the ground. The grass is parched but pungently sweet. I feel the familiar cover of the book and open its warm vanilla-perfumed pages. My mum has doodled pictures in the margins. I don’t know what they are, but they fascinate me. Swirls and birds, stars and flowers. Some of the doodles are a little bit odd. A girl surrounded by people with their backs turned to her. What looks like a round cage with teeth? I don’t know why she would draw these things, but I really wish I did.
I try to let the images speak to me beneath the shade of the trees. There’s something there hidden in those pictures. I feel as if I should know what it is.
11
‘It looks splendid.’
We stand back and look at our work. We’ve spent all weekend on it. The treehouse has had a new lick of whitewash on the inside to brighten it up and we’ve hooked battery-powered fairy lights at the windows which we’ll turn on after dark. We’ve strewn colourful cushions around, and I’ve brought some of my bits and pieces from my room: the seagull skull, which Dorcas thinks is fascinating; my Shakespeare works, so I can continue to mull over the drawings. I’ve strung a few feathers I’ve collected up at the window, where they spin.
‘Come on.’ Dorcas has whitewash freckles.
We go outside and admire the multi-coloured ribbons rippling from the branches like a rainbow waterfall. ‘Good work.’
We have a right to be chuffed, it is mesmerising. We go back in and flop down on the cushions. I go for turquoise and Dorcas egg-yolk yellow.
‘We should give it a name.’ I pass Dorcas a paintbrush. ‘Then we can make a sign to put up outside.’
‘Good idea. What about calling it the most fantabulous treehouse in the world?’ We both look at the piece of wood and laugh. ‘It’s not going to fit, is it?’
‘The Snug?’ I’ve always liked that word.
‘Or The Wilde Place?’
I like that and it’s kind of Dorcas to suggest it, but I want it to be both of ours. ‘What about WildeDorcas?’
‘It doesn’t really trip off the tongue.’
‘OK. The Crow’s Nest?’
‘Ooh. I like that. Like on a ship, Captain Wilde.’
‘Correct, Captain Dorcas.’ I salute. ‘We can bring the ship’s wheel down from the attic and the telescope from the porch to help us look out for pirates.’
‘Good idea, but you can’t really have two captains.’
‘It’s our treehouse. We can do what we like.’ We salute each other in solidarity.
‘Well, isn’t this sweet.’
I jump and knock a bottle of red paint over. It splats the yellow cushion like blood.
Jemima stands in the doorway, backed by Holly and Ivy. ‘A lovely little playhouse for two lovely little friends.’
‘What do you want, Jemima?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Nothing in particular. We thought we’d come and have a chat with you. Didn’t we, girls?’ She struts into the treehouse, sneering. Ivy and Holly stay in the doorway. ‘So, what actually is this place?’
‘It’s a treehouse. What does it look like?’ Dorcas is scraping red off the cushion and her leg.
‘Thank you, Dorc-ass, for that brilliant explanation, but I meant what are you doing up here together?’ Jemima pronounces ‘Dorcas’ emphasising the syllables separately. I can see that it really riles Dorcas.
‘Look. You aren’t invited here,’ I shout. ‘You are trespassing on my property and if you don’t leave, I will call the police and have you arrested.’ This is silly. There aren’t any police in Witch Point. I fold in on myself like an envelope.
‘Ooh. I’m scared.’ Jemima inspects the treehouse, sniffing her disgust at everything. ‘What’s this?’
She picks up my seagull skull as if it is the filthiest specimen she has ever had the misfortune to come across, as if we are forcing her to handle it.
I bristle. ‘Put that down.’
It’s one of my favourite possessions. I’m certain that’s weird, but it’s also true.
‘Eww. Why have you got a dead bird in here?’
‘Everything dies eventually.’ It comes out like a threat.
‘Oh no. I’m even more scared now.’ She doesn’t look scared. She looks thrilled. ‘Are you, I don’t know, I don’t mean to pry, but are you using this place to cast spells? Is there a cauldron here somewhere?’
That horrible spiteful nasty sow. The tree creaks, sending out warning signals through its roots. Danger, danger. The birds pick up the call and caw and cwarak. I try to laugh it off but I’m not convincing. ‘Don’t be so childish.’
‘I’m not the one playing in a treehouse, little girl.’
Ivy’s phone pings, closely followed by Holly’s. ‘We have to go home. It’s teatime.’
Jemima is on a mission to cause trouble. ‘Go on then. Run along. I think I’ll hang out here a bit longer.’
They leave with apologetic expressions to me and Dorcas. They aren’t so bad. Nowhere near as bad as Jemima. Do they even like her very much? It makes me feel sad for her. I know what it’s like to struggle to find a friend. Surprising myself, I say, ‘You can stay if you want to. We are just painting a sign for the door.’
She contorts her face. We wait for a blistering insult, but she pulls up a scarlet cushion and sits on it. Dorcas has to pick her jaw up off the floor. I want to tread carefully.
‘You don’t have to paint, but you can if you like?’ I pass Jemima a paint brush. ‘We are trying to make the place as colourful as possible so use as many as you want. We did those earlier.’
Our paintings look clumsy, but this is my space, I want it to be cheerful and they are anything but dull. ‘Yours can go there. Paint anything you like.’