Mae starts to sway, her voice warbling strange, strangled chicken sounds. An actual chicken walks in and cocks its head, as if assessing whether Mae is in pain or not. Mrs Danvers runs out through the cat flap. Mae’s skirt hem is torn at the back and opens like a mouth as she moves. She belches, then sits heavily opposite me, as if she is going to start a deep and meaningful lecture. I am saved by the arrival of Mae’s partner, Jules. She has stayed at ours before and we get on like a house on fire.
‘Guess what? Wilde’s school is doing a drama production and they’ve only gone and got another practitioner in to run it!’ Mae scowls. ‘They shouldn’t have people coming in. We could have done it here. In the garden. That would have been perfect, wouldn’t it, Wilde?’
I give Jules a pleading look and she gets it immediately.
‘Wilde, could you please go and check on the animals? Take some water.’ Jules winks and I rush out.
Most of the animals are hiding in any available shade outside. The duck splashes in a washing-up bowl of water. A donkey is lying down under a cherry blossom tree, which is unusual. Not that there’s a donkey in the garden, which seems to be quite ordinary here, but the fact it is lying down. The chicken wanders about, buk-buking into a hole under the hedge. Mrs Danvers, seeing me, slinks off in a different direction. I top up the water bowls, pat the donkey’s nose and jump at the size of her teeth.
The treehouse will be the best place for shade, I’m certain. It’s majestic and inviting, way above me in the ancient oak tree. I want to sleep out here, but I have to wait till I’ve got Mae on side. She’s worked hard to make the house welcoming for me.
The first rung of the ladder is easy, but I get sweaty by the second. My clothes stick to my skin and my lungs threaten to pop by the time I get to the top. Standing on the platform, which runs around the outside, I whistle at the view through dry lips. It is gorgeous. Forgotten and a bit weather-beaten, but perfect.
Inside, hazy green light shuffles delicate patterns across the floor. I’m going to ask Mae if I can bring the telescope up from the porch and stargaze from here. I bet I’ll be able to see Jupiter and the Milky Way.
The treehouse hasn’t been used for a while. There’s a pile of decaying twigs in the corner where something has made a nest and then abandoned it. Everything needs a bit of tender loving care, but I make a solemn promise that I am going to bring it back to life and treasure it for as long as I’m here.
Poking my head out of one window, I can see an enchanting dark green forest crawling up the hills behind Witch Point. Poking my head out of the other window, I find Mrs Danvers staring back crossly.
‘Sorry, Mrs D.’
I leave her in peace and go out onto the platform again, imagining the garden as the theatre space it used to be.
Over the hedge, a head of familiar effervescent curls is passing. It’s now or never. I’m so sick of being lonely.
‘Hello,’ I call, half hoping that Dorcas won’t hear me.
She looks up and the surprise on her face makes me laugh. I guess this place is camouflaged from the outside by the leaves.
I give her a big wave.
‘Wilde! You have a treehouse! That is the most amazing thing in the world. Can I come up? I’ve always wanted a treehouse and we could never have one in our garden because it’s too small and we only have a lemon tree that comes up to my waist. I mean it will grow, but at the moment a treehouse would squash it splat flat and I guess then it would be a shed, not a treehouse.’
Even Dorcas has to stop for breath.
I’m shy. I’m always shy. It comes from being hurt too many times.
It’s cool in here. I have shade. I should share the shade.
‘Come up.’
I go back in without waiting for an answer.
I wish I’d had time to tidy the treehouse so that Dorcas could be wowed by it. She’s taking a long time. Perhaps she’s realised I’m not worth it and gone away. I hold my breath and listen for her. I hear the tree sighing. An ice-cream van in the distance. Dorcas on the rungs.
‘This isn’t easy.’
I dash out on to the platform. Dorcas is climbing the ladder with a tray on her head.
‘I mean, I know that in some areas of the world people carry things like this all the time, but I’ve not had any practice.’
The tray tips and the jug slides precariously close to the edge. I lie flat on my tummy and reach down, trying to grab it from her when she gets close enough. We both end up in fits of laughter. Eventually I’ve got it, and then she is up.
‘Your aunt gave it to me. The ice cubes are melting already. She offered to help me up with it, but I said I was fine. You live and learn.’
‘Yes. You do.’
I remember all my past failed friendships. All the people who saw my weird. I look at Dorcas and her brilliant smile. I’m going to let myself try. ‘Come into the treehouse.’
She lets me walk in first. I put the tray down on a stump in the corner.
‘Wow. This place is amazing.’
‘I’ve only just come up here myself. I haven’t had time to tidy it. I’m sorry it’s a bit of a mess.’ I don’t know why I’m apologising. I just want Dorcas to like it. To like me.
‘What’s untidy about it? It’s awesome. Do you sleep up here? I would definitely sleep in here if I could. Can we? I mean, shall we? One day? Night, I mean? Sleep up here?’
I laugh. Her energy is infectious.
‘Yes. OK.’ My heart lifts, like a swift soaring on thermals, but I manage to act nonchalant all the same. ‘Shall we drink this before the ice cubes melt?’
I pour, grateful the drink is water and not homemade lemonade. Dorcas gulps hers down in one and then lies back on the wooden boards. I sit and sip mine, listening to the fragments of ice tinkling the glass. The sun is slowly giving up work for the day, the shafts low and peach. Dorcas runs her hand through one of them, blocking the light and then setting it free again, as if she can make light appear by magic. I steer clear of that word even in my brain.
‘Did you know that most dust is made up of human skin?’
She sits up abruptly. I nod.
‘Why are you called Wilde? I mean, it’s a cool name and everything, but it’s unusual, right?’
I nod again. I don’t talk about my mum much. I take a deep breath of dusk and go for it.
‘My mum went to a famous cemetery in Paris. It’s called Père Lachaise. It’s got lots of famous people in it. Singers and composers and writers. Loads of people go there to see the mausoleums, tombs like houses with stained-glass windows. Dad said it’s very moving. Anyway, they were there on a beautiful autumn day and my mum was really into Shakespeare.’
I wait for scorn or a dig of some kind, but Dorcas just looks interested, so I carry on.
‘She was kicking up leaves and trying names out. Dad said she was about eight months pregnant and looked like a cavorting angel with a very big belly.’
Dorcas laughs then leans in encouragingly. I think she can sense this is a big deal to me.