‘She wanted to call me something Shakespearean. Desdemona or Ophelia. But she told my dad she was waiting for me to kick so that she knew I agreed. She had to stop and have a rest and she sat on a bench by Oscar Wilde’s grave. Apparently, it’s big and like a sphinx. And people are so moved by his life story and the things that he wrote that they leave notes and presents and candles all over it. So many that they have to clear it every day to make room for new ones.’
I can hear the birds singing their strongest songs to welcome the dark and let morning know they’ll be waiting for it.
‘She said “Oscar” for a joke. I’m really glad I didn’t kick for that. It could have been so much worse. And then she tried “Wilde”. It was a joke again, Dad said, but I kicked. Every time she said it, I kicked again. So, I chose my own name really. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t, but I’m glad she gave me the chance.’
The calm, green dappled light filters the amber outside. I feel as if I’m floating.
‘I never told anyone that before.’
‘It is such a good name and such a good story.’ Dorcas is very grave and thoughtful. Perhaps she has her own name story.
‘Why are you called Dorcas?’
‘Absolutely no idea.’
We burst out laughing.
‘I’d better get back. While we can still see our way down the ladder.’
‘Fairy lights. I’ll get some.’
‘Yes. And ribbons. I know they won’t help us to see but they’d look so pretty. Imagine them fluttering in the breeze.’
If there ever is a breeze.
‘See you at school tomorrow then.’
‘Yes. See you then.’
I go out on to the platform and watch her till she’s out of sight. Mae and Jules are sitting with their feet up in the kitchen and the donkey is taking a stroll around the garden.
I climb down the ladder and wander around, imagining how vibrant it must have been here when they staged a performance. Filled with people and laughter. I can see where the actors would enter and say their lines. The archway through the bushes as an entrance and the area around the treehouse as a stage. Then maybe the actors would have mingled with the audience, in character. I picture the bright costumes and the actors’ words being caught like ornaments in the trees and bushes. I wonder what my mum’s voice was like. If I sound like her.
Dorcas thought the story about my mum was interesting. Perhaps it is.
It’s alright here. In this new life, there is hope.
4
‘Argh!’
I wake up on the roof. Scrabble my heels against slate. Try not to fall. I grip as tight as I can to the tiles and feel the pull in my muscles, the crack as my bones pull.
What on earth am I doing up here? How did I get here? This is insane. It can’t really be happening? It’s impossible. I must be dreaming.
But I’m not. I’m on the roof, fighting for my life.
I try not to look down. I try not to panic. I panic. My heart races and I want to scream, but I’m afraid who might hear me.
‘Help.’ I whisper it into the tiles. Hope the house will somehow carry the sound down to Mae. It doesn’t.
Concentrate. I manage to get a better grip on the slope. No one is coming to help. I need to do this on my own.
I’m lying flat on my front, so I inch my way breathlessly across the still hot slates and make it to the chimney. I am sweating and I feel sick rise in my throat. But I make it. Hugging on to the chimney, I try to get my breath back. To work out what’s happening.
The moon is a light lime green. I concentrate on it to quell the dizziness. Sweat blurs my vision. I steady myself and reach a pyjama’d arm to wipe it from my eyes. Below me is death if I fall from this height. I need a plan.
Wait here till morning?
And be seen by the entire town and all the kids on their way to school?
I get up the guts to look down and feel vertigo twist inside me. It’s a really long way.
If I got up here, then there must be a way down. I just need to think clearly.
I focus on the garden below me. Dark unknown things stretch and shudder the grass.
This must be a nightmare. I bite the inside of my mouth. ‘Ow!’ It’s real.
Up here it is seriously scary. But…
I surprise myself with the ‘but’.
But … once you get past that, it’s magical. Thrilling. It’s just me. The flittering bats, the warm-porridge moon, and the air clear and full of possibility. No one knows I’m here. There’s only the night and me. Up here, I can see like a bird. I am alone and free. I imagine sprouting wings. From beneath my shoulder blades, majestic and blooming. An eagle. A magnificent, powerful golden eagle.
What was that?
A shriek? A screech owl. Or perhaps a fox?
Breathe. Gulp my heart back down from my ears in a hard swallow. Ouch.
Again the shriek. Another electric surge of panic radiates through me.
I grip tight as a ghost owl lands next to me on the peak of the roof. It hooks the house with its talons. If I dared to let go, I could touch the owl’s feathers. Stroke its head.
‘I agree. It is beautiful,’ I whisper to it, even though I’m as shaken as a baby’s rattle. The weathervane moans its answer. The owl abandons me.
I shouldn’t be up here. I should be in bed. My skylight is on the opposite side of the roof. I need to get to that or my bedroom window. If I go for the window, I will have to shimmy down and dangle over, holding the guttering while I try to swing my way in. Doesn’t sound a brilliant option. The skylight will be easier.
Using the chimney, I heave myself up and peer over. I left the skylight open earlier, because Mae lets bats use it to come in and out. Getting to it is not going to be easy, but it’s my best horrendous option.
I let go of the chimney, break out in flashes of sweat all over my body, and grab it again.
Come on, Wilde. You can do this.
I straddle the ridge, keeping the chimney at my back. Inch my legs over so that I am sitting as if ready to slide down.
Don’t even think of it.
Pressing my feet hard into the roof tiles, I shuffle down the slope a tiny bit. I can do this. I edge a tiny bit further. Stop for breath. Edge a bit more. I have to do this slowly. I’ll be killed if I fall. Stone dead. The fear gives me sharp focus.
Another inch. Down. It’s so high. The skylight isn’t so far away now. Another inch.
‘Argh!’ An owl swoops low and I skid, send some grit rattling down into the gutter. I claw wildly, my heart in my mouth. Drag myself to a stop on a patch where a slate is missing. Can’t breathe. Deep gulps.
The skylight is close. One last effort. With my eyes so wide I am hardly blinking, I edge down a bit more. Prepared for the swoop of owls this time. Eventually, I make it to the skylight. Dangle my legs through its open mouth and rest for a second. The drop from here is going to hurt, but it’s nothing compared to the fall I might have had.
My arms are tired, but I try to support myself so that I can dangle as low as possible before letting go. I still land with a thud and hurt my elbow and knee. But I’m alive.