1
‘Do you ever think someone’s watching you?’ George tap-tapped the backs of her red leather shoes against the mossy wall.
Ellie frowned. ‘No.’
‘I do.’
‘You’re scratching the back of your shoes. Mummy said that you mustn’t do that.’ Ellie hoped that would put an end to George’s silly thoughts. ‘Shall we go and play indoors?’
George tilted her head back to look at the vast, deep blue, summer sky. A cloud lumbered past like a white whale and made her feel as if she was flying high above the sea. ‘No, let’s stay out here. It’s a lovely day. We’ve waited so long for summer, it seems a shame to waste it.’
Ellie peered into the shallow, clear stream that chattered past the bank beneath their feet. ‘There’s a fish.’
George leaned over as far as she dared. ‘Where?’
Ellie pointed. ‘Just next to that shiny stone. See it?’
‘It’s a stickleback. I read about them. It is the smallest of Britain’s freshwater fish and they build nests.’
Ellie jumped down and knelt next to the stream. ‘Like birds?’ The stickleback had gone. She picked up a stick and turned the shiny stone. A small green-brown streak bolted from the plume of unsettled mud into some weed and waited for the stick to reappear.
‘No, like fish. From weed.’ George shuffled her bottom and made herself comfortable again. ‘Have you found it?’
‘It won’t keep still.’
A dragonfly, its crimson body shimmering as its zigzag dance reflected the sun, zipped down to the water, bounced off the thin meniscus and rose again.
Captivated, George watched as it came up to her face and hovered before her. She smiled. ‘Hello. I’ve read all about you, too.’
The dragonfly, its transparent wings a cobweb blur, came nearer. Unafraid, George leaned forward and peered earnestly into its giant, lustrous eyes. ‘Odonata,’ she said. ‘You are a Scarlet Darter. Crocothemis Erythraea. Very rare. You eat other insects, fly at about ten miles per hour and you don’t usually go near water. So, what are you doing here? Were you thirsty?’
The insect gazed at her for a moment longer, then, as if it had understood every word she had said, sprayed a tiny, misty, mouthful of water into George’s face.
‘Oh.’ she squealed, shocked by the fine spray, and reeled backwards. The sea blue sky and the fluffy, clumsy white whale passed before her eyes as she toppled from the wall into the long grass at the end of their garden.
‘George? Are you alright?’ called Ellie from the other side of the wall. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’
The dragonfly darted down to where George lay, balanced delicately upon the air at the end of her nose, winked one of its huge oily eyes, then flitted off among the foxglove and roses that grew wild along the wall.
Ellie, her face as wide and surprised as the midday moon, appeared over the wall. ‘Are you alright?’
‘I’m okay,’ muttered George. ‘I just lost my balance.’
‘Would you like some help?’ Ellie scrambled up to the top of the wall, her stickleback stick still in her hand.
‘No, I can manage,’ panted George as she struggled to get up.
‘George?’
‘What?’
‘You’re wearing my knickers.’
They walked along the long worn path up to the house. The long, untamed grass that tickled their bare arms flopped back into place as soon as they passed.
The smell of bread wandered lazily to them from the kitchen. Mummy baked when the sun came out; cakes, pies, buns and most of all, most deliciously, softly, warmly, best of all, bread.
Ellie made a scene of sniffing the air. ‘Bread and jam for tea.’
George shrugged. ‘That’s nice.’
‘What’s the matter, George?’
‘That dragonfly spat at me.’
‘What dragonfly?’
‘The one that made me fall off the wall. Didn’t you see it?’ Ellie remained silent. ‘A Scarlet Darter. I didn’t know they did things like that. It winked at me too.’
‘Insects can’t wink. They don’t have any eyelids. You told me that.’
‘This one did.’
Ellie sat on the doorstep and slipped off her shoes. ‘Don’t tell Daddy. He doesn’t like you to daydream.’
‘It wasn’t a daydream. It happened.’
‘He won’t believe you. He never does.’
George looked back down the length of the garden, the wall no more than a blob of grey toothpaste between the apple trees and the long grass. ‘I wish he would.’
‘I believe you, George. I always believe you.’
‘That’s because you’re only seven and you’ll believe anything. I’m nine. Daddy says nine year olds shouldn’t believe in silly things.’ She looked at the scuffs on the backs of her shoes, licked her finger and rubbed at them until they were no worse than before.
‘Then I want to be seven forever,’ said Ellie.
‘You can’t. We all have to grow up. Daddy says so. Come on. Let’s go and have tea.’
George and Ellie lay in the darkness of their rooms. The sound of the television drifted up the stairs.
Ellie turned over and pulled her door open an extra inch or two. ‘George?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you awake?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Goodnight.’
George waited.
A fruit-filled belly laugh suddenly bloated the darkness. ‘Yes you are.’
George cackled. ‘What do you want?’
‘I can’t sleep.’
‘Me neither.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘The dragonfly.’
‘Do you really think it winked at you?’
‘I thought it had.’
‘Then it must have. You’re too clever for it not to have. Daddy says you’re a blooming genius.’
George smiled. ‘We’d better go to sleep. We’ll only get into trouble if we’re caught.’
‘Okay. Goodnight, sister.’
‘Goodnight, sister.’
George heard the hush of Ellie’s door against the carpet as she closed it again.
Outside, a cat screamed as if someone had bitten its tail.
‘Mum, where’s my toothbrush?’
‘I don’t know, Georgina. Has it dropped behind the sink?’
‘No.’
‘Then I don’t know. I don’t suppose you’ve found that hairbrush yet, either.’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps Icky stole it.’
Ellie spat minty froth into the sink. ‘Do you want to use mine?’
‘Will you clean it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. I wonder where mine is. I used it at bedtime.’
‘Who’s Icky?’ asked Ellie.
‘He’s the one who does all the mischief around here. Mum says that if we didn’t do it, then Icky must have done it. It’s her way of saying that she doesn’t believe us.’
Ellie handed George her scrubbed brush. ‘What does he look like?’
‘He’s not real. She invented him.’
‘Oh. I’m going down for breakfast.’ Ellie skipped away.
‘Tell Mum I want porridge. With syrup on. And lots of milk,’ called George.
‘Okay.’
The back door was open when George came downstairs. The air was full of flowers and grass.
Her mother came over and kissed her on the top of her head. ‘Hello, darling.’
‘Morning, Mummy.’
‘It’s a little hot for porridge. Why don’t you have flakes, like Ellie?’
‘But I like Porridge.’
‘Well, porridge is a winter food. In the summer it’s horse food.’
George tutted. ‘Okay.’
‘Good girl. What are you going to do today?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I’ve got some work to do, so you’ll need to keep yourself occupied.’
‘We’ll find something, won’t we, Ellie.’
‘I’m going to find that stickleback.’
George sauntered to the back door. ‘Cats,’ she said.
‘I beg your pardon, dear?’ asked her mother.
‘Cats, Mummy. There are hundreds of cats in the garden.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly.’
Ellie jumped off her chair and ran to the door. ‘It’s true. Come and see. Come and see.’
Sally (that’s George’s and Ellie’s Mum’s proper name) put the box of flakes down and went to the door. ‘You’d better be…Oh. Good Lord.’
Cats.
There were cats of every size and every age. There was every colour of cat that there could ever be, even some, perhaps, that there could not. Every cat, as if caught in a bubble, as if every other cat was, quite simply, not there, was flitting and chasing and dancing and behaving in the most extraordinary way.
George stepped out onto the grass.
Sally tried to grab the yellow ribbon of her summer dress. ‘George. Come back here.’
‘It’s alright, mummy. They don’t even know I’m here. I might as well be invisible.’
All around her, the cats were going mad. Purring and mewing and growling and spitting, twisting and turning, batting at the air, hopping and leaping and chasing their tails.
‘What is going on?’ whispered George.
Something small and red zipped past her ear; the Scarlet Darter. She followed its higgledy-piggledy flight as it buzzed from cat to cat. The dragonfly seemed to tease each one, to nip at their ears, to pull at their whiskers, to yank at their fur until they were forced to turn onto their back, to claw at the air in an attempt to catch the pest, then off it buzzed to the next cat, to do the same.
Then suddenly, it all stopped. Every cat in every bubble froze. They gazed, hypnotised, in front of them, then their heads wobbled and jerked and tilted, and then away they ran, every one of them, over the wall, the hedges, the fence, until the garden was as it had always been.
The sounds of birds returned.
The Scarlet Darter balanced in front of George upon a breeze that no one could feel. George took a tiny step towards it. It backed away. She stepped forward again and again it moved away.
‘You want me to follow you, don’t you,’ said George.
The dragonfly bounced away in the direction of the wall. George ran after it, through the long grass and the apple trees, past the foxglove and the roses.
‘George, come back.’ shouted Sally. ‘You haven’t any shoes on.’
The dragonfly came to a twitchy rest upon the wall. Next to it, laid out like a giant black caterpillar warming in the sun, was a cat’s tail; without a cat.
‘Yuk,’ yukked George. ‘This poor cat will fall from a dozen trees before it gets its balance right again.’
The dragonfly raised itself to an inch above the wall and circled the tail, then off it shot in its boastful flight.
Hesitantly, George picked up the tail. She had expected it to be as hard and as cold as an icicle, but it was soft and had warmed in the sun. The only blood was a tiny sticky patch that matted the fur at the very end, where it had been severed from the cat. ‘Poor thing,’ she said.
She put the tail back on the wall and turned back up the path to home. Ellie and Sally were still at the door. Sally had a look of thunder on her face. Ellie was eager to hear what her sister had found.
‘Oh, George.’ said Sally. ‘Look at your socks. Come on, get inside and have your flakes.’
In they went, out of the sun and into the shade, back to the table and onto the chairs.
‘Where are the flakes?’ asked Sally. She had a finger on her chin, as she always did when she was unsure. ‘I left them on here when you called me. Have either of you moved them?’
The sisters sung together. ‘No, Mummy.’
‘How strange. You’d better have porr…’ and as if from nowhere the porridge was…there. ‘Now, where did that come from?’
‘Maybe Icky did it,’ suggested George.
‘Maybe he did,’ smiled Sally. ‘Maybe he did.’
George held the magnifying glass to her eye and peered deep into the grass. It was surprisingly insect free. There was a slug, way down low, trapped until rain or dark came to set it free, and a spider had passed, too busy to stop and look at the girl with the enormous eye.
‘Have you found your fish yet?’ called George to Ellie.
‘No. I think it’s gone.’
‘Can I help you look for it?’
‘Yes, please.’
George climbed over the wall and knelt next to her sister, who again had a stick in her hand and prodded the stream as if she could pester it into giving up its secrets.
‘Still got my stick,’ said Ellie.
‘That’s a different one.’
‘It’s not. I left it on the wall after you fell off it yesterday and we went in for tea.’
‘It wasn’t there this morning when I followed the dragonfly down here. And anyway, that’s from a silver birch. The one you had yesterday was from an oak.’
Ellie knew better than to argue. Her sister knew these things. She didn’t know how she could know so much. She just did.
George stretched out a hand. ‘Can I see it?’ Ellie handed the stick over. ‘There isn’t a silver birch near here. Where did this come from?’
She examined the stick. It was a perfect stick. It had no bumps or nobbles. The bark was so smooth that her finger glided along it and, most odd of all, there was no sign that it had ever come from a tree. Both ends were still covered in bark, so it hadn’t been snapped off. It looked like it had never been near a tree.
George ran her finger and thumb along it again, turning it as she went until she felt the minutest ripple that ran the whole length of the stick.
She picked up her magnifying glass and scrutinised the tiny line. When she saw what she saw, well, she couldn’t believe what she’d seen.
A piece of silver,
A speck of dust,
The eyes of a cat,
A marigold rub.
Find the place
Where young ones grew,
Their vacant house
A clue for you.
If you wish to see
What can’t be seen,
All you must do is
Follow the stream.
And then, with a gush of breath, George read the final word:
ICKY
2
‘Icky.’ gasped George. ‘He’s real.’
‘No,’ declared Ellie with absolute certainty. ‘He’s not real. He’s just the person that Mummy blames when we do something wrong.’
‘No, Ellie. Look.’ George gave the stick and the magnifying glass to Ellie.
Ellie put the glass to her eye and inspected the stick. ‘What?’ she said. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘Here,’ said George. ‘Let me hold it. I’ll find it for you.’ She ran her thumb along the stick and found the bump again and then carefully turned it towards Ellie’s eyes. ‘Just there,’ she said. ‘Look closely.’
Ellie pushed her face to the stick until, through the glass, it looked as big as a giant finger. She followed George’s thumb along it until they reached the end.
‘Well?’ asked George.
Ellie raised her head to George. She looked as sad as a winter’s day. ‘I can’t see it, George. I’m sure it’s there, but I can’t see it.’
‘But it’s there,’ protested George. She grabbed the magnifying glass and peered at the stick. The words were still there, as bright as whitest chalk upon the blackest of boards. ‘You must believe me.’
‘Oh, I do.’ said Ellie in her most convincing voice. ‘I do believe you, George.’
George had the same look upon her face that she had when she had read something that she didn’t quite understand. She knew in her heart that the answer was there somewhere, right before her very hazel eyes, and that all she had to do was search. She rested her chin upon her knees and thought, as hard as she had ever thought before.
Suddenly, her face lit up. ‘I know. Let’s play make-believe.’
The sadness fell from Ellie like dirty clothes. ‘Oh, yes,’ she peeped with delight.
‘Okay. I’ll start.’ George’s fingers drummed upon her leg as she thought of something to say. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Do you believe in Mummy?’
‘Of course,’ said Ellie. ‘Is it my go?’
‘Not yet. I’ll tell you when. Do you believe in Daddy?’
‘Yes. That’s a silly thing to ask.’
‘Do you believe in school?’
‘Only because I have to.’
‘Yes or no?’ demanded George.
‘Then, yes, I do.’
‘Do you believe in the fields and the trees?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you believe in…’ George paused, not quite sure what to say next. ‘Do you believe in Australia?’
Ellie looked bemused. ‘The country?’ George nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Even though you’ve never been there?’
‘I’ve seen it in your atlas. It’s where kangaroos live.’
‘Do you believe in Jesus?’
Ellie chuckled. ‘Of course I do.’
‘What about Father Christmas?’
‘Where else would our presents come from?’
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
Ellie screwed up her nose. ‘Yes.’
‘And can you see the words upon this stick?’
Without thinking, Ellie took the stick and the glass and looked at it. ‘Oh, George,’ she whispered. ‘I can see the words.’
Her head moved from one end of the stick to the other and back again, from tip to tip. Her lips moved as she tripped and stumbled and climbed over the words.
‘What a pretty set of words,’ she beamed. ‘They bounce along like a rubber ball.’
‘They do, don’t they?’ laughed George. ‘I think they’re the best words I’ve ever read.’
‘But what do they mean?’ asked Ellie. ‘What do they mean?’
George’s not quite understanding face reappeared. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I really don’t know.’
They both gazed out silently upon the steam. Its endless chitchat grew louder the more silent and thoughtful they became. A big twig, that banged itself upon every stone and became tangled in every weed, fought to keep its head above water.
‘Come on twig,’ thought George. ‘Keep going. You’ll get there.’
The twig pushed and shoved and battled its way on and then disappeared into the distance among the bubbles and froth.
‘Aaaaaaah!’ screamed George all at once.
Ellie jumped, off the wall and so high and so far, that she landed in water to the tops of her socks. ‘George. Look what you’ve done.’
‘Ellie. Follow the stream. The words said: Follow the stream.’
Ellie stared glumly at her feet. ‘I’m already following it,’ she groaned. ‘Mummy’s going to make me into a rug when she sees me.’
‘Drop the stick, Ellie.’
‘No. It’ll float away.’
George jumped down from the wall and waded into the stream. Ellie’s eyes widened as she thought of two sisterly rugs laid side by side before the fire. ‘Oooh. We’re in trouble now.’
Before Ellie could do anything to stop her, George snatched the stick from her hand and threw it two feet downstream. ‘George!’
‘Run,’ shouted George with a smile. ‘Run. Come on.’
Ellie watched as George set off downstream in pursuit of the stick, water radiating from her feet up to her head, turning her strawberry blonde hair into rat’s tails. ‘Wow! Wait for me, George. Wait for me.’
The stick ducked and bobbed, weaved and spun. It clung to rocks and waited, teased, until George and Ellie were an inch away, then let go and rode upon the tiny white horses, past willows and fern, past kingfisher nests and vole holes, over miniature waterfalls and bridges made of straw. The sun fell through the trees above and dropped gold into the stream.
George and Ellie ran and ran until they were sure they could run no more, unable to stop themselves shrieking with delight at the freedom they had found.
Then the stick slowed down, steered itself towards the bank, and came to rest beneath a willow whose branches dipped thirstily into the stream.
George and Ellie fell upon the bank, breathless, all water and smiles.
‘Where are we?’ panted Ellie.
‘I don’t know,’ puffed George. ‘We must have come miles. I’ve never run as far.’
George raised her eyes to the top of the bank. They had come to rest at the edge of a wood, though not a dark wood, but one that let in the sun during the day and the moon at night and was equally happy to be silver or gold.
Never able to resist a chance to test her knowledge, George shuffled up the bank on her tummy, through the woody mulch, and studied the trees. They were an odd mix. Most woods now were made up of perhaps only one or two types of tree because that was the way they had been planted by humankind. Real woods had disappeared. But this wood looked real. There was ash, oak, thorn; there were foxgloves, wild roses, toadstools and mushrooms, sleeping primrose and hibernating hyacinth. Even some she didn’t know. It was all like a lucky-bag of sweets.
Ellie picked the stick out of the stream and trudged wearily up to George. ‘What now?’ she asked.
‘What did the stick say?’
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t really understand it. I just thought it sounded nice.’ She gave George the stick and the magnifying glass. ‘Read it again.’
George did as she was asked. ‘Find the place where the young ones grew, their vacant house a clue for you. I wonder what that means.’
Ellie, who still didn’t really understand, lay back on the ground. It crunched beneath her as twigs and pine needles and leaves gave way. It was, she thought, as comfortable as her bed. If she closed her eyes and thought of something nice, she knew that she would fall asleep.
A wren, as brown as the ground from which it appeared, and small enough even for Ellie to hold in her hand, hopped up to within a foot of her face and stopped. It cocked its head from side to side and then fixed a soft black eye upon her.
‘George,’ whispered Ellie. ‘A bird’s staring at me.’
Before George could turn her head, the wren was gone. It skipped up high into the canopy of trees, into a shaft of light, and then disappeared.
‘What kind of bird was it?’ asked George.
‘A small one. As small as my hand.’
‘Where did it go?’
Ellie pointed. ‘Up there.’
And as she pointed, as her finger did tiny circles upon the air, their eyes fell upon the secret of that little glade.