This Wonderful Thing

by Adam Baron

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The Lancastrians and the Yorkists. When the war was over. After Richard the Third was killed. They stopped fighting and became friends, which was VERY boring of them. Henry the Eighth’s dad married—’

  ‘Edward the Fourth’s daughter. I know. I got everything right in the test, remember? Henry the Eighth—’

  ‘And,’ I said, interrupting Veronique because if I hadn’t she’d have gone on for AGES, ‘they combined the roses. The red and the white ones. Miss Phillips told us.’

  ‘I KNOW. To unite the country, so that one side wasn’t more important than the other any more. They either used roses that were both red and white, or equal amounts of red and white ones. So?’

  ‘So count them,’ I said, pointing at the glass case.

  Veronique stood up straight for a second, but then bent down, her index finger making little dot gestures as she did what I’d said. I watched her – but I was sure. I’d counted fourteen roses on the badge. That meant that there should have been seven of each. Seven red and seven white. But there weren’t. There were EIGHT white roses but only SIX red ones! Veronique’s mouth dropped open as she counted again, and then one more time.

  ‘Yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘Cymbeline, you’re –’ she could barely make herself say the word, but eventually she forced it out – ‘right!’

  Really excited, I turned round, looking for Miss Phillips. I wanted to tell her too, but she’d gone out into the garden and was taking Marcus’s Skittles off him. I started towards the door – but the Hall Place helper saw me.

  ‘Is something the matter, dear?’

  ‘No, it’s just …’

  The helper stood up from her chair and walked over, bending down in an exaggerated way to peer at us through big glasses. For a second I thought I recognised her. As well as the glasses, she had short, curly brown hair. I was sure I’d seen her somewhere, but I couldn’t think where. ‘You two are interested in history, aren’t you? I’ve seen you really looking at things.’

  ‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘And …’

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Well, come and look,’ I said. And I turned back towards Veronique. When Veronique saw the woman coming, she started to do little jumps and pointed to the badge.

  ‘We’ve discovered something amazing!’ she squealed.

  ‘We?’ I said. ‘WE?!!’

  ‘Have you, my dears?’ the helper replied. She sounded very impressed, and more so when she saw the case Veronique was standing near. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘The Phoenix Medal.’

  ‘It’s not a badge then?’

  ‘Well, it’s known as the Phoenix Medal. A joy, isn’t it? Priceless. Just imagine. The chain hasn’t survived, but that very piece once graced the neck of the finest of English queens. Apart from our current monarch of course.’

  ‘But it didn’t!’ Veronique said.

  And we told her. Veronique started to point out the different number of roses, but I wasn’t going to let her get away with that. I butted in and blurted it out, giving the woman room to count the roses for herself. I expected her to be shocked. Amazed even. A fake? Right here! I was waiting for her to call me a genius – but she didn’t do that.

  She chuckled. ‘My, you are observant.’

  ‘My mum’s an artist,’ I said. ‘Which is maybe why I can …’

  ‘But, as is so often the case, I’m afraid there’s a simple explanation. The Tudors did unite both sides, and they did make peace with the Yorkists.’

  ‘I know. Super boring. Then …?’

  ‘But,’ she insisted, ‘they liked to show that they were really the top dogs. This is a subtle way of demonstrating it. More white roses than red, do you see? And …’ She paused, noticing Miss Phillips, who’d come back in with Billy and Marcus and was forcing them to look at some old cutlery. ‘Miss?’ she called out. Miss Phillips turned. ‘It’s lovely to have such engaged children in the house, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.’

  ‘Oh! I thought we had another hour.’

  The helper looked down at her clipboard. ‘Sorry. We’ve another school coming in.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Come along then, St Saviour’s,’ the helper said.

  She spread her arms out and ushered us over to the exit.

  Veronique sighed. ‘Cymbeline,’ she said, ‘you really do get carried away sometimes.’

  ‘Me? What about you? You nearly bit that woman’s arm off. You—’

  ‘This way, children,’ Miss Phillips said.

  And we walked back round the house to where the coach was parked.

  I was cross – with Miss Phillips. Why hadn’t she told us that the Tudors sometimes cheated with the roses? That woman had made me feel really stupid. I was cross with Veronique too for pretending it was just me who’d been excited, so I sat next to Lance on the way back. I wanted to ask him round, but he still had a bandage on his head so I thought I’d leave it a few days.

  When the coach pulled away, Marcus Breen jabbed my arm. ‘Why are you being such a baby?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’ve brought your mummy, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not funny,’ Lance said, his hand going up to his bandage.

  ‘What was it like?’ Marcus asked. ‘Having your brain sucked out your nose?’

  ‘Least I’ve got one,’ Lance snapped. ‘If they tried with you, all they’d find is Skittles wrappers.’

  Miss Phillips told us to pipe down.

  We did, but then Marcus snuck his phone out to do Minecraft. Darren Cross grabbed it off him and opened up a text. It was from Marcus’s mum and said, Have a lovely day, my little cupcake. We all laughed because there is no one in the whole WORLD less like a ‘little cupcake’ than Marcus Breen. His mum needs to go to Specsavers. That didn’t stop us calling him a ‘little cupcake’ for the rest of the journey, though, Lance the loudest because of the mummy comment – until Marcus tried to knock his head off with his schoolbag.

  Miss Phillips came over and took his phone away.

  We got back to school fairly quickly and, because the workshop hadn’t gone on as long as we’d thought, it wasn’t home time. Miss Phillips took us into class and told us to draw our favourite thing from Hall Place.

  ‘But I don’t want to see any pictures of Skittles packets,’ she said.

  Daisy did herself as Anne Boleyn. Veronique drew Elizabeth I’s piano keys.

  ‘Can’t believe I missed those,’ Miss Phillips said. ‘Elizabeth played them? Well, then Henry probably did too. He loved music. Who can tell me what song he composed?’

  ‘“Greensleeves”,’ said Vi Delap. ‘About Anne Boleyn.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Marcus Breen. ‘He wrote it because she never carried a hankie with her.’

  Billy drew Henry VIII (though he looked more like a chicken with a beard). Lance drew footballers waiting to have their heads cut off (wearing Millwall shirts). I did the gold medal. I was annoyed that it wasn’t a fake, but I’d still noticed something odd about it. I drew the outline and then Elizabeth’s face, adding the leaves and the roses afterwards. Miss Phillips told us to finish them at home so I slid mine into my bag, but didn’t get up with the others. I just thought about the LAST home time. I pictured the playground, empty but for the things that people had forgotten. I’d SO wanted to be picked up – but now I actually felt the OPPOSITE. I didn’t want to go home, though not really because of the Squeaky Chicks, or what Mabel had probably done to the rest of my Subbuteo players.

  It just felt different.

  It felt wrong, and in so many different ways.

  Stephan used this shower gel that made the bathroom smell funny.

  He hung his dressing gown on the back of the door and it just looked weird.

  There were different toothpaste tubes on the side of the sink and too many brushes in the mug. I couldn’t fit mine in.

  Then there was Stephan himself.

  I like him, I really do, but why did he have to
keep fixing things? Wasn’t our house good enough for him? After the window, he’d filled in lots of gaps in the brickwork outside. He’d even mended the creaky step halfway up our stairs, the one I used to be able to hear at night. I’d lie there in bed, listening, smiling to myself because I knew that Mum was coming up to check on me.

  Hundreds of other little changes came to mind too, all over the house, making me realise something: it didn’t feel like home any more. In fact, Lance’s house – which I knew REALLY well – felt more like home than mine did.

  Which gave me an idea.

  ‘Come on, Cymbeline,’ Miss Phillips said. ‘Can’t stay here all night.’

  I slouched off downstairs and saw Mum near the bike stands – with Vi’s mum. They were chatting, as normal, and I shook my head. How could Mum be like that? Nothing WAS normal. Didn’t she realise? Or did she actually like all the change? Even Stephan’s shower gel? I couldn’t believe that, but then I thought of Ellen and Mabel who, of course, were girls. My Auntie Mill’s got a daughter (Juni) and Mum used to REALLY fuss over her. She made those stupid loom band things with her and did her hair in plaits and ponytails. So was THAT it? Mum just wanted some daughters? Was the clear and obvious truth that, quite simply, having me wasn’t enough for her?

  The playground was full, but I felt even more alone than I had on Friday. So I walked across it and waited until Vi’s mum had turned away. Mum asked how my day had been.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But can I go to Lance’s tonight?’

  ‘To play? It’s a bit late notice …’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘For a sleepover.’

  Mum stared at me for a second and looked pained. ‘Not tonight, Cym.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why. It’s Monday.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We never do sleepovers on a weekday.’

  ‘Why don’t we?’

  ‘Because … Look, Cymbeline.’

  Mum stopped then and gathered herself. And I waited, knowing what she was going to do. She wasn’t going to get cross. Oh no! Instead, she was going to be all NICE to me again. All UN-DER-STAN-DING. She was going to say that she knew how HARD it was for me, how UNSETTLING – but that I’d get used to everything. Well, I wasn’t going to listen. I didn’t WANT to get used to anything. I just wanted it all to be how it was BEFORE. And I was going to tell her that, plus the fact that she was wrong about sleepovers on weekdays. My whole LIFE had turned into a sleepover, hadn’t it?

  A sleepover from HELL.

  But I didn’t get a chance because Mum’s phone rang.

  Mum sighed. For a second I thought she’d ignore the phone, but I could see her thinking that perhaps it might be the police about her iPad or something. She pulled her phone out of her bag and held it to her ear, her eyes opening wide. Then she turned, looking round the playground, searching for something. Or someone. Her eyes fell on Veronique, who was still waiting with Mr Mansour, our teaching assistant.

  ‘Yes,’ Mum said into the phone. ‘No problem at all. But how terrible. Drop stuff round later if you like, but don’t worry about it, okay?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Mum nodded again and then hung up. ‘It’s Veronique,’ she said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘She’s … coming home with us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s going to stay the night.’

  ‘At our house?! You said sleepovers don’t HAPPEN on Mondays. And, in case you haven’t noticed, we are a bit FULL.’

  ‘I know. But …’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Well, it sounds even worse than ours and Sylvie doesn’t want Veronique to see it.’

  ‘See what?’ I said, and Mum sighed again.

  ‘They’ve been burgled,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  I stared into the lady’s face. Her smile was still there, clinging on like she was a Cheshire cat (but still with a body). I swallowed and winced as Milly moved behind me, her fingernails digging into my skin.

  ‘You want …?’

  The lady nodded. ‘That’s right. The bear. Can you fetch it, please?’

  ‘Fetch … it?’

  ‘Indeed. And don’t forget to tell your mother how grateful I am. Okay?’

  ‘Er … okay.’

  ‘Well, off you go then.’

  But I didn’t go. I didn’t move, or at least not all of me. Before I could stop them, my eyes flicked up to our bedroom – where the teddy was. It was currently under Milly’s pillow, though tomorrow it would be under mine. That’s what we’d agreed when we’d come back from the hospital. We hadn’t thought about the teddy there. Why would we, with Dad ill? I’d just thought of Dad, wanting to stay there all night with him. After letting us see him briefly, though, Mum took us home, Milly yawning all the way until we pulled into our drive.

  ‘Stop!’ she yelled, which made Mum slam the brakes on.

  The teddy was lying on the path, lit up by our headlights. Mum must have dropped it there earlier. I jumped out, grabbed it and took it inside. Mum followed, carrying a very floppy Benji, Milly and I lining up at the bottom of the stairs.

  With the teddy.

  When Mum came towards us, we looked at her.

  ‘We’re sorry,’ I said. But Mum frowned and I realised that she didn’t know what I was talking about. ‘For arguing,’ I explained. ‘Earlier. At Cuckmere Haven and on the way home.’

  ‘We really are,’ Milly said, reaching over to hold the teddy too. Mum sighed and took a deep breath.

  ‘Oh my word,’ she said. ‘You argue, so what? Sisters do sometimes. You should have seen me and Auntie Ruth. I’m the one who should be sorry. You girls are lovely as LOVELY. I was stressed about Dad. I was much too hard on you.’

  ‘So can we …?’

  We held the teddy up and Mum smiled. She looked into our faces and reached out to stroke the top of the teddy’s head. Her smile deepened when her fingers went into its fur and, instead of answering, she just nodded. With reluctance, she pulled her hand back and carried Benji up to bed.

  ‘Yes!’ Milly said, and we followed them, though we turned left into our bedroom, which is when we made the pact.

  ‘The Treaty of the Teddy,’ Milly said.

  Which was this.

  Under no circumstances would we ever argue about the teddy again (though we could argue about other things – that was fine). The teddy would never find itself dirty or wet, or lying on its own outside. Instead, we would do everything we could to protect it, the biggest threat – of course – being Benji, who would most likely draw on it with a Sharpie, or bury it in his sandpit. To stop him, we decided to hide the teddy at all times. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays it would go under Milly’s pillow, and on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays it would go under mine. On Sundays it would live in the bottom drawer of our clothes chest (school uniform, which we share).

  ‘But we still don’t know what to call it,’ Milly said.

  And she was right. Not only did the teddy not have a name but we STILL hadn’t decided what sex it was. I sat it up on my desk and wondered: DID it look like a boy? The answer was no – because who gets to say what a boy is SUPPOSED to look like? Or a girl? Boys and girls can look like anything they want to – and so can teddies. But I also decided that it WAS a boy. For one thing I wanted to be nice to Milly, but I also thought about Dad. With him being in the hospital, we needed another boy in the house.

  ‘So all he needs now is a name,’ Milly said, staring into his furry face. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Henry?’

  Milly grimaced. ‘No way! There’s a Henry in Green Form who eats with his mouth open. You can see EVERYTHING! I’m not cuddling him.’

  ‘Fair enough. What about …?’ I nearly said Dad’s name, but I stopped myself. ‘Thomas?’ I was thinking about Thomas Cromwell, and this time I stared at the teddy. ‘Are you a Thomas?’

  ‘No!’ Milly screamed. ‘Don’t you remember that boy at Apple
Trees?’

  ‘The one who …’

  ‘Weed himself ALL the time!’

  ‘I forgot. Every name’s got something wrong with it, though, hasn’t it?’

  ‘So what about something that he’s like then?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Milly frowned. ‘Cuddles?’

  ‘Too soppy! Though he IS cuddly.’

  ‘So what about … Mr Cuddles?’

  ‘Still too soppy. I like the Mr bit, though. What else is he?’

  We both stared at him. ‘Cute?’

  ‘True, but we’re not calling him Mr Cutey.’

  ‘You’re right. Then what about …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Fluffy.’

  I thought about it. ‘He IS fluffy.’

  ‘He’s REALLY fluffy!’

  ‘He’s REALLY, REALLY, REALLY fluffy. He’s fluffy as FLUFFY. So maybe we should call him Mr—’

  ‘And gold,’ Milly said. ‘He’s a really lovely gold colour. Let’s call him Mr Goldy.’

  And so we did, which left only one thing to decide: who’d get the honour of having him for the FIRST NIGHT.

  But I didn’t argue. I just said Milly should have him. I may have spotted him in the stream, but Milly had stopped him getting run over by Mum, hadn’t she? In the end, we both got him, though. We cleaned our teeth and Mum came to tuck us in. After she’d gone, we lay in our separate beds, me looking up into the darkness and thinking – about Dad. In hospital on his own. He’d been hooked up to this machine. I didn’t want to touch him. The machine monitored his heartbeat on this moving graph thing, and as I sat on the edge of his bed I wasn’t able to stop staring at it. Hoping for the next beat. Now I listened to the house all around me, which is normally full of little sounds at that time. The dishwasher, or washing machine. The TV. Mum and Dad talking, their voices all soft as they get things out for the morning. Now there was no talking. There was nothing – until I heard a ruffling sound.

  Milly’s duvet sliding to the floor.

  It was followed by the patter of her feet across the carpet.

  Milly climbed in, like she did when she was little. I used to get cross, wanting my own space. I wasn’t cross now, though. I just budged up, Milly putting the teddy between us, then pulling the duvet tight. She was silent for quite a long time, and I thought she’d gone to sleep until she said, ‘He looked really ill, didn’t he?’