Birdy Flynn

by Helen Donohoe

  ‘Boys,’ someone shouted from the front.

  Nobody listened.

  ‘Boys,’ she shouted louder, and the noise eased off. ‘Along the corridor to your right, please.’

  The boys moved like well-trained robots. Martin and Joe dragged their bags.

  Liam twisted round to face me and shrugged his shoulders. I shook my head. He turned and went.

  The same voice shouted, ‘Girls.’

  I watched the boys disappear around the corner.

  ‘Will you listen, please,’ the woman said, and the screechy babble settled to a hum of giggling. ‘Girls, you are upstairs on the left.’

  There was a charge of excitement and a sprint to the top. I got my case and followed.

  Up the stairs there were more gloomy paintings, but of horses and dogs, and a red carpet that looked worn and dusty. At the top there was a dark brown door, bigger than a normal door and squarer, with a shiny brass knob. It opened out, not in, and it didn’t squeak – it moaned, as if it knew that we were coming.

  The girls rolled in and you couldn’t help but look up. The dormitory windows reached up to the sky, curving in an arch, like ballerina arms. The blue sky outside was as sharp as a photo, and long orange curtains hung like cloaks. I wished Nan could see them. She loved a good curtain. She said it showed good upbringing and class.

  There were forty beds in twenty bunks, pushed up against four walls. There were two sinks, two mirrors (one cracked) and a patterned brown rug with twisted tassels. The floor was wide and wooden with no carpet. There must be good blankets, I thought. The girls scooted about like ants when you’ve stamped on their nest. Or bumper cars or flapping hens about. No one unpacked clothes, but they pulled out hairdryers with attachments and magazines and brushes and pouches of things. Words came out of mouths in shrieky spurts. Some of the hairdryers were massive, like bazooka guns.

  I stood watching in the doorway, until a girl said, ‘You need to get a bunk.’

  So I carried my case across the room, trying to avoid collisions as some girls shared hugs, and others ran back and forth from the windows, screaming about the man who was doing the gardening below – who, according to them, was a hunk.

  There was an empty top bunk and I made for that. Sarah Barker was on the bed below, counting out Fruit Salads and Black Jacks. She looked up and smiled.

  I lugged my suitcase up the ladder, extra careful with the handle that Dad had gaffer-taped up. ‘Shameful,’ Mum called the case. ‘People judge you on your luggage.’

  When I reached the top bunk, I sat around, faced the room and dangled my legs over the edge. On the rug below, group photos were being taken, team line-ups like football. Pulled faces, arms stretched out airplane style. Groans when flashes didn’t work and spools wouldn’t wind. Katherine Perkins couldn’t open her shutter. They laughed their heads off. And then, so did I. I should have got Mum’s camera out and taken a picture of them with their crazy curls and pink glittery lipstick. Mum would’ve loved that – she’d be thrilled with me in that crowd. But I only had twelve pictures on my film and Mum said, ‘Take it slow, now.’

  ‘Shall I get a picture from up here?’ I said, and hearing my words shocked myself.

  The group looked up.

  ‘Thanks, Birdy, yeah,’ Tracey Heaney said and she handed me her camera, showing me the little hole to look in and the button to press.

  A surge of good nerves shot through me when they stood in their pose, waiting for me to click.

  ‘Say cheese,’ I said, and the tightness in my chest fizzed and dissolved like one of Mum’s tablets.

  In the eyepiece I saw ten or twelve Eileens and remembered what makes her happy. There were straps, bows, puffed sleeves, arms round each other’s shoulders. A bulky gold belt reflected the sun beaming in.

  They all looked up and shouted cheers.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said.

  Resting back against the wall, I held my suitcase close. My breathing was easier, but butterflies still flitted about in my stomach. The girls carried on below, and an Adam and the Ants tape was turned up so loud the crackles drowned out the words. The bottom bunks became little dens for gatherings, problem pages and rude words. I wondered how the boys were, and whether their room smelt delicious, like tinned peaches, like ours.

  The clasps on my suitcase opened too easy, like Mum said – they were very flimsy. I lifted the lid slowly, as if a bomb could go off, and the smell of our washing powder wafted up. My clothes were neatly folded in perfect rectangles. My navy blue jumper was lying on top, its arms crossed so the elbow patches showed. It had been packed with extra care while Mum hovered over me and Eileen offered me cans and tubes and things she said were essential. When she saw me put my green cadet trousers in, she pretended she was choking. ‘Bloody Hell, Birdy. You’re not going to the Falklands.’

  On the silky lining of the lid there was enormous black writing that said, FLYNN 0365 564381, written with the left leaning slant of Eileen’s handwriting.

  She’d been in there, I realised, and Mum. They’d opened it up and looked around. Written my name, in case I forgot who I was. I punched the blanket. The noise of the girls became a background fuzz. I saw the plastic sheet they’d packed. I slammed the case shut.

  I gave myself a second to breathe before I opened it again. I pulled everything out: trousers, jumpers, slippers, special thick socks, a red lumberjack shirt, my grey shirt with buttons on the collars, a tank top. I got to the bottom and I tingled with comfort. The boxer shorts were still there. And the army belt and Noely’s vests. And there amongst them, Mum had put in a packet of Rolos, some folded-up tissues and her St Christopher necklace.

  A loud bell rang downstairs and everyone ran to the door. I climbed down. A stench of meaty fumes hit me as I left the room, but I was carried along by voices and shoulders and arms. Thumping feet rushed and pounded down the stairs.

  At the bottom, Mrs Cope stood like a road sign. Her left arm stretched out, pointing directions. ‘The common room,’ she said.

  Gypsy Girl was stood beside her, like a statue. Like she was afraid to move. She saw me but didn’t change her look.

  Then Mrs Cope spotted me. Her eyes followed me all the way down the stairs, as if there was something she wanted to ask. When I got to the bottom, she said, ‘You’re not limping, are you?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ I nodded. ‘I mean no.’ I turned right and trip-ped on the edge of a rug.

  She reached to help me get up, holding my arm, dusting me down.

  ‘Oops, clunky feet,’ she said, and some girls laughed but stopped when she told them to go.

  I thought a common room was a place with a dartboard and a pool table and beanbags to sit on. This common room was not that. If rooms could be happy, this room was sad. Another bare wooden floor that groaned and creaked and looked beaten up. I wondered why the school sent us somewhere that needed decorating so much. A grey clock looked down from the wall like a freaky smirking moon. It tick-tocked like it was tutting disapproval.

  Some girls budged up to make space for me and I stood with them, at the back, on the edge, as Mr Fry and Mrs Cope walked in like fashion models. They stood at the front. They held their arms behind their backs, eyes scanning across us. Mr Fry had good shoulders, wide and straight. But his skinny white tie looked straggly and his shirt was open low enough for his chest hairs to pop out. Mrs Cope was as elegant as an actress. Her bright blue eyelids matched her shoes and her curly hair looked freshly washed with expensive conditioner and shampoo.

  Mr Calthorpe hobbled in, bent over with a hunch. He muttered, ‘Sit down’, and our legs collapsed and two fat girls made the floor bounce. He had a sad, saggy face, and I felt sorry for him. I wondered if he was missing someone. Or had a stomach ulcer or some other ache.

  Someone shouted, ‘Quasimodo.’

  Mr Fry faked a frown and shouted at us to pipe down.

  Mr Calthorpe pushed a sheet of paper into each of the teacher’s hands. He turned to us, coughed and
said, ‘Right.’

  Mr Fry was looking at me. He turned and spoke to Mrs Cope; she looked down at her feet and put her hand to her mouth but everyone could see she had the giggles.

  A box of Lambert and Butlers were being passed along our line as Mr Calthorpe read the next day’s plans in a slow announcement voice. He said the words ‘exciting’ and ‘challenging’ and ‘do not forget your waterproof trousers and jackets’.

  I didn’t have waterproof trousers. I didn’t know waterproof trousers existed. I’d never seen a waterproof trousers shop. I looked round to see if anyone else heard that bit about waterproof trousers. Nobody seemed any different.

  ‘It’s essential you have the right equipment.’ Mr Calthorpe raised his voice.

  They all knew and no one had told me.

  ‘No equipment, no trip,’ Mr Calthorpe carried on.

  Everyone was smiling.

  ‘Is that understood? It was all in the letter.’

  A short smiley woman poked her head around the doorway and said, ‘Tea’s ready.’

  Everyone twisted to get up.

  ‘Hold it,’ Mr Fry shouted and put his hand up. And then, ‘Carry on, Mr Calthorpe.’

  He continued with the list of things required for the next day: a compass, a torch, strong walking shoes for going up hills and a flask that the kitchen would fill for us.

  I had none of those things. But I had given Mum the letter. Thick socks was last on the list. I had thick socks, but that was all.

  Mr Calthorpe read out all the items like he was threatening to kill us. I sucked in shaky breaths, but my throat felt dry and thinner.

  ‘Any questions?’ Mr Calthorpe said.

  No one said a word.

  ‘OK,’ he finished off. ‘We’ll meet in here promptly after breakfast.’

  ‘Walk nicely,’ Mr Fry shouted, before anyone had stood up.

  I couldn’t speak. Or walk. I just stood blankly and then got nudged along. My palms were clammy; my hands knotted my fingers together.

  Gypsy Girl – I think – asked if I was OK, but I couldn’t say a word. My tongue felt heavy and as thick as leather.

  Mum. My head was burning hot with rage at her. Mum. Mum. Mum. You messed it up. You didn’t read the letter. You didn’t read it right. You let me down. You idiot. You stupid twit.

  I moved along with the others, but my hair itched and my skin prickled and I wanted to be home. If the letter had been for Noely, I thought, Mum would have studied it hard. She’d have made sure he had the right stuff, I knew she would – every bit of equipment required, every little instruction. I knew that because I had to live through all his Cubs expeditions. From my window I watched as Dad led him to the van, and Mum cried like he was leaving for ever each time. Then, one day, he did leave and I nicked his old Cubs uniform.

  The dining hall was as cold as a castle, with long tables and benches so you had to face each other. I picked up a tray and joined the line for the food.

  I am going to tear up every single photo when I get home and I’ll kill all your plants and hide your tobacco, I carried on talking to myself.

  ‘It’s impossible, Birdy,’ a voice said.

  I turned and it was Liam.

  ‘Have you not got the stuff as well?’ I said.

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘For tomorrow,’ I said. But he looked muddled and upset, so I asked, ‘What’s the matter then?’

  ‘I can’t keep lying. It’s OK for you – you’re good at it. But I’m not and I don’t like it and Martin is winding me up and if my mum finds out that I’ve been lying she’ll tell my dad and, God, I can’t even think of that.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I told him.

  ‘Tell your mum, Birdy, please.’

  ‘Leave me.’ I pushed ahead a few places and tucked in as the queue waddled forward towards the stench of syrupy gravy and heavy meat.

  ‘Birdy. Just tell the truth.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said straight into Liam’s whimpering face.

  I looked for windows and air, and my tray wobbled as my arm shook. I pictured Mum at home. She might be dead. How would I get told? Did the mansion have a phone? Mum might be lying on the kitchen floor, alone. The room began to spin; the chit-chattering buzzed like a badly tuned radio. It was something I thought about all the time. When will Mum die and how will I survive? Is every time I spend with Mum the last? Can I risk walking away from her or letting the special time pass? There were times with Mum when the air lifted me up. Have I had too many of them? My lot? Is there a limit when God says enough is enough?

  ‘Carrots or peas?’ a tiny woman said.

  Two boys pushed in front, comparing penknives. Were penknives on the list as well? I actually had one, but I’d left it at home.

  The woman chucked peas at my plate and half scattered across the floor.

  The two boys started talking about the assault course. My ankle twinged. I can’t go, I said to myself. I have to be ill. My right knee ached. I can’t go. I remembered the giant stairs in the hallway and thought, If I fall down those steps they’ll have to send me home.

  A smiley woman slopped lumps of dark gluey food on my plate. It was supposed to be shepherd’s pie – I saw it written on a blackboard. But it was a brown jelly with gristly meat covered in a sugary crumble.

  A dinner lady poured warm water into plastic cups and said, ‘Something to wash it down with, my loves.’

  I sat on the end of a bench. There were whispers about a party in the girls’ dorm, a midnight escape and a dare to set off the fire alarm. Martin, Joe and Liam were sat together on the next table along. Martin blew me a kiss; I stuck two fingers up. I got trapped opposite Dungeons Darren, who hated all girls, not just proper girls. He mumbled about particles and gravity and space as if I was listening. None of the voices around me seemed real, like I was trapped inside a TV world. I could see his moving lips on his pasty white face, speckled with spots.

  ‘Have you got perfume on?’ he said.

  I clenched my fork.

  Mr Fry tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Have you seen a ghost, Flynn?’

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick, sir,’ I said.

  And then, two seconds later, I was.

  The night in the dormitory was shivery. Jane Rakworth, who was positioned near the door, got told to swap her bunk with me – and she did, with a whole lot of fuss. A metal bucket was clunked down by my bed. There was no feasting or laughter. There were creaking beds and sniggery whispers which only stopped when Mrs Cope came in to put her palm across my forehead, every half an hour.

  I was desperate to be in my own bed and to be closed in by my small dark room. Instead of the tuts and giggling I wanted the sounds of the television too loud through the floorboards, the kettle blasting and clinking teaspoons.

  It must be good that Mrs Cope cares, I thought to myself. But I wondered when she would stop and leave us alone. My insides swooshed like the falling down on a swing every time the door creaked open and her bare feet slapped across the floorboards. The later it got, the more she murmured words and her breath smelt of cigarettes and she wobbled as she struggled to find me in the bed. Her hands fumbled about for ages, until she found my forehead.

  The gap between her visits got longer and eventually she stopped. Then the whole mansion was still, except for the wind that rattled the glass in the loose wooden windows and the sound of a wolf howling that was probably a fox.

  Vicki Marsh’s atomic hairdryer woke me up, and the room was alive with half-dressed girls pinging about. I stayed hidden, curled under my blanket, until the final tip-tap of footsteps had left with the heavy slam of the door. I got dressed super quick, sprayed myself with someone’s horrid body spray and ran downstairs.

  Cutlery clanked and jingled and ladies in aprons smiled at me kindly as I entered the dining hall. Mr Fry walked straight past me, then he remembered and he walked back to where I was. He looked me up and down.

  ‘How are you this morning?’ he said.


  ‘Terrible, sir.’ I did feel ill. My head was aching and dizzy, my belly still gurgling. I thought I might be sick. I told him all that and he raised his hand.

  ‘OK, that’s enough.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ I said.

  He rubbed his forehead and blew out coffee breath.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Mrs Cope came over.

  ‘The patient is still unwell.’

  ‘Oh dear, sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Let me speak to Mr Calthorpe.’

  ‘I’ll stay with her,’ Mrs Cope said.

  Mr Fry frowned. ‘I’m not sure that’s viable. In terms of numbers.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. I’ll stay.’ She patted his arm, and I looked up at them talking.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mr Fry looked concerned.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. No more fuss.’ She gave me a warm smile, turned and walked back to the tables.

  ‘Very well,’ he said and looked back at me. ‘Aren’t you lucky?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’

  ‘Then go and wait in the library.’

  ‘Oh, do go in,’ Mrs Cope said as she bounced along the corridor and saw me standing there.

  My heart jumped into my mouth. My mouth opened and got stuck.

  She waved her hand. ‘Go in and sit down. You don’t need to wait there.’ She looked like a TV advert. Her newspaper was under her arm. ‘Don’t be shy,’ she said with a doctor’s smile, pointing to a green plastic chair.

  The library was small and square but tall, and the windows were coloured so the air was tinted like in a church. Between the windows, on every wall, were floor-to-ceiling glass cases full of books. Hundreds of books that all looked the same. And it smelt as I thought a library would, like an old, musty drawer. Through a single open window above our heads, you could hear gravel turning as the coach drove off.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, touching the back of my neck.

  I sat at the table in the middle of the room. She sat opposite, at an angle. She didn’t want to be there. She was missing Mr Fry. She was angry with me. She was hiding it. I could tell. But she liked me – I knew that as well. She liked standing up for me. She offered to stay with me. With one of her wide smiles she flashed her amazing white teeth, all the perfect size.