Cartwheeling in Thunderstorms

by Katherine Rundell

  Will fumbled with her scarf, keeping one hand firmly on a branch level with her chin. By slow inchings, she found she could work the scarf once round the trunk, then loop it round her waist like a belt, twist it, and then once round the trunk again, and tie the ends tightly in a triple knot. The scarf was just long enough. She gave it a tug. It neither loosened nor tightened; that, her father used to say, was the sign of a good knot. Oddly, the thought of him hurt a little less than it had before, and instead of freezing her stomach, it warmed her cheeks. Experimentally, she leaned over the edge. The scarf stretched but held her weight.

  Will tucked her chin between her knees for warmth and hid her eyes in the crook of her elbow. Tied tight to the trunk, breathing in bark and the deep rough air, Will fell asleep. Her dreams were of mango trees and sweet milk tarts.

  WILL’S MUSCLES MUST HAVE WOKEN before she did, because she came to consciousness with her arms and legs tense and braced against something cold and wet and rough. Her head felt heavy and sodden, full of uncooked dough. Birds were singing very close by—oddly close—right up against her face, it felt. Will opened her eyes. She was wedged in the branches of a tree. Sudden fear and dizziness and hunger swooped over her, and she was sick, over the edge of the branch, before she’d fully woken up.

  Groggily, she wiped her mouth and spat. She must have slept longer than she’d planned, because the sun was rising and already there were people running through the park dressed in odd plastic-looking clothing. It wasn’t raining—for a miracle, Will thought, and smiled at the sky.

  Will worked herself more securely astride her branch. The wind was blowing and making the branches shake, but if the tree worked in the same way as the ones at home, she was safe enough. She leaned against the trunk and steadied herself with her good hand; she kept the other free, to list her options on her fingers. Above anything else, she needed money. She had eight pounds and ninety-four pence. That wouldn’t last long. For an airplane ticket, she’d need more than eight pounds. How did you get that sort of money? Will put up one finger. She could steal—from people or, better, from shops. She imagined she’d be good at it. But that wasn’t courage. Stealing, her father had said, was for people with tin hearts and snotty souls. She could get a job, perhaps. Will added another finger. What job? There were no horses in London, so she couldn’t be a horseboy. People didn’t get paid for the things she was good at. She could run a mile without stopping, and shoot an air rifle, and put both ankles behind her neck, but she wasn’t sure that made her very employable. Lastly—Will’s hand made a fist, and she bit at the knuckle—she could beg.

  Will knew about begging. Young girls with babies tied to their backs begged in the streets of Harare. Her father took pockets of change when he went into town, and legs of ostrich and impala wrapped for them in greaseproof paper. On her shopping trip Cynthia Vincy had waved the girls away like they were mosquitoes.

  Will bit down on her scarf to stop her teeth from chattering. Cynthia had told her (several times, had never stopped telling her, in fact) that an airplane ticket cost a thousand American dollars. That was five hundred English dollars (or, no, Will corrected herself—pounds). If she earned one dollar—one pound—a day, she could fly back in five hundred days. There were 365 days in a year. That meant a year and a half. If she earned five pounds a day, it would take (Will squinted up at the leaves and counted on her fingers) three months and a bit. Ten pounds a day would be two months. Twenty pounds a day would mean she’d have enough to go home in one month, maximum. A month was only thirty days. She whispered, “Courage, chook,” and her heart beat back at her confidently. She could do thirty days.

  The tree top above her swooped and she caught hold of the trunk with her other hand and waited for the leaves to calm, wincing at the cuts under her bandage sock. Thirty days. I can do that, she told herself—live in this tree at night and beg every day, find matches for a fire (could you light a fire in a tree? she’d never heard of anyone doing it, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be done), and then when the time came, she wouldn’t tell anyone. She’d just get on a plane, and then hitch from the airport to central Harare, and from there the bus to Mutare, and a day’s run to Two Tree Hill Farm, and it didn’t matter who owned the farm now, even if it was the Madisons, because Simon would still be there, and Tedias and Lazarus. She could build a hut, and hunt rock-rabbit, and make stew out of corn and cabbage leaves. Building the hut would take time, but she’d have time, with no school bells cutting up the days into miserable chunks, and at home there would be fruit to eat and sunshine and Kezia. Kez would be old enough to train properly. That would be worth begging for, she thought.

  The tree shook again, and leaves dropped into her face and bark dust blew into her eyes. Will found she went on shaking after it had stilled; that meant she needed to eat soon. And it was getting light. She blew on her hands and dropped to the ground. Her boots squelched and her ankle jarred with every step, but she could walk—and run, she thought, if she needed to—and she was still free. So it was three parts excitement to one part fear.

  Will headed east out of the park. She needed a train station, or a museum, or a busy street—somewhere where she wouldn’t stick out. She had no idea where the English kept their train stations, but the sun rose in the east, and it seemed a more hopeful direction than any other.

  For begging, women would be best, she decided; they walked more slowly than the men (because of those shoes on tiny stilts, she thought, and grinned; she and Simon had laughed at Cynthia Vincy’s shoes, and they’d hidden the worst pair—made from chameleon skin, as though Miss Vincy didn’t know how slow and funny and wise chameleons were—in the compost heap), and most women she saw carried bags that might be full of loose change. She couldn’t see where men would keep their coins, and credit cards would be no good.

  Will walked on, trying not to limp, until she found a street where everyone shone with money. Their hair glistened. The women tack-tacked on high heels. The men weren’t as strong as her father, but sleeker—more dangerous. Will wrinkled her nose at them, and hugged herself until the shudder in her chest abated.

  Will ran her fingers through her hair. She had no way of knowing how she looked. Dirty, she imagined, and bruised. The cold night had made her sniff, and she had a little mustache made of snot and wind. Still, she could smile; she’d been told she had a good smile, and she would choose the passersby with soft, gentle faces.

  Will’s first three attempts failed; she wasn’t loud enough, too small, and they swept by before she got beyond the “ex” of “Excuse me.”

  But the fourth woman stopped and smiled. “Yes, love?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said Will again. “Could you spare some change?” It was what she’d heard the men in doorways saying. This was the one place, she reckoned, where it was important to fit in.

  “Have you lost your mum, sweetie?” The woman smiled. It was a very kind smile.

  “No.” That was true. “I know where she is. Could you spare some change?”

  “How old are you, love? You can’t be more than eight.”

  Will set her teeth. She repeated, “Could you spare some change, ma’am? I need to get home.”

  “Of course you do, poppet.” She laid a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come with me? Come on. You look frozen to death. We’ll take you somewhere safe.”

  When they said “safe” they meant “trapped.” Will flinched away. Something in the movement—something un-English, Will supposed; feral, they said at school—made the woman grip Will’s hood and look more closely at Will’s face.

  “Wait a minute, pet. You’re not that girl—in the paper? I thought I recognized— Good God! You are! And there was something about a zoo”—Will was suddenly conscious of the straw in her hair, and the smell of animal—“and half the police force out looking. What’s your name, dear?”

  Her hold on Will’s hood was firm and excited. Will said, “Samantha Ronald.”

  “Samantha
? No—I’m sure that wasn’t the name.”

  “It’s Samantha, ja!”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What was that? Are you foreign, dear?”

  “No,” said Will. That at least was true. She was just in the wrong country.

  “Well. Why don’t we take you somewhere warm?” The woman was trying to catch the eye of a policeman. The policeman, to Will’s relief, was trying in turn to catch the eye of a pretty blond girl swishing down the street. “Why don’t we just—”

  The hood was attached to the sweater with loose wool stitches. Will had put them in herself when the first ones had unraveled, and she’d been impatient, and Simon had been whistling at her from the stables. Shameful and slipshod, Cynthia Vincy had called it. Will remembered it, and was desperately glad; she gave a hiss and a spit to make the woman step back, and then she jerked sideways and there was a ripping and a shout, and she was away, running hard, weaving through herds of city people. A few turned at the woman’s cry of “Stop her! Stop that little girl!” and caught at Will’s scarf and flying hair, but Will was fast and desperate. The wind got into her eyes, and she heard people cry and shriek in outrage as she crashed into them and rebounded and all she could do was keep going. Her mind was blank save two words—“run,” and “police.”

  Will couldn’t look round until she’d counted twenty streets between her and the woman, and then she twisted to check. Nobody was chasing her. She collapsed, coughing, against a wall, with a stitch biting at her side and a dry mouth. People passed by with smart leather boxes on handles and flimsy cups of coffee, hailing black bubble-shaped cars. Will retched, and choked. Slowly, her breath returned, though her hands wouldn’t stop quivering.

  A man at a bus stop stood up to stare better. “Are you all right down there? What are you doing?”

  Will flushed, and she felt her stomach tighten again. “Nothing. Just sitting.”

  He frowned. “Wait a moment. Aren’t you—”

  Will jumped up, shaking her head and trying to smile reassuringly. “No. No Engleesh. French.”

  He said, “What? What are you on about? No, wait. Come here . . .” He was fumbling with his paper, tapping the print on the third page. “Isn’t this—”

  “I not speak Engleesh, ja.” Scowling, Will backed away, waiting to see if he would shrug and turn away. At that moment a bus arrived, and he started fumbling in his pockets for his wallet. Will judged it was safe to turn her back and limp on. Now that she was going more slowly, Will noticed that the people passing, wrapped in their coats and hats and hoods, were staring at her bare knees. So as soon as she came to the open doors of a museum, she veered gratefully in. She needed a dark corner in which to sit, and breathe, and think.

  THE MUSEUM WAS FULL OF cabinets displaying jewelry and watches and clothes on silver hangers. The hangers looked like solid silver, and that was extraordinary; they were marvelously pretty. She’d made all the coat hangers at home herself, out of garden wire or wood. Will shook off her longing to touch the clothes—you didn’t touch in museums; that was the point—and pulled herself up some stairs. Her feet were throbbing, and she felt suddenly small and angular under the high ceilings. She put out a finger and touched the banister. It was real silver, with a real silver smell.

  At the top, Will found a great room that was empty, just silent chandeliers and more exhibits of jewelry. She sank to the floor in a corner. It wasn’t a dark corner, because the whole museum was delicately and femininely lit, but it was darker than the rest, and her legs desperately needed to curl up for a few moments. She tucked her knees under her sweater and tore at a thumbnail.

  So—Will clenched her eyes shut and bit the nail off her middle finger—the police were looking for her. Begging had failed. (Secretly, she was glad about that. Wildcats do not beg.) What now?

  The carpet was thick and wonderfully soft, and she felt as though she’d barely slept in the tree, and it was so warm, the warmest she’d been since the farm. . . . Will tried to arrange her thoughts into tidy piles, but they kept floating away, out of reach. . . .

  Will woke up to a woman standing over her saying, “Can I assist you, miss?”

  The woman’s expression was less courteous than her words. “Miss?” she repeated. She addressed the leaves and mud stuck to Will’s knees.

  Will blinked. “I—please—”

  “Are you here with someone?”

  “I . . . ja. I—” Will scrubbed at her left eye.

  “Really?”

  “Ja! Yes. They’re . . . they’re over there—”

  “Where?”

  “That man—in black.” She pointed at a figure across the room, a dark motionless back.

  “The mannequin?” The woman’s voice curled like a sneer.

  “No! No, just over there . . .”

  “I see. Very good.” Her face said the exact opposite. “I think you’ll have to come with me.”

  “No! He must have gone round the corner.” Will worked her face into the shape of a Leewood girl. She flared her nostrils haughtily. “I swear, ja.” She could see her reflection in one of the long mirrors. She looked like a princess with a mouth ulcer, her father would have said.

  The woman blinked. She looked unnerved. But she didn’t leave. “I think you will have to come with me, miss, and we will find a telephone. Immediately, please.”

  “We will not.” Will could feel her lips moving, but the voice that came out was Samantha’s. “Thank you. I’d like to be left alone. My father is a very rich man. He won’t like it if I say you bullied me.” Will turned on her filthy boot and stalked—every inch of her a Leewood girl—around two corners, past a table of leather bags, and out of the woman’s sight—and then Will ran. She darted past rows and rows of hats and jewels, winding in and out of glass cases, searching feverishly for the stairs. She found some by an exhibit of jewels and hurtled down them. She was ten steps down before she realized in horror that they were moving, carrying her back up, toward the woman who was waiting with crossed arms and a fixed stare at the top. Panicking and breathless, Will half-leaped, half-tripped the rest of the way, dodging shouts and screams. She tore past three cash registers and the rustle of carrier bags, and out.

  She stared. “Oh.” Not a museum, then. The sign above the building said HARRODS. Suddenly the doors swished, and the woman stepped out. Will turned and ran.

  Sixteen streets away, Will stopped, gasping, and shook out her arms and legs. But it did nothing to dispel the tense tightness in her skin. She whispered, “Penga.” She had to be more careful. She swore, in English, and then in Shona.

  But there was one good thing. The sleep and the fear together had acted like electricity on her brain, and it was clear to her what she had to do now. It was like hunting in the bush: before anything else, you assessed possible dangers. Will clenched two filthy fists. So, before anything—before she ate, or slept again, or found somewhere to wash her hand, which was turning yellow around the cuts—she had to find the newspaper that woman had mentioned.

  She walked on, looking warily around the street. There were plenty of newspapers strewn over the pavements and in the bus shelters, but they all turned out to be different. Londoners seemed to have an endless choice of sizes and colors for their newspapers. Some had color pictures of women in lacy underwear; some had rows and rows of numbers and graphs. Neither looked right; it took her nearly two hours of searching and discarding and ducking into doorways before she found the right one. It was on the third page of a large grayish paper, The Independent. (Will felt gratified it was that one; it might be a good omen. Better Independent than the other that filled the bins, The Guardian. “Guardian” meant Miss Vincy, and Leewood, and the endless list of women and girls who didn’t want her.)

  It was on the third page. MONKEY ESCAPE AT LONDON ZOO: LINK TO MISSING SCHOOLGIRL. The street she was now on was lined with houses; she crouched awkwardly against a stone wall and a plastic garbage can, and held the paper up to hide her face.

  T
he article took up half the page. Two rare and valuable monkeys were found to have escaped through a hole cut in the enclosure roof. An angry mother claimed her handbag had been stolen by one; the other monkey had snatched a sandwich from a little girl, and both monkeys together had chased a boy through the reptile enclosure for half an hour before they were recaptured. Will grinned.

  The director of the zoo was interviewed, and there was a picture of him, looking a little apoplectic, reassuring the public that all dangerous animals were secured by state-of-the-art electronic gating. There was a quote in bold print: We can confidently guarantee the safety of the public when the zoo reopens tomorrow—very confidently indeed. Though Will thought he looked more sweaty than confident.

  It was the second paragraph that was about her. A child’s glove had been found inside the enclosure, and the nametape read “Wilhelmina Silver.” Will swore under her breath, bit her lip. “Oh, no, no, no. Oh, sha, no!” Wildcats didn’t cry—no tear ducts.

  Will sniffed wetly and turned back to the paper. She took care not to get drips on the newsprint. The article took a whole paragraph to describe her: Wilhelmina Silver went missing from the prestigious Leewood boarding school two days ago. There was her passport photo—with her blurred and scowling—and a list of notable features: unusually large dark eyes, foreign accent, heavily scarred knees. The school suggests that Wilhelmina can be easily recognized by her hair, which is severely tangled at the crown of the head and reaches past her knees. At the bottom there was a number to call. Anyone with any information is asked to come forward to the police.

  Will’s heart started pounding with terror. It was that word again—“police.” The need to hide pressed down on Will’s chest, and she looked unsteadily up and down the street. The houses loomed over her, all of them grayish yellow and too tightly packed together. (A lot like, Will thought, the captain’s false teeth, which he’d turned orange and black with nicotine. She bit her tongue. She didn’t want to think about the farm.)