The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually)

by Denise Deegan

  I actually smile. Because Charley may have over-acted there. Something she’s always warned us against.

  TWENTY-ONE | Hansel and Gretel

  ‘I was thinking,’ Maisie says. ‘Would you like a holiday?’

  ‘I’d love a holiday.’ From my life.

  ‘Will you come and stay with me for the week? Starting tonight?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  She shrugs. ‘I think you could do with a break.’

  ‘I’m not exactly great company right now, Maisie. But thanks.’

  ‘I don’t like great company.’

  I smile.

  ‘Where I live,’ she says, ‘you can walk for miles and not see a single person.’

  It sounds like where I need to be. ‘But we don’t really know each other.’

  ‘Yes we do.’

  I smile again. Because she’s right, we do.

  ‘So, what do you say?’

  ‘Maybe for a day or two. I’d have to check with my parents.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says, like it’s a done deal, like I’m really staying with her.

  I look at her. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘We all hit a wall at some stage. When that happens it’s good to have a bolt hole. Just don’t expect advice, I’m not much good at advice.’

  ‘Good,’ I say.

  She laughs. ‘We’ll get along just fine.’

  ‘I’ll ring my mum.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ I say cheerfully. Maisie Morrin has asked me to stay with her for the week.’

  ‘The actress?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She asked you to stay?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  I hesitate. ‘In the country somewhere.’

  ‘Could you narrow it down a little?’ she jokes, no clue what’s really going on.

  I look at Maisie. ‘Where do you live?’

  She holds her hand out for the phone. I pass it to her.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Dunne. It’s Maisie Morrin.’ Her voice is so commanding and calming at the same time. I feel myself relax. ‘If it’s all right with you and your husband, I’ve asked Rachel to stay for a while.’ She explains that she lives in a cottage in the Dublin mountains. I imagine a thatched roof and smoke curling up from a chimney. I imagine peace.

  Maisie’s car is a tiny, ancient, yellow Fiat. It rattles along happily. I just want to drive up into the mountains and breathe. But we have to call home first to pick up my stuff. Mum looks so happy, it almost makes me happy.

  ‘I’ll just go get my stuff,’ I say, and run upstairs.

  I throw a load of clothes into a case, not really thinking about what I’ll need, just wanting to go.

  Mum and Maisie are talking in the hall. That’s when I remember - Maisie doesn’t know that Mum doesn’t know. I hurry the bag downstairs.

  ‘Great,’ Maisie says. ‘You’re ready.’

  I scan Mum’s face. Still cheerful. Phew.

  ‘Maisie was just telling me you’re going to practise some scenes,’ she says enthusiastically. ‘It’s a great idea.’

  I look at Maisie. She winks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  Mum hugs me. ‘Well, have fun,’ she says, like I’m going to Eurodisney.

  ‘How did you know I never told Mum about Rebecca?’ I ask Maisie, in the car.

  ‘Just worked it out from how she was.’

  ‘Thanks for not telling her.’

  She gives me an ‘as if’ look.

  After that, we drive in silence. I look out the window,watching the houses go by, the parks, a shopping centre. It feels like I’m leaving my life behind. I text Alex and Sarah to tell them where I’m going. I gaze at Mark’s number for ages. Deleting it is like losing him all over again. I put my phone in my bag and stare at the world outside. Not wanting to think about my own. Maisie’s car rattles along. When we start to climb, though, it sounds like it’s under pressure. I look at Maisie. She doesn’t seem to notice. So the engine must be OK. It makes this trip every day. I look back out the window. Fewer and fewer houses, more and more sky. Bogs, hills, wind in the trees. It’s like a painting that moves.

  Up in the mountains, the road levels off. Everything is brown and heathery and wild. Maisie rolls down the window. The air smells fresh and alive.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ she calls above the wind. ‘I always let the air in when I get to this spot.’

  ‘No. It’s lovely.’ I roll mine down too. It feels like we’re part of nature and not just driving through. Slowly, the light leaves the sky. Maisie turns on the headlights.

  The road narrows. We take a turn off, onto a country lane. Grass grows up the centre. Overhead, branches reach over us, blocking out what light was left in the sky. I glance across at Maisie.

  ‘Nearly there,’ she says.

  We drive into a clearing. And when I see the cottage, I think, Hansel and Gretel.

  She pulls up outside, kills the engine and looks at me.

  ‘So, what do you think of my little bolt hole?’

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  On the windowsills, there are herb gardens. A hanging basket hangs beside the front door - which is purple. A wind chime tinkles in the wind. Logs are stacked up on her little porch. I follow her up to the door, which opens with a creak. I can’t believe she forgot to lock it.

  Inside, she switches on a table lamp and the room fills with cosy light. It’s even messier than the dressing room. Patchwork quilts are thrown over two armchairs by the fire, reminding me of log cabins in the Rockies. Bookshelves look like they’re groaning under the weight of all the books. The paintings on her walls are abstract with layers and layers of paint. I love them.

  ‘I’ll get a fire going,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you light some candles?’

  I drop my bag by the door. There are candles everywhere. I go around creating tiny pools of light. The flames near doors and windows flicker in the draught. It’s beautiful.

  I leave my coat on till the fire takes hold. As it does, the smell of turf fills the room, reminding me of my grandparents, who are now dead. I loved my granddad especially. He used to chase me with his false teeth. We called him Pop.

  I follow Maisie into a tiny kitchen. The cupboards are turquoise and genuinely old.

  ‘I’m not a big eater,’ she says. ‘But I’ve home-made soup.’

  I smile. It seems like the most perfect thing to eat in a place like this.

  I start to set the table.

  ‘Oh don’t bother with that,’ she says. ‘We’ll use mugs and sit by the fire.’

  Yay.

  I cut some bread, put it on a plate with butter and set it on this wooden chest that’s between the armchairs by the fire. Maisie takes a chair. I’m heading for the other with my mug when she says: ‘Careful, that one’s a rocker.’

  Pop had a rocker.

  We sit, watching the flames, hands cupped around our huge mugs. Silence except for an occasional crack from the fire. As I rock, I remember Pop’s jokes about chickens crossing roads. And cars called Ladas. Jack loved the Lada jokes. I think they’ve stopped making them now - the cars, not the jokes. Though the jokes have probably died with the cars.

  After a while, the flames dim.

  ‘Will I go get a log?’ I say.

  ‘Do.’

  And that’s all we say to each other for the rest of the night. Which is lovely.

  I have my own tiny room. My own tiny bed. I’m in it by ten, feeling like a kid staying with her grandparents. I lie under patchwork, listening to rain on the roof, getting heavier and heavier. I love the sound. And I love that it’s the only sound. No music blaring from Jack’s room. (Move bitch, get out the way.) No cars on the road outside. No one on the stairs. Just peace.

  I wake to the sound of birds. It feels like spring. It is spring, I think in surprise. It’s February. I hear Maisie humming in the kitchen.

  The bathr
oom has an old door with a latch on it. So cute. There’s a wooden seat on the loo that looks antique and the sink has the kind of taps that you have to twist for ages to get water. I love this place.

  When I come out, Maisie is putting on her coat.

  ‘Hello!’ she says. ‘Sleep OK?’

  ‘Like a log.’ It’s what Pop used to say.

  ‘Good. I’m off to get some shopping.’

  ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘No. Stay where you are. Help yourself to breakfast. Go for a walk. There’s wellies in the hall.’

  ‘I’d like to help.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t,’ she says. ‘Not really.’

  I smile.

  ‘Anyway, I shop alone.’

  I take out my wallet and try to hand her a fifty, hoping it’s enough to cover my share.

  ‘Don’t insult me. You’re a guest. If you want to do something, clean out the fire.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, feeling better.

  I sit eating muesli, looking out at Maisie’s bird table,trying to identify the birds. Pop used to tell me their names when I was little. Once, I knew them all. Now, I pick out robins, blue tits and a black cap. There’s one I don’t know. It’s bugging me. Because I should know it. I switch on my iPhone to check Safari. No service. I get up and go into every room except Maisie’s. Nothing. I go get my laptop. I can’t believe it. No wifi. Which will mean no Facebook, no Twitter, no moan.ie. I look outside again. Is it a goldfinch?

  I check the bookshelves. Maybe Maisie has a book on birds. I run my finger over the spines. They’re in no particular order but a lot of them look interesting. Books on photography. Travel. Buildings. Animals. Nature. Oh, my God, she has the very same book Pop used to teach me from. I pull it out. And smile at the cover. The big brown owl is like a familiar face. I hurry back to the kitchen with it. I sit at the table. Going through it is like travelling back in time. The pages are worn. The birds are in the same order. I remember whole pages. I forget my quest, getting lost in birds, ones that don’t come to Ireland, all the types of eagles and hawks and birds of prey that I once loved. Finding this book is like finding my childhood.

  There’s noise outside. I look up from the book. A magpie is swooping down at the smaller birds. They scatter but return to the table. He is turning around, about to come back. I jump up and race out into the garden clapping and waving.

  ‘Bully!’ I shout at him as he flies away. ‘Yeah and don’t come back.’

  I stand, looking after him, just to make sure.

  Finally, I go back inside. One by one, I watch the smaller birds come back. And then without even looking at the book, I have it. A chaffinch. I double-check the book.

  ‘Yes!’ I say, making a victory fist.

  I clear away the breakfast stuff. There’s no dishwasher. So I fill the sink with hot water and bubbles. Lots of bubbles. So many bubbles that I scoop them up in my hand and blow them into the air. Light catches them, turning each one into a tiny sphere of rainbow. I chase them with a finger, trying to burst them before they hit the sink.

  I wash the dishes and leave them to dry. I go to put the book back. Sun bursts in through the windows, showing up layers of dust. I clean out the fire, bring in more logs and pile them next to the turf. I tidy up but not so much that it would bother her. No one wants dust. So I get rid of that.

  She’s still not back.

  I could go for that walk - but a walk is a walk. I go to the window. It is seriously nice out there. Actual blue sky - which is always a surprise in Ireland. I go to the hall to check the wellie situation. They’re my size, which gets rid of that excuse. I pull them on. They make me want to find puddles to smash through.

  I go outside, sit on the porch. I turn my face to the sun and close my eyes. I guess I could walk a bit. I go back in for my coat. And a key. I find the coat. No key. Anywhere.

  Her landline starts to ring. It’s got this bossy ringtone that reminds me of old detective movies. I find it under a cushion. It’s one of those genuinely old ones they’ve started to sell again as novelty phones, the ones with the dials. I instantly want to stick my finger into one of the holes and turn it. It rings again. I look at it thinking, it’s not my house. But what if it’s Maisie? She’s no other way of getting me. I pick it up and wait for the other person to speak.

  ‘Haven’t you gone for your walk yet?’

  I smile. ‘Why are you ringing if you thought I’d begone?’

  ‘To make sure you did. Head back up the road, through the trees and take the first left. It leads to a lake. Should be nice today.’

  ‘Eh, Maisie? You didn’t leave a key.’

  ‘Oh, I never lock the door.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Sure.’ No mobile coverage. No wifi. No lock on the door. We’re doomed.

  When she said lake, I thought, small circular thing. This looks like the sea. It’s got tiny waves and sparkles in the sun. The trees leading down to it look like they came from Kenya. Way off in the distance, at the other side of the lake, there are pine trees that rise into a hill. It’s so beautiful. And there’s no one here but me. Two swans swim together, their heads curved like they’re sharing secrets. I think of Mark and how stupid I was to let myself love someone who never takes anything seriously. Why would he be any different with me? I stomp down to the lake and start to lob stones in. A heron flies up, spreading his wide wings.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  I plonk down on the ground. It’s kind of beachy, with actual sand. The sun’s in my eyes, so I look down. So many stones. Small and smooth, different sizes and colours. When I was really young - like maybe two - I’d spend hours looking at stones. I don’t actually remember this but Mum’s told me. She said I’d sit on Killiney Beach, surrounded by stones. I’d pick one up and stare at it for ages, turning it over in my fingers and putting it right up to my eyes, then licking it wet to see it change colour. I asked her how she didn’t worry about the dirt. She said, simply, that the sea had washed the stones clean. She seems like a different mum, a relaxed one, who didn’t worry. She told me how she loved watching me. It was as if I saw more than just the stone, like maybe something spiritual; she didn’t know. Now I pick up a stone. And do everything I used to do - apart from the licking. But instead of something spiritual, all I can think of is geography - weathering and freaking erosion - and how a person can be eroded by life too. If she’s not careful.

  Maisie’s car is outside when I kick my way up the lane. It’s sitting, bright yellow in the sun. It looks like a Betsy. Or a Charmaine. Or maybe a Petunia. I touch it as I walk by, the way you’d rest your hand on a dog’s head.

  On the porch, I take off the boots and leave them there to dry.

  ‘Hello!’ I call so I don’t surprise her.

  ‘In here!’

  Already, she has lit the fire. The smell of fresh coffee fills the room.

  ‘Can I help put away the shopping?’ A job I usually hate. But this feels like a partnership. Like I should do my bit.

  ‘Done,’ she says. ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks. Is it OK if I get a glass of water?’

  ‘Don’t ask. Just help yourself.’

  She takes her coffee over to the fire. ‘How was the lake?’

  ‘Like the sea. Peaceful though.’ From the pockets of my coat, I take out pine cones and stones I collected for her. ‘There weren’t any flowers,’ I say. I feel kind of embarrassed giving her something so babyish. There really was nothing else.

  She smiles immediately, puts the cones on her lap and the stones on her open palm. She examines each one with a finger. I swear to God, she licks one.

  I laugh.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I used to do that when I was a kid.’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  ‘You can get Weil’s Disease from rat pee.’

  She laughs. ‘Live dangerously, Rachel.’ She arranges the pine cones and stones on the mantelpiece. She makes them look like art. ‘Thank you,’ she says, sounding like I�
��ve given her something special.

  I take off my coat and sit down on my rocker. I don’t think I’ll mind being old. Everything’s so simple. I sip water and rock a bit. I wonder if I’ll be alone.

  I look out the window. ‘Does your car have a name?’

  ‘Graham.’

  ‘A boy car?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But he’s yellow.’

  ‘This is true. He’s still a boy.’

  We laugh. Then fade to easy silence. The fire sparks and a lone bird sings outside like he’s just discovered his voice.

  ‘By the way, you’ve the same book as my granddad.’

  ‘Really? Which one?’ She turns to look at the book case.

  I go get the book and hand it to her.

  She smiles and runs her fingers slowly over the cover.

  ‘My daughter loved this book.’ She opens it and goes through the pages like memories.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter.’ I’m happy for her. That she’s not alone.

  She looks up. And I know straight away something’s wrong. Her eyes are full of pain. Still, she smiles. ‘Jules didn’t stay in this world.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say immediately.

  She shakes her head.

  I want to know what happened. But don’t want to ask.

  ‘She wasn’t strong enough,’ she says, like she wants me to know.

  ‘Was she ill?’

  She looks at me. ‘She took her own life.’

  Oh, my God. ‘I’m so so sorry.’ I don’t know what else to say.

  She looks into the fire like she’s looking into the past.

  ‘She was thirty-four. For twelve years, she had fought depression.’ She looks at me. ‘It won.’

  The fire sparks. We look into it.

  ‘That’s when I found this place.’

  When I look at her, she's smiling. I think of Mum and how devastated she’d have been if I’d gone through with it, back then. But how devastated she must have been anyway that I’d tried it.

  ‘Hey,’ Maisie says gently. ‘Are you OK?’

  I’ve never told anyone. But then, no one's told me what she just has. ‘I took pills when I was twelve.’ I shrug. ‘I wasn’t strong enough either.’