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

by Denise Deegan

  She reaches forward, grips my hand and squeezes it. She doesn’t ask.

  So I tell her everything. About the bullying. How it started. How it went on for two years. How I began to believe everything they said. How it nearly broke my parents’ marriage. How I blamed myself. I tell her about the pills. How Jack found me. How I was taken out of school for the last term. And how I spent that term and a whole summer seeing a shrink. And how, under the surface, it has never really gone away.

  ‘I thought you’d a lot on those spindly shoulders,’ she says, finally.

  ‘Spindly?’

  ‘Yes, spindly,’ she says firmly. ‘You need more of my soup, young lady.’

  ‘Why? Is it magic soup?’

  ‘Now that you mention it. It is magic soup.’

  ‘In that case …’

  We sit smiling at each other.

  Then hers fades. ‘Are you glad you didn’t do it?’

  No one’s ever asked me that - not Mum, not Dad, not Jack, not even the shrink. I think about all the things that have happened since - the good stuff, the bad stuff. Then I think of all the things that I’d have missed. Alex. Sarah. Maggie. Even Mark. And though things have been pretty damn shitty lately, I’ve never once felt like doing it again. I look at her, realising that somehow, somewhere, I must have got stronger.

  ‘Yeah, I am.’

  She smiles. ‘Me too. Come on, let’s have some of that magic soup.’

  We stand up.

  ‘Thanks, Maisie.’

  ‘Well, it mightn’t be that magic,’ she admits.

  ‘Why don’t you have a lie down?’ she says, after lunch.

  ‘It’s three in the afternoon.’

  ‘Perfect time for a siesta. I’m having one. You should too, seeing as I’m going to kick your ass in Scrabble later.’

  ‘In your dreams.’

  In my little room, I lie on my back, not actually planning to sleep. I listen to the birds. Then close my eyes to hear better. I can tell a blackbird now. Listening to the sounds, I feel my breathing ease, feel myself drift. And when I wake again, it feels like a new day.

  Later, we make stew. Then, we sit by the fire. I flick through a book called The Great LIFE Photographers. It contains photos from LIFE magazine going right back to the 1930s. Shots of the Vietnam War, shots of stars, of ordinary people with extraordinary faces, of weird hats and the Second World War, of children crippled by thalidomide, of rockets and a frog plopping into water. This is the kind of book we should have at school. Because this is life. And life is what we should be learning about. And learning about it ourselves, exploring, instead of being force-fed all this information they want us to know. It starts with colouring inside the lines. Do it this way, our way. Not your way. Until you forget what your way ever was.

  Maisie is writing into a leather-bound notebook. She’s spending more time sucking the end of her pen than actually writing though.

  ‘What are you writing? I ask, after a while.

  ‘Oh, poetry,’ she says simply.

  ‘Seriously?’ Poetry’s so hard.

  She just nods like it’s no big deal and looks back at her notebook.

  ‘Can I read it?’

  ‘Not till I’m finished.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘On the shelf over there, there’s a book of poetry.’

  ‘Your poetry?’

  She nods.

  I’m so excited. She’s an actual published poet.

  On her shelves, there are loads of poetry books, but none by her.

  I look again more carefully.

  ‘Oh.’ She looks up like she’s just remembered. ‘Maisie Moore. Look under Maisie Moore. I use a pseudonym.’

  ‘Oh, you mystery woman.’

  ‘I do it for peace.’

  ‘Why don’t you want people to know it’s you? It’s such a huge achievement.’

  ‘Judge that for yourself when you read the poems.’

  ‘Still, wouldn’t you sell loads more if people knew it was you?’

  ‘Which is why I don’t tell them. I want people to buy my poetry for what it is, not who I am. Anyway, my private life is private. And my poetry is the private me.’

  I can’t wait to read it now.

  Yay! I’ve got it. I hurry back to the fire with it. ‘I can’t believe you’re published.’

  ‘Shut up,’ she says.

  ‘No.’ But I do shut up because I want to read.

  The poems are short. And the words simple. There’s one about a birthday party for a little girl. I know it’s about Jules and that it’s been written since she died, because it’s so full of longing. I look up at her, sitting there all alone, writing away. And I am so glad that I am still here for my mum, that I can go home and hug her and slag her and tell her to go out for the night. With Dad. I’ll do that whenI go back. But I don’t want to go back.

  I read a poem about missing a man - missing his body, his touch, missing him in bed. I get up suddenly because I’m thinking of Mark. I go outside to get more logs for the fire. I throw two in and watch the sparks. I stack the others. Then I pick up Maisie’s book and read about herons and shape shifting and a life lived.

  I say nothing to her until she finally closes her notebook. Then I tell her the truth.

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘You do?’ She sounds surprised.

  I nod. ‘I really do. You’re amazing.’ And I don’t just mean the poetry.

  TWENTY-TWO | Some Kind of Angel

  Sunday, we’re planting bulbs in Maisie’s garden. Judging by the packets, there’s going to be a lot of colour. We kneel side by side - me digging, Maisie mixing the fertiliser and top soil, then sprinkling it into the holes I’ve made and planting the bulbs. A robin keeps us company.

  ‘We’re a bit early with these,’ she says, ‘but I’m an optimist. The sun’s shining and the soil is soft.’

  I love learning how to do this. I love being outside, feeling the breeze and sun on my face, smelling the soil. Digging my holes with my little trowel reminds me of when I was small and at the beach. I did a lot of humming back then. I remember. Jack and I used to bury Harry. I used to love slapping the sand hard with the back of the spade when he was covered.

  ‘Emily’s not as stupid as she looks,’ Maisie says.

  I look up, surprised.

  ‘What I mean is, more people than you think can see through Ms French.’ She carries on planting like she’s just commented on the weather. I remember what Josh said. But they’re wrong.

  ‘She’s actually really popular, Maisie.’

  ‘Rachel, actors act. On and off stage. Most of us have been in this bitchy business long enough to recognise a trouble-maker.’ I must look doubtful because she points her gardening fork at me. ‘The truth will out.’

  Even if it does, I realise in shock, ‘I don’t want to go back to my life.’

  She looks at me for a long time. ‘That’ll change,’ she says so confidently.

  She doesn’t understand. ‘They worry so much about me - that I’ll do it again - that they end up fighting. I’m so afraid they’ll break up because of me. I tried to quit the show to stop them worrying even though I wanted to stay and fight. I love them so much but they crush with their worry.’

  Our eyes lock and I think, Jesus, what have I said? She must have been so worried about her daughter.

  ‘It’s not like it’s their fault. They can’t help it. I mean I’d worry if it was my daughter.’

  She thinks for a moment. ‘You just need to show them you’re strong. And you are. Standing up to Rebecca took a lot of courage.’

  ‘Only now it looks like I’m the bully.’

  ‘The truth will out,’ she says again.

  ‘I wish I’d listened to Jack. I wish I’d never trusted her. I wanted to believe she’d changed. That we’d moved on. I was so stupid.’

  ‘The only one who was stupid was Rebecca.’

  ‘No. She was so clever. She tied me up in knots.’

&n
bsp; 'And look at the hassle she’s brought on everyone. Including herself. And, by the way, she’d still have bullied you even if you hadn’t trusted her. Because your acting threatened hers. This wasn’t personal, Rachel. This was business.’

  I look at her, surprised.

  ‘Some day, Rachel, you’ll see all of this from the outside. That’s when you’ll recognise your own strength.’ She waves the fork. ‘Now, dig.’

  I do dig. It is so good to be with a person who knows my life and isn’t the tiniest bit worried about me. She actually thinks I’m strong. I look at her and think, You are some kind of angel.

  The hail starts at eight, hammering against the roof. It’s so heavy that it comes down the chimney. It gets colder. I put another log on the fire and go to get a hoodie. I flick through books, just looking at pictures. Pictures of the world, of places to be seen, pictures of war and pain, of love, of fun and of life gone by. It feels like I’m travelling the world and travelling through time.

  ‘I’m going to have an early night,’ Maisie says. ‘I’m up early for D4.’

  I’m so relieved, now, to have the week off.

  ‘Do what you like tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Stay in bed all day, if that’s what you want.’

  I smile. ‘Thanks.’

  I’m in bed by nine. All snuggled up, listening to the rain. Nothing to do - but not bored. Happy in my own company.

  When I wake, the room is pink. I kneel up in bed and pull back the curtains. The sun is coming up. And it’s amazing. Slowly, the colours change. Pink to yellow to blue. And lots of in-betweens. Every day, I miss this. Too busy trying to stay ahead, to not fail. A waste of time. Because here I am and here is the sun. Like a miracle, doing what it does every day. What it’s been doing since way before I was born. What it will keep on doing after I die. Making me feel tiny, and my worries even smaller.

  I hear Maisie moving around, getting ready to go in to D4. I collapse back onto the bed like I used to do when I was a kid. A falling tree. I cover myself up and enjoy the feeling of drifting back to sleep.

  I wake at eleven. Now that I’ve nothing to do, I want to actually do stuff. Like make breakfast, proper breakfast, not just boring old cereal, something different, something interesting. I want to teach myself to light a fire. I want to explore, go for an adventure not a ‘walk’. Into the woods, off the track.

  I make French toast. And smear it with Nutella. (Go, Maisie, for having it.) I slice it into soldiers. And, just like it did when I was a kid, it tastes better that way.

  It’s sunny out - but, being Ireland, that could change in five minutes. I grab my coat and borrowed wellies, and go. I don’t turn left by the lake. Just walk straight on up the tiny road. Gurgling streams of rain water gush down either side. I splash through them, kicking up water then stomping down my feet. Kids have got it sussed. I pass a rusty old gate that’s being held together with rope. In the field, there’s a farmer with his sheep. Oh, my God, there are tiny lambs. I stand watching them frolicking around and feeding. The farmer sees me and waves. I wave back then move on. I turn down a tiny road. I pass a cottage. At the door, basking in the sun, is a small black dog. When he sees me, he gets up, comes over, tail wagging. Friendly.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, and keep on walking.

  He follows me. Then trots beside me. Then passes me out and takes the lead. He has a tail like a fox and I imagine he’s a cross between the tamed and the wild.That’d be so cool. He runs ahead a bit, then waits. He’s like a little spirit, coming along with me. A free spirit, owned by no one. He turns into a wood. Wow, he’s led me here. The trees are like huge, silent men, standing around waiting for something to happen. We walk along the nature trail. Up ahead something moves. It’s a squirrel making tiny, silent leaps. His bushy tail is leaping after him like a second wave. I freeze. But the dog shoots after him. The squirrel darts up the nearest tree. The dog, at the bottom, barks.

  ‘Nice try,’ I say. ‘But you haven’t a hope. Come on.’

  He takes the lead again. And when he goes off the track, I follow him. It is wild. Amazing. Autumn leaves have become part of the undergrowth, spring shoots coming up through them. A blackbird scoots along the ground in a hurry to get away. Shafts of light are coming through the trees, landing on bright-green moss on the side of a rock. Clusters of snowdrops spread out around the base of a wizened old tree whose branches almost reach the ground. Ferns are starting to unfurl. He runs under a fallen tree. I climb over. It’s so pretty. The ground is covered in light-green shamrocks. And tiny purple flowers, like the flowers you’d draw as a kid, with oval petals and a simple circular centre. Like embroidery flowers. They tremble in the breeze. Some aren’t even open yet after the night. I’d forgotten flowers did that, close at night. I take out my phone to photograph them and realise I’ve left it behind.

  It starts to rain. Tiny splatters all around me. I stand with my back to a trunk, feeling like a kid again, listening to the rain and watching pine needles shake when the drops land. The dog sits beside me. I crouch down and put my hand on his head, happy with this little companion. I don’t miss anything. Anyone. I know I should. But it’s like a rest, to be just me.

  When the rain finally stops, the dog leads me back. Outside his cottage, he trots up to the door and settles down again. He closes his eyes without a goodbye. I like that.

  The farmer has gone from the field.

  By the time I get back, I’m starving. It feels good to have an appetite again - to want to eat. I’ve time to make something nice. So I do. Bruschetta al pomodoro. I cut up the tomatoes. I take the leaves from the basil plant standing on the window sill. Then I have an idea. I’m going to have a picnic.

  I sit out on the porch and take my first bite. Food really does taste better outside. I think of how I’ve been starving myself and how mad it seems now that I let some anonymous person (who turned out not to be anonymous after all) change how I felt about myself. I gave her that power, handed it over. I, will, never, do, that, again.

  The magpie is back, strutting around the garden like he’s important, head poking forward with every step. Does he realise how stupid he looks?

  After lunch I teach myself how to make a fire with just newspaper, logs and turf. I am a ninja.

  I find an old deck of cards and play Solitaire. I build a house of cards. And blow it down. I draw a house on condensation. It’s got four windows and a door, smoke comes from the chimney. A sun and two clouds. A flower and a bee. A little family. The girl is the smallest. She’s holding her brother’s hand. Not the biggest brother. The one that’s the same size. This is how my pictures were when I was a kid. I rub the picture away.

  I run my finger along the spines of Maisie’s books. I smile when I find The Lord of the Flies. I take it out, sit in the rocker and start to read. It isn’t just about boys on an island. It’s about boys on an island being cruel to each other. It’s about a struggle to survive. It’s about survival of the fittest. I’m reading about my life. I get so lost in the book, I almost forget dinner. Only the fire, starting to burn out, reminds me to get up off my ass. I put on two logs, stretch, then go to check the fridge. Everything I need to make my mum’s chicken casserole is there. So, I get to work on my surprise for Maisie.

  I’ve always helped Mum cook, for as long as I remember. When I was small, she’d sit me up on the worktop, beside the cooker while Jack played on the floor with his trains (he was obsessed). She never tried to explain what she was doing. We’d just chat. About anything really. Every so often, she’d lift me up and I’d add stuff, throwing it into the boiling water, pretending I was a witch and this was my potion. It surprises me how much she trusted me then not to do anything stupid, like touch the cooker or fall off the worktop. She’d so much faith in me then. Then worry took over our world.

  Maisie gets back at five.

  ‘My goodness. Fire on. Dinner cooking. I think I’ll keep you.’

  Do, I feel like saying.

  The next day, I’m back in the wo
ods, looking up at a tree, checking it out for possible arm and foot holds. I plan a route, then take off my coat and boots. I put my knapsack back on. Slowly, I start to climb, enjoying the stretch of my arms and legs, enjoying the challenge. It’s years since I’ve climbed. Jack and I used to do it all the time. We’d have races. Pop built us a tree house. We’d spend hours up there, planning pranks on Harry, childminders, babysitters - anyone really, we weren’t fussy. We were a two-man operation, a team. Mum didn’t want people calling us ‘the twins’. We were ‘individuals’, she’d say crossly. But we were the twins. We liked being the twins. We liked that it was us against the world. It felt like she was insulting Jack when she said that. He’d distract me though. With water fights, pillow fights, snowball fights. And then it stopped. And I had to fight alone.

  I crawl out onto a branch and when I get to a spot where another smaller one sprouts from it, I lower myself into sitting position. I smile down at the dog who’s looking up at me, barking. I love that I don’t know his name, that we don’t need that.

  ‘Victory,’ I say to him.

  He stops barking. Now, just looks confused. I laugh.

  I love the feeling of my feet not touching the ground. I swing my legs, like a kid and there’s nothing to worry about. I’d forgotten that feeling. The birds are making so much noise. After a while, it stops being noise and becomes conversation. Question. Pause. Answer. Another question. A joke. Laughter. It’s so amazing what you hear when you stop and be still. For five minutes.

  I’ve packed a picnic. Cheese sandwiches with mustard and pickles. Pop’s speciality. I take it out. And drop the crusts down to my pal. I can’t believe that he’s still here. I thought he’d have toddled off ages ago. Tail wagging, he noms it in seconds.

  I take Maisie’s book of poetry from my bag. It opens at my favourite, the one about missing her husband. It’s so full of love and longing. Reading it, I think of Mark. His face, his hands, his body. His smile. And how easily he walked away. The dog barks again. I look down and smile. He starts to trot off. I think how alike they are. Two free spirits. Mark was never mine. And there’s no rule that a person has to love you back.