‘I did this morning,’ I say. ‘She was trying to catch sparkles in the sand.’
Mrs Skinner chuckled. ‘Oh, she’s such a silly cat. What’ve you got in your hands?’
‘I found an insect.’
‘Come inside. I’ve got a jar you can put it in.’
I follow Mrs Skinner down the hall and into her kitchen.
She gets an empty glass jar from one of her cupboards. ‘This is an old marmalade jar,’ she says. ‘I always keep them. You never know when they might come in handy. Sit down.’
We both sit at the kitchen table.
Mrs Skinner unscrews the lid to the jar. ‘Pop it inside.’
I place my hands at the top of the jar and, very carefully, open them to let the insect fall.
‘Goodness!’ Mrs Skinner gasps. ‘What a gorgeous thing!’
The insect stays at the bottom of the jar for a few seconds, then – suddenly – it starts flapping and beating against the glass, trying to get out.
‘It’s a lot stronger than it was,’ I say. ‘It was barely moving when I first found it.’
‘Well, it’s certainly moving now,’ Mrs Skinner says, looking closer. ‘It must’ve come over with all that sand from the Sahara, don’t you think?’
‘I do, Mrs Skinner.’
‘Oh, if only this insect could talk. There’s so many questions I’d ask it. I’ve always wanted to visit the Sahara and see the Pyramids, you know. When I was a girl I was sure I’d go there when I grew up. But then, when I did grow up, there was always something else that needed to be done. A man to marry. A war to get through. A child to bring up. Parents to bury. A house to keep clean. And every year I thought, ‘Next year I will go to the Pyramids.’ Year after year I thought that. Until suddenly I realized . . . I’m eighty-six years old and all my years have gone.’
‘But . . . surely . . . you could still try to see the Pyramids. If you really want to.’
‘And do what? Have a heart attack or stroke the moment I set foot in Egypt. No, no. The only way I’ll see a pyramid now is if they bury me in one. That’s what pyramids were, you know. Tombs. Tombs for the dead Pharaohs.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘They’re buried with all their treasure and servants.’
‘Well, when I die, you can bury me with my wedding ring and Diva. That’s if the temperamental little madam ever comes back.’
‘Oh, your Diva always comes back. Doesn’t she, Mrs Skinner?’
‘Perhaps,’ she says. ‘Animals are like people in that respect. They always come back, until they don’t come back.’ She ruffled my hair. ‘Now, you best be getting home. I’ve got my tea to cook.’
I walk back to my house. Most of the sand has been cleared from the street now.
Mrs Manning’s doorstep is clean.
Mrs Treadwell’s windowsill is clean.
Mr Cashman’s car windscreen is clean.
Mum is in the kitchen, chopping up a lettuce.
‘I’m making a salad for dinner,’ she said. ‘It’s too hot to cook— What’s that you’re holding?’
‘It’s an insect. From the Sahara. Isn’t it brilliant?’
‘Where’d you find it?’
‘The Bombsite.’
‘Where’d you get the jar?’
‘Mrs Skinner gave it to me.’
‘Did you tell Mrs Skinner where you found the insect?’
‘No. Why?’
‘It’s where her two sisters died, don’t forget.’
‘Oh . . . yeah. I did forget.’
Mum watches the insect fly about in the jar.
‘It wants to escape,’ she says.
‘It’s probably hungry,’ I say. ‘What does it eat, d’you think?’
‘I don’t know. Want to try some lettuce?’
I go up to my room with the jar and some lettuce.
I unscrew the lid and – quick as I can – drop the lettuce inside.
The insect vibrates and buzzes, but it doesn’t seem interested in eating.
I put the jar on my window ledge.
I watch it and watch it.
The sun begins to set.
Golden light blazes in the glass.
Mum calls up that the salad’s ready and I go down to eat.
Dad’s home from work now and I tell him about the insect.
He says, ‘You should be careful. Insects from hot countries can be lethal. A friend of mine went to Australia and was bitten by a spider. He was dead within three hours.’
‘I don’t think my insect’s dangerous,’ I say.
‘You never know.’
‘Well, I’m still alive.’
‘So far, yes.’
Mum says, ‘Don’t let’s talk about dying— Oh, what’s that?’
There was a noise from the garden.
Mum looked out of the window. ‘It’s Mrs Skinner’s cat. She’s knocked one of the pots off the garden table— Go home, Diva! Go home!’
After dinner, I go up to my room.
I watch as starlight replaces sunlight in the glass jar.
The insect is not moving so much now. Occasionally, it flutters and buzzes. But, mostly, it’s still and silent at the bottom.
I tap the glass, but it doesn’t react.
Mum knocks and comes into my room.
She sits next to me at the window.
She leans very close. She sniffs. ‘Have you been trying on some aftershave?’ she says. ‘I thought I smelt something earlier but . . .’ Sniff. ‘What is that?’
I say, ‘I . . . I don’t know.’
She looks and me and smiles, ‘Okay.’
The insect’s wings click against the glass.
‘You should let it go,’ Mum says. ‘It’ll die in there.’
‘But . . . I don’t want to let it go,’ I say. ‘It’s too . . . wonderful.’
‘I know, love,’ she says. ‘But it’s not fair to keep it. We don’t know what the thing eats or how to look after it. You’ve had a whole day to enjoy it. But now it’s time to let it . . . fly away.’
I start to unscrew the lid.
The insect starts buzzing.
‘It knows it’s about to be set free,’ Mum says. ‘And on such a beautiful night too. All those stars to enjoy.’
I remove the lid from the jar.
The insect flutters up to the rim of the jar, and perches on the edge, as if unsure it wants the freedom being offered.
Then, in a blur of gold and sparkle, it flies into the night.
‘There it goes!’ Mum says, putting her arm around me and squeezing tight. ‘Let’s say goodbye to the little thing, shall we.’ She kisses the top of my head, then calls out, ‘Goodbye, little thing!’
‘Goodbye,’ I say.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Philip Ridley was born in the East End of London. He studied painting at St Martin’s School of Art. As well as three books for adults—and the highly acclaimed screenplay for the feature film The Krays (winner of the Evening Standard Best Film of the Year Award)—he has written many adult stage plays: the seminal The Pitchfork Disney, the multi-award-winning The Fastest Clock in the Universe, Ghost from a Perfect Place, Vincent River, Mercury Fur, Leaves of Glass, Piranha Heights, Tender Napalm (nominated for the London Fringe Best Play Award), Shivered (nominated for the Off-West End Best New Play Award), Dark Vanilla Jungle (winner of an Edinburgh Festival Fringe First Award), Radiant Vermin, Tonight With Donny Stixx and Karagula, plus several plays for young people: Karamazoo, Fairytaleheart, Moonfleece (named as one of the 50 Best Works about Cultural Diversity by the National Centre for Children’s Books), Sparkleshark and Brokenville. He has also written books for children, including Scribbleboy (shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal), Kasper in the Glitter (nominated for the Whitbread Prize), and Krindlekrax. He has also directed three feature films from his own screenplays: The Reflecting Skin (winner of eleven international awards, including the prestigious Georges Sadoul Prize), The Passion of Darkly Noon (winner of the Best Director Prize at t
he Porto Film Festival) and Heartless (winner of the Silver Mélièrs Award for Best Fantasy Film). In 2010 Philip, along with song-writing collaborator Nick Bicat, formed the music group Dreamskin Cradle and their first album, Songs from Grimm, is available on iTunes, Amazon and all major download sites. Philip is also a performance artist in his own right, and his highly-charged readings of his ongoing poetry sequence Lovesongs for Extinct Creatures (first embarked on when he was a student) have proved increasingly popular in recent years.
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