Knuckles’s mum is there and I hear her telling him how proud she is that he designed the garden. She says Knuckles reminds her of his dad, in a good way. I can feel the glow of her pride. And Knuckles is so happy, he’s gliding along like he’s on a hovercraft.
Mr Beagle is talking to the reporter and photographer from the Eden Echo and they’re taking snaps of the garden and the parents. After a few claps to get everyone’s attention, Mr Beagle announces, “This is what your children have made. But it’s so much more than just a garden. They’ve learned a lot this term. Look at the plants and how they’ve grown. Each plant in the garden may be slightly different, but they all share the same soil. None of them are competing with or destroying the other; no, they all live in harmony. It is the same with your children. They’re all different but they’ve all come together for this project. I’m very proud of them. Each one is special.”
There is a little round of applause. Knuckles grins and says, “We did that. We made something good from nothing.”
Mr Beagle goes on talking for at least five minutes about the planting process we went through and how we went to The Garden of Eden. He says he thinks we would all do it again because we’ve enjoyed it so much.
Everyone in the class lets out a little cheer.
“Well, if you’re all so keen on this garden, perhaps we could do another. I’ve been giving this some thought. There isn’t anywhere left at school, but maybe you have some ideas on what patch of ground needs our help next.”
It takes me a few seconds to put up my hand. “Please, sir, I know a place that would love a new garden.” When Mr Beagle asks me where, I tell him Green Acres Old People’s Home. “It’s such a lively place, sir. But the garden isn’t. I think everyone there would love to look out the window and see plants growing rather than weeds.”
“Well, Becket. This is a great idea which I think we should look into.”
The reporter from the Eden Echo nods and writes it down. There is another round of applause from the audience and when I look at Cat she’s clapping the hardest. She makes a little heart shape at me with her fingers and I make one back.
Finally, Mr Beagle says he just has one last job to do and that’s remove the tarpaulin on the wall at the back of the garden. Explaining that he found a brilliant artist to paint a mural, Mr Beagle reaches for a cord and begins to pull. The photographer is poised.
“This is going to be complete rubbish,” I mutter, glancing over at Nevaeh.
As the tarpaulin slips to the ground I see the best painting ever. It’s a huge butterfly flying above Eden and the harbour. Below it you can make out the Bleeding Heart School and above there’s this rainbow and the artist has painted lots of paper cranes too. If I look really hard I can see loads of children in the school playground but five really stand out. In my mind it sort of looks like Billy, Nevaeh, Knuckles and me. And the other person looks a bit like Mimi. As I look at Mimi she nods, her face full of happiness and she gives me the thumbs up.
As the photographer takes lots of pictures, Mr Beagle continues, “I think you’ll agree that the artist has done a fabulous job and the artist is none other than our very own, Nevaeh, who I have seen drawing butterflies on many occasions and have always admired her work. When I asked Nevaeh if she’d like to try painting a big butterfly on the wall she jumped at the opportunity. But we promised to keep it a surprise for everyone. I think you’ll agree that Nevaeh’s done an incredible job.”
Donté Moffatt says it’s no Van Gogh and then says that’s okay because Van Gogh lost his ear and Nevaeh doesn’t want to do that.
I clap for so long my palms smart and the butterfly charm on my wrist flaps up and down. Only when the clapping stops does Mr Beagle say thank you to all the parents for attending. Before they leave, Dad and Cat say they’re very proud of me. I give them both a hug and then I hug Billy.
Back in the classroom, when the people from the Eden Echo and the parents have gone, Mr Beagle says we all did a brilliant job and so we’re all getting a gold star for our efforts. Then he turns and says there’s one more thing. “Mimi, you wanted to say something.” Mimi rises from her chair and walks to the front of the class and holds up a big plastic bag.
“Yes, sir.” Mimi’s eyes dart around the classroom at everyone. “I just wanted to say that the story we learned about the paper crane was amazing. I didn’t say so at the time because I was a bit envious it wasn’t my story but I really think it was. I borrowed Becket’s crane, the one that was in the classroom, without asking permission. When I was going to the toilet I sneaked it into my pocket.”
Mr Beagle nods and waits for an explanation.
Mimi says quickly, “But there was a reason. At first I wanted to see how to make them so I could make one thousand and get a wish for myself. I made loads and loads until I got to one thousand. I even tried to get them to look perfect. But then I heard that Becket lost all his after he fell in the harbour, and so I want to give him mine. That way he can get his wish because, whatever it is, I think it’s probably more important than mine is.” Mimi brings the bag to me and hands it over and then sits down. “I was just going to wish to be myself and make real friends in my class, and I think that’s kind of happened anyway,” she whispers to me.
I’m sort of gobsmacked. I sort of mouth “Thank you” and Mimi sort of mouths “You’re welcome”.
Later that night I offer to tell Billy another story in Mum’s armchair, but he says he doesn’t need one because the one I’ve told can’t be beaten. Anyway, he’s not scared about things any more.
“I’m sorry you lost Brian in the ocean,” I reply. “I feel like it’s my fault that Brian jumped.”
“It’s okay. It was Brian who jumped. He was a bit crazy like that sometimes. I think he took after you. I still miss him though,” says Billy, biting his lip so he doesn’t cry.
After Billy goes to bed and Dad has just nipped next door to have a quick word with Cat, something weird happens. I hit my toe on one of the boxes that we brought with us from the old house. I’ve never looked in the box of Mum’s stuff. Dad has moved it around a bit when he was tidying up and now I see there’s a hole in the side. As I bend down, I spot a book on origami, and when I pick it up I notice someone has turned the corner over on a page about paper cranes. As I set the book down on the side and move some things around in the box, I come across dozens of little cranes.
“Oh, Mum,” I whisper. I think about how Mr Beagle said paper cranes were given to new babies for a lucky life, and I wonder if she made these ones all those years ago for Billy before he was born. The first one Dad gave to me must have fallen out of this box when he moved it around. I pick up a crane and blow it and it flies from my hand and floats down onto the carpet. “Dad said you folded a star a long time ago, Mum, so I should have known it was you who folded the cranes. I should have known it wasn’t left by someone else who had lived in the flat before us. It really was magic all along.”
The cranes were my butterflies.
I just had to believe.
Well, I believe now.
I reach into the box again and find a book on flowers and one on baking cakes. There’s a wallpaper sample with blue swallows on it and a pressed lily which no longer looks like a creamy trumpet but like yellowing tissue paper. Underneath it there’s a photograph of Mum looking happy standing by the water’s edge, like the one in the frame in Dad’s room. I lift the photo and hold it in front of my face. This one must have been taken a little later on in the day, because Mum has the message-in-a-bottle and she’s holding it up in the air and standing at the water’s edge. If I close my eyes I can almost imagine her firing it out across the ocean. But Dad said Mum didn’t get a reply.
That’s when I see something. How did I miss it before? I place the photograph right up to my eyes and look inside the bottle. It’s not a note at all. At least I don’t think so. My eyes grow wide. Inside Mum’s bottle is a folded-up paper crane.
At that moment there’s
no doubt in my mind that Mum has been with me all along.
Dear Mum
For ages I wanted to say goodbye to you.
I even wrote a list called THE GOODBYE LIST, although I think you already know that. I tried every way I could think of to say goodbye to you but nothing felt right. It was as if saying goodbye was the biggest deal in the entire world and nothing would be good enough. Even if I hired a plane and it trailed a GOODBYE banner behind it for the whole world to see, it still wouldn’t be enough. I had nine ways to say it. All nine were wrong. I had a tenth one and the tenth one was nothing because I couldn’t decide on a tenth way to say goodbye.
I am attaching THE GOODBYE LIST to this letter. I’ve never written you a letter before. Ibiza Nana used to say that no one writes letters any more. So here I am, writing a letter, which means Ibiza Nana is not technically correct (then again she’s not technically correct on a lot of things, like when she says you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face or you’ve got eyes in the back of your head).
So many times over the years I’ve wanted to tell you things, Mum: like when I rode my bike for the first time. I wobbled for ages but I did it. When Dad let go of me it felt like I could do anything. And I wanted to tell you when I got a gold star for a story about a dog with no tail. I was seven then and I cried for ages when I couldn’t read it to you.
I cried a lot.
And in school, when everyone made Mother’s Day cards, I pretended I needed the toilet so I wouldn’t have to make one and that made me cry even more.
My friend, Knuckles, said recently that tears are water and you need water to make things grow, so I figure that all my tears were a good thing. I bet I make a few more. I’m okay with that.
Billy is happy too. I just thought I’d throw that in here. He looks just like you. I look like Dad, without the bald head, the big belly and the tattoo. By the way, Dad got the tattoo for you. Koi carps mean you’ve overcome a struggle and when you died Dad had a lot to overcome. But he’s done okay, and we love him even if we annoy him sometimes. Dad says it’s us children that made him tear his hair out in the first place. He says he used to have more hair than an angora rabbit, which I think is very unlikely because I looked it up on the internet and Dad never had that much hair even in his dreams. Anyway, I think he’s joking. I like it when he jokes.
I think Dad is happy now too. There was a little while when he wasn’t. I didn’t notice because I was sad too. But everything is okay now. Dad has a new friend. Her name is Cat. We thought she was Cat Woman but she isn’t. I think you’d like her. She said you were very pretty when I showed her your photo. Cat also said it was an honour for her to be able to spend time with your children. I think she means Billy and me.
No one has ever said that before.
Your armchair is in the living room now. It was Cat’s idea for it to be put there. I think your armchair is the best. I didn’t know it at the time, but your armchair has carried me on a journey when I felt all at sea, when I was under the darkest cloud. Your armchair was a safe place to go to and it has helped me realize that you can come through a storm and survive. You’ll be stronger for it too. Maybe you’ll be different though, a bit more grown up. But growing up is okay, even if it feels scary at times.
As for the paper cranes, well, I know you were sending me those. Nevaeh said our loved ones try to get in contact whatever way they can. I guess you already know I found a whole load of paper cranes in your cardboard box in the living room. Maybe they just fell out when the box got disturbed but maybe you made them fall out. That’s what I’m going to believe. As I was making them, you were sending them, and it felt like I was wishing to make contact with you as you were wishing to make contact with me.
Boom! If you believe, things happen.
I asked Dad if he knew your box of belongings was full of paper cranes and Dad said he didn’t because he’d never looked in the box. He was so sad after you’d died that he couldn’t bring himself to. Now I’ve told Dad everything about the cranes he believes in magic too.
Another thing I’m going to believe is that I saw you when I fell in the water. I know the brain does funny things when the body gets cold – maybe it even sees things that aren’t there. But I don’t care what my medical books say about it. I know I saw you and I know what you told me. I’ll never forget, Mum.
I’m going to have to finish my letter now. It’s not really a long one. The main thing is everyone is happy here in Eden and I think that’s what you’d really like to know most of all. I’m going to post this note in the morning. You don’t have to reply. I don’t expect you to, so don’t worry. A long time ago you sent out a message-in-a-bottle and you knew you’d get a reply. You believed. You didn’t know when it would come but I think this is the reply you were waiting for.
By the way, I used to think the one important person in my life who I didn’t get to talk to was you. But now I know I can talk to you every day. Because the last thing, Mum, number ten on THE GOODBYE LIST, was the right way to say goodbye. Number ten said do nothing, and I’ve had to do loads of goodbyes and go through a big storm to realize that doing nothing, not saying goodbye at all, is actually the right thing for me. Because you’re in my heart, Mum.
Becket x
The final SNOOP secret mission
This was SNOOP’s last secret mission and I am writing up the notes now because Billy says if I don’t write them down I’ll forget. But Billy’s wrong. I’ll never forget what happened an hour ago, even if I live to about forty. This is what happened on that final mission:
AT 5.43 A.M.: Billy woke me as usual. I wasn’t surprised. But this time he said he had a lovely dream about Mum. A few days ago I mentioned to Dad that Billy had been waking up at the same time every day and when Dad replied he sounded like he was swallowing jelly even though he’d just been eating a biscuit. Dad said five forty-three was the exact time that Mum died. At first I was shocked and I thought I’d feel sad but I didn’t. It was just another thing that convinced me Mum was all around us.
THE FINAL MISSION: This was my idea and I told Billy I wanted to go.
For the record, Billy said, “Okay.”
I wrote Dad a note in case he woke up and found us gone. I explained we wouldn’t be long.
CARRYING: I had three items in my hand – a bag with one thousand paper cranes inside, a letter with a list attached and an empty plastic bottle. My thoughts were that the paper cranes should be set free.
WEATHER: The sun was rising and washing away the traces of night. Temperature was okay but a bit breezy. A small gust of wind tugged at the bag and made it whip around my knees. Billy and I wandered through the park and just as I went to speak to him I realized he was down and poking in the mud.
Billy said, and I quote, “Look! I’ve found Brian.” Billy held up a small snail and waved him about.
I said this was great. “He must’ve followed you again. We can take him home and put him back in his lovely house.”
For the record, Billy held the snail up to his ear. “No,” said Billy, setting Brian back in the mud. “Brian says he’s not lost. He has travelled all over only to realize that he belongs at home with his family. This is his home in the mud and he’s happy now.”
MY MOOD: Surprised but over-the-moon. I even waved goodbye to Brian (I checked there was no one else around to see me first).
As we walked down towards the water’s edge, I told Billy I had written Mum a letter.
Billy asked if she’d get it because she was actually dead. I said she would. He asked if she’d reply because she was still actually dead. I said I thought she already had.
I opened the bag and told Billy to help himself because we were going to let all the cranes go.
Together we took fistfuls of cranes and threw them into the air. We watched as they flew up into the sky. I said I thought things would be okay from now on. I was saying it to Mum really. Then I said I was going to get on with my life.
WHAT HAPPEN
ED NEXT: The butterfly bracelet must have caught on something because it snapped and fell off my wrist into the sand. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. That’s when I knew something amazing was going to happen.
Billy fired paper cranes higher and higher.
White birds in a blue sky.
I reached into the bag too and tried to throw mine higher. A breeze carried some birds far from us and others went to the ocean and bobbed there. Some tickled my arms before falling on the sand. It felt like we were standing inside a shaken snow globe. That’s when the strangest thing happened. I realized what it was. There was no other place in the world I was supposed to be.
This was me.
Eleven-year-old Becket Rumsey, who used to be a big fan of reading medical books but now likes books on origami; older brother of no-longer-a-bug-collector Billy; son of The Codfather fish delivery man; grandson of Ibiza Nana; and who thinks of Mum every day and is happy.
Billy reached into the bag one final time and pulled out the last of the paper cranes and threw them into the air. The bag was empty. I tipped it up, double-checking we’d let all the cranes go. We watched as they floated away on the breeze.
Billy raced across the sand, waving at them and shouting “Goodbye, lovely birds!” at the top of his lungs. I followed him, my toes ploughing furrows in the sand. Then I stopped, spread my arms out wide, closed my eyes and spun around. The wind whipped my hair and, dizzy, I opened my eyes again and looked at the letter to Mum.
I quickly folded it into a crane, and then placed it inside the plastic bottle.
“For you, Mum,” I whispered.
“For Mummy,” Billy echoed as he ran towards me.
I told Billy that we had to hold the bottle together, before we let it go. “We’ve both touched it. I think Mum would like that,” I said. Together we launched the plastic bottle far across the waves and we watched as it bobbed about and then got further away, far out of our reach. Eventually we couldn’t see it any more and Billy asked if it had gone to the ocean.
The Boy Who Sailed the Ocean in an Armchair Page 19
