by David Almond
Mam smooths creme into the womans throte & nek & fays.
“Billy has the look of you on him, Veronica,” Yanjkovya says.
“Dont say that,” Mam says.
“I wont. But let me tuch you, Billy.”
I go to her. She reeches owt tuches my cheke.
“Nobody ever seems to cum Billy. Sumtyms I wunder if the world owtsyd Blinkbonny imajins wer arl gon. Sumtyms I wunder if wer arl existin in a dream. Tuch me bak Billy.”
I tuch her hand.
“Can you feel me? Can you tel Im reely here.”
“Yes Yankovya.”
“Yes? But what if you arent here eyther? What if all of it is just a dreme? What if that is why theyl never cum to take you off to war?”
Mam tenderly brushes the womans hair agen.
“We arnt a dreme,” she wispers.
“Its arl a mistry to me” said Yankovya. “To think we thort that war wud end with 1 big bang. Not this thing that staggas on & on & on & on & sumtyms dosnt feel lyk war at all but never feels lyk peece.”
Mam strokes her brow agen.
“It wil end,” says Mam. “And all wil turn owt wel for all of us.”
“Will it? I grew up in a plays of war & I cum to this plays cos it was a plays of peece. And look what happened. Mebbe Im the cors of it. Or mebbe war just follos me arownd werrever I go. Cud that be tru?”
Mam laffs. She says of cors it isnt true.
Yankovya gayzes at me.
She says that mebbe hair that grows is a sine for all of us that time is truly passing & that evrything is reel. She says that wen she feels Mams fingas in her hair it feels truly like an act of love & peece.
And she tuches me agen. Her eyes turn bak to shinin brite. I take her hand its warm & smooth.
“O Billy” she says, “you hav that tuch yorself. I fele the comfort flowin from you.”
She closes her eyes.
“Mebbe” she murmers, “the apearans of a boy like Billy is a sine that the times of violens ar over & that war has had its day. I pray that it is so.”
Then Mam kisses Yankovya & we leave. She says we will return in 2 weeks tym.
Owt we step. Crunch crunch we go across Blinkbonny. Crunch crunch. And the birds sing over us & so does Mam so happy at my side until she goes all qwiet & she turns wons twiys three tyms to scan Blinkbonny.
“What is it?” I say.
“Dont know. Nothin. Just a feelin Billy. O!”
I look to wer she looks but see nothin.
“I thort I saw a figure” she says. “Over ther then over ther.”
We look. We see a treshur seeker with his detecta in the distans. And another. We see a hunchd figure warkin with a dog. Birds fly & the breez rayses the dust & the sun shines down.
“Mebbe I was rong,” she says. “Mebbe its just sumbody warking on my grave.”
“Do you think well fynd Dad watchin us 1 day?” I wisper. “Just to see us agen? Just to see how wer gettin on?”
She says mebbe its beter to forget about where my father mite or mite not be & what he mite or mite not do.
“Just wark,” she says.
She relaxes & starts smylin agen & singin agen.
I keep on looking into Blinkbonnys shadows & into the shattad windos of its shattad homes.
Somwon is sitting on a warl with a book on her lap & a pensil in her hand. She turns her fase towards us & bak to the paje agen & moves the pensil acros the paje as we aproach. Shes a girl a bit older than me. I look towards her book & she turns it to us & shows the picture she has made of us.
“This is you warking towards me,” she says. “I wil draw you agen as you wark on.”
Mam takes my hand & holds me bak & I feel the suspishon in her.
The girl lowers her eyes.
“It is alrite” she says. “I draw & paynt thats all. My name is Elizabeth.”
I keep on trying to see the book.
“Its just the things I see,” she says. “The same things that you see. No mor than that. Peple landscapes creechers things. What are yor names?”
I tel her & she rites them.
Ther are mor drawings scratched into the dust arownd her feet. Drawings of fases & pepl. She kiks at them wen she sees me looking.
“And those are just the things I remember,” she says. She slides her feet across them. “The things that wil be blown away.”
She mayks marks on her paper agen.
We wark on. I turn & see her watching us drawing us. Mam turns too & looks bak nervosly.
“She seems nise,” she says. “But thers never a way to be sertan.”
She draws me forward & begins to smile.
“Look Billy. Thats the plays wer hedin for. Of cors ther was wons a hole parade of them. Shops lyk Simsons Baykers Timmys Grosers Gordons Boots & Shoos. The Jook of Welington & The Madagaska Cafe. Look how ther now arl broaken borded up & smashd apart. So much has gone to smithereens. Even Gabriellis byutiful Salon. But McCaufreys remanes. And isnt it just lovely?”
And it is, from the moment I first clap eyes on it. Ther it is gleemin in the sun. The byutiful big windo & the naym in aynshent fayded gold abuv.
Mam reads the sine to me as we wark towards it.
“Who is Mr McCaufreys son?” I say.
She shakes her hed.
“Ther is no son. Mr McCaufrey is the last of the McCaufreys & the last of the sons. So he is both the McCaufrey & the son. Do you understand?”
Yes I say but no I dont.
“You shud hav sene this plase Billy,” she says. “The finest butchers for a hundred miles. They flooded in from far away to get McCaufreys famus sossijes & to taste the lovely pies & perfect hams & brillient blak puddins & saveloys & dips.”
I see it agen now as I wark towards it with the pensil across the payj. I here her voys. She tells me how Mr McCaufrey had bene ther sins he was a bairn a bairn as yung as me. Stupid things like boms wud never stop the McCaufreys from bringin good food to the good folk of the world. Yes the folk wer almost gon but Mr McCaufrey wanted to end his days as a butcher in the very plase hed started wer his dad and his dads dad and his dads dads dad had bene born & livd & workd & diyd.
I see the windo polishd brite and the clene wite marbl bench behind. Theres a pink pigs hed with its hair all scalded off & its starin out throu littl eyes & its mowths shapd lyk its such a happy pig smiling at the world & welcoming peepl in. Thers a spiral of sossijes nearby & a coupl of chops & a pile of minse.
And thers Mr McCaufrey rite inside. Hes choppin & choppin at sumthin on his choppin blok. He yels with joy & he rases his hands & the nife flashes hiy abuv him. He waves us in. He puts down the nife. He scoops the choppdup meat into a bowl then cums to us & raps us in his arms.
“Welcum to McCaufreys, Billy Dean” he says. “Make yorself at home & hav a pie.”
He washes his hands under a tap in a sink & drys them & reaches into a fridj & gets a pie & puts it in my hands.
“Get yor laffin tackl rownd that!” he says.
I bite into it.
“Is it nys?” he says, “or is it nys?”
“Its very nys,” I say.
“Correct! Now then. Yor happy enuf? Yor enjoyin bein a boy in old Blinkbonny?”
“Yes Mr McCaufrey,” I ansa.
“Exelent! Giv that boy a coconut! Or beter stil, anotha pie.”
And he gets another pie & lays it on a bench beside me.
“Take that 1 home for yor supper or a midnite feest!”
He cuddles Mam.
“I can see that getting this lad owt in the world has been no botha at arl! You’re a credit to Blinkbonny & to yorself, Veronica! And this lad of yors?” He points strate at me with a big strong finga. “Hes a bluddy star!”
And he kisses her rite on the lips & they both close ther eyes & hold eech other tite.
“Now,” he says, wen he brakes free. “Wil you just look at the state of this hed of mine, Billy Dean.”
He gets my hand & rayses it to his hed & draws my f
ingers across it.
“Stubbl, Billy,” he says. “Can you fele it?”
I can. I fele the ruffness of the hair & the warmth & smoothness of the skin its growin from.
“Its nerly as stiff & nerly as long as the hair on a bluddy pig” he says. “And dos a man want a hed like a pig? He sertanly dus not want a hed like a pig! Its tym for yor mothers attenshuns, Billy. Correct, Veronica?”
Mam laffs.
“Correct, Mr McCaufrey.”
“So lets get down to it!”
And he puts a chare on the shattad payvmint owtside the shop. He sits on it & says “Get yor wepons owt & get to work, me love.”
So she gets a bowl of water from the shop, and she opens her bag & gets her shavin brush and soap and she spreds lather all across his skull. She points into the bag & shows me the raza and asks me to get it owt.
Mr McCaufrey laffs.
“So youv got yourself a job alredy, lad? Assistant to the best bluddy hairdresser that exists between Blinkbonny & the brite blue bluddy sea! What a team you 2 wil mayk!”
Then he dips his hed forwad and Mam starts passin the raza bak and forwad across his skull til all the stubbles gon and his hole hed is as smooth and shinin as his chekes.
She holds up the mirro.
“That” he tells her, “is a work of bluddy jenyus, Veronica. What wud you lyk in exchanj? A pownd of sossijes or a dish of liva or a bit of gammin or harf a leg of lovely lam?”
After the shaving he takes us insyd. The shop is big and brite. The warls ar shinin and the benches & the flors scrubbd clean.
“What dyou think, Billy Dean?” he asks. “This is what I carl a butchers shop. Look at that flor! Ye cud ete yor dinna off it. Cum here & Ill show sum fasinaytin things to you.”
He puts his arm rownd me and poynts to tyls on the warls.
“I no youv seen sum beests in pitcha books,” he says. “Now heres a few mor paynted on McCaufreys warls.”
And he shows me the tiles that hav been ther sins the shop was bilt long bak in the past. Thers herds of fat cattl & flocks of woolly sheep grayzin in lushus medows. Thers grate big pigs with pointed snowts & curlin tails. Thers dere with massiv antlas standin belo delytful trees. Ther ar chikens peckin at the erth. Thers ginea fowls & dainty qwayls.
“What de ye think, Billy Dean?” he says. “Thats wat I carl pitchas & thats what I carl beests! And look at this!”
And he takes me to mor tiles that show how beests ar butcherd that show how to cut a beest apart how to saw it & cut it & slys it & turn it to meny fragments & how to giv the nayms to thos fragments.
“The parts of a beest ar meny” he says. “Thers bits thats tender & bits thats tuff & bits thats useful for nothin but faggots and puddins. But evrythin is to be used & nothin waysted. The skins can be tannd the hair can be stitched or stuffd into chares. Horns can be turnd to trumpets or jewlry or hung on a warl for display. The bones can be boyld for ther joos or grownd down & put into the erth to nurish the roots of trees. And best of arl of cors thers bits of beests that ar exqisit in ther swetenes & tendernes & delishunes. Lyk a bit of filet or a carfs cheke or a parsons nose or a marbld bit of sirloyn. A beest is a grate gift, Billy. But a gift from what? That is what I never no. From a God abuv or from the beests themselves or from this wondrous world we liv in? Who can no? How can ther be an anser to a qestion like that? But look at them Billy. Look at the beests & the bits of beests & bite yor pie & tayst the beest & let yor mynd be full of wunder.”
And then he begins to point to the words assembld arl arownd the tiles. The names of the beests themselves then the names of the bits. Names like shank & chuck & nukle & scrag & trottas & shin & tripe & blud & hart & brane. Words that he speaks owt to me & asks me to repeat. Words that he spels out to me & asks me to spel owt too. Ther words that I cant no the propa meenin of but they feel so lovely on my tung and ring so lovely in my ear & sing so byutifully in the depths of my brane. Words that I write agen now & spel so careful & say to myself agen rite now to get the ecko & the swetenes of them. Lamb & cow & sheep & pig & shank & chuck & nuckle & scrag & trotters & shin & tripe & blood & heart & brain.
It wil be the first of meny days I spend in McCaufreys shop. On this very first day he tels me that the work of a butcher is a thing of grace & mistery.
He puts a bit of steak upon his bord.
“What is this, Billy,” he asks.
“A peece of meat,” I anser.
“Yes” he says. “But it is mor than that. It is a bit of beest that wos wons a living thing. It is a bit of a cow, Billy.”
He poynts to a tile to show me a cow to show me how byutiful it is.
He begins cutting it. He cuts it into tinier & tinier bits & takes the tiniest bit of all & keeps on cutting that with the tiniest of his nives with the sharpest of blayds. He leens closer & closer to his choppin bord. He takes a fragment of the meat & holds it on his fingertip before my eyes.
It is that tiny I can hardly see it at all.
“What is this?” he asks.
“A bit of cow,” I anser.
“Thats rite,” he says. “I keep cutting it & cutting it & its still a bit of cow. No matter wot I do to it, it is stil a bit of cow. Even if we cannot see it, still it is a bit of cow. Put owt yor tung Billy.”
I put owt my tung.
He presses his fingertip to my tung & leavs the tiny bit of cow upon it.
“Now swallow, Billy.”
I swallow. I feel nothing go down but I no that bit of cow has gon down.
“What is it now?” he asks.
“A bit of cow,” I anser.
“Yes. And it is also a bit of Billy Dean. The cow has becom a bit of Billy Dean. Billy Dean has becom a bit of cow.”
He smiles.
“When you eat the beest the beest eats you” he says.
Then he leads me owt throu the door. He reaches down & presses his fingertip into the Blinkbonny dust. He tels me to put owt my tung agen. He presses his fingertip to my tung. I swallow. Blinkbonny becomes me & I become Blinkbonny.
“All things flow into each other,” says Mr McCaufrey. “That is the wonda & mistry of the butchers work. That is the wonder & mystery of the world. Remember that Billy Dean.”
“Ill remember Mr McCaufrey,” I say.
And I remember it now as I rite him, lovely Mr McCaufrey, as I see his wundros shop & see the rayza passin so smooth back & forwad across his skul. Ther he is. He keeps raisin his eyes & smiling at me throu the yeres. Wen its dun he lifts his hed agen & rubs his hand acros it and says like always,
“That is a perfect cut. Thank you, my deer.”
On this 1st day its a lovely bit of gammon that he gives us.
“Boil it slow with onions, love,” he says.
He kisses his fingas to think of such delishusness.
Befor we leev I reech into my poket and speak.
“I brout a gift for you, Mr McCaufrey,” I say.
I take out the fragmint of statew.
“It is a bit of an aynjel,” I say. “I thout you woud like it.”
“Indeed I do!” he crys. “I wil tresure it always. Thank you my good frend Billy Dean.”
And then we wark bak homewad crunch crunch crunch.
I rite them homewad crunch crunch crunch.
We pass Saynt Patricks & inspect the erth. Its like the earth is givin Jesus up to us. Mebbe its the crunchin of our feet that bring him up the way a bird wil bete upon the erth to bring up worms.
We lift our fragments from the dust & wipe the dust away.
We place them in our plastic bags.
But thers no hed of Jesus.
“And O he was so lovely,” says my Mam. “He was so byutiful & sweet.”
We keep on lookin & still no hed.
And the sky is red & blak & darkenin darkenin as we wark bak homeward crunch crunch crunch.
I cud follo them endlessly those fete that wark acros the erth that wark throu time & throu my memries & my dremes.
It is like
warkin on my skin & throu my hair & throu my blood & bones & brain.
Wil the warkin never stop?
What is it that Im serchin for in the erth of these payjes in the scratching of these words?
No anser.
I no what is to come and ther can be no chanjes.
So why keep warkin ritin telling warkin ritin telling?
No anser, Billy. Never eny anser.
Crunch crunch I wark.
Crunch crunch I rite.
Crunch crunch a word crunch crunch a word crunch crunch another & another & another.
We hav 1 leg of Jesus & just abowt 2 fete. We hav a bigish bit of nek, a hand & a harf, an elbow a nee & a secshon of chest. Thers a bit of a brown skirt thing with elegant folds in it. Thers lots of pink wich must be flesh & meny wite powdery bits wich must of cum from depe insyd.
The aynjel has nerly harf of both its wings 2 shattad legs a fase that looks to Hevan with a streme of golden hair behind & much of its lovely smooth body tho its not so smooth as wons it must hav been.
We move the bits abowt on the kitchen taybl. We try to match 1 bit with another bit & try to mayk the bodys like they wer bak in the past.
The harf resurected statews lie ther on the kitchen taybl.
1 afternoon wer diggin in the dirt & 1 of the treshur seekers is watchin from close by. He holds his detecta abuv the erth befor him. His fase is the color of the dust & his hands ar all blak & scraypd.
“What you 2 lookin for?” he says.
“Nothin” says Mam.
“Just as well cos thats exacty wat yell get. This seme was workd owt long long bak.”
I find a toe & lift it up & hold it up to the sun. He laffs.
“Very very valubl!” he says.
He laffs & snarls agen.
“Its silva and gold ye want,” he says. “Its chalises & crosses & coyns from the old collecshuns & they wer discovered & dug owt way way bak.”
I keep my fase turnd from him. I kepe on pickin at the erth. I fele Mam so nervus at my syd.
“Whos this lad enyway?” says the treshur hunter. “I no who you ar, pet. Yor that hair lady but whos the lad?”
“Nobody,” says Mam.
“Nobody?”
