Ella on the Outside

by Cath Howe

  Hurt feelings still flooded me even after Lydia danced away to get her bag. Did she think I knew lots of criminals? Was that why she’d made up that name for me?

  All the rest of the day, sitting beside grumpy Molly Gardener, I worried about whether Lydia would tell anyone else the truth about my dad, if she thought it was funny or didn’t matter. I studied the other girls from the sleepover… Hannah, Rachel, Sophie, Immy, Zing. I watched them tell stories and chat, standing quietly near them. Did they think I was a criminal sort of person? None of them spoke to me very much. Was that because they didn’t think I was a nice person?

  I’d find out more about Molly. That was what Lydia had asked me to do.

  I volunteered to pick up extra shopping we needed at the Co-op. Mrs Reynolds gave me the money and a bag and said, “That’s the sort of girl I want to see.”

  I stood with my shopping at the till and decided to ask the Co-op lady some questions. “Do you know Molly Gardener?” I asked.

  “I know everyone, love. I’ve known the Gardeners for years, as it happens. Are you buying that broccoli?”

  “Oh, yes please.” I opened my shopping bag and she began scanning things. I saw she had a badge on her uniform saying “MY NAME’S GEMMA. I’M HERE TO HELP”. That made me feel better.

  “It’s just we need to speak to her mum or dad about some furniture… My mum wants to buy some.” I clutched my money, rolling the coins around between my fingers.

  “Sorry, can’t help you there. You’d have to ask her.”

  “Well, we’re new and I … well, nobody answered the door.” I could feel my face getting red.

  “Maybe they don’t want any callers then.” Gemma eyed me sharply.

  Lydia would think I hadn’t tried hard enough. I could imagine her piercing stare. “But you must know if Molly’s mum does her shopping here…” I said.

  The lady frowned. She opened her mouth, then she seemed to decide not to say something and shut it, hard.

  “I mean, I just wondered if it was Molly’s mum who put the advert in your window… about the school uniform. I bought her jumper,” I said.

  Gemma’s face became the telling-off face grown-ups use. “Some people ask too many questions,” she said. “Now, off you go. I’ve people to serve.”

  Her voice echoed as I walked away. I rushed home with the shopping and a great big smile on my face. A thrill kept running through me. There was definitely a mystery.

  Lydia was bound to invite me back to her house now!

  Chapter 14

  You’re a Photographer

  Hi Dad,

  I don’t have the swingball set – I think it got broken when we moved. I would like a trampoline but Mum says it would fill the whole garden, so forget it, sunshine. But I haven’t. I think you would like a trampoline too, Dad.

  Jack can tie his tie now. He’s not very good at it though. Their teachers help them take them off, otherwise the whole PE lesson gets wasted. He’s got lots of friends. Why do you keep asking about Jack? He’s not even bothering to write to you.

  Love Ella

  Lydia had lots of ideas at the next art club, when I told her about the lady from the Co-op and the warning.

  “Maybe Molly’s parents had a battle and her mum shot her dad with an old-fashioned gun,” she whispered, choosing a green pencil and drawing a hard line across her paper. “Maybe she buried the dad under the floor and they collected all that furniture to put on top… or, Ella, maybe she keeps him prisoner behind the fireplace and feeds him only at weekends… or…”

  I got tired of listening. I found myself only answering some of Lydia’s questions, or just nodding. I wanted to think about my picture. The sea cave was taking shape.

  The room became quieter, except for people humming to the radio.

  “Great work, Ella,” said Miss Denby the next time she passed. “It’s odd how it’s always more beautiful if you rip the paper. Have you done this kind of collage before?”

  “No,” I said. “But I like it.”

  After half an hour, Lydia had begun to really annoy me. Her voice got harder to ignore. And she was complaining again.

  “Why won’t Miss Denby come and help me?” she whinged.

  She’s been over about ten times already, I thought. You wave your hand around so much you’re like a scarecrow in a high wind.

  “Yours is really good,” Lydia said, poking my sea picture, lifting up the glued edges at one side. “That place there needs more bits though. Do you want me to stick some more on?”

  “No,” I said. I held my hand over it.

  “Do you want to borrow my brush pen?” Lydia asked next.

  “No, thanks, it’s fine.”

  “Miss! Mine’s rubbish,” Lydia shouted. “I’m stuck!”

  Lydia’s picture was OK but she never sat and thought, just splashed paint. She reminded me of Jack doing art: all accidents and mess.

  “I’m helping Hassan,” called Miss Denby from the other side of the art room. “You’ve only just started, Lydia. See if you can solve the problem on your own.”

  At the end of the club, everyone propped their work up and Miss Denby talked about what they were each working on.

  “Very expressive, Lydia,” she said.

  Lydia scowled.

  Miss Denby moved on to mine. “Ella took this photo herself. See how the dark cave interior frames the photo. Great composition, Ella. You’re a photographer. Photos can sometimes get right inside the heart of a thing. When you’ve finished the collage, how about creating some more of your interesting photos?”

  I loved the idea. I was so lit up about it I told Mum at bedtime.

  “Miss Denby, my art teacher, wants me to do more photography.”

  “That’s great, love,” said Mum. “I’m glad you’re loving the phone. We must tell Grandma.”

  I started to look out for more things to photograph. I loved little details, like the speckles on a bunch of bananas. Maybe my camera could help with Operation 13. Photos could give me clues.

  I would investigate more now I was a photographer.

  Every evening, Mrs Reynolds began watching her quiz at five o’clock. From “Welcome to your host” until the news, Jack and I were allowed to play in our rooms. She didn’t call us down to wash our hands for tea for a whole 45 minutes. So, I waited till the quiz started, then nipped out of the front door instead of going upstairs.

  First, I looked for lights on in the windows at number 13. With my nose squashed up against a hole in the fence, I could see a light on, even though it wasn’t dark yet. I saw shapes in there. I could even make out voices. If I fitted my phone in a knothole in the fence, I could take a picture of the kitchen window.

  I observed Molly’s house on Tuesday and Wednesday. I filled in my notebook. Kitchen light on 5.20 p.m. Voices. Back door shut. Nelson in garden.

  Kitchen light on 5.20 p.m. Voices. Radio. Back door shut.

  Not very interesting.

  On Thursday evening, I heard someone behind me when I had just put my phone up to the hole in the fence. I swung round to find Jack looking thrilled with himself. “What are you doing, Ella?”

  “Go away.”

  “No, not till you tell me what you’re doing.”

  ‘I’m a detective. A spy,” I said.

  His little face lit up.

  “I can take pictures. Put together clues,” I told him.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to find out… things.”

  I showed him how I could take a picture through the fence. “You have to be older to have a phone to investigate like this. You’re not mature enough,” I told him.

  “Well, I am mature,” he said. “And spies don’t use phones; they use magnifying glasses and they dust for fingerprints.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.” His mouth wobbled. “Oh, Ella, you’ll get in trouble.”

  “No I won’t. You can stay if you’re quiet.”

  Jack pu
t his finger to his lips.

  As Jack and I stared, a dark flapping shape appeared in the kitchen. The long trailing arms made it look like a strange shadow puppet floating in the air.

  “What’s that?” Jack squeaked.

  “I don’t know. I can’t see properly.” I held my phone in the gap. Click.

  “I don’t like it here, Ella,” Jack whispered. “What if it comes out and gets us?”

  I pushed him away. “I told you, you weren’t mature enough. Just go home.”

  The dark shape had gone out of view now.

  A sound began inside the house: a rasping choking sort of cough.

  “You have to come too!” Jack’s voice rose to a wail. He clutched my arm.

  “Jack, you’re a pain!” I said, steering him back towards home. “You’re not coming again.”

  I checked the photo when I got in. “Is it a witch?” Jack whispered. “Or is it Batman?”

  “It’s too blurry,” I said.

  You could see the person shape, the long floating arms. Maybe Lydia would be pleased with that. She might.

  Here is the Creature from the Black Lagoon, I texted, sending her the photo.

  I lay in the dark later, thinking about Molly’s house and listening to the clicking of Mum working on her computer downstairs.

  Even though I liked making up the story with Lydia, I hadn’t liked hearing the coughing. People don’t cough in fairy tales.

  I dreamed about the inside of number 13 but it had grown into a huge maze: eerie shapes and towers, trees and the white rabbit hopping, always a little way in front – that bobbing white tail just disappearing out of view, leading me always to the figure in black with the trailing arms. Trapping me.

  Chapter 15

  A Notebook Leads to Trouble

  Dad,

  I wasn’t rude about it and I didn’t argue with Mum. I don’t care about stupid trampolines. It’s just why does Mum say “We’ll see” when she really means “no” because it makes Jack think she might be going to say yes?

  I like Mum’s chopped-off haircut too. She says she is still getting used to it.

  I didn’t know Grandma came to visit you. She rings Mum sometimes but Mum always hangs up.

  I took a close-up photo of some swans on the river. Do you like it? Swans’ necks are so long!

  Did I tell you that my uniform is green? I think orange is my favourite colour now. Why don’t people have orange cars? We would never lose our car in a car park like we did in Edinburgh. Or, maybe, we could have stripy or spotty cars. I would choose an orange one with purple stripes. Maybe it’s too difficult to draw the straight lines for the stripes.

  Jack says he hasn’t forgotten you – you don’t need to worry about that.

  Ella

  As half-term got nearer, we had an activities day at school with lots of sports. The teachers made us hold up the sides of a huge coloured parachute and run underneath so it made a cave. We all cheered and ran races. One game was to see how far you could throw a welly and Stiggy’s throw went spinning wide and high and hit Mr Ponting, the caretaker, but he just grinned and threw it back.

  I sat on a bench with Lydia and her group while the races were happening, waiting for our class to be called. Molly Gardener was sitting on her own, writing in her notebook.

  Mr Hales called us all for the hurdles. I’m not very fast at running so I didn’t get chosen for the finals. But Molly did. As she was about to run, she pressed her notebook into my hands. “Please, look after this.” She stood quietly on the line then took off, dashing over the hurdles, her legs dipping and flying.

  Lydia grabbed the notebook. She unwound the lace. I looked too. Pictures, sketches. A lot were of Nelson: Nelson hopping, Nelson eating, his nose, his face. “Well, that’s useless,” Lydia said, thrusting the book back into my hands. “I thought it was a diary. She hasn’t written anything.” She skipped away.

  The next race was just ending. Zamir flew so fast across the finishing line that he couldn’t stop and he ploughed into a table of teachers keeping score. Everyone was laughing.

  I watched Molly run. I wished I could take a photo, catch the moment when she flew, the high point of each jump. I looked again at her notebook, further on, towards the back. These sketches weren’t like anything I’d ever seen. They were shadowy, like shapes and faces rising out of smoke: crying eyes, hands, strange objects. I lingered over some of the dark smudgy faces. They seemed to be calling out to me.

  Molly appeared beside me, panting from the race.

  “I was just looking,” I said, handing her notebook back. “Your drawings are really good.”

  Molly flushed, wrapped the lace round it over and over.

  “You should come to art club,” I said.

  Next time I went to art club I met Molly at the door. I must have looked surprised but she just did a sort of nod towards me and we both went inside.

  She must have already checked with Miss Denby because Miss Denby looked up from a pile of prints she was sorting and smiled at both of us. “Molly tells me you encouraged her to come, Ella. I’m so glad.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, “I did.”

  “Why don’t you both sit together since you know each other?” Miss Denby said.

  Molly collected a pot of charcoal pencils and white paper and began drawing immediately.

  I was keen to get started too. I flicked through the pictures on my phone and found some I had taken by the river when Jack and I went to feed the ducks.

  “Can I have a look?” Miss Denby asked.

  I showed her.

  “I really think photography could be your thing,” she said. “Would you like to try making some bigger compositions?” She went to her desk and brought out the school digital camera. “You’ll have to learn its features, but you seem to have a real eye for this.”

  “Oh wow,” I said, “can I?”

  “This is how you zoom… Flash is here. Think of a camera as an eye on the world.” She gathered up things for me to photograph. “How about this tiny stuffed alligator… these opera glasses…?”

  The art room filled with other people from the club but I was far away… in a new land, the radio playing, trying out new positions for the objects, experimenting with their shadows…

  The door slammed.

  I looked up.

  Lydia with her art case.

  There was no space next to me now Molly was sitting beside me.

  Lydia’s mouth froze in a hard pout. “Where am I supposed to sit?” she demanded.

  “There are lots of places to sit, Lydia. You are late. Why don’t you choose one over there?” Miss Denby pointed to the tables on the other side of the room. “I’ve put Molly next to Ella because they know each other. But you know everyone, don’t you?”

  Lydia’s face curled into the scariest snarl. I gulped and put down the camera.

  Was she cross because I was sitting with Molly? That didn’t make sense. She was always wanting me to sit with Molly. She huffed and plonked herself down one table away and slowly began to unpack, glaring at me. I stood there in a panicky kind of blur.

  “Miss Denby,” she moaned, “I’m still waiting for some help and this picture is rubbish.” Then, a few minutes later: “Miss, someone’s taken my green ink and Mum’ll have to ring the school!”

  I tried to think about the little alligator… the way its stiff body made shadows on the pale grey table… but my heart was hammering and the camera kept wobbling.

  Lydia got up and prowled around. She stopped behind Molly. “Oooh, is that your rabbit you’re drawing?”

  Molly’s head came slowly up. Her eyes looked like a person who’s heard a very distant noise. She seemed to think for a moment, then she looked down at her paper and began to draw again.

  Lydia stiffened. “I asked you a question,” she said loud and crisp and clear. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Molly’s head stayed down.

  “Everyone talks in clubs,” Lydia snapped
.

  It was like being in a storm and trying to keep from getting soaked. Or washed away. But I still couldn’t understand. Why was Lydia so angry?

  “Why are you wandering about, Lydia?” Miss Denby called.

  “I needed more paper.”

  “Well, get some then and go back to your seat.”

  Being ignored by Molly seemed to make Lydia more furious than anything else could have. She flounced away and sat down, sighing loudly. “I’ve got too many pens, miss. I can’t decide what to start with. Everything’s ruined!”

  A few moments later, I went to the sink to wash my hands and Lydia shot over beside me. “Why is she here?” she hissed.

  “I … I … Molly’s really good at art,” I whispered. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “She is not good at art.” Lydia looked as if she was going to explode. “She is rubbish at art!”

  My heart hammered. “S-s-sorry,” I said. “Do you want me to sit next to you?”

  “It’s too late. I don’t care where you sit!”

  I scrubbed at my wrist under the water. “I’m really sorry. I just saw Molly’s notebook at the sports day and I thought her drawings were… em… really good.”

  “Well, then you are stupid, Ella Mackay!” Lydia flounced away and sat down again.

  I walked slowly back. Molly was still carrying on with her soft careful sketching without looking up.

  What was Lydia going to do?

  Chapter 16

  Watermelon Girl

  Dear Dad,

  Are you all right?

  The bad thing you did – the stealing – why did you do that, Dad? Where has the money gone? Did you buy something? I could take it back. If you say sorry and promise never to do that again, will they let you come home? When Jack took the mini octopus, you made him say sorry and the shopkeeper put it back on the shelf. I don’t want us to have extra money. I could stop having sweets (not chocolate) and if I told Jack he would stop too – that would make a lot of money. I’ll ask Mrs Reynolds to do it in a sum and pretend it’s for school. Could we save up? How much?