by Guy Jones
Jess dragged herself to her feet and plodded down the stairs.
‘Bonjour, Jessica,’ said Madame, as she liked to be called.
‘It’s Jess, not Jessica.’
‘En français, s’il te plaît.’
‘I don’t know the French for Jessica.’
Her mother cleared her throat and shot her a look.
Madame smelt as if she showered in perfume. Anyone would think she was waging a full-scale war on the natural smells of the world around her. She was swaddled in a long dress, stitched with beads that clicked and rattled as she swished through and deposited herself at the kitchen table. Jess wondered why, if she wanted everyone to think she was from France, she hadn’t at least changed her last name. D’Obson might work. She fetched her textbook from the pile in the hall, took a final draught of fresh air, and plunged into her lesson. But over the next hour of vocabulary and verbs, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her mind drifting to the day before. To trees of sparkling silver, of course, but also to the boy in his hospital bed.
She remembered how cold his hand had been. Maybe he’d like a story, she thought. Something else to listen to besides the likes of Doctor Stannard droning on. Doctors liked to make everything as difficult to understand as possible, so that you wouldn’t question them. That was how they kept their power. That was how they made perfectly sensible and clever people like her mother agree to whatever they suggested, even when her own daughter knew far better what suited her best. A story would give the boy a break from all that, just for a while.
‘Jessica? Jessica!’ Madame patted her hand on the table.
‘Sorry?’
‘“Excusez-moi”, s’il te plaît!’
Jess looked down at the book. She didn’t remember turning the page. On it was a photo of a weather forecaster standing by his map. What was she meant to be doing?
‘Please, Jessica. It is sunny.’
‘Il fait beau.’
‘It is hot.’
‘Il fait chaud.’
‘It is cold.’
‘Il fait froid.’
‘It is snowing.’
‘Il neige.’
Il fait froid. Il neige . . .
The boy would like a story . . . After Madame had gone Jess retreated back upstairs to try and write. She thought first about the kind of thing he might like. But that wouldn’t work, of course. She had to write the thing she wanted – to give it the flavour and scent of her own imagination.
She turned to the paper and sucked in a deep breath. She had to remove the distractions. In her mind’s eye she saw herself find the entrance to the ice garden, only now it was behind a pair of elaborate metal gates. She locked them tight and pocketed the key for later. Behind her was another door, this one to the boy’s hospital room and she closed that too, knowing she’d be seeing it for real sometime soon. With this mental ritual completed, she was ready to write.
She began the saga of a tailor who found that all the clothes he made would fall apart as soon as anyone said the word ‘oranges’. He tried different materials, different thread, even a different sewing machine, but the outcome was the same – whenever anyone in the vicinity of his work uttered that fateful word, every stitch would come unpicked and the garment would end up a heap of cloth on the floor. She wrote quickly, her red ink flowing across the page in loops and spots.
The story smelt of citrus fruit and spices. Its characters went about their days arguing and laughing with the kind of full-throated gusto you never found on a drizzle-soaked English high street. They lived their lives under a burning Middle Eastern sun. She paused. How could she describe that? How could she communicate what that felt like to her reader? She stared at the page, willing something, anything, to come. Her fingers gripped her pen tighter and tighter until they turned blotchy red and white. Tears pricked at her eyes and she bit down on her lip until it hurt. She couldn’t get away from it. Couldn’t get away from what she was, even here in her own stories.
She forced her breathing back to normal. She was in control. It had been raining for months, and the people thought it might never end, she wrote. That should do it.
At last it was complete, and she leant back to survey the four pages of messy scrawl. It was short, she thought, but good.
There was a knock on the door and a moment later her mother popped her head round with eyes crossed and cheeks puffed out. Jess tried to stifle a laugh and turned it into a snort. Her mother grinned back.
‘You OK, little one?’ she said.
‘Just finished a new one.’
‘Can I read it?’
‘When—’ Jess started.
‘The whole book’s done,’ her mother finished for her.
‘I know, I know.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, I need you to get ready.’
‘Ready for what?’
‘For an outing.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll find out when we get there.’
‘Full Hat?’
‘Full Hat.’
‘Do we have to?’ Jess winced at the whiny note in her own voice.
‘Don’t be like that, you don’t know where we’re going.’
‘Is it somewhere I’ll like?’
‘Come on, we’re going to be late.’
‘Tell me,’ she insisted.
‘To the hospital.’
‘But we went yesterday!’
‘Well, you don’t usually have a burn like that one, do you?’ Her mother nodded at the bandage on Jess’s wrist.
‘So you knew we had to go back?’
‘Doctor said we must, while you were off wandering.’
‘And you didn’t tell me!’
‘No, because I didn’t want to put up with a temper like this for twenty-four hours.’
Jess’s blood hissed like water droplets on a hotplate. She clenched her jaw and tried to burn holes in her mother’s face with the sheer power of her glare.
Her mother sighed. ‘I’m sorry, all right? I should have said. Look, I don’t like it any more than you.’ She changed tack, hardening her voice to flint. ‘Jessica, your wrist is a complete mess. It needs attention and it needs to be rebandaged. Now come on or we’ll be late.’
Jess dragged herself to her feet.
‘And I am sorry. Little one? I said I am.’
Her mother extended one hand and, after a moment, Jess linked fingers with her. Each gave a small smile, not realizing how much alike their expressions were.
As they left the room, Jess grabbed the pages of ‘The Unfortunate Tailor’ and dropped them into a plastic wallet. She would have a chance to deliver it to its audience sooner than she’d thought.
How to slip away? That was the question rattling around her brain as the nurse worked away at her burn. The wound was ugly and weeping, and the woman’s plastic-gloved fingers stung, but Jess tried not to grimace.
When they were done, she trailed her mother back through the labyrinth of corridors. At this rate she’d be taking the story straight home with her again and that was no good. The boy would appreciate hearing it, she thought, even if he couldn’t respond. Think, Jess, she told herself. She’d managed to discover a magical new world, surely she could work out how to slip away for a little while? She could come clean, of course, but her mother might think the whole thing was ridiculous, which would put an end to it before it really began. She could tell her she needed to go to the toilet, but that wouldn’t give her enough time. She was all out of ideas, and they were almost at the lift, when a shrill note sounded from her mother’s pocket. She answered her phone and the moment Jess heard her voice get a little deeper and a little slower she knew it was about work.
‘I’m very sorry, I’m actually out at the moment. I could give you a call when I get home. Should be twenty minutes or so.’
Jess shook her head until she feared it would fall off.
What? her mother mouthed in return.
‘Take the call,’ she hissed.
‘I’ll be fine.’
Her mother pursed her lips, forming a delta of little lines around her mouth which Jess adored. ‘It’s fine, honestly,’ she whispered.
Her mother nodded. ‘Actually, I can talk now after all.’
Jess scuttled to the boy’s room, breaking into a half run when alone and slowing to a walk when anyone came by. She thought she must be a strange sight, even without the Hat. She tapped on the door and, when no answer came, poked her head inside. He was alone. Everything was the same, apart from the photo which had fallen face down. She righted it, closed the blinds, and dragged a heavy wooden chair out from the corner. Then she took off her hood.
‘Hello again, sleepy boy,’ she said, taking the papers out of their plastic wallet. ‘I brought you something.’ She brushed a fan of light brown hair away from his forehead. His face was heart-shaped, with high, sharp cheekbones that were dotted with freckles. His eyelids showed a road map of pale veins. She settled down beside him and began to read. ‘Once upon a time there was a tailor,’ she started, ‘whose clothes were the very best in the land. It was said that his dresses could make the plainest woman beautiful, and his suits could make princes out of the humblest men. There was only one problem, and that problem had to do with fruit . . .’
As she read the story out loud she found she could see the characters and places just as surely as she could see the real world. She told the boy about an angry greengrocer who ended up stark naked in his shop and threatened the tailor so violently he was forced to flee the city. He travelled around for years, searching for a place where no one had ever heard of oranges. Eventually he came to a small island where the soil was so poor they couldn’t grow crops. The islanders ate nothing but fish. This was the place the tailor had been searching for. He opened a new shop and, though the islanders had no teeth on account of never eating fruit, and especially not oranges, they became widely acknowledged as the best-dressed folk in the whole world.
‘And the tailor was happy,’ she concluded, ‘for all the people loved him.’ Jess bowed her head. Her breathing locked in with the hiss and wheeze of the boy’s own. Monitors blinked and told their stories.
‘You remember what I said to you?’ Jess whispered. ‘About wishing there was no sun in the sky?’ She tensed at the approach of voices in the corridor outside, but they passed by. ‘I found somewhere,’ she went on. ‘I don’t know how, or why, or even what it is, not really, but I found a place. And it’s beautiful. My ice garden.’
She rose and picked up a card from the windowsill. Inside it read:
Davey-boy.
Stop being so lazy and wake up.
All my love, Uncle Jamie.
‘Davey,’ she said, tasting the word. ‘Did you like the story? I can bring you another one if you like. I know you’re in there, listening. And I know that you’re a bit like me. You don’t get to decide what happens to you either. That’s why . . .’ She felt foolish saying it, and yet it somehow felt correct. ‘That’s why we’re friends. I’ll come and see you again. I will. I’ll bring you another story, Davey. I’ll come and see you again.’
She hadn’t imagined it. She knew she hadn’t imagined it. And yet, as she crossed the playground and pushed through the fir trees, she couldn’t help but fear it would somehow have been taken away from her. Please be there, she thought. Please.
Jess stepped through the gap in the hedge and into the ice garden. The summer night gave way at once to a chill that nipped at the exposed skin of her face. She thought the moment should feel bigger somehow. Surely as she crossed the boundary there should be a dizzying rush or a burst of light, but there was nothing of the sort. Instead, moving from one world to another was as simple and uneventful as getting off the bus.
She sucked in a draught of freezing air, inviting the cold into her nose and lungs. It was clean and clear, as pure as crystal. The purple sky was streaked with brontosaurus ribs of white cloud.
She pulled on the winter coat she’d rescued from the back of her cupboard before sneaking out, and took her gloves from the pockets. The musty smell of damp wool floated up for a moment and was gone. She threw on a small rucksack, containing a bottle of water and a packet of chocolate biscuits. Be Prepared, they said in the Scouts. Jess wasn’t a Scout, on account of it being largely an out-and-about-in-the-daytime kind of operation, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t follow good advice when she heard it.
This time she took a different trail, cutting through a rolling expanse of ice flowers. The ground was a kind of gravel: small cubes that crunched under her feet. She felt no less a sense of wonder on this second visit. If anything, she was able to see and appreciate so much more, and didn’t even try to keep the grin off her face.
She was impatient to get to the woods she’d spied the day before from up by the Throne. The going wasn’t too difficult, but the garden was larger than she’d realized and before long her clothes were plastered to her skin despite the cold. At last she made it, paused for a second, and then plunged inside.
All around her the white trunks were adorned with delicate silver leaves. Glowing spheres hung from the branches like coloured Christmas baubles. It’s fruit, she realized. Ice-apples. The woods weren’t just woods; they were an orchard! She reached up and plucked a luminous yellow ball from one of the lowest branches. She paused, knowing full well you shouldn’t eat wild things you don’t know for sure are safe. Oh, well, she thought, and took a bite.
Pain lanced through her front teeth and into her brain. All right, she thought, not a good idea. Cold. Way, way too cold. Instead she peeled away the top half of the shell to reveal a swimming pool of shining gold liquid inside. She tipped her head back and drank. There was an icy stab as it washed down her throat, but that soon transformed into a strange warmth that spread all the way through her body and out to the tips of her fingers.
She weaved through the trees, selecting more pieces of fruit, cracking them open and dipping a finger in to taste. The deep blues were tangy and sharp, while the reds smacked almost of liquorice. Before long she had a sticky mouth and churning stomach. She let out a vast burp that eased the pressure a little and made her laugh. Imagine burping in front of Madame D’Obson or Doctor Stannard.
A gentle breeze began to blow. It caught on the edges of the ice-leaves, making them sing. They whistled softly, like the sound of a wet finger being dragged round the edge of a glass.
There came a sudden rustling sound from the undergrowth. Jess jumped back, alarmed. Then a whiskered nose peeked out from under a broad leaf. It was followed by a fat, furry body on which every strand of hair was made of glistening frost. The animal was the size and shape of a mouse but with floppy ears that were far too large and dragged along the ground. Its sapphire blue eyes locked on to her.
‘Hello,’ she said. The creature sniffed the air, taking in her unfamiliar smell. ‘What are you then, little one?’ she asked. But in the ice garden nothing had a name until she gave it one. ‘Elephant Mouse,’ she said. ‘I hereby name your species the Elephant Mouse.’ The animal gave a small squeak, as if agreeing, and Jess giggled with excitement.
It began to sniff around and eventually settled by an ice-apple that lay shattered and pooled on the ground. The liquid had already frozen and the mouse started to nibble at it, chiselling away with needle-sharp front teeth. Jess broke off a piece of the fruit she was carrying and, very slowly, placed it on the ground. She did the same with a few more chunks until there was a trail for the little animal to follow. She took a few steps back and waited.
The creature’s head jerked up as it caught a whiff of the still-liquid nectar oozing on to the woodland floor. Without taking its eyes off her for a second, it shuffled forward, ears dragging on the ground, and gobbled up the first piece of fruit. On it came, unable to help itself, taking each bit in turn until it came to a stop right next to Jess’s foot. This was the moment of truth. She barely dared to breathe as she slipped one of her gloves off and reached down. The mouse’s fur stood up o
n end. Cold jolted through her fingers as they made the briefest contact, and to her dismay the creature broke into a scurrying, weaving run away from her.
‘No!’ said Jess, jumping up. ‘I don’t want to hurt you! Stupid thing!’
The Elephant Mouse made it to the edge of a sharp embankment and launched itself into the air. A pair of delicate, dragonfly wings unfolded from its back and it spread its ears wide so that it could glide safely to the ground. Jess cried out in delight. ‘You’re a Flying Elephant Mouse!’ she shouted, and scrambled down the slope after it.
She raced through the trees, catching glimpses of the creature as it burrowed and darted ahead of her. She laughed as she ran, flinging herself around corners and leaping over roots.
Then all of a sudden the ground disappeared and Jess came skidding to a halt on the lip of an enormous crevasse. Her feet went from under her and she tumbled over on to the diamond-hard ice, driving all the breath from her body. She flopped on to her back, gasping and staring up at a blanket of purple sky.
She pulled herself to her feet. In front of her there was a chasm at least a hundred metres wide, stretching in both directions to form a moat around the entire garden. She peered into the pit but the bottom was hidden in darkness. She picked up an ice rock, threw it in, and listened. No sound came back. If she’d gone over the edge, how long would she have fallen for? For ever, she thought, skin crawling.
There was a narrow frost bridge spanning the drop. It looked no firmer than the icing on a cake. A curved handrail ran along one side but crumbled away to nothing halfway across. On the far side a path led into a deep forest. Its mass of trunks, branches and vines twisted and coiled around each other. The ice, so bright and beautiful within the garden, looked dark and forbidding there. She shuddered.
A thought came, uninvited. How can there be a bridge? Bridges are built by people. But then gardens are built by people too . . .
