by Emma Carroll
‘What have I ever wanted with papers?’ she cries.
‘But they—’
‘That family you’ve just visited,’ she talks over me, ‘own the big paper mill on the outskirts of town. Paper, for them, is like air, so don’t pretend you’ve brought me something of worth.’
‘But these ones were locked away,’ I insist. ‘Mightn’t that mean they’re valuable?’
This gets her attention. With an irritable sigh, she picks up a handful of papers from the ground and starts to shuffle through them. I watch her. At first, she looks almost bored. My heart sinks. I stroke Coco’s head to steady myself.
Then she does another sigh, this one’s a sharp breath in. She sounds startled. Excited, even. A slow smile creeps over her face.
‘Well, well,’ she murmurs, reaching for more papers. ‘Someone’s been rather busy.’
I don’t know what she means. I keep watching, though. She’s frowning now, chewing on the inside of her cheek, thinking fast. And I’ll admit I’m a tiny bit pleased. Such a fuss and she’s found something valuable, after all. I did right to grab the papers.
As she carries on reading, I reach under the hedge for Coco’s sling-bag; it’s still there where I left it earlier. I slip him inside. It’s time we were gone.
‘Did you get all the papers?’ she asks suddenly.
‘Most of them.’ Giving my hand a quick wipe on my skirt, I hold it out. ‘You going pay me, then?’
There’s a beat when she looks down at the papers again. Then she lunges at me. It catches me off guard.
‘Hey! What’re you—’
She’s got me by the throat, squeezing, pushing. The leathery creak of her gloves. Long fingers like vines slither right round my neck. I can’t breathe.
‘Money?’ she hisses. ‘You’ve got a nerve! The job’s not finished, not by a long shot.’
I try to speak but she’s holding me too tight. I’m furious at being caught out. Number one rule of the streets: what you lack in muscle, you make up for in speed. I can run like a greyhound, but I’m no match for a well-fed, full-grown woman, though I scratch and kick all the same.
‘I’d kill you if I thought someone might actually miss you,’ she tells me.
I’m panicking. I think she’s going to kill me anyway. My head’s ringing. Everything starts to look gold and powdery. Across my chest, I feel Coco scrabbling to get free of the sling.
‘Arggh!’ Madame Delacroix cries. ‘That wretched bird’s bitten me!’
Just like that, she lets go of my throat, shoving me so hard I trip over my own feet. I land on the ground with a thud. There’s not enough air to breathe even though I’m gulping it down. When I look up, eyes streaming, she’s there, standing over me. There’s blood on her face. Wrapping my arms round Coco, I try to soothe him. I’m as scared as I’ve ever been.
‘You listen to me, you worthless little scrap,’ she spits. ‘This job isn’t finished until I’ve got that box.’
My mouth drops: oh blimey, she wants me to go back in to the house.
She must see my shock because she leans right in till she’s way too close. ‘We’ll talk again, Magpie.’
Then she steps over me like I’m horse dung in the road. I don’t call out. Don’t move. I listen to the swish of her skirts through the grass. The sound gets fainter, until it’s gone – she’s gone. Once I’m sure, I roll onto my side, coughing till I’m sick.
I do sit up eventually. The warmth of Coco’s little body makes me feel a bit better.
‘You saw her off, didn’t you boy?’ I tell him. ‘You fought better than me.’ Though I’ve no idea what I’m going to do next because Madame Delacroix will be back, I know she will.
Scattered across the grass lie the not-good-enough papers. The damp’s already got to them, making them limp like cloth. Half-heartedly, I prod at a couple of pieces with my foot.
All right, so I didn’t get the box she wanted. But she was intrigued by these papers, wasn’t she? And didn’t she ask if there were any more?
I’m confused. Tired. My neck hurts where she grabbed me. But still I crawl over to the papers for a better look. The moon’s bright enough to see the funny whiskery writing on them, and pictures. Lots of pictures.
The writing makes no sense to me, but the pictures do. There’s the sky, a group of trees, some hills. Then another of rooftops and church spires. Another one is all stars.
I like them. Really like them, I mean. They’re messy, like someone’s drawn them in a hurry, their ideas coming so fast they can hardly keep up. In each picture is a shape – a sort of oblong. It might be the way I’m looking at it, but it’s as if it’s hanging in the sky. It can’t be though. Only birds and dreamers get to fly.
3
The next thing I know, it’s morning. The weather’s changed so it’s a different sort of day – blustery, warmer, though I’m stiff and cold from not sleeping, thinking all night about that blasted box and the drawings inside. We haven’t budged from the lane yet. Last night it felt safer to stay put than to follow Madame Delacroix back into town. At some point Coco and I snuggled down under a hedge, and that’s where we are now, my rooster still asleep in the crook of my arm. He’s not an early riser or a crower. Sometimes, I think he’s more pet dog than poultry.
Yet when I wriggle out from the hedge, there’s no paper in sight. Not a single sheet. The wind’s taken it all, I suppose, which means it could be anywhere. I don’t know if I’m dismayed or relieved.
The sky at least is a comfort. It’s my favourite type – breezy-blue with clouds moving fast across it – and just seeing it clears my head. I’m feeling braver today. That nasty woman can find someone else to fetch her box, I decide. Next time she comes asking, I’ll tell her where to stick it.
I’m leaning on the gate, mulling this over, when I spot something odd in the sky. It’s directly up ahead, above a group of trees. I honestly think I’m so tired and needing to eat that my eyes are playing tricks. As the thing floats closer, I can see it’s white. Oblong-shaped. Not a cloud. Definitely not a cloud. It isn’t a kite. Or a bird, either. I’m itching to follow it.
Grabbing a sleepy Coco, I put him in his sling and go through the gate. The field beyond is huge, full of scrubby-brown grass that runs all the way down the hill back towards town. Away from the shelter of the hedge, I’m struck by how strong the wind is. My skirt gets flattened against my legs. I can’t stand upright without rocking back on my heels. About thirty feet up, the white object is racing along. It looks like a giant sheet blown free of its laundry line.
Suddenly, a man’s voice: ‘Grab a rope! For goodness’ sake don’t let go!’
It startles me. Though there’s not a living soul in sight, the speaker sounds too close for my liking. I’d rather not be seen, not up here in a field in the early morning. It looks suspicious. Best thing is to keep still and crouch down.
‘Oh Papa, can’t we let it fly?’ a younger voice replies. ‘It’s never travelled this far before!’
The two of them appear from the hedgerow, striking out across the field from a spot not far from me. All I see is their back view – a man in tatty wig wearing a green coat, and a boy with him, dark-haired and excitable. They’re running straight for the flying object. Not halfway down the field, the man stops, holding his side like he’s got a stitch. ‘Go after it! Grab it!’ he yells to the boy.
I watch with interest. Out in the open, it’s easier to see what’s wrong – there are ropes dangling from the object but no one’s holding on to them, so it’s fast drifting away.
A decent thieving gives you a buzz, yet this is something else. Where’s the contraption going to end up – the next field? The river? The next town?
The boy keeps running. But he’s heavy-footed and clumsy, and can’t quite catch it. At last, with a bit of luck, he manages to grab one of the ropes. And just in time. A sharp gust of wind sends the object swooping upwards, twisting and dancing.
The boy holds on tight. His legs ar
e splayed like he’s trying to make himself heavier and steadier. But he’s no match for the wind. The object is moving so fast it starts dragging him along the ground, back up the field.
The boy cries out. ‘I can’t, Papa! I can’t . . .’ He’s shouting something about a knot around his wrist. Though I don’t get the exact words, I hear his terror. Now I’m starting to worry too.
‘Hold on, son! Just hold on!’ the older man tells him.
There’s a blast of wind, so strong it sounds like it’s tearing the object as it comes, bumping and twisting over the grass. The man tries to reach one of the trailing ropes. He lunges, arms out. Misses.
Another great gust. This time the shape rises higher, taking the boy with it. I watch, open-mouthed, as his feet lift off the ground. He lands, bounces, takes off again. I sense in the pit of my stomach that this isn’t meant to be happening. The boy starts to scream.
I don’t even stop to think. I run as fast as I can towards the ropes. As I reach the man, he’s startled to see another person here, but waves me on.
‘Go after him! You’ll be faster than me,’ he gasps.
I nod. ‘Hold my rooster, will you?’
The man’s eyebrows shoot up.
‘Just mind you look after him.’ I say, putting Coco very firmly in his arms.
Within moments, I’ve caught up with the boy – or rather, his feet, which hang close to my head. There’s a lull in the wind. As the flying object drops a little, so does he, though he can’t let go of the rope because it’s tied too tight.
‘Don’t kick me.’ I warn him. ‘I’m trying to help.’
He stares at me, bewildered. Funny, but his face – dark-featured, kind – looks somehow familiar. With a jolt, I realize I know him. This is not good news. In fact, I’m cringing. Because he’s the boy from the house last night, who had the pet duck, who caught me red-handed with the box.
I’ve no idea if he recognizes me without my face scarf. I dearly hope not. Besides, there’s no time for pleasantries. The wind is rising again; I can hear it in the trees.
‘Get ready.’ I say. ‘Two of us might be able to control this thing if we’re quick.’
We aren’t quick enough.
With a roaring sound, the bag-like structure fills with air. It rises straight upwards, the boy still attached. The force of it tears the rope from my hands.
‘Hang on!’ I cry. ‘Don’t let go!’ Though he can’t do much else with that blasted knot still in place. Off across the field he goes, dipping and bumping with the wind. I race after him. We cross another field. Go over hedges. Across a lane. My legs will hardly keep going when – finally – in the middle of a ploughed field, the whole contraption sinks to the ground. The boy’s feet touch down beside it. I come to a panting halt in front of him.
‘It’ll go up again once the wind starts,’ I gasp. ‘For pity’s sake loosen that knot.’
‘I daren’t,’ he replies. ‘If it flies off without me we’ll lose the prototype.’
‘And you’ll be lost too,’ I tell him. I don’t ask what a prototype is.
But it’s like he’s seized up with fear. So I start on the knot myself, and manage to work it loose. All the time, the wind stirs my hair.
The fabric begins to swell once more. With a great whoosh, it’s upright again. The boy cries out, tries to keep his footing. But as the object lifts off, he’s stumbling and running after it. I make a desperate grab for his coat. His legs. Any part of him.
From behind me, comes a shout, ‘For heaven’s sake, get one of the other ropes!’
As a fat length of rope trails past, I grip hold with all my might. Now I’m being dragged too. My feet are on the ground still, but only because my legs are going like windmills to keep up.
All at once the ground falls away. We lift up. And up again. My stomach goes skywards. I’m running on air. The rope gives a short, sharp jerk. All I can do is hold on tight.
The boy can’t manage it though. My heart beats in my mouth as, very slowly, he lets go. He doesn’t make a sound as he falls. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t look.
But the urge to know he’s all right takes over. Peering down, I see he’s landed on the grass some ten feet below.
‘Say something, son.’ The man, his voice oddly clear, bends over him. ‘Does anything hurt?’
‘It all hurts. Honestly, Papa, I’m never doing that again, so don’t ask.’ The boy – his son – manages to sit. Then he notices me. ‘Look at the girl! Look!’
They gaze up at me, wonder in their faces. It’s funny: no one’s ever looked at me like that before. Soon though, I’ve left them behind.
Without the boy’s weight the bag keeps rising. I go over another field, another lane with cattle walking along it. I clear a barn roof. Go higher still. The muscles in my arms are burning. I can’t hold on much longer. And I know falling from this height would more than hurt. The ground would rush up to meet me and then . . . THUD. I’d be dead. All I can do is pray it’ll be swift.
Thinking like this, I begin to feel almost calm. If these are to be my last moments on earth, I’m not going to miss a second of it. The view from up here is magnificent.
Though my arms ache more than ever, I’m getting used to that bobbing, weightless feeling. I can’t believe I’m flying. Time and again I’ve looked up at the sky and wished myself there. Or envied pigeons pecking in the gutter for being able, with a flap of their wings, to escape the filthy streets. And now it’s happening to me. I feel lighter. Like my body doesn’t matter. For once I’m not cold or hungry. I’m brave and strong and alive.
The world from up here looks different, too, like a toyshop window, or as if a magic spell has been cast across the land. Everything’s smaller. Sweeter. Cows in the fields are little bits of china. The river flowing out of town is mirrored glass. Passing over prickly looking treetops makes me think of artichokes. And I’m a bird, looking down on it all, wondering if I’ll ever grow bored of the view.
I don’t get the chance.
The wind drops suddenly. What, seconds ago, was a plump shape above my head now collapses with speed. The trees loom closer. Within moments, my feet touch the topmost branches. The bag flops, lifeless, beside me. The branches creak at my weight. Something beneath me snaps and down I go.
I fall slowly. Like a feather – only nowhere near as graceful because my hair, clothes, skin snag and tear as I drop through the branches.
I hit the ground with an almighty thud. The air whooshes from my chest. Everything feels wrong. I don’t know what part of me to move first. When I try to sit up, my left shoulder makes a crunching, popping sound. I don’t scream. But I feel a cold, shivery sweat breaking out across my back. Above me, the trees are curving inwards. It gets darker. The last thing I see are two sets of white-stockinged legs running towards me.
4
I’m pretty certain I’ve died and gone to that paradise place in the sky. Though I don’t much mind where I am – it’s so warm and comfy here – just as long as no one asks me to move. When I open my eyes, though, I see sheets and blankets, a pillow squished under my head. For the first time in my life, I’m lying in a proper bed.
The kind-faced boy is here with me. He’s sitting beside my bed, reading, his pet duck perched on the back of his chair. The duck’s the first to spot I’m awake, and I swear he gives me the evils, like he doesn’t trust me an inch. I stare back at him, the stupid duck, which makes him quack crossly.
This gets the boy’s attention. As he looks up from his book, he smiles. ‘Bonjour! How are you feeling?’
I try to shuffle up the bed; it isn’t easy because my left arm’s been strapped across my chest. It hurts, too – everything does, like a bull’s stomped over me, then turned around and done the whole thing again.
‘I’ll live.’ I’m not exactly used to beds or being asked how I am, and feel a bit awkward. ‘Where are we?’
‘My house – I mean, my parents’ house. We brought you back here after the accident. Don�
��t you remember?’
I shake my head. Everything’s blurry round the edges still. I remember flashes of things – the view from up in the air, the popping noise my shoulder made. And something shadowy that I can’t quite get hold of, that makes my stomach turn with dread.
‘What’s your name?’ the boy asks. ‘I’m Pierre Montgolfier. And this –’ he turns to tickle the duck under its beak, ‘– is Voltaire, my pet duck.’
‘Big name for a duck,’ I remark.
Pierre grins. ‘Isn’t it? I named him after the writer, you know.’
I don’t. But I remember hearing from somewhere about Pierre’s lot owning the paper mill, which means they’re not short of a coin or two, so he obviously reads and writes and does clever things.
‘What’s your name?’ Pierre asks.
‘Umm . . .’ I’m thinking it might be simpler to make something up. But Pierre’s face is kind: I like it.
‘I’m Magpie,’ I say.
‘Magpie? Is that a girl’s name?’
I bristle a bit. ‘Well, it’s my name, if that’s what you mean.’
‘And your family name?’
I blink. A family name?
‘I don’t have a family. It’s just me and Coco,’ I reply.
I could tell Pierre that my father came from Algiers on a stolen boat, that I’ve got his dark skin and hair and taste for adventure. My mother had tastes of a different sort: she drank gin and died of it when I was barely old enough to remember. From then on, I had to fend for myself. And I did all right at it too. Families, I reckon, are over-rated.
‘Magpie,’ I repeat, firmly. ‘I’m Magpie. How long have I been here?’
Pierre counts on his fingers. ‘Two weeks and a day . . . no, two days.’
I’m horrified. ‘Really?’
But I never stay longer than a single night anywhere. A new night, a new doorway, that’s my motto. It’s safer that way. If you keep moving, nothing – or no one – catches up with you.
‘Have I been asleep all that time?’ I ask.
