A Girl Called Owl
Page 19
‘In all sorts of strange and wonderful ways, if I know Jack at all,’ she says drily. ‘Now. Home with you, little Owl. I’ll not be far . . .’
Mum is not incandescent with rage. She is not jumping up and down shouting at me, grounding me until the end of time.
I wish she was.
Instead she’s watching me, watching me, watching me, as if she hasn’t seen me for a hundred years. As if she thought she’d never see me again. And it really hurts that I’ve made her so afraid. It hurts so much that I haven’t got the voice to speak, or the temerity to give her the hug she needs. I just loiter in the hallway, my back against the front door, while she leans against the adjacent wall, breathing, watching.
I’ve never known her so silent.
After a while I find the courage to look her in the eye, and then it’s all a bit of a mess of crying and snorting and sort of laughing, sort of wailing, and she rushes over and puts her arms around me, bracelets jangling, soft wool cardigan sending fluff up my nose, and I breathe in the warm scent of her and it’s as though I haven’t been warm, haven’t been safe, for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like.
‘I’m so angry with you,’ she says breathlessly as she steps back, a wobbly smile on her face. ‘I didn’t know what to think. The window was open. The room was like a winter wonderland, everything frozen, so beautiful and so cold . . . And I called Mallory’s mother to see if you were there and she was gone too, and I didn’t know whether that was better or worse, though she has more sense than you so I supposed it was probably better, but still . . . you must tell me, Owl.’ Her face grows serious. ‘You will tell me, won’t you? And you won’t lie, and tell me it was all about a boy, because you . . . you smell of your father’s home. And I have been so afraid. And I have waited so long.’
‘I’ll tell you,’ I say through the lump in my throat. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for making you so scared.’
And then there’s more hugging and fluff up my nose. And then we collect ourselves and trail down to the kitchen, and Mum makes jasmine tea in the cups with the dragons chasing their tails, and I raid the fridge, and we eat a very strange breakfast of hummus and leftover pasta and some of those terrible seed biscuits. And we do it all in silence because neither of us can find the words to start until, finally, when the tea has curled down to my belly and warmed my blood, I find the obvious place to begin.
‘I found Jack . . .’
The End
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my amazing agent Amber Caraveo, for seeing the potential both in me and in Owl and steering us in the right direction with such passion and kindness. And thank you to my wonderful editors, Rachel and Lucy, at Macmillan, for taking us in and sharing your wisdom and care. Thanks also to the rest of the Macmillan team, for helping to make this book all it could possibly be.
Thank you to Richard Kerridge, Mimi Thebo and everyone else on the Bath Spa MA in Creative Writing, for taking a punt on me and helping me to recognize that perhaps a dream really could become a reality.
Thank you to all my friends: to Verity, Sam, Nikki and Caroline, for listening to my wild tales and putting up with the occasional lapse in manners when I’ve been distracted by other worlds or had to check my email for the millionth time; to Tannith, Ken, Harriet and Lu Hersey, for reading and listening, and always encouraging; to Emma Smith-Barton, for gentle insistence that, yes, this was indeed possible, and for the timely advice that made all the difference; and to Aviva Epstein, my very own Mallory, for many, many things, but especially for naming the Earl of October!
A special BIG thank you to my family, Lee, Theia, Aubrey and Sasha, for putting up with all the muddles I found myself in along the way, and for putting up with me in general. No matter how much I write, I will never be able to express quite what a joy and a privilege it is to have you all in my life.
Thank you to Judith and to Charles, whose quiet words mean much, and to Dan, and my sister Hannah. And thank you to Martin, who took the time to tell me he was proud of me when there was precious little time left.
Finally, a very special thank you to my lovely mum, Helen, for instilling in me a love of books, for knowing what I was capable of long before I did, and for showing me, over and over again, what true strength really looks like. And to my brilliant little brother Matt, who, if we believed in deserving, deserved so very much more. Your determination humbles me still, and will ever inspire me.
About the Author
Amy Wilson has a background in journalism and lives in Bristol with her young family. She is a graduate of the Bath Spa MA in Creative Writing and has many owls in her house, from drawer handles to cushions. She is still waiting for them to speak to her . . .
First published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-5098-3406-8
Text copyright © Amy Wilson 2017
Illustrations copyright © Helen Crawford-White 2017
Cover illustration by Helen Crawford-White
The right of Amy Wilson and Helen Crawford-White to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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