The Bone Dragon

by Alexia Casale

  In the end, it takes all three of us two trips up and down from the cupboard on the upstairs landing. We start with the photo albums, but then Amy takes a deep breath and says that we should bring everything down.

  Soon the living room is strewn with albums and loose prints and drawings and school exercise books and certificates and scout badges . . . Hours later, we’re still sitting there on the floor in the middle of the chaos. We’ve got our backs to the sofa and I’m in between Amy and Paul. I’ve got one of the albums open on my lap and Paul is telling me about Adam’s first sports day. I look at the little boy with the curly brown hair bunny-hopping furiously across the grass, yards ahead of all the rest.

  In the next photo, Adam, Paul and Uncle Ben have been caught in the act of arguing over how to carve the most enormous pumpkin I’ve ever seen. Adam has bits of pumpkin string all down his front. Uncle Ben is gesturing emphatically and Paul is laughing.

  In the photo below, Uncle Ben is sitting on the floor with Adam between his legs, using his knees as an armrest, both dark heads close together as they pore over a board game. A pretty auburn-haired woman sits in front of them, at the feet of the person taking the photo: she looks as if she has just twisted around to smile for the camera. So this is Aunt Minnie.

  On the next page, I see Adam’s fifth birthday party. He’s grinning, gap-toothed, from behind a huge chocolate cake. When Paul goes to turn the page, I stop him, still staring into the photo.

  ‘Why a girl?’ I ask, looking up at Amy.

  She frowns, so I turn to Paul.

  ‘Why didn’t you adopt a boy?’

  ‘We never really thought about it,’ Paul says, leaning his head back against the sofa and reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. ‘We hadn’t even decided whether we wanted to adopt a baby or a slightly older child, or even try to have another child ourselves. We’d just come in to talk to Social Services about the process. But then we met you there in the corridor and that was it. Minds made up. We hadn’t even got back to the car park before we’d agreed that we wanted to adopt you. Of course we loved you even more once we got to know you, but somehow we loved you right from when we first talked to you. You were coming down the corridor, all covered in blue paint, with this look of absolute determination of your face. Do you remember? You asked me what the problem with painting the path was anyway since the rain would wash it all off sooner or later and at least it would be pretty in the meantime . . . Though what you were doing there that day, painting the pavement, I have no idea ’

  I frown down at the birthday-party photo.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Paul asks, elbowing me gently.

  ‘It’s just . . . I know my birthday’s only two days after Adam’s, but there must have been some boys the same age who had similar birthdays. Maybe four or five days’ difference instead of two, but . . .’

  Horror washes over Amy’s face. ‘Evie darling, you’re not a replacement,’ she whispers. ‘We never thought of you as a replacement. We hadn’t figured any of it out when we met you. But then we did and you seemed to like us too . . . Everyone commented on how you seemed to take to us that first day. I remember your social worker saying how impressed they all were with the fact that you’d bonded with us or they never would have considered pursuing an adoption match based on a chance meeting. I mean, we hadn’t even registered to adopt, let alone been approved at that point . . . But it all just fell into place. So you see, we knew we loved you even before we had any idea when your birthday was or even how old you were. It just seemed so perfect when we found out. Like a sign that it really was meant to be. As if we were always meant to watch Adam grow to a certain age and then watch you grow from that point on. That’s what it meant to us, Evie, your birthday being so close to Adam’s: that we got to be parents through a whole lifetime, even if that life was divided across two children. But we never thought that made you a replacement . . .’

  I stroke my fingers over the smiling faces in the photo.

  ‘You don’t really think that’s how we see you – how we ever saw you – do you, Evie?’

  I tuck one hand into hers and the other into Paul’s.

  ‘Do you think they would have liked me too?’ I ask, turning my gaze to the photo on the page opposite: Amy’s parents and Aunt Minnie and Adam smiling, smiling, smiling at the camera.

  I have all their most precious things: Amy and Paul and Uncle Ben . . . And now I’m sharing their stories too I know all the things going back in time, just as Amy makes sure that they know all the things going forwards. I hope they don’t mind too much. And I can’t help hoping that they miss knowing me even half as much as I miss knowing them, even though Amy and Paul never would have needed to love me if they were still here. But I still hope that they miss knowing me, even if it’s just a little, little bit.

  Out of the mist come the horses. My breath catches in my throat. For a moment, I can’t tell if they’re even real. But there is steam rising from their nostrils, rising to embrace the mist.

  I stand still, so very still.

  They are all around me now. I watch the grey pony closest of all: the flick of his tail as it mingles with the mist like it is dissolving into it. The wind ebbs and flows, one moment sweeping the mist up into towering waves, cresting so high I have to strain my neck to see, then diving down at me, through me. It boils into angry eddies on the ground, then swirls away into whirlpools so real I wonder if I will be sucked down into the earth if I dare the currents twisting around me.

  Thunder rips the mist apart. The horses throw up their heads.

  Lightning.

  For a minute the world glows blue and green. The horse nearest me neighs fearfully.

  Then the rain comes down.

  I am soaked in seconds. The horses vanish into the downpour. The ground turns to cloying mud, pulling at my trainers as I follow them.

  Lightning. Ahead of me, the black and white world is spiky with the bare trunks and branches of winter trees. As I reach the edge of the coppice a horse bolts away. Blinking rain out of my eyes, I realise that the herd has taken shelter under the trees. Some stand still, pressed disconsolately against each other. Others trot back and forth, running towards the open fields then snorting and jerking away as if whipped back by the rain.

  Sometimes it is as important to touch as to stand and observe, the Dragon tells me. You must not fear that clutching at your dreams will shatter them so they run through your fingers like sand. That way lies a life spent in yearning. But yearning is only a season of dreaming, for dreams, if nurtured, become strong. Like mist settling and turning to ice. So you must wait before you reach out to clasp your dreams. Wait just long enough, but no longer.

  Slowly, I ease forwards. Slowly, slowly, slowly. One of the horses trots away, but the white one stands and watches me. He huffs a hot, moist breath into my face as I grow near, then seems pleased when I do not start and jump away.

  I raise my hand slowly, slowly, slowly. His nose is like velvet, so softly stubbled and textured with fine, fine hair. He pushes his head against my chest then, and whuffles into my neck: a billow of hot, white steam. I laugh in delight, though he snorts and pulls back for a moment before pressing his nose to my coat again. His neck is strong and sleek as metal as I stroke the wet hair.

  He can smell food, the Dragon tells me.

  ‘You want a mint?’ I ask, reaching into my pocket. The horse lips the sweets from my palm before I’ve even extended my hand to him. I give him more, then more again.

  That is quite enough, the Dragon tells me.

  This time, I tuck the mints into my inner pocket. The horse snorts his disapproval, but he lets me stroke his face and his neck and his side. He lets me lean into him. His flank warms me.

  When the rain stops, I watch the steam start to rise from him until suddenly the horses turn as one and canter away into the darkness.

  And I run with them. Run and am not breathless. Run and there is no pain. Just lightness and spe
ed. As if I am flying with the Dragon. As if I have the strength of the wind. As if, unseen in the darkness, I am unstoppable.

  With every exhalation, the lingering rage and hurt at Paul and Uncle Ben drifts away and dissipates into the night. The thick, cold, clean air of the fens fills me with calm.

  I run on, back to the canal path, back towards home. When I reach the trees that mark the bottom of the garden, I pause to stare up at the moon. Then finally, finally I turn to the left and continue until, unseen, I pass beyond the boundaries of our town and the fens stretch out endless and empty around me. The weir is silent. The canal a road of tarnished silver, stretching into the distance. And all along is quiet and still. The longboats are gone now, downstream to Cambridge for the winter. The river is mine.

  I draw to a stop, take in a deep breath of midnight air and stare down the canal.

  This is far enough, says the Dragon.

  I smile and turn towards home.

  ‘I’ve got two new goals,’ I tell Ms Winters before she’s even had time to sit down.

  ‘Oh?’ she says, surprised.

  ‘I want to learn to ride. I want to learn about horses,’ I say.

  ‘Oh,’ says Ms Winters again, blinking in bewilderment. ‘I never knew you liked horses.’

  ‘I didn’t. I just realised it the other day.’

  ‘What made you think of it?’ Ms Winters asks, so startled she hasn’t even settled back into her chair yet but is still perched on the edge.

  I find myself wondering if she’ll fall off when I tell her what my second goal is. ‘I saw some horses and . . . and I just realised that I’d really like to learn how to ride,’ I say.

  ‘Have you asked Amy and Paul about it yet?’

  I wrinkle my nose. ‘Amy says we need to check with Dr Barstow about whether it’s OK for my ribs . . . or at least how long we have to wait before I can try. But we looked up stables in the Yellow Pages and everything, so I know exactly where we’re going after Dr Barstow gives me the all-clear. Paul says that the exercise will be good for building up my muscles again and Amy says that maybe I can make some new friends at the stables, but Phee wants to come with me anyway. So now I’ve got something that’s like D of E for Phee and Lynne: something that just two of us are doing together. I mean, I know Phee and I cycle to school together but that’s only because Lynne lives in the opposite direction. It’s just a matter of convenience really, so it doesn’t count. But going riding together . . . That’s a proper choice.’ Something special, I add to myself, missing what Ms Winters says next as I hug the words close.

  ‘. . . And you could have lots of little goals about different aspects of riding,’ Ms Winters is saying approvingly when I turn my focus back to her. ‘Excellent. I’m really impressed, Evie. So what’s the other goal?’

  ‘Well, Uncle Ben needs someone to love him: I don’t think he ever goes out on dates. And he should get married again because he really should have kids. Kids of his own, I mean. Not just me.’

  Ms Winters is smiling, but frowning a bit too. ‘Well, that’s a lovely thought, Evie, but that’s a goal for your Uncle Ben, not for you.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ I say. ‘Uncle Ben’s not getting on with any of it. He needs my help. I don’t think he’s even thought about how to meet anyone who could understand him and what he’s been through, so of course he’s not going to have much luck finding the right person.’

  ‘Evie . . .’ says Ms Winters in a warning sort of voice that makes me want to roll my eyes. ‘Evie, it’s lovely that you want to help your uncle and make him happy, but matchmaking can be a very tricky business. He might not appreciate . . .’

  This time I do roll my eyes. ‘That’s why I need to be subtle. Well, subtle-ish. Just to get him to meet someone nice and see if they hit it off.’

  ‘Evie . . .’

  ‘Anyway, I had the best idea ever. And it sort of is a goal. I want you to go out with my Uncle Ben.’

  Ms Winters’s mouth falls open. ‘Me?’ she squeaks. She really does.

  ‘Well, you said what a lovely person he must be one time when I was telling you about him . . . and, well, you looked all wistful. And you’re not married or anything, are you?’

  Ms Winters closes her mouth and stares at me. Her right hand goes to her empty ring finger. ‘Evie . . . Evie, that’s ever so sweet. It really is. But it’s just not appropriate.’

  ‘Why not?’ I retort. ‘You’d be able to understand all about Aunt Minnie. And you already know the whole family.’

  ‘That’s exactly why it’s not appropriate, Evie,’ Ms Winters says, trying to sound calm and collected and not managing it at all.

  Though I keep my face eager and open, inside I can’t help a thrill of deepest satisfaction that I’ve finally flustered her out of all recognition.

  ‘I’m here to help you with your problems,’ Ms Winters is protesting. ‘And I’m your teacher . . . And that . . . that would cross all sorts of professional boundaries. It just wouldn’t be ethical.’

  ‘It’s my idea,’ I say. ‘And I think it’s a brilliant idea. And you’re meant to be helping me. So help me with my goal. Go and have a coffee with Uncle Ben.’

  ‘Evie, that is not what Amy and Paul were envisaging when they asked me to have extra sessions with you out of school,’ Ms Winters says, not even trying to mask her exasperation.

  I’m totally unmoved by it because she’s also blushing down to her shirt collar. Plus it’s clearly not the Uncle Ben bit of the plan that she objects to.

  ‘I’m meant to be helping you with your schoolwork and with your own problems, not meddling in your life . . .’

  ‘It’s not meddling. It’s just coffee.’

  Ms Winters lets the following silence go on and on and on. I just grin because this time I know she’s not waiting me out: she just has absolutely no idea what to say.

  Besides, I’ve already figured out what to do if she does keep saying no. Uncle Ben hardly ever says no to me: if I tell him I want him to come over at particular times on particular days that just so happen to coincide with Ms Winters being here, he might be a bit confused but he’ll do it. And then I just need to keep him talking once Ms Winters arrives so he doesn’t leave right away or go off to another room. Of course, she’ll suggest we make a start on our work, but she’s too polite to insist in someone else’s house. Plus I can always just have to duck into the loo or lie down somewhere for a few minutes if my ribs are aching. And then Ms Winters won’t have any choice but to talk to Uncle Ben or be rude. And she’ll never bring herself to be rude, so Uncle Ben will end up making coffee for the two of them to cover the awkwardness.

  It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but it’ll do at a pinch. Like Ms Winters says, it can be a little goal on the way to a bigger one.

  ‘Evie love, do you think you could come into town with me?’

  I look up from my homework to find Paul standing on the opposite side of the kitchen table. Although his voice is cheerful enough, something about his tone isn’t at all casual. And he’s gripping the back of the chair he’s standing behind. The tips of his fingernails are white.

  Something in his face shifts. ‘Sorry, love. Shouldn’t interrupt your homework really, should I?’ He says it as if he means to laugh, but he doesn’t. ‘And you’ve got plans with Phee and Lynne later, haven’t you?’

  He’s nervous, I realise. He’s afraid I’ll say no. And he really, really doesn’t want me to.

  ‘Never mind then,’ Paul is saying, pushing away from the table. ‘Maybe next weekend.’

  And I realise that I’m frowning and he thinks it’s because I’m cross, so I put a smile on my face and slam my book closed. ‘Can we get flying saucers?’ I ask, shoving my chair eagerly back from the table.

  Paul starts then, just a little, but he smiles too. ‘Whatever you want, love,’ he says softly, his voice full of warmth.

  I grin. ‘Really? So we can get cheesecake and chips too and you’ll explain to Amy why I can’t eat
lunch and why I haven’t finished my French?’

  Paul takes a step back, widening his eyes and forcing a huge gulp. ‘Couldn’t I just buy you a Ferrari?’

  I tilt my head to the side for a moment and then screw my eyes nearly closed. ‘Perhaps I’ll settle for a cheesecake to bring home,’ I say.

  Paul pantomimes wiping sweat from his forehead as he drapes his arm around my shoulders and leads me over to the coat rack.

  ‘Don’t you want your blue coat, love?’ Paul asks. ‘I thought that was your favourite.’

  ‘Nah.’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘Can’t be bothered to go upstairs for it.’

  ‘Then stop keeping it up there!’ Paul scolds, rolling his eyes as he pulls my scarf snug about my neck.

  We stop at the garage first and get the promised flying saucers. We always do this together. Amy won’t let me have them. She’s says they’re nothing but nasty chemicals and she’s probably right. But I still like them and so does Paul: it’s one of our little things together.

  Paul punches the radio on to our favourite channel, but he doesn’t sing along like he usually does. And he keeps looking over at me, though he doesn’t say anything. Because he doesn’t, I don’t either: I don’t even ask where we’re going.

  We park in the supermarket as usual and walk through to the high street. When he stops for a moment and takes a deep breath, I slip my hand into his and squeeze his fingers. He smiles down at me and squeezes back. Then we turn into the art shop and he leads me over to the wall display made up of the corners of different types of picture frame.

  ‘I want you to help me pick out something special,’ he says.

  And I know from his tone that this is what we’re here for, but I can’t for the life of me work out why it’s such a big deal, these little bits of wood.

  ‘Is it for a present? For Grandma Suzie’s birthday?’ I ask when Paul doesn’t say anything. I know that’s not it, but in the absence of even a single idea, a stupid question seems as good a way to get Paul talking as any.