Hades doesn’t want his wife to be unhappy, though, so he makes a deal. Persephone gets to spend six months with her mother on Earth and six months with him in the Underworld. And that’s why the Greeks thought we had summer and winter – winter because Persephone’s mother is so sorry she’s gone, and summer because she’s so pleased to have her back.
I like that story. I think it’s true, that being sad makes things darker and colder, but being happy makes them bright.
Persephone’s mother is called Demeter.
She’s the goddess of motherly love and things that grow.
King Conkers
At the end of the school road, there’s a big conker tree. In school today, the boys are full of it.
“Miss, the conkers are out!”
“Miss, can we go get conkers?”
“Miss, it’s educational, miss!”
At my old school, conkers weren’t educational. They were Violent and Competitive and If You Can’t Play Nicely, You Can’t Play At All. Here, though, Miss Shelley takes us down the road at break time and we pick as many as we can. Josh and Matthew get loads, whole conker-battalions full. Alexander gets three – the biggest he can find.
In class we learn about conkers. Their long name is horse chestnuts, but you don’t roast them on a fire. They’re seeds. There’s a little spark of life inside each one, sleeping until spring. The ones that land in the right place, when spring comes, a little shoot pops out of the top of them. And then the shoot grows and grows until it’s turned into a whole new conker tree.
Or that’s what Miss Shelley says, at least.
None of the boys care about shoots and trees. At lunch, they all rush to the Art Table and start fighting over who gets to use the screwdrivers and drills. The poor conkers get hung on bits of art string and taken outside to get bashed.
Alexander’s gets bashed by Matthew.
Matthew’s gets bashed by Josh.
So does Sascha’s, which is kind of unfair because Sascha’s only six. But Mrs Angus says Josh has to let her play, so really it’s her fault.
Josh’s conker is a three-er.
Josh’s conker wins everything. It smashes Alexander’s second conker and two more of Matthew’s. Now it’s a six-er.
Josh roams around the playground, looking for more things to bash.
“You got a conker?” he says to me. I shake my head. My conkers are undrilled, safe in my pocket.
“You got one?” he says to Hannah. Hannah’s on the bench at the edge of the playground. She’s listening to Dad’s iPod like she doesn’t care what anyone else is doing. She pulls the earplugs out of her ears and makes Josh ask over again.
“Conker,” says Josh. “You got one?”
“Conkers are for kids,” says Hannah. Josh goes red.
“You drilled yours,” he says. “I saw you.”
Hannah stands up. She’s taller than Josh in her platform shoes.
“Go on then,” she says.
Josh had first whack on all the others, but Hannah doesn’t give him a chance. She’s got her conker pulled back ready to fight. Josh opens his mouth, then shuts it again.
Hannah narrows her eyes. She pulls back the conker string and lets fly. Josh’s conker swings back, but it’s all right.
It’s Josh’s go now. He screws up his face and pulls back his string. Whack! But Hannah’s conker is all right too.
Hannah’s getting into it now. This time, when she whacks Josh’s conker, a bit flies off the edge. She gets another go. A whole chunk of Josh’s conker breaks off. It falls off the thread. Hannah’s won.
“There,” she says.
Josh’s face is bright red. He looks like Sascha did when he broke her conker, just before she started to cry.
“Cheat,” he says. “You cheated. You must have done!”
Over by the school door, Oliver is ringing the bell. Dingdong, dingdong, dingdong.
“Line up, everyone!” calls Mrs Angus.
“Cheat!” says Josh.
Hannah gives him this look. She doesn’t bother to reply. She just picks up the iPod and marches over to the line.
Josh scowls.
“Your sister’s a bloody cheat,” he says. “And you’re a moron.”
Alexander’s at the back of the line with his last conker. It’s the best one, a king conker, big and shiny.
“Don’t fight Hannah,” I say. “She’ll only win.”
Alexander looks at his conker fondly.
“I’m not going to fight anyone,” he says. “I’m going to plant it like Miss Shelley said. Then I’ll have a conker tree of my own.”
I look at Alexander’s conker.
“It’s got a hole drilled in it.”
“So?” says Alexander. “I’ll take out the string.”
“Will it grow with a hole in it?”
Alexander shrugs.
“Maybe it’ll grow pre-drilled conkers!”
When I get back to my room, I take out my conkers and line them up on my window sill. There are four. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. I lay my head on the sill and look at them sideways.
I could drill them up and let Hannah bash them all.
Or I could plant them and grow them into conker trees in the spring.
Empty
I go back to his barn this evening. I call and call, then I go out into the field and call, then I come back to the barn and I call again.
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t come.
He’s gone too.
A State of Terror
The rain gushes down the windows and pours down the hill. My hair is plastered to my skull as I fight my way back down the lane. It’s a proper stream already. A Molly Brook.
Grandma’s serving Jack when I come through the shop door.
“She’s a little madam,” she’s saying. “I don’t know how much longer—”
She breaks off as she sees me. “And where have you been, Miss?”
“Out. On my bike.”
“All right. Go and take your wellies off, then. Don’t trail mud through the house. And don’t wake your grandpa up!”
She doesn’t say anything about me being so wet. Or why I’ve been out so long that the light has almost gone and the sky is grey and heavy with night and rain.
I go and pull off my wellies in the hall. I can hear sounds from the kitchen. Crashing.
“And the other one—” Grandma’s saying.
I hesitate. There’s a smashing noise from the kitchen.
I open the kitchen door and stop. The floor is covered in broken glass and bits of bowls and plates. Hannah’s standing on a chair with her head in the back of the top cupboard. When she hears me, she turns, hands wrapped around Grandpa’s extra-large casserole dish.
“Hannah!”
Hannah gives me her flintiest, don’t-try-and-stop-me look. She holds the casserole dish high over the side of the chair. Then she lets go.
I scream and jump back. Bits of ex-casserole dish go skidding across the floor.
“Hannaah! Stop it! What are you doing?”
“I want to go home,” says Hannah. She says it very calmly. She picks a mug off the mug-tree.
“Hannah!” Grandma’s come through from the shop. She stands in the doorway beside me for a moment, staring at the mess, then she’s across the room, grabbing Hannah by the wrist and wrenching the mug out of her hand. Then she slaps her across the face.
Hannah gasps. No one has ever even smacked us, ever, no matter what we did. I’m not even sure it’s legal. Grandma grabs her by the wrists, and Hannah struggles to free herself, the chair rocking back against the cupboard.
“Stop it!” I shriek. “Stop it!”
And then Grandpa’s there. He hurries forward and puts his hands around Hannah’s waist, steadying her, stopping her from falling.
“Come on,” he says. “Come on now. Come on.”
“Look!” Grandma waves her hand at the ruin that’s the kitchen. “Look what she’s done!�
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“I know,” says Grandpa. “I know.” He sounds like he’s calming an animal. He looks up at Hannah, still balanced on the chair. Her face is white, with a red mark where Grandma slapped her. “Hannah, go to your room,” he says.
Hannah doesn’t move. “She hit me,” she says. “She hit me!”
“I know,” says Grandpa. He holds out his hand. “Come on now. Come on. There you go. We’ll talk about this later.”
He pushes Hannah towards the door and Hannah goes, her eyes still bewildered, like she can’t believe it.
I’m still standing in the doorway. I expect Grandpa to say something to me, to ask if I’m all right, if I had anything to do with the mess, but he doesn’t. He goes over to Grandma and puts his arms around her.
Grandma is almost crying.
“I can’t do this,” she’s saying. “I can’t. Don’t ask me to, because I can’t.”
Grandpa tries to hold her but she beats her hands against his chest, face red.
“Don’t touch me,” she says. “Don’t! I can’t!”
I want Grandpa to look at me. I want not to be forgotten. But this isn’t my house: it’s Grandma and Grandpa’s, and Grandpa is running his hands down Grandma’s arms – I wouldn’t dare touch her, she’s so hot and furious – saying, “I know. I know, love,” and suddenly I get scared. I’m not wanted here. I go and sit on the stairs and wish as hard as I can for magic wardrobes or fairy godmothers or just to be invisible and as far away from here as it’s possible to be.
In the kitchen, I can hear Grandma loud and Grandpa quiet. Grandpa says, “If that’s what you want to do,” and Grandma says, “Someone has to.” Then she scrapes her chair back and stands up. She’s talking on the phone, I can hear her talking but not what she’s saying or who she’s saying it to. And I wonder if we’re going to be sent to Auntie Meg’s or Auntie Rose’s, and if I’m going to have to share a room with horrible grown-up boy cousins or messy baby ones, and if I’m going to spend my whole life living in the corner of someone else’s family.
I don’t want to go up to my room – I want Grandpa to find me and see how sorry and miserable I am. I hear pans clatter next door and the rain still battering against the windows, and then the radio starts playing The Archers music and I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes. They’re making tea without me.
It’s Grandma who finds me in the end. She comes through into the hall with her hands full of newspaper and broken glass and sees me.
“Molly Alice!” she says. “Whatever are you doing up here?”
“I don’t know,” I say miserably.
“There’s no use sitting there feeling sorry for yourself,” says Grandma. “Come on. Get up. You’ll catch cold if you sit up there.”
My mum would never say anything like that if she found me on the stairs in the dark. My mum used to get angry – she tipped a whole bowl of spaghetti over Hannah’s head once – but she always said sorry afterwards and then you’d eat ice cream or something to show you still loved each other. And you’d talk about things: what you’d done, what she’d done, what you were both going to do next time. Mum liked talking. She would never leave me sitting on the stairs all night. Neither would my dad. Probably. I feel tears rise in my eyes, and I turn my face away so she won’t think I’m feeling sorry for myself again. But at the same time I want her to see them. So she knows how bad she’s made me feel.
“Come on,” says Grandma. “Come on, now. Get up. Get up, Molly,” and I clench my lips, but the tears are running out of my eyes and down my cheeks and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
“Oh . . .” says Grandma. “Oh, love. None of that. Hey. Grandma’s sorry. Come on. Come on, love.”
She hustles me into the kitchen and sits me on a chair. Grandpa looks up from his chopping board.
“Molly? Are you all right?”
No, I want to say, can’t you see? But Grandma doesn’t let me answer.
“She’s just tired,” says Grandma. “It’s not nice hearing Grandma and Grandpa shouting, is it?”
I rub my eyes. Just because I’m crying, doesn’t mean I like being treated like I’m five years old. Grandpa looks at me worriedly, but doesn’t say anything. He carries on chopping potatoes. Grandma makes me a cup of tea in a baby mug with rabbits on it. I wrap my hands around it and watch Grandpa kitchening about and Grandma wiping her hands on a bit of cloth.
“I’ve been talking to your dad,” she says, abruptly. I jerk my head up and nearly drop my tea over my skirt.
“Are we going back home?”
“He’s going to have you for the weekend,” says Grandma. “And see how you all get on.”
“This weekend?” I say. There’s a dull ache in the bottom of my stomach. I ought to be glad, I know I ought. But all I can remember is what it was like last time we were there. I remember the way Dad used to stare at us, like he’d forgotten who we were. How Hannah used to push and push and push him until he turned into someone I barely knew, someone who could just switch off the part of him that loves us. And this time there won’t be any Auntie Rose. There’ll only be us.
I’m frightened, I realize.
“Aren’t you pleased?” says Grandpa. He looks very like Dad, suddenly. I’d never noticed it before. Like Dad, except he’s not so lopsided and his skin is looser and paler; you can see it hanging off the bones under his skin. He’s pale all over, Grandpa; white, wispy hair, light, watery eyes, like life has washed through him and washed him half-away. I wonder suddenly if the same thing could happen to my dad. Sweep right through him and take him away from us for ever.
Yes. It could.
“A whole weekend with your dad!” Grandpa says.
I clench my lips together and nod.
A whole weekend with Dad.
It’s what I want, more than anything.
I nod my head up and down, trying not to cry.
Solstices and Equinoxes
Hallowe’en comes. At school, we do a wall display. A witch with stripy orange-and-black tights, a vampire in a purple bow tie and a mummy made from toilet paper stolen from the cleaning cupboard.
“If the cleaners ask, it was nothing to do with me,” says Miss Shelley, and Mrs Angus shakes her head and pretends not to see.
We make pumpkin-lanterns, with jagged mouths and Chinese eyes. Miss Shelley shuts the curtains and lines them all up on the window sill. They look wonderfully creepy.
“In medieval times,” she says, “They used to carve turnips, not pumpkins. To keep evil spirits away.”
“Did they have them always,” says Alexander, being intelligent again. “Or just at Hallowe’en?”
“Just Hallowe’en,” says Miss Shelley. “People believed that on certain nights of the year, the barriers between worlds were weakened. Other – things – could come through.”
“Cool,” says Josh. “Let’s call them up!” But Mrs Angus says we have to wait till secondary school for that sort of thing.
“What kind of things used to come?” says Matthew.
“Oh, ghosts and spirits,” says Miss Shelley. “Your wild hunt, Molly. Halloween was one of the nights they used to ride.”
“When else?” I say. “When else are they going to come?”
Miss Shelley pushes her fair hair back behind her ears. In the half-light, she looks very much like my mum. “Solstices and equinoxes,” she says. “The longest and the shortest days of the year. And the days when day and night are of equal length. September the twenty-second was the autumn equinox. The nights keep getting longer and darker now until the winter solstice.”
In the dark classroom, with the curtains drawn and the pumpkin lanterns glowing, even the boys are quiet. I shiver. September the twenty-second. Was that when the huntsmen came before? Are they coming tonight?
When Grandpa suggests we might want to go trick-or-treating, Hannah groans.
“How old do you think I am?” she says.
Grandpa’s face falters.
“Moll?” h
e says.
“I’m too old too, Grandpa,” I say, even though I’m not, and neither is Hannah. At home, even kids from the comp will put on a mask if it gets them sweets. But I’m not going out on my own if the Holly King is riding again.
Grandpa tries not to look disappointed.
Back Home
Friday night. Dad’s supposed to be picking us up, but he’s late. Hannah and I are packed and ready and sitting in the living room. Hannah’s kicking her heels against the sofa. Dud-de-dud-de-dud-de-dud.
“Is he here yet?”
“He’s coming,” says Grandma. “Don’t fuss. Why don’t you put the telly on or something?”
Hannah flicks through the channels, but doesn’t settle on anything. She starts turning the TV on and off, on and off, so the Neighbours characters appear and disappear, here, gone, here, gone, here—
“Stop it,” says Grandma. “Hannah!” but Hannah jumps up and runs to the window.
“Is he here?”
He isn’t.
I hold my book up over my face, so close that the writing blurs and separates, words merging into each other until nothing makes sense. I know I ought to feel glad about going back to Dad, but I don’t.
I don’t feel anything.
When he does come, Dad’s awkward. He ducks his ugly head and looks at us sideways.
“Hey there,” he says. “You ready?”
I nod and Hannah says, “We’ve been ready for hours,” not at all like she’s pleased to see him.
We’re quiet in the car too. Dad says, “I hear you’ve been causing trouble,” and gives his snorty, nervous laugh.
Hannah says, “No,” which is totally ridiculous, as Grandma’s already told Dad exactly what happened.
I say, “I haven’t done anything. Hannah broke half of Grandpa’s kitchen, and we had to have sausages out of breakfast bowls.”
“Grandma hit me,” says Hannah.
Season of Secrets Page 6
