The Book of the Banshee Page 11

  I realized why, until today, I’d never once stood up for what I want: peace, order, and a quiet life.

  I am like William Saffery.

  I’m a coward.

  There. Now it’s said. I’ve got it out at last. What is so brave about going along with things you don’t even believe in? It takes no courage to daydream about what you’ll tell the Big Brass when you show them round the battlefield. You know it’s not going to happen. Anyone can dream. And there’s no guts in going over the top, just like a sheep, because other people are watching. Some of them might be people like Estelle, despising you for your weakness. I am beginning to agree with her. If you don’t think that what you’re doing is not only right, but also sensible, you shouldn’t be doing it at all.

  That is true valour.

  The longer I sat there thinking about William Saffery, the less impressed I was. Having those doubts didn’t take much daring, did it? He claimed to be the very eyes and ears of war. He wrote it down, Impeccable War Reporter. He wasn’t daft. He saw the whole of it for what it was – a stupid, wasteful mess.

  And he did nothing. The lines I’ve read a thousand times swam back in mind. ‘I looked around at all these men who had no choice but to stay, and I knew that in my own gift lay my deliverance. All that I had to do was walk back a hundred yards behind the lines, and tell them my real age.’

  Why didn’t he? It was the longest summer. A hundred thousand times he must have thought about what would happen if he were simply to drop his gun in the mud, walk back from his position on the line, and, taking care that there were plenty of witnesses standing around him, come out with the magic words: ‘I’m not eighteen.’

  And he didn’t even do that. He nursed his comforting secret like one of Muffy’s furry bedtime toys, but he hung in there week after murderous week, until the day that blessed shell exploded in front of him, taking his leg off and saving his precious life. But how many other young boys for whom he felt ‘no enmity’ did he kill in those months? He doesn’t say. The last William Saffery saw of France was the same long and winding road that brought him in, unfolding back again, like a grey ribbon. He had got out alive. How many didn’t?

  I think that I was on the verge of tears. Certainly Muffy was creeping closer and closer, and getting ready to pat me. But suddenly Mum’s voice came up the stairs, shattering the silence.

  ‘Will! I thought I told you to put Muffy to bed!’

  So that was what Muffy hadn’t wanted me to hear. ‘And as for you . . .’ I stared at her reproachfully. She slid her thumb out of her mouth and grinned, before hopping off to her bedroom.

  Sighing, I took off after her. At least in our house there’s no time to brood. Mum keeps you busy.

  And so does Muffy. First time around, I couldn’t find her at all. Then I heard scrabbling, and realized she was in one of her cupboards, rooting through stuff on the floor.

  ‘No time to tidy up now. Hop into bed.’

  I switched on her frog lamp and opened Rumpelstiltskin for the eight billionth time. It’s falling apart.

  Then she popped up in front of me, a little yellow gnome. Under my nose, she thrust another book.

  ‘What’s this?’

  She didn’t speak, of course. I took a look.

  ‘Beauty and the Beast.’

  A smile spread over her face.

  ‘Moving on, are we?’

  Nodding happily, she slid between the sheets. I bet she thought I’d just fall in with her plans, settling myself against the pillows and starting straight up with the story:

  ‘Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there lived a rich merchant who had three beautiful daughters . . .’

  Well, no such luck. Muffy might not have realized it yet, but this was the day on which Will Flowers had decided to learn to stand up and be counted.

  I closed the book.

  ‘It looks very good. But I’m not reading it until you ask me properly.’

  Muffy stared. Then she pointed at the book again.

  I ignored her. Whistling softly, I gazed up at the ceiling and pretended to examine the dust on her light fitting.

  She stabbed the book again.

  The witchy finger holds no terrors for me. Is someone who’s been pointed at by Mum with her scarlet fingernails, and Estelle with her green ones, likely to crack when they see a chubby pink finger?

  No, I’m afraid they are not.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her firmly. ‘I’m sick of this business of you not talking to me. I’m not a reading and a carrying machine. I am your brother. Will Flowers is my name. And if you want me to read you a bedtime story, you can go to the trouble of asking me.’

  She glowered at me like a tiny Estelle. I’m surrounded by them, all ages and sizes. But I am going to hold firm.

  ‘Go on,’ I prompted. ‘Make with the words. Ask me.’

  ‘Read me a story, please,’ she muttered, still glowering horribly.

  ‘Certainly,’ I said, bowing and scraping. ‘With the greatest of pleasure. I’d love to read to you. Nothing would be nicer. Would you like this one?’ I opened the book to the first page. ‘It’s called Beauty and the Beast.’

  She nodded.

  I made as if to close the book again.

  ‘Yes, please. That one,’ she said.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Are you sitting quite comfortably? Then I’ll begin. “Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom . . .”’

  She snuggled against my shoulder. And I read on. I read aloud to Muffy so often now that I can do it almost without thinking. I do a different voice for every character. I sound scary in all the right places. But often, even as the words come pouring out, my mind is off and away, thinking about the day I’ve just had, or the one that I’m going to have tomorrow.

  And as I read on about the rich merchant stealing the rose from Beast’s garden, and being given the chance to go back one last time to say farewell to his family, I couldn’t help thinking about Mum and Dad. Neither of them is chicken. And yet they both keep on going day after day, battle by battle, grind by grind. Why haven’t they stood up to my dear sister? Is it because they know she’s busy doing something useful, fighting all these good fights? Perhaps the last thing they really wanted was to bring up a good lad and a good angel. Maybe they’d like to think they’ve brought up people who can speak their minds, and make their own decisions. Maybe they know that those with the courage to fling their rifles down and walk away are really very precious. Estelle’s always been brilliant at looking after people – everyone’s agreed on that. But maybe, these days, she’s thinking in bigger terms than just one child like Muffy in her lap, listening to Rumpelstiltskin. After all, without people like Estelle, people like me get herded into wars time and again, as if we didn’t even realize the value of our own lives.

  At least Estelle knows the value of hers. What did she yell at Dad?

  ‘I only get one life!’

  Estelle’s not daft. William Scott Saffery didn’t realize what his life was worth until he fetched up in those holes of hell. Only out there, he said, where death was everywhere, did he come to understand for the first time what he was so close to losing. Sometimes a fierce shaft of energy and hope ran through him, and he felt nothing but alive.

  Like a fish in the water, he says. Like a bird in the air.

  William Saffery stopped thinking, ‘This might not last’, and simply lived. And he knew, however short a time his luck might hold, that living was worthwhile. There was a day or two behind the lines when he lay in the shadow of a tree, and watched the bright puffy clouds go floating overhead. He ran his fingertips over the bloom of an apple, and slid his body in the water of the stream, and felt the sun on his back. All simple things he could have done at home, in times of peace. But all made so much more precious because his good friend Chalky had not come back from the last raid, and William knew he himself might not come back from the next one.

  William Scott Saffery had to go to war before he even lear
ned—

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve stopped. You’ve just stopped reading.’

  I stared down at the page. Beauty was leaning over the body of Beast, wringing her hands in despair. Had we got that far already? I carried on. But I had noticed that, to get me reading again, Muffy hadn’t prodded me, or stabbed the page. She’d opened her mouth and spoken. Things really were changing.

  And maybe that’s how Mum and Dad keep on going. Because Estelle’s changing, too. Mum can’t just be keeping her head down day after day in dumb and senseless endurance. She’s not the type. She must have some idea of where Estelle is going, who she’ll be, the sort of strong and valuable person who’s waiting for us at the end.

  ‘Go on, Will! Read!’

  I gave myself a little shake.

  ‘“And love was rewarded, as love always is. For suddenly the Beast rose to his feet, and was a beast no longer. He had become a glorious prince, whose beauty shone as brightly as the day.”’

  Well, maybe that’s it! What all Estelle’s fans are waiting for! Really, these old fairy stories do hit the spot.

  Muffy uncorked her thumb again.

  ‘Will! Don’t keep on stopping. Read to the end.’

  I read on, through the magnificent wedding, until I reached the bottom of the last page.

  ‘“And they all lived in happiness and peace.”’

  Happiness and peace. Muffy snuggled down, and I switched off the frog lamp. The old fairy-tale ending. It’s the best.

  On my way down, I was still thinking about it. And about me. Was I a hopeless case? I’d spoken up once to Mum. And once to Muffy. That might not be quite up to Estelle’s shattering goal average, but it was one up on William Saffery. That was a start. Coming down the stairs, I must have picked a leaf or two off the geranium without thinking, because when I heard my name called from the kitchen, I couldn’t answer at once. I had a mouthful of greenery.

  Then I overheard Dad.

  ‘Will’s taking his time, as usual. His supper’s curling at the edges. We should have sent Estelle. She reads much faster.’

  I caught Mum’s voice above the rush of water from the taps.

  ‘But Muffy adores Will.’

  I stopped dead on the stair. I’ve gone so long assuming Muffy adores Estelle, and I am second best. I was amazed to learn that in among all the other changes there was a windfall like this. I suppose, thinking back, I must have been a bit dense not to have put two and two together, what with Muffy spending all that time in my lap, and sticking her head up my jumper. But still, I was dead chuffed. I strolled in the kitchen feeling ten feet tall.

  And maybe that’s the reason I caught my head on the spice shelf, fetching it down with the most tremendous clatter, and setting little tubs and jars rolling all over the floor.

  Dad sighed with exasperation when he saw the mess.

  ‘Bridget, I thought you put that shelf a good three inches higher up the wall last time he knocked it down.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ Mum said irritably. ‘The boy must still be growing.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’

  Both of them glowered at me. I glowered back. I was about to say, ‘Excuse me for living!’ when I was interrupted.

  ‘Don’t pick on Will! People can’t help it if they grow! If it’s anyone’s fault he’s getting so tall, it’s yours. Who made him eat all those sensible meals, and drink his milk, and take his vitamins? You did! So don’t start trying to make him feel crummy just because he’s growing like hogweed!’

  Estelle to the rescue. Very nice for me. I turned on her to complain.

  ‘I am not growing like hogweed! I’m simply reaching my full height.’

  But at her first sight of my face, she’d burst out laughing. I peered in the mirror by the sink. Last time this happened, I was turmeric yellow. The time before, I was paprika pink. This time I was speckled all over with greeny-grey flakes of dried thyme. I looked about a hundred years old.

  But, then again, Estelle didn’t even look like a human being. She was wearing her dressing gown and slippers, but so far she’d only wiped the make-up off one eye. She looked like a pirate raccoon in a fluffy pink coat with matching booties.

  I burst out laughing back.

  Furious, she reached down for the nearest little spice tub, and hurled it. It caught me neatly just above the ear. The top flew off, and I was covered with cinnamon. Little rivulets of the stuff cascaded down my neck.

  I was livid. To pay her back, I threw the bag of garam masala. It split the moment it hit her. She went a browny-grey colour on the spot.

  ‘Estelle! Will! Stop it at once!’

  To be fair, it wasn’t Estelle’s fault that Dad caught her arm, spoiling her aim, just as she hurled the baking powder. Off came the lid, and a cloud of white floated down gently on Mum.

  Mum’s got no patience at all. She quite deliberately snatched up the chilli pepper and threw it at Dad.

  That really annoyed him, you could tell. He threw the rosemary. Mum fought back with bicarbonate of soda. He hurled powdered ginger. She pelted him with cloves and peppercorns. He tipped dried mustard over her head.

  Estelle and I stared as the floor tiles vanished under sheets of greeny-grey with colourful speckled patches. The walls had gone a sort of mixed spice colour. The mess was terrible. You could tell, just from looking, that it was going to take a week to clear things up. But just as Mum and Dad stopped flinging things at one another, and came to their senses, there was an interruption. A proud voice in the doorway said:

  ‘Everyone look at me!’

  We all turned. You’d think if anything would make Dad laugh, it would be Mum with her new ginger hair, or pink-coated one-eyed Estelle, or even me – Old Father Thyme.

  But, no. What set him off was the sight of Muffy dressed in Estelle’s party gear. The slinky blouse slid so far off her shoulders it looked like a ratty black vest. The shredded skirt hung almost to her feet. The tights fell in giant wrinkles around her ankles. Muffy looked like an orphan who had been rooting in people’s dustbins to find something to wear.

  Mum and Dad clutched one another. I kept my face straight, but it was difficult.

  It was Estelle, of course, who piped up first.

  ‘Muffy, those are my clothes!’

  Muffy pouted, but she didn’t speak.

  I wasn’t having that. I’d won this battle. We weren’t going back. I gave Muffy a very clear warning look. ‘Make with the words,’ it said.

  She took a breath, and spoke up forcefully.

  ‘Mum said you had to give them to me. For my dressing-up box.’

  Silence. The sheer astonishment of hearing Muffy speaking up like that had even shaken Estelle. I saw Mum glance at Dad. They looked delighted. Then Mum stepped in as fast as possible to stop the New Talking Muffy getting mashed in an argument with Estelle. Though you could almost see the words choking Mum as she came out with them, it was clearly Peace At Any Price time at 27 Beechcroft Avenue.

  ‘Oh, Muffy! It was so silly of me to say that. You see, Estelle’s clothes belong to her, and she’s such a grown-up girl now that what she wears is really her own business. I can’t force her to put her clothes in your dressing-up box.’

  You should have seen Estelle’s face. Talk about Victory! But Muffy’s crumpled till I thought she was about to cry.

  Dad leaped in, waving his own olive branch.

  ‘Muffy, I’ll tell you what. I’ll give Will two pounds, and on the way back from taking you to the puppet show tomorrow, he’ll chum you into the charity shop and you can choose whatever you like off the fancy rail for your dressing-up box.’

  I stared. I hadn’t realized that my plans for Saturday had been so carefully worked out. Puppet show. Babysitting. Jumble hunt. The old Will might simply have thought quietly and sarcastically to himself that it was a good thing one of them happened to mention it all in his hearing, otherwise he might have made the serious mistake of assum
ing his Saturday was his own. The new Will had other plans.

  The words were only halfway to the front of my mouth when Estelle pounced.

  ‘Dad! You can’t just—’

  I can pounce, too. I clapped my hand over my sister’s mouth.

  ‘You can’t just plan my weekend for me,’ I told Dad, all by myself. ‘You have to ask.’

  Everyone stared at me. They were amazed. I nearly cracked, but then Dad looked at Mum, who shrugged, and asked me courteously:

  ‘Will, would you mind?’

  Easy, when you know how! I felt so proud.

  ‘Fine by me,’ I declared.

  Muffy spoke up again.

  ‘Oh, goody. I do love puppets.’

  Mum looked thrilled. Dad slid his arm round her shoulders. Bicarbonate of soda flew up in the air, and he shed peppercorns and cloves. Estelle patted the front of her dressing gown, puffing out garam masala. I shook my head, and a shower of dried thyme fell around me.

  Hastily, Dad took charge.

  ‘Nobody move!’

  He turned to Muffy, who was still standing safely in the doorway.

  ‘You’re the only one who can save us, Muffy. Follow my orders exactly. Go up and fetch four towels . . .’

  She turned to go. Then she turned back and asked him cheekily,

  ‘Can I have ice cream at the puppet show?’

  Dad splattered spice in all directions as he moved threateningly towards her.

  And Muffy fled.

  Chapter 9

  THE WEEKEND WAS murder. Wall-washing. Floor-mopping. Lightbulb-wiping. I thought I’d be glad to get away, but school on Monday turned out even worse. Someone must have washed my school shirt in some fierce new detergent to get rid of the cinnamon and thyme. (Believe it or not, my skin’s very sensitive.) I’d hardly stood through the first two or three notices in Assembly before the itching began.

  I scratched and scratched. I scratched through French and maths, and through geography (till Mr Astley threw me out). I spent the rest of that period in the cloakrooms with my shirt off, but wasted what should have been half an hour’s glorious relief by having a really good scratch.