Paper Butterflies

I’m humming to myself when I see light. I go towards it until I’m out of the forest, on a smaller track, but I’m not sure where it’s going.

Further ahead, surrounded by more trees, there’s a field of broken trailers. I slow down as I get closer. There are five of them, dotted around the edge of the small field. Weeds clamber up them and I can see that some have had their windows smashed. They have curved, soft roofs, covered with speckled moss and grime. But there’s a path through the long grass, going from one to the other.

I lean my bike against the locked gate and look around. There’s no one here, so I climb over and jump down the other side.

Slowly, I walk down the path to the nearest one. It smells rotten as I stand on my tiptoes and peer in the window. There’s a kitchen, with a kettle and a bench and a table. It looks clean. Somebody has been here.

I walk carefully down the next path. The window of the second trailer is dirty, but I can see through it. There’s no kitchen, just two small chairs and big cushions and piles of paper all over the floor. Hanging from the ceiling are tons of brightly coloured shapes – bees and flowers and aeroplanes.

‘Can I help you?’ The voice startles me and I jump back.

‘I was just looking,’ I say.

He’s smaller than me, but not by much. His white cheeks are red from the sun and he has large freckles dotted over his nose. His glasses are too big.

‘Why?’ he asks.

‘I saw the trailers.’

‘They’re not mine,’ he says. ‘But I use them.’

‘Oh.’ I look back towards my bike. I can see its yellow handlebars sticking between the wood of the gate.

‘Are you on your own?’ the boy asks.

‘Yes.’

He looks at me, as though I’m meant to say something else.

‘Did you make the paper shapes?’ I ask, looking at them through the smeary window.

‘Yes.’ He smiles and small dimples dent his cheeks.

‘Can I see them?’ I ask.

‘OK.’ He nods.

He climbs up the steps of the trailer next to us and pushes open the door. I follow him up. Inside, the air is dry.

‘This is my art room.’

‘Did you really make these?’ I reach out gently to touch a paper Christmas tree that hangs from its star. It has so many layers and at the end of each branch sparkles a tiny bauble.

‘Yup,’ he says proudly. ‘I’m Blister, by the way.’

‘Blister?’ I smile cautiously.

‘Long story.’

‘I’ve got lots of time.’

‘I was left out in the sun too long as a baby. Got burnt so bad that I was one big blister. And the name stuck.’

‘That wasn’t a long story.’

‘Nope, I suppose it wasn’t,’ he laughs. ‘Do you want to see the other trailers?’

‘OK.’

He moves past me and we go down the steps, along the path and back towards the first trailer.

His T-shirt is too small. His trousers are too long.

He goes up the steps and moves back so that I can come in.

‘Welcome to my kitchen,’ he says with a bow.

‘It’s lovely.’

‘Thank you. Do you want a drink?’ He opens a cupboard and gets two glasses out. ‘You can have water, or water.’

‘I’ll have water, then.’ I nearly laugh, but I don’t.

He unscrews the lid of a big bottle, fills the glasses and passes one to me.

‘What’s your name?’

‘June.’

‘That’s a nice name.’

‘Thanks.’ I sip the water to stop a blush creeping up.

‘Were you born in June?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the nicest month of the year, I reckon. Not too cold, not too boiling hot. In August, it’s like an oven in here.’

‘Whose are these trailers, if they’re not yours?’

‘They were a man’s, called Mr Jones, but he killed his wife and then killed himself.’

‘He killed her?’ I ask, looking around.

‘It’s all right,’ he laughs. ‘I don’t think it was here. But their only child lives miles away and can’t be bothered to keep the trailers properly, or sell the land. And no one else wants to come here – everyone says they’re haunted.’

‘Are they?’

‘I’ve never seen a ghost in them.’

I follow him as he goes out and down the steps.

‘So now they’re all yours?’ I ask as we walk back down the path.

‘I pretend they are.’

We go back into the trailer with all the shapes, and I copy Blister as he sits on a beanbag. He’s a bit chubby, like me. His fingers are muddy and his nails are bitten down.

‘I’ve been digging,’ he says.

I look away. ‘Oh.’

‘So, where do you live?’ he asks, putting his glass down on the floor.

‘Potter’s Lane.’

‘Down by the river?’

‘Yes,’ I say, my heart thumping a bit faster. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Near Picker’s Yard.’ He takes a piece of red paper from the table and starts to fold it.

‘I don’t know it,’ I say. Blister unfolds the paper and rubs it flat again.

‘There’s not much to know,’ he smiles. ‘But if you like chaos, you’d love my house. It’s good chaos, though.’ He drinks a bit of his water. ‘Now, if this was orange juice, it would be delicious.’

‘It’s still nice.’

‘Yeah, I suppose it is.’

‘How did he murder her?’ I ask.

‘Who?’ He looks surprised.

‘The husband. Who owned these trailers.’

‘Oh, right.’ Blister leans on his hands and stares at me across the table. His eyes are almost black, which looks a bit strange, as his skin is so rosy and white. ‘They say he strangled her and then chopped her up and . . .’

‘No!’ I laugh and put my hands over my ears. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

Blister smiles at me. His dimples are on his cheeks again.

‘Are you chicken?’ he asks.

‘No.’

‘I bet most of it’s rumours.’

‘How long does it take you to do them?’ I ask, looking up at the ceiling.

‘My paper shapes?’ We both stare at them, hanging like little planets. ‘Depends which one. That one –’ Blister points to a seagull, flying silently above our head – ‘that didn’t take long. But that one . . .’ There’s a castle, near the window.

‘It’s amazing.’

‘Yeah, I like it. That one took me a few hours. It took me ages just to get the turrets right.’

‘Can I touch it?’

‘You’ll see it better if you stand on a chair,’ Blister says, getting up.

I copy him, until I’m nose to nose with the castle walls.

‘It’s six pieces of paper, all stuck together, with thin cardboard for the floor,’ he says. When I touch the castle, it spins slightly. He’s drawn a princess waving from one of the windows. ‘This is my best bit.’ Blister unhooks a thin piece of string and lowers the drawbridge. Inside is a little knight on a plastic horse, his sword pointing towards us.

‘Did you really make the castle yourself ?’

‘It’s not so hard.’ He draws the bridge up and gets down from his chair.

‘I think it’s really cool.’

‘Thanks.’ He moves the red piece of paper so that it meets the corner of the table. ‘I could teach you one day.’

‘Really?’

‘Course.’ Blister rubs at the mud on the back of his hand. It changes to a light smudge.

‘You don’t go to my school,’ I say.

‘I don’t go to any school,’ he laughs.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Our mom and dad teach us at home.’

‘How?’

‘They take it in turns, depending if Dad’s working.’

‘You really don’t go to school?’ A murmur of jealousy flickers inside me.

‘No. We learn at home. Well, we try to. It’s a bit chaotic at our house. I don’t think they know where half of us are most of the time.’

‘Are there lots of you?’

‘Seven – five boys and two girls. Nine, if you count Mom and Dad.’ He picks up a black crayon from the tub next to him and starts to draw a square in the middle of the red paper. ‘How many do you have?’ He looks up. ‘Brothers and sisters?’

‘One. Sort of,’ I say, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to think about Megan in here.

‘How can you have a sort of ? Are they cut in half ?’ Blister is drawing all sorts of thin lines in the middle of his square.

‘She’s a stepsister.’

‘Oh, one of those.’ He swaps the crayon for a pencil. ‘It must be quite nice, just having one.’

‘I guess.’

‘Most of mine are adopted. Mom and Dad had Maggie and me, but then they couldn’t have any more, so they adopted lots instead. It’s good, though.’

I watch him draw and rub at the lines. His eyes screw up a little bit, in concentration. He scratches his shoulder, before he picks up the paper and shows it to me.

‘What do you think?’

I think it’s meant to be the skull of some sort of animal.

‘It’s good,’ I say, although I’m not really sure it is. But I like the way that he took his time drawing it, how careful he was.

‘You can have it, if you want.’ Blister folds it in half and then half again and passes it to me.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘So, if you have a stepsister, does that mean you live with your mom or dad?’ he asks, sipping at his water again.

‘My dad.’

‘Where’s your mom?’

‘She’s dead,’ I say. The word hangs between us, then drifts up to the coloured shapes above our heads.

‘Do you miss her?’ Blister asks quietly.

‘Yes.’

He nods his head, as though he knows.

‘Do you want more water?’

‘No. I should be getting back.’

‘Will you come here again?’

I stand up and put my skull picture in the back pocket of my shorts.

‘Yes,’ I say, and he smiles. No one ever smiles because of me. Well, only my dad and Jennifer. It feels like the sunshine is actually in the trailer. ‘I like it here.’ I smile back at him.

Blister stays on the steps of the trailer and watches me clamber over the gate. When I look back, he salutes me and I wave at him before I pedal off quickly.

The wind is warm on my face as I rush back through the forest.

Blister is my friend. Blister is my friend.

I know I won’t tell a soul. I’ll hide my piece of red paper and keep the secret of him tucked so close that no one will ever know.

‘Come in,’ Mr Cleadon says, standing up from behind his desk. ‘Do take a seat.’

‘Thank you,’ Kathleen says. She lets go of my hand briefly, as we sit down, but then she picks it up again.

‘I’m sorry to have to call you in, Mrs Kingston.’

‘That’s fine.’ Kathleen smiles at him and then at me.

‘I’m not sure if June has told you what this is about?’

‘No.’ She looks straight at my headmaster. Her clogged eyes don’t blink.

‘Right. Well. June has been caught stealing,’ Mr Cleadon says. I breathe in sharply and feel Kathleen tense beside me. I think Mr Cleadon expects her to say something, but there’s only silence and the ticking of the clock on the shelf in the corner. ‘Unfortunately, some money and possessions went missing and they were found in June’s bag and drawer.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ I say quietly.

Mr Cleadon puffs the air in his cheeks. ‘We’ve been through this, June.’

There’s no point me saying any more. I’ve tried telling him the truth, but he won’t believe anything I say.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Kathleen asks. She reaches over and tucks a curl behind my ear. I try not to flinch. ‘June is such a good girl. I find it hard to believe that she would do that.’

‘Some children saw her do it.’

Kathleen shakes her head. ‘It’s been a difficult time for June,’ she says. She looks so like she cares that I almost believe her. ‘You know that she lost her mother a few years ago.’

‘I’m fully aware of that, Mrs Kingston. But stealing is something we can’t excuse.’

‘No, of course not. And I’m sure that June is sorry. It’s just that there are special circumstances here.’

‘I know. Which is why, because this is the first time, the punishment in school will be minimal. And I hope that at home you’ll make it clear to her that stealing is just unacceptable.’

‘Of course. June knows that it’s wrong. You have my word that it won’t happen again.’

‘Try to keep out of trouble, June,’ Mr Cleadon says with a smile that barely reaches his mouth, let alone his eyes.

We get up to leave and Kathleen kisses the top of my head.

‘It’ll be OK,’ she says as she takes my hand and leads me from the room.

We sit through supper and I’m waiting. Slowly, I eat the pile of food in front of me. I don’t look up once.

Megan is telling Kathleen about her day, about the volcano they’re making as a class and how she’s in charge of the flames. She’s going to cover card with bright tissue paper and stick it jagged from the top.

The brownie is sickly sweet and I force spoonful after spoonful of it down. The sponge is sprinkled thick with sugar and sits heavy on my teeth. I scrape my plate, until every last drop is gone.

‘So, you’re a thief as well.’ Kathleen’s words are for me. I don’t want them, but that doesn’t stop them. ‘I bet your mom was a thief too. Nasty little woman that she was.’

Anger bubbles in me. It takes over my bones and I have to clasp the sides of my chair to stop myself from screaming.

‘Like mother, like daughter, and we can’t be having that.’ Kathleen stands up and walks out of the room. I see her going across the hallway and into the living room.

‘You’re at the bottom of the heap,’ Megan says. ‘And your mom was ugly too.’

It’s too late to stop myself. I jump up so quickly that Megan’s eyes flash with fear and I’m on her, pulling her hair and thumping her with my tight fists.

‘She wasn’t, she wasn’t, she wasn’t.’ I don’t care that I’m crying. And I don’t care that Megan is curled up, screaming on the floor.

I hear the front door opening, but I carry on.

‘June!’ my dad shouts. He pulls me from her, just as Kathleen comes back in. She has her sewing basket in her hand.

‘Megan!’ she exclaims as she drops the basket and scoops her daughter up.

‘What’s going on?’ my dad asks. He’s holding me at arm’s length.

I’m breathing hard. I’ve never laid a finger on Megan before. But, today, fire got into me. I stare back at my dad, bewildered by what I’ve just done.

‘I came back early to surprise you,’ he says, and he looks so confused.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him. And I am, because I’ve made him look sad.

‘Why did you do it?’

‘It was just a silly quarrel, Bradley. Don’t be hard on her,’ Kathleen says, putting her hand softly on his arm. ‘It’s over now.’

Megan is still crying slightly. It’s strange to see her curled up there.

‘Fine,’ my dad says. ‘But you’re to go to your room, June. And if I ever see you hurting Megan again, there’ll be hell to pay. Do you understand?’

I nod and run away, leaving them huddled together on the kitchen floor.

The next day after school, I know I can’t stay in the house. I put a note on the kitchen table – ‘I’m going to Jennifer’s. Back later.’ And then I leave it all behind me, the wind rushing past my ears.

I can hear Blister humming to himself from the edge of the path. He’s sitting on the trailer steps and he sees me as I start to climb over the gate. In his hand is a little penknife and it points straight to the sky as he waves.

He grins at me. ‘You came back.’ He puts down the stick that he’s carving and walks through the grassy path.

‘I hoped you’d be here,’ I say, wriggling my arms to get the bag off my back. ‘I brought you something.’ He watches me as I unzip it and pull out the small bottle of orange juice. ‘I thought you’d like this,’ I say. Suddenly, it seems a bit strange. It felt like a good idea earlier, but now I feel awkward as I give it to him. ‘You said orange juice would be better.’

He looks up at me as if I’ve given him a bar of gold.

‘Thanks, June,’ he says. I follow him back to the steps. ‘Look what I did.’ He picks up the stick he’s been carving. It’s a small spear, with a sharp, pointed end. ‘To keep the ghosts away,’ he laughs, and throws it straight into the ground, where it stays, sticking upright. ‘Nothing will get past that.’

We go into the trailer and I watch as he pours the orange juice into two glasses.

‘Presto,’ he says, and clinks my glass.

‘Presto,’ I say, as though it’s our own secret code, the key to our club.

‘Shall we drink it in the art room?’ Blister asks. Before I even nod, he’s off and I’m following him, looking at the muddy streak stretched straight across his arm.

‘After you.’ He bows deeply, one arm swept to the side, the other tilting too much and spilling juice on the steps.

‘Why thank you, sir.’ And I climb up into the second trailer. The smell of glue mixes into the warmth, and I notice that the piles of paper on the floor are stacked with their colours in order.

‘You’re very tidy.’

‘It’s how I like it.’

‘Maybe because your home is so busy?’ I say.

Blister rubs his cheek. ‘Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that.’

We put our glasses next to the cushions. Blister kneels down, picks up a piece of paper from each pile and lays them out in the middle of the floor.

‘So, what do you want to make?’ he asks. I stretch my legs out straight and wriggle my toes in my sandals.

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

Blister crawls over to a tiny table and picks up a tube of glue. I watch as he takes one piece of white paper and one piece of gold. He starts to fold them and it’s as if I disappear. He screws up his nose slightly as he concentrates and it squashes some of his freckles.

His fingers move carefully. He folds and twists and sticks the paper, as though it’s a precious jewel. I’m not really thinking about the shape – I just like watching something beautiful appear out of something so ordinary.

It’s finished and Blister holds it up in front of him.

‘It’s an angel. For your mom,’ he says.

I reach out to touch her wings and the clothes of white and gold. Her face is blank, but I know she’s happy.

‘I didn’t want to make you sad,’ Blister says.

‘I’m not,’ I say quietly. But I am. I’m so sad that I don’t know how my heart carries on beating.

Blister puts the angel in my hands. I want her to be big, so I can hug her.

‘Was your mom nice?’ Blister asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, and I pull my knees up tight into my chest and look down, so he can’t see my eyes.

‘I don’t mind if you cry,’ he says. He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s not fair that she died.’

But I press my head into my knees, until I know the tears have stopped.

When I look up, Blister is sitting with a little rag in his hand.

‘It’s the cleanest I’ve got,’ he says.

I take it from him. It feels rough against my eyes, but I don’t mind.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

A silence now sits between us and I don’t know how to fill it.

‘What’s your stepmother like?’ Blister finally asks.

‘She’s OK,’ I lie, holding my angel tightly. Blister looks at me as though I should say some more. ‘I’d better go. She’ll be worried about where I’ve got to.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry. I’ll come again, I promise.’ I stand up and Blister gets up too.

‘Can I keep my angel?’ I ask.

‘Of course. I made her for you.’ Blister smiles and his dimples dip in. He pushes his glasses up a bit on his nose.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

I put her carefully into my bag, worried that I might hurt her. I don’t want her to get crumpled. I want to get her to the house safely, where I’ll tuck her away in a secret box.

My very own angel.

AFTER

Mickey and I walk side by side. The sun is warm on my face and there’s not a cloud in the sky.

‘Where shall we go today?’ I ask.

‘The fields at the back of my house?’ she replies.

‘I’d like that.’

We walk slowly – Mickey’s hip makes her seem older than she is. She shuffles slightly, the dry dust lifting around her ankles.

High above us, two birds swoop and twist before they disappear from view.

‘Birds are like memories,’ I say. Mickey chuckles. She’s used to my thoughts by now. ‘They are,’ I insist. ‘How sometimes they’re close enough to see clearly, but at other times they fly just out of reach.’

‘You’ve been reading too many books again.’

‘I can’t work out whether memories are good or bad,’ I say.

‘I suppose it depends which ones they are.’ Mickey sounds tired now. ‘Maybe you should try to remember the good and forget the bad.’

‘But sometimes even the good ones hurt,’ I tell her.

Mickey nods as she puts her hand gently on my arm.

‘Let’s make happy memories for today, then,’ she smiles.

‘How?’

‘You see those horses over there?’ She points into the distance. At first they’re difficult to see, but then the herd of them becomes clearer. ‘How about we go and ride them?’

‘They’re not ours,’ I laugh.

‘They could be if we take them.’ Mickey is laughing so hard that we have to stop walking. She leans into me as she starts to cough, but they’re happy tears in her eyes.

And I laugh with her too, the sound sweeping up to the wide blue above us.

‘It’s good to be alive,’ she says. But this time the coughing pulls at her body and I know she’s hurting. ‘Let’s go back, June,’ she says.

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