Secrets...

This week, I'm up at Moniack Mhor. The incredibly hot weather has deserted us, but it's still beautiful. And peaceful. And we're even getting some writing done.


I've been hoping to post some of the work from this week, and today's exercise, serendipitously, involved getting a secret from one of the others and writing a story based on it. Sound familiar? No gorillas today, though.


I can't tell you whose secret it was, because I don't know myself. 



Secrets...

You could get through at the bottom of the garden, down where they have their compost pile. It wasn’t the first time I’d gone over. Last summer, when they were on holiday, I went through every day, climbing up the cherry tree and sitting there, looking at the windows with their drawn over curtains. I liked how it felt, the hiddenness, the quiet space. I could sit there and hear my mum calling to me.

Today I’m here again, sitting in the tree, invisible behind the spread of blossom, and they’re here as well. The mother is planting something, and walks past every so often so that I can see her arm holding a fork or a watering can. We haven’t got anything like that in our garden, although I like the dandelions. I try and catch the moment when the yellow bits turn into the fluffy white stuff, but it always happens when I’m not there.

‘Can we put the swing up?’

It’s her. I can’t see her, but I recognise her voice. Today it sounds a bit cross. The ends of the branches of the cherry tree hang down nearly to the ground, making a sort of cave, and she sticks her head through. If she looks up, maybe she will climb up and join me, and then we can make a house up here, and I can come over every day.

‘No, love, not today. You’ll have to wait until Daddy has some time.’

‘But I’m bored!’ She drags the word out like chewing gum. I can’t do that.

The mother stands up and bends back a little bit. I know she’s doing this because she does it every time she stands up when she’s gardening and I see her from my window.

‘Why don’t you see if the girl next door wants to play?’

I hold my breath. We can make a little shelf and put teacups on it made out of bark like the teacher was telling us about.

‘But I don’t want to play with her.’ The branches sway as she tugs on a handful. ‘She wet her pants at school, and she smells funny.’

‘Not everyone is as lucky as you.’ I love the mother. I want her to be my mother.

‘I hate her. I’d rather die.’ The branches swing again. I dig my fingers into the bark.

Next door I can hear my mum shouting. I want to pee. It takes forever until they go back indoors.

The next time I climb up the tree, the swing is up. I don’t have a go because someone might be looking out of the window. I take out the knife and start to saw at the ropes that are wound around the biggest branch. I have to be careful. The rope springs apart and I cut more slowly. This was in a story too. Our teacher read it in a low voice, how the broken rope makes the girl fall off the swing. I will watch it from my window, watch the petals fall down from the tree and watch her lying on the ground.