The Headland: Part 5

Alice had been teaching for just two years when she took over Esther’s class. Mr Gibson told her in September to keep an eye one particular little girl whose mother was gravely ill. ‘Of course,’ she’d said to her Headteacher, but had secretly agonised about how to speak to Esther and about saying the wrong thing. 

At the start of the school year, in the gold-tinted months of autumn, Alice had been charmed by Esther. The little girl was vibrant and funny and gloriously eccentric. She wore the most beautiful clothes made for her by her mother. But she wore them carelessly, without pride or prissiness. Her corkscrew hair would ping from pony tails, her socks were always askew and her knees were muddy and grass stained. She loved flowers and nature. Miss Finch would take the children on nature walks through the dene in autumn, spring and early summer and was amazed to learn that Esther could name every single flower and tree. She was clever, but never arrogant or attention seeking. In fact, as with so many girls, she downplayed her talents, seemed embarrassed by them, ‘Oh, my drawing is OK Steven, but it’s nowhere near as good as yours.’ ‘I might know the names of flowers, but I’m terrible at my times tables, you know.’ 

As the year progressed, the changes in Esther became more marked. Mr Gibson told Alice that the little girl’s mother was now deteriorating quickly, spending most of her time in hospital and that her diagnosis was terminal. Esther too began to pale, she became quieter and sadder. She often wore the same clothes for days on end, her hair was unbrushed and matted and she began to spend time alone in the playground. Her vivid, crayon-coloured personality was fading, leaving behind only the faintest of watermarks that even dazzling sunlight would struggle to reveal.

Every morning, Alice would ask Esther, ‘How’s your mum?’ and every morning Esther would shrug and say simply, ‘Fine,’ or ‘The same,’

‘I’m not sure how much she actually knows, Alice, what she’s been told,’ Mr Gibson confessed. One morning, Alice decided she wouldn’t ask the question. Maybe school was a place where Esther could forget about sickness and hospitals, she reasoned. Maybe Alice was just make things worse. When the maths lesson ended and she rang the heavy brass bell for morning break, Esther stayed in her seat. The other children rushed past her, pulling on coats and hats. Alice remained at her wooden desk, staring straight ahead with a bold fragility. ‘What’s the matter, Esther? Don’t you want to go outside today? It’s lovely and bright and breezy out there. I bet you can smell spring in the air.’

The girl said nothing. She was completely still, but her eyes were full of fire and agitation. Alice sensed that the child was searching to find the right words to convey the fervour of her emotions. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to say what we are feeling, Esther. I find it hard, anyway. It’s as if I just can’t put my finger on the right word. I know it’s there, but I just can’t find it. Or maybe the right words haven’t even been invented yet to perfectly say what we feel. What do you think?’

The little girl had looked up at Alice, ‘That sounds like my mother’s button tin.’

Alice sat down in the seat next to Esther, ‘Really? What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s one of my favourite things, this tin. It’s a red and gold tin that once had toffees in it. There are thousands of buttons inside this tin. Millions probably. All different colours and sizes. Some smooth, some rough, some soft like velvet, some like pearls. I like to tip them all out and run my hands through them. It’s hard to find the right button though. Sometimes I need to find the green glass button, and it is just not there. Well, it is. But I can’t find it.’

‘My mum doesn’t have a button tin, Esther. She never even sewed a button on a shirt, never mind sewing dresses like your mum. I’d have liked a button tin, I think. All those colours,’ she paused. ‘Why are you sad this morning, Esther?’

 ‘You didn’t ask about my mum this morning and you always do.’

Alice’s heart leapt to the little girl. She had worried about choosing the wrong words, but words unsaid could be just as wounding, she realised. ‘I am so sorry. I thought maybe that you didn’t like me asking all of the time. I thought I might be making you sad.’

‘That’s OK. I never know what to say when you ask, because I don’t really know the answer. But I missed you asking this morning. I thought you had forgotten. I like that you always remember.’

‘Well, from now on, I shall ask every morning. I won’t forget. I promise. How is your mum, Esther?’

Esther stood up and smiled, ‘In hospital still, but we are all visiting tonight. I’ll go out now. I’ll see if I can find signs of spring and report back. I know the snowdrops are out but I’ve not seen the crocuses yet.’ Alice watched the little girl walk to her peg and put on her yellow woollen coat. A button was missing, she noticed, a navy-blue button. She walked to the blackboard and wiped it clean of addition sums. With her back to the classroom window, the children would not be able to see her tears. 

Esther’s mother died early in the summer term. The little girl was absent from school for the day of the funeral. The day she was absent, her classmates made cards for her. They had worked thoughtfully and sensitively at their task and were excited for Esther to see their creations. Martin Cooper had even asked Alice to check all his spellings before writing his message in his card, ‘dont be to sad est her we love u lots’. The next day, Esther was late to school and that was unusual. Alice assumed the family had decided to spend some time together and keep her off school. It wouldn’t be a bad idea, she thought, given the circumstances. She was taking the register when she heard a collective gasp from the children. It was the skittish sound they made when a wasp flew in to the classroom, and was charged with a disquieting nervousness. Alice looked up to see Esther standing in the doorway in her red waterproof coat. It was her startling appearance that had caused the tremulous reaction. Her wild curly hair had been brutally and carelessly cut. The effect was shocking to see. Alice was reminded of those terrible black and white photographs of children in Victorian asylums or concentration camps. She looked haunted and gaunt. The little girl had become a negative image of herself, everything light and beautiful and innocent had become dark, plain and tragically knowing. 

In the staffroom at break time, it was all the teachers could speak about. ‘Who would do such a thing to a little girl? Now, of all times? After everything she’s been through.’ Alice told Esther she looked chic, like Audrey Hepburn, but the child hadn’t replied. She self-consciously ran a hand across the top of her head, as if to check that her hair was still truly gone and then looked down. It was about this time that Esther began to lose her words completely and withdraw into a thickening, impenetrable silence. In those moments of speechlessness, Alice would think about the girl’s red and gold button tin. She would picture Esther running her hands through the heaped pile of multi-coloured buttons, swirling them like cool water, trying in vain to find the exact shade and texture to fit her mood. 

            

As Alice walked across the frosted green towards her cottage, she remembered a conversation she’d had with Esther at the end of the school year. Although she rarely spoke in class, Esther had taken to carrying a thick blue notebook with her everywhere she went. It had the letters NCB embossed on the front: National Coal Board. Obviously, it had come from her father’s workplace. One sun-dappled lunchtime, Alice returned to her classroom and found Esther on one of the floor cushions by the bookcase. She was hunched over her blue notebook, writing furiously. She was so fervently absorbed in her task, she hadn’t noticed Alice enter the room. 

 ‘Esther, if you write any quicker I think we’ll see sparks flying from that pencil and the whole school might burn down.’

Esther’s head jerked up. She’d been caught. Pupils were not allowed in the classrooms at lunchtime, especially not on a summer afternoon so heart-swellingly perfect. Outside, children jumped and skipped and ran and dreamed under skies of unending blue, their voices bubbled like silver water brimming over rocks. Alice stood by the open window where a breeze was stirring the geranium flowers.

‘Do you not feel like playing out, Esther? It’s a lovely day. They’ve cut the grass so everything smells green. Days like this are so precious, you know? We should savour them.’ She wasn’t sure if Esther would reply or not, but the little girl closed her book and set it squarely on her knee, her hands crossed protectively across its cover. Unexpectedly, she spoke. ‘Can you smell colours? I don’t think I can.’

‘If colours had a smell, then I think light green would smell like freshly cut grass and dark green would smell like Christmas trees. What about you?’ Alice kept her gaze fixed on the squealing children playing on the field and kept her tone soft and light. She was delighted that Esther had spoken. 

‘I think the colour green would smell like grass too, but probably grass after a rainstorm.’

Alice didn’t turn to look at Esther, she watched a group of girls playing hopscotch on the yard. She aware her breath was very slow and almost silent. Every fibre of her body was stilled. It is as if I am tending a wounded animal, she thought. 

‘Grass after a summer shower? Yes. I believe you are right, Esther. You always have the best ideas. . . What are you writing in your blue book? You don’t have to show me, unless you want to of course. I just think you look like quite the little author these days. I’ve told you before how I love reading your stories.’ Without looking at the girl, it was impossible to gauge how her question had been received. She was relieved when she heard Esther answer.           

‘It’s a book of stories. They are about a cat. About my cat.’

‘That sounds interesting. You know I love animal stories. They are my favourites. What’s your cat called?

‘Bakewell. He’s only got one ear. We don’t know why. He was a stray.’ 

Alice moved from the window and sat on a wooden chair. She faced Esther whose eyes were fixed on the cover of her book.

‘I do love cats. I’ve got a silver tabby cat called Atticus. What’s Bakewell like? Is he a clever cat?’

Esther sighed, ‘He’s a sad cat. My Bakewell is not sad. Not unless Aunt Rose is visiting anyway. Bakewell in the stories is sad.’

‘Why is he sad?’

“Well, he’s not fancy like his friend the ginger cat who wears a sapphire collar, and he’s not magical like his friend the black cat who lives with a witch in a cottage. And he’s looking for something. That’s what the stories are about.’

Alice crossed her legs and tried to settle into the narrow wooden chair more comfortably. Esther seemed happy to talk. A few notes of Frere Jacques drifted in through the open window. Miss Howard’s recorder group was practising under the lime trees. ‘So, he has a quest? Quest stories are exciting. What is he looking for? A fancy collar of his own? Magical powers like the black cat?’

Esther shook her head. ‘He doesn’t know what he is looking for, that’s the problem. That’s what makes his quest so tricky. In each story, he travels to a different place, and in each place he finds something interesting and puts it in a box, but it’s never exactly quite what he wanted. He’s been to a forest. To the beach. Even to Saturn. When he was on Saturn he walked around its rings. Cats can do that; humans couldn’t,’ She threw out this final observation with the assurance of an expert, a professor of cats and planets. Esther was still in there, Alice thought, she’s still inside this wounded, degraded shell of a girl. ‘What kinds of things does he bring back?’

‘Well, from the forest he took an owl’s feather, of course. Although he was tempted by a silver pine cone. He realised at the last minute that had been put there to fool him. From the beach, he took a piece of smooth blue sea-glass. I haven’t decided what he finds on Saturn. I’ve never been. It’s hard to think of what might be there.’ 

‘You’ll think of something. So, he collects his treasures?’

‘Yes, and puts them in his box. But then he has to go on another adventure, to find the right combination of things you see, for the magic to work. Every time, he hopes he’s found the last, missing object, but he never has. There will be lots of stories. Lots of chapters. A bit like the Adventures of the Wooden Horse.’

Alice smiled. Esther had always been a great reader. ‘Did you like that book? It’s very sad in parts.’

‘Yes. My mum read it to me. We both would cry. It’s happy at the end though. But there are lots of tears to spill until you get there.’ Esther stood up and sat on the classroom windowsill. She hugged her book to her chest. It was the beginning of July. There were only a few more weeks until the summer holidays. Next year, she will be in a new class and I will miss her, Alice thought. ‘I love the sound of your book, Esther. You’ve given me an idea for a game. I’ll say a place and you tell me what wonderful thing Bakewell would find there. Would you like to play?’ The little girl smiled and turned to face her teacher. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. It was a moment of shimmering warmth, as if the sun had finally freed herself from her prison of rainclouds. 

‘Yes. That sounds good. It might give me some ideas for new chapters too. You go first, Miss Finch.’

‘If Bakewell came to this school, what would he take away?’

‘That’s easy, one of the wooden tiles from the hall floor, but it would have to be after the floor had been polished with beeswax and when the sun was shining. My turn, Miss Finch, what would he take from a desert?’

‘Good question. I think he would take one tiny grain of sand, but it would have to be the smallest grain of sand in the whole desert and that would take some finding.’ 

Esther giggled, ‘Yes, yes he would! It couldn’t be just any grain of sand, could it? That would be too easy. Your turn, Miss Finch.’ 

‘What would he take from a trip to London, do you think?’

Esther covered her face with her blue book and tittered, ‘You won’t approve, but he would steal a jewel from the Queen’s crown.’

Alice pretended to consider this seriously. ‘Well, I am rather shocked at Bakewell, I must confess. However, such things are permissible in quests. I am sure the Queen wouldn’t miss one jewel. She has so many, after all. What kind of jewel would he take?’

‘A yellow one. What are yellow stones called? I don’t think I know.’

‘Topaz or citrine.’

‘Citrine. I like the sound of that. You see, it would be like his own little sun to warm his paws on when he visits cold places like Saturn. My turn, what would he take from the moon?’

‘That’s an easy one, Esther, he’d take one slice of cheese. Blue, smelly cheese.’

Esther laughed again, ‘Yuk! But, Bakewell does eat cheese, so you could be right. We never have blue cheese though.’

‘I think your book could be a best-seller, Esther. Let’s imagine Bakewell has collected his treasures. He’s been all around the world and all around the galaxy. There is nowhere left to go. What happens next? What was he looking for?’

Esther looked thoughtful, ‘I don’t know. He feels like something is missing, but he doesn’t know what it is. Maybe it’s his ear. Maybe he could get his missing ear back.’

‘I don’t think he misses his ear. Let’s face it, being a one-eared cat hasn’t stopped him living a very exciting life. Imagine he’s a very old cat. His fur is getting thin and grey. His whiskers are drooping. He’s sitting in front of a lovely fire and he is dozing. What is the one thing he would wish for? That is what the magical objects in his box should turn into. What do you think that would be?’

Esther hugged her notebook tightly. Outside, Mr Gibson was ringing the heavy brass bell and from all directions of the field, children were racing to line up outside their classrooms.

‘I think he would like a friend. He’d like a friend to sit by the fire with, who he could tell his adventures to. Maybe his friend could have had adventures too, they would understand each other and share stories. Maybe that is how the story could end.’

‘I think that would be perfect. A happy ending for an old cat, tired from his travels. Now, I need to collect the class from the yard. Can you give out the history books please, Esther? We’re going to learn about the terrifying Vikings this afternoon. I hope you are feeling brave.’