My Name Is Mina Read online

  Anyway, in the end, I don’t really believe in Heaven at all, and I don’t believe in perfect angels. I think that this might be the only Heaven there can possibly be, this world we live in now, but we haven’t quite realized it yet. And I think that the only possible angels might be us.

  Is that stupid? No, it’s not! Look at the blackbird, the way the sunlight glistens on it. Look at the way it shimmers, the way its blackness glints with silver, purple, green, and even white beneath the sun. Listen to its song. Look at the way it jumps into the sky. Look how the leaves are coming out from the buds. Feel how strong the tree is and feel the beat of my heart and the sun on my skin and the air on my cheek. Think of things like the human voice, the solar system, the fur of a cat, the sea, bananas, a duck-billed platypus. Look at the things that we’ve made: houses and pavements and walls and steeples and roads and cars and songs and poems, and yes I know that it’s a long long way from being perfect. But perfection would be very dull and perfection isn’t the point.

  Look at the world. Smell it, taste it, listen to it, feel it, look at it. Look at it! And I know horrible things happen for no good reason. Why did my dad die? What’s the point of famine and fear and darkness and war? I don’t know! I’m just a kid! How can I know answers to things like that? But this horrible world is so blooming beautiful and so blooming weird that sometimes I think it’ll make me faint!

  “Mina!” calls Mum. “Mina!”

  “Coming, Mum!”

  I don’t move.

  There’s a white van at Mr. Myers’s house just along the street. He died. (Another one! It’s about time we had some people born around here!) He was called Ernie and he was very old. He used to stand at his window staring out and even when you smiled and waved at him, you couldn’t be certain if he’d seen you, or if he thought he was dreaming about you. I used to wonder what was going on inside his brain. Did he see the same things as everybody else, or did he see different things? Did he see nothing at all? Did the world, and me and everybody in it, seem like a dream? And come to that, do any of us see what another person sees? Maybe we’re all living in some strange kind of dream. If we are, of course, we don’t know that we are.

  I used to see a doctor going into the house sometimes. He was a miserable-looking gray kind of bloke that came in a miserable-looking gray kind of car. He caught sight of me in the tree one day. I started to wave but he just scowled, like he thought that sitting in a tree was the stupidest thing in the whole wide world. It was obviously far too much of a struggle for somebody like him to smile and wave back at somebody like me. Huh. Wouldn’t want him to be my doctor. He’d make you feel like topping yourself just by looking at you. Can’t have been much of a doctor, anyway. Mr. Myers died, and was dead for nearly a week before they found him, lying under the table in the kitchen. Poor soul. He had a daughter, but I don’t think she ever really cared for him. She’s at the house right now, carrying out some of Mr. Myers’s belongings to the van. She’s another streak of misery. She was like that even when Ernie was alive. Maybe she thought he’d have some gold hidden away, rather than old table lamps and worn rugs and tatty chairs that she’s carrying out now. Mum says the place is full of stuff, piled up in the attic and in the dilapidated garage at the back of the house.

  Look at her. Misery Guts. You had him until he was old! You had your dad till he was old and you didn’t care!

  The streak of misery’s putting Mr. Myers’s house up for sale. Wonder who’ll buy it.

  “Mina!”

  “Yes, Mum!”

  “Mina!”

  Listen to how lovely her voice is. Call again, Mum.

  “Mina!”

  Wow.

  “Yes, Mum!”

  * * *

  * Extraordinary Fact! There are as many people alive in the world today as there have been in the whole of human history!

  We made animals at the kitchen table for much of the day. I started with a worm then a snake then a rat then a cat then a dog then a cow then a horse then a hippopotamus. I made an imaginary creature with wings and claws. I made a baby and rocked it in my hands and sang a lullaby to it. I squashed the clay together and started again and I made an archaeopteryx.

  The archaeopteryx was a dinosaur, a dinosaur with wings and feathers. It could fly. Probably not as well as birds can now. It was a bony thing, and probably just made short sharp clumsy flights. But it didn’t die out. It was the only dinosaur that survived, and it’s the ancestor of all the birds that exist in the world today. The blackbirds building their nest in the tree above my head are its descendants!

  There are archaeopteryx fossils in the Natural History Museum in London. Mum has said we’ll go to see them, when she has a bit of time, and a bit of money.

  She smiled as she watched me molding the clay.

  “Archaeopteryx,” she said. “Isn’t it a lovely word?”

  “Yes.”

  I love sticking my fingers into the clay, bending it and shaping it, ripping it and thumping it and rolling it and squashing it. I love smoothing it with water. I love the way it dries to a crust on your skin and then the way it cracks when you make a fist, the way it turns to dust. I love the way it dries out in the oven. We can’t afford a proper kiln, so the things we make go in with loaves of bread and casseroles and pizzas and curries, so they never get properly baked or properly glazed. That doesn’t matter to us. We think they’re beautiful. We paint them, and we put them on the shelves around us. Sometimes we make little models of each other. Mum has made a little model of Dad – it looks nothing like him, of course, at least not when I compare it with his photographs, but somehow it seems to be more like him than the photographs do.*

  While we were working the clay, I remembered a day when I was small (funny how writing like this makes me keep thinking about what I was like when I was small) and still at school. There was an Art lesson and I got carried away. We were using plasticine in Mrs. Tompkinson’s Art class and I made a little man. I made him walk along my desk. When I thought nobody was looking I picked him up and started whispering into his ear.

  “Come alive!” I whispered. “Come alive!”

  I concentrated very hard, trying to make him come alive.

  There was a boy at the next table (Joseph Simm? I can’t remember. I tried very hard to put them all out of my brain). I caught him looking at me. I stared back like I was asking him, “What do you think you’re looking at?” He shook his head like he thought I was crazy. I pointed a finger at him and waggled it and I rolled my eyes like I was putting a spell on him.

  “Please, Miss!” he called. “Mina McKee’s being weird again.”

  Weird! Huh! HUH!

  When we’d finished working the clay, we washed our hands and had French toast with cinnamon on it. TOTALLY TOTALLY DELICIOUS. My mum is a fantastic cook! We went out for a walk. I told Mum about the blackbirds’ nest and about Mr. Myers’s daughter. His house looked so dirty and dark as we passed by it.

  “Wonder who’ll buy it,” I said.

  “Somebody who doesn’t mind getting their hands dirty,” she said. “Somebody who can imagine how it’ll be when it’s all done up.”

  We walked to Heston Park. We passed very close to the entrance to the Underworld. I quaked inside, and I must have trembled or twitched or something, because Mum came to a halt.

  “Are you OK, Mina?” she asked.

  The locked steel gate was close behind her.

  “Yes, Mum,” I said.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  I wondered if I should tell her the tale of the day I went through the steel gate all alone. I didn’t. When I think about it, there’s quite a few things I don’t tell her about. Like most kids, I suppose. Sometimes it’s best just to keep things to myself because I don’t want to upset her. Sometimes they’re just too weird to explain. Sometimes I just don’t know how to get the words out. It doesn’t matter. I guess she knows there’s lots of things she doesn’t know about me. But
it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to know every single thing about a person in order to understand them.

  She smiled and hugged me.

  “You’re a strange one,” she said as we walked on.

  “I know,” I said.

  I’ll write the story of the Underworld for her and maybe I’ll let her read it. Somehow it might make more sense if it’s written down.

  Night. Even at night the city rumbles and roars. Traffic drones on the motorway that circles the center. There are machines and engines that can never be allowed to rest. And even the breathing and snoring and whispering must add to the din. And the running of water through pipes, and the humming of electricity, and the chatter of televisions watched by people who can’t sleep, and dogs that bark and cats that yowl. And there are the owls, as always, hooting as they fly over Crow Road and Heston Park. Hello, Owls. Hoot. Hoot. I try to hoot like an owl but it sounds nothing like an owl.

  I thought I’d write the story of the Underworld in the first person, and say, “I did this and I did that.” But somehow it’s better to write this in the third person, to say, “Mina did this and Mina did that.” I write it by moonlight, to the hooting of the owls.

  She was just nine years old. She was very skinny and very small and she had jet-black hair and a pale pale face and shining eyes. Some folks said she was weird. Her mum said she was brave. Sometimes she seemed very old for her age, and sometimes she seemed just like a little girl. All those things were true. She felt so strong and bold, lonely and lost, and the world seemed very big and she seemed very small. Her mum said that everybody felt like that at some time in their lives, no matter how old they were, but that for Mina it was more difficult because of what had happened to her dad. She said that as Mina grew, she’d feel stronger more often and not feel so small.

  Mina’s mum was strong. To Mina she seemed brave and gentle. She had glossy red hair and dark green eyes and Mina thought that if there was such a thing as a saint in this world, then her mum was one.

  In the past, Mina had heard her mother arguing with doctors, especially with the doctor who talked about giving pills to Mina, pills that he said would make her feel better.

  “They won’t make her feel better!” said Mina’s mum. “They’ll stop her from feeling anything at all. She’s not some kind of robot. She’s a little girl that’s growing up and she can do that without your stupid pills!”

  Mina’s school was St. Bede’s Middle, very close to the park. It was a Monday morning in spring. The lesson was called History. The teacher, Mr. Henderson, talked about the city’s past. He said that once the city had been surrounded by coal mines. For hundreds of years, men and boys had gone down into the earth to dig out coal. Imagine that, he said. He laughed. Imagine going into the pitch darkness to bring out stuff as black and bright as Mina McKee’s hair. He said that if they could travel into the earth beneath the classroom, they would discover a warren of shafts and tunnels. His eyes widened. They might even discover the bones of those who had died down there. He said that the days of the coal mines had been very perilous, but people had lived and worked together, and shared their tragedies and joys.

  He read some poems about pitmen, and played their songs on a CD player. He sang some pitmen’s songs himself. He said that his own grandfather had been a pitman, and that he had been brought up with tales of the underground, of the men who traveled deep into the earth every day, of ponies they had down there, and of the ghosts they said they had seen down there.

  He showed them maps of the city as it used to be. There were pit shafts that plunged hundreds of feet down into the earth. There were tunnels that crept from the city’s fringes towards its heart. He said that very close to the school, in Heston Park, there was an entrance to a tunnel that once was used to carry carts of coal from the coal mines down to the river. He said the tunnel was being repaired. There were plans to reopen it for tourists and for those who wanted to study the city’s past. Maybe when it opened, he said, they’d all go into the tunnel together on a class trip. Then the lesson ended.

  Mina already knew about the entrance and the tunnel. She’d seen the ancient solid steel gate behind some rhododendron bushes. She’d seen the girders welded across the gate. Recently, she’d seen that the girders had gone. Men wearing hard hats and carrying big torches went into it. There was a new orange sign there. It said DANGER KEEP OUT and there was a skull and crossbones symbol on it.

  In Mina’s mind, the gate, the tunnel, and now Mr. Henderson’s stories mingled with many other stories that she’d heard – stories from ancient times about heroes and heroines who lived in the underground: Daedalus, who built an underground maze with a monster called the Minotaur at its heart; Pluto, the King of the Underworld, and Persephone, his wife; stories about the dead, who were taken from this world to live in the darkness below. And they mingled with the tale of Orpheus, the greatest singer in the world, whose beautiful wife, Eurydice, was killed by a venomous snake. Orpheus would not accept her death. He traveled the world, searching for the entrance to the Underworld. When he found it, he went down into the Underworld, and begged for her to be given back to him.

  Mina knew it was silly, but she was only nine years old, and she was often very sad, and in her imagination and in her dreams, the entrance to the Underworld was there, behind the rhododendron bushes, in Heston Park. And she told herself she’d dare to go through that entrance. She’d go down to the Underworld like Orpheus did. He didn’t manage to bring Eurydice back. But Mina would succeed. She’d go down, she’d meet Pluto and Persephone. She’d persuade them to let her bring her dad back into the world.

  It happened the following Monday, just after the next of Mr. Henderson’s History lessons. At the end of the lesson, he stood in front of them and started to sing

  “Lie doon, my dear, and in your ear,

  To help you close your eye,

  I’ll sing a song, a slumber song,

  A miner’s lullaby.

  “Coorie doon, Coorie doon, Coorie doon, my darling,

  Coorie doon the day.

  Coorie doon, Coorie Doon, Coorie doon, my darling,

  Coorie doon the day.”

  Mr. Henderson paused for a moment.

  “Coorie doon means to snuggle down,” he said. “My grandpa sang this song to me to help to sleep when I was a bairn. Imagine me as a bairn! And imagine my tough old tender grandpa singing at my side.”

  He sang on. He ignored the stupid ignorant kids that rolled their eyes and giggled, especially the stupid ignorant boys that thought they were so tough. And as he sang, Mina closed her eyes and imagined that the singing voice was her dad’s.

  “Your daddy’s doon the mine, my darling,

  Doon in the Curbly Main,

  Your daddy’s howkin coal, my darling,

  For his own wean.

  “Coorie doon, Coorie doon, Coorie doon, my darling,

  Coorie doon the day.

  “There’s darkness doon the mine, my darling,

  Darkness, dust and damp,

  But we must have our heat, our light,

  Our fire and our lamp.

  “Coorie doon, Coorie doon, Coorie doon, my darling,

  Coorie doon the day.

  “Your daddy coories doon, my darling,

  Doon in the three-foot seam,

  So you can coorie doon, my darling,

  Coorie doon and dream.”

  Mr. Henderson smiled as he wiped his eyes.

  “You must always remember,” he said, “the men and boys that dug out the stuff as black and bright as Mina McKee’s hair.”

  That lunchtime the kids in the yard were rotten to her. They laughed like hyenas and called her Coaly McKee and Teacher’s Pet and told her to get herself back to the underground where she belonged. She clenched her fists.

  “You stupid bloody hyenas!” she said.

  “Ooooh!” they said. “Mina McKee’s swearing! I’m going to tell the teacher!”

  “You are!” she yelled. �
�You’re bloody stupid bloody hyenas!”

  And she ran straight out of the school gate and into Heston Park. She slowed down. She listened for footsteps behind. She listened for her name being called, but there was nothing. A few men sprawled on a grass verge in the sunshine, reading newspapers and eating sandwiches. Their hard hats lay on the ground at their sides. They hardly looked up as Mina walked by. She walked towards the rhododendron bushes, then through them towards the steel gate. A stone had been put against the gate, but it was open, just a few inches. Mina looked at the skull and crossbones and quickly looked away. She was a small thin girl. She only needed to ease the gate open a few more inches, and she slithered inside.