My Name Is Mina (skellig) Page 6

  “Yes. A school for the writing of nonsense and the pursuit of extraordinary activities.”

  They climbed three stairways. On the final landing there was a final narrow flight of stairs.

  Mum paused.

  “This leads to the attic,” she said. She shuddered. “I remember hardly anything of being in this house, but I do remember looking up these stairs and feeling very weird.”

  “Weird?” said Mina.

  “Yes, scared, and … weird.”

  “Let’s go up,” said Mina.

  Mum held back.

  “Do I dare?”

  Mina led the way. The stairs were narrow. She reached towards the attic door and opened it.

  They were in a wide room. Light came in from an arched window that had not been boarded. Beyond the window was the park, then the roofs and spires and towers of the city, and the wide wide sky. The window was broken. Glass lay on the floor beneath. There were large bird droppings upon the glass.

  “Look!” said Mina.

  In one of the walls there was a hole where plaster and bricks had fallen away. Below the hole there were more droppings, a few brown and black feathers and some furry balls. Mum held Mina back.

  “A nest!” hissed Mina.

  Slowly, slowly, she approached it.

  “Mina, take care!” whispered her mother.

  But Mina wasn’t scared. The hole in the wall was as high as her head. She stood on tiptoes and peered into the shadowed space. She saw the feathered bodies lying there together. She saw the bodies moving as the birds breathed.

  “Oh, Mum! Oh, come and look!”

  Her mum came close. She stood on tiptoes, too, and peered in.

  “Owls!” whispered Mina. “Sleeping in the day, they must be owls.”

  They stared in wonder for a moment, then they backed away. Mum bent down and picked up two of the furry balls.

  “Owl pellets,” said Mum.

  They crouched against the wall beside the door.

  Mum tugged at one of the pellets and broke it apart. She showed fur and skin and tiny bones in her hand.

  “They eat their victims whole,” she said. “Whatever can’t be digested is brought up and discarded.”

  She put the second pellet into Mina’s hand. Mina held it. Once this furry lump had been a vole or a mouse. Mina watched the nest. She had a vision of the owls rising from their sleep, emerging from the wall, flying out into the city sky. She imagined them hunting in the park.

  Outside it was still bright day.

  “Mum,” she said. “Let’s stay till night. Let’s see them fly.”

  Mum’s eyes were glazed with the reflection of the sky as she looked back at her. She glanced at her watch. Dusk was an hour or more away. But Mina knew that her mum was as enchanted by the vision of the owls as she was herself.

  “What if they attack us?” said Mum.

  “We’ll get prepared. We’ll open the door. We’ll lie on the stairs and get ready to close it again if they come for us.”

  And that’s what they did. They lay on the stairs and they waited. The sky outside the window slowly darkened. They lay together and could feel each other’s beating hearts.

  “I don’t know what to do,” said Mum. “We should get the window fixed. It’s letting in the damp.”

  “But the owls,” said Mina.

  “I know,” said Mum. She shook her head. “What are they doing nesting in the house? They should be in the park, in a tree.”

  Mina smiled. It seemed so mysterious and so right. There were owls, creatures of dreams and the night, living in her house!

  “I’m uncomfortable,” said Mum. “My knees are getting sore. What kind of silly woman does a thing like this when there’s so much that’s sensible to be done?”

  “A silly woman like you,” said Mina. “It won’t be long.”

  The shadows in the attic deepened. The sky outside turned orange, red, then inky blue, and then the silveriness of moonlight was in the sky. They lay dead still. They breathed more gently.

  “They’re birds of wisdom,” whispered Mum. “They’re the symbol of seeing hidden, secret things.”

  “So we should be pleased to have them in the house.”

  “Yes, we should be pleased.”

  They watched and watched, and then their hearts began to thunder. There was movement in the nest, a rustling of feathers, a sudden low sharp screech.

  And Mina and her mother gasped. A bird stood in the hole in the wall: dark feathers, shining eyes. They saw the head turning. Then another bird appeared. Mum held the edge of the door, ready to slam it shut. There was another low screech and then the birds leapt into the air, and seemed massive as they flew a circle around the room. They perched together on the sill for a moment in the moonlight, then they leapt again, and flew out into the night.

  They rose to their feet. They gasped and giggled at the thrill of what they’d seen.

  “Extraordinary,” whispered Mina, and somewhere far away a hooting started.

  Hoot. Hoot hoot hoot.

  “We’ll leave the window as it is,” said Mum.

  “No we won’t,” said Mina, and she lifted a piece of broken brick from the floor, went to the window and knocked away more of the glass above the sill, making the opening wider and safer for the birds. She gazed out. She imagined leaping, like the birds did, like Icarus did in the story from long ago. She imagined her wings spreading as she swooped over the city.

  Then they left the attic. As they entered the stairwell, Mina felt a creature winding itself around her feet.

  “Oh,” she gasped, and then she smiled.

  “Who’s this?” said Mum.

  “My familiar little friend,” said Mina. “I’ve called him Whisper.”

  Later, in the house, at the kitchen table, Mina made models of the owls from heavy clay and laid them on the table. She opened up the owl pellet in a bowl of warm water. She loosened the scraps of skin and fur and bone. She laid the fragments of what had been a mouse or a vole on her table. It was still gorgeous, so mysterious. It had been alive, it had been killed by an owl, it had been inside the owl and now it was out again. It was in her fingers, on the palm of her hand, on her table beside a clay model of an owl. Later, in her dreams, she made owls as light as spirits, and she flew with them in the night.

  YOU FLY IN THE VELVET NIGHT.

  YOU SEE WHAT CAN’T BE SEEN,

  YOU HEAR WHAT CAN’T BE HEARD.

  LEND ME YOUR FEATHERS

  AND BONES AND WINGS.

  LEND ME YOUR EYES

  AND EARS AND CLAWS.

  LEND ME THE HEART

  TO LEAP LIKE YOU

  INTO THE ASTONISHING NIGHT.

  Sats Day, Glibbertysnark & Claminosity!

  It was always writing that got me into trouble with Mrs. Scullery. She said I just EXASPERATED her.

  “You could be one of my very best pupils, Mina McKee – one of the very best I have ever had, in fact. But you are a constant disappointment! You let the school down, you let your poor mother down, and most of all you let YOURSELF down, time and time and time again. You are a silly and wayward and undisciplined child. Instead of concentrating on the task in hand, you spend your time playing about and drawing attention to yourself and your silly foibles!”

  Draw attention to myself? That was just about the last thing I wanted. I wanted to disappear. I didn’t want to be there at all!

  The day that brought it to a head was SATS day. SATS Day, the day she started out so calm and sweet, the day she ended screaming out loud in front of the whole class, the day she snarled that I was full of nothing but stupid crackpot notions, the day she put her hands on her hips, glared straight into my face and growled,

  “Mina bloody McKee. You are full of sheer bloody daftness and you are an utter bloody disgrace!”

  Bloody. She said it in front of the whole class. It was unheard-of! A teacher said bloody in front of the whole class! That showed how bad things had become!


  It was nonsense that did it. And it was SATS day! SATS day! Aaagh! Everybody just had to stay calm! It was nothing special! But everybody was so stressed out! Everybody was so scared! Everybody was so focused on making sure that the school was up to standard. Everybody was so concerned that everybody would all turn out to be better than the average of children of our age throughout the country! Everybody was so concerned that we would get Level 4 and Level 5 and Level 99! We shouldn’t get worked up about it, though! We should just treat SATS day as another ordinary school day! It wasn’t really a test at all! It was just a way of checking that things were going OK at St. Bede’s! It wasn’t really a test of the kids! It was a test of the school! So nothing to do with the kids at all! So just stay calm! So just don’t worry! Just relax! JUST RELAX! SATS Day was just another ordinary day! But SATS Day was SATS Day! IT WAS SATS DAY!

  It started quietly enough. There we were sitting in class, some of the kids white-knuckled as they gripped the edge of their tables, some of them, such as Sophie, chewing their lips, some of them slouched and not caring at all. Some were poised and well prepared and smiling in anticipation, like Samantha, with new pens and pencils laid out neatly on the tables in front of them.

  Mrs. Scullery looked like she’d spent the night seeing ghosts. Her hair was sticking out. Her lipstick was slashed across her chops. Her dress was buttoned up all wrong. Her hands were trembling. She goggled red-eyed from her desk at us.

  “Remember,” she said to us in a high-pitched wobbly voice. “You must simply do your best, children.” She gave especially appealing glances to the ones she thought were cleverest, like me. “Just do your best. Please do your best. Please …”

  I felt sorry for her. I really did. I felt that somebody should get up and go to her and give her a big hug and say,

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Scullery. It will all be all right.”

  But nobody did.

  Then she gave the papers out. We had to keep them facedown until she gave the word. Then she said it.

  “Turn your papers over and you may begin.”

  Oh my God I couldn’t stand it. Why should I write what they told me to write just because they told me to write it? What was the point of that? Why should I write because the school and everybody in it was so stupendously and stupidly stressed out? Why should I write something so somebody could say I was well below average, below average, average, above average or well above average? What’s average? And what about the ones that find out they’re well below average? What’s the point of that and how’s that going to make them feel for the rest of their lives? And did William Blake do writing tasks just because somebody else told him to? And what Level would he have got anyway?

  What Level is that? And what about Shakespeare? “Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble!” What Level’s that? Would Shakespeare have been well above average? And Dickens and Chaucer and Keats and Shirley Hughes and Maurice Sendak and Michael Rosen? Did any of them do stupid silly SATS! I SUSPECT NOT!

  I stared out the window for a while. There were no flies dancing in the air that day, though the sunlight was particularly beautiful where it shone on the drops of water left on the glass after a little rain shower. Maybe I’d be able to write about that, or about the birds that kept flitting back and forward. And there was a lovely pattern where the paint had flaked away at the edge of the window frame. Or maybe I could write a story about Mrs. Scullery’s night with the ghosts. I heard my name whispered. Mina McKee. I looked up. Mrs. Scullery was glaring at me. Everybody was heads down getting their writing done. Mrs. Scullery whispered my name again. I looked at her. I nodded at her and sighed. Poor Mrs. Scullery. I read the first instruction on the paper. “Write a description of a busy place.” Oh my God. I looked up again. THE HEAD TEACHER was looking in through the glass bit of the classroom door. He looked like he’d been with the ghosts as well. He looked like he was about to burst into tears. He caught my eye. He mouthed the words: WRITE. DON’T WORRY! PLEASE WRITE. The poor poor man. So I smiled at him, and nodded, and shrugged, and started to write, and this is what I wrote.

  In thi biginin glibbertysnark woz doon in the woositinimana. Golgy golgy golgy thang, wiss wandigle. Oliotoshin under smiffer yes! Glibbering mornikles which was o so diggibunish. Hoy it! Hoy it! Then woz won so stidderuppickle. Aye aye woz the replifing clud. Yes! Clud is cludderish thats trew. Tickles und ticklin woz the rest ov that neet dun thar in the dokniss; An the crippy cralies crippin unda the path doon thar. Howzit! Woz the yel. Howzit! Sumwun nose a sekritish thang an wil holed it unda. Aye! Unda! So hoy it! Naa. It is two riddish a thang for hoyin. So giv it not a thowt. Arl wil be in the wel in the wel ay depe don in the wel. An on it goze an on an on an on an on an on an on an on til the middlishniss is nere. An the glibbertysnark wil raze oot the woositinimana an to the blewniss wi the burds an clowds an clowds this loke lyke clowns. An wil laff laff laff. An wil yel Hoy it! Hoy it! Til the lasst ov the daze wen we wil no a ansa. So pond the glibbertysnark an the olitoshin an kip way ov mornikles. Yel howzit an hoy it! Til the bels is ringerish. An rite words for scullery an hedteechery coz ov the gosts an goolys an the sats an orl wil be wel wel wel. In conclooshun woopwoopwoopiness is pringersticks wif strattikipiness coz the ansa iz hidin in the cludderish claminosity wer the clowdiwinkling quakilstrator iz. Luk no wer wer the blippistrakor ov munomintelish plirders iz. Ther. Is dun. Hoy it! Hoy it! Hoy it! Til the coos cum bak acros the flisterin feeld unda the mistrictacular moooooon. Flap! An ther rite now its endid. Pop!

  RESULT:

  Mrs. Scullery:

  Not Pleased. The “Mina Bloody McKee

  Bloody Disgrace” Scene.

  (see above)

  HEAD TEACHER:

  Not Pleased. The “Who Do You

  Think You Are Madam I Am Calling

  Your Mother” Scene.

  (see below)

  Grade Achieved

  Level 0 Well Well Well Below Average.

  Mum

  Very Sad, Very Kind,

  Then Very Determined.

  Mina

  Created new words

  (Glibbertysnark! Oliotoshin!

  Claminosity! Blippistrakor!)

  Therefore: Very Pleased.

  TAKEN OUT OF SCHOOL!

  Therefore: VERY VERY

  VERY PLEASED.

  I thought I had done very well in such a short time. They didn’t even read it right through. Mrs. Scullery held it up like it was a poisonous thing. She did the “bloody” scene. She got to the bit where she said I was an utter bloody disgrace. Then she leaned right down so that her face was nearly right in mine. For a moment I wanted to stroke it. I wanted to give her a cuddle, I really did. She looked O so stressed out. I wanted to say, “O, Mrs. Scullery. Never mind. It’s just some writing, that’s all. It’s not going to harm you. And look, some of it’s lovely. Don’t get yourself worked up, love. Calm down. I’m sure Samantha has done some lovely level 5ish work.”

  But I couldn’t get any words out. I just stared back into her eyes.

  “You,” she whispered hard into my face. “You, madam.”

  “Me?” I whispered back.

  “Are as hard as iron.”

  And she led me to THE HEAD TEACHER and gave the writing to him. He looked at it like it was another ghost come back to haunt him. He held it up and twisted his face like it was a very very dangerous stinking poisonous thing.

  “What,” he said, “is this?”

  “Writing,” I said.

  “Writing what?”

  “Writing, sir.”

  “And what kind of writing do you think it is?”

  He glared. He fumed. He gritted his teeth. Did he really want to know?

  “It’s nonsense, sir,” I said.

  “EXACTLY, MADAM. IT. IS. NONSENSE! IT. IS. A PAGE. OF ABSOLUTE. AND TOTAL. UTTER. IDIOTIC. NONSENSE!”

  I could see he wanted to swear, just like Mrs. Scullery had. I wanted to tell him it was OK to tell me I was an utter bloody dis
grace, if he wanted to[9]. I wanted to tell him he could use even worse words if it would help him feel better. I wouldn’t mind at all. But I thought it was probably best not to say that.

  “I know that, sir,” I simply said.

  “Oh, you know that, do you? So who do you think you are? And what right do you have to … ”

  “I don’t know, sir. Sometimes I wonder, Who am I? What am I doing … ”

  Mrs. Scullery groaned. She gripped the edge of THE HEAD TEACHER’s desk.

  “Are you taking the mick, young lady?” said THE HEAD TEACHER.

  “No, sir.”

  Mrs. Scullery groaned again.

  “Doreen!” yelled THE HEAD TEACHER.

  Doreen came in from the room next door.

  Doreen was THE HEAD TEACHER’s secretary.

  “Yes, Headmaster?” said Doreen.

  “I need this young lady’s telephone number, please, Doreen.”

  I started to say that I knew it but he stopped me with a glare.

  Doreen went out and came back again with the number.

  “Thank you, Doreen,” said THE HEAD TEACHER. “That will be all for now.”

  He lifted the telephone. He dialed the number. He spoke to Mrs. McKee about her daughter. He said he would like to see her, now, if at all possible.

  “No,” he said. “She has not had an accident, Mrs. McKee, but I should like to see you in person if I may.”

  He put the phone down.

  “She is on her way,” he said.

  “She won’t be long,” I started. “We just live—”

  “We KNOW where you live!” said THE HEAD TEACHER. “We need no further contributions from you, thank you very much! Mrs. Scullery, would you like a glass of water? You look a little … ”

  “Oh yes, please, Headmaster. Thank you, Headmaster,” said Mrs. Scullery.

  “And do take a seat, Mrs. Scullery. Doreen! A glass of water for Mrs. Scullery, please.”

  Doreen brought the water in. They sat. I stood. We waited in silence. I stared at a painting on the wall. It showed a delicious-looking bowl of fruit. I imagined that on bad days (like today, perhaps) THE HEAD TEACHER gazed at this fruit and dreamed of what he could have been instead of A HEAD TEACHER. A banana, for instance. Or a plum. Or a bunch of grapes. I tried to imagine THE HEAD TEACHER as a bunch of grapes. He might be much happier that way.