Billy and the Golden Gate (11 page)

“Well, it's just wolves and bats are pretty cool on their own, you know?” Peter says.

Jenny looks at her brother, her face seeping disdain.

“And they are here, alive, like,” Peter says.

Jenny puts her hand on her hip and says, “I know that! Just cause I read books and stuff about
certain
things doesn't mean I don't know about
real
things. Honestly, you are so stupid sometimes.”

Peter blinks. “Oh, that's OK then, I just thought you were living in your makey-uppey books an not seeing the real stuff, but that's OK.”

Jenny really looks at her brother this time; her face is impossible to read. She says, “You want some soup?”

Peter pipes back, “That'd be great, this hot chocolate is rotten!”

“I heard that!” his mum yells from the living room. “Next time, make it yourself then!”

Peter mouths, ‘I will.' Jenny is still watching him, she bursts out laughing.

*

Jasmine Beetle stands with her back against the front door for a few moments. She rubs her shoulders and her back against the wood, slowly. She straightens up, walks to each of the windows in her living room and draws the heavy curtains. The room is snug as the stove has been on all day.

The copybooks are stacked on the table, the red pen sitting on top of them; its job is done. She walks to her kitchen and opens the fridge. In the darkness, the fridge light illuminates her. There is absolutely nothing in the fridge; all the shelves are empty – apart from a square of cheese that looks as hard as the hobs of hell, and it is half covered in a white bloom, with dusty green bits. She closes the door; she's not hungry anyway.

Back in the living room, she stands in the space beside the coffee table on a bright white circular rug. She looks at the windows – yes, all the curtains are drawn. Jasmine Beetle peels off her jumper, her woolly polo neck. She folds it carefully and then just drops it on the rug. Underneath her polo neck, she's been wearing a fluffy white vest. It's so white, it glows. She shrugs her shoulders slowly, savouring the feeling. There, on each of her shoulder blades, two wings unfold – they are bright, their feathers are fluffy, they are white and they are very, very beautiful.
Ahhh
,
that feels better
, she murmurs to herself.

She glances up at the ceiling. “Busy day…good day,” she says. Her voice is low and even though it comes through her mouth, it really sings from the top of her chest, just below her throat.

She shakes her head, her hair turning blinding white.

“Beautiful day, my God… beautiful day.” She takes a deep breath and starts to sing,

People imagine that angels' singing must be the most gorgeous sound, but Miss Beetle sings a bit off tune
¹⁴
. She sounds a bit like a rocker, actually.

*

Somewhere beside a river, a monster sits and weeps. He is stitching up a tunic – his only tunic (so technically, he's naked at the moment) – with a needle and some wool that smells of wet sheep and wee. His hands are huge and the needle looks lost in them, but he is very careful and takes time over each and every stitch. His tears, as they fall to the ground, sprout bright beautiful daisies. In the darkness, they fold their petals inwards, making them look like little earthbound stars.

The monster repeats the following words, over and over, ‘Loff, frens.'

He looks at the little flowers and says, ‘Days eyes, daze eeee.'

Billy sits on the floor in his bedroom. He has his backpack and he has the book. Billy opens his backpack and reaches in; his hands feel a handle. He grips the handle and pulls it out of his bag. It's the bell. Billy holds it up and looks at it. He lays it down on the ground. How can that be? He buried it with everything else, for sure. He shakes his head incredulously; it just does not make any sense. He zips up his backpack and slides it in under his bed. A bunch of dust and hair is disturbed, leaving a shining streak on the varnished wood. Billy looks at the bell; he looks at the book.

Billy picks up the book. He opens it; the map falls out and flutters to the ground. It opens, face up. Billy can see the map. Almost everything looks the same, except the gate has changed. Now, there are no sparkly bits. It does not glow; it just looks like a normal, simple wooden gate in need of a good oiling.

Billy flicks to a random page and starts reading. It's all about Mad Madge; when she was born, her family, who she loved, who loved her, the words and thoughts of her hens, geese, Grimsby, the wolves, the insects – it's all there, in their own words.

Grimsby talks about how he was starving and angry when she found him; how he had hurt his paw and couldn't walk; how he bit Madge because he was scared and how she had cleaned the wound, dressed it and fed him. Grimsby talks about how she gave him some of her food and went hungry herself.

The hens and geese appear like a conversation. It is difficult to follow because they all talk at the same time. The hens recall when they were attacked by a fox and how Madge stayed up all night with them, protecting them. The geese chatter about the time that winter when it was really cold and she minded all the animals in her cottage and how she never gave out to them, even when they soiled the floor. She just cleaned it up and never made a fuss.

Madge herself talks, about her hens and geese and cat and the kindness of four young friends and their dog. The words are clear; they sing.

Billy flicks the pages. There is Mr Sharpie and his story. It is difficult to read because the pages are very dark. It is unpleasant. His wife is there, she cries and cries. Her words are smudged and sad.

The soldiers from his battalion talk about Gunner Sharpie; how he ran away from them to hide and leave them to the trenches. One of them speaks about when he died and how Gunner Sharpie took his signet ring and kept it for himself. Their words are dark with anger.

Gunner Sharpie's pet dog talks; his wife talks; lots of people talk – their words are sad or hard or angry, and their stories are horrible.

And then Mr Sharpie talks, about himself; the words drone on and on. It's strange; but it, he, seems to be tremendously self-centred, but, even more so, tremendously sad.

Billy flicks again. The pages fall open on a later section. The sheets are white. They glow; the words are not printed but handwritten. The writing style is joined up but almost childlike, with blue ink. It's a list:

Billy reads the list over and over. He starts crying quiet, heartfelt sobs. It's his dad's handwriting, no doubt. They had taken a picnic that day; never ate it, that day.

Billy reads the next few lines in the book.

Billy closes the book and puts it down. He sobs. His chest heaves. He steadies himself and thinks about that day, how steep the banks of the quarry were; the water flat and unforgiving. That sharp snapping sound, like stones ricocheting off a wall; his dad grabbing at his chest – the blood seeping out through his shirt, a deep crimson red. His dad slipping as it seemed he tried to reach for whatever the metal detector had found; the sound of him taking his last breath and the splash as he hit the water.

The picnic was not to be.

Not to be.

That is just the way things are.

Billy crawls under the covers of his bed. It is dark, though not pitch black as the light is still on. He cries himself to sleep. The pillow is soaked through and his lips taste of salt.

*

Billy dreams. It goes something like this…

Before him, there are low slung clouds. They are almost translucent, like cloud whispers. The sky varies between pure snow white and white blue; the grass on the ground is frosty, sparkly, pure. The air clear, so clear it wipes all cobwebs away. There is stillness. Billy sees everything. It is very beautiful. The stillness floods his chest with peace. No sound, just pure still beauty. After an age, the air changes – still fresh but with a hint of wood.

Billy awakens.

*

The scent in his room is overpowering, freshly cut wood. The bell on the floor tinkles three times. Billy feels the mattress beside him dip down, as if someone has just sat down on the bed, right beside him. Billy peeps out from under the covers. He looks at the bell and thinks about the time his dad gave it to him, saying, “Just ring that bell and I'll be there.”

But now, Billy remembers more. He remembers saying, “But, Dad, what about when you need me?”

“Tell you what, let's make a deal. When I'm not here but I want you to know that I am close by or that I need you, I'll ring that bell myself. How about that?” Those were his dad's exact words.

A gentle breath smelling of pickled onion and ham sandwiches blows over Billy's forehead. In his mind, Billy sees his dad.

Now, somehow, the memories are different, tinged with life, a vividness that was not there before. At first, it feels brilliant. But as the memories fill in, thicker and faster, Billy's heart turns colder and harder. It hurts. A lot.

Billy shakes his head and murmurs to himself,
I can't
.
I'm not ready
,
it hurts too much
. In that moment, the memories turn back into the static photographs that have filled his mind since his dad's death. Sobs choke in his chest. There is a gentle tap on his bedroom door, his mum walks in and plants herself beside him.

She taps his hand. Any minute now, she is going to clear her throat.

“Ahem.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“I've not asked you anything yet!”

“No, Mum, but I'm OK, just thought today would be different.”

Billy's mum looks ahead.

“And then I started really remembering him. It just hurt, so much,” Billy says.

Silence settles in the room; then the bell rolls slightly, emitting a gentle tinkle.

“He is just gone, isn't he?”

Billy rubs one of his eyes vigorously, angrily.

“Gone, Mum?” Billy shakes his head.

Mrs Spade squeezes her son's hand.

“I hate this world,” Billy says. “I just hate it.”

“Oh, Billy,” she sighs in response.

Billy glances up at her. “What is it all for?”

With her free hand, Mrs Spade curls her hair behind her ears. It is difficult to keep such wayward curls under control, even when her hair is tied up.

“Oh my goodness, you do ask such big questions.”

Billy shrugs.

“The truth is we know nothing.” Billy's mum presses her free hand flat against her chest. Billy watches her.

“So, what? It's all for nothing, all for no reason?” he snaps.

“No, I don't think that. I don't think we are meant to know why. I don't think we are meant to know what it's all for. I simply think we are meant to deal with whatever we are asked to face; and how we deal with it, well, that is our journey.”

“You are so sure?”

“I'm not sure, no. How could I be? I'm only human, just like you.” She pauses. “But we are here to learn, to realise we know nothing, to accept it, to journey, to learn – at least that's what I think,” she says deliberately.

“I do hate this world,” Billy says.

“Hmmm, so you hate Miss Beetle, Rufus, Daisy, Rex, Peter, me? You hate the sun? You hate the moon? You hate the sky?”

Billy stares ahead, his cheeks colour slightly.

“I don't think that's the truth, Billy, and anyway, hate and anger have no place here….” Billy's mum presses her hand to her chest for a second time. “No place,” she shakes her head.

Billy breathes out, “No matter what, he is still gone. I miss him so much, Mum,” he says sadly.

“Oh, Billy, I know, me too,” she pauses, “but it feels like he is close by… has to be really… because he is here.” This time, she places the palm of her hand on her son's chest and breathes slowly, deeply, “Right here.”

Billy feels his mum's hand; he feels the hollowness in his chest, the gaping void.

“Can you feel him?” she asks gently, quietly.

Billy breathes, slowly, steadily. The void is so huge, immense, a universe in his chest.

Billy looks up at his mum, who looks at her son and smiles. You imagine it is a happy smile but it's not. It is a steady, deliberate smile; it beams with the strongest most gorgeous emotion there is.

Love.

Billy's eyes widen and slowly he smiles the same smile in return. It is very beautiful.

Billy feels the universe inside him cascading and filling with light; light that has the depth and timbre of eternity.

“I love you, Mum,” he says.

“Billy, I love you too.” She smiles again. “Now, how about you get some sleep. School in the morning.” She kisses her son's forehead. “Will we say our prayer together?” Billy nods and snuggles in under his duvet.