Butterfly Summer (19 page)

We had to do this family tree once at school and of course I had nothing to put on mine – it was more like a twig than a tree. Mrs. Pond, my teacher, suggested I ask Mum for a list of all my relatives, but when I asked Mum that evening she said she was too tired. I tried asking her the next morning, but she was busy getting ready for work and she didn’t have time. I think she said something like,
For goodness’ sake, Becky, why can’t they just teach you to add up and spell properly
? And I didn’t bother asking her again after that, there didn’t seem to be much point. I glanced across at the window sill. If only I could make my family grow as easily as Mrs. Jackson’s tomatoes. Perhaps then I wouldn’t feel so frightened and alone.

Right at the end, after all the photos of Albert, there was one of me and Mack, our heads close together, talking. It was such a lovely photo. I ran my hand over it, smiling to myself.

“I was only twelve when I met Mr. Jackson,” said Mrs. Jackson, her face creasing up. “And I’ll tell you what, he gave me the exact same look young Mackie Williams is giving you in that photo. He’s smitten, Becky Miller, clear as the nose on my face.”

“No he isn’t,” I said, turning crimson. I pushed the photo away. And anyway, even if he was, how could I choose between him and Rosa May?

“No go on, take it with you,” she said.

I blushed even more as I slipped it into my pocket. “Thank you,” I whispered, shyly. “You know, Albert’s so lucky to have you as his gran.”

As I left the shop my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text from Mack:
My mum’s just picked up yours. The coast is clear x.
I rushed home and up the stairs to Mum’s room. I felt as if I was breaking into my own house, sneaking around like a thief, but I had to find out what Mum was hiding. Like Mack said that day on the way home from the pool,
It’s always better to know the truth
.

The box was still there, under her bed. I pulled it out and sat with it on my lap, trying to work up the courage to look inside. “
It’s always better to know the truth
,” I whispered to myself. And then, with my eyes half-closed, I lifted the lid, almost in slow motion, as if the whole thing might explode in my hands. But Mum must’ve remembered more about the day she collapsed than she was letting on, because the box was empty. There was nothing in it. No photo. No tatty piece of fabric with
I LOVE YOU
stitched across the middle. Nothing.

I dropped the box on the bed, my eyes flying round the room. The photo had to be here somewhere. If it was precious enough to keep hidden away for so long, she wouldn’t just throw it away. I pulled the drawer out by her bed. There was a book and a packet of tissues and some other bits and pieces. I flicked through the book to see if she’d slipped the photo inside and then turned the whole drawer upside down on the bed, but it wasn’t there.

I moved on to the wardrobe, grabbing all her folded tops and giving them a good shake before dropping them on the floor. Where would she hide a photo? It was so small. It could be anywhere. It might even be with her at the hospital, in her handbag or her pocket. I was determined to find it. The last thing I wanted was to make Mum ill again, but I felt as if I’d gone too far to give up now.

She had loads of hanging clothes. All her skirts and jackets from work and a whole load of dresses she never wore but kept anyway, year after year. They were brightly coloured, silky. The kind of dresses Stella wore. I fingered them for a moment, trying to imagine Mum, younger and happier, dressed up to go out. Then I pushed them to one side and crawled inside.

The wardrobe was deeper than I realized and the area behind the hanging clothes was pitch black. I felt around with my hands, as my eyes adjusted to the dark. There didn’t seem to be much in there except for a couple of shoeboxes, right at the back, one on top of the other. The first one had a pair of shiny, black high heels. Mum’s work shoes. I chucked them to one side and grabbed the second box.

I could tell straight away that there were no shoes inside, even before I opened it. It was old, bulging at the sides, held together with a thick elastic band. I crawled back out of the wardrobe and sat for a moment on the floor, holding the box on my lap. And then before I could change my mind, or chicken out, I removed the band and lifted the dusty lid.

The box was stuffed full of old newspaper cuttings, photos, drawings and a notebook. My breath was coming fast, my stomach churning as if I was at the highest point on a fairground ride, about to plunge down. I picked up the first cutting. The headline screamed out at me in big bold letters:

I read the article three times but it still didn’t make any sense. A local girl had drowned in a lake. It was in a field near Amble Cross. She was a brilliant swimmer but she was showing off, diving in. It was a hot summer and the lake had dried up, the water wasn’t as deep as usual and she banged her head on a rock. Her mum was there but she couldn’t save her. By the time they dragged her out of the lake it was too late. According to the article, the accident had happened twelve years ago. Two months before I was born. And the girl’s name was Rosa May.

I read the next cutting, and the next. The facts were right there in black and white, but they wouldn’t sink in. Rosa May was twelve. She’d been swimming since the age of two, she’d won countless medals. But the lake wasn’t suitable for swimming, it was full of rocks – an accident waiting to happen. There was an inquest, but the coroner returned a verdict of accidental death. The third article was all about the girl’s parents. Her mum, Tracy, was heavily pregnant when the accident happened. She was there, but she couldn’t swim. Her friend Stella said Tracy would never forgive herself; that she’d feel guilty for the rest of her life.

I wanted to stop reading but I couldn’t. I wanted to tear up every single newspaper cutting and rewind the clock to when I was sitting in Mrs. Jackson’s kitchen. The Victoria sponge churned over in my stomach, threatening to come up, but I carried on.

The girl’s dad was Ben Miller. The article said he’d never forgive himself either. He was supposed to be spending that fateful day with his daughter, but they’d rowed and she’d stormed out of the house. Tracy had followed but Ben was too angry. They’d always been close before, inseparable even, but they hadn’t been getting on.

There were photos too. But still I couldn’t take it all in. Photos of the lake and of my mum. There was even one of Stella. And there was one photo of Rosa May. It was in every article. The same photo, black and white, grainy and slightly out of focus. She had long, dark hair and flashing eyes. She was wearing a sundress. The same faded sundress
my
Rosa May had been wearing all summer. I squeezed my eyes shut tight for a second as if I could banish the image from my brain.

The notebook was actually a diary. Mum’s diary. Page after page filled with her small, neat handwriting. A couple of entries were smudgy and blurred, as if she’d been crying as she wrote them. The diary started in June, the year I was born, and finished in June a year later. I read a random entry, just one, from the middle of the book.

I was still sitting there with the diary in my hand and the articles strewn around me when I heard Mum come in from the hospital. I listened out for Stella’s voice but she was alone. I got up as if I was in a trance, grabbed some of the cuttings and walked downstairs. Mum was standing by the table, running her hand over the finished puzzle. She glanced up when she heard me.

“Who’s Rosa May?” I said, not wanting to hear the answer. Her hand flew off the puzzle and up to her face. She stumbled forward, grabbing the back of a chair to steady herself. I held up the articles in my fist. “Who is she?” I demanded. “
Who is she?
”

“I was going to tell you!” cried Mum. She took a step towards me. “That’s why we came back here. I was going to tell you everything, but I didn’t know how.”

“Tell me what?” I said. “Who is she? I saw the photo under your bed. The baby in the pink blanket. Was that Rosa May? And where’s my dad? Why have you got all these newspaper cuttings? What do they mean?” The questions burst out of me.

Mum lowered herself onto the chair. “I was going to tell you everything, Becky. That’s why I took the job, why we moved back to Oakbridge, but it’s been a nightmare. I wanted to do the right thing, for
your
sake, but I felt as if I was grieving all over again.”

“
You’re talking in riddles!
” I screamed. “
Just tell me
.
What happened to Rosa May
.
Who is she?
”

“Not
is
,” said Mum, her voice breaking. “
Was
. She was my daughter. My beautiful daughter.” Tears welled in her eyes and started to roll down her face.

I shook my head, totally bewildered. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Rosa May’s my friend. She can’t be your daughter. She’s my friend.” I felt heavy. Weighed down with confusion. It was like knowing but not knowing.

Mum seemed to fold in on herself. “Stop it,” she sobbed. “Stop it. She’s not your friend. Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. I’ll prove it to you. I’ve been meeting her every day at the Butterfly Garden. She’s my best friend. We’ve been searching for the Silver-studded Blue. I’ve got photos of her. Loads of photos. I’ll show you.”

I thought she was going to pass out. “
Stop it!
” she screamed. “
Stop saying that. You haven’t been meeting her. You haven’t got photos. She’s dead.
” She covered her ears with her hands, but I couldn’t stop.

“No she’s not. She can’t be.” I dropped the cuttings and pulled out my phone. “Look, I’ll show you! I’ll
prove
it to you!” But I realized then, somewhere deep inside, that she wouldn’t be in the photos. I knew, but I had to look anyway – to prove it to
myself
. I scrolled up and down, my fingers slipping on the screen. All those photos I’d taken of Rosa May...searching for ants, diving into the lake, tiptoeing round Butterfly Rock...they were all there – the ants, the lake, the rock – but Rosa May wasn’t in them. Not a single one. It was as if she’d been erased.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered, frightened now. “Why did you keep her secret for so long?” I stared at Mum, the awful, heart-wrenching truth seeping through my body like poison. All the little things that didn’t add up. The fact that I never once saw Rosa May outside of the Garden, that I never saw her eat, or met her dad or anyone else she knew. The way Maggie and Jean kept commenting on how nice it would be for me to have a friend; how concerned they seemed.

“I’ve got to go to her,” I said weakly. “She’ll be waiting for me on the bridge.”

Mum tried to grab me. “Stop it,” she said again. “Rosa May is dead. She was my beautiful girl but I couldn’t save her. I tried, God knows I tried, but I couldn’t.”

I pushed her away as hard as I could. “
But she’s still there!
” I screamed. “
And she needs me! You don’t understand anything!
” I was so angry I wanted to lash out, hurt her. “
Why didn’t you save her? WHY DID YOU LET HER DIE?
” I lunged at the puzzle suddenly, clawing at it, messing it up. “This is all you care about!” I flung the pieces of the puzzle at her, one handful after the other. The sky, the fields, the bright red poppies.

Mum tried to grab hold of me again but I shoved her out of the way, snatched back one of the articles, and ran out of the house.

I didn’t stop once the whole way to the Garden. It was scorching hot, the sun a blazing ball in the sky. I could hear Mum calling after me but I didn’t look back. I had to see Rosa May. To touch her. To tell her how much I loved her. She was waiting for me on the bridge. I could see her from the entrance. Relief coursed through me as I raced across the field.

“I knew you’d be back,” she called out as I got closer. Her arms were still folded stiffly across her chest as if she hadn’t moved since I left the Garden earlier. “I knew you’d choose me over Mack.”

I stumbled onto the bridge, waving the cutting. “Look,” I said. “I found this article hidden away in my mum’s wardrobe.” I bent over double, trying to catch my breath, scared to look at her, scared of what I might see. “I know what happened. I know everything.”