Feather Boy. Nicky Singer

and then “on the building”, he got paid sixpence a day.

      “How much is sixpence?” asks Kate.

      “Eh?” says Albert.

      “Sixpence – how much was it worth?”

      “Three loaves of bread, that’s what sixpence were.”

      “No,” says Edith Sorrel. “I did not have a job. Young women were not encouraged to have jobs.”

      And then I think she’s not really trying and it’s not fair and anyhow I’m cross about the biscuits, so I say: “Any special reason why you didn’t want a girl?”

      “No.”

      “OK. Any special reason for wanting me?”

      She stares at me. Under her gaze, I feel quite transparent. As though she’s looking straight through me and out the other side.

      “I mean me,” I persist, “me rather than any other boy?”

      “No,” says Edith Sorrel.

      “Well,” says Catherine, as the tea trolley finally beats a retreat, “I’d like to tell you all a story.”

      “Oh aye,” says Albert.

      Edith Sorrel clasps her hands in her lap. And I have this weird sensation that she’s holding herself, trying to comfort herself.

      “It’s about a silent prince and the young woman who wants to free him from the curse that has rendered him mute. The Prince’s mother and father, the King and Queen, have promised the riches of their kingdom to anyone who can make the young man speak. But for those who try and fail, the penalty is to be instant death.”

      “Is it Neighbours?” asks Mavis.

      “You daft brush,” says Albert.

      “Well, the young woman knew it would take more than skill or cunning or luck to make the Prince speak, for many had gone before her and as many had lost their lives. So the young woman took herself into the forest where her grandparents lived. And as they sat around the cottage after supper, she told them of her plan.

      “‘Oh my beloved,’ cried her grandmother, ‘you know not what you ask.’

      “‘Indeed I do, Grandmother,’ said the girl. ‘And that is why I’m here. I have come to listen and to learn. For you and Grandfather have lived long in the forest and understand how it is that night turns into day and winter into spring. And if this were not enough, you have lived long in each other’s hearts and so understand the dark and light of love, and if this were not enough you have read many books and told many stories and so know what makes a beginning and what an end. I beg you, Grandparents, share what you can with me, for I am eager to know what you know and to carry your wisdom to the Prince.’”

      “Nurse,” cries Mavis. “Shut the curtains!”

      “I’ve nearly finished now,” says Catherine, gently. “If you want to sleep. But you see, the grandparents did tell the girl their wisdom. All night long they spoke and she listened. And I was hoping we could do something similar here.”

      “What?” says Albert.

      “She wants you to tell the children your secrets,” shouts Matron.

      “No I won’t indeed. They’d be shocked.”

      “Not secrets,” says Catherine. “Wisdoms. Things you’ve learnt over the years.”

      “Not to be nosey,” says Weasel’s Elder. “That’s what. Mind your own business. That’s what. Little piggies have big ears. That’s what.”

      “Well, that’s a start,” says Catherine.

      “That’s what,” says Weasel emphatically.

      “Wesley…” says Liz Finch.

      “I’m just repeating the wisdom,” says Weasel. “Learning from Dulcie here. That right, Dulcie?”

      “Cheeky little blighter,” says Dulcie.

      “Anything you’d share with me,” I say to Edith Sorrel, “if I was going to be beheaded tomorrow?”

      “No.”

      I put my finger to my throat and make the sound of ripping flesh. “That’s me gone then.”

      “What?” For the first time she seems caught off-guard.

      “Dead,” I repeat. “I’m dead. Just twelve years old and dead. D.E.A.D. Dead. Finished. Kaput. Head on the carpet.”

      “Stop it,” says Edith Sorrel. “Stop it at once.”

      “Can’t stop it. Sorry, without The Wisdom, I’m a goner. Didn’t Catherine say? Just one or two old forest truths and I’ll be OK. You can save me. You do want to save me, don’t you?”

      She gives me that stare. “Of course. I’d give my life to save you. You know that.”

      “Oh. Right. Great. Well, you’ve got to tell me something important then.”

      “What?”

      “I don’t know! You’re supposed to be telling me. Whatever the most important thing in your life is. Was. Whatever.”

      “Top Floor Flat. Chance House, twenty-six St Albans.”

      “What?”

      “You can go there. Walk. It’s not far.”

      Geography has never exactly been my strong point but I’d say St Albans has to be two and a half hours’ drive from here. So maybe Niker’s right about the vegetable shop after all.

      “Sure,” I say. “I’ll go right after school.”

      “You’re such a good boy,” she says and then she reaches up towards my head and gives me this little dry, tender tap. “Beautiful,” she murmurs, hand in my hair, “beautiful.”

      I pull away. “It’s horrid,” I say, “my hair.” And I tell her how they used to call me “Chickie”.

      “I don’t see Chickie,” she says and then: “Pass me my bag.”

      Jammed down the side of the seat is one of those triangular witches’ bags, faded black leather with a large gold clasp. I extract it and hand it to her as instructed. From the musty interior she draws out a mirror in a suede case.

      “Now,” she wipes the surface with the back of her liver-spotted hand. “What do you see?”

      She holds the mirror up to her own face. And this is what I see: A spooky old bat with snow-white hair, weird black eyebrows and about a million wrinkles.

      “Come on,” she urges, “come on.”

      “I just see a lady.”

      “No, you don’t.”

      “Well an old… erm, an elderly lady then.”

      “Liar,” she says. “Tell me what you see.”

      But I can’t.

      So she says, “You see an old hag. A wrinkled old hag. Yes?”

      “Maybe.”

      “So do I.” She puts away the mirror. “It always surprises me. You see, I expect to see the girl I was at twenty. With skin and hair like yours. And yet whenever I look – there’s the old hag.” She laughs quietly.

      “Right.”

      “So you’ll go to Chance House for me?”

      I’m not sure where the “so” comes from in this. There doesn’t seem any “so” about it. But I nod like the sad guy I am.

      “Good. Thank you.”

      “Everything