My Name Is Mina

  “THERE IS A CAT NAMED WHISPER WHICH SLINKS PAST THE HOUSE TO THE OVERGROWN GARDEN AT THE BACK OF THE HOUSE.”

  FOR INSTANCE:

  “THE BLACKBIRDS HAVE MADE THEIR NEST AND THERE ARE THREE BLUE-GREEN BROWN-SPECKLED EGGS IN IT.”

  AND SO THEY ALL APPEAR IN MY BOOK:

  THE BOY, THE WOMAN, THE MAN, THE CAT,

  THE HOUSE, THE GARDEN,

  THE BLACKBIRDS, THE TREE, THE EGGS, THE NEST.

  AND SOMETIMES I HESITATE.

  AND SOMETIMES I WONDER,

  IS THERE SOMEONE WHO WRITES,

  “THERE IS A GIRL CALLED MINA SITTING IN A TREE.”

  IS THERE SOMEONE WHO WRITES,

  “SOMETIMES SHE HESITATES AND SOMETIMES SHE WONDERS.”

  AND IF THERE IS, WHO IS IT?

  WHO WRITES MINA?

  WHO WRITES ME?

  I could have gone on writing until darkness came, but Mum called me in. I climbed out of the tree. It felt so weird, like I was coming out from a dream. Or like I was coming out from a poem or a story, or like I was a poem or a story myself. Or like I was coming out from an egg! Spaghetti pomodoro helped me to feel ordinary again. Spaghetti pomodoro! I curled it around my fork and plunged it into my mouth. I slurped the dangling threads of pasta. I licked the sauce that dribbled down my chin. I chewed and rolled it all around my mouth. Delicious! So delicious! One of the most delicious things in the known universe!

  Mum says that one day we’ll go to Italy together and eat spaghetti pomodoro in the land of its birth. We’ll have Parmesan cheese and Parma ham and sun-dried tomatoes and polenta and risotto and olives and garlic and fettuccini and ice cream and tiramisu and zabaglione in the land of their birth, where they taste far better than anywhere else. I haven’t traveled much yet but Mum says I will, when we can afford it.

  When we finish the spaghetti, and the lovely tomatoey garlicky taste is still on our tongues, we sit on the sofa and eat ice cream as the sun goes down outside the window.

  I tell her about the blackbirds’ eggs and the goldfinches and the family at Mr. Myers’s house who look as if they will soon move in.

  Then we’re quiet, and we watch the sky darkening and reddening as the sun goes down. We see birds flapping nestward. We see an airplane far far away and oh so high. I think of the astounding journeys that birds make across the world. And I think of the journeys I could make one day.

  “Bologna,” I say softly.

  She smiles. Sometimes we do this, just list the names of the places we’ll go to one day.

  “Andalucia.”

  “Luxor.”

  “Trinidad.”

  “Seaton Sluice.”

  The reason that we have so little money is that she cut down on the work she did when I left school so that she could care for me properly and have the time to teach me. But she never mentions it. She only says that until the day we set off together, I will have to travel in my mind.

  “And in my dreams,” I say.

  “Yes. You can travel in your dreams.”

  “To Ashby-de-la-Zouch,” I say.

  “Or Vladivostok.”

  “Corryvreckan, Trinidad, Peru.”

  The sky outside is almost black.

  “I found out such an interesting thing today,” she says.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. It seems that some birds fly right through the night, and sleep as they fly.”

  “They sleep as they fly?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of birds?”

  “Swifts, it seems.”

  I smile at the thought.

  “John O’ Groats.”

  “County Kerry.”

  “Ayers Rock.”

  “Lhasa.”

  Later, when I go to bed, I pin some words above my bed and hope to dream.

  At the start, it wasn’t really like a dream at all. It was quite like waking up. Mina found herself in her own bedroom, and it was exactly like her own bedroom. Then she realized that there were two Minas. One lay fast asleep in bed, and one was standing at the bedside looking down at the Mina who lay fast asleep in bed.

  That’s strange, she thought. I’m looking at myself. How can that be?

  As she thought this thought, she started to rise towards the ceiling. The Mina in bed did not stir. Mina-who-was-rising saw that there was a kind of shining silver cord that stretched between herself and Mina-on-the-bed. The cord joined the two Minas together, even though they were apart. The Mina who was rising wondered if she should feel scared about what was happening, but really there seemed to be nothing scary about it at all. She looked down at herself, at the pale sleeping face, the closed sleeping eyes, the pitch-black hair. She saw the duvet rising and falling gently as Mina breathed. It all seemed so calm and so comfortable. She smiled, and rose even higher, through the ceiling, into the dark attic space above. She saw the boxes of her old toys that were stacked up there, boxes of her mum’s papers, boxes of Christmas decorations and old books. The shining silver cord stretched through the attic floor towards the now-hidden Mina-on-the-bed. And she kept on rising, through the roof itself, and now she was above the house, in the night, with the moon and stars above, and the house and Falconer Road below, and with the silver cord stretching through the roof slates towards Mina-on-the-bed. She gasped, and for a moment the cord seemed to tighten, as if it was about to pull her right back to where she’d come from, but she whispered to herself, “Don’t be scared, Mina. Don’t stop it now.”

  And she and the cord relaxed and she rose high above the house, and the street, and she saw the strings of streetlights, and the darkness of the park, and the whole city, and the glimmering river running through it, and the spiral of the motorway, and the roads that ran out toward the moors, and she saw the huge dark sea with the reflections of the moon and stars on it, and a spinning lighthouse light, and the lights of a lonely ship far out upon the seas.

  And she laughed.

  “I’m traveling!” she said. “I shall go to … Seaton Sluice!”

  And as she said the name of the little seaside town she descended again and found herself hovering above the town she’d been to several times in her waking life. There they all were, the long beach and the turning waves, the white pub on the headland, little tethered fishing boats, the narrow river running into the sea.

  The silver cord vibrated and shimmered. It stretched away from her towards where she’d come from, linking Mina-at-Seaton-Sluice to Mina-on-the-bed.

  She hovered. She wondered.

  “Cairo!” she whispered.

  And she rose again, and off she went towards the east, across the North Sea, across the whole of Europe with its great cities and its snow-capped mountains, and she looked down and thought to herself, That must be Amsterdam! The Alps! Milan! Belgrade! Athens!! And she traveled across the Mediterranean Sea towards the northern shores of Africa, where the sky was beginning to lighten with the dawn.

  She saw the great great dusty city of Cairo and heard its din and roar, and saw the pyramids beyond its edge, rising over the desert. She traveled closer. She hovered over the tip of the greatest pyramid. She eased herself gently downward until she stood there, right on the point of the Great Pyramid of Giza, with the other pyramids and the great sphinx and the desert on one horizon and the city of Cairo on the other. And she shivered with the joy of it.

  And the silver cord that linked Mina-on-the-pyramid to Mina-on-the-bed suddenly tightened and away she went again, back into the west where it was still true night.

  She traveled back over Europe, even more swiftly than she’d come. She paused, high high up, above the clouds that lay like scattered thin veils between herself and the earth. The cities of Europe were like distant star-clusters, like galaxies.

  And she streaked down towards Rome. She saw the streetlights, the headlights of a few cars moving through the streets, and with a gasp of delight she saw the floodlit Colosseum and St. Peter’s Square and the Trevi Fountain, places she knew only from books unt
il now. Then the cord tugged her harder, faster, and she flew again. The land below was just a blur.

  Just one more place! she thought. Durham!

  And she saw the cathedral and the castle, the river snaking around them, and to the east the dawn kept rising, rising, as if it was pursuing her. And she sighed and said, “OK! Back home to bed!” And suddenly she was above the park, and the silver cord vibrated and shimmered as it drew her home.

  She woke as the early light shone through the window and birds chorused outside.

  “Peru,” she murmured. “Alice Springs. Vladivostok. I’ll go to all those places, too.”

  EXTRAORDINARY ACTIVITY

  Go to sleep.

  Sleep while you fly.

  Fly while you sleep.

  The days are passing quickly. Maybe it will soon be properly spring at last. The family have bought the house. The mum and dad come with stepladders and buckets and mops and brushes. They clean and scrub for hours at a time. Each day I climb high in the tree. Each day the blackbirds squawk, Get back, girl! Squawk! You’re danger! Squawk!

  Now I’m sitting at the table by my window in my room. And it’s time to tell the tale of the Corinthian Avenue Pupil Referral Unit.

  When Mum said she wanted to take me out of school and educate me herself, a man and a woman from the council came to the house. I don’t remember their names. Ms. Palaver and Mr. Trench, perhaps. They sat together on the sofa and drank tea and nibbled biscuits and tried to look caring and oh-so-concerned. Ms. Palaver (who, I noticed, kept well clear of the fig rolls) watched me out of the corner of her eye. I sat very prim and very proper on a piano stool. They said that legally, Mum was of course well within her rights to make this decision. Did we understand the implications, though? Educating me at home would be quite a drain on Mum’s energy and time. We would not have the facilities of school. I would not have the benefit of company of children of my own age. Mum said we realized those things. We were quite prepared for them. She said we were quite happy about them. And our plan for home education might not last forever.

  “Though it might,” I said quickly.

  Ms. Palaver looked at me in surprise. I looked back at her. She was wearing a black suit with a white blouse and silver earrings. Mr. Trench was also in black and white. I was about to ask them if they were off to a funeral but I thought perhaps not. So instead, somewhat to my own surprise, I said,

  “Ms. Palaver.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  Mum gave me a look.

  “I’m not certain I understand,” said Ms. Palaver.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  I sat up straight again. I looked past Ms. Palaver into the street.

  Mum started talking about how Mina had an adventurous mind. She said she’d be able to commit lots of time to Mina. She talked about Mina’s dad and about Mina being an only child and about how she had no objections to St. Bede’s itself, but …

  “And as for facilities,” I said, “we have a very nice tree in the front garden in which I have many thoughts. And the kitchen is a fine laboratory and art room. And who could devise a better classroom than the world itself?”

  Mum smiled.

  “As you see,” she said, “Mina is a girl with her own opinions and attitudes.”

  Ms. Palaver peered at me closely. I could see her thinking that Mina was an impertinent girl with her own pompous crackpot notions.

  “To be quite frank,” I said, looking straight back at her, “We feel that schools are cages.”

  “Indeed?” said Ms. Palaver.

  “Yes,” I continued. “We feel that schools inhibit the natural intelligence, curiosity and creativity of children.”

  Mr. Trench rolled his eyes.

  Mum smiled and shook her head.

  Ms. Palaver said again, “Indeed?”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “Before you make your final decision, Mrs. McKee,” said Mr. Trench, “you might find it worthwhile to have Mina spend a day at Corinthian Avenue.”

  “Corinthian Avenue?” said Mum.

  “It’s where we send children who don’t …”

  “Or who won’t …,” said Ms. Palaver.

  Mr. Trench brought out a leaflet from the inside pocket of his black jacket. He held it out to Mum.

  “Can’t do any harm,” he said.

  EXTRAORDINARY ACTIVITY

  Read the Poems of William Blake.

  (Especially if you are Ms. Palaver.)

  The thought of Corinthian Avenue makes me edgy, so I pick up my book and my pen and head downstairs. This is something that needs to be written in the tree! Mum’s on the phone in the living room. I get an apple from the fruit bowl and bite into it. I put some trainers on. It looks chilly outside so I put a jacket and scarf on. She’s still on the phone.

  “I’m going outside!” I call.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I’m going out, Mum!” I call again.

  I listen. I shrug and head for the door.

  Then she’s there, coming out of the living room.

  I point to the book and pen.

  “Going into the tree,” I say.

  “OK.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Who was what?”

  “On the phone.”

  “Oh, on the phone? Colin.”

  “Colin?”

  “Colin Pope. Remember? You met him when we went to the theater the other week. In the interval.”

  “Oh, him.”

  She folds her arms and tilts her head and looks at me.

  “Yes. Him.”

  I think back. Colin Pope, a skinny tall man with a pint of beer in his hand.

  “He was nice, wasn’t he? Remember?”

  I shrug. I don’t remember if he was nice. I hardly remember him at all. Why should I? And anyway, what’s nice? He shook my hand and said he’d heard a lot about me. I don’t think I said anything to him. I read the program while they prattled and drank and nibbled peanuts. The play was Grimm Tales. I do remember I thought about talking about whether wolves really were as savage as they’re made out to be in the fairy tales. But I didn’t, and they prattled on.

  “Remember him?” Mum says again.

  “Not sure if I do,” I say.

  She grins.

  “I’ll be off to the tree,” I say.

  “Go on, then.”

  I head for the door. I hesitate there.

  “What did he want?” I say.

  “Just to say hello.”

  “Took a long time to say hello.”

  I go out and close the door.

  Huh! Colin Pope!

  I’m in the tree. The leaves are thickening fast. I check the eggs. Still there, still three of them, still beautiful.

  Squawk squawk, go the blackbirds.

  “OK,” I whisper back.

  I sit on my branch, surrounded by thickening leaves. Soon I’ll be quite hidden away up here. I turn my mind back towards the past.

  They sent a red taxi to take me to Corinthian Avenue – maybe to make sure I went at all. Mum came with me that morning. The taxi driver was wearing a yellow football strip with PELÉ written across the back.

  He kept looking at me in the driver’s mirror as we set off.

  “Do you take many to Corinthian Avenue?” I asked him.

  “Sure do. Got a contract. I’ve took quite a crew to Corinthian Avenue in my time, I can tell you.”

  He drove on, past the park, through the slow-moving traffic towards the city center.

  “And I could tell a tale or two,” he said.

  “Tell one,” I said.

  “No chance.”

  He shook his head. He took a hand off the steering wheel and tapped his nose.

  “Confidentiality,” he said.

  He wound the window down and leaned an elbow on the frame.

  “More’n my job’s worth,” he said.

  The traffic thickened, edged through the streets past the offices and shops. We drove slowly
onto the bridge. The arch arced beautifully above us. The river sparkled beautifully below.

  I caught him watching me again.

  “So what’s your story?” he said. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Tell me to shut up and stop prying if you like. But some kids like to get it off their chest with a bloke like me. And whatever you say’ll stay within these cab walls.”

  I looked at Mum. She looked at me.

  “I think we’ll just keep it to ourselves, thank you very much,” said Mum.

  “It’s OK, Mum,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Pelé will keep it secret.”

  “It’s Karl,” said Karl.

  “OK,” I said. “It was violence, Karl.”

  “Get away,” said Karl.

  “It’s true. I attacked a teacher.”

  “Aye?”

  “Aye. With a pen.”

  “A pen?”

  “Aye. It made a great weapon. I stabbed her in the heart. I’m really vicious once I start. I don’t look like it, but I’m a bloody savage!”

  I snarled into the mirror. I bared my teeth. Karl raised his eyebrows. He shook his head. He whistled softly.

  “Goes to show.”

  “Goes to show what?”

  “That you never can tell.”

  “That’s what I think as well. You never can tell.”

  He drove on slowly in silence.

  “She asked for it,” I said.

  “Aye?”

  “Aye. She went on and on. Yak yak yak.”

  “Yak yak yak?” said Karl.

  “Yes. Yak yak yakkity yakkity yak yak yak.”

  “I had a teacher like that,” said Karl.

  “Was she called Mrs. Scullery?”

  “Nah. It was a bloke. Blotter, we called him. Can’t remember his real name.”