Wildoak Read online

  To all children who stutter.

  To all who speak for the animals

  and all who speak for the trees.

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Wildoak Forest was whisper-still. Spiderwebs glistened in the half-light, dipped in frost. Soft white snowflakes drifted down without a sound. Badgers huddled deep in their setts. A tawny owl swooped between the black-and-white branches, quiet as a ghost. And deep beneath the layers of fresh white snow and rich brown earth, the ancient trees spoke to one another, through a tapestry of roots and veins no finer than a spool of gossamer thread.

  Then something happened in the forest that had never happened there before and would never happen there again.

  A van drove slowly down the lane, headlights groping through the whirling snow. A man got out. His leather shoes skidded along the ice-packed lane. He peered at the silhouettes of the tall trees and nodded. “This will do,” he said, his breath melting into wisps. Then he switched on a flashlight and opened up the back of the van.

  He unlocked a cage.

  A cage that had no business carrying what it carried.

  FEBRUARY

  1963

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  Maggie pressed the tip of one finger against the point of her pencil. It was keen and sharp. But was it sharp enough? Surely. Her stomach felt hollow and shaky inside. In fact everything felt shaky, even her legs. She rolled the yellow pencil between her thumb and forefinger. She flipped and twisted it, tapping one end against the surface of her desk. It was the only way out.

  Hilary Muir was next. She started reading at the top of page thirty-two, second paragraph, fourth sentence in. Her voice was crisp and light. It flowed like music.

  Maggie bit her lip. If she could just get through the first line without stuttering. Maybe the rest would follow and then she could put away the pencil.

  No.

  She would block. She was bound to. Some of the words would come out fine, and then, suddenly, they wouldn’t. The air would catch, her head would jerk around, her mouth would lock open, she would blink repeatedly, and every single person in the room would stare.

  And laugh.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Laughing mouths and pointing fingers crowded in. She couldn’t bear it. And then everyone would know, and she would have to move schools. Again.

  She opened her eyes and glanced around. The classroom windows were locked. The door was closed. Old radiators clinked along the bare cream walls. The air was hot and stuffy. Louisa Walker sat on her right, listening, reading, following along with her ruler. They had never really talked, but she had always seemed kind. Maybe this time would be different, Maggie thought desperately. Maybe Louisa wouldn’t laugh. Or Nicola. Nicola Robinson was kind too. Lots of people were kind.

  There was a pause, a shuffling of feet, the rustling of pages.

  “Thank you, Hilary. Well read—beautiful in fact. Margaret Stephens, please start at the bottom of page thirty-four.” Miss Bryant’s voice sounded muffled and far away as it drifted across the classroom. “Margaret?” she repeated.

  A stifled giggle. Somebody was laughing already, and she hadn’t even opened her mouth. Maggie could feel the wool of her sweater, tight around her neck.

  “Margaret Stephens, are you listening to me?”

  She stared down at the page, at the printed words, curling, pointed, full of sharp edges, like a mouthful of fishhooks. Miss Bryant’s question hung in the air. Everyone was staring now. Waiting for her to start. It’s the only way out. Maggie’s heart thudded against her rib cage. She gripped the pencil. She pulled it back. Now. She drove the keenly sharpened point deep

  down

  into

  the

  soft

  palm

  of

  her

  left

  hand.

  She let out a gasp of shocked pain. Tears scalded her cheeks. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet and held up her hand. The pencil protruded from it like a grotesque oversized splinter. She trembled. Beads of scarlet blood escaped from the wound and dropped to the floor.

  “Oh my goodness! Margaret, what on earth just happened? Are you all right? Quickly! You’re excused! Get yourself to Nurse Nora right away! Go!”

  Maggie ran out of the classroom, ignoring the sweep of horrified and disgusted faces. Nobody was laughing now. She kept running, holding her own hand, footsteps echoing along the corridors of Southam Primary. But more than the pain, she felt a rush of relief.

  Nurse Nora was a large, plump woman with small eyes, a navy-blue uniform, and starched white cap. She moved with a cumbersome gait from one side of the room to the other.

  “Margaret Stephens. Again? What is it this time?”

  Maggie looked down. She held out her hand without saying anything.

  “Well, how on earth did that happen? Speak up, child!”

  Maggie continued to look down. Her excuses for being sent out had been getting more and more extreme. There was no point in trying to explain. Nurse Nora of all people would never understand.

  “You’ve been in here six times in three weeks. It’s not normal.” Nurse Nora sighed deeply. “You’re almost twelve years old, Margaret. You can’t possibly be this clumsy all the time.”

  Silence.

  Nurse Nora glared. Maggie swallowed hard. It really hurt now, the throbbing in her hand.

  “So once again you’ve got nothing to say for yourself. What a surprise.”

  Maggie stared at the toes of her shoes. She had not polished them, and they were scuffed and worn-looking. Why couldn’t people see that none of this was a choice? She didn’t choose to stutter. It wasn’t a question of trying harder or breathing more slowly or whatever. She stuttered and couldn’t help it, no matter what she tried to do or not do. Sometimes the words came out fine, but mostly they didn’t.

  The room suddenly felt small and cramped. She glanced at the door.

  “Sit down,” said Nurse Nora, following her gaze and pointing at a stool. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Maggie watched her rummage through one of the cabinets and pull down a large bottle of iodine and a jar of cotton balls. She unscrewed the cap with a high-pitched squeak. The dark yellow liqui
d soaked into the soft white fluff like a filthy stain. “This is going to hurt,” she said.

  Maggie stared at her, at the smallness of her eyes and dabs of pale blue eye shadow. You’re a terrible nurse, she thought. You’ve never made me feel better about anything. She longed to snatch her hand away and run out.

  Nurse Nora took hold of Maggie’s wrist and placed her fat fingers around the pencil. She tugged. There was a faint squelching, and the pencil came loose, releasing a gush of blood. Quickly, Nurse Nora pressed down hard with the soaked cotton ball, covering the open wound with iodine. Maggie stifled a scream as the sting raced up her arm, burning like fire.

  “You know, I’ve always thought there was something wrong with you, ever since you got here, Margaret.” Nurse Nora fluttered her pale blue eyelids, apparently deep in thought. “It’s your voice, isn’t it? You try to hide it. I’ve seen you in the playground, sitting by yourself, not talking to the other children, even when they come up to you. It’s not normal, not right.” She transferred the pressure onto Maggie’s good hand.

  Maggie felt a wave of nausea and thought she might be sick. “Well, they can treat people with frozen mouth nowadays.” Nurse Nora continued, the words shooting out of her like little lead pellets. Maggie tried not to listen, but the woman kept on. “There are places, you know, special hospitals, institutions for the disabled. There’s one in east London, and it’s very well respected.” She reached for a metal tray containing several needles and a spool of dark green thread. “I’m going to tell your parents about it. Granville Place, I think it’s called.”

  Maggie shuddered. She had heard of Granville. Tom Baker from St. Anne’s had been sent there months ago, because of his limp. Maggie remembered his mother at the school gates, all pink-eyed and teary. Everyone had talked about it. One of his friends had been to see him and claimed that kids were being locked into cupboards for crying and strapped down to their beds. He’d said the “doctors” had sounded all caring and nice to the parents, but on the inside it was a nightmare, with children so hungry they had to eat grass and toothpaste to keep themselves from starving. Grass and toothpaste.

  Nurse Nora cleared her throat. She tapped a needle on the side of a metal tray. It made a soft pinging sound. She held it up between her thumb and forefinger.

  “It’s not right,” she went on, threading the needle. “For somebody like you, Margaret, to be put in a class with properly behaved children. It’s disruptive. And this, well, this is quite simply the final straw.”

  Maggie turned her face away and looked out the window. She did not want to give Nurse Nora the satisfaction of seeing that her words hurt. Even more than the pain in her hand.

  “Now then, don’t move.” Nurse Nora squeezed Maggie’s fingers and lifted the needle. Maggie clenched her good fist. She had never had stitches before. She stared at the grimy raindrops as they broke and trickled down the glass. And once again, from somewhere deep inside her heart, she felt the howl of wanting to be exactly like everyone else: To speak without stuttering, to say whatever she wanted to say. To be understood. To be heard.

  The needle went in.

  The snow leopard cub scooted his backside into the corner of the pen, reversing slowly, sinking lower and lower. His paws were still large and clumsy compared to the rest of his body, and he had yet to master the art of stealth. His long, fluffy tail flicked from side to side. His ears flattened. This was going to be an epic pounce. Back a little farther still, the length of his body winding up and up, a coiled spring in secret. Until—

  Whoosh!

  He sprang forward, leaping into the air, a rocket of fur, ready to knock his sister off the top of the ramp … but he missed … and came tumbling down on the other side of the pen in a heap of flailing limbs, too gawky to be graceful. His head hit the side of the ramp with a loud thwump and he rolled over, paws still swiping the air.

  The female cub pranced sideways and scaled one of the climbing poles, delighted by her narrow escape. She was lean and agile, and her body moved like a ripple of silver-dappled water. She looked down on her brother, a glimmer of satisfaction in her bright blue eyes.

  The male cub got back on his feet.

  His tail was so long and furry, it looked as though he was being permanently electrocuted.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  The cubs turned to face an array of human faces, noses and fingers poking through the wired front of their pen. Eyes, staring. They all had predator eyes, set apart on the front, not to the side like prey. The male cub sniffed the air and gazed back for a moment. Then he turned and raced after his sister, his claws sinking deep into the stringy surface of the climbing pole. She darted even higher. But there was not enough space at the top for the two of them, and she swiftly batted him back down.

  The humans tittered and pointed.

  A woman wearing a brightly colored headscarf leaned closer toward the mesh. She tapped her fingernails against the taut wire some more.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “What a cute baby leopard. Or is it a panther? What is it, darling? Oh, it’s so sweet.”

  “I’ve no idea. It’s got spots, probably a cheetah,” said the man beside her.

  “No, it’s silver! Cheetahs are yellow. Oh, do look here, kitty, kitty!”

  Tap-tap-tappety-tap.

  They continued to stare. The man had a long, thin nose that was pink at the tip. He sniffed up a drip of leaky mucus and pulled out his handkerchief.

  “It must be a leopard,” said the woman. “Do you think your sister would like a leopard? She has all those leopard-skin coats. What do you think?”

  “Don’t be daft, dear. Her flat is tiny.” The man blew his nose.

  “Darling, we’re running out of ideas and time! Thirty is a big birthday. We need to find something … dramatic. Before tomorrow. Besides, her friend Violet what’s-her-name, that woman in Knightsbridge she always has tea with? She’s got a pet lioness, and her place isn’t much bigger.”

  “Oh, come on, dear. My sister can barely look after herself, let alone a large cat.” He blew his nose again with a loud trumpeting sound, folded the handkerchief, and placed it back in the pocket of his overcoat. “And what would she do with it once the thing grows up?”

  “Well, what else are we going to give her? We’ve been through every department in the whole of Harrods! This is the most luxurious department store in the world. Queen Elizabeth shops here, for goodness’ sake. Where else do you want to go? Besides, Arabella is terribly lonely.”

  The man narrowed his eyes for a moment and leaned in. His nostrils flared. His cold was getting worse, and he was tired of shopping.

  “Perhaps it would be just the thing,” he muttered. “Yes, perhaps you’re right, dear.” He checked his watch and leaned away from the pen. “I’ve changed my mind. I think it’s an excellent idea. Dear?”

  But the woman had moved on, intrigued by the armadillos for sale in the pen next door. The man turned and waved at one of the assistants in a smart green uniform hovering nearby.

  “Excuse me? Yes—you. Thanks. I would like to buy one of these—er … what is it exactly?”

  “A snow leopard, sir,” said the man, dusting off one of his jacket lapels. “Panthera uncia.”

  “Right, yes, whatever. I want one. Can I have it delivered tomorrow, by any chance, to a specific address?”

  “I’ll just have to check the delivery options, sir, but I doubt it’ll be a problem. Would you prefer the male or the female?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Very well, sir. Give me a moment. There are some questions you’ll need to answer and a few instructions to read through. Won’t take long. If you’d care to follow me, we’ll get you sorted out in a jiffy.”

  “Very well. Er, does it, do they have names?”

  “You’re welcome to change the names upon purchase, sir.” The assistant smiled. “But yes, for the moment they go by Rumpus and Rosie.”

  “Ah.” The man nodded. “Rather silly names if
you ask me.”

  The assistant nodded, perhaps a little curtly. “As I said, sir, you’re welcome to change the names upon purchase, as you see fit. This way, please.”

  “Dear! Come along, we have to fill out some paperwork. Gloria dear! Come along!” the man called out to the woman in the bright headscarf. She looked up and hurried back to him.

  A few hours later, Rumpus and Rosie were curled up beside each other. They had fallen asleep, oblivious to the thinning crowd of shoppers and the ending of the day. Rumpus was dreaming. His eyes were shut tight, paws trembling. Rosie was on her back, her soft creamy underbelly sprawled sideways and thick, fluffy tail wrapped around her back legs like a blanket. Her nose was pressed up against her brother’s fur. This was how they always slept, warmed by each other, comforted by each other.

  A sudden shaft of bright light flooded the pen, and both of them woke with a start.

  Large hands in white gloves reached forward, and Rumpus felt himself picked up by the scruff of his neck.

  He mewed, wriggled, and swiped. Then he felt a sharp needle puncture his left flank, and within minutes, everything went dark.

  Maggie shut the door to her bedroom, gently. She threw down her satchel and kicked off her school shoes. She loved her room. The low ceiling sloped at odd angles, creating nooks and cubbyholes so that she had to duck whenever she climbed into bed. She loved the small crooked cupboard hidden in the far corner. More specifically, she loved the feeling she got every time she crawled inside the cupboard. It was the feeling of being whole.

  She peeled off her wool socks, damp from the wet, snowy walk home. The floorboards were cold but familiar and reassuring beneath the soles of her feet as she crossed the room. She lifted the cupboard latch with her good hand.

  “Hi, everyone,” she said. The space was just big enough for her and lit with thin strips of natural light from the open rafters above. There was enough room to sit cross-legged but not quite enough to stand up all the way. The walls were rough and unfinished and lined with a single, slightly wonky shelf of pinewood. Along the shelf stood a series of boxes, jars, and neat stacks of newspapers. A small chopping board and knife rested at one end, covered in bits of carrot and sliced raisins.