Wildoak Read online

  “Wellington? Wellington, I’m back,” she whispered, lifting a shoebox off the shelf and into her lap. The sides of the box had been cut open to make miniature windows and a front door that never closed.

  “Hello, my friend,” she said, nudging a nest of straw and bits of torn-up newspaper. A small brown mouse poked his head out, whiskers twitching. “How are you doing? I’ve got so much to tell you.” Maggie paused. “It’s not really a good kind of tell you. More of a bad kind of tell you.” The mouse shook his head and dislodged little pieces of straw from behind his ears. Then he stood up on his hind legs and cocked his head to one side, almost as if he were listening.

  It had been this way since Maggie could remember. Since the day her parents had first taken her to London Zoo and she’d seen the tiger. He had come up to her on the other side of the bars, close. Close enough for Maggie to look directly into his gold-amber eyes. “You’re trying to tell me things,” she had whispered, her small human heart beating hard. “But you can’t get the words out, can you?”

  Then, without thinking, she had started talking to the big cat and her words had flowed. No stuttering, no blocks, nothing. Mr. and Mrs. Stephens had stared, astonished by what was happening. Nobody had ever been able to understand the why or the how of it, but from that moment on, Maggie had not stuttered whenever she spoke to animals. She still didn’t.

  The mouse blinked. He washed his face, then scampered into Maggie’s lap. “Looks like you’ve had a good nap,” she said, stroking his smooth brown back with one finger. His tiny body was warm and soft. She picked him up. “Don’t be worried,” she said, raising her bandaged hand. “I’ll tell you everything in just a minute. But let’s do the rounds first. I want to say a proper hello to everybody. I missed you so much today, Wellington. I always miss you when I’m at school, but I especially missed you today.”

  Maggie let him sit out while she reached farther along the shelf. Then she picked up a small jam jar with a silver lid. The lid had been roughly pierced with a knife. It made a soft scraping sound as she unscrewed it. Two garden snails were stuck to the glass on the inside. One was nibbling a piece of not-very-crunchy-anymore cucumber.

  “Hello, Spitfire, Hurricane. What’s happening with you two? Looks like you could use a little more moisture,” she said, making a mental note to add a thimbleful of water to their jar. “It’s still too cold to let you back outside, but it won’t be much longer. At least I hope not.” The snails were calm and gentle. They moved slowly, their tentacle eyes taking in everything, not judging, not demanding, just a wondrous probing of the air. Maggie admired their shells, the swirls of rich browns, shimmering with different shades of light-speckled caramel and dark-flecked umber, twisted together in perfect symmetry.

  She returned the lid and shuffled herself sideways, lifting up one side of a dusty brick. “And what about you four? Hi.” Four roly-poly woodlice sprang into action, crawling all over the place and then, haphazardly, into the palm of her hand. Their little gray legs tickled as they ran about in zigzags, antennae waggling.

  “Whoops! Ringo, no wait, George! Oh, Paul!” Two of the roly-polies fell to the floor and immediately curled up into tiny, hard-shelled balls. “That probably didn’t feel good …” Maggie picked them up gently, careful not to crush either of them between her fingertips. “I’m so sorry! This bandage is making me clumsy with all of you. I can’t use my hands properly.” She stopped, pushing aside the memory of Nurse Nora’s stitching needle. “You’re probably hungry,” she whispered, shoveling all four of them back onto the old brick along with a few bits of chopped carrot. “There you go, try some of this.”

  Maggie scooted her body backward so that she could angle her head and look up toward the ceiling. A large brown spider was hanging serenely from a web beneath one of the eaves. “And how about you, Charlotte? How was your day?”

  Charlotte’s Web had been Maggie’s favorite book for years, and it was obvious from the moment she had first found the spider fingering her way out of a bathroom sink what her name ought to be. But it was difficult trying to keep the roly-polies out of the wrong place at the wrong time, in a relatively small cupboard. Charlotte was a spider, after all.

  Finally, Maggie turned and shuffled forward on her knees so she could reach the other end of the crawl space. A large nook held a rickety wooden birdcage and the last of her pets, a wounded turtledove. She slipped open the latch and put her good hand inside. The dove hopped onto her wrist, his claws gripping with a pointed, twig-like grasp. A few weeks ago, the bird had collided with the milkman’s van and badly damaged one of his wings.

  “And last but definitely not least. Hello, Flute. How’s your wing feeling?” Maggie adjusted the dove’s bandage. His dark orange eyes swiveled from side to side. “Look, I’ve got a bandage now too,” she said. “We’re twins!” She grinned. “Would you like to come out into my bedroom? Shall we go look out the window and see what we can see?”

  BANG. BANG.

  The door to the cupboard shook a little. Maggie stiffened.

  “Sounds like Father is home,” she said. With Flute still on her wrist, she edged backward and put her ear to the cupboard door. Her parents’ voices could be heard rising through the floors below, loud and angry.

  “When are you going to stop burying your head in the sand, Evelyn? For goodness’ sake. She needs treatment!” Her father was shouting. “You heard the headmaster, you heard Nurse Nora! They don’t want her. Full stop. We’ve tried three schools now. THREE in two years. There aren’t any others. It’s embarrassing. And I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough! Do you hear me? Margaret is going to Granville. It’s what she needs.”

  Her mother’s reply was quieter, her voice no more than a murmur and not quite loud enough for Maggie to hear. She strained her ears.

  “That’s nothing but gossip! Nobody beat Tom Baker for crying. Don’t be ridiculous. Nurse Nora knows what she’s talking about, she is a professional. It’s time. And don’t you start telling me what to do.”

  “Vince, please. Calm down! Just calm down!” Her mother’s voice was raised now too. Maggie stayed absolutely still. “Please! Listen to me for a minute! Just one single minute. I’ve got an idea. I want you to really think about it.” Her voice softened once again.

  Flute ruffled his good wing. He held on to Maggie’s wrist. “What’ll happen to me now?” she whispered, stroking the bird. Her fingertips trembled. She stayed inside the cupboard for a long time, not moving until long after the voices below had blurred into muffled noise and she could no longer understand what either of her parents was saying.

  The collar felt wrong. Very wrong. Rumpus sat back inside the crate and used his hind leg to try and scratch it off. Cuff-cuff-cuff-cuff-cuff. He couldn’t. The collar went all the way around his neck, tight and uncomfortable. He extended his claws farther and tried again. Cuff-cuff-cuff-cuff-CUFF. The thing wouldn’t shift. It was annoying. And jangly. The metal tags kept clinking under his chin.

  The van jolted suddenly. Rumpus tumbled against the slatted walls of his crate and slid sideways. He was inside the back of a truck. Everything was in motion, bouncing him about. He wasn’t sure where he was going. Or what had happened to his sister.

  He put his nose in the air and sniffed. The smell of the exhaust was overpowering. He struggled to detect much else. Humans. Tarmac. Smog. There was plenty of noise: other engines, horns, wheels turning, traffic.

  The truck started to slow. They turned a corner and then another. Rumpus skidded from one side to the next. He felt sick. The driver shifted gears, and the van slowed further until they eventually came to a stop. Rumpus could hear muffled voices, a door open and close, followed by the sound of footsteps sinking into soft snow and slush. Locks were unlocked, and flashes of early morning light fell through the slats of his crate. A blast of cold winter air. All of his senses tingled. He felt the crate sliding forward and gripped the wooden base to stop himself from tipping, his sharp claws puncturing the surface of the wo
od.

  The two men eased the crate out of the truck, lowering it gently onto the icy pavement. Rumpus paced and circled inside. He pressed his face against the wooden bars so he could look out.

  They were at one end of a long, wide street, lined with white buildings, smart steps, and columns with glossy front doors.

  The driver of the truck rang one of the intercoms. It chimed like a bell. Rumpus kept circling.

  “Ms. Arabella Pennyworth?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning. Special delivery for you, madam. From the Pet Kingdom, Harrods.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “The Pet Kingdom? Harrods? Goodness. From whom exactly?”

  Rumpus stopped pacing. His ears pricked forward. He could hear the ruffling of papers. And more voices.

  “Er, from a Mr. and Mrs. Pennyworth. I believe it comes with birthday wishes, madam.”

  “Oh yes, that’s my brother, Stanley, and his wife, Gloria! How lovely. I’ll just get my coat and be right down.”

  Rumpus whipped around again. The crate was small. He wanted to get out. One of the drivers knelt down and peered in at him.

  “All right there, little fellow. This is your new home, so it is. Good luck to you.”

  Rumpus could tell by the tone of the man’s voice that he was trying to reassure him. It wasn’t working. He pawed at the walls.

  “Hey, stop that, she’ll be here in a sec—”

  Hinges swinging, a door opening. Ankles, high-heeled shoes clicking and sliding on the icy steps. Rumpus stopped and pressed his nose against the slats again. More voices. And then a pause.

  A long pause.

  “It’s a what?”

  “A snow leopard, madam.”

  Another pause.

  “Gracious me. How on earth do I look after it?”

  “If you could just sign here, madam, I’ll get the papers for you, and we’ll go through them together. There are plenty of helpful instructions.”

  “Very well. Oh, I say, how exotic!”

  Rumpus could see three pairs of feet moving around. Shiny black shoes beneath dark green trouser legs, glossy high heels, and a pair of old driver’s boots. More voices, more rustling.

  The woman got down on her knees, and a sliver of her face appeared. Her breath clouded the cold air. She smelled vaguely of … flowers? It was an unnatural, sickly smell. Rumpus couldn’t help screwing his eyes shut and scrunching up his nose and whiskers. He sneezed.

  “Look at you! Aren’t you a pretty little thing? How amusing that my brother should give me a snow leopard during the biggest snow of the century!” Her eyes were rimmed with black, and her lashes were long and thick. She laughed. The sound was light and bubbly. Rumpus stared at her.

  “Take it upstairs, gentlemen. Thank you.”

  Rumpus found the whole situation more and more confusing. And he was getting hungry. From what he could see, this new room was much bigger than the pen he had been in at the department store. But the woman still hadn’t opened his crate. There had been a lot more talking and a very uncomfortable ride up several flights of stairs.

  He scratched the sides of the crate impatiently, dragging his claws through the wood. It was past breakfast time. Clearly the woman who smelled of sickly flowers needed reminding of this Very Important Fact.

  A telephone rang.

  Rumpus tried biting the side of the crate.

  It didn’t make a difference. The woman was still not paying attention, and now she was talking some more.

  “Hello? … Oh, Stanley … Yes, the leopard is here. It just arrived. Thank you! … Yes, I was totally surprised! … Oh, no, I’m delighted! What fun! No … I’m about to let him out. The man from Harrods was very helpful, not to worry. He showed me the box of food parcels, told me all about it, and yes … proper walks. He gave me a lead and everything … I’ve got the collar too, it’s pretty, my favorite blue and so sparkly. I’m going to take him to the park shortly … Well, Mary is throwing a drinks party for me tonight, I can’t … What? Oh, I’ll just leave him in the cage thing … Oh yes, fine! It is terribly ugly though. Did they not sell kennel-type things? Something a bit less … rustic? … Oh, I see. All right, well, I can pop over next week. Yes, thank you again, Stanley. And tell Gloria I’m thrilled. Thank you … I do. I think we’ll get on famously. He’s so pretty-looking. Goodbye, Stanley.”

  Rumpus threw his shoulder against the back of the crate.

  A moment later, the woman knelt down.

  “Goodness, settle down. I won’t let you out if you’re going to be rough like that.”

  Rumpus could hear the sound of sliding bolts. He stood still, tail flicking from side to side.

  The door swung open.

  He padded out, cautiously.

  It was a little bewildering. He had never been in a place with so much furniture or such large windows. Or felt carpet this soft and spongy. He couldn’t help kneading it once or twice.

  “Now, let’s see. What’s your name again. ‘Rumpus’? Oh dear,” said the woman, riffling through some of the papers the Harrods driver had given her. “I’m really not sure about that name. I’ll have to think of a new one. Leopold, perhaps. Leopold the leopard? Yes, that sounds rather smart.” She kept talking as she beckoned him toward the kitchen. “Come along, come over here into the kitchen. The delivery man has explained everything. I’m to give you something to eat now, and then we’ll go for a walk.”

  Rumpus followed her warily, his long, fluffy tail swaying from side to side. He was overcome by a wave of intriguing new smells, but there was one in particular he could not ignore: raw meat.

  The woman unwrapped a large parcel. “Oh gosh, these meatballs are rather … bloody.” Rumpus paced impatiently back and forth beside the cabinets, the tips of his claws scrabbling against the tiles.

  “All right, here you are.” The woman placed a china plate on the floor, piled high with pinkish balls of ground-up beef. “Only the best for my new kitty.” She leaned forward to stroke him but then changed her mind at the last minute and pulled back her hand.

  Rumpus was so hungry he wolfed down the food in two short gulps. Then he licked his bright white teeth with his bright pink tongue. Instinctively, he looked around to see if Rosie had finished hers and whether or not he might be able to steal a few morsels. But then he remembered. She was not here. He called out for her, a soft mewling call.

  “What are you looking for, Leopold? No, that still doesn’t sound right.” The woman cocked her head to one side. “You really need a proper name. How about Snowy, since it’s so cold and you are a snow leopard after all? Do you want some more food, Snowy, is that why you’re crying?” She bent forward to pick up the plate. “The driver said just four meatballs at a time. But I think three is enough. Come along, I’m going to take you for a walk. That’ll cheer you up. Hyde Park is around the corner. And we can get a hot cocoa on the way back.”

  Rumpus looked at her, trying to understand.

  Maggie sat by the coal fire in their small front room, still in her pajamas. Fragments of last night’s argument echoed in her mind. She tried not to bite her nails. She didn’t want to go back to Southam Primary, even if they’d have her. But Granville sounded terrifying.

  “Evelyn!” shouted Mr. Stephens. “Come out of the kitchen, please. I’m waiting.”

  Maggie could tell he was annoyed. Annoyed and tired. He stood by the mantelpiece and adjusted the position of his tie even though it was straight to begin with. Vincent Stephens wore a tie every day, even at the weekends.

  Mrs. Stephens hurried in, wiping her hands on her gingham apron. She came to sit on the narrow sofa, right beside Maggie. “Good morning, love,” she whispered.

  “Right. Your mother and I have been discussing your education,” said Mr. Stephens.

  Maggie took hold of her mother’s hand and stared at her slippers. She held her breath.

  “As you know, Mr. Boothe has informed us that you are no lon
ger welcome at Southam Primary. Which means that—”

  “N-n-n-n-n-no! You c-c-c-aaaaa-n’t make me! I will not g-g-g—” Maggie burst out. OH, PLEASE, please can the words just come out? “I will not g-go to Gr-Gr-Gra—” She tried again. Her neck and shoulders started to jerk uncontrollably, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Granville?” Her father finished off the word. “ ‘Granville—that’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it?”

  The block finally ended. Maggie stared at the bandage on her hand, at the large silver safety pin that kept it all together. She nodded softly.

  “It’s okay, love, you are not going to Granville,” her mother said, giving her a gentle squeeze.

  “We have decided that you are to spend a few weeks with your grandfather Fred Tremayne, in Cornwall,” said Mr. Stephens.

  Maggie looked up in shock. Grandpa Fred? She could hardly remember him. Mother talked to him on the phone, but she hadn’t seen him for at least three or four years, ever since he and Father had had a terrible row. She wasn’t sure why, something to do with the war maybe. Father’s Royal Air Force medals lay polished in a small glass case on his desk, but he never talked about the war, ever.

  “Your mother seems to think the countryside air will do you good,” he said. “I think it’s a long shot, to say the least.” He started pacing around the small room. “But I’m prepared to give it a try on the following condition: If your stutter has not improved by the end of your stay, you will go to Granville Place for treatment.”

  “Vincent—” Mrs. Stephens stood up abruptly and faced him. “That is not what we agreed last night. What we agreed was that we would do further research into other possible school options while she’s away, but not Granville—”

  “Don’t start this again, Evelyn! The rumors about Granville are nothing but rumors. Tying children down … what rubbish. This is 1963, not 1923.” Mr. Stephens wiped a drop of spittle from his chin.