I had nodded solemnly. But now, a month later, and much more worldly wise, I crouched down by the water’s edge. The moat didn’t look dangerous; there were no crashing waves or sucking whirlpools, only the quiet drip, drip of water leaking from the gargoyle’s broken mouth. I had a sudden, strange feeling that Dad would know if I disobeyed him, that the peculiar creature could spring to life and whisper secrets to him. I turned away from the moat, picking my way instead over to the cart shed, where the remnants of roof tiles littered the ground.
I came to a stop at the rain barrel that stood under the guttering. Moldy snails floated in the water, covered in a film of green slime and exuding a smell like rotten cucumbers. I held the nail polish above the water, poised to drop it, mesmerized by the smooth khaki surface. But then a particularly bulbous snail floated past, putrid and engorged with slime, and I changed my mind and dropped down on my knees to look underneath instead.
Here, the grass had grown strong and lush from the constant fetid drip of water, and I crouched down and placed the little bottle there, braiding the blades over it to hide it completely. I sat back on my haunches and studied the effect.
“What are you doing?”
At first I couldn’t locate the voice. For a moment I thought it might be the buddleia tree that covered half the cart shed, its branches gesticulating gently in the breeze. I stood up.
“Who’s there?”
“What were you doing?” The voice was more insistent now. It was definitely coming from the buddleia. I looked carefully between the branches. A mop of tawny hair and two eyes were peeping over the wall behind the tree. I flushed.
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing.”
“It was nothing to do with you.”
“Didn’t say it was. It looked like fun, that’s all.” The eyes and hair disappeared. I waited for them to reappear, but they didn’t. Worried I’d upset this newfound being, I ran to the gate to get a better look.
“Hello?” I asked desperately, peering through the wooden slats. The mop of hair appeared, this time attached to a muddy T-shirt and shorts, and two stumpy legs.
“You look like an animal at the zoo,” it said. “Can I feed you?”
“You don’t know what I eat.”
The stranger put a hand in a pocket and pulled out a worm. It dangled there, trying to turn up toward the sky. “These?”
I backed away. The stranger grinned, throwing the worm on the ground.
“Want to play?”
My stomach contracted. I took in the muddy clothes and a nasty-looking graze to the cheek.
“Yeah,” I whispered in awe.
* * *
Stacey was a girl. I hadn’t been sure at first. Her hair was short and messy. It hung down at the front like two curtains over her eyes. “His eyes,” I whispered, thinking she might have lied and she really was a boy. I wondered how I could check. She had very straight teeth and marks on her cheeks that could be freckles like mine, but were more likely dirt.
We were walking down an overgrown path that Stacey said led to a river. I had never been this way before. I thought back to the rain barrel and the nail polish hidden underneath it. I wondered if Stacey had seen me hide it. I opened my mouth to confide, but stopped myself. Perhaps I should wait a while: I would tell her if we were still friends tomorrow.
“Here, want one?” Stacey said, offering me a candy from a little foil packet.
“Thanks.” I popped it in my mouth, and my lips crinkled at the perfumed taste. I shivered and swallowed quickly, picking the remains out of my teeth.
Stacey had picked up a stick and was beating the nettles down on either side of the path. She stopped abruptly and pointed to a giant stinger on our left.
“I dare you to pick it,” she said.
“No.”
“Go on.”
“No.” I twisted my fingers into the hem of my sweater. I didn’t like this game. It felt dangerous.
“Fine. I will.” And she bent forward and picked it.
“Didn’t that hurt?” I said, my fingers contracting in empathy. She dropped the nettle and looked at me sympathetically.
“Watch what I do,” she said, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. She moved her hand toward another nettle, and just as she got to it, she placed her thumb and index finger on the underside of the two lowest leaves. Pushing up, she clamped the leaves to the stalk and pulled. The whole nettle uprooted itself and hung from her fingers.
“Ha!” she cried, swinging the plant to and fro and looking at my uncomprehending face. “The underside doesn’t have prickles. Here.” She proffered the nettle to me. I took a step back. “Fine. Come on, let’s go.” Dropping the nettle, she pranced away.
I watched her running, feeling a flush of admiration cross my face. Setting off after her, I mounted some concrete steps that led to the river.
At the top I stopped. Stacey was already at the bottom, making her way toward the water’s edge. I turned and looked back at Braër. I had never been out of the garden before. Not without Dad. My hand went to the mole on my cheek, stroking it distractedly.
“Stacey!”
She turned and raised her eyebrows. Her upturned nose was pink.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to go any farther.” As I said the words, I felt shame in my tummy. It made me want to go to the loo.
“Well, I’m going to look for buried treasure under the bridge.” And with that, she turned and skipped toward the water.
I took a deep breath and gripped the railing. Slowly, step-by-step, I started to descend the concrete steps. Every second I expected Dad to come running up behind me, shouting at me to stop, but he didn’t. Letting go of the rail, I ran down the remaining steps and joined Stacey at the water’s edge.
She was staring into the gray depths below. The heat of a late spring had dried the banks, and the water had slunk back to reveal foul-smelling mud on either side. We made our way to the bridge, and Stacey started climbing down the bank, gripping handfuls of marram grass as she went. I looked at my shoes. They were my favorites: plastic trainers with planets dotted all over them. I took a deep breath and followed her.
Stacey was already under the bridge when I reached the muddy bottom. I had to duck to join her in the shadows. A thrill rushed through me as I straightened up under the planks of wood. The river made a roaring sound here as it channeled under the bridge. It looked a lot more powerful close-up.
My trainers were sinking into the mud. Every few seconds I had to pull my feet out. The mud made a sucking sound, and a great gassy waft hit me in the face. The planks of wood that made up the bridge above us echoed dully as someone walked across them. Grains of dust fell down onto us.