Chapters 11-13

Today we finish part one, The Sound fo Silence, with Issy. It is the Christmas break and Issy has a profound moment during the Christmas service, we hear more of her childhood with Sarah and both events bring about joy and sadness.

If you prefer to listen, audio is here too.

Chapter Eleven Early-Winter 2014 Isabella

Christmas has always been my favourite time of year. Growing up, I always loved the long, endless days of summer, running in the forests and fields from dawn until dusk, waiting to hear the call from home that it was time for dinner and bed. But there is something about the familiar warmth of winter that outweighs anything the rest of the year has to offer. I love red jumpers, bobble hats with ear flaps, and the crackle of logs burning on the fire. And I love our tradition of drinking one glass of mulled wine with a homemade mince pie on Christmas Eve, before bed. Art will have his first glass this year, now that he has started secondary school. Before the age of twelve we were always allowed a sip from Mum and Dad’s glasses, but he will be excitedly anticipating his initiation into the full glass phase of his childhood.

Must reads every Christmas are: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, The Snow Queen and every Christmas chapter from the seven Harry Potter books. Must watches at Christmas are: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe (1980s BBC adaptation and possibly recent Hollywood full feature), Love Actually and (maybe this year onwards) It’s a Wonderful Life. It is also inevitable that we (Mum and Dad always take the whole holiday off) stumble across the other classics aired only at Christmas. How many times have we seen Back to the Future, Mary Poppins and Home Alone?

When I get home from school, I am excited to see that Mum and Dad are already back. Art and I have eaten a lot of take-out recently and I am happy when I smell what is clearly a hearty home cooked meal. The moment of familiarity makes me realise that I’ve not been around much recently, even when everyone has been home. I mean, I’ve been here, at meal times and in the evenings, but I’ve not really seen or felt much of everyone. That’s what it’s like at school and that’s fine, but I feel a bit bad for ignoring Mum, Dad and Art too much. I go straight to the kitchen as I smell what I think is beef stew.

‘Hi mum. Beef stew?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Yes dear. I thought we’d get the holiday started straight away and properly. And your father’s home. He and Art have already made a start on the Christmas DVD collection.’

‘Let me guess: First Knight, Excalibur or King Arthur?’ I say. They have their Christmas viewing traditions too. Mum shares mine more and Dad Art’s, but we all like each other’s too really.

‘Oh no.’ Mum corrects me. ‘Your father got over excited and gave Art one of his Christmas presents early. It’s Merlin Season One.’ That’s the one that was on the BBC recently. It sort of reminded me of the 1980s Narnia adaptations again, and, really, it means the same thing as The Snowman and the rest of it too. The point is, we all got excited and watched it together on a Saturday night in the autumn television schedule that starts once the clocks go back and it gets dark at four in the afternoon. It doesn’t matter how old we get or how ‘cool’ we think we become as teenagers, there are some things that are sacred. It’s like Christmas: I don’t get as excited as Art on Christmas Eve anymore, and I don’t struggle to fall asleep either, but Christmas dinner still feels exactly the way it did when I was eight. It’s beyond age. It’s timeless.

‘Excellent. But does that mean I get something early too?’ I say.

‘And if you do, does that mean that you and Art will give me and your father something early too?’ She’s got me there.

‘All right, Mum. Yes, yes. Well done. But you know it’s not the same for us. We’re still kids, really.’

‘When it suits you,’ she rebuts. ‘And tomorrow, when you want something else it’ll be because You know, I’m not a kid any more, Mum. You can’t expect me not to need these sorts of things.’

‘That’s right. It is quite universally known that it is a teenager’s prerogative to be either older or younger, on any given occasion, entirely depending upon the necessity of circumstance. And that can change daily – sometimes even hourly.’

‘I see. An airtight argument! Well, in that case, I think there’s something on the side for you.’ Mum smiles and inclines her head towards the breakfast bar and I see a neatly wrapped present in red paper; she had it there all along and it’s definitely book shaped.

I go to the lounge and join Art and Dad before Dinner. It’s nice to have them and Merlin in the background. I’ve seen it before, so can sort of watch and look at my new book at the same time. It’s a really nice copy of Frankenstein. I know I said I was going to give gothic fiction a rest for a while, but I don’t think one more will hurt, and Mum says that this one is pretty definitive when it comes to understanding the genre. The first thing I’m surprised to notice is that the Frankenstein of the title is not the monster pictured on the cover. It turns out that Frankenstein is the scientist. I wonder if the monster ever gets given a name, or if he calls himself Frankenstein. I don’t know yet, but I’m certainly interested in finding out. There’s not much time before dinner but I get through twenty pages or so, without realising it. The episode Art and Dad are watching comes to an end. As the music kicks in, Mum calls that dinner is ready and as we all enter the dining room, Art says ‘Ha. Good timing mum.’

‘As if my magic,’ says Dad. Mum groans and smiles, and Art cracks into hysterics. I grin too. Dad ruffles Art’s hair and I feel pretty happy as I sit down to dinner. But just as I do, I feel my pocket vibrate. I can’t believe I’ve been out for so long, but Mr Harrison’s lesson got me seriously thinking and then with falling asleep, seeing Susan and opening my present I think I actually forgot about my phone. It’s been nice to feel like Christmas has started but I sort of feel a bit tense at the same time. I know I shouldn’t, but I sneak a quick peek at the screen and see that #me has messaged Where are you? Oh God, I think. I try to not think about it when I sit down but can’t help it. I quickly message back ‘Can’t talk now. Family. Be there soon.’ and breathe a sigh of relief. I’m glad I replied. Mum pulls me back into the room,

‘Well, I hope you both liked your gifts. There’s not plenty more where that came from, so make the most of them,’ she says with a slight grin. Mum and Dad do alright for money, but they don’t spoil us rotten or anything. She doesn’t really mean it, but I can’t really think of anything else I want anyway. My phone and laptop are still up to date and Mum’s an English lecturer so the house if pretty much loaded with books already. I’m sure we already have at least one copy of Frankenstein somewhere.

It’s nice for someone to get you something and mean it though. I mean, Mum didn’t know I was planning on giving the gothic a rest, but she paid enough attention to know that I’d been interested in it recently and that’s more than some people get.

There’s a moment in The Catcher in the Rye where the main character, Holden Caulfield, moans about getting presents. He says they always make him depressed because people always get him the wrong things, like when his mother buys him hockey skates when he really wanted racing ones. I sort of know what he means, but I also bet that he never told his mother what sort of skates he preferred, and if you don’t let someone know what you like, then you can’t really expect them to know, or moan about it when it turns out they don’t. That’s what my blog is about as well, I suppose. I don’t tell people what I’m like, because that would ruin it, but if they read my blog and they’re the right sort of people, they can work it out for themselves, and that’s the best test really.

The food’s really good and it’s nice to talk to everyone properly again. I keep thinking about #me in my pocket but stay in the room anyway. I think about excusing myself to go to the bathroom, but the food is good, and I really am having a good time. Mum’s asking Art about his first term at school.

‘And has it been nice to have your big sister there with you?’ she asks.

‘Well, it’s not really like I see her very much. The Sixth Formers aren’t around at break and lunch like everyone else. I guess Issy goes to the Sixth Form common room, with the rest of the year 12s and 13s. I wish we had a common room. I hear they have a flat screen TV, a snooker table and arcade games.’ He stuffs his mouth with a big forkful of gravied mash and keeps on talking. ‘Do you, Issy? Is there really a Pack Man arcade in there?’

The truth is, there actually might be and I don’t know about it. I’ve been in there a few times, but not since the beginning of term and who knows how much it might have changed since then. I don’t really want to say this though: Mum and Dad might get worried. I still see Mrs Bridges so everything’ fine – I just prefer to go in at break and lunch, and it’s not like I don’t talk to people because that’s the whole point of going in.

‘Yeah, and there’s a bar with waiters and they serve us beer and wine whenever we want it!’ Mum laughs and I ruffle Art’s hair like Dad does. He shakes me off, makes a face, and takes another mouthful of gravy, mock sulking for a second or two.

‘Well,’ he continues. ‘I like going out at break anyway. We play football against the wall behind the PE block and it’s good to run around a bit after lessons – it wakes me up!’

After dinner I help clear the table and Art and I stack the dishwasher. Dad washes up the big bits and mum sorts out some dessert. We take it into the lounge and put on another episode of Merlin. Dad and Art watch intently. Mum reads the paper and I read another couple of chapters whilst half listening in to the TV. After an episode I decide it’s ok to take out my phone and venture in. #me is online and we message like girls used to meet up and gossip about boys from the year above.

Chapter Twelve Early-Winter 2014 Isabella

It doesn’t take me long to realise that Frankenstein is just about the best book I’ve ever read and can’t imagine how I could read something any better any time soon. The vocabulary and the depth of the sentencing is beautiful. I find myself reading slowly, sometimes mouthing the words, sometimes almost saying them aloud as I read. I can be a very fast reader when I want to be but with a book like this I don’t take any risks: every word feels important and every word means something. Before I finish the book, I flick through a bit of the introduction. Mum really did pick a good edition, so it has a good long introduction at the start. The silly thing about introductions to classics is that you’re not supposed to read them until you’ve read the book, unless you want the entire plot spoiled. I suppose it’s a very pretentious thing really: the assumption that you simply must already have read the classics, so there’s no danger reading the introduction that explains the whole story before you read it – academically of course – for a second time.

So I’m careful to only read the first few pages of the introduction, but I read enough to find out something really interesting: Mary Shelley was only seventeen when she began writing Frankenstein. Seventeen! That’s how old I am, and though I might be proud of my essays and #me might like my blogs, I’m light-years away from writing anything like Frankenstein. Was Mary Shelley a genius? Or was she part of a superior age when seventeen-year olds were bright enough to write the most impressive novels of an entire century?

I feel a little inadequate when faced with such mature writing from a seventeen year old, but at the same time it sort of warms me to think of it, like it reminds me that people are geniuses and like maybe I am just a little bit like Shelley too, because I get what she’s saying and I appreciate her writing at the same age that she was when she was writing it. I mean, you can’t be a genius unless you understand things that geniuses talk about, can you? Not, that I’m a genius. But, all the same, I like the fact that she was seventeen when she wrote it and it really is an amazing story.

The way the creature is treated is terrible. His first impulse is to love, and even after he is rejected over and over again, he never loses his desire to find companionship. He’s beaten, feared and shunned by everyone he meets and yet, for so long, he continues to look for love and tries to share his own. He is kinder for longer than I can imagine most people I know being kind for in the face of incessant animosity. And why is someone so loving, so innocent and so naïve shunned without being given a chance? Well, it’s because he looks different, isn’t it? Because, according to the social norm, he’s ugly and monstrous. He looks like a monster and so he’s treated like a monster.

I think I’d rather live in a world of monsters with good hearts than handsome Victor Frankenstein’s with bad ones.

I find myself thinking what life would have been like for the creature today, with the safety of a computer, a high-speed internet connection and complete physical anonymity. He would have been safe online. He could have shared his love and kindness and found it shared back. He could have been happy. But in his world, he was hated, discriminated and victimised.

Nowadays everyone wants to have a tan, even though, in England’s climate, it’s about the most dishonest thing you can do. It would be like running a marathon and being embarrassed about sweating: it just doesn’t make sense. And it’s fickle too: only a few centuries ago, the aristocracy thought that having a tan was utterly common and wore a ridiculous amount of white makeup to avoid any association with such vulgarity. Whenever I see what is clearly a fake tan, I wonder what it feels like to so consciously put it on and so consciously wear it. It must be so character defining. When you do something like that it’s because you want people to notice how good it looks, but what you’re really doing is wanting people to notice that you use fake tan, and doesn’t that just break the illusion of being blessed with the beauty that you’re so ardently trying to create? What I don’t understand most is when people, girls mostly, but I don’t suppose it is only girls these days, complement each other on the quality of their fake tan and swap tips on how to do it. Why create an illusion to cover up something you consider to be embarrassing, only to go around letting everyone in on the secret?

I suppose the real question is why we create aesthetic norms that are so far detached from what we’re all naturally born with. No one loves me or hates me because of the way I look inside; the creature’s love and kindness would have been recognised inside and he would have had a far better chance of being happy than he did in his cruel and abusive ‘real’ world. I mean, people are ok if they’re lucky enough to be born into a family like mine, but what about everyone else. It’s just an inescapable cycle of misery for them.

I wonder if Frankenstein failed so miserably because he sought to create and innovate without considering the implications of the world he was creating – a world that didn’t fit into the one that already existed and was determined to persist.

It might sound miserable, but I’m glad that Mum bought me this book. I think I’ll blog some of these ideas tonight and see what #me thinks.

I’ve been getting more likes for my posts recently, so I’m trying to post as much as possible.

We always go to a Christmas concert over the holidays, usually at the local church. It’s not a strictly religious ceremony but I like the religious parts too. We don’t really go to church and I’ve never really made up my mind what to believe, but there’s still something beautiful about a church service.

Before we go, we all sit in the lounge with our mugs of mulled wine. The house is dimly lit, and Dad has made the fire up. What I like more than anything is to cup the mug with both hands, draw my knees up to my chin, sitting on the sofa and breathe in the warm spicy steam of the hot red wine. I close my eyes and absorb the moment. When I open them again, I look around the room to see everyone taking part in their own ritual. Art’s eyes are wide with wonder and his face is aglow with fire light. He’s holding his mug solemnly, taking seriously his first full measure of mulled wine. When Dad handed it to him, I imagined that he was an Indian chieftain and Art the boy becoming a man. I don’t begrudge my brother this seriousness; I remember only too well how happy I was for that first glass, how grown up I felt and how close to Mum and Dad it made me feel. There’s something special about our family of four at Christmas.

We sip silently for a short while and I watch the steam drifting up from my mug, the image of it mingling with the flames of the fire behind and I feel content. It’s Mum who breaks our solemn revelry.

‘Well, Merry Christmas everyone. It really feels like Christmas now doesn’t it? I’m rather looking forward to the concert tonight. Well done Art.’ She gives him a warm smile, raises her mug to him and takes another sip of her wine. Well done, Mum. She really does know how to make an occasion mean something.

‘So, Art,’ I say as he comes to sit down next to me. ‘How does it taste?’ He stares at me, still wide eyed, and says,

‘You remember that bit in The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe where the White Witch gives Edmund a steaming goblet to drink before he has his Turkish Delight? Well, I think it taste like that. It warms me all the way through.’

I smile at him, not knowing what to say, happy that he is having such a magical moment that only Christmas can bring, and not wanting to do anything that could ruin the moment from becoming a wonderful memory.

‘It taste like Christmas, doesn’t it?’ I finally say, smiling again.

‘Yes,’ he says, breaking into a smile himself. ‘Yes, it does.’

I quickly check in before we leave for the Christmas concert. I don’t only talk to #me online. There are lots of conversations to have, videos to comment on, blogs to read and comment on. Sometimes you can find yourself becoming friends without even realising it when you’re commenting on a blog and you get into it and the posts keep going back and forth. That’s how I meet a lot of people online. #me is important because he was the first person to comment on my blogs and, well, we have different sorts of conversations than I do with other people. It’s not just that he means what he says, or even that he gets what I mean when I say it – that can happen a lot when you find the right place to comment. There’s another level with #me, like he’s the first person I want to like everything I post and I sort of find myself wondering what he’ll think about things when I’m writing them; not so I change what I write to make him like it, but I feel excitement that he might like it whilst I’m writing it and I imagine the conversations we’ll have once he’s read it.

Anyway, I post a status:

- Christmas concert. Won’t be in for a few hours.

I message #me:

- Christmas concert. Won’t be in for a few hours. I’m posting later. Talk to you soon x

We gather in the hallway and all wrap up in our winter coats. I reach up to pull mine from the coat hook. We have quite a big entrance hall in our old Georgian terrace, so we have one of those free-standing coat hooks. I pull my coat on and dig my gloves out of my pocket. I usually wear fingerless gloves so I can still communicate but I know I’ll be out for a while so I put on my mittens instead. I’ve had them since I was twelve; they’re thick knitted mittens with stripes of white and green. Sarah bought them for me for Christmas. I bought her the same ones with white and purple stripes. We thought they were essential winter wear for our adventures in the fields and forests and rivers and streams. As I pull them on, I think of her and time stands still for a moment, or at least I do. Mum, Dad and Art are a blur of red, blue and grey: Mum’s coat, Dad’s coat and Art’s.

I remember a whole day in a moment and realise that everything is blurry because my eyes have filled with tears. I blink to re-focus and feel one tear slip down my cheek. I quickly sniff, shake myself and turn to leave, pulling a silly face at Art as we walk out the door, so he won’t notice my tears.

We walk to the church and I enjoy the freshness of the cold winter air against my exposed face. My scarf is wrapped round up to my mouth, but I feel my cheeks go rosy in the night.

We fall in line as we approach the church; it seems the whole city is filing in. I look up at the grand building, lit in yellow against the black winter’s sky. The moon is visible behind the church. It is full and bright. I realise that I’ve been silent for the entire journey, lost in the memory of a memory that I am waiting for the cold air to numb. I had not realised that I had been so quiet until we meet the murmur of the moving crowd. Now, Art’s voice becomes audible once more and I can tell that he has been ranting on for most of the journey, with no need for anybody to join in.

The church is beautiful, and I am dwarfed in its presence. It is, in fact, the abbey that makes this town a city and it is magnificent. Whether there is anything truly other-worldly about the place is not important, because walking through the grand doors into the vast vault hits you with a sense of warmth and peace that can only be described as spiritual, and in this way, I feel the presence of something divine. For me it feels nostalgic – like a kind of contented happiness. I feel a sense of unity though I talk to no-one and recognise only my family, and I feel that I am infinite again, like everything is achievable and that if only I could hold on to this feeling, I will achieve something bold and grand and epic and worthwhile with my life. I breathe in deeply and the mixture of stone, old books and burning candles fills me with peace. At this moment the choir begin to sing, and the angelic voices resonate all around. They sing high, but with full body so that the sound is like a burning candle: it is bright, warm and flickers in and out of reality. It feels like if you could only catch it and hide it in a bottle you would have stored the greatest treasure ever known to man. But the beauty is a sound and cannot be held or confined. It is its nature to be intangible and to weave through the air, filling this great building and then escaping into the night to seek out some other hearts to fill with joy.

It feels nice to be part of this community of singers. I like standing next to Mum and Dad and Art and everyone else who are filling up the pews, Christian, agnostic, atheist. That’s what the sermon is about. There’s the usual reading from the gospels about Gabriel, Herod, the donkey, the stable, the shepherds and the birth of Jesus, but the vicar sort of sums the story up by talking about how it may make us think that everyone is divided because Mary and Joseph were rejected almost everywhere they went, but actually the story is about how the birth of Jesus brought all of those people together in that stable and continues to bring people together in great numbers right to the present day, and to this very evening. We all look round and you have to smile – it really is a nice sermon and we all feel pretty happy to be here, whether someone called Jesus, the holy spirit or God is here with us or not. We’re here and we’re together and that feels good.

There is a strange end to the service though. After the local primary school perform a classic tea-towel clad nativity and we sing the big carols and hymns – Silent Night, Once in Royal David’s City, Oh Holy Night and even a good old cheery We Wish You a Merry Christmas – and it feels like a pretty joyful moment for the service to end and for everyone to mill about, eat a mince pie, and for the adults to have another glass of mulled wine, there’s another song. The vicar introduces it with an ominous preamble:

‘Now, before we finish we have one final, very special, performance. Two days ago, outside the very doors which you walked through this evening before our lovely Christmas service began, I was on my way home – the Christmas market workers were closing their huts and the last few shoppers and tourists were making their way off to their homes or hotels for dinner – and I heard a sound so beautiful and a message so clear and important that I looked up at the twinkling stars in the dark and endless night’s sky and I thanked God for sending me such a clear and powerful sign. The sound I heard was the late-night busking of the man who you are about to see here and the song he sang was the one he is about to sing for you now. This moment had such profound significance for me that I knew it to be the word of God, but I do not know whether this word will reach you in the same way that it did me, whether it is meant to, or whether it was simply the glory of God’s grace that he willed that I might find a new burst of vigour in my own faith that hour, two nights past. But here is what I heard. I urge you to listen. Listen to the sound. Listen to the words and think on what is sung. I thank you all for coming this evening and wish you all the very happiest of Christmases. May we all be blessed, rich and poor, by the message of the birth and life of Christ. We hear it here, I believe, in the most powerful and relevant way for our ears to listen. Happy Christmas, all of you.’

Whether I believe in signs or not, I feel intrigued by something so mysterious and heart-felt – the vicar certainly meant and felt every word of what he said, and you really have to stop and listen when someone really means and feels what they say. A man walks out in front of the gathered congregation and a spotlight shines down on him. The rest of the church is dark. He has a guitar and walks up to a microphone on a stand. For a moment I think I know the man. It looks just like Mr Harrison. It isn’t him, but for a moment I really think it is. I listen to the song, like the vicar has asked us to. I listen like I listen in Mr Harrison’s classes.

As he starts to pluck his guitar, I notice the silence all around me as everyone focuses their attention on the song that is beginning. The deep, rumbling twang of the strings fill the room. It does not leave through the gaps in the stone but builds and fills the room with its ambience, its tone, its mood, its atmosphere. And what is this atmosphere? It feels meaningful. I vaguely recognise the song as the guitarist starts to sing. His voice is beautiful. It is rich and crisp, both soft and a hard. I am mesmerised and captivated by the sound and it stirs in me the same feeling I felt when the choir started to sing, but also another feeling. Is it anxiety? Frustration? Anger? I cannot place it, but I continue to listen, and I continue to feel as the choir joins the song in beautiful and heavenly harmony. Everyone’s eyes are fixed on this man and everyone’s ears are pricked to the sound he and the choir are now creating. These are the words he sings:

Hello darkness, my old friend,

I've come to talk with you again,

Because a vision softly creeping,

Left its seeds while I was sleeping,

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains

Within the sound of silence.

In restless dreams I walked alone

Narrow streets of cobblestone,

'Neath the halo of a street lamp,

I turned my collar to the cold and damp

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light

That split the night

And touched the sound of silence.

And in the naked light I saw

Ten thousand people, maybe more.

People talking without speaking,

People hearing without listening,

People writing songs that voices never share

And no one dared

Disturb the sound of silence.

"Fools," said I, "You do not know –

Silence like a cancer grows.

Hear my words that I might teach you.

Take my arms that I might reach you."

But my words like silent raindrops fell

And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed

To the neon god they made.

And the sign flashed out its warning

In the words that it was forming.

And the sign said, The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls

And whispered in the sound of silence.

As the song finishes, I am reminded of that radio programme again – the one I heard on my first day at Sixth Form. I cannot shake off the feeling. I think about the words and the lines that stand out and remain in my mind. ‘Silence like a cancer grows’, ‘People hearing without listening’, ‘In restless dreams I walked alone’. I think of Frankenstein’s creature: how no-one heard his kindness or love, how he was rejected by everyone who saw his face, how it was only the old, blind man that saw anything close to his true and honest beauty, how this silence grew in the creature until it was not his fault that his kindness turned to bitterness and his love turned to hate.

This song means something. Just like Mary Shelley’s novel means something. And I think the vicar is right: it means something now; it means something today.

My thoughts do not all fully form, but I feel them in a strong way. When the song ends, there is a silence that almost sounds like a shared understanding. And, then, the lights come on, people begin to move away, we eat mince pies and the adults drink another glass of mulled wine whilst the children drink warm, spicy blackcurrant juice and the silence passes, though the words continue to resound in my head.

We all fall asleep watching Merlin together when we get home. The fire burns down to soft glowing embers and I wake to a vibration in my pocket. I realise that I have been so caught up in my thoughts and family that I haven’t gone in all evening. I kick myself for falling asleep. It’s #me.

- Where are you? I’ve been looking forward to your blog.

Oh shit. I look around at my sleeping family. I smile at the scene and then absorb myself into the blue screen. I message #me.

- Sorry. I got tied up. I really have had a nice evening with my family and the Christmas concert was really nice. Something sort of strange happened too but wait for my blog post and it’ll make more sense.

I start writing up my thoughts. I write about Frankenstein’s creature and about the man singing The Sound of Silence at the end of the Christmas service. I write what I would have written in the composition book Mr Harrison gave me, if I had been at school or had had more time to try my ideas out first. When I post it, I get a like before #me has even read through the whole thing. When he comments it begins a long conversation about how technology could be used to keep improving the world. I imagine it’s a topic that Mr Harrison could bring up in class: how is technology altering the human consciousness and how will it continue to affect the structure and organisation of human society? #me starts the conversation.

- I’ve not read Frankenstein, but I saw the National Theatre Live version when they streamed it at the cinema. He sort of lived in a world of silence didn’t he, even when his creator stood right over him at the start? If only he’d been created today. People warn us about the dangers of the internet, but I think the world outside is far more dangerous than anything I’ve ever seen in here.

We post back and forth for hours, until even the blue light of my screen cannot keep my brain awake. My hands lose strength before my eyes close. I drop my phone in my lap as my head lolls onto my mother’s shoulder. Before they close, my eyes stare into the dying embers of the fire. I imagine my black pupils growing in their dim red-orange light, adjusting to the darkness of the room. As I stare, my eyes imagine the flames slowly growing from the embers again, flickering and licking their way upwards. The flames begin to dance and as they grow into yellow lights I begin to see an image moving within them, and I remember again the memory that drew a tear from my eye earlier this evening, another memory I thought I had started to forget.

Chapter Thirteen Early-Winter 2014 Isabella

One of the reasons that I like to listen to Susan Merriweather playing the piano is because it reminds me of Sarah. Sarah’s older sister played the piano too and even at fifteen she was an expert. I remember that she always used to practice for half an hour before school, because as I walked towards her house in the mornings to knock for Sarah I’d always hear her playing. I used to walk those final hundred yards slowly so that I could take in as much of her playing as possible. As I walked slowly towards the house the song she played would get gradually louder and clearer and, if I timed it right, I could arrive just as she finished the piece she was practising. If we ever had to be at school early, I’d hear Sarah playing for her thirty minutes a day too. They ran like clockwork every day. Sarah played from seven to seven-thirty and her older sister, Briony, played from seven-thirty to eight. Even at ten, Sarah was already getting good too, so I’d walk slowly on these days as well, though there was always something especially beautiful about listening to Sarah’s sister. She was a tall, willowy and graceful girl, who looked ready for Cambridge or Oxford at fifteen. I always admired her. I know Sarah did too.

I remember this day particularly because it was Sarah’s birthday, January 4^th, and our first day back at school for the new year. It was still wintery cold, so we were wrapped up in scarfs and our new stripy mittens. We were talking about fairies in our oak tree at the foot of the hill in the fields beyond the farm. Ten wasn’t too old for fairies. We held on to our childhood properly then. Out of nowhere Sarah suddenly stopped and looked around as if she had heard something in the trees: we walked through a small wood to get to school. I paused too and looked around for something that might have caused her to stop so suddenly. The wind whistled through the trees and rustled the leafless canopy above.

‘Did you see that? she said.

‘What?’

‘Did you hear it?’ she said in hushed awe.

‘No, what?’

‘It sounded like the fairy king.’

‘What? How do you know?’

‘I read about him last night in the book Mum and Dad bought me for Christmas. He flies through the branches of the trees on the whistling wind on the first Monday of every month to re-mark his territory and to warn away any intruding beasts or spirits.’

Sarah made the whole world come alive in a way that no-one else could. There was no question of the absolute truth of anything she said.

‘Quick, we need to make the sign of friendship and peace, so he knows that we are passing through as friends of the fairies and not intruding upon his lands. Only I can’t remember the sign. I was falling asleep as I read that part of the story last night.’

‘I know,’ I said confidently. ‘I see the Celtic warrior make a sign sometimes at the time between times, when he passes over the field by the oak tree. It must be the same one and he must be signalling to the fairy king in the oak tree.’

‘What is it?’ said Sarah, wide eyed and eager to know the secret.

‘Quick, like this,’ I said, and I raised my right arm above my head, made a fist and faced the palm side forwards. I then placed my left fist over my heart, beat it and gave a slight noble nod of my head. Sarah imitated exactly with a solemn reverence and utter seriousness that made me happier than I could know at the time. The wind rustled through the treetops again.

‘He’s seen us and accepts our sign of friendship,’ said Sarah.

We walked on to school in our imaginary world of fairies and spirits and beauty that is only truly understood and cherished once it is gone and cannot be got back.

Then all turns to rain and hail and wind and grey. I just about make out the image of the oak tree ahead and I’m panicking, racing towards it in the storm that is raging around me. ‘Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!’ I’m shouting. I am panicking. It is dark, the winds are raging, and the rain is pounding down in torrents. I’m looking all around me and gradually fighting my way closer to the oak tree ahead. ‘Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!’

I wake up with a start.

‘Sarah,’ I hear myself call in the quiet living room. My eyes adjust, and I realise where I am. Mum stirs next to me. I’m still in the lounge on Christmas Eve. I must have fallen asleep talking to #me.

‘Issy, what’s wrong, darling?’

I feel cold despite the warmth of the room. I turn to look at Mum and she must see the panic and anxiety on my damp face because she reaches out to me and draws me in for a deep hug. She murmurs comforting words in my ear and rocks me in her arms. I slowly feel the warmth return to my body. I sniff and hug her back with everything I’ve got.

‘It’s okay, darling. Everything is okay now. You’re at home and it’s Christmas and it’s okay.’

But it’s not okay, I think. The images of my dream flash through my mind’s eye again and again. I hold onto Mum tighter, but no amount of warmth and words stop those images from flashing through my eyes and from dancing in the flames of the fire: wind, rain, darkness and me screaming Sarah’s name.

Eventually, Mum releases me and I go to my bathroom before bed. When I look in the mirror, I feel like I am looking at Virginia Woolf: young, pretty, intelligent and surrounded by academics, romantics and lovers, and yet completely trapped in my own mind.