Kite Spirit
Authors: Sita Brahmachari
Dear Reader,
Have you ever watched a kite soaring through a bright blue sky, the wind behind, ripping and bobbing on streams of air, riding the currents, threatening to lift its ineffectual
owner off the ground? If you have then you’ll know the power of the kite; you’ll have met her spirit. But you’ll also know that if its bright canvas is torn then the wind will
show no mercy, ripping through it like a wounded sail, slicing the sky as it careers to the ground.
I saw a small child once, with a fallen kite, run over to inspect her precious treasure. There it lay all torn and jaggedy on the ground. She collected up its tangled strings and lifted it in
her plump arms, rocking it backwards and forward and sending up such a mournful cry you would have thought something had died.
‘I’ll try to fix it,’ comforted her dad, gathering both the child and her kite in his arms.
‘But it won’t ever fly the same again.’
Things can’t always stay the same or have ‘happily ever after’ endings, but no matter how hard the fall there is
always
someone who can help . . . if
. . . you have the courage to speak.
Love,
Sita x
To the landscape of the Lake District, where I lived for a while as a child – long enough for the mountains, lakes, slate and stone to have seeped into me . . . and to
my Cumbrian family, past and present, whose lives on fell and farm are part of the inspiration of this book.
There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating virtue, whence – depressed
By false opinion and contentious thought,
Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight,
In trivial occupations, and the round
Of ordinary intercourse – our minds
Are nourished and invisibly repaired;
A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced,
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.
Wordsworth’s
The Prelude
,
Vol. 12, 208–18 (1805 edition)
The Falling Day
Dawn’s never late. I check the time again: 8.51. I think I know what’s happened now. She must have turned up early, all stressed out, and I had the radio cranked up
so loud I didn’t hear her knocking. I bet she’s already gone and she’ll be livid with me later for cutting it so fine. I knock for one last time but it’s quiet in her flat.
I expect she’s been sitting in the exam hall since school opened. That’ll be why she’s not answering my text either.
I take the remaining communal stairs in twos, practically falling down them as Jess, Dawn’s cat, wraps herself around my ankles.
‘Go home, Jess! Dawn will be back soon,’ I call to her as I sprint down the road, only to find myself stuck behind a pile-up of students. The zebra-crossing lady holds back the
traffic for an ambulance followed by a police car, lights flashing, sirens blaring. I wince as the sound grates on me.
What
is the matter with me this morning? I pull myself up straight
and take a deep breath. As soon as the crossing’s clear I break into a run again, weaving in and out of the stream of students and through the school gates. Once inside I veer off to the
right and straight into the hall. The place is eerily quiet considering it’s so full. I scan the rows and rows of desks for Dawn but I can’t see her anywhere.
‘Kite Solomon. One minute later and I would have closed the doors on you,’ Miss Choulty whispers.
‘What about Dawn?’ I ask, checking my phone again to see if she’s texted me back yet.
Miss Choulty grabs the phone out of my hands and guides me along the line of little tables.
‘The embarrassment of it! Two of my tutor group turning up late . . . and Dawn of all people!’ Miss Choulty sighs. We pass an empty desk. ‘And as for you, I could have you
disqualified for bringing a phone into the exam hall,’ she adds, shaking her head. ‘Come on, Kite! Sort yourself out. You look half asleep!’ Then she seems to read something in my
expression and her face softens. ‘Never mind about Dawn now – I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation. I’ll try to find out what’s happened; and if I
hear anything I’ll let you know.’ She smiles as she takes hold of my shoulders and physically lowers me into my seat. ‘Take a few deep breaths, get a hold of your nerves and
you’ll do just fine.’
Miss Choulty is my geography teacher and she’s also been our tutor since Year 7. There’s not much she won’t talk to us about . . . I mean she’s even told us that she
doesn’t think that she can have children of her own. ‘Still,’ she said after that revelation, ‘I’ll just put everything I’ve got into making sure you all grow
like sunflowers!’ There’s something so honest and caring about her that melts even the toughest kids in our school, and she never gives up on anyone. I wasn’t even interested in
geography before I met her, but she’s one of those teachers who makes her subject come alive. She says geography should be renamed ‘reading the landscape,’ and she presents every
lesson as if we’re explorers setting out to discover the mysteries of the earth.
Everyone’s settled now – everyone, that is, except for Dawn. The place where she should be sitting is three rows forward and one desk to my right. A shrill buzzer sounds, making me
jump.
‘You may begin,’ announces Miss Choulty.
I just stare at Dawn’s empty seat, watching pages being turned and notes taken. Everyone else is turning over the pages and making notes. ‘
A perfectly logical
explanation
’ – Miss Choulty’s reassuring words keep running through my head. Maybe there’s been some out-of-the-blue family news. But then Dawn hardly ever sees her
extended family. Maybe she’s ill or something, though it’s strange that she didn’t say so on Facebook last night. Unless . . . she’s just got herself all wound up about the
exams. Miss Choulty keeps staring at me. She shakes her pen in the air and starts to mime-write. I pick up my biro. She smiles encouragingly as I print my name: ‘
Kite
Solomon
’ – and oddly, it feels as if it belongs to someone else. Get a grip, I tell myself as I turn the page and start to scan the paper. The lines of text swim in front of
me. I can’t make sense of how the words connect together or what they mean. It feels like when I first learned to read. I could say the words out loud, but by the end of the page I would have
to get Dawn to explain what it all meant. Dawn’s always been miles cleverer than me. If she was here right now she’d already be head down, making notes in the margins and preparing
herself to write probably the best GCSE paper ever. I look up at the empty seat. She must be feeling really ill not to turn up. Miss Choulty catches my eye again and frowns. I try to do what she
said and hold my nerve. I skim through the whole exam paper from beginning to end before I make an attempt to answer anything.
Glaciation (
of course
this is one of the topics I haven’t revised)
1. What is another name for basket of eggs scenery?
I search my brain for everything we’ve learned, but my mind’s meandering all over the place and I can’t seem to block out the noises from the street outside. There are always
sirens on the main road, but the piercing high-pitched noise blaring out right now seers into me, jangling nerves deep in my jaw, making my teeth ache down to the roots.
‘
There’s probably a perfectly logical explanation
,’ I repeat over and over in my mind.
Just get on with it Kite, I tell myself as I read the next question.
2. Calculate the following coordinates.
The tiny squares of the graph paper mutate into a smudged wave as I try to follow the path along and up, charting where the points should meet. I look at my watch. I can’t believe
I’ve been sitting here for over twenty minutes just staring at the questions. Miss Choulty peers at me from beneath her clear-framed glasses as if to say, ‘Kite Solomon, what do you
think you’re doing?’ Her voice in my head merges with the sound of the siren, getting louder and . . . closer. I raise my hand. Miss Choulty looks annoyed, but comes over anyway.
‘Sorry, miss, I just wondered if you’ve heard yet why Dawn’s not here?’
She looks down at my blank exam paper, scowls and shakes her head.
‘I told you I’ll let you know if I hear from her,’ she whispers. ‘Now try to focus. This is important, Kite.’
I wonder if it could be something to do with Dawn’s orchestra. All I can hear is the melody of the same phrases she’s been practising for months now. Considering I don’t even
listen to classical music, I probably know more about it than most people just from hearing Dawn on her oboe. When she first started it used to drive me crazy – that high-pitched squeak when
she was blowing out her reeds went right through me. But I like the sound now, because I know she’s just clearing the airways for what comes next, and that is always beautiful.