Secrets at Silver Spires (5 page)

“Hey, cool!” I breathed. “What do you suppose it's used for?”

“I think it's the stuff they make trellises with – you know, for plants to climb up walls. But is it the right thickness for your metal people?”

I grabbed a handful and twisted several strands round each other. “I could put quite a few lengths together. I might even plait it.” Then I realized something and my voice fell flat. “Oh, I'm just kind of assuming I can take it, aren't I? But obviously I can't.”

“All right, girls?”

We both turned at the sound of Tony's voice. I think his proper job title is Silver Spires Site Manager, but anyway, he always locks up the shed at night-times.

“Oh hi, Tony! We were just wondering what this wire is used for?”

“Surplus to requirements, I think you'd call that,” he said, as he opened a large cupboard in the corner of the shed and started poking about in it.

“Surplus to requirements?” I repeated, with a careful question mark in my voice, wondering if I'd understood correctly, and crossing my fingers that I had.

“Yep, we don't need that any more. It was for making garden trellises, but we've been using the thin green stuff instead. Much more natural looking. And actually we're changing to wooden trellises now, anyway.”

“So…” The little light was crouching inside me, ready to leap into a bright flame. “…could I possibly have some of it?”

“You can take the lot as far as I'm concerned. What do you want it for anyway?”

“To make something for the art exhibition.”

“Nice one! Glad you can put it to good use. Don't like to see waste, myself.”

“Oh thank you, Tony!”

“Any time!” He grinned, pulling something out of the cupboard, then headed off towards the rubbish dump.

I thanked Mia for spotting the wire in the first place, then rushed over to the secret garden and stood in the middle of the lawn for a few minutes, just staring into space and imagining myself working on my figures. Where could I leave them when I'd finished, though? I couldn't go lugging them back to Hazeldean, and anyway only the coiled-up wire would fit under our beds. Once I'd shaped it into the figures, they'd never fit.

Just behind the back of the garden hedge was a line of trees. I squeezed myself between the trees and the hedge and decided this would be the perfect place. I would cover my figures with bin liners and tuck them in that narrow space. They'd be safe and perfectly private there.

So everything was almost ready. I'd hidden the chandelier teardrops at the very back of one of the drawers built into my bed unit, and I'd got some bubble wrap that a teacher said I could have because it had been hanging around in a cupboard for ages. I'd decided that all my figures should look the same, with bubble wrap representing clothes. I just needed to get some more of it from somewhere or other. Georgie was begging to be allowed to pop all the bubbles, and I'd told her yes, with pleasure, because I thought it would hang better if it was flat. After that, I planned to paint it in a different colour for each figure. All I had to do now was bring my materials out here and then I could get started.

Magic.

I couldn't wait.

I woke up the next day to golden sunlight streaming through the window, and felt a lovely connection to the secret garden, like a rope tugging me towards my new creation. But then a cloud passed by the window and sent a shadow sliding over my bright world. It was English first period with Mr. Reeves.

I'd managed to forget about that the previous evening when I'd been occupied with twisting and plaiting together long lengths of wire. I couldn't forget it now though. First period was just too close, and I couldn't bear the thought that we might be getting our test results.

Breakfast was a horrible anxious time for me and I could feel Grace giving me sideways glances.

“Are you okay, Jess?” she asked in the end, her forehead wrinkled in a frown.

I tried to smile brightly. “Yes, sorry. I was in a world of my own.”

“I could tell… Only it seemed like a different kind of world from usual.”

“No, no. Same old world!” I laughed. I didn't want Grace to know I was worrying or she'd try to get me to talk, and there was no way I could admit to anyone, not even Grace, that I was much worse than she imagined – in fact completely useless – at reading and writing. I was so ashamed of myself.

I swallowed hard and started a little chant inside my head that I kept on coming back to right up until I walked into the English room.

Please don't say anything about the test. Please don't say anything about the test…

But as I passed Mr. Reeves's desk to find a place to sit in the middle of the room, I knew my silent chanting had been pointless. The booklets lay in a pile in front of him with the papers tucked inside. I sighed and sat down heavily. Then, when we were all seated, Mr. Reeves stood up as though he was about to make a speech.

“The reading test has flagged up problems in some areas for one or two people,” he said. I was glad to hear the word “two”. At least I wasn't the only one, but my heart still raced away, and I knew I was going pink. I've got the kind of pale skin that goes with my auburn hair and green eyes, and I hate it when I feel embarrassed because my cheeks finish up bright red. “Sara Wynn-Jones, Frankie Pierson and Jessica Roud, you three will need to go and see Miss Cardwell in the Learning Support department. We'll start with you, Jessica, if you'd like to make your way over there…and the other two can go next time.” I stood up on quavery legs, wishing I hadn't tied my hair back so it would swing in a thick curtain over my face and cover up the deep red of my cheeks as I scurried to the door. “The rest of you, turn to page fifty-four of your poetry books.”

So this was it. Sara and Frankie obviously didn't have such terrible problems as me, because apparently I needed a whole session with Miss Cardwell whereas it sounded like the other two were sharing a session next time. Being in the bottom set for English, I'd always known I was one of the very worst readers in Year Seven, but, somehow, having it confirmed in front of the whole class made me feel even more of a failure. By the time I'd reached the Learning Support department, I was close to tears.

“Come in, Jessica!” came Miss Cardwell's cheerful voice. I'd never actually heard her speak before, only seen her from time to time around the school, but it didn't surprise me that her voice was so cheerful because she always wore a big friendly smile. I think she's the assistant housemistress at Willowhaven House, but it might be Oakley – I'm not sure.

“Jessica or Jess?” she asked me brightly, pulling a chair up near her own and patting the seat.

“Jess,” I said in a sad little croak as I sat down.

“Jess, okay.” She smiled again and looked at me carefully. “Right, nothing to worry about at all. Now that I've screened your reading test I can tell that your brain works slightly differently from other people's, but you've got lots of strengths and I must say you've coped brilliantly with your difficulties. Really brilliantly. And I want to stress right here that I am definitely not saying that you are any less intelligent than the next person. That simply isn't true.

“Now, I've just got a few questions for you, which will help me get a better idea of what your difficulties are. Tell me, do you have problems with the difference between bs and ds?”

I nodded, wondering how she knew that, but realizing immediately that it was obvious she was trained to know these things.

“And this might seem like an odd thing to be asking, but could you recite the two times table?” She broke into another of her lovely smiles and I thought what a nice, kind person she is. “It's not a trick question, Jess. Just take your time.” She stopped me after six twos and I asked her if I'd done all right. “There's no right or wrong in my game, Jess,” she said, looking straight at me. And I felt as though we made a little connection there, because that's how I feel about art. That's what I was trying to explain to my parents.

“Like art,” I said quietly.

I didn't think she'd get what I meant, but she did, straight away.

“Exactly.”

After that I had to do various other tests, like repeating sequences of numbers after she'd said them, and seeing whether I could keep my eyes following the same line of words or whether they dropped down (which they did, lots of times). And finally she said I'd done fine and I could relax.

“Well, there's obviously something going on that you need help with. What I'm going to do is talk to your parents on the phone and explain my findings, and see if they're agreeable to your having a more detailed screening by an educational psychologist. Now, you're unlikely to get an appointment before half-term, or even the summer holidays, but meanwhile we'll arrange for you to come to me, and I can help you with your reading in all sorts of ways, Jess, to make the process much, much easier for you. All right? You really should have had this kind of help at primary school, but, sadly, bright pupils like you slip through the net sometimes.”

I couldn't speak. My whole mind was taken up with what people would say, and especially what my friends would say. It was embarrassing having to have extra help with reading at secondary school. I'd never live it down.

“Have you got any questions at all, Jess?”

Yes. How can you say I'm bright when I'm obviously stupid? Why doesn't my brain work properly? Why ME?

I shook my head sorrowfully, but then a more sensible question did pop into my head and I blurted it out. “Is it dyslexia? Is that what's wrong with me?”

The silence seemed to go on for ages, though it was probably only a couple of seconds really. “Yes. I think that will turn out to be the case,” said Miss Cardwell carefully. “It has to be confirmed, of course… Then you'll get the help you need – extra time in exams, someone to do the writing while you dictate what you want to say. And, Jess, you deserve these things. Dyslexia is tough, but you'll manage fine because all sorts of very clever people at the top of their professions have managed, like the artists Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. So you see, you'll be in great company.”

I felt like a little girl who'd gone into a sulk, because I still couldn't quite smile, even though I really wanted to when Miss Cardwell was being so kind and saying things to make me feel better. A few little pinpricks of warmth were starting to appear inside me, though, at the thought of two such famous painters sharing the same brain problems as me.

“The thing is, Jess, nature has a curious habit of balancing things out. When she creates difficulties for the brain she often compensates by handing out rare gifts…” She paused and I saw her eyes twinkle. “I have it on good authority from various members of staff here that you are a very talented artist, and I saw that you won the competition for the cover of the swimming gala programme. So there you are. That is your gift.”

“It's true that I…see the world in pictures not words,” I finally managed to say.

She nodded slowly, with another kindly smile. “Well, there you are. I envy you that.”

Then the bell went and my horrible sinking feeling came back. How could I cope with everyone finding out I've got to have extra help with reading, like a little kid? Because, it doesn't matter what Miss Cardwell says, if you need help with reading at my age, you must be thick. The feeling seemed to drag me down so far I couldn't bear it. I didn't want people to find out, and what's more, I wasn't going to let that happen. I'd make something up. I'd pretend it was just a one-off session with Miss Cardwell because I hadn't been feeling well the day of the test so I'd done really badly. I'd say Miss Cardwell just wanted to check it was only an off-day and that there wasn't really any problem. And now she'd checked and, sure enough, everything was fine. She'd said I was perfectly good at reading and definitely didn't need any help.

Yes, that's what I'd say.

“So…when shall I come back…?” I asked hesitantly as I got up to go.

Please don't let it be during a lesson.

“Er…let me see…” She was looking in a big diary. “Yes, why don't you come tomorrow lunchtime and Monday after school?”

“Just those two times,” I said, feeling a big relief sweep through me.

“Yes, just Friday lunchtimes and Mondays after school.”

“You mean I've got to come twice a week
every single week
?” It was obvious really. I didn't know why I'd ever imagined I could be turned into a normal-brained person in just two sessions.

“Yes, that's right.” She was smiling away and now, once again, there was no way I could smile back. I was feeling too horrified. However was I going to be able to convince people I didn't have a problem when I had to go to the Learning Support department for reading help twice a week? And now I was going to have less time for my precious art project too. I could have cried. What a hopeless mess.