Chapter Twenty-Two
THAT EVENING I spent ages making a plan for the butterfly garden. I remembered each and every plant so I could sketch out the way they’d look prettiest. I decided to have a buddleia at either end, and then masses of flowers in-between.
The next day Selma brought in two big carrier bags full of nettles and dandelions, each with their own clod of earth to protect their roots.
‘I wore gloves so them nettles didn’t sting me,’ she said proudly.
Miss Lovejoy parked the minibus by the garden strip and started unloading all our flowers and shrubs.
We were so busy planting at lunch time! We needed to get all the plants settled really quickly, so Miss Lovejoy suggested we ask for help. Phil and Neera and Maddie and Harry came to ease the plants out of their containers, while Miss Lovejoy and Selma and I dug holes and put each one in place. Then we moved on to the next and the next while the others watered them in, using a great big watering can. Harry was the chief waterer and managed to water himself as much as the plants.
It was a bit annoying, because Selma and I would have loved to do some watering too.
‘But you two are the expert gardeners now,’ said Miss Lovejoy. ‘You need to make sure the plants are at the right depth, with their roots able to spread out comfortably. And don’t worry, you’ll need to do lots more work watering to help them grow.’
The three of us had to work together to cope with the big buddleia bushes. One simply wouldn’t come out of its container and we had to tug and heave. But eventually it shifted.
We weren’t anywhere near finished when the bell rang for afternoon school, but Miss Lovejoy gave Selma and me special permission to miss drama and games so we could carry on with the planting and sow the cabbages and beans.
We worked and worked and worked, and got everything finished five minutes before the bell went for home time. We gave everything another watering – Selma had to help me when it was my turn because the can was so heavy. Then we just stood hand in hand and looked at the garden.
It didn’t look quite as pretty as my picture. Miss Lovejoy said we had to space things out a bit to give the plants room to grow and spread, so there were gaps of brown earth everywhere. But even so it still looked a splendid garden.
I threw back my head. ‘Come on, butterflies! Come to our garden!’ I called enticingly.
But they didn’t come.
Oh dear, they didn’t come.
They didn’t come.
Selma and I went to the butterfly garden every day and waited. We looked until our eyes watered, but we didn’t see a single butterfly.
‘It’s because it’s not warm enough yet,’ said Selma. ‘It’s only March, for goodness’ sake.’
‘My butterfly book says the big nymph butterflies – the painted lady and the peacock and the red admiral, all the best butterflies – start flying around in March,’ I said mournfully. ‘They must be flying around right this minute. But in other people’s gardens. Not ours.’
‘You’ve got to give them a chance, Little Bug. They’ll come soon,’ said Selma.
‘I’m giving them lots of chances, Big Bug. But nothing’s happening,’ I said.
‘Didn’t you say some of them like rotting fruit? Pretty weird of them, I must say, but still, let’s try it. Your mum’s always giving you lots of fruit for your lunch. Let’s scatter it about the garden and see if it will make the butterflies come,’ Selma suggested.
So I didn’t eat my apples or clementines for a whole week. We cut them into quarters and left them in the garden.
But the butterflies still didn’t come.
‘All that work! All that money!’ I said, nearly in tears.
‘But we’ve still got a lovely garden,’ said Selma.
‘I don’t like it now,’ I said. ‘It’s pointless if it doesn’t work. I’m not going to go there any more.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. You don’t really mean that.’
‘Yes I do,’ I said.
I wouldn’t go to the butterfly garden that playtime. I didn’t go at lunch time either.
‘I’ll still go,’ said Selma. ‘Just to have a look.’
She dashed off every time the bell went. She shook her head whenever she came back. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see any. But they will come, I just know they will.’
She went to accost Miss Lovejoy. ‘We will get some butterflies coming to our garden, won’t we, miss?’
‘Miss Lovejoy. Yes, I’m sure you will. It will just take a little time, that’s all. The butterflies have to find the garden. Once they start coming, then they’ll mate and lay eggs, and the caterpillars will feed there and pupate and then hatch out into more butterflies, and in a year or so I’m sure you’ll see butterflies there every day,’ she said.
‘A year?’ I said. ‘I want to see butterflies there now!’
‘One of the most important lessons to learn in life is patience,’ said Miss Lovejoy.
I might have learned how to spell patience now, but I didn’t have any. And Miss Lovejoy was starting to get on my nerves.
Selma seemed surprisingly pally with her nowadays. She went up to her at the end of school and went whisper whisper whisper. Miss Lovejoy beckoned her to the store cupboard and gave her a whole lot of different-coloured sugar paper, which Selma folded carefully and then crammed into her school bag.
‘What have you got all that paper for?’ I asked.
Selma gently tweaked my nose. ‘Nosy! You wait and see,’ she said.
At playtime the next day Selma ran off and didn’t come back. I was stuck all by myself, sitting on the steps by the library. I looked for Phil, but she was playing some sort of silly game with Neera. I looked for Maddie, but she was playing football with Harry. It was very lonely without Selma. I wondered about going to the butterfly garden after all, but I couldn’t bear to now.
Then, just as the bell went, Selma came running. ‘Quick! Quick, Tina! Come to the garden!’ she yelled.
‘Have you seen a butterfly?’ I gasped.
‘Heaps!’ said Selma, tugging at my hands. ‘Quick! Come and see them.’
I ran like the wind, all the way over to the butterfly garden. Then I stood still, transfixed. There were at least twenty butterflies all over the flowers and shrubs. Not real ones. These were paper butterflies – blue and brown and pink and green and white, all carefully cut out and sellotaped to the leaves.
‘Oh my goodness!’ I said.
‘I did it just so you can see what it will look like,’ said Selma. ‘Do you like them?’
‘Oh, Selma, they look lovely, truly lovely,’ I said. ‘Tell you what – let’s form a club, you and me. The Butterfly Club.’
‘With just two members?’ said Selma. ‘That would be cool. And I’ve found someone to cheer you up. Look carefully!’
I looked and looked. And then I saw a tiny little person carefully taped to a lavender bush. A small china person.
‘Baby!’ I breathed.
Selma carefully detached her and put her in my hand.
‘Oh, Baby, I’ve got you back at last!’ I said, clutching her tight and starting to cry.
‘She got lost for a while,’ Selma said, not quite looking at me, ‘and then I found her. I wanted to keep her, but I knew she was really yours. You’ve been so miserable and you needed her.’
‘Oh, Selma, thank you so much!’ I said.
‘Well, that’s what friends are for, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘You’re the best friend in all the world!’
‘Really? We’re best friends now? You really mean it?’
‘Yes, I really mean it. And tell you what – you can have New Baby. She’s bigger than this baby and she’s got proper clothes. You’ll like her, I promise.’
‘So are you a bit happier now? You’re still crying!’
‘Only a bit.’
‘You don’t mind so much that there aren’t any butterflies yet?’
‘Well, we’ve got paper butterflies, have
n’t we?’
‘They’re not very good. Some of their wings went wonky and they’re not really the right colours. I’m not brilliant at art like you.’
‘I think they’re beautiful,’ I declared. ‘Lovely, lovely butterflies!’
And then, as I spoke, a real butterfly came flying through the air. A real, wonderful butterfly, with red wings and blue spots like eyes.
A peacock! I mouthed at Selma, not daring to speak aloud.
It circled all the way round the garden, alighted on one of the purple buddleia sprays, and fluttered its wings. It stayed there for several seconds and then flew away.
‘It was real, wasn’t it?’ I whispered, scared that I might have imagined it.
‘It was totally real,’ said Selma. ‘I bet it came because it saw all my paper butterflies. They acted like a signal to it. Come here, you guys, it said. Lots of nectar going free!’
‘You did it, Selma! You’re magic. Let’s see if the peacock butterfly comes back – or maybe there’ll be others!’
But we didn’t get a chance to see that day, because Kayleigh came running towards us, bright red in the face with triumph.
‘You two, Selma and Tina! You’re in soooo much trouble! Miss Lovejoy sent me looking for you. You’re ten minutes late for lessons. Ha ha, serves you both right! Miss Lovejoy will kill you!’
‘You shut up, Kayleigh,’ Selma said fiercely.
‘No I won’t! What have you been doing, anyway? Just staring at your silly garden? What are all them paper things? They look silly!’
‘No they don’t! They’re brilliant,’ I said fiercely. ‘They made a real peacock butterfly come.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Kayleigh.
‘It’s not not not rubbish! We saw it, didn’t we, Selma?’
‘Yeah, we saw it and that’s all that matters. We don’t care if we get into trouble with Miss Lovejoy,’ said Selma.
But we didn’t get into trouble. Miss Lovejoy was looking very fierce when we went into the classroom, but when she saw our faces she actually smiled.
‘Did you like Selma’s paper butterflies, Tina?’ she asked.
‘Yes, they’re lovely, and they worked like magic – because guess what, Miss Lovejoy, we saw a peacock butterfly – we really did, didn’t we, Selma?’
‘You bet we did! It was on one of them buddleia bushes, miss!’ said Selma.
‘Miss Lovejoy!’ said Miss Lovejoy. ‘Well, you’re very naughty girls not to come back into school the moment the bell rang, and I shall make you stay an extra ten minutes after lessons have ended – but all the same, how splendid! A peacock butterfly, eh! So the butterfly garden has had its first visitor at last!’
Chapter Twenty-Three
MORE BUTTERFLIES CAME! A painted lady, a red admiral, a brimstone, a large white, and many more. Selma and I ticked them off triumphantly in the butterfly book.
We left Selma’s paper butterflies in place. When it was breezy their wings fluttered as if they were real. But then, one night, there was a storm, and when we went to look the next day the paper butterflies were all in sodden shreds, so we had to remove them. I dried the biggest out carefully and then tucked it inside the butterfly book as a keepsake. I showed Selma and she was very pleased.
We sat beside the butterfly garden every day. Phil and Neera and Maddie and Harry and lots of the other children came to watch the butterflies too. It was wonderful to show off and identify the butterflies for them. Alistair was a bit annoying because he got a butterfly book too, and started dividing butterflies into families – the small skippers, large swallowtails and pale whites; the small bright hairstreaks, coppers and blues; and the glorious nymphs. He even tried to learn their Latin names. He knelt at the edge of the garden, spouting butterfly information for all he was worth.
‘Shut up, Alistair!’ said Selma. ‘It’s our butterfly garden, me and Tina’s, not yours. We made it. And we don’t want to hear you spouting all this stuff. Tina’s the one who knows about butterflies, not you.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘No but! You’re doing my head in. We just want to sit peacefully and watch,’ said Selma.
‘OK, OK, keep your hair on. I’ll watch too,’ he said.
He sat quietly – but we could see his lips moving as he whispered informatively to himself.
When Miss Lovejoy was on playground duty she came and watched as well. So did some of the other teachers.
‘It’s worked a treat,’ said Mr Haringay, who teaches Year Six. ‘All that hard work digging has paid off at last. My goodness, those little girls slaved away day after day. I wonder why you didn’t take up my offer of hiring a rotavator? The whole area could have been dug over in no time.’
‘Yes, I wonder why,’ said Miss Lovejoy, smiling mysteriously.
‘Still, they’ve done a grand job.’
‘They have indeed.’
I took my coloured pencils and sketchpad to school and drew lots of pictures of the butterfly garden.
‘Draw us sitting beside it,’ said Selma, so I did.
I missed looking at the garden during the summer half term. I drew more pictures at home with Phil and Maddie. We also started up a new club – a triplet one just for us. We had to say everything three times, and we made lists of our three favourite foods, three favourite animals, three favourite colours, three favourite television shows, three favourite hobbies, three favourite books, three favourite people at school, three favourite songs, three favourite sports, three favourite butterflies . . . Guess who chose the last category!
When it was sunny we played football-in-slow-motion. This was a soft, gentle version so that Mum wouldn’t get fussed about me playing. Grandad looked after us while Mum and Dad were working, and he played football-in-slo-mo too. He still got a bit puffed, much more than me.
Sometimes we left Phil and Maddie playing kickabout and went and sat on the sofa and watched television for ten minutes to catch our breath. Grandad didn’t mind a bit watching Ruby Red on CBeebies. He chuckled at Ruby too and joined in all her games. He liked looking at all the children’s drawings at the end of the show.
‘You should send one of your pictures in, Tina,’ he said.
‘I’m too old, Grandad! This is a programme for little kids,’ I told him.
‘You’re just a little squirt yourself, you soppy ha’porth! I don’t think there’s an age limit anyway.’ He squinted at the television screen. ‘There, look! That boy’s picture of a fire engine – it says By Matthew, aged seven. See! You’re only seven, Tina. Go on, have a go. Your pictures are much better than that.’
‘Do you really think so? Oh goodness, what if Ruby picked mine! Which one shall I send?’ I asked, getting excited.
Grandad looked at all the pictures in my sketchbook, peering at each one carefully. ‘I think I’d choose this one,’ he said, stopping at the picture of Selma and me in the butterfly garden.
So I tore it out of the pad very carefully. I printed my name and address on the back – and then I added a little piece to explain my picture.
I was a much better speller nowadays, but I checked all the dodgy words with Grandad just to make sure it was all perfect. Grandad said he would find a big stiff envelope so that my drawing wouldn’t get crumpled, and then he’d post it off for me.
A week later, when I was back at school, I got a letter.
‘A letter just for me!’ I said when I found it waiting for me at home.
I’d never ever had my own letter before. Gran and Grandad often sent postcards when they were on holiday, but they were always addressed to Phil and Maddie and me.
‘Let me see!’ said Mum.
‘Hey, let Tina open it,’ said Dad. ‘It’s her letter.’
So I opened it and stared hard at the typewritten message inside.
Dear Tina,
We simply loved your picture of the butterfly garden. Would you and Selma like to come on the programme and talk to Ruby Red about it? Talk it over with your parents or guardians, a
nd if they think this is a good idea ask them to telephone us on the number at the top of the page. With all good wishes,
Garnet Baker
Garnet Baker
Executive Producer,
the Ruby Red team
I read it through twice, unable to believe it.
‘What does it say?’ asked Phil.
‘Shall we read it for you?’ said Maddie.
‘I can read it myself,’ I said, my voice all wobbly.
‘Oh darling, what is it? Give it here,’ said Mum.
I handed it over and she read it through quickly, Dad peering over her shoulder. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she said.
‘What?’ said Phil.
‘What?’ said Maddie.
‘Our Tina’s going on television!’ said Dad, and he picked me up and whirled me round and round.
‘But when did you send this picture to the programme?’ Mum asked, bewildered.
‘Grandad sent it,’ I said.
‘Well, good for him!’ said Dad.
Phil and Maddie were looking at the letter now.
‘Oh, Tina, you lucky thing!’ said Phil.
‘I’ve always wanted to be on television,’ said Maddie.
‘I’ll mention you two when I phone up,’ said Mum. ‘You’re triplets – you always do things together – and you’ll be a novelty item on the programme. I don’t see why Selma has to come. I’m sure her mum will create difficulties anyway. It will be so much better, the three of you. Maybe we could buy you identical butterfly T-shirts – that would be really eye-catching!’
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t get too carried away, love. We can’t do Selma out of her chance to be on the telly.’
‘No we can’t,’ I said, loudly and firmly. ‘If it wasn’t for Selma there wouldn’t be any butterfly garden. She did practically one hundred per cent of the hard work – all that digging!’
‘You sound like Alistair!’ said Maddie.