Page 12 of The Strawberry Thief
It’s too early for strawberries. But the clearing is filled with their leaves and their little white flowers, like fallen stars. The wishing well was covered, too, so that only someone who knew it was there would have really noticed it. It looks like a barrow under the green; somewhere fairies or goblins might live. And there was someone already there, sitting with their back to me.
For a minute I thought of fairies or trolls. But it wasn’t either of them, or even somebody special like Bam. Now I could see that it was a boy; quite a fat boy, with messy brown hair and a T-shirt a little too small for him. He was sitting on the grass, looking into the tangle of green, and even his back looked unhappy. I nearly ran away right then, but then I remembered that this wasmywood, and that if anyone was supposed to leave, it should be the boy, who looked like a bear, sitting there in the strawberry-leaves.
I didn’t want to say anything, so I made a bird-noise, like a scolding jackdaw.
The boy didn’t look round, or move at all. I made the jackdaw-call again – CRAWWK! – and made the leaves of the oak trees dance. I still wasn’t sure if I was cross or curious to see him there. Maybe I was a bit of both. I wondered what he was doing there. Maybe he was a traveller, wanting to spend the night in my wood. Maybe I’d let him, I told myself. Maybe he could be my secret.
‘Rwk,’ I said, in a friendlier voice.
Still the boy didn’t say anything. I came a little closer. Maybe he was deaf, I thought. Maybe he was pretending. Sitting on the grass at his side, I saw he was about my age, but bigger of course, with a round pale face and small angry eyes.
‘Go away,’ said the boy.
I made the jackdaw noise again, more insistently this time. Jackdaws dive-bomb animals that come too close to their nests. The boy was in my place, after all.Icertainly wasn’t leaving.
‘Stop making those noises,’ said the boy. ‘I’m sensitive. My mother says I mustn’t be upset.’
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He looked so funny and cross, sitting there, telling me what not to do. If I had my pencils, I thought, I’d draw him as a brown bear, looking fat and grumpy. Instead I puffed out my cheeks and blew, and made all the leaves and branches dance. Not in a bad way but in a funny, playful way. Then I sang a little song:Bam-bam-bam, Bam-badda-BAM!and laughed at his expression.
The boy looked up at me. ‘You’re Rosette Rocher,’ he said, and his voice was different. Not so cross this time, but curious. Still a bear, I thought, but not fierce. Maybe just looking for something to eat; berries, or honey, or acorns.
‘I’ve heard about you,’ said the boy.
I shrugged. Lots of people have heard about me.
‘I’m Yannick,’ said the boy.
I made the leaves do their dance again. It’s my place: I can do what I want. I could even make him go away. But maybe I won’t. He looked so sad. A sad bear with no honey.
‘Why don’t you say something?’ said Yannick.
I shrugged again. I don’t like talking. I’d rather sign, or sing, which is only one letter’s difference; or chatter like a monkey, or bark like a dog. People like dogs. Me, not so much. I know that now. I didn’t before. I thought that if I was a dog, the other children would like me. But they just thought I was weird, which to them is worse than anything. Even Pilou thinks I’m weird: at least he does when he’s with his friends. I don’t really have any friends. Except for Roux, and Anouk, and Maman, and Pilou – and Bam, of course.
Maman sometimes tells people that Bam is my invisible friend. That’s not true. She can see him, and so can Anouk, and so can some other people. But Maman says it’s easier than trying to tell them what Bamreallyis: and besides, what does it matter? Everyone’s different. Some of us are just more different than others.
Yannick looked at me closely. His eyes aren’t angry, as I’d thought; just smaller than most people’s. Then he smiled, a great big, wide smile that made me laugh.
‘You’re funny,’ he said.
I know.
‘Are you deaf? Or mute, or something?’
I laughed and shook my head, and made the leaves dance and laugh with me. Yannick smiled again. He looks nice when he smiles.
‘Okay. Why don’t we get something to eat? I’m starving.’
All right. Where?
‘I know a good place,’ said Yannick. ‘Come with me. I’ll show you.’
I followed him.
4
Friday, March 17
My father was a gentle soul, as wary of Tante Anna as I was myself. Inarticulate by choice as well as by nature, he had learnt only the basics of reading and writing while he was at school, before being summoned to help on the farm. Tante Anna had kept his school reports; one of them for every term, all in beautiful old-fashioned script:
