What the Thrush Said

                                                
           Frankie pushed his bicycle uphill, listening as the stream behind the hedge went laughing and gossiping its own way in the other direction.  He knew if he listened carefully he’d decode the ancient language of the water sprites.  The water babble was like a kaleidoscope which, if tumbled ever so carefully, would someday resolve its coloured shards into a stained glass window of magical beauty.  “Listen,” he thought, “someday you’ll understand.” Sunshine warmed Frankie’s face, taking the bite out of the early spring morning.  As the stream gambolled on, a small thrush joined in the conversation.  A short way further up the hill was an old stone church and graveyard.  Frankie’s Dad was there and it was time for them to have a talk.  Dad would understand.

          Arriving at the churchyard gate, Frankie leaned his bike against the wall and removed a pair on hand trimmers from the bag attached to his handlebars.  The grass in the cemetery was still wet and, going to the well-tended headstone, Frankie picked his way trying to keep from soaking his school shoes.

         "I’m here by myself today, Dad.  I’m ditching school and Ma would be angry.  I want talk to you about something that’s more important.” 

 

        As the morning warmed, Frankie worked carefully, weeding and trimming the grass around the stone monument.  He paused and listened, but could no longer hear the stream and thrush.  A breeze stirred, but almost silently, caressing Frankie’s face.

     “Tommy Kennedy brought a dead rat to school yesterday, Dad.  It was dry and stiff.  He took it out of his lunchbox and Mrs Quirk took it away and sent Tommy to detention.  Me too.  Tommy wanted to trade if for my jack-knife, but I wouldn’t.  You know, it’s boring in detention, but better than a spelling lesson.  Besides, I found the rat outside the classroom window.  I’m giving it back to Tommy.  It’s his rat, innit?”

        “Dad, you know that girl I was tellin’ you about, Lizzy Cooley, that girl with long braids and braces on her teeth? Well, she smiled at me as I was going off to detention.  She’s pretty an all, but I don’t understand.  What do girls want?  Do you know?  I’m going to look for her in a little while, when it’s lunchtime at school.  She usually goes home.  It’s not too far from here and I can catch up with her on her way back.  Should I tell her I’ve got Tommy’s rat? Maybe she’d like to see it. Anyhow wish me luck, Dad.  I’ll tell you all about it the next time I come here without Mom.”

          Frankie stood, crossed himself and walked slowly away, turning once as he reached the gate.  Again, a breeze touched his face. Unnoticed, Marie, Frankie’s mother, stood still and silent in the shadow of the arched doorway to the church.  She watched as her son closed the churchyard gate and swung up onto his bike. 

The lane home from the churchyard was downhill.  As he gained momentum, Frankie imagined his bicycle was a swooping dragon.  He and his dragon would incinerate the school! (But only at lunchtime when nobody was there.)  Then something happened.  The world went silent and, in that moment, Frankie again heard the stream prattling on, but he began to understand the water’s language.  It was saying something about Lizzy Cooley.  The thrush agreed.