Girl, With Scars

Was the creature there, or not?
Frank Winter woke at 7:00 am, and his first thought was about his new friend. Warm sunshine bathed his attic room in a radiant honey glow, a loft space painfully empty of possessions. Wearing only boxer shorts, he climbed out of bed and made his way to the dormer window, rubbing life into tired eyes. Most nights he slept badly, experiencing strange dreams full of fret and weird situations far removed from his everyday life. Despite his fatigue, his heart fluttered at the anticipation of what might come next. For the last two mornings it had been there, and it had watched him as he had watched it. Strong hands drew back plain cotton curtains, and Frank squinted as eager sun rays flooded his room. Thirty feet below, a garden as large as two football fields stretched towards a distant hedgerow. The long grass and untended flower beds goaded him every time he saw them, and he longed to give the garden the love it deserved, to trim the wild lawns and to cut through the tangle of weeds that had long ago swallowed the colours of the once princely proud peonies, purple creeping phlox, candy coloured geraniums and a dozen other lustrous blooms. Frank had given up pleading with his father to make it right. No garden, no matter how verdant and colourful, could ever be the same, not now. Frank scanned the unruly grass, and the weed knotted paths that bordered both sides of the lawn, then the many coppices that swayed to the tune of a gentle breeze.
There.
Frank managed a smile.
The black squirrel rested by a bench next to the shed, and at the same time Frank found it, the furry creature turned its head towards him. Yesterday it had sauntered to the edge of the sun lounge and then stopped to gaze up at the dormer, its little nose twitching in curiosity. It had stayed there for a full minute watching back, then, much to Frank's disappointment, disappeared again, only to pop into view seconds later, on the edge of the glazed roof below his dormer, no more than twenty feet away, its sable pelage not quite as dark as its eyes, its bushy tail almost as long as its lean body. Frightened of unsettling his bold visitor, Frank had barely allowed himself to breathe, keeping as still as possible, and the squirrel too had seemed to be unusually serene, and for some inexplicable reason, Frank's heart had thumped hard inside his chest. Like it did presently.
Which was weird, flaky even, why such an everyday creature, as lovely as it was, would elicit such emotion from him. On Monday, the squirrel had meandered under a bush near the shed, foraging for scraps, and it had turned its head to look over his shoulder as soon as Frank had swung open his bedroom window. The connection between them had been instant. Frank had been mesmerised. Naturally, he had seen plenty of squirrels before that day, and the garden was home to many birds, hedgehogs, and even the odd cat that wandered through from neighbouring plots, but this squirrel was special.
And not just because it was black.
Frank had read up on it, black greys were becoming an increasingly common sight in large areas of England, so unusual colouring, yes, but not unique. The squirrel weaved and bobbed through the lawn, then disappeared below the building line, but before Frank could worry too much that it had scurried away in another direction, it appeared on the edge of the roof below him and found the same spot as yesterday to rest. It perched on its hind quarters and looked beyond Frank for a moment, as if curious about his room. A strange calm descended over the house, as though the breeze had paused and bird song too. Frank wanted to beckon the animal closer, but he resisted the temptation to encourage it forward with his hand, or to make that silly tutting noise people did when they were trying to entice an animal closer. The squirrel seemed less perplexed though, and it continued to look behind him, as if considering coming closer of its own accord. Finally, Frank decided to introduce himself.
‘Hello, little friend.’
The squirrel snapped its attention back to him, then looked down for a moment at its tiny front paws, as if gently contemplating its options. Its whiskers twitched, and Frank found it irresistibly cute.
‘Are you hungry?’
Frank knew little about squirrels, or for that matter any other animal. The family had a dog once, a border collie called Sylvester, but that had died soon after he had left school. It was August, and the unkempt garden had to be a scavenger’s dream, maybe not pine nuts, but definitely fruit and berries.
‘Well, I might not know your name, but mine is Frank and I live here with my father, Anthony. You’ve probably seen him mooching around the garden at dusk. It’s the only time he comes out, when the gloom hides what was once a beautiful and happy place. He looks mean, but he isn’t, not at all, but you would never guess it by looking at him.’ The squirrel seemed to listen intently.
‘Behind that hedge over there,’ Frank said, pointing to the bottom of the garden, ‘is Bellwood Farmhouse, and a man called Graham lives there with his family, and he loves to hunt. He had a farm, and it used to be big, very big in fact, but now it’s home to a few fat chickens and two horses, Dusty and Rosie.’ To Frank’s surprise, the squirrel tilted its head towards the distant hedge, and dark eyes seemed to cast a disapproving look. ‘Wow, do you actually understand me?’ Frank sighed. Of course, it did not. The squirrel peered back at him, and then with a casual swing of its fluffy tail it scuttled off along the rainwater gutter, and was gone. Frank watched on for a moment, hoping to catch another glimpse, and the day stirred again, the branches alive with fresh birdsong, and a beautiful glow warmed his soul.