Stuffed

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Amy Byrd knew that you don't often get to see whales cry (even bucket-sized tears are lost in the sea), but, more importantly, you should never see a fake blue whale, constructed from canvas and timber, designed and built almost two hundred years earlier, burst into tears.

There, on a grey autumn day in Thrupp's Museum of Life, Amy was the first to notice this phenomena. Not that she said anything, not that anyone ever listened to almost-fourteen year-old girls, so she just sat, staring up, as the fake whale plainly wept. A creature, not even a stuffed former creature, but the biggest pretend creature in the world, was, quite obviously, sobbing. A few passing visitors (not that there were many that day) commented on the apparent tears as Amy continued to watch. They, for once, didn't seem to notice her.

Things accelerated, Amy wasn't sure how, but by lunchtime the growing chatter around the Hall of Mammals was that a TV crew were in place outside the museum. A local press reporter, scruffy, with coffee-breath, had been irritating Amy with rather insistent questions:

"Did you see what made the whale cry?"

"His eyes, the whale's eyes.. " Amy rolled hers up at the tall man.

"Speak up love," the reporter bent in on her, exuding an invisible cloud of stale drinks. "Ha, ha, yes!" He was feeling uncomfortable in her presence, which wasn't a new thing for Amy.

"I don't want my name, my picture, in the paper," she croaked, struggling with a dry, weak voice again.

"Every one wants to be in the news!" He lined up his pre-digital camera.

"No!" It came out louder than Amy intended. It hurt her throat.

"Okay, love."

"Don't 'love me'!... I'm a.. minor," she wasn't quite sure what that was, but she was angry now, and glared up at his unshaven spotty face as he shrunk slightly with embarrassment. "My parents need to be informed, first, of any pictures... being a minor child!" Amy wasn't sure if that was true, but his retreat seemed to indicate she was on to something. There was no way her face could be in the paper, or on the news. Her parents would go mad. She was meant to be in maths, lesson four, Mrs. Gripp.

The general public were queueing beyond the turnstiles, down the path, to see the crying whale. Amy watched as the hysteria built whilst the day ticked by. By the afternoon hundreds had witnessed the phenomena, and were, in her reckoning, setting the social media streams awash with pictures, clips, crying emojis, and too many exclamation marks! She expected her mother would be re-twitting somewhere.

For the first time in many, many years the museum shut early, by order of the curator, officially due to health and safety issues. People were guided out, with promises of refunds, and explanations about 'burst pipes'. Amy kept in the background and avoided being corralled towards the exit, managing to stay behind, out of sight, as the hall was cleared and the chatter, clicks, and clucking of the crowd funnelled away down the corridors.

By teatime failing mops were being reinforced by sandbags, and water pumps were shifting the flowing tears from the temporary dam below the whale out onto the lawns. Every minute a tear welled, rolled down the curved fibreglass cheeks, and then fell, creating a huge splash. The 'leak', as it was referred to by the staff, was being discussed by some self-important looking adults now gathered in the Hall of Mammals.

Amy, in her almost-invisible mode, one she had perfected as a younger child to avoid being picked on by her older brothers, listened to the discussions with a feeling of bubbling anger.

"It must be a leak, something built up, possibly over time," said the tall thin man wearing round glasses. Amy thought he looked like a teacher, bookish.