Dinah always knew there was something odd about Uncle Horace. He didn’t speak, for one. If Dinah’s eight years of worldly experience had taught her anything, it was that adults talked too much, mostly about unimportant things like dirty clothes and how they’d never be got clean again. Vegetables were another favourite topic. Vegetables and how they must be eaten before dessert.

Uncle Horace didn’t eat vegetables. He seemed to mostly survive on peanut butter, spooned straight from the jar in great nutty globules that must have gummed up his mouth terribly. Dinah’s mother would roll her eyes when she saw him do this. But she never said anything, so Dinah never said anything. Just watched with fascination as each sticky spoonful disappeared between saliva-slick lips.

Uncle Horace never got told off about the state of his clothes either. And they were a state. A riot of rainbow blotches and splodges, all green and grey and scarlet and gold, from shoulder to shoulder and neck to ankle. This Dinah did ask about, in the car on the way home from one of the fortnightly visits.

“He paints, dear,” said her mother, eyes watching the road. “Flowers and things. Quite pretty really.”

Dinah asked why she’d never seen any of Uncle Horace’s paintings.

“He doesn’t often show them to people,” said her mother, eyes still on the road.

Dinah asked if he’d show them to her if she asked.

“Your uncle is a very private man,” said her mother. “Probably not.”

Dinah asked, what if she said it really nicely, with “please” and everything.

“That’s enough,” said her father. “Let your mother drive.”

So Dinah let her mother drive and waited until the next visit.

“Can I see your pictures of flowers please?”

Uncle Horace was sitting in his battered wing-back chair, knees drawn up to his chest, when the question entered a vacant gap in the one-sided conversation. All at once he stiffened, clutching the jar and spoon with vein-roped hands. Ignoring her mother’s warning frown, Dinah kept her eyes on Uncle Horace as she waited for an answer.

“Uncle…”

And then he was gone, scuttling from his chair and out of the room like a brightly spotted beetle. Somewhere in the pokey house a door slammed.

Dinah’s mother sighed, expelling the air in an angry rush.

“Now look what you’ve done.”

She looked as if she might say more, but Dinah’s father put his hand on her arm.

“Leave her be,” he said. “She doesn’t understand.”

“I do too understand,” said Dinah. But there were tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. He’d even left his spoon lying on the floor. Later on, her father sat her down.

“Dinah, you have to understand that you uncle isn’t a normal adult.”

Dinah scuffed her feet against the carpet. She wondered if she was getting a telling off and decided to get in with her questions first.

“Why won’t he show me his pictures? Why did he run away?”

Her father gazed around the room for a moment, as if looking for help.

“You know you used to be a little baby?”

“Yes,” said Dinah with a sniff. She was old enough to know that.

“Well, Uncle Horace was a little baby once too. And when little babies come out of their mummies’ tummies they’re very delicate. When Uncle Horace came out of his mummy’s tummy he was very, very small. Much smaller than you were. He was also very sick. And because he was so small and so sick, he never quite got better. So that’s why he acts strangely sometimes.”

“Is that why he doesn’t talk?” asked Dinah.

“Yes.”

“Can we make him better?”

He father smiled gently. “No, sweetie. I’m afraid we can’t.”

He said the words in his big grown-up voice, which meant it was final. Except, grown-ups weren’t always right. Dinah nodded sweetly to her father, but inside she was already wondering how she could try to help Uncle Horace. Her chance came a few weeks later, when the urgent jangling of the phone broke into a lazy Sunday morning, like a kitten into a stack of washing up.

Dinah looked up from her colouring long enough to watch her mother answer it, then returned her attention to the difficult decision of green trees or purple. Barely a minute later she was disturbed again, this time by her mother.

“Sweetie, put on your shoes and get your coat. Leave the colouring book. You can do it later.”

Her mother was in her “hurry up” mode, so Dinah decided to leave questions until they were in the car.

“Where are we going?”

Her mother was staring out at the road and muttering, so it was her father that answered.

“We’ve just found out that your grandpa has been very ill. It’s quite sudden, so we’re going to visit him at the hospital.”

Dinah brightened up, this sounded more interested than colouring. “Am I coming?”

“No sweetie,” said her father. “We’re going to leave you with one of mummy’s friends.”

It was at that point that Dinah’s mother uttered a word that Dinah had been very firmly told not to.

“Susan’s in Egypt,” she said. “I’d completely forgotten.”

“Could the Harris’s have her?” asked her father.

“They’ll all be at church,” she answered. “It’s no good, it’ll have to be my brother. He’s the only one close enough.”

Dinah couldn’t quite believe her luck when the car pulled up outside Uncle Horace’s house. Uncle Horace seemed a little surprised as well when he answered the door though, as always, he didn’t say anything. Dinah’s mother said quite a bit, very slowly and loudly, as if talking to a particularly stupid dog.

“We have to go to the hospital,” said her mother. “I want you to look after Dinah for me. Understand? Keep her inside. Don’t let her get dirty. Don’t let her play with anything dangerous. Give her some lunch. Can you do that?”

Uncle Horace looked between Dinah and her mother, then nodded slowly.

“Thank you. We’ll be back later to pick her up.”

And with that Dinah’s parents were back in the car and away, leaving Dinah herself standing in the doorway with Uncle Horace. Dinah stared up at Uncle Horace for a few moments. Uncle Horace stared back. Since Uncle Horace didn’t speak, Dinah decided to take the initiative.

“Shall we go indoors?”

Uncle Horace shrugged, but he went inside, waiting until Dinah was across the threshold before closing the door. This done, he gave her a questioning look, as if to say “What now?”.

Dinah pondered for a moment.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “What is there for lunch?”

He made her a peanut butter sandwich. A nice one, with all the crusts cut off. Then he watched her eat it, idly nibbling on a piece of raw spaghetti. Once the sandwich was gone and the crumbs licked off the plate, Dinah was once again left facing her uncle’s blank gaze. He was a funny looking man really. Patchy stubble on a face like one of her jigsaw puzzles, all slotted together in large segments. And mousy brown hair that was straight in some places and corkscrewed in others. Dinah considered asking about his paintings again, but decided against it.

“Do you ever talk?”

Uncle Horace shook his head slowly.

“Can you talk?”

Another head shake. Dinah pondered her next move.

“Daddy says you were very ill. Back when you were a baby.”

Uncle Horace hesitated, then nodded.

“You must have been really ill to stop you talking,” said Dinah, thinking out loud. “I had pox when I was little and I can still talk.”

Uncle Horace shrugged, eyes refocusing on the table. Looking thoughtful, he rubbed at a burn mark in the varnish.

“It must be awful lonely, not being able to talk,” said Dinah. “Don’t you get…”

But Uncle Horace was on his feet.

“I’m sorry,” said Dinah quickly.

Uncle Horace started towards the door, then turned and gestured for Dinah to follow him. The room he led her to was through a door and down some stairs. The walls, where they were visible, were bare concrete, cold and stoney grey. Where they weren’t visible was anything but.

“Wow,” said Dinah. “Did you paint all of these yourself?”

Uncle Horace nodded. The expression on his face was almost a smile. He sat down at a rickety looking worktable in the centre of the room and picked up a brush. While he absorbed himself in the paper in front of him, Dinah took a closer look at the paintings. They were the prettiest pictures she’d ever seen. All types of flowers in all different colours, detailed down to the veins in their petals. Some she knew but most she didn’t, and all seemed to consist of more than just paper and paint. It was if they were… Dinah looked closer at a lily. They were moving! Swaying softly, all together, as if caressed by a gentle breeze.

“Uncle Horace,” started Dinah. “Your flowers…”

Then she stopped. Uncle Horace was watching her, a strangely expectant look across his face.

“They’re beautiful,” she said at last.

Uncle Horace smiled. He had a very nice smile, Dinah decided. It seemed to lift the rest of his face, as if lighting it from within. Turning quickly back to his paper, he moved the brush in several quick strokes, then held up the sheet.

“Thank you,” Dinah read off slowly. “So you can talk. Why don’t you use a brush to talk to mother?”

Uncle Horace shrugged, then went back to painting. Dinah watched on tip toe as he sketched out a green frog with soft yellow eyes. After a moment the frog blinked.

“How do you do that?” asked Dinah, fascinated.

Uncle Horace shrugged again. Dipping his brush into the pallet next to his elbow, he gave the frog four brown spots.

“Normal people don’t paint pictures that move,” said Dinah, with a certainly born of eight long year’s experience. “Why do yours move?”

Another shrug. Uncle Horace painted highlights in the frog’s eyes, then the gleam in its skin.

“Daddy says you’re not normal,” said Dinah, unperturbed. “But if you’re not normal, what are you?”

Uncle Horace hesitated, brush hovering over the frog. After a moment the little creature hopped away across the page, struggling a little on its half-finished legs. In the space it left behind Uncle Horace painted something else. Dinah frowned.

“I can’t read that word. Paint a picture instead.”

Uncle Horace sucked on the end of his brush for a moment before reloading it with paint. The form he sketched out had long flowing hair and a pair of colourful wings. Dinah watched for a moment before beaming.

“You’re a fairy! That’s what you mean, isn’t it.”

Uncle Horace looked round and nodded sheepishly. Dinah patted his shoulder as best she could reach.

“It’s alright. I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret.”

She beamed again and Uncle Horace beamed back. It was fun to have secrets.

“Could you paint me a picture?” she asked. “One I can take home.”

Uncle Horace hesitated, giving Dinah time to rethink her question.

“Oh, but mother would take it off me. So that’s no good.”

For a moment, Uncle Horace looked thoughtful. Then he swivelled towards her on his stool and took her hand in his larger one. He gestured to the soft skin on her forearm with his brush and gave her a questioning look.

“Good idea,” said Dinah. “Then I can hide it from mother. Paint me a… A frog. No, a snake. With diamonds on its back, like in the jungle story mummy read me.”

Dinah was of the firm opinion that the snake her uncle painted was the most beautiful diamond-backed snake anyone had ever seen. Her mother didn’t seem to agree.

“Good lord, and I told him to keep you clean. We’d better have this off. Who knows what those paints are made of.”

But the snake refused to come off. No matter how hard Dinah’s mother scrubbed, the gold and green scales didn’t so much as smudge. After half an hour of trying, her mother said more bad words, then gave up and went to get dinner ready. By bedtime the snake had moved to half-way down her back, and her mother had forgotten about it. But Dinah hadn’t. She sat awake under her duvet, watching the snake slither over her skin.

“My Uncle Horace is a fairy,” she whispered to the snake. “He paints magic pictures. But it's our secret. OK?”

The painted snake remained as silent as Uncle Horace, but Dinah was content. She fell asleep with a smile on her face and dreamed of Uncle Horace dancing in a ring of mushrooms, paintbrush in one hand and jar of peanut butter in the other.