A MILLION ANGELS (2 page)

T
he house feels so quiet without Dad and the hall is too empty without his mountain of kit getting in the way. My mum and Milo are still sleeping, but Granny is in the kitchen sipping tea. We had a leaving party yesterday for Dad, and Granny moved in. She's here to help Mum with the baby when it comes.

“You listen to me, James,” she'd said to my dad, shaking his shoulders hard, “and make sure you come home safe, see. There'll be big trouble if you don't, do you hear me? I've lost too many people in my life to be doing with losing you.”

“Don't you worry, Ma,” he said, folding her paper-thin body into his arms. “I'll be back.”

I creep upstairs, wrap myself in a towel, then go back down and watch Granny from the doorway. She blows and sips hot tea. Thought bubbles float over her head. I like spying on people when they don't know I'm looking. People act differently when they think they're on their own.

“Hello, pet,” she says. “You startled me. You're up early. Do you want some tea?”

I don't really like tea, but I like chatting with Granny. I nod and climb on the chair next to hers.

“I heard Dad,” I say, “and needed another hug. I wish he didn't have to go.”

“I know, pet,” she says, pouring my tea. “You'll get used to it soon enough. It was the same with your grandpa; he was always off here and there and everywhere. All over the place he was. That's army life for you, see.”

“I don't like it,” I say. “I wish he had a normal job. What happens if we need him, Granny? Do you think he'd come back home if one of us got really ill, or the house burned down or someone died?”

“If something really bad happened, Mima,” she says,
patting my hand, “then they'd send him home. You can be sure of that. But I promise you we won't need him. We'll manage and it'll be fun with the baby coming.” She sighs. “Army life is in his bones, pet. He wouldn't settle to a normal job. And people have to do what's in their bones.”

“Well, I wish he had something else in his bones,' I sigh. “He could do anything else except this.”

“You'll understand it one day,” says Granny. “You'll get an itch in your bones and you'll be off out in the world doing what you love.”

“I won't,” I say. “I'm never leaving home. It's too scary and I can't even decide what to do my end of term presentation on, let alone know what I want to do when I grow up. And I hate presentations, Granny. They're so pointless and I'm so rubbish at them. My voice always goes all wobbly and I end up looking like a stupid red beetroot. I wish school couldn't make you do stuff you hate.”

“Ooh!” says Granny, leaping up. “I just remembered. I've got something for you that might help.”

She creaks her granny bones upstairs to her room and comes down with a dusty old box in her hands.

“Here,” she says. “I found this when I was clearing out my things ready to move into my new flat. I thought you might be interested. You know, family history and all. Maybe you'll find something in there to inspire you for your presentation.”

I rummage through Granny's dusty box. There are some really old letters, some faded photographs and a million old-fashioned stamps that have been carefully torn from envelopes. There are some documents that look like they should be on display in a museum and odd bits of ribbon and spare buttons and all sorts of random stuff that's made this box its home. The envelopes have black handwriting on them where spiders with inky feet have danced. I love the photos. They're so funny and black and white and old.

“It's all interesting, Granny,” I say, sifting through the things, “but how do I turn a box of stuff into a presentation?”

“Give it a bit of thought and something'll come to you, I'm sure. Oh, look,” she says, pointing to a photo of a little girl in a white dress standing next to a big black dog. “That's me and my dog, Buster; I must only have been about three years old.”

I turn the photo over. The spider has written,
Dorothy and Buster, 1934 – Bognor Regis
. Then I find another of Granny holding a baby in her arms, which says,
Dorothy and Joan, 1937
.

“Who's Joan?” I ask.

Granny wipes a tear from her pale watery eyes. “She was my baby sister,” she says. “She died in the Blitz along with the rest of them. She was only three. She was a beauty, she was; she stole my heart right away, the moment she was born.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“It's too painful to talk about, Mima. It was 1940 and I was nine years old. The Blitz began and I lost my whole world in a day. My home, my family and a very dear friend.”

“How come?”

“Bombs,” she says, getting up. She fusses with the cups. “The whole house was destroyed in the blast. The entire street. Gone!”

Her hands tremble at the kitchen sink. Her china cup chinks against the tap.

“But what happened to
you,
Granny?” I ask. “Weren't you scared, being left all alone?”

“Leave it, pet,” she sighs. “There's a good girl.”

“But Granny…”

“I said leave it, pet. It still upsets me, see, even after all these years.”

“But I can't just stand up in class and say, ‘Oh, well, this is my granny's old box full of interesting stuff that I don't know anything about. The End.' Can I?”

“Just look at the bits and bobs, pet,” she says, “and get a bit inspired. I'll tell you more when I'm ready.”

I look through the photos for clues. There are loads of photos of fat old women. They have sour faces. They're wearing long dresses and heavy hats pulled right down over their eyebrows. There are some young men wearing stripy bathing suits and cheesy smiles, but there's no sign of anything Blitz-ish. There's a row of girls in matching black costumes with white swimming caps on and pegs on their noses, and another of a very old man with a beard so long it's tucked in his belt. There's one photo of two girls, one looks about twelve, like me, and the other a bit older. They're wearing summer dresses and short white socks. They're sitting on a shingly beach, laughing and eating delicate sandwiches and huge chunks of cake. On the
back the spider has danced,
Barbara and Sonia, 1938 – Bognor Regis
.

There's a photo of a young woman with dark curly hair like Dad's and mine. She's wearing a white wedding dress and standing next to a soldier with a quiff. They're holding hands and their smiles are like sunshine lighting up their eyes. On the back the spider has scrawled,
Kitty and James, 1917 – London
.

I hold the photo up for Granny to see. But I'm careful not to ask questions in case I make her cry.

“My parents,” she says, peering at the photo. “Your great-grandparents. Their wedding day that was, pet, and look – you've got her hair. Same as your dad too.”

I fiddle with my curls. I twirl a dark lock round and round my finger. I press my thumb over my great-grandmother's face and her curls bubble out at the sides.

I want to know what happened.

My tongue is itching to ask.

Tucked in one corner of the box is a little red Bible. It's so tiny I can hold it in one hand and the print is so miniscule I have to squint my eyes to read what it
says. The spidery scrawl on the inside cover is big though, and reads,
James Taylor-Jones, 29 Sept 1917. From Miss Perks, Soldiers' Homes, Winchester
.

“So this was your dad's then?” I ask. “My great-grandfather's?”

Granny smiles. “That's right,” she says. “I managed to rescue it when… well, you know when.”

“I wish I did know, Granny,” I say, “but I don't because you won't tell me anything, remember? I wish you'd given it to Dad. It might have kept him safe.”

“Didn't do a lot for my father,” she says, “did it?”

“Don't you believe in the Bible and God and stuff then?” I ask.

Granny sighs, plonks a fresh pot of tea and a huge pile of toast on the table and sits back down.

“That's a hard question, Mima, when you've had a life like mine,” she says. “It's one of the many questions that have been puzzling me since I was nine. If there is a God, see, then why does He let such bad things happen all the time?”

I nod and stir my tea. I haven't really thought about it before. I sing along with all the hymns in assembly
and I mumble along with the prayers. But I've never wondered before if I actually believe in the words.

“I heard Mum say last night that when Dad's away it's like she's waiting for bad news. Like the bad news would be better than the waiting,” I say, “and I understand her. I wish there was something I could do, Granny. Something to make certain that he comes back home.”

“Life's never certain, Mima,” says Granny. “We can never tell what's round the corner; I should know. You just have to trust, see. Live for today and get on with loving as best you can. None of us knows how long we've got.”

“When Dad left, he said, ‘Trust, Mima, trust,' but what do you both mean?”

“I never managed to answer the God question,” Granny says, “so I eventually settled on trusting in life and trusting what feels true in me. There's not a lot else you can do. You have to trust that life will work out in its own mysterious way. That's the beauty of it.”

“Well,
I'm
not leaving it to life to work it out,” I say. “
I'm
going to find a way to bring him back and
then
I'm going to find a way of making sure he never leaves again. Jess keeps saying bad things; she keeps
saying our dads might die and that wouldn't be mysterious, Granny, that would just be sad.”

Granny tuts.

“She's trouble, that one,” she says. “You can see it in her eyes. Don't listen to her, pet. Keep your thoughts on the bright side.”

I turn the red Bible in my hand and think about how to make all these pictures and stuff into a presentation and am just about to put it back in the box when a small photo of a boy drops out. His face is solemn. His eyes are big and soft. I flip the photo over, looking for where the spider scrawled his name, but it's blank.

“Who's this, Granny?” I ask.

Her watery eyes sparkle like Christmas.

“There he is,” she smiles. “I've been searching everywhere for
him
. This is the friend I lost.”

She takes the photo from me and plants a kiss on the face of the boy.

“You cheeky thing,” she says to the boy, “hiding all this time.”

“Who is he?” I ask.

“Him?” she smiles. “He's Derek, my childhood sweetheart. We used to have so much fun together.”

She sifts through the box and pulls out the photo of the two girls on the beach.

“These were his sisters,” she says, “Barbara and Sonia. They disappeared too. It was all a bit of nonsense really, but we were such good friends. And Derek and I had something special. We shared a birthday, and the war did strange things to us all. People got married at the drop of a hat and we just got caught up in the spirit of it. We were only children, but we crossed our hearts and vowed to be sweethearts for ever. We started making all these silly promises and then
poof –
like magic he disappeared. I never ever saw him again. See what I mean – you never know for certain what's going to happen. But think on it, if I'd have married Derek then I wouldn't have met your grandpa and Daddy wouldn't have had you. Trust life, Jemima; flow with its mystery.”

A single diamond tear tips on to her cheek.

“But it would've been nice to hear from him again. Just once. Just to know what happened.” She laughs. “You're a smart one. Determined to get me talking.”

“Do you think he's dead, Granny?” I say.

“Probably by now, pet.”

A
fter breakfast, Mum starts getting ready for the car boot sale.

“You go with Milo,” I say, “and leave me here with Granny. I hate hanging out with Jess.”

Mum gives me her beady eye that means, ‘Please do as you're told, Jemima, because I am not so full of patience.' But I ignore it. I do not want to do as I'm told. I do not want to go to the car boot sale!

“Don't start, Mima,” she says. “Not today.”

I have a beady eye too, but I wait until her back is turned before I give it to her.

Milo clings on to my leg.

“Please come, Mima,” he says. “Please come! Please come! Please come!”

He hangs off me like I'm a tree and twists the skin on my leg.

“Mima! Mima! Mima!” he chants like I'm a football match that needs cheering on.

“Ouch, Milo,” I say. “You're hurting me!”

“I said, don't start, Mima!” says Mum. “Today is hard enough for us all without you making things worse.”

When she turns her back I poke out my tongue. I wish I could stand up and say, YOU'RE THE ONE WHO IS UNHINGED, MUM. But I don't. The things I really want to say always get choked up in my throat until I'm forced to swallow them down. It's the same with Jess. She says worrying stuff that frightens me, she gossips with her mum and tells me stuff my ears don't want to hear. So many times I want to say, SHUT UP, JESS! But as hard as I try I just can't.

I hope one day my voice will unblock itself like a drain and I'll be able to speak up so clearly, like LALALALAALLLAAAA! Then everyone will hear everything that's all blocked up inside.

 

It's heaving at the car boot sale. Everyone shoves and pushes in search of pathetic old treasures and silly magical gems. Milo has a pound burning in his fist. He rummages through buckets and baskets of wrecked toy cars looking for trucks and tanks.

“Look, Mima,” he says, holding up a rusty old tank. “Isn't it great? D'you think Dad drives one like this?”

Jess bounces around like a spaniel looking for strokes. She tries to act cool and flirts her fringe when we pass a stall with boys selling a few broken old skateboards. Jess is as pathetic as the car boot sale. I wish we could put her on a stall and sell her, but I'd feel sorry for the poor family who ended up buying her. They'd be really disappointed, even if they only paid fifty pence for her.

I wouldn't buy her for a penny. I wouldn't even want Jess for free, even if she was going to be my slave.

I look at my watch. I wish I was at home. Thinking.

“Calm down, Jess,” says Georgie. “Oooh… Mima, what do you think of Jess's new jacket? We got it yesterday. Isn't it just so pink!”

“Erm…” I say, bending down to tie the lace on one of my big black boots. “Yes, Georgie, it's definitely pink.”

“I think it's gorgeous,” says Mum. “You should try
something like this, Mima. You know… a bit pretty. Get yourself out of those boots for a change. Look,” she says, shoving a ten-pound note in each of our hands, “why don't you girls go off together and see what you can find?”

I glare at Mum. I don't want to be left with Jess. And she knows that! I'd rather look after Milo. I'd rather wander around alone.

I flash my eyes at Mum, trying to say, DON'T LEAVE ME WITH JESS. But she ignores me and shoos us both away. I bet her and Georgie want to talk about our dads. In private!

Jess slides over to the skateboard boys.

“Hi,” she says, twiddling with her fringe. She picks up a cruddy old board. “How much for this?”

“A fiver,” says one of the boys.

Jess flashes her eyes at them.

“That's a rip-off,” she says, pulling me away. “We had a huge sigh of relief this morning when my dad finally left,” she smiles. She opens her arms wide and takes a deep breath. “It's going to be bliss. I can't actually believe we have six whole months without him shouting and bossing us around.”

She rummages through a pile of old clothes. She pulls out her purse and pays for a pair of shiny black high heels that are two sizes too big. She holds up a pink dress covered in gold sequins.

“What d'you think?”

“Mmmm,” I say. “It would match your jacket but…”

“I don't even know why I bother asking your opinion,” she huffs, holding it up for size. “It's not as if you're Miss Fashionista, is it, Jemima? That enormous Minnie Mouse bow in your hair and those big black boots aren't exactly a major fashion statement, you know! And as for the rainbow nail varnish! Whatever crazy thing are you going to buy today? A granny jacket? Another big bow?”

“I'm looking for something,” I say, “but I'm not sure what. I'll know when I see it.”

She throws the dress down and we drift on to the next stall.

“Don't you miss your dad at all when he's away?” I ask.

“Not At All!” she says. “It's our little secret, but Mum and me prefer it when he's away. We get up to mischief. Last time we went on this amazing spa day pamper
thing and we had a massage and our nails done and we lounged around in the Jacuzzi for hours. Then we went for dinner at this gorgeous restaurant. My dad hates restaurants and mealtimes are horrible when he's around. He makes me sit up straight and hold my knife properly and boring stuff like that. I love it when it's just Mum and me and I get all her attention. This time we're planning a mini-break to a really lovely hotel in Paris so we can shop, shop, shop. My dad's not Mr Perfect like
your
dad, is he?
My
dad's always really moody and bossy and he shouts all the time. I feel sorry for the soldiers he's in charge of. Rather them than me.”

“I can't stop thinking about mine,” I say. “It's like I have this little bubble of worry following me around. I worked out exactly how long they're going to be away for. Six months equals twenty-six weeks. That means one hundred and eighty-two days, or four thousand, three hundred and eighty hours, or two hundred and sixty-two thousand, eight hundred minutes, or fifteen million, seventy-seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand and four hundred seconds. That's ages. It's too long.”

“Not long enough for me,” she says. “I can't believe you bothered to work all that out. Even worse, you
bothered to remember it. You're nuts, Jemima. You need to learn to switch off and think about nice things. Like me and Mum do.” She giggles. “Plan something special.”

“How can you think of
nice
things,” I say, “when you know your dad might get killed?”

“Well, soldiers do get killed,” she says, “like I said last night, it's a fact. But worrying won't help. It's not as if there's anything
you
can do to stop it. Anyway,” she says with a smug little smile, “nothing'll kill
my
dad. Mum and I think he's so stubborn he'd even survive a nuclear war!”

“You can't say that,” I snap. “You can't be that sure. And he definitely wouldn't survive a nuclear attack, Jess, that's just stupid. No one would survive that.”

Something sparkly catches her eye and she skips along to a stall full of junk. While I wait for her to coo at dusty old ornaments of leaping dolphins and sad-looking bears my eye fixes on a stall. It has green camouflage and combat gear all piled up high. And there's a helmet snuggled like a baby on the top.

“I'll be back in a bit,” I say. I push through the crowd. I can see something hanging from a railing, swinging in the rain.

“Wait for me,” Jess calls. “Hang on.”

The stall is amazing. It's piled to the sky with all things war. There are jackets and bags and flasks and green camp beds. There are big metal boxes and old radio equipment and belts and buckles and caps and hats and shiny medals in boxes and posters and books and…

“This,” I say, pulling it off the railing. “How much for this?”

“I'll throw in the original box,” says the beardy man, “this little brown suitcase and a few of these old wartime posters and you can have the lot for a tenner.”

“Done!” I smile.

“What d'you want
those
for?” asks Jess, catching me up.

“I like them.”

Jess frowns. She shows me her new collection of plastic dolphins. They have sparkling sprays of glitter running down their silky grey backs.

“I'm going to collect them,” she smiles.

“I'm going to collect these,” I glare.

 

On the way home Milo takes his tanks into battle up and down the car seat and Jess swoops her dolphins
through the air so they look like they're swimming and leaping in the sea. My mum is fuming. I think she wishes the dolphins were mine. But I think she's unfair. You can't really give someone money and then get cross about how they spend it. A gift is a gift, after all.

“I just don't understand why you'd want to buy anything so ridiculous, Mima,” she says when we get back home. “I give you ten pounds to spend on something
nice
to cheer you up, something
pretty…
and you waste it on stuff like
this
. Why didn't you buy lovely dolphins like Jess. Or something cute to wear?”

She swings my gas mask from her finger.

“Well, I happen to like my things,” I say, snatching it back. “And I don't think they're a waste of money. Dad would understand. Anyway, they're for my end of term presentation. They're for school. You should be pleased.”

I run upstairs and cradle the gas mask in my hands. I stroke its big glass fly eyes. War is a mystery to me, another of the great mysteries of the world. I hang the gas mask on the end of my bed, pull down my Hello Kitty posters and replace them with the army ones. I run along the hall to the airing cupboard and dig around in the pile,
looking for Dad's old camouflage duvet cover that he had in Iraq. If I'm going to do my presentation on Granny's old Blitz box, I need to get myself into the mood.

 

At one o'clock it's time to go over to the mess for the monthly Sunday lunch. It's different here without my dad. I didn't want to come. I wish my mum would understand me and leave me alone.

Milo charges along the road with a stick in his hand, holding it like a gun.

“Piiiiiooowwww! Piiiiioooooow!” he goes. “I'm gonna kill all the baddies, Mum,” he says. “I'm gonna beat the world and win the war. I'm gonna chop all the nasties' heads off, then Dad can come back home.”

That sets Milo off thinking about Dad. He stands still. His bottom lip trembles. He opens his mouth wide.

“I waaaaannnttt my dad!” he yells. “I waaaaannnttt my daaaaaaddd!”

Mum huffs. She pulls him into her arms.

“It's OK, Milo,” she says. “Dad will come home soon, I promise.”

Milo snuffles and snots in her hair. He loops his arms round her neck.

“Chin up!” says Granny, and she starts twittering away like a mad old bird. “Chin up and put your best foot forward. Settle down for a nice cup of tea. That's what we used to say in the war.” Then she wanders into the mess like she's in a dream, like she's not even on the same planet as us any more.

Milo follows Granny with his big blue eyes. Then he looks at Mum.

“Carry?” he whispers.

“I can't manage you, darling,” she says. “Not in this state. I'm so sorry.”

“But my legs won't work,” he cries. “I need a caaaarrrrryyy!”

Mum sighs. She rubs her enormous belly and looks at me.

“Can you manage him for me, Mima, sweetheart? He's so upset. I can't do it and Granny clearly can't. I don't know what's got into her today. It's like she's been transported to another world. I hope she's not going to go all Alzheimer-ish on us. That's all I need!”

I know what's wrong with Granny and it's not Alzheimer's, it's Derekheimer's, and no one knows but me that she's hiding the photo of him in her bra. I don't
say anything about it to Mum. It's Granny's secret. And mine. I pull Milo into my arms, heave him up on my hip and whisper into his ear.

“I'm thinking hard, Milo,” I say. “I'm planning a Bring Dad Home mission and I promise you he'll be home soon!”

“Come on,” says Mum. “Let's get some lunch, shall we? We're all just hungry and tired and overwrought.”

She rests her hand on my back and rubs soft warm circles.

“I know it's hard, Mima,” she whispers. “I don't really feel like being here either, but we have to go. We have to keep up appearances. For Dad. And sometimes the support of everyone helps, you know, because we're all going through the same thing.”

She tucks a curl behind my ear.

“Like Granny says, chin up!” she laughs, guiding us in. “Chin up, and remember to be polite.”

While Mum greets everyone with her fake smile and chats about when the Bean's due and how bad her backache is and how hard it is for her to sleep, Milo and I are forced to stand next to her and smile. Red puckered kisses land on our cheeks like planes. Perfume
chokes us like fire. I wish I were brave enough to stand on a chair and make an announcement. THEY ALL MIGHT DIE! I want to say. THEY SHOULD BE HOME HERE, WITH US, EATING ROAST BEEF! HAVEN'T YOU NOTICED THAT THEY'VE GONE?

My dad and the other soldiers have barely even said goodbye and it feels like everyone but me has already bleached them away. Everyone is chattering and laughing like normal. The gaps at the tables where they should be sitting are filled with bright fake laughter that's shrieking through the air and shattering it like glass. I wish I were young like Milo. I wish I could stand up and have a tantrum and say, I WAAAANNNTTTT MY DAAAAADDD! I'd love to see the look on everyone's faces if I did and if I were brave enough, I would. I promise you. I'd open my mouth and let the words tumble right out.

I try. I open my mouth wide.