A MILLION ANGELS (8 page)

M
onday morning and part three of my Bring Dad Home mission is about to begin. First, I have a hot, hot shower and rub myself dry with the roughest towel in the airing cupboard so my whole body is shiny and pink. Then I stand in front of the mirror and pinch my cheeks until they flush. I can hear Mum and Milo in his room so I creep into her room, have a quick sniff of Dad's clothes and smudge some of her mascara under my eyes.

Hot red cheeks, check!

Tired grey eyes, check!

Starting to look ill, check!

Spots would be brilliant, but I don't know how to make them look real.

I groan my way downstairs.

“Graaannnyy,” I moan. “I don't feel well. I need some hot tea.”

“Tea's easy, pet,” she says, pouring me a mugful. “It's still early though. Why don't you take your tea upstairs and snuggle in for a bit longer? I'll call you when it's time.”

I nod and groan out of the kitchen and thump heavy tired feet up the stairs. Once I get to my room I drag my beanbag as close to the radiator as possible and sit down to sip my tea. I need to get burning feverish hot for part three of my plan to work.

When Granny calls, I thump back downstairs and flop on the kitchen sofa.

“I feel sooooo ill,” I say. “I really think I need to stay at home. I can't go to school like this.”

“What's the matter, pet?” she says, feeling my forehead.

“Arrgghh,” I groan, pulling up my knees. “I don't know. I just feel so poorly, Granny. My head hurts and my tummy. I think I have something really bad.”

Milo charges in making loads of noise. He zooms a blue toy plane in front of him and Mum follows on behind. She's holding her back with one hand and her heavy belly egg with the other. Her eyes are glassy and wide. I freeze and shift away from her. I don't understand how she could say such mean things about me. How could she think her own child is spooky and weird and unhinged? I wish I could stand on a chair and say to her, EXCUSE ME, BUT I'M NOT WEIRD OR SPOOKY OR UNHINGED. I'M JUST INTERESTED IN STUFF THAT YOU DON'T LIKE AND I'M MISSING MY DAD. JUST LIKE YOU ARE. I THINK YOU ARE MORE UNHINGED THAN ME!

But I don't. I droop my head low.

“Don't make so much noise, Milo,” I groan. “My head hurts.”

Mum looks at me. “What's the matter, Mima?” she says.

“I'm really, really poorly, Mummy,” I say. “I think I need the doctor.”

She puts her hand on my forehead, which by now has completely cooled down.

“You haven't got a fever,” she says. “Show me your tongue.”

I poke out my tongue while she inspects it. She's a detective looking for clues. She prods the glands in my neck. She pulls my eyelids wide open and takes a good deep look at my eyes. She makes me stretch out on my back while she presses my tummy.

“You seem fine to me,” she says. “It's probably just wind. Pop off to school and if you get worse go to the sickroom and they'll call me.”

Then she grips her belly egg and her eyes open wide again and her mouth makes a shape like an O. She bends over a little and groans. She clings on to the back of a chair to steady herself. She looks up at Granny who looks back at her.

A gush of water runs down her leg and puddles around her feet.

“Here goes!” she says. “The Bean is on its way!”

And as much as I'd like to cling on to my illness and stay at home to complete my plan, even I know that now is not the time to make a fuss.

“OooowwwW,” says Mum. She grips the chair so hard her knuckles turn white. “I've been getting pains
on and off all night, but not as bad as these. Mima, call Georgie, quick, then get yourself dressed and on the bus.” She throws her head back with pain. Granny pours some tea.

“OooowwwwW, James!” she cries into thin air. “Why aren't you here for us when we need you?”

 

I feel weird being at school knowing that the Bean is about to be born. At some point today I'm going to have a brother or a sister. I hope it's a sister. One boy is enough for any family and a sister would be much lovelier. We could be friends. I could take her out and show her all about the world.

The idea of the Bean being a sister sits like a little secret star, glowing in my tummy, keeping me warm. I wonder what we'll call her. Maybe Isobel, or Frejya, or Jane.

At lunchtime Jess bounces up to my table.

“You've got a brother!” she says. She pulls her phone out of her bag and shows me a text from her mum. “Look!”

Hi beautiful, Bex had baby boy. All easy. Tell Mima they'll be home when she gets back from school. Luv U xx

My warm glow turns to ice. I wish I could stand up on a chair and say, EXCUSE ME, JESS, BUT DON'T YOU THINK I MIGHT HAVE PREFERRED TO FIND OUT ABOUT MY OWN BABY BROTHER FROM MY OWN MUM OR MY OWN GRANNY? DON'T YOU REALISE YOU HAVE SPOILT A BIG SURPRISE. BABIES BEING BORN ARE FAMILY THINGS. NOT FOR NOSY PEOPLE LIKE YOU!

My appetite slides away. Jess rattles on.

“Me and Mum were only saying last night,” she says, “how terrible it would be if something happened to your dad. He might never get to see his son. Imagine! And then the Bean would never get to meet his dad. It would be so tragic. Can you believe?”

Her eyes shine bright. My cauliflower cheese curdles with my juice.

I imagine my dad's head exploding on the sand, like in his films and then him in a coffin, in a big black car, like on the news.

Jess's eyes dull down.

“I wish my mum would have a baby,” she says. “Being an only child is rubbish. It's too lonely.” She looks at me. “Don't tell anyone, will you?” she says. “But it's
scary when they shout, you know, my mum and dad. I hear them at night.”

Ned plonks himself down, interrupting.

“I can't decide what to do my presentation on,” he says. “Anyone got any good ideas?”

Tory Halligan and her parrots flutter up and peck away at their lunch. Tory slides in next to Ned and bats her eyelashes at him.

“I'm doing mine on fashion,” she says. “How about I do mine on girls' fashion and you can do yours on boys? We could work on it together then, out of school time.”

Ned rolls his eyes and looks up to the heavens.

“Girls,” he sighs. “You're so predictable. I want to do something more interesting than fashion, but I can't think what.”

“Jemima's got a new baby brother,” says Jess. “Haven't you, Mima? Maybe you could do something on babies, Ned,” she giggles. “Or teenage parents – that could be interesting. My mum was at the birth and Mima and I were just saying how terrible it would be if the Bean – that's what we call him – never got to meet his dad. You know, if his dad gets killed or something.”

Ned brushes my face with his eyes and he's about to say something when Tory butts in.

“What are you doing yours on, Mima?” says Tory.

“Well,” I say, “it's all about war and love and how war shreds hearts. My granny had this long-lost love…”

Tory and Jess and the parrots suddenly fall about laughing.

“Hi, Mrs Cassidy,” giggles Tory in a silly voice. “My presentation is all about luuurrrvvve!”

Then they all join in, saying, “Luuurrrvvve! Luuurrrvvve! Luuurrrvvve!”

Laughter tears stream from their eyes.

I feel stupid now. My hearts blushes and closes in. My skin cringes and wants to fold up small and hide. I hate Tory Halligan. And Jess. And the rest of them and I'm never going to be able to do my presentation now. They'll split their sides laughing at me before I've even begun.

Ned's eyes land on me again and he mouths, “Just ignore them, Jemima Puddleduck.”

 

The bus ride home is weird. I have a new brother. He is a whole entire brand-new human being in this world,
like no other human being ever before him. He's unique and he will sparkle with newness. We'll be connected through blood for the rest of our lives and I will watch him grow. Yet, when this most amazing thing was happening, I was at school, doing maths. This feels strange, like he has begun his life without me. It's a wonderful thing he finally hatched, but I'm sad he's not a sister and scared my heart won't stretch wide enough to wrap him in. I'm scared I might hate him for taking too much of everything. I'm scared my dad might love him more.

When I get back home, Mum's lying on the sofa in a jungle of blankets and flowers. Her eyes beam and her cheeks are flushed with so much love that she doesn't appear to notice the mess.

“Come see, Mima,” she says, pulling back the corner of a cloud-soft blanket, exposing a tiny pink face and a load of dark curly hair. “Isn't he gorgeous?”

I squeeze between the sofa and the coffee table and crumple in a heap of school uniform on the floor. Compared to the delicate little bundle in Mum's arms I feel like a giant clumsy elephant. My arms and legs are too much in the way.

“Here,” she says, shuffling round to make space on the sofa for me, “hop up. You can hold him. I think he's going to have your eyes.”

I'm so nervous. I wish I could run away and shrivel up small into a cold hard nut of hate. I don't want to like the Bean. I want a sister. But when Mum rests my little marshmallow brother in my arms and his miniscule hand takes hold of my finger, my heart opens as wide as a butterfly's wings and soars. I nestle my face in his warmth. He smells so perfect and new. “I'm going to show you the world when you get bigger,” I whisper. “There are so many wonderful things to see. And I'll bring Dad home soon. I promise. You're going to love him so much. He's truly amazing. And you don't know this yet, but our dad is the pancake king.”

I turn to Mum.

“The Bean is perfect,” I say, watching his tiny chest rise and fall with his breath, his eyelids flicker with sleep.

I could snuggle him for ever and never move from this most spectacular moment in my life.

Milo slides into the room and glares at the Bean. I beckon him over and hold him close with my spare arm.

“It's OK, Milo,” I say. “We can stretch our hearts and love him too.”

And my heart feels as soft as the fluffy white down on an angel's wing and as warm and glowing as the sun.

Then Mum says something and everything inside me crashes like cold metal cars.

“Oh,” she says, “we managed to get a special message through to Daddy. To tell him about the Bean and then he called back. In fact, Milo had only just put the phone down when you came in. He's well, Mima,” she smiles. “Everything's OK, he's safe! I'm so sorry you missed him, sweetheart, but he sent you love and lots of special big hugs and hopes to speak to you next time.”

Jagged diamond tears well up in my eyes.

“I can't believe I missed him!”

“Never mind, pet,” says Granny, bustling in with tea. “He'll call again next week. Why don't you go and do your prep and let Mum have a rest?”

I go upstairs and hide in Dad's wardrobe. His smell is fading. The air has changed to a musty tang. How come Milo got to speak to Dad and not me? And he would have just gone on and on about
Toy Story
and how much he loves Woody. He wouldn't have had a
proper conversation. There's so much I need to talk about with Dad. It's so confusing being twelve! I think ten was better, or maybe even five. Or maybe the best time is newborn like the Bean because he has nothing to worry about, because the dust of bad things hasn't had a chance to settle on his skin. It's so confusing how one minute my heart was flying like a butterfly, full of love for our baby, and the next Mum's words flattened and squashed it into the ground.

I knock on the back of the wardrobe and wait to see if a secret path to a magical land will open up. I know it won't because I'm twelve now and I know about things like that, but if I were five, then maybe?

The lyrics to Kiss Twist's ‘A Million Angels' spin through my mind and I pull up my shirtsleeves and set a million angels free. They lift from my arms like inky blue shadows. Soar through the sky like a radiant flash of white. Bravely swish and swoop and beat their wings towards the danger in the desert, towards the sun.

A
t last I get an e-bluey from Dad.

 

“Jemima Taylor-Jones,” says Tory Halligan, breezing into the English room and plonking herself down on the seat next to mine. “I can't wait to hear all about luuurrrvvvve!”

She giggle-snorts until her eyes stream again with tears.

“You're so funny, Jemima!”

My face goes beetroot. I wish she'd just go away and sit in her usual place at the back. My heart is thumping hard enough at the thought of standing up in front of everyone and saying what I'm doing my presentation on without Tory Halligan making things worse.

The parrots flutter around. They flap and giggle and squawk, trying to find a place close to Tory.

“Go and sit somewhere else,” Tory snaps at them. “You don't always have to follow me around. I want to sit next to Jemima for a change. I want to hear all about luuuurrrrvvvve.”

Tory starts giggling again. Hayley, Sameena and Beth jump back like her words were a slap.

“You're so funny, Jemima,” she laughs again. Then she leans in close and whispers in my ear, “Ned and Jemima sitting in the tree K.I.S.S.I.N.G.” She moves even closer. “Except the thing is, Miss Taylor-Jones: hands off, OK? He's mine!”

Her words burn my ear and scorch my cheeks. I look like a boiled tomato I'm so red.

“You're welcome to him,” I hiss. “I don't even fancy him.”

“Well, let's keep it that way, shall we?”

Jess slides over and tries to knit herself in. “I'm doing my presentation on endangered species,” she says. “'Cause did you know that loads of whales and dolphins are in danger because of shipping and fishing and oil? My mum says I can adopt one if I like and you get a poster and a registration card and everything.”

Tory's eyes shoot Jess down in flames. “F.A.S.C.I.N.A.T.I.N.G, Jess. N.O.T!”

When Mrs Cassidy comes in, my head spins and my hands turn clammy with sweat.

First up at the front of the class is Tory. She strides up like she does presentations every day of the week, like they're as easy as cleaning her teeth. She's made loads of notes on little brightly coloured cards, to help her remember everything she wants to say. She speaks with the smile of a cat and a voice as clear as glass. Her presentation is going to be on fashion and her mum's taking her to a real fashion show as part of her research. She's going to customise loads of old clothes and do her own real live fashion show at school. She's going to charge an entrance fee and donate the money to a charity that gives special days out to sick children.

“Super work, Tory,” chimes Mrs Cassidy. “I look forward to hearing the real thing.”

Callum Richardson gets up totally unprepared and goes on and on for ages about football until Mrs Cassidy says she's heard enough and makes him sit back down. Then Hayley gets up and tells us that her presentation is going to be all about the history of chocolate. She's going to give us a live demonstration of how to make chocolate truffles and we'll all get a taste at the end.

The further round the class we go, the nearer it gets to being my turn. And the nearer it gets to being my turn the more the huge angel in my chest flaps to find a way out. My mouth is so dry my tongue keeps sticking to the inside of my cheek. I need a drink. I need a wee. I dry my sweaty hands on my skirt, but they go clammy again in seconds. My breakfast sloshes in my tummy. I think I might be sick.

I try to focus on Dad's lucky wish. I press it on my cheek on the spot where I hoped a flower would grow.
Focus, Jemima. Focus.
I take a deep breath like Dad told me to. I take a swig of water from my bottle. Nervous heat pushes through my skin.

When Jess gets up to tell us about her presentation on endangered dolphins and whales and the work of the World Wildlife Trust, Mrs Cassidy beams.

“Lovely idea, Jess,” she smiles, smoothing a tail of hair behind her ear. “Maybe you could talk about endangered species in assembly and we could even see if the whole school could raise money for a dolphin?” Her eyes shine. “Perhaps everyone could find a way of raising money for charity? We've got Tory's children's charity and Jess's endangered species so far. I'm very proud of you all. Good work! I'm beginning to feel very inspired by all these super ideas!”

My stomach lurches like a rollercoaster.

Then Ned gets up and surprises us all.

“My presentation,” he says, with a smile so wide it kisses my cheek like a butterfly, “is about John Lennon and peace. I'm a pacifist, which means I love peace and I hate war. I believe international disputes should be resolved peacefully, without fighting. That's what John Lennon was singing about and as part of my presentation I'm going to put together a Beatles tribute band. I need three other boys.”

All the boys put their hands up. They jostle in their seats and shout, “Me! Me! Choose me, Ned!”

“Obviously,” smiles Ned, “you need to be able to play an instrument and sing and obviously I'm going to be John Lennon on guitar.”

When Ned's finished choosing his tribute band Mrs Cassidy turns to me.

“So, Jemima,” she says. “Your turn.”

My tummy flips. I want to do this, but I am soooooo scared. My shoes slap and squeak on the floor as I walk to the front of the class. They echo in the silence of everyone watching and waiting to hear me speak.

“My presentation,” my voice cracks, “is all about the effects of war.”

The whole class rise up with a Whhhhoooooa! Mrs Cassidy's eyes glitter with excitement.

“How wonderful,” she says. “Maybe we can weave in a debate. On one side we'll have peace and on the other side we'll have war.”

“Well,” I continue, “it's not so much about war, it's really about love.”

Tory Halligan and her parrots fall about laughing.

“It's about how war,” I stutter, “shreds hearts. How it separates people who don't want to be separated. How it breaks up families.”

I hold up the picture board of Granny and Derek.

“It all started when my granny gave me this box of old things. She started telling me about her life during the war and the Blitz and this childhood sweetheart she'd had. This long-lost love and…”

More whoops and hoots rise like steam from the back of the class. Tory almost falls off her chair she's snorting so hard with hysterics. She presses her hand over her mouth trying to brick them back in.

I try to focus like my dad said. I take a breath and look out at the class.

“… and I want to try and find him for her.” I say. “I want to bring him back home to my granny. Before she dies. So she can stop wondering.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Ned give me a thumbs up.

“And,” I say, “I want to bring home my dad too. For me and Milo and Mum and so he can meet our new baby, the Bean.”

And then the room starts swimming in front of my eyes and the floor slips far away.

“Are you OK, Jemima?” asks Mrs Cassidy, looming her face so close I can see little flecks of mascara like
black snow that has settled on her cheek. I wish I could steady my hand enough to sweep them away because I know she'd be embarrassed for me to notice them. But I'm shaking too much. Then everything goes black and I fall down a dark, dark tunnel to the blackest, deepest bottom of the world.

“Stand back!”

Mrs Cassidy's voice breaks through the gloom.

“Give her some air,” she says. “Somebody call the nurse.”

“I think she fainted, miss,” says Ned.

“Yes, Ned,” she snaps, “I'm well aware of that.”

 

In the sickroom Mrs Spencer brings me a glass of water.

“How are you feeling now?”

And I'm about to say, I'm feeling a bit better, thank you and I think I just fainted with nerves, when I realise that this is a perfect chance to relaunch part three of my Bring Dad Home mission.

“I feel terrible,” I say. “Everything's all blurry and I feel sick. Maybe I need to go to the hospital? Maybe it's something really bad?”

But Mrs Spencer doesn't call the hospital. She calls my mum instead.

When Mum arrives, I feel really guilty. She looks so tired from nights awake with the Bean and she should probably still be cosy on the sofa, not here at school worrying about me. But I need to get Dad home. I can't miss out on this chance.

“Oooowwww,” I say. I cover my eyes with my arm. “Now my head hurts. Oooowwwww, can you turn the lights off, please – they're too bright.” I peer up at Mum. “I think it might be meningitis.”

Mum and Mrs Spencer exchange a frightened glance. Mrs Spencer whips a thermometer from the cupboard and slips it under my arm.

“Oooowwww,” I groan. “I think I'm going to be sick. Oooowwwww.”

I try to remember the swirly feeling just before I fainted. I need my tummy to churn again. I need to make myself sick.

“Oooowwwww, please! Ooooowwww! I need an ambulance!”

Mrs Spencer slides the thermometer out.

“Her temperature's normal,” she says. “I think it's just
a migraine that made her faint. Mrs Cassidy said the classroom was very warm. I'll give her some paracetamol for the pain. Take her home and let her sleep it off. She'll be right as rain by morning.”

But Mrs Spencer is wrong. I won't be right as rain until my Bring Dad Home mission works, until my dad is back with us, where he belongs.