Anthem for Jackson Dawes (16 page)

‘What am I going to do with you?' Mum's voice was ready to snap, like a too tight wire. ‘Tell me, because I don't know.' She was standing by the toaster. A black thread of smoke trailed from it and burnt toast shot out. ‘Now, look what's happened. And there's no more bread.'

As if it was all
her
fault. Everything wrong in the whole wide world. Megan stood waiting for Mum to get over it, to stop blaming her for burnt toast or make her go anywhere. She was fourteen now, old enough to look after herself. She tried to look sorry for causing so much trouble. She tried to show that she knew how hard everything had been for Mum, what with the cancer and hospital and worrying and everything.

Yet she couldn't. ‘I just don't want to go. I know I should have said something before now.'

Mum scraped the toast with quick, hard movements. Crumbs sailed into the air then cascaded down into the sink. Tiny black specks freckled the white enamel.

‘It would have been
helpful
, yes.' Now the Lurpak, slapped on in layers. More butter than bread. ‘Where exactly is it you don't want to go? Grandad's? Or the new unit? Either way, people are going to be disappointed. Hurt even. Is that what you want? To hurt people after all they've done for you?'

Jesus, Mum
. ‘I just don't want to go to a party. Anybody's party. Not even Grandad's.'

‘It's his
ninety-sixth birthday
! He might not
see
another one.' Mum crunched into her toast. It exploded into pieces which flew everywhere. ‘Oh, for crying out loud!'

Megan took a deep breath and picked up the mess on the table.

Every year it was the same. Grandad might not see another birthday.

Yes, that was true. This could be his last. No one goes on for ever.

Some people hardly go on at all.

‘I should never have said you could wait for Dad to get back.' Mum bustled about gathering up a few last things. ‘I must have been out of my mind.'

‘Gemma's staying,' Megan said, trying to sound convincing.

‘I'm leaving it up to your dad. He's not going to want two fourteen-year-olds on their own. Not for a whole week. Word gets round. There'll be all sorts turning up at the door expecting parties and raves.' Mum dumped her case into the boot of the car. The last bag was in. ‘It's probably not even legal.'

Mum made a big drama about coming back into the house to check she hadn't forgotten anything. Bag. Keys. Purse. That blue blouse. No, that was already in. And the silver sandals to go with her dress. Birthday present. Flowers for Mrs Lemon. She could easily wait another ten minutes while Megan packed her bag, so that she didn't need to worry about lugging anything down by train … all of Dad's stuff was in the car …

On and on she went. Megan said nothing.

‘I don't know what I'm supposed to tell Grandad. You've always gone to his parties. Since you were born.' Mum was looking at her with complete bewilderment.

If only Megan could explain it better. She didn't feel like partying but it wasn't just that. She gazed down at her feet, at her toes curling into the carpet, the green nail varnish she'd put on just last night. It was smudged round her little toe on one side. It looked a mess.

‘He'll understand, won't he? I've been ill. He keeps ringing up to say I should take it easy. Just tell him I'm still not better yet.'

Mum flung her a look. ‘You
are
better. They said so at the hospital.' She marched into the living room, over to the alcove by the chimney, pulled out a box and brandished it at her. The box which used to have all the sterile packs, the dressings, the sticky tape, the towel, everything to keep her tube clean and safe when she was at home. The box and its contents, which always reminded her that she'd had cancer.

‘Look. See? It's empty. I threw everything out. And now I'm going to flatten this for the recycle.'

Mum punched the box till it collapsed, came back through to the hall and shot into the kitchen, like a bullet ricocheting. She threw the crushed cardboard into the box where everything went until bin day. Swinging round, she faced Megan, her face thunderous. This sudden uncharacteristic anger made Megan flinch.

‘You
are
better,' Mum went on. Then, all of a sudden, the fire went out. She slumped down on the chair by the phone, her face full of angry blotches. ‘Oh, God! I'm acting like a mad woman.'

Megan's stomach squeezed. ‘I'm sorry. I really am. It's just …' Oh, why couldn't she explain? Why couldn't Mum see? Yet how could she, when Megan didn't know herself?

‘Yes, yes. I know you're sorry.' Mum closed her eyes and blew out a breath. ‘And so am I.'

Silence, but for the ticking of the clock from the kitchen. It had a loud tick. The big hand shuddered
when it moved, as if time was too heavy to push, as if it knew that to stop would cause all sorts of mayhem, with everyone lost, stranded between the seconds.

Megan didn't know what to do or say, nor did she want Mum driving anywhere when she was upset – something else to be blamed for. There might be a crash or anything.

‘Do you want a cup of tea? Before you go?'

Mum sighed and stood up, straightening her clothes as if all that action and temper had wrinkled them. ‘No. Thanks. I'm all right now. And I'll stop for coffee halfway there.' She held her arms out in a sort of apologetic way, as if it was all her own fault, this outburst, this unexpected loss of control. Megan walked into them, allowing herself to be pulled in close.

Mum was on her way at last. Megan promised she'd look after Dad when he got back the next day and make sure he had a good night's sleep before getting the train to Grandad's. He'd be no good at a party all jet-lagged.

‘And if you do change your mind,' Mum said, ‘well, your ticket's there. We can't get it refunded. It would be a waste, really, not to use it.'

Megan ignored this as nicely as she could and said she'd ring Gemma and arrange a time to come over. There was loads of stuff in the freezer to eat. They'd be fine. No need to worry.

Mum had to be satisfied with that and drove off with a wave and a shake of her head, which said,
teenagers, why do they have to be so difficult?
She wasn't to know that Gemma was going to a concert with the Twins and wouldn't be able to stay that night. She wasn't to know that, really, Megan didn't want her to come at all, hadn't even asked her. What was the point?

She only wanted one person.

Dad would have something to say. He always did if Mum made him.

He was soft, though; he was the one made out of jelly, where Mum could be as hard as stone. He was the one who could be melted. It would be OK. Megan would send him to Grandad's without her.

Then she could be alone.

No one fussing, no one telling her what to do now she was better. Look to the present. Look to the future. Get back on track. That's what everyone kept saying. How were you meant to do that, exactly? When the present was just a big black hole inside? When the future was so far away you couldn't see it? When the tracks had been ripped up?

Everything was different now. Gemma didn't fit in, or the Twins. Neither did Grandad. Nobody did. Not Mum, not Dad. It was like being stuck between two worlds, not knowing how to get back, not knowing which one to choose. Not wanting either.

Gemma had rung earlier to see if Megan wanted
to come to the concert. It wasn't a great band or anything, but a few lads from school were in it – they knew them, liked them and everything.

Megan made some vague comment about Grandad's birthday.

‘Oh, his party. I forgot.' Gemma knew all about the parties and she'd met him at last, when he'd come to visit Megan between treatments. He'd invited her and the Twins to his next one. ‘Wish him happy birthday from me.'

Later Megan stood at the mirror to see if telling so many lies made a person look different. It didn't. She ran her fingers through her spiky brown hair, The scar was still there. Even now she winced as her fingers found it, the fine ridge of it, the curve. It didn't hurt, hadn't hurt for ages, in fact. It was more the thought of it being there, the reason behind its presence. That's what made her shudder.

In the drawer beneath the mirror was a tub of gel. Megan smoothed some of it on to her hair to see what would happen. She frowned. A yard brush. That's what she looked like. All spiked up on top and skinny as a handle, the rest of her.

It wasn't a good look. Not here, outside the hospital, away from the ward.

She ran a bath, both taps turned on, sending waterfalls booming against the green plastic bottom and splashing back up again in clouds of spray. The noise was so loud that even if the phone went she
wouldn't be able to hear it, with the door locked, extractor fan on and the shower radio, which gave out more hiss than music, turned up high. The message machine would have to listen to Grandad, if he rang, or Mum, or even Dad, who might want to start the arguing process from some airport in the middle of nowhere.

Let him try. Let him argue with his own voice telling him
We're all busy right now, leave a message, we'll get right back to you
. And let him wait.

She wasn't going to the birthday party.

Megan didn't usually have a bath. That was Mum's thing when she wanted to relax and soak away the troubles of the day, the way they did in adverts – she had a bottle of blue stuff for that very purpose. Megan shook some in. Then some more. Bubbles began to blossom in the waterfall, like galaxies of stars. They became so thick, they buried the sound of the running taps. Steam rose to the ceiling and swam around the room in clouds. It began to dim the mirror tiles above the taps.

Climbing in, Megan sank until all she could see in the mirror was a boa of bubbles around her neck, a beard of them round her chin and dangles of them from her ears. The bath glimmered with sparkling foam and soon her reflection faded away in the steam.

They'd be discussing the party. Mum and Mrs Lemon. Who was coming, who wasn't. Not that they ever knew, until it happened. People from the Care
Home in the village would be going. They'd have had the Special Visit from Grandad to remind them and they'd all have to be showered and powdered and dressed, ready when the day arrived. It was up there with Christmas, Grandad's party.

He called the people from the Care Home the Poor Old Souls, and said things like,
There but for the Grace of God I go
… or something. When she was little, Megan thought he was saying
There but for the Grapes of God I go
… and didn't really know what he meant – only that it wasn't a good thing. Grandad had never liked grapes. The pips got stuck in his teeth. He still had his own. That was supposed to be good, at his age.

Grandad reckoned that once he scored his century and the Queen sent him her telegram, he was going to give up the parties and have something small in his front room, with glasses of sherry and Battenberg cake, the way the Poor Old Souls did.

By then, he said, he might feel like one of them. But he'd never go into a Care Home. If he ever lost his marbles, he said, or couldn't get down to the harbour, they had to shoot him, like they do horses. He wasn't going into one of ‘those places'. He said he'd rather have that echinacea. It was a joke with him. He meant euthanasia. He meant, when life wasn't worth living, he didn't want to live it.

Megan flicked at the bubbles around her toes. Some people didn't get that choice. Some people
didn't get the chance to live half as long as Grandad, a quarter.

Less, even.

She got it down to a tenth.

The soapy foam drifted away like slow shoals of gleaming fish, then drifted back again, as if attracted to her skin. The water was cooling. There was no room in the bath to top it up. It was already lapping at the grille around the overflow pipe.

Megan sat up in the bath and found the soap, lathering it up between her hands and as she did so, the bubbles around her began to pop, swathes of them disappearing in a fizz of miniature explosions, as if she'd waved a magic wand at them instead of a bar of yellow soap. The last few bubbles clung on, but not for long. They too disappeared, their tiny lives ending, just like that.

The phone rang and Megan knew it would be Mum. It was time for
EastEnders
. Mrs Lemon would be watching it. Mum hated it, so did Grandad.

‘Just checking you're OK.' Mum didn't sound angry any more, or exasperated, just resigned. ‘I've told them your news, but Mrs Lemon says there can't be a proper party without you, so can you feel better soon and get yourself here.' There was a chuckle in the background. ‘And someone else wants to speak to you … here she is, Dad.'

There was a pause when Megan imagined Mum handing the phone to Grandad and him trying to work out which way to hold it up, never having got used to it, even after all this time.

‘Hello, Pet Lamb,' he said at last, in that tinny
tuneful way of his. Hearing his ancient voice was like drinking a cup of Mrs Lemon's home-made soup, the sort with ham and lentils in it. It made her feel hungry. It made her feel as if the big black hole inside her was growing. It made her eyes sting.

‘I'm sorry for not coming, Grandad.'

‘I should think you are, when there's so much to do, but it's all right.'

‘Is it?'

Grandad gave one his laughs. ‘Of course it is, pet. If you don't feel in the party mood, who am I to make you? “We'll always have Paris,” won't we?'

He'd never been to Paris, he'd never left the village, what with his gammy leg and not being allowed in the war. He'd never done anything with his life, he said once. But he did like that film.
Casablanca
.

‘Always,' Megan said.

‘You can come up after the party for a day or two.' Was Mum telling him what to say? Was she standing next to him, prompting him?