Anthem for Jackson Dawes (19 page)

‘I didn't. But there's this direct bus now, and I got on it.' It seemed unbelievable, even though it was only an hour or so since she was there. ‘I just decided to go.'

There was a sigh. ‘You were very brave to do it on your own.'

More silence, though all around them the garden was alive with birds.

Dad looked at his watch at last. ‘One of us needs to be getting on with things. There's a party to go to.' He turned to Megan. ‘You know, when this is all over and you're back at school and everything, there'll be shape to the days, a getting-up time, a going-to-bed time. You'll be able to get back to something like normal. Start living your life again. And I know everyone says it, but I think you can.' Dad said this as if he hoped it really could happen. ‘I know you can.'

Megan wasn't so sure. ‘At the new unit, they've got this plaque, with gold letters and everything. And Jackson's name. They've called it the Jackson Dawes Unit. Sister Brewster showed me.

‘They got some money from Jackson's family. It was his. I mean, it would have been his, when he was twenty-one.'

Dad turned to look into her face, his eyes holding
hers steadily. ‘Would he have liked it, do you think? Approved of it?'

‘Yes,' Megan said, ‘he'd have liked it, but I wish …'

‘What do you wish, love?'

How to put it into words. Wishing for the impossible was such a waste of time and yet …

‘I hope Jackson died happy,' she rushed on. ‘He wanted to do so many things and be alive and everything, so I don't know how he could have been happy, but I hope he was all right about it. I hope so.'

This was it. The thing she didn't know and couldn't solve. Like a puzzle, with one piece missing. It had been there, worming around inside her, since who knew when, and only now was she able to catch it, pin it down.

If only she could know that he'd been all right about it.

Then her surviving wouldn't seem so bad.

And Grandad having a party on Sunday, with all the Poor Old Souls going to dance and sing and eat sausage rolls. And people saying he was amazing, ninety-six was so old.

Because it was Jackson and Kipper who were really the amazing ones, wasn't it? And all the others who
didn't
survive?

Dad pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘Megan, did you read the letter Jackson's sister sent?' She nodded, feeling bleaker than winter. ‘I don't mean just the bit that told you he'd died. Did you read it
all? Have you read it through to the very end?'

‘No.' Megan froze, as if he'd splashed her with something, as if he was just about to do it again. ‘I don't want to … I don't
have
to.'

There was no point.

Nothing was going to change.

The letter had been her constant companion since it came, but she should have thrown the horrible thing away.

Dad stood there, solidly. ‘Where is it, love?' Megan refused to answer, like a stubborn child. ‘Is it in your bedroom? Did you throw it away?' He waited as if there wasn't a train to catch, a party to go to, as if he had all the time in the world.

At last, Megan pulled the tightly folded square from her pocket and thrust it at him. She didn't want it any more. What was the point of carrying it around with her like that? Like some stupid girl with a crush, like some rubbish problem-page person, like it was part of her.

It wasn't going to bring Jackson back.

‘
I
know what it says. Mum read it out to me on the phone.
All
of it.' Dad looked around the garden as if in search of the answer to an impossible question. ‘But
you
don't know and you've never let Mum talk about it and to be perfectly frank, I think you've been a bit silly.
More
than a bit silly.' The small blue vein at his temple looked rigid, his lips were pressed into a thin line.

How dare he be angry? When she was the one who'd had her head cut open, and had chemo and everything, and lost Jackson, and her place on the football team, and her hair, and poor Kipper, and oh, the list was so long she could wrap it round the world. How dare he be angry with her?

The letter stuck to her hand, she could feel it almost welding to her fingers.

Dad relaxed slightly. ‘Look,' he said. ‘I just want you to see the whole picture, that's all, not just the bits that hurt. It doesn't all hurt. You can't let it all hurt.'

Megan said nothing. It did hurt. All of it.

‘I've got to go and get ready.' Dad sighed, as if it was all suddenly too much to cope with and he wished Mum was here to take over. ‘There's a train to catch. I'd like it if you'd come to Grandad's, but …' he touched her cheek gently though his face was set like stone, ‘that's not so important. You'll be OK with Gemma. I can speak to her mum. What's important is that you take some time, right now, and read that letter, right to the last word. Do you hear? I don't want you coming through that door till you have.'

Turning his back on her, he walked into the house.

Megan watched, mouth open.

Dad never ordered her around. He was the soft one, the cuddly one, who came home from work with presents and was jolly and fun and left things like
bills and cooking and rules up to Mum. He never told her off. He never made her do stuff she didn't want to.

Yet here he was, ordering her to do something she couldn't.

The garden was filled with ordinary, everyday noises. There were children playing somewhere along the street, and a dog skittered by chasing a ball. Nothing felt ordinary inside. She was apart from it all, an outsider looking in. Or perhaps the other way around.

Megan unfolded the letter, smoothing out the deep lines which were scored into the paper so that it looked like lots of small squares stuck together, not very securely.

Like me, she thought.

Glancing back at the house, she saw Dad in the kitchen. He was on the phone. Probably talking to Mum. His voice drifted through the window, chatting away as if nothing had happened. Or everything.

The letter flapped slightly in the breeze as if to remind her of its presence. There was no point in not reading it. It couldn't hurt any more than it did when it first came. Megan leaned up against the tree, its branches heavy with leaves, but already they were changing colour. One or two had fallen to the ground. Things were moving on. She spread open the letter, smoothed it straight.

Dear Mrs Bright,

My mother has asked me to write and tell you that Jackson lost his fight with cancer last week. She thought you might like to know and that you could tell Megan.

The hospital did all they could, but as my mother says, there was another plan for Jackson and we have to accept it. We are trying not to be sad. Jackson wouldn't want that, but we miss him very much, his good humour, his smile. You met him, so you know what I mean.

It's very hard for my mother, of course, but she wanted you to know that Jackson never stopped talking about Megan. We all think she made his illness and the end of his life so much easier for him. My mother says Megan was there with him, in his mind and in his heart, and she thanks God for the gladness she gave him, and for helping him through. She was there when he needed her, and that made him happy.

Please let her know how grateful we all are for that. We hope that Megan is well, and stays well.

On behalf of Elvira Dawes,

Josephine Dawes

The handwriting was perfect, as if Josephine Dawes had taken a lot of care, as if Mrs Dawes, round as a dumpling, had stood at her daughter's shoulder, telling her exactly what to put, which words to use, and how to say them. They were plain and to the point. Not hiding anything, not making it sound better than it was. It must have broken their hearts to have to do such a thing. It must have burned right into them, to have to send such a letter.

Megan gazed at the words now, to soak them up, to feel the work that had gone into them, the respect, and love. Because Jackson's family did love him. Somewhere along the way she'd forgotten that. And they'd lost him. No wonder Dad was angry with her, when they'd had to sit down and write those words and she'd refused to read them properly.

At last she folded it very carefully, back along the lines Mum had made.

It wasn't a horrible letter at all.

It was a lovely letter.

She didn't hate it, not one bit of it, not even the words which told her that Jackson was dead.

Putting it back into her pocket, Megan found something else. It was the picture she'd finished the
night of his operation. Just larger than a thumbnail sketch. She'd cut it out and kept it close to her since the letter had arrived, a ritual of remembering, as regular as cleaning her teeth, or washing her face. Yet, she'd refused to look at it as much as she'd refused to read the letter.

With a shock, she realised just how crumpled it had become. If she continued carrying it around like that, it would be ruined. And this was all there was of Jackson.

She looked at him now, in the afternoon sun. She'd managed to capture some of the life in his eyes, the happiness beaming out from his face, as if it would never leave him.

‘You were too young,' she whispered.

He looked as if he didn't mind being young, or being crumpled, or stuffed into her pocket.
It's cool
, he seemed to be saying.

Don't worry about me.

I'm doing OK.

I'm in a place where the bees don't sting,

and the sun don't burn,

and there's no more trouble and pain.

Megan gazed at the picture, absorbing the lines and curves of his face, so that her eyes and her head, her heart and her skin were full of him, never to be erased, capturing the echoes of him, the memories of him, so that he was still here with her.

There was movement in the kitchen. Megan
looked over to find Dad watching her from the window, wanting everything to be all right. He would be leaving in a few hours. and he wanted her on the train with him. He looked so alone standing there, so worried.

If she could tell him she was OK, show him, then it would make him feel better, and Mum and Grandad, all the people who'd been worrying about her. All they were trying to do was move on, as if they'd had cancer too. Yet they wouldn't, not without her. And that's how it would stay, that's how it would be, until she gave the word, the sign.

It was up to Megan.

The air was still. Not a leaf moved. There were no birds, no sounds. It was like being in a bubble again, and all around it the world was clamouring to get in. She had to let the world in. She had to give the sign, say the word, take control again.

It wouldn't be so hard to get the train with Dad, go to the party, celebrate.

It wouldn't be so hard to write to Jackson's family, thank them, for taking the time to send her the letter. Maybe she could give them his picture. A copy of it.

She could do all that.

The air around her moved, as if given permission to. A small breeze riffled the leaves, breathing them to life.

But there was just one thing.

None of this could happen until she spoke to
Gemma and told her everything. It would have to start with Gemma.

Megan took out her mobile. It was the first number that came up. Always had been. Always would be.

‘Gemma?'

There was a pause, like that gap after a flash of lightning, before the thunder comes, a pause which leaves you hoping that the crash won't be too loud, too frightening. Megan wondered if Gemma would just switch off her phone, refuse to answer. She wouldn't blame her, wouldn't be surprised. What more did she deserve?

‘Hi.' Gemma's voice was low, flat. ‘You still haven't gone, then?'

It felt like an accusation.

‘I'm on the six o'clock train.' It was the truth. No more lies. ‘I've got to get packed and everything, but …'

A car engine screeched just then and a crowd of birds exploded from next door's tree. Megan had never seen so many in one go. She watched them melt into the sky as if they'd never existed.

‘Are you still there? Megan?'

‘Sorry. Yeah. I was going to ask … if I can come over. For a little while? Once I've packed my stuff.'

‘… OK …' Gemma didn't sound very sure, as if this might be a nasty trick and
she
wasn't to be trusted any more. Her best friend and everything.

‘It's just … I need to tell you something.'

And then she began to cry, because it came to her, as suddenly as those birds from out of the tree, that Gemma would have understood, if only she'd told her before.

Weeks ago.

Months ago.

She would have known what to say.

It wasn't about cancer or having a tumour or chemo. Things her friends were scared of. This was just about a boy. And they could have laughed together about Jackson, about all the things he said and did, about all that trouble he got himself into.

And then they could have cried together.

It would have felt better.

But here she was on her own. Crying.

‘Megan? What's wrong? I'm coming round. Right now.' Gemma. All hurt forgotten. Gemma, who couldn't bear to know anyone was upset, least of all her best friend.

‘No, it's OK … I need to … tell you about someone I met,' Megan said, at last, dragging a hand across her eyes. ‘Someone in hospital.'

Another pause. As if Gemma herself had tried to solve an unsolvable puzzle, just as she had done, and now the missing piece was found.

‘What's his name?' Gemma asked, her voice gentle. Of course, she would know it was a boy, without being told.

The world seemed to shift then, as if for so long it
had been blown out of place by some awful earthquake or a volcano. It was settling back to where it should be. It would never be quite the same. How could it? But somehow, that was enough.