Artichoke Hearts (21 page)

I think about telling her about Jidé, and his note, but somehow it doesn’t seem right, so I keep it to myself. I wonder what secrets Nana has kept from me. I watch her finishing her
prunes. It takes quite a long time, because her hands are very shaky now. The only thing Nana doesn’t like about the hospice is the food, which she says is ‘stodge’, like school
dinners. So, whenever we visit, we put something in the fridge, on the shelf labelled
JOSIE LEVENSON
. Nana’s friend Jay is a potter and a cook. Every day she brings
Nana some home-made food like vegetarian soups, or a fruit salad with papaya, pineapple, blueberries and mint, or a green salad with slithers of ginger and fresh coriander . . . the kind of food
that Nana loves. Sometimes when Jay visits Nana is sleeping, so she leaves the food on her shelf in the fridge. Nana calls this food ‘Jay’s calling card’.

I don’t want to be here any more. I want to be with Laila and her little sparkly smile. I want to sit her in her high chair and feed her until her tiny wrists grow fat bracelets again.
When she came home today, it felt like Christmas morning . . . to see her smiling face again.

‘I haven’t seen your mum or Laila for a few days. Everything all right?’ asks Nana as if she’s tracking my thoughts.

‘Laila’s got a bit of a cold.’ I’m shocked how convincingly I can lie these days.

Nana just nods.

‘Hi, Josie!’ It’s Simon’s sing-song voice.

He peers round the door and knocks on the wall.

‘Enter!’ calls Nana in her queenly voice.

Simon and Nana are always joking around together, even when they’re having serious conversations about politics, which is what they nearly always do.

‘You’re raining on my parade!’ laughs Nana as Simon drips rainwater all over her bed. ‘Mira, pass Simon a towel.’

Simon wraps it round his head like a forget-me-not-blue turban.

‘Very fetching,’ laughs Nana.

It doesn’t take them long to get to talking politics . . . the war in Iraq, and the next peace march . . .

Simon’s not like anyone else I have ever met. He does painting and decorating on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, but only if you get him eco-paint, which doesn’t have oil in it. On
Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays he does things like naked bike rides for Climate Change, or candlelit vigils for the people of Tibet outside the Chinese Embassy. He’s been doing that for
ten years. Most weeks he sits outside Downing Street, protesting about something. Nana says sometimes you can’t find Simon for days on end. That’s when he’s doing a meditation.
Simon refuses to go anywhere in a car. He either cycles or gets on a train. He’s quite old, probably about sixty, but he doesn’t look it. He has this long straggly blond-grey hair which
he says he last got cut in 1965, so it’s not that long, considering. He’s fresh-faced with pink cheeks and sparkly blue eyes. Simon actually looks like an energetic elf.

After they’ve talked politics, Nana’s eyes grow heavy, as if she’s not in control of when she’s asleep or awake any more. Simon stands up to go, but Nana holds his
hand.

‘There’s something I want you to have, Simon.’

Nana tells me to open her bedside cupboard and points to a scrapbook on the second shelf. It’s the kind of book with sugar paper in it that we use at school. On the front it says
JOSIE’S BOOK OF PROTEST
. It’s the book that Nana puts all her letters from politicians in. These are the letters where they reply to her about what she’s
been complaining about. Mostly the letters are from the secretaries of Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair. Nana’s written a list of all the marches she’s ever been on and all the banner
slogans she’s carried in her life. The last march she went on was against the war in Iraq. She made a placard saying not in my name and I saw her carrying it on the news. I’ll never
forget the sight of her because I remember wondering how it was possible to be so small and strong at the same time. Simon takes the book from me.

‘I’ll enjoy this. Good times on the march, Josie . . .’

‘Did you campaign about Rwanda?’ I ask. Nana and Simon both turn to look at me, as if I have just earned a place in their conversation.

‘Of course we did,’ Nana sighs. ‘Not that it did any good whatsoever. Why do you ask?’

‘You know, I’ve been reading about it . . . that’s all.’

‘My work here is done!’ Nana laughs, as if
she’s
responsible for me knowing anything about Rwanda.

‘Dad thinks I shouldn’t be interested in stuff like that,’ I tell Nana.

‘Well, it’s hard to see your children go out into the world,’ Nana sighs. ‘But you’ll be next. I reckon you’ve got a few years’ campaigning left in you,
Simon. Maybe you can recycle a few slogans and leave the book to Mira here when you croak. She’ll be about ready for it by then!’

Simon gives Nana a long hug. I can see that she’s choking back her tears.

‘Fight the good fight!’ she calls out to him, clenching her fist.

A silence sits between us as I watch the smile fade from Nana’s face and her fist slowly unfurling. I take her limp hand, which is now hanging carelessly over the side of the bed, and
squeeze it gently in mine. She nods to me and props herself up on the pillows.

‘Open the curtains a bit wider,’ Nana orders.

I pull them back as far as they’ll go and rest beside Nana on the edge of her bed. We watch Simon jump on his bike and pedal up the road, facing into the path of the rain. He lifts his
right hand in the air, like a salute, as if he knows we’re watching him. As soon as he’s out of sight, Nana drifts off to sleep.

I think of all the energy Nana has put into her life, the things she believes in, all the struggles she’s had, and the people she’s loved; all that energy is draining away in front
of me. She’s giving things away: first the charm, her easel, things for Krish and Laila to choose, and now the protest book . . . these things that mean so much to her.

Since ‘love’ appeared it seems that we’re not sending kisses any more. Maybe Jidé’s holding them back for later!

‘Come straight back home after school . . . We’ll take Laila to see Nana,’ says Mum at breakfast.

That’s when I remember that I haven’t even told her I’m going back to Jidé’s after school, and that’s when it escapes from my mouth . . . my next lie.
‘Didn’t I tell you I’m going to Millie’s after school?’ ‘Oh! OK, that’s fine, that’s good,’ says Mum, look-

Friday 20 May ing a bit surprised, but too busy feeding Laila to think too much about it. ‘Do you need picking up?’

‘No, it’s OK. They’ll walk me back. If not, I’ll call you,’ I say, waving my mobile in front of Mum.

‘Any calls yet?’

‘Not yet. I wish everyone would
stop
asking me that. You sound like Nana!’

Why am I lying to my mum?

Then she does something she’s never done before.

‘Here, you’d better have these, just in case we’re late back,’ she says, handing me the front-door keys.

‘That’s not fair! Why can’t I have keys?’ moans Krish, jumping up and down in an attempt to grab them off me.

‘That’ll be because you’re only nine,’ I say.

Krish pinches my arm hard. I just ignore him, tucking the keys into my blazer pocket, before Mum changes her mind. As soon as I hear Millie climbing our steps I run for the front door to stop
her clanking the letterbox, but I get there just one clank too late.

‘Hi, Millie!’ shouts Mum from the kitchen. ‘Thank your mum for having Mira for tea.’

Millie looks confused, but I slam the door behind us before she can answer.

‘But I came early to see Laila,’ she protests.

‘Sorry, it was just madness in there. I had to get out.’

‘I didn’t know you were coming for tea.’

‘I’m not. Mum hasn’t got a clue what’s going on these days, what with Laila and Nana.’

‘Is Laila going to be OK now?’

I nod. Laila will be fine, but I, on the other hand, will probably be struck down by lightning, the amount of lying I’ve been doing. I don’t even know why I lied about going to
Millie’s, except that Mum and Dad would have probably made a big deal about me going to Jidé’s house . . . and Krish would definitely have teased me about it. I suppose
that’s why. But the problem with lying is once you start you end up having to lie again and again, over and over.

All day long I can think of nothing else except going to Jidé’s. When I sit on the wall at break time, I can’t even think of anything to say to Millie. Just like with Nana,
now that there are secrets between us it isn’t that easy to chat any more.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ I ask Millie.

‘Orchestra, I
told
you.’

‘Sorry, I forgot.’

At the end of the day, I hang around in the classroom. ‘See you on Monday,’ Millie shouts, hoisting her cello on to her back and lumbering off to orchestra
practice. You can just see her head bobbing up and down above the top of her case.

Jidé is sitting on the other side of the room from me. There’s only me, Ben and Jidé left in the classroom and Ben’s on his way out.

‘Playing footie?’ calls Ben from the doorway.

‘I can’t,’ sighs Jidé.

‘Suit yourself,’ Ben shrugs, running out into the courtyard.

‘Ready?’ Jidé asks, grinning at me.

‘Ready,’ I say, grinning back.

‘I didn’t tell Ben . . .’

‘I didn’t tell Millie . . .’ I don’t tell him I didn’t even tell my mum and dad, which, at least, I suppose he must have done.

By the time we get out into the courtyard most people have gone home. There is no sign of Millie or Ben. So we walk out of the school gates together. Jidé throws his arm round my
shoulder, which is meant to show just about the whole world that we’re going out together. He lives just across the Rec in a row of modern houses split up into flats. When we reach his bright
red door, the colour of a postbox, he takes his key out of his bag and lets himself into flat 22A.

‘Want something to eat? Sit down,’ Jidé says, pointing to the floor. That’s when I realize why this room looks so enormous – there are no chairs or sofas in it. Just
loads of brightly coloured cushions scattered everywhere. There are little alcoves in the walls with sculptures in them. They look like African sculptures in dark, smooth wood . . . sculptures of
women with long necks. There are photos all over the place. Quite a lot of them are of Jidé, school photos, that sort of thing, but there are other photos in black and white . . . of whole
families crammed into tents. Jidé’s mum and dad are in a lot of these photos, looking hot and tired. This must be Rwanda. I have to pull myself away from the faces in these pictures.
Downstairs is just one big room – a kitchen and living room all together. The walls are white, full of crammed book-shelves and colourful woven rugs.

‘I love where you live.’

Jidé smiles and shrugs, looking around as if he’s never really thought about it before. Then there’s a click in the lock.

‘Hi, Jidé!’

Miss Jackson, who is Jidé’s mum, lugs shopping bags and a pile of school books through the door. He helps her in.

‘Hi, Grace. Mira’s here.’

She looks up, as if she’s completely forgotten I was coming.

‘Hello, Mira! Fancy pizza for tea?’

I nod and smile but don’t say anything. I can feel her checking me over.

‘Good. I’ll call you when it’s ready.’

Then she goes over to the answerphone to pick up messages. I’m grateful that she’s too busy to pay me much attention. We walk up the two steps to Jidé’s room.
There’s just a mattress on the floor with cushions all over it. Books are stacked up all around the walls. Each pile is about ten books deep.

‘Have you read all these?’

Jidé nods. I can feel him watching my every move.

He has a shelf with football medals, shells, fossils, precious stones and a photo of his mum and dad standing with two children: a girl of about three or four years old, who looks like
Jidé. She’s holding a baby in her arms, a bit younger than Laila, wrapped in a thin piece of orange cloth with frayed edges.

‘What object will you bring in for Pat Print?’ I ask.

‘I dunno . . . I haven’t thought about it yet, maybe a photo. How about you?’

‘The artichoke-heart charm my nana gave me. I’ll bring that.’

‘How is she, your nana?’

‘Worse,’ I say.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I think she’s going to die soon.’

‘Aren’t you frightened for her?’ asks Jidé.

Frightened? I think it’s a strange question. It has never crossed my mind to be frightened of Nana dying.

‘No, I’m not. I think it’s because
she’s
not frightened and she’s got everyone around her who loves her.’

Jidé nods.

‘What does she think happens next? Does she believe in God and all that?’

‘No, she’s not really into religion,’ I tell him.

‘I don’t . . . do you?’ he asks me.

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I want to . . . How can you be so sure?’

As soon as I’ve asked the question, I regret it.