Paper Aeroplanes (10 page)

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth
. Matthew 5:4.

Blessed are the meek?
Dad was meek and he died – how is that blessed? I hear Sally cough behind me. A fake cough. A cough designed only to have people turn to look at her. Why can’t she be the meek one? I bet if she died tomorrow people would say what a lovely girl she was. They’d use words like ‘popular’ and ‘kind’ and everyone in the congregation would do their best not to shout out ‘SHE WAS A BITCH’ because it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. But I bet that won’t stop my mother speaking ill of Dad. Poor Dad. I look up. The vicar is saying a prayer. Why is that coffin so small?

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust . . .

I recognise these words from films and TV. I know this is coming to an end. A red velvet curtain starts to spread itself around the coffin. For the first time since the service started I take in my surroundings and truly understand that my dad is inside it. As the curtain hides it I begin to panic. I didn’t know that was going to happen. I didn’t realise he was going to be obscured from my view like that, and taken away before I was ready. And what happens next? Where will he be burned? Does it happen right here? In this building? Will I smell it? Aunty Ada starts sobbing loudly. It’s all so final. I am not prepared. I haven’t said goodbye; no one has said goodbye. This funeral has been too fast, so impersonal. This isn’t fair on Dad.

I stand up.

‘I have to say something.’

The curtain stops.

I recognise a few people from Dad’s old job, and the rest are neighbours or distant family members, and others I don’t know. In total I’d say there are around forty people. I want to take them all in. These are the people who have bothered to turn up to my father’s funeral; in essence, these are the only people I have in the world. What a weird mix of strangers, and how lonely I feel among them. I see Sally, dressed far too revealingly for a church, looking back at me with her usual don’t-make-a-fool-of-yourself-Flo face. I move my eyes away from her and try my hardest to ignore her presence. Then, right at the back, wearing her school uniform and a sort-of smile that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end, is Renée Sargent. Another fireball lights in my belly; this one feels better. I breathe in hard to put it out, focus on her eyes, and then start talking.

‘I just wanted to say a few words about my dad,’ I say, my tongue like sandpaper.

I get a vision of Dad in the living room, dancing to ‘Chiquitita’ by ABBA. Pretending to play the trombone on the umpompom bits. It used to make me laugh so much watching him, but then the vision vanishes and my eyes focus on Sally again. She is flicking her head to one side in a tiny, tense twitch, obviously suggesting I sit back down. I want to carry on but all that comes out is ‘ABBA.’ The rest of the words are stuck somewhere in my head. I try to reach them but they have gone. People are mumbling things. I try one more time to speak but the words are so jumbled, I can’t do it. I can’t say another word. I sit back down. That’s it.

The curtains continue to move.

When I get home from the funeral I realise I’ve been so consumed in it all that I’ve completely missed the time. I walk in the door half an hour before school normally finishes, and am met by Pop, whose face goes from normal to bright red and veiny in under a second. As usual he presumes the worst of me before I’ve had a second to explain.

‘Why aren’t you at school, Renée?’ Pop asks aggressively. ‘I don’t want to be back in that headmistress’s office. What have you done this time? Have you been stealing again? Did you get caught smoking?’

‘No, Pop. I’ve been to a funeral,’ I say, hoping for some sympathy.

He walks closer to me. For a tiny moment I think he’s going to put his arm around me and ask me if I am OK. He stops inches from my face.

‘Whose funeral?’

‘Flo Parrot’s dad. A girl from my class. Her dad died of a heart attack last week and I asked Miss Anthony if I could go to her funeral because I thought it was so sad,’ I say, looking at him as confidently as I can manage.

‘I have never heard of Flo Parrot. Who is she?’ Pop scoffs.

The fact that he’s never heard of her is irrelevant. I’ve known Carla and Gem since we were five, but almost every time Pop sees them he asks them what their names are – if he speaks to them at all. It’s either a result of him not caring or his terrible memory, but Pop’s memory isn’t a problem. He remembers every bad thing I ever did.

‘I don’t want you getting involved in other people’s business. Funerals are for family. It is not your place to get in the way,’ Pop says dismissively.

‘I wasn’t in the way, Pop. I sat at the back. I just wanted to let Flo know that I cared.’

‘Well, if you spent as much time caring about your grandmother and sister then that would be better. Go upstairs. Nana will call you for dinner,’ he says, gently pushing me towards the stairs.

At school the next day everyone else has moved on from the death of Flo’s dad. No one even mentions it. Apart from Sally, who takes great pleasure in telling everyone about the funeral – her rendition being the Hollywood movie version, of course.

‘And then Flo stood up and she could hardly speak she was crying so much. And everyone was sobbing so loudly. And Julian and I just watched her while she tried to get her words out. And then the curtain surrounded the coffin that her dad was in and it was tiny because dead people shrink. I reckon he was wearing his slippers in the coffin too.’

I can’t stop thinking about Flo. I even take the long way home at night so that I can walk past her house. I don’t know what I’ll say if she sees me. I just feel like I know what she might be going through. I know her dad dying is completely different to my mum dying, but somewhere inside of us the feelings must be the same. Apart from Nell, I’ve never known anyone else who has lost a parent before. I think maybe it might be quite nice to, in a funny kind of way.

After school on Wednesday Sally and I stay behind for our detention, which she obviously blames me for entirely. I know I essentially started the fight but I was more comedy-wrestling her out of frustration. It takes a certain kind of person to actually punch someone in the face. As far as I’m concerned, this is all her fault.

‘OK, girls,’ starts Miss Anthony. ‘I hope you have both had time to think about your behaviour last week.’

‘Yes, miss,’ we say together.

‘And you realise that fighting, and especially punching, Sally, is unacceptable?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘Good. Well, as you are both friends of Flo’s and attended her dad’s funeral, I thought tonight you could spend the hour writing about the importance of friends and family at times like this,’ Miss Anthony says, unaware of the can of worms she just opened.

Sally looks at me like the Grand High Witch.

‘Why were you there? You’re not Flo’s friend!’

‘Now now, Sally,’ warns Miss Anthony.

Sally curls her lip and shows her teeth. If Miss Anthony wasn’t here I think she might have bitten me.

‘Right then, girls, lets get started,’ Miss Anthony continues. ‘I want a whole side on the importance of friends and family in times of upset. You have an hour so I don’t expect any spelling mistakes. Think carefully about what you write – I don’t want to see anything crossed out. Off you go.’

I stare at the blank page. My pen seems repelled by it. What do I know about the importance of friends and family other than that family are worth avoiding in times of need, and friends don’t really care that much about anything other than me being funny? It takes me about half an hour to think of something to write, by which time Sally, who has been writing furiously since Miss Anthony started the clock, slams down her pen.

The importance of friends and family in times of need

By Renée Sargent

When people feel sad, what they need is attention. Not the kind of attention where they have to be told how amazing they are all the time. Just the kind of attention where they know that should they need you, you are there. I would like that kind of attention. I don’t care about the other kind, even though everyone thinks I do.

When something horrible happens to someone the worst thing anyone can do is tell them off, or accuse them of being mean, or make them feel guilty about stuff they did that they are sorry about, because you can do bad things and be really sorry. They should just listen to them, and talk about things, because when you don’t talk about things everything builds up inside you like a boiling pan with a lid on. All the water dribbles out the sides but the lid won’t come off. It’s like that. Life just feels like little dribbles down the side of a pan.

I think friends and families are the ones who can lift the lid off, in a good way.

I don’t have time to read it over before Miss Anthony says the hour is up. I give it to her, and Sally and I leave.

‘I will never forgive you for getting me a detention,’ she growls as we walk out of the building.

In the car park, her dad is leaning against the bonnet of his car. His arms are crossed over his beige shirt, his moustache and beard somehow making him look even more angry. As I walk away I hear her begging him to forgive her. He doesn’t sound like he is going to.

I walk home. Nana has cooked Findus Crispy Pancakes with boiled potatoes again. The pancakes are burnt around the edges. Pop eats his in under three seconds even though they are so hot steam shoots out of them when pierced with a fork. Nell eats hers slowly along with two pints of water and then excuses herself and locks herself in the bathroom. Nana says she’s already eaten, and I sit there thinking, who are these people?

By Thursday Julian and I have barely said a word to each other about Dad. I decide to go to his room to chat about stuff. I need the support of my big brother. A long time ago Julian was the kind of brother who wanted to protect me, but then Mum corrupted him. She fell out of love with Dad and needed a sidekick so she took Julian and soured his brain. I guess underneath his protective personality he was less like Dad and more like her than I thought, because it didn’t take long for him to become the worst ever older brother. The two of them became a force in the house, them against me and Dad. Julian and Dad fought all the time, big loud fights about respect and ‘being a man’. It was all so brutish and heinous and for the last six months before Dad moved out I saw my role as protecting Abi from it all. When a row started I’d take her to her room and sing as loudly as possible. Then I’d tickle her until her own laughter blocked out the sound of the hatred downstairs.

‘Can I come in?’ I ask, poking my head around the door.

He’s lying down playing on his Nintendo. He doesn’t stop. I sit on the end of his bed to block his view of the TV.

‘I miss Dad,’ I say, staring right at him in a way that would be impossible to ignore.

He puts down the console and exhales like I have just asked him to loan me some money. He huffs.

‘Don’t you feel sad?’ I ask.

Julian shrugs.

‘Julian, you’re just like her.’ I start to cry.

He looks at me. ‘Don’t you have anyone else you can cry to? What about that friend of yours? The one with the white jeans? The one who carried you home that night. Go and see her.’

‘Renée isn’t really my friend,’ I sniff.

‘Well, what about the other one with the mean face and the big tits? Go cry at her.’

‘Julian, our dad just died. Doesn’t any part of you want to talk about it with me? You and Mum act like you wanted it to happen. Do you care at all?’

‘Of course I care, Flo. But he was a mess. Maybe his heart did him a favour.’

‘Julian, don’t say stuff like that! He would have got himself back together eventually. He just needed to be away from Mum long enough to work out what to do. He was going to be fine.’

‘Maybe he was. But I guess we will never know now, will we?’

I know. That’s all that matters.

I go back to school exactly nine days after Dad died. No time at all really, but I feel like I’ve been away forever. When I walk into the classroom everyone goes quiet. Sally does an awkward skip up to me and links my arm as if to claim me before anyone else can, then leads me to my desk like she’s helping a granny cross a road. Something she would never actually do.

‘God, stop staring, everyone. Her dad died, she didn’t grow another head.’ The ease with which she says ‘her dad died’ shouldn’t shock me as much as it does.

I sit down and she starts to arrange my things. This is very out of character, and very annoying. I sit up straight with my hands by my side and wait until she has finished.

‘Best friends do this kind of thing for each other, Flo.’

‘What
are
you doing?’

‘What does it look like I am doing? I am organising your things because it’s all such a mess.’ She empties my pencil case and puts back only half of what she has tipped out before throwing the rest in the bin. ‘Less is more. When you are depressed you mustn’t be surrounded by clutter.’ She turns around to look at Renée, who is scratching noughts and crosses symbols onto her desk. ‘
This
is what friends do for each other in times of need.’

‘Good morning, everybody.’ Miss Anthony comes in. She looks nice. She has a tight-fitting, grey wool polo neck on with a silver brooch and a long black skirt. Seeing me at my desk, she comes over. Everyone pretends to talk while actually they are listening in.

‘Welcome back, Flo. If you need anything just let me know. I’m sure Renée and Sally will take care of you until you find your feet again,’ she says.

I take a sharp intake of breath. Sally’s face is fluorescent red, her lip curled up to show her teeth. When that happens I know she is seriously mad. As Miss Anthony walks away Sally puts her face right up against the side of mine and says, ‘If you ever become friends with Renée Sargent, I will make your life a living hell.’