The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones (8 page)

 

 

8.
Silhouette

 

I like being Head Nurse.

I like our new routine.

Tiger's alarm goes at six thirty every day so she can go running with Catrin, so I'm awake early anyway. When I hear her come back in and run the shower, that's my cue. Breakfast in bed for the poorly lady, freshly squeezed orange juice and toast (no honey, no peanut butter).

Then we transport all the pillows and duvets on to the sofa, and make a nest. Dad's got a new deal going with Deirdre, the Pavilion manager: handyman for the week, to make up for the band having to skip a few gigs (under protest, but none of us is letting Mum touch a drumstick right now, doctor's orders) – so I grab a lift with him down into the town to do the day's shop while Tiger takes over.

I like pushing the trolley by myself. I like having a list. It's mostly leafy things to make soup and the brown kind of pasta, but Mum says if some Coco Pops accidentally fall into the trolley before I get to the checkout, that's just one of those things.

In theory I'm off-duty in the afternoons, but I don't like to go too far. I like being with Mum, just us. We talk about school, and the Fairground Crawl, famous photographers and songs that it is apparently criminal that I don't know.

Mum fusses about me missing my holiday, but Penkerry comes to us instead. Fozzie drops in between Shed shifts, sitting at Mum's feet to hear war stories from all the bands she's ever toured with, and offering traditional Chinese suggestions for the list of Peanut names on the fridge.

“Nothing hard to say,” Fozzie warns: she's Xiao Xing at home, Daphne on her school reports. Neither fits like Fozzie.

Peanut should have a Goldilocks sort of name, I think. Not too hot or too cold, not too big or too small: just right.

Catrin brings scented oils and gives Mum a shoulder rub that makes her doze off in seconds.

“I can do your shoulders too, Blue,” Catrin offers, wiping lavender oil off her hands.

I glance to Tiger, in case she's eye-rolling, waiting for little sister to leave. I wasn't allowed to even speak to Sasha the Cow (not that she ever spoke to me). But Tiger says, “You should, Blue, she's
so
good,” so I tuck myself up on the floor, cross-legged.

“Hmm, knotty here,” says Catrin, prodding a hurty bit of my shoulder, the smell of menthol making my eyes water. She massages my forehead, hard. “Lot of tension around your third eye.”

I sneak one eye open to share a secret grin with Tiger at the woo-talk – but Tiger's nodding along, dreamily watching her. It's cute.

Catrin teaches me, Tiger and Fozzie yoga poses on the threadbare grass outside: Warrior One, Warrior Two, Salute the Sun. Dad comes home to find us all in Downward Dog, saying hello with our bums in the air.

He joins in, obviously.

I run inside for Diana. He's the very last shot on the roll.

Red's always there.

I see flashes of softly blowing crimson hair at the corner of my eye, outside the caravan windows.

I hear her footsteps behind us on our slow pace around the park, on the short-cut path from the beach, tailing me round the supermarket.

It's like she's in the Penkerry wind. In every pebble on the beach. Everywhere.

I want to know her secret. What's in our future that made her wish herself back here?

Why doesn't she want to go back?

But if I stop to ask, she'll know how much I still need her.

I drop my first ever Diana film in to be developed, and two days later, it's done. Time to launch Operation: Cover Up Fozzie's Nasty Pink Walls.

It's like stepping into a temple to fifties teenage dreams. Fozzie's bedroom is so
her
. The walls are icky pink, true, and the carpet too. But her duvet cover is a pattern of flamingoes on a sky-blue background, and her dressing table is stacked with rollers and pins, cherry clips and liquid liner. The shelves are crammed with DVDs and importantly thick books on films. Surveying it all is a single poster, black and white, of a guy in a white T-shirt and jeans, lounging against a classic car.

“Say hi to my boyfriend Jimmy,” says Fozzie huskily, flinging herself on to the bed and blowing the poster a kiss. She's wearing short jeans and a polka-dot shirt, hair scooped up in a red scarf and her smile a slash of cherry-red.

“Wow,” I mumble, perching, feeling very young and too clean. “I thought that was a real picture – you know, like a real old one. . .”

Fozzie crinkles her face as she lifts up her head. “Blue, that's James Dean.
James Dean?
The most famous movie star of the 1950s? Or . . . ever?”

“Um. He looks a bit familiar?”

I shrink my shoulders, half-expecting her to send me home in disgust, but Fozzie gasps, thrilled.

“Oh baby, have we got some stuff to watch.” She hops up and starts tugging DVDs off the shelf, shaking her head. “I cannot believe you're going to get to see
Rebel Without A Cause
for the very first time. Jealous! And
Giant
. Hey, have you ever seen
Streetcar
? Oh my god: mini Liz Taylor festival, right here, right now. Love it!”

She hesitates, eyes bright, balancing two DVDs in her hands like she's weighing them.

“Which first? What do you think?”

I toe the floor with the rubbery edge of my flowery shoe.

“
Choose
,” she urges, thrusting both at me. “I've seen them a billion times, I don't care.”

I shrug, worried suddenly that I'll pick the wrong one – but that isn't the right answer either.

“Oh, right, you're not fussed, is it?” She tosses the DVDs on the floor and climbs on to the window sill, tugging a half-smoked cigarette from a pocket. “Fine,” she says, hanging out of the window to light it, a sharp edge in her voice that says it isn't at all. “I mean, I'm just trying to show you stuff I care about, but, whatever. It's my thing, not your thing. I get it.”

I blink down at my flowery shoes. They're definitely not “her thing”. They're not my thing either. They're me not having a clue what “my thing” is.

Fozzie's the one who knows exactly who she is, smoking out of her bedroom window, surrounded by movie stars and pink flamingoes. All her stuff reflects her back so perfectly, and I gaze round, longing to be that complete, that put-together.

It's not seamless, though. She's got a desk like mine, tucked under the window: pencil case, highlighter pens, neat pile of colour-coded holiday homework. There's deodorant on the window sill (roll-on, extra-strength, 72-hour protection). Peeking from under her pillow are the grubby limbs of a teddy bear, hugged bald.

“Sorry, Fozz. I'd
love
you to show me that stuff,” I tell her, and mean it. “But maybe we could do the photos first?”

I pull the envelope from my bag.

Fozzie pops her mouth open wide.

“What am I like?” she says, chucking the end of her cigarette out of the window, all sharpness gone. “You didn't even open them yet. Come on, let's have a look. Open, open!”

Part of me is desperate to peek outside and check that she hasn't set fire to anything (because discarded cigarettes are the
most
common cause of accidental fires, and possibly me and Fozzie ought to have a serious talk about her smoking anyway) – but Fozzie hops down from the window sill, clapping her hands, and she's so excited I don't want to spoil it.

It's like my birthday all over again as I slide my finger under the plastic seam. The paper envelope of prints slides out into my hand, waiting to spill the last two weeks.

Fozzie fans the prints out across the tumbling flamingoes of her duvet.

They're getting out of order.

Her fingers are on the print surface, leaving smudgy marks.

Red doesn't even need to be here for me to hear her voice:
lighten up, Blue, who cares about a few fingerprints?

But I forget all that anyway once I see the pictures.

“Whoa,” breathes Fozzie, as if we've discovered a new colour.

Mulvey Island beach: spray and sparkle off the water as Fozzie leaps, arms up like wings. Mags, squinting at the camera, sitting on a pair of sand-buried legs. Tiger, pale like a marble statue as she gazes adoringly at Catrin, just out of frame. Merlin, sulking on a London bus. Joanie and the Whales, underlit and hazy, before a pulsing crowd. Mum holding one drumstick to point at her Peanut-belly, like an arrow. Dad's bum.

Me, in silhouette, a black shadow perfectly framed by the bright white light of the sun.

It's the picture Merlin took on the island. Low angle so my legs are a mile long, crisp edges on the tufty grass, a blurry halo round the shape of my body, a corona round the top hat on my head, focus melting under the contrast. The chance composition is textbook. I could wait my whole life to take a picture that good.

“That one, wow, you look
amazing
,” says Fozzie, staring at the print.

I do. It's the first time I really start to believe it. This odd Blue skin of mine will shape itself into my bright Red future: will contain all of her.

But all I can think when I look at the photo is that in my silhouetted pocket is a phone that will ring, and across the water Mum is already in hospital.

I turn away, hugging my ankles, chin on one knee.

“What's up? Blue – are you OK?” Fozzie settles on her knees next to me, then her hand goes to her mouth. “Is it your mum? Was it worse than they thought?”

I shake my head. “She's fine. I'm fine, it's . . . it's no big deal. I've just got some stuff going on.”

Fozzie wrinkles her forehead. “I could help, maybe? If you told me about it?”

I look at her, neatly folded on the floor, all concern.

I want to. I want to tell her everything, right now. The whole lot.

“I've got this friend,” I start. My mouth feels dry, my neck damp and sweaty, and I wonder for a second if there's another one of those vomit-inducing wish rules, like the no-touching one, about keeping Red a secret. “And, well, this person is taking up a lot of space in my brain. It's all I can think about at the moment.”

“Anyone I know?” says Fozzie, a fraction too casually, as if she knows what I'm going to say.

“No,” I say firmly. “You definitely, absolutely have not met this person.”

“Uh-huh,” says Fozzie. A knowing smile spreads across her face.

Could she know? Has she seen Red all along? Is that why she didn't mind about the sick on her shoes? Should I really, really tell her, right now?

“This friend of mine, she's kind of doing my head in.”

“Oh,” says Fozzie, sitting back in surprise. “You said
she
?”

“Yeah.”

Fozzie giggles. “Sorry. I thought you were talking about Merlin.”

“
Merlin?
Why would I be talking about Merlin?” I like Merlin. Merlin doesn't try to mess with my head and steal my mum. Well, he tries to mess with my head a little bit, but only when he's doing a card trick.