A MILLION ANGELS

A MILLION ANGELS Kate Maryon A sparkling novel from the author of SHINE and GLITTER.“We talk about everything, Dad and me.About all the mysteries inside of us. About all our wonderings of the world.But tomorrow my dad goes to war. Then what will I do?”Jemima’s dad’s in the Army and he’s off to Afghanistan again for six whole months.Her mum’s about to have another baby and hasn’t got the energy to worry about anything else.Gran is staying to help out, but her head is filled with her own wartime memories.So while Mima is sending Dad millions of guardian angels every night to keep him safe, who is looking out for her?The third novel from Kate Maryon – a sparkling voice for tween girls. Copyright HarperCollins Children’s Books An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/) First published in paperback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2011 A MILLION ANGELS. Text copyright © Kate Maryon 2011. The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication Source ISBN: 9780007326297 Ebook Edition © JUNE 2011 ISBN: 9780007435890 Version: 2016-11-24 For Jane, Tim, Sam, Joe & Ben, I send a million angels to each of you every day. Whatever you’re doing, wherever you are, they fly from my heart to yours, spinning their threads of gold, stitching us together with love. Loving you all, for ever and always and more… and more. X Contents Title Page (#ua649336d-fcc9-5805-9175-e037eaac9e4b) Copyright Dedication (#ud9447b1b-f034-5199-8230-36968477840a) Chapter 1 Tomorrow there will be no pancakes… Chapter 2 His words bite me… Chapter 3 My tongue is itching to ask… Chapter 4 I’m going to collect these… Chapter 5 You’ll be in for the chop, I promise… Chapter 6 I’m not a puddleduck, OK? Chapter 7 I turn to the window and stare out at the rain… Chapter 8 Someone tries the door handle… Chapter 9 I kick the back of the wardrobe… Chapter 10 Just stuff, I say… Chapter 11 She shows me the text… Chapter 12 I love you, Dad… Chapter 13 I think my family have forgotten about me… Chapter 14 I’m not going, I snap… Chapter 15 Georgie’s smile is as big as the sun… Chapter 16 Her eyes glow… Chapter 17 OH! MY! GOD! Chapter 18 She avoids my gaze… Chapter 19 My eyes search hers for the truth… Chapter 20 I know what I did… Chapter 21 Lonely is the emptiest place in the world… Chapter 22 My words bite her… Chapter 23 Truth is better than dare… Chapter 24 It’s a nutty one. My favourite… Chapter 25 For the first time in ages things feel normal… Keep Reading Acknowledgements About the Author About the Publisher Tomorrow’s going to be different and I don’t like different. I like things the same. The same like Dad and me. The same like peas in pods and chips off old blocks. The same like our dark curly hair, like our gunmetal grey eyes, like the little dimple on our chins. It’s to do with pancakes too. My dad is the pancake king and I’m the princess. That’s what Mum and Milo say, and every Sunday while we’re waiting for them to get up and come downstairs we make a pile as high as Everest. Taller than the sky. The best pancakes in the world. Then we sit on the back doorstep to talk while we polish our boots. We brush and buff till they shine like silver, till we can see our eyes twinkling in the black. And we talk about everything, Dad and me. About all the mysteries inside of us. About all our wonderings of the world. But tomorrow we won’t have pancakes because my dad will be gone. The stars are bright tonight. Glittering bursts of silver shining through midnight blue. But grey clouds are grumbling across the horizon. Rolling across the moon. Rubbing out the stars, and the wind is whisking up a storm that’s sweating under my skin and heating me up with fear. I’ve tried sleeping, but every time I drift off a huge eagle with sharp claws swoops down and drags me back. Then worrying images of bombs exploding everything to pieces start bouncing around again like popcorn in my brain. They pop, pop, pop and explode out of nowhere. Dark shadowy lumps that are hard to swallow. I’m trying hard to rub them out so my brain is blank and clean. But it’s impossible to stop them. If only there was something I could do. My phone explodes in the dark. Pip. Pip. U still awake? It’s Jess. I don’t really like Jess and Jess definitely doesn’t like me. We’re not the same kind of girl. She’s all noisy and nosy, like her mum, Georgie, and I’m more quiet and like to be on my own. Well, I don’t really like being on my own, of course. I would like a friend. Just not a friend like Jess – someone much more like me. But that’s never going to happen because of everything about my life and how things are. So Jess and me just have to make do. I text her back. Yeah, can’t sleep. Pip. Pip. Me 2! Just can’t stop thinking they might die. U know, they might never come home. It’s really bad out there. I try swallowing the hard lump that feels like popcorn sticking in my throat, but it won’t go down. I cross my fingers. I touch the little wooden table by my bed for luck. Me 2, I text. Pip. Pip. We have 2 face facts, Mima… It might happen. We have 2 prepare 4 the worst. There’s nothing we can do. That’s what my mum keeps saying. What U doin for UR end of term presentation? More things smash and explode in front of my eyes, shooting worry fireworks through my veins. I am facing facts. I don’t have any choice. I know very well that our dads might die or come back really hurt. I don’t need Jess to keep rubbing it in. Not thinking bout presentation. I hate speaking in front of every1. Pip. Pip. I’m really excited bout it. I want to do something really cool. Night. Hope U sleep. C U at the car boot. Wish I could get excited bout it, but I just get too scared. Night. I text back. I creep into Milo’s room. He’s fast asleep with his mouth wide open like a fish. He’s cuddling a toy tank, and hasn’t even noticed the thunder that’s raging outside. I creep downstairs to spy on my mum and dad through the crack of the open door to the sitting room. My heart is a tennis ball in my chest, pounding on concrete. My neck is sticky with sweat from the storm. They’re snuggled together on the sofa watching the late-night news. She sobs and wrings a damp hanky in her hands. He sighs and strokes her hair, twisting the threads of gold. “The worst year for killings since the war in Afghanistan began,” the newsreader is saying. On the TV screen loads of people have gathered in the street. They’re watching the coffins of dead soldiers coming home from war. A woman holding flowers and crying rushes forward and presses herself against the big black hearse. She places her red, red roses on its roof and then crumples in a heap on the floor. A policewoman scurries closer and helps her up. Everyone is crying. Everything on the TV is so, so sad. My tummy twists like my mum’s wet hanky. Tying up in knots. Stopping my insides from falling out. The thunder rumbles through me. Lightning flickers on the stairs. I start to spin so I steady myself on Dad’s kit. It’s been stacked in the hallway for days. He’s obsessed with it. It’s become his life raft on the rough and stormy sea of emotions that have been raging through our house for months. Every few hours he picks up his helmet. He smoothes it. He rocks it. He strokes it. Then he settles it back down like a precious baby nestled on top of the pile. He fusses with the straps on his bag. He straightens and sorts. He unzips and peers inside. He fiddles and straightens and sorts some more. Like a frantic bluebottle. Buzzing. Worrying. Picking at flesh. Milo loves it too. He helps with the checking. He wanders about the house with Dad’s precious helmet wobbling on top of his head. “He’s mine, remember?” I hiss at the bag. “Not yours.” Mum switches off the news. She heaves her huge dome of a belly round to face my dad. He rests his hand on it and smiles. He lowers his ear to listen to the secret baby world inside. “Hello, little Bean,” he says. “It’s so cruel,” my mum says. “You’ve been away every time I’ve given birth.” She grips Dad’s hands and her eyes well up again. “Please come home safe, James,” she says. “Please, I couldn’t handle all this without you. I find Jemima so difficult when you’re away. She misses you so much and tries so hard to hold it all together that she kind of closes in on herself. If I didn’t know her for the sweetheart she is I’d go as far as to say that I sometimes find her behaviour quite weird. And I feel I don’t do her justice. I wish I could manage her like you can. I wish I had your touch.” “Jemima’s easy, Bex,” he says. “She just needs a bit of reassurance, that’s all. She likes to talk. To get things off her chest.” “It’s all right for you,” Mum sighs. “You’re away. You don’t see how much she changes. To be honest, she can be really hard work when you’re not here and I’m dreading it. And bless her – I know it’s not her fault. She was just getting settled at school, starting to make friends, and now you going away has somehow unhinged her again. It’s unhinged us all.” Unhinged? I’m not unhinged! I hate them talking about me and I know I shouldn’t be spying, but I can’t help it. Mum sighs. “I don’t know how much longer I can live like this, James. I have this constant worry chipping at me when you’re away. You’re on my mind twenty-four seven. It drives me crazy. I can’t stop myself from constantly looking out of the window. It’s like I’m expecting bad news. Like it would almost be a relief if it came because then the worrying would stop.” Dad runs his hand through his hair and takes hold of her hand. “You have to get it in your head, Bex,” he says, “that I’ve been really well trained. They wouldn’t let untrained soldiers set foot in the place. It’s my job to protect people, to look after those who need my help, and I do my best to do my job well. It’s what I’m committed to and I need you to start trusting that every day we’re all doing our best to keep safe. I’m coming back home, Bex. I won’t leave you. I promise.” His words bite me. I don’t trust them. How can he be so sure that he’ll come home safe? Like Jess says, some soldiers do get killed. It’s a fact of war and we have to face it. I don’t trust my mum either, talking about me behind my back. And I’m not unhinged. I can’t help it that I feel safe when my dad’s here and scared when he’s not. I can’t help it that I keep looking out of the window too and if she took the trouble to really get to know her own daughter well, then she’d know that I’m a worrier too. I wouldn’t be such a puzzle for her to solve. Mum pushes Dad away from her tummy. “How can I trust you when we’ve just watched four coffins flying back from the very place you’re flying out to tomorrow?” she snaps. “For God’s sake, James, I’m not stupid, I know what happens in war. It’s me you’re talking to now, not the kids. Don’t patronise me, please.” Dad looks at her and sighs. He says nothing to comfort her. I creep back upstairs. If lightning strikes our house tonight my dad will keep us safe. But not if it comes tomorrow. Later, when the black storm rages right over our roof, my dad comes into my room. He rests his hand on my back. He rubs soft warm circles, round and round, like he did when I was small. I want to curl into him like a kitten, but I’m scared I might break like the clouds. “I’m sleeping, Dad,” I lie. “Leave me alone.” “Hey,” he whispers, leaning right over me so he can see my face. “Don’t do this, sweetie, not now. I know it’s late, but I just wanted to check you’re OK with the storm, to tell you that you’re safe. I’ve checked all the windows and locked all the doors. Nothing’s going to happen. I promise. Let’s say goodbye, shall we? Just one last time.” “Don’t say things like one last time, OK?” I turn over to look at him and drink him in like an ice-cold lemonade on a hot summer’s day. I must never forget him. The dark whiskers sprouting from his chin. The map of blue veins like motorways on his hands. The puddle of curry stain yellowing his shirt. The waft of smelly underarm odour that’s drifting up my nose. I must memorise him, just in case… and I’ll keep him safe and undisturbed in a beautiful heart room where he’ll shimmer in the light. “Don’t go, Dad,” I squeak. “Please?” “I have to, sweetie,” he says, nuzzling tickly whiskers in my neck. He plants a kiss on my cheek. “Promise me you’ll take good care of yourself? And be kind to Milo and really good for Mum? I need you to be a big girl and look after her for me while I’m away. She’s got a lot going on with the baby coming. She’ll need your help, Mima, so try not to stress her out, OK?” I nod even though I don’t want to. At least my dad understands me. “Good girl. I’m leaving really early in the morning so I won’t wake you again.” When he leaves my room I touch his kiss and wish it would grow into a flower. At five the next morning my dad creeps into my room. I lie still and hold my breath. He pulls my duvet up to my chin and strokes my hair. He gives me one last clean-shaven kiss and creeps away. My tummy sinks. It sinks right through the bed and through the floor, and as if a huge crack in the earth has opened up I feel like I’m falling, falling, falling into a deep black hole. “Please don’t go,” I whisper. I hear him in the other rooms. Now he’s going down the stairs and into the hall. I hear scrapes and scuffs and clunks and I know he’s putting on his sparkling black boots, shuffling his kit about and loading it on to his back. I hear someone hug him. Then the front door clicks shut and I freeze. My hand flies to my cheek, to his kiss where the flower didn’t grow. I jump out of bed and race like lightning down the stairs. I open the front door and step out into the storm. A soldier with a silver car salutes my dad. A river of rain runs down his sleeve. “Dad!” I call. My dad spins round. “Jemima! Sweetie! You’re getting soaked!” “I don’t care,” I say, paddling up to him. “Dad, please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Afghanistan is too far away. I just need to be near you.” “Oh, darling,” he sighs. “As much as I’d love to stay, I have to go, you know that. Let’s not make it any harder than it already is, eh?” “But, Dad,” I whisper, “what if something bad happens. There might be a fire or a burglar. Or someone might get hurt. We might need you.” “Mima,” he says, “this is why I didn’t wake you, sweetheart. It’s much easier if I just slip away.” “Not for me it isn’t,” I say. “Just one more hug then?” And Dad scoops me into his arms as if I were a tiny toddler. He squeezes me so tight I think my lungs might burst out of my chest and splat down on the floor. We’re not crying, but tears from the thundering black storm clouds soak us through and settle like diamonds on our lashes. We find each other’s eyes and tie a knot in our gaze. “Love you, pipsqueak,” Dad says. He kisses my nose. “Love you, Lieutenant Colonel Taylor-Jones.” He stands me down. We salute one another. The soldier drives my dad away. The rain puddles between my toes and bounces off my skin. My tummy sinks through the tarmac road, through the earth’s muddy crust, right down to the blackest, darkest hole at the bottom of the world. I can’t let him go. I can’t. I run after the car. I shout. “Dad, quick, stop!” He moves further and further away. “Dad, please, stop! Please!” The road is empty. I leap into the middle and wave my arms like mad. “Dad!” I call. At last, the red brake lights go on and the soldier reverses the car until it’s level with my feet. “What is it, Mima?” I stand frozen like a dummy in the road, with a million words raining on my mind. “I… erm…” I stumble. “I… I… What would make you come back home, Dad? I mean, how bad a thing would have to happen?” My face is soaked with rain. He can’t see my tears. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he says, checking his watch. “I haven’t got time to talk about it now – everyone’s waiting for me. But I promise you you’ll be OK. Everything will be fine. Mum’s here, Granny’s here and I’ll be home for a two-week R & R break before you know it. Then my tour will be halfway done, Mima, and then I’ll be back home for good.” “Until they send you away again,” I sigh. Dad salutes me one last time. “Trust, Mima, trust.” The soldier drives him away and my words tumble like rocks through the air. “I’m scared you’re going to die, Dad. I’m scared you’re never coming home.” The house feels so quiet without Dad and the hall is too empty without his mountain of kit getting in the way. My mum and Milo are still sleeping, but Granny is in the kitchen sipping tea. We had a leaving party yesterday for Dad, and Granny moved in. She’s here to help Mum with the baby when it comes. “You listen to me, James,” she’d said to my dad, shaking his shoulders hard, “and make sure you come home safe, see. There’ll be big trouble if you don’t, do you hear me? I’ve lost too many people in my life to be doing with losing you.” “Don’t you worry, Ma,” he said, folding her paper-thin body into his arms. “I’ll be back.” I creep upstairs, wrap myself in a towel, then go back down and watch Granny from the doorway. She blows and sips hot tea. Thought bubbles float over her head. I like spying on people when they don’t know I’m looking. People act differently when they think they’re on their own. “Hello, pet,” she says. “You startled me. You’re up early. Do you want some tea?” I don’t really like tea, but I like chatting with Granny. I nod and climb on the chair next to hers. “I heard Dad,” I say, “and needed another hug. I wish he didn’t have to go.” “I know, pet,” she says, pouring my tea. “You’ll get used to it soon enough. It was the same with your grandpa; he was always off here and there and everywhere. All over the place he was. That’s army life for you, see.” “I don’t like it,” I say. “I wish he had a normal job. What happens if we need him, Granny? Do you think he’d come back home if one of us got really ill, or the house burned down or someone died?” “If something really bad happened, Mima,” she says, patting my hand, “then they’d send him home. You can be sure of that. But I promise you we won’t need him. We’ll manage and it’ll be fun with the baby coming.” She sighs. “Army life is in his bones, pet. He wouldn’t settle to a normal job. And people have to do what’s in their bones.” “Well, I wish he had something else in his bones,’ I sigh. “He could do anything else except this.” “You’ll understand it one day,” says Granny. “You’ll get an itch in your bones and you’ll be off out in the world doing what you love.” “I won’t,” I say. “I’m never leaving home. It’s too scary and I can’t even decide what to do my end of term presentation on, let alone know what I want to do when I grow up. And I hate presentations, Granny. They’re so pointless and I’m so rubbish at them. My voice always goes all wobbly and I end up looking like a stupid red beetroot. I wish school couldn’t make you do stuff you hate.” “Ooh!” says Granny, leaping up. “I just remembered. I’ve got something for you that might help.” She creaks her granny bones upstairs to her room and comes down with a dusty old box in her hands. “Here,” she says. “I found this when I was clearing out my things ready to move into my new flat. I thought you might be interested. You know, family history and all. Maybe you’ll find something in there to inspire you for your presentation.” I rummage through Granny’s dusty box. There are some really old letters, some faded photographs and a million old-fashioned stamps that have been carefully torn from envelopes. There are some documents that look like they should be on display in a museum and odd bits of ribbon and spare buttons and all sorts of random stuff that’s made this box its home. The envelopes have black handwriting on them where spiders with inky feet have danced. I love the photos. They’re so funny and black and white and old. “It’s all interesting, Granny,” I say, sifting through the things, “but how do I turn a box of stuff into a presentation?” “Give it a bit of thought and something’ll come to you, I’m sure. Oh, look,” she says, pointing to a photo of a little girl in a white dress standing next to a big black dog. “That’s me and my dog, Buster; I must only have been about three years old.” I turn the photo over. The spider has written, Dorothy and Buster, 1934 – Bognor Regis. Then I find another of Granny holding a baby in her arms, which says, Dorothy and Joan, 1937. “Who’s Joan?” I ask. Granny wipes a tear from her pale watery eyes. “She was my baby sister,” she says. “She died in the Blitz along with the rest of them. She was only three. She was a beauty, she was; she stole my heart right away, the moment she was born.” “What happened?” I ask. “It’s too painful to talk about, Mima. It was 1940 and I was nine years old. The Blitz began and I lost my whole world in a day. My home, my family and a very dear friend.” “How come?” “Bombs,” she says, getting up. She fusses with the cups. “The whole house was destroyed in the blast. The entire street. Gone!” Her hands tremble at the kitchen sink. Her china cup chinks against the tap. “But what happened to you, Granny?” I ask. “Weren’t you scared, being left all alone?” “Leave it, pet,” she sighs. “There’s a good girl.” “But Granny…” “I said leave it, pet. It still upsets me, see, even after all these years.” “But I can’t just stand up in class and say, ‘Oh, well, this is my granny’s old box full of interesting stuff that I don’t know anything about. The End.’ Can I?” “Just look at the bits and bobs, pet,” she says, “and get a bit inspired. I’ll tell you more when I’m ready.” I look through the photos for clues. There are loads of photos of fat old women. They have sour faces. They’re wearing long dresses and heavy hats pulled right down over their eyebrows. There are some young men wearing stripy bathing suits and cheesy smiles, but there’s no sign of anything Blitz-ish. There’s a row of girls in matching black costumes with white swimming caps on and pegs on their noses, and another of a very old man with a beard so long it’s tucked in his belt. There’s one photo of two girls, one looks about twelve, like me, and the other a bit older. They’re wearing summer dresses and short white socks. They’re sitting on a shingly beach, laughing and eating delicate sandwiches and huge chunks of cake. On the back the spider has danced, Barbara and Sonia, 1938 – Bognor Regis. There’s a photo of a young woman with dark curly hair like Dad’s and mine. She’s wearing a white wedding dress and standing next to a soldier with a quiff. They’re holding hands and their smiles are like sunshine lighting up their eyes. On the back the spider has scrawled, Kitty and James, 1917 – London. I hold the photo up for Granny to see. But I’m careful not to ask questions in case I make her cry. “My parents,” she says, peering at the photo. “Your great-grandparents. Their wedding day that was, pet, and look – you’ve got her hair. Same as your dad too.” I fiddle with my curls. I twirl a dark lock round and round my finger. I press my thumb over my great-grandmother’s face and her curls bubble out at the sides. I want to know what happened. My tongue is itching to ask. Tucked in one corner of the box is a little red Bible. It’s so tiny I can hold it in one hand and the print is so miniscule I have to squint my eyes to read what it says. The spidery scrawl on the inside cover is big though, and reads, James Taylor-Jones, 29 Sept 1917. From Miss Perks, Soldiers’ Homes, Winchester. “So this was your dad’s then?” I ask. “My great-grandfather’s?” Granny smiles. “That’s right,” she says. “I managed to rescue it when… well, you know when.” “I wish I did know, Granny,” I say, “but I don’t because you won’t tell me anything, remember? I wish you’d given it to Dad. It might have kept him safe.” “Didn’t do a lot for my father,” she says, “did it?” “Don’t you believe in the Bible and God and stuff then?” I ask. Granny sighs, plonks a fresh pot of tea and a huge pile of toast on the table and sits back down. “That’s a hard question, Mima, when you’ve had a life like mine,” she says. “It’s one of the many questions that have been puzzling me since I was nine. If there is a God, see, then why does He let such bad things happen all the time?” I nod and stir my tea. I haven’t really thought about it before. I sing along with all the hymns in assembly and I mumble along with the prayers. But I’ve never wondered before if I actually believe in the words. “I heard Mum say last night that when Dad’s away it’s like she’s waiting for bad news. Like the bad news would be better than the waiting,” I say, “and I understand her. I wish there was something I could do, Granny. Something to make certain that he comes back home.” “Life’s never certain, Mima,” says Granny. “We can never tell what’s round the corner; I should know. You just have to trust, see. Live for today and get on with loving as best you can. None of us knows how long we’ve got.” “When Dad left, he said, ‘Trust, Mima, trust,’ but what do you both mean?” “I never managed to answer the God question,” Granny says, “so I eventually settled on trusting in life and trusting what feels true in me. There’s not a lot else you can do. You have to trust that life will work out in its own mysterious way. That’s the beauty of it.” “Well, I’m not leaving it to life to work it out,” I say. “I’m going to find a way to bring him back and then I’m going to find a way of making sure he never leaves again. Jess keeps saying bad things; she keeps saying our dads might die and that wouldn’t be mysterious, Granny, that would just be sad.” Granny tuts. “She’s trouble, that one,” she says. “You can see it in her eyes. Don’t listen to her, pet. Keep your thoughts on the bright side.” I turn the red Bible in my hand and think about how to make all these pictures and stuff into a presentation and am just about to put it back in the box when a small photo of a boy drops out. His face is solemn. His eyes are big and soft. I flip the photo over, looking for where the spider scrawled his name, but it’s blank. “Who’s this, Granny?” I ask. Her watery eyes sparkle like Christmas. “There he is,” she smiles. “I’ve been searching everywhere for him. This is the friend I lost.” She takes the photo from me and plants a kiss on the face of the boy. “You cheeky thing,” she says to the boy, “hiding all this time.” “Who is he?” I ask. “Him?” she smiles. “He’s Derek, my childhood sweetheart. We used to have so much fun together.” She sifts through the box and pulls out the photo of the two girls on the beach. “These were his sisters,” she says, “Barbara and Sonia. They disappeared too. It was all a bit of nonsense really, but we were such good friends. And Derek and I had something special. We shared a birthday, and the war did strange things to us all. People got married at the drop of a hat and we just got caught up in the spirit of it. We were only children, but we crossed our hearts and vowed to be sweethearts for ever. We started making all these silly promises and then poof – like magic he disappeared. I never ever saw him again. See what I mean – you never know for certain what’s going to happen. But think on it, if I’d have married Derek then I wouldn’t have met your grandpa and Daddy wouldn’t have had you. Trust life, Jemima; flow with its mystery.” A single diamond tear tips on to her cheek. “But it would’ve been nice to hear from him again. Just once. Just to know what happened.” She laughs. “You’re a smart one. Determined to get me talking.” “Do you think he’s dead, Granny?” I say. “Probably by now, pet.” After breakfast, Mum starts getting ready for the car boot sale. “You go with Milo,” I say, “and leave me here with Granny. I hate hanging out with Jess.” Mum gives me her beady eye that means, ‘Please do as you’re told, Jemima, because I am not so full of patience.’ But I ignore it. I do not want to do as I’m told. I do not want to go to the car boot sale! “Don’t start, Mima,” she says. “Not today.” I have a beady eye too, but I wait until her back is turned before I give it to her. Milo clings on to my leg. “Please come, Mima,” he says. “Please come! Please come! Please come!” He hangs off me like I’m a tree and twists the skin on my leg. “Mima! Mima! Mima!” he chants like I’m a football match that needs cheering on. “Ouch, Milo,” I say. “You’re hurting me!” “I said, don’t start, Mima!” says Mum. “Today is hard enough for us all without you making things worse.” When she turns her back I poke out my tongue. I wish I could stand up and say, YOU’RE THE ONE WHO IS UNHINGED, MUM. But I don’t. The things I really want to say always get choked up in my throat until I’m forced to swallow them down. It’s the same with Jess. She says worrying stuff that frightens me, she gossips with her mum and tells me stuff my ears don’t want to hear. So many times I want to say, SHUT UP, JESS! But as hard as I try I just can’t. I hope one day my voice will unblock itself like a drain and I’ll be able to speak up so clearly, like LALALALAALLLAAAA! Then everyone will hear everything that’s all blocked up inside. It’s heaving at the car boot sale. Everyone shoves and pushes in search of pathetic old treasures and silly magical gems. Milo has a pound burning in his fist. He rummages through buckets and baskets of wrecked toy cars looking for trucks and tanks. “Look, Mima,” he says, holding up a rusty old tank. “Isn’t it great? D’you think Dad drives one like this?” Jess bounces around like a spaniel looking for strokes. She tries to act cool and flirts her fringe when we pass a stall with boys selling a few broken old skateboards. Jess is as pathetic as the car boot sale. I wish we could put her on a stall and sell her, but I’d feel sorry for the poor family who ended up buying her. They’d be really disappointed, even if they only paid fifty pence for her. I wouldn’t buy her for a penny. I wouldn’t even want Jess for free, even if she was going to be my slave. I look at my watch. I wish I was at home. Thinking. “Calm down, Jess,” says Georgie. “Oooh… Mima, what do you think of Jess’s new jacket? We got it yesterday. Isn’t it just so pink!” “Erm…” I say, bending down to tie the lace on one of my big black boots. “Yes, Georgie, it’s definitely pink.” “I think it’s gorgeous,” says Mum. “You should try something like this, Mima. You know… a bit pretty. Get yourself out of those boots for a change. Look,” she says, shoving a ten-pound note in each of our hands, “why don’t you girls go off together and see what you can find?” I glare at Mum. I don’t want to be left with Jess. And she knows that! I’d rather look after Milo. I’d rather wander around alone. I flash my eyes at Mum, trying to say, DON’T LEAVE ME WITH JESS. But she ignores me and shoos us both away. I bet her and Georgie want to talk about our dads. In private! Jess slides over to the skateboard boys. “Hi,” she says, twiddling with her fringe. She picks up a cruddy old board. “How much for this?” “A fiver,” says one of the boys. Jess flashes her eyes at them. “That’s a rip-off,” she says, pulling me away. “We had a huge sigh of relief this morning when my dad finally left,” she smiles. She opens her arms wide and takes a deep breath. “It’s going to be bliss. I can’t actually believe we have six whole months without him shouting and bossing us around.” She rummages through a pile of old clothes. She pulls out her purse and pays for a pair of shiny black high heels that are two sizes too big. She holds up a pink dress covered in gold sequins. “What d’you think?” “Mmmm,” I say. “It would match your jacket but…” “I don’t even know why I bother asking your opinion,” she huffs, holding it up for size. “It’s not as if you’re Miss Fashionista, is it, Jemima? That enormous Minnie Mouse bow in your hair and those big black boots aren’t exactly a major fashion statement, you know! And as for the rainbow nail varnish! Whatever crazy thing are you going to buy today? A granny jacket? Another big bow?” “I’m looking for something,” I say, “but I’m not sure what. I’ll know when I see it.” She throws the dress down and we drift on to the next stall. “Don’t you miss your dad at all when he’s away?” I ask. “Not At All!” she says. “It’s our little secret, but Mum and me prefer it when he’s away. We get up to mischief. Last time we went on this amazing spa day pamper thing and we had a massage and our nails done and we lounged around in the Jacuzzi for hours. Then we went for dinner at this gorgeous restaurant. My dad hates restaurants and mealtimes are horrible when he’s around. He makes me sit up straight and hold my knife properly and boring stuff like that. I love it when it’s just Mum and me and I get all her attention. This time we’re planning a mini-break to a really lovely hotel in Paris so we can shop, shop, shop. My dad’s not Mr Perfect like your dad, is he? My dad’s always really moody and bossy and he shouts all the time. I feel sorry for the soldiers he’s in charge of. Rather them than me.” “I can’t stop thinking about mine,” I say. “It’s like I have this little bubble of worry following me around. I worked out exactly how long they’re going to be away for. Six months equals twenty-six weeks. That means one hundred and eighty-two days, or four thousand, three hundred and eighty hours, or two hundred and sixty-two thousand, eight hundred minutes, or fifteen million, seventy-seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand and four hundred seconds. That’s ages. It’s too long.” “Not long enough for me,” she says. “I can’t believe you bothered to work all that out. Even worse, you bothered to remember it. You’re nuts, Jemima. You need to learn to switch off and think about nice things. Like me and Mum do.” She giggles. “Plan something special.” “How can you think of nice things,” I say, “when you know your dad might get killed?” “Well, soldiers do get killed,” she says, “like I said last night, it’s a fact. But worrying won’t help. It’s not as if there’s anything you can do to stop it. Anyway,” she says with a smug little smile, “nothing’ll kill my dad. Mum and I think he’s so stubborn he’d even survive a nuclear war!” “You can’t say that,” I snap. “You can’t be that sure. And he definitely wouldn’t survive a nuclear attack, Jess, that’s just stupid. No one would survive that.” Something sparkly catches her eye and she skips along to a stall full of junk. While I wait for her to coo at dusty old ornaments of leaping dolphins and sad-looking bears my eye fixes on a stall. It has green camouflage and combat gear all piled up high. And there’s a helmet snuggled like a baby on the top. “I’ll be back in a bit,” I say. I push through the crowd. I can see something hanging from a railing, swinging in the rain. “Wait for me,” Jess calls. “Hang on.” The stall is amazing. It’s piled to the sky with all things war. There are jackets and bags and flasks and green camp beds. There are big metal boxes and old radio equipment and belts and buckles and caps and hats and shiny medals in boxes and posters and books and… “This,” I say, pulling it off the railing. “How much for this?” “I’ll throw in the original box,” says the beardy man, “this little brown suitcase and a few of these old wartime posters and you can have the lot for a tenner.” “Done!” I smile. “What d’you want those for?” asks Jess, catching me up. “I like them.” Jess frowns. She shows me her new collection of plastic dolphins. They have sparkling sprays of glitter running down their silky grey backs. “I’m going to collect them,” she smiles. “I’m going to collect these,” I glare. On the way home Milo takes his tanks into battle up and down the car seat and Jess swoops her dolphins through the air so they look like they’re swimming and leaping in the sea. My mum is fuming. I think she wishes the dolphins were mine. But I think she’s unfair. You can’t really give someone money and then get cross about how they spend it. A gift is a gift, after all. “I just don’t understand why you’d want to buy anything so ridiculous, Mima,” she says when we get back home. “I give you ten pounds to spend on something nice to cheer you up, something pretty… and you waste it on stuff like this. Why didn’t you buy lovely dolphins like Jess. Or something cute to wear?” She swings my gas mask from her finger. “Well, I happen to like my things,” I say, snatching it back. “And I don’t think they’re a waste of money. Dad would understand. Anyway, they’re for my end of term presentation. They’re for school. You should be pleased.” I run upstairs and cradle the gas mask in my hands. I stroke its big glass fly eyes. War is a mystery to me, another of the great mysteries of the world. I hang the gas mask on the end of my bed, pull down my Hello Kitty posters and replace them with the army ones. I run along the hall to the airing cupboard and dig around in the pile, looking for Dad’s old camouflage duvet cover that he had in Iraq. If I’m going to do my presentation on Granny’s old Blitz box, I need to get myself into the mood. At one o’clock it’s time to go over to the mess for the monthly Sunday lunch. It’s different here without my dad. I didn’t want to come. I wish my mum would understand me and leave me alone. Milo charges along the road with a stick in his hand, holding it like a gun. “Piiiiiooowwww! Piiiiioooooow!” he goes. “I’m gonna kill all the baddies, Mum,” he says. “I’m gonna beat the world and win the war. I’m gonna chop all the nasties’ heads off, then Dad can come back home.” That sets Milo off thinking about Dad. He stands still. His bottom lip trembles. He opens his mouth wide. “I waaaaannnttt my dad!” he yells. “I waaaaannnttt my daaaaaaddd!” Mum huffs. She pulls him into her arms. “It’s OK, Milo,” she says. “Dad will come home soon, I promise.” Milo snuffles and snots in her hair. He loops his arms round her neck. “Chin up!” says Granny, and she starts twittering away like a mad old bird. “Chin up and put your best foot forward. Settle down for a nice cup of tea. That’s what we used to say in the war.” Then she wanders into the mess like she’s in a dream, like she’s not even on the same planet as us any more. Milo follows Granny with his big blue eyes. Then he looks at Mum. “Carry?” he whispers. “I can’t manage you, darling,” she says. “Not in this state. I’m so sorry.” “But my legs won’t work,” he cries. “I need a caaaarrrrryyy!” Mum sighs. She rubs her enormous belly and looks at me. “Can you manage him for me, Mima, sweetheart? He’s so upset. I can’t do it and Granny clearly can’t. I don’t know what’s got into her today. It’s like she’s been transported to another world. I hope she’s not going to go all Alzheimer-ish on us. That’s all I need!” I know what’s wrong with Granny and it’s not Alzheimer’s, it’s Derekheimer’s, and no one knows but me that she’s hiding the photo of him in her bra. I don’t say anything about it to Mum. It’s Granny’s secret. And mine. I pull Milo into my arms, heave him up on my hip and whisper into his ear. “I’m thinking hard, Milo,” I say. “I’m planning a Bring Dad Home mission and I promise you he’ll be home soon!” “Come on,” says Mum. “Let’s get some lunch, shall we? We’re all just hungry and tired and overwrought.” She rests her hand on my back and rubs soft warm circles. “I know it’s hard, Mima,” she whispers. “I don’t really feel like being here either, but we have to go. We have to keep up appearances. For Dad. And sometimes the support of everyone helps, you know, because we’re all going through the same thing.” She tucks a curl behind my ear. “Like Granny says, chin up!” she laughs, guiding us in. “Chin up, and remember to be polite.” While Mum greets everyone with her fake smile and chats about when the Bean’s due and how bad her backache is and how hard it is for her to sleep, Milo and I are forced to stand next to her and smile. Red puckered kisses land on our cheeks like planes. Perfume chokes us like fire. I wish I were brave enough to stand on a chair and make an announcement. THEY ALL MIGHT DIE! I want to say. THEY SHOULD BE HOME HERE, WITH US, EATING ROAST BEEF! HAVEN’T YOU NOTICED THAT THEY’VE GONE? My dad and the other soldiers have barely even said goodbye and it feels like everyone but me has already bleached them away. Everyone is chattering and laughing like normal. The gaps at the tables where they should be sitting are filled with bright fake laughter that’s shrieking through the air and shattering it like glass. I wish I were young like Milo. I wish I could stand up and have a tantrum and say, I WAAAANNNTTTT MY DAAAAADDD! I’d love to see the look on everyone’s faces if I did and if I were brave enough, I would. I promise you. I’d open my mouth and let the words tumble right out. I try. I open my mouth wide. Hoping. But the sounds just jumble and crash in my throat. My dad is probably still on his plane and I wonder what he’s having for his lunch. He’s up there somewhere in the storm clouds. On his way to Afghanistan. I know he’ll be waiting until it’s dark. Until it’s time to put his helmet and body armour on and for the lights to black out so the plane can dive towards the ground, unseen. Until the heavy desert smells and heat rise and swallow him up for six whole months. I’ve seen it happen in some of Dad’s films. I shouldn’t really, but I sneak them from the shelf sometimes and watch them on my laptop, under my covers, at night. In one of them all the soldiers rushed off the plane with their guns poking out from under their arms. Their heads twitched around, looking for danger and then piiiaaaooooww, like Milo does, the guns started shooting and bodies were everywhere, flying through the air. I can’t believe that all this might be happening to my dad while we’re here waiting for lunch. It doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t seem right. I pick at my lunch. I’m not really hungry. Mum and Georgie huddle together and talk in whispers. Granny is lost in her dream. I have to chop up Milo’s meat and play trains with his veg. Jess is opposite me. She scoffs her food like usual with her big fat stupid grin. “I’ve got big plans for my presentation,” she says, whooshing her dolphins through the air, dunking their snouts in her gravy. “Have you decided what you’re doing yours on yet?” I glare at her. “I’ve got more important things on my mind, Jess,” I say. “More important things like my dad.” “You’re boring, Mima,” she says. “Get over yourself. He’ll either come back alive or he’ll come back dead!” She slurps a piece of floppy beef into her mouth. “Nothing much we can do about it. But he’ll be back one way or another. Shame my dad has to come back at all.” I cover Milo’s ears. “Please don’t say the D.E.A.D. word in front of Milo,” I whisper. “You’ll set him off crying again.” “I’ll say what I want,” Jess glowers. “You’re not the boss of me, Jemima Taylor-Jones.” Then she storms off to get pudding. After lunch, Milo charges about with some little ones playing war. He uses his fingers to make a gun. “Piiiiooooowww! Piiiioooowwwww! Piiiiooooowww!” The noise saws into my brain. I wish they would just stop and sit down and do some colouring or something peaceful like that. A red chubby-cheeked baby on another table starts crying and crying and crying and his mum ignores him and keeps chatting on and on and on. Everyone’s voices are screeching and battling with each other and I wish I could scream out loud and say, STOP!!!! SHUT UP!!!!!! BE QUIET!!!!! I slide closer to Mum. “Can we go soon, Mum? Please!” I whisper. “I’m so bored.” “I’m not ready to leave yet, Mima,” she shouts above the din, drowning me with custard breath. “I’m having fun.” “But how can you have fun,” I say, “when Dad’s only just gone away? And you didn’t even want to come yourself. You said!” “Because what else am I supposed to do, Jemima?” she hisses. “I have to be here, and if I let myself go I’ll end up in a puddle of tears and I won’t be able to stop for the next six months. And what good would that do? So I’m trying to get on and have fun. I’m well aware that Dad’s gone and I don’t need you to keep reminding me of that fact every five minutes. I’m just trying to put a brave face on it – we all are…” She cradles her fat belly in her hands and her voice cracks open. “I know you’re hurting too, Jemima, and I’m sorry that it’s so hard for you when he goes, but going on about it isn’t going to help.” She digs around in her bag and pulls out my iPod. “If you’re that bored listen to this, or go and talk to Jess, because we’re not leaving yet.” I fire invisible bullets at her. I’d rather be facing possible death in Afghanistan with my dad than be stuck here with her and Milo and the fat greedy baby in her tummy. I slide over to Granny. “I’m bored, Granny,” I say. “I want to go home.” Granny smiles at me, but she’s not really here. She’s lost in her memories of Derek and Bognor Regis and the Blitz. She pats my arm. “Listen to your music for a bit, pet,” she smiles. “Like Mum said.” I get another helping of apple crumble and custard and plug myself into Kiss Twist and as soon as they start singing ‘A Million Angels’ I know I’ve discovered the first part of my Bring Dad Home mission. I dig around in Mum’s bag, find a biro and a felt-tip pen and set to work on my skin. I draw a million angels up and down my arms and blow them to my dad. I watch them flutter from my skin and fade from biro blue to a radiant flash of brilliant white wings that swoop and soar through the sky. I watch a million angels settle around him so they can guard him and keep him safe until I can find a way to bring him back home. I just finish linking the angels together with a string of tiny red felt-tip pen hearts when a little girl sits next to me and holds out her arm. “Want some angels too?” I ask. “For your dad?” “For my mum,” she whispers, her eyes twinkle with tears. “She went away this morning, before I was awake.” “Same as my dad,” I say. I draw a million inky angels up and down her little arms and string them together with hearts. “You have to blow them through the sky to your mum. Look,” I say, blowing the first one for her. “Watch them fly.” And one by one the angels flutter from her arms and soar towards the sky. The little girl swallows and opens her eyes wide. “They’re really going to find her?” she says. “Really,” I say. “I promise. And they’re going to look after her too. They’re going to keep her safe. They’re going to bring her home.” I begin working my way around the dining room. I draw a million inky angels and felt-tip pen hearts up and down all the kids’ arms. Everyone wants some, except Jess. She glares at me. She swoops her plastic glittery dolphins through the air. But I won’t let her stop me. I keep going and going and other kids start drawing too until we’re a frenzied army of blue biros. A battalion of red felt-tipped pens. “You’re all crazy,” says Jess, “if you really think pathetic biro angels are going to help. It’s not a game our dads are playing, Jemima, they’re fighting a war!” “But maybe if we draw enough of them,” I say, “and we all keep blowing them every day, it might help. Just imagine how many of them are flying through the sky right now. There must be a trillion at least. My dad told me about this thing called collective thought. It’s a powerful thing, Jess. It’s when lots of people are thinking hard about the same thing to try to make something happen. Maybe it’s a bit like when people pray for peace and stuff and for everyone to be saved. And you don’t know, it might just work because miracles do happen, you know.” Jess raises her eyebrows and laughs. “But they’re not flying, are they?” she says, staring at our arms. “They’re just pictures, Mima. Useless biro pictures.” I swallow the lump in my throat, ignore her horrid words and turn back to the other kids. “Don’t listen to Jess, listen to me. You have to keep blowing them,” I say. “Every single day and I promise all our dads and mums will come home safe. Everyone will come home alive.” A shadow falls over my face. “Jemima!” my mum shrieks, towering over me. “What on earth are you doing?” The shrill and tinkling laughter clatters and smashes to the ground. Everyone’s sharp eyes and dazzling lips land on me. “Look at them all,” she says, pointing to the inky octopus of arms. “It’ll take for ever to wash all that off, Jemima, and everyone has school in the morning.” “I was only trying to help,” I say. “I thought it was a lovely idea.” “It might be a lovely idea, sweetheart,” she sighs, “but it isn’t really helping, is it? Helping is being good and getting on with things.” Later, when I’m alone in bed, the wind howls around the house. Hisses through the window frames, roars through the trees. Thunder growls in the distance again. Rumbling this way. I creep out of bed and along the hall to Granny’s room. She’s propped up on a tower of pillows. She snores in her dreams. I slide under her cover, find a warm spot and snuggle down. I trace the angels on my arm with my finger and think about my mum. I wish she’d understand me more, like my dad does. He’d understand that I am trying to help. He’d understand that my angels are my way of getting on with things. In the morning, when Mum’s busy in the kitchen, I creep into her room, open Dad’s wardrobe and climb inside. I burrow through the forest of fabric and snatch a deep noseful of his smell. I shut my eyes and he’s right here next to me, reaching out for my hand. I search for his, but all I find are the ghosts of empty jacket sleeves, the wood of the wardrobe that reminds me of coffins and dead soldiers on TV. The ghosts shudder through me like silk slipping over my skin. I reach up to the top shelf and pull down one of Dad’s berets, then I creep back to my room. I tuck my gas mask in my bag and shove my school shoes under the bed. I shout goodbye and head off towards the bus before Mum sees what I’m wearing. I hate the school bus. Everyone huddles together in cosy little groups and I never know where to sit. I wish I could camouflage with the grey seats or turn myself into a window. Then everyone could sit on me or peer through me, but not see me. They could get cosy on me or draw hearts in my window mist and things like that. I pull a notebook out of my bag and make myself look busy. Mrs Cassidy wants us to get all our presentation ideas on paper so we can tell the whole class what we’re planning before we do our research. I’m going to use Granny’s box because I can’t think of anything else to do it on. I want it to be all about Granny and Derek. I want to show people that war doesn’t only bomb things and kill people. War also breaks hearts. I want to make it sad and touching. I want my audience to cry. Mrs Cassidy is going to love it. Granny’s going to love it. And if Derek isn’t dead I think he’ll love it too. That’s why I need to start my Bring Derek Home mission right away. Granny needs him like I need Dad and if I don’t bring them both back the war will have won and everyone will end up dying with a broken heart. And that would be too sad. That is, of course, if I’m still at school by the end of term. Part two of my Bring Dad Home mission is brewing nicely inside, but it doesn’t need writing on paper, it’s written on my heart. At the very top of the first page I write END OF TERM PRESENTATION and underline it in red felt-tip pen. Then I write the word WAR, which makes the images from Dad’s war films dance about in my brain, and my tummy flips. I stuff my notebook in my bag. I can’t bear to look at it any more. It’s the word ‘war’ I hate. It stings me. I stroke a little angel that’s peeping out from under my sleeve and blow it to Dad. I watch it flurry from my skin, shaking its wings. Fading from biro blue to a radiant flash of brilliant white, a blaze of pure beauty that swoops and soars towards the sky. It flies over the seas and the oceans. It sweeps through the clouds and the stars. It heads straight, like a dart, to the heat of the desert that’s frying under the sun. Then I blow a million more and watch them settle all around him, guarding him, keeping him safe until my plan works out and I can bring him back home. Jess bounces on the bus with a big smile. “Hi,” she says, plonking herself next to me. “Have you heard from him yet?” I shake my head. “Neither have we. We’ve been watching the news though,” she says. “My mum’s eyes are practically glued to it. All sorts of terrible things are happening, Jemima. There’ve been bombs already! Mum says they really will be lucky if they make it home this time. Imagine! This might be it!” She grips my arm. “We might be on telly!” I wish I could stand on the bus seat with a megaphone and shout, SHUT UP! I’d like to say it really, really loudly, just like that, so that everyone would hear. I’d like to take my socks off and stuff them in Jess’s mouth and say, SHUT UP, JESS. JUST STOP TALKING ABOUT SCARY STUFF, OK? SHUT UP! That would make me really happy. But I keep my mouth closed and flick a little tiny angel from my wrist towards the sky. “Why are you wearing your dad’s beret?” she says. “Jemima, you are so weird. You do know that, don’t you? And if Mrs Bostock catches sight of you wearing those boots, or catches a glimpse of that angel mess up your arms, you’ll be in for the chop, I promise.” “She can chop me up as fine as an onion,” I say. “See if I care. Being dead would be fine by me. At least I wouldn’t have to go to her stupid school any more. I don’t really care about anything, Jess, except getting my dad back home. And that’s the truth.” I turn away from her and stare out at the rain. Everything is grey. Even the houses are sad. It is true. I don’t care about anything else but my dad and Derek and bringing them safely home. “If you’re just going to be boring and stare out the window,” says Jess, leaping up, “I’m off.” She bounces to the back of the bus and slides on to a seat next to Ned Cotsford. She giggles. I stare at the rain. Life would be so much easier if I were a raindrop. I’d just fall from the sky, dribble down a windowpane, swoosh down a drain and run off out to sea. I wouldn’t have to worry about making important things happen because I wouldn’t have a brain. I’d be a brain without the B, which means I’d just have to go with the flow. I’d just have to trust that I’d make it to the sea. But trusting takes too long. I’m going to make things happen soon. At the next bus stop Tory Halligan and her flock of parrots get on. They huddle together, laughing and giggling. Jess bobs up, bounces over and points Tory Halligan to an empty seat near hers. “Hello,” Tory smiles, as she passes me. “The Lieutenant Colonel’s daughter.” She stands up straight and salutes me, then spins round to salute Jess. My face starts to burn. Jess bobs back down in her seat. “H – Hi!” I stammer. “Interesting hat you’re wearing today, Jemima,” she says. “Your wardrobe is always such a delight.” My hand slides up to my dad’s green beret. If only she knew I had a gas mask in my bag. I know deep down that it’s a stupid thing to have, but I can’t help the fact that I like it. Sameena rests her hand on Tory’s arm. “Ssh, Tory,” she says. “Give them a break. You know, their dads have just gone, and—” “I’m not doing anything!” shrieks Tory, breathing Coco Pop breath all over me. “I’m just saying that I like her hat and it’s true, I do. Nothing wrong with that! I’ve decided to do my end of term presentation on fashion and I was thinking I might get some advice from Jemima, that’s all.” I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, on the little blob of bubblegum that’s greyed out with mud. I will my face to cool down. “You’re such a loveable freak, Jemima,” she grins. Sameena sends me a little smile. Hayley and Beth crowd round, squawking like bright parrots. Pecking for crumbs. They all want to be close to her. They all want to be her. Tory salutes me again and leads the fluttering birds towards the back of the bus. Jess bobs up and slides closer to Tory. “I’m thinking of having a sleepover,” she says. “Would you all like to come?” When you’re an army brat like Jess and me you have one of two choices. You choose to fit in or you choose to fit out. Jess took the fitting-in route. I took the fitting out. She likes her life to keep changing. I like mine to stay the same. She likes sucking up to people to get friends. I don’t. She gives them things like sweets and treats and sleepovers and does all sorts of stuff she doesn’t really want to do, and I won’t. Some days I spy on her and sometimes I see her cry. She pretends that she’s OK with her life and her dad being away and everything, but I know she’s not, not really. I can tell she’s hurting behind her big brave smile, just like the rest of us. The problem with Jess is she tries too hard to be liked. I made my choice years ago when I’d already lived in five different houses, in three different countries and been to four different schools. At my first school I did used to try. I was really young then. I’d stand in the playground and hover on the fringes of the little gangs of girls. Smiling. Hoping. Wondering how to knit myself in. But when I got to my third school and discovered the truth, I gave up. I discovered trying was a pointless waste of time because the army can treat my family like carrots. They can uproot us any time they like and ship us off to the other side of the world. I discovered that fighting wars is more important to the army than caring about girls like me making friends. I’d wish I could stand on a chair with a megaphone and say to my family, LOOK AT MY LIFE! IT’S NO WONDER I’M FEELING UNHINGED! What makes matters worse is that I should be at boarding school because some bossy body said that boarding school is what happens when you’re the daughter of a Lieutenant Colonel. It’s supposed to be more settling for army kids. But how can you ever get settled and learn stuff like equations and be interested in Shakespeare or William Blake when your dad is on the other side of the planet with bombs going off around his head? How can you get settled when you’re worrying your dad might be lying hurt somewhere? Or that he might even be dead? I did try boarding once, but I ran away three times and said I would never stop running. And I meant it. When my dad looked into my eyes, he knew I was telling the truth. He said I could stay home until it’s time for GCSEs. Then I’ll have to board. No choice. I would like to stand on a chair with a megaphone and say, WE’LL SEE ABOUT THAT! But I never want to upset my dad so I swallow down my words. If my dad didn’t have a job that moves us around the world every five minutes and leads him to the edge of death every day, things might be a bit better. I might be able to screw myself back on my hinge. I hate school lunchtime more than I hate the bus. The toilets are torture chambers full of bitchy girls like Tory Halligan and the cooks and supervisors are worse. They’re the school’s sergeant majors. You can see their tonsils dangling when they shout out their commands, and little bubbles of spit that gather in the corners of their mouths when they speak. “Jemima Taylor-Jones!” shouts Mrs Currie, the head cook. “Uniform!” I look at her, then down at my boots and smile. “My dog ate my shoes, miss,” I lie. “It was these or my trainers. Mummy thought black was best.” She flaps her bingo wings. “I was referring to the beret, Jemima,” she spits. “This isn’t French week, you know! Take it off now, please, before I’m forced to send you to Mrs Bostock’s office. And she will confiscate it! Rules are put in place to be adhered to.” “Rules are made to be broken,” sniggers Jess, sliding on to the seat next to me. “Have you heard?” she says. “What?” “The news?” She pulls out her phone and opens a text from her mum. “There’s been another bomb,” she says. “Really bad! Soldiers have been killed. My mum’s at home, just waiting for more news. You never know… but then the lines are probably down – we might not find out who’s dead for days. It feels weird, knowing it might be my dad. The thought kind of bubbles in my tummy.” She dips a chip in ketchup. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/kate-maryon/a-million-angels/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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