A MILLION ANGELS (3 page)

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 him 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.

I
n 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.