A MILLION ANGELS (4 page)

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.

“It's exciting though!” she says. “And us families on the home front are, like, a part of it.”

Jess's eyes shimmer. My heart pounds. I shout, SHUT UP, JESS, in my head and hope it's not today my dad gets bombed. I hope it's not today I don't have a dad any more.

I touch the place on my cheek where I hoped his kiss would bloom.

“I've got to go,” I say, jumping up and throwing my food in the slop bin.

I run to the quiet area and call my mum.

“Mum!” I say, when she finally answers her phone. “What's happened? Is Dad OK? Jess told me about the bomb.”

Mum sighs.

“I wish Georgie would learn to keep that kind of information to herself. It's not helpful Jess knowing all the details. She just blows it out of proportion and gets you all upset. I don't know what's going on, Mima. Yes, there has been a bomb and yes, some people are hurt, but that's all we know so far. You mustn't worry yourself, sweetheart. Try to put it out of your mind and have fun at school. I'll see you later, OK?”

I'm curious at how my mum expects me to have fun at school when I'm so worried all the time that my own dad is in danger. But then I'm curious about so many things.

The lyrics of Kiss Twist's song spin in my mind. I must make my Bring Dad Home mission work. I just have to find a way.

I go to the library looking for inspiration and to find some books on the Blitz. We did it in year five but I need to find out more. I need to work out exactly what happened to Derek and squeeze more information from Granny. Without the facts I won't have a presentation.

“Hi,” says Ned Cotsford, looking up from his book.

I blush. My face opens like a bright red rose. I ignore him and start searching along the shelves.

“At this point you're supposed to say, ‘Hi, Ned…'”

“Hi,” I mumble, turning away.

“Jemima Puddleduck,” he smiles, nodding his halo of curly blond hair. “What's up?”

“Nothing's up,” I snap. “Leave me alone, will you? I'm busy.”

“Sorry,” he smiles. “I didn't mean to upset you, Jemima Puddleduck. Just being friendly.”

“You didn't upset me,” I say. “I just don't want to talk, and I'm not a puddleduck, OK?”

“Ssssshhhhhh,” says Mrs Gomez, the librarian. “Jemima, Ned, you're disturbing the peace. This is a quiet zone, remember? For study!”

I glare at her. I don't care about Mrs Gomez being disturbed. She should try living in my body for a day.
Then she'd know all about being disturbed – and unhinged! I bet her dad isn't a million miles away, across the other side of the world. In danger! When she turns back to her work I make a face at her. Stupid Mrs Gomez, what does she know about anything!

Ned laughs, tips his chair back and stretches his legs out in front of him. His eyes burn a hole in my back; they scorch my blazer with flames.

“What you looking for?” he asks, getting up.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Not true.”

“No, Ned,” I say, spinning round to face him. “It's
not
true. But what I'm looking for is none of your business, OK? What I'd really like is for you to leave me alone now. Like Mrs Gomez says, this is a quiet area. For study! And I am trying to study.”

I turn back to the books.

Ned gets up. He stands behind me. His breath is on my neck. He peers at the books over my shoulder. He whispers into my ear.

“What are you looking at war books for?” he says. “My gramps was little during the Second World War and he loved it. He says it was exciting watching the Blitz
light up the sky like a mega-firework and fun being down in the Anderson shelter waiting for the bombs. He used to run out after the raids and collect bits of old shrapnel and play swapsies with his friends. He's even still got his gas mask and stuff like that. He collects all sorts of war memorabilia, like medals and things. I suppose he's a bit obsessed with it all really. Stuck back in the day. Once he met a German pilot who had crashed down a few streets along. He said it was weird. Seeing the enemy so close and yet him looking like a normal person, the same as everyone else. He said he looked tired and hungry and scared of all us English. Scared of what we might do to him. I think war's stupid. I mean, we're all just people at the end of the day. Why can't we all be friends? What are we fighting for?”

The film images explode in my eyes. “Well, I'm sorry, but your gramps must be mad,” I snap. “He obviously didn't lose anyone special in the Blitz. My granny lost her home and everyone she loved all in one day because of stupid bombs. She was left like a little piece of shrapnel in a pile of rubble! There's nothing great or exciting or collectable about that. That's
why
I'm looking for books. I've decided to do my presentation about my granny
and this long-lost love of hers, called Derek. The Blitz snatched him away from her. He was going off on a ship and then, like magic, he disappeared. I'm going to find him. For
her
.”

“Whoa, sorry, that is serious,” Ned says. “But you don't need to bite my head off, Miss Puddleduck. Just because my gramps is into war it doesn't mean that I am. I'm not a sheep, you know, who just follows along. I'm a person with thoughts and feelings of my own. In fact, if you're really interested to know, I'm a pacifist.”

“What's a pacifist?” I ask. His halo hair glints in the sun.

“Someone who doesn't believe in war or violence at all,” he says. “I believe governments should learn to talk to each other instead of sending their countries to war. Violence doesn't help anyone. Peace is the way forward. I promise you.” His eyes sparkle. “Your dad's in the army, isn't he?”

I nod.

“He's mad. Why risk your life? What for?”

“I won't ask you two again,” hisses Mrs Gomez. “BE QUIET!”

Ned sits down and picks up his book. I turn back to the shelves.

My brain buzzes. Why
does
my dad risk his life? Why is he so obsessed? He's as crazy as Ned's gramps. They'd probably get on well. I pull a book off the shelf and slide down to the floor. I open it and rest it on my knees and pretend to read. Then I think about some of the reasons my dad goes to war and my eyes start swimming with tears. My tummy twists up in knots.

“My dad goes to war,” I whisper, “because the army is in his bones. Because he's protecting our country. Because he believes it's the right thing to do. Because it's his way of earning money to feed me and Milo and Mum.”

And that feels scary. My dad risks his
life
to put food in my tummy, which means every little cell of me has grown from money from war. Every little breath, every mouthful of food, every jumper and pair of jeans, every dress and coat. My cot. My bed. My curtains. My walls. My toys. My school bag. My necklace. My magazines. Everything in my life has been paid for by war. Yuck.

“Dad,” I whisper to the shelves, “you're so stupid! You
don't have to risk your life, you dummy! Why can't you do something else? You could be a potter, for instance, or a banker or a judge. You could drive cars or make bread. But don't risk your life to feed me. Please!”

Then Granny's words scuttle through my head.
It's in his bones!

Well, I wish it wasn't in his bones!

“And then you have to consider the other side of it,” Ned whispers. “Like the fact that he probably has to
kill
people, Jemima Puddleduck. Serious things like that. You know,
their
blood is on
his
hands.”

My breath catches in my throat. I've only ever worried about my dad being killed. I've never even considered the fact that he might have to kill someone else, that my own dad might be a murderer. I imagine him standing face to face, eye to eye, with someone he's about to kill. And that person might have a daughter, like me, back home, who is scared of the wind, scared of end of term presentations, scared of everything. Worried that her dad might die.

I stroke an angel on my arm and whisper silently to the sky, “Please come home.”

I turn to Ned.

“I am
trying
to get him home,” I say. “I am
trying
to stop him. I'd do anything to bring him back.”

I'd do
anything
to bring him home.

“Does being a pacifist mean you wouldn't ever fight back, Ned?” I ask. “You know, if I punched you in the face right now or if someone came and tried to kill you and all your family. Would you just sit there and do nothing?”

“Mmmmm, good point,” smiles Ned. “Except I haven't really got a family. It's just Gramps and me. But anyway, try me?”

“I'm not going to hit you,” I say. “I just wondered, you know, what if? Like there must be
some
kind of war you might fight? Something you might stand up for? Something you might do?”

“Maybe. But that's the point. If
everyone
were a pacifist there'd be no wars to fight. Everyone would live in peace. How amazing would that be? That's what John Lennon was talking about.”

“John Lennon?” I ask. “Who's he?”

“John Lennon? Oh, he's no one really,” he sighs. “Just one of the greatest legends the world has ever known. Have you been hiding in a box all your life,
Jemima Puddleduck, or under the stairs like Harry Potter? Haven't you heard the song?”

Then he quietly sings a bit of it to me and it's all about imagining that there was nothing to fight about or have wars for, imagining that all the people in the world could live in peace.

Ned has a voice like an angel that gently soothes my heart. I close my eyes and start imagining and I really get what he's singing about.

“That kind of peace
would
be amazing,” I say, “and that's what I want too. I'm sure most people do. But before the earth is overflowing and full of peace is there anything you'd fight for? I mean, would you fight for peace or just sit around hoping?”

“I'll have to think on that one,” he says. “I'd maybe do a peaceful protest or something. But there must be other ways of creating peace, you know – being kind to people, helping when you can, that kind of thing.”

“That all sounds lovely, Ned,” I say, rushing to get my books scanned and stamped and pushing my way out of the big library doors, “but I haven't got time to wait and be peaceful. I need to fight to get my dad back. Now, before it's too late.”

“Wait up,” calls Ned, running at my side. “What's going on? You're acting super-weird, Jemima Puddleduck.”

“Just leave me alone, Ned,” I say. “There's stuff I have to do, OK?”

But he won't go. He's an irritating wasp buzzing around my ear.

“What stuff?” he asks. “Can I come too? I can help you get your dad back and find the long-lost love.”

I spin to face him.

“No, Ned, please! I'm serious. Just leave me alone.”

I hurry to the science block. I can't wait any longer. If I'm going to get my dad home I have to turn up the heat. I have to get him home before he gets killed and before he kills anyone else. No one needs to die. It's stupid. I
will
stop this.

I scan the corridor. It's quiet. My legs turn to jelly and a sickly chill creeps under my skin. I've never done anything like this before. I've never been so bad.

My life has become a war zone. I pull my dad's beret from my blazer pocket and put it on. I imagine my gas mask over my face and I'm marching with the battalion, a real part of a real war. I'm marching and marching in my twinkling black boots. My dad is beside me,
smiling. He salutes me like the soldier who collected him from home and I salute him back. Lieutenant Colonel Taylor-Jones! I do want peace in this world, but I want my dad home more. I'm not like Ned. I'm not going to sit around waiting for six months. I'm like my dad and I will fight…

I scan the corridor for danger, checking for the enemy. My heart is an angel in my chest. Flapping hard to be free.

Then I press my thumb on the fire-alarm glass until it cracks and fills the school with its urgent bell.