A MILLION ANGELS (6 page)

O
n Thursday morning I creep into Dad's wardrobe. I stand in front of his scarlet mess dress jacket and wrap his empty ghost arms round me. I close my eyes and he's here, in scarlet and gold and black shiny shoes, holding me tight. I remember the last time he wore it. They were going to some special evening at the mess. Mum had a beautiful black dress on and smelled like a flower and Dad was all dressed up in this. Milo and me were in our pyjamas, eating popcorn and watching a film and Dad sat between us and pulled us on to his lap.

“You two,” he smiled, “better get to bed soon because
there's pancakes to be made in the morning! So quick march, Major Milo! You first!”

And Milo squealed and squirrelled and bashed Dad with his legs until Dad swung him high in the air and flew him straight to bed. And we all laughed and Dad whispered that I was allowed to stay up later than late with Clea, our babysitter, and Milo never found out.

I rub my face in the cloth and get a noseful of his smell, then pull back my sleeves and set a million angels free. They rise from my arms, a flash of pure brilliance. Snow-white wings soaring high into the sky towards the scorching sun.

 

At lunchtime the air in the dining hall is stretched so tight I think it might pop. The angel in my chest flaps. Everyone is waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Like me waiting for my dad.

“D'you think it'll happen again?” asks Ned, tucking into his pie. “I mean, it can't go on for ever, can it? Eventually someone's going to be caught. I think they should start fingerprinting – that would sort things out.”

“Oh, Neddy,” says Tory Halligan, sliding in next to him. “It's not fair. Can you believe that Mrs Bostock
accused me? I mean, why would she? What have I ever done to make her think such a thing? I'm going to stick with you this lunchtime, Neddy – you can be my alibi.”

“Whoever it is,” says Jess, “they're in big trouble. Did you see Mrs Bostock's face? What d'you think will happen when she finds them? D'you think they'll get expelled?”

I smile.

“I'm sure they will,” I say.

My hand finds the box of matches in my pocket. I turn them over. I rub my thumb over the rough bit that sets the match on fire. I smile. My dad will come home soon. I'm sure of it now.

When we leave the dining hall, the teachers are all over the school. Walking up and down with beady eyes. Watching. Waiting. Listening for the alarm.

I slide away from the others and creep to the science block. Strong chemical smells bite my nose. Sting my eyes. Stick in my throat. My hands tremble, my neck is sticky with sweat. The angel beats and beats its wings. I drag a stool to the bench and pull out the matches. I strike one and watch the bright yellow blaze creep up the little stick until it nips my fingers. I turn the Bunsen
burner on then off. Off then on, freeing the hissing gas. Ppppssssssss! Ppppppppssssss!

I pull Dad's scarlet mess dress jacket out of my bag and slip it on. I need him here with me today. The gold brocade glints in the sunlight, sending rainbow fairies spinning around the room. I stroke the matchbox. I think. I free some more hissing gas. On and off. Off and on. Pppppssssssss! Pppppssssssss! I think some more. And I may feel powerful and brave right now, but I'm not stupid. I am a Taylor-Jones, after all!

I turn the gas off.

I put the matches in my pocket and slide off the stool. I go out into the corridor and smash my thumb into the glass. The angel thump thump thumps, drumming a way out of my chest. I hop back into the science lab, slam the door and push a chair against the handle. My breath is coming in thick and lumpy gasps. I'm dizzy. The shrill alarm screeches through my head. Drills into my brain and a thousand footsteps thunder through the school. There are skids and squeals and whoops. Doors slam. Chairs scrape. Everyone races to the playground. Fire engines flash whirling blue shadows across the walls.

I stack some stools and tables against the door to
barricade myself in and tuck myself under Mrs Fox's desk. I strike another match and watch it creep along the stick until it runs out of wood and nips me. Ouch!

Someone tries the door handle. I freeze. They push and push until it opens a crack.

“Who's in there?” demands a man with a deep voice. “Are you OK?”

I keep really still. He tries again. Thud. Thud. Thud.

I hear him whisper to someone else.

“Something's up,” he says. “There's no smoke, but something's not right.” He raises his voice again so I can hear. “Don't panic,” he shouts. “I'm coming in. If you're hurt, lie still.”

He's the one panicking. I'm OK! He shakes the handle and pushes hard, making the stack of tables and stools creak across the floor. The door rattles and thuds and the tables and chairs inch further and further in.

I'm silent because I'm not really here. I'm dust in the crack in the floor.

“Excuse me…” shouts the voice. “We're looking for Jemima Taylor-Jones, so if it's you in there, Jemima, you need to let me know. If you can't speak, bang something. OK?”

I shrink even more. I am smaller than a mouse, tinier than a spider, teenier than a flea. I need to wait until Mrs Bostock is cooked, until she's baked to a burn.

With one last push the man throws himself at the door, sending the stools toppling like skittles. He heaves his shoulder into the load, screeching the tangle of legs across the polished wooden floor. When the gap is big enough he pops through like a champagne cork and two more firemen bubble in behind. They don't see me at first and I enjoy the worried look in their eyes, and it's not until Mrs Bostock pops in and dumps her big red bag on the desk that anyone notices where I am.

While the firemen check the room for fire, she looks under the desk.

“Jemima!” she squeaks. “What on earth are you doing under Mrs Fox's desk? What in heaven's name is going on? You're not the one causing all this trouble and setting off the alarms, are you?”

I stare at the floor. The back of my neck is sticky with heat.

“Jemima!” she squawks. “Will you answer my question, please? Are you or are you not responsible for the alarms?”

I turn the matches in my hand. I rattle them in their box.

“It
is
you, isn't it?” she says. “I'm utterly shocked, Jemima! I wouldn't have thought for a moment that you… I… Why?”

Mrs Bostock apologises profusely to the firemen.

“It's a darned nuisance,” one of them gruffs. “Kids playing about like that.”

He peers under the table at me.

“D'you hear me?” he says. “Types like you are a nuisance to society. A waste of taxpayers' money.”

Mrs Bostock promises our school won't trouble the fire brigade again and sends them away. Then she turns to me.

“Jemima,” she says, “explain to me exactly what's going on.”

I shake my head and shrink back. I'm not here. I'm dust in the crack. Mrs Bostock sighs and drums her fingers on the desk. She brushes invisible dust from her skirt. She counts to ten.

“I'm going to leave this room,” she snaps, “send everyone back to their classrooms, and then meet you in my office in five minutes. And I warn you, Jemima,
my patience is wearing thin. No messing around. Understand?”

I nod. I try to smile.

And now I'm in Mrs Bostock's office, watching a Blitz explode behind her sparkling blue eyes.

“I order you to tell me exactly what is going on,” she snaps. “Just what were you trying to prove, Jemima?”

I shake my head. I'm not going to tell her anything. If my plan is going to work I need to stretch her until she snaps.

“I can't talk to you properly, Jemima,” she says, “unless you tell me what's going on. Did someone put you up to it? Is that it? Were you bullied into setting off the alarms? Because if that's the case you must tell me! Now! I won't have
that
kind of behaviour in my school. Bullying will not be tolerated.”

I shake my head.

“So if it's not bullying then,” she says, “what happened? Of all the people in this school you're the last person I'd have imagined to do this kind of thing. You're usually such a little mouse.”

She paces up and down the room with her arms
folded across her chest. An angry little vein drums in her neck.

I want to stand on her big red leather chair and shout, IN ACTUAL FACT, MRS BOSTOCK, I AM NOT A MOUSE. I MIGHT LOOK LIKE THAT FROM THE OUTSIDE BECAUSE MY WORDS GET CLOGGED IN MY THROAT, BUT ACTUALLY I'M A LION! And then I'd like to eat her up and go home and make popcorn with Milo.

“So if you did do it,” she says, “what I can't work out is why? What benefit is there in setting off fire alarms and making a nuisance of yourself? And you're such a nice girl, Jemima. I can't make it out. Something just doesn't add up.”

I shrug. I'll show her I'm not really a mouse. I'll show Mum I'm not unhinged!

I shove Dad's mess dress jacket sleeves high up my arms and watch her eyes shriek as loud as the fire alarm when they land on the inky angels on my skin. She zips her mouth. The red island stain bleeds on to her face. I smile.

“Is it because of Dad?' she asks, watching me flick the sliver of nail I just tore from my finger land on her
precious carpet. “Are you missing him or is it Mummy having the baby? Has someone upset you, Jemima? Because, you see, as far as my experience tells, people don't usually make trouble for no reason. Generally they're upset about something and their behaviour is a cry for help.”

Using the sharp edge of my remaining fingernail, I burrow a little hole in my tights and stretch it hard so a nylon ladder snakes its way down my leg. Mrs Bostock's eyes dart from the nail to the ladder to my inky arms and back again. I'm mixing her brain in a blender. Whizzing her up into soup. If I keep being difficult I
will
get what I want. She
will
expel me. She'll be left with no choice. Then she'll call my mum and my mum will call my dad and then the army will
have
to send him home.

Having a problem child who plays with fire
must
be a bad enough thing.

I take a deep breath. I smile.

Mrs Bostock sighs. She rubs her hands together. She clip clops round her desk on her thin spiky heels and comes so close to me that her large doughy breasts jiggle under my nose.

“I have been head teacher of Summerbrooks for over twenty-five years,” she smiles. “And believe you me, Jemima, I've seen every trick in the book. Truanting, cheating, bullying, bubblegum, lipstick, defiance, destruction, ladders in tights, bitten nails, drawings on arms, big black boots, jewellery and lies. I haven't, I must confess, seen such beautiful jackets worn in place of blazers, but apart from that I've seen the lot. And you may think you're so very daring and that I'm about to snap in half and have a tantrum, but I promise you, Jemima, I'm made of stronger stuff than that.”

The angel in my chest drops its wings and dies. It's over. I'm lost.

She totters over to the sofa, sits down and beckons me to join her. The red island stain drains away. The shrieking alarms melt in her eyes.

“The thing is, Jemima, I'm on your side. I'm your friend. I'm here to listen. So tell me what the problem is and let's see how I can help. Or if you think you'd prefer to talk to a professional counsellor…”

“Aren't you going to expel me?” I ask. “And call my mum?”

Mrs Bostock smiles.

“And what good would that do?” she says. “What you need, Jemima, is help, not rejection. In all my years as head teacher, I have never felt the need to expel a soul. So I'm not about to start now.”

She takes hold of my hand. An annoying little muscle starts twitching in my eye.

“I'm committed to helping you, Jemima.” She pulls a huge tin from the shelf and offers me a chocolate. “Now, tell me what's up. What's eating you?”

I put the chocolate in my mouth and stare at the floor.

“Nothing…” I say. “I just… I need…”

Blue flashing fire-engine lights whirl in front of my eyes. Clattering and skidding and shrieking alarm bells drill into my ears. Everybody's time! All this trouble! What would my dad say if he knew what I've done? A handful of sharp-edged diamonds well up and sting my eyes. My dad wouldn't be proud of this. He wouldn't be proud of me creating all this trouble.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Suddenly I feel quite small. She's right. Mum's right. I turn back into an unhinged mouse.

“I'm sorry, Mrs Bostock,” I say. “I didn't mean…
well, I did mean… but I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I promise.”

“Let's keep this to ourselves, shall we?” she smiles, patting my hand. “Mum's got enough to worry about without us making things worse. I'm not condoning your behaviour, Jemima. You've caused a lot of trouble and wasted a lot of time and that's unacceptable. But I trust that now you know I'm on your side you'll be able to come to me with your worries. Never forget, help is at hand. A problem shared and all that. But rules are rules. I will be keeping an eye on you, Jemima. I'll be collecting reports from your teachers every week and I'd like you to pay me a visit after lunch each day for a little chat. Just you and me. To air your problems.”

She slips a fistful of chocolates in my pocket.

“Off you trot now,” she smiles. “Back to class.”