A MILLION ANGELS (7 page)

I
t's Saturday and the wind is up again. It whistles around the house. Bangs on the windows. Rips through the trees. I climb into Dad's wardrobe. I feel safe in here. Close to his clothes. Close to his smell. Three weeks have passed and we still haven't heard a thing. Every time the phone rings my ears stretch out for his voice. But it's always Georgie or one of the other officers' wives calling to arrange coffee mornings and shopping trips. Georgie keeps coming over for yoga and breathing practice in preparation for being Mum's birthing partner when the Bean decides to hatch. I think it's stupid. My dad should be with her, not Georgie.

I'm angry with Mrs Bostock. If she were a normal head teacher she would have expelled me by now. Then my dad would be home and even though he'd be cross with me for being expelled I wouldn't be afraid of the wind. I wouldn't be worried that he's dead. Or scared that he's killed someone else.

I kick the back of the wardrobe. Real life is rubbish. I wish I were a character in a book full of fauns and lions and magical worlds. Even the tyranny of the white witch and permanent frosty winter would be better than this.

 

Nobody, except Mrs Bostock, knows it was me that set off the fire alarms and my secret is sitting in my tummy, scorching like a blister bubbling and cracking inside. Yesterday, when everyone was talking on the bus home from school Ned said, “I think I know who set off the alarms.”

And Jess said, “Who then, clever clogs?”

And Ned said, “I'm not telling.”

He turned to me and his eyes drilled into my mine, like he could almost see right through me, right to my secret, hiding inside.

And part of me wanted to tell him, but that would
be too risky, so I kept my gaze steady and my face quite still and I smiled.

“I don't even understand Mrs Bostock wanting to keep it private,” Jess carried on. “The alarms disrupted us all. So I think we all deserve to know who did it and what punishment they're going to get. It was a stupid thing to do. My mum said it was really inconsiderate. Not to mention dangerous. And time-wasting. Maybe they got seven hundred hours of extra prep? Or a million trillion lines?”

And I said, “Maybe she's going to have them hung, drawn and quartered in assembly, Jess. Or beheaded, or something worse.”

Jess's eyes shone as huge as the moon. And she said, “Let's hope so because I heard that Mrs Bostock's office is like a dungeon. Anyone who gets sent there apparently
never
comes out alive. Maybe she hangs them from the walls on chains and whips them? Maybe she feeds them to the wolves?”

Then Tory Halligan and her parrots fluttered over and she slid down next to Ned and said, “Whoever it was deserves a really bad punishment. I mean,
I
might have been punished for something
I
didn't do. My reputation might have gone downhill.”

And I just smiled again and my secret glowed inside.

I take a last big sniff of Dad's jumper, hop out of his wardrobe and slide back to my room. I'm hiding from Mum. She's now gone totally crazy with the baby-nesting cleaning and she keeps nagging me to sort out my room. What I don't understand is why she gives me a room if I can't keep it how I like. I'm not like my mum. I
like
things all over the floor and piled on my chair. I
like
mould growing in my cups and toast crumbs in my bed. I
like
my clothes in a jumble and my books in a heap and my bed in a rumpletuff.

What I
don't
like is straight lines like her.

Straight lines and neat things make me feel like a sandwich living in a lunch box. All tight and wrapped up in foil. All quiet next to an apple and a packet of crisps that aren't allowed to say hello to each other in case someone gets crumpled or bruised.

I'm more like a wilderness. A tangle. A jungle. And if my mum and me were flowers she'd be a straight, straight stem with a pure blue iris on the top. Whereas I'd be a yellow jasmine scattered up the wall.

I open my laptop and Google
The Blitz
. If Mrs Bostock is refusing to expel me, then I have to get on
with my research. We have to present our ideas on Monday, which is a perfect day to start part three of my Bring Dad Home mission. I've decided not to cause trouble again because trouble won't make Dad proud. So part three of my plan is all about me.

Google says that the word Blitz means ‘Lightning War'. I don't like lightning. I find some paper and draw a picture of a little girl. It's supposed to be Granny when she was nine. She's holding her box and her eyes are huge with shock. Bombs are raining all around. Breaking up the earth. Bringing down the houses. I draw big white jagged cracks of lightning and huge black planes that slice up the sky. On another piece of paper I draw Derek's solemn face and big soft eyes. He's standing by a big ship with his gas mask on and a suitcase in his hand. I draw a big funnel on the ship with plumes of smoke blasting into the air. I draw a fat arrow and write
Canada
inside.

Round each picture I carefully draw a big red heart. I cut them both out and arrange them on the floor. I think I'm going to make a picture board for my presentation and draw hearts and arrows with Granny on one side, Derek on the other. I rummage through Granny's box
and find a photo of her when she was about nine and put it next to my drawing. I need a photo of Derek, really, so it's even, but the only one I have of him is hiding in Granny's bra. And there's no point in even asking her for that. I'll have to come up with another plan.

I Google
Derek Bach
. In all my wildest dreams I hope he'll leap off the page, smiling, with roses for Granny and a photo for me in his hand. But real life isn't dreams and I don't get very far. The only Derek Bachs I can find are a footballer that looks too young to have known Granny before the war and a businessman in America, which is too far away to come for a school presentation. And even though America is close to Canada, in my heart I know this man is not him. After that the search only brings up Dereks who play music or the famous classical music composer, Johann Sebastian Bach.

Rubbish.

I dig deeper and deeper into my Blitz search and find out all about air raids and Anderson shelters and evacuation and food rations. Some of the pictures are incredible. One is of a man standing on a pile of rubble, looking so lost and alone and scared. And he's a man. How must that have been for Granny? I have to find a
way to make her tell me more. I can't do my presentation without her.

All my research is interesting but I don't want my presentation to be about facts.

I want it to be about love.

I want everyone to see how war shreds people's hearts.

Ned can fight for peace. I'm standing up for love.

I draw a huge red heart. I cut it out and make a zigzag cut down the middle so it looks like a broken heart. I put it between the smaller hearts with my drawings on, then I put the photo of Granny on her side and dig out the one of Derek's sisters for his. They'll have to do for now. I need someone to take me to the shop for some card as sad and grey as the rain. Then I can stick it all on with some sparkles and hearts so Mrs Cassidy can see I've made a start.

Now I'm really excited. The idea of my presentation being about love makes me think about Dad and me. I pull out two more sheets of paper and draw two red hearts. I draw a picture of me in one heart and a picture of Dad in the other. I need to print out some photos so I can stick them on too. Then I draw a million inky angels and some tiny red felt-tip pen hearts. They're
exploding out of our chests and travelling off the edge of the page, trying to reach each other. Then I remember my great-grandparents. They were parted by war too. They did actually die. And baby Joan. I draw another heart and put all of them inside.

Granny's box is full of broken hearts.

Ideas for my presentation are filling my body with light that's fizzing and overflowing like stars. Maybe I could do an interview and make a newspaper with photos… or maybe I could even make…

A film!

Something heavy but light at the same time lands in my bones and sparkles like snowflakes on my skin.

I'm so excited. I run to tell Granny.

“Granny,” I say, tumbling into the kitchen, “something's landed in my bones. Just like you said.”

She laughs. “Told you so, pet. Told you to stop worrying and start trusting what comes. What is it then? Spill the beans!”

“Well,” I say, “I think I'd like to be a documentary maker when I grow up. I want to make films about people and life and all the beautiful and wonderful mysteries of the world. I'm going to start with a film for
my presentation and then just keep going on from there.”

Granny chuckles. Her eyes shimmer in the light.

“And… I was wondering,” I say. “Well, I know talking about the Blitz upsets you and everything… but I was wondering whether I could make a film about you, Granny? Talking about the war?”

“We'll see, pet,” chuckles Granny, patting a pile of clean washing. “We'll see. A film all about me? Whatever next!”

“And I know I said I didn't want to do the presentation because I get scared talking in front of people,” I say, “but I'm so excited now, I don't care about looking silly. I'm just going to stand up and do it anyway.”

Inspiration fizzes me faster than a rocket back up the stairs. I grab Dad's camcorder and run to my room for my camera. I have so many plans.

I pull back my sleeves and ink in Dad's fading angels. Then I set them free. A radiant flash of brilliant white wings swoop and soar through the sky. A million angels settle around him. A million angels guard him. A million angels to keep him safe until I can bring him home.

I
t's Sunday and Milo's been playing Action Man since six o'clock this morning. He's turned his bedroom into a camp and he's charging about the house wearing combats, with a Superman cape round his shoulders and a Robin Hood hat on his head.

“Rrrroooaaaaarrrrr,” he roars, diving on to my bed. “Rrrroooaaaarrrrr.”

I tickle him.

“Rrrroooooaaaaaarrrrrrr!” I say. “Hey, Milo, fancy dressing up in something else to help me with my presentation? Want to make a film?”

His eyes light up and he drops on his knees and pants
like a dog. I pat his head, pick up Dad's camcorder and my camera and take him back to his room.

“You need to look old-fashioned,” I say, “like a schoolboy in the war.”

We pull on his school uniform, which is really old-fashioned, and makes him look so cute. He has these long grey socks and shorts that hang to his knees and a grey shirt and a jumper with a V neck. I lace his shoes. I pull on his blazer and slick back his hair with spit.

“Look at you,” I say, standing him in front of the mirror. “You look exactly like an evacuee. Just like Derek. I need you for my presentation board, you see.”

I pull the gas mask over Milo's face, tie a name tag to his blazer and put the little brown suitcase from the car boot sale in his hand.

“Perfect!” I smile. “Now imagine you're about to go away to Canada. You're going away and you're not going to see me or Mum or Granny or Dad for ages and ages and ages… and the truth is, because it's the war, you might never even see us again.”

Milo starts acting all sad.

“That's it,” I say. “Brilliant, Milo. When I turn on the camera give me a sad little wave and say, ‘Bye-bye!'
And then start crying so much, like your world's about to end. Look really scared because of the bombs thundering all around.”

Milo makes a brilliant evacuee. I take a few photos for my picture board, then video him waving goodbye. He looks so lost and cute and scared, and he's just getting into acting it out when Mum crashes her way up the stairs. She barges into Milo's room and erupts like a lightning war.

“Jemima!” she shrieks, yanking the gas mask from Milo's face and stripping off his clothes like they're burning his skin. “Milo!” she yells, looking around at his room. “What the hell are you both doing?”

I stare at the carpet.

“Just stuff,” I say. “For my presentation.”

Milo stares at the wall.

“Just stuff,” he mumbles. “For Mima's presentation. I'm being Derek for her board.”

Mum's zipping comes completely undone. She slumps down on Milo's bed and cradles her big pregnant belly egg in her arms.

“I just don't know what to do with the pair of you,” she sobs, wringing her dress in her hands. “I'm trying
my very best to keep things normal for you both. Trying to keep it all together… and…”

Guilt tugs at Milo's heart. He sits next to her and put his starfish hand on her arm.

“Sorry, Mummy,” he says. “Don't cry.”

She flusters her hands, waving them in front of her face to cool her temper down.

“I'm sorry, Milo,” she says, kissing his head. “Mummy's OK. It's just…” And then another tearful tide sweeps her away. “It's just… look at this mess… and… everything and… your dad… and… the Bean due soon… and my hormones… and Granny… and… I don't know how much longer I can do this. God, I wish he'd just get a normal job! And Mima, your recent war obsession is driving me mad… and that horrible, horrible gas mask… I don't care if it's for school… for your presentation… it's just too creepy. If you hadn't noticed most of us on the camp are hoping the war will end and everyone will be home soon. We're just trying to get on like normal. It's not healthy to dwell on it. Why don't you get interested in something like puppies or dolphins or endangered species? Something cheerful like that?”

I pick up the gas mask and stroke its eyes. I'm sad she doesn't like it. There's nothing so terrible about it, is there? Dad would understand and it's only a stupid old mask, it's not the end of the world or anything. Mum looks at me with her big worried face and her voice cracks open.

“Oh, Mima!” she says. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You don't have to do anything with me, Mum,” I say. “It's just a project. It's not that important; it doesn't mean anything, not really! Look, why don't you have a nice rest and I'll make you a cup of tea. Did you know that tea is Britain's national beverage? It's an interesting fact I learned when I was researching about the Blitz. Google says we wouldn't have won the war without it.”

Mum drops her head in her hands and groans.

“Jemima,” she says. “Please! Please! Please! Stop going on about war!”

Milo clings like a barnacle to her leg. “I made a good Derek, Mum,” he says. “Mima said I was brilliant. I'm going to be in her film.”

 

Later that night when I should be asleep I overhear Granny arguing with my mum. Their voices rise up the stairs like smoke.

“Well, I'm sorry, Bex,” Granny says, “don't say I didn't warn you. You must have known what you were letting yourself in for when you married him. You only had to take a look at my life as an army wife to know.”

“I don't know how you can say that,” storms Mum. “I was in
love
with
your
son! I saw nothing but pink mist and fluffy bunnies and babies! All I really knew was that he was a soldier who took my breath away every time he put his damn uniform on and that he was a gentle giant who made my heart melt. I knew he'd be away a lot and that I'd have to learn to cope, but I didn't account for
this
!”

“I think you're making too much of the whole thing,” says Granny. “She's only a child – you're blowing it out of all proportion, Bex.”

“Blowing it out of proportion?” shrieks my mum. “I'm hardly overreacting! And this totally weird obsession of hers! I mean, did James spend his pocket money on gas masks as a child, like Jemima does? Did
he
dress his brother up as an evacuee? You don't have to live with her all the time. She's… she's… not normal. She's unnerving me. She doesn't even appear to have any proper friends and she's not interested in normal stuff that most twelve-year-old girls are interested in. She's moody and obsessive and quite frankly I don't know how to deal with her. And I blame it on the army. I blame it on James.”

Granny sighs. I hear her stir her tea.

Then Mum whispers. “And do you know about her latest obsession? She keeps sitting in James's wardrobe! I mean, what in God's name is she doing that for? That's weirder than weird.”

I creep along the landing to Mum's room and climb in Dad's wardrobe for a noseful of his smell and a stroke of his ghostly sleeve. I don't care if Mum thinks I'm weird. I like it in here. It makes me feel closer to Dad. What's weird about that? My fist raps the wood at the back of the wardrobe. Knocking to find the door to a magical world. Somewhere far away from my mum, with a lion called Aslan or a secret path to Afghanistan.

I stick my arms out of the wardrobe, open them wide and set a million angels free. They rise from my skin as
inky blue shadows and flap through the gloom in a magnificent shimmer of light.

I wish I could climb on to one of their backs and fly over the trees, above the city, through the stars in search of the sun. I wish I could run away from my mum.