Читать книгу A MILLION ANGELS - Kate Maryon, Kate Maryon - Страница 8

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.”