A MILLION ANGELS (14 page)

O
n Monday lunchtime I go to the IT room and Google
The Salvation Army
. There was an article in the Sunday paper that said they're good at finding missing people.

A flurry of excitement bubbles in my chest. Maybe this is it.

The end of my search.

I dial the number.

“Hello,” says the lady on the end of the phone.

“Hi,” I say, “I'm trying to find someone my granny knew in the war and I wonder if you can help?”

“You have to download the forms from the internet,” she says, “and fill them in. We need the person's full
name, date of birth and last known address. Without these we can't help, I'm afraid.”

“Oh,” I say. “I don't have any of those. OK, sorry for troubling you.”

I kick the door and throw my phone in my bag.

Maybe I'll be sick on presentation day and have to stay at home.

 

On the way to drama, Callum Richardson skids up to me.

“Have you heard?” he says.

I shake my head. “No one's talked to me all week, Callum. I haven't heard anything.”

“It's Ned,” he says. “His gramps just died!”

Sharp claws grab my insides. They twist and squeeze.

“What?” I say. “How? Why? Where's Ned now?”

“Don't know,” says Callum. “He has to go to foster care. He doesn't have any other family.”

The floor spins out of control. I think I might faint. I'm sorry for Ned, but I'm also sorry for me. Ned said his gramps might be able to help. He said he might know about Derek. If Tory wasn't in a coma and I hadn't made Ned mad then I might have found Derek by now.
My presentation might not have been so bad. I pinch myself.
Stop being so selfish, Jemima, and think of someone else for a change! Think of Ned and his gramps!

Jess joins us. Her eyes shine.

“Ned's gramps is dead,” she says. “He had a stroke. Pop! Just like that. Gone! My mum found out this morning and she said you never know what's going to happen. One minute he was eating his breakfast, then pop! Gone! Now Ned's an orphan. Imagine that.”

I glare at Jess and before I can stop myself I open up my mouth and speak. I've had enough of her. At last!

“WHY DON'T YOU JUST SHUT YOUR FAT FACE UP FOR ONE SECOND, JESS,” I say. “YOU AND YOUR MUM ARE GETTING ON MY NERVES! YOU ARE LIKE GOSSIPING VAMPIRES WHO FEED ON OTHER PEOPLE'S LIVES!”

My words bite her. She pulls back.

“Me, getting on
your
nerves?” she snaps. “Funny that. I thought it was the other way round. You and your goody-goody life! You and your perfect dad and your perfect mum and your perfect granny who's always fluffing around making pancakes! You and your perfect sweet Milo and your cootchy baby Bean! You and your
stupid, stupid angels! You get on my nerves, Jemima Taylor-Jones, more than anyone else on this planet. Even more than my horrible dad!”

Tears spring in her eyes.

“You think you have a bad time?” she says. “You want to try living in my life for a while, Jemima, then you'd know what bad really is.”

Her shoulders judder with sadness.

“It's hard being me,” she says. “It's hard being twelve. No one understands and I know you're a freak and everything, but apart from that you have everything a girl would ever want. You've got it all, Jemima Taylor-Jones, and I have nothing.”

I take a breath. I'm full of shock.

“I didn't choose my family, you know,” I say. “I don't make them like they are and anyway, whatever my life is like it's no excuse for telling lies. I didn't push Tory and you know it!”

And then I go too far.

“And it's not my fault you have such a crap family.”

And that does it. Jess lifts her hand. Her palm swings towards my cheek and the slap sound echoes down the corridor. My hand flies to the sting. My eyes sparkle
and flicker with pain. My mouth drops open like an O.

Callum Richardson breaks the silence.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” he smiles, punching the air with his fist. “And I thought nothing fun ever happened in this school.”

Mrs Bostock appears from nowhere, like Nanny McPhee with her stick. She bats Callum out of the way and takes hold of Jess's hand and mine.

“This is a respectable establishment,” she says to the walls, “and such things as fighting are Definitely! Not! Allowed!”

When we get to her office, Jess's eyes are wide, searching for Mrs Bostock's torture tools. She's looking for the bones of people who didn't survive, for the abandoned pens of skeletons who have written a million lines.

But I know all that is in Jess's imagination.

I know the truth of what happens in Mrs Bostock's office. I know all she does in here is hand out chocolates and smile.

“Now,” she says, “I know life is upsetting for you both at the moment and your families are living on the
edge, but really, let's see an end to this warring, shall we? Now, tell me what's going on.”

Jess says, “Nothing, Mrs Bostock,” and zips her mouth.

I say, “Nothing, Mrs Bostock,” and send a million black bombs to Jess.

Mrs Bostock says, giving us each a chocolate, “Well, I'm keeping my eagle eye on both of you. And if this has anything to do with Tory Halligan I'd be grateful if you'd speak up.”

Jess and I stare straight ahead without blinking. We're giving nothing away at all.

“Well,” says Mrs Bostock, putting the lid on the chocolate tin, “remember, if you feel you need to chat to me or see the counsellor, I'll be happy to arrange it for you.”

On our way back to drama Jess's eyes shine.

“She's mad!” she says. “What kind of crazy head teacher hands out chocolates when you've done something wrong? I thought she strung people up and gouged their eyes out!”

I shrug. My fire-alarm secret glows warm deep down inside.

Jess looks at me.

“I really do hate you,” she says, “and I hope Tory Halligan does die, then at least we can get rid of you!”

 

Later that evening Georgie comes over with Jess. I'm up in my room hiding from Mum's evil eye.

“Hi!” Mum's voice sings when she opens the door. “Come on in. So lovely, lovely to see you both!” Her voice trills up the stairs, “Mima, come on down – Jess and Georgie are here for supper and Georgie's got some good news.”

“She woke up…” Georgie squeals when I get to the bottom of the stairs. “Just an hour or so ago. Just like that. Just like normal. I spoke to Mrs Halligan and she said Tory opened her eyes and smiled and said, ‘I'm hungry,' just like that!! And Mrs Halligan said, ‘Oh, I've waited so long for that smile.'” She makes a little skip. “Isn't it exciting? Tory's awake! She's alive! She's still a bit groggy, but she's back!”

Jess fumes by the door. I fume back at her. Jess and I are at war.

“Now at least we can find out the truth,” she says, shooting seven hundred eye arrows at me.

At suppertime I sit as far away from Jess as possible. I dig at my pasta. I twist it on my fork. I listen to Georgie blabbing on about what Mrs Halligan had to say. Georgie's mouth is a machine. It doesn't stop moving for hours.

“I just couldn't believe my ears. I was out in the garden, pottering away when the phone rang and it was
her
on the other end. She was ever so nice, Bex; she said she wanted me to be first to know because of how much worry I must be going through. We're going to give Tory a few days to recover a bit, then we're going to pop over, aren't we, Jess? Take her a pressie. Welcome her back.”

“And did she mention if Tory said anything?” says Mum. “You know, does she remember…
what happened
?”

Granny slams her wine glass on the table and mouths to me, “Backbone, Jemima, backbone.”

I sit up straight. “Tory Halligan will tell the same story as me,” I say, “because it's the truth.”

Granny smiles.

“Well,” says Georgie, ignoring me and glowing with gossip, “I didn't want to ask, not just yet. I thought
what with her only just waking up and everything… we should give it a bit of time.”

Granny coughs. She stares hard at Mum.

“Well,” says Mum, “I agree with Georgie. We need to check with Tory.” She turns to me. “It's great she's alive and well, Mima, and if you are telling the truth there won't be a problem. But we need to know for sure. It's only right, sweetheart.”

Then Georgie starts blabbing on about Ned.

“Poor lamb!” she says. “Sad story, that one. Just Ned and his gramps! No one else in the world!” She mouths to Mum, “He'll have to go to foster care. Nothing for it. He's got stacks of money though. It's left him a very rich boy!” She brings her voice back up to its normal annoying volume. “I heard all about it in the playground this morning when I dropped Jess off. She missed the bus, you see. We overslept. And I thought it was only fair to spread the word. It's important people should know.
Poor lamb!
”

I slide down in my chair. I hide behind my glass and shoot eye arrows at Jess. I hope Mum never tells Georgie secrets of mine.

W
hen the house is quiet and still and the world has gone to bed, the wind whips up a storm. I stare out at the night and will my dad to come back home. Rain spits at my window and owls hoot in the trees. Dark clouds rumble through the stars and in the shadows, leaning against a tree, is a boy. A boy with starlight dancing in halo hair. A boy who's holding a guitar.

I press my face on the glass. Ned? Ned? What is Ned doing
here
?

I race downstairs and open the door.

“Ned?” I say. “What are you doing?”

He lifts his face. His tears are mingled with rain.

“Dunno,” he says. “Didn't know where else to go. They took my key.” His voice cracks. “I can't even get into my house.”

“Come in,” I whisper, “but be quiet. Everyone's sleeping.”

I find juice and snacks in the kitchen and smuggle Ned upstairs.

“Sorry!” he says, wiping his nose with his hand. “I'm sorry, Jemima Puddleduck. I just—”

I press my finger to his lips to shush him. I hand him some juice. We sit on the floor.

“I heard about your gramps,” I say. “I'm sorry he died.”

“Oh, don't be,” he laughs. “Everyone leaves me. You get used to it in the end.”

Ned looks up. His lashes sparkle with diamonds. His cheeks flush pink with grief. I hunt in my brain for words.

“I'm sorry,” I say again. “What happened?”

Ned leans against my bed. He rests his head in his hands. His voice whispers.

“We were…” he says. “I can't believe it. We were… sitting there just like normal, eating breakfast and he
took a sip of his tea and that was it. He toppled. He was suddenly dead. A stroke! Boof! Gone! And I tried to make him come alive. I willed him to come back.”

He stuffs his hand in the packet of crisps and crams some in his mouth. Salt planets settle on his lips.

“His face keeps haunting me,” he says. “He looked so scared. So shocked by what was happening. And I couldn't stop it. I couldn't do anything. I felt so useless.” He swigs orange juice from the carton. His eyes fill up with tears. “You know, it wouldn't be so bad if I had someone else. It's just me now. I feel so alone.”

My heart dips. A lump sticks in my throat.

“I'm sorry, Ned.”

“They stuck me in a foster home,” he says. “They took me straight there, an hour or so after it happened. But if they think I'm staying they've got another think coming. I skipped out the window.”

He rubs his face and drags his long fingers through his golden hair. He pulls a loose thread from his jeans. His laces trail like vines.

He looks up.

“I've got money, you know, loads of it, enough to last me for ever. If I can find someone to take me in
the holidays I think I'll go to boarding school. That has to be better than care. The money doesn't mean anything though. It can't give me a hug.”

His eyes sparkle.

My heart flaps. I'd like to give Ned a hug, but I'm not sure how. I keep my arms by my side. I close my eyes. I stretch my heart across the space between us and wrap him up in love.

My skin creeps with shame. All my life I've been totally swimming in love, but I've been too blind and obsessed with myself to see it. I've been too deaf to hear it, too dumb to feel it. Even my stressed-out mum loves me. She doesn't often show it and our wires keep getting crossed, but she does love me. I know that's true. And now poor Ned's like Granny – totally left alone.

“I can see why you got cross with me,” I say. “I'm a spoiled brat. I've been stupid. I'm sorry.”

Ned picks up his guitar. He plays the tune to Kiss Twist's ‘A Million Angels' and his music spirals to the moon.

“What will you do now?” I ask.

“The very thing you need to learn to do,” he says.
“Trust, Jemima Puddleduck. Trust! Things will work out. They always do.”

“I am trying to trust,” I say, “but it's so difficult.”

“Just takes practice,” he says, “like anything else worth learning.”

His sapphire eyes meet my gunmetal grey ones and we tie a knot in our gaze.

“You could start practising right now,” he smiles. “You could tell me something you've never told anyone else before in your life.”

I pull my knees up. I cuddle them with my arms. Truth is better than Dare.

“I'm scared most of the time,” I whisper. “I'm scared of the wind. I'm scared of people. I don't know how to make friends. I feel stupid and awkward almost all of the time. Your turn.”

“I've never met my dad,” says Ned. “I don't even know his name. I wish I had a dad, even if he did go off to war. Your turn.”

“I even feel scared sitting here with you,” I say. “I feel like I should be doing something interesting to make you like me. Or something mean to push you away. You?”

“When I was four years old,” says Ned, “my mum dropped me off at my gramps's house. She said she needed to go and find herself. I thought she was going to the shops. She said she'd be back soon. She promised. She said I had to believe her, I had to trust and I did… why wouldn't I? I waited… and Gramps waited.” Ned sniffs. He rubs some mud from his shoe. “You?”

“I wish my dad wasn't in the army,” I say. “I hide in his wardrobe. I smell his clothes and steal them and wear them when I want to feel close. I have a gas mask, Ned, like your gramps did. I like it. It makes me feel safe. I don't want my dad to die. You?”

Ned rubs his eyes. He blinks hard. Diamonds spill over his lids.

“I hate crying for her,” he says. “It's stupid. I don't mind crying for Gramps, at least he was real, but I don't even remember her, not really. You?”

I hide my face in my hair.

“I've never had a proper friend,” I whisper, “except for my dad. You?”

I'm taking down my wall, brick by brick. With Ned. How strange to be here in my room, in the middle of this night, with the wild wind raging outside. Foster
people might be looking for him. Someone might be worried. But he's here. Eating crisps. With me.

“And we kept waiting,” he says, “and eventually we got a letter to say she was never coming back. She's in India or somewhere. In an ashram. She said she couldn't handle being a mum. That was when Gramps washed his hands of her. It was a double pain, you see: I lost my mum, he lost his daughter. Now he'll never see her again. She left it too late. You?”

“I didn't push Tory out of the window,” I say. “I promise you, Ned. You?”

“She never wrote to me,” says Ned. “Not once, not ever. She used to write to Gramps, but not me. She must hate me.”

He crumples like paper. He draws his knees up to his chest. His shoulders shake with tears.

I slide a little closer. I want to touch his arm. I want to comfort him.

Angels flap in my chest.

“She's out there somewhere,” I say. “She's still your mum. Maybe you could find her?”

“Never!” he says with fire in his eyes. “I'm never going to look for her. She made her decision to leave me; she'll
have to live with it. I'll survive; I'll be OK. I'll trust life to carry me on its tide. Gramps said that's all we can do. You?”

My heart thumps.

“There's something else I need to tell you,” I say, “but I'm scared. You might hate me again.”

Ned touches my hand. He holds my finger like the Bean does.

“I couldn't hate you, Jemima Puddleduck,” he smiles. “You just make me cross sometimes, that's all. Sometimes it's hard to understand you.”

“Well,” I say, chewing my nail, “you know Tory's accident? She fell because she was trying to stop
me
from jumping out. I thought if
I
fell out of the window and hurt myself badly enough, then my dad would
have
to come back home. I know it was a stupid thing to do, but the idea just came to me in a flash and swept me away. I thought I could fly like an angel. I didn't have time to think. There – I said it!”

Ned's eyes flash bright.

“You're crazier than I thought, Jemima Puddleduck,” he says. “Truly, truly mad! Still trying to rearrange the alphabet. You need to get that if you're patient
the alphabet won't need rearranging. Things will work out. One way or another.”

His eyes search for mine.

“I
am
next to U.”

He looks at my arms. He traces his finger round an inky angel. He peers at me from under his fringe.

“Can we send some?” he says. “You know, for my gramps?”

I stand in front of the window. The wind is wild outside. I stare it straight in the eyes. “I'm not afraid of you, wind,” I say.

Ned stands behind me. I lift my arms up high and together we set a million angels free. They rise from the inky blue shadows and shimmer as a radiant flash of brilliant white; their great wonderful wings swoop and soar through the sky to Gramps, who is sleeping on his star. To Dad in the dawn of the desert. To Kitty and James and baby Joan. To Derek and Granny. To Tory Halligan. To Jess. To Mrs Bostock. To Mum. To Milo and the Bean.

To everyone who ever died.

To everyone alive.