Artichoke Hearts (11 page)

‘Who wants a walk by the sea?’ Mum rallies us, trying her best to sound enthusiastic.

Krish is climbing the walls with excitement. I don’t really want to go, but I say yes because it’s obvious that Dad and Nana want to be on their own.

Mum straps Laila into the baby carrier and hoists her up on to her back. Laila kicks her legs as if she would like to run to catch up with us. The wind smears my hair on to my face so I can
hardly see ahead. From the crabbing bridge, me and Krish race for the dunes, like we always do. He wins, like he always does. Once over the dunes the sea stops us short. Great breaking waves roar
in my face and the spray threads a foam necklace all along the beach. If you lean back, the wind almost holds you up, but you know that if it decides to it can just as easily knock you down flat. I
wish we’d brought Nana with us. She could have stood on the beach and the wind would have picked her up and flown her over the sea, like a kite set free. I love the way the wind and the sea
and the cold blast everything else away, so the only thing you can think about is not being blown away. When she was a little girl, Nana used to dream of flying all the time, just like I do. Now
that my period’s gone I feel as if I could fly over the dunes again, like I did last summer with Millie.

Krish and Mum are shouting to me, but their voices are swallowed by the sea and the wind.

‘Piiiiiiiper!’ I call.

But Piper has found another dog to play with. They’re splashing around in the foam. A woman with a green headscarf appears through the spray. She’s walking up the beach towards me,
waving.

‘Mooooooses,’ she calls over and over.

At first I think she’s just calling to the dog, but as she draws closer I realize she’s waving to me.

‘Hello, Mira! I thought maybe there was a chance we’d bump into each other.’

I don’t really know what to say. It just feels so odd seeing Pat Print here, on the beach. I look over my shoulder to see where Mum and Krish are, but they’ve disappeared over the
dunes.

‘I’ve got a caravan, a bit further up the beach. I keep it parked up, permanently. My secret hideaway,’ she whispers, placing a finger over her lips.

I still can’t think of anything to say to her. So I stare down at the sand and Pat Print’s bare feet. She follows my eyes.

‘Since I was a little girl, I could never see the sand without throwing my shoes off – whatever the weather I’ve just got to feel the sand between my toes. Call me a free
spirit.’

I hardly dare look up at her because the thought crosses my mind that maybe she isn’t really here at all, but then Piper and Moses fly at us, shaking the salty water off their coats and
soaking us with their spray. Pat Print laughs and clips Moses back on to his lead.

‘Who’s this?’ asks Pat, stroking Piper.

‘Piper, Nana’s dog.’

‘Lovely to see you, Mira. Maybe we’ll walk together again one day,’ Pat Print says, smiling at me.

Then she turns away and glides off down the beach. Her bare feet, the wind whipping up the beach and her disappearing into the sea-mist, coat ends flapping, makes me wonder if that actually
happened.

I trail up and down the bank looking for holey stones. If (I say to Notsurewho Notsurewhat) I find a holey stone, then Pat Print is definitely a ghost, spirit, angel, or whatever. As soon as
I’ve thought it, there it is in front of me, a perfect oval holey stone. This one’s for Millie. I squeeze it safely snug inside my jeans pocket. Now Krish is sprinting back up the
beach, yelling at me to hurry up as Laila’s screech carries on the wind. It’s too bitter for her out here.

As soon as you walk over the dunes, the sea is gone. With every step, the roar of the waves and the wind is muffled, until the world grows grey again.

‘What took you so long?’ shouts Krish in a voice as loud as Ben Gbemi’s, as if I’m miles away instead of standing right next to him. I think about telling them about Pat
Print, but he probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

‘I was looking for a holey stone for Millie.’

When I get back to the cottage, I show Nana the holey stone. The holey stone that means Pat Print is a ghost.

‘Millie will love that, but don’t forget it’s
our
collection, yours and mine, so keep adding to it . . .’ She wraps her arms round my shoulders protectively. There
it is again, the sentence that’s not finished . . . ‘When I’m gone.’

‘Nana, do you believe in ghosts and spirits?’

‘Of course. I’ve seen a few of that sort of thing in my time,’ she smiles.

‘Did they frighten you?’

‘Not really, they just give you a bit of a jolt.’

‘What are you two so secretive about?’ asks Mum, helping Nana up.

Nana takes off her purple shawl, folds it and places it on the back of her comfy chair.

‘Just sharing ghost stories,’ laughs Nana.

Mum gives Nana one of her ‘Sure that’s a good idea, Josie?’ looks, but her repertoire of meaningful glances is wasted on Nana.

‘Mira, what were you looking up about Rwanda?’ asks Dad as he goes to shut down his laptop.

‘Nothing. We’re doing a project on Africa, that’s all’

‘What sort of project?’ pursues Dad.

‘Oh, I dunno, can’t remember now,’ I say, wandering away and hoping he’ll let it drop, but then he starts to read what I’ve read. He’s shaking his head now
and sighing, which draws Mum over to him. She stands behind him reading. Occasionally they both look over to me with those matching furrowed brows of theirs. When Dad finally switches off the
computer, he looks up at me and says, ‘We’ll need to talk about this later.’

Mum nods in agreement.

Sometimes I wish I came from a family where the parents just let you get on with it. There are loads of kids in my class whose parents haven’t got a clue what they get up to. Just my luck
to be born into a family who have to
talk
about everything. We have this whole vocabulary given over to ‘talking’. ‘Chats’ or ‘talks’ are supposed to be
not that important, usually a short ‘private’ word with Mum or Dad about a minor worry. ‘Meetings’ are more serious. The whole family has to get together and have a proper
‘discussion’. When a family ‘conference’ is called, you know something really off the scale is about to happen, like moving house or something. So, I’ve got to have a
‘talk’ with Dad later about Rwanda, though by the look on his face it might turn out to be a bit more than that.

When the cottage is nearly cleared up, Dad calls a ‘meeting’, but there’s something about it that’s reminding me more of our last family ‘conference’.

‘Come on, Krish, put that football down, just for a minute,’ says Dad, patting the seat next to him to try to stop Krish from dribbling the ball around the room. When Krish is
finally still, Dad explains that when we get back to London Nana is going to stay in a hospice, so that the doctors can sort out her pain. Krish asks Dad how long she will have to stay there. Dad
says he doesn’t know. I know.

When we pack our bags, it’s as if Nana is packing that part of her life up and storing it in her head. She says that since she was a little girl she’s always felt sad when she packs
up to leave a place. She calls suitcases ‘joyless things’, that’s why she always just slings her stuff into a soft cotton bag.

As we are leaving, Nana goes out to stand on her porch to take a last look at her garden. Then she closes the door, locks it with the little silver key, and places it on top of the light switch,
like she always does.

We drive down the lane in silence. At the junction Nana suddenly asks Dad to turn left.

‘There’s just one view I have to see again,’ she says.

Dad nods. Without having to ask where she wants to go, he turns left, then right and down the winding country lanes and across the sea of yellow gorse. This is Nana’s very favourite view.
She’s brought us here loads of times before. The people at the bird sanctuary shop don’t even charge her any more, because she knows Dunwich Dan, who works there, and anyway they know
she only comes to sit in Bittern Hide.

When we get to the car park, Dad drives as close to the shop as possible. He steps out of the car and into the place where you buy your tickets.

‘I was hoping I’d see Dan,’ says Nana, as she catches sight of him through the window.

Dan pushes a wheelchair towards the car. He opens the door, swinging it back, in a grand sweep.

‘Josie, how lovely to see you! Get in, I’ll drive you up there myself,’ he says, as if he’s her personal chauffeur.

‘I just had to see it once more.’ Nana smiles at Dan.

‘Don’t blame you, Josie.’

Working at the sanctuary shop is one of Dunwich Dan’s retirement jobs. He’s actually quite old, but he’s one of those old men who looks really healthy and strong. He has red
cheeks with deep lines in his face like he’s spent all his life outdoors. Dan comes to Nana’s garden once a month to tidy it up. He used to work in lots of people’s gardens, but
not any more. Nana says the main reason Dan keeps her garden on is to watch the flycatchers go backwards and forwards to their nest on her porch.

Dan pushes Nana down the bumpy path to Bittern Hide. I still think it’s a funny thing to do . . . hide from the birds, so you can spy on them. Nana looks up through the trees as
occasionally Dan stops to point out a nest, or listen to birdsong.

As Mum wheels the pram over the path to the hide, Laila’s head starts to nod.

‘Thank God!’ Mum sighs.

Bittern Hide has quite a few steps to climb. Nana stands up out of the wheelchair to take the first step, but, before she can take another, Dan wraps one arm round her neck and slides the other
under her knees, lifting her up, just like Dad holds Laila when she falls asleep in his arms.

‘This is really not necessary,’ giggles Nana.

‘Reason not the need. I’m enjoying myself, Josie.’

‘Go on then, carry me over the threshold,’ chuckles Nana.

There are other birdwatchers in the hide, but when they see us lot coming up the steps, most of them leave. Only a few give us the benefit of the doubt.

As soon as you’re inside the hide, you feel the weight of silence, like when you walk into an empty church. It takes us a few minutes to get settled on the long wooden benches. Dan unhooks
one of the long latch windows so that Nana can see straight out on to the reed beds. Once it’s quiet in the hide, your ears start to tune in to all the different bird calls. It’s as if
you’ve never heard a bird sing before.

The reed beds are green and golden and, even though the sea is just beyond, you feel as if you’re floating away on a wave of gold.

We listen to the dancing grass and the sound of ruffled wings as the birds rise up over the reed beds in great sweeping arcs. In the hide, the only sound is our own breathing. People
occasionally smile at me, Krish and Laila . . . sleeping Laila. I think they’re really impressed that we’re being so quiet. Every time they look at us, I can feel Mum swelling up with
pride. Krish is lost in the rippling reeds, rocking his body silently backwards and forwards on the bench.

There is a high-pitched squawk followed by an almighty clatter and now Krish is lying flat on his back on the floor. For a second, nobody says anything. Krish bites his lip, trying hard not to
make any more noise. His eyes scan the hide from left to right as his skinny legs struggle to unravel themselves. He looks surprisingly like a startled baby bird, just fallen from its nest.

Nana starts laughing first, which makes Krish giggle, and all the people in the hide laugh too. There is a loud flapping of wings as birds take flight. The tears are rolling down our cheeks and
my belly is starting to ache from laughing so hard. Dad helps Krish up off the floor, and we walk down the steps of Bittern Hide together. This time Nana insists that she walks by herself. Somehow,
she looks stronger than when we arrived.

This has been the longest day. I don’t think Nana wants this time in Suffolk ever to be over.

‘No sign of the flycatchers yet then, Josie?’ asks Dan as he helps her into the car.

Nana shakes her head sadly ‘I’m afraid I’ve missed out there, Dan.’

‘I’ll call you when they arrive, should I?’

‘I really would love that,’ Nana sighs, squeezing Dan’s hand.

Dan walks away from the car with his head bowed to the ground. His sad shoulders remind me of Dusty Bird’s.

The journey back to London is peaceful because Laila stays asleep; she likes the motion of the car. I sleep too for some of the way, and so does Nana. I wake first and watch
her. She’s resting her head on my shoulder, but every time the car jolts Nana knocks against my collarbone so I wrap my arm round her to make a cushion for her head.

She wakes up as we arrive in Hampstead. Dad takes a longer route to the hospice so he can drive past Nana’s old house. Maybe he thought she would enjoy seeing the old place again, but when
he stops outside, Nana turns away and stays silent all the way to the hospice. Dad keeps glancing at her through his mirror to check that she’s all right. Her eyes look straight ahead of her,
but I think she’s actually seeing backwards in time. No one speaks, because it feels as if you would invade her thoughts.

A strange buzzing noise vibrates around the car, getting louder and louder. It takes me a while to realize that it’s coming from my back pocket. That’s one of the things I was going
to do this weekend – sort out the ring tone. I flip open my mobile. Nana definitely shoots me her ‘Do we really need that sort of interruption?’ look, but this is my first-ever call so
there’s no way I’m not answering.

‘Hi, Mira, how are you? How’s your nana?’

‘Oh, OK! Millie.’

‘Not her again. She’s in love with you,’ teases Krish.

‘Shut up! No, not you, Millie. It’s just Krish being a pain again.’

He sticks his tongue out at me.

‘Are you still in Suffolk?’ she asks.

‘We came back . . . We’re going to the hospice with Nana . . . We’re in the car right now, so I can’t really talk. I’ll be in school tomorrow.’

Which hospital is it?’

‘It’s not a hospital. I’ll explain tomorrow.’

‘What is it that you can’t say in front of all of us?’ Nana interrupts in her stern, gravelly voice.