Artichoke Hearts (4 page)

Then Nana turns on her heel with her nose in the air and walks as slowly as I’ve ever seen her back to the pavement. Normally Nana’s a bit of a strider. Dad, who is laughing now,
puts his arm round Nana’s shoulders and kisses her on the cheek.

‘Ooooooh! Go, girl, go, girl,’ chants Krish. Moses’ head is bobbing backwards and forwards, rocking with laughter. Jeep Woman looks at Nana like she’s the devil and
quickly clicks her ‘window closing’ button as if Nana’s about to attack her.

‘You’d think
we
were the ones in the armoured vehicle,’ Nana yells after her. ‘Big fat Jeep! Is it really necessary, in the middle of London? Does nobody care
about global warming? Her children will fry.’

Nana’s on a roll.

Now that Charlotte has sorted the parking situation, she’s offering to take us ‘kids’ off Mum’s hands. I watch Moses and Dad ease the casket, which is basically a freshly
painted white box, out of the car and carry it through the gate in the wall. Nana goes to follow them in, but stops short. Mum seems like she doesn’t quite know what to do for the best. She
looks at us, as if she’s asking
us
to decide. Then suddenly Nana takes Krish and me by the shoulders and turns to Charlotte.

‘The thing is it’s Mira’s birthday today, so we’re having a bit of a party, but thanks for the offer.’

Charlotte casts me a ‘poor you’ look but wishes me a happy birthday anyway.

‘Thank you,’ I mumble.

Dad and Moses are carrying the casket into the front room. It’s quite hard for them to balance it, because Moses is much taller than my dad. Moses is walking forward and Dad backwards, so
it seems to dip downhill, forcing its way into his body.

‘Just plonk it in the middle,’ orders Nana, steering them through the room like a traffic controller. It’s not something you can really ‘plonk’ though, is it . . . a
coffin? Nana stands and looks at it for a few minutes as if she’s inspecting a newly delivered piece of furniture.

‘Good,’ she nods. ‘Just what I wanted . . . a blank canvas.’

Moses asks if we can send him a photo when it’s painted, so he can use it in his Eco-Endings catalogue, but, by the looks on their faces, I don’t think Dad or Aunty Abi are very keen
on that idea.

‘I’m sure it could be arranged,’ smiles Nana helpfully.

Moses folds his legs in half, bending his body as low as he can, which is not very low at all. Suddenly his arms are round Nana’s shoulders and he’s hugging her! Nana looks a bit
surprised, but she lets him hold her.

Then he looks her straight in the eye and says in a very serious voice, ‘So, Josie, I wish you a happy ending.’

Nana laughs. ‘That reminds me of something -’

she’s scanning her brain for the exact words – ‘Frida Kahlo said something like that on her deathbed . . .’

Nana loves Frida Kahlo. She’s one of her favourite artists. She goes on and on about her. She wants to take me to her exhibition in June.

‘Now how did Frida put it?’ Nana asks, as if ‘Frida’ is one of Nana’s very best friends, rather than a dead artist. ‘I think it was something like: “I
wish for a joyful exit, and never to return.” I share her sentiments exactly.’

Moses laughs nervously, like he doesn’t know exactly what to say. So he just says goodbye, very slowly shuffling backwards, bowing himself out of the room.

After Moses has left, we all sit around, looking at the coffin.

‘So that’s what the grim reaper looks like!’ Dad mumbles.

‘Who’s the grim reaper?’ Krish asks.

‘Moses,’ moans Dad.

‘Don’t talk such nonsense, Sam! I liked him,’ says Nana.

‘You would! Danish hippy dude. Just your type!’ teases Dad.

‘A bit too young and intense for me.’ Nana giggles like a little girl.

Nana’s coffin sits right in the middle of her front room and stops the conversation.

Nana always used to say ‘casket’ when she was talking about it, but now it’s here, she calls it a ‘coffin’. Somehow a ‘casket’ seems quite light and
friendly, like you could put a picnic in it, or dressing-up clothes . . . but a coffin is just plain grim. I ask Nana why she’s suddenly started calling it a coffin.

‘May as well call a spade a spade, Mira.’ She shrugs.

For a few minutes nobody goes near; nobody touches it.

Then suddenly Krish has lifted the lid and is jumping up and down inside. He moves like that, my brother, like a gecko – now you see him, now you don’t. You can never quite know where
he’s going to pop up next.

‘Krish, what do you think you’re doing? Get out of there!’ Mum spits out the words as if Krish has really done something terrible.

‘I’d rather this, Uma, than the silence.’ Nana sighs, touching Mum on the arm to calm her.

Krish bobs up and down, in and out of the coffin, making jack-in-the-box faces at Laila. She giggles. Each time he peeps over the edge, Laila giggles a bit louder. Usually when Laila laughs it
sets everyone off, but not today.

‘You’re a good boy for entertaining your sister. Our little jack-in-the-box,’ Nana says, tousling his long sandy hair. ‘Don’t let anyone cut this hair – it’s
your crowning glory,’ Nana tells Krish, kissing him on the forehead. Krish grins at Mum. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s annoyed. She’s spent the whole week
trying to persuade Krish to get a haircut!

I was here the day Aunty Abi had to do the research to find the coffin company. It’s called Eco-Endings because they do ‘ecologically friendly’ funerals. That
means they don’t use hard woods that destroy the rainforests. Some people have wicker baskets or grow a tree where they’re buried, that sort of thing. I remember when Aunty Abi called
them they asked her lots of questions on the phone and she told them that Nana was very ill and that she’s an artist and wanted to paint her own coffin. Aunty Abi said the man on the phone,
who was Moses, thought that was fantastic. He said he would quickly knock together a hardboard casket, paint it white and drive it to London himself. Aunty Abi went quiet on the phone after that,
and told him that she’d call back later. Nana was so excited. She wanted to know how long it would take to get here.

‘I haven’t ordered it yet. They need your exact measurements.’ Aunty Abi looked suddenly sad when she said this, as if she had only just realized that it was Nana who had to
fit inside the coffin.

Nana ordered me to go and hunt around for her tape measure. When I’d found it, she got up off the sofa and lay on the floor. Aunty Abi and me just stood and stared. Without saying another
word, Aunty Abi measured Nana from her head to her toes.

‘Write this down . . . five foot,’ said Abi.

‘Five foot what?’ Nana asked.

‘Five foot nothing, Mum,’ whispered Abi, which made Nana laugh, but there was no sign of a smile on Abi’s face.

Next we had to measure across the widest part of Nana’s body, but the truth is, it was quite difficult to find a widest part. Abi told me to write down ‘under one foot’ and
that included quite a bit of extra space.

‘Only
you
could make your daughter and your granddaughter measure you up for your own coffin,’ groaned Abi.

‘Well, someone’s got to do it. Come on, I need to get this thing painted while I’ve still got life left in me. Get on the phone and tell him my vital statistics!’ Nana
bossed Abi along.

So Aunty Abi called Eco-Endings back and asked for Moses. Nana was drinking some water at the time, but when she heard the name ‘Moses’ she burst out laughing, splattering her water
halfway across the room.

Ask him if that’s his real name!’

That set Aunty Abi off laughing, but her laugh was the kind that could just as easily turn to tears at any moment. Nana was still choking on her water when Abi finally calmed down and gave Moses
Nana’s measurements.

‘Five foot . . . No, I’m sorry, you’ll have to convert it yourself. We’re very retro here – we only do feet.’ As Abi listens her eyes fill with tears ‘He
wants to know if we’re sure. Apparently that would be the smallest adult coffin that they’ve ever made. Moses says we should make it a bit bigger, otherwise it might look like a
child’s coffin.’

Nana just shrugged. ‘Suits me.’

And I remember the chill that that thought sent through me . . . a child’s coffin . . . how wrong is that?

Just like Pat Print predicted, the past does come creeping its way in. Ordering that coffin was in the past, but now it’s sitting right here in front of me, in the present. Not much of a
present, is it? There’s nothing funny about it; not even Krish can make us laugh now.

In the silence I can hear the tinny ticking of my new watch as if someone’s turned up the volume . . .
tick
. . .
tick
. . .
tick
. . . it’s as if the coffin is
waiting for Nana to die.

‘Mira, you’re supposed to eat your cake, not sit in it!’ teases Krish, pointing to a brown stain on the back of my new skirt.

I can’t stand any more of this, so I run into the bathroom and lean hard against the door, swivelling my skirt around to inspect the damage. I take it off and rinse it under the tap, but
it doesn’t come out. What does it matter? Everything’s ruined anyway. I slump down on the toilet seat. Then I see it, on my jeans, the same dark stain. I pull down my jeans and there it
is again, not birthday cake, but a brown-coloured bloodstain.

‘Mira!’ calls Nana, knocking on the door. I quickly pull up my jeans, keeping one foot against the door until I’ve done up my zip and button. Then I let her in.

She holds my hand and places her tiny artichoke charm in my palm, closing my fingers around it.

‘I’m sorry this all had to happen on your birthday, but I want to explain something to you. I’ve given you this, Mira, because you’re so special to me . . . how can I
explain? Most people, by the time they get old, have grown themselves tough little shells around their hearts. Babies, like little Laila, start off with tender, loving, trusting hearts, but
gradually, gradually, they learn to protect themselves and, as the years go by, grow tougher and tougher layers. Look at this! The outside layers of an artichoke are so tough they’re not even
worth eating, but they get more and more tender as you come closer to the heart. These tough outer layers stop you feeling so much, so people walk around with hard little hearts that no one can
touch. Of course, there are some people who don’t have a choice – they just never learn to protect themselves . . . now that can be a blessing and a burden.’

All I want is for Nana to stop going on about the charm and let me sort myself out. All I want is for Nana not to notice the bloodstain.

‘What kinds of people don’t have a choice?’ I ask her to try and distract her from my skirt.

‘People who need charms!’ she smiles, kissing my hair. ‘You’ll know them when you meet them. Mira, darling, I am sorry the coffin arrived today – that was bad timing,
I’m afraid – but . . . I wanted to ask you . . . will you help me to paint it?’

I nod.

‘I knew you would,’ she whispers as she lowers my head on to her shoulder.

As soon as I get home I search the bathroom cupboard for the pads I’ve seen Mum store in there. I peel off the strip and stick one into my knickers. Even though
it’s supposed to make me feel grown up, having a period, this actually reminds me of one of Laila’s nappies. It doesn’t hurt, just like Mum told me it wouldn’t, except for
the ache in my belly and the strange rusty taste in my mouth. I suppose I
should
tell Mum, but she’d just make a big fuss of me and try to celebrate or something. I don’t think I
can take any more celebrations, even if it does mean I can get my ears pierced. That’s when Mum said I could (when my periods start), but, just for now, this is one birthday present I’m
going to keep to myself.

We are reflected in the bathroom mirror, Nana and me. I am wearing my birthday skirt.
My
lace is undone, so
I
bend down for a moment to fasten it, but right
next to my shoe there is a tiny circle of blood, about the size of a one-pound coin.

‘What’s this?’
I
ask Nana, but when
I
stand up again she’s not there.
I
run into the front room to look for her, but
the
room is empty; all
the furniture has gone – everything except the coffin.

Nana’s coffin is painted with bright blue waves, leaping dolphins, butterflies and birds; birds everywhere. Right in the corner, peeping out at me, is a little dog that looks like
Piper. When
I
peer closer,
I
can see that the dog has his leg cocked over the corner of the coffin, sprinkling yellow pee across the sea.
I
laugh. Then I see her . . . Nana
Josie, lying in her watery coffin . . . floating . . . her face half covered. I reach for her hand through the icy cold. ‘Nana, wake up, wake up,’
I
whisper, but she doesn’t
open her eyes.
I
try to lift her body, but she slips back under. Then
I
see something moving under her blouse, and I think she is alive after all – that must be her heart beating -
so
I
lift up her top, and thousands of tiny birds fly out.
I
look down at Nana. The coffin is empty, plain wood, no water. A dog yaps wildly, and the painting of Piper jumps off the
coffin and runs out into the garden. Leaves rustle and tiny birds swoop round and round the room.

Now the waves begin to roll on a rough sea. Dolphins surf on the wind, diving down into the deep water. The birds panic, battering their wings against the windowpanes, desperate to be
freed.
I
fling the window wide open and let them escape into the garden. They gather and sway on currents of air, separating and coming together, migrating birds, agreeing their moment to
leave. They are so high now . . . faraway dots in the clouds.
I
stand and watch until the sky is empty.

I
go back into the flat and find Piper’s bright red lead. Out on the Heath I try to walk fast, but people stop me and ask, ‘How is Josie?’ and I say, ‘I think Josie
has flown away,’ but people keep on following me. More and more of them, people with dogs, asking where my nana is, over and over again.
I
try to get away from them, but they follow me
up Parliament Hill, hundreds of people with dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, all kinds of dogs. ‘Where has she gone?’ they ask over and over.
I
start to run.