43
It’s Boxing Day. Amber is round at Carl’s house. Mam and Spike, in matching onesies, are passed out on the settee, crumpled paper hats perched wonkily on their heads. In front of them on the coffee table are the remains of lunch – turkey sandwiches, Pringles, pickled onions and mince pies. Tia is sitting cross-legged on the floor watching Brave on DVD, a pair of glittery fairy wings on her back. The living room is still a mess from yesterday, wrapping paper and pulled crackers strewn all over the carpet, and dirty glasses and bowls of crisp crumbs dotted on every surface.
It was an all right day in the end. It turns out Spike is half decent in the kitchen, so he took care of Christmas dinner while Amber and Tia made a huge raspberry trifle for dessert. The jelly layer hadn’t set properly so it was a bit runny, but it still tasted nice. Mam was in a good mood and even agreed to a game of Tia’s Junior Monopoly after lunch (we let Tia win). In the evening Auntie Kerry and her boyfriend and a few mates of Spike’s came over. One of them brought his ukulele with him and played loads of Christmas songs on it, Spike joining in by drumming on the coffee table. We all joined in the choruses and Mam sang so loudly she lost her voice. When we did ‘The Fairytale of New York’ I thought of being in the Mermaid Inn in Tripton with David. It feels like years ago. Whenever I think of Tripton now, it’s this stuff – winning at the bingo, splashing around in the freezing cold sea, holding back David’s hair as he threw up in the en suite of the B&B – that pops into my head. The other bits, the bad stuff with my dad, I keep buried. Jenny reckons I need to work through it. And I will. But for now, I just want to forget him and move on.
The letterbox rattles. I glance at Mam and Spike but they’re comatose. I sigh and heave myself out of the armchair.
It’s Kate, bundled up under loads of layers. She’s wearing make-up and I can see her wig peeking out from beneath her green bobble hat.
‘Hey, someone cut the grass,’ she says, gesturing at the lawn behind her.
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘Spike and a couple of his mates did it the other week. Took them the whole day.’
‘Looks good.’
‘Yeah. We’ve got an actual front path again.’
‘I almost forgot, Merry Christmas,’ she says, doing jazz hands.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I reply.’ ‘You, er, want to come in or something?’
‘Best not, everyone’s waiting,’ she says. Over her shoulder I can see her mum and dad and Livvy in the car. They wave. I raise my hand in greeting back.
‘So, how’s your Christmas been?’ I ask.
‘Weird but good. We told my gran yesterday.’
‘Wow. And? How’d she react?’
‘Um, OK, I think. Shocked. I’m pretty sure she almost choked on her Christmas pudding. She clearly thinks it’s a phase but, hey, she hasn’t disowned me yet so that’s something, right?’
I nod and laugh.
‘Oh, and guess what else?’
‘What?’
‘My referral to the clinic in London was accepted. The letter came on Christmas Eve, would you believe.’
‘That’s wicked news,’ I say. And I mean it.
‘I know,’ Kate says, beaming. ‘It still might be another three months before I get an appointment, but it’s a step in the right direction. I feel like things are finally happening, you know?’
‘Definitely.’
‘And we’ve got an appointment to see Mr Toolan in the new year, to maybe talk about me coming to school in role, maybe even as early as Easter.’
‘Wow.’
‘I know, right? So far so terrifying.’
She’s grinning ear-to-ear though.
‘Anyway, the real reason I’m here is to drop this off,’ she says, reaching inside her coat and pulling out a slim package wrapped in silver paper. She thrusts it into my hands.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Duh. What do you think it is? It’s a Christmas present.’
‘But I don’t have anything for you.’
‘That’s OK. It’s only small. Well, aren’t you going to open it?’
‘You want me to open it now?’
She nods.
I rip off the paper to reveal a paperback book. I turn it over and study the front cover.
‘Alan Turing: The Enigma,’ I read aloud.
‘He was a really amazing mathematician apparently,’ Kate says. ‘He cracked codes during the Second World War and then went mad.’
‘I think I’ve heard of him,’ I say, flicking through the pages.
‘It got loads of good reviews on Amazon,’ she adds.
‘It’s great, thank you,’ I say, closing it.
‘You’re not just saying that? I was worried it might be a bit boring.’
‘Nah, it looks brilliant.’
She smiles and relaxes back on her heels.
‘What about you? How’s your Christmas been?’ she asks.
I glance behind me, at the scene of relative peace in the lounge.
‘It’s been … OK actually.’
‘Have you heard from Alicia?’
‘No. I think that ship has definitely sailed,’ I say, smiling tightly.
There’s a sudden gust of cold wind. I zip up my hoodie all the way to my chin.
‘For what it’s worth, she’s really missing out,’ Kate says, not quite looking me in the eye.
‘Yeah, well, that’s life I guess. You don’t always get what you want.’
‘You can say that again,’ she says.
Her dad beeps the car horn.
‘I’d better go. We’re going to see The Nutcracker at the theatre tonight. Family Boxing Day tradition.’
‘Nice. Enjoy it.’
‘Blokes in tights! What’s not to enjoy?’ Kate quips.
‘Thanks again for the present,’ I say, clearing my throat and holding the book up. ‘I might read some tonight.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ she replies. ‘So, see you next year?’
‘God yeah, see you next year.’
‘Harry’s going to have it in for us big time, I bet.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. What’s he going to do though? Realistically?’
It turns out the snow machine failure was the very least of Harry’s problems on the night of the ball. After a massive overspend on the budget, poor attendance has left the ball planning committee in debt to the school. Not that any of this was our fault directly, but I have no doubt Harry is going to find a way to place the blame on us. It was worth it though. One hundred per cent.
We stand there for a moment, smiling, not really needing to say anything.
Kate’s dad beeps the horn once more.
‘You better go,’ I say.
‘Yeah, you’re right.’
She hugs me hard, before dashing down the path.
I stand on the doorstep in my socks and watch as the car disappears down Sycamore Gardens.
About an hour later, just as it’s getting dark, it begins to snow. Mam and Spike have headed out to the pub for the night, and Amber is still round at Carl’s, so it’s just me and Tia at home.
As soon as she sees the snow she goes mental, tearing around the lounge and begging me to come out into the back yard and make a snowman with her.
‘There’s not enough snow for that,’ I tell her.
‘Snowballs then!’ she says.
In the end I watch from the doorway. Not enough snow has fallen yet to scrape up a decent snowball, so after a few failed tries Tia just stands there instead, her arms outstretched and her head lifted up to the sky, trying to catch snowflakes in her sticky little open mouth.
‘Get your coat at least,’ I call after her. But she doesn’t listen. It’s like the snow has put a spell on her.
I quickly get cold just standing there watching, so I pull the door to and go back inside. But Tia’s outside for another ten minutes, just in her crocs, jeans, T-shirt and fairy wings. When she eventually comes in, her face is bright red and her teeth are chattering. Whe
n I touch her hands, they’re like ice-blocks, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. Sometimes I do wonder if Tia is wired up right. I make her some cocoa and leave her curled up on the sofa watching Beauty and the Beast, an old picnic blanket draped over her tiny body.
I head upstairs and sit up on Amber’s bunk where I watch the snow fall through the window, the flakes getting increasingly fat, settling fast. As I’m watching them fall, faster and faster still, I get this weird feeling, sort of like déjà vu, of being in the snow with Jimmy, when I was really, really tiny. Of course I now know this is impossible; just my mind playing tricks on me. In the past I would have tried to cling to this thing that may or may not be a memory, but tonight I let it dissolve into nothingness, just like the snowflakes on Tia’s tongue.
As I look out of the window, if I blur my eyes a bit, I can imagine that I’m not in Cloverdale at all – but somewhere far, far away instead. It’s funny how snow changes that, takes everything ugly and grey – the dustbins and piles of rubbish and rusty cars – and hides them all under a sparkling white blanket. It won’t last. By tomorrow night the snow will have turned slushy and stained. But for tonight, with not a soul in sight, it’s perfect. I push open the window a crack and listen to the absolute stillness. I shimmy down the bed so I’m lying on my back, and all I can see is the sky, the falling snowflakes lit up in orange by the street lamp outside the window.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying there like that, when I hear someone knocking at the door. It’ll be Mam I expect, having forgotten her keys. Or belated carol singers out for a few quid.
I sit up and listen as Tia opens the letterbox and calls, ‘What do you want?’
A few seconds later she yells my name up the stairs. I climb down the ladder.
‘It’s for you,’ Tia says, blinking up at me from the hallway, her fairy wings all crooked from where she’s been lying on the settee.
‘I gathered that,’ I say impatiently. ‘Who is it?’
She just shrugs and wanders back into the living room.
I pad down the stairs. Behind the glass of the front door, there’s a shadowy figure. I open it.
It’s Alicia. She’s wearing a purple coat and fluffy white earmuffs. There’s snow on her shoulders and in her hair. I stare at her. I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open.
She takes a deep breath.
‘I want you to know it wasn’t me,’ she blurts. ‘I didn’t tell a soul about what you told me, I wouldn’t have. But then Becky went digging on the internet and blabbed. She’s not my favourite person right now, if that’s any consolation. Look, what I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry. For everything, but mostly for taking so long to say so.’
She says all this quickly, her eyes wide and startled, as if she’s surprised she wound up on my doorstep in the first place.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I should have told you from the start, I shouldn’t have let things go that far.’
She puts her finger to my lips to silence me and looks into my eyes.
‘Leo, can I ask you something?’
I nod.
‘Can we please forget about all that and, I don’t know, start again?’
‘Start again?’
‘As friends.’
‘Friends,’ I repeat.
She holds out her hand and takes another deep breath.
‘Hi. I’m Alicia Baker. Nice to meet you.’
I hesitate before taking her hand in mine and shaking it.
‘And I’m Leo, Leo Denton.’
She breaks into a smile. That smile.
‘Merry Christmas, Leo Denton.’
Acknowledgements
A huge thank you to everyone and anyone who supported me during the writing of this book, but especially:
Bella Pearson, for not only being an incredible editor, but for having faith in me from the very start. I couldn’t have got there without you.
The entire team at David Fickling Books, including but not limited to, David Fickling for his invaluable editorial input, wise words and warm welcome into the fold, Linda Sargent for her fantastic notes, Phil Earle for making me feel like a bit of a superstar, and Rosie Fickling for answering my endless questions! I consider myself very privileged to be a DFB author.
Alice Todd, for coming up with the perfect cover. And Ness Wood at DFB for finding her!
Margaret Ferguson at Farrar, Straus and Giroux in New York for her wonderfully thoughtful editorial notes and for keeping my wandering timeline in check! I’m so excited to work with you further.
My hands-down amazing agent, Catherine Clarke, for making me feel I’m in safe hands every step of the way.
Imogen Cooper and the fantastic team at The Golden Egg Academy for being exactly what I needed at exactly the right time. I am very proud to call myself an ‘egger’.
The lovely folk at Curtis Brown Creative (CBC), especially Anna Davis and Chris Wakling, for spotting my potential and gently suggesting I should try writing for young adults (light bulb moment!).
Each and every one of my fellow CBC classmates, especially the Monday night crew – Paul Golden, James Hall, Michael Hines, Dan MacDonald, Fiona Perrin, Christina Pishiris, Maria Realf and Sara-Mae Tuson. An extra shout-out to Fiona for ‘lending’ me her daughters and their mates for an afternoon’s crash course in all things ‘teenage’. Chloe Atkinson, Elyse Emanuel, Sienna Emanuel, Jacob Grosvenor-Brown, Bryony Ingram, Lewis Lehrfreund, Georgina Martin, Will Murray, Alex Pritchard, Lizzi Shearing, Kat Smith and Will Taylor – thank you for educating me so brilliantly!
Jake Dorothy and Stef Williams for inviting me into their homes and being so generous, candid and honest. Your input was vital.
The magnificent Gender Identity Development Service team at The Tavistock Centre, past and present but especially Polly Carmichael, Sarah Davidson, Domenico de Ceglie, Keyur Joshi and Elin Skagerberg.
Nikki Gibbard, Winnie Tang, Katherine Watson and David Whitfield (aka the besties) for being generally awesome. An extra special bow-down to Nikki for being my head-cheerleader from the very beginning – it meant a lot then and even more now. Much love to you all.
My family for not totally freaking out when I announced, after ten years as an actor, I was planning to give the equally stable career of writing a go! Your quiet pride in me means so much and ensures my feet stay firmly on the ground.
The following lovely people for helping shape the book in ways big and small (but all important!); Gregory Ashton/Lesley Ross, Chloe Austin, Andrew Clarke, Barry Cunningham, Julia Green, Lisa Heathfield, Jill McLay and Anna Ramberg. You are all brilliant!
And finally thank you to Matt for his patience, superiority on all things SPAG and all-round good energy. I’m so glad to be sharing this adventure with you.
Lisa Williamson – Biography
Lisa was born in Nottingham in 1980. She spent most of her childhood drawing, daydreaming and making up stories in her head (but never getting round to writing them down). As a teenager she was bitten by the acting bug and at 19 moved to London to study drama at university.
Following graduation, Lisa adopted the stage name of Lisa Cassidy and spent several happy and chaotic years occasionally getting paid to pretend to be other people. Between acting roles she worked as an office temp and started making up stories all over again, only this time she had a go at writing them down. One such job was at The Gender Identity Development Service – a specialist NHS service for young people struggling with their gender identity. The stories Lisa heard inspired her to create a fictional teenage character exploring these issues.
Lisa lives near Hampstead Heath with her boyfriend, Matt, where she is lucky enough to split her time between writing and acting. In her spare time she reads a lot of books, continues to daydream and eats way too much ice cream.
The Siobhan Dowd Trust
- A Swift Pure Cry for YOUR Help -
To bring the Joy of Reading to the children who need it most.
Siobhan Dowd was a stagge
ringly talented writer, and a very special and warm-hearted human being. After a life spent in the service of writers and readers of all nations she began to write for young people. To the wonderment and acclaim of the whole world, she delivered four quite extraordinary novels for children in as many years. Tragically, right at the height of her powers, she passed away from cancer in August 2007.
Just days before her death, she summoned all her cancer-depleted energies for one last great act: to set up the Siobhan Dowd Trust. Its purpose: to bring the joy! the fun! the delight! of reading and stories to children who have no access to books, especially children in care and other unfairly disadvantaged young people.
By the terms of Siobhan’s will, all royalty income derived from her four published novels and any posthumously published work goes to the Trust:
A Swift Pure Cry (2006)
The London Eye Mystery (2007)
Bog Child (2008)
Solace of the Road (2009)
And if by some chance you haven’t read her books yet, then we recommend each one as an astonishing piece of writing in its own right. But the trustees believe that Siobhan’s generosity should be, and can be, the seed for something much larger and more important. Siobhan realised how important our literary society was to us all, and that our literary culture – writers, critics, booksellers, agents, publishers, librarians, teachers – depends ultimately on the reader. And amongst readers, the young reader is the most vulnerable. And amongst young readers, the disadvantaged young reader is the most deprived of all. Siobhan, at the last, and with all her usual clarity, decided to help them. You can help them too.
Please send donations to:
The Siobhan Dowd Trust
[email protected]
And to find out more visit www.siobhandowdtrust.com
Also, if you’re on Twitter: @sdowdtrust
Copyright
The Art of Being Normal Page 27