‘I did not know that.’
‘My last meal on this earth would be bread and butter made by you. Then I’d die happy. I’m so happy anyway. Without the bread.’
CHOCOLATE CORNFLAKE CAKES
Dove stirs the cornflakes into the chocolate and they soften under the weight of the warmness and wetness.
‘Gimme one of them then?’
‘No, they need to cool down in the fridge first and then I put the chocolate eggs in the nests.’
‘Come on, Dove, I’m going to yoga; I’ll be starving!’
‘Go on, then …’
Warm, melty chocolate on my tongue. The soft, golden flakes dissolving, cracking apart on my tongue, crowning my teeth. Sticky goodness buckling from the golden syrup. ‘You’re not the worst chef in the world; these are AMAZING!’
‘Ah, thanks!’ Dove smiles, smearing chocolate from the wooden spoon onto her cheek.
In yoga I manage to do a headstand for the first time in my life ever. I wasn’t even aware I was doing one and then I basically just was. I pretty much got tricked into doing a headstand and loved it. At school I wasn’t one of those girls that could just flip upside-down in front of a wall. But here I am. Belly out. Boobs by my eyes. Holding one. It must’ve been the power from the chocolate cornflake cake.
I feel the blood flood to my head. I grin with pride.
The yoga teacher winks at me.
I watch myself in the mirror. I am pleased with what I see. A thousand pairs of eyes staring back that aren’t really there … I don’t need to worry or wonder why the world stares at someone like me; they need to worry and wonder why THEY stare at someone like me.
And if I could talk to little me now, I would tell her that she’d matter more to me than anybody will ever matter. Look at you now, Bluebelle. Just look.
MIDNIGHT FEAST
I come home after seeing Max and Cam for enchiladas by the river. The house is a blue moon and still. Dad’s flat cap sits on the banister. I lift it and smell it. Wax. Age. Musk. Familiar. His beaten shoes are by the door; he likes to be barefoot, feel the ground under his feet. I’m glad he’s here.
Dove’s casts are getting really dirty. Covered in tags and glitter and scribbles. The silver brightness of her laptop shines a pale moonbeam glow over the room. I poke my head in her downstairs room … She’s got her eyes closed like she’s sleeping. The screen is playing a wheelchair basketball game.
‘Dove?’ I whisper. ‘Dove, you awake?’
‘Ah. Hi, B.’ She turns. ‘Yeah.’
‘So … I don’t have an apprenticeship at Planet Coffee.’
‘Oh.’
‘Alicia didn’t give it to me.’
‘What a chief.’
‘I know.’
‘What happened?’
‘She’s basically a modern-day crook.’ I shake my head like I’ve been absolutely taken for a mug. ‘She said she’d sort me a job and basically didn’t. She took me for a fool.’ I add, to enhance the drama, ‘But it’s OK, I’m not going to let her incompetence stop me.’
‘So what now then?’
‘Hmmmm … remember before … I said we’d watch Snow White?’
‘Errr … yeah?’ She smiles.
‘I think I just want to do that for now.’
Dove smirks. ‘Well, that sounds ideal. Why don’t you go and get them cornflake cakes; they’ll have set by now.’
I crawl into bed next to her. Elbow to elbow. The plate of wonderful chocolate nests in front of us.
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘let’s not watch Snow White; we’ve seen it hundreds of times.’
Dove looks disappointed. ‘Fine. Are you gonna go up to bed?’
‘No way! Let’s watch your basketball. I want to know all about it …’ And her face goes into a wide smile.
‘Really?’
‘Course.’
‘Well …’ she begins.
CHEESE AND PICKLE SANDWICHES
I hate it when they put raw red onion in these sandwiches. It makes me so livid. It repeats on you all day like some annoying oniony TV jingle.
Dove’s made hers for lunch without onion. Because she’s not insane.
I decide to wear the rainbow kaftan with the black leggings and the pom-pom shoes.
‘You look like a girl I snogged at Glastonbury a LONG time ago.’ Dad sniggers over his morning coffee.
‘Hideous.’ I ignore him, filling a mug with water; my mouth is so dry.
Dad’s eyes glaze over like he’s trying to see her face and relive the moment, a big grin splattered across his dummy face. I’d rather he didn’t. ‘What was her name now … Barbara? No, not Bar— Deborah? No, Donna … Sure it was Barbara, Barbara Glastonbury,’ he establishes like it’s her legitimate surname. ‘Anyway, she was wild, whatever her name was. Yes, you look just like her.’
‘Although I bet she was about ten times thinner.’
‘Hmmm.’ Dad considers it. ‘I was too drunk to remember.’ He leans against the sink, uncrosses his arms. ‘But I know for a fact she wouldn’t have been half as gorgeous.’ He backs the rest of his coffee. ‘Not with these genes!’ We laugh. Dove enters; she is in her school uniform. ‘Speaking of genes, here’s more proof of my talented puddings! Doveling, you ready to fly?’
‘Sort of.’
‘You look smart … I like your hair like that; you look like a wrestler.’ Dad’s never been one for compliments.
Dove knows this only too well and replies, ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘Right, you two ready then? Sure you don’t want me to follow behind?’
‘You’re not our security guard, Dad.’ Dove shakes her head.
Dad puffs his shoulders out and puts on a New York gangster voice, his two swearing fingers in a V shape at his eyes and then on us. ‘You know I’ll be watching you, don’t you?’
We roll our eyes but we can’t help but laugh.
‘B, are you really wearing that?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘It’s my first day back and … well …’
‘Dove, you’re in a wheelchair with your legs in two casts. Do you think anybody is gonna care what I’M wearing?’
‘Actually, I reckon she should wear that. Everyone is going to be SO concerned with Miss Barbara Glastonbury’s terrible outfit they aren’t going to care about Dove!’
Mum comes down. ‘Ahhhhh, you both look brilliant!’ She applauds us.
‘All right, Mum, we’re only walking down the road!’
‘I know, I know but I want to get a photograph of you both.’
‘A photo? No, Mum, why?’ I howl. ‘You see us every day.’
‘I want a photo,’ Dove says, ‘to prove to my kids that I broke both my legs when I was thirteen.’
‘Come on then, let me see if I can ugly myself up a bit so you girls don’t feel intimidated.’ Dad ruffles his hair up, muscling in on the photo, ‘I don’t want you girls to feel a laughing stock next to me, eh?’ His coffee smell is a toasty wave of comfort; his bad jokes seem to warm me from the inside out.
‘No, Bill, I want a photograph of the girls, not you, you big naan bread.’ Mum moves Dad out of the way.
‘You know naan actually means bread so when you order a naan bread at the Indian restaurant you’re basically ordering bread twice?’ Dad smirks cockily.
‘Bread bread.’ I laugh.
‘See? Jokes on you.’ Dad clicks his tongue.
‘Whatever, Bread Bread, I’ve got MORE than enough photos of you. Out the way!’ Mum shoves him now.
‘Do you?’ Dad manages to somehow find flattery in this and stands back, pretending to read the week-old newspaper.
‘That’s it, OK … right, closer, OK … Now, girls, on the count of three say “cheese”!’
‘Ready?’
‘Three. Two. One.’
‘CHEESE!’
Cheesy indeed.
Cheese is delicious. Cheese is mould. I don’t like cheese with blue veins in it.
BLUEBELLE’S
The world is the same, tumbling on as we whoosh by. The shopkeeper waves, the faces stare, smile. Dove is looking at her phone, not even looking up as I pant and sweat behind her, little teardrop beads squeezing out of my head. Hasn’t this gym business paid off yet? My God.
‘Ahhh, look at this message from Lottie, isn’t that cute? Ah, look, Echo liked our picture and Reena, ahhh. They are so cute.’ Dove coos. ‘Ah, and Jordan … and Olivia. Oh … I can’t wait to see everybody.’
‘That’s good. That makes me happy.’
‘Are you nervous to see any of your old school friends? They’ll all be there for sixth form, won’t they?’
‘Yeah, I hadn’t really thought about it actually.’ I had. I can imagine them now. Clucking and screeching. Excited. I am happy for them. They’ll run to Dove; they’ll want to push her around all day. They’ll want to ask her about me. And I know she’ll say nice things about me. Tell them I’m doing well.
‘What is wrong with you? You’re shaking like a leaf,’ Dove says as I fix her hair by the school gates.
‘I’m just nervous … I don’t know.’
‘Why are you nervous? There’s nothing to be worried about,’ Dove reassures me.
And I hold her so tight and she wraps her arms around me and we say goodbye.
‘Good luck.’ I kiss her head.
‘Thanks. Love you.’
‘I love you, and remember, be a firework.’
‘Be a shooting star!’
‘Be a rocket ship!’
‘Be a stick of dynamite!’
‘In real life though be the candles on birthday cakes, the ones that never blow out!’ I pretend to blow candles. ‘Until the icing on the cake is just covered in spit.’
‘Ha! Yeah! Oi, you, be a cannonball!’
‘That I can be!’ I crouch into a ball and Dove cracks up. ‘Drive safely!’ I shout after her. She spins around and whips her wheel up at me, skidding a tyre mark on the ground.
I watch her leaving me, heading towards the crowd. Towards the long hair, the short skirts, the plaits and braids, hijabs, the glasses, balls and singing, the sweets and crisps and snapping of biscuits, the unscrewing of bottle caps, the screaming and hugging and shouting, the hearing aids and braces, the whispering and gossiping, the cussing and hugging and kissing and music and phones and lip gloss and hair gel and unbuttoned shirts and plaster casts, the howling and laughing … and Dove. A confetti-stuffed grenade I’ve had to let go of.
I walk along the high street in my rainbow kaftan and pom-pom shoes. I walk along, past the people, past the faces.
I sit in a coffee shop, one I’ve never been into before. They have a ramp at the entrance but the door is a bit narrow.
Their cakes look all right. I could do better.
Mine will be called ‘Bluebelle’s’. It will serve proper iced coffee and proper coffee, without boobs on top. We will serve real cake with proper icing and a proper crumb that is baked fresh every day. The whole place will smell of sugar and coconut and banana and toffee. We will do meringue angels, Victoria sponge, blueberry loaf and polenta cake. We will serve macaroons and apple pie and proper jam tarts. Moist cupcakes and cookies and brownies that are soft and squidgy. Millionaire’s shortbread EVERYWHERE. We will smile when babies come in and open up the windows and invite the sunshine inside and the breeze and the thunder and the storm and blankets and heaters for when it’s cold. There will be seats outside and a garden, and dogs are allowed. And breastfeeding. And I will write ‘muffins’ in a swirly pen with the ‘f’s joined up. The sandwiches will be stuffed full and delicious, the soup homemade. The Bakewell tart slices will have toasted almonds on top. Not pale soggy fingernail ones. The flapjacks will be soft and full of seeds and nuts. The sugar won’t come in packets. Tea won’t be a ridiculous price, even though I’ll give people a whole pot to themselves and it will always be made with those lovely cotton teabags, unless they like the dregs – people like what they’re used to. The camomile tea: flowers; the bread: freshly baked on site.
This became more than a food diary. But eating is a story of your life, so when people say food is a comfort, they are right in a way; it’s always there with you. It’s always a friend. Your favourite foods travel with you your whole life, taste everything you do. Even if you’re crying over a plate, the plate is still there.
Full of hope.
PISTACHIO ICE CREAM
It’s not a flavour you would choose, I know, but it’s the only flavour ice cream Mum actually likes and she gets it from the Italian near us. She says it’s the ONLY flavour worth having. I get chocolate. It’s dense, rich and sweet.
‘Want to taste mine?’ Mum asks, offering me a lick.
‘No, it’s only because you want some of my chocolate because you’re regretting that green flavour.’
‘No, I’m not, come on, try some …’ She barges the thing in my face.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Come on, this is the year of new things.’
I give her ice cream a lick. It’s green, nutty, almondy and tart. It’s actually delicious.
‘WOW. That’s so nice.’
‘Told you!’ She licks it. ‘Uh-oh, you like pistachio ice cream; you know what that means, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘You’re turning into your mother!’
She laughs.
‘Shut up, you, do you really need to say that before I’m about to get weighed, as if my day isn’t depressing enough as it is?’
‘Do you really need an ice cream before being weighed?’ Mum comments.
I laugh. ‘I do, yeah.’
‘And I love that about you.’ She strokes my hair.
VITAMINS
‘You again!’ The nurse grins when she sees me, her gold tooth glinting.
We are back here, back in her office. Surrounded by the anti-smoking posters and the five-a-day reminders and the various ways to check your boobs for breast cancer. I probably need to start doing that too.
Vitamin adverts are everywhere. I’m sorry. I know you lot probably think they’re all good, don’t you? But I don’t get why you’d not just eat the actual food instead of having a dehydrated powdery tablet version of something good for you, because they didn’t have vitamins in the olden days and my grandma is still alive and she’s, like, nearly a hundred and has properly never had a vitamin in her life. I hate them anyway. Who in their right mind wants to spend the whole day with a pod of fish organs lodged in the back of their throat slowly dissolving? NOT ME. And anyway, I’ve heard that actually the vitamins aren’t even effective once you’ve got them home because all the goodness in them dies on the supermarket shelf, which kind of makes sense … nearly all the healthy good stuff should be served fresh. When you get those little white lines on your nails, is that really actually to tell you that you need more calcium? You should know. And why is it just calcium with the warning sign? Like, why doesn’t your skin get covered in little orange dots if you need more vitamin C or whatever? Maybe you doctors look for those signs and know how to find them – perhaps to you deficiencies are really easy to spot? I find it mad to think about how little we know about the human body.
‘So.’ The nurse sits and stretches her legs; she lets the back of her Crocs slide off her heels, the cracked dry backs of them like elephant skin. ‘What’s been going on?’
‘You can read it all here,’ I say, sliding the beaten-up book towards her. She lowers her glasses, peering over the frames, locking eyes with me.
‘You did it?’ She shakes her head.
‘You didn’t think I would?’
‘I won’t lie. No, I did not.’ She places a hand on the book, the book I’ve written in, a friend. ‘To be honest, Bluebelle Green …’ She raises a brow to Mum. ‘You’ve surprised me.’ She smiles at me. ‘And how did you find it?’
‘It was OK.’
The nurse lifts the diary and begins to flip through the pages. ‘Oh my word.’
‘
What?’
‘I thought you were going to list your food, not –’ she looks again, eyes wide – ‘write a whole … book!’
‘I kind of had a lot to say.’
‘I suppose I have to read it now, don’t I?’ She slaps her leg. ‘I stitched myself up there, didn’t I?’
She won’t read it. As if.
‘OK, let’s get you on the scales.’
‘She had an ice cream on the way here so don’t be too hopeful,’ Mum volunteers. Oh shut up, Mum. THE ABSOLUTE BETRAYAL.
‘And she’s got a boyfriend!’ DOUBLE BETRAYAL. What is going on here?
‘MUM!’ The scales yield underneath me.
‘Ooooooooh! So you’re a happy girl then. See, I told you you have a pretty face.’
‘Surprised you two haven’t been texting, such best friends.’
She winks at me. ‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘I haven’t tried to.’
‘Well done.’ She slaps me on the back.
‘Don’t “well done” me. It wasn’t deliberate.’
‘She’s been exercising.’ Mum strokes my back. ‘Plus, I guess she’s just growing up.’
Mum looks me up and down. I see myself in her; for the first time ever she looks just like me, and me like her. I gulp. I know I have something to tell her …
‘Mum, I didn’t get the apprenticeship at Planet Coffee,’ I tell her.
‘Uh-oh, not again.’ The nurse walks away. ‘Leave me out of this.’
‘Sorry?’ Mum’s face slides off.
‘It didn’t happen.’ I shake my head. ‘Alicia didn’t sort it.’
‘But I thought you said it was all happening? For a year? That you were being paid, that it was all fine with Julian from Careers.’
‘No, they lied. It was fine and then it wasn’t. They said it was too big of an ask of them or whatever and that I had missed a few too many shifts, but that was a bit because of Dove and everything at home.’ Mum looks horrified. ‘And then stupid Alicia started practically making me BEG for this letter to take back to school to explain that it was their fault, not mine, but she was being so nasty about it. She’s also pregnant and in a horrific mood because she’s sick quite a lot and can’t drink white wine like it’s going out of fashion any more. And I wasn’t going to be the brunt of that. So … I quit. I walked out of there and told them to get an accessibility ramp.’ The nurse chuckles at me; Mum does not. ‘And then I maybe stole a jar of marshmallows.’
Big Bones Page 27