“You're thinking ‘Great funeral outfit!’” I say.
We both burst out laughing.
The funeral.
The funeral.
The funeral.
Oh God. I don't feel like laughing now. I don't know how I'm going to get through it.
I close my eyes tight and burrow down under the duvet.
“No! Hey, come on, sleepyhead!” Vicky plucks at my covers, pulls my hair, tickles my neck. She's lighter than a cobweb now but it's hopeless trying to ignore her.
“Go away!”
“Don't say that. Think how you'd feel if I really did,” she says. “Aha! That made you wake up, eh! Come on, you want to look good for today, don't you? My big day!”
“Oh, Vicky, I'm dreading it.”
“I'm looking forward to it no end. I hope it's huge, with masses of flowers and lots of weeping and everyone saying I'm wonderful.”
“You're the vainest girl I know. Honestly. Get off the bed then and let me up.”
Mum suddenly barges into my bedroom with a breakfast tray. She's staring at me.
“Jade? Who were you speaking to?”
“I wasn't speaking to anyone.”
“I could hear you from the kitchen.”
“Well, I don't know. Maybe I was dreaming. You know, talking in my sleep.”
Mum puts the breakfast tray in front of me and then sits down on the end of the bed, rather pink in the face. Vicky sits primly beside her, giving her little nudges every now and then.
“Jade, I heard you. You were talking to … Vicky,” Mum says, not looking me in the eyes.
“I must have been dreaming about her.”
“Fibber!” says Vicky.
“I know this is really dreadful for you, love. But maybe once the funeral is over and … and Vicky's at peace—”
“Peace? I'm not going to rest in peace! I'm going to h-a-u-n-t everyone!” says Vicky, shoving the sheet over her head and acting like a cartoon ghost. She looks so funny I can't help laughing.
Mum looks bewildered. Can she see the sheet moving? I bend my head over my breakfast, sniffing, so she'll think I'm sobbing instead.
“I wish I knew what to say to you,” she says. “Anyway. Get that breakfast down. The muesli too. You need something solid in your tummy to see you through the morning.”
The funeral's at eleven. Mum's coming too. And Dad! He's only had a couple of hours' sleep. He looks gray and his hair is sticking up oddly from the way he lay on the pillow, but he insists.
“I've known little Vicky since she was that big,” he says, hand out by his knees. “Of course I'm going to her funeral.”
Dad has always liked Vicky. He's seemed specially fond of her since she got older. Mum's got a lot less fond. In fact the last year she's done nothing but nag me about Vicky, telling me it was time I branched out and made some new friends. She acted like she thought it was a bit too weird to be so close to a best friend.
Mum doesn't really have any real best friends. She chats to the women in our housing development and she had a spell of going line dancing with a crowd from work but that's all. Mum gets on with men much better than with women. I've seen her chatting away, having a little flirt here and there. It's not serious or anything. Well, I don't think it is.
My head's cluttered up with boring daft stuff about my mum and my dad because it's too awful to think about the funeral. Vicky's gone quiet too. She's barely there, in a corner, just standing still and looking round my bedroom, examining some of the little-girly stuff still littering my display shelves: my teddies and my little plastic Belle and Cinderella and Ariel and a handful of Dalmatian puppies and poor Baldy Barbara Ella. There are all my old Flower Fairy books too. We used to dress up in two old ballet dresses with silk scarves for floppy wings and pretend to be Flower Fairies ourselves, pointing our toes and flapping our scarves.
“I'm like a real Flower Fairy now,” Vicky says sadly. She points one toe and effortlessly glides upward and out the window.
I think she's gone to be with her mum and dad. My mum and dad look stiff and awkward, Mum in her navy work suit with her pink silk scarf and a lot of pink lipstick, Dad in his gray pinstripe, which is too tight for him now so that the jacket flap is pulled too far apart at the back, showing his big bum. I don't look much better myself. I wanted to wear my black trousers but Mum wouldn't hear of trousers for a funeral, so I'm wearing a dark gray long skirt I've always hated, with a white blouse and my black jacket. I feel a mess, and yet it seems so petty to fuss about the way I look on a day like this.
We're going to leave at half past ten to give us plenty of time, but then Dad is stuck in the bathroom while Mum and I stand fidgeting in the hall. It's the shift work, it always affects his stomach. Then there are cars blocking our parking space so it takes ages to squeeze out. We end up getting to the crematorium with only a couple of minutes to spare.
It's crowded. So many people are milling about that we all three stand confused, wondering what's happening. Then Mrs. Cambridge comes up, wearing a big-brimmed black hat and a gray suit, looking so elegant I don't even realize who she is for a second.
“There you are, Jade! We've been looking for you everywhere. You missed the rehearsal yesterday.”
Help! Mum's frowning, looking at me. But Mrs. Cambridge has me by the arm and is pushing me through the crowds to the chapel door.
“You're to sit right at the front, with all Vicky's class. We wanted your grade to be involved in the service. We thought you might like to read one of Vicky's essays. We've got it all marked. You go and sit at the front then. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, there's two chairs at the back. I must just go and have a quick word with Mr. Failsworth.”
She dashes off on her black patent high heels.
“Is she a teacher?” says Dad.
“How come you missed the rehearsal?” Mum hisses.
“I didn't feel well. I was in the sick room,” I whisper.
“Ah. Poor love. You should have said,” says Mum. “You always keep everything to yourself, Jade.”
I'm certainly keeping it to myself that I went on a jaunt up to London with the ghost of my best friend.
I can't see Vicky now.
I can see Vicky.
Oh, God, there's her coffin, covered in white lilies. Their sweet sickly smell is as overwhelming as chloroform. I stagger forward to the front row and sit down beside Vicky Two. My Vicky is just a few feet away, lying there in the coffin. I wonder what they've dressed her in. A long white nightie to match the lilies? And maybe more flowers in her hair, and lilies in her clasped hands? I wonder if Mrs. Waters dressed her like a big stiff doll?
“Are you all right, Jade?” Vicky Two whispers anxiously.
“I feel a bit sick.” I slump down in my chair, feeling the sweat on my forehead.
“Swap with me, Vicky Two,” Fatboy Sam whispers. He's rustling in his jacket pocket. When he's beside me, practically squashing me because we're all squeezed in so tight, he manages to pull out a small plastic bag of sandwiches.
“You can't eat in here!”
“I'm not going to, idiot. It's for you. In case you're sick.”
“What about your sandwiches?”
He puts his hand in the bag, but then shakes his head at the impossibility of taking them out in the chapel.
“Be sick on them. It doesn't matter,” he says nobly.
Mrs. Cambridge is peering our way. She edges over, walking delicately in her heels so that their tapping isn't too insistent. I think she's going to tell us off, but she gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.
“You'll be fine, Jade, don't you worry,” she says. “Now, this reading. Shall we get Vicky to do it instead of you?”
I blink at her. Then I realize she means Vicky Two sitting next to me. Vicky Two's OK, but I can't stand the idea of her having anything to do with my Vicky.
“I'll read it,” I say, reaching for the book of Vicky's English essays.
I glance at it. It's very short. Vick
y's essays always are. The only times they were a decent length were when she'd bribed me to write them for her. I got quite good at appropriating Vicky's style and way of expressing herself. I could often write better essays as Vicky than myself.
I haven't seen this one before. I remember the title, though. “Reasons to be Cheerful” … Miss Gilmore in English played us the old Ian Dury song.
Reasons to be cheerful. It seems a weird choice for Vicky's funeral. There's organ music playing, slow solemn stuff. Some of the girls behind me are crying already, though the funeral hasn't properly started yet.
Mr. and Mrs. Waters come in last, with the vicar. Mr. Waters is holding his wife tightly under her arm. She's got a new black designer suit with a short tight skirt and a flowery black-and-white hat. She looks like she's going to a very grim Ascot. Mr. Waters gives me a little nod when he sees me staring, but Mrs. Waters looks straight through me. Maybe she doesn't want to see me. Maybe she can't. Her eyes don't look very focused. Perhaps she's been given some kind of tranquillizer to get her through today.
I feel like I've been drugged myself. None of this seems real. The vicar starts saying something and we all stand and sing “The Lord Is my Shepherd.” I think of the picture of Jesus wearing a long white gown and holding a big crook that used to be in my nan's bedroom. It's got nothing to do with Vicky. Then Mr. Failsworth gets up and starts saying his little piece and it's just like we're all at school. I hate the way he talks, all slow and sincere with an up beat to his voice. I bet he practices in his bathroom mirror at home. I hate what he's saying too, stuff about some stranger called Victoria, a lively dynamic girl, diligent, kind, loyal and hardworking. It's all rubbish. Vicky wriggled out of doing everything, she could be really mean sometimes, she didn't care tuppence about the school, she always said it was an old dump. She said far worse things about Mr. Failsworth. He hardly ever spoke to Vicky but his voice is thickening and he has to swallow every second to get to the end of his mini-sermon.
Then there's another hymn. The vicar is looking at the front pew on the other side. I wonder if Mr. or Mrs. Waters is going to say anything. No, she's staring straight ahead at those awful curtains at the back. Mr. Waters is crying, his face red and shiny. It's Vicky's granddad who gets up and stands at the front, holding a crumpled piece of paper with shaky hands.
“Our Vicky,” he announces, like it's a title. He starts to read this little essay, all slow and stilted, tripping up on some of the words. He's a nice old man and I know Vicky loved her old Grandpops but this is still torture. He's going on about Our Little Vicky as a toddler and all her baby talk and funny little ways. I want to put my hands over my ears. I make little tutting movements with my tongue to distract myself.
“Are you OK?” Fatboy Sam whispers.
I hadn't realized I was making a noise.
“Vicky would have had a right laugh about all this treacly stuff,” Fatboy Sam whispers.
I stare at him in surprise. At least he understands the real Vicky. I've never really taken Sam seriously. No one does. He's just the fat guy who clowns around in class. He's not sad, no one teases him about his weight. But he's never counted as one of the boys. I didn't realize he reckoned Vicky so much.
I give him a little smile.
“You're holding out well, Jade,” he says. “My lunch is still unsullied.”
“So far!” I whisper, because Janice Biggs is playing her Handel party piece on the recorder and when she's finished it will be my turn.
I stand up when Janice stops. I feel a bit wobbly. Sam's hand is on my elbow, steadying me. I nod at him and then walk forward and face everyone. The chapel is packed, with people standing at the back. Vicky's full house. She'll be grinning triumphantly, waving her lilies.
“Reasons to be Cheerful,” I read. It's all so typically Vicky that I do it in her voice. It's almost as if I am her.
“‘Life is fun, one great big roller coaster swoop, right? It's fun to have a laugh with your best friend, it's fun to go out with a boy, it's fun to dance at a party, it's fun to stay up all night at a sleepover, it's fun to turn your music up really, really loud and sing along, it's fun to wind people up, it's fun to go shopping for new clothes with your mum, it's fun to perch on the arm of your dad's chair and twist him round your little finger, it's fun to look at yourself in the mirror and poke your tongue out …
“‘More Reasons to be Cheerful … Life is beautiful. Not just all the nature stuff, blue skies and blossoms and little bunny rabbits. Town things can be beautiful too. I think Lakelands Shopping Centre is seriously beautiful! I think all the big houses up on the hill are beautiful, London is beautiful, New York looks even more beautiful and I can't wait to go there. Travel is definitely beautiful. Holidays too.
“ ‘One last Reason to be Cheerful … Life is short. You don't know how long you've got so make the most of it. Don't waste time moaning. Enjoy yourself!’”
There's such a hush. It's as if they're holding their breath. Everyone's looking at me as if Vicky is hiding behind me, saying the words herself.
I don't go back to school after the funeral. Mr. and Mrs. Waters invite Mum and Dad and me back to their place. I've never been in Vicky's home without her. It's as if all its furniture is missing.
Vicky's relations are standing around awk-wardly, no one really knowing what to do or say. There's masses of food laid out on the table under cloths but Vicky's mother doesn't start serving any of it. She doesn't open the bottles of wine or the sherry. She just stands staring into space. She nods or shakes her head when people talk to her but you can tell she's not listening. Vicky's dad is crying again. Her gran has to take him out the room for a bit.
The conversation dies. People eye the food. It's not lunchtime yet but at least eating would give everyone something to do. I stand stiffly between my mum and dad. No one talks to us. Dad shifts from one foot to the other, yawning. Mum glares at him, scared he'll show us up. She thinks everyone looks down on us because we live in the Oxford Estate.
“I can't help it. I haven't had any proper sleep,” Dad whispers.
His face is shiny and he's got sleepy dust in his eyes. Mum sighs, and raises her eyebrows when he gives another great yawn showing all his fillings, but they can't start a row here.
Then Vicky's gran bustles back and approaches Vicky's mum.
“I've put the kettle on, dear. I think we could all do with a cup of tea. And why don't we make a start on the food?”
It's as if she's switched on a light. Everyone jerks into action and makes for the table and hands round plates of food. Vicky's dad comes back, damp and red-eyed, bringing cans of beer from the fridge.
“There's wine,” says Vicky's mum.
“Yes, but this is for the lads.”
“So you want to have a drink-up at our Vicky's funeral?” says Vicky's mum, her voice so loud it silences everyone else.
It looks like they're the ones about to have the row. Vicky's mum looks round and sees everyone staring. Her mouth works as if she might be swearing but then her eyes fill with tears and she walks out into the kitchen.
“Oh dear,” says Vicky's gran. She looks round helplessly. Vicky's dad shakes his head. They decide not to go after her. It's awkward, because the tea hasn't yet been made. They have to go without for the moment. Sandwiches and sausage rolls are very dry without anything to wash them down. Vicky's gran walks toward the kitchen but then thinks better of it. She looks at me.
“You pop in and make the tea, Jade, there's a good girl.”
“I can't! Vicky's mum …”
I'm the last person in the world she'll want to see. But my own mum is giving me a prod.
“Go on, Jade, make yourself useful.”
“But, Mum—”
Mum leans toward me.
“Don't let me down in front of everyone,” she whispers.
So I have to. I edge into the kitchen. I'm scared Vicky's mum will be slitting her wrists with the carving knife—or maybe aiming it straight at me. But
she's standing at the food cupboard dipping her finger in the brown sugar packet and licking it compulsively. I watch her. Dip and lick. Dip and lick. Then she senses I'm there and whips round, nearly sending the sugar flying.
“I'm not …” She struggles to explain.
“I know. That's what Vicky does.”
“I've told her off enough times. It's not hygienic, licking her finger like that and then sticking it straight in the sugar. But she never listens to me, the naughty girl.”
“She does that with the honey too.”
“Terrible sweet tooth, my Vicky. Yet she hasn't got a filling in her head. She's lucky that way.”
“I know. I've got heaps of fillings.”
“Teeth. Do they … stay?” she says. “Or do you think they … ?” She waves her hand, unable to say the word “burn.”
We both wince at the thought of what happens behind those curtains in the crematorium.
“I didn't know what to do about her hair. I love our Vicky's hair. She sits on the sofa in front of me when she watches television, leaning against my knees, and I brush her hair. She likes it, she gives little wriggles—”
“Like a cat.”
“That's it. So I couldn't stand the thought of all her lovely hair going. I took the scissors to the undertaker. I was going to cut off a big lock but I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave my darling looking lopsided. I wanted her to look perfect.” She's kneading the sugar bag, squeezing it hard. “She's still here, you know,” she says. “You'll probably think I'm mad—Charlie does—the doctor says it's only natural but he thinks I've gone off my head too—but I see her, Jade.”
“I know,” I say. “I do too.”
She stares. “You see her?”
“Yes. And she talks to me.”
“She talks?” she repeats. Her face tightens. “She doesn't talk to me. Why doesn't she talk to me?”
This is crazy. We're still arguing about Vicky even now she's dead. It's always been the same. Mrs. Waters always wanted Vicky to come round the shops with her, go on visits to her gran and granddad, go to makeup parties, do all these Mumsie-Daughter things together. Vicky would nearly always wriggle out of it and hang out with me. Mrs. Waters never blamed Vicky. She always blamed me.
Vicky Angel Page 5