Margot & Me

by Juno Dawson

  ‘No. I don’t want people feeling sorry for me.’

  ‘Your classmates won’t see the letter, will they?’

  ‘Yeah, but if don’t hand in any homework, they’ll ask why.’

  Mum shrugs. ‘Fine, better get on with it then.’

  I hate having to go back to school. I’m terrified to leave Mum with Margot in case something happens while I’m away. It seems so pointless being at school when I should be spending as much time as possible with Mum. Every time I think about what’s going to happen, a different physical reaction hits me: sometimes I can’t breathe; I get stabbing pains in my chest; my palms sweat; I feel nauseous. If I cling on to her, with all ten fingers, she can’t go.

  I can’t imagine her not being here. It makes as much sense as trying to imagine what it’d be like to be a stapler or something. At the moment it feels a lot like trying to breathe underwater. I can only hold my breath for so long. I don’t know what’ll happen when I can’t any more.

  ‘How was your holiday?’ Danny asks as we sit on a bench near the water fountain before registration. ‘Sucks you were ill.’ I momentarily forget I told him I was sick last Friday.

  ‘It wasn’t too bad,’ I lie. ‘How was yours? Did you meet James Off The Internet?’

  ‘No,’ he says with a pout. ‘He couldn’t afford the train fare to Leeds.’ Danny spent some of the holidays with his family up north while Bronwyn was on a silent retreat with her father.

  ‘Oh, that sucks.’

  ‘I know. I’d got myself all fired up. We’ve spoken since, but if I wanted a pen pal I’d write to a prisoner, you know what I mean?’ I give his arm a friendly rub. ‘Oh, I don’t wanna talk about it,’ he says, turning to Bronwyn. ‘How was the retreat?’

  ‘We retreated from the retreat,’ Bronwyn says with a smile while devouring a banana. ‘Dad lasted a day and a half. I knew there was no way he could stay silent for five days!’

  ‘So where did you end up?’ Danny asks.

  ‘We went to a caravan park in Tenby. It was pretty cool. We played Monopoly and Trivial Pursuit all week. And talked. A lot.’

  I almost tell them about Mum. It’s right on the tip of my tongue, but I know that if I open a floodgate I won’t be able to shoulder it shut. It’s some relief just to be with them again. I try to take strength from that.

  I try to focus in first-period textiles but I hardly hear a word Mrs Blackwood is saying. We’re supposed to be designing accessories based on the work of existing artists. I opted for a range of Lichtenstein cushions, thinking it’d be easy, but looking around, I see half the class has had exactly the same idea. I knew I should have picked Dali.

  Instead I stare out of the window, watching a fat spider with almost tiger-like markings in her web. A daddy-long-longs is tangled up, struggling to fly free. Give it up, I think. The struggle only makes it worse. Sure enough, the spider just watches and waits for her prey to tire before she moves in for the kill. I think of Mum and her five years of fighting. Would it be easier if she had just lain down and let death take her?

  I don’t even realise I’m crying until a tear plops onto my coursework and the ink turns into a black cloud. I screw my eyes shut. I can’t break down in class.

  ‘Fliss.’ Mrs Blackwood looms over my desk. I wonder how long she’s been standing there. She’s a tall, angular woman with a badger stripe in her hair and dresses straight out of the eighties – all shoulder pads and elastic belts. ‘Can I see your homework, please?’

  ‘Oh. Sure.’

  I open up my A3 portfolio folder and display my Lichtenstein mood board. I made a special trip to the library to photocopy images of pop art as inspiration. ‘Is this it?’ she asks. That phrase is never good. No one ever looked at something amazing and said, Is this it?

  ‘Erm … yes.’

  ‘Fliss, you had a whole week and this is what you managed to produce?’

  ‘I’m sorry … I –’ I can’t think of a good lie quickly and I don’t want to tell her the truth.

  She interrupts. ‘Where are the fabric samples? The market research? Initial sketches? Fliss, this coursework counts towards your final grade.’

  ‘I know, it’s just that—’

  ‘This is an embarrassment. I don’t know how you dare hand this in, to be honest.’

  ‘Because I don’t care!’ The words are out of my mouth before my brain filter kicks in. ‘I just don’t care!’

  Her mouth hangs open. The rest of the class falls gravely silent. I grab the coursework out of her hands, scrunch it up and slam-dunk it in the bin as I flee from the classroom. I don’t wait for whatever token punishment she has to dole out; I just need to be out of there before I erupt and everyone sees. No one follows me – because I have no friends, I think, full of misery.

  My feet guide me in the direction of the library, like I’m on autopilot. There’s still about half of the lesson left and I have nowhere else to go. I race down the stairs and punch through the doors. Sometimes there are English or drama lessons in here, but it seems deserted now, thank God. I flop down onto a beanbag in the corner, draw my knees under my chin and breathe for the first time in about three minutes.

  What the hell did I just do? I screamed at a teacher. Total exorcist moment. Jesus. I cover my mouth with my hands and try to force the room to stop spinning. I can feel the adrenaline zooming through my veins. I need everything to freeze-frame, just for a second, while I reboot.

  ‘Fliss?’ Thom emerges from his little office. He’s the only thing making being at school even slightly worthwhile. ‘Are you OK?’ He leaves his pile of books on his desk and heads over.

  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just shake my head.

  ‘What’s wrong? It’s not Megan Jones again, is it?’

  ‘No. No, it’s not her.’

  He pulls another beanbag over and sits next to me. ‘Then what is it? Why aren’t you in class?’

  I look into his eyes and feel better already. ‘I screamed at Mrs Blackwood and threw my coursework in the bin.’

  ‘You did what?’ He’s shocked but can’t keep a little smirk off his lips.

  I somehow manage to laugh and cry at the same time. I sound like a dolphin.

  ‘Fliss, what’s up? I won’t tell anyone, I promise.’

  This time the words do make the dive. ‘My mum,’ I say. ‘My mum’s dying.’ His eyes widen and I break properly. It all pours out in a gross gush. I hide my face with my hands, trying to make the sobbing as silent as possible.

  ‘Oh my God, Fliss. How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Five years.’

  He wraps a strong arm around my shoulder and pulls me in. I wish I could be absorbed into him. ‘Jesus, why didn’t you say something?’

  I wipe my eyes on a sleeve. ‘Because I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, that’s why.’

  He reaches into his pocket and produces a tissue. ‘It’s clean.’ As daintily as I can I wipe my nose. ‘Fliss, this is a huge thing. Is it cancer?’ I nod. ‘And it’s terminal?’ I nod again. ‘Man, I’m so sorry. You’re insane if you think you can go through this by yourself. Do Danny and Bronwyn know?’

  ‘No. No one does. It turns out that’s why we came here. So I can get to know my grandma before my mum dies.’

  ‘Oh, Fliss. Awful question, I know, but how long does she have?’

  I shrug and swallow back more tears. ‘I don’t know. Six months. Maybe less.’

  ‘Fliss, you need help. No one, none of us, could cope with this alone.’ I nod again. ‘All this time and you never said.’

  It doesn’t matter that I’ve only just been told. I should have known. She’s my mum. These thoughts are skittering madly round my head. ‘If you say something out loud it makes it real,’ I say, but it sounds so airheaded.

  ‘Hoping something will go away if you ignore it for long enough never works …’ He reaches over and wipes a tear from my cheekbone.

  Is he talking about us? Does he mean his feelings
for me? He’s touching my face for God’s sake. I knew it. He’s in love with me too.

  I know what will make everything better. I lean in and kiss him on the lips. His jaw is rough like sandpaper, but his mouth is warm and soft. I cup his face with my hand and it feels like I’m floating.

  I get all of that in the split second before he recoils in horror. ‘Fliss! What are you doing?’ He springs up off his beanbag.

  My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

  He pulls out a regular seat and sits on it, rubbing his face with his palms. ‘Fliss, I’m so sorry, but you’ve got the wrong end of the stick … I’m engaged to Miss Crabtree … and you’re … you’re a pupil.’

  The word ‘pupil’ makes me feel about ten. Also Miss Crabtree? Really? She’s so plain.

  ‘I was just … trying to be nice, Fliss. I want to help, I really do, but I can’t do … that. It’s … well, illegal.’

  Oh God, no. What have I done? New tears burn my eyeballs. My mouth is dry. ‘I … I …’ Everything I touch turns to crap.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fliss. I’m sorry if I’ve in any way made you think—’

  ‘No,’ I say finally. ‘It’s my fault.’

  I get to my feet and grab my bag.

  ‘Fliss, wait. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘I have to go,’ I say, and walk away, eyes fixed on the floor. I don’t look back. I can never look back. I can’t be here any more. I have to be far, far away. Out of this fucking town – and I never say that word because it’s common. I’m leaving. I’m leaving right now.

  Chapter 29

  The good thing about being in Llanmarion is that there’s nothing to spend money on but my allowance has been going into my account every month. I have a Solo card and I know how to use it.

  I head for the station, stopping only to withdraw enough money to buy a train ticket and some food for the journey. Llanmarion isn’t on a train line, so I take the bus to the next town and wait. The station is a squat, sandstone building, blackened with soot or whatever. It’s all very Railway Children.

  I don’t know exactly where I’m heading, but London feels like a good start. I’ll either go to Tiggy’s or Marina’s or change at Victoria for my uncle’s house in Kent.

  As long as it’s not here, I don’t care. How can I possibly go back after what just happened in the library. It replays in my mind’s eye and my skin crawls all over again. You stupid little idiot. I’m angry that he didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend (and Miss Crabtree … really?) but mostly just mortified. I can’t ever go back.

  ‘Where are you going, pet?’ says the woman in the ticket office.

  ‘London, please.’

  ‘Return?’

  ‘One-way.’ I hand her the money and she slides just one orange card under the window. I realise I have no clothes, but Tiggy and I are about the same size and, although she’s weirdly protective of her stuff, I’m sure she’ll understand I’m in dire need.

  I walk through onto Platform 1 and see there’s a Cardiff service in eleven minutes. I sit on a peeling red metal bench and wait. It’s a weirdly still day, hardly any breeze at all. I can just slip away. No one will even know I’m gone. There’s a couple of other people waiting for the train, but they totally ignore me, even though I’m in uniform.

  The train arrives with a sweaty hiss and it’s a sad local service, more like a bus on rails than a proper train. I take a quick look back over my shoulder and, oddly calm, I get on.

  One stop later, I get off.

  What the hell was I thinking? That I’m going to run away and live in Tiggy’s spare room? As if! That’s almost as embarrassing as snogging a librarian. I stand on the platform, scowling and letting the crazy seep out through my feet. I shake it off.

  I’m not leaving Mum. I won’t. Running away would be the easy option. I could hide from everything. But that wouldn’t make it stop.

  I cross the railway bridge to the opposite platform and wait for the next train back.

  I go into the forest like I’m Maria von Trapp or something. Oh no, wait, that was the hills. Same difference. I don’t know what else to do.

  I can’t face home. I can’t face school. So I wander in the woods.

  I keep my head down, avoiding the gaze of dog walkers. My coat doesn’t entirely cover my uniform, so it’s pretty obvious that I should be at school, but no one says anything.

  It’s a proper winter day: cold and crisp, but with white linen sunshine. Luckily I’ve got my scarf and gloves. I follow the path alongside the stream. The urge to jump into the icy water and let it rinse all the toxic crap away is strong. It’d probably kill me in the process, but right now I’d almost welcome a big black nothingness. It sounds pretty peaceful.

  I find a narrow section of the stream and start to build a little dam with pebbles. I don’t know how long it takes, but it goes some way to blocking out the voices in my head. One voice, a chirpier version of my own, keeps telling me that Mum will be FINE. That sometimes good things happen to good people and she might undergo a miraculous recovery, astounding doctors and experts alike. Mum could go on Oprah, who’d give us (and the entire audience) a free car.

  Another black, murky voice – a demonic cross between Margot and Megan Jones – tells me to get real, that she’ll be dead in a matter of weeks and I might as well deal with it.

  In a way, they’re equally horrible. One offers hope, the other reminds me hope is the cruellest taunt of them all.

  I’m going to be an orphan. An orphan. Like Oliver or Annie. How? As if that actually happens in real life.

  I can’t live without Mum. I never have done. I don’t ever want to. It’s always been me and her. We never did the church thing; she never tried to make me believe in a god, so I don’t think she’s off to hang out on a cloud with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe, and neither does she.

  I wonder what death is like. Like, when you’re asleep, I think on some level you know you’re asleep, even if you don’t remember your dreams. For a minute I try to imagine death, but trying to be aware of a total lack of awareness messes with my head, so I focus on blocking the stream.

  A pool starts to fill on the other side. My dam is working.

  I pull the whole thing down and the water gushes through, flowing as normal.

  Fliss …

  I look over my shoulder. Once again the stream sounds like it’s whispering my name. I swear I’m not imagining it. I screw my eyes shut and try to block out the wind rustling through the trees and the birds twittering.

  Felicityfe‌licityfelicity …

  I’m suddenly freezing cold. The waterfall is just uphill, it’s just the water, but it sounds so like my name.

  Fliss …

  This time, it’s clearer. Stranger still, the voice reminds me of Mum. It reminds me of the time I went to see her in hospital after her hysterectomy. She was so woozy, but opened her eyes just long enough to smile dreamily, take my hand and say my name. At the time I had a feeling that she could have died, but came back especially for me. I was the reason to fight.

  ‘Mum?’

  Fliss …

  I spring to my feet.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  I should be with her.

  She’s calling to me.

  I know these woods now; their subtle differences; the weird tree faces and log landmarks and chaotic paths. In no time at all, I’m at the back gate to the rose garden.

  I can’t believe the sun is dipping into the hills already. It’s the colour of pink grapefruit, and very pretty, but it has got so late so fast. Those woods are a time zone of their own, I swear. I shoot up the garden path and tumble into the kitchen.

  Both Margot and Mum, on her crutch, rush through to greet me from the lounge and hallway respectively. ‘Fliss! Where on earth have you been?’ Mum says, eyes wild. ‘School called hours ago to say you’d gone missing! We’ve been worried sick.’

  Margot says nothing, but looks pale-lipped.

  I rush over to M
um and hug her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just needed some time. I’m here now and I’m not leaving you ever again.’

  I press my head into her bony collar and she strokes my hair. ‘I know,’ she whispers.

  Nothing more is said over dinner. I watch Mum fall asleep on the sofa in front of Prime Suspect.

  Oh God, I don’t want her to die. I’m going to miss her so much. It’s going to hurt so bad. I’m not even aware of Margot watching me. ‘Felicity? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  I excuse myself and run upstairs to the bathroom like I’m going to vomit. That’s what it feels like. I don’t, instead I cry. It’s like that dam: it all comes gushing out at once. My mouth is open like there’s a howl, but no sound comes out. I tuck myself into the space underneath the sink and sit on the avocado pedestal mat, arms wrapped around my legs.

  It passes. I feel better, like I’ve done a massive poo or something, unclogged.

  Mum is going to die. I get it now. It’s going to be awful, but she’s going to go. I can’t stop it.

  I wash my face, although it does nothing to improve my bloaty red eyes and puffy cheeks. I dry myself and step outside the bathroom to find Margot emerging from my little box room. We mirror each other at opposite ends of the landing.

  ‘Good girl,’ she says.

  I blink at her. I don’t get it. For once she doesn’t sound sarcastic. ‘What?’

  ‘Let it all out. My advice, for what it’s worth, is to just feel it,’ she says. ‘While you still can.’

  None the wiser. ‘I don’t get it.’

  Her eyes are sad. ‘Over time, we teach ourselves to stop feeling. It’s the only way we survive.’ She taps her breastbone with her index finger. ‘It all becomes scar tissue and gristle. It’s such a shame. So just let yourself feel it, truthfully and wholly, because one day you won’t any more.’

  ‘But I don’t want to feel like this. It really hurts.’ My voice crackles.

  ‘It’s better than nothing at all. Believe you me.’ She turns the corner of the landing and heads downstairs.

  I watch her go before heading to my room, wondering what Margot was doing in there. Perhaps they think I’m shoplifting or doing drugs or something. Nothing seems to have been moved around; the room is exactly as I left it this morning, except for one tiny detail.