by Juno Dawson
Danny taps me with his knee and that’s my cue, telling me it’s pretty much all gone.
I kick and push and wriggle, fighting the shadows off. I punch them out of the way and clamber to my feet. The shadows recoil, back away from me, scared. Taking extra care as the stage is now covered in my hair, I kick the chair out of my way, and the shadows flee back into the wings.
I rise en pointe one last time. Fingers splayed, I lift my arms to the light. I tiptoe to the front of the stage as the spotlight settles on me.
I lower my arms and bow my head.
The spotlight fades to nothing and the song ends. In the dark of the stage, I reach up and feel the messy, uneven clumps of hair. They’ve missed whole patches. My scalp feels like Fuzzy-Felt. I can only imagine how I look. I’m guessing it’s nothing like Fliss Baker.
There’s a breathless, timeless pause before the audience starts to clap and cheer. The lights come back up and many leap to their feet. Their faces seem to say, Holy shit, that bald girl is out of her mind! but they seem impressed at my commitment if nothing else.
Through the crowd, I only see Mum. She rolls her eyes, but she’s wearing a smile so broad it divides her face in two. ‘I loved it,’ she mouths, clapping along.
The others join me for a bow and Danny takes my hand on one side. Bronwyn’s on the other.
I look to Margot. She smiles and slowly, deliberately, dips her head.
We take a bow.
Chapter 42
Mum died a fortnight after the show.
She spent her last week in a beautiful hospice called Beaufort House so she could have access to nurses and the really top-notch opiates. ‘We can make her comfortable,’ they told us. It had expansive lawns and ornamental gardens, dusted with snow, that they wheeled her around. There’s a fountain, although it’s frozen over at the moment. Icicles hang from the stone dolphins, turning them into swordfish.
It was very quiet. Her last words, perhaps appropriately, were, ‘Fuck me, I’m tired.’ And then she went to sleep. From the outside it looked painless, peaceful. No moaning and groaning. Thank God. I guess that’s the best I could have hoped for in the circumstances – easing her away. Like opening my hands and letting a feather go on the breeze.
They didn’t move her until Margot and I had had a chance to say goodbye. I sat at her bedside, alone. Margot felt we should each have our moment. I sat in yet another visitor armchair and held her hand, but it was strangely cool. I think we’d said everything we needed to say. She was right, you know, we knew it was coming. And sure enough, it did. I don’t think, in the end, she was angry. She lay under a crochet blanket from the farm, to remind her of home.
It’s so weird. Even though she was right there, she wasn’t there. Not really. Her laugh; her voice; her patient, forgiving sighs … all gone. The body in front of me wasn’t her. She’d gone. There’s a lot to be said for an ending.
In the end, I didn’t look at the body to say goodbye. I closed my eyes and just let myself feel the love I still had. That I will always have. I could feel it glowing like a tiny sun in my chest. I floated it up into my heart and mind, my fingers and toes, feeling its warmth for as long as I could. Remember this, Fliss. I committed the love to memory, trapped it, so I won’t ever be without it.
She lives on inside me now.
Mum had made arrangements with Margot about her funeral. The service itself was very lovely – tasteful and dignified, with bunches of white peonies tied to the end of each pew. So many of her friends and old colleagues came up from London. There was standing room only at the chapel of rest. Uncle Simon brought Grandma Baker, and Doreen came, now that she and Margot were back in touch. The editor of the London Courier was there too, a handsome man with silver hair and an Armani suit. He lingered at Margot’s side – close but not too close – all the way through the funeral. I guess it’s nice for her that he was there.
I lost track of how many times I was compared to Sinéad O’Connor. I guess it’s a compliment. Obviously I had the buzzcut tidied up by Sophie’s mum at the first opportunity after the show. She seemed more upset that ‘such a pretty girl’ had shaved her head than the fact my mum was days away from death.
People did nice readings. Mum once made a film about women’s shelters, and an abuse survivor from the documentary came and talked about the impact Mum had had on her life. I cried at that bit. I cried again when we had to say goodbye to the coffin in a sad procession. I was last out, so at least no one saw. Mum wanted to be cremated. ‘I don’t like the idea of being nibbled by worms,’ she’d told Margot. I’m glad there wasn’t a weird graveside moment.
Today we’re scattering her ashes. In silence, but a nice silence, Margot and I follow the winding paths of the woods. My head is freezing, but Danny bought me some lovely leopard-print earmuffs that totally work with my fur-collar coat.
Eventually, even through the muffs, I hear the rush of the waterfall. Helping each other on the steep bits, we edge down the embankment to the water’s edge. ‘This is where she said,’ says Margot.
I’m carrying the ashes in gloved hands. She – well, her ‘earthly remains’ – are in a sleek steel urn. ‘What do we do?’ I ask.
Margot looks wistfully up at the waterfall. ‘You just let her go. Your mother scattered your grandfather’s ashes at Lake Windermere, you know.’
I stall. ‘God, it’s like tipping her away or something.’
‘That’s not her.’ Margot is typically brusque.
I nod. ‘I know.’ I unscrew the lid and, after a pause, sprinkle some of ashes out. They’re picked up by the wind and the spray from the waterfall. I shake the rest. They twist and twirl on the breeze, snatched away in a hundred different directions. It’s all very that bit in Pocahontas. After a moment, the cloud settles on the water and flows away downstream.
A sob breaks free. Damn. I really wanted to keep it together. Margot’s wax-jacketed arm snakes around my shoulder and pulls me upright. ‘Let yourself feel it,’ she reminds me, and gives my arm a squeeze.
I remember the first time I saw these woods, heard the whispers. I wonder if it was destiny calling. This was where we were meant to be, just like Margot said. Mum loved it here.
I listen, really strain, for the voices, hoping more than anything that I’ll hear a final message from The Beyond. To hear her voice one last time …
It’s just water.
I can’t hear them any more, but I do feel that fuzzy pink warmth under my skin again. It’s all around me. I don’t need to hear her. She’s here.
Chapter 43
I wasn’t ready for how empty I’d feel after all the death admin was done. Now it’s like BACK TO NORMAL, EVERYONE! But it isn’t normal, not even close. The farm feels huge. Mum’s absence is very much there: the dent in the sofa cushion; the pile of Jilly Cooper and Martina Cole novels, spines intact; the Welsh Dragon mug neither Margot nor me will use.
I’m actually quite looking forward to going back to school just to be out of the place, to be honest. I board the bus on the first morning back. As ever, Dewi is the only other passenger to begin with. ‘H-hello, Fliss.’
‘Hi, Dewi.’ I sit in the row in front of him.
‘Loving the h-hair. It’s very …’
‘Sinéad O’Connor?’
‘I was gonna say GI Jane, but yeah, now you mention it, like.’
‘Ha! At least that’s a new one. And who doesn’t want to look like Demi Moore?’ It’s already growing back. I have no intention of keeping it this short, the sheer amount of eye make-up and earring required to de-butch my head is obscene. That said, I do feel … lighter. That hair, now I think about it, was, old. I feel free of it.
‘I thought your dance was amazing, by the way.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I … I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral. It … It was D-Dad. He said it was a bit much, maybe.’
I frown. ‘That’s OK. A bit much?’
His big conker eyes fill with sadness. �
��Well, you know, it’s only a couple of years since we lost Mam to cancer. I think he just thinks it’s all bit too soon, like churning up old feelings or something.’
I stiffen in my seat. ‘Oh God, Dewi, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’ I had no idea, because I never asked. I suddenly realise that I know almost nothing about a guy I’ve shared a bus ride with most days for the last five months. ‘What …? What type?’
‘Breast cancer. It ran in her family.’
I wince. ‘That like totally blows.’
‘Yeah, cancer can feck right off.’ We share in that sentiment for a moment. ‘I’m not going to say, “I know what you’re going through,” because obviously I didn’t know your mum at all, but—’
‘Thank you,’ I say, stopping him before I cry and snot all over his clean jumper.
‘I didn’t even know your m-m-mam was ill, like,’ he goes on. ‘It was only when I went to speak to Mrs Evans about Megan that she told me.’
I frown. ‘What? Megan? What do you mean?’
‘After you went f-full Ripley and hit her in the face with that mug. I told Mrs Evans that she’d been picking on you for weeks.’
Oh my God. I’d … Well, I’d just assumed that was Thom. ‘Oh, Dewi!’ I say, hand on heart. ‘I had no idea … I thought … Well, it doesn’t matter now. You saved my ass. You have no idea. I could have been expelled!’ I remember the way Rick Sawyer stepped in to save Margot that night in the graveyard. I guess sometimes there really are knights in shining armour, even if we don’t see them charging in on their steed.
He’s blushing ferociously. It’s very sweet. ‘It’s nothing, like,’ he says, looking down. ‘It was the r-right thing to do.’
‘Well, thank you. I really mean that.’
His hand is holding the bar on the top of my seat. I place mine over the top of his. I’m wearing my gloves, so it’s not quite skin to skin, but I still feel a very lovely, toasty heat.
‘Fliss …’ he starts, and I somehow know what’s coming next.
‘Not yet,’ I say, cutting him off.
He nods, understanding. Suddenly he rummages in his rucksack. He thrusts a Curly Wurly in my face. ‘I’m still working my way through my selection boxes. Do you want my Curly Wurly?’
I laugh. I can’t help it. ‘Well, there’s an offer I can’t refuse! Yes, Dewi, I will gladly accept your Curly Wurly.’ I unwrap the chocolate bar. ‘But this doesn’t mean anything, OK? I just like Curly Wurlys.’
He grins broadly. ‘Who doesn’t?’
Danny and Bronwyn are waiting for me in the library as we arranged by SMS. All of us got pay-as-you-go mobiles for Christmas. It’s so cool. How we managed without them is anyone’s guess. Mine has snap-on covers which I can mix and match to coordinate with whatever I’m wearing.
They greet me with big bear hugs. I haven’t seen them since the wake, which we held at the pub in town. ‘Are you OK?’ Bronwyn asks.
‘Working on it.’
‘There’ll be a new OK,’ she replies, and I know what she means. Me, Bronwyn and now Dewi: The No-Mum Club.
‘We got you something,’ Danny says.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have.’ I take my seat at the table.
‘It’s not a present like that,’ he explains, and hands me a brochure. I look blankly at it like he’s just placed a dead kipper in my palm. ‘There’s a school of ballet and contemporary dance in Swansea.’
‘Danny …’
‘Fliss! You have to! You can’t stop now, you’re too good. You’re denying the world a beautiful gift if you don’t dance.’
I roll my eyes. ‘OK, I think that’s taking it a bit far.’
‘We called them,’ Bronwyn says, eyes twinkling with definite scampiness. ‘They have advanced classes. They said they’d be happy for you to come to a taster session.’
The fact they’ve gone to such effort makes me feel very loved and Pop-Tart-gooey inside. Do I feel like dancing? Hell no. But should I at least try? My duvet is like that snake in the Jungle Book, luring me to crawl under it and hibernate until the millennium. I should probably resist its call. ‘Guys! This is so lovely! You know what, maybe I will. Keep my feet busy, and stay out of Margot’s way.’
Danny frowns. ‘Are things not good?’
‘Things are … I don’t know. It’s just new. But I’ve had an idea for a little project that I want to try out first before I do any more dancing.’
‘What idea?’ Bronwyn asks.
‘I don’t wanna say until I know more. It might come to nothing. Do you know what time the town library’s open until?’
‘Six thirty, I think.’
‘Cool.’
Danny smiles slyly, taking a sip of his tea. ‘Guess where Bronwyn’s going tonight?’
My mouth flops open, goldfish style. ‘Starship Troopers?’
‘Yep! The seven o’clock showing at the Odeon in Swansea. We’re gonna get a Pizza Hut before too!’
I clap my hands together. ‘Bronwyn, this is huge! I can’t believe you didn’t message me!’
‘I didn’t want to bother you …’
‘Don’t be stupid! I could use the good news! What are you going to wear? Don’t get garlic bread, whatever you do!’
‘Are you gonna sit in the back row and French him?’ Danny asks, and I squeal. We’re not there yet, but The New OK is coming along.
I make my way to the public library straight after school. There isn’t one in Llanmarion (a little van comes once a week), so I catch a bus into the next town. The library, I’m told, was meant to be a temporary building while they renovated the old one, but it’s been here now since 1982. It’s a flat-roof block with pebbledash walls and a zigzag disabled ramp leading up to the front door.
The automatic doors open with a screech and I’m greeted by much-too-hot central heating and the smell of slightly baked pages. I love library books. I’d put all my books in plastic covers if I could.
A bank of chunky beige PCs is located at the far end past the reference section. There are five computers but only one is being used, by a teenage boy with a bad proto-moustache a bit like a thin gerbil snoozing on his upper lip. He’s looking at pictures of Melinda Messenger. ‘Are you allowed to do that?’ I ask.
He springs back (thankfully it’s still in his pants), grabs his rucksack and flees. I feel a little bad, but giggle to myself.
I pull a notepad, and Margot’s diary – slightly charred – and a cocoa-scented pen out of my satchel. I give the mouse a wiggle. A blank blue screen stares back at me. God, I don’t even know where to start. I click on Internet Explorer, take a deep breath and begin.
Chapter 44
Bronwyn was so right. It takes a few weeks, but a new normal has settled over the farm, popping up alongside the snowdrops, crocuses and then daffodils. The fields thaw in time for lambing season. I do everything I can to help because, let’s face it, who doesn’t love little tiny lambs? Some of them need hand-rearing with bottles. I swear I catch Peanut looking on with jealousy a couple of times from his sty. Soon it’ll be time for Peanut to make his own babies.
That’s pretty weird. I don’t wanna think about it. Obviously now he’s a GIANT. I couldn’t hug him even if I wanted to.
I’m still sad. It goes without saying. But now I am used to the sadness. I can tolerate it. Sometimes I even forget it’s there.
I go to a taster dance class, mostly to get Danny and Bronwyn off my case. It’s way less stuck-up than Madame Nyzda’s school – it’s in a brand-new shiny sports centre – although the girls (and guys) are just as talented. Angel, the instructor, a gorgeous, willowy woman who looks a little like Tyra Banks, quickly spots my ballet training. ‘Your technique is excellent,’ she comments. ‘Really strong.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, having a sip of water as we take a break. I ruffle my hair, which looks pretty cute now in a pixie-ish way.
On my way back in, I stop outside the contemporary dance class in progress in the smaller studio. I watch a pair of girls wor
king on a routine. I can’t take my eyes off them. It’s so much more dynamic, acrobatic and, I suppose, shocking. It’s unpredictable, that’s what it is.
At the end of the session, I ask about the contemporary classes. ‘Mondays at six,’ Angel tells me. ‘Sure you don’t wanna do advanced ballet though?’
‘I think I’d like to try something new.’
‘Suit yourself. Either way, you’re very welcome; we always need new blood.’ She shakes my hand.
I go to the library after school when I need to, beavering away on my little project. I make like a hundred calls on my new mobile, having to buy top-up cards every couple of days sometimes.
But I’m getting there.
I sort everything – the printouts and letters and phone numbers – into a pink plastic wallet for safekeeping. I’ve done as much as I can. Only one thing left to do.
With the wallet tucked under my arm, I get off the bus and walk down the drive past the old stables and pigsty. The sun is shining and it’s warm enough to carry my coat. The Land Rover is parked up so I know Margot is home. I enter through the front door. ‘Margot?’ I call. There’s no response. I yell upstairs but, again, nothing.
I walk through to the kitchen and look out of the back windows. I see her grey head bobbing up and down past the chicken coop.
‘Margot,’ I call, stepping out of the back door.
‘Oh, hello there.’ She’s pruning the rose bushes. She doesn’t look up. ‘Don’t they look lovely?’ She tilts a creamy white rose towards me. ‘And what a lovely spring day.’
I didn’t really see it. I’ve hardly been outside and I’ve come straight from the library. I don’t say anything.
‘Felicity, what’s wrong? I’ve come to know you well enough to know when you’re hiding something. Is it school again? It’d be a shame to have to move you to the private school now, but if that’s what it takes …’
‘It’s not school,’ I say. ‘School is fine. In fact, I’m actually doing quite well again.’
She lets her secateurs swing around her wrist. ‘Then why have you been staying so late? I assumed they were detentions and that you were forging my signature on the letters home. I almost admired the effort to conceal it.’