(paradox)
Six days to the fair
When I woke up the next morning, I remembered straight away. The air was heavy on my duvet. Danielle’s birthday.
I shuffled down to the kitchen, where Mum sat at the peninsula, wearing her smart coat. The one made of a dark, thick fabric, with neat tucks and folds like a carefully wrapped present.
‘Hi.’ I reached past the bunch of wrapped flowers and got the cereal box out of the cupboard.
Gerberas, those ones are called. If flowers ever committed crimes, I could pick these out of a police line-up. ‘Flower, flower, flower – GERBERA!’
I’m not into flowers, obviously. I just know the name of this one.
Mum spoke, finally. ‘Gerberas were Danielle’s favourite flower.’
I didn’t say I know because you always tell me. I got a spoon out of the drawer. ‘Do you know what my favourite flower is?’
I wasn’t sure Mum heard me, but she looked up. ‘You don’t have a favourite because you don’t like flowers.’
‘Correct. But if I did have a favourite flower, it would be a foxglove. Or deadly nightshade. Something to make poison with.’
Grandma once bought me The Young Person’s Guide to Flowers. I read it to be polite.
Anyway, Mum nodded, like I’d said something really interesting. Just nothing interesting enough to need an answer.
Grandma’s train from Glasgow didn’t arrive till the afternoon, so she couldn’t babysit while Mum and Dad were at the grave. I spent the morning with Mrs Carpenter, the old lady next door, which meant no spying time.
Well, hardly any spying time.
‘Danielle?’ Mrs Carpenter stretched her feet out. Her chair tipped back and a foot support appeared. ‘Don’t know anything about her, I’m afraid. There’s only been you next door, while I’ve lived here.’
‘Oh.’
‘Only moved in ten years ago. You were just a baby yourself.’ Mrs Carpenter patted her lap. Snowy, her Papillon, jumped up and settled down. ‘I’d forgotten you ever had a sister, till your mum asked me to look after you today.’
I kind of liked her for that.
So that bit of the day wasn’t too bad. Mrs Carpenter made a big fuss of me. She let me watch Saturday cartoons and I ate a whole pack of fig rolls. I stroked Snowy and took him round the garden on his lead, and I remembered not to ask about Mr Carpenter, or his brother’s wife who was welcome to him.
So even though I didn’t get any spying done, I actually had quite a nice morning.
I was reading a magazine in my bedroom after lunch when the doorbell rang and the lights flashed.
I rushed to the door and pulled it open with a grin. Grandma!
Not Grandma.
A man and a woman outside, the woman carrying something all wrapped up in blankets. A baby or a Yorkshire Terrier, maybe.
The woman with the baby/terrier waved at me. ‘Hi, Fiona.’
Annette was once Danielle’s school friend, and the man with the hairy hands was her husband, Mike.
‘Hi.’ I walked them into the lounge. ‘I’ll go and make the tea.’
If I make the tea, it moves it along, and then this whole thing is over quicker.
I took the mugs of tea on a tray into the lounge. Dad was tidying up the shed, so he could show Mike something. Something so they don’t all have to be in the same room with all this loud quiet, I decided.
The other three sat round, looking like they were waiting for an ammonium nitrate bomb to go off.
Annette beamed. ‘Now that is service. Fiona’s a credit to you, Gail.’
Mum didn’t say anything. I put sugar in my tea, just to see if she noticed, but she didn’t.
Annette bounced her baby on her knee. ‘Do you want a hold?’
Mum nodded and they both stood up.
I stirred my tea loudly, banging the spoon against the mug.
‘Hello, little one.’ Mum took the baby from Annette and smiled softly. ‘Aren’t you a princess?’
The baby gripped Mum’s finger. Mum looked like she was about to cry.
I looked down at my cup of tea and stirred it again. I knew it.
Annette put her arms round Mum and the baby. ‘I’m so sorry, Gail. I shouldn’t have brought her.’
‘She’s lovely,’ Mum put her hand over her mouth. ‘It’s just—’
‘I know.’ Annette rubbed Mum’s back. ‘I know.’
I took a sip of my tea, all thick with sugar, and put my cup down. Ew.
Mum handed the baby back to Annette. ‘’Scuse me a minute.’ She ran upstairs and shut the bathroom door.
I stretched my arms in a fake yawn. ‘So, Annette, that night when Danielle died. . .’
She looked so shocked, I stopped talking.
I cleared my throat. ‘So, that night at the fair—’
The toilet flushed. Mum hurried down the stairs. ‘That’s better.’
Annette gave a quick glance at me.
Mum sat down like nothing had happened. ‘Danielle wanted four babies. Four. Can you believe it?’
The others smiled.
Eleven-year-olds must have been different in 1982.
‘She said she was having two girls and two boys, and she was going to call them Benny, Bjorn, Agnetta and Anna- Frid.’
I glared at Mum. Even Danielle wouldn’t want her mates knowing she’d said that. She especially wouldn’t want her mates knowing that now – now her mates had cars and coffee breath and husbands with hairy hands.
‘We really liked ABBA, didn’t we?’ Annette said, smiling.
Mum smiled. ‘Do you still like ABBA?’
‘Oh.’ Annette glanced at Mike and back. ‘Of course. I mean – I’m mainly into indie now. But everyone likes ABBA, right?’
Mum looked wobbly round the mouth.
Annette turned to me. ‘And who’s your favourite band, Fiona?’
I shrugged.
‘She’s more into world events.’ Mum tried to smile at me. ‘Bosnia and Serbia. The elections in Russia and Greece.’
‘Right. Wow.’ Annette gave a little cough. ‘I wouldn’t even know where to start!’
I took another sip of too-sweet tea.
Dad came back into the room. ‘Want me to show you that box of tools, Mike? Let the girls chat?’
Mike left the room as quick as he could.
I stood up. ‘I’m going to go and make a fortune teller.’
I headed into the kitchen to take up an eavesdropping position, while Annette’s voice travelled through the hatch from the lounge. ‘She’s smart.’
‘Smarter than me. And her father,’ Mum said. ‘I don’t know where she gets it from. Russian elections!’
‘She’s got spirit, too.’
I was thinking maybe Annette wasn’t so bad, but then she said:
‘Like Danielle.’
A whole ten seconds.
I got a piece of paper out of my bag. I hadn’t been lying about making a fortune teller – the girls didn’t like my spy one, so I needed to make another.
I cut the paper into a square with the kitchen scissors and put them back in the drawer.
‘Mike doesn’t get it when I want to talk about her,’ Annette said. ‘Says it was half my life ago and I should try to get over it.’
‘You know what other people say if I talk about Danielle? They talk about distractions. They talk about closure.’
I copied the folds of my old fortune teller. Next to the clean white paper, the folds of the old spy paper looked loose and grey.
‘Closure!’ Mum put on a little girl voice. ‘Is it better now? Has enough time passed? Have you forgotten and moved on?’
‘They’re trying to help,’ Annette said. ‘People can’t imagine it, even if they want to.’
It was easier to do the folding, second time round. I’d make a superpower fortune teller. Because even girls want superpowers, right?
Even girls. They must do.
‘They even had Jonathan talking about closure sometimes,’ Mum said. ‘People grieve differently, that’s what the counsellor said. But then, Jonathan was the one who wouldn’t stop sleeping in Danielle’s bed. When I hated him. But that was so long ago. It doesn’t seem real now. And I can’t bear to even think about my own moment of madness.’
I unfolded my new fortune teller and pushed the paper straight with my fist. I’d heard it all before, so I didn’t let it upset me like it used to. Yeah, yeah – being sad made Mum and Dad go crazy and they argued a lot, but they were fine now. They changed jobs and spent more time together and had their date nights. They hardly ever argued now. Except about whose turn it was to do the DIY – and about me, of course, sometimes. But that was my fault. That was nothing about them.
I looked at my fresh fortune teller. I started writing in the fortunes.
You will be bitten by a bat and able to hear through walls.
‘Everyone knows the pressure you were under,’ Annette said.
You will be bitten by a chameleon and be able to camouflage.
‘Not much fun being the town gossip.’ Mum’s voice was faraway in my head. ‘But those people who talked about distraction – they were right, in a way. It switched my brain off for a while, however unreal it all seems now. But I was just opting out. From real life.’
You will be bitten by an eagle and be able to fly.
‘You did what you had to. It was so long ago.’
You will be bitten by a cheetah and be able to run fast.
Mum sniffed. ‘Over twelve years ago and I still feel guilty. And so I should.’
The word guilty made me stop writing. Had Mum killed Danielle herself? Not murder, of course – but an accident? Is that why they didn’t want to tell me, so I didn’t think Mum was a murderer? I’d heard Mum say before, on bad days, that Danielle’s death was her fault – but I just thought she said it so others went, ‘No, it’s not your fault, not at all.’ Like when we kids learned to say My drawing is so rubbish, yours is so much better, so other kids said back, No, your picture is so much better than mine!
‘Beating yourself up doesn’t change anything. And life takes strange turns. One good thing came out of it, didn’t it?’
‘Exactly! The best thing, for all of us! So we can’t regret it for a second.’
This was why listening made no sense sometimes. Especially half listening. Because this definitely couldn’t be about Danielle anymore.
I shook my head and focused on my fortune teller. It was hard, thinking of new animals. You will be bitten by a dolphin and be able to walk on water.
‘I’m so pleased you get it,’ Mum said. ‘If you’d told me back then – you know who you’re going to talk to about the complex emotional side? Annette Desai. You know, Danielle’s little friend with the side ponytail. The one who thinks she’s going to marry Shakin’ Stevens.’
They both laughed.
I was running out of animals. You will be bitten by a bat – a different bat – and be able to sleep upside down.
‘So, how’s Mike?’ Mum said in a new, sunny voice. ‘How’s the factory?’
I finished off my fortune teller – you will be bitten by an ant and be able to fit in a matchbox – and heard way too much about Mike and the factory. About collective bargaining and shift breaks. About union reps and ballots and shop stewards – stuff that wouldn’t have made sense even if I’d tried to listen.
I folded up my fortune teller. I tested it with my fingers and thumbs, checking it worked. I slid it into my secret pocket.
Annette comes to the house on Danielle’s birthday every year, even though she always makes Mum cry. And one day, when Mum’s not there, I’m going to tell her it would be kinder to Mum if she didn’t come at all.
‘I hate it, Grandma,’ I said into her neck.
We sat together on my bed that night while Grandma rubbed my back.
‘I know, lovey.’ Grandma pulled back. ‘But your mum and dad need to do this. Every other day of the year is about you. This is just the one day about Danielle.’
‘Wrong, Grandma. Every day is about Danielle.’
‘Everything your parents do, they do for you.’
‘I don’t want to argue, Grandma, but you’re not actually here.’
‘No?’ She gave a sad smile. ‘I’m sorry to hear it feels like that. But what about me, then?’ She gave me a big smile now so I could see her corner teeth, the ones that are a bit vampire-y. ‘Don’t you think, to me, everything’s all about you?’
‘But you live in Scotland!’
She stretched her feet out. I looked at the plastic jewels of her flipflops. Beneath her toenails’ orange varnish, ridges stood up, like lines in a map. ‘But don’t you realise I’m thinking about you all the time when I’m in Scotland?’ She showed her vampire teeth again, though no one is less vampire-y than Grandma. ‘When I’m on the bus. When I’m raking the leaves. Who do you think I’m thinking about then, hey? The prime minister? Batman?’
She tickled me and I squirmed away.
‘Didn’t you like Danielle, then?’
She sniffed. ‘I loved Danielle. But she’s not here, and you are. And you’re what matters now.’
I raised my head hopefully. ‘Can I come and live with you?’
Grandma gave another sniff. ‘You wouldn’t want to, not really.’
‘You could clear out your ironing room and put an airbed down.’
She gave a sad smile.
‘You could still use the room for ironing. Just as long as you knocked before you went in. And put the ironing board away after.’
‘Ah, lovey.’ Grandma shook her head. ‘This is just one day, Danielle’s birthday.’
I watched her, watching me, and I felt a bubbling up inside. I didn’t know what to call it, this bubbling, it was just there on days like this. And then I thought about how unfair things were, and the feeling bubbled more.
And then the bubbling made me think bad things. Like – how if Danielle wasn’t dead, I’d still want her to be dead because of how she ruins things.
And then I felt even more bubbling, for knowing that’s a bad thought. And then I wanted to scream, as loud as I could, so I couldn’t hear the thoughts in my head anymore.
I raised my head a little. ‘Am I bad, Grandma?’
She laughed. ‘No! No, you’re perfect.’
I gripped the corner of the duvet and looked up. How did Danielle die, Grandma?
But she was smiling at me so softly, I just couldn’t ask.
She stood up. ‘I’m going to check on your mum.’ She gave her friendly-vampire smile. ‘You’re all right now, darling?’
I smiled. ‘I’m all right.’
I watched her walk out and stopped smiling. I pinched my leg, hard, until it hurt. I did it again, harder, and kept doing it, till the bubbling calmed down.
It was good I hadn’t asked. I wasn’t going to ask.
I couldn’t let Grandma find out that, deep down, I was bad. Right the way through to my blood.
I couldn’t show her that. Not when she was the only person who’d ever liked me too much to notice.
35
Even if people know you’re the bad one, they still act surprised when you prove it.
(paradox)
Five days to the fair
When I woke up the next day, I made a decision.
I had to ask Grandma.
I didn’t want to, but I had to. I had no choice, if I was going to get to the fair.
I got dressed as slowly as I could, trying to put it off. I found Grandma in the kitchen, wearing Dad’s apron, stirring a big pot on
the cooker. The room smelled like fields and sludge.
‘Morning, little one,’ Grandma said without looking round. ‘Your dad said I must ask what you think about the trial of some war criminals?’
I pulled myself up onto a stool. ‘Where’re Mum and Dad?’
‘They went to buy painting stuff. They’re going to do some decorating.’
‘They won’t do any decorating. They’ll just buy more stuff and leave it in the garage.’
‘I’m making soup.’ Grandma tapped the wooden spoon on the side of the pan and put it back on the chopping board. ‘Tell your mother she’ll need to put some milk in when she reheats it. And some parsley from the garden. It always tastes better with a bit of parsley.’
‘I don’t think we have parsley.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Grandma. What happened the night Danielle died? No one’s ever told me.’
Grandma didn’t turn around. Had she even heard?
I swallowed. ‘Were Mum and Dad with her? At the fair?’
Grandma bent over. She concentrated on the cooker’s temperature dial. ‘Why are you asking, darling?’
‘I don’t want to ask Mum and Dad. I just keep thinking about Danielle. About how it feels to die.’
Grandma put her wooden spoon down.
‘And I don’t want to think she was on her own when it happened.’
Grandma put one hand to her chest and rubbed herself softly.
I tried to look in her eyes, but couldn’t. ‘Was she on her own?’ I whispered.
Grandma lowered herself onto a peninsula stool, more carefully than usual. ‘She wasn’t alone. She went to the fair with her friends.’
‘With Annette?’
‘And others. Annette’s dad was there too. Danielle was very loved, don’t you worry.’ Grandma stared at her lap. ‘It’s hard for me to talk about. I don’t want to talk about this.’
Don’t ask any more. ‘But when she died—’
‘It’s so thoughtful of you to care about other people.’ Grandma brushed her hand across the surface, pushing crumbs into a neat pile at the side. ‘You’re a good girl, Fiona. The most precious thing in the world.’ She kept brushing. ‘You know that?’
I started to cry. We both knew that wasn’t true.
‘Come here.’
All the Fun of the Fair: A hilarious, brilliantly original coming-of-age story that will capture your heart Page 21