The Twice-Lived Summer of Bluebell Jones

by Susie Day

  The towering iron loop of the Red Dragon looms in the sky. The plume of flame shoots in the air as the shining red carriages make the loop, and the gathered crowd gasp.

  I’m not scared.

  Red wouldn’t be scared.

  I’m not going to fall.

  Red wouldn’t fall.

  I am Bluebell Jones, thirteen years old, and I don’t need to be rescued. I can rescue myself.

  The queue shuffles slowly forward as the Dragon makes its journey round the tracks, over and over. Its yellow eyes blaze, daring me to quit. It puffs out smoke, spits its flames.

  I pay my money, and let them strap me in.

  There’s a pause, before we set off: long enough for me to wonder what the hell I was thinking and feel a stab of panic. I can see a flash of red hair in the crowd. Red is watching from below, head cocked, her mouth half-open in a curious smile as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing.

  I cling to the safety bar over my shoulders with both hands, adjusting my grip again and again.

  Then with a jolt, it starts.

  I’m tipped back as we crank our way up the first slope, my regret rising notch by notch, high above the fair to linger, terrifyingly, on the brink – what have I done, what have I done – before we plunge, super-fast, down the first drop and then curve left, up, over and on to our sides, corkscrewing to a slow level section that suddenly drops down, twists sickeningly fast to the right and then hurls us up, up, upside-down.

  We hang in time and space.

  The fairground lights are tiny flashes below us, the ground impossibly far off. My forehead feels cool, my fringe dangling off it – then suddenly a shocking burst of fire shoots towards me, so fast, so close, licking at my face till I’m sure it’ll singe my hair, set me alight.

  But we’re already moving again, out of the loop, up and around one more, gentler curve till we suddenly slow, and jerk to a stop.

  I did it.

  I feel sick and dizzy and I’m not sure my legs will work enough to get me out and down to the ground – but I did it. By myself. For both of us.

  It feels like my birthday all over again. The one I always imagined, where I’m a butterfly. I’m not Red yet; there’s so much more I need from her. But I’ve taken the first big step.

  Red’s waiting for me as I stumble queasily past the screens showing the snap of my face: eyes wide, mouth set. Then her eyebrows lift, and her lips form a secret smile.

  “Impressed?” I say, twirling.

  “Hell yeah!” she says, as if she can’t quite believe it. “And I’m not the only one.”

  She steps back, so I can see.

  Merlin is leaning against Madame Soso’s painted booth, watching me. He’s wearing his usual magician ensemble – top hat, tight black jeans, smudgy eyeliner – but his bare arms look thin and pale, wrapping awkwardly across his chest as I approach.

  “You look cold,” I giggle, still giddy from the ride.

  “Yeah? Some girl stole my coat,” he says, smiling.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to run off with it like that, last night.”

  “Nonono,” he says, wagging a long finger as I start to shrug it off. “Please. If you give it back now, then you’ll be cold.”

  “I can’t keep it. It’s yours.”

  It’s part of you, I mean: part of your Merlin-ness, like Red’s wing of hair.

  “True,” he says. “All right, I’ll make you a deal. You can give it back to me on Saturday.”

  “Saturday?”

  “When I take you to the Fifties Fest.” He coughs. “I heard there’s this excellent band playing, about twelve o’clock: Joanie and the Whales, I think they’re called? And, um.” He coughs again. “I’m sure you’re probably going anyway, like. But I thought you might come with me. We could, you know. Go together.”

  He sucks on his lower lip, hands twisting nervously.

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh. Like. Sort of. Like a date?”

  Merlin coughs again, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Sort of like a date. If that was a thing you wanted to do.”

  I picture the face Red must be making behind me, and giggle again.

  “Yeah,” I say, grinning like my face’ll split while that bird flaps madly in my chest. “That’s a thing I want to do.”

  Merlin lifts his hazel eyes up, as if to check I’m not kidding, then lets out a huge huff of breath. “Bloody hell, that was hard. Is it always that hard, asking people out?”

  “No idea. But I said yes, so you must have done all right.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You said yes.”

  He just stands there, nodding and smiling, as if he’s only planned up to this part, not beyond. Then he checks himself, looks at his watch, and scowls.

  “I got to run. But. So. I’ll meet you at The Bench, on Saturday? Just before twelve o’clock?”

  I nod.

  He takes one step forward, towards me, reaching out as if he’s going in for a hug but thinking better of it: hesitating with his arms stiffly out like a robot. It’s awkward, but adorable. He looks at my lips. My heart flaps, madly.

  Then he scoops up my hand, half-lost in his coat sleeves, and presses it to his lips, keeping his eyes locked on mine.

  A kiss, on the back of my hand.

  I can’t breathe.

  His lips are still there, kissing my hand.

  Then he grins, tips his hat, and he’s gone, whirling into the crowd.

  I stand still, trembling all over, staring at my hand.

  Red stares at it too, absently rubbing a hand across the smiley face on her T-shirt as if she can feel that mad bird flapping too.

  “You don’t mind?” I ask, because, well, she saw him first.

  She shakes her wing of hair, and flashes me her widest, reddest grin.

  Dad texts: Can you come home?

  I float back to the caravan, hardly able to walk in a straight line. Everyone’s waiting: Mum on the sofa, Dad and Tiger at the table, hot chocolate in mugs for four.

  Then Dad drops the bomb.

  “We’re leaving Penkerry. We go home first thing tomorrow.”

  12. Off the Map

  “What?” says Tiger.

  “What?” I echo.

  They can’t mean it. Not now. Now when I’ve got the Red Dragon wind in my hair, when I can still feel Merlin’s kiss on my hand.

  Mum rearranges the duvet across the arc of her tummy, and smoothes her hands calmly across it, saying nothing.

  “Seriously, what?” says Tiger again, slapping Dad’s hand away from the Fifties Fest! flier he’s folding into smaller and smaller triangles.

  Hot chocolate, like a treat. They’ve planned this. Dad’s eyes slide to Mum’s in secret agreement, and the sugary smell makes me seasick.

  “Listen, girls.” Dad looks at his hands, big and red. “Your mum needs bed rest. And apparently bed rest does not include sitting behind a drum kit, bashing the hell out of it next to three amps and a subwoofer.”

  “Crazy, right?” says Mum, sweeping her hand across her bump. “We all know Peanut here is a junior muso, just getting a head start in the school of rock. But my placenta and my cervix are having musical differences.”

  “The difficult third album,” says Dad, mock serious. “Every band struggles with it.”

  “And Joanie and the Whales can’t play the Fifties Fest without Joanie. And the Whales is a crappy band name.”

  “I still say we could be Ian and the Whales. . .” says Dad.

  “But no one is ever going to pay money to see a band called Ian and the Whales. Especially not one without a drummer. I’m indispensable.” Mum throws up her hands. “What can you do?”

  “Shut up!” shouts Tiger. “Stop joking around, it’s not funny.”

  It isn’t, it isn’t. I want to cr
y. This can’t be real.

  Mum and Dad exchange another look, and Dad sinks into his shoulders.

  “You’re right, it’s not funny,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “We’re sick over it, sweetheart. Sick with worry. So disappointed. But it’s a simple fact: your mum’s not well. We go home tomorrow; she gets proper rest in a proper bed till Peanut comes. It’s not all bad news, girls. Tiger, you’ll get to pick up your exam results with all your mates. Blue, you and me’ll have a laugh together. We can make a head start on all the stuff that needs doing: get the cot set up, get the painting done. . .”

  “What painting?”

  Mum looks at me, uncomfortable. “Don’t have a paddy, baby. I thought you’d have figured this out already. After the first few weeks or months Peanut’s going to need its own place to sleep—”

  “And for all the million tons of crap it apparently ‘needs’,” says Dad, making air-quotes, “though you two did just fine without a changing table, and three kinds of sling, and a magic bucket that eats nappies. . .”

  Mum ignores him. “So your bedroom’s going to be the nursery.”

  I don’t believe this. It keeps getting worse, and worse.

  “Your bedroom’s tiny anyway; you’ll have more space once you’re sharing with Tiger. You’ve managed in that bunk-bed cupboard together for the last few weeks. Compared to that, Tiger’s room’ll be like a palace.”

  “Do I get any say in this?” yells Tiger.

  “What about all my stuff?” I whisper. The Great Mouse Army. My perfectly tessellating photos, creeping up the wall; all the new ones I’m waiting to add. The room I’ve got planned, to reflect me back at myself.

  “It’s stuff, who cares about stuff?” Dad shouts. “Are you not even listening? Are you that selfish? Your mum’s not well. It’s done, girls.” He slaps his palm down on the table. “Grow up. Accept it.”

  “I don’t have to accept anything!” says Tiger.

  “Yes you do! This is for your mum. What kind of dad would I be if I put anything before Peanut being safe and sound, eh?”

  “What kind of dad are you if you put everything else before your other kids’ happiness?” says Tiger. “What if we don’t want to leave?”

  “None of us wants to, darling,” says Mum, softly.

  “Then don’t! We can’t go now. I can’t leave now. I can’t leave Catrin.” Tiger’s voice cracks, and she slides out from the table, turning her back.

  Mum presses her lips together, head tilting. “Tiger. . .”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” says Tiger, very slow and deliberate though her voice is still crackly. “That I’m being silly, it’s just a crush, I’m a silly little girl with stupid romantic ideas and if we go home I’ll forget all about her in five minutes.”

  My face burns. The back of my hand tingles where Merlin’s lips brushed it.

  “Only it’s not,” she says, turning around. “I love her. I do. I met her the very first night we were here, and she looked at me like she could see straight into my brain, like she knew we were going to be together, and – she’s all I think about. I need her hand in mine. I need to be with her. I don’t want Mum to be ill or anything bad to happen to Peanut, I don’t, I swear I don’t – but we’ve only just started and she’s the most important thing that’s ever happened to me and I won’t let you take her away. I won’t.”

  The bird flaps in my chest. My heart’s too full with wanting. That’s me, that’s what I can have too, with Merlin, beautiful strange kissable Merlin – but not now. Not if we leave now. I need more time. This is too unfair. This is wrong.

  Tiger shudders and runs to our bedroom, tries to slam the paisley curtain behind her, then noisily starts to weep.

  Dad breathes in, breathes out.

  Mum looks at me, as if she’s waiting for me to fix it.

  “I hate you,” I whisper through a sob.

  I follow Tiger, climb into my bunk with Milly Mouse, and cry-cry-cry.

  I cry myself to sleep.

  I dream of dragons.

  They coil around my tiny bedroom, now painted blue, but not for me. I keep trying to get in but they’re dragons: they can breathe fire, and I’m just a little girl.

  My face hurts when I wake up.

  I hear Tiger sniffle, and hang my head off the bunk.

  Her face is swollen, puffy and red-raw from sobbing. Mine must be too. We look like sad clowns, and when I meet her eye I try to smile about it, but instead it makes us both start to cry again.

  “God, please, girls, stop,” says Dad, tugging back the orange curtain, sounding exhausted. “I didn’t mean. . . Come and talk, will you? There’s toast and tea on the table.”

  “No,” I croak. “I don’t care what you say. I’m not packing my things. I’m not leaving today. I can’t.”

  “We’re not going today,” calls Mum, from the kitchenette.

  I hang off the bunk again, catch Tiger’s wild look of hope. We tumble out of bed in yesterday’s clothes.

  “That was your dad’s daft idea,” says Mum, pushing tea mugs across the table to us. “Make a clean break, instead of having a miserable last few days.”

  “Like ripping off a plaster,” Dad says, defensively holding his mug up to his face.

  “So we’re going to stay for the Fest, tomorrow. We won’t be able to play, but we can watch all the other bands. That’d give you enough time to say a proper goodbye to everyone, right? And then we’ll drive back crack of dawn Sunday morning.”

  “When the traffic’s a nightmare and half of Wales will be trying to drive down the same single-lane road as us,” Dad mutters.

  “So we could stay a bit longer, then?” I say, suddenly hopeful.

  “Were you not listening last night?” Dad snaps. “Your mum needs rest, you think she’s getting that in a caravan? We need to be home.”

  I look at Mum, feeling sick, and guilty – but Mum looks furious.

  “Thank you, I can speak for myself! Don’t go making out this is all my fault, I feel bad enough as it is.”

  I hate this. My parents don’t fight. They never fight. This is all Peanut’s fault.

  Mum breathes deeply, stroking her round tummy with one hand, taking Dad’s hand with the other.

  “Ian, we’ve been over this. You want to stay for the Fest as much as the rest of us, and admitting that won’t make anyone think you’re a bad father – just like me spending Saturday sitting on a beach in the sun won’t do Peanut any harm. We drive back Sunday morning, and if we get stuck in traffic, oh well, worse things happen at sea. And that way everyone gets to have what they want.”

  “No we don’t,” says Tiger, bitterly.

  “No, we don’t,” says Dad, and he sighs, as if he can picture another summer; one where this doesn’t happen. “But it’s the best we’re going to get, love.”

  “What about my bedroom?” I ask.

  “Sorry, baby.” Mum shakes her head. “I can grow a person, I can’t grow us a bigger house. Your dad’ll go and get the paint next week.”

  Dad pushes back his chair and grabs his guitar, ruffling my hair like an apology. He quietly strums on the sofa, head down. End of discussion.

  And that’s it.

  We’re leaving first thing on Sunday. It’s Friday morning.

  Two whole days.

  It’s not enough time. But it might have to be.

  The sad, pinched look on Red’s face confirms it when I find her waiting for me on the cliff top, hair blowing, looking out to sea.

  “So this is one of those fixed, unchangeable stops on Bluebell Road, then?”

  “You’re leaving?” Red asks.

  I nod. “Sunday. Same as it was for you?”

  “Yeah. I thought . . . maybe . . . you know, you’ve changed so many other things. But I don’t think that one was ever going to
turn out different.”

  I could yell at her for not telling me, but there’s no point. I know what she’ll say: no fun without surprises. It wouldn’t have changed how I’ve lived the last few weeks, even if I’d known. I couldn’t have got to where I am any quicker.

  Anyway, it’s worse for her. I’m going home. I don’t think she’s coming with me.

  “Hey – what’s it like, having to share a bedroom with Tiger?”

  Red half-laughs. “Oh, don’t you worry. She’s not so bad, our big sister, you know?”

  As she speaks, she keeps her eyes on the grey waves, crashing far below. I stare across the water: to the lighthouse on Mulvey Island, the Bee rock hardly visible under the high tide; the Pavilion on the pier; the glitter of the fairground. It seems so long ago now, when we first stood here together, and I took my very first Diana photograph, of a patch of empty grass.

  It knocks the air from my lungs suddenly; how much Red’s done for me. She couldn’t give me a perfect summer – not with Mum poorly, and bedrooms, and only two days left – but she’s tried so hard. And all this time she’s had to watch me do the things she never did; things she’ll never do now. Without envy, or bitterness. Just to be kind, to some future, past, new version of herself. I don’t know if I could be that generous.

  But I want to be. I don’t want my Red self to disappear.

  And I realize: it doesn’t have to. I’m taking her with me, one way or another.

  “Come on,” I say, running for the short-cut path. “No time to waste.”

  “Where are we going?”

  It’s the first time she’s ever had to ask.

  The whole town’s beginning to buzz with Fifties Fest anticipation. There’s bunting between the lamp posts on the promenade; a field up on Penkerry Point roped off as a car park already, another as a second campsite. A few early arrivals are on the prom, and I get to halfway through my second roll of Diana film snapping a turquoise car with fins and creamy leather seats, crammed with big-shouldered ladies in polka dots.