by Julie Mayhew
“Yeah, they knew each other as kids, except . . .”
“Except?”
There is a poster on the wall behind Amanda, a kind of flow diagram of what grief feels like. There are angry arrows of ‘guilt’ and ‘fear’.
“His name is Christos Drakakis. My dad is Christos Drakakis.” And my name is Melon Drakaki, I want to say. How do you do?
“You don’t know him, do you, Melon? You’ve not met him. But have you seen photographs of him before?”
“No.”
“Gosh. Were you pleased to find these pictures?”
“I look nothing like him.”
“No?”
“No.”
I have studied the photo album more closely since I found it in Mum’s underwear drawer. When I can’t sleep, I take it out from under my mattress and flick through the pictures. I stare at Christos Drakakis’s face and try to feel like he really is my dad. I will and wish for that, but it never feels true. I’m just looking at a picture of a boy who is younger than me. The older boy in the picture, the one with the sneery smile, his hard face drills into mine. He laughs when I do this willing and wishing, trying to make Christos fit the jigsaw in my head. The older boy is Yiannis, I have decided. He must be. He is the boy who had sex behind the goat sheds.
“Would you like it if you and your dad looked more alike?”
“I don’t want to look like a boy.”
“No, but do you wish there was a family resemblance?”
“Not bothered really.”
The hockey girls are in a huddle in the centre of the pitch now, their heads down. They could be having a jolly tactics talk, or be getting a telling-off, you can’t tell from up here. There could be someone in the middle of that huddle being quietly kicked to pieces.
“Do you still want to know what I think about acceptance?” I ask Amanda.
“I’d like to know what you think about the photos. Are you pleased that you found them?”
“I don’t know.”
On the flow chart poster on the wall behind Amanda there are also angry arrows of ‘denial’ and ‘confusion’.
Paul wants me to go to Crete with him. He wants us to scatter Mum’s ashes on the melon farm like she requested in her will. Paul asked if Auntie Aphrodite might be happy to let us stay with her. I told him she wouldn’t even let me and Mum stay, so she’s hardly likely to give her spare bedroom to Mum’s black boyfriend. I said it to him exactly like that – I said the word ‘black’. It’s the first time I’ve brought it up. Paul looked a little shocked.
“It doesn’t bother me that you’re black,” I added, just to be clear that I wasn’t the one being a racist. “I’m just saying Auntie Aphrodite wouldn’t like it.”
He nodded at me. No smile.
Since then, Paul’s been bringing home holiday brochures. Piles of the things. Pages and pages of bright white apartments with bright blue pools next to bright green spiky trees. He wants me to join in and help pick out a place to stay. He wants us to have a cracking adventure. A celebration of Mum. There’s nothing to choose between these brochure apartments, they all look the same.
“Where did you and Mum used to stay?” Paul asked me.
“Can’t remember the name of it,” I told him. I don’t want to go back to the same place with him.
Without her.
I told Paul I might look for my dad if we go to Crete. I didn’t really mean it. What would I do if I found him? He’s obviously not interested in me. I just said it to wind Paul up, to make him think he wasn’t doing a good enough job of playing dad himself. But it didn’t ruffle him up like I’d expected. Paul just went quiet. He looked at me like I was a little deranged, as if he was scared of me. Then he gave me another one of his nods.
“I would like you to throw away the idea of acceptance,” says Amanda.
“Acceptance of what?”
“The idea that you should accept what’s happened.”
“I should fight it? The fact that she’s dead? That doesn’t make much sense.”
“No, what I mean is, no one expects you to suddenly feel happy again.”
“Well, good.”
“Acceptance just means acknowledging that the person has really gone.”
“So I shouldn’t fight it? Make your mind up.”
Amanda sighs and wipes a hand down over her forehead and eyes.
She goes quiet for a moment.
When she looks at me again, she has transformed. This is a new Amanda. “What is it that you think you’re fighting, Melon?” This is tough Amanda. “Why are you fighting against everything?”
“I’m not fighting no one.”
I sit next to Justine Burrell at school now. Chick sits next to Lucy. Justine Burrell is clever and intelligent and a high achiever, which means she has no friends. Obviously. I actually quite like her. I see how it must be for her now, being on the outside looking in. Not that I was ever really an insider. But I definitely wasn’t a proper outcast until now.
Whatever we have in common, we’re not really friends, Justine and me. It’s my fault. I don’t say much in class. My mind wanders. I try to listen to all the revision stuff we’re doing but before I know it, I’m off thinking about The Story. I play around with it in my head, deciding how I should write the next bit in my book. I think of new words, prettier ones, better sentences, because English was never Mum’s strong point. I struggle to remember how Mum told The Story. I can’t bring her voice back any more. My memory of her hasn’t gone mute exactly, I can still hear the chip-chop way she used to speak, it’s just there are no real words coming out of her mouth. Maybe this chattering sound will be the next thing to go. Then the image I have of her will lose all its facial features. She’ll become just an outline. Then – pop! – she’ll disappear.
“So you say you’ve finished writing everything down?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you what kind of thing you’ve been writing?”
“The Story.”
“The Story?”
Amanda thought I was working on some weepy essay about how sad I am.
“The Story that Mum told me,” I explain.
Amanda looks confused. “A bedtime story? A fairy tale?”
“No.” A fairy tale? Who does Amanda think I am? A baby? “No, it’s not a fucking fairy tale.”
“Okay, I’m sorry, Melon. I’m really sorry if what I just said upset you.”
“It’s not a fucking fairy tale!”
“No, no, I understand that now. But will you tell me what it is? Please.”
“No, fuck off. I don’t want to talk about it now.”
I get up. My face is prickling. I feel a real fury burning in my belly. It’s come out of nowhere, this red hot rage. I’m not even sure why I’m so offended. All I can think is, how dare she say that? How dare she call my book a fairy tale?
“Melon, sit down. This story is obviously really important to you and I would really like to hear about it.”
“It’s not important to you. It’s nothing to do with you. You know nothing about it.”
There is a thwack and a cheer from the hockey field outside.
“Where are you going, Melon?”
I make for the door.
“Home.”
“Tell me about The Story.”
“It’s just a fucking story, that’s all, okay?” I am outside of my body looking down at myself. It’s like watching some other girl going crazy.
“No, it’s more than that, isn’t it, Melon?”
I’m possessed. I’m doubled over, screaming at Amanda. “It’s just a fucking story! All right! It’s just a fucking fairy tale!”
I stop and feel the silence putting its hand over my mouth.
There is nothing left inside of me.
I walk out of the room and slam the door.
5 MONTHS BEFORE
“Hurry up! I need a wee.”
Mum shut herself in the bathroom over an hour ago.
�
�What is problem? I am not locking door, come in.”
“I don’t want an audience.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Melon. Is only me. If you just need a wee . . . You need a poo?”
“No! God! You’re so . . .”
I push my way into the bathroom, stomp past Mum who is lying in the bath, all boobs and bubbles. Her face is smeared in green gloop. I pull down my jogging bottoms and knickers, make a porcelain crash as I sit. I stare straight ahead while I pee. Mum wants to make eye contact, but she’s not getting it. I wipe, stand, pull up my clothes, flush.
“Wash your hands!” The face mask is setting and Mum can’t move her mouth properly. The words come out all rigid. Wah yer hans.
“I was going to anyway.”
“Tan coo,” she goes.
“I’m turning the music down,” I tell her on the way out. “It’s scaring Kojak.”
Mum has had the same song on repeat for an hour, blasting out from the CD player in her bedroom, loud enough to fill the bathroom with music. Some slurring, Latin rubbish. Something about a tall, tanned girl who does nothing but walk. I reckon Mum thinks she’s the girl in the song, the one everyone stares at, the one that makes everyone go aaah. She was dancing around her bedroom to it earlier, weaving her feet about, clicking her fingers, flapping her elbows like a chicken, flirting with her reflection in the mirror.
“It’s like the sad fuckers’ salsa club in this house.” I dry my hands.
“Meyo, du nu si dis eff wud,” Mum grunts over the music.
“So-rree,” I say. I leave.
In Mum’s room, there is a burgundy dress on the bed. She has laid it out with tights poking out the bottom, shoes at the end of the tights, a bra and pants on top, and a necklace, bracelet and earrings all in the right place. It looks like someone has stretched out on her bed and then evaporated, leaving their stuff behind. There are still tags on the dress. It’s new. I finger the fabric. I’ve never seen this dress before. I walk round the bed to her CD player and turn down the volume so it’s just a mumble.
In the hallway I give Kojak a rub behind the ears. He’s is sitting outside Mum’s room with his ears pinned back, squinting. He is standing his ground – making a protest against crap Latin music. He hadn’t worked out that he could just leave. How lucky is Kojak? He can just pop out the catflap and escape. I have been told I must stay here and not go to Chick’s house because I am getting my first proper introduction to Paul when he comes to pick up Mum. Cannot wait.
People go on dates all the time, every single day of the week, but Mum is acting like Paul and her are Adam and Eve. This isn’t even a first date. She’s been knocking about with Paul for weeks. Tonight is far from monumental. It is the Social Services Christmas Ball. Calling it a ‘ball’ makes it sound like some glamorous thing in a castle in Vienna, but really it will be a crappy buffet in a municipal hall in Barnet. Mum has built it up to be the red carpet event of the year. I’m not allowed to spoil the illusion.
“You are spoilsport,” Mum yells from the bathroom, now that the music’s gone. She must have cracked her face mask because she sounds normal again. As normal as Mum ever sounds.
Mum suggested we have a ‘pampering afternoon’ to get ready for tonight. It’s what they tell you to do in sappy magazines. I wonder if anyone in real life actually has ‘pampering afternoons’. I bet the women who write those articles have chipped nails and stubbly legs like the rest of civilisation. I told Mum I didn’t want to do it.
“I’m not going out, am I?” I said.
“So? You join in with me. Just for fun. Help your skin.”
She’d licked her thumb and rubbed at the concealer on the spot on my chin. I yanked my face away, told her to get off. I try really hard at feeling good about myself and she has the power to take it away with one wipe of her thumb.
“You are looking much better without this stuff on your face. Makes it worse. All cakey. You prettier underneath.”
Mum knows nothing. You have to keep covering up. You have to keep battling. The last thing you must do is admit defeat. An ugly disease gets hold of you at about thirteen years old and turns you spotty and lumpy and greasy and if you don’t fight it you’ll never come out the other end. You have to keep concealing and hiding and disguising and hoping for something a tiny step nearer to perfection. You have to tell yourself that it’s a good thing that you have curvy thighs and not bamboo canes for legs like Chick. And you have to tell yourself that your frizzy hair is interesting, while Lucy Bloss’s perfect, perfect hair is just fake. And you have to tell yourself that you are lucky to have only a few spots and not a big, mad rash of acne, like Georgina Holcroft, who has it across her cheeks and – even grosser – her shoulders. At least no one stares at your manky back when you’re getting undressed for PE trying to work out where the spots start and where they end. It’s cruel to think of your classmates like that, but you have to focus on their weaknesses to survive. You have to make their problems and insecurities seem worse than your own, otherwise how can you live with yourself?
Especially when you have a mum like mine.
Mum walks out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, trailing the smell of her bath bubbles. She’s done that thing with her hair where she twists it round and round on top of her head and it just stays there in a bun by itself. All so easy. I think about the jokey stuff Mum says about Auntie Aphrodite. Flowers they are growing wherever she is walking, birds they are flocking wherever she is flying! Those words are about Mum really. Mum is the elfin fairy queen and I am her lumping great monster offspring. How did this happen? Was she cursed, or am I? Either way, I never inherited her cheekbones. I got dark hairy arms as extra punishment.
No.
She is the one who’s the embarrassment. This is how I have to think about it, or else I will die of self-hatred. Mum is the one who dresses like a scabby student. She is the one who collects cheap jewellery like a thieving magpie. She is the one who accidentally on purpose forgets to put on make-up and comb her hair because she thinks she’s all floaty and poetic. She is the one who insists on speaking like she just came over on the last plane from Greece even though she can write English perfectly, better than me. She is the one who laughs that little bit too loudly in public and makes everyone stare and stare. She is the one with the problem.
“Come, help me choose what I am wearing,” Mum goes, dripping water along the hallway. Kojak feels crowded out and legs it down the stairs. I get up from where I’ve been crouching next to him. I throw a look into Mum’s bedroom.
“Looks like you’ve already decided.”
“Is not fixed.” She’s lying. That dress is like nothing else she owns. That dress is especially for tonight.
“S’okay, I’m going to write my Christmas cards.”
“Oh.” she looks disappointed. “Okay then.”
I head back down the hall to my room and close the door.
Writing Christmas cards is a political business. It’s best to write too many and include the people you don’t really like. This is insurance. If someone gives you a card and you don’t give them one straight back, it’s awkward. You just stand there not knowing what to say, your gob opening and shutting – goldfish lips. If you have the back-up card ready and written, you’re safe. In the same way, you must never give a card to someone unless you are absolutely sure they are going to give you one back. Otherwise, you’ll be on the receiving end of the goldfish lips. Total shame.
I start by writing a list. Lists make you feel better. It seems like you’re doing something productive when really all you’re doing is making a list. They work with everything, not just Christmas cards.
I AM BETTER THAN MUM BECAUSE I . . .
SPEAK PROPERLY
DON’T DRESS LIKE A GYPSY
DON’T TELL STORIES ABOUT MYSELF ALL THE TIME
ACT MY AGE
This makes me feel better for all of a nanosecond. Then I feel like a bitch for actually writing it down. I am a bad person and th
erefore not as good as Mum after all. Mum wins.
On my Christmas Card List, I put:
CHICK
ELAINE WILKIE
GEORGINA HOLCROFT
CARA MORAN
FREYA NIGHTINGALE
LOUISE SHINE (JEWISH, BUT STILL SENDS CARDS. WEIRD)
POOJA VARMA
SHAKIRA ANWAR
KALEIGH BARNES (INSURANCE)
EMILY WINTERS (INSURANCE)
DIONNE AGU (INSURANCE)
LUCY BLOSS (ONLY FOR AN EXTREME EMERGENCY)
I put no boys on the list. Boys don’t send you anything – unless they’re your boyfriend.
I take the pack of cards out of my school bag. They have a picture of a snow-covered house on them. The house is perfect – door in the middle, four symmetrical windows, a garden fence. Other people have houses like this. Other people also have perfect, symmetrical lives. I turn the pack over. It says there are only ten cards inside. Two people will have got to go from my list. Who won’t bother to send me a card? Lucy and Kayleigh are the obvious ones to ditch. They could come over all ‘season of good will’, but it’s unlikely. I’d be less surprised if a new baby Jesus turned up in East Finchley.
I’ve bought a silver ink pen for the writing. I saw a really lovely one in the shop that wrote in shimmery red, but I couldn’t use that for my cards, even if I was writing one to Lucy Bloss. I don’t hate her enough to want her dead. I give the silver pen a shake, listen to the ink mixer inside rattling up and down. I take off the lid and give it a quick sniff. Kayleigh Barnes reckons you can get really high with one of these things if you put your mind to it. Can kill you too though, make your heart stop.
DEAR CHICK,
I write,
HAPPY CHRISTMAS. HAVE AN AMAZING NEW YEAR, LOVE MEL. XXX
Next year will be amazing, because our GCSEs will be done and finished. I lick the envelope, seal it up, write ‘Chick’ in curly letters on the front. I’m just about to start writing Elaine’s card when Mum cranks the music back up, ear-splittingly loud. I am being attacked by salsa. I put down the silver pen and go out into the hall.
“Turn. The. Music. Down,” I yell over the plinking and plonking of a deafening piano.