Forever Phoenix

by Cathy Cassidy

  I cradle the hot chocolate in mittened hands. It’s been colder these last few days, the kind of cold that means a little cloud spools out into the air in front of you when you speak, like dragon’s breath.

  ‘Can we try the charity shops, too?’ Lexie suggests. ‘I’m still looking for something for Sami, and I always find the best prezzies there!’

  We push into the nearest one. ‘You and Lee seem to be getting close,’ Bex says. ‘Has he asked you out yet?’

  ‘Every other day,’ I admit. ‘I do like him – it’s just … well, I don’t have a very good track record when it comes to boys. Or on anything, really. I’m scared, I suppose.’

  ‘No way,’ Lexie says. ‘You always seem so confident and in control … like you know everything about everything!’

  ‘Ha – I know nothing at all,’ I say. ‘It’s an act. I stick my chin in the air and make like I’m brave. It works most of the time, but I’m totally bluffing my way through, pretending I know what I’m doing!’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ Bex chips in, trying on a pink pillbox hat with a net veil. ‘Anyone who says they know what they’re doing is either lying or kidding themselves. It took me a long time and a lot of meltdowns to work that one out …’

  ‘None of us have a clue,’ Lexie says, peering out from beneath a beautiful length of green-and-gold sari fabric. ‘In my experience, families aren’t always the way they look in the movies … but there’s no point dwelling on the sad bits or the bad bits. I thought I had no family left at all, but it turns out I have two lovely grandparents … they’re friends of your gran, actually. And then there’s my foster family – they’re amazing, even this troublemaker here …’ She nudges Bex.

  ‘Hey!’ Bex protests.

  ‘So I count my blessings,’ Lexie goes on. ‘Look for the good stuff, Phoenix – it’s always there …’

  ‘Festive philosophy of the Lost & Found,’ Bex says. ‘She’s right, though. Apart from the “troublemaker” bit. Anyway, nothing’s really grabbing me here. Shall we try the place on the corner?’

  In the second charity shop Bex finds an almost new veggie cookery book for her foster mum, Lexie buys a fringed woollen scarf for Sami, and I find a black wool beret in perfect condition and buy that too. A bit of me has Lee in mind for the beret, especially now that Pie has inflicted more damage on his battered trilby, but another part of me worries that giving it to Lee would feel too revealing, like giving away a slice of my heart. What if he didn’t like it, didn’t want it?

  I like Lee Mackintosh. I like him more than any boy I’ve ever met, and that scares me.

  A Christmas tree is delivered on Sunday morning, the tallest, loveliest tree I’ve ever seen. Sheddie helps to manoeuvre it into the living room, where it is positioned in front of the big bay window.

  ‘Can we decorate it?’ I ask Grandma Lou.

  ‘Of course!’ she says. ‘You make a start … I just want to finish the underpainting on my magpie picture, then I’ll join you!’

  I haul four boxes of decorations out of the attic, and the memories flood back as I unpack an array of lopsided baubles crafted by the two of us in years gone by. My eyes widen as I uncover a cache of neatly découpaged hearts made from kitsch old Christmas cards pasted on to cardboard and sprinkled with glitter – I’ve never seen them before, I’m certain.

  I’m wearing one hung over each ear, like giant earrings, when Grandma Lou comes in with a tray of hot spiced apple juice. ‘Ahh … Vivi made those, when she was about your age,’ she tells me. ‘They were her Christmas present to me that year. She was never very keen on art and craft, but she took so much care over these. They’re very special to me!’

  I remove the hearts from my ears. ‘Sorry!’ I say. ‘How come I’ve never seen them before?’

  ‘Vivi decided that she hated them, said they embarrassed her,’ Grandma Lou explains. ‘When the two of you came for Christmas in the past, she would take them down from the tree and pack them away. I think she’d have thrown them in the bin if I’d let her.’

  Grandma Lou’s eyes mist with tears. ‘I can’t believe it ever got to this point,’ she says with a sigh. ‘It grieves me every single day. I’ve invited Vivi for Christmas, but she hasn’t answered yet … I’m sure she’ll come. She’ll want to see you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, but I know that neither of us quite believe it.

  ‘She’ll come if she can,’ Grandma Lou says. ‘But everyone here at Greystones is a kind of extended family, really, so Christmas dinner will still be fun. It’s always a big, communal affair. D’you remember, Phoenix?’

  ‘Of course I do!’

  I remember the kitchen full of people cooking, potatoes cooked in cream, nut roasts wrapped in golden pastry and pies filled with veggies in cheese sauce or tahini and tofu, quiches and tagines and bakes – every kind of festive feast except for the turkey. I remember how we used to set up two trestle tables at either end of the long farmhouse dining table, draping them in old sheets tie-dyed green and scarlet for the occasion. The people from the flats, the caravan and the yurt would arrive, each with a dish to contribute, and the celebration would begin.

  Christmas Day was a party from start to finish at Grandma Lou’s, with laughter, feasting, music, song and chat. I remember suddenly how Willow would plait my hair with ribbons and sing carols to me as Mum sat trying to watch the Queen’s Christmas speech on TV. She hated Christmas at Greystones, even then.

  Grandma Lou lowers a sixties compilation LP on to the record player, and we set to work. I untangle the fairy lights and put up the old stepladder. It’s quite wobbly, and Grandma Lou is still in her green suede hippy clogs, so I climb up to drape the tree with lights and tinsel. Once that’s done, we hang baubles from every branch – clumsy handmade ones, classy retro ones, fragile vintage ones and, finally, Mum’s découpage hearts in pride of place.

  I try to imagine my frosty mother at fourteen years old, cutting out cardboard hearts and sticking on snipped-up Christmas cards and pinches of glitter, but the image won’t come. Instead I see a sad-eyed girl looking for love, not so very different from me. Haven’t I just forked out most of my pocket money on a garish designer-label scarf because I wanted the heart motif to say the things I can’t put into words? Are we really so very different?

  Grandma Lou holds the stepladder while I stretch out to fix the star in place at the top of the tree, inhaling that sharp Christmas-tree scent of pine, citrus and nostalgia. We drape the remaining few strings of fairy lights round the window and door and over the big wooden mantelpiece.

  ‘It’s wonderful!’ she exclaims. ‘All it needs is some evergreen branches here and there to finish it off, but I’ll cut those next week … I want them to stay fresh!’

  When we switch off the ceiling light the whole room looks magical.

  When I come home from school the next day the fairy lights are twinkling as I crunch up the driveway and, inside, the house smells of oranges and cinnamon. I feel the kind of thrill of anticipation I haven’t had in years.

  ‘I’ve been drying orange slices in the oven,’ Grandma Lou tells me. ‘I thought we could string them together with cinnamon sticks and fir cones to make some Christmas garlands, the way we used to when you were small. I’m making Christmas cake, too!’

  I sigh. ‘It smells amazing!’

  ‘It does! It’s been a funny kind of day – I’m baking to cheer myself up, I think!’

  I frown. ‘What’s happened?’

  Grandma Lou smiles sadly, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Sadie from the top flat came over to see me,’ she says. ‘She and Joe have found a job creating an organic garden in a new shared living community in Spain. They’re moving out at the end of the week. I’ll really miss her – we went to art college together in the seventies – but this is a wonderful opportunity for them!’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I say. ‘Who will live in that flat now?’

  ‘No idea. Somebody who needs it, I hope!’ Grandma Lou says, dippi
ng a finger into the cake mix and tasting it before adding a glug more brandy. ‘I’m a bit late with the cake this year – I usually do it at the end of November because it’s better if it has a while to sit – but it’ll still be good. And now you’re here to help me stir!’

  She hands me the big wooden spoon and tells me to make a wish. ‘It’s a tradition,’ she says. ‘Go on!’

  So I close my eyes and stir, thinking of all the things I could wish for … a record deal, a slot on Lola Rockett’s New Year show, fame, fortune, no more freckles. Instead, I surprise myself and wish for Mum to come for Christmas … which, of course, is the least likely thing of all.

  18

  Snowfall

  On Wednesday afternoon I’m in class working my way through a page of simultaneous equations when it begins to snow. The flakes are big and dramatic, drifting down from a sullen sky like torn paper, falling faster every minute. Everyone has noticed now, and any chance of us finishing our algebra is lost forever.

  Kids are at the window, laughing, pressing their noses against the misty glass. Excitement fizzes round the classroom and the teacher doesn’t try to fight it because there are only a few days of term left and the chance of getting anyone back to their equations is non-existent.

  Dawdling to my last lesson, I stop at an upstairs window to see if the snow is settling, and spot a familiar figure in a shrunken cotton jacket cowering in a doorway round the back of the gym. A telltale plume of smoke rises up through the swirl of snowflakes.

  I run downstairs and head towards the gym, my feet crunching through the freshly fallen snow, flakes starring my hair. Sharleen has pushed herself back into the doorway, so she’s almost invisible now, but I know she’s there and crunch my way over, stepping neatly in beside her so I’m hidden from view too.

  ‘Whatcha want, Posh Girl?’ she asks. ‘I’m not sharing me ciggies, so you can forget that!’

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ I remind her. ‘Want some chocolate?’

  I fish half a bar of Fruit and Nut from my bag and hand it over. ‘Haven’t you got a proper coat?’

  Sharleen shrugs. ‘I like this one.’

  ‘Are you still at the B & B?’ I ask.

  ‘No, Posh Girl, we’ve moved into the Hilton. We get room service every night … caviar and champagne.’ She laughs, a harsh, sad sound that turns into a cough. ‘Course we’re still there. What did you think, we had a Christmas miracle?’

  Words spill out of my mouth before I can properly think them through. ‘My gran has a flat going at Greystones. She hasn’t advertised it yet … Maybe your mum could apply?’

  Sharleen rolls her eyes. ‘Like we could afford that! Mum’s had her benefits stopped. Why d’you think we’re in this mess to start with?’

  ‘You could ask,’ I persist. ‘My gran won’t judge, and I know some of the Greystones lot pay their rent with work around the place. Jake’s stepdad does …’

  ‘Don’t want charity. And who’d want to live with a bunch of old hippy weirdos anyway?’

  I sigh. ‘Fine. I just thought I’d tell you. Gotta go, I’m late for class …’ I unwind my scarf and shove it at Sharleen, who yells that she doesn’t want my cast-offs, that I’m a stupid do-gooder with rotten taste and she wouldn’t be seen dead in the thing.

  When I look back through the falling snow, though, she’s huddled in the scarf and scoffing chocolate. ‘Happy Christmas, Posh Girl!’ she says.

  Back at Greystones, I decide to bake mince pies to take to band practice. I want to show the band how much they mean to me, but in a low-key way, and with Grandma Lou’s help I just about avoid burning them to a crisp. I pack them into a basket covered with a checked tea towel, and I feel like Little Red Riding Hood crunching through the snow towards the old railway carriage, although I don’t suppose she had a magpie on her shoulder.

  I scramble up the steps. Marley and Dylan have got the wood burner going and Lexie has the kettle steaming and everyone is way too excited by the snow to settle. We drink hot chocolate and eat the warm mince pies and Marley tries to enforce a holiday practice timetable that only gives us Christmas Day free, and is voted down in favour of a two-hour rehearsal every other day.

  ‘Where’s George?’ Romy asks. ‘He’s really late!’

  ‘Snowed in?’ Lee suggests.

  ‘No, he has a Christmas carol concert in town,’ Lexie says. ‘He told me earlier.’

  What?’ Marley growls. ‘A poxy carol concert comes before the band?’

  ‘I said it’d be fine,’ Lexie says. ‘It’s a one-off, Marley. It’s Christmas. Have a heart!’

  Marley scowls. ‘We won’t even miss him,’ he says, and there’s more than a grain of truth in those words. The songs are strong and tight and full of life tonight, even without George’s cello pieces. We finish the rehearsal on a high, with lots of hugs and swapping of Christmas cards and speculation about whether school will be open in the morning. When we spill out into the frozen darkness, the snow is falling faster than ever, hiding our footprints from earlier.

  There’s a brief snowball skirmish with the whole lot of us hopping and slithering about, Pie flying in circles above us, screeching. Soon the snow slides down inside my boots, making my feet wet and cold, and I have snow in my hair and down the back of my neck. I’m shivering, laughing, my cheeks stinging. It’s too cold for anyone to want to hang around, and I pull my duffel coat round me and watch my friends slip and slide towards the gates.

  I’m about to head for the house when one figure stops and turns back. Lee picks his way back along the drive, stopping in front of me, shivering in his vintage jacket and woolly scarf, snow still clinging to the brim of the battered trilby.

  ‘There was something I wanted to say,’ he tells me, and my heart leaps because this time if he asks me out I might seriously think about saying yes. I care about Lee … no amount of pretending I don’t will change that.

  Lee frowns. ‘I figured I was probably getting on your nerves, asking you out all the time. So I’m not going to any more. You can’t say I didn’t try …’

  He turns away and my heart feels like it’s breaking. I’ve messed up again, let something special slip right through my fingers. Why do I get everything so wrong?

  ‘Lee?’ I call out, my voice wobbly with emotion, and he stops, looking back over his shoulder. ‘I … I was wondering. Do … d’you want to go out with me sometime? Just one date, a no-risk, no-strings, trial-offer thing, and if we don’t like it …’

  ‘Are you serious?’ he asks. ‘You’re asking me out now?’

  I shrug. ‘Why not? It’s the twenty-first century – equal rights for men, women and messed-up kids who wish they’d just said yes the first time you asked …’

  In the stillness of the softly falling snow, Lee sighs and pushes back the battered trilby. ‘Of course I’ll go out with you, Phoenix,’ he says. ‘You know I will!’

  ‘Not right this minute,’ I backtrack. ‘It’s snowing and I’m freezing and my feet are wet. These boots are soaking … and Grandma Lou will have the dinner on …’

  Lee laughs. ‘OK, OK. If this keeps up, the schools might shut tomorrow … I could come over? We could go sledging, make snow angels, build an igloo – your wish is my command!’

  ‘All of that!’ I tell him. ‘Cool!’

  His hand traces a path down my cheek, and I shiver. ‘Not so much cool as freezing,’ he says. ‘What happened to your scarf?’

  ‘Lost it,’ I say.

  Then I grab Lee’s scarf and run off through the trees, slipping and sliding across the freshly fallen snow, and by the time he catches me we’re both laughing so hard I’ve forgotten about the cold. Lee pulls me close, his fingers twining into my hair, his breath soft against my cheek. He kisses the end of my nose, and his lips are the only warm thing in the whole of the world.

  Next day, the snow is still falling. The world looks like it has been washed clean and dipped in icing sugar, and a thrill of hope and wonder flutters through me. On a day
like this, anything is possible, surely?

  I’m up early, stitching magpie feathers on to the charity-shop black beret. I’ve decided to be brave and give it to Lee after all … Perhaps it can say the things I can’t quite put into words. My inspiration is the feathered ear cuff Sasha made for me, and I arrange layers of feathers in a fan shape, stitching them carefully so that they stick out a little on one side of the hat. It’s not the kind of thing you’d wear every day, but … on stage, maybe? I have never seen Lee in a beret, but I know he likes hats and I know he likes feathers, and at the last minute I add a bar of Fruit and Nut chocolate too and carefully wrap it all in tissue paper and hope for the best.

  As Grandma Lou and I tuck into porridge, the local radio station announces that all local schools will be closed. An email from Millford Park Academy confirms it, and the whoops of joy and flying snowballs from outside the kitchen window suggest that Jake’s family have got the message too. A text from Lee tells me he’s on his way.

  ‘There’s a sledge in the shed,’ Grandma Lou tells me. ‘Remember, from when you were little?’

  By the time Lee arrives, I’m wearing two pairs of socks, Grandma Lou’s gardening wellies, two pairs of leggings, the Bellvale lost-property jumper layered over a T-shirt, and the duffel coat. Grandma Lou loans me a woolly hat and scarf.

  ‘Are you painting again today?’ I ask her.

  ‘Yes, while the light’s good,’ she says. ‘And I must get the Christmas greenery in, too … I shouldn’t have left it so late!’

  ‘Why not ask Sheddie to do it?’ I suggest.

  ‘Maybe!’

  I pull on my fingerless gloves and crunch along the drive to meet Lee, and five minutes later we’re dragging a vintage wooden sledge towards the park. Already the slope is dotted with kids dragging red and blue plastic sledges up to the top and plummeting back down again. We bump into Jake, who is on babysitting duty all day because his mum and Sheddie have driven up to Birmingham with Laurel, Jack and Willow to do their Christmas shopping.