I think this is a strange thing to say because it’s Nana who’s really in pain.
Later, at night, I can’t get to sleep. I listen to my family breathing. You can hear Dad’s snoring and tiny noises creaking around the cottage. There are definitely birds fluttering around in the roof. But mostly I can hear people breathing. Then I feel my own breath, in and out, and the little space between the in breath and the out breath, just like Nana’s taught me. After a while I start to feel quite sleepy. Then I hear Nana’s sandals padding on the wooden floor and I listen to her trying desperately to catch her breath. She walks slowly to the sink and fills a glass with cold water so she can swallow her pills. Nana has to take so many pills now.
Her body is silhouetted against my bedroom doorway. I watch her leaning against the sink taking little sips of water. Suddenly, she drops the cup, as if it’s burned her. Now she’s clutching onto her shoulder like she’s being attacked by a wild animal. For a moment I think she’s going to fall over, but she just leans against the sink, holding herself up and making this horrible groaning noise.
I hear Dad call out. “Mum, what’s the matter, what’s going on?”
Nana looks up in this helpless way as Dad walks toward her. “Take the pain away, Sam, just take it away,” she pleads.
“We’ll do our best for you, Mum.”
Dad puts his arm round Nana and leads her into the front room. I just lie here, staring at the empty doorway. This is not a nightmare. I am wide awake.
Thursday, 5 May
Outside everything is gray, Payne’s Gray. There’s not even a cloud to watch, scudding across. This whole sky is one great low fog pressing down on me. Even the air is a misty, damp swamp you don’t feel like breathing in. On days like this there is too much sky in Suffolk.
I take Dad’s laptop off to Nana’s little pink bedroom and plug in the Internet stick. I type in “Ruwanda,” and it asks, “Do you mean Rwanda?” I click on that, and a whole list of choices comes up for me to read about Rwanda…genocide…mass killing…photos of hundreds of skulls of children on school desks and altars in churches. I can’t take in the nightmare of what I’m reading. More than a million people killed…with machetes, knives, and guns…Civil war, tribes fighting each other, neighbors ordered to kill neighbors or be killed themselves…priests preaching killing…How many people exactly? No one counted, but the reason for all the killing? To wipe out a whole tribe of people. Just like Hitler tried to destroy Jewish people, but in Rwanda no one did anything to stop it. Not the British, not the Americans. What did Jidé say? “You probably saw them on the news.”
Here I am sitting in my Nana’s pink room with roses painted on the wall reading these poisonous words with a red-hot anger starting to burn in my belly, filling my throat and mouth with a bitter acid taste that I can’t get rid of. Now I think I know why Jidé Jackson doesn’t want to go there, doesn’t want to think about it…He said he’d had a sister who wouldn’t even speak of what she’d been through.
It’s true what Jidé said: with this sort of past, why would you want to look back? And, reading all of this, I still don’t know the story of why his sister died.
Suddenly the marshmallow sweetness of Nana’s pink room makes me want to break out. I run into the gray mist and keep on running down the lane and onto the marsh. I gulp in the damp air, running and running until I can’t breathe anymore. But I know there is nowhere to run to, because, although I’ve seen terrible scenes on the television of people suffering and starving, it’s never really got to me before, not like today…because once you know this stuff happened to your friend’s mum and dad, to his sister and to a million other people, you can’t unknow it. Can you?
“It’ll be all right, Mira, with Nana. We’re going to sort it out,” says Dad when I get back.
He wraps his arms round me. I don’t tell him that my tears are not for Nana but for Jidé Jackson and his mum and dad who he never knew…and his sister with no name.
Nana is still lying on her white wicker sofa snuggled in her purple shawl. “Accepting visitors, like the queen,” she says. This sofa can only be used by Nana, Krish, Laila, and me—obviously not all at the same time. It would just snap if a big person sat on it. But it’s perfect for Nana. She looks beautiful with all the patterned cushions around her, like a Matisse painting. I find my sketchbook and start to draw her. Nana smiles at me. She likes “sitting” for people. Since she was very young, artists have painted Nana and photographed her for newspapers and exhibitions. We’ve got a black-and-white photo in the hallway at home of Nana when she was about twenty years old with her bulldog Toro. The writing underneath says: “Beauty and the Beast Make an Entrance among Embankment Artists.”
All through the day different people come to visit Nana Josie. Mum and Dad are worried that it’s making her too tired, but when they suggest she has a rest she waves away their worries, telling them not to fuss, that this is what she’s here for. Even so, later, when people arrive, she’s sleeping. Some people can understand about dying and others can’t really deal with it at all. Some of my nana’s friends are happy to hold her hand for an hour while she sleeps. When she’s awake, Nana just lies there, smiling at everyone with her eyes. She lets the visitors do the talking if they want to. Some people find it impossible to stop talking…to say good-bye. One friend comes back again and again. After he finally leaves, Nana sighs, “It’s bloody hard work dying well.”
That’s what we’re trying to help Nana to do, I think, die well. Just like people try to have a good life…we are trying to give Nana a good death. But Jidé Jackson’s mum and dad and sister did not die well. More than one million people in Rwanda did not die well…I can’t get the picture out of my mind of their bodies floating down a river with no one to care for them.
When you draw someone, you see things in them that you don’t notice in normal life. It’s like the world slows down and grows silent so you just see the person in front of you, like peering out at a tiny spec of the world through a holey stone. Even though it’s my nana I’m drawing and I know what she looks like, it’s as if I’m seeing her for the very first time…like how you can tell, by her mouth and her chin, what a determined person she is. But when I’m drawing her eyes I notice something new. Her expression tells me that she’s trapped; she can’t wait to get out of her body. These are the things I see when I’m drawing Nana Josie.
Dad’s on the phone talking to someone about Nana’s pain in the night. An hour later the phone rings. It’s the nurse. She’s the one who’s been coming to Nana’s flat to look after her. When Dad’s finished talking, he comes over and sits quietly with Nana, and at that very moment Laila wakes up and starts to cry. Mum picks her up to comfort her.
“Who wants a walk by the sea?” Mum rallies us, trying her best to sound enthusiastic.
Krish is climbing the walls with excitement. I don’t really want to go, but I say yes because it’s obvious that Dad and Nana want to be on their own.
Mum straps Laila into the baby carrier and hoists her up onto her back. Laila kicks her legs as if she would like to run to catch up with us. The wind smears my hair onto my face so I can hardly see ahead. From the crabbing bridge, me and Krish race for the dunes like we always do. He wins, like he always does. Once over the dunes the sea stops us short. Great breaking waves roar in my face, and the spray threads a foam necklace all along the beach. If you lean back, the wind almost holds you up, but you know that if it decides to, it can just as easily knock you down flat. I wish we’d brought Nana with us. She could have stood on the beach and the wind would have picked her up and flown her over the sea like a kite set free. I love the way the wind and the sea and the cold blast everything else away, so the only thing you can think about is not being blown away. When she was a little girl, Nana used to dream of flying all the time, just like I do. Now that my period’s gone I feel as if I could fly over the dunes again, like I did last summer with Millie.
Krish and Mum are shouting to me, but their voices are
swallowed by the sea and the wind.
“Piiiiiiiper!” I call.
But Piper has found another dog to play with. They’re splashing around in the foam. A woman with a green headscarf appears through the spray. She’s walking up the beach toward me, waving.
“Mooooooses,” she calls over and over.
At first I think she’s just calling to the dog, but as she draws closer I realize she’s waving to me.
“Hello, Mira! I thought maybe there was a chance we’d bump into each other.”
I don’t really know what to say. It just feels so odd seeing Pat Print here on the beach. I look over my shoulder to see where Mum and Krish are, but they’ve disappeared over the dunes.
“I’ve got a motor home a bit farther up the beach. I keep it parked up permanently. My secret hideaway,” she whispers, placing a finger over her lips.
I still can’t think of anything to say to her. So I stare down at the sand and Pat Print’s bare feet. She follows my eyes.
“Since I was a little girl, I could never see the sand without throwing my shoes off—whatever the weather, I’ve just got to feel the sand between my toes. Call me a free spirit.”
I hardly dare look up at her because the thought crosses my mind that maybe she isn’t really here at all, but then Piper and Moses fly at us, shaking the salty water off their coats and soaking us with their spray. Pat Print laughs and clips Moses back onto his leash.
“Who’s this?” asks Pat, stroking Piper.
“Piper, Nana’s dog.”
“Lovely to see you, Mira. Maybe we’ll walk together again one day,” Pat Print says, smiling at me.
Then she turns away and glides off down the beach. Her bare feet, the wind whipping up the beach, and her disappearing into the sea mist, coat ends flapping, makes me wonder if that actually happened.
I trail up and down the bank looking for holey stones. If—I say to Notsurewho Notsurewhat—I find a holey stone, then Pat Print is definitely a ghost, spirit, angel, or whatever. As soon as I’ve thought it, there it is in front of me, a perfect oval holey stone. This one’s for Millie. I squeeze it safely snug inside my jeans pocket. Now Krish is sprinting back up the beach, yelling at me to hurry up as Laila’s screech carries on the wind. It’s too bitter for her out here.
As soon as you walk over the dunes, the sea is gone. With every step, the roar of the waves and the wind is muffled until the world grows gray again.
“What took you so long?” shouts Krish in a voice as loud as Ben Gbemi’s as if I’m miles away instead of standing right next to him. I think about telling them about Pat Print, but he probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.
“I was looking for a holey stone for Millie.”
When I get back to the cottage, I show Nana the holey stone. The holey stone that means Pat Print is a ghost.
“Millie will love that, but don’t forget it’s our collection, yours and mine, so keep adding to it…” She wraps her arms round my shoulders protectively. There it is again, the sentence that’s not finished…“When I’m gone.”
“Nana, do you believe in ghosts and spirits?”
“Of course. I’ve seen a few of that sort of thing in my time,” she smiles.
“Did they frighten you?”
“Not really, they just give you a bit of a jolt.”
“What are you two so secretive about?” asks Mum, helping Nana up.
Nana takes off her purple shawl, folds it, and places it on the back of her comfy chair.
“Just sharing ghost stories,” laughs Nana.
Mum gives Nana one of her “Sure that’s a good idea, Josie?” looks, but her repertoire of meaningful glances is wasted on Nana.
“Mira, what were you looking up about Rwanda?” asks Dad as he goes to shut down his laptop.
“Nothing, we’re doing a project on Africa, that’s all.”
“What sort of project?” pursues Dad.
“Oh, I dunno, can’t remember now,” I say, wandering away and hoping he’ll let it drop, but then he starts to read what I’ve read. He’s shaking his head now and sighing, which draws Mum over to him. She stands behind him reading. Occasionally they both look over to me with those matching furrowed brows of theirs. When Dad finally switches off the computer, he looks up at me and says, “We’ll need to talk about this later.”
Mum nods in agreement.
Sometimes I wish I came from a family where the parents just let you get on with it. There are loads of kids in my class whose parents haven’t got a clue what they get up to. Just my luck to be born into a family who have to talk about everything. We have this whole vocabulary given over to “talking.” “Chats” or “talks” are supposed to be not that important, usually a short “private” word with Mum or Dad about a minor worry. “Meetings” are more serious. The whole family has to get together and have a proper “discussion.” When a family “conference” is called, you know something really off the scale is about to happen, like moving house or something. So, I’ve got to have a “talk” with Dad later about Rwanda, though by the look on his face it might turn out to be a bit more than a talk.
When the cottage is nearly cleared up, Dad calls a “meeting,” but there’s something about it that’s reminding me more of our last family “conference.”
“Come on, Krish, put that football down, just for a minute,” says Dad, patting the seat next to him to try to stop Krish from dribbling the ball around the room. When Krish is finally still, Dad explains that when we get back to London Nana is going to stay in a hospice, so that the doctors can sort out her pain. Krish asks Dad how long she will have to stay there. Dad says he doesn’t know. I know.
When we pack our bags, it’s as if Nana is packing that part of her life up and storing it in her head. She says that since she was a little girl she’s always felt sad when she packs up to leave a place. She calls suitcases “joyless things,” that’s why she always just slings her stuff into a soft cotton bag.
As we are leaving, Nana goes out to stand on her porch to take a last look at her garden. Then she closes the door, locks it with the little silver key, and places it on top of the light switch like she always does.
We drive down the lane in silence. At the junction Nana suddenly asks Dad to turn left.
“There’s just one view I have to see again,” she says.
Dad nods. Without having to ask where she wants to go, he turns left, then right, and down the winding country lanes and across the sea of yellow gorse. This is Nana’s very favorite view. She’s brought us here loads of times before. The people at the bird sanctuary shop don’t even charge her anymore, because she knows Dunwich Dan, who works there, and anyway they know she only comes to sit in Bittern Hide.
When we get to the parking lot, Dad drives as close to the shop as possible. He steps out of the car and into the place where you buy your tickets.
“I was hoping I’d see Dan,” says Nana as she catches sight of him through the window.
Dan pushes a wheelchair toward the car. He opens the door, swinging it back in a grand sweep.
“Josie, how lovely to see you! Get in, I’ll drive you up there myself,” he says as if he’s her personal chauffeur.
“I just had to see it once more,” Nana smiles at Dan.
“Don’t blame you, Josie.”
Working at the sanctuary shop is one of Dunwich Dan’s retirement jobs. He’s actually quite old, but he’s one of those old men who looks really healthy and strong. He has red cheeks with deep lines in his face like he’s spent all his life outdoors. Dan comes to Nana’s garden once a month to tidy it up. He used to work in lots of people’s gardens, but not anymore. Nana says the main reason Dan keeps her garden on is to watch the flycatchers go backward and forward to their nest on her porch.
Dan pushes Nana down the bumpy path to Bittern Hide. I still think it’s a funny thing to do…hide from the birds, so you can spy on them. Nana looks up through the trees as occasionally Dan stops to point out a nest or list
en to birdsong.
As Mum wheels the pram over the path to the hide, Laila’s head starts to nod.
“Thank God!” Mum sighs.
Bittern Hide has quite a few steps to climb. Nana stands up out of the wheelchair to take the first step, but, before she can take another, Dan wraps one arm round her neck and slides the other under her knees, lifting her up, just like Dad holds Laila when she falls asleep in his arms.
“This is really not necessary,” giggles Nana.
“Reason not the need. I’m enjoying myself, Josie.”
“Go on then, carry me over the threshold,” chuckles Nana.
There are other birdwatchers in the hide, but when they see us lot coming up the steps, most of them leave. Only a few give us the benefit of the doubt.
As soon as you’re inside the hide, you feel the weight of silence, like when you walk into an empty church. It takes us a few minutes to get settled on the long wooden benches. Dan unhooks one of the long latch windows so that Nana can see straight out onto the reed beds. Once it’s quiet in the hide, your ears start to tune into all the different birdcalls. It’s as if you’ve never heard a bird sing before.
The reed beds are green and golden and, even though the sea is just beyond, you feel as if you’re floating away on a wave of golden grass.
We listen to the dancing grass and the sound of ruffled wings as the birds rise up over the reed beds in great sweeping arcs. In the hide, the only sound is our own breathing. People occasionally smile at me, Krish, and Laila…sleeping Laila. I think they’re really impressed that we’re being so quiet. Every time they look at us, I can feel Mum swelling up with pride. Krish is lost in the rippling reeds, rocking his body silently backward and forward on the bench.
A bird rising from the reed bed sends up a high-pitched squawk followed by an almighty clatter in the cabin and now Krish is lying flat on his back on the floor. For a second, nobody says anything. Krish bites his lip, trying hard not to make any more noise. His eyes scan the hide from left to right as his skinny legs struggle to unravel themselves. He looks surprisingly like a startled baby bird just fallen from its nest.
Mira in the Present Tense Page 8