‘Nice bad stuff,’ I whisper to Toby.
I catch up with the girls at the end of the lesson and we walk out of school together.
‘Like, wow, Betty,’ says Kat. ‘He is into you!’
‘You think so?’
‘He really laughed when you said Fozzy Bear,’ says Bea.
We stand outside the gates, waiting to go our separate ways. I want to keep talking about Toby, but more than anything I want to be alone so I can run over everything he said to me. ‘I’ll see you two tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I’m going to go home and lie on my bed and think about Toby … and his blue eyes … and his muscular chest.’
‘You’ve got a muscular chest,’ says Kat.
I start to walk away. ‘You’ve got a muscular face!’ I yell over my shoulder and then I grin. I grin all the way home as I wonder how I might have got myself into two bands when I never even wanted to be in one, and I grin as I walk down my road, remembering the way Toby called me B-Cakes.
The sight of my house in the middle of our cul-de-sac, with its purple front door and overgrown garden, makes me even happier. The kids from number seven are climbing on the tree on the shared grass and they call out to me. I can see their dad playing with his model train set in his garage. Best of all, Dad’s yellow bike is resting against the side of our house. Dad’s got his own decorating company called ‘Man with a Van’ … but, get this, he hasn’t got a van. Instead, he’s got a bike and a trailer. He says that if he was called ‘Man with a Bike and Trailer’ he wouldn’t get any business.
I let myself in, find him in the kitchen, and give him a massive hug. I smell coffee and white spirit, the nicest Dad smell in the world.
‘I’ve got a bit of news,’ says Dad when I step back. I can tell by the way he says this that he’s practised how it will sound. He’s aiming for casual, but he misses, big time.
‘What?’ I start to rearrange things in the fridge. I think I know what’s coming and I don’t want to hear it.
‘Just that I’m going out on Saturday night, if that’s OK, with a friend.’ A friend. A friend? Why doesn’t he just say it? He means girlfriend. I hear the dishes rattle in the sink. ‘She’s someone I met through work,’ he says. ‘I painted her yoga studio.’
Bill was right, a hippy girlfriend. I keep quiet.
‘Her name’s Rue.’
Rue? Rue! That is so not a name. I know I’m supposed to say something now, something like, ‘That is so great, Dad!’ but I can’t. Instead, I go with staring at a blueberry Fruit Corner in the fridge. I wonder if he was thinking about her when we were eating my birthday cake … Maybe she chose my perfume. I’m chucking it out.
‘Look, Betty,’ Dad says. I slam the fridge shut and turn to face him. ‘I knew you’d find this hard. It’s been just the two of us for so long.’
His words make my heart feel like a small, hard stone. I can’t stop the horrible thoughts that pour through me like a film on fast-forward: I see Rue curled up on the sofa in my spot, Dad taking Rue camping with us, Rue making herself breakfast in our kitchen … wearing Dad’s painty shirt … and nothing else.
‘It must have been terrible for you,’ I blurt out. ‘I didn’t realise you hated being with me so much, just the two of us for so long!’ Tears appear from nowhere.
‘Betty,’ says Dad, putting out his arms. Normally I love hugging Dad. He stands there in his faded band T-shirt waiting for me to come to him. Round his wrist he’s wearing two friendship bracelets I made for him when I was seven. He’s never taken them off. Not once.
‘I hate this, Dad,’ I say, turning away and walking out of the room. ‘I wish you’d never told me!’ I run up to my room, banging the door shut. Then I lie on my bed, hugging Mr Smokey and making his fur all tufty with my tears. Eventually, he wriggles out of my grasp and sits by the door until I let him out.
I curl up on my bed and stare at the shut door. Now I’m all alone. My eyes fall on a purple envelope sitting on my bedside table. Mum’s birthday letter. The last one. I don’t know when Dad put it there. I pick it up and feel its weight in my hands. I find a gap in the envelope flap and push my finger into it. Downstairs, I hear Dad talking on the phone. He could be chatting to anyone – Gramps, a customer, one of his mates – but I can’t stop myself thinking, he’s talking to her.
I throw the letter across the room and it lands in a pile of junk by my wardrobe.
Next, I put on my big green headphones and listen to The Clash. Dad hates this album. I turn the volume up loud until the music makes my insides shake. After a few seconds, I reach over to my ancient hi-fi and pull the earphone cable out.
Now the whole house shakes.
On Saturday morning, Dad goes Poo crazy. That’s right, Poo. She is totally asking to be called Poo by having a name that rhymes with it. Usually Saturday breakfast is my favourite time in the week: Dad makes pancakes, I choose some groovy music, Mr Smokey watches us suspiciously, and Dad comes up with a plan for the weekend. Previous Pancake Plans include:
1. Getting the ferry to France because we realised we were out of Nutella and it’s cheaper over there.
2. Taking Mr Smokey to the seaside so we could see if he liked paddling (negative).
3. Seeing how far we could cycle before it got dark (53.5 miles – Croydon).
4. Visiting six National Trust properties in one day in an attempt to take a photo of a ghost (no ghosts, but we ate a lot of cakes).
5. Visiting six National Trust properties in one day dressed as ghosts (including Nanna and Gramps).
The Poo assault starts the moment the pancakes hit the pan.
‘You remember I’m going out tonight?’ says Dad.
‘Flip it, Dad.’
‘So Rue’s going to pop in at six, just to say hello and show her face –’
‘Seriously, Dad, they’re burning.’
‘– and then we’re going to that veggie Indian place I took you to in Brighton. I think she’ll love it.’
‘Have you seen the maple syrup?’ I ask, banging the cupboard door shut.
‘She’s a pescatarian.’
‘I put maple syrup on the shopping list,’ I say. ‘No way am I having honey.’
‘Pescatarian means she eats fish,’ says Dad, putting a new bottle of syrup on the table. ‘Then we might go to a comedy club, but I’ll be back late. Is that OK?’
‘Dad, you’ve got to see this.’ I thrust my phone in his face. ‘It’s a baby sneezing into his birthday cake!’
He takes my phone out of my hands and drops it on the table. ‘She’s coming round, Betty. I want you to say hello and smile and be nice.’
‘Fine,’ I say in a normal voice, but I have absolutely no intention of saying hello, smiling or being at all nice. To punish Dad, I text my friends all through breakfast. He hates this, but lets me do it because he’s trying to keep me sweet for this evening.
This is what I send:
Just found out dads got a heinous hippy girlfriend am supposed to meet her tonight YUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here’s what I get back:
Kat: Babe you wanna come here and have a sauna? Luv Kitkat
Bea: Poor Betty Jiving tonight can you come? Xxxxxb PS Just made a yum lemon drizzle cake!
Bill: Big news … you ok? Come round to mine after windsurfing?
None of these suggestions are satisfactory. If I leave the house, Dad might sneak Poo in. Instead, I decide to do something which is definitely very sane and normal. I barricade myself in my bedroom by pushing a chest of drawers in front of the door. I make sure I’ve got supplies – Ribena, Cheddars and a banana – and I also take in a jug in case I need a wee. Then I sit on my bed and wait.
My bedroom matches my mood. Being a decorator’s daughter, I was allowed to paint my room any colour I wanted and I went for a blue. My ceiling is Inky Pool 3, my walls are Skylight and my door is Blue Lagoon. And it’s messy. Mugs, abandoned cereal bowls, magazines and clothes are scattered across the floor. I’m sitting in a big blue mess.
Just as the sky becomes a fraction darker than Inky Pool 3, a car sweeps to a stop in front of our house. I duck away from the window, turn my music up loud and bury myself down in my bed. When the doorbell rings, I pull a pillow tight round my head so I don’t even know if Dad calls me.
After I’ve checked they’ve gone, I creep downstairs and make some cheese on toast. Then I sit amongst the junk in my bedroom and eat my crappy dinner. All I can think about is Dad and Poo nibbling on crispy pakoras, trying each other’s sweet stuffed naan, and laughing about what a ‘terrible teen’ I am.
Even thinking about Toby doesn’t cheer me up. I’ve gazed at him a lot this week, and even managed to speak to him a couple of times, but nothing has managed to satisfy my monstrous Toby-cravings. In fact, the more I have to do with him, the worse they get.
Amongst the tangle of clothes pouring out of my wardrobe, I think I spot the flat cap the old man gave me. I’m sure that wearing it will cheer me up. I tug at it and a landslide of jumpers, scarves, jeans and bras spills into the room. Then I discover I’m holding a sock. I rummage through the clothes, and before I know it I’m organising things into piles. I even have a rubbish pile and a charity shop pile. One pile is particularly rectangular and purple, my Dead Mum letter pile. The deeper I get into my wardrobe, the more letters I find.
It’s only when I’ve put everything back in the wardrobe, hung my three dresses on hangers and thrown out the rubbish, that I realise I still haven’t found the flat cap. Never mind, I haven’t thought about Dad and Poo for at least an hour.
The only thing left on the carpet are the letters.
I decide to arrange them in date order. I have fourteen. The first one I ever got has been read so many times it’s falling apart. The letter on the top of the pile is the last one, and the only one I haven’t opened. I turn it over and over. It seems heavier than the others and the edges are crisp and sharp. Why did she draw a heart on this one?
I put the rest of the letters in the Puma shoebox that’s been lying on my floor since my birthday and then I climb into bed with the unopened letter.
Taking a deep breath, I run my finger under the seal and peel open the envelope. I pull out three sheets of paper.
Dear Plumface,
Today you are fifteen, but as I write these words, you’re one and a half and a lunatic. Seriously, you eat flowers, but only yellow ones. The only time you aren’t being crazy is when you are asleep, like right now.
I’ve just done some maths in my head – which is impressive as I only scraped a C in my maths GCSE – and I’ve discovered something frightening. Something as frightening as finding a drooling orc under my bed who is panting and wants to eat me. If, by some miracle, you are unfamiliar with Dad’s favourite book, ‘Lord of the Rings’, orcs are sentient beings bred for evil. So, I’ve discovered something terrifying, and if you bear in mind I have terminal cancer, you’ll realise I have a good grasp of frightening situations.
A year ago, Dr Harper told me that, ‘in a best- case scenario’ I might have ‘twelve months to live’. Then he did a wincey face that seemed to say, ‘Don’t go booking any holidays for next summer!’ Today, my twelve months are up so it looks like my plan to write you a letter for every birthday of your life was unrealistic. I was going to do 120, in case you eat loads of raw veg and live to be ancient. So far, I’ve written twelve.
In the words of Dad when I told him I was pregnant with you: crapola.
Admittedly, when I decided to write 120 letters, I was taking a lot of drugs (prescribed) and I also decided to release an album and run the New York marathon.
I haven’t sung with The Swanettes for months and the last time I ran – from the kitchen to the living room when you bit Dingo’s tail – I ended up on a drip. Every day I sleep for a few more hours and this morning I couldn’t eat my toast.
Betty, I love toast.
I am just so tired. I don’t know how long I can keep going, even for you, my beautiful wild baby.
So, I have a plan. I’m going to hide some letters up in the attic in my Remington Super Smooth Ladies’ Razor box. If you want to read them, you know where to look. If you don’t want to read them, that’s OK. I wasn’t interested in anything my mum had to say when I was 15 (or 18, or 23, or 26). Either way, there’s a good razor up there.
These letters are going to be different to the birthday ones. To be honest, I was running out of things to write and sometimes it was difficult thinking of jolly things to say when my mood was really rather sombre. Imagine it: ‘Hey Plumface, You are three! Just had chemo and I’ve got rampant diarrhoea and my mouth is stuffed full of painful ulcers!’
The letters in the attic are between you and me. I’m not even going to tell Dad they’re there, but I’ve made him promise to leave some boxes of stuff up there for you. They will be stories. Stories about me when I was your age. Stories about me doing all the things you are probably going to do. Stories even Dad hasn’t heard … including the one about my first ever kiss, History Boy, and my scalp spot. There. That’s called ‘a teaser’. You see, even though your dad is quite simply the best, he doesn’t know what it’s like to be fifteen and a girl.
For me, the most frightening thing in the world isn’t a drooling orc under the bed, or even dying. It’s knowing that I am leaving you, my baby, which is really the worst thing any mum can do.
If you would like to read my stories, Betty, they are my fifteenth birthday present to you.
Love you always,
Mumface xxx
Everything is silent in the room. I sit and stare at the letter. I know what Mum looked like; I’ve seen loads of photos – huge smile, swinging blonde hair (dyed), freckles like mine – but, just now, I almost heard her. Usually when I read my birthday letters, they come from the past, but these words were whispered in my ear. Hairs prickle on my arms and my throat feels sore.
I look up at the ceiling. Are Mum’s letters in the attic waiting for me? Part of me wants to rush up there and find out, like I’m doing a treasure hunt, but something holds me back. What if she never managed to write them? What if Dad threw them out by mistake? Instead, I bury myself further in the bed and read the letter one more time.
I want to have a mum again, just for a few minutes.
I get to Kat’s house early and discover her family doing squats in the garden. Seriously. Her mum, dad and big sister are all exercising in skin-tight running leggings first thing on Sunday morning.
‘Betty!’ yells her dad, jogging over to high-five me. His slap is so enthusiastic I fall off my bike. He helps me up. ‘We’re competing in Tough Mudder today!’
‘Tough what?’ I say.
‘Mudder,’ says Kat’s mum, panting. ‘It’s the hardest endurance test on the planet.’
Kat snorts. She’s appeared at the front door. ‘It’s jogging in mud, Betty.’ She’s wearing shorts and a bra and holding a can of Coke. Kat may not share her family’s love of exercise, but she certainly shares their love of hanging out naked. She claims they are ‘physically at ease’ because her mum’s Swedish, but her dad seems to be a fan of nudity and he’s from Portsmouth. Last time I was round, he was doing t’ai chi in very loose yoga pants.
‘Any chance I can persuade you and Kat to join us?’ he asks. He straightens up and then starts touching his toes. ‘There were still a few places yesterday …’
‘As if, Dad,’ says Kat, rolling her eyes. ‘I told you. We’re rehearsing.’
‘Don’t whine, Kat,’ he says. His head appears between his legs. ‘Kids whine.’
‘Whatever,’ she says, turning round. ‘Come on, Betty, let’s leave these losers to it.’
Her mum laughs as if Kat’s just said the cutest thing and then they all pile into a Range Rover the size of my bedroom.
‘Help yourself to cinnamon buns, Betty,’ calls her sister as they pull out of the driveway. ‘I baked them this morning.’
Kat’s family are awesome. I leave my bike by the front door and fol
low Kat inside. I crept out early this morning, making sure I didn’t wake Dad, then cycled along twisty lanes into the countryside. The crisp air and perfect blue sky made me forget all about Dad and Poo.
The house is made entirely of pale wood and decorated in shades of white. I feel as if I make the place messy just by being in it, like an inky smudge on a sheet of paper. I run my finger along the edge of a smooth vase shaped like a drop of water and stare at a beautiful picture of the sea. Kat’s mum painted it.
I find Kat in the den, slumped in a huge beanbag with her guitar across her knees. She’s pulled on a jumper. ‘Ready to do this, Betty?’ she asks, strumming a few chords. ‘Let’s nail this pencil song!’
And we do. Kat starts playing, she’s obviously been rehearsing, and I pull out my lyrics. Right from the start, we sound good together. We practise for ages, having a few cinnamon bun/Toby analysis/jukebox breaks. That’s right, Kat has a jukebox in her den, along with a pool table, dance pole (her mum’s) and, tucked away behind some sort of indoor tree, a sauna. This is the only den I have ever been in, but I think ‘den’ must mean tons of cool stuff in one room.
The two of us make a good band, and by lunchtime we’ve come up with an arrangement we like.
‘Let’s run through it one more time,’ says Kat, ‘then we can go into town and get a KFC.’
By now we’re both standing and I belt it out. Kat’s plugged her guitar into an amp and starts improvising. To be honest, we forget all about the winkie jokes and get into the song. It’s full of soulful chords and the pitch suits my voice. Kat ends the song with a mad crescendo of strumming and we do lots of whooping and yeahs!
After grabbing a couple of juices from the mini fridge, we crash on the beanbags.
‘We weren’t bad, were we?’ she asks.
‘Possibly, just possibly,’ I say, grinning at her, ‘we were good.’
Love Bomb Page 3