by Unknown
‘Home, Dad,’ I shout, scooping up my post and pushing open the bedroom door. My new guitar sits proudly on the duvet. Next to it is a little blue camera from Lucy. She let me open it last night, showed me how to load the film, how to work the flash and the little zoom lens. Cool.
I dump my backpack and pull a T-shirt and jeans from the drawer.
‘Dizzy?’ Dad shouts back. ‘Can you come through here a minute?’
I drag off my tie and wander through. It’s not Lucy. Lucy’s young and smiley with fair, wavy hair. She wears wafty, trendy tops with fluted sleeves and hipsters with embroidery on them. She wears toffee-coloured lipstick and smudgy eye shadow and she smells of lime-flavoured shower gel.
This woman is older, small and tanned with smiley wrinkles and hennaed hair so short it’s practically shaven. She has about a million earrings all in the same ear, as well as a stud through her right eyebrow. She’s wearing weird stripy trousers that are baggy at the top and tight around the ankles, and a faded vest top with no bra underneath. Yeuchhh.
I can tell without asking she’s the owner of the patchwork van, but I can’t work out why she’s staring so hard at me.
‘Dizzy, hi,’ she says, and when she grins her teeth look kind of yellow.
‘Hi,’ I mutter, looking at Dad for clues.
He just stares back, looking shocked and scared and flustered. He’s still in his studio clothes, his jeans all streaked with clay, his hands and arms still stained reddish-brown.
‘Happy birthday,’ she says.
I still don’t get it.
‘I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,’ she says. ‘How beautiful you are. I can’t believe this is really happening…’
My mouth feels suddenly dry, and the floor seems to shift under my feet. I look at the tanned, smiley face with the shiny blue eyes and the glint of gold studs. I take a deep breath in, frowning.
‘Hello, Mum,’ I say.
It’s not how I imagined.
I thought she’d be younger, more like her photos. I thought we’d run at each other and hug and hang on forever. I thought I’d be happy, not confused.
Instead, the room gets misty and my cheeks get wet and I need to sit down. Dad comes up and takes my hand, gently, leading me forwards. ‘Go on,’ he whispers. ‘It’s OK.’
And then she pulls me close. I don’t want to do this, to be here. I’m stiff and wooden, silent, hostile, resisting all the way. ‘It’s OK, Dizzy,’ she says, stroking my hair. ‘It’s OK.’
I take a ragged breath in, and suddenly I smell it – a rich, sweet, musty perfume from long, long ago. It’s patchouli oil, the scent of my childhood.
‘Oh, Mu-um…’
My body sways against her, my wet cheeks fall against her shoulder. We cling on, and I let the tears come, but I’m smiling, too, because I’ve waited so long for this moment.
It’s like coming home, and I want it to go on and on.
It doesn’t, of course. Too soon, she steps back, pushing me to arm’s length. I wipe my eyes and nose on my sleeve, and my face feels hot and pink and swollen.
She pushes a strand of damp hair back from my face, grinning. ‘Just look at the state of us! Hey, c’mon, sit down,’ she says, flopping back on to the sofa. ‘We have a whole load of catching up to do. And a birthday feast to plan!’
‘We were going to order in a pizza,’ Dad chips in. ‘Three cheese and mushroom. Want to share, or would you like something different?’
Mum frowns. ‘Not pizza,’ she says. ‘I’m vegan these days, didn’t I tell you? No cheese, no milk, no eggs, no honey.’
‘Right,’ says Dad, looking lost again.
‘Besides,’ Mum is saying. ‘This is a special occasion. Why don’t we make miso soup and red bean stew and maybe muesli cake for afters? We can all help. Sound OK, Dizzy?’
‘Sure,’ I nod, not understanding a word of it. ‘Fine.’
‘Well, I can ask if they’ll do a pizza with no cheese and lots of extra topping,’ Dad suggests. ‘Pizza’s kind of a tradition on Dizzy’s birthday.’
‘No, no,’ I say quickly. ‘Bean stew would be great. Honest, Dad.’
Actually, I hate kidney beans, and Dad knows that. Muesli cake sounds more like hamster bedding than food, and I haven’t a clue what miso soup is, but if your mum turned up on your birthday after eight years’ absence, wouldn’t you be trying to please her?
‘We’ll be here all night,’ Dad mutters, heading over to the open-plan kitchen.
‘So?’ she shrugs. ‘We’ll be here all night. What’s the big deal?’
And because my mum has just told me she’ll be here all night, and that means she won’t be leaving for the next half-hour at least, I hug her again. ‘Mum,’ I say into her velvet hair. ‘I’ve missed you so-o-o much!’
‘Hey, hey!’ she laughs, wriggling free. ‘I’ve missed you too, babe. Only don’t call me Mum, OK? It makes me feel about a hundred and three. Call me Storm.’
I know from Dad that she was christened Linda Caroline Tanner, and when they got married she became Linda Caroline Kerr, but Linda’s no name for a punk, a rebel, a New Age traveller.
When I was a toddler, she reinvented herself as Storm. Just Storm. I might do the same thing when I’m older, only I’ll ditch Dizzy for something plain and simple and ordinary, like Jane or Ann or Mary.
Storm, though. Dad said she chose it because it was strong and brave and unstoppable, but it always makes me think of hailstones, thunder, gale-force winds.
‘Storm, then.’ The name feels strange in my mouth.
In the kitchen, Dad is boiling a pan of water and washing rice over the sink. He grabs a bag of stir-fry veg from the freezer and heats the wok.
‘Need any help?’ Storm calls over.
‘No, no, you two just relax,’ Dad says. ‘Everything’s under control.’
He tips rice into the pan, tears open the stir-fry and adds it to the sizzling wok. He roots in a cupboard for ajar of curry sauce.
‘Is that vegan?’ Storm asks. ‘Can you check the label?’
‘It’s fine,’ Dad promises, but Storm goes over to check it anyhow.
‘All these chemicals and E-numbers,’ she says, wrinkling up her nose. ‘You should buy organic, Pete. There’s just no goodness left in this at all.’
‘Tastes good, though,’ Dad winks at me.
‘Well, it’s Dizzy’s treat, I suppose,’ she concedes. ‘Look, if you won’t let me help, at least let me contribute something. I think there’s some bits and pieces in the van.’
It’s weird, because the minute she goes out of the room my heart twists, like it’s scared she’s leaving me all over again. Dad looks over and catches me chewing my lip.
‘Go and see if she needs a hand,’ he suggests, and I wonder how he always knows exactly the right thing to say.
Years of practice, probably.
I wander outside and peer in through the van’s open purple door. Inside it’s a mad, multi-coloured nest of quilts and cushions. All down one side are kitchen cupboards, painted with swirls and spirals and crescent moons. A big bundle of long, skinny twigs lies the whole length of the van’s floor. Weirdest of all, tucked into the corner, there’s a tiny cast-iron stove with a long chimney-pipe that juts right out the top of the roof.
You could live in this van. It looks like Storm does.
Strings of bells are looped across the ceiling, and they jingle as she brushes against them, heaving down a brightly woven shoulder bag and a rolled-up quilt. She reaches under the tiny sink and pulls out a big jar of cloudy amber liquid with a hand-drawn label.
‘Scrumpy,’ she grins at me. ‘For your dad. It’ll loosen him up a bit.’
‘Right.’
In the house, Storm unrolls the purple quilt and spreads it out across the sofa, making it look suddenly exotic. She sits back down and folds her legs up beneath her, reaching deep into the rucksack. ‘Carob,’ she announces, pulling out a slab of dirt-coloured stuff wrapped up in foil. ‘Try
it.’
I take a bite. It tastes like soil, only less appealing. ‘Excellent,’ I nod.
‘Now… where are they? Ah!’ She brings out a small package swathed in black velvet. Carefully, she opens out the cloth to reveal a pack of cards tied up with gold cord. They’re not hearts, diamonds, spades or clubs.
‘Tarot cards,’ says Storm.
‘What are they?’ I ask, stroking the bright cards as she swirls them face-down across the carpet. ‘What do they do?’
Storm grins. ‘The tarot are ancient, fortunetelling cards with a magic all their own,’ she tells me. ‘Fancy a glimpse of the future, Dizz?’
There’s a kind of row about whether Storm should do my tarot cards or not. Dad says it’s superstitious rubbish and Storm says, in that case, what’s the problem? It’s just a bit of fun.
She pours him a mug of scrumpy and tells him it’s extra-strong cider brewed by a mad old bloke in Somerset. Dad rolls his eyes, but takes a drink anyway, and Storm spreads out the tarot pack and gets me to pick some cards.
It may be just a bit of fun, but when Storm says that my calm, cautious, ordered life is about to change forever, I feel a tingle down my spine. The cards predict adventure, travel, freedom.
‘Kids need calm and caution and order,’ Dad says.
‘No, Pete, look at this,’ she insists. ‘The end of childhood. She’s at a crossroads in her life. I see new opportunities, the healing of old wounds. She will choose the path that’s least expected.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he snorts.
‘Dad, please,’ I beg. ‘Storm, what does it mean? What’s going to happen?’
Dad stalks over and knocks the cards to the floor, his face a tight mask of anger.
‘Just stop it, Storm,’ he snaps. ‘These are our lives you’re playing with here. It’s not a game.’
Storm shrugs and gathers up the cards, tying them back safely inside the gold cord and hiding them in the folds of black velvet. ‘Did I say it was a game?’ she whispers.
We eat vegetable curry and brown rice (no red beans), and Storm says it’s lovely, in spite of the bottled sauce. She tops up Dad’s mug of scrumpy.
‘So,’ he asks her coolly. ‘What are your plans? Don’t tell me you were just passing by, eight years on, and thought you’d call in and say hi.’
‘Dad!’
Storm smiles, sadly. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she says. ‘I can understand why you’re so suspicious. I’ve hurt you both, I know, but I had my reasons, Dizzy, I promise you. There’s so much you’ll never know. And there’s not a day gone past when I haven’t thought of you with love.’
She puts a hand out to stroke my cheek, and instantly my eyes mist over.
‘Spare us the heartache,’ Dad laughs. ‘You could have visited, or phoned, or written.’
But she did write, every year. Doesn’t he know how much that meant to me? I know he’s only angry because she hurt him, but she hurt me too, didn’t she? If I can forgive her, why can’t he?
Storm sighs. ‘Dizzy and I have a lot of catching up to do,’ she admits. ‘But, Pete, I’m here because I want to try. I wasn’t just passing by I’ve driven over 200 miles to see my daughter on her special day.’
My heart just about flips over.
The phone starts ringing out in the hall, but nobody moves to answer it. The answerphone clicks on, and I hear Sasha reminding me I need my gym kit tomorrow for the basketball try-outs.
‘I want to put things right, make up for the past,’ Storm rushes on. ‘It’s summer now, school holidays and all that. I want Dizzy to come with me for a bit – a break, a holiday, whatever. We can do some mother—daughter bonding, get to know each other properly. We can take in a few festivals, go to the coast, just the two of us.’
‘Oh, Mum!’ I squeal. ‘Storm, I mean. I’d love that. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.’
Well, actually, I dreamed that Mum would come home and we’d all live together in the flat, but this is close enough. It’s a start.
‘No!’
Dad slams his plate down so hard it skids across the floorboards, scattering rice and baby sweetcorn as it goes.
‘No,’ he says again. ‘You think you can just stroll back into our lives and hurt us all over again? No, Linda, Storm, whatever you want to call yourself. You can’t.
‘Dizzy has five more weeks of school – she can’t just take off and disappear. She has a school concert and a swimming gala and end-of-year tests. You are not going to drag her all over the country to live in some ancient van and eat nettle soup and hang out with losers. No way.’
There’s a long silence. Storm gathers up the plates, including Dad’s, and takes them across to the sink. She runs them under the cold tap and dumps them in the drainer. There’s a streak of curry sauce still sticking to one, but I daren’t say so.
I look down, and my cheeks burn pink.
‘Dizzy?’ Dad says.
I glance up slowly, but I can’t quite meet his eye.
‘Dizzy, maybe when school closes you could go for a week or so. We both could. But not now. Seriously, no way.’
Storm pours another mug of cider for Dad. If he doesn’t slow down, he’s going to be drunk as well as grumpy. I notice Storm is sticking to water. It’s probably something to do with being a vegan.
‘Let’s not argue, Pete,’ she says mildly. ‘It was only an idea.’
‘It was in the tarot, though,’ I chip in.
‘I don’t care if it was in the Sunday Mirror,’ Dad scowls.
‘No rows,’ Storm says again. ‘I just thought that Dizzy might like to come to this little solstice gathering in Wales, a really magical place, all hills and streams, and only a few special friends. But if your dad says no…’
‘Don’t be making out it’s all my fault!’ Dad roars. ‘You started this, Storm. Look, I’ve said we can meet up some time in the holidays, but that’s not good enough, is it? You always have to get your own way. D’you think I don’t remember that?’
This is not the way it’s meant to happen. In my head, Storm comes back all apologetic and sad and says she’s had enough of the open road. She starts acting like other people’s mums, making chocolate traybakes, picking me up from basketball practice, coming to Parents’ Evening.
Scary thought.
I can live with the earrings and the stud and the weird clothes, and I can just about handle the van (she could always get a respray). I can even cope with the carob and the bean stew, but all this fighting has to stop. Dad’s meant to be pleased to see her. He’s spent long enough pining for her, hasn’t he? What’s going on?
‘I’ve got a maths test tomorrow,’ I say quietly, getting to my feet. ‘Think I’ll go have a look. Don’t want to flunk out or anything.’
Dad frowns. ‘Dizzy, sweetheart, don’t go,’ he says. ‘What about MTV? And there’s toffee popcorn in the cupboard. We’re not really arguing, y’know, just talking things through.’
Yeah, right.
Storm follows me out into the hall.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t know why he’s being so awkward. He’s not usually like this.’
She raises one eyebrow, the one with the stud. ‘Do you want to come?’ she asks.
‘Course I do!’
‘Then don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Just relax. It’s going to happen. Just leave it to me…’
It’s still dark, but Storm is shaking me gently, dragging me back from my dreams.
‘Dizz, quickly, we can’t hang about. We’ve got a long way to drive.’
‘Hmmm?’
‘Dizzy, come on,’ she whispers. ‘You need to pack.’
I sit up, feeling dazed.
‘What are you doing?’
Storm upends my rucksack, dumping school books, jotters and gym kit all over the floor. She pulls out the drawers of my dressing table, fishing out socks and undies and T-shirts and jeans, jamming the lot into the rucksack. She scoops up a random mess of bracelets, scrunchies, c
ombs and gel from the top of the dresser, then looks up at the pinboard.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Didn’t I give you that rag doll?’
‘When I was seven,’ I tell her, padding across the carpet to stand beside her.
The doll is pinned up by the neck of her faded, tie-dye frock, her fluffy lilac hair thin and grimy now. I called her Linda Caroline, after Mum.
‘You kept it, all this time,’ she says softly.
I wait for her to see the postcards, the photos, the scuddy old hat, but she doesn’t seem to notice them. Maybe they’re not all that memorable, except to me.
‘Why are we packing? Did Dad change his mind?’
Storm grins at me, her dark eyes twinkling. ‘It’s sorted,’ she laughs. ‘All organized, no hassles. I’ve always been able to wind Pete round my little finger!’
It didn’t sound that way last night, but who am I to argue? If she’s got Dad to agree I can skive off school for five weeks, it’s nothing short of a miracle.
‘What did he say? What about the concert and the tests and the gala? Is he going to phone the school? Storm, how did you do it?’
She holds a finger to her lips, still grinning. ‘Trust me,’ she whispers. ‘And c’mon, pack!’
‘OK, OK… I just want to see Dad first. Say thanks!’
‘Not yet,’ Storm hisses. ‘It’s only five in the morning, he’s fast asleep. And he had a skinful last night, I bet he’s got a massive hangover. That scrumpy has a real kick to it.’
‘Well, later, then,’ I frown. ‘I’ll make him a coffee.’
‘Whatever. Just pack!’
I wash quickly and pull on purple bleach-dye cords and a stripy top. I brush my hair and plait it into two heavy ropes (when I leave it loose it just gets frizzy and annoying). I pack the hairbrush and root around in the bottom of my wardrobe for a couple of big jumpers, last winter’s boots, flip-flops and my new plum suede trainers.
I pocket the twenty quid from Auntie Mel’s card, pack my new camera, zip my guitar into its travel case. I hunt down nail scissors, a towel, a big bottle of Orange Zest Shampoo.