The True Colours of Coral Glen

by Juliette Forrest

  FOR MUM, DAD AND ROBERT

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER

  1

  Every night, when the moon showed up and the Tinfoil clouds parted like curtains to reveal the stars, I slept in a rainbow. You wouldn’t find any flowery wallpaper, world maps or posters of fluffy kittens in my room: it was floor-to-ceiling covered in paint charts. Small, every-colour-under-the-sun rectangles were the first thing I glimpsed in the morning and the last thing I saw in the evening.

  Mum said my walls were so busy she was amazed I didn’t suffer from double vision. And Dad would get distracted by all the different shades and sometimes forget what he’d come into my room to tell me. Gran always pointed to the same tiny patch of silver, next to the wardrobe, and said Stardust Highway was her favourite name of a colour ever. I loved what the paints were called because yellow was never plain old boring yellow: it was Sunshiny Days or Tropical Smoothie or Downy Duckling or Luscious Lemon Drops or Treasure Island Gold. When I’d get home from school, Gran would ask me how my day had been and I’d always answer her with a colour. If I’d had double art, I’d say something along the lines of Sunbeam Glow, but if I’d sat a maths test, I would mutter Stormy Canyon. And if I just wanted to make Gran snort, I’d tell her Sailor’s Kiss.

  But we won’t be able to do this any more.

  Gran died on Saturday and there isn’t a colour on the planet that could sum up how heartbroken I am, because it was my fault.

  CHAPTER

  2

  God was missing. He was Midnight Oasis Black and lopsided because of all the fights he’d been in. Gran had taken him in off the streets and swore he was part ragamuffin and part panther. She took us in off the streets too after Dad lost his job. And even though he got a new one ages ago, we never left. Dad told me Gran loved having us there because the house had felt big and empty since Grandpa died. He went to heaven when I was a baby, but I announced to everyone at the breakfast table that I’d seen Grandpa, once, standing in the hallway, and I knew it was him from their wedding photo on the mantelpiece. Grandpa glowed Celestial Spark and had smiled at me, but I stopped going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, just in case he appeared again.

  A whoosh of air had escaped from Dad’s mouth and he’d ruffled my hair. He said I had an overactive imagination and I’d grinned because it made me sound really clever. Mum spilled her tea and Gran had given me a hug a bear would be jealous of.

  Before God disappeared, if he wasn’t roaming the streets, he’d be stretched out on Gran’s lap. His purr sounded more like a rattle, as if something inside him had come loose and knocked against his ribcage. Gran had named him Godfrey after the lead actor in the film The Blood on Satan’s Claw. I think that was because, until we put the bell on God’s collar, he’d leave us a gift of a small dead furry creature on the back doorstep, every night.

  I checked the chestnut tree in the garden for God first, because he loved sitting in high up places too. Under the broad Chic Lime leaves, I could only spot a pigeon preening itself. When the rest of the kids in art drew pigeons, they always coloured them in Elephant Breath, as though they couldn’t see the shiny Amethyst Reflections or Green Genie in their feathers or their Orange Squash feet. The pigeon flapped its wings and I didn’t hang about because it’s not wise to stand underneath one for long. Grown-ups believe it’s good luck to get hit by bird poop, except I think they just say that to make themselves feel better because they were unfortunate enough to get splatted in the first place.

  Sticking my head into all the shrubs, I scoured the flower beds for signs of God’s footprints. I knew exactly what to look for because if Gran ever made a trifle and forgot to put it in the fridge, he’d walk over the top of it, leaving paw marks in the cream.

  I even went into the shed, which was full of stuff nobody wanted but couldn’t bring themselves to throw away. Once I’d managed to squeeze myself inside, I called God’s name and stood still in the hope I’d detect a scratch or a yowl or a hiss. All I could hear was my breathing and seagulls on the chimney tops making the same noises as rusty swings.

  I spied a box in the corner. It wasn’t unknown for God to snooze in places you would think were impossible to fall asleep in; I’d once found him in the oven, which fortunately hadn’t been switched on.

  Easing my way through a narrow gap between a dusty table and a leaning lampstand, I peered into the gloom, but God was nowhere to be seen. The box was stuffed with candleholders, old packs of cards, cutlery, a vase and a photo in a cracked glass frame. The picture was of me on holiday at Loch Tay, standing with my belly out, wearing my old swimming costume with Bashful Pink flamingos on it. I had my goggles on over my curly Golden Spice hair and was squinting at the camera. I remembered how the wood had been warm and rough under my bare feet, and the air had smelled of hot skin, suntan lotion and sweet water.

  “You didn’t smile, Coral! You gurned!” Gran had said after she’d taken the photo.

  I’d been too busy peering at a thick tangle of seaweed, wondering what could be lurking in amongst it, to answer her. I’d once watched a wildlife documentary on great white sharks. They have three hundred teeth in seven rows and can smell their prey from over two miles away. After discovering this, I’d walked around the puddles in the park for weeks afterwards. And if a duck disappeared from the surface of the pond, I’d made Gran stay until it had safely bobbed back up again.

  “Your dad used to love this place when he was your age. Your grandfather and I were convinced he was half boy and half seal because he was never out of the water.” Gran’s eyes had sparkled mischievously; they shone brighter than the summer sun playing on the loch. “Mind you,” she added, “some people are of the opinion boys are braver than girls.”

  I had glared at her through my goggles. “Girls can be just as brave as boys, if not even braver.” I’d filled my lungs, pinched my nose and leapt forward into the unknown.

  The iciness of the loch had taken my breath away. Every part of me went numb, except for my heart, which had thumped painfully with the shock of it all.

  That was exactly how I’d felt when Mum and Dad broke the news Gran had died.

  The cry of the seagulls brought me back to the shed.

  This is all your fault. All. Your. Fault.

  My thoughts made me tremble and everything spun. My fingers left marks in the dust on the tabletop.

  Searching for God took my mind off what I had done for a while, but something inside me weighed me down heavier than anchors.

  What I would give to have one more minute with Gran.

  I sniffed loudly and wiped my eyes. I locked the shed and strode towards the house, the gravel crunching under my feet. A robin landed on the wall, tilting its head at me before flapping off into Miss Mirk’s garden.

  Hoisting myself on to the wall, I was careful not to scrape my knees or sit on dried bird poop. I peered up at Miss Mirk’s windows. The blinds were always down and there was a tear in one of them near the bottom that I was convinced she used as a spyhole. Miss Mirk was our neighbour and to
be avoided at all cost. When she wheeled her shopping trolley along the street, she walked more like Dad than Mum. And she spoke so quietly you had to lean in way closer than you wanted to, to catch what she was saying, which was usually a complaint.

  I’d climbed this wall ever since my parents had warned me not to, and I knew every inch of Miss Mirk’s garden. The place was overgrown: killer weeds and rosette-winning dandelions burst out from between the patio slabs. Branches hung down, covering the shed, that looked as though it had been dropped into her garden from a great height. Gran always said she wouldn’t have been at all surprised if there was a velociraptor lurking in the bushes.

  Glancing at her house, I caught a movement behind the hole in the blind.

  I swung my leg over the wall and lowered myself to the ground. There was no way God would be visiting with Miss Mirk; he was far too fussy about the company he kept.

  God had meant everything to Gran and that was why I was going to find him. For the past five nights, I’d left out turkey-flavoured cat food. I don’t even know why God loved it so much. I suppose if you eat mice, turkey probably tastes a whole lot better. Tempting or not, the food was always there, untouched, in the morning. Dad said I shouldn’t worry as God would also be upset over Gran and he’d come home as soon as he was good and ready.

  Running away had crossed my mind. I couldn’t even gaze out of the window without thinking I’d catch sight of Gran potting plants in the greenhouse and every time I wandered into the kitchen, I expected to find her there, smiling. When I realized the room was empty, it struck me that she really had gone and it was as if an invisible boxing glove had just punched me in the stomach.

  The truth was, it wouldn’t matter if I was here or a trillion miles away; I would still feel wretched. I couldn’t leave; I had to find God, and besides, Gran’s funeral was tomorrow.

  Thinking about it made my insides twist and knot like a balloon animal.

  “Hey, Coral,” said Dad, as he dripped some sauce from a packet into a pan. It hissed and bubbled as he stirred it vigorously. “Any luck?”

  “Nope,” I said, glancing at Gran’s empty chair.

  Dad jiggled the pan over the gas ring, sending slivers of carrot flying on to the cooker. He swore under his breath – something he only ever usually did in the car. If Gran had been here, she’d have bumped Dad out of the way with her hip and grabbed the wooden spoon. Then she’d have told me what she’d been up to that afternoon. She always had something going on, like her, Nessie, Dodo and Margot picketing the golf club for not allowing ladies in, or protesting outside Marlena Hatchette’s boutique because it sold coats and gloves with real fur on them. Once they’d even made the news by chaining themselves to an ancient oak tree the council eventually sawed down. Sometimes Gran would get sad and say being old and wise didn’t count for much these days. Then she’d brighten her voice and tell me I couldn’t possibly solve all of the world’s problems, but I could make a difference by choosing one thing I believed in to fight tooth and nail for.

  The front door slammed, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Mum, sweeping into the kitchen. She was carrying so many bags she resembled the donkey from Buckaroo!, the second before it threw everything off.

  “I dropped in at the florist’s on the way home.” Mum plonked the shopping on the floor, shrinking in size when she kicked her heels off. A sigh escaped her perfectly glossy lips as she sat. Even though she worked at the Miracles™ cosmetics counter at the local department store, there were dark circles under her eyes. I guess she was having difficulty sleeping too.

  “Dinner is served.” Dad lifted the pan over to the dishes and hesitated, realizing he’d put out four plates instead of three. He shoved the extra one back into the cupboard. All of us were finding it hard that Gran had gone. I’ve heard people on DIY SOS say the kitchen was the heart of the home except, in our household, it was Gran.

  Dad brought the plates over to the table, plonking them in front of us. He rifled through the cupboard for his chilli sauce. He preferred his food on the hot side and Gran always used to remark she was surprised his head was still attached to his shoulders.

  “How are you?” Mum asked me.

  “Can’t find God anywhere.” I carefully moved the mushrooms to the side of my plate.

  “Don’t do that,” she scolded. “They are full of B vitamins – which keep us naturally beautiful without the use of chemically laden, overpriced skin creams. But the real secret of beauty is smiling, not that Miracles™ cosmetics want you to know this.”

  I rolled my eyes. As far as I was concerned there would never come a day it was OK to eat fungus, and smiling wasn’t at the top of my list right now.

  “Perhaps we should ask the neighbours to check their sheds or cellars? Cats are always getting shut away in places they shouldn’t be.” Dad returned to the table with the sauce.

  I thought about the poster I’d seen every morning on the way to school. It had been taped to the lamp post at the bus stop and had a picture of a Jack Russell on it. The dog’s name was Nip and there were big letters saying “REWARD” above its head. It had been there for weeks and the rain was making the terrier fade and “REWARD” smudge. I hoped Nip was found before he disappeared from the poster altogether.

  “Can I make a missing poster, Dad? I could stick copies around the street and put them through neighbours’ doors.” I took a small mouthful of carrot.

  “Good idea, Coral.” Dad yanked the top off the chilli sauce.

  “Could you give me a hand with it?” I laid down my fork.

  “I’m sure we can fit it in at some point.” Dad was a graphic designer. It was his job to make websites and brochures look cool and sometimes he designed posters as a hobby in his spare time. If he was happy, he’d do stuff so bright you could probably spot it from space, and if his football team lost a match, the posters would be in monochrome. It was Dad who named me Coral, after his favourite colour. Mum told me it meant daughter of the sea but Gran and I came across a book in the library that said: coral will inspire you to conquer your fears and be bolder in your choices. I’m not sure that was true because sometimes I still sleep with the light on.

  “I could hand the posters in at the vet’s and the newsagent’s.” Mum passed Dad the salt. “And there’s a communal noticeboard at the supermarket.”

  “There’s a local website for missing pets,” added Dad. “John from work mentioned it when their rabbits vanished.”

  “Did they find them?” I speared some broccoli with my fork.

  Dad paused. “Not yet. But they will, I’m sure.”

  They wanted God home as much as I did. And this made me feel a little bit less miserable inside, and then much worse.

  God would still be with us if Gran was here. And Gran would still be here if you hadn’t…

  “I’m going to make a start on the poster.” I scraped my chair back.

  Mum and Dad glanced at each other. I could tell there was something they wanted to say but they weren’t sure how to say it. After Dad finished chewing his mouthful, he cleared his throat. “We’d like a word with you.”

  My heart felt as if it was a horse galloping down a racetrack with hurdles.

  They know what happened the day that Gran died.

  “Would you rather stay at home tomorrow? Neither your dad or I would be upset if you didn’t want to be at the funeral; it wouldn’t mean you love Gran any less,” said Mum.

  “I’ll go.” My stomach flipped as I got to my feet awkwardly.

  “Do you have anything you want to ask us about tomorrow?” Dad rubbed his beard, which had grown dark and scratchy. The events of the past few days had not just changed him on the inside; they’d made him different on the outside too.

  I licked my lips. I wanted to ask if there would ever be a time when the pain of losing Gran didn’t make my body ache from head to toe. And how I could live with myself after what I’d done. And if it was possible for
a heart that was broken into a million pieces to mend itself.

  But nothing came out.

  “If at any point it gets too upsetting, one of us will bring you home. There is no right or wrong way to be at a funeral; everyone reacts differently. Some people might be completely overwhelmed by their sadness. Others might joke and laugh at the reception afterwards, and that’s OK too. Funerals are not just about mourning the loss of someone, they’re also about celebrating a person’s life – and your gran was a wonderful lady whom we love very much.” Dad kept his voice steady, but his eyes reddened as they became shinier.

  All the stuck words burned my throat. I swallowed hard and they tumbled into the pit of my stomach, where they sat heavy as bricks.

  “We’ll do the dishes tonight. I have something for you, so I’ll pop up later,” said Mum.

  Before I went to my room, I slipped into the cloakroom. It was warm and dark. The gas meter clicked and whirred heartbeat-soft. I stood between the coats and scarves, breathing in. I could smell Gran’s rose and geranium perfume in the air, almost as if she was still here.

  CHAPTER

  3

  “You look lovely, Coral,” said Dad, straightening his Caviar Black tie in the hall mirror. He smiled, except it wasn’t a real one because I couldn’t see his teeth.

  Mum was the only one being honest with her feelings. Earlier this morning, she’d remembered Gran used to hide her wedding rings in the sugar bowl to keep them safe, and one year they’d ended up in the Christmas pudding, much to the surprise of Great-Aunt Winnie, who’d cracked her dentures on them. Mum’s hand had covered her eyes and her laughter turned into sobs. I’d watched her shoulders rise and fall as her breath had shuddered, and even though I’d just spread lemon curd on my toast, I’d put it in the bin and made Mum a cup of tea.

  My dress was too tight and the backs of my new shoes dug into my heels. I’d wanted them for ages and had stood outside the shop window staring at them so many times, the assistants had started waving at me. Mum had bought them as a surprise – I knew she was trying to cheer me up – however, I couldn’t wear them again as they would always remind me of today. I didn’t want to, but I wondered which shoes Gran had on in the coffin.