he disappeared. I never ever saw him again. See what I mean – you never know for certain what’s going to happen. But think on it, if I’d have married Derek then I wouldn’t have met your grandpa and Daddy wouldn’t have had you. Trust life, Jemima; flow with its mystery.”
A single diamond tear tips on to her cheek.
“But it would’ve been nice to hear from him again. Just once. Just to know what happened.” She laughs. “You’re a smart one. Determined to get me talking.”
“Do you think he’s dead, Granny?” I say.
“Probably by now, pet.”
After breakfast, Mum starts getting ready for the car boot sale.
“You go with Milo,” I say, “and leave me here with Granny. I hate hanging out with Jess.”
Mum gives me her beady eye that means, ‘Please do as you’re told, Jemima, because I am not so full of patience.’ But I ignore it. I do not want to do as I’m told. I do not want to go to the car boot sale!
“Don’t start, Mima,” she says. “Not today.”
I have a beady eye too, but I wait until her back is turned before I give it to her.
Milo clings on to my leg.
“Please come, Mima,” he says. “Please come! Please come! Please come!”
He hangs off me like I’m a tree and twists the skin on my leg.
“Mima! Mima! Mima!” he chants like I’m a football match that needs cheering on.
“Ouch, Milo,” I say. “You’re hurting me!”
“I said, don’t start, Mima!” says Mum. “Today is hard enough for us all without you making things worse.”
When she turns her back I poke out my tongue. I wish I could stand up and say, YOU’RE THE ONE WHO IS UNHINGED, MUM. But I don’t. The things I really want to say always get choked up in my throat until I’m forced to swallow them down. It’s the same with Jess. She says worrying stuff that frightens me, she gossips with her mum and tells me stuff my ears don’t want to hear. So many times I want to say, SHUT UP, JESS! But as hard as I try I just can’t.
I hope one day my voice will unblock itself like a drain and I’ll be able to speak up so clearly, like LALALALAALLLAAAA! Then everyone will hear everything that’s all blocked up inside.
It’s heaving at the car boot sale. Everyone shoves and pushes in search of pathetic old treasures and silly magical gems. Milo has a pound burning in his fist. He rummages through buckets and baskets of wrecked toy cars looking for trucks and tanks.
“Look, Mima,” he says, holding up a rusty old tank. “Isn’t it great? D’you think Dad drives one like this?”
Jess bounces around like a spaniel looking for strokes. She tries to act cool and flirts her fringe when we pass a stall with boys selling a few broken old skateboards. Jess is as pathetic as the car boot sale. I wish we could put her on a stall and sell her, but I’d feel sorry for the poor family who ended up buying her. They’d be really disappointed, even if they only paid fifty pence for her.
I wouldn’t buy her for a penny. I wouldn’t even want Jess for free, even if she was going to be my slave.
I look at my watch. I wish I was at home. Thinking.
“Calm down, Jess,” says Georgie. “Oooh… Mima, what do you think of Jess’s new jacket? We got it yesterday. Isn’t it just so pink!”
“Erm…” I say, bending down to tie the lace on one of my big black boots. “Yes, Georgie, it’s definitely pink.”
“I think it’s gorgeous,” says Mum. “You should try something like this, Mima. You know… a bit pretty. Get yourself out of those boots for a change. Look,” she says, shoving a ten-pound note in each of our hands, “why don’t you girls go off together and see what you can find?”
I glare at Mum. I don’t want to be left with Jess. And she knows that! I’d rather look after Milo. I’d rather wander around alone.
I flash my eyes at Mum, trying to say, DON’T LEAVE ME WITH JESS. But she ignores me and shoos us both away. I bet her and Georgie want to talk about our dads. In private!
Jess slides over to the skateboard boys.
“Hi,” she says, twiddling with her fringe. She picks up a cruddy old board. “How much for this?”
“A fiver,” says one of the boys.
Jess flashes her eyes at them.
“That’s a rip-off,” she says, pulling me away. “We had a huge sigh of relief this morning when my dad finally left,” she smiles. She opens her arms wide and takes a deep breath. “It’s going to be bliss. I can’t actually believe we have six whole months without him shouting and bossing us around.”
She rummages through a pile of old clothes. She pulls out her purse and pays for a pair of shiny black high heels that are two sizes too big. She holds up a pink dress covered in gold sequins.
“What d’you think?”
“Mmmm,” I say. “It would match your jacket but…”
“I don’t even know why I bother asking your opinion,” she huffs, holding it up for size. “It’s not as if you’re Miss Fashionista, is it, Jemima? That enormous Minnie Mouse bow in your hair and those big black boots aren’t exactly a major fashion statement, you know! And as for the rainbow nail varnish! Whatever crazy thing are you going to buy today? A granny jacket? Another big bow?”
“I’m looking for something,” I say, “but I’m not sure what. I’ll know when I see it.”
She throws the dress down and we drift on to the next stall.
“Don’t you miss your dad at all when he’s away?” I ask.
“Not At All!” she says. “It’s our little secret, but Mum and me prefer it when he’s away. We get up to mischief. Last time we went on this amazing spa day pamper thing and we had a massage and our nails done and we lounged around in the Jacuzzi for hours. Then we went for dinner at this gorgeous restaurant. My dad hates restaurants and mealtimes are horrible when he’s around. He makes me sit up straight and hold my knife properly and boring stuff like that. I love it when it’s just Mum and me and I get all her attention. This time we’re planning a mini-break to a really lovely hotel in Paris so we can shop, shop, shop. My dad’s not Mr Perfect like your dad, is he? My dad’s always really moody and bossy and he shouts all the time. I feel sorry for the soldiers he’s in charge of. Rather them than me.”
“I can’t stop thinking about mine,” I say. “It’s like I have this little bubble of worry following me around. I worked out exactly how long they’re going to be away for. Six months equals twenty-six weeks. That means one hundred and eighty-two days, or four thousand, three hundred and eighty hours, or two hundred and sixty-two thousand, eight hundred minutes, or fifteen million, seventy-seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand and four hundred seconds. That’s ages. It’s too long.”
“Not long enough for me,” she says. “I can’t believe you bothered to work all that out. Even worse, you bothered to remember it. You’re nuts, Jemima. You need to learn to switch off and think about nice things. Like me and Mum do.” She giggles. “Plan something special.”
“How can you think of nice things,” I say, “when you know your dad might get killed?”
“Well, soldiers do get killed,” she says, “like I said last night, it’s a fact. But worrying won’t help. It’s not as if there’s anything you can do to stop it. Anyway,” she says with a smug little smile,