down. I trace the angels on my arm with my finger and think about my mum. I wish she’d understand me more, like my dad does. He’d understand that I am trying to help. He’d understand that my angels are my way of getting on with things.
In the morning, when Mum’s busy in the kitchen, I creep into her room, open Dad’s wardrobe and climb inside. I burrow through the forest of fabric and snatch a deep noseful of his smell. I shut my eyes and he’s right here next to me, reaching out for my hand. I search for his, but all I find are the ghosts of empty jacket sleeves, the wood of the wardrobe that reminds me of coffins and dead soldiers on TV. The ghosts shudder through me like silk slipping over my skin. I reach up to the top shelf and pull down one of Dad’s berets, then I creep back to my room. I tuck my gas mask in my bag and shove my school shoes under the bed. I shout goodbye and head off towards the bus before Mum sees what I’m wearing.
I hate the school bus. Everyone huddles together in cosy little groups and I never know where to sit. I wish I could camouflage with the grey seats or turn myself into a window. Then everyone could sit on me or peer through me, but not see me. They could get cosy on me or draw hearts in my window mist and things like that.
I pull a notebook out of my bag and make myself look busy. Mrs Cassidy wants us to get all our presentation ideas on paper so we can tell the whole class what we’re planning before we do our research. I’m going to use Granny’s box because I can’t think of anything else to do it on. I want it to be all about Granny and Derek. I want to show people that war doesn’t only bomb things and kill people. War also breaks hearts. I want to make it sad and touching. I want my audience to cry.
Mrs Cassidy is going to love it. Granny’s going to love it. And if Derek isn’t dead I think he’ll love it too. That’s why I need to start my Bring Derek Home mission right away. Granny needs him like I need Dad and if I don’t bring them both back the war will have won and everyone will end up dying with a broken heart. And that would be too sad.
That is, of course, if I’m still at school by the end of term.
Part two of my Bring Dad Home mission is brewing nicely inside, but it doesn’t need writing on paper, it’s written on my heart.
At the very top of the first page I write END OF TERM PRESENTATION and underline it in red felt-tip pen. Then I write the word WAR, which makes the images from Dad’s war films dance about in my brain, and my tummy flips.
I stuff my notebook in my bag. I can’t bear to look at it any more. It’s the word ‘war’ I hate. It stings me. I stroke a little angel that’s peeping out from under my sleeve and blow it to Dad. I watch it flurry from my skin, shaking its wings. Fading from biro blue to a radiant flash of brilliant white, a blaze of pure beauty that swoops and soars towards the sky. It flies over the seas and the oceans. It sweeps through the clouds and the stars. It heads straight, like a dart, to the heat of the desert that’s frying under the sun.
Then I blow a million more and watch them settle all around him, guarding him, keeping him safe until my plan works out and I can bring him back home.
Jess bounces on the bus with a big smile.
“Hi,” she says, plonking herself next to me. “Have you heard from him yet?”
I shake my head.
“Neither have we. We’ve been watching the news though,” she says. “My mum’s eyes are practically glued to it. All sorts of terrible things are happening, Jemima. There’ve been bombs already! Mum says they really will be lucky if they make it home this time. Imagine! This might be it!”
She grips my arm.
“We might be on telly!”
I wish I could stand on the bus seat with a megaphone and shout, SHUT UP! I’d like to say it really, really loudly, just like that, so that everyone would hear. I’d like to take my socks off and stuff them in Jess’s mouth and say, SHUT UP, JESS. JUST STOP TALKING ABOUT SCARY STUFF, OK? SHUT UP! That would make me really happy. But I keep my mouth closed and flick a little tiny angel from my wrist towards the sky.
“Why are you wearing your dad’s beret?” she says. “Jemima, you are so weird. You do know that, don’t you? And if Mrs Bostock catches sight of you wearing those boots, or catches a glimpse of that angel mess up your arms, you’ll be in for the chop, I promise.”
“She can chop me up as fine as an onion,” I say. “See if I care. Being dead would be fine by me. At least I wouldn’t have to go to her stupid school any more. I don’t really care about anything, Jess, except getting my dad back home. And that’s the truth.”
I turn away from her and stare out at the rain. Everything is grey. Even the houses are sad. It is true. I don’t care about anything else but my dad and Derek and bringing them safely home.
“If you’re just going to be boring and stare out the window,” says Jess, leaping up, “I’m off.”
She bounces to the back of the bus and slides on to a seat next to Ned Cotsford. She giggles. I stare at the rain. Life would be so much easier if I were a raindrop. I’d just fall from the sky, dribble down a windowpane, swoosh down a drain and run off out to sea. I wouldn’t have to worry about making important things happen because I wouldn’t have a brain. I’d be a brain without the B, which means I’d just have to go with the flow. I’d just have to trust that I’d make it to the sea. But trusting takes too long. I’m going to make things happen soon.
At the next bus stop Tory Halligan and her flock of parrots get on. They huddle together, laughing and giggling. Jess bobs up, bounces over and points Tory Halligan to an empty seat near hers.
“Hello,” Tory smiles, as she passes me. “The Lieutenant Colonel’s daughter.” She stands up straight and salutes me, then spins round to salute Jess.
My face starts to burn. Jess bobs back down in her seat.
“H – Hi!” I stammer.
“Interesting hat you’re wearing today, Jemima,” she says. “Your wardrobe is always such a delight.”
My hand slides up to my dad’s green beret. If only she knew I had a gas mask in my bag. I know deep down that it’s a stupid thing to have, but I can’t help the fact that I like it.
Sameena rests her hand on Tory’s arm.
“Ssh, Tory,” she says. “Give them a break. You know, their dads have just gone, and—”
“I’m not doing anything!” shrieks Tory, breathing Coco Pop breath all over me. “I’m just saying that I like her hat and it’s true, I do. Nothing wrong with that! I’ve decided to do my end of term presentation on fashion and I was thinking I might get some advice from Jemima, that’s all.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, on the little blob of bubblegum that’s greyed out with mud. I will my face to cool down.
“You’re such a loveable freak, Jemima,” she grins.
Sameena sends me a little smile. Hayley and Beth crowd round, squawking like bright parrots. Pecking for crumbs. They all want to be close to her. They all want to be her. Tory salutes me again and leads the fluttering birds towards the back of the bus. Jess bobs up and slides closer to Tory.
“I’m thinking of having a sleepover,” she says. “Would you all like to come?”
When you’re an army brat like Jess and me you have one of two choices. You choose to fit in or you choose to fit out. Jess took the fitting-in route. I took the fitting out. She likes her life to keep changing. I like mine to stay the same. She likes sucking up to people to get friends. I don’t. She gives them things like sweets and treats and sleepovers and does all sorts of stuff she doesn’t really want to do, and I won’t. Some days I spy on her and sometimes I see her cry. She pretends that she’s OK with her life and her dad being away