by Juno Dawson
Contents
Title Page
Praise for Margot & Me
ALSO BY JUNO DAWSON
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Wednesday 15th January, 1941
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Saturday 18th January, 1941
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Sunday 19th January, 1941
Chapter 10
Tuesday 21st January, 1941
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Monday 3rd February, 1941
Chapter 13
Friday 14th February, 1941
Chapter 14
Monday 17th February, 1941
Chapter 15
Friday 21st February, 1941
Chapter 16
Wednesday 26th February, 1941
Thursday 27th February, 1941
Saturday 1st March, 1941
Sunday 2nd March, 1941
Chapter 17
Sunday 30th March, 1941
Chapter 18
Wednesday 9th April, 1941
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Monday 21st April, 1941
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Thursday 1st May, 1941
My Beloved Margot
Chapter 23
Friday 9th May, 1941
Saturday 10th May, 1941
Monday 12th May, 1941
Chapter 24
Friday 30th May, 1941
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
For Felicity
Summer, 1941
Winter, 1942
Chapter 31
1942, London
Chapter 32
London, 1952
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgements
Juno Dawson
Copyright
PRAISE FOR MARGOT & ME
‘Dawson’s understanding of adolescence and her attention to the details of different periods bring both protagonists’ stories sharply into focus and provide a satisfying emotional core’ Julia Eccleshare, Observer
‘Profound insights into our relationship with history … An account of Margot’s personal losses make the wartime death toll real to Fliss, while the wise but spiky grandparent finds it easier to build bridges on paper than in person’ Guardian
‘One of those stories that makes you feel special, like the author is sharing a secret with you’ Alba in Bookland
‘An intense book that buried so many secrets … truly embodies complexities of family, love, life and more’ Word Revel
‘If you enjoyed reading How Not to Disappear by Clare Furniss or Wing Jones by Katherine Webber, add Margot & Me to your TBR immediately’ Written Word Worlds
‘This is a wonderful book, suitable for readers of 12+, but it will be enjoyed just as much by adults as younger readers’ Historical Novel Society
ALSO BY JUNO DAWSON
All of the Above
Under My Skin
Cruel Summer
Say Her Name
Hollow Pike
Mind Your Head (with Dr Olivia Hewitt)
This Book Is Gay
Being a Boy
Mum, Dad, Joanne, Jan, Grandma and Grandad, thank you for your support over the last year.
‘Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.’
Søren Kierkegaard, 1843
Chapter 1
‘The problem with young people today,’ Margot said about an hour ago, ‘is that, from birth, every single one has been told they are somehow special.’ We were at the Welcome Break motorway services, pacing back and forth on the grassy verge, stretching stiff legs.
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ I asked, rising to the bait like a gormless goldfish.
‘Well, Felicity, when the vast majority are then faced with their own mediocrity, those few truly extraordinary individuals are drowned out by their entitled whining.’
Like I have no doubt who that was aimed at. She hates me and always has.
When you think of grandmothers, you imagine cuddly old ladies with mohair cardigans, tissues up their sleeves and an endless supply of Werther’s Originals. Kindly, peppermint-scented women knitting in rocking chairs, right? Maybe even a blue rinse and wrinkly cheeks you just want to squidge! My other grandma fits this description in every way, but not Margot. Nope. Margot is something else.
‘What is that smell?’ I pinch my nostrils shut, wind up the window and mouth-breathe. It reeks. Vomit and cheesy feet and wet garbage at the same time.
‘Muck spreading,’ Margot says curtly, not taking her eyes off the road. ‘Country air: it’s good for you. Take deep breaths.’
‘Foul. I’m gonna puke,’ I mutter, and put my headphones back on. I find it very hard to believe that Margot and me share any of the same genetic make-up.
Kill me now, I swear. Our conversation about manure is literally the first words we’ve shared since we crossed the Severn Bridge, and those were about whether or not Princess Diana’s funeral was ‘a bit much’. Mum is napping up front and I’m crunched into the corner of the back seat, pinned to the door by a sun, moon and stars duvet wrapped in a bin bag. I suppose it’s my own fault for insisting on bringing my duvet, but I want as many knick-knacks from home as possible.
Margot, who will not tolerate Gran, Grandma, Granny or even Grandmother, drives like an android, the seat at ninety degrees and her arms locked at the elbow. Somewhere near the M25, I asked if we could have the radio on and was flatly told no, so I’m listening to my CD Walkman instead. I have to rotate the only two CDs I haven’t packed.
About an hour back, we swapped the M4 for meandering country lanes and now we’re truly in the middle of nowhere. Major bummer. So far, South Wales reminds me of camouflage: few buildings, just patchwork green fields stitched together by crumbly walls. Endless boring valleys peak and trough, the road twisting through the hills like an unravelled grey ribbon. I squish my face against the window and watch my breath steam up the glass.
My head is a gumball machine filled with questions. How can I be here? Why are we leaving London now when Mum’s better? How can this be my life? Why am I like totally cursed? Am I being punished for sins in a past life? Unless I was literally Satan, this punishment seems way OTT. This must be how Dorothy felt when she woke up back in Kansas. No Yellow Brick Road; no Emerald City; no witches, good or otherwise. Just wall-to-wall suckitude.
In the condensation on the window, I draw a sad face with my finger. At least my nails are nice. Hard Candy – Iced Flamingo.
I close my eyes and imagine it’s all a film: cosmopolitan city girl (with A+ fashion sense, natch) has to go live on a farm while her wicked grandmother cares for her recuperating mum. I’d be played by Jennifer Love Hewitt, Sarah Michelle Gellar or some other girl with three names, and Keanu Reeves would be the swarthy farmhand next door who takes me into the barn to deflower me.
The idea is dimly exciting and I wonder if I might be able to salvage the sorry situation. But when I open my eyes, all I see is bleak. Bleakety bleak, bleak. It’s like a freaking Brontë novel out here. Wuthering Valleys. Six months, I tell myself, it’s only six months. Mum promised.
&nbs
p; But a lot can happen in six months. Back home, Xander and I weren’t exactly together any more, but I can practically hear Tiggy sharpening her talons, ready to sink them into his flesh the second my back’s turned. I reckon our ‘never with exes’ rule probably leapt out the window the second I left Zone 6.
The Land Rover shudders over a cattle grid and I realise Mum is craning around in her seat and waving at me. Her hair is slowly growing back after the chemo – fine baby-hair that just covers her scalp – but she still chooses to wear the wig: A ‘sassy shag’ not unlike Monica from Friends. It’s real human hair and cost a lot of money. Still looks hella wiggy though. I haven’t told her that, obviously. ‘Fliss!’
I pull my headphones off. ‘What?’
‘We’re here!’
‘What?’ I wipe the face off the window and take a look. Nooooooo. No. Nope. This cannot be it. It looks like a nuclear apocalypse happened. There’s nothing to see.
‘Welcome to Mari-Morgan Farm,’ says Margot as we bounce along the dirt track. Drab structures sprout up as we pass over a bump and trundle downhill. Pressing my head to the window, I squint to get a look at my new – temporary – home.
‘Is this it?’ The words pop out before I can stop them. This is the first time I’ve clapped eyes on the farm. We were supposed to visit numerous times. If I’m remembering right, Mum had just recovered from the first bout of cancer when Margot moved here and we were all set to come up two summers ago – and then came Cancer: The Sequel so we stayed in London.
‘Felicity!’ Mum chides.
‘Sorry! That’s not what I meant … I just thought it was going to be bigger. I mean, when you hear farmhouse …’
‘It’s plenty big enough,’ Margot says shortly. You really hear the full stops in her sentences.
The tyres crunch to a halt and I step out of the car, my Mary Janes narrowly avoiding a muddy puddle the colour of cappuccino. I’m greeted by a solemn, ivy-strangled block of a farmhouse. Stone grey as the sky, it’s as final as a tombstone.
Like a child’s drawing, it has a red front door, four evenly spaced sash windows and a chimney which will no doubt billow smoke. ‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ Mum says. ‘The views must be phenomenal.’ She steadies herself against the car.
‘Come along,’ Margot says, going to her aid. ‘Let’s get you out of the cold.’
‘Mother, relax! I can manage.’
‘Rot. Inside at once. I’ll put the kettle on while Felicity brings the cases in.’
‘By myself? As if.’ I gesture at my shoes and houndstooth miniskirt.
Margot’s flint eyes cut me down like a scythe. ‘I’m quite sure you’ll cope. I suggest you hurry along. It’s going to rain.’
No, I mean it: kill me now.
The inside of the farmhouse is as bogus as the outside. Once I’ve dragged cases, boxes, duvet and holdalls into the dim, narrow hall, with plenty of dramatic huffing and sighing, I investigate. There’s trippy patterned wallpaper as far as the eye can see. God, it’s enough to give you a migraine. While Margot and Mum talk in the lounge, I venture upstairs, taking care not to trip up on the tatty carpets.
My room is the smallest, with pink daisy wallpaper and room only for a single bed, a bookcase and a painfully slender wardrobe. Not so much a walk-in as a coffin. I estimate it’ll take only about forty per cent of my jackets, never mind anything else.
The room, tomb, whatever, smells damp and earthy, like no one’s breathed the air in a long time and it’s gone stagnant. It’s freezing too. I note too late there’s no central heating, only a sad, free-standing electric heater. Bonanza.
How is living in actual history going to help Mum feel better? I flop onto the bed, mattress springs protesting, and blink back tears. They burn and push behind my eyes. I fight the urge to stamp my feet. I told her this was a terrible idea, but she wouldn’t listen.
Chemotherapy, as miraculous and wonderful as it is, cures you by almost killing you. After two years – on and off – of watching Mum waste away, lose her hair, including her eyelashes (they don’t show that on TV), throw up all the time and not be able to do a single thing to help, I thought now was the time to get back to normal. I know it sounds a bit princess-like, but we did it – together … we got through it – together … and our reward is to come here. I love how Margot gets to swoop in like Supergran and be the hero now when I’ve been helping Mum in and out of the bath, cleaning the house and fetching all the groceries for like a year. How does that work?
A determined tear squeezes its way out. Good thing my mascara is waterproof.
‘Felicity!’ Margot calls up the stairs. ‘Are you coming down for tea?’
‘Just a minute.’ It takes me all sixty seconds to breathe steadily and halt the tears.
I’m not finished exploring. There are five doors on the long upstairs landing. I have a little nosy around. I’m next to the bathroom, and I see Margot’s room and the larger guest bedroom that Mum will have. I cross to the last door and press down on the handle. I push and pull but it’s locked. All I can think is that it’s an office or attic. I give it a jiggle to make sure. Oh, there’s something irresistible about a locked attic door. I bet it’s where Margot keeps the bodies.
‘What are you doing?’ Right on cue, Margot’s shadow swings around the top of the stairs like she’s frigging Nosferatu or something.
‘What’s in here?’ I ask.
‘It’s just the attic, and you have no call to be up there.’ And that’s that, although I am of course now twice as keen to explore. I give the locked door one last look. Our time will come. ‘The tea is stewing. Come along.’
I follow her to a murky lounge and am relieved to find there is at least a television. It’s an antique, and there’s no video machine, let alone a DVD player. I’m guessing cable is totally out of the question, but there is a TV. At this stage, I’ll take whatever I can get. The rest of the furniture – all brown … brown, why? – is old but unfussy and functional. The mood perhaps wouldn’t be so Prozac if it weren’t for the thick net curtains barricading half of the light. It’s like the decor is actively repelling happiness. At least a teapot in a knitted cosy waits on a low coffee table and the whole house smells of toast.
‘Here we go.’ Margot carries a tray through from the kitchen at the back of the house. ‘There’s nothing tea and toast won’t remedy. Made the jam myself.’
It does look delicious – the bread thick and crusty, the jam purply-black with little seeds in.
‘This is wonderful. Too much,’ Mum says, already curled up on the sofa, covered in a colourful blanket – I suspect crocheted by Margot.
‘Nonsense. I make the bread too. I don’t have the luxury of a Waitrose on my doorstep, do I? Look at you – you need feeding up.’
A ghost of her former smile crosses Mum’s lips. ‘Like a Christmas turkey? Who’d have believed it?! My mother, in the middle of the wilderness, totally self-sufficient. If only Dad were alive to see it!’
Margot sits proudly in the armchair opposite. She wears jodhpurs and a cashmere claret jumper with a blouse underneath. She’s grown her hair out. When I was little she always had a neat bob, but it’s wild and wiry now and she’s stopped dying it, the blonde now silvery white. I’ve seen old photos of her; she’s always been striking, but more ‘handsome’ than pretty. She’s taller than Mum or me, which only adds to her scariness. I suppose some would say she was statuesque, which works because, like a statue, she’s cold as marble. Always has been. I know she held me when I was a baby because I’ve seen pictures, but I don’t think I remember a single hug.
‘I’ve got everything I need, thank you kindly. Eggs, veggies, meat, even goat’s milk.’
I scrutinise the stripy little jug sitting next to the teapot. ‘Is that from a goat? Gross.’
‘No, that’s from the farm down the road. Dewi Allen delivers me a pint a day. Not that there’s anything wrong with goat’s milk, mind.’
‘I never in a million years thought this i
s where you’d end up. I always saw you retiring to the Med,’ Mum says, taking a sip from a Welsh dragon mug.
That would have made more sense. Until a few years back, Margot lived in a très chic townhouse near Hampstead Heath. Every morning, even on the coldest winter days, she would start the day with a bracing swim in the ladies’ pond. When I was little, I remember big shoulder pads and big hair; electric blue stilettos and a briefcase. When we went to visit on a Sunday, I’d play with Grandad in the garden – they had a badminton net and a pond with bright orange koi carp – while Mum and Margot had coffee on the terrace. After Grandad died – cancer again – I was told to take my homework or a book to read so I didn’t ‘bother Margot’.
She’s nothing like my Grandma Baker. She’s lovely, and gives me a pound coin every time I see her, but since her hip replacement she’s moved into my Uncle Simon’s house near Margate. We’ve hardly seen her since Mum got sick.
Seemingly on a whim a couple of years ago, Margot took retirement from the newspaper she edited and announced she was giving it all up to live like some sort of hippy motorway-protester on a smallholding in Wales. We were like … OK … whatever. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya.
