by Juno Dawson
Margot cradles a goblet-sized brandy. ‘I’m not sure I believe in fate. Remember when you asked me about heaven? I don’t think I believe in heaven, but I do believe in “goodness”.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know when you’re running late and you see the bus pull away and you think, That’s just so ruddy typical, or when your shopping bag splits open in the street or when it rains on the one day you forget your umbrella?’
‘Yeah. It’s like that Alanis Morissette song.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’
‘The point I’m making is, we all spend so much time dwelling on the bad – and don’t misunderstand me, I think there’s a lot of bad in the world too – that we forget to look at the good. We never make a mental note when the bus arrives at the exact same time we do, or when it starts raining after we’ve made it home. Sometimes, I think the universe is on our side. Like tonight: the universe wanted Doreen and me to meet again after all these years. And for you to meet her too.’
I nod. If only the universe could look out for Mum.
Margot must be able to read minds. ‘Felicity, over the next few weeks, you might have to try especially hard to see the little things – the small kindnesses, the serendipities, the breadcrumbs to get you through the day. You’ll need them.’
I nod. ‘I’ll try. I promise.’
She puts her glass down and fixes me in a stare. Those eyes, she can use them like a bear trap. ‘Fliss Baker. You’re stronger than you think you are.’
I do not feel strong. I feel like a matchstick girl in a gale. I nod again and finish my hot chocolate.
I wake up in a strange bed and panic, not knowing where I am. I’m suffocated by chintzy wallpaper and a poofy mattress with too many pillows. I remember I’m in the B&B, and that it’s Christmas morning, and that Mum is in hospital.
For about two seconds I was worry-free.
There’s a bathroom on the landing between the rooms. It’s unoccupied so I shower while I can. It’s not brilliant, but the pressure is better than on the farm and I feel properly clean for the first time in ages. It’s a shame I have to wear the same tracksuit and slippers.
I promised to meet Margot for breakfast at seven, so I head down to the bar. There are only two other B&B guests, but Doreen has set out a little buffet with cereal and fruit and she quickly asks if I want white or brown toast. ‘Oh, and Merry Christmas, lovey.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ I say. Whether fate or the universe, I’m glad we’re not at the farm. I join Margot in the window seat. ‘Morning! Merry Christmas, Margot!’
‘To you too. Did you sleep well?’
‘I really did. I think yesterday broke me.’
‘It was good to escape.’
I nod as Doreen comes to ask how we’d like our eggs. The craving for bacon is strong, but I’ve come too far to go back now. I order poached eggs and toast.
I feel something poke against my knee and recoil. ‘Shh,’ Margot says. ‘Take it.’
I look down and see she’s passing me a bundle wrapped in a napkin. ‘What is it?’
‘Your real presents are back at the farm, but I didn’t think you should be without something to open on Christmas morning.’
‘Oh, thank you! I … Yours is back at the farm too.’ With Mum so sick, I had to make a present run with Danny. On Mum’s instructions, I bought Margot a new pair of swamp-green wellies. Sexy.
‘It’s nothing,’ Margot says. I unwrap the bundle and see it’s tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a shower cap, a sewing kit and some sachets of hot chocolate.
‘Did you steal these?’ I whisper.
Margot gives me a sly smile and a wink as Doreen arrives with our pot of coffee. I hide everything under the table and laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ Doreen asks.
‘Nothing!’ Margot and I say in unison.
Chapter 40
By the 27th Mum is ready to come home. I watch as Dr Singh takes Margot off into a little room behind the nurses’ station. I don’t have to be psychic to tell what they’re saying. Margot’s head falls forward for a moment, her eyes full of awfulness, before she pulls it high, trying extra-hard to be strong.
It’s now a matter of days.
The word ‘hospice’ has been mentioned.
Meh. The farm is basically a hospice. We came here so she could die in peace. What difference does it make if she’s surrounded by other sick people.
Mantra time: It’ll be a release, it’ll be a relief, she’ll be free, she’ll be at peace.
It doesn’t help that when I ask how she is, she’s just says, ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me.’ It’s like two squirming ferrets wrestling at the bottom of my tummy. One just wants Mum to live forever, selfishly, to keep me happy. The other knows she’s in pain and that death is the ultimate painkiller. All the ferrety tumbling is making me feel nauseous.
I look thinner. Not in a good way. A bit gaunt and haggard if I’m honest.
I see Dr Singh slip Margot some pamphlets. I wonder, is it Living With Loss, How to Explain Death to Your Stroppy Teen or just a brochure for a local hospice? Margot tucks them in her handbag and leads the way out of the office. ‘Are we ready?’
‘We are,’ Mum says. She hoists herself up, now using two sticks to support herself. She’s trying so hard, sinking her teeth into life, and it makes me want to cry. But I can’t. I gotta be strong. Maybe this is how it happens – the hardening, the scar tissue around the heart – just like Margot warned it would.
The next day is the first time everyone can rehearse. Stepz looks like a proper dance studio now that I’ve cleared all the crap into one corner and hidden it under a mildewed dustsheet. ‘What the bloody hell are you dressed as?’ I ask Danny. ‘It’s not Fame.’
‘What? If this is the only time I get to do a dance number I want to do it right.’ He’s wearing a vest, some very short shorts with leggings underneath and neon pink leg warmers. More The Kids from Lame than Fame.
‘Danny Chung, I love you very much,’ I say.
‘Mwah!’ He blows me a kiss.
‘You shouldn’t really need to warm up,’ I tell them, ‘but maybe stretch a little bit or something.’
Bronwyn takes me to one side. ‘Look at this,’ she says, pulling up her sleeve to reveal a charm bracelet. ‘Robin gave it to me on Christmas Eve.’
‘Oh, Bronwyn,’ I breathe, ‘that’s lovely.’ The charms are so cute – a little alien, a book, a star, a telescope.
‘I know! But what do I do next?’
‘Don’t ask me! It’s the blind leading the blind. I tried to make out with a librarian, remember.’
She laughs. ‘Do you think I should, like, ask him out or something?’
‘Yes. Feminism – why not? I think he’s sent you a fairly unequivocal message with the bracelet. Just don’t be too full-on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I dunno, don’t show up in a wedding dress. Ooh … go to the cinema. Easy date … you don’t even have to talk.’
Her eyes light up. ‘Genius. You’re an actual genius. Starship Troopers is out next week.’
‘Nothing says romance like big alien bugs.’
‘Oh. You think I should suggest that Jennifer Aniston one?’
‘Not unless you want your first date to be your last.’
I explain how the routine will work and play them “This Woman’s Work” from start to end. ‘I love that song,’ Robin says. Sophie is already weeping. ‘Sophie, I need you to get through this without crying.’
‘It’s … just … so … sad.’
‘I know. But you’ll be fine.’
‘Sophie, get it together, babes.’ Danny passes her a Handy Andie and rolls his eyes.
We rehearse as much as we can. The problem is that we can only do the ‘big finish’ once, so have to imagine how much of the song it will take up. The track is only 3.38 long and there’s a lot to squish into that time. It’s going to b
e tight and, if I’m honest, Sophie and Bronwyn have two left feet. Robin is the surprise; his lanky frame is oddly graceful, it turns out. I subtly suggest he comes to the front.
I bust out the turkey-and-stuffing sandwiches I made for everyone. We had a very late Christmas dinner yesterday at the farm. Mum even managed a tiny bit of solid food. ‘Thank you so much for doing this,’ I say as we sit in a circle on the studio floor. This is torture: the sandwiches smell so good and I’m stuck with grated cheese and pickle. ‘I think it’s gonna look really elegant and cool.’
‘I am in total awe,’ Danny says. ‘I had no idea you could dance like that.’
I shrug. ‘I started when I was three.’
‘Three?’
‘Yeah. It … It feels good to be dancing again.’
‘It’s part of who you are,’ Robin says quietly in his low, monotone voice. I don’t fancy him, he’s not my type, but suddenly understand what it is Bronwyn sees in him.
Chapter 41
New Year’s Eve comes and goes, as does New Year’s Day. I’ve always celebrated – last year I watched fireworks explode over Big Ben on a private Thames barge with Marina’s ludicrous family – but as NYE is all about bidding farewell to one year and welcoming a new one … Well, last year is welcome to burn in hell and, as for the next one, I’m keeping it at arm’s length.
This year, I watched pretty much the exact same fireworks on the BBC next to Mum. Bless her, she made us wake her from her snooze on the sofa to see the new year in. It’s only fireworks: gunpowder and coloured metal salts. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Whatever else happens, Mum saw another year.
By the time school starts back on the 5th, we only have a week to perfect my routine. My friends are the best and rehearse with me every evening right after sixth period without a word of complaint. I think they’re even enjoying it. Initially they were giggly and self-conscious, but now even Sophie can get through the routine without messing around.
I think it’s looking pretty good. On the Friday night we have our dress rehearsal. We do the whole routine, again without the big finish. Thom is watching from the back row, clipboard in hand. I suspect, if we even hinted at the end of the piece, he’d try to stop me.
There’s no going back. Unless something awful happens in the next twenty-four hours, Mum is well enough to come along for an hour or two, so I’m going to do it and do it BIG. She deserves it. I want it to be better than any other dance she’s seen me do. I want it to mean something.
‘Take five,’ Thom yells. The other acts are a mixed bunch: Danny is doing ‘Seasons of Love’ from Rent and Sophie is singing ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’. Without being a total bitch, it certainly doesn’t compare to the Sinéad O’Connor version. There are various other acts: Robin is playing an acoustic Green Day song on his guitar and a group of super-quiet girls who I’ve never spoken to turn out to be pretty awesome hip-hop dancers, and they’ve choreographed a piece to Salt–N-Pepa.
I grab a bottle of water from my bag and gulp it down. I don’t even realise Thom is hovering behind me. ‘Fliss, can I just have a quiet word?’
‘Sure.’
He guides me to the corner next to the piano. We’re in the church hall. It’s bitterly cold; apparently the heating’s on the blink but a plumber is coming before the show tomorrow night.
‘I think you’re very brave doing this, Fliss. The dance is about your mum, isn’t it?’
I nod. It’s pretty obvious.
‘Are you sure you want to do something so personal?’
I take another sip of water. ‘I don’t think anything is any good unless it’s personal. Otherwise you’re just swinging your arms and legs around. It has to mean something, right?’
Now he nods. ‘I think you’re right. Well put.’
I feel about ten years old. I also want to collapse on him and let it all out, but I need the pent-up emotion to get me through the dance. Every muscle and sinew is wound tight, ready to spring.
But not yet.
Tomorrow.
I had forgotten how nervous I get. It’s a fist around my stomach so tight it hurts. I’m doubled up in a chair in the poky back room that’s acting as a dressing room. I feel sick, but I know I have to put some fuel in my body or I’m not gonna get through the routine. Luckily, satsumas are in season and I’m managing to eat them one sad segment at a time.
‘Are you OK?’ Danny asks. He’s already opened the show with his Rent number. He was major. I watched him from the wings. Mum and Margot are in the second row, on the aisle in case they have to make a quick getaway. Behind them are Dewi and his dad, Dewi, and behind them are Megan’s mates Rhiannon and Cerys, which makes me even more nervous. Who invited them?
‘I’m fine,’ I lie. I really think this feeling will kill me. Then again, I thought that last time.
‘Fliss, we don’t have to do the ending, you know? We can just do it like we’ve rehearsed and leave the end off. It’ll be just as powerful or whatever.’
‘No,’ I say more forcefully than I intend to. ‘It has to … It has to hurt … or it’s just … nothing.’ Danny says no more, but looks deep into my eyes. ‘I’m sure. I want to do this.’
He draws me into a big hug. Another thing about Danny Chung: he will never not smell of Jean Paul Gaultier’s Le Male. Often you smell him before you see him. ‘We’re ready when you are,’ he says.
They’re all wearing very simple black trousers and roll-necks with basic black plimsolls – the type I wore for PE in primary school. I’m wearing, in classic ballet style, a white wrap sweater over a black leotard, white tights and my pointe shoes, tied at the ankle.
My hair, controversially, is loose. Again, somewhere, Madame Nyzda is sensing a disturbance in The Force.
Thom sticks his head into the dressing room. ‘OK, Fliss Baker and co. to the wings, please. You’re next.’
Oh God, I can’t do it. I’m going to go on stage and freeze. I’m going to dance like a dustbin. I’m going to fall down. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick and then fall down in the sick.
‘Fliss.’ Bronwyn takes my hand and squeezes it too tight. ‘You can do this. It’s going to be so beautiful. Your mum is going to love it. OK?’
She’s not leaving any room for disagreement. ‘Thank you. Let’s go.’
Dewi’s friend Matthew is just finishing his stand-up routine. I get the sense it’s not very funny and people are laughing out of politeness. He keeps finishing his lines with, ‘Am I right?’ Always a sign that you’re probably wrong in my book.
‘Thank you very much and goodnight!’ he announces, and I almost feel the collective relief that his set is over. The applause is grateful to say the least.
Thom takes his microphone centre stage. ‘And now for our final act of the night. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Fliss Baker to the stage!’
The audience applauds again before falling respectfully silent. I take a moment. I breathe.
I drag my chair into the middle of the space. The legs screech as I pull them over the stage. I sit, knees together, back straight and wait for the music to start.
As Kate starts to sing, I rise off the chair, straight into pointe.
I’m light and delicate, my arms aloft, neck rolling, hair tumbling down my back. My steps gaily follow the piano notes. I spin piqué turns.
Kate Bush’s haunting vocals echoes all the way around the hall. Aside from her, you could hear a pin drop.
I spin faster. I whip my head around fast, fixing my eyes on the clock at the back of the church hall so I don’t get dizzy. I spin faster and faster – so fast I hear a few ‘wows’ from the audience – and then I stop.
I just stop. I pretend to be tired, out of breath. I crumple. From the sides of the stage my friends emerge. All in black, balaclavas over their faces, they’re shadows. I hardly see them against the black backdrop, but I know they’re there. They lurk.
From my folded heap, I st
art again. Taking a deep breath, I compose myself, pull myself tall into first position, my arms perfectly arched in front of my chest.
Off I go again. I spring into pointe and I jeté close to each of the shadows, almost daring them to chase me.
The shadows lunge at me with their black-gloved hands. At first I spin and leap away. Gracefully, with a smile on my face to begin with, but then they come out of the sidelines: crawling and slithering, prowling closer to me.
I take centre stage and create a (hopefully) perfect arabesque: one leg up parallel to the floor, arms elegantly balanced. As rehearsed, Robin takes hold of the airborne leg and pulls me over. I crash down and Danny catches me just before I face-plant the stage. The audience gasps.
Robin drags me across the floor by my leg, but I wriggle free. I scramble to my feet and attempt to resume my dance.
Now Bronwyn grabs my arm, swings me around and I crash into Sophie who lifts me off the floor. I kick my legs in a perfect circle and land again. I pirouette away, only for Robin to grab me around the waist and hurl me to the floor. I roll and unfurl into a balance.
This is the hard part. Well, second hardest. I bend all the way back and kick into a flip. Danny helps me over and back onto my feet.
All four of them close in on me, surrounding me.
They take hold of me and I fall back into their arms. I give in and they’ve got me. They lift me aloft, my head tipped back. It’s disorienting. They turn me around and I see the audience upside down as I am lowered into the chair which Bronwyn has already turned backwards.
I close my eyes, knowing what’s coming next.
I hear a buzz, then another, and then another. A sound like wasps. I feel the electric clippers, from Sophie’s mum’s salon, scrape against my skull.
The audience gasps louder this time. They mutter and cuss. They can’t believe what they’re seeing. A voice I recognise says, ‘Fliss, no!’
Mum.
Too late now. Three blades mow through my hair and I feel it fall away. I open my eyes. People in the crowd cover their shocked mouths with scandalised hands. My head feels lighter and lighter with every second.
