Dad’s plumbing van hurtles along The Green. He jumps out.
‘Feather!’
‘It’s Mum—’ I start but he’s already running inside.
By the time the fire engine turns up, Dad’s standing next to me on the pavement with a zoned-out look. He couldn’t cope with anything happening to Mum any more than I could. His hair’s sticking up and I notice that his faded blue overalls are hanging off him. He’s been losing weight just about as fast as Mum’s been putting it on.
And the number of people standing on The Green now, staring at us, has doubled.
I know Mum’s unconscious, so it’s not like she’s going to remember this, but I still feel bad. Really bad. Because I can see it. All of it. And I know she’d hate it:
The neighbours staring at her and cupping their hands over their mouths and whispering;
The police car plonked in the middle of the road, its blue lights flashing;
The fire engine parked right up to the front of the house with a mobile crane-like attachment sticking out the top.
After they take the lounge window out, I stand there watching, like everyone else, as a crane lifts Mum out of the cottage. Only it doesn’t look like Mum. It looks like a massive unconscious woman I’ve never seen before, a woman trapped in a huge net that’s being hauled out of our cottage like an enormous bloated, human fish.
And it’s true. Dangling unconscious in that net, Mum looks more like a wounded animal, a beached whale or a bear that’s been shot down, than a person. And you know what the worst bit is? As the crane lowers Mum onto the front lawn and as the firemen open the net, it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time – in 3D, HD, Technicolor:
The grease stains on the front of her sweatshirt.
The smears of chocolate on her sleeves.
The sticky splodges of pineapple syrup on her tracksuit bottoms.
Her stomach hanging over the waistband where her T-shirt has rucked up.
And her messed-up hair, matted and knotty. If there’s one thing Mum’s proud of, it’s her hair. That’s why, every night, I wash it for her in a bowl of hot water I bring in from the kitchen, and, every morning, before I go to school, I make sure it’s brushed. It doesn’t matter that no one will ever see it – it matters to her. And anything that matters to Mum matters to me.
I feel guilty for feeling embarrassed, and for letting the firemen haul Mum out here for everyone to gawp at.
As I watch the firemen and the paramedics lever Mum into the ambulance on this inflatable stretcher thing they call an Ice Path because it’s used for rescuing groups of people who get trapped in ice, or water or in mud, I realise that I’ve betrayed the most important person in my life.
I should have found another way to get her help.
Dad turns to me. ‘What happened, Feather?’
He doesn’t mean to, but the way it comes out, it sounds like it’s my fault.
‘I found Mum lying on the floor,’ I say. ‘I came back from Jake’s just before midnight…’
I look at the ambulance and think of Mum in there, all alone.
‘She wouldn’t breathe,’ I say, my voice shaky. ‘They think she’s had some kind of fit.’
Dad’s got bags under his eyes and he’s got that pale, shell-shocked look the soldiers have in the pictures Miss Pierce showed us at school.
‘I should have been with her. I shouldn’t have gone out.’
‘Feather… come on…’
Dad puts his arm around me but I push him away.
‘It’s true Dad. If she hadn’t tried to get up on her own…’
My hands are shaking. I wish I could turn back time, just by a few minutes, then I could have prevented this from happening.
Dad steps forward again and folds me into his arms and this time I don’t fight back.
He kisses my forehead and says: ‘It’ll be okay, Feather.’
I nod, because I want to believe him. Only right now my world feels a zillion miles from okay.
Dad tells the paramedics that we’ll follow in the car, which is his way of saving them from having to point out the obvious: that there’s no room for us in the back of the ambulance.
As we watch the ambulance turn out of The Green, followed by the fire engine and the police car, I realise that it’s already 1am. I’ve missed the New Year coming in.
And then I see Jake running across The Green, and I realise that I haven’t kept our 12:01 promise and that makes me feel worse.
‘I was worried…’ Jake says. ‘When you didn’t call. And then you didn’t answer your phone.’ He looks over at the people gathered on The Green, at our open front door and at the lounge window sitting on the drive. ‘What happened?’
I shake my head and then lean into his chest. He holds me and for a while, we just stay there, not saying anything.
Then Jake takes my hand and we go back into the house. When we get to the kitchen, we find Houdini standing with his front hooves up on the windowsill, his big bell clanging against his chest. He’s got the same zoned-out look as Dad did earlier, which makes me think that he must have known that something was up with Mum before anyone else did. Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe Houdini is a magic goat.
As the three of us stand watching the last of the fireworks petering out in the dark sky, I make the most important resolution of my life:
If Mum wakes up, I say to myself, to the sky and the stars and anything out there that might be listening, if she lives, I’m going to look after her better. I’m going to make her well again – for good.
January
2
I stand at the door and look at all these grown-up people sitting on tiddly chairs in the Year 4 classroom of Newton Primary.
‘I’m sorry we have to be in here.’ I recognise the man at the microphone. He helped the paramedics with the stretcher. He’s doing up Cuckoo Cottage next door.
Taped to the wall behind him, there’s a poster of a woman in a red dress with curly writing running up her body: Slim Skills: The Key to a Whole New You.
I’ve been reading up about being overweight on the NHS website and it said that joining a weight-loss group was a good first step, so I found the one closest to Willingdon and this is it: my first Slim Skills meeting.
I look around for Jake – he’s meant to be here for moral support – but there’s no sign of him.
‘There was a booking clash with the assembly hall,’ the man goes on. ‘I’ll make sure it’s sorted for next week.’ He spots me and juts out his chin. ‘It’s Feather, isn’t it?’ he asks.
Everyone turns to look at me.
There are a whole load of people from Newton that look vaguely familiar and then I notice Mr Ding, the owner of the Lucky Lantern Takeaway Van, which sits in the middle of Willingdon Green. He smiles at me and wobbles on his tiny Year 4 chair.
I’d never thought of Mr Ding as needing to lose weight. I mean, you’d be suspicious of someone in the Chinese-takeaway business being skinny, right?
A couple of places along from him sits Allen, the reporter from the Newton News who I found in our back garden a while back.
‘Are you lost?’ asks the microphone guy.
‘No…’ I begin.
I know what they’re thinking: what’s a scrawny kid doing at weight-loss meeting?
Be brave, I tell myself. If you’re going to take this resolution seriously, if you’re going to have everything in place for when Mum wakes up, you have to be proactive.
I take a breath. ‘No, I’m not lost.’
A door bangs somewhere in the corridor. A few seconds later, Jake rushes in. He smells of fresh air and Amy’s perfume.
‘Sorry… got caught up,’ Jake says, breathless.
Which means that Amy wouldn’t let him go.
Jake and I go and sign the register at the back of the room and then we sit down. I can feel people looking at me and I know it’s because they’ve heard about Mum. The day after she got taken to the hospital, there was an artic
le in the Newton News with a fuzzy picture someone must have taken on their phone: it looks a polar bear under a green sheet is being stuffed into the back of the ambulance. I bet Allen took that photo.
Anyway, Jake does the paper round so he nicked all the copies he could get his hands on and we made a bonfire in the back garden.
‘You bearing up?’ Jake asks.
‘I’m fine.’ I squeeze his hand. ‘Now you’re here.’
The guy at the front clears his throat. ‘As I was saying.’ He smiles out at the room. ‘I’m Mitch Banks, your Slim Skills Counsellor. And I’ll be with you every step of the way.’
What if she can’t take steps yet? I think.
He walks away from the microphone, grabs a pair of scales off the floor and holds them above his head.
‘At the heart of every meeting is the weigh-in.’ He bangs the scales. ‘They’re our nemesis, right?’ He pauses for dramatic effect and then leans forward and eyeballs us. ‘Our truth teller?’
Half of the people in the room nod. The other half look like they’ve been asked to take their clothes off and run around Newton naked.
‘Well, these scales are about to become your best friend.’
‘Mum won’t fit on those in a million years,’ I whisper to Jake. Even if she did manage to get both feet on the standing bit, the digital numbers would go berserk. Mum’s in a whole other league.
‘We’ll work it out,’ Jake says.
That’s another reason I love Jake: he’s fixes stuff.
Mitch goes on. ‘So we start from where we are.’ He thumps the scales with his left hand. The numbers flash. ‘We’ll make a note of our weight in our personal journals. Charting our progress is a key part of the Slim Skills method.’
I’ve already made a weight chart: it’s on my bedroom wall. I’m aiming for Mum to lose twenty pounds a month. The point isn’t to get her all gaunt looking – I still want her to look like Mum. I just have to make sure she gets better. Once she wakes up, that is. Which she will.
The room’s so silent you can hear the Year 4 chairs creaking under all those grown-up bums.
‘So, who’s going first?’ Mitch scans the room.
Everyone stares at their feet, like we do at school when we don’t want to answer a question. I’m no expert but this guy doesn’t seem to be going about things quite the right way. I mean, if it took guts for me to come here, and I’m not here for me, think about how all the overweight people are feeling.
‘I’ll go,’ Mr Ding says, which I think is really brave.
‘I hope this doesn’t mean he’ll stop making those amazing spring rolls,’ Jake whispers.
People come all the way from Newton for Mr Ding’s spring rolls. Dad gets them for us as a treat when he’s had a long day and is too busy to cook.
Mitch stands up and walks to the front and, one by one, Mr Ding and the other people from Newton heave themselves out of their Year 4 chairs and go and queue for their weigh-in.
‘So, what are your names?’ Mitch Banks stands over me and Jake, holding up a Sharpie and a white sticker.
‘Feather,’ I say, ‘Feather Grace Tucker.’
Mitch writes FEATHER in big capitals. ‘That’s a nice name.’
I shrug.
He turns to Jake.
‘And you?’
‘Jake.’
Mitch hands us our name stickers.
‘So, why are you here?’
‘You know why I’m here,’ I say.
‘I do?’
‘You helped Mum – on New Year’s.’ My cheeks are burning up.
‘Oh… yes.’
‘You live next door to us.’
‘Right.’ He scrunches up his brow. ‘Forgive me, but I still don’t understand.’
‘We need to get help for Feather’s mum,’ Jake says. ‘We thought you could help.’
‘She’s in a diabetic coma,’ I add.
It’s better to say things straight, that’s what Mum’s taught me. What she means is – it’s better not to be like Dad. Dad thinks that dodging things or joking about them will make them go away. Like Mum being overweight – and look how that worked out.
‘Oh… I’m sorry,’ Mitch says.
‘That’s why she went to the hospital. She had a fit. But it’s okay, she’s going to wake up,’ I add. ‘Isn’t she, Jake?’
Jake nods. ‘Of course she is. Mrs Tucker is the toughest woman I know.’
Mum and Jake get on really well. She sees him as the son she never had.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Mitch scratches his forehead. I guess his Slim Skills manual didn’t prepare him for this kind of situation.
‘And when she does, I’m going to help her lose weight. That’s why I’m here,’ I say.
‘That’s a kind thing to do, Feather,’ Mitch says. I can hear the but sitting on his lips. ‘A very kind thing indeed.’ He smiles. ‘Do you think she might need a bit more help… I mean, medical help?’
‘You get people to lose weight, right?’ Jake blurts out.
Jake feels just as strongly as I do about Mum getting better.
‘We help people help themselves, but Feather’s mum…’ Mitch says.
‘You’re discriminating against Mum because she’s too big?’ I ask.
‘No… not at all…’
‘She hates doctors and hospitals. When she wakes up, she’s going to freak out,’ I say.
He nods. ‘Well, maybe, once she’s back home and feeling stronger, you could come with her and then we can have a chat.’
‘She won’t be able to do that. Not at first, anyway.’
‘She won’t?’
‘Mum doesn’t leave the house.’
‘Oh—’
‘I thought I could learn stuff and tell her about it. And that maybe it would help her to know that other people are struggling too.’ I take a breath. ‘I’m coming here on her behalf. And Jake’s my best friend, so he’s going to help me.’
My plan was to pick out a few people who Mum might like and then invite them over to the cottage to show her that there are people who understand how she feels and can help her as she tries to get to a healthier weight.
Besides me and Dad and Jake and Jake’s mum, Mum hasn’t had a visitor in thirteen years. But if I’m going to keep to my resolution of helping her get well again, that’s going to have to change.
Mitch lets out a sigh and sits on one of the low tables next to the little chairs.
‘Even if Slim Skills can help your mother… she’s going to have to do this for herself.’
Mum can’t do anything for herself. She can’t get out of her chair or put on her clothes or clean her face or walk. Dad and I work on a rota to make sure she has everything she needs. Which was what led to her not being able to get any help the other night when she collapsed on the carpet. No, Mum needs someone to help her take the first steps.
‘The philosophy of the Slim Skills programme states that a person has to want to get better.’ Mitch smiles like he’s on a TV ad.
I brush my fringe out of my eyes. I’m beginning to feel that coming here was a mistake. Mitch doesn’t understand. But it’s okay – Jake and me have got a whole list of other things to try.
‘I think we’ll go,’ I say.
‘Feather…’ Jake starts. ‘We’re here now, let’s see how it goes…’
‘It’s not working!’ I snap.
Mitch stands up and says, ‘Feather—’
‘If you can’t help Mum, I’ll find someone else. Someone who understands.’
‘I do understand, Feather. I was just trying to make clear that it’s your mother’s journey—’
‘She’s not on a journey. She’s in hospital, in a coma – and it’s our job to help her.’
Mitch definitely doesn’t get it. He’s probably just doing this because he can’t get a proper job. What kind of guy runs a weight-loss group anyway?
I peel off my name sticker, hand it to him and head out of the door. Jake runs after me.<
br />
‘Hey, what happened in there?’ he asks.
I keep walking down the corridor.
‘We’ll try something else…’ I say.
‘I think you should give Mitch a chance.’
I ignore Jake. It’s one of the ways we’re different: when things aren’t going well, he thinks it’s worth waiting things out, whereas I just cut loose. Take Amy, for example: I think he should have dumped her ages ago.
As we walk past the assembly hall, I stop and stare at a poster by the swing doors:
THE WILLINGDON WALTZ, SUNDAY 1ST OF JUNE.
June 1 is Willingdon Day and the waltz competition is like the icing on the cake. Willingdon Day isn’t that big any more but everyone still looks forward to it. It’s my birthday too.
‘Hey, it’s Mrs Zas,’ Jake says. ‘Cool.’
Everyone calls her Mrs Zas because her real name is too long for anyone to remember. She’s only been in the village for a couple of months. She set up Bewitched, the fancy dress shop next to the church. Apparently, when I was too small to remember, there was this amazing dance teacher who more or less taught the whole village to dance, only she got ill and so had to stop working. There weren’t any dance classes for years and years and then Mrs Zas stepped in. People in the village are still adjusting. Willingdon is kind of old-fashioned and Mrs Zas goes around in these loud wooden clogs and brightly coloured headscarves – and she’s always in costume, which is a good form of publicity for her shop, but still a bit out there. Today, she’s got a black-and-red dress on with a million frilly bits and she has castanets tied to her wrists and she’s darting around the dance floor, straightening people’s backs and arms and giving them instructions in her gravelly Russian voice.
‘You must flow… floooow…’ Jake imitates her, sweeping his arms through the air like he’s painting on a gigantic canvas.
We watch Mrs Zas clip-clopping around in her clogs.
Wishbones Page 2
