‘So we could come round to yours after school today?’ says Sunshine, stepping in now she can see what I’ve started.
‘Today?’ Marnie wonders aloud. ‘Um, yeah … today would be OK. Or I could come to yours?’
‘No,’ Kitt says, in her sometimes too-blunt manner.
Marnie’s face falls a little.
‘She means we’ll come to your house,’ Pearl butts in with a beaming smile.
Marnie’s frown lifts slightly.
‘Your house is bigger,’ says Sunshine.
‘Better acoustics,’ I add.
Marnie blinks, smiles and nods. ‘OK, see you after school!’
As she walks off, her sharp shiny bob swinging, I feel three hands rest on my back, as if the owners of the hands were quietly reassuring me that I did the right thing, a good thing.
I appreciate the gesture. Even though I know that, to anyone passing, the angels aren’t touching me at all …
The story of the lost shine …
Apparently angels find school uniforms as annoying as human kids do. Who knew?
That’s why we’ve arranged to go home and change before we set off to Marnie’s.
(Officially, I’m tagging along, cos I’m the News Matters photographer and I’ll snap the girls’ rehearsal. Unofficially, the angels aren’t going anywhere without me.)
I kicked my shoes off down by Alastair’s basket just now (he didn’t wake up), and I’m pitter-pattering upstairs, wriggling out of my blazer already and thinking what I’ll wear if my jeans aren’t washed yet. Maybe my shorts and woolly tights …
But then outfits go out of my mind as I reach the top landing and hear giggles.
Dot and Coco, of course.
Luckily, however, the giggling isn’t coming from my room this time.
I pause by Dot’s door and listen. I love eavesdropping on Dot and Coco. They have the craziest conversations (‘Do you think there are naughty unicorns?’) and make up the weirdest games (‘You be the baby and I’ll be the mummy penguin!’).
What are they up to now?
Actually, the bedroom door is open just a crack, enough to spy – in the nicest way – on my little sort-of-stepsister.
Ha! Dot’s wearing a big beach towel round her shoulders, as if it’s a cape.
‘I want you to be a good girl today and learn ALL your spells, Hermione. OK?’
‘OK!’ Coco giggles.
Cute. They must be playing a Harry Potter game.
‘THESE are the spells we are going to do today,’ Dot announces in what I think is supposed to be a posh voice. She has a scruffy-looking bit of paper in her hand. ‘FIRST, we will do s-ee-k-in-g,’ she says, trying her best to spell out the letter sounds. ‘What’s that? Seek-ing? Then … uh … something w-o-r-d-s. That spells “words”!’
My blood runs icy-lake cold as Dot deciphers what’s on the note. Is she talking about quiet words?
‘Er, the next one is WAY too hard for me to read,’ she blithely carries on. ‘So we won’t do that one.’
Virtual stroking: what the angels did earlier, placing their hands on my back …
‘This one is w-ar-m-th … That’s warm-th! And the NEXT one …’
The next one is springing, and it’s followed by catching, spirit-lifting, telling and rewinding. But Dot’s not going to get to those.
I’ve stood statue-still in shock for the last couple of seconds, but now I leap into the room and grab the piece of paper out of Dot’s hand. I’m shaking. She has the list of all nine skills and what they are. But I got rid of it; I scrunched it up and threw it in the bin in my bedroom.
‘What are you doing with this? It’s mine!’ I snap at her.
‘You said it was just silly writing! You said it was rubbish!’
I did. When Dot skipped into my room a few weeks ago and nosied at my notepad, I’d come up with the first lie I could think of and told her it was an idea for a creative-writing project.
‘Dot, even if I said it was rubbish, it doesn’t mean you can help yourself to it!’
‘But it was in your BIN!’ Dot argues.
‘Even if something’s in my bin, that’s still stealing!’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, not again!’ Hazel’s voice bursts into the argument. ‘Now what?’
Urgh … In a repeat of Tuesday, Coco is crying and Hazel ends up with two small girls snuggling into her sides for protection.
‘Dot took something that belonged to me,’ I try to explain.
‘It was just a TEENY bit of paper from her bin!’ Dot insists, holding up her finger and thumb and making a tiny space. ‘It was all scrunched up. She’d thrown it away!’
Hazel says nothing – she just gives me a look that very clearly means I’m a big disappointment. That I’m a useless sort-of-stepsister.
There’s no point in arguing, so I turn and head towards my own room, muttering, ‘I’m going out in a minute.’
‘Sorry, you can’t,’ Hazel tells me, sounding harassed. ‘You’ll have to stay with these two. I’m already late for my shift at the hospital and your dad is stuck in traffic and running late.’
I’m about to blurt, ‘That’s not fair!’ but then I decide to be smarter than that …
‘Welcome to my life …’ groans Marnie.
Once again, we’ve walked into her flashy big kitchen and straight into ANOTHER argument. I’d avoided the one with Hazel by just saying OK to babysitting Dot and Coco, then telling the girls to get their coats on as soon as she left. Don’t know if Dad will be home yet but I’ve left a note for him.
‘Does this happen a lot?’ I murmur to Marnie.
‘Oh yes, ever since Nan moved in downstairs,’ she says with a sigh while the fight rages on.
‘For goodness’ sake, why have you moved everything around, Mum?’ Mrs Reynolds is sniping at Etta, as she opens glossy cupboard doors, then slams them shut.
‘Because I was trying to help!’ Etta is sniping back.
‘Do you two have to do this?’ asks Marnie, as she goes and grabs a carton of orange juice out of the fridge for us. ‘I have friends here, if you haven’t noticed!’
How funny – it’s as if Marnie has a mute button on. Her mum and nan pay her no attention and keep narking at each other.
‘Well, I don’t find it very helpful not knowing where everything is, actually!’
This is so uncomfortable. I wish I could slink off and join Dot and Coco, who we’ve parked in the giant playroom in front of the ginormous TV.
‘And there I was, thinking I was doing something nice for you, Penny!’ says Etta, folding her arms across her ample chest.
It’s hard to read what Sunshine, Kitt and Pearl make of all this. Their faces are expressionless, but their eyes are glued to Etta and Mrs Reynolds. It’s as if they’re watching a wildlife documentary or something. Even Bee is staring at them, with who knows what going through his doggy mind.
‘Nice would be just leaving things where they are, instead of confusing everyone,’ growls Mrs Reynolds, finally laying her hands on the packet of coffee she must have been looking for.
‘Well, excuse me for breathing!’ snaps Etta.
‘Stop it, stop it, stop it,’ Marnie is hissing as she clunks glasses on to a tray.
‘Oh, Mum! Don’t be so dramatic!’ says Mrs Reynolds, rattling noisily around in a drawer for something or other.
‘Dramatic? Well, that’s grateful! You’re always so busy, Penny, and I have nothing to do, so all I –’
‘Well, maybe you should find something to do in your own flat,’ Mrs Reynolds interrupts, ‘instead of coming up here and interfering with our things!’
‘Thanks a lot, Penny,’ says Etta, and she starts walking off. ‘I know when I’m not wanted!’
And then it begins … tiny tremors, a hardly heard hiss of vibration, a faint flicker of the lights. The angels are at work, stopping this situation in its tracks. They came here to be closer to Etta, and the last thing they want is for her to storm out.
Which skill are they using? I wonder.
OK, I can see it’s virtual stroking. Etta’s shoulders sink and relax, her steps slow. The pinched look leaves Mrs Reynolds’s face. Even the harsh overhead lights seem to soften from a cold mauve-ish to warm yellow.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ says Mrs Reynolds. ‘Work’s getting me down. Didn’t mean to snap.’
‘I know, Penny. You get back to your office, and I’ll make your coffee and bring it through when it’s ready.’
As Mrs Reynolds nods her thanks and goes off, Marnie seems speechless, hardly believing what she’s just seen and heard.
It’s Sunshine who talks next. ‘We came to rehearse for the Frost Fair. Would you like to hear us?’ she asks Etta.
‘Yes, I would! I’d like that very much,’ comes the reply, Etta clapping her hands together. ‘Shall we do it right now? The coffee can wait a few minutes, I’m sure …’
She gives us a cheeky wink, and waves us to follow her through to the living room.
‘Oh … I thought my flute case was in my schoolbag,’ mutters Marnie. ‘It must be in my room. Back in a minute!’
I spot a glint in Sunshine’s eyes. Has Marnie’s flute been magicked elsewhere for a reason? A reason like getting Etta on her own? I feel a flutter of excitement about what might come next, and then a pang of envy too. Every bit of the angels’ energy is focused on Etta. Now that she’s their new project, there’ll definitely be no time to help me find out more about Mum …
‘So are you singing or playing something, Riley, dear?’ Etta asks me as she plonks down on one of the two squashy sofas, with Bee settling himself at her feet. The angels kneel down next to him on the plush, vintage patterned rug.
‘Oh, I’m just here to take photos. For the school newsletter,’ I explain, sitting down next to Marnie’s nan.
‘What, with that?’ she laughs, pointing at my lap.
Oops – I’d forgotten I was clutching Alastair. Dot had insisted on bringing him today, then dumped him on me when she and Coco decided to play don’t-step-on-the-cracks on the way here. (They’d bounced along the pavement like a pair of crazy frogs.)
‘Oh yeah,’ I say with a smile, trying to rummage in my bag for my camera and not really knowing where to put Alastair.
‘Here, let me,’ says Etta, taking the log dog and settling it in her own lap. ‘Who’s a lovely boy, then? And you too, of course …’
Etta strokes Alastair’s ‘back’ with one hand, while reaching down to ruffle Bee’s ears.
Spotting their moment, the angels make their move.
Pearl leans against Kitt, while Kitt rests one crossed knee up against Sunshine’s, and Sunshine reaches out and places her hand on Bee’s head too, so that her fingers ‘accidentally’ brush Etta’s.
Instantly Etta’s eyes mist over, as if she’s been hypnotized. Which she has, obviously.
They’re about to spring her, to find out why this lovely, friendly lady has deep down lost her shine.
I hope Marnie’s search for her ‘missing’ flute case lasts long enough for her nan’s story to be told, I think while glancing quickly in the direction of the stairs. (My crossed fingers might not be as powerful as the angels’ magic, but it’s the best I can do.)
‘Oh, I miss my house …’ I hear Etta say, and a sweet, sad smile plays at her lips. ‘But how could I stay there? Only me and all those empty rooms …’
She’s sad about leaving her old home. So that’s the story of her lost shine. Of course.
‘All those years there … how many times did we decorate? George always grumbling, up a ladder with a paintbrush. Ha! And his relatives coming from Cyprus. All the cooking he’d do! The smell of the food …’
Etta’s eyes close and she takes a deep breath, as if she can smell the herbs and spices.
‘And Penny … such a sweet baby. But so independent! Never liked cuddles … The only times we’ve really hugged was when her divorce happened, and when her dad died. Oh, George …’
Sunshine slides her hand across Etta’s to help to soften the sadness. Leaving her house and losing her husband – together they’re the reasons why Etta is so blue.
‘But it was almost a blessing, wasn’t it, George? You were so poorly you wanted to go … Harry wouldn’t leave your side. Harry … such a darling. Such a comfort. Looking into his brown eyes was like looking into yours, George … And then, and then …’
Etta’s eyes fill with tears and I panic. Is this the right thing to do? To make her upset? Automatically I reach out and touch her arm – and then I sense a little of what’s happening to her.
It’s like being in a deep, warm bath, so deep it’s as if she’s floating. It’s calm and safe and she can say anything she wants to.
‘You know what hurts? I can’t tell anyone that Harry dying was almost worse …’
Bee shuffles upright and plants his head in her lap, practically nose to nose with Alastair. His pale-as-water eyes gaze up soulfully at Etta. Don’t they always say that dogs can sense emotions?
‘People don’t understand that it was because Harry was my link to you, George … When Harry went, it felt as if you were finally … finally gone …’
As her words trail off, I hear someone say something.
‘Spirit-lift,’ Sunshine whispers silently to her sisters, and to me, and it begins.
Etta looks up, smiling as she moves around the memory they’re replaying for her.
It’s Etta laughing delightedly, as her George places a wriggling bundle of puppy in her lap. In her mind, she reaches out to cuddle it. And here on the sofa she does the same, only her hands are stroking Alastair.
Alastair …
Uh-oh! I let go of Etta’s arm, so I know what I’m seeing is real, and not a spirit-lift memory.
Bee is whining, delightedly licking Alastair’s face. And Alastair has just licked him back!
‘Sunshine!’ I say urgently to the most experienced of the angels.
All three girls’ eyes are shining silver, but start to fade at the sound of my voice.
And then they see what I see. A long brown puppy – tail wagging, tongue dangling – is wriggling to life on Etta’s lap. Alastair’s hard surface is turning soft and shiny with fur.
This is all wrong! It’s errant magic, which shouldn’t be happening …
at all, and
because I just heard Marnie’s bedroom door slam. She’s on her way down!
Sunshine looks shocked.
‘It wasn’t me!’ Pearl says quickly.
‘Or me,’ Kitt adds.
‘Hands … everyone, now!’ Sunshine orders, ignoring the question of who did the errant magic and concentrating on finding a way to get us out of this mess. ‘Riley – you too.’
I don’t think; I just do as she says.
Together, forty fingers press down on Alastair, and between the space of one blink and another he’s transformed back into a stiff, lifeless hunk of driftwood.
‘Got it!’ Marnie calls out, as she trots into the living room holding her flute case aloft. ‘It was in my bag after all! Don’t know how I missed it.’
She’s also missed the four of us leaping away from Etta and back into our former positions. I glance at my friends, and flash them a smile of relief. We did it!
‘Yes, we did,’ I hear Sunshine reply in quiet words. She’s allowing herself a small smile too, same as Kitt. Pearl gives a nervous little giggle, and slaps her hand across her mouth, in case Marnie thinks she’s laughing at her.
But Marnie hasn’t noticed. She’s pointing at Bee.
‘What’s up with him?’ asks Marnie, spotting that Bee is shaking, his tail between his legs – spooked at the appearance and then disappearance of another dog, I suppose.
‘He gets like that when he needs a run around,’ I lie quickly. ‘Is it OK if we let him out into the garden?’
‘Yes, of course!’ says Etta, blinking and smiling herself back into the conversation. ‘Dear me … what were we talking abou
t, girls? It’s gone completely out of my mind, silly old woman that I am!’
Sweet, kind lady that you are, I think, as I take Bee by the collar and lead him towards the back door.
I totally get why Etta needs the angels’ help now. Everyone can cope with bad stuff, but the problem is when it all collides together. That’s when a person’s shine starts to fade drastically.
For me, my best friend Tia emigrating made me so, so lonely it brought out all the longing for Mum that I’d had locked away inside.
For Woody, everything came crashing down when he struggled with his dyslexia, plus the teasing that went with it, and he nearly got into terrible trouble at school.
For Etta, it’s about losing her home and her husband and her beloved dog all in one harsh, hard-to-take blow.
But with the angels to gently guide her to happiness she’ll be shining again soon. I know it, even if she doesn’t.
‘Oh, Riley – I just remembered!’ Etta suddenly calls out after me. ‘I think I might have something for you, something from your mum’s shop.’
I stop dead. The florist’s is now a children’s shop, selling buggies and cots and stuff. I’ve been inside once, with Pearl. She did a telling on me, and I stood there smelling the mixed scents of the flowers, watching Mum serving someone. Mum, who was pregnant with me, serving a customer called Etta …
‘I’ll have to dig it out for you – if you want it, that is? It’s only a scrap of paper, but it might be a nice little memento?’
I turn and smile at Etta. ‘Yes, please,’ I say, feeling my own shine glow a little brighter …
Older, wiser, waggier
‘Come on in, Riley!’ says Mrs Angelo, waving me inside. ‘Everything … all right?’
Oops. She’s caught me standing staring at her.
It’s just that sometimes I look at nice, ordinary Mrs Angelo and her husband and wonder what on earth they’d think if they knew their foster kids were really from … wherever they’re from.
It’s as if they’ve got three superheroes living in their loft, while they’re downstairs watching telly or ordering their online groceries.
Weird.
Angels Like Me Page 6
