‘My parents didn’t mean to, but they failed me,’ she says with a sigh. ‘When it was my turn, and again without meaning to, I failed your mother. I was too busy following my own path to consider that Vivi might have needed something different. It’s the greatest regret of my life. Perhaps it’s too late to mend the rift, but I can try to make sure you’re loved and safe and happy. I can look after you, Phoenix, if you want to stay.’
It looks like I’m out of options. Hanging out with my eccentric gran is all that’s on offer, and to be fair it’s got to be better than another term at Bellvale. Better late than never, I vow to turn over a new leaf, make Grandma Lou proud of me. No more breaking the rules, no more getting into trouble at school, no more dates with unsuitable boys. I can do it, surely?
‘I’ll give it a go if you will,’ I whisper.
‘Well then, that’s sorted.’ She puts an arm round my shoulder. ‘Coming in?’
‘In a minute,’ I say, and Grandma Lou just smiles and heads into the house. I scramble up into the tree and sit astride the horizontal branch where long ago the two of us shared banana cake.
‘Pie?’ I call, and my black-and-white friend swoops down and on to my shoulder, chattering away.
I lean my head against the trunk and try to process the events of the last twenty-four hours, but it’s all too much, so I let my mind go blank and start to sing softly, a song I made up a few months ago especially for Pie, round about the time Mum made me release him back into the wild. It’s all about spreading your wings and flying high, being a free spirit.
I can’t sing, I know that, but all the same I put my heart and soul into it. It’s a song of sadness and a song of love, and Pie rests his head against my cheek and chitters along with me as I sing.
4
Bonfire
My grandmother decides to throw a Bonfire Night party. She invites everyone from Greystones as well as the ghostly teen band who practise in the old railway carriage in the grounds and assorted local friends she thinks I should meet.
Instead of making me go to school the next day, which happens to be the first day back after half-term, Grandma Lou announces I need a few days to recover from the fire and settle in at Greystones. It also gives her time to sort things out with my new school, and it’s agreed that I’ll start on the Friday … if it doesn’t go well, at least I’ll have the weekend to recover.
Grandma Lou marches me into the town’s solitary fashion store to kit me out with the essentials – underwear, shoes, socks, a duffel coat, a couple of changes of hideously dull school uniform for Millford Park Academy, and some jeans, skirts, tops and jumpers for outside school. Everything is cheap as chips – my classmates from Bellvale College would curl their lips and sneer, but I don’t care. I have clothes. I have a place to live. I have hope.
A quick dash around Superdrug completes the shopping trip, with the promise that I can borrow Grandma Lou’s ancient laptop for school stuff if I need to.
As we walk up the drive towards the house, I see a man with dreadlocks and a stringy-looking rainbow-striped jumper building a bonfire just beyond the trees.
‘This OK?’ he calls out to Grandma Lou. ‘I’ve cleared all the rubbish from the garage. Popping into town to collect the fireworks later … I’ll get the low-noise kind.’
‘Good work, Sheddie!’ she replies. ‘This is my granddaughter, Phoenix – you’ve met her before, I’m not sure if you remember? She’s staying with me now. Phoenix, this is Sheddie. He lives in one of the apartments here. His stepson Jake is about your age.’
I can’t remember Sheddie, or anyone called Jake, but then my memories of long-ago Greystones visits are sketchy at best.
‘Good to see you again, Phoenix,’ the man says. ‘Let’s hope it stays dry tomorrow night!’
I give him a half-hearted wave.
I spend the next day helping Grandma Lou to make toffee apples, blackberry crumble and pumpkin soup. This is something I’ve never done with Mum – she is strictly a sandwiches and ready-meal kind of mother, with a built-in disdain for seasonal celebrations. ‘It’s much more efficient,’ she likes to say.
When the rift with Grandma Lou put a stop to Christmases at Greystones, Mum took to booking a table at a posh hotel in the village near Bellvale, because even she admits you can’t have sandwiches or a ready meal on Christmas Day.
Grandma Lou is different – she rolls her sleeves up and turns on her vintage record player and laughs when I get flour on my nose.
‘I’m as bad,’ she says, wiping a splodge of jam from her sleeve. ‘I always end up covered in flour or paint or whatever! That’s something else we have in common!’
‘I’m not just messy – I’m clumsy too,’ I admit. ‘Mum gets so cross!’
‘I’m the same!’ Grandma Lou says. ‘Even in my modelling days, I was hopeless … I once fell out of a rowing boat into the River Cam doing a photo shoot for Vogue!’
‘At least you didn’t burn the school down,’ I remind her, and we both grin, and that takes the sting out of the memory a little.
The whole afternoon feels like something from those feel-good family movies you sometimes get on TV, where the world becomes a better place through the power of love, kindness and home-made puddings. We’re singing ancient Beatles songs as we work, and even the Ked Wilder hit, ‘Phoenix’, which I’ve always loved because of the title and because it’s about a girl who has the wind in her hair and stars in her eyes. I surprise myself by remembering all the words.
‘You have a lovely voice, Phoenix,’ Grandma Lou says approvingly as I crash to a halt. ‘So clear and strong! Have you ever thought of a musical career?’
‘Nah, my voice is rubbish,’ I say, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Besides, Mum says only drama queens go into the music business. She wants me to train to be a neurosurgeon or something. I mean … deluded, much?’
‘I’m not sure I see you as a neurosurgeon,’ she admits. ‘But I reckon you can do pretty much anything you set your mind to, Phoenix!’
‘Not music, though. I got thrown out of the school choir in my first term at Bellvale … They said it was for talking, but I’m pretty sure it was because I can’t sing!’
Grandma Lou sighs. ‘Nonsense! You have an amazing voice – I’ve always said so.’
‘Well, you’re my only fan,’ I say. ‘Mum’s never said anything, but the way she used to look at me when I was singing … that was enough. Like she pitied me, almost. That’s when she even bothered to turn up to school plays …’
‘Oh, Phoenix!’ she says. ‘If Vivi dented your confidence back then, it’s because of her own anger towards me and nothing at all to do with your singing abilities. Don’t let her bitterness chip away at your self-esteem!’
I laugh. I have been raised on a diet of harsh words and bitterness. My self-esteem fell to bits years ago, replaced by a brittle veneer of tough-girl carelessness. When life throws something painful at me, I shrug my shoulders, curl my lip and look for a distraction from the hurt. The distraction might be something funny or something unexpected or shocking. Lately it’s often anger, a tidal wave of it that knocks me off my feet.
‘Teenage hormones,’ Mum would say. She has a way of dismissing everything, putting it in a box and filing it away somewhere so she doesn’t have to deal with it.
Still, I’ve learned that I can survive almost anything. Dad marries Weird Wanda and replaces me with two sticky-faced toddlers? No worries. Mum tells me that music is for losers and that my only talent is for rule-breaking? Too bad. Burned down the school? At least I’ve escaped the nightmare that was Bellvale, for now at least.
Not much can get under my skin these days, but my sweet, eccentric grandmother manages it with ease. She pulls me close, planting a toffee-flavoured kiss on my forehead before turning up the music and launching into an ear-splitting version of ‘She Loves You’. The two of us sing our hearts out, dancing round the kitchen until I can’t tell if the tears on my cheeks are happy ones or sad.
Grandma Lou’s bonfire party is epic. Someone has threaded solar fairy lights through the trees, a very cool sixties-themed playlist plays out from a series of outdoor speakers, and a large folding table draped in a red-checked cloth groans under the weight of baked potatoes, pumpkin soup, toffee apples, blackberry crumble and vats of hot fruit punch.
People arrive, people of all sorts … hippies and hipsters, a family dressed almost entirely in matching tie-dye items, little old ladies in cashmere shawls and felt hats, old blokes in Peaky Blinders caps and tweed jackets, a whole bunch of mismatched teenagers and gangs of unruly kids playing hide-and-seek under the trees.
Assorted people who live at Greystones come up to say hello. I vaguely remember Christmas evenings playing snakes and ladders with a couple called Laurel and Jack, and Willow the yurt lady is still there, but the others are pretty hazy … They all seem friendly, though.
Sheddie, the bonfire-builder guy, manages the blaze and keeps the kids at a distance as the flames shoot higher. When the bonfire burns down to a warm glow, the fireworks begin … Catherine Wheels and Shooting Stars and Traffic Lights, Fountains and Rockets, a kaleidoscope of colour in the ink-dark sky, the smell of woodsmoke and gunpowder and sparklers sharp in my nostrils.
At one point, I spot Pie perched on the gable roof above the front door, watching the whole thing from a safe distance. He doesn’t seem scared, just mildly astonished at the whole spectacle.
I am introduced to so many people I lose count of them all. There’s the pink-haired librarian, the yoga teacher, the postman, the woman who works in the local supermarket and has brought along a tray of almost-out-of-date cupcakes. There’s the Nigerian pastor with his wife and daughters, a Syrian refugee family, a woman in a wheelchair handing out sparklers and a very cute boy playing trumpet under the trees … I’m introduced to so many new people I feel like my head is spinning.
The teenagers are in that band Grandma Lou told me about, the Lost & Found. They practise in the old railway carriage behind the orchard – the one I used to pretend was a den whenever I visited as a kid. They look interesting, edgy, very different from the girls at Bellvale. They look like the kind of people I might like.
Of course, they might not like me.
‘Is it true that you burned down your last school?’ a fierce girl with green dip-dyed hair and purple earmuffs asks me as I hand out mugs of pumpkin soup.
‘My, my – news travels fast out in the sticks,’ I quip.
‘Says the girl who just arrived from the wild Scottish countryside,’ she counters, pulling down the earmuffs to hear me better. ‘It’s something I overheard … I won’t tell anyone. Is it true?’
‘Not exactly,’ I admit. ‘It was only one dorm.’
‘Interesting,’ she says. ‘I’m Bex … bass player with the Lost & Found. And you’re Phoenix … which is appropriate, really. Rising from the ashes and all that.’
‘Arson has always been my life’s ambition,’ I say with a shrug. ‘What can I say? I’m a twisted fire-starter.’
Bex narrows her eyes. ‘If you say so. Louisa Winter always does things in style, but a bonfire party to welcome you to Millford is a stroke of pure genius.’
‘Hopefully they won’t burn me at the stake come midnight …’
‘Hopefully not. They’re sending you to Millford Academy, right?’
‘Yes – tomorrow.’
‘Place is a dump,’ Bex says. ‘Roof leaks, never enough books, head teacher from the time of the dinosaurs … but most of the teachers are OK when you get used to them. You’ll be fine. If you have any trouble, give me a shout.’
She stalks away with her mug of soup and I’m left blinking.
‘Phoenix! Phoenix, come over here!’ Grandma Lou is waving from the darkness, and I abandon the pumpkin soup and head in her direction.
Her eyes are bright beneath a green tam-o’-shanter hat and she has an ancient embroidered shawl wrapped round her shoulders. It’s cold now, and without the fireworks the sky is velvet dark, sprinkled with tiny stars.
‘I want you to meet Marley Hayes,’ she says, and I turn to smile at a cute teenage boy shivering in a vintage jacket and punk band T-shirt. I know the type … he’d rather freeze to death than put on a jumper and a beanie hat.
‘Hey, Phoenix,’ he says, grinning.
I smile politely, unimpressed.
‘Marley here is one of the founders of the Lost & Found,’ Grandma Lou explains. ‘You’ve met some of the band already – but Marley’s been telling me that the band have lost their lead singer. Such a shame, and right when they’re on the brink of breaking through!’
‘Sasha’s had to step down,’ Marley says, nodding across at a pretty blonde girl writing her name in the air with a sparkler while the sandy-haired boy at her side looks on. ‘Personal reasons. So we’ll be auditioning … We need someone good and we need someone fast. Plus, y’know, someone who looks the part. Has stage presence. We were about to release our first single, and we’d been in talks with a national TV show …’
In your dreams, I think, listening to Marley’s spiel. This boy is living in a fantasy world … but one that my grandmother seems to buy into, somehow.
‘I was telling Marley about you!’ Grandma Lou rushes on. ‘Amazing voice, natural performer, bags of confidence … why not audition, Phoenix? I’m a great believer in fate!’
I don’t know where it comes from, but shock and shame and anger flood through me like a tidal wave.
I cannot sing. I got thrown out of the school choir. My mother has never had a single word of praise for my singing, Weird Wanda says I am an attention-seeking menace, and I can’t help wondering if even Grandma Lou may have been laughing at me behind my back as we sang sixties tunes yesterday. Audition for a band? Not in a million years, even if it is just a poxy teen band from some middle-of-nowhere small town. No way.
‘Come along to the old railway carriage on Saturday at midday and we’ll see what you’ve got to offer,’ Marley Hayes is saying, like he’s doing me a favour. ‘Don’t be daunted by our success … we’d be glad to give you a listen.’
I try my very hardest to hang on to my temper, really I do, but it’s a losing battle.
‘You’ll give me a listen?’ I echo. ‘That’s good of you. As for your so-called success … I’ve never heard of you before, and I don’t suppose I ever will again. Thing is, Marley, I’m not interested in singing, I’m not interested in music, and I’m not interested in your cruddy little band. Not. Interested. Got it?’
Marley’s eyes narrow. ‘No worries, I’ve got it,’ he flings back. ‘We were looking for a lead singer, anyhow, not a drama queen! Sorry, Louisa … it was kind of you to introduce us, but we really don’t need abuse from arrogant, ill-informed strangers!’
Arrogant? Ill-informed? Drama queen? Rage boils up inside me.
I turn on my heel, shove through the crowd and march up the driveway with fists clenched. I’m angry with Grandma Lou too – I thought she was different, that she understood me. But she doesn’t, and now that she knows I have a foul temper on top of my fire-starter tendencies she’ll probably pack me off back to Mum without a second thought. It may have taken me a few days, but I’ve messed up again. I am a walking, talking disaster zone.
I stomp up the steps and into the house, slamming the front door hard.
5
New Girl
I’m still sulking majorly about the whole audition stitch-up the next day. I shower and dress in my new budget black uniform and stomp downstairs to face my fate, but Grandma Lou is oblivious to my mood, humming merrily as she makes porridge.
‘Honey or apricot jam on your oatmeal?’ she asks brightly, and instead of yelling that she can keep her stupid breakfast I bite my lip and ask for jam. It’s what I always used to have when I was little and visiting.
‘Sweeten you up a bit,’ she says, and I glance at her sharply but she’s smiling, setting jam and Greek yoghurt on the table. ‘Big day ahead.’
I take a deep breath in. ‘Last night,’ I say. ‘When you were teasing me about auditioning for that stupid band …’
‘Teasing you?’ she echoes. ‘I wasn’t teasing. I think you should give it a go! Although Marley has a temper to match yours, so you might have some bridges to build.’
‘Like that’s ever gonna happen,’ I say. ‘He’s an idiot, and I can’t sing!’
Grandma Lou just laughs. ‘He certainly didn’t hold back, but I don’t blame him when you were the first to attack,’ she says. ‘As for the singing – well, Vivi really has done a job on you, hasn’t she? Of course you can sing. You have a huge natural talent for it. Vivi doesn’t like it much because she doesn’t have that talent herself, and also because it reminds her of her father. It’s very unfair of her to take all that out on you.’
‘Her father?’ I say, but Grandma Lou is scribbling something in her sketchbook and seems not to hear. ‘What about her father?’ I push, because according to Mum the identity of my grandad has always been a well-kept secret. I’d like to know more – who wouldn’t? – but it’s no use. My grandmother has zoned out.
‘I have an idea for a new painting,’ she tells me with a wink. ‘I want to get it planned out now while it’s fresh in my mind. There’s cash on the counter for your lunch – have a good day, and if that temper of yours creeps up on you, count to ten and remember that it’s this or boarding school again. I really don’t think either of us want that, do we?’
‘No,’ I admit. ‘We don’t.’
I finish my porridge, pocket the lunch money and set off for Millford Park Academy. Grandma Lou took me in two days ago to meet the head, a nervous man called Mr Simpson with the permanently disappointed look of someone who thinks he’s wasted on a small-town secondary. Seriously, he should go and work with Mum. He’d look even more washed up and miserable in a tweed suit.
It’s easy enough to follow the crowds of kids mooching along with backpacks and blazers. After three years at boarding school, I have no clue if I’ll be able to fit in here, but I’ll give it my best shot.
Forever Phoenix Page 3
