Lucky Girl

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘But you have loads of lovely clothes. Come on, let’s look through your wardrobe.’

  ‘I’m too fat.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous—’

  ‘No, it’s not. That’s why I’ve got nothing to wear. I’ve tried everything on—everything.’

  Her mouth trembles. I touch her bare, goose-pimply arm. She lifts her pillow under which she’s stashed a Marmite sandwich. She takes a tentative bite, then flings it onto the floor.

  ‘Have you talked to your mum about this?’

  She glares down at the carpet where the room-dividing masking tape has started to come unstuck. ‘She doesn’t care,’ Jojo says quietly.

  ‘Of course she does.’

  ‘She says she’s can’t afford to buy me new clothes.’

  ‘We could go shopping,’ I suggest, ‘and choose something. I’ll treat you. It’s your birthday in May, isn’t it? We could make it an early present.’

  She lifts the key that’s strung around her neck and presses its thin end into her palm, making an indent. ‘Don’t know what to go as,’ she says.

  ‘It’s not fancy dress,’ I say, laughing.

  SpongeBob’s theme tune drifts upstairs. ‘I should wear something loose,’ Jojo announces, ‘so I can breathe properly, with my diagram.’

  ‘Diaphragm.’

  ‘Yeah, and I could pin up my hair with my sparkly clips.’ She grabs her hair in handfuls and lifts it, mock-pouting.

  ‘You’ll look fantastic.’

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘I know so.’

  She grins at me, her cheeks flushed now, as her Marmite-y kiss lands smack on my lips. ‘What was that for?’ I ask.

  ‘Everything,’ she says.

  23

  Stage Fright

  Dear Stella

  Lovely to see you at the weekend. I’m glad to report that Surf has made a full recovery and is his usual exuberant self.

  Stella, I’m really writing to tell you about something very exciting that has happened to your father (you know how modest he is—he’d never tell you himself). A TV researcher saw the article about our garden and came to talk to your dad about it. The girl was too young to have seen Frankie’s Favorites but was very interested when he showed her all his cuttings and books. In fact, she was here for several hours.

  This girl has put together a proposal for a gardening program with your father as presenter. The production company she works for is keen to get started as soon as possible. They’re beginning filming—here at Penjoy—in two weeks’ time, and the series will be broadcast from the middle of May. I’ll check the exact date for you as I’m sure you won’t want to miss it. They’re calling it Frankie’s Flowers, which I hope you’ll agree has a certain ring to it. Of course your father is working all hours now, making sure the garden is looking its absolute best. I have even found him weeding by torchlight.

  Isn’t it funny how things turn out!

  With love,

  Maggie

  I reread the letter, fold it into a tiny square and slip it, among the onionskin squares, in the red-and-gold box. And I relay the news, via answer phone, to my brother’s love nest.

  Jojo chooses a lilac halter-neck dress, and after shopping we stop for drinks and fat slices of chocolate cake at the Beachcomber. At the counter a man with disheveled hair is buying a take-away coffee. Jojo has pulled the dress out of the carrier bag and draped it across her lap to admire it. The man turns, and it’s Alex. A piece of cake sticks in my throat. ‘Hi,’ he says, approaching our table.

  ‘Hello, Alex.’ I can feel Jojo’s eyes, burning into me. He glances down at her. She’s rammed the last lump of chocolate cake into her eager mouth. ‘Who’s your friend?’ he asks.

  ‘This is Jojo. She’s playing flute in the school concert. We’ve been choosing something for her to wear.’

  ‘Very pretty,’ he says, then lowers his voice and adds, ‘I was a bit upset that you didn’t say goodbye.’

  Jojo keeps glancing, wide-eyed, from Alex to me. ‘I had to go to work,’ I tell him.

  ‘Well, I was really hurt.’ He picks up his paper cup of coffee from our table, turns and strolls out of the Beachcombers.

  ‘Who was that?’ Jojo asks, as if a film star she vaguely recognized just walked by.

  ‘That was Alex, my ex-boyfriend.’

  ‘The one with those funny magazines about fish?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘What did you do to him?’ she asks. I don’t get it. ‘He said you hurt him,’ she adds, frowning.

  ‘It was just his feelings I hurt,’ I say, as if that doesn’t count. Jojo mulls this over, smearing wet cake from her mouth onto her wrist. ‘Still love him?’ she asks suddenly.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m over him now,’ and it’s not a lie.

  Jojo wants to skip her lesson the evening before the concert. She knows I’ll ask her to run through ‘Syrinx’ again and doesn’t want to play it until her performance. She’s had her hair cut—the fringe falls heavily over her forehead, like an awning—and badgered Diane to buy her lilac sandals with silver heels to match the dress. ‘You look fantastic,’ I tell her as she models her outfit in my living room.

  ‘Not fat?’

  ‘Jojo, you’re not fat.’

  She musters a smile, almost believing me.

  Friday. Concert day. I set off at five-thirty—the concert starts at seven—having shaved my legs and chosen a floaty black calf-length dress, which Alex said made me look ‘a bit witchy,’ but feels lovely on. I don’t usually make such an effort for school events. And it’s silly to dress up, when the hour before the concert involves helping to place 250 plastic chairs in neat rows in the hall.

  I drive to school, passing Robert’s block. A familiar car is parked outside. It’s Verity’s car, crowded with car seats. The back window bears a sticker that reads Twins On Board. I wonder if she and Robert are having a heated discussion about custody and money while he rakes back his hair with his hand, hating every minute.

  Or, if she’s come back to him.

  Before a concert performance some kids hide in corners and play with their hair. Others draw unflattering pictures of each other on the whiteboard, or fool about with the baskets of percussion instruments. Willow is stomping around and jabbering as if fit with super-charged batteries. The Mad Dogs, the band consisting of three year-six boys, are huddled over trading cards as if it’s an ordinary evening. Dylan Storey is embellishing his escapologist’s box with a silver pen.

  Jojo gazes up at the board games that are meant for the after-school club, but are all missing vital components and never played with. ‘Feeling okay?’ I ask her.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Are you sure? You look upset.’ She reaches up to adjust the halter-neck part of her dress. ‘You’ll be fine,’ I add. ‘The waiting’s always the worst part. The second you start to play, you’ll forget about all those people watching.’

  ‘Mum hasn’t come,’ she murmurs.

  Jen has appeared at the door to wish everyone luck. Stephen, the deputy head, is shushing the children, slowly wafting his hands with fingers outstretched, as if that might dampen the insistent chatter. ‘Still fifteen minutes to go,’ I whisper to Jojo. ‘The hall’s only half-full. Didn’t she bring you and Midge?’

  She shakes her head. ‘We got chips and went home and I ironed my dress. Then we came back by ourselves.’

  ‘What, in the dark?’

  She shrugs. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m sure your mum will be here in a minute. I’ll check the hall if you like.’

  Jojo smiles weakly and says, ‘Thanks.’

  I was fibbing when I told her it was only half-full. All the seats are occupied—rows of plastic chairs are jammed together—and a bunch of parents leans against the radiators at the back of the hall. Some have their video cameras ready. There were no videos when I performed as a child; just hundreds of expectant faces—all those eyes—which I’d scan as I walked onto the sta
ge, looking for Dad. I never expected him to be there, not really. But I knew, having discovered the heart-shaped locket, that he was capable of hatching surprises. I couldn’t help wondering whether he might surprise me.

  I’d see Jen’s parents—smart-looking people in expensive-looking knitwear—eagerly awaiting her viola performance. Younger children would be wriggling in their seats, already yawning and demanding to go home, or at least be allowed to play outside in the playground. Sometimes I’d spot Mrs Bones in her lilac twinset and dice necklace. Charlie would rush in when all the seats were taken. He had this look, this way of saying, ‘It’ll be okay,’ with a split-second glance. Maybe I imagined it, and it was just his ordinary face. But it worked every time because it always was okay. I’d take a breath, and the first note would come, and all those faces would fade to nothing.

  Midge sees me checking the hall and waves her light saber excitedly, accidentally clonking Toby, who’s sitting stiffly beside her, on the shoulder. I hurry out, past the year-six girls who are selling programs bearing Midge’s soaring notes design from a table in the corridor.

  Someone is smoking a cigarette in the playground. For a moment I think it’s Diane, but the woman turns and nods in recognition. Toby’s mother. His dad marches across the tarmac toward her. ‘Shame Toby’s not playing,’ I say, still glancing around for Diane.

  ‘We’re very disappointed,’ his father agrees. ‘We’ve tried everything with that boy—every damn thing. We’re at the end of our rope with him.’

  His wife gives him a sharp look, throws down her cigarette and strides into school, leaving a glowing tip on the ground. Still no Diane. If she doesn’t show up, Jojo will refuse to play.

  There’s enough time—just. I pelt to my car and speed home, jumping a light. I grab my special flute from the living-room shelf and tear back to school. By the time I’m back in the hall, the lights have been dimmed. Under the spotlight, the stage looks enormous; quite terrifying, in fact, with all those cameras and eyes. It’s the first time I’ve ever looked at a stage and felt nervous.

  In the after-school room, Jojo is sitting cross-legged in a corner, dipping her hand into a packet of sweets that look like veiny eyeballs. ‘I can’t see your mum,’ I tell her. ‘It doesn’t matter, Jojo. She’s probably just running late.’

  ‘It does matter.’ She crunches a sweet. Hot patches, like small pink clouds, have sprung up on her cheeks.

  ‘Think how hard you’ve worked, all these months—’

  ‘I’m not playing.’ A fragment of eyeball is stuck to the front of her dress.

  I sit on the floor beside her with the flute case on my lap, and open it. ‘Want to try it?’ I ask.

  Jen’s voice filters into the classroom as she thanks parents for coming and supporting Paul Street PTA. She sounds so grown-up, infinitely capable. There’s a swell of applause, and the Mad Dogs tear into their first song.

  ‘It’s your special flute,’ Jojo says.

  ‘Yes, it is. Have a try.’

  She frowns, takes the open case from me and runs her fingers tentatively across the silvery keys. ‘It makes me nervous,’ she says.

  ‘Just play it, Jojo.’

  She pulls herself up, brings the flute to her lips, and plays an A. ‘Stop that, Jojo,’ Stephen hisses. ‘They’ll hear you in the hall.’

  ‘Want to play it tonight?’ I whisper. It’s a stupid idea. You don’t perform with a different instrument. You get to know it, slowly befriending it, until it’s as familiar as your own skin.

  ‘What about Mum?’ Jojo asks.

  ‘There are lots of other people who are dying to see you play.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘Like me.’

  She grins, showing shiny pink gums. I take the ordinary flute from her and stuff the bag of eyeballs into my pocket. The Mad Dogs have finished, and Georgia Buckley is about to perform her guitar solo. Jojo is on next.

  She stares down at the special flute, which she’s gripping fiercely with both hands. ‘I’m scared,’ she says.

  I laugh and say, ‘It’s only a flute.’

  Georgia strides off stage with the honey-colored guitar still strung across her small, skinny body. From the fire-escape door I watch as Jen announces the next performer.’…been playing flute for less than a year… I’m sure you’ll all agree that she’s exceptionally talented. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, a big hand please…for Jojo Price.’

  She treads gently onto the stage. One of her socks has fallen down and left a pink indent around her calf. Her silver heels glint under the spotlight. The applause dies away, and her eyes flit anxiously across the audience. I’m sure I can hear her thudding heart.

  She lifts the flute, takes a breath. The first note—the B-flat—cuts like ice through the hall. Jen is standing very still at the opposite side of the room. She catches my eye across rows of parents and raises an eyebrow.

  Jojo is swaying slightly, relaxing into the piece. She could be playing just for me, in my living room. I glance around the hall, looking for Charlie, but of course he’s not here. We’re grown-up now, and it’s Jojo onstage, not me.

  As she holds the final note I think, She could be me. The note fades, and there’s a surge of applause that seems to go on and on. The smile breaks like a great, gushing wave across her face.

  And someone shouts, ‘Piggy! Hey, Piggy!’

  She seems to shrink in the oval of light. Her hands, which are still gripping the flute, fall to her lap.

  And she runs.

  In the corridor I crash into the table, sending unsold programs bearing Midge’s bird design fluttering to the floor. I scream her name. She’s outside now, clattering across the playground in silvery heels, through the gate, pelting onward with her hair come loose from its sparkly clips and flying behind her. ‘Jojo!’ I shout.

  She doesn’t stop. There’s a flash of silver—the flute reflects streetlights as she reaches the pavement—then no lights at all. Just black. My hands are all over my face, and I can’t look.

  24

  Accidents Will Happen

  I was a qualified teacher and a proper grown-up when Charlie told me what had really happened to Mum. I hadn’t intended to come back to Devon after college, but Jen had heard of a peripatetic teaching job, and Dad had moved to Cornwall by then, so it was safe.

  Charlie had also moved back. The lodge was ridiculously cheap to rent, and he could take the train to the university where he’d been offered a lectureship. We’d both been sucked home, but pretended we’d made our own choices, that we really could have lived wherever we liked.

  We were walking alongside the old harbor before the marina was built. There were only fishing trawlers then, none of the fun boats—no cruisers or yachts. Charlie had brought his camera and a sheaf of mind-boggling notes that he’d intended to read on the back beach. But it was too chilly for sitting and reading. The air was damp and listless gray clouds spilled across a vacant sky. We walked, stopping occasionally to pick up beads of sea glass, which we stuffed into our pockets. ‘I’ll buy you dinner tonight,’ Charlie said suddenly.

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘What’s the occasion?’

  ‘I need a porcelain crab to a help a student with his thesis. If you find one, it’s my treat.’ He described its nutty-brown shell, adding, ‘It’s tiny—fits under a penny.’ We spent the rest of the afternoon peering among bits of frayed rope and lobster pot. He was teasing me, game playing. ‘Come on,’ he called finally, ‘let’s give up.’ I stalked over to him and uncoiled my hand.

  Charlie smirked, ready to tell me it wasn’t a porcelain crab but an ordinary sand crab, of which there were millions—but it really was the right kind. He fixed the close-up lens to his Nikon, and later, in Antonio’s restaurant, he flipped through his notes and showed me a drawing captioned Porcelain Crab, Pisidia Longicornis. Beside it, in soft gray pencil, he wrote, Found by Stella at 4:20 p.m., low tide, at Lorimer Harbor, South Devon, August 17, 1989.

  I said, ‘Thi
s is the first time we’ve been out for a meal together.’

  ‘I hope you’re appreciating it.’

  ‘Mum used to take me to that Italian café,’ I added, ‘after my lesson on Saturdays.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Did you?’ I’d assumed it had been our secret. A smaller secret than the special flute, but still a secret.

  ‘You smelled lemony,’ he said, ‘when you came back.’

  ‘Were you jealous?’

  ‘Hugely,’ he said with a small laugh, so I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  ‘Charlie, she loved both of us equally.’

  ‘Of course she did.’ He was looking down at his plate. He’d stopped laughing. I wanted to hug him then, but the waiter had reappeared at our table and was dragging bread crumbs toward its edge with a scraper device.

  Charlie took a quick sip of wine and fixed me with cool gray eyes. He said, ‘You have to know, it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘What wasn’t?’

  ‘What happened to Mum.’

  My breath caught in my throat. Please don’t tell me, I thought. Let’s talk about your troublesome students, or porcelain crabs. Let’s not spoil this. ‘You don’t know,’ I said. ‘You weren’t there.’

  ‘I heard Dad talking with her brothers late at night, after the funeral. I sneaked out of my bedroom and crept downstairs, and I listened at the living-room door.’

  ‘What were they saying?’ The words seemed to drift above us, as if they’d floated from someone else’s mouth.

  ‘She ran out of Mrs Bones’s building and along the path and into the road. She meant it, Stella—’

  ‘How do you know?’ The waiter approached with dessert menus depicting lurid sundaes, then quickly retreated to the kitchen.

  ‘The woman who lived downstairs saw her. She saw it happen.’ Music filtered into the restaurant. Something bland, vaguely jazzy, the kind you don’t usually notice. ‘Why,’ I managed to say, ‘did she do it?’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘She could have told the doctor she needed more pills—you knew about her Valium, didn’t you? Those little yellow tablets on the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet?’