Lucky Girl

by Fiona Gibson

  The funeral happens four days after the accident. It does that—just happens. I wonder how all these people have arrived at the right place, with all the right things happening in the right order. Of course, Charlie fixed everything.

  We’re greeted by strangers with anxious faces who seem to know who we are without being introduced. Bill from the post office surprises me with a real hug. He has gentle eyes, the kind that cry at sad endings. ‘Your father lit up this area,’ he says, as if Dad were a firework, or a comet.

  ‘What he did with that garden,’ his wife adds, ‘is nothing short of a miracle. No one can understand it—what he did to the soil. He’s taken his secret to the grave.’

  Bill pats her arm and says, ‘Shush now.’

  ‘Maggie wants to keep the garden looking good,’ Charlie says, although we know this isn’t true. Every time someone phones, she’s offering plants, threatening to go out there and dig them all up herself. It’s as if she wants to erase him.

  ‘We’ll all help her to keep it looking nice,’ Bill tells him. The minister, a short, bulky man with swept-over silvery hair, says, ‘Maggie’s in good hands here. It’s a wonderful community.’

  I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord.

  Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live

  And everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.

  Charlie’s hand feels sturdy and capable. A big brother’s hand.

  I don’t know what Dad believed. He never, as far as I’m aware, went to church. We didn’t have a bible at home.

  Weak sunshine filters through jeweled windows. The colors should clash, but somehow work together like a fistful of gems from a treasure chest.

  The minister talks about Dad: a man known by many, who had found happiness here at Penjoy Point. ‘An intelligent man,’ he says, ‘and a caring family man, who will be greatly missed by our community here at Penjoy.’

  I grip Charlie’s hand tightly, not wanting ever to let go.

  Helen drives Charlie and me to the station. ‘You both have my number,’ she says. ‘Call me anytime.’

  We thank her as the train slides to a stop, and find a vacant table close to a couple with fair-haired twin boys who are engrossed in Superman comics. The sea looks perfectly still like an enormous blue plate. The train follows the coastline, then veers inland where everything looks freshly rained on.

  Charlie goes to buy coffees from the buffet. While he’s gone I delve into my pocket for my train ticket, and pull out the scrap of paper napkin with Ed’s number. I could roll it into a ball, flick it under the seat. It’s not as if I’ll ever use it. Instead I fold it over and over until it’s a tiny square, and push it back into my pocket.

  Charlie walks unsteadily down the carriage and dumps our coffees on the table. ‘It wasn’t what he wanted,’ I tell him.

  ‘Who?’ Charlie asks, gazing out at the swooping hills. ‘Dad, of course. To be buried like that.’

  ‘Like what? In a cemetery?’

  ‘He didn’t want a burial. He wanted it to happen like it did with Mum.’

  ‘It was important to Maggie,’ he says.

  ‘So she got what she wanted,’ I snap.

  Charlie frowns, and his eyes cloud as he says, ‘Let it go, Stella. It doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘No,’ I say, my heart racing, ‘of course it doesn’t.’

  28

  Learning to Dive

  There’s a scuffle of kids all around us in the main hall but still Jen hugs me for a very long time. ‘Take more time off,’ she says finally. ‘You shouldn’t be here. I didn’t expect you in today.’

  The noise dampens as children filter into their classrooms. ‘I just want to be normal,’ I say.

  She studies my face and adds, ‘You can stay with us for as long as you like.’

  ‘I’ll be okay at home, Jen.’

  ‘Let’s have a drink after work.’

  ‘Yes, I think I’ll need it.’

  I teach my morning groups, drifting from Paul Street to St Mary’s as if I’m wearing a veil, and can’t remember a single thing we covered in the lessons.

  At lunchtime I stop off at the Orange Tree and stare at the chalked blackboard menu on the wall. Ed is in the kitchen discussing a vegetable order that hasn’t shown up. ‘Can I help you?’ asks the skinny-plaits girl.

  I can hear Ed saying, ‘When did they say they’ll deliver? What good is that to us, Caroline?’ Even his cross voice makes me smile.

  The plaits girl sighs heavily. ‘I’d like…’ I begin. I have to choose something. I don’t even have to eat it. I could take it out, fling it into a bin for the gulls to gorge on. Can you decide? the girl’s expression says.

  Another waitress with cropped silver hair sweeps up bread remains from beneath a table. Two teenage girls are spooning marshmallows from their hot chocolates. And I say it: ‘Can I see Ed?’

  The plaits girl gives me a surprised look and shouts, ‘Ed, your friend’s here to see you.’

  He marches out, and when he sees me he says, ‘Stella, was everything okay?’

  I blink down at the tarte tatin in the cabinet. ‘Ed,’ I say, ‘my dad died.’

  He comes to me, past the silver-haired girl who’s clutching two glass bowls filled with pale yellow ice cream or maybe sorbet, and says, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you. I should be at work. My next lesson’s at—’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says softly, ‘everything’s going to be okay.’ I’m aware of the marshmallow girls’ stares as I bury myself in the warmth of him.

  Jen is waiting for me after school at a corner table in the Anchor. To avoid talking about dad I ask, ‘What happened about Toby?’

  ‘Had the mother in for a meeting,’ she says, ‘in the guise of “What can we do about his disruptive behavior? Is everything okay at home?” She says he’s coping well, considering that she and his dad are splitting up.’

  ‘So there’s nothing we can do.’

  She sighs, peeling a thin paper layer from a beer mat. ‘You know how it is. You can be around when they’re changing for gym—see if there’s any bruising or marks. I asked Polly to keep an eye out when they did PE on Tuesday. Toby seemed okay.’ She pauses and says, ‘You don’t think Jojo made it up?’

  ‘Of course not. Why would she?’

  ‘An attention thing maybe. Or she has a crush on Toby, and is kidding herself that he tells her things he hasn’t told anyone else…that they have a special rapport.’

  You don’t know her, I think. You didn’t see her that night, in my house. ‘She was telling the truth,’ I snap.

  ‘I’m not saying she lied….’

  ‘Jen, I’m sorry. I just miss him.’ It feels strange to say this. But it also feels true. ‘You know all those recipes he sent me, the ones I just stuffed in a box?’

  She nods, covering my hand with hers. ‘I can’t believe I won’t get any more.’ I want to leave now, to get on with the business of calling my private pupils to apologize for missing last week’s lessons. According to Diane, a couple of girls turned up at my house with their mothers—one on Tuesday, another on Thursday she thinks, although she’s prone to muddling days. They banged on my door until Diane stomped out and told them I’d phoned from Cornwall and my Dad had fallen off a cliff. Put like that, it sounded like a joke.

  The parents who sidle up to me outside school avoid words like died or even accident. They say, ‘I’m so sorry to hear your news, Miss Moon. Terrible tragedy. We’re all thinking of you.’

  ‘Come back to mine,’ Jen says now, ‘I’ll make you some supper.’

  ‘Thanks, but I just want to go home.’

  I come in to find a hand-posted card from Alex depicting loosely sketched sailing boats at a harbor. Inside it reads: So sorry to hear about your dad, darling. Hope you’re okay, call me anytime, A xxx

  I’m surprised that he knows—but then everyone knows. There’s been TV coverage—a cobbled-tog
ether montage of clips from Frankie’s Favorites and Frankie’s Feasts—plus obituaries in all the newspapers. People writing about Dad as if they knew the first thing about him. So many ‘friends’ being quoted, you’d think he’d had a jam-packed address book. Even Dirk from Friday Zoo has said kind things about him. ‘I regret what happened now,’ he told some trashy magazine that I found in the Paul Street staff room. ‘He was great fun to have around. We just had a small misunderstanding. I’d found some old photos on the Internet—him and his wife and their kids, looked like they were on holiday. I called them up on the screen to show him when we’d finished filming.

  ‘All I said was, “Is it true your wife was a bit of a crackpot?” and Frankie just went for me. I wish I hadn’t said it. Obviously touched a raw nerve. It was so long ago, her accident and that, but I guess Frankie was a deeply sensitive guy.’

  Diane gave me a newspaper with an obituary for Dad. I bring it up to bed now, spread it out on my pillow and read:

  TV Chef Dies at 61

  Frankie Moon, celebrated TV chef-turned-gardening expert, has died near his home at Penjoy Point, North Cornwall. Throughout the late seventies his top-rating show, Frankie’s Favorites, encouraged housewives to create lavish dinner parties using simple ingredients. Yet as well as creating four-course menus—often culminating in desserts liberally doused with alcohol and set alight—Moon devised speedy recipes for working mothers, often requiring little more than tinned luncheon meat and baked beans.

  By the early eighties Moon had failed to keep in step with the nation’s changing eating habits. He once announced, ‘Salads fail to excite me,’ and dismissed vegetarianism as a passing fad. His show was canceled, and his books languished in bargain bins. Personal tragedy struck when his wife, Eleanor, was killed in a road accident. An attempt to resurrect his career on popular show Friday Zoo earlier this year resulted in a highly publicized scuffle between Moon and Zoo presenter Dirk Turner.

  More recently, however, Moon enjoyed brief success as presenter of Frankie’s Flowers, the low-budget gardening show which has proved a surprise hit.

  Moon is survived by a son, Charles, a daughter, Stella, and his long-term partner, Maggie.

  Helen calls to check that Charlie and I arrived home safely, whether I’m back at work, how I’m feeling. I’m unused to someone—especially a stranger—checking up on my well-being.

  ‘How’s Maggie?’ I ask, even though we spoke only yesterday. Her voice crackled as if I’d woken her from a deep sleep.

  ‘She seems to be managing,’ Helen says, ‘but she’s insisting on packing away his things and hauling them up to his study. I suggested that it might be too soon, that she should give herself time, but she’s determined.’

  ‘What’s she planning to do with his stuff?’

  ‘Give it away, I think, to anyone who wants it. Says she can’t bear it all around her.’

  I keep asking about Maggie to avoid talking about me. ‘I’m glad you’re spending time with her,’ I add.

  Helen says, ‘I’m just doing what I can.’

  Diane has instructed the girls not to come round. I need space, she explained, and not to be bothered with demands for empty cereal boxes, Pritt Stick and Party Hoops. She has appeared at odd times with hot meals: a Tupperware carton of solidified lasagna, a slimy burger in a dented roll from the chip shop, and half a cooked chicken on a foil-covered plate, none of which I could stomach. I feel dizzy and light, but oddly energetic, as if my body’s being fueled by fresh air.

  ‘It’s okay—come in,’ I say when Midge appears at the door.

  Diane stomps in after her, saying, ‘Remember what I told you. You mustn’t stay for long. Stella’s bereaved.’

  Midge picks up a newspaper clipping from the table and reads the caption, “‘Moon killed in tragic accident.” How can it be killed?’

  ‘Your reading’s really coming on,’ I tell her. ‘Accident’s a long word.’

  ‘Still can’t do sums, though, can you Midge?’ Diane remarks. ‘What about your subtraction, those extra worksheets they sent you home with on Friday?’

  Midge screws up her face and says, ‘Who killed the moon?’

  ‘It’s not the moon, Midge. It’s my dad.’

  ‘Was that his name?’ she asks, incredulously.

  ‘That’s his surname, like mine. It’s what they do in newspapers. If you were famous they’d call you Price. They’d say, “Price has invented an incredible spacecraft capable of soaring to Venus.’ When she laughs, it’s like the sun splitting rain into all of its colors.

  Maggie says, ‘We’ve just come back from a lovely barbecue at Harry’s.’

  ‘We?’ I say before I can stop myself.

  ‘Me and the dogs. Everyone’s so kind, even when Surf runs off over the fields, comes back drenched in disgusting stagnant water and rolls over Harry and Jean’s cream suite, honestly Stella, you wouldn’t believe the smell.’

  She babbles on about Surf, her words running together, leaving no spaces for breath.

  The parcel arrives a week later, smothered with shiny brown tape and my address written smudgily in fat black marker. I rummage in Midge’s craft box for scissors—she’s purloined all my scissors—and hack the box open.

  Inside are yellowing press cuttings, interviews and book reviews, their edges ragged and holes forming in their folds. There are dozens of Café Crème tins with rectangular white labels, and a videotape bearing a printed label on its side that reads Frankie’s Girl—Pilot. On a black hard-backed notebook Dad has simply scrawled ‘Notes’.

  The writing inside is chaotic, like tangled wire. I pick out phrases: ideas for TV shows, books, regular magazine columns. A book of failure.

  The final page, which is more carefully written, is headed Tarte Tatin. Beneath a recipe, in tinier script, he has written: Hotel Tatin, in the Sologne region of France, was owned by the Tatin sisters. The elder sister, Stephanie, was distracted by other chores, or perhaps the attentions of the butler, as she threw apples, butter and sugar into a pan and left it on the heat. A rich aroma filled the hotel. Stephanie had overcooked it. In panic she covered the caramelized concoction with pastry, popped it in the oven to brown, and turned it upside down to serve to her guests.

  The tart was met with such acclaim that the owner of Maxim’s in Paris sent a spy, in the guise of a gardener, to discover Stephanie’s secret.

  I close the book and pile everything back into the box. On the floor lies a note from Maggie.

  Please do what you will with your father’s things. Also, while I am able to take care of Turf, Surf is proving too much for me to cope with at this time. Harry has been very helpful but he, too, has limits. I am planning to visit friends in Devon in two weeks’ time—and to drop in to see you and Charlie of course. I wonder whether I might leave Surf with you.

  I think, I can’t have a dog.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Charlie says, ‘how can I take care of a dog?’

  We’re on the back beach like any normal Sunday afternoon. He pulls off his clothes to his swimming trunks and strides toward the sea. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘someone has to. She can’t manage him. We know what he’s like.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘You’re saying I should have him?’

  ‘I’ve got my job, Stella.’

  ‘So have I!’ I storm away from him, fixing my swimsuit straps as I march toward the jetty. I’m sick of being the good girl, the one who worried about Dad, who insisted we visited—who tried to do the right thing. It’s just assumed that I’ll do this—take in Surf, on top of everything else. ‘Where are you going?’ Charlie calls after me.

  I keep walking, my heels landing heavily on the rough stone of the slipway, then the smooth wood of the jetty. A tight ball of anger burns inside me. So, I’m to look after a dog now, am I? In a small terraced house with an even smaller back garden? What about Charlie, at the Lodge, with access to the vast grounds of Hurleigh House? He’s the wildlife man. The one who’s devote
d his life to the study of the animal kingdom.

  The trouble is, Surf isn’t a crab.

  I stop at the end of the jetty, aware of my thudding heart. The cool breeze skims my body, steadying my breath. Glimmering water shows through gaps in the planks.

  ‘Stella!’ Charlie shouts again.

  I stare across the rippling sea. It looks vast, even though it’s cluttered with fishing boats and faraway Jet Skis that hum like fast-flying insects.

  I stand tall, bend at the knees, and spring up—

  And I fly.

  29

  Jewel Cakes

  Sift together 5 tbsps self-raising flour with 2 tbsps cocoa powder. Cream 5 oz soft margarine and 5 oz caster sugar. Beat two eggs and fold into the flour mixture. Bake in a moderate oven for around twenty-five minutes.

  Instead of making the Victoria Sandwich that is perched on a cut-glass cake stand in Frankie’s Family Meals, I use the mixture to make buns in corrugated paper cases. If they go wrong and turn out looking like biscuits, I can sandwich them together with buttercream and pretend they were meant to be that way. There’s very little, in cooking, that can’t be rescued.

  Also, small cakes are easier to eat on a big wheel.

  ‘I’m not rocking the basket,’ Midge protests, lurching forward to peer down at the quivering shapes that are actually people. I grip the girls’ hands—it’s quite terrifying, being in temporary charge of someone else’s children 175 feet above ground—plus the plastic box that contained the cakes. I bought Chewy Jewels to decorate them. I thought they’d gleam like gems but the buttercream smeared all over the sweets. The girls licked off the topping, passing the cake part back to me. I had to admit, for my first attempt at baking, they were pleasingly spongy.

  The wheel slows down and finally stops as we reach the top. ‘We’re the highest basket!’ Midge announces. I wish she’d stop calling it a basket, which sounds horribly fragile—like something in which you’d put tangerines or a pot plant. Not people.