Me Myself Milly

by Penelope Bush

  It started off with me looking at my reflection in a pool of water. I wasn’t admiring myself or anything, I just caught sight of my reflection and thought, ‘Oh look, it’s me.’ Then, as I looked closer I realised it wasn’t me, it was Lily. I was outside looking at Lily who was under the water. And that’s when it got scary because she couldn’t get out and I was beginning to panic. We were staring at each other and there was this water in between us and then suddenly, like things happen in dreams sometimes, I realised it was me under the water, looking up at Lily and that’s when I really began to panic.

  I was holding my breath and I knew I’d have to breathe soon and I couldn’t. The pressure was building up and up until I couldn’t hold on any more and I opened my mouth and water poured in and still I couldn’t breathe and then I woke up and I was gasping for breath and shaking.

  I switched the bedside light on, but the feeling wouldn’t go away and in the end I went and climbed in next to Mum, like I did when I was little and I’d had a bad dream.

  I decided it must have been an anxiety dream because of the new school and everything. I could still recall the feeling of panic, so I got up and showered and dressed in the hope that doing something would make the feeling fade more quickly.

  Mum was in the kitchen with Carmel sorting out the final things for the school transfer. I poured myself a glass of orange juice and went to sit at the table with them.

  Absently I picked up one of the documents that was lying there and didn’t realise for a while what I was looking at. I knew it had to be my birth certificate but it couldn’t be right.

  ‘What’s this?’ I demanded of Mum.

  ‘It’s your birth certificate.’

  I looked hard. It said Emily Pond, born 12th April.

  ‘Why does it say Emily?’

  Mum took the certificate off me and angled it towards the light. She looked hard at it, like I had.

  ‘Mum? It says I’m called Emily.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Mum. I couldn’t believe how calm she was.

  ‘How come no one ever told me?’

  ‘The thing is, I don’t really remember,’ said Mum. ‘When we went to register you I wasn’t really myself. I think I was in shock, you know – I wasn’t expecting two babies . . .’

  Typical, blame me, why don’t you. It was a pretty lame excuse.

  ‘You could go and ask David. I think it was his idea. But what does it matter? You’ll always be Milly.’

  I had been planning to avoid David after his bombshell about going to America but I could make an exception for this. I paused in the doorway though and said to Carmel, ‘Make sure you fill in all those forms with Emily – not Milly.’

  Carmel looked up. ‘But I’ve already done them.’

  ‘Well, do them again,’ I said and stomped up the stairs in a way that I hope conveyed the message, ‘Don’t mess with me.’

  David was finishing off the new shower room which he’d just installed in the small room right next to the door that led down to our flat. It had always been used as a large cloakroom where all the coats and boots and outdoor wear were kept. There’d been loads of things in there and if it was cold and you needed to wrap up you just grabbed what was handy. But in the renovations that had taken place it had been made into a downstairs loo with a shower. David was fitting the glass door onto the shower cubicle.

  ‘Yes, I vaguely remember,’ he said after I’d explained about the recent discovery.

  He had a couple of bolts in his mouth so it was all a bit mumbled and he had that far away expression people get when they’re trying to remember something.

  Vague wasn’t going to cut it.

  ‘David!’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said David, taking the bolts out of his mouth and putting the screwdriver down. ‘I was just about to stop for tea. Let’s go into the kitchen.’

  ‘As far as I remember,’ said David as he filled the kettle, ‘your mum was dead set on this Pond business, you know – having a name that went with your surname. She had Lily all lined up and then you popped out and she was a bit stuck. Anyway, when we got to the registrar’s office I thought you should have a proper name.’

  David was smiling at me. I know he’s always had a soft spot for me. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I was his favourite. Now I understood why.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with Milly. It’s just that it sounds like it’s short for something else.’

  ‘You mean, more like it’s long for Mill, as in Mill Pond!’ I said bitterly.

  ‘Yes, well . . . don’t blame your mum too much; she was in a bit of a state . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know, she went into shock when I appeared!’

  David laughed. ‘You have to admit, it was quite funny. But you were the sweetest little thing – so different from Lily . . .’ He trailed off. Looked embarrassed. I steered him back onto the subject of my name.

  ‘So you persuaded Mum to call me Emily?’

  ‘I persuaded her to register you as Emily. She was always going to call you Milly.’

  I went round the table and gave David a hug. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  David hugged me back. ‘Glad you like it. It was a toss up between Millicent and Emily.’

  ‘I’m glad you picked Emily, I love it.’ I let go of him and he went to get the milk out of the fridge. I sat back down at the table.

  ‘I can’t believe no one ever mentioned it!’ I said.

  ‘It was only me and your mum who knew,’ David said. ‘And as far as your mum was concerned you were Milly, so I guess I didn’t mention it again and then I sort of forgot. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘in fact it’s perfect. I’m glad I’ve only just found out.’

  I went back downstairs and looked up the meaning of my name on the internet. It said: Emily – from the old Roman family name Aemilius, meaning ‘rival’. Ha ha, I can’t wait to tell Lily.

  I can’t believe what’s just happened; I’ve got a new name! Just as I was having to become a different person I get a whole new name to go with it. I woke up this morning as Milly and now I’m Emily!

  I know it might sound daft and nobody else seems to think it’s a big deal, but it is to me.

  We don’t know who our real dad is.

  Mum met him at a festival and they’d had better things to do than exchange personal details, so all she knew about him was that he went by the name of Shaggy. So apt in so many ways, Mum used to say, whatever that means.

  Lily and I used to dream of one day finding Shaggy and telling him we were his twin daughters. It didn’t seem right that somewhere there was a man wandering around who didn’t know he was our dad.

  When we were ten Lily and I decided it was our duty to find this man and inform him of his good fortune. We imagined the scene, sometimes even acting it out. Lily always played the part of our father because it required a great deal of emotional acting and Lily was better at that sort of thing than me.

  Sometimes we pretended we’d tracked him down and we acted out the scene where we knocked on his door and told him who we were. Or we’d pretend we were on a train and we’d overhear a man telling his friend how he’d met the most beautiful woman called Summer at a musical festival years ago but he’d never been able to forget her. We’d then reveal our identity and it would all end in joyful tears.

  We pestered Mum for every small detail she could remember about him. Then we bought a big scrapbook and wrote them all down carefully. When we’d finished we had covered half of the first page. This is what we had:

  Shaggy:

  • about twenty-five (ten years ago – so mid-thirties now)

  • about five foot eleven

  • hair and beard – long, brown and curly– like our hair

  • accent – not really, might have been to public school but was covering it well

  • had a friend called Spikey or Spidey or something like that

  • liked pickled onions and real ale (
apparently not a good combination when you’re sharing a tent)

  • distinguishing marks – none, no tattoos or weird-shaped birthmarks

  That was all we managed to get before Mum twigged what we were doing and gave us the lecture on how our father, while important in our conception, was not important in any other respect. Traditional family units were redundant in this day and age and we were well provided for as we lived in a communal household. This was true, at the time there were seven adults and five children in the house on King Street, but none of them was our father. What made it harder was the fact that we don’t look like Mum so therefore we must look like him.

  In the absence of any information about our real father and the fact that we had a whole scrapbook to fill, we took to finding and cutting out any photographs of men that even vaguely fitted his description. Which turned out to be pretty much anyone with brown hair. We got pictures of actors and rock stars as these were the easiest to come by. Then we moved on to catalogue models and politicians and TV presenters. By the time the scrapbook was nearly full I felt I should point out to Lily that our dad might not be in the public eye. He might be a normal man whose photo had never appeared in a magazine or paper or on the internet. Lily didn’t like the idea but she had to agree it was possible, so we moved to plan B which was to take pictures of likely looking men with Mum’s camera.

  To be honest we didn’t find very many. Lily refused to accept that he’d had any other children, so men with families weren’t allowed. But we got a few; not many people notice where children are pointing their cameras. Lily would stand as close as possible to the man in question without looking suspicious and then I would pretend to be taking a picture of her. This had the added bonus that when we printed the picture off we could immediately compare him to Lily to see if there was any family resemblance.

  Of course, eventually Mum found the scrapbook and realised what we were doing, so she sat us down for another talk. She looked really unhappy.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’m really sorry that I don’t know who your father is and I’m not proud of the fact. I think you need to accept that there’s no way of finding him and there’s no point in thinking about him; you’ll drive yourselves mad if you spend the rest of your lives thinking he could be that man in the street or so and so on telly. Please let it go. You’d be much better off thinking about what you do have, rather than what you don’t have. You’ve got me and each other and that’s enough. It has to be. Okay?’ She was close to tears and so Lily and I agreed that we’d let it drop. And we mostly did; only I still find myself wondering whenever I see a man with brown, curly hair.

  Chapter Seven

  New school today. At first I pulled the duvet over my head and wondered if anyone would notice if I didn’t get up. Ever again. It just all seemed too much.

  When I peered out, five minutes later, Lily was staring at me from her bed. She hasn’t said anything about the fact that I’m going to a different school. I don’t know why; I don’t know if she’s cross, or jealous, or what. But she must have realised how worried I was and didn’t gloat over my predicament.

  ‘Don’t think about it, just do it,’ she said.

  I grinned. It was Mum’s favourite saying when there’s something unpleasant to be done.

  Don’t think about it, just do it.

  That got me out of bed, then I focused on the things I needed to do like have a shower, get dressed and take Mum a cup of tea. I was so busy focusing that, when Mum sat up to drink her tea, I said without thinking, ‘Are you going to do some work today?’ Big mistake. Mum shut down.

  She had a deadline on the latest book but she hadn’t done any work on it since April. I knew the publisher had cut her some slack, but it was worrying. What if she had that writer’s block thing? We might be able to live on the money from the other books, but I didn’t really know. Anyhow, it was obvious that now was not the time to talk about it.

  Lily and I parted at the basement gate. She watched me all the way down the street until I turned the corner. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. It hurt. You know when someone loses an arm or a leg in an accident and you hear stories about how they can still feel it, even though it’s not there any more? That’s sort of how I felt – like I’d lost Lily but she was still there. Even when I was walking down the street on my own, she was still with me. Which was crazy, because the whole point of this was so I could learn to stand on my own two feet.

  What did I expect? That I was going to be able to follow her around for ever more? People grow up. That thought caused a gigantic lump in my throat and I thought I was going to start crying. That would be great: standing at the bus stop, all alone, crying. I could see a few girls at the bus stop in the same uniform as me, which brought me back down to earth. I tagged on the end of the queue and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible.

  My plan was to stay that way. Inconspicuous. I’d studied How to Make Friends, and although the book made it all sound easy I knew it wouldn’t be. So I’d decided not to bother. Who needs friends anyway?

  If things got really bad I could pretend Lily was with me. It couldn’t hurt, just for a bit. Until I’d settled in. On the bus I sat alone and held an imaginary conversation with Lily. In my head, obviously.

  ‘That girl over there looks even more scared than you,’ said Lily.

  ‘Do you think I should go and talk to her?’

  ‘No. Not your problem. Anyhow, if she’s scared she can’t help you.’

  ‘I’m not scared.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘Okay, maybe just a bit.’

  ‘Try and focus on something else.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Silence. It was a stupid idea anyhow. Lily wasn’t here. I was in danger of crying again. I am so pathetic, I thought. What’s wrong with me? I’ve got to get this under control. I took a deep breath.

  ‘I am Emily. I am fourteen. I am a normal girl going to school, like any normal girl. If anyone asks, my name is Emily.’ It felt weird, like trying on someone else’s shoes. But that’s who I was now: Emily. What was Emily like? Quiet, but not boring, I could be fun, just not yet. I hated getting into trouble so I would be keeping a low profile. And, above all, I didn’t need anyone else. I would be self-contained.

  The bus stopped and all the black-and-white clad girls piled out, chattering like a load of magpies.

  One for sorrow.

  Stop it!

  They wandered off in a flock, towards the school. I followed, but at a distance. So did the scared-looking girl from the bus. She drew level.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Stephanie but everyone calls me Effy.’

  It was as if she’d swallowed How to Make Friends whole. I thought about ignoring her but it would’ve been rude and besides I wanted to try out my new name.

  ‘Emily. My name’s Emily Pond.’

  ‘So what’s this school like then? I used to go to St Bart’s, but my dad’s business collapsed and he can’t afford it any more. It was me or the house, although actually we might lose the house as well.’

  I didn’t know what to say to any of that. I’d known her precisely two minutes and I already knew her life story. She didn’t sound bitter or sad about it; she was quite chirpy, like it was all a great new adventure. As it happened we’d reached the school by then so I didn’t have to say anything.

  ‘I have to go and report to reception, because I’m new,’ said Effy.

  ‘Same here,’ I said as we went in through the doors.

  ‘Really? That is so brilliant! Which year are you in? I’m in year ten – please tell me you’re in year ten.’ I told her I was. I thought she was going to hug me so I backed off slightly, trying not to cringe. She was probably just chatting like this because she was nervous, I decided.

  Effy’s voice was very loud and I wanted to tell her to keep her voice down and not draw too much attention to herself, or me for that matter.

  In fact, I was so concerned about her, I forg
ot to be scared. I looked around the entrance hall. It was massive, like an airport or something. The whole school was brand new. Or nearly – it had been built about three years ago and it was all state of the art. Not like my last school, which was old and depressing. Of course, that made me think about Lily again and I really didn’t want to cry.

  ‘Wow, look at this,’ said Effy. ‘It’s nothing like St Bart’s. That was practically falling to bits compared to this,’ which made me laugh because I knew that St Bartholomew’s was a very exclusive, fee-paying girl’s school and was housed in a Georgian mansion in its own grounds on the outskirts of the city.

  So I was feeling better by the time we were taken into an office and given maps and a list of rules and stuff like that. There were six new girls, not counting all the new year sevens who were being dealt with separately. Some looked older than me and some younger. Effy was the only one who looked about my age. Then a woman called out, ‘Stephanie Wright and Emily Pond.’ We put our hands up and moved over to where she was standing. ‘Follow me, you’re in 10FE. I’ll show you the way, but pay attention. You’ll have to find it on your own tomorrow.’

  We followed her down a corridor, up some stairs, then turned left, through some double doors, down a corridor, turned right, down another corridor, turned right again and there it was. The woman opened the door and ushered us in.

  It wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it was going to be. I think I’d imagined a roomful of fourteen-year-old girls who all stopped what they were doing and stared at me, maybe whispering behind their hands and giggling about ‘the new girl’. But what actually happened was that, although a few people looked up, they soon went back to what they’d been doing. I realised that it was a mixed tutor group. In other words they had different year groups from seven to eleven. Years twelve and thirteen must have their own room somewhere. I found a seat and started to draw on my map the route we’d just walked. I didn’t want to get lost tomorrow.

  Effy came and sat next to me. I noticed she was a lot quieter than she had been. She wanted to compare timetables with me to see how many lessons we had together. We’d already made our GCSE choices at our other schools and they were surprisingly similar so we had most of our lessons together. She looked so relieved I had to laugh. I felt a bit sorry for her; coming from St Bart’s it was going to be hard for her to adjust.