The True Colours of Coral Glen

by Juliette Forrest

  Dad appeared. “You still sure you want to go?”

  “Yes.” I ignored the stabbing pain in my stomach that spread to my heart.

  He came over to hug me, and Mum joined in, encircling us both with her arms, smelling of hairdryer-warm hair and freshly sprayed perfume. It was strange, her wearing Deep Space Black. Dad nicknamed her the bird of paradise – she loved brightly coloured clothing so much, Gran had always said it would be impossible to lose Mum in a crowd.

  I wished we could have stayed hugging for the whole day. And that I could have told them what had happened the morning Gran died. But I couldn’t bear them hating me as much as I hated myself.

  “Can you help me with this?” Mum asked Dad, letting go of us. She handed him her necklace. A small pair of Lunar Silver angel wings swung in the air as she faced the hallway mirror, lifting her hair out of the way. Dad’s hands shook and it took him three goes to fasten the clasp. As she straightened the wings, a movement caught her eye. “Your gran is here,” she said.

  I whirled around, expecting her to be standing on the doorstep.

  The hearse pulled up outside the gate.

  I hadn’t been inside the church since three Christmases ago. Gran had taken me to listen to the choir singing carols. Faces had glowed in the soft, flickering light of the candles and it smelled of polished wood, pine needles and cinnamon buns. I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the stained-glass windows, which glowed like broken rainbows. I didn’t know what the choir was singing about, but it sounded glorious, as if they were visiting us from another planet to make our hearts fly. The hairs on the back of my neck had stood on end and I’d shivered with delight, never wanting it to finish.

  Today, the church was gloomy, and the pew hard. I could hear feet shuffling, people coughing and the creak of wood as they sat. The sun hid, making the stained-glass windows dull and lifeless.

  I stared at a vase of flowers, sitting on a small table in front of me, and counted the number of Glacier White roses in it. And when I knew for certain how many there were, I gazed at my feet until my neck ached.

  A large clatter made me turn. An old man had dropped a Bible and couldn’t bend to pick it up. That’s when I noticed everyone staring at me.

  They all know it’s your fault she’s here.

  I snapped my head round to the front, trying to ignore my thoughts. Gran smiled at me from the order of service pamphlet, as though we’d just shared a joke. My insides writhed like snakes in a cage.

  I finally raised my eyes to look at what I’d been avoiding since I’d entered the church. The coffin gleamed: all pale polished wood, shiny handles and Empire Gold–threaded cord with tassels. Wings of Pegasus flowers bloomed across the top of it: both beautiful and gut-wrenching at the same time.

  I squirmed on the pew. If Mum and Dad knew it was my fault Gran had died, they’d never want anything to do with me again.

  They’ll send you to prison to be locked up. For ever.

  The thought of losing them too made me suck in my breath. Dad studied my face to see if I was OK. I avoided his gaze, just in case what I had done showed in my eyes. Dad squeezed my arm and Mum handed me a tissue. I dabbed my face with it.

  As the minister spoke about Gran, the words swirled above my head like a flock of startled birds. When everyone stood to sing her favourite hymns, my legs trembled and my throat shut.

  I didn’t want to say goodbye to Gran.

  I would give anything to say sorry to her. Anything.

  After the service, Dad led Mum and me outside. I noticed an angel perched on top of one of the graves across from us. Its eyes were fearful and its hands clasped in prayer. How terrible to be frozen that way for ever and ever.

  Even though the place was full of the living, I shivered.

  Ties flapped, ladies held on to their hats and people blew their noses. Someone’s tissue dropped and tumbled away to hide behind a bunch of lilies wrapped in plastic.

  The minister said more words in a soothing voice.

  I glared at him, angered by his calmness. I wanted to kick him so hard, tears would fill his eyes too.

  Dad stepped forward to help lower Gran’s coffin into the ground.

  I glanced up at the sky. Gran and I had been planning to go on a galactic flight to space. I had asked her if we could visit the other side of the moon. She had answered we could, but we’d need to start saving our pennies because the price of the tickets was astronaut-omical. Dad had told her to stop filling my head with nonsense. She’d patted my knee and whispered anything was possible if you put your mind to it.

  I heard six thuds as the flowers landed on top of the coffin. Dad offered me the rose he was about to throw in.

  I stepped back, shaking my head. The trees spun and the blister on my heel burst.

  The flower hit the wood and Dad returned to us. I buried my head in his coat. Mum grasped my hand. Tears salted my lips. Dad held me so tight, it was hard to breathe.

  Gran had gone to the stars without me.

  The Brigg Inn was covered in ivy on the outside and tartan on the inside. Gran had always enjoyed visiting here because the gardens were well-kept and the views over the river postcard-perfect. She always said the scenery was just as pleasant on the inside too because the waiters were very handsome, which made Dad tut and Mum laugh.

  Nessie, Dodo and Margot were Gran’s best friends. Dad called them The Hustlers – even though they had New York City Winter hair and smiled sweetly, they were ruthless at card games. Today, they fussed over me, eager I knew how much Gran had loved me. This made me feel so bad I thought I was going to be sick. They told me their favourite stories about her to cheer me up, but it was awful because Gran wasn’t here to chip in. I smiled in the correct places, not wanting to upset them because they loved Gran too.

  Mrs Shellycoat, the librarian, poured me a cup of tea. Gran and I thought she was great because she always knew what we were interested in reading, and sometimes she would slip us biscuits, even though there was a huge sign on the wall saying: Please do not eat in the library.

  Mum was flitting from guest to guest with a tray of sandwiches. Dad was chatting to a man who had a stick and shouted when he spoke. Mum had said I could ask my best friend, Isla, along for company but her dad wouldn’t let her take the day off school. It was probably just as well because she would have got bored and then done something like see how many mini sausage rolls she could cram into her mouth at the same time. Isla had texted me an emoji of a broken heart this morning. I’d not replied.

  I found a spot in the corner, next to a sofa. As the sherry was passed around, the soft murmur of voices steadily grew into noisy chatter. I watched everyone for a while, wishing Gran was with me. She would have spotted Judy Heffton from the slimming club piling her plate high with sandwiches and rolled her eyes at Meredith Swift’s hat, which was the same size as a flying saucer.

  Miss Mirk loomed into view, clutching a giant handbag that was bashed and frayed at its edges. I didn’t know it was possible my heart could sink even lower. Her hat was Plum Fandango coloured and had two feathers sprouting out from either side of it. They shimmered Electric Rainforest and waggled like insect antennae when she talked. The feathers were so beautiful, it was hard to tear my eyes away from them.

  Miss Mirk stared at me. One of the arms was missing from her spectacles, and the lenses reminded me of empty shop windows that’d been smeared with cleaning products so you couldn’t see properly into them.

  I had to lean in close to hear what she was saying over the din.

  “I know how you are feeling about your grandmother,” she said. “I lost my beloved George years ago.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “The vet could not do anything for him.”

  I started counting to ten in my head. Dad told me it was a great way to stop yourself from saying something you’d later regret. As I reached fifteen, I still wanted to mutter two words that would make her eyes widen in shock.

  Miss Mirk undid the clasp on he
r bag. I caught a glimpse of something black and furry inside it. She pulled out a sandwich and shoved it into her mouth. The side of the bag bulged and then flattened again.

  “What were you doing peering into my garden yesterday?” she asked, crumbs spraying everywhere.

  “My gran’s cat is missing. I was searching for him.”

  “The black one with half a tail?” Miss Mirk wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  “Yes.”

  “He evacuates his bowels in my plant pots, terrorizes the seagulls and chases dogs along the street.” Miss Mirk pursed her lips together so hard they turned paler than sheets.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  She avoided my gaze, her eyebrows arching higher than normal. “Indeed not.” The bag shook so violently, her hand shot up to steady it. There were three scratch marks on her wrist. She must have had a disagreement with something which owned claws, and right at that very second, I was convinced it was God.

  “Miss Mirk, thank you for coming along today. Could I tempt you to a sherry?” said Mum, lifting up a tray of Amber Dusk liquid-filled glasses.

  “Mum, I think God is in Miss Mirk’s handbag.” I blurted it out before I could stop myself.

  The glasses on the tray rattled as Mum’s eyes dropped to the bag, which stayed perfectly flat and still.

  Miss Mirk put a protective arm over the bag. “Your daughter is in dire need of help if she thinks our dear Lord himself is in here.” She swiped a sherry off the tray, knocking it back in one go.

  “My daughter is not taking the Lord’s name in vain: the cat that is missing is called Godfrey. If Coral has in any way upset you, please accept my sincerest apologies. Godfrey disappearing is adding to our distress at what is already a difficult time for us all.”

  Miss Mirk grabbed another glass, drained it dry and belched.

  Mum handed the tray to a passing waiter. “If you’d please excuse us, Miss Mirk.” Hooking her arm under mine, Mum whisked me upstairs to the hotel lobby. It smelled of old leather, soot and air freshener.

  The receptionist sat perfectly still, but her eyes followed us as we walked over to the fireplace, reminding me of a painting you’d expect to find hanging in a haunted house.

  “What’s going on?” Mum sounded dismayed.

  “There was something black and furry in Miss Mirk’s bag.” I kicked at a stack of logs next to the fire.

  Mum sighed in a way that indicated she was fast running out of energy. “Ladies sometimes keep odd things in their bags. What you saw will have been a scarf or something.”

  “Whatever it was, was alive.”

  Mum hesitated, her Pearl Cloud highlighter shimmered a thousand colours on her cheekbones as she tilted her head. “Has it been a bit too much? Do you want to go home?”

  “You’re not listening.” I stamped my foot and the receptionist blinked.

  The tone of Mum’s voice changed from soft and patient to low and firm. “Let’s say for a moment Miss Mirk has kidnapped God – which is highly unlikely because I’m assuming she hates cats – however, if she has, she wouldn’t bring him here where he’d be right under our noses.”

  “She said God going missing was a blessing.” I folded my arms in front of me.

  “Miss Mirk is an unhappy lady who finds it easier to dislike things than to like them. In life, Coral, there are those who make you feel upbeat and light-hearted, and those who leave you feeling drained, as if they’ve stolen all your energy. Miss Mirk is one of those unfortunates.”

  “She’s taken God because she hates him,” I wailed.

  Mum gave me The Look – the one that told me I was close to crossing a line I would regret going over. She massaged her right temple. “Remember when Dad shut God inside the car by accident? You could have heard his yowls for miles around. I know you are desperate to find him, but it couldn’t have been him in her bag. Listen, you’re tired and everything is going to feel really strange and out of sorts for the next while, and that’s OK. We’ve all got to work through Gran’s loss in our own way. However, this is not fair on Miss Mirk. Are you sure you don’t want to go home? You could put on a film and curl up on the sofa? We won’t be much longer here, I promise.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “Then take a stroll in the gardens and get some fresh air. Come and find me when it’s safe for Miss Mirk to be in the same room as you. I’ll have to go; your dad’s signalling for me to rescue him from the cousins from Luncarty.” Mum gave me a swift hug and sped off down the stairs.

  I threw myself on to one of the leather chairs facing the fire, which wasn’t as comfortable as it looked. Hanging over the mantelpiece was an old painting of Guiltree Hill. Our class had gone there on a school trip last year. Mrs McHarpock had told us a witch was supposed to be buried under the huge boulder at the top of it. When I had asked her if the story was true, she got distracted by Justin Furic tripping up Peter Poker and muttered her life would be a lot easier if she could bury Justin Furic under the stone.

  I slouched in the chair, my fingers tracing the cracks on its faded leather arms. The witch wasn’t under the rock on Guiltree Hill. She was alive and well, in the hotel drinking sherry and called Miss Mirk.

  What had that been in her handbag?

  I heard the squeak of fingers gripping leather tightly. Miss Mirk stepped out from behind the chair. The Electric Rainforest feathers in her hat swayed as she hoisted her bag further up her shoulder. “You know what they say about curiosity – it killed the cat. Keep away from me and my property, or else.” Miss Mirk stomped off towards the toilets.

  The air thickened and the colour drained from my face.

  Had she just threatened to murder God?

  Laughter drifted up the stairs. The receptionist sprang to life as she answered the phone, her eyes boring into me as I fled out the door.

  CHAPTER

  4

  I came to a halt outside the graveyard and peered over the wall. The one person who’d know how to get God home was lying silent in the ground.

  I wiped the tears on my sleeve, sniffing hard. Gran used to bring me here when she visited Grandpa’s grave. I had asked if she was ever afraid of the place. She’d laughed and told me the living were far more frightening than the dead. But the graveyard had always given me a funny feeling, as though someone was standing next to me, and sometimes I thought I saw strange lights out of the corners of my eyes.

  The church sat quiet and watchful, the tip of its spire hidden in clouds. A robin flashed its Bittersweet Autumn breast as it landed on a sycamore branch and a magpie hopped sideways across the grass, rattling thuggishly. The wind made everything twitch except for the gravestones. There was a sadness in the air not even the breeze could chase away. It was as though everyone’s grief hung about the place, lengthening shadows, mottling the stone and making the branches droop so low they almost touched the ground. The grass was covered in patches of Natural Oak. You would think it would be a Lush Eden with all the tears that must fall on it every day.

  Gran’s grave caught my eye.

  Opening the gate, I walked up the path, trying not to jump as branches creaked, ribbons on bouquets fluttered or birds darted past me.

  I settled myself beside Gran’s headstone. A strip of Bold Grasshopper plastic grass had been placed over the grave and there was a fresh pile of earth to the side of it.

  I knew Gran was next to Grandpa now, but she should be with us at home, steaming up the kitchen windows cooking her leftovers soup, watching films with the volume at thirty-five, hiding from the Cleaneazier catalogue man or pinching my Violet Drama nail polish.

  Mum said I wasn’t to think about what I’d lost. She told me to remember the things about Gran that had made me happy. Except every time I did, I missed her a trillion times more and the splintered pieces of my heart stuck into my ribcage like needles.

  Crossing my legs, I rested my chin on my hands.

  When Gran used to bring me here, she’d pull up the weeds and lay down flo
wers. Not bought ones: sweet peas from our garden, which were Grandpa’s favourite. The only time she’d be still was right before we left. I remembered how she would lean forward to touch the headstone and close her eyes, as if she was somehow telling Grandpa all her thoughts.

  Maybe if I did the same I could talk to her?

  My fingers traced over the black letters and numbers on the gravestone. The icy marble stole the warmth from my hand.

  I closed my eyes, concentrating hard.

  Gran?

  I held my breath.

  Gran? Are you there?

  The trees shivered; a fallen leaf scraped across the path behind me.

  I want you to know I think Miss Mirk has stolen God and I’m not sure what to do.

  I pressed my palm flat against the stone.

  What I really came here to tell you is how sorry I am for…

  A hand touched my shoulder.

  I cried out and scrambled to my feet, my skin prickling. “What do you think you’re doing?” I yelled at the boy standing next to me.

  His eyes widened as though it was me who had given him the surprise.

  Anger ripped through my body faster than a wildfire. “Well?” I prayed he couldn’t hear my heart thundering in my chest. I was, after all, alone in a graveyard with a strange boy.

  He wore Witching Hour Black trousers, a long Clockface-coloured shirt and scuffed boots. His face was covered in freckles, reminding me of a page in a dot-to-dot puzzle book gone wrong. The boy’s eyes were Secret Garden Ivy and his hair Conker Harvest with streaks of Antique Silver at his temples, though he must have been only a few years older than me.

  I blinked twice.

  He was glowing the same shade of Celestial Spark that Grandpa had when I’d spied him in the hallway.

  I glanced towards the gate and then back at him. I was sure he hadn’t been at the funeral; however, there had been so many people it was hard to tell.