A MILLION ANGELS. Kate Maryon
my dad understands me.
“Good girl. I’m leaving really early in the morning so I won’t wake you again.”
When he leaves my room I touch his kiss and wish it would grow into a flower.
At five the next morning my dad creeps into my room. I lie still and hold my breath. He pulls my duvet up to my chin and strokes my hair. He gives me one last clean-shaven kiss and creeps away. My tummy sinks. It sinks right through the bed and through the floor, and as if a huge crack in the earth has opened up I feel like I’m falling, falling, falling into a deep black hole.
“Please don’t go,” I whisper.
I hear him in the other rooms. Now he’s going down the stairs and into the hall. I hear scrapes and scuffs and clunks and I know he’s putting on his sparkling black boots, shuffling his kit about and loading it on to his back. I hear someone hug him. Then the front door clicks shut and I freeze. My hand flies to my cheek, to his kiss where the flower didn’t grow. I jump out of bed and race like lightning down the stairs. I open the front door and step out into the storm. A soldier with a silver car salutes my dad. A river of rain runs down his sleeve.
“Dad!” I call.
My dad spins round.
“Jemima! Sweetie! You’re getting soaked!”
“I don’t care,” I say, paddling up to him. “Dad, please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Afghanistan is too far away. I just need to be near you.”
“Oh, darling,” he sighs. “As much as I’d love to stay, I have to go, you know that. Let’s not make it any harder than it already is, eh?”
“But, Dad,” I whisper, “what if something bad happens. There might be a fire or a burglar. Or someone might get hurt. We might need you.”
“Mima,” he says, “this is why I didn’t wake you, sweetheart. It’s much easier if I just slip away.”
“Not for me it isn’t,” I say. “Just one more hug then?”
And Dad scoops me into his arms as if I were a tiny toddler. He squeezes me so tight I think my lungs might burst out of my chest and splat down on the floor. We’re not crying, but tears from the thundering black storm clouds soak us through and settle like diamonds on our lashes. We find each other’s eyes and tie a knot in our gaze.
“Love you, pipsqueak,” Dad says. He kisses my nose.
“Love you, Lieutenant Colonel Taylor-Jones.”
He stands me down. We salute one another. The soldier drives my dad away.
The rain puddles between my toes and bounces off my skin. My tummy sinks through the tarmac road, through the earth’s muddy crust, right down to the blackest, darkest hole at the bottom of the world. I can’t let him go. I can’t. I run after the car. I shout.
“Dad, quick, stop!” He moves further and further away. “Dad, please, stop! Please!”
The road is empty. I leap into the middle and wave my arms like mad.
“Dad!” I call.
At last, the red brake lights go on and the soldier reverses the car until it’s level with my feet.
“What is it, Mima?”
I stand frozen like a dummy in the road, with a million words raining on my mind.
“I… erm…” I stumble. “I… I… What would make you come back home, Dad? I mean, how bad a thing would have to happen?”
My face is soaked with rain. He can’t see my tears.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he says, checking his watch. “I haven’t got time to talk about it now – everyone’s waiting for me. But I promise you you’ll be OK. Everything will be fine. Mum’s here, Granny’s here and I’ll be home for a two-week R & R break before you know it. Then my tour will be halfway done, Mima, and then I’ll be back home for good.”
“Until they send you away again,” I sigh.
Dad salutes me one last time.
“Trust, Mima, trust.”
The soldier drives him away and my words tumble like rocks through the air.
“I’m scared you’re going to die, Dad. I’m scared you’re never coming home.”
The house feels so quiet without Dad and the hall is too empty without his mountain of kit getting in the way. My mum and Milo are still sleeping, but Granny is in the kitchen sipping tea. We had a leaving party yesterday for Dad, and Granny moved in. She’s here to help Mum with the baby when it comes.
“You listen to me, James,” she’d said to my dad, shaking his shoulders hard, “and make sure you come home safe, see. There’ll be big trouble if you don’t, do you hear me? I’ve lost too many people in my life to be doing with losing you.”
“Don’t you worry, Ma,” he said, folding her paper-thin body into his arms. “I’ll be back.”
I creep upstairs, wrap myself in a towel, then go back down and watch Granny from the doorway. She blows and sips hot tea. Thought bubbles float over her head. I like spying on people when they don’t know I’m looking. People act differently when they think they’re on their own.
“Hello, pet,” she says. “You startled me. You’re up early. Do you want some tea?”
I don’t really like tea, but I like chatting with Granny. I nod and climb on the chair next to hers.
“I heard Dad,” I say, “and needed another hug. I wish he didn’t have to go.”
“I know, pet,” she says, pouring my tea. “You’ll get used to it soon enough. It was the same with your grandpa; he was always off here and there and everywhere. All over the place he was. That’s army life for you, see.”
“I don’t like it,” I say. “I wish he had a normal job. What happens if we need him, Granny? Do you think he’d come back home if one of us got really ill, or the house burned down or someone died?”
“If something really bad happened, Mima,” she says, patting my hand, “then they’d send him home. You can be sure of that. But I promise you we won’t need him. We’ll manage and it’ll be fun with the baby coming.” She sighs. “Army life is in his bones, pet. He wouldn’t settle to a normal job. And people have to do what’s in their bones.”
“Well, I wish he had something else in his bones,’ I sigh. “He could do anything else except this.”
“You’ll understand it one day,” says Granny. “You’ll get an itch in your bones and you’ll be off out in the world doing what you love.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I’m never leaving home. It’s too scary and I can’t even decide what to do my end of term presentation on, let alone know what I want to do when I grow up. And I hate presentations, Granny. They’re so pointless and I’m so rubbish at them. My voice always goes all wobbly and I end up looking like a stupid red beetroot. I wish school couldn’t make you do stuff you hate.”
“Ooh!” says Granny, leaping up. “I just remembered. I’ve got something for you that might help.”
She creaks her granny bones upstairs to her room and comes down with a dusty old box in her hands.
“Here,” she says. “I found this when I was clearing out my things ready to move into my new flat. I thought you might be interested. You know, family history and all. Maybe you’ll find something in there to inspire you for your presentation.”
I rummage through Granny’s dusty