Artichoke Hearts (18 page)

‘What are you up to on Friday?’ I ask Millie as we walk into school together.

‘Orchestra, as usual. Why?’

‘No reason, I just forgot,’ I lie.

If Notsurewho Notsurewhat’s looking down on me right now, I’m in so much trouble.

Miss Poplar has laid out loads of magazines, books and newspapers on the tables. We’re supposed to pick out somebody famous we really admire and then write down the
qualities of why we admire them so much. I find it impossible to decide who to choose, because I don’t know the people, so how can you really tell what they’re like?

‘Right, does everyone have someone?’ She asks this question at the very moment Jidé and Ben stroll in. Jidé hears it and turns to me, grinning. I concentrate hard on
not laughing out loud. What was the score?’ asks Miss Poplar.

‘Three nil to us. I scored two; Jidé scored one.’

‘Well done, boys . . . now . . . we’ve all picked out someone famous who we admire, so who wants to kick off?’

Ben’s on form, putting his hand up, even before Millie.

‘Pelé,’ he shouts out. ‘He was the greatest footballer of all time, and my dad used to say he was a real gentleman.’

It’s not difficult to see why Ben chose Pelé.

Miss Poplar goes around the classroom. Most people just copy each other with names like Madonna, David Beckham, Alicia Keys. Miss Poplar is moving around the room closer and closer towards me,
but the only person I can really think of who is kind of famous to me is Nana Josie. Jidé chooses Nelson Mandela because he’s read his biography. Orla chooses the Pope because
she’s Catholic and he’s just died and her mum says he was the best pope ever. I expected her to choose someone like Madonna, like Bo and Demi did. Perhaps there’s more to Orla
than I thought. I ask Notsurewho Notsurewhat to make a name spring into my mind – anyone will do.

‘So, Mira? Who did you choose?’

‘I couldn’t think of anyone,’ I say.

The truth is that I can only really think about two people at the moment. Nana and Jidé.

‘Never mind,’ says Miss Poplar.

This is usually the moment when Demi, Bo and Orla would move in for the kill. I glance up at them, but they’re all busy flicking through their magazines.

At the end of school Jidé walks out with me.

‘Are you still coming over to mine on Friday?’ he asks, slipping his arm into mine, which makes me smile, because he’s obviously sure that I haven’t changed my mind.

After he’s walked me through the Rec to the road, we stand on the pavement, not knowing how to say goodbye.

‘See you then,’ Jidé grins, running off across the Rec before I can answer him. I watch him as he sprints across the football pitch and leaps off the ground, tucking his legs
right under him and punching the air. I was definitely supposed to see that!

Nana says people are arriving from all the different parts of her life. There’s Sylvie the poet, who always brings Nana a single flower from her garden, and cheery Lucy
with fire-red hair and bright glass jewels who cries when Nana’s not looking. Sometimes, I just sit and listen to them talking about the old days. When you see Nana with her friends, you get
a picture of what her life was like when she was younger . . . before I was born, even before my dad was born. Before Nana was dying, I never really thought about who she is, I mean, apart from her
being my nana.

‘She’s not famous, your mum, is she?’ Headscarf Lady asks Dad as we come back from taking Piper for a walk.

‘She’s famous around here . . . one of the local characters. Why do you ask?’

Headscarf Lady explains that there’s a woman from Radio 4 in the hospice today, wanting to interview people about what it’s like to have a terminal illness, but they want an ordinary
person, no one famous. The programme is going to be about how what people believe in helps them when they’re dying.

They have already interviewed people about the Pope dying and now they’re going to talk to the couple who got married the other day, the staff and the famous person in the hospice (no
one’s allowed to know her name). Then they want one other, not famous person, just an interesting, ordinary person. Nana Josie is not what I’d call ‘ordinary’, but I keep my
thoughts to myself.

When we get upstairs to the ward, Dad asks Nana what she thinks about being interviewed.

She shrugs and laughs. ‘Well, I never thought I would end up on a radio programme about the Pope, but then if it’s God’s will!’

Nana asks Aunty Abi to help her put some make-up on before she has the interview.

‘It’s not for the telly, Nana.’

‘Still, I want them to hear me at my best!’

The thought of the radio programme has really perked Nana up.

A young-looking woman
clip-clops
across the ward and perches on the chair next to Nana’s bed. I thought she would be older. She wears smart clothes that match. The kind of thing
Nana never wears. She talks to Nana in a quiet, breathy voice, a bit like some people talk to very small children. Nana keeps saying ‘speak up’ to Radio Woman, who I think is scared to
be so close to a dying person. Lots of people are. She asks Nana, in a very sorry way, as if she’s been forced to ask this question, and would rather be doing almost anything else in the
world:

‘What are your thoughts at this time? What gives you comfort?’

‘Do you mean, how does it feel to be dying?’

Radio Woman whispers, ‘Yes,’ as if she would like to crawl under the bed.

‘Well, you’re dying too – you’re just too young to know it.’

Nana can see that Radio Woman is uncomfortable so she stops joking and answers the question.

‘On the whole I’ve been lucky enough to do the things I’ve wanted to in my life. I haven’t been afraid to fight for what I believe in. I’ve seen my children grow up
and my grandchildren. I’ve travelled all over the world, and my work is what I love . . . my painting. As a story, everything’s in the right order. You have a life, a good life, you
love, you are loved, you get older, you get ill . . . you die. Maybe that bit’s not in the right order. I’ve got this illness before I feel old. That’s a shame.

Then the woman, who isn’t really listening, goes on to the next question on her list.

‘Can you tell us about the coffin you’ve painted?’

‘Ah! Yes, my coffin. Well, with the help of my granddaughter here, I’ve painted my own coffin. It’s the sea and sky dancing with dolphins and doves. Oh, and not forgetting my
little dog pissing into the sea.’ Nana grins at me. ‘It’s my grand finale! The one thing that’s good about a terminal illness is, if you’re lucky, you get time to say
goodbye. My funeral’s going to be a celebration of my life, organized by me. I’ve always loved throwing a party! My only regret is I can’t be there among all my favourite
people.’

Radio Woman doesn’t even smile at Nana’s jokes, which I think is pretty rude. She just moves on to the next question on her list.

‘When the Pope was dying, he had his faith. How do you think that changes things? How do your beliefs help you face . . .’

‘Well, I couldn’t possibly comment on the Pope, but, if you’re asking me what I believe in, I suppose it’s the human spirit. Not wasting your life and fighting for what
you know is right. As for an afterlife, I don’t believe in a heaven or a hell, not that kind of afterlife anyway . . . It’s enough for me that traces of me will live on through what
I’ve created in my garden, my paintings, my children, my grandchildren, my friends, even little Piper, my dog. Not just the genetic line, I mean the memory of me, what I’ve managed to
communicate to the world. That should be enough for anyone, shouldn’t it?’

Radio Woman doesn’t answer.

‘Who’s behind the glasses and the headscarf?’ Nana asks, as Radio Woman packs up her recording equipment.

Radio Woman looks confused.

‘If I’m the ordinary one – who’s the famous one you’re interviewing? I’d love to know what sort of company I’m keeping.’

‘I-I’m afraid I’m not allowed to say,’ she stutters.

‘Go on, I’m just
dying
to know – we all are,’ Nana calls after her in an over-the-top, actressy voice. Radio Woman drops her bag in the doorway, spilling the contents
all over the floor. Nana gestures for me to help her pick up her papers.

When she’s gone, I sit on the edge of Nana’s bed.

‘I think you frightened her a bit, Nana.’

‘Wicked of me, wasn’t it!’ she laughs. ‘You could say she brought out the devil in me!’

Nana slumps back on her pillow, exhausted by the effort of the interview. We are quiet now. I don’t want to move or I might wake her, so I just sit very still with her hand in mine.

The next thing I know I’m being nudged, hard, in the shoulder. Only Krish nudges me like that.

‘You’re always hogging Nana,’ Krish complains in an angry whisper that could easily wake her up.

‘You can’t
hog
a person.’

‘
You
can! Just budge over,’ he spits, elbowing me off my seat.

Nana Josie’s gravelly voice shocks us both because she talks more and more with her eyes closed, so you think she’s asleep, but actually she knows exactly what’s going on.

‘Krish, I want you to go to the flat, with your dad, and choose something of mine for yourself and something for Laila too . . . and, Mira, you’re to take my easel,’ she
orders, closing her eyes as if that’s all settled now, but Krish is in no mood to back down. Even though he’s smaller than me, he always wins these sorts of fights. He’s not happy
till he’s pushed me right off the chair. Then he takes Nana’s hand in his as if it’s his right to sit with her. How can anyone make sitting with your dying nana into a
competition?

‘What time are we going to the hospice?’ I ask Dad.

‘We’re not. Mum’s going with Krish and Laila after school. We’re taking the day off.’

‘But—’

‘No buts, we’re having the day off and that’s final.’

Dad has to shout over Laila’s screeching – she’s being a complete nightmare this morning.

‘Mira, about school. I didn’t want to interfere. I was just concerned about you – you know that, don’t you?’

I nod, hugging Dad tight. He really does look like he could do with a break. He hasn’t had a shave in days, his skin’s turned a sad grey colour and the dark rings under his eyes have
sunk deeper into his face.

‘OK,’ I nod,’what shall we do?’

‘That’s completely up to you.’ Dad spreads open his arms, as if anything’s possible. That’s when I have the idea.

‘Can we see the Frida Kahlo? I was going to go with Nana. Then we could get a pizza afterwards and walk along the river.’

Mum and Dad look at each other as if to say, ‘That’s not quite what we had in mind.’

‘What if we can’t get in? Don’t you want to go swimming, or see a film or something?’ suggests Dad.

‘But you hate swimming.’

‘True!’

‘Well, I want to go to the exhibition. If Nana can’t come with me, at least I can tell her about it.’

‘Have you seen any of Frida Kahlo’s work?’ asks Mum.

I shake my head.

‘It’s not very cheery, some of it.’

Dad mutates his face into his misery mask. It’s supposed to make me laugh.

‘I don’t care. I don’t feel very cheery.’

‘Go and get ready then, Mira,’ sighs Dad.

In my room, I think about texting Jidé, but then I decide that before I go round to his place I should at least pluck up the courage to call him. So I do, but I
can’t help but feel relieved when it goes straight to voicemail. I am such a coward.

‘Hi, Jidé. I just wanted to let you know that I’m not going to be in today.’ It starts off all right. ‘So, yeah! I’m not ill or anything . . . it’s
just that my dad needs a break so . . . and . . . anyway . . .’ Now I really wish I hadn’t left this message. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I knew I should have texted him
instead. I hang up, hurling the phone to the other end of my bed, because I’ve made such a mess of the call.

We take the tube to Waterloo and that’s when I realize I’ve left my mobile at home. How am I going to wait all day to see if he calls me back? I think about asking
Dad if we can go back, but then the questions would start . . . so I try my hardest, for Dad’s sake, not to think about it.

Waterloo is my favourite station in London because you still get the feeling of people from the past criss-crossing paths with us. Sometimes I think people from other times, like my
great-great-grandparents, and even further back than that, are just in reach of us, but there is this separation called death that stops us from seeing them. Some places you go you can feel the
past generations more than others. Waterloo station is one of those places. I tell Dad this, and he wrinkles up the worry lines between his eyes.

‘Are you talking about ghosts?’ asks Dad.

‘Not really, more like you can feel the people from different generations in certain places more than others.’

Like the Tate Modern. You can really tell that it used to be a power station. When you walk through that turbine hall you can still feel the great metal wheels turning. We take the escalator but
before we get to the top I know we’ve wasted our time because the banner above our heads reads:
FRIDA KAHLO EXHIBITION 9 JUNE – 9 OCTOBER
.