Artichoke Hearts (26 page)

‘Here’s your darlin’,’ Doris coos, gently handing Laila back to Mum, who takes her up the corridor to the Family Room, where Krish has been watching football with the man
who got married.

Then we all wait for Dad and Aunty Abi. When we get up to leave, it is four o’clock.

‘See you later, mate,’ the man who got married says, ruffling Krish’s hair.

‘See you, Jo.’

I didn’t even know his name. I didn’t realize Krish knew him so well, but I suppose they’ve watched a few matches together since the wedding. Jo gets up and waves to us from
the door, but Krish just stands with his hands in his pockets, looking up at Jo.

‘I could come and see you, if you want,’ offers Krish.

He’s trying to make it sound as if he doesn’t care either way.

‘No, son, you get out there and get on with it.’

Then suddenly Krish runs at Jo and hugs him round the middle. They are both crying now. We are all crying, because now we understand about real life endings . . . how hard it is to say goodbye
forever.

‘Come on, you Spurs!’ calls Jo as we walk down the corridor.

We pass the Men’s Room, where the woman who got married to Jo is arranging flowers in a vase. She comes over to say goodbye to us. Mum hugs her and rests her hand on her tummy, which I
think is an odd thing to do, so I look at her, and see, for the first time, that she’s going to have a baby.

‘Keep in touch, Lyn.’

My mum scribbles our number on a scrap of paper. Dad and Lyn hug, Aunty Abi and Aunty Mel hug her too and even Piper tries to jump up at her.

Everyone’s faces are red and puffy and soaking wet with tears. I feel sad for us that Nana has gone. But for Jo, Lyn and the baby, who isn’t even born yet, everything’s in the
wrong order.

We pass the room where Doris and Question Mark and the other nurses sit. My dad says ‘thank you’. I have heard those words so many times in my life, but I have never heard anyone say
them in the way my dad thanks Doris and Question Mark.

‘It was our privilege,’ says Question Mark, holding Dad’s hands in his.

Dad asks if Dr Clem’s on duty. He’s not, but Doris says he knows about Nana and he was planning to drop in and see us before we leave. Somehow it doesn’t feel right to leave
without saying goodbye to Dr Clem.

We stand outside Heath Ward, waiting for the lift. It takes ages to come. Krish doesn’t even try to run down the stairs; he just stands very still, patiently waiting. When it finally
comes, the lift is empty. At the bottom, the doors open and Dr Clem is standing in front of us. He backs away to let us out, and leans his shopping bags against the wall. Dad sets down Nana’s
bag and Dr Clem glances towards it, sadly. He says he’s glad he managed to catch us. He looks at us with his droopy eyes, each of us, one by one. This noise escapes from my dad’s mouth,
which is something like a very low cough that shakes his body. Dr Clem holds Dad, as if to steady him. Then Dad grasps on to Dr Clem, their hands patting hard on each other’s back. They make
me think of gorillas comforting one another. Dr Clem must have seen thousands of people dying, but he still cares for Nana Josie, and for us. When Dad and Dr Clem finally unclasp, he notices me and
Krish peering into his shopping bags full of crisps and lemonade.

‘They’re for my daughter’s birthday party . . . so I’ll always remember your nana, on this day.’

He has obviously only come here today to see us, because now he turns round and walks back out again.

As we follow him on to the pavement I hear Headscarf Lady calling to us. We have forgotten Krish’s artwork.

‘Your Nana Josie loved that so much. I think it helped her, in the end. Whenever she opened her eyes, she just seemed to be lost in it,’ Dr Clem says, resting a comforting hand on
Krish’s shoulder.

Krish nods, with his head bowed low. Then he turns to Headscarf Lady. ‘Here, you have it.’

She shoots Mum and Dad a look, as if to ask if it’s OK, and I see them both smile and nod.

Headscarf Lady gathers Krish into her arms, before he has time to protest, and squeezes him tight.

‘You’re an angel,’ she says. Krish just looks up at her and shrugs.

Dr Clem walks up the road, clanking his party bags. At the corner, he stops and glances up at a flock of tiny birds wheeling through the sky. I follow their path, arcing upwards, riding the air.
Dr Clem smiles, turns the corner and is gone.

The sky is bright blue and there’s a real heat in the sun today. It’s a holiday atmosphere. It’s like the whole of London has decided to walk on the Heath. I
like the fact that all these people don’t know that Nana has died. We walk past the ponds where people are swimming in the gloopy green water and up Parliament Hill, like we have so many
times before with Nana and Piper. Krish doesn’t race Piper up the hill, like he usually does. There are kite flyers zigzagging all over, getting their tails tangled . . . Dads, mostly, on a
promise to get their children’s kites to fly, but the day is too still.

‘Where are we going?’ asks Krish.

‘To Nana’s flat,’ answers Dad.

Why?’ I ask.

‘Because it feels to me like the right thing to do,’ he sighs.

It doesn’t feel right to me.

‘I’m staying here,’ I say to no one in particular.

Mum and Dad give each other that look, where they’re checking out what the other one thinks. Mum shrugs. Dad shrugs. Everything’s changing. No one knows any more what’s the
right thing to do.

‘Be back at Nana’s in half an hour,’ Mum says, handing Piper’s lead to me. ‘Are you wearing your watch?’

I tap my wrist to show her.

‘That’s not fair! Can I stay?’ moans Krish.

‘No!’ Mum wraps her arm round Krish’s shoulder and leads him off down the hill with Dad walking beside them, pushing Laila in the pram.

Mum turns back to me when she’s halfway down the hill.

‘Have you got your mobile?’ she shouts.

I wave it in the air for her to see. Then I slump down on the bench where Nana and me always used to sit. I look up at the bright blue sky, but there is no Nana Josie flying through the air on
Claude’s back, no Jidé either. It’s nothing like my dream. Piper jumps on to the bench, nuzzles up to me and whines, as if he’s looking for Nana too.

Then he’s off, running down the hill, barking, tail wagging frantically, and, as I try to catch sight of him, that’s when I see her walk towards me.

‘Mira!’

Pat Print sits down next to me and I see Piper bounding back towards us. We watch Moses and Piper frolicking around like a couple of puppies.

‘On your own?’

I try to speak but my voice gets choked by the sadness that rises up in me like a surging wave. It’s very hard to say the words, especially the first time you say them . . . as if you make
it real by saying it . . .

‘My nana died this morning.’

It comes out as not much more than a whisper. Pat Print doesn’t know what to do or say. What she does is stroke Piper on the head. I think this is her way of comforting me. Piper
whines.

‘Poor old Piper . . . Shall we walk?’

We trail off down the hill, following Piper and Moses on their windy path of pee trails. Then Piper disappears into a bit of woodland at the bottom of the hill.

‘Piiiiiper,’ I call, but he doesn’t come out. So we go to investigate, Pat Print and me.

He is rooted to the trunk of an oak tree, barking like a lunatic. It’s probably a squirrel. I look up into the tree and a flash of red catches my eye. That’s when I spot it,
Nana’s hat . . . her cherry-red crochet hat, caught on a high branch.

‘That’s Nana’s. She lost it on a walk with me last Christmas. She had me searching all over for it.’

‘How on earth did it get up there?’ says Pat, peering up through the branches.

‘Do you think I could get it?’ I ask her.

Pat Print shakes her head.

‘No, but I can,’ she says, and before I can argue with her she is climbing up the tree, branch by branch. She seems to know exactly where to place her feet. Pat Print is an expert
tree climber! She is dangerously high up – most people wouldn’t even think of going up that high . . . At the trunk, Moses is barking wildly. Pat Print reaches out for Nana’s hat, but
she can’t quite get hold of it so she knocks it loose and it falls towards me through the branches, just as it fell from Nana’s head in my dream . . . leaving her long black hair
streaming like the dance of a kite behind her. I catch it and put it on.

‘Suits you,’ smiles Pat Print, jumping down off the last branch.

‘You’re a brilliant climber.’

‘I’m never happier than when I’m sitting at the top of an ancient tree. I’ve always dreamed of living in a tree house,’ she laughs. ‘I’ve climbed a tree
just about every day of my life since I was four years old.’

We walk off down to the bottom of the hill where the path divides in two. I am so grateful to her for not asking me anything about Nana. It’s a shame they never met, because I think Nana
Josie and Pat Print would have really liked each other.

‘Did you manage to write the rest of that diary?’ she asks.

‘Every day, so far.’

‘I had you down as a diary writer,’ says Pat. ‘I’d love to read it, if you want me to? You can give it to Miss Poplar. Well, this is my track.’ Pat Print points
towards the nature pond.

‘And this is mine,’ I say, pointing up dog-poo alley towards the road.

‘Well, I’m sure our paths will cross again,’ Pat smiles. ‘Moooooooses!’ she calls . . . and he chases after her.

Question Mark phoned Dad to tell him that tomorrow Nana’s going to be on the radio programme called Start
the Week
Question Mark didn’t want us to come
across it by chance, in case we had a shock, hearing her voice.

There is nothing to do. On Sundays we always visit Nana. Even though Dr Clem said we are always welcome to drop in and see them at the hospice, it would seem odd without Nana. Anyway,
Nana’s body’s not in her room any more. It’s been moved to what they call the Chapel of Rest. We could go and see her there, I suppose, but Dad says he doesn’t feel the
need.

I lie on my bed reading the same lines of my book over and over again, without taking any of the meaning in. It doesn’t feel like I’m alone because of Nana’s easel. It’s
a bit like having another person sitting in the corner of the room, watching me. I couldn’t sleep last night. I just kept feeling Nana’s hand clasping my wrist and chanting, ‘Wear
the charm, Mira . . . wear the charm . . . Why aren’t you wearing the charm?’ This morning my head aches as if someone’s tightening a clamp round it, so I could really do without
Mum in my room right now. She’s brought up a bag of Nana’s old clothes for me to look through.

‘Some of this is real vintage stuff, Mira. It would be a shame to throw it away. Have a look and see if you want anything.’

I suppose she gets the hint when I don’t answer, because she closes the door quietly behind her, leaving me alone with the bag. As soon as I open the zip, Nana’s sandalwood smell
fills the room, like a genie escaping from a bottle. There’s a suede green jacket that looks 1960s, two pairs of jeans and lots of pretty Indian tops, strappy sandals and walking boots. I try
on the jeans and they fit me perfectly. I put on Nana’s orange beaded top that still smells of her. I love the feel of Nana’s clothes against my skin. I am trying to work out if wanting
to wear them is weird, but it doesn’t feel wrong . . . it’s just like a memory of her, and that’s what’s left when someone you love is dead . . . and their smell.

What else is in this bag? One whole boxful of Nana’s carefully folded wrapping paper. There are a few scraps of beautiful colours, and full pieces that Nana must have bought ready to wrap
. . . And there’s ribbon too, fine and wide, in every colour of the rainbow . . . For each piece of wrapping and each coloured ribbon, she had someone in mind . . . There’s some deep
blue ribbon and white tissue paper and some stickers with runners on them. It’s Krish’s birthday in a week’s time. I bet that was meant for him.

I am thinking of moving Nana’s easel out of my room, because in the darkness, with only the landing light casting shadows around the room, it looks even more like a person standing in the
corner, watching me. I am afraid to go to sleep. I don’t know what I’m afraid of, except that I hate the thought of Nana’s body still lying in the hospice. If only she could be
moved to her flat, or even to our house, so that we could look after her ourselves. Dad says her body is just a shell now and that her spirit is free and I think he’s right. But the question
is where is Nana’s spirit? In the gloom, I look over to her easel. I swear it’s beckoning to me.