Vicky Angel (12 page)

“A load of
pansies
?” says Vicky.

“They're heartsease. For remembrance.”

“What do all the plastic tulips signify, for God's sake?” Vicky asks.

“I don't know. It means they miss you. Don't be horrid about them.”

“The dinner ladies were always horrid to me when I had school dinners. Especially the cook. Remember she called me Madam Fusspot when I didn't want the old curled-up bit of pizza and asked for the new batch?”

“Well, she was nearly in tears the other day when she served me my lunch, getting all worked up about you.”

“Shame she can't toss a few fresh extra-cheesey pizzas my way. That's one of the bummers about bobbing around the ether. No nosh!” Vicky's staring at the statue. “Who's the lady in the veil? Is it Mary?”

“She's got roses. I think she might be Saint Dorothy. Or maybe she's Saint Barbara or Saint Theresa. One of the virgins who died young.”

“Just my luck! It's not fair. I
so
wanted to see what sex was like. I should have gone a bit further when I snogged Ryan at the Christmas party. Oh well, you'll have to do it for me in the future, Jade.”

“No, thanks. I don't fancy the idea one bit.” I pause. “Not that anyone would fancy me anyway.”

“Oh, well. You can always fall back on Fatboy Sam,” says Vicky. “Only don't let him fall back on
you
or you'll get crushed to death! At least
my
death was tragic.
Yours
would be ludicrously comic.”

“I don't know why you have to be so mean about Sam.”

“
Fatboy
.”

“He's obviously still besotted with you.”

“Yeah, well. Is that supposed to make me feel
flattered
?”

“Vicky, he's the one person who seems to understand about you and me.”

“But we don't want him to understand. The next time he lumbers over in our direction tell him to get lost.”

I don't have to. Sam keeps his distance, even on Fun Run Fridays.

It's even less fun now. Mr. Lorrimer is still kind to me but I don't think he likes me anymore. He's shocked now he's found out I can be so mean. I'm shocked too. I don't like me either.

This Friday Mr. Lorrimer packs us all in the school minivan and drives us to Fairwood Park. We run for forty minutes along the cycle track and then up the hill and round by the stream and eventually back to the car park. Well, some of us run. The seriously sporty guys streak ahead,
the team girls bobbing along behind, then all the middling runners, the stragglers … and after a long, long gap there's me, red in the face and gasping, with Sam about ten paces behind.

Whenever I stop he stops too, because he never overtakes me. I'm careful not to look round, but I can hear the thud of his trainers and his wheezing breath. Then suddenly there's a much heavier thud and a gasp. I've got to look now.

Sam's tripped on a tree root. He's lying spread out, arms and legs akimbo, so he looks like a great gray toad.

Vicky bursts out laughing. I start sniggering too. Sam looks up at me, his glasses knocked sideways so they're dangling from one ear. His eyes look pink and naked unframed. I feel meaner than ever. I give Vicky a shove to get her out of the way and run over to him.

“Sam. I'm sorry. I wasn't really giggling at you.”

“Feel free to have a belly laugh,” he mumbles into the grass.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

“No, I'm just lying here because I fancy a nap.”

“Oh, Sam.” His legs still look weirdly froglike. Maybe they're both broken? I kneel down and start kneading his tracksuit gingerly. Sam tenses. Then he starts to shake. Is he sobbing? No,
he's
the one laughing now.

“What's funny?”

“You're tickling me! What are you
doing
? Feeling me up?”

I take my hands off him as if he were red hot.

“Of course not! I was checking you for broken bones.”

“Just a broken heart,” Sam mutters, getting up on his hands and knees. He groans dramatically.

“Are you
sure
you're OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, staggering to his feet. “How to make a complete prat of yourself in five easy stages.” He pats his big belly. “I'm not quite Mr. Fighting-Fit Six-Pack-Stomach
just
yet.”

“Still, all this running is good for you. Good for us.”

“Yeah, like you really need to lose weight, Jade.”

“Well, I need to get fit.”

“Does it … help any?” Sam says delicately.

“Not a lot.”

“Well …” Sam gestures. “After you. Don't worry. I won't tag on. If I stumble again just leave me lying there, right? If I'm still in the same comatose position when you jog back you'd better give me a prod.”

“No, I'll sit on your tummy and use you as a picnic bench. Oh come on, Sam, let's run together. I'm sorry I was such a pig before.”

“It's OK. I made allowances.”

“Seems like everyone's been doing that. Which makes me feel really bad. And it's not like I'm the only one missing Vicky. I mean, you were obviously nuts about her too, Sam.”

He stares at me. “
She's
not the one I'm nuts about!” he says.

There's a long pause while I take this in. Then we both start running, red in the face. Sam can't be keen on
me
?

“Didn't you realize?” Sam puffs.

“Is it because you can't have a thing about Vicky now? So you've transferred it over to me?”

“No! I've never been that keen on Vicky. I didn't like the way she always bossed you about.”

“No she didn't. Well, she
did
, but I didn't mind.”

I know she's lurking somewhere now, listening. She's going to be so angry with me. I decide I don't care too much when I'm running round with Sam but I get worried when I'm at home. I wait for her to come, feeling sick, scared she'll come, scared she won't. She waits until I'm asleep and then she's there screaming and I wake screaming too and tell myself it's only a dream, but it isn't a dream, it's real, Vicky's dead, and it's my fault….

“You look like a little ghost, Jade!” Mum says in the morning, while Vicky laughs harshly.

I must look really awful because Mrs. Cambridge comes up to me in the corridor and asks if I'm ill.

“No, I'm fine, Mrs. Cambridge,” I say, trying to edge past her.

“No, wait a minute, Jade. I want you to come to the library straight after lunch, at twelve-thirty sharp.”

“But we're not allowed in the library then, Mrs. Cambridge.”

“Not unless you have special permission. And I'm giving it to you. Twelve-thirty, right?”

I don't make it up to the library until twenty to one. I haven't been held up having lunch. I haven't even bothered with it. It's just that I can't seem to arrive on time anywhere now. Time doesn't seem to have any meaning. Mostly I can't remember if it's morning or afternoon. Five minutes can take a lifetime, or five hours disappear altogether.

Mrs. Cambridge is waiting in the library with an older woman. I wonder if she's a new teacher. She's got untidy gray hair straggling out of a tortoiseshell clip. She's wearing those baggy flowery trousers that arty grannies love and a plain gray top with an odd stiff white collar. Ah. I get it.

I want to make a bolt for it but Mrs. Cambridge spots me through the glass door and leaps up. I have to go into the library and join them.

“There you are, Jade! I was about to send out a search party. Now, this is Mrs. Wainwright.”

“You're a vicar?”

She laughs. “I wish. No, I'm still training, Jade. I've only got chaplain status at the moment.”

“You might have seen Mrs. Wainwright at the Lakelands Shopping Centre,” says Mrs. Cambridge.

I blink. Mrs. Wainwright doesn't look like she shops in Kookai and Morgan and La Senza.

“I'm kind of attached to it. It's the town's true cathedral. Thousands worship there every day. The church can only muster ten good old women by way of congregation so I mill round the Centre with the shoppers and see if anyone wants a chat.”

“And now Mrs. Wainwright's here to have a little
chat with you, Jade,” says Mrs. Cambridge. “Well, I'd better dash. I'm supposed to be on playground duty. See you, Stevie.”

So they're obviously mates. I can't believe this. Maybe Mrs. Wainwright is going to
pray
with me!

“Oh God, this is so embarrassing,” I mumble.

“Don't worry, I'm embarrassed too,” says Mrs. Wainwright. “And you mentioned God first, Jade, not me. I take it you're not a churchgoer?”

“No.”

“Well, relax, I'm not here to try to convert you— though should you feel the desire to come to church you'd be ever so welcome. No, Anne—Mrs. Cambridge—asked me to pop into the school because she knows I've done a grief counseling course.”

“Oh.”

“Oh dear! You look like I've just announced I'm a dentist. Don't worry, I'm not going to drill into your soul. We can just have a chat. Or we can squirm silently for ten minutes and then call it a day.”

“Look, it's very kind of you, but …”

“But you feel it's none of my business.”

“Well, that sounds rude.”

“And you think I couldn't possibly understand. Here I am, a fat holy lady in silly trousers, smiling away without a care in the world. What do I know about grief? Well, listen, Jade, I don't know what it's like for you, but I do know what it's like for me.”

I look at her.

“I lost a child. I lost several babies, I kept having
miscarriages, but then I had a little girl, the loveliest little girl, Jessica. Want to see her photo?” She brings out her wallet and shows me a picture of a little curly-haired kid in stripy dungarees.

“She's cute.”

“Yes, she was adorable. Everyone thought so, not just her besotted old mum and dad. But then she got ill. Leukemia. They can often cure it nowadays but they couldn't cure our Jess. She died when she was five.” She's talking in this completely matter-of-fact tone, as if she's telling me a weather forecast, but her eyes are bright and tears start sliding down her cheeks.

I look away quickly.

“I always cry when I talk about her,” she says, taking her glasses off and wiping the smears on her gray clerical top. “Have you done much crying, Jade?”

“I don't really cry much.”

“It can be quite soothing, you know.” She blows her nose—on a tissue, not her top—and puts her glasses back on. “Tears are meant to get rid of all the toxins. You feel lousy when you're grieving, right? Tears can heal. They've done this analysis on tears. Don't ask me how they do it, you hardly want to hold little thimbles to your eyes when you're in the midst of hysterics, but anyway, the chemical content of misery tears is different from the ordinary watering you get when you've got a bit of dust in your eye.” She peers at me. “You think I'm waffling a whole load of nonsense, don't you?”

I shake my head.

“Did you have any more children after Jessica?”

This time she catches her breath. Then she lets it out, a sad sigh. “No. I tried. But it didn't happen. So I decided to see if I could help other people. Somehow that's helped me even more.”

“But it doesn't make Jessica come back.”

“No. It doesn't. It still hurts very, very badly. Some days I still don't want to get up. But after I've had a hot bath and munched up my muesli I can usually face the day. I don't believe in grieving on an empty stomach, as is self-evident.” She pats the flowery hillock of her tummy. “It looks as if you could do with an entire vat of muesli, Jade. Can't you eat at all at the moment, my lovie?”

“I don't really get hungry.”

“Chocolates? Ice cream? Go for a few wicked treats. Sometimes junk food is the only answer if you feel sick at the sight of a plate of meat and veg. I bet your mum's nagging you to eat, isn't she?”

“Yes, but … it sounds daft, but I can't always swallow, like there's something wrong with my throat.”

“Oh, getting your swallowing out of synch is ever so common, my pet. Haven't you heard that expression, a lump in the throat? All sorts of things go haywire when you're grieving. You might get short of breath, or feel sick all the time, or have a tummy-ache or a pain in the chest, literal heartache. You
probably feel tired out all the time too. Grieving is very hard work.”

I lean against her, feeling weak with relief.

“So other people feel like this too?”

“Lots and lots. I went a bit funny in the head too. I was so
angry
. I was furious with everyone. I was even furious with poor little Jess for dying.”

“When Jessica died …”

“Yes?”

“Did you talk …?”

“Talk to her? All the time. Still do. Though it gets a bit muddly, because she'd be around your age now and yet mostly I think of her as my little five-year-old.”

“When you talk to her … Is it like she's real?”

“Oh yes. Especially just after she died. I kept feeling if I'd only rush into her bedroom in time I'd actually see her cross-legged on the rug playing with all her Barbie dolls. It was years before I could bear to change a thing in Jess's room.”

“But you didn't actually
see
her?”

“I kept thinking I saw her. In the shops, on the bus, even on television. There'd be this mop of curls, skinny little elbows, a funny pair of dungarees, and my heart would turn over, sure it was Jess at last. It's a very common phenomenon. You're searching desperately for your loved one. But sooner or later you have to realize it's no use. They're not coming back.” She looks me straight in the eye. “Vicky's not coming back, Jade.”

She's trying so hard.

“It's the first task of grieving, my love. We have to accept that Vicky is dead. It's so difficult, especially because she died so suddenly.”

It's not difficult. It's impossible. Vicky saunters into the room and sits down beside her, as real and startling as the roses on Mrs. Wainwright's trousers.