I want to rush down into the audience and hug her, but I have to stay up here on the stage while Mr Roberts presents me with a WINNER pin-badge – a gold one this time.
‘A gold star for a gold-star performance!’ he says, shaking my hand vigorously.
His own hands are wringing wet, but what does it matter? He’s a lovely teacher, they’re all lovely teachers, even Mr Juniper. Mr Roberts calls everyone out onstage to line up and take a final bow. Jack comes leaping out and gives me a big hug in front of everyone!
Then the contest is finished, but it’s not all over: there are refreshments – juice and tea and little bits of cheese on Ritz crackers – and we can go and mingle with our parents.
Mum’s already got a cup of tea when I get to her, and we hug so hard we nearly spill it all over her best blue top.
‘Oh, Destiny, you sang it so wonderfully!’ she says.
Lots of parents come up and congratulate us both, even Angel’s mum, though Angel herself glares at me and says that silver is ultra-cool and gold is just tacky bling.
Miss Lewis, our IT coordinator, comes up with her big camera. ‘I’ve been recording the show for the school archives. I can easily burn you a DVD of the show if you’d like it, Mrs Williams,’ she says.
‘Yes please, that would be wonderful!’ says Mum.
I raise an eyebrow at her. ‘We haven’t got a DVD player, Mum!’
‘Yes, but I can always borrow someone else’s, can’t I?’ she says. ‘I want to relive every single moment.’
I don’t need a DVD to remind me of my performance. I’ll remember every split second of it for the rest of my life. It plays inside my head all evening – and long after Mum’s asleep I relive it. It’s wonderful that I’ve won. It’s amazing that all four teachers gave me ten out of ten, even Mr Juniper who never gives full marks to anyone. It’s great that I beat Angel and that Jack gave me a hug. It’s fantastic that Mr Roberts said when I was going home that he was really proud of me. But the best thing of all was standing there onstage, my voice soaring, nailing every note.
I lie wide awake, not wanting to go to sleep, savouring it all. But I obviously sleep at some stage because I wake with a start in sunlight. Mum’s standing over me with a breakfast tray.
‘Hi, sleepyhead,’ she says. ‘I thought I’d better wake you. It’s gone eleven!’
‘Oh goodness! I bet you’ve been up for hours, Mum,’ I say sleepily.
‘Just done a bit of tidying. You know me, I’m hopeless at lying-in even on my day off. I was thinking, Destiny – shall we have a little day out to celebrate? We could go into Manchester, look round the shops, maybe go on the big wheel? Or we could maybe catch a train to the seaside. It’s a lovely day.’
‘It’s a bit late, isn’t it, Mum?’
‘Well, we’ve got all day. We can please ourselves, little singing star,’ says Mum, playfully pinning my gold star on my pyjama top.
I look at it proudly, letting my finger outline its five little points, wondering whether I’d sooner go to the shops or the seaside. Though weren’t we going to do something else on Saturday? I puzzle in my head – and then remember with a start.
‘Oh, Mum, we’re going to the doctor’s!’
‘What?’ Mum acts like she doesn’t understand for a moment. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Destiny, I don’t want to spoil a lovely free Saturday going to the doctor’s. I’m fit as a fiddle anyway, there’s no point.’
‘Mum, you promised!’
‘Yes, all right, I will go. I’ll make an appointment for next week – will that make you happy?’
‘You’re going this morning!’
‘I can’t, I haven’t got an appointment, silly.’
‘You should have rung up and made one earlier! I should have woken up and made you. Oh, Mum, how could I have forgotten?’ I take two bites of toast, a big gulp of tea, and then get out of bed.
‘What are you doing? You haven’t finished your breakfast!’
‘I’m going to get washed and dressed and then I’m going to drag you to the clinic and see if they’ll make room for you somehow.’
‘You’re acting daft, Destiny. I told you, I’ll go next week. Don’t let’s waste this lovely day trailing off to the medical centre, especially as I’m one hundred per cent certain they won’t see me anyway.’
I think Mum’s probably right, but I can’t give in. I look down at my little badge, horrified that I could have been so caught up in my own success that I forgot all about my mum’s health. I can see plain as anything now that she’s ill. She’s not just thin, she’s not just anxious. It’s as if she’s got something inside her and it’s burning her up.
‘You’re coming with me,’ I say.
‘I’m not going to that clinic, not this morning.’
‘You’re coming, even if I have to pick you up and carry you there,’ I say. I make a sudden grab at her and lift her right off the ground. There’s so little of her now it’s like picking up a six-year-old.
‘Put me down, you mad girl,’ says Mum, struggling. ‘Ouch – you’re hurting!’
I look down. My pin-badge has scratched her chest. It’s only a little scratch but it looks alarmingly red on her white skin.
‘Oh, Mum, I’m sorry,’ I say, setting her down gently.
‘It’s all right, I’m fine,’ she says.
‘No you’re not, and you know it. You’re just scared of going to the clinic and seeing a doctor.’
‘Well, is it any wonder?’ Mum says. ‘Suppose I am ill, seriously ill – what do we do then? Suppose there’s nothing the doctors can do to make me better?’
She’s nearly crying now and I put my arm round her.
‘You mustn’t be frightened. There’ll be heaps of things they can do. They’ll get you better in no time. They’ll just need to find the right pills,’ I parrot.
I’m trying to be comforting, but inside I’m terrified. What if they really can’t make Mum better? What if it’s cancer? What if she’s dying? How can I ever live without my mum?
I get washed and dressed in double-quick time and then we set off for the clinic. We go by the shortest route, through the estate. As if I’m scared of silly boys in gangs now. I’ve got far worse things to worry about.
The word clinic makes you imagine a gleaming building with nurses bustling around in white uniforms and patients sitting subdued, silently waiting their turn to see the doctor. This clinic is an ugly little prefab, with graffiti sprayed all over the walls. Inside it’s pandemonium: little kids running up and down, people shouting, and one receptionist looking like she’s going to burst into tears.
‘Let’s go home,’ says Mum. ‘I can’t be doing with all this. I feel a bit woozy.’
‘Exactly. That’s why you’re here,’ I say, hanging onto her hand. I tug her up to the receptionist. ‘Can my mum have an appointment for this morning, please?’
‘What? No, the clinic’s nearly over, and we’re completely booked up. She’ll have to come back on Monday,’ she says dismissively.
‘OK, I’ll come back Monday,’ says Mum. She’s got beads of sweat on her forehead. ‘Come on, Destiny. It’s so hot in here. I need to get some air. It’s all right. I’ll come back on Monday, like she says.’
But I know she won’t come back, she’s far too afraid. She’ll go to work and I won’t be there to make her.
‘I’m so sorry, but this is an emergency,’ I say.
‘All our emergency appointments are taken. She’ll have to come back on Monday,’ says the receptionist, getting impatient.
‘Destiny, I’m going all swimmy,’ Mum gasps, and then she falls to the floor, crumpling up at my feet.
‘Mum, Mum – oh, Mum!’ I crouch beside her, slipping my arm round her, putting her head on my lap. ‘Oh, Mum, please wake up. Please be all right. Please don’t die!’
Mum’s big staring eyes open slowly. ‘What happened?’ she whispers.
The receptionist has run for the doctor, the families have quie
tened, apart from one small child who’s crying.
‘I think you just fainted, Mum,’ I say.
The doctor is a thin Asian man with a gentle face. He’s kneeling beside Mum, taking her pulse.
‘Can you examine my mum today and tell us what’s wrong?’ I beg.
‘Of course I can. Right this minute. We’ll just see if you can stand up now,’ he says to Mum, carefully helping her.
He leads her off into his consulting room. I try to follow but the receptionist catches hold of me.
‘No, you wait there. The doctor needs to see your mother in private.’
So I have to sit down and wait, with everyone else glaring at me because Mum’s inadvertently pushed in front of all of them. I pick up a tattered magazine worn furry from thumbing, but I can’t concentrate. I stare at the clock and try to imagine what’s going on with Mum. She’s been in with the doctor for five minutes – then ten. What’s he doing to her?
Someone’s muttering angrily that they have to get to work for their lunch-time shift and now they’re going to be late. The little kid is still crying, a dismal wail that goes on and on. Its mother doesn’t try to pick it up or even wipe its nose. Someone else stands up and stomps out, giving up on their appointment. Mum’s been in there fifteen minutes – twenty.
I stand up and start along the corridor.
‘Where are you going?’ the receptionist calls.
‘I’m going to find my mum. She’s been gone so long. She might have fainted again. She needs me,’ I say.
But just then the consulting-room door opens, and there’s Mum, chalk-white and trembling.
‘Oh, Mum!’
‘I’m OK,’ she mutters quickly. She turns back. ‘Thank you so much, Doctor. I’ll go to the hospital on Monday then, first thing.’
‘The hospital!’ I gasp.
The room starts spinning, and I wonder if I’m going to faint too.
‘It’s all right, Destiny. It’s for blood tests. But it’s not what you think. Come on, darling, let’s get out of here, and then I’ll tell you,’ says Mum, pulling me.
We stand outside the little concrete clinic and Mum holds me by both hands.
‘I’m truly OK, darling. I don’t know why I fainted like that. I suppose I got horribly worked up inside. I must have made such a fool of myself. Did my skirt ride up when I fell?’
‘No, you did it all very gracefully, but I thought for one minute you were dead. Mum, why have you got to have blood tests at the hospital? Are they testing you for cancer?’
‘No. That’s what I’ve thought I had, all these months. I was losing so much weight and feeling so weird all the time. But it’s nothing like that. The doctor thinks there’s something wrong with my thyroid gland,’ says Mum.
‘What’s that? Is it serious?’
‘Well, I was crazy to leave it so long, just because I was so scared. The doctor thinks this over-active thyroid is why I’ve got so thin, and why I feel so worked up and anxious all the time. It even affects your eyes, makes them go all funny, just like mine. But they can cure it, Destiny. When they’ve tested how much thyroid hormone is in my blood they can give me special medicine and it will sort itself out. He’s promised they can make me completely better. Oh, I can’t believe it. I’ve been so worried, but it’s all right. We’re all right, you and me, babe. We’re going to be fine.’
12
SUNSET
We stagger through the rest of Sweetie’s party somehow. Half the little girls keep peering anxiously at Mum, wondering if she’s suddenly going to shout at them too. Mum herself stays bright red. Even her chest is painfully mottled. She smiles whenever the camera points her way, she sings Happy Birthday to Sweetie when the cake’s brought in, and she even chats to the mums and nannies while Mr Humbug organizes party games – but her fists are clenched. She doesn’t chat to Dad. She doesn’t even look in his direction.
Dad is trying to seem ultra-cool and relaxed, lolling around and laughing with Sweetie or mock-wrestling with Ace – but he’s not looking at Mum. He keeps getting texts on his phone and going off into a corner to look at them.
Rose-May talks earnestly to the Hi! journalist, maybe begging her not to write about the banished birthday guest. Sweetie carries on with her party valiantly but her laughter is high-pitched, and when she fails to win a party game she bursts into tears.
‘Oh, Sweetie, you mustn’t cry on your birthday! It’s only a silly game!’ Mum says, though she promised Sweetie she’d win every single game. ‘Now come along, you don’t want to have red eyes and a blotchy face in the photos, do you?’
Sweetie stops crying almost immediately, and even gives the little girl who won a big kiss, but she spends the rest of her party with her thumb in her mouth. People start to leave, though the birthday food is mostly untouched and Mr Humbug is only halfway through his party repertoire.
We carry on grimly until the last guest is gone. Mr Humbug and Miss Barley Sugar and Miss Lemon Drop get paid and go. The Hi! Magazine people pack up all their equipment and go too. The party planners roll up the white drapes and the rugs and gather the jars of sweets and the fairy lights. Rose-May leaves, shaking her head. The party’s over.
Then it starts.
Mum walks up to Dad and slaps him hard on the face. Claudia takes hold of Sweetie and Ace and hustles them out of the room. She hasn’t got a spare hand for me. She calls me but I ignore her, standing at the door.
‘Don’t you dare slap me around, Suzy! Do that again and I’ll slap you straight back, right in the chops.’
‘How dare you invite that little tart to Sweetie’s party!’
‘Liz is a friend. I’ve got a perfect right to invite who the hell I want to my kid’s party.’
‘Who was that child? Is she yours too?’
‘What? Are you crazy? Liz is only a kid herself. She brought her little niece – poor little moppet, she’s probably traumatized, you yelling at her like that. I’ve had just about enough of your jealous tantrums, Suzy.’
‘And I’ve had enough of your lies and your girlfriends. I’m sick of all this sneaking around, all these whispers and texts and secret meetings. If you want her so much, why don’t you clear out and go off with her?’
‘All right – I’ll do just that,’ says Dad.
He stands up and walks to the door. I try to catch hold of him, crying, but he brushes me to one side, barely looking at me. He walks right out of the house.
Mum sits on the sofa, thumping the cushions with her fists, tears spilling down her red cheeks.
‘Oh, Mum,’ I say, but when I try to put my arms round her she wrenches away from me. ‘Don’t cry, Mum. He’ll come back,’ I say, over and over.
I’m sure he’ll come back. Maybe he’ll stay out overnight again, but he’ll be back in the morning.
But he doesn’t come back, not for the whole of Sunday. He’s not back on Monday. Claudia says we still have to go to school. Mum doesn’t say anything at all. She just stays in bed most of the time, crying.
I don’t tell anyone at school. I wear my black T-shirt and jeans and mittens day after day. I wash them out at night and hang them over the towel rail in my bathroom. I don’t concentrate in class. I compose new songs instead. I am especially pleased with In My Black Clothes.
I am in my black clothes,
I wear the colour of death.
I sob, I sigh, I wonder why
I go on drawing breath.
Nobody loves me, nobody cares,
I wander the world alone.
I cannot eat, I cannot drink,
Cannot talk on the phone.
I hold my tongue and close my eyes,
I shut my mouth up tight.
I am in my black clothes –
Won’t someone see my plight?
I write it down in my school jotter and then tear it out, ready to stick in my blue velvet notebook tonight. But the song flutters out as I trudge to the classroom door when the lunch-time bell goes, and my teacher, Lucy,
picks it up. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
She glances at it and then stares at me. She’s looking anxious. ‘What’s this, Sunset?’
‘Nothing, Lucy,’ I say stupidly.
‘Did you write this? It’s very disturbing.’
I see Sheba nudge Lila.
‘Wonky Gob’s written a dirty poem!’ she says delightedly.
‘Read it out, Lucy!’ Sheba begs.
‘Go on, give us a treat,’ says Lilac.
Lucy holds my page up. Oh God, please don’t let her read it aloud. They will all laugh at me and I will die.
‘I can’t read it out, it’s too private,’ says Lucy
This makes them giggle even more.
‘Lucy means it’s too rude.’
‘Get old Wonky Gob! I didn’t think she had it in her.’
‘I think it would be a good idea if you both went and had your lunch,’ says Lucy.
The teachers don’t believe in direct commands, but Lucy gets her point across and they drift off. I try to go too, but she calls me back.
‘Sunset, I think we need a little talk. Come and sit down, dear.’
‘Please could I have my song back?’ I mumble.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. So it’s a song, is it? How does the tune go?’
I shrug my shoulders, though I’ve worked it out in my head. It’s very high and insistently rhythmic, a bit like a religious chant.
‘It’s very good,’ Lucy says.
I can’t help feeling pleased, even though this is so humiliating.
‘But it’s very, very sad. Do you feel very, very sad, Sunset?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I say.
She’s still looking worried. ‘I know you haven’t got many friends at school just yet,’ she says tentatively.
‘I don’t want friends,’ I lie. ‘I like to be by myself.’
‘But it can be very lonely sometimes. And I know you say you’re fine, but you seem sad. I could suggest to a couple of girls that they be specially kind to you for a few days—’
‘Not Sheba and Lilac!’
‘No, I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ Lucy concedes. ‘But two of the others, maybe?’
‘No. Please. I’m totally fine,’ I say, agonized.