‘Yes he is, yes he is, yes he is!’ I said inside my head.
I made Dancer whisper it to Vita and Maxie and me every night when we went to bed. We all believed her. Maybe Mum did too, in spite of what she said. She paid the Fairyland rent herself right up until Easter.
We’d all started hoping that Dad would come back then, even if it was just for a visit. He always made such a special day of Easter. I remembered one Easter, when Vita was very little and Maxie was just a baby, Dad hired a huge rabbit costume from a fancy-dress store and pretended to be the Easter Bunny, crouching down and hopping, flicking his floppy ears from side to side.
Another year he hid hundreds of tiny wrapped chocolate eggs in every room of the house and all over the garden, and we spent all Easter morning running round like crazy, seeing who could find the most (me!).
Last year Dad gave us all different eggs. Maxie got a big chocolate egg wrapped in yellow cellophane with a toy mother hen and three fluffy chicks tucked into the ribbon fastening. Vita got a pink Angelina Ballerina egg with a tiny storybook attached. I got a Casper Dream fairy egg with a set of Casper Dream flower fairy postcards. He gave Mum a special agate egg, with whirls of green and grey and pink, very smooth and cool to touch.
‘It’s called a peace egg,’ Dad told her. ‘You hold it in your hand and it calms you down when you’re feeling stressed.’
Mum held her agate egg a lot through January and February and March. Sometimes she rolled it over her forehead as if she was trying to soothe all the worries inside her head. She held onto it most of this new Easter Day.
Mum tried her hardest to make it a special day. She made us our favourite boiled eggs for breakfast and she even drew smiley faces on each one.
We had chocolate eggs too, big luxury eggs with bright satin ribbons. When we bit into them, teeth clunking against the hard chocolate, we found little wrapped truffles inside. Mum said we could eat as much chocolate as we wanted just this once – but we were all keyed up waiting for Dad to come with his Easter surprises.
We waited all morning. Gran cooked a chicken for lunch. We waited all afternoon. Gran suggested we all went for a walk in the park but we stared at her as if she was mad. We didn’t want to risk missing Dad.
‘He’s not going to come,’ Gran said to Mum. ‘You know he’s not. You haven’t seen sight or sound of him since that dreadful day when he ran off with the kids.’
‘He didn’t run off with us, Gran. It was just a day out,’ I said heavily.
‘A day and half the night, with the police out searching,’ Gran sniffed.
‘I have heard from him,’ Mum said. ‘You know he sent another cheque last week. And he put Happy Easter to all of us. So I thought . . .’ Mum’s hand tightened on her peace egg.
‘You thought he’d come running back with his silly fancy presents, getting the kids all over-excited and driving you mental,’ Gran said.
‘Shut up!’ Mum shouted. She suddenly flexed her arm and hurled her peace egg to the other side of the room. It landed with such a clunk we all jumped. The peace egg stayed smoothly intact, but it dented Gran’s video recorder and chipped a big lump out of Gran’s skirting board.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry!’ Mum said, starting to sob.
We thought Gran would be furious. Her eyes filled with tears too. She went to Mum and put her arms round her.
‘You poor silly girl,’ Gran said. ‘I can’t bear to see you sitting all tense and desperate, longing for him. You’re making yourself ill. Look how thin you’ve got.’
I looked at Mum properly. I hadn’t noticed. She really had got thin. Her eyes were too big in her bony face, her wrists looked as if they would snap, and her jeans were really baggy on her now, so that she had to keep them up with a tight belt.
It wasn’t fair. I missed Dad every bit as much as Mum and yet I hadn’t got thin, I’d got fatter and fatter and fatter.
It didn’t stop me creeping away and eating my entire Easter egg all in one go. I licked and nibbled and gnawed until every last crumb was gone. My mouth was a mush of chocolate, pink tongue covered, my teeth milky brown. I imagined my chocolate throat and chocolate stomach. Yet I still felt empty. I was like an enormous hollow chocolate girl. If anyone held me too hard I’d shatter into a thousand chocolate shards.
I felt so lonely during the Easter holidays. Whenever we went out to the shops or the park or the swimming baths there were fathers everywhere. They were making the teddies talk to the little kids in the Bear Factory; they were helping their kids feed the ducks and pushing swings and kicking footballs; they were jumping up and down playing Ring-a-Ring o’ Roses in the water.
There were dads in every television programme, making a fuss of their kids. One time we even spotted our dad in an old film. It was just a glimpse, in a crowd, but the plait was easy to spot.
‘It’s Dad, it’s Dad!’ I said.
‘Dad!’ Vita screamed, as if he could hear her.
Maxie didn’t say anything. He turned his back to the television. He’d stopped talking about Dad the last few weeks. He just looked blank when Vita and I said his name.
‘Maybe he’s forgotten him,’ said Vita, when we were getting ready for bed. Gran was in the bathroom with Maxie, washing his hair. He’d poured concentrated Ribena over his head because he said he wanted to dye his hair purple.
‘Don’t be silly, Vita, he can’t possibly have forgotten Dad already.’
‘Well, he’s such a baby. And totally weird,’ said Vita.
‘I know, but it’s only three months since we saw Dad.’
‘Three months two weeks and four days,’ said Vita.
I stared at her. Vita could barely add two and two.
‘How do you know so exactly?’
‘Because I’ve been marking it off on my calendar,’ said Vita.
‘What calendar?’
‘I made it at school just before Christmas. We had to stick it on an old card and do glitter and I got bored and did a red-glitter bikini on Jesus’ mummy and my teacher got cross with me and said I’d spoiled my calendar and couldn’t send it to anyone. So I put it in my desk and now I mark off the days,’ said Vita.
‘You could have given the calendar to Mum or Dad. Dad would have found it ever so funny,’ I said.
‘Well, I could give it to him when he comes back. I could do red-glitter hearts all round the edge of the dates,’ said Vita.
I thought of her own little red heart thumping with love for Dad underneath the fluffy kitten jumper Gran had knitted for her. I didn’t always like Vita but I loved her a lot. I wanted to give her a big hug but I knew she’d wriggle and fuss and say I was squashing her. I put Dancer on instead and she gently hugged Vita’s little stalk neck and blew breathy kisses into her ear.
‘Make Dancer kiss me,’ Maxie said, running into our room stark naked. His newly washed hair stuck up in black spikes.
‘Dancer doesn’t want to kiss silly little bare baby boys,’ said Vita primly. ‘Put something on, Maxie. We don’t want to see your woggly bits. I’m so so glad I’m a girl, aren’t you, Em? Dad always said I was his favourite little girl.’
‘He said I was his favourite grown-up girl,’ I said.
I wondered if he said that to Sarah now.
Maxie didn’t join in. He gathered up all his bears, a great tatty furry bundle. ‘We’re all bears,’ he shouted. ‘I’m bare and they’re bear! We’re all bears.’ He shrieked with laughter and yelled it over and over again, in case we hadn’t got it the first time. We did our best to ignore him, so he started nudging us with his teddies. He got wilder, bludgeoning us with bear limbs. One paw went right in my eye and hurt a lot. I frequently didn’t like Maxie and recently it was very hard to remember that I loved him.
He’d always been silly but now he acted positively demented, running around all over the place, yelling his head off, throwing baby tantrums in the supermarket and the street. Mum worried he might have some serious problem and thought she should take him to the do
ctor.
‘That child doesn’t need a doctor, he needs an old-fashioned smacked bottom,’ said Gran. ‘Plus a daily dose of syrup of figs to keep him regular. He spends hours in that toilet! Still, I’m not surprised – all his finicky ways with his food: won’t eat this, won’t eat that, and fuss fuss fuss if his beans touch his egg or his chips aren’t in straight lines, for pity’s sake. I’d never have let you play me up like that, Julie.’
‘Maxie’s traumatized, Mum,’ our mum protested.
‘Nonsense, he’s simply spoiled rotten. I’ve always thought you were an idiot pandering to him the way you do, giving in to every little fear and fancy. You’ve got to help him toughen up. After all, Maxie’s going to have to be the man of the family now.’
Vita and I collapsed into helpless laughter at the idea of Maxie the Man protecting us in any way whatsoever. Mum was near tears but she started snorting with laughter. Even Gran couldn’t help smiling. Maxie himself ran amok, laughing like a hyena though he didn’t understand the joke.
We called him Maxie the Man after that. For a couple of days he strutted around, growling in as deep a voice as he could manage, calling Vita and me his ‘little girlies’. He did his best to boss us about. We put up with it for a while because it was quite funny at times. Mum and Gran joined in, letting Maxie order them around. He took to calling Mum ‘Woman!’ and it always made her laugh.
‘Don’t you go calling me Woman, you saucebox,’ said Gran, shaking her finger at Maxie.
‘Gran’s Old Woman!’ I whispered to Vita.
‘I heard that!’ Gran said sharply. ‘I don’t think we should encourage Maxie. He’ll carry on in the same manner when he’s back at school, trying to tell all the teachers what to do.’
Gran had a point. I tried to get this across to Maxie but he just stood shaking his head at me, hands on his funny little hips.
‘Don’t take that tone of voice with me, Little Girlie,’ he said, coming out with one of Gran’s favourite phrases. ‘Kindly remember, I’m the Man of the House.’
‘No, you’re not, you silly little squirt,’ said Vita irritably. ‘Dad’s the Man of the House.’
Maxie didn’t react.
‘Maxie, you do remember Dad, don’t you?’ I asked.
Maxie shrugged. He tried to tell us off again, his hands clutching his sides so tightly that his shorts rose comically up each leg.
‘You look so stupid,’ said Vita. ‘No wonder they call you names at school.’
‘What names do they call him?’ I asked. They called me names and it was horrible. I couldn’t stand it if little Maxie was being teased like that too.
‘They call him heaps of different names,’ said Vita.
‘No they don’t!’ said Maxie.
‘Yes they do. All the Infants call him stuff.’
‘Like what?’
‘Maxie wee-wee, Maxie pee-pee, Maxie widdle—Oooh!’
Maxie leaped up at Vita and yanked her wispy hair so hard he pulled out a whole hank. Vita shoved Maxie violently. He toppled and banged his head, hard. Vita jumped on top of him and banged his head again, harder.
Mum and Gran came rushing. They had to prise them apart, both scarlet and screaming.
‘For pity’s sake, what’s the matter with you both? Are you trying to kill each other?’ said Gran, shaking them.
‘Yes!’ they both roared.
‘Come on, I’m not having children behaving like little devils in my house. Up to bed this minute, both of you.’ Gran seized hold of them by the wrists and started hauling them upstairs.
‘Mum, stop it, they’re upset,’ said our mum. ‘Leave them be. Come on, Maxie, Vita, stop crying. Come and I’ll read you both a story.’
Gran shook her head. ‘That’s plain silly, rewarding them for temper tantrums.’ She glared at me. ‘Why are you standing there so gormlessly, Em? Can’t you keep your little brother and sister out of mischief for two minutes?’
This was so horribly unfair I couldn’t bear it.
‘Why should I always have to sort them out just because I’m the eldest? I’m not their mother!’ I said.
‘Now stop that! You should be glad to help out. Your own mum is doing her best but she can’t cope.’
‘I can cope! You mind your own business, Mum!’ our mum shouted. ‘I know you mean well but I’m sick of you bossing the kids around and being so strict with them all the time. They’re not being deliberately naughty. They’re unhappy. We’re all bloody miserable.’
‘For pity’s sake, I’m only trying to help,’ said Gran. ‘It’s time you got a grip. It’s been months since that idiot walked out. Can’t you get over him?’
‘No I can’t,’ said Mum. ‘Come on, kids. We’ll go upstairs and leave Gran in peace.’
‘Are we still being sent to bed?’ said Vita, as we went upstairs.
‘Well, how about if we all come and cuddle up in my bed?’ said Mum.
‘Just Vita and Maxie?’ I said.
‘No, no, you too, Em darling. All of us. We’ll read stories and play games and I’ve got some chocolate tucked away somewhere.’
We all got into our night things and crammed in Mum’s bed, though it wasn’t as much of a squash now. Vita stroked Dad’s pillow.
‘Is it lonely not having Dad to cuddle up with?’ she said.
‘Of course it’s lonely, Vita,’ I said. I still often heard Mum crying if I had to get up in the night to go to the loo.
‘Yes, it’s very lonely,’ Mum said. ‘I sometimes take Dad’s pillow and tuck it in beside me and then in the middle of the night when I’m asleep it’s as if he’s there.’
‘You can borrow Dancer sometimes if you like,’ said Vita, making Dancer stroke Mum with her velvety paw.
‘You can have one of my teddies,’ said Maxie, patting Mum too.
Mum started talking more about Dad, telling us all the things she really missed, the way he hummed under his breath, the way he always invented some new sweet pet-name for her, the way he hugged her, the feel of his lovely long dark plait . . .
Vita and I started crying, remembering too. Maxie stayed dry-eyed, his pats changing to sharp little slaps.
‘Shut up, Mum,’ he said. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up.’
‘Now then, Maxie, you know you’re not supposed to say shut up. And I don’t want to shut up. I want to talk about Dad and how sad I am. I want you three to talk about him too. It might help us feel a bit better if we talk about him.’
‘Maxie’s forgotten Dad,’ Vita snuffled.
‘Don’t be silly, sweetheart, of course he hasn’t,’ said Mum.
‘He has. Maxie, who’s Dad?’ said Vita.
‘Don’t know, don’t know, shut up, shut up,’ said Maxie, struggling out from under the covers.
‘Ssh now, Maxie. Snuggle back in, darling,’ said Mum. ‘Oh dear, I know you don’t want to talk about Dad and yet I think we should.’
‘He’s coming back soon, Mum, we know he is,’ said Vita.
‘Well, we wish he’d come back,’ said Mum.
‘Em wished it. It will come true,’ said Vita. ‘We just mustn’t ever give up. That’s right, isn’t it, Em? Dancer says so.’
I took Dancer and made her nod her head.
‘I’m magic, my dears. I’ve lived with Santa and he’s taught me all his little tricks. He frequently confided in me. I was his right-hand reindeer.’ I made Dancer wave her right paw in the air, showing off.
They all laughed. I did too. It was so weird. I was working Dancer, making it all up as I went along, and yet it was almost as if she was a real separate person saying things I’d never think of.
She told us a long story about a child who asked for her dad to come back as her Christmas present. Santa had to search for this dad all the way across the world to Australia. It was stiflingly hot and sunny so Santa went as red as his robes and the furry reindeer were all exhausted, so they cooled off on Bondi beach. Santa paddled with his robes tucked up round his waist, showing his baggy lo
ngjohn pants. Dancer and all the other reindeers swam in the surf, seaweed swinging from their antlers. Then they all renewed their search and found the dad shearing sheep. It turned out he was on such a remote farm there wasn’t a postbox, so he didn’t know how much his daughter was missing him. As soon as he realized he jumped onto the sleigh with Santa, and Dancer and the team of reindeers galloped all the way across the world. The dad jumped off the sleigh at dawn and went running into the house. He woke up his little daughter—
‘And she cried, Daddy, oh my daddy,’ said Vita. She frowned. ‘But if Santa was dashing off to Australia and back how could he deliver all the children’s presents too?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, irritated. ‘He can manage anything. He’s magic, like I said.’
‘I think your story was magic, Em,’ said Mum. ‘You’re so good at making up stories. You obviously take after Dad. He could always make up wonderful things.’
‘She can’t take after Dad,’ said Vita. ‘He’s not Em’s real dad. He’s my dad.’
‘He’s been a lovely dad to Em too,’ said Mum. ‘I think he’s helped her make up super stories. You should write them down, Em. I’d love to keep them.’
‘To show Dad when he comes back?’
Mum sighed. ‘Darling, we’ve got to start thinking he’s not coming back.’
‘He is coming back, Mum. He is, he is, he is,’ I said.
‘Oh, Em. Do you really think if we say it enough times it will come true?’ said Mum.
‘It will,’ I said.
‘Definitely,’ said Vita. ‘Yes yes yes.’
‘Yep,’ Maxie mumbled, but he was half asleep.
The next day Mum sidled up to me when she came home from work.
‘Here, Em, I’ve got you a little present. Don’t let on to Vita and Maxie or they’ll feel hard done by.’ She handed me a paper bag. There was a familiar rectangular shape inside.
‘Oh Mum, is it the new Jenna Williams book?’
‘You and that Jenna Williams! No, take a look.’
I took a shiny red book out of the bag. I tried not to feel disappointed. I opened it up and saw blank pages.
‘It’s for your Dancer stories.’