Vicky Angel (7 page)

“I'm like a real Flower Fairy now,” Vicky says sadly. She points one toe and effortlessly glides upward and out the window.

I think she's gone to be with her mum and dad.
My
mum and dad look stiff and awkward, Mum in her navy work suit with her pink silk scarf and a lot of pink lipstick, Dad in his gray pinstripe, which is too tight for him now so that the jacket flap is pulled too far apart at the back, showing his big bum. I don't look much better myself. I wanted to wear my black trousers but Mum wouldn't hear of trousers for a funeral, so I'm wearing a dark gray long skirt I've always hated, with a white blouse and my black jacket. I feel a mess, and yet it seems so petty to fuss about the way I look on a day like this.

We're going to leave at half past ten to give us plenty of time, but then Dad is stuck in the bathroom while Mum and I stand fidgeting in the hall. It's the shift work, it always affects his stomach. Then there are cars blocking our parking space so it takes ages to squeeze out. We end up getting to the crematorium with only a couple of minutes to spare.

It's crowded. So many people are milling about that we all three stand confused, wondering what's happening. Then Mrs. Cambridge comes up, wearing a big-brimmed black hat and a gray suit, looking so elegant I don't even realize who she is for a second.

“There you are, Jade! We've been looking for you everywhere. You missed the rehearsal yesterday.”

Help! Mum's frowning, looking at me. But Mrs. Cambridge has me by the arm and is pushing me through the crowds to the chapel door.

“You're to sit right at the front, with all Vicky's class. We wanted your grade to be involved in the service. We thought you might like to read one of Vicky's essays. We've got it all marked. You go and sit at the front then. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, there's two chairs at the back. I must just go and have a quick word with Mr. Failsworth.”

She dashes off on her black patent high heels.

“Is she a
teacher
?” says Dad.

“How come you missed the rehearsal?” Mum hisses.

“I didn't feel well. I was in the sick room,” I whisper.

“Ah. Poor love. You should have said,” says Mum. “You always keep everything to yourself, Jade.”

I'm certainly keeping it to myself that I went on a jaunt up to London with the ghost of my best friend.

I can't see Vicky now.

I
can
see Vicky.

Oh, God, there's her coffin, covered in white lilies. Their sweet sickly smell is as overwhelming as chloroform. I stagger forward to the front row and sit down beside Vicky Two. My Vicky is just a few feet away, lying there in the coffin. I wonder what they've dressed her in. A long white nightie to match the lilies? And maybe more flowers in her hair, and lilies in her clasped hands? I wonder if Mrs. Waters dressed her like a big stiff doll?

“Are you all right, Jade?” Vicky Two whispers anxiously.

“I feel a bit sick.” I slump down in my chair, feeling the sweat on my forehead.

“Swap with me, Vicky Two,” Fatboy Sam whispers. He's rustling in his jacket pocket. When he's beside me, practically squashing me because we're all squeezed in so tight, he manages to pull out a small plastic bag of sandwiches.

“You can't eat in here!”

“I'm not going to, idiot. It's for you. In case you're sick.”

“What about your sandwiches?”

He puts his hand in the bag, but then shakes his head at the impossibility of taking them out in the chapel.

“Be sick on them. It doesn't matter,” he says nobly.

Mrs. Cambridge is peering our way. She edges over, walking delicately in her heels so that their
tapping isn't too insistent. I think she's going to tell us off, but she gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.

“You'll be fine, Jade, don't you worry,” she says. “Now, this reading. Shall we get Vicky to do it instead of you?”

I blink at her. Then I realize she means Vicky Two sitting next to me. Vicky Two's OK, but I can't stand the idea of her having anything to do with
my
Vicky.

“I'll read it,” I say, reaching for the book of Vicky's English essays.

I glance at it. It's very short. Vicky's essays always are. The only times they were a decent length were when she'd bribed me to write them for her. I got quite good at appropriating Vicky's style and way of expressing herself. I could often write better essays as Vicky than myself.

I haven't seen this one before. I remember the title, though. “Reasons to be Cheerful” … Miss Gilmore in English played us the old Ian Dury song.

Reasons to be cheerful. It seems a weird choice for Vicky's funeral. There's organ music playing, slow solemn stuff. Some of the girls behind me are crying already, though the funeral hasn't properly started yet.

Mr. and Mrs. Waters come in last, with the vicar. Mr. Waters is holding his wife tightly under her arm. She's got a new black designer suit with a short tight skirt and a flowery black-and-white
hat. She looks like she's going to a very grim Ascot. Mr. Waters gives me a little nod when he sees me staring, but Mrs. Waters looks straight through me. Maybe she doesn't want to see me. Maybe she
can't
. Her eyes don't look very focused. Perhaps she's been given some kind of tranquillizer to get her through today.

I feel like I've been drugged myself. None of this seems real. The vicar starts saying something and we all stand and sing “The Lord Is my Shepherd.” I think of the picture of Jesus wearing a long white gown and holding a big crook that used to be in my nan's bedroom. It's got nothing to do with
Vicky
. Then Mr. Failsworth gets up and starts saying his little piece and it's just like we're all at school. I hate the way he talks, all
slow
and
sincere
with an
up
beat to his voice. I bet he practices in his bathroom mirror at home. I hate what he's saying too, stuff about some stranger called
Victoria,
a lively dynamic girl, diligent, kind, loyal and hardworking. It's all rubbish. Vicky wriggled out of doing everything, she could be really mean sometimes, she didn't care tuppence about the school, she always said it was an old dump. She said
far
worse things about Mr. Failsworth. He hardly ever spoke to Vicky but his voice is thickening and he has to swallow every second to get to the end of his mini-sermon.

Then there's another hymn. The vicar is looking at the front pew on the other side. I wonder if Mr. or Mrs. Waters is going to say anything. No, she's
staring straight ahead at those awful curtains at the back. Mr. Waters is crying, his face red and shiny. It's Vicky's granddad who gets up and stands at the front, holding a crumpled piece of paper with shaky hands.

“Our Vicky,” he announces, like it's a title. He starts to read this little essay, all slow and stilted, tripping up on some of the words. He's a nice old man and I know Vicky loved her old Grandpops but this is still torture. He's going on about Our Little Vicky as a toddler and all her baby talk and funny little ways. I want to put my hands over my ears. I make little tutting movements with my tongue to distract myself.

“Are you OK?” Fatboy Sam whispers.

I hadn't realized I was making a noise.

“Vicky would have had a right laugh about all this treacly stuff,” Fatboy Sam whispers.

I stare at him in surprise. At least he understands the real Vicky. I've never really taken Sam seriously. No one does. He's just the fat guy who clowns around in class. He's not
sad,
no one teases him about his weight. But he's never counted as one of the
boys
. I didn't realize he reckoned Vicky so much.

I give him a little smile.

“You're holding out well, Jade,” he says. “My lunch is still unsullied.”

“So far!” I whisper, because Janice Biggs is playing her Handel party piece on the recorder and when she's finished it will be
my
turn.

I stand up when Janice stops. I feel a bit wobbly. Sam's hand is on my elbow, steadying me. I nod at him and then walk forward and face everyone. The chapel is packed, with people standing at the back. Vicky's full house. She'll be grinning triumphantly, waving her lilies.

“Reasons to be Cheerful,” I read. It's all so typically Vicky that I do it in her voice. It's almost as if I am her.

“‘Life is
fun,
one great big roller coaster swoop, right? It's fun to have a laugh with your best friend, it's fun to go out with a boy, it's fun to dance at a party, it's fun to stay up all night at a sleepover, it's fun to turn your music up really, really loud and sing along, it's fun to wind people up, it's fun to go shopping for new clothes with your mum, it's fun to perch on the arm of your dad's chair and twist him round your little finger, it's fun to look at yourself in the mirror and poke your tongue out …

“‘More Reasons to be Cheerful … Life is beautiful. Not just all the nature stuff, blue skies and blossoms and little bunny rabbits. Town things can be beautiful too. I think Lakelands Shopping Centre is seriously beautiful! I think all the big houses up on the hill are beautiful, London is beautiful, New York looks even more beautiful and I can't wait to go there. Travel is definitely beautiful. Holidays too.

“ ‘One last Reason to be Cheerful … Life is short. You don't know how long you've got so
make the most of it. Don't waste time moaning. Enjoy yourself!’”

There's such a hush. It's as if they're holding their breath. Everyone's looking at me as if Vicky is hiding behind me, saying the words herself.

I
don't go back to school after the funeral. Mr. and Mrs. Waters invite Mum and Dad and me back to their place. I've never been in Vicky's home without her. It's as if all its furniture is missing.

Vicky's relations are standing around awk-wardly, no one really knowing what to do or say. There's masses of food laid out on the table under cloths but Vicky's mother doesn't start serving any of it. She doesn't open the bottles of wine or the sherry. She just stands staring into space. She nods or shakes her head when people talk to her but you can tell she's not listening. Vicky's dad is crying again. Her gran has to take him out the room for a bit.

The conversation dies. People eye the food. It's not lunchtime yet but at least eating would give everyone something to do. I stand stiffly between my mum and dad. No one talks to us. Dad shifts
from one foot to the other, yawning. Mum glares at him, scared he'll show us up. She thinks everyone looks down on us because we live in the Oxford Estate.

“I can't help it. I haven't had any proper sleep,” Dad whispers.

His face is shiny and he's got sleepy dust in his eyes. Mum sighs, and raises her eyebrows when he gives another great yawn showing all his fillings, but they can't start a row here.

Then Vicky's gran bustles back and approaches Vicky's mum.

“I've put the kettle on, dear. I think we could all do with a cup of tea. And why don't we make a start on the food?”

It's as if she's switched on a light. Everyone jerks into action and makes for the table and hands round plates of food. Vicky's dad comes back, damp and red-eyed, bringing cans of beer from the fridge.

“There's wine,” says Vicky's mum.

“Yes, but this is for the lads.”

“So you want to have a drink-up at our Vicky's funeral?” says Vicky's mum, her voice so loud it silences everyone else.

It looks like they're the ones about to have the row. Vicky's mum looks round and sees everyone staring. Her mouth works as if she might be swearing but then her eyes fill with tears and she walks out into the kitchen.

“Oh dear,” says Vicky's gran. She looks round
helplessly. Vicky's dad shakes his head. They decide not to go after her. It's awkward, because the tea hasn't yet been made. They have to go without for the moment. Sandwiches and sausage rolls are very dry without anything to wash them down. Vicky's gran walks toward the kitchen but then thinks better of it. She looks at me.

“You pop in and make the tea, Jade, there's a good girl.”

“I can't! Vicky's mum …”

I'm the last person in the world she'll want to see. But my own mum is giving me a prod.

“Go on, Jade, make yourself useful.”

“But, Mum—”

Mum leans toward me.

“Don't let me down in front of everyone,” she whispers.

So I have to. I edge into the kitchen. I'm scared Vicky's mum will be slitting her wrists with the carving knife—or maybe aiming it straight at me. But she's standing at the food cupboard dipping her finger in the brown sugar packet and licking it compulsively. I watch her. Dip and lick. Dip and lick. Then she senses I'm there and whips round, nearly sending the sugar flying.

“I'm not …” She struggles to explain.

“I know. That's what Vicky does.”

“I've told her off enough times. It's not hygienic, licking her finger like that and then sticking it straight in the sugar. But she never listens to me, the naughty girl.”

“She does that with the honey too.”

“Terrible sweet tooth, my Vicky. Yet she hasn't got a filling in her head. She's lucky that way.”

“I know. I've got heaps of fillings.”

“Teeth. Do they …
stay
?” she says. “Or do you think they … ?” She waves her hand, unable to say the word “burn.”