“I’ll be back in a bit,” I say. I push through the crowd. I can see something hanging from a railing, swinging in the rain.
“Wait for me,” Jess calls. “Hang on.”
The stall is amazing. It’s piled to the sky with all things war. There are jackets and bags and flasks and green camp beds. There are big metal boxes and old radio equipment and belts and buckles and caps and hats and shiny medals in boxes and posters and books and…
“This,” I say, pulling it off the railing. “How much for this?”
“I’ll throw in the original box,” says the beardy man, “this little brown suitcase and a few of these old wartime posters and you can have the lot for a tenner.”
“Done!” I smile.
“What d’you want those for?” asks Jess, catching me up.
“I like them.”
Jess frowns. She shows me her new collection of plastic dolphins. They have sparkling sprays of glitter running down their silky grey backs.
“I’m going to collect them,” she smiles.
“I’m going to collect these,” I glare.
On the way home Milo takes his tanks into battle up and down the car seat and Jess swoops her dolphins through the air so they look like they’re swimming and leaping in the sea. My mum is fuming. I think she wishes the dolphins were mine. But I think she’s unfair. You can’t really give someone money and then get cross about how they spend it. A gift is a gift, after all.
“I just don’t understand why you’d want to buy anything so ridiculous, Mima,” she says when we get back home. “I give you ten pounds to spend on something nice to cheer you up, something pretty… and you waste it on stuff like this. Why didn’t you buy lovely dolphins like Jess. Or something cute to wear?”
She swings my gas mask from her finger.
“Well, I happen to like my things,” I say, snatching it back. “And I don’t think they’re a waste of money. Dad would understand. Anyway, they’re for my end of term presentation. They’re for school. You should be pleased.”
I run upstairs and cradle the gas mask in my hands. I stroke its big glass fly eyes. War is a mystery to me, another of the great mysteries of the world. I hang the gas mask on the end of my bed, pull down my Hello Kitty posters and replace them with the army ones. I run along the hall to the airing cupboard and dig around in the pile, looking for Dad’s old camouflage duvet cover that he had in Iraq. If I’m going to do my presentation on Granny’s old Blitz box, I need to get myself into the mood.
At one o’clock it’s time to go over to the mess for the monthly Sunday lunch. It’s different here without my dad. I didn’t want to come. I wish my mum would understand me and leave me alone.
Milo charges along the road with a stick in his hand, holding it like a gun.
“Piiiiiooowwww! Piiiiioooooow!” he goes. “I’m gonna kill all the baddies, Mum,” he says. “I’m gonna beat the world and win the war. I’m gonna chop all the nasties’ heads off, then Dad can come back home.”
That sets Milo off thinking about Dad. He stands still. His bottom lip trembles. He opens his mouth wide.
“I waaaaannnttt my dad!” he yells. “I waaaaannnttt my daaaaaaddd!”
Mum huffs. She pulls him into her arms.
“It’s OK, Milo,” she says. “Dad will come home soon, I promise.”
Milo snuffles and snots in her hair. He loops his arms round her neck.
“Chin up!” says Granny, and she starts twittering away like a mad old bird. “Chin up and put your best foot forward. Settle down for a nice cup of tea. That’s what we used to say in the war.” Then she wanders into the mess like she’s in a dream, like she’s not even on the same planet as us any more.
Milo follows Granny with his big blue eyes. Then he looks at Mum.
“Carry?” he whispers.
“I can’t manage you, darling,” she says. “Not in this state. I’m so sorry.”
“But my legs won’t work,” he cries. “I need a caaaarrrrryyy!”
Mum sighs. She rubs her enormous belly and looks at me.
“Can you manage him for me, Mima, sweetheart? He’s so upset. I can’t do it and Granny clearly can’t. I don’t know what’s got into her today. It’s like she’s been transported to another world. I hope she’s not going to go all Alzheimer-ish on us. That’s all I need!”
I know what’s wrong with Granny and it’s not Alzheimer’s, it’s Derekheimer’s, and no one knows but me that she’s hiding the photo of him in her bra. I don’t say anything about it to Mum. It’s Granny’s secret. And mine. I pull Milo into my arms, heave him up on my hip and whisper into his ear.
“I’m thinking hard, Milo,” I say. “I’m planning a Bring Dad Home mission and I promise you he’ll be home soon!”
“Come on,” says Mum. “Let’s get some lunch, shall we? We’re all just hungry and tired and overwrought.”
She rests her hand on my back and rubs soft warm circles.
“I know it’s hard, Mima,” she whispers. “I don’t really feel like being here either, but we have to go. We have to keep up appearances. For Dad. And sometimes the support of everyone helps, you know, because we’re all going through the same thing.”
She tucks a curl behind my ear.
“Like Granny says, chin up!” she laughs, guiding us in. “Chin up, and remember to be polite.”
While Mum greets everyone with her fake smile and chats about when the Bean’s due and how bad her backache is and how hard it is for her to sleep, Milo and I are forced to stand next to her and smile. Red puckered kisses land on our cheeks like planes. Perfume chokes us like fire. I wish I were brave enough to stand on a chair and make an announcement. THEY ALL MIGHT DIE! I want to say. THEY SHOULD BE HOME HERE, WITH US, EATING ROAST BEEF! HAVEN’T YOU NOTICED THAT THEY’VE GONE?
My dad and the other soldiers have barely even said goodbye and it feels like everyone but me has already bleached them away. Everyone is chattering and laughing like normal. The gaps at the tables where they should be sitting are filled with bright fake laughter that’s shrieking through the air and shattering it like glass. I wish I were young like Milo. I wish I could stand up and have a tantrum and say, I WAAAANNNTTTT MY DAAAAADDD! I’d love to see the look on everyone’s faces if I did and if I were brave enough, I would. I promise you. I’d open my mouth and let the words tumble right out.
I try. I open my mouth wide.
Hoping.
But the sounds just jumble and crash in my throat.
My dad is probably still on his plane and I wonder what he’s having for his lunch. He’s up there somewhere in the storm clouds. On his way to Afghanistan. I know he’ll be waiting until it’s dark. Until it’s time to put his helmet and body armour on and for the lights to black out so the plane can dive towards the ground, unseen. Until the heavy desert smells and heat rise and swallow him up for six whole months.
I’ve seen it happen in some of Dad’s films. I shouldn’t really, but I sneak them from the shelf sometimes and watch them on my laptop, under my covers, at night. In one of them all the soldiers rushed off the plane with their guns poking out from under their arms.