A MILLION ANGELS

“Erm…” I say, bending down to tie the lace on one of my big black boots. “Yes, Georgie, it’s definitely pink.”

“I think it’s gorgeous,” says Mum. “You should try something like this, Mima. You know… a bit pretty. Get yourself out of those boots for a change. Look,” she says, shoving a ten-pound note in each of our hands, “why don’t you girls go off together and see what you can find?”

I glare at Mum. I don’t want to be left with Jess. And she knows that! I’d rather look after Milo. I’d rather wander around alone.

I flash my eyes at Mum, trying to say, DON’T LEAVE ME WITH JESS. But she ignores me and shoos us both away. I bet her and Georgie want to talk about our dads. In private!

Jess slides over to the skateboard boys.

“Hi,” she says, twiddling with her fringe. She picks up a cruddy old board. “How much for this?”

“A fiver,” says one of the boys.

Jess flashes her eyes at them.

“That’s a rip-off,” she says, pulling me away. “We had a huge sigh of relief this morning when my dad finally left,” she smiles. She opens her arms wide and takes a deep breath. “It’s going to be bliss. I can’t actually believe we have six whole months without him shouting and bossing us around.”

She rummages through a pile of old clothes. She pulls out her purse and pays for a pair of shiny black high heels that are two sizes too big. She holds up a pink dress covered in gold sequins.

“What d’you think?”

“Mmmm,” I say. “It would match your jacket but…”

“I don’t even know why I bother asking your opinion,” she huffs, holding it up for size. “It’s not as if you’re Miss Fashionista, is it, Jemima? That enormous Minnie Mouse bow in your hair and those big black boots aren’t exactly a major fashion statement, you know! And as for the rainbow nail varnish! Whatever crazy thing are you going to buy today? A granny jacket? Another big bow?”

“I’m looking for something,” I say, “but I’m not sure what. I’ll know when I see it.”

She throws the dress down and we drift on to the next stall.

“Don’t you miss your dad at all when he’s away?” I ask.

“Not At All!” she says. “It’s our little secret, but Mum and me prefer it when he’s away. We get up to mischief. Last time we went on this amazing spa day pamper thing and we had a massage and our nails done and we lounged around in the Jacuzzi for hours. Then we went for dinner at this gorgeous restaurant. My dad hates restaurants and mealtimes are horrible when he’s around. He makes me sit up straight and hold my knife properly and boring stuff like that. I love it when it’s just Mum and me and I get all her attention. This time we’re planning a mini-break to a really lovely hotel in Paris so we can shop, shop, shop. My dad’s not Mr Perfect like your dad, is he? My dad’s always really moody and bossy and he shouts all the time. I feel sorry for the soldiers he’s in charge of. Rather them than me.”

“I can’t stop thinking about mine,” I say. “It’s like I have this little bubble of worry following me around. I worked out exactly how long they’re going to be away for. Six months equals twenty-six weeks. That means one hundred and eighty-two days, or four thousand, three hundred and eighty hours, or two hundred and sixty-two thousand, eight hundred minutes, or fifteen million, seventy-seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand and four hundred seconds. That’s ages. It’s too long.”

“Not long enough for me,” she says. “I can’t believe you bothered to work all that out. Even worse, you bothered to remember it. You’re nuts, Jemima. You need to learn to switch off and think about nice things. Like me and Mum do.” She giggles. “Plan something special.”

“How can you think of nice things,” I say, “when you know your dad might get killed?”

“Well, soldiers do get killed,” she says, “like I said last night, it’s a fact. But worrying won’t help. It’s not as if there’s anything you can do to stop it. Anyway,” she says with a smug little smile, “nothing’ll kill my dad. Mum and I think he’s so stubborn he’d even survive a nuclear war!”

“You can’t say that,” I snap. “You can’t be that sure. And he definitely wouldn’t survive a nuclear attack, Jess, that’s just stupid. No one would survive that.”

Something sparkly catches her eye and she skips along to a stall full of junk. While I wait for her to coo at dusty old ornaments of leaping dolphins and sad-looking bears my eye fixes on a stall. It has green camouflage and combat gear all piled up high. And there’s a helmet snuggled like a baby on the top.

“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.