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. Their heads twitched around, looking for danger and then piiiaaaooooww, like Milo does, the guns started shooting and bodies were everywhere, flying through the air.
I can’t believe that all this might be happening to my dad while we’re here waiting for lunch. It doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t seem right.
I pick at my lunch. I’m not really hungry. Mum and Georgie huddle together and talk in whispers. Granny is lost in her dream. I have to chop up Milo’s meat and play trains with his veg. Jess is opposite me. She scoffs her food like usual with her big fat stupid grin.
“I’ve got big plans for my presentation,” she says, whooshing her dolphins through the air, dunking their snouts in her gravy. “Have you decided what you’re doing yours on yet?”
I glare at her.
“I’ve got more important things on my mind, Jess,” I say. “More important things like my dad.”
“You’re boring, Mima,” she says. “Get over yourself. He’ll either come back alive or he’ll come back dead!” She slurps a piece of floppy beef into her mouth. “Nothing much we can do about it. But he’ll be back one way or another. Shame my dad has to come back at all.”
I cover Milo’s ears.
“Please don’t say the D.E.A.D. word in front of Milo,” I whisper. “You’ll set him off crying again.”
“I’ll say what I want,” Jess glowers. “You’re not the boss of me, Jemima Taylor-Jones.”
Then she storms off to get pudding.
After lunch, Milo charges about with some little ones playing war. He uses his
