We made a circle, stood still as statues, not talking about her because Dad says it’s too hard to talk about her. We stared at the cold, grey stone marked with her name. Louise Fisher. The same as my middle name.
And I thought about her, up there, somewhere. Not here. And because she was so far away I missed her like crazy and I wondered if I should have had some breakfast because my belly hurt like mad.
And then there she was. I saw my mum. And I know what you’re thinking – you can’t really see dead people. But I did. She was standing on the wall of the cemetery, wearing her red raincoat and waxy green hat. And I wasn’t scared. Why would I be scared of my own mum?
She put her arms out to balance, swaying as she walked along the wall. Just like she always was, doing something that made you want to laugh or do it too. She wobbled along, until she was as close as she could get to us without jumping down. She pushed her hat flat on her head. She looked at me and smiled, just like she did when she saw me sing in the school musical of Charlotte’s Web. Like you’re everything.
Grandma had a bunch of sweet peas wrapped in silver foil.
“Be a good girl and put the flowers in the vase,” she said, holding them out. Her tissue fell out of her sleeve and floated to the ground.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I whispered, picking up her tissue and handing it back. “Do you believe Mum could come back and we could see her?”
The purple and pink flowers reflected in her glasses and made them look like a church window. She closed her eyes and dabbed her nose.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “we’re all a little upset.” She sniffed the flowers and put them in my hand.
I made my way round the tight circle of bodies and squeezed between Aunty Sue and Dad.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Aunty Sue?” I said. “Have you ever seen Mum, even though she’s not supposed to be there?”
I guided her arm so that she would turn round and look over at the wall, so she could see Mum, colourful and bright and real as anything. I watched her eyes for the sudden surprise. Her mouth made the shape of a smile, but she frowned. I didn’t know what that meant.
“She’s there, Aunty Sue,” I whispered, pointing. “Over there.”
She blinked. Nothing.
“Dad,” I said, “look! Look over there on the wall. It’s Mum!”
He rubbed his beard. They both looked at me, in that way people do when they’re not really listening to what you’re saying. So did Grandma and Grandpa Hamblin and Granddad Fisher.
Granddad Fisher said, “Now, now, Cally, it’s neither the time nor place for silly games.”
Then Grandpa Hamblin looked at the sky, at the distant grey clouds. “Rain’s on its way,” he muttered.
Dad looked at the silent earth.
“Dad?” I said. “I can see her. I know she’s dead, but she’s here.”
And right then, when I looked across and Mum’s eyes shone as bright as a whole sky full of sunshine, I felt that her and me were the only ones truly alive. My heart thumped, my lungs filled and I wanted to shout, “Mum, sing a song, then they’ll hear you. Make the birds wonder, just like you used to.”
“Cally, love,” Aunty Sue said, “sometimes our imaginations play tricks on us.” She reached round and rested her hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Sometimes, when you really want to believe something, you can make it seem true.”
Tears smudged her mascara. Grandma blew into her tissue.
I thought I heard something, like when the carnival starts and you’re miles away down the other end of town, but you know it’s coming. Mum made a funnel of her hands, like a loudspeaker.
“Dad, she wants to tell us something,” I said.
I saw into his eyes before he looked away, like all the words waiting there were too big to pronounce, too hard to say properly. He hunched his shoulders, rubbed his face.
“Enough, Cally,” he said, “you’re upsetting people.”
I whispered, “Can’t you see her?”
She’d stopped smiling. She searched her pocket as if she was trying to find something. I wondered why she had a coat and hat on when it was such a warm summer day.
“Dad,” I pointed, “you can see her, can’t you?”
“No,” he growled, “and neither can you. And I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
3.
“GET INTO GROUPS OF TWO OR THREE. EACH group will represent a planet,” said Miss Steadman in science. “As it’s stopped raining, we’re going out to the playground to map out the solar system.”
I said to Mia Johnson, who was my best friend, “Let’s us two be Earth.”
Then Daisy Bouvier came over, chewing her nails. She hung around us like she’d been doing a lot lately since she fell out with Florence Green at a sleepover. Mia looked at me funny and said, “Daisy, you’re in my group too.”
Miss Steadman started talking about planets being millions of miles away and that we had to pretend the playground was the whole solar system. I nudged Mia and tried to whisper about what us two could do at break-time, not including Daisy. But I couldn’t tell her because Miss Steadman said, “Shush, Cally. Let’s try very hard today not to talk when I’m speaking. Otherwise you won’t learn anything.”
She marked our place with a blue chalk circle and set off to Mars with another group and some red chalk.
Doing space reminded me of the day when our family had gone to Wells. Inside the enormous yellow cathedral was one of the oldest clocks in the world. The earth was painted in the middle of the clock and the ancient sun circled round the outside on the long hand.
Mum had said, “Sometimes people get things the wrong way round.”
Because it was hundreds of years old the people who painted it didn’t know what the universe was like. Now everyone knows we are the ones spinning on our tiny planet through space, circling round the sun. It’s funny how that happens and we can’t even feel it.
“Look,” I said to Mia and Daisy, “this is how our planet spins.”
With my arms out, I went round and round. It made my hands go heavy and my eyes go giddy.
“Stop it,” said Mia, “we’re supposed to be listening not talking and spinning.”
“You could be the moon,” I said to Daisy.
“Miss Steadman didn’t say to be a moon,” she said. “And I wanted to be Mercury.”
“But
