Dandelion Clocks (8 page)

I've been reading Mum's diaries quite a lot this week. Some of it's a bit boring (quite amazing actually, what she thought was worth writing about), but some of her entries have really made me laugh. It's kind of cool in a way, like I'm
getting to meet my mum when she was young. I think we might've been friends if we were born at the same time. One thing's for sure – she is
so totally
different now she's grown-up. I've got as far as 1987, so she was nearly thirteen when she was writing this stuff, although she doesn't sound any older than me, to be honest – and I'm not even twelve until next week, which I totally don't even want to think about. The very idea of celebrating a birthday seems absolutely wrong. She's still going on about boys but at least she seems to have forgotten about the guinea pig.

After having such a great time with Mum and the make-up lesson, I'm not in the mood to go straight to bed so I decide to keep on reading from where I left off. The last thing I read was yet another list of her Christmas presents and her telling the diary her views on nudist camps – apparently they're OK if the nudists are religious. Must remember to ask her about that.

19 August 1987

At Grandma's. She's got a headache so not expecting today to be much fun. Wondering what the next year will be like at school. I really like
Michael again but we're such good friends now – d'you think it would make everything weird if we went out with each other? And what if we broke up? Oh – I don't know …

10 November 1987

Had big argument with Mum this morning when she saw me trying to sneak out to school wearing eyeliner (well, she says ‘sneak', I say ‘walk'). Honestly, she has no idea about what it's like being a teenager today – and I'm an ideal teenager – loads of kids I know give their parents a much harder time than I do. Told her that but she refused to change her mind. So unfair.

Hmm. Think I might need to wave this particular diary entry in front of Mum tomorrow – remind her how she felt when her unreasonable mother wouldn't let her do stuff that everyone else is doing! I read a few more entries where she is mostly going on about a war somewhere far away – it's all pretty boring so I close the diaries, get into bed and turn off my lamp.

Mum was certainly a bit of a worrier when she was a teenager, although that's not surprising because she worries about everything now too.
She's good in an emergency, though – she always manages to say something that makes you realize it's not as bad as you first thought it was.

I start to think about who will help me and Isaac when we get into trouble. Dad's great, but he isn't really into talking about how you feel. Mum's always the one who sits down with me and talks about stuff for ages and ages.

There suddenly seem much bigger things to worry about than make-up.

It's my birthday today. I wake up feeling flat and think that I really can't be bothered – trying to pretend that we're all having a good time is going to seem totally false and I already wish it was tomorrow. I get out of bed and put on my dressing gown, hoping that nobody else is awake and I can at least eat some breakfast without having to fake being happy.

I go downstairs and open the kitchen door.

‘SURPRISE!' shout Mum and Dad, leaping up from the table and rushing over to give me a huge hug. Isaac stays sitting down but grins at me nervously – being surprised is his idea of hell and he's not that keen on surprising anyone else either.

‘Open your presents, Liv!' says Mum, leading me over to my seat where there is a big pile of brightly wrapped gifts waiting.

Dad laughs. ‘Give the girl a chance to sit down, Rachel! Cup of tea and a bacon butty, Liv?'

I nod at him in relief. Tea and a bacon butty is our family's traditional birthday breakfast – it's good to see that some things have stayed the same. Mum, on the other hand, is doing my head in. She normally makes us open our presents slowly, partly so we ‘show appreciation of the effort that people have gone to' and partly so that we don't rip the wrapping paper which she will hoard in a drawer, and which I have never, to this day, seen her re-use.

Today, though, she is urging me to dive into the presents with wild abandon. Last year this would have made me feel pleased, but now it dawns on me that maybe she thinks she won't get to see me do this again. Now I'm the one who wants to open the presents slowly. Maybe if I make present-opening last forever, then she'll never leave me.

‘Here you go, beautiful birthday girl,' says Dad, putting a hot mug down in front of me. He ruffles my hair and I know that he understands how much today sucks.

Mum thrusts a beautifully wrapped box at me.

‘Open this one first – it's from Isaac.' I undo the
ribbon and gasp – inside is the most gorgeous, delicate necklace I've ever seen. It's got a thin, silver chain and a tiny, daisy-shaped flower on the end. Embedded in the flower are four sparkling, silver gems – one for each of us, I think to myself.

‘Isaac, it's amazing! You really shouldn't have!' I exclaim, glancing over at Dad and smiling. He smiles back – of course Isaac didn't choose this, but Dad would never tell!

I get up and give Isaac a thank-you pat on the arm. Then I ask Dad to fasten the chain round my neck and I glance at myself in the mirror above the mantelpiece.

‘It's perfect – I love it,' I say.

I sit back down. Mum is busying herself with buttering some toast and I can tell that she's struggling not to cry. I try to distract her. ‘Which one shall I open next, Mum?' I ask her.

‘This one,' she says, passing me a box. ‘It's from me and Dad, but Dad's done all the work choosing it.'

I give it a shake. ‘Careful, Liv!' Dad says quickly. ‘Might want to be a bit gentle with this one.' I look at him. His eyes are shining and he is watching me intently. I haven't seen him this interested in
present-opening since – well, ever. Whatever is inside this wrapping paper, my dad is really excited about.

I carefully peel back the sticking tape and pull at the paper. Crikey, it's well wrapped. I reckon Dad was in charge of wrapping up as well as choosing. Mum tends to be a bit more frugal with her wrapping technique, but it looks as if he's used the whole roll of paper. I start to laugh as I pull back layer after layer, and Mum joins in. Dad is grinning but he has no idea why we're laughing! And then – I'm in. And it was worth the effort.

‘Wow!' I breathe, looking at my new present in amazement. ‘Really? Is it actually for me? A proper camera?'

‘Who else?' laughs Mum.

I turn to Dad. ‘But I thought you said not until I was a bit older?'

‘You're ready, Liv,' he says simply.

‘And you'll show me how to use it properly?' I ask.

‘Try stopping me! I've been itching to get my hands on it since we bought it!'

‘Dan!' warns Mum, rolling her eyes at me.

‘I know, don't worry – I won't take over! It's
Liv's. But I can't say I won't enjoy showing her how to get the best results with it.'

And now it's my turn to feel tears welling up in my eyes. I put the box gently down on the table, as carefully as if it contained the crown jewels, and go round to where Mum and Dad are sitting. I cuddle Mum for a moment and then Dad scoops me up into a huge bear hug.

‘Thank you, thank you,' I whisper to him.

‘Happy birthday, Olivia. You really deserve this,' he whispers back.

The rest of breakfast time passes in a bit of a blur. I open my other gifts and they're all fab – money from lots of people and a book that I really wanted from Mum's friend, Beth. Mum tells me that Leah's present will be arriving ‘at some point' – I know that Leah is really disorganized but that her present will definitely be worth waiting for.

Finally, the breakfast things are cleared away and I think it's safe enough to get my camera out of the box. Mum is worn out from all the excitement so she goes back to bed, and Isaac, having coped very well with a different start to his day, runs upstairs to the safety and normality of his pigsty of a bedroom.

Dad and I clean the table in silence and then look at each other.

‘OK, I'm ready,' I say. ‘I'm going in!' I open up the box and can't resist another gasp – it is the most beautiful thing I've ever owned. There, nestled on elaborate packaging, is a proper, grown-up camera – the sort of camera that I've watched my dad use for his photography for years, and the camera that I've wanted ever since I started to take my own pictures.

‘I think we can agree you've done your apprenticeship, Liv – you're definitely ready for the real deal,' Dad says as I lift it out of the box.

I have always been fascinated by Dad's photographs and started wanting to take my own when I was small. To begin with, Dad let me use an old Polaroid camera that he had cluttering up his studio – it really appealed to me because I could be holding the picture in my chubby little hand only a few minutes after I'd taken it. The photos always faded, though, so next I was given a basic digital camera for Christmas when I was eight. I really loved that camera and I won a few competitions at school and one at the library in town. What I've wanted for ages, though, is a serious camera. Not something that anybody could just point and shoot,
but something that demands real skill. Because this is when I feel happiest – when I'm deciding what to take a picture of and how I want it to look.

I've spent hours and hours with Dad, watching him work. He takes photographs of normal, everyday things, but in such a way that they aren't instantly recognizable. He always tells me that the most important thing to think about, when taking a picture, is the ‘why'.

‘
Why
do you want to photograph this today? That's what you have to ask yourself, Liv,' he'll say to me as he prowls round his subject, looking for the angle that he wants to take. ‘What are you trying to say with this picture? Is it just for fun (and that's fine, by the way) or are you trying to get a message across? Maybe you're asking a question. It doesn't matter, as long as you know why you're doing it.'

Dad has never minded me following him around and has even given me my own corner in his studio, where I can work on my pictures. What he has refused to budge on is getting a decent camera for me.

‘Why now?' I ask him, holding the camera in my hands and turning it over and over, inspecting every little detail.

‘You've shown us how mature you are over the
last few weeks,' he answers. ‘The way you're dealing with everything and helping Isaac too – we're really proud of you.'

‘Thanks, Dad. I promise I'll be careful with it,' I say.

‘You'd better!' he mock-growls. ‘You're ready to start developing your own style now, Liv – this is not a camera that will be happy taking photographs of
Autumn Days
or
Summer Fun
or any other ludicrous theme that your school can dream up. This is the real deal. Now get out there and start shooting.'

‘I thought you were going to show me how to use it?' I say.

‘Yes – I am. But the best way to do that is if you have a go on your own. Explore with it, play around. You know enough not to do any damage. Bring me the results and then we'll talk about how you can get the most out of it.'

‘Deal!' I say. This is perfect. I think my dad is great but I'm teeming with ideas for photos that I want to take and I don't need him holding me back. I just want to get on with it.

I grab my rucksack and chuck a couple of apples, a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits in. Dad hands me my waterproof jacket and
although I grimace at him, I shove that in too. Then, camera looped carefully round my neck, I yell goodbye to Mum and head out into the great outdoors, the whole world ready for me to take award-winning photographs.

Four hours later and I'm sitting, despondent, in Dad's studio at the bottom of our garden. I'm freezing cold and drenched to the bone – my rubbish coat was no match for the downpour that happened an hour ago. The products of today's efforts are spread out on the desk in front of me. And frankly, they're a waste of printer ink.

The door creaks open and Dad comes in. I sense him standing behind me, looking over my shoulder at my pictures.

‘Don't say it. I know they're awful,' I mutter.

He laughs. ‘They're not awful, Liv – there's no such thing! Just a work in progress, that's what I always try to tell myself when I'm not happy with a day's work.'

‘Dad! Seriously? These can, in no way, be classed as a “work in progress”. I thought I was ready for this but obviously I was wrong.'

Dad spins me round on my chair and looks squarely into my eyes.

‘Stop that now, young lady! This is what today was all about. You need to feel your way, develop a working relationship with the camera. It is, I agree, an amazing machine but it's only a tool. I probably take a hundred dodgy pictures before I get the right one – you know that.'

‘Yes, but you know what you want to take pictures of and you have a style that's all your own. Look at my photos and tell me that they're different and interesting!'

We stare at the photographs I've taken today. There's one where I tried to show the raindrops racing down the bus shelter – but it's all blurry. There's another one of a brick wall with a flower growing out of it – way too tacky! In desperation, I have taken a few of our cat, but even she thought I was rubbish and wandered off halfway through. There are pictures of umbrellas and shop signs and a little old woman laden down with her shopping.

‘They're not bad pictures, Liv,' says Dad. ‘But you know what I'm going to say, don't you?'

‘Yeah,' I scowl. ‘Why did I take these pictures? I just wanted to be impressive. I wanted to do something different from everyone else, but all I've ended up with is a load of old rubbish.'

‘And that, my precious girl, is the answer! Well
done, young Jedi knight – you have learnt the first lesson!'

‘What d'you mean? I don't know what you're talking about! I haven't learnt
anything
today – that's why I'm miserable.'

‘You'll take much better photos when you stop and listen to what
you
want to do. When you take a chance and let opportunity in. Not when your motivation is to be clever or to be different. You
are
different, Liv – you are unique and wonderful and one-of-a-kind. Let that part of you lead the way. I promise you, you'll be pleasantly surprised!'

I think about what Dad has said. It's true, I did spend most of today trying to be clever. I thought about that more than I actually looked at what was around me.

‘But enough now – your mother has baked you a cake and it is part of your ritual birthday torture that you will have to eat it!'

‘Dad!' I exclaim, but I can't help agreeing with him. Mum has a tendency to try out new and bizarre recipes for our birthday cakes. Last year I had broccoli cake – she'd seen a recipe for courgette cake but had a glut of broccoli and decided that it probably wouldn't matter if she substituted one
green vegetable for another. Turns out, it really
did
matter. The cake was utterly disgusting and Isaac whispered to me that it tasted like farts. We all ate it, though – nobody wanted to let Mum know how foul it really was.

We sprint up the garden path, trying to avoid the huge hailstones that are throwing themselves from the heavens. I think that the best thing about today is that it's nearly over. It seems utterly wrong that real-life things like birthdays and parents' evening and doing the shopping should still be taking place when our world is in free fall. I hate it most when something distracts me and I forget, for just a second – the moment of remembering makes me feel sick and guilty and lost, all at the same time.