Mira in the Present Tense (22 page)

“Pelé,” he shouts out. “He was the greatest footballer of all time, and my dad used to say he was a real gentleman.”

It's not difficult to see why Ben chose Pelé.

Miss Poplar goes around the classroom. Most people just copy each other with names like Madonna, David Beckham, Alicia Keys. Miss Poplar is moving around the room closer and closer toward me, but the only person I can really think of who is kind of famous to me is Nana Josie. Jidé chooses Nelson Mandela because he's read his biography. Orla chooses the pope because she's Catholic and he's just died and her mum says he was the best pope ever. I expected her to choose someone like Madonna, like Bo and Demi did. Perhaps there's more to Orla than I thought. I ask Notsurewho Notsurewhat to make a name spring into my mind—anyone will do.

“So, Mira? Who did you choose?”

“I couldn't think of anyone,” I say.

The truth is I can only really think about two people at the moment. Nana and Jidé.

“Never mind,” says Miss Poplar.

This is usually the moment when Demi, Bo, and Orla would move in for the kill. I glance up at them, but they're all busy flicking through their magazines.

At the end of school Jidé walks out with me.

“Are you still coming over to mine on Friday?” he asks, slipping his arm into mine, which makes me smile because he's obviously sure that I haven't changed my mind.

After he's walked me through the Rec to the road, we stand on the pavement, not knowing how to say good-bye.

“See you then,” Jidé grins, running off across the Rec before I can answer him. I watch him as he sprints across the football pitch and leaps off the ground, tucking his legs right under him and punching the air. I was definitely supposed to see that!

Nana says people are arriving from all the different parts of her life. There's Sylvie the poet, who always brings Nana a single flower from her garden, and cheery Lucy with fire-red hair and bright glass jewels who cries when Nana's not looking. Sometimes, I just sit and listen to them talking about the old days. When you see Nana with her friends, you get a picture of what her life was like when she was younger…before I was born, even before my dad was born. Before Nana was dying, I never really thought about who she is, I mean, apart from her being my nana.

“She's not famous, your mum, is she?” Headscarf Lady asks Dad as we come back from taking Piper for a walk.

“She's famous around here…one of the local characters. Why do you ask?”

Headscarf Lady explains that there's a woman from Radio 4 in the hospice today, wanting to interview people about what it's like to have a terminal illness, but they want an ordinary person, no one famous. The program is going to be about how what people believe in helps them when they're dying.

They have already interviewed people about the pope dying and now they're going to talk to the couple who got married the other day, the staff, and the famous person in the hospice (no one's allowed to know her name). Then they want one other, not famous person, just an interesting, ordinary person. Nana Josie is not what I'd call “ordinary,” but I keep my thoughts to myself.

When we get upstairs to the ward, Dad asks Nana what she thinks about being interviewed.

She shrugs and laughs. “Well, I never thought I would end up on a radio program about the pope, but then if it's God's will!”

Nana asks Aunty Abi to help her put some makeup on before she has the interview.

“It's not for the telly, Nana.”

“Still, I want them to hear me at my best!”

The thought of the radio program has really perked Nana up.

A young-looking woman
clip clops
across the ward and perches on the chair next to Nana's bed. I thought she would be older. She wears smart clothes that match. The kind of thing Nana never wears. She talks to Nana in a quiet, breathy voice, a bit like some people talk to very small children. Nana keeps saying “speak up” to Radio Woman, who I think is scared to be so close to a dying person. Lots of people are. She asks Nana, in a very sorry way, as if she's been forced to ask this question, and would rather be doing almost anything else in the world: “What are your thoughts at this time? What gives you comfort?”

“Do you mean how does it feel to be dying?”

Radio Woman whispers yes as if she would like to crawl under the bed.

“Well, you're dying too, you're just too young to know it.”

Nana can see that Radio Woman is uncomfortable so she stops joking and answers the question.

“On the whole I've been lucky enough to do the things I've wanted to in my life. I haven't been afraid to fight for what I believe in. I've seen my children grow up and my grandchildren. I've traveled all over the world, and my work is what I love…my painting. As a story, everything's in the right order. You have a life, a good life, you love, you are loved, you get older, you get ill…you die. Maybe that bit's not in the right order. I've got this illness before I feel old. That's a shame.”

Then the woman, who isn't really listening, goes on to the next question on her list.

“Can you tell us about the coffin you've painted?”

“Ah! Yes, my coffin. Well, with the help of my granddaughter here, I've painted my own coffin. It's the sea and sky dancing with dolphins and doves. Oh, and not forgetting my little dog pissing into the sea.” Nana grins at me. “It's my grand finale! The one thing that's good about a terminal illness is, if you're lucky, you get time to say good-bye. My funeral's going to be a celebration of my life, organized by me. I've always loved throwing a party! My only regret is I can't be there among all my favorite people.”

Radio Woman doesn't even smile at Nana's jokes, which I think is pretty rude. She just moves on to the next question on her list.

“When the pope was dying, he had his faith. How do you think that changes things? How do your beliefs help you face…”

“Well, I couldn't possibly comment on the pope, but, if you're asking me what I believe in, I suppose it's the human spirit. Not wasting your life and fighting for what you know is right. As for an afterlife, I don't believe in a heaven or a hell, not that kind of afterlife anyway…It's enough for me that traces of me will live on through what I've created in my garden, my paintings, my children, my grandchildren, my friends, even little Piper, my dog. Not just the genetic line, I mean the memory of me, what I've managed to communicate to the world. That should be enough for anyone, shouldn't it?”

Radio Woman doesn't answer.

“Who's behind the glasses and the headscarf?” Nana asks as Radio Woman packs up her recording equipment.

Radio Woman looks confused.

“If I'm the ordinary one—who's the famous one you're interviewing? I'd love to know what sort of company I'm keeping.”

“I-I'm afraid I'm not allowed to say,” she stutters.

“Go on, I'm just
dying
to know—we all are,” Nana calls after her in an over-the-top, actressy voice. Radio Woman drops her bag in the doorway, spilling the contents all over the floor. Nana gestures for me to help her pick up her papers.

When she's gone, I sit on the edge of Nana's bed.

“I think you frightened her a bit, Nana.”

“Wicked of me, wasn't it!” she laughs. “You could say she brought out the devil in me!”

Nana slumps back on her pillow, exhausted by the effort of the interview. We are quiet now. I don't want to move or I might wake her, so I just sit very still with her hand in mine.

The next thing I know I'm being nudged, hard, in the shoulder. Only Krish nudges me like that.

“You're always hogging Nana,” Krish complains in an angry whisper that could easily wake her up.

“You can't
hog
a person.”

“
You
can! Just budge over,” he spits, elbowing me off my seat.

Nana Josie's gravelly voice shocks us both because she talks more and more with her eyes closed, so you think she's asleep, but actually she knows exactly what's going on.

“Krish, I want you to go to the flat with your dad, and choose something of mine for yourself and something for Laila too…and, Mira, you're to take my easel,” she orders, closing her eyes as if that's all settled now, but Krish is in no mood to back down. Even though he's smaller than me, he always wins these sorts of fights. He's not happy till he's pushed me right off the chair. Then he takes Nana's hand in his as if it's his right to sit with her. How can anyone make sitting with your dying nana into a competition?

“What time are we going to the hospice?” I ask Dad.

“We're not. Mum's going with Krish and Laila after school. We're taking the day off.”

“But—”

“No buts, we're having the day off and that's final.”

Dad has to shout over Laila's screeching—she's being a complete nightmare this morning.

“Mira, about school. I didn't want to interfere. I was just concerned about you—you know that, don't you?”

I nod, hugging Dad tight. He really does look like he could do with a break. He hasn't had a shave in days, his skin's turned a sad gray color, and the dark rings under his eyes have sunk deeper into his face.

“OK,” I nod, “what shall we do?”

“That's completely up to you.” Dad spreads open his arms, as if anything's possible. That's when I have the idea.

“Can we see the Frida Kahlo? I was going to go with Nana. Then we could get a pizza afterward and walk along the river.”

Mum and Dad look at each other as if to say, “That's not quite what we had in mind.”

“What if we can't get in? Don't you want to go swimming or see a film or something?” suggests Dad.

“But you hate swimming.”

“True!”

“Well, I want to go to the exhibition. If Nana can't come with me, at least I can tell her about it.”