Mira in the Present Tense (33 page)

“Suits you,” smiles Pat Print, jumping down off the last branch.

“You're a brilliant climber.”

“I'm never happier than when I'm sitting at the top of an ancient tree. I've always dreamed of living in a tree house,” she laughs. “I've climbed a tree just about every day of my life since I was four years old.”

We walk off down to the bottom of the hill where the path divides in two. I am so grateful to her for not asking me anything about Nana. It's a shame they never met, because I think Nana Josie and Pat Print would have really liked each other.

“Did you manage to write the rest of that diary?” she asks.

“Every day, so far.”

“I had you down as a diary writer,” says Pat. “I'd love to read it, if you want me to. You can give it to Miss Poplar. Well, this is my track.” Pat Print points toward the nature pond.

“And this is mine,” I say, pointing up dog-poo alley toward the road.

“Well, I'm sure our paths will cross again,” Pat smiles. “Moooooooses!” she calls…and he chases after her.

Question Mark phoned Dad to tell him that tomorrow Nana's going to be on the radio program called
Start the Week
. Question Mark didn't want us to come across it by chance, in case we had a shock, hearing her voice.

There is nothing to do. On Sundays we always visit Nana. Even though Dr. Clem said we are always welcome to drop in and see them at the hospice, it would seem odd without Nana. Anyway, Nana's body's not even in her room anymore. It's been moved to what they call the Chapel of Rest. We could go and see her there, I suppose, but Dad says he doesn't feel the need.

I lie on my bed reading the same lines of my book over and over again, without taking any of the meaning in. It doesn't feel like I'm alone because of Nana's easel. It's a bit like having another person sitting in the corner of the room, watching me. I couldn't sleep last night. I just kept feeling Nana's hand clasping my wrist and chanting, “Wear the charm, Mira…wear the charm…Why aren't you wearing the charm?” This morning my head aches as if someone's tightening a clamp round it, so I could really do without Mum in my room right now. She's brought up a bag of Nana's old clothes for me to look through.

“Some of this is real vintage stuff, Mira. It would be a shame to throw it away. Have a look and see if you want anything.”

I suppose she gets the hint when I don't answer, because she closes the door quietly behind her, leaving me alone with the bag. As soon as I open the zip, Nana's sandalwood smell fills the room, like a genie escaping from a bottle. There's a suede green jacket that looks 1960s, two pairs of jeans, and lots of pretty Indian tops, strappy sandals, and walking boots. I try on the jeans and they fit me perfectly. I put on Nana's orange beaded top that still smells of her. I love the feel of Nana's clothes against my skin. I am trying to work out if wanting to wear them is weird, but it doesn't feel wrong…it's just like a memory of her, and that's what's left when someone you love is dead…and their smell.

What else is in this bag? One whole boxful of Nana's carefully folded wrapping paper. There are a few scraps of beautiful colors and full pieces that Nana must have bought ready to wrap…And there's ribbon too, fine and wide, in every color of the rainbow…For each piece of wrapping and each colored ribbon, she had someone in mind…There's some deep blue ribbon and white tissue paper and some stickers with runners on them. It's Krish's birthday in a week's time. I bet that was meant for him.

I am thinking of moving Nana's easel out of my room, because in the darkness, with only the landing light casting shadows around the room, it looks even more like a person standing in the corner, watching me. I am afraid to go to sleep. I don't know what I'm afraid of, except that I hate the thought of Nana's body still lying in the hospice. If only she could be moved to her flat, or even to our house, so that we could look after her ourselves. Dad says her body is just a shell now and that her spirit is free and I think he's right. But the question is, where is Nana's spirit? In the gloom, I look over to her easel. I swear it's beckoning to me.

I wake up wanting to tell Jidé about Nana dying…In a way I wish it wasn't half term. For the first time in my life I wish it wasn't the holidays. Then I remember my mobile. Even though I want to talk to Jidé most, I call Millie first. The phone goes straight to voicemail. I remember now that she's away on holiday. It's not the sort of message you can leave on someone's answerphone, is it? “My nana's dead, but you can listen to her on the radio this morning.”

So I just hang up and hover over Jidé's name before pressing the call button.

“Yep!”

“Jidé!”

“Mira!”

He sounds happy and surprised to hear my voice.

“It's about my nana.”

“She died?”

He says it for me.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Are you all right?”

“Not really,” I mumble. “She's on the radio this morning; they recorded her in the hospice…I thought you might want to listen.”

I don't know why I want Jidé and Millie to hear Nana talking, but if I had her number I would call Pat Print too.

“What time?”

I give him the details and after that I can't think of anything else to say.

“I'll listen,” he says. “When's the funeral?”

“Saturday.”

“Do you want to meet? I mean…”

“I don't think I can…with all this going on.”

“OK, just call me if you need me.”

Before I spoke to him, I felt all right, but now the tears are streaming down my face and my voice is all choked up.

“I hope it's…well…I'll be thinking of you.”

“Me too,” I squeak in my high-pitched teary voice.

Just as I hang up I hear him say my name…

“Mira?”

I wait to see if he calls me back, but he doesn't.

If someone is dead and they come on the radio, it's like they're not dead at all. It's just as if they're really talking to you…ghost talking. If someone you love dies and you keep hearing their voice on the radio or see them in films or on the television, you could pretend that they're still alive by listening to them or watching them over and over.

I was there when the woman interviewed Nana for the radio. But when I hear her voice, everything sounds different. For a start, they've added music, the kind they would play at the pope's funeral. I want to tell Jidé that it's nothing like my nana would choose. There are other people that I haven't heard before, talking about what they believe in and how what they believe in affects the way they feel about dying. I wonder which of the people talking are still alive.

We sit around the radio, like I've seen loads of times in old films, when they show that moment when Neville Chamberlain announces that Britain is at war with Germany. We huddle around, waiting to hear Nana speak to us, and somehow it helps to feel that Jidé is listening in with me. It takes me a while to realize that Nana has already started speaking, because Laila's making such a racket talking to baby Su Su, her doll. Mum says, “Shhhhh,” to Laila, who is alive, so that we can listen to Nana Josie, who is dead.

Nana's voice sounds different, sort of velvety. Dad says the radio technicians can put your voice through a warmer to make it sound richer. I don't think they should change people's voices like that. Even the things she says, which I have heard before, somehow seem different…more important. First of all you hear someone talking about the pope. Then you hear Joe and Lyn talking about their wedding day and the baby and about how they have “faith in each other.” After that there's a short bit with the supposed-to-be-famous person who turns out to be
Crystal
! Dad says she's an actress, but none of us have even heard of her. Then you hear Nana talking. I know why the radio woman made Nana such a big piece of her story, because out of all of the people talking, my nana is the one who sounds the most alive.

Mum and Dad are on the phone all day, letting people know the news. I can't believe how much there is to do when someone dies. Dad has to arrange to register Nana's death. It's the same town hall he went to for mine and Krish's birth certificates. That must feel really strange, to have a piece of paper in your hands that tells you the exact end date and time of your mother's life.

Nana's left loads of instructions about the funeral and who she wants Mum and Dad to contact and who she wants Aunty Abi and Aunty Mel to call. It's like she's planned a great big party and our house has been turned into the planning office, only there's nothing fun about it.

The letterbox clanks and I run downstairs wishing it could be Millie with an escape plan. I would like more than anything else to get out of this house. If I had the courage, I would call Jidé back and ask if I could go over to his place. Instead of Millie or Jidé, a tall lady, as solid as a door, wearing square glasses, stands on our step. The way she nods toward me reminds me a bit of Moses—the coffin man, not the dog.

“Is this the Levenson household?” she asks.

I nod but don't let her in. There's something about her I don't like—maybe it's her smile, which is dead behind the eyes.

“Who's that?” Dad calls from the kitchen.

“Tell your father that I'm the celebrant.”

“She's the celebrant,” I call back.

Dad appears in the hallway and shakes hands with the woman, as if she's someone quite important. I sit and listen to them talking for a while. This woman is going to be the person who keeps the funeral service together, like a priest but without the God bit. She calls herself a celebrant, because she says we will be celebrating the life of Nana Josie. That's OK for her, because she never really knew my nana. How am I supposed to celebrate?