The good thing about being in Llanmarion is that there’s nothing to spend money on but my allowance has been going into my account every month. I have a Solo card and I know how to use it.
I head for the station, stopping only to withdraw enough money to buy a train ticket and some food for the journey. Llanmarion isn’t on a train line, so I take the bus to the next town and wait. The station is a squat, sandstone building, blackened with soot or whatever. It’s all very Railway Children.
I don’t know exactly where I’m heading, but London feels like a good start. I’ll either go to Tiggy’s or Marina’s or change at Victoria for my uncle’s house in Kent.
As long as it’s not here, I don’t care. How can I possibly go back after what just happened in the library. It replays in my mind’s eye and my skin crawls all over again. You stupid little idiot. I’m angry that he didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend (and Miss Crabtree … really?) but mostly just mortified. I can’t ever go back.
‘Where are you going, pet?’ says the woman in the ticket office.
‘London, please.’
‘Return?’
‘One-way.’ I hand her the money and she slides just one orange card under the window. I realise I have no clothes, but Tiggy and I are about the same size and, although she’s weirdly protective of her stuff, I’m sure she’ll understand I’m in dire need.
I walk through onto Platform 1 and see there’s a Cardiff service in eleven minutes. I sit on a peeling red metal bench and wait. It’s a weirdly still day, hardly any breeze at all. I can just slip away. No one will even know I’m gone. There’s a couple of other people waiting for the train, but they totally ignore me, even though I’m in uniform.
The train arrives with a sweaty hiss and it’s a sad local service, more like a bus on rails than a proper train. I take a quick look back over my shoulder and, oddly calm, I get on.
One stop later, I get off.
What the hell was I thinking? That I’m going to run away and live in Tiggy’s spare room? As if! That’s almost as embarrassing as snogging a librarian. I stand on the platform, scowling and letting the crazy seep out through my feet. I shake it off.
I’m not leaving Mum. I won’t. Running away would be the easy option. I could hide from everything. But that wouldn’t make it stop.
I cross the railway bridge to the opposite platform and wait for the next train back.
I go into the forest like I’m Maria von Trapp or something. Oh no, wait, that was the hills. Same difference. I don’t know what else to do.
I can’t face home. I can’t face school. So I wander in the woods.
I keep my head down, avoiding the gaze of dog walkers. My coat doesn’t entirely cover my uniform, so it’s pretty obvious that I should be at school, but no one says anything.
It’s a proper winter day: cold and crisp, but with white linen sunshine. Luckily I’ve got my scarf and gloves. I follow the path alongside the stream. The urge to jump into the icy water and let it rinse all the toxic crap away is strong. It’d probably kill me in the process, but right now I’d almost welcome a big black nothingness. It sounds pretty peaceful.
I find a narrow section of the stream and start to build a little dam with pebbles. I don’t know how long it takes, but it goes some way to blocking out the voices in my head. One voice, a chirpier version of my own, keeps telling me that Mum will be FINE. That sometimes good things happen to good people and she might undergo a miraculous recovery, astounding doctors and experts alike. Mum could go on Oprah, who’d give us (and the entire audience) a free car.
Another black, murky voice – a demonic cross between Margot and Megan Jones – tells me to get real, that she’ll be dead in a matter of weeks and I might as well deal with it.
In a way, they’re equally horrible. One offers hope, the other reminds me hope is the cruellest taunt of them all.
I’m going to be an orphan. An orphan. Like Oliver or Annie. How? As if that actually happens in real life.
I can’t live without Mum. I never have done. I don’t ever want to. It’s always been me and her. We never did the church thing; she never tried to make me believe in a god, so I don’t think she’s off to hang out on a cloud with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe, and neither does she.
I wonder what death is like. Like, when you’re asleep, I think on some level you know you’re asleep, even if you don’t remember your dreams. For a minute I try to imagine death, but trying to be aware of a total lack of awareness messes with my head, so I focus on blocking the stream.
A pool starts to fill on the other side. My dam is working.
I pull the whole thing down and the water gushes through, flowing as normal.
Fliss …
I look over my shoulder. Once again the stream sounds like it’s whispering my name. I swear I’m not imagining it. I screw my eyes shut and try to block out the wind rustling through the trees and the birds twittering.
Felicityfelicityfelicity …
I’m suddenly freezing cold. The waterfall is just uphill, it’s just the water, but it sounds so like my name.
Fliss …
This time, it’s clearer. Stranger still, the voice reminds me of Mum. It reminds me of the time I went to see her in hospital after her hysterectomy. She was so woozy, but opened her eyes just long enough to smile dreamily, take my hand and say my name. At the time I had a feeling that she could have died, but came back especially for me. I was the reason to fight.
‘Mum?’
Fliss …
I spring to my feet.
I shouldn’t be here.
I should be with her.
She’s calling to me.
I know these woods now; their subtle differences; the weird tree faces and log landmarks and chaotic paths. In no time at all, I’m at the back gate to the rose garden.
I can’t believe the sun is dipping into the hills already. It’s the colour of pink grapefruit, and very pretty, but it has got so late so fast. Those woods are a time zone of their own, I swear. I shoot up the garden path and tumble into the kitchen.
Both Margot and Mum, on her crutch, rush through to greet me from the lounge and hallway respectively. ‘Fliss! Where on earth have you been?’ Mum says, eyes wild. ‘School called hours ago to say you’d gone missing! We’ve been worried sick.’
Margot says nothing, but looks pale-lipped.
I rush over to Mum and hug her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just needed some time. I’m here now and I’m not leaving you ever again.’
I press my head into her bony collar and she strokes my hair. ‘I know,’ she whispers.
Nothing more is said over dinner. I watch Mum fall asleep on the sofa in front of Prime Suspect.
Oh God, I don’t want her to die. I’m going to miss her so much. It’s going to hurt so bad. I’m not even aware of Margot watching me. ‘Felicity? Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
I excuse myself and run upstairs to the bathroom like I’m going to vomit. That’s what it feels like. I don’t, instead I cry. It’s like that dam: it all comes gushing out at once. My mouth is open like there’s a howl, but no sound comes out. I tuck myself into the space underneath the sink and sit on the avocado pedestal mat, arms wrapped around my legs.
It passes. I feel better, like I’ve done a massive poo or something, unclogged.
Mum is going to die. I get it now. It’s going to be awful, but she’s going to go. I can’t stop it.
I wash my face, although it does nothing to improve my bloaty red eyes and puffy cheeks. I dry myself and step outside the bathroom to find Margot emerging from my little box room. We mirror each other at opposite ends of the landing.
‘Good girl,’ she says.
I blink at her. I don’t get it. For once she doesn’t sound sarcastic. ‘What?’
‘Let it all out. My advice, for what it’s worth, is to just feel it,’ she says. ‘While you still can.’
None the wiser. ‘I don’t get it.’
Her eyes are sad. ‘Over time, we teach ourselves to stop feeling. It’s the only way we survive.’ She taps her breastbone with her index finger. ‘It all becomes scar tissue and gristle. It’s such a shame. So just let yourself feel it, truthfully and wholly, because one day you won’t any more.’
‘But I don’t want to feel like this. It really hurts.’ My voice crackles.
‘It’s better than nothing at all. Believe you me.’ She turns the corner of the landing and heads downstairs.
I watch her go before heading to my room, wondering what Margot was doing in there. Perhaps they think I’m shoplifting or doing drugs or something. Nothing seems to have been moved around; the room is exactly as I left it this morning, except for one tiny detail.
The diary is on my pillow.