30
Monday, 20 June 1966
Mary saw the Angel from a long way away; her white gown shimmered through the yew trees (Number 9 in Trees of Britain). She headed towards her but the Angel dodged out of sight as Mary zigzagged along rutted tracks and clambered over fallen headstones.
The Angel’s wings were folded behind her back and she was very tall, as tall, Mary told her brother, as the Scots pine (Number 3), the cypress trees and the thin larches (Number 1) that were all around. Mary shivered when the sun dipped behind clouds.
Today she was eleven. The thing about being born on 29 February was that she was allowed to choose the date for her birthday for three years out of four. When she had told Clifford Hunt that her birthday was today he had given her a pear drop, but did not say ‘Happy Birthday’ as if he didn’t believe her.
He knew you were lying, you can’t have two birthdays.
Her mum and dad would be doing a surprise so she must not spoil it by sneaking in as Michael had done when he was seven.
Mary could not make up her mind about Michael being dead. There were good things: more food and no one bothering her. But the bad things were bad. Her mum let her go to bed when she was tired instead of at her new grown-up time. Michael was not there to be jealous so there was no fun in staying up. Her dad went out on insurance visits every night and never came to the park to see her perform astonishing feats. Before he had missed the feats because Michael got in the way, but Michael was not in the way now.
The Angel stood on the hole where they had put Michael.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
MICHAEL
AGED 7
15TH MARCH 1959 – 6TH MAY 1966
BELOVED CHILD OF
ROBERT AND JEAN THORNTON
‘WHO IS LIKE UNTO GOD’
‘BONNY AND BLITHE AND GOOD AND GAY’
Mary turned and ran. She crashed helter skelter through the foliage and along the paths to the high stone wall. All around were dead people with plastic flowers or flowers that were brown and drooping. The trees crept closer when she wasn’t looking, like Grandmother’s footsteps. She had run for ages but the Angel was still watching her.
Mary let herself into the silent house. She found her mum in the kitchen frying fish fingers.
‘Where’s Daddy?’
‘At work.’ Her mum slid the fish fingers on to a plate heaped with beans. When Mary did the tea, she made it neat for Michael. His chair was tucked in tightly at the table.
‘Wash your hands. After this, go and play in your bedroom.’
When she was drying her hands, the towel stiff and rough on her skin, Mary understood something impossible had happened. Her mum and dad had forgotten it was her birthday.