Read Online Vicky Angel by Jacqueline Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline Wilson
Ads: Link
unable to say the word “burn.”
We both wince at the thought of what happens behind those curtains in the crematorium.
“I didn't know what to do about her hair. I love our Vicky's hair. She sits on the sofa in front of me when she watches television, leaning against my knees, and I brush her hair. She likes it, she gives little wriggles—”
“Like a cat.”
“That's it. So I couldn't stand the thought of all her lovely hair going. I took the scissors to the undertaker. I was going to cut off a big lock but I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave my darling looking lopsided. I wanted her to look perfect.” She's kneading the sugar bag, squeezing it hard. “She's still here, you know,” she says. “You'll probably think I'm mad—Charlie does—the doctor says it's only natural but he thinks I've gone off my head too—but I
see
her, Jade.”
“I know,” I say. “I do too.”
She stares. “
You
see her?”
“Yes. And she talks to me.”
“She talks?” she repeats. Her face tightens. “She doesn't talk to me. Why doesn't she talk to me?”
This is crazy. We're still arguing about Vicky even now she's dead. It's always been the same. Mrs. Waters always wanted Vicky to come round the shops with her, go on visits to her gran and granddad, go to makeup parties, do all these Mumsie-Daughter things together. Vicky would nearly always wriggle out of it and hang out with me. Mrs. Waters never blamed Vicky. She always blamed me.
“She talks to you,” she says.
“Yes. But she says a lot about you. How sad she is because she misses you so.”
“I don't need you to tell me how my Vicky feels!” she says, and she gives me a little push.
“I'm sorry,” I say helplessly. I start spooning tea into the pot so I can clear off out of there as soon as possible.
“What are you doing? This is
my
kitchen!”
“I know. I don't mean to barge in, but they told me to, Vicky's gran and the others. They want their tea, a cup of tea,” I burble.
She stares at me as if she can hardly believe her ears.
“They want a cup of tea,” she says slowly. “Oh well. Let's get our priorities right. A cup of tea, a can of beer, they'll make it better. Vicky's dead. Never mind, sip your tea, slurp your beer, have a party!” She starts rattling the tea caddy and jangling milk bottles.
“At least you know what it's like,” she says. “You love her as much as I do, don't you?”
More, I say silently.
“Oh, Jade,” she says, and she suddenly drops the milk bottle. Milk spatters her shoes, my skirt. We both blink stupidly.
“No use crying over spilt milk,” she says, and gives a wild snort of laughter. Then tears spurt down her cheeks.
She suddenly puts her arms round me and clings tight. I hug her back, both of us standing in the spreading white puddle.
“How are we going to bear it?” she says.
I don't know how.
At least there is this ritual to perform on the day of Vicky's funeral. But then there's the next day
and the next
and the next …
They stretch out endlessly, time slowing down until I stop believing my own watch. I've slowed down too. Each step is like wading through thick mud, each mouthful of food remains in my mouth like chewing gum. Everything is such an effort that it takes me five minutes to brush my teeth or do up my shoes. When I talk, my voice sounds strangely distorted, as if I'm set on the wrong speed.
Everyone's kind to me at school but I can't always react the right way. I creep around in this fog while they rush around in the sunshine. Some of the girls still cry over Vicky but it's all in fits and starts. Some of them seem to relish the wholeidea of Vicky's death and keep asking me stuff about seeing her die. They want to know all the details. I say I can't remember. I can't. I can't. I can't.
Mr. Failsworth sends for me and we sit in his study, a tray of coffee and a plate of biscuits in front of me as if I'm a prospective parent. He talks the most terrible claptrap about Brief
We both wince at the thought of what happens behind those curtains in the crematorium.
“I didn't know what to do about her hair. I love our Vicky's hair. She sits on the sofa in front of me when she watches television, leaning against my knees, and I brush her hair. She likes it, she gives little wriggles—”
“Like a cat.”
“That's it. So I couldn't stand the thought of all her lovely hair going. I took the scissors to the undertaker. I was going to cut off a big lock but I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave my darling looking lopsided. I wanted her to look perfect.” She's kneading the sugar bag, squeezing it hard. “She's still here, you know,” she says. “You'll probably think I'm mad—Charlie does—the doctor says it's only natural but he thinks I've gone off my head too—but I
see
her, Jade.”
“I know,” I say. “I do too.”
She stares. “
You
see her?”
“Yes. And she talks to me.”
“She talks?” she repeats. Her face tightens. “She doesn't talk to me. Why doesn't she talk to me?”
This is crazy. We're still arguing about Vicky even now she's dead. It's always been the same. Mrs. Waters always wanted Vicky to come round the shops with her, go on visits to her gran and granddad, go to makeup parties, do all these Mumsie-Daughter things together. Vicky would nearly always wriggle out of it and hang out with me. Mrs. Waters never blamed Vicky. She always blamed me.
“She talks to you,” she says.
“Yes. But she says a lot about you. How sad she is because she misses you so.”
“I don't need you to tell me how my Vicky feels!” she says, and she gives me a little push.
“I'm sorry,” I say helplessly. I start spooning tea into the pot so I can clear off out of there as soon as possible.
“What are you doing? This is
my
kitchen!”
“I know. I don't mean to barge in, but they told me to, Vicky's gran and the others. They want their tea, a cup of tea,” I burble.
She stares at me as if she can hardly believe her ears.
“They want a cup of tea,” she says slowly. “Oh well. Let's get our priorities right. A cup of tea, a can of beer, they'll make it better. Vicky's dead. Never mind, sip your tea, slurp your beer, have a party!” She starts rattling the tea caddy and jangling milk bottles.
“At least you know what it's like,” she says. “You love her as much as I do, don't you?”
More, I say silently.
“Oh, Jade,” she says, and she suddenly drops the milk bottle. Milk spatters her shoes, my skirt. We both blink stupidly.
“No use crying over spilt milk,” she says, and gives a wild snort of laughter. Then tears spurt down her cheeks.
She suddenly puts her arms round me and clings tight. I hug her back, both of us standing in the spreading white puddle.
“How are we going to bear it?” she says.
I don't know how.
At least there is this ritual to perform on the day of Vicky's funeral. But then there's the next day
and the next
and the next …
They stretch out endlessly, time slowing down until I stop believing my own watch. I've slowed down too. Each step is like wading through thick mud, each mouthful of food remains in my mouth like chewing gum. Everything is such an effort that it takes me five minutes to brush my teeth or do up my shoes. When I talk, my voice sounds strangely distorted, as if I'm set on the wrong speed.
Everyone's kind to me at school but I can't always react the right way. I creep around in this fog while they rush around in the sunshine. Some of the girls still cry over Vicky but it's all in fits and starts. Some of them seem to relish the wholeidea of Vicky's death and keep asking me stuff about seeing her die. They want to know all the details. I say I can't remember. I can't. I can't. I can't.
Mr. Failsworth sends for me and we sit in his study, a tray of coffee and a plate of biscuits in front of me as if I'm a prospective parent. He talks the most terrible claptrap about Brief
Similar Books
