Jenny Downham Before I Die

Thirty-one

Spring is a powerful spell.

The blue. The clouds high up and puffy. The air warmer than it’s been for weeks.

‘The light was different this morning,’ I tell Zoey. ‘It woke me up.’

She shifts her weight in the deck chair. ‘Lucky you. Leg cramp woke me up.’

We’re sitting under the apple tree. Zoey’s brought a blanket from the sofa and wrapped herself up in it, but I’m not cold at all. It’s one of those mellow days in March that feel as if the earth is tipping forwards. Daisies sprinkle the lawn. Clusters of tulips sprout at the edges of the fence. The garden even smells different – moist and secretive.

‘You all right?’ Zoey says. ‘You look a bit weird.’

‘I’m concentrating.’

‘On what?’

‘Signs.’

She groans softly, picks up the holiday brochure from my lap and flicks through the pages. ‘I’ll just torture myself with this then. Tell me when you’re done.’

I’ll never be done.

That rip in the clouds where the light falls through.

That brazen bird flying in a straight line right across the sky.

There are signs everywhere. Keeping me safe.

Cal’s got into it too now, although in a more practical way. He calls them ‘keep-death-away spells’.

He’s put garlic above all the doors and at the four corners of my bed. He’s made KEEP OUT boards for the front and back gates.

Last night, when we were watching TV, he tied our legs together with a skipping rope. We looked as if we were entering a three-legged race.

He said, ‘No one will take you if you’re tied to me.’

‘They might take you as well!’

He shrugged, as if that didn’t matter to him. ‘They won’t get you in Sicily either; they won’t know where you are.’

Tomorrow we fly. A whole week in the sun.

I tease Zoey with the brochure, run my finger over the volcanic beach with black sand, the sea edged by mountains, the cafés and piazzas. In some of the photos, Mount Etna squats massively in the background, remote and fiery.

‘The volcano’s active,’ I tell her. ‘It sparks at night, and when it rains, everything gets covered in ash.’

‘It’s not going to rain though, is it? It must be about thirty degrees.’ She slaps the brochure shut. ‘I can’t believe your mum gave her ticket to Adam.’

‘My dad can’t believe it either.’

Zoey thinks about this for a moment. ‘Wasn’t getting them back together on your list?’

‘Number seven.’

‘That’s terrible.’ She flings the brochure on the grass. ‘I feel sad now.’

‘It’s the hormones.’

‘Sadder than you’d ever believe.’

‘Yeah, it’s the hormones.’

She gazes hopelessly at the sky, then almost immediately turns back to me with a smile on her face. ‘Did I tell you I’m picking the keys up in three weeks?’

Talking about the flat always cheers her up. The council has agreed to give her a grant. She’ll be able to swap vouchers for paint and wallpaper, she tells me. She gets quite animated describing the mural she plans for her bedroom, the tropical fish tiles she wants in the bathroom.