Following Flora (3 page)

I curled up next to Jas and tickled Ron, who started to purr, sounding like he might just burst out of pure excitement. It's quite unbelievable that something so small can make so much noise. Then I looked round the flat again and noticed that unlike Ron, the boy Zach hadn't made his presence felt at all.

“Where are all his things?” I asked. “Can I see his room?”

“It's private,” Zoran said, and then he screamed as Hermione sank her fangs into his hand and started pedaling against his wrist with her back claws.

Kitten claws are surprisingly sharp.

I know Zoran said I shouldn't, but his spare bedroom is one of my favorite rooms in the world, and I couldn't resist looking to see what it looked like with someone actually living in it. It's tiny, not much bigger than a closet. When Zoran first moved in he thought about just using it as a study or something, but then he decided that he really wanted somewhere people could come and stay, like his sister who lives in Sarajevo. So he bought a bed which fits perfectly across the width of the room under the window, and he put up hooks and shelves and even a fold-down table, painted the walls a soft pale blue like the sky, and hung those green and red glass balls you find at the seaside. It's like a ship's cabin, with a space for everything, but when I opened the door I was disappointed, because it looked exactly the same, but with clothes and schoolbooks dumped all over the floor and nothing hanging up.

“It's like he can't be bothered.”

“I told you, he's not exactly overjoyed about our arrangement,” Zoran said, and then he added, “I need you to take Jas and these animals home. My hand is actually bleeding.”

“Is he going to play in your concert?”

“No, he is not. Apparently, he doesn't
do
concerts.”

Zoran picked up Hermione so her tummy was on his hand with her little legs and her head sticking out the side so she couldn't hurt him again, and held her out to me.

“Ron just peed on your duvet,” said Jas.

Zoran closed his eyes and made this little whining noise. Jas shoved Ron in one coat pocket and Hermione in the other, and we tiptoed out of the flat.

Poor Zoran. He looked so despondent when we left him, with his hands covered in scratches and his duvet covered in kitten pee, but the reason I wrote that Ron and Hermione are living up to their magical names is that when Zach got back, he found Zoran cursing and swearing as he tried to stuff his duvet into the washing machine, and he thought the whole story of the kittens so hilarious he agreed to play in Zoran's concert.

“I think he felt sorry for me,” Zoran said when he called to tell us the news.

“Nobody likes cat pee,” I agreed. “Did you flatter him, like Flora said?”

Zoran said that was none of my business, but I bet he did. I can just imagine them, Zach laughing his head off, Zoran choosing that exact moment to tell him how stupendously gifted he is.
The thing with Zoran is he's so nice, when he wants something you never even realize what you've agreed to till it's too late.

“I suppose I should be grateful to the little beasts,” Zoran said. “It's the first time I've heard Zach laugh about anything since he got here.”

Jas is acting like she did the whole thing on purpose.

 

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 13

It's weird being at school without Jake. Today in English Miss Foundry was talking about the Brontë sisters. “The Yorkshire moors!” she cried. “The tragedy of tuberculosis! The horrors of contemporary education!” except she has a lisp so it came out as
twagedy
and
howwors of contempowawy education.

Tom asked, “Miss, how do you spell
Bwonte
?”

Miss Foundry, who is oblivious to teasing, said with two dots over the
e
.

“Exactly as I have
witten
it on the whiteboard,” she said, and Tom and Colin both collapsed. I know it's mean, but it gets them every time, and there's something about the way those boys laugh. It spreads, and soon the whole class was shaking. That's when I thought of Jake. Normally there would be three of them messing about in class, but the place right in the middle of the front row where teachers always make him sit, because he is always either asleep or laughing, was empty. Suddenly I could picture exactly what would happen if he had been here, how he would have turned around and grinned at everyone behind him, like making fun of Miss Foundry's lisp was still the best joke in the world.

I do kind of miss him, in spite of his unromantic e-mails.

 

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 16

Zoran came around this afternoon to ask me if I would film the concert. He said it would mean a lot to him.

“I would love to,” I said, because films and their transcripts are an important part of my diaries. Ever since I got my video camera, my plan has been to record my life in words and images, but I don't often get the opportunity to film anyone other than my family.

Flora asked if he had heard from Zach's mother yet, and Zoran said that she had been in touch with her father, but there was still no news of when she was coming home.

“You should tell her about the concert,” I told him. “She'd probably come for that.”

Flora said, “Do you really think she'd come for Zoran's concert when she's not even been to see her father?”

“She might,” I said.

Zoran said he and Zach had both written to her about the concert.

“Does
he
think she'll come?” I asked.

“That's not really for me to say,” he replied.

Flora said Zach's mother sounded like a total witch.

Mum made pizza this evening for the first time in ages, which meant the kitchen was even more of a mess than usual. She was humming to herself as she cooked, with her hair full of flour. I went straight up to her when she called us down for supper and gave her the biggest hug.

“What's that for?” she asked.

“Just for being you,” I said. Behind me, Twig made a puking noise, but Mum looked really happy. Then Dad came in and she went back to being cross again.

 

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 17

Twig had a football match this afternoon. Mum and Dad had one of their “you go, no you go, why me, you go” arguments about it, until Flora got involved and informed them that they were
both
going, because today was his first time playing for a real team against another school.

“This is a very important day for him,” she said. “So whatever is going on between the two of you, you have to get over it.”

There was this moment of shocked silence, and then Mum said, “I'll get my bag,” and Dad mumbled, “I'll get the car keys,” and they both shuffled out behind Twig, who looked a bit startled. Twig isn't actually very good at football and I think he would have liked it better if neither of the parents had been there, but Flora says that doesn't matter.

“It's a question of principle,” Flora said.

Jas, Flora, and I all went to the concert. Me to film, Flora and Jas to cheer for Zach like we had promised, and all three of us because, even though none of us will admit it, we were all dying to see what Zachary Smith looked like. The concert took place at Alina's retirement home in Richmond, where Zoran goes once a week to play the piano, and where he now also has a lot of pupils. We all piled into the drawing room, and I began to film.

THE FILM DIARIES OF BLUEBELL GADSBY
SCENE TWO (TRANSCRIPT)
THE CONCERT

INTERIOR. AFTERNOON.

The drawing room at Richmond Hill Retirement Home. Resident students (all old) sit in armchairs arranged in a semicircle around chairs taken from the dining room, where nonresident students (mostly children) squirm in the front rows with their parents behind them. JAS and FLORA sit at the back, next to CAMERAMAN, who is standing.

NOTE: To keep things moving along and in order to get to the really interesting part of the afternoon, this transcript is skipping detailed descriptions of all the acts, which included renditions of “Summertime,” “Frère Jacques,” Chopin's Nocturne, assorted pieces from the Music Examination Board's books for Grades One to Five, and a number of current rock songs. And then, right at the end
 . . .

ZORAN:

Zachary Smith on guitar, singing “Broken Birds
,
”
a song of his own creation.

 

ZACHARY SMITH stands up. Flora, Jas, and even Cameraman crane forward. He is not at all how they imagined him. Medium height, slight and pale, with dark eyes and hair falling over his face. He wears black jeans, black high-tops, and a green-and-black checked shirt open over an old rock band T-shirt, and his wrists are covered in bands and bracelets. He takes his place at the front and scans the audience, but it's clear he doesn't find who he's looking for. His face drops and he bends over his guitar, taking his time to tune it. His hands are shaking. The moment seems to go on and on. Somebody in the audience giggles. Zoran plays a few notes on the piano and Zach rallies. He strikes a few slow chords and begins to sing.

Broken bird in my hollowed hand

Beating heart like you want to shout

Beating hard to fight your way out

Broken bird trying to fly

Where are you going? What do you want?

Be careful the wind don't blow you about.

And the waves draw lines along the sand, the sand,

The waves draw lines along the sand,

And when they've drawn them they take them away,

I hope they take me too someday,

I hope they take me too.

Broken bird when I let you go

You mustn't look back, you mustn't, no.

Head for the sun and fly right to it,

Look for the light and go straight through it.

Don't look down or you'll fall and break,

'cause the wind ain't gonna carry you forever.

And the waves draw pictures on the sand, the sand,  . . .

 

 

The lyrics (in Cameraman's humble opinion) are a bit sentimental, but the melody is simple and haunting and the voice—throaty, rasping but somehow also, when it hits the high notes, pure—holds the audience captive. Zachary Smith finishes. He is still for a moment, holding the silence at the end of the piece. When he looks up, it's like he's come back from a long way away and is a little bit lost.

Camera takes in Great-aunt Alina and her husband, Peter, clutching hands, rapt. Several adult members of the audience are crying. A lot of the younger kids stare with their mouths dropped open in amazement because they never thought one of their own could ever sing like that. Two older boys, whose performance of “Wonderwall” was unintentionally hilarious, look annoyed. Camera finally pans to Flora. Flora's mouth is also open, but she does not look annoyed or even amazed. Flora's eyes shine. She leans forward in her chair and she does not move, even when Zachary Smith stops singing, but keeps on looking at him like she cannot believe what she is seeing. He turns his head toward her. He catches her eye. Suddenly he doesn't look lost anymore.

He looks—amazed.

Suddenly there is nobody in the room but him and Flora.

 

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 17 (CONT.)

Jas made me replay the whole concert on the train on the way home, though we skipped over most of the acts, lingering only on the kid singing “Summertime” and the old lady playing jazz tunes, until we got to Zach, and then she made me play his bit over and over again. Flora said nothing, just stared out of the train window. It was dark outside and there was nothing to see, but I don't think she'd have noticed if a herd of elephants had cantered past playing “Wonderwall” on the trumpet.

“He's not at all like I expected,” Jas said. Then a little bit later she said, “I'm glad Zoran's looking after him.”

Flora still said nothing.

Flora, who normally can't shut up for an
instant.
Completely silent.

It was very unnerving.

 

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18

Dad found the kittens this morning or, more precisely, they found him. Somehow they got out of the shed in the night, and they were stalking up and down outside the kitchen doors when he saw them, mewing for their breakfast.

“AGGGHHHH!” Dad screamed, like they were full-grown tigers instead of thirteen-week-old kittens.

“MEEEOWWWWW!” the kittens yowled back.

“Oh my God, they're adorable!” cried Flora, clapping her hands.

“They're mine,” Jas announced. “I found them starving in the graveyard, and I'm keeping them forever.”

“We didn't lose the rats to make room for disease-ridden strays,” Dad declared. “They will have to go.”

“We didn't
lose
the rats, full stop,” Flora reminded him.

“I could sell them,” offered Twig.

“You could not,” snarled Jas.

“This is a very bad time to have new pets,” said Dad. “Your mother . . .”

“What about me?” Mum wandered down into the kitchen, and I have to say that her behavior at the moment is almost as troubling as Dad's. Normally on a Monday morning she would be tearing around in a suit, ready for work and nagging at us about being late for school, but today she was still in her robe at eight o'clock, eating peanut butter straight from the jar with her fingers.

Jas said, “It is either the kittens or me.” Dad replied that there were far too many children in the house anyway. Mum walked out, slamming the door.

“That,” Flora said to Dad, “is probably the nastiest thing you have ever said to any of us.”

“I didn't mean it!” cried Dad. He stared from Jas to the door Mum had just stormed out of, then back at Jas again, like he couldn't decide what he should do next. Upstairs we heard another door slam. Dad yelled, “Just get rid of them!” then sprang into action and tore out after Mum.

“I did mean it!” Jas yelled after him. “I'll run away again and this time I won't come back!”

“No,” Zoran said when Jas and I trudged around with the kittens this afternoon.

“Just until Daddy calms down,” Jas begged.

“They peed on my duvet!” Zoran cried.

“If you don't take them,” Jas said, “they will probably die.”

“When are you going to e-mail me your recording?” Zoran asked. “Loads of people are asking to see it.”

Jas started to scuff the carpet with her foot.

“I would love to e-mail you my recording,” I said, “but the problem is I can't find my camera.”

Zoran said, “What do you mean, you can't find it?” and I said, “I don't know, I've looked everywhere; it's really upsetting,” and then Jas burst into tears and sobbed, “Oh, who cares about your stupid camera, what about the kittens?” Zoran hugged her but was very firm and said that he would have a word with Mum about them. He went into his bedroom to call her, but we listened at the door. It was hard to hear everything, but basically he told her how good it would be for Jas to look after two needy little animals, especially when things were a bit traumatic.

“What does traumatic mean?” Jas whispered.

“I think he means you're upset because of the rats,” I whispered.

Dad is sulking but Jas is over the moon because, after talking to Zoran, Mum said of course the kittens can stay. I think possibly she only said it to annoy Dad, but this makes no difference at all to Jas.

And I've found my camera. It was under Flora's pillow.

 

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19

My sister is in love again,
I wrote to Jake this evening.
She stole my camera after I filmed this boy in a concert he was in, and she ran the battery down watching my recording. I found it under her pillow. Then she went bright red at dinner when Mum asked how the concert went. I'm attaching the clip here so you can see it. Please don't show it to your family.

I stopped to think while the clip was uploading, and then I wrote,
On second thoughts, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not going to send this e-mail. I do hope you understand,
and then instead of pressing send I pressed delete, making today the first day since he went away that I haven't e-mailed Jake. Sometimes I have really racked my brain to think of something to write and sometimes I have written much too much, but the point is I have written every single day, just like he asked, but he hardly ever writes back and when he does it's always the same thing, about the awesome beach and how funny I am and how amazing it is that it's summer in Australia but winter over here. I told Dodi about it today during break, and she said I should write back and say it's not amazing at all, it's just that Australia is in the Southern Hemisphere and we are in the Northern Hemisphere.

It was actually Dodi who said I shouldn't write back. She says that writing back when Jake's answers are so lame makes me look like a pushover. “Like he's being rude, but you're saying it doesn't matter,” were her exact words. I've never thought of it like that before, because I never expected Jake to be much good at writing, but today I did start to think that maybe she was a little bit right.