True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) by Deborah Kay Davies Page B

us. The smell was intoxicating. It was cool and secret. Your parents’ garden is so fab, Alison said, and linked her arm through mine. Pity one can’t say the same about their ghoulish friends, I said. Some of them are nice, actually, she said. I told her that inside these funny old hedges it was as if nothing bad could ever happen. Even as I said it I knew it wasn’t true. Well, yes, but unfortunately, not true, Alison said. It ought to be true, but it’s not. That’s one of the things I love about Alison. The way she says things I’m thinking. There hadn’t been very much of that recently. Alison, I said, you are so wise and lovely. I know, she said. Can we be friends again now? I asked her. We always are, you nit, she said. Then she asked me how I was. I’m not your mum, she said. It’s just that I worry about you. Nag, nag, nag, I said.
    I was horribly restless. Who are you looking for? Alison asked. Only you keep craning your head round. Really? I said. That was surprising and scary; why was I doing that? What else was I doing that I didn’t know about? I looked at Alison with her sweet funeral dress, and her shiny hair in its usual ponytail. There was so much to say, but also nothing at all.Anyway, given it was my grandmother’s funeral, I couldn’t really tell her anything. It didn’t seem the right time. I started playing the game we’d played since for ever. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist, and sure enough soon we were sniggering, quoting snippets of cheesy songs to each other. Perhaps we should stop giggling, Alison said. Behave, young miss. This is a funeral.
    We decided to walk round the garden. I wanted to check out the runner bean wigwams. We agreed that vegetables were nice and grounding. I remembered the last time I’d visited. I could almost hear the ice tinkling in my mum’s gin and tonic. I had fallen asleep on the bench near the bronze fennel. There was that moment with the mint, when I’d felt as if I had been pulled back from something. There you go again, Alison said, pointing at me. You’re doing it now. I don’t know what you mean, honestly I don’t, I said. You seem weird to me, she said. All strung up. Who are you expecting? Mr Nobody maybe, I said. Alison decided to go and find Tom. She said she would see how my parents were.
    Some people started to leave. I went up to my old bedroom and lay down on the bed. In the top drawer of the side table were my diaries. I pulled them out and began to read. I seemed to have been meticulous in recording all the school dinners I’d ever eaten. There were lists of birthday and Christmas presents, lists of the books I’d read, and the interminable walks I’d gone on. So boring and sort-of sweet. And lots of pages in code. I knew what they were about. Not sweetat all. Very boring though, and a bit pathetic, as those things usually are. I put the diaries back. Had I always been stupid? I fell asleep.
    When I woke it was evening. I could still hear murmuring outside. I tottered down to the garden where some more people I assumed were close friends of my parents were sitting round a table. Alison and Tom were there. A parasol blossomed, its frilly edges fluttering. It all looked quite jolly. They had obviously been drinking for some time. The soft sunlight glowed in each pink glass. Having fun? I asked my mum. Someone found me a chair and I joined them. They were talking about summer holidays. Everyone was chipping in with lovely memories of happy times. Even the most boring remark sent them all into fits. I watched a tiny, dishevelled bird pecking at a crisp. Its wiry claws made a whispery sound on the metal table. I could feel tears blooming in my eyes; the little bird was so happy there with his meal. I was glad the bird didn’t care about us. It put things in proportion. So I chilled out and drifted, drinking cold wine. I began to feel blissful.
    There was a commotion near the back gate. Someone was shouting. It sounded like my