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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

Copyright © Carmel Harrington 2015

Cover photograph © Daniel Grill/Getty Images

Carmel Harrington asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © September 2015 ISBN: 9780008156541

Version 2018-06-25

Acclaim for Carmel Harrington

‘Will make you see life in a different way’

Woman’s Way

‘Heartwrenching and heartwarming’

Evening Herald

‘Guaranteed to brighten your day’

Novelicious

‘Carmel Harrington has done it again! Brilliantly written … it surpasses all expectations’

Chicklit Club

‘A bittersweet, quietly brilliant novel that will make you cry, laugh and cry all over again’

Female First

‘Funny, poignant and bursting with heartfelt humour’

I Heart … Chick Lit

‘Completely stunning’

Reviewed the Book

‘It will stay with you well after, you have turned the last page’

Bleach House Library

For my family – the H’s,Roger, Amelia, Nate & Eva.

Epigraph

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Khalil Gibran

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acclaim for Carmel Harrington

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

PART TWO

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

PART THREE

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Tess’s Christmas Pudding

A Q & A With Carmel Harrington

Keep Reading...

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.

Hamilton Wright Mabie

Christmas Eve, 2005

‘Happiness is …’ I exhale a long, deep, satisfied sigh, and the cold breath of winter floats out of my mouth up into the air.

‘This is the best Christmas street lighting yet.’

I know I say the same thing every year, in this very same spot, at this very same time. I’ll probably say it again next year too.

In this moment, I’ve never seen anything more perfect. The Victorian-inspired decorations are from a bygone era that shine with goodwill to all men. I know, I know, that sounds all cheese on toast, but when it comes to Christmas, that’s allowed. With extra parmesan on top, as far as I’m concerned.

My city, my beloved Dublin, is sparkling in a festive glow. And its inhabitants are collectively holding their breaths, because Christmas is almost here.

And this year, I’ve been delivered an early Christmas present. The fact that it’s the same one I received when I was eight years old isn’t lost on me. Coincidence, fate, magic, I don’t know what forces are at play to make this happen, but I’m grateful.

Just two weeks ago, I was single, happily so too, living my best life, teaching kids in St Colmcille’s. I honest to goodness didn’t wake up each day lamenting the lack of love in my life. Because I had a good life, boyfriends coming and going. I figured that one day I would meet Mr Right. But now that he is here, I cannot believe that I ever got through each day without him by my side.

Here I am, at the foot of Grafton Street with Jim Looney of all people. If you would have suggested such a thing to me a mere few weeks ago, the words ‘look up’ and ‘flying pigs’ would have been uttered.

Jim Looney.

I sigh again as I take him in, standing beside the statue of Molly Malone, laughing at the tinsel that someone has draped over her cleavage.

An image of Jim strutting down a runway pops into my head and I giggle at the thought. He could give any male model a run for their money, but I think he’d rather pull his nails out one by one than do that.

I grab my phone and take a photo of him. I’ve already taken at least a dozen this evening. He could be modelling a new line in men’s winter clothing, he looks so good. I mean, not many could get away with that multi-coloured Dr Who-inspired scarf wrapped around his neck over and over. But on him it looks quirky and cool.

And, this is the bit that I still can’t quite believe.

He’s my boyfriend. All mine.

Don’t go getting too used to this, Belle. It never lasts.

I quickly banish the little voice inside my head. Go away nasty mean voice.

I know full well that I’m punching above my weight. I mean, for goodness sake, he’s even got a chiselled jawline. Seriously, I’m telling you, he’s fecking gorgeous. I can’t find ways to describe him to you without sounding like a big sap. But trust me when I say this. He’s, as we are want to say in Dublin about a good-looking man, a ‘ride’.

When I look into his big blue eyes, I’m done for. I keep forgetting what I’m about to say when he directs those baby blues at me.

And don’t get me started on his hair. That’s always been my Achilles heel. It makes me feel all protective and full of love. You see, it has this habit of just flopping over his right eye. I’m sure most would say it’s red or ginger, maybe even auburn. But I like to call it foxy.

Jim McFoxy Looney.

When it does that flopping thing, it’s as if my hands have a mind of their own and they involuntarily reach up to brush it back off his forehead. But there again, I’m not complaining about that, because I don’t need any excuse to touch Jim. And I’ve realised that when I do touch him, it seems to have a delicious knock-on effect. One minute I’m lightly touching his forearm, then the next we’re kissing.

A shiver ripples through me as I remember what happened only this morning when I brushed past him on my way into the bathroom.

Twice.

Who would have thought that Jim Looney had that in him? I’m telling you, it’s ridiculous how sexy he is.

He is, no other word for it, but a fecking ride.

You’ll notice that I’ll find any excuse to say that.

Jim Looney, the big ride, my boyfriend.

I feel a bit giddy with it all, to be honest. It’s like it’s five o’clock all the time and I’m half drunk. The mad thing is, I’ve not had much to drink in weeks. Jim’s not a big drinker and that in itself is charming, because all the guys I’ve dated recently seem to be more in love with a pint of lager than me. Kind of refreshing to be with a guy who gets that there are more things to do in life than prop up a bar.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Jim asks, with a raised eyebrow.

‘Ah, that would be telling,’ I say with a grin.

Thank goodness he can’t read thoughts. If I tell him what I’ve just been thinking, we’ll be in a taxi and on our way back to my apartment before the words are out of my mouth. And as tempting as that thought is, it will have to wait.

Because it’s Christmas Eve and we’re on Grafton Street, where its festive delights await us.

‘So, tell me about this tradition of yours, the one you do every Christmas Eve?’ Jim asks.

‘This is my tenth year. Started because of Joyce O’Connor,’ I say.

‘Why do I get the feeling there’s a story there?’ Jim remarks.

‘Oh yes, there’s a story alright. She asked me to go into the city with her one Christmas Eve, when I was fifteen,’ I say.

I wonder what Joyce is up to now. We lost touch a long time ago. But she’s wrapped up in this particular tradition and standing here usually sparks a memory of her.

She wasn’t even a close friend. In fact, if I’m calling a spade a spade, she was a bit of a bitch. I don’t know why I said yes in the first place when she asked me to go with her. I mean, she’d been one of those passive aggressive wagons for years. The queen of making snide comments behind my back, giving inverted compliments that everyone knows is really an insult.

I spent half my childhood trying to dodge Joyce and her cronies in the hallways at school. Anything to avoid one of her ‘chats’.

‘I remember her. At least I think I’m remembering the right one. Blonde, small girl? Touch of the mean girls about her? She was one of the gang who used to give you a hard time,’ Jim says.

I laugh, yep, he’s got her number. ‘Good memory. She had her moments, for sure. And the only reason she asked me to go with her on that day was because she had no other options. Her usual cronies were busy and she needed a decoy. Her parents would never have let her go off to meet a boy on her own. But a nice innocent trip into town with a friend, well, that was different.’

‘Oh, I get it. You got to be a big, fat, green, hairy gooseberry,’ Jim says.

I nod. ‘I’d nothing better to do, so thought, why not? And it made Tess happy when I told her I was off gallivanting. She was always worrying about me being such a loner.’

‘Did you have fun in the end?’ Jim says. ‘Maybe she wasn’t as bad as you thought?’

‘No, we didn’t bond over hot chocolate or anything. She was true to form and remained a wagon. But despite that, I did have fun,’ I say.

The 16B bus had been jammers with lots of people with the same idea, to head into the city to soak up the festive atmosphere.

‘Joyce didn’t even bother keeping up a pretence that we were together for more than a few minutes. Once we jumped on board the bus she ran upstairs to the upper deck and within seconds was doing a round of tonsil hockey with a pimply, horny boy called Billy Doyle. I swear her arse hadn’t even hit the seat he’d saved for her before his tongue was down her throat,’ I say.

‘You can’t buy class.’ Jim says shaking his head.

‘A right dirt bird.’ I say and he laughs with me. ‘You know, they hadn’t even bothered to save a seat for me. As the upper deck was so full, I had no choice but to retreat back downstairs, tail between my legs and stand. Joyce didn’t give me a backwards glance, the cheeky mare,’ I say.

I marvel that I ever allowed myself to be treated like that.

‘Once we arrived at O’Connell Street, the two love birds headed to McDonalds to share a strawberry shake. It was clear I wasn’t included in their romantic date, so I left them to it. I suppose I should have been annoyed with her, but I didn’t mind in the slightest.’

Jim throws a sympathetic glance my way, but I’m quick to reassure him, ‘I was used to my own company back then, preferred it a lot of the time.’

It baffled me as to why they wanted to sit on plastic seats in a noisy fast-food restaurant, when they could be out, soaking up the Christmassy atmosphere in the city.

‘It was their loss. I got to explore Dublin, on my own. It was almost dusk and the city changes in that light. Everything seemed so magical.’

I pause, feeling embarrassed, ‘This probably sounds silly but, to me, it felt like I was looking at my city with new eyes.’

‘Not silly at all.’ Jim replies. ‘You know what I thought when we got to O’Connell Street? There’s a touch of Bedford Falls about it all now. You know, the town in It’s a Wonderful Life.’

I smile and nod in agreement. I’ve always thought the same. ‘I love that movie.’

I jump as a badly dressed Santa roars in our direction. ‘Merry Christmas. Ho ho ho.’ He rings his bell and rattles a box loudly, collecting change for charity. He seems intent on frightening passers-by and is clearly delighted with himself when everyone jumps in shock.

I throw a few euro into his box and then Jim says, ‘So fill me in on how this tradition of yours works.’

‘Well, ever since that year, I’ve come back each Christmas Eve. I start off in O’Connell Street, then walk over the Liffey, past Trinity College, say hello to the Molly Malone statue in all her glory, stroll up Grafton Street, then head over to the Ha’penny Bridge, before going home,’ I say.

‘You ever mix it up and change the route?’ Jim asks.

‘Oh, God no. Has to be in that order,’ I say. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot to say, I do have a quick pit stop in Captain America’s for hot chocolate and a slice of their, quite frankly, decadent Mississippi Mud Pie. Just to keep the energy levels up.’ I grin like a four-year-old.

‘Sounds like quite a nice tradition to keep.’ Jim says. ‘I’m glad I’m here to share it with you this year.’

‘I’m glad you’re here too. You know, I’ve had years of strolling up and down this cobbled street with boyfriends, girlfriends, school friends and, yes, I’ll even admit it – the shame – on my own a few times.’ I look at him, feeling a little shy. ‘But this feels special, more than any other year. That’s because of you, Jim.’

He grabs my hand and laughs, ‘I’m honoured. Come on then, Ms Bailey, show me what this great city of ours has to offer.’

My eyes greedily take in the view ahead of us, down Grafton Street. Red, flickering lights coil around luscious green garlands, which drape from one side of the street to the other. In the centre of each garland is a large red Victorian lantern and the light casts a warm glow over the busy cobbled street. Each shop window is alight with Christmas lights and resplendent baubles in rich jewel colours.

There’s something about the energy here … well, it is breathtaking.

I’m not the only one who feels that. I can see it on the faces of people as they rush by too, with their pre-Christmas festive highs.

Okay, maybe not so much on that guy’s face, I giggle, as a harassed man in his forties rushes by. Last-minute shopper, I decide. Poor sap. I’ve mine all done and dusted since October. I wouldn’t dream of leaving it to now. But aside from the odd scowling face, the street is awash with a sea of shiny, happy people.

‘Look over there,’ I shout in excitement as I spy a window display with a group of reindeers nibbling on fake grass in the snow. Then another scene catches my eyes and I’m darting over to the other side of the street, pulling Jim behind me.

‘Earlier, when you said happiness is …’ Jim waves his hand around the Christmas-card view in front of us, ‘is all of this what you meant by happiness?’

‘Well, obviously lots of things make me happy. But this, well, it’s up there with the best of them. I love everything about Christmas. You must feel it too? Doesn’t it feel like we’re in a Christmas movie right now?’ I exclaim.

‘Oh, a blockbuster for sure.’ He drawls. ‘Aside from twinkling lights, which I know you’re a sucker for, what else makes you happy?’

I reckon the feel of my hand in his, as we walk through the frenzied crowds, is top of my happy list right now. But a girl has to hold some cards to herself, so I remain silent.

‘I want to know. Come on, Belle. What else makes you happy?’ Jim persists.

‘Oh, a lot of different things. Not having to set the alarm on Saturdays and Sundays. Peanut butter on hot toast. But don’t be giving me cold toast. I can’t be doing with rubbery cold toast,’ I say.

‘A shootable offence that?’ He asks and when I nod, he says, ‘I’m taking notes here. This is good intel.’

‘Well, while you’re at it, add to the list that not spreading said peanut butter to all corners of the toast is equally damnable. I can’t be doing with someone who just smears it on willy nilly, not giving due consideration to all parts of the bread,’ I tell him.

‘Got it. Take care when smearing peanut butter – evenly – on piping-hot toast. What else makes your ladyship happy?’ He says, tipping his hat in mock salute.

‘I love starting a new book and then realising that it’s one of the good ones. The kind that I am not going to want to finish,’ I say.

I think some more and add, ‘Oh and dancing. Any kind, but preferably one that involves a lot of bum-shaking is guaranteed to make me smile.’

Jim raises his eyebrow so I reward him with a little shake of my bum.

‘See. Look how happy my dancing makes you too.’ I tease, and he bursts into laughter.

‘Oh, you can be assured that your bum makes me happy,’ he declares, giving it a pat, and I thank the stars that I stuck at the squats this summer in the gym.

‘You’ve not mentioned swinging,’ Jim states.

‘How very dare you! I’m a respectable lady, I’ll have you know. I’ve never left my key ring in anyone’s fruit bowl.’ I feign outrage. I know what he’s referring to, but it’s still fun teasing him.

He starts to splutter an explanation, then he realises my game.

‘Yes, Jim Looney, I still love swings. I can’t pass by a park without seeing how high I can go.’ I admit. ‘And I do some of my best thinking when I’m up there chasing the clouds.’

‘You were always the same,’ he remembers. ‘I was more of a slide man myself.’

I remember him always trying to climb up the slide, rather than use the ladder and me begging him to push me higher and higher on the swings. That was a long time ago, though.

He pulls me to the side of the street, out of the lane of traffic and looks searchingly into my eyes.’ What about me? Do I make you happy?’

I’m surprised to see that my confident, laid-back boyfriend looks like a ten-year-old boy, suddenly unsure of himself.

Without hesitation, I take his hands between my own and tell him, with the utmost sincerity, ‘You, Jim Looney, make me happiest most of all.’

My friends would be horrified that I’ve laid my heart bare so early on in our relationship. I know that I probably should play a little harder to get. But I’ve never been any good at hiding how I feel.

‘You get what you see with my Belle.’ Tess always says. Heart-on-sleeve territory.

Well, he’s getting a complete, hopelessly devoted to you, kind of lovestruck feeling from me right now.

He gives me the strangest look. Damn it, I’ve frightened him off.

‘You’re full of surprises,’ he says after a moment of tortured silence and you’d swear he was just seeing me for the first time.

‘You okay?’ I ask and my stomach flips. That strange look is back on his face. It worries me.

‘So much has changed since I left, but then, some things are just as they were when I said goodbye.’ He murmurs. ‘It’s disconcerting.’

‘You’re getting all reflective in your old age.’ I poke him in his side. ‘Now enough of that, come on admit it, Brown Thomas gives Macy’s a run for its money, doesn’t it?’

‘Absolutely, it’s not half-bad.’ He acknowledges in his slow half-Midwestern, half-Irish drawl, and we pause to take in the decadent window displays.

‘I really think it’s the most beautiful street in the world.’ I murmur. ‘When I stand here, I feel like a child again.’

As we move from window to window of the department store I have the most wonderful sensation that I’ve been engulfed in a big Christmas hug. Mannequins draped in Victorian clothing, bejewelled with pearls and glittering gems, stand and sit in displays, dressed with snow, fairy lights and dazzling Christmas trees. I lean back into Jim’s embrace and nuzzle my head into the crook of his neck.

Oh, I love how he smells. I’ve spent some time on this subject and have decided that it’s a mix of spice and cinnamon and oaky leathers. He actually smells a bit Christmassy.

And then his arms wrap around my body and I think he’s just so … I struggle to find the right word and then giggle when it comes to me. He’s just so manly, yes that’s the word.

I catch a glimpse of us in the reflection of the window display, me giggling and him smiling in response, even though he has no idea why I’m doing so and I don’t think I’ve ever felt luckier.

I notice a few people looking at us. I’m used to that, the gawping, that is. The foxy-haired Irishman with a Midwestern US drawl and the caramel-skinned Amazonian woman, with black afro hair and Dublin accent. An unlikely pair maybe, but we somehow fit perfectly.

When I stand by his side, he makes me feel prettier than I’ve ever felt with any other man. It doesn’t hurt that at six foot four he can make my five foot ten-inch tall frame look almost petite. Well, maybe not petite, that’s probably a stretch.

And never mind how he looks, it’s how he makes me feel that has me undone. Ever since our amazing first kiss, I crave him, there’s no other way to describe how it feels than that.

I mean, I was doing very nicely without him for the past ten years, thank you very much. Now I cannot be without him.

Is this what true love feels like? Did Cinderella feel like this when she met her Prince Charming? I hope so.

What happens when he goes home to Indiana after Christmas, though?

There’s that nasty inner voice again. Shut up. I refuse to even think about anything more than this moment right now. And to prove that point I turn to face him and kiss him passionately, with every fibre of my being. I don’t care who is watching and it appears, as his tongue makes its way towards mine, that he doesn’t either.

‘Ahem.’ A voice coughs and we pull apart to see who is trying to get our attention. It’s the dapper concierge of Brown Thomas. He’s wagging his finger at us, but he’s smiling, there’s no sting to his rebuke. He just wants us to move away from the front of his store.

‘Sorry about that.’ Jim tips his head towards him and we start to move away. ‘Let’s go get some of that mud pie you keep going on about. I think I’m going to need to keep my strength up with you.’

I wave happily to the concierge and he waves his top hat to me, shouting, ‘Merry Christmas, lovebirds.’

The chocolate pie tastes as good as I remember. Jim suggests sharing a slice, but I put that notion to bed straight away.

‘I’ll add the “no sharing of chocolate treats” to my list,’ he jokes.

When we leave Captain America’s, sated and giddy with sugar, we stop, listening to the sounds that tinkle in the air.

We walk slowly up to Stephen’s Green and take a stroll around the park. It’s quiet there and we walk in comfortable silence.

‘Where to next?’ Jim asks when we have done a full loop of the park.

‘I told you, we head to the Ha’penny Bridge then to O’Connell Street, finally back to Tess’s,’ I say.

‘And I really have to sleep in her spare room tonight?’ Jim moans.

‘Yes. Don’t you dare try to do any bedroom flits. You’ll give her a coronary,’ I say.

Before we have a chance to debate sleeping arrangements any further, the sound of a girl singing floats towards us. ‘That’s so pretty.’ I point towards the Ha’penny Bridge. ‘It’s coming from over there.’

‘She’s singing your favourite Christmas song,’ he says.

His knowing this, remembering that fact, overwhelms me. He sees this and lightly touches my cheek. ‘I keep telling you, Belle. I remember everything.’

We move towards the sound of her voice. It is so pure and beautiful, it makes harried shoppers stop in their tracks, one by one. We push our way through the crowds and I half expect to see a CD deck. But to my surprise, I see that the owner of the voice is in fact a young girl, standing in the middle of the bridge.

‘She’s no more than ten or eleven,’ I say, unable to take my eyes off her.

‘She’s so cute,’ a woman remarks and we both nod in agreement. The girl is wearing a double-breasted red woollen coat. She has bobbed, black shiny hair that bounces off her black-velvet collar. The lights on the bridge bounce off the still water below and back up around her, creating a soft glow.

It’s the most beautiful moment I’ve ever experienced. There is something so pure about the voice, the girl, the bridge.

‘Can you believe that voice?’ Jim says in amazement as she belts out O Holy Night like a pro.

‘She has the voice of an angel,’ I whisper and feel emotion swell inside of me. Tears threaten to fall and that won’t do at all, not on Christmas Eve.

‘A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices. …’ I sing along with her, reaching for Jim’s hand. He clasps it tight. The words touch my heart in a way they’ve never done before. I realise that I felt exactly like that, weary, only three weeks ago. Then Jim walked into my life and, in an instant, everything changed.

I feel my whole body shudder as another wave of emotion overtakes me and I have to pinch myself hard to stop myself falling to the ground weeping. Is it just me, or is Jim as affected? I pull my eyes away from the girl and take a peek at him. Thank goodness, I can see he’s not immune to her voice either. His eyes glisten in the crisp night air and I lean in towards him once more.

And then something hits me with a jolt. I’ve finally come home. Right here, in this man’s arms. I’m home.

It’s only been three weeks, though.

But it feels like a lifetime. How can that be?

I know why. He’s my destiny. I wished for him. And he arrived all but wrapped up in a bow.

I look around at the gathered audience standing around this young girl. Families, couples and groups of friends, all captivated by a beatific voice.

I decide there and then that I must never forget this moment. There aren’t many times in life that are so perfect and pure that they can make your heart explode in joy. This is one of them.

As the young girl builds up to the last line, her voice hits the high note with ease. And all at once the busy thoroughfare is silent, spellbound, by her pure voice.

How long do we stand in wondrous silence? It seems to stay that way for ages, but it can only be for a few seconds.

Then the hush is interrupted by a joyful jingle as the crowd moves forward, one by one, to drop coins into a red-velvet hat that is by her feet. As the coins hit each other, they chime and tinkle, casting magical notes high up into the night air.

‘It’s like the bells are ringing.’ I say in wonder.

‘Bells ringing for you, Belle,’ Jim says.

I take my turn to throw a handful of euros into the red cap and the girl looks right into my eyes, a big smile across her face. And you know what? The weirdest sensation overcomes me. I swear I know this girl. I have this ridiculous urge to hug her.

As her parents are most likely watching right now and would think I’m a crazy lady, I resist.

‘If Simon Cowell were to rock by right now, he’d have euro signs shining in his eyes. That’s a Christmas number one right there, that song,’ I turn to tell Jim, expecting to see him behind me. Where’s he got to? I scan the bridge right and left, kicking myself for moving forward, away from him. The crowds are thick as everyone moves to continue their evening, and I can’t see him anywhere.

But then, I feel his hand grab mine and I smile in relief, feeling silly for my dramatic panic.

‘There you are!’ I exclaim. Now what the hell is he doing? I watch in complete shock as he drops to one knee, right here, in the middle of the Ha’penny Bridge.

‘Have you lost something?’ I ask, thinking he must have dropped his wallet or something. I start scouring the cobblestones around me.

‘Look. That man is going to propose,’ someone shouts from behind me, and my stomach starts to flip, even though I know that it’s impossible. Jim’s not going to propose.

I turn to them to say, ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, there’s no way that’s happening.’

Sure I’ve only known Jim three weeks. People don’t propose that quickly. That only happens in books or movies. Not in Dublin. And certainly not to me, Belle Bailey.

But when I look down, he’s not laughing, he’s looking at me intently. He doesn’t look like he’s lost anything. Nor does he look terrified. In fact, if I had to call it, I’d say he looks downright happy. A little bit goofier than normal, with a strange look on his usually cocky face.

‘I’ve not lost anything, Belle. On the contrary, I would say that I’ve found something pretty wonderful.’ I can hear an audible gasp from someone behind me. I look around at the sea of faces who a moment ago were united in emotion at the young girl’s song. And now they are united in expectation, as delicious real-life drama unfolds in front of them. They’ll have plenty to chat about over their mince pies later on.

‘I want my happy-ever-after to be with you, Belle. I want to grow old with you. I never want to let you go. I want to love you so much that you never look sad again,’ Jim states.

Did I just dream that?

I mean, it does sound like a proposal, but there again he hasn’t actually asked me. I purse my lips tight. There’s no way I am going to jump in and say ‘yes’ to a declaration as opposed to a question.

But, even so, something that feels a lot like excitement starts to course its way through my body.

‘I want to marry you. I want to marry my best friend.’ His voice is strong, unfaltering.

Oh boy. No room for misunderstanding now.

The crowd who were about to disperse moments before have now made a circle around us. In an unspoken movement, they are now protecting us from jostling shoppers. I hear them gasp and shush each other as Jim’s words echo through the crisp night air.

‘I didn’t plan this, which is silly, because it’s all I’ve thought about for days. I don’t even have a ring.’ He says, and looks forlorn.

I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of happy-ever-afters, where the prince drops to one knee, diamond ring in one hand as he pleads his devotion. But now, in this moment, I realise that I don’t care one jolt about a ring. I smile in an attempt to reassure him of my non-materialistic self.

‘But I do have this,’ he continues, his face breaking out into a big smile again, and he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket.

What on earth is he going to pull out? He’s got a square box in his hand, wrapped in red paper, with a brilliant white bow on top.

‘That’s one fancy-pants wrapping job there,’ I say to him.

‘I bought this earlier for you. It’s only one small part of your Christmas present. Don’t worry, there’s more. I was going to put it under the tree at Tess’s. But I think it might just work quite well now.’ He hands the box to me.

My hands are shaking so much I can hardly peel off the wrapping paper. I hold my breath as I unclasp the hook at the front of the box. I know it’s not a ring, he’s made that clear, but I have no idea what delights might be hidden inside.

A tiny silver bell. Nestled on red-velvet fabric within the box, with a red-velvet ribbon attached to it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more perfect.

‘Oh, Jim.’ I sigh and, I swear, the crowd sighs with me.

‘A silver bell for my Belle,’ he says.

I take it out and shake it once, twice and it rings out into the night air. The group around me all sigh again, louder this time, in unison.

I don’t blame them. For goodness sake, I’m about to faint with the beauty of the moment. I’ve read about moments like these, watched them in Christmas specials and now I’m actually part of one. Me.

He takes the bell from my shaking hands and unties the red ribbon.

‘It’s not a ring, but it can be a promise of one if you say yes,’ he says.

‘Appleby Jewellers is still open, love,’ a voice shouts out from behind me and the crowd laughs in appreciation of typical quick Dublin wit.

My head races around and around, like a spinning top, and I feel faint as blood rushes to my brain. I reach back to clasp the wrought-iron railing on the bridge.

For someone who has spent twenty-five years never ever feeling faint, I’ve been doing a good job of it lately, I realise. I close my eyes and take three consecutive deep breaths, until I feel steady once more.

Maybe I just imagined all of that. I look down, expecting to see nothing there, but a red cobbled street.

Instead, there’s Jim, my ride of a boyfriend, still on one knee looking up at me. And I can see only love in his eyes.

‘We’ve only known each other three weeks,’ I splutter to him. It has to be said. One of us needs to be responsible here. This elicits delicious and shocked gasps from our ever-growing audience.

He stands up and grabs my hands in his. ‘My darling, beautiful, courageous Belle. You know that’s not true. We’ve known each other all of our lives.’

PART ONE

1

Isn’t it funny that at Christmas something in you gets so lonely for — I don’t know what exactly, but it’s something that you don’t mind so much not having at other times.

Kate L. Bosher

December 1988

‘She’s not said a word. It’s not normal. Maybe it’s time you had her tested. You know, to see if there’s anything wrong with her.’ Mrs Gately, my about-to-be ex-foster carer, sniffs as she taps the side of her head.

‘She’s done this before. Stopped talking, I mean,’ Mrs O’Reilly replies, and sniffs in solidarity.

Mrs O’Reilly is my social worker, for as long as I can remember. She doesn’t look happy with me right now, either. I don’t want to make her cross. I never mean to upset anyone, but it keeps happening all the same. I made my mother angry a lot.

I hold my doll Dee-Dee close to me and stroke her black hair, trying to block out memories of my mother.

‘Have a good Christmas, Belle,’ Mrs Gately says loudly as she moves towards me. She almost hugs me, then seems to change her mind at the last minute. She ends up just patting my head instead.

I think I got off lightly because she smells weird. She wears this perfume that makes my nose itch and sneeze. I can see she’s delighted to see the back of me. I heard her telling her husband earlier that no money was worth it. Even though I’m only eight, I’ve worked out that it must be me.

‘Put your seat belt on, Belle,’ Mrs O’Reilly snaps over her shoulder. She’s definitely cross with me too. But then her face softens a little as she looks at me in the rear-view mirror. Her voice goes all high and strained as she tells me, ‘You’ll like this house, you wait and see. Tess is a good woman and this time it’s a permanent placement. That will be good, won’t it? Settling into a new home and unpacking your things.’

I look down at the small backpack that lies at my feet, which holds everything I own.

‘Belle,’ she snaps again and I realise she’s waiting for me to say something in return.

I nod and attempt a smile, even though I don’t feel much like it.

It seems to satisfy her, because she stops staring at me in the rear-view mirror and returns her eyes to the road in front of us.

What do you think Dee-Dee? Will this home be a forever one? Dee-Dee always tells me the truth. I think she’s the only person in the whole world who does.

She looks at me with her big brown eyes and says, ‘Well, Joan and Daniel’s house was supposed to be a forever home too.’

True, in fact Mrs O’Reilly has said that very same line to me loads of times now.

As always, whenever I think of Joan and Daniel, I feel scared all over again. All I want to do is go back to Dun Laoghaire, back to that house I’ve lived in for the past few years. Problem is, Joan and Daniel are not there any more. The house is for sale and locked up. My old foster parents are now somewhere called the Silicone Valley. I don’t know where that is, but I know it must be far away, because they had to go on an aeroplane to get there.

Why did they have to leave me behind, Dee-Dee? My stomach starts to flip.

Dee-Dee looks at me with her big sad eyes and I know what she’s thinking.

Everyone leaves. In the end, they all leave me behind.

‘It’s just you and me, kiddo, stick with me and we’ll be fine,’ Dee-Dee says.

I kiss her forehead and nod. Yes, we’ll be just fine.

Mrs Reilly starts to chatter on about how much fun I’m going to have in this new house in Drumcondra. It will be a new adventure, she keeps saying. And even though I don’t need to go on an aeroplane to get to this new place, I know it’s a long way away from everything I know.

‘Tess, your new foster mum, has been fostering for over thirty years. She has a room ready for you. All to yourself, too. Won’t that be nice? And you can walk to your new school every day, just like you did at Joan and Daniel’s.’ She smiles in the rear-view mirror.

I look at her eyes. The smile doesn’t reach them. Whenever people smile at me, I check out to see if the eyes crinkle up at the corners. I know it’s a real smile if that happens. I’ve noticed that there are a lot of people who fake-smile all the time. Mrs Reilly is a prime example.

The car stops and starts in splutters as she hits the usual rush-hour traffic. I feel a little bit sick, so I decide I’d better close my eyes in an attempt to stop the nausea.

‘It’s almost the Christmas holidays, so we all agree that it’s best you start your new school in January. That gives you a few weeks to settle in. New Year, new beginning. I think that’s best all round. Isn’t that exciting? You’ll love it there, trust me, you wait and see,’ she states in that high, strangled voice of hers.

Thing is, I don’t trust her. I’m only eight years old, but I already know that it’s safer if you don’t trust anyone. People lie all the time.

Dee-Dee nods in total agreement.

‘The traffic is heavy this evening,’ Mrs Reilly complains, looking at her watch.

I wipe the condensation from the car window and peek outside. We’re not moving, we’ve stopped at another red light. I know that it has to change to green to move. I learnt that in school. I can’t remember what amber means, that one always confuses me. Is it prepare to go or prepare to stop?

Oh, here we go again. We move forward a little bit, but just as quickly we’re at a standstill again.

As my stomach heaves, Dee-Dee says, ‘You better not get sick in Mrs Reilly’s car.’ I feel a little bit of vomit jump into my throat and my stomach flips again. Mrs Reilly will get so cross if I get sick. She might change her mind and not take us to this new house. And then where will we go?

I try to think of something else, anything, to take my mind off the possibility of being sick.

A red car inches up beside us and to distract myself, I count the people in it. One, two, three, four. Easy. I’m good at counting. I can count to one thousand and twenty-nine. I’m sure I could have passed two thousand, but I got distracted and lost my spot. Maybe I’ll try beat my record now.

A little girl stares at me through her car window and waves. I wave back and look at her family properly. At least, I think they must be a family. The daddy is driving the car and the mammy is beside him, but she’s looking back at her two children, a boy and a girl. And whatever the mammy is saying to them, they are all laughing.

I look at the mammy’s face. It’s soft and joyful and happy.

Why are you so stupid? Get out of my fucking way, you little brat.

Tears spring into my eyes as a memory pierces through my thoughts. I feel a pain in my side. It hurts like a stitch when I run too fast in the park. I blow on the window to make it steamy again, so that I can erase that happy, smiling family away.

I don’t feel much like counting any more.

‘Don’t cry,’ Dee-Dee tells me when she sees that I’m getting upset. ‘The grown-ups get cross when you cry.’

I sigh, pinch myself and look back down again, stroking Dee-Dee’s hair.

‘What are you getting from Santa this year?’ Mrs Reilly asks me, making me jump.

I shrug. Who cares? I mean, Santa won’t even know where I live. For the past two years he came to Joan and Daniel’s. And before that, well, I don’t think he came at all.

‘Santa is magic, he’ll find you,’ Dee-Dee reassures me. ‘Remember that.’ I kiss her head. She always knows what to say to me to make me feel better.

‘Now, let’s try to find a parking spot,’ Mrs Reilly says. We’re on a street with red-bricked houses on either side. It’s almost dark and the big trees are making shadows on the path. Some windows are already filled with Christmas trees, and fairy lights twinkle on the driveways.

‘Look, Belle, see that lovely red door? That’s your new house.’ Mrs Reilly points to the other side of the road.

There’s no Christmas tree in the window.

The house in front of us, well, it looks dark and menacing and I don’t think I’m going to like it here.

‘Remember you’re not to cry,’ Dee-Dee warns again, as we walk up the drive towards the door. When Mrs Reilly rings the doorbell, I hold my breath and Dee-Dee even tighter, as I watch a shadow coming towards the door, through the opaque glass panels.

‘You’re shivering,’ Mrs Reilly says, pulling me in close to her. ‘You’ll be inside soon, nice and warm.’

The door opens and I gasp and take a step backwards. Standing right in front of us is the big bad wolf dressed in a really bright-yellow dress.

The wolf looks like she’s ready to eat me.

‘She’s fat,’ Dee-Dee says.

That’s not nice, I admonish her. She always says it like it is. Thing is, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that size before.

‘She’s probably so fat because of all the children she eats,’ Dee-Dee continues.

That’s not helpful, Dee-Dee, and I look back towards Mrs Reilly’s car and wonder if I should make a run for it now.

But before I get the chance to make my getaway, the wolf smiles at me and I can see that she doesn’t have any fangs at all. Just slightly yellow teeth. And even Dee-Dee has to agree that she looks happy to see me as she ushers me in, telling me she has lots of treats waiting.

‘This could be okay,’ Dee-Dee says agreeably. We both like treats.

I sit down at a long rectangular kitchen table, which is covered in a bright-orange and red-patterned oil-skin tablecloth. The lady, Tess, has placed a glass of milk and some Penguin bars in front of me.

‘Tuck into these, pet,’ she says, smiling her big yellow teeth at me. But she doesn’t look so scary any more. And I quite like her yellow dress. It’s pretty. Then she disappears into the hall with Mrs Reilly to whisper about me.

‘Listen up,’ Dee-Dee tells me. ‘See what they have to say.’

‘She’s still not talking. It’s been weeks now since she uttered a word,’ Mrs Reilly sighs. ‘I’m at my wits ends with it all.’

‘Sure, is that any wonder? The poor thing must be scared out of her mind. How many times has she been shoved around from pillar to post?’ Tess asks. ‘She’ll talk when she’s good and ready, not a moment before.’

Mrs Reilly doesn’t answer her question, but I could. I’ve been to four foster homes since I left my mother’s. But I’m only eight and don’t really remember everything so good yet. So I suppose it could actually be more than that. And I’ve learned already that grown-ups don’t really like to talk to me about my past. If I mention my mother, they start to get real jittery.

‘I’ve tried everything. I’m on my last nerve trying to make her speak.’ Mrs Reilly moans. ‘I hope you’ve got the patience of a saint, Tess. You’ll need it.’

‘You know, you can chase a butterfly all over the fields and you’ll never catch it. But if you just sit still, he might just come over and sit on your shoulder,’ Tess says.

I don’t understand what that means. I look at Dee-Dee and she tells me she doesn’t know either. But she likes her, and I trust her opinion.

‘There was some bullying in her last school, so maybe it’s as well she’s moved from there,’ Mrs Reilly says. ‘Racial slurs, that kind of thing.’

I don’t know exactly what ‘racial slurs’ mean. But I have a fair idea. Children were mean to me, on and off, calling me names. They kept saying I should go back home to Africa and other such things.

Both Dee-Dee and me always get confused by those remarks, because I’ve never been to Africa before. I’ve never left Ireland. Dublin is my home. So technically I am home already. It’s just so complicated.

‘Oh, God love her. That’s awful,’ Tess replies. ‘You’d think in this day and age we’d be a bit more tolerant. It’s 1988, for goodness sake.’

‘She still sticks out, though. Not that many black kids in our schools yet over here. Maybe in the UK …’ Mrs Reilly says.

Black. There they go again, Dee-Dee. Always going on about me being black.

‘Oh and she has nightmares too. She won’t say what they are about, but don’t be surprised if you hear her screaming in the night,’ Mrs Reilly continues.

My stomach flips again and I start to worry that Tess will tell Mrs Reilly to take me away. She’s not saying very nice things about me.

I can’t hear what they say next, because they start to whisper really low. But after a moment or two, Mrs Reilly sticks her head into the door of the kitchen, fake smile on again.

‘I’ll be back next week to check in on you, Belle.’ And then, like that, she’s gone.

‘We can’t wait,’ Dee-Dee says, ‘we miss you already, Mrs Reilly.’

I giggle, Dee-Dee is so funny.

‘So this Dee-Dee, is she your favourite doll?’ Tess asks, making me jump when she walks back into the room. She walks over to me and picks her up. ‘Isn’t she a beauty? What a lovely dress she’s wearing too. Mrs Reilly told me all about her, that you don’t like to go anywhere without Dee-Dee.’

I nod and I’m happy that she knows the lie of the land.

‘Would you and Dee-Dee like to see your bedroom?’ Tess asks and without waiting for me to answer, she beckons me to follow her as she huffs and puffs her way upstairs.

A white wooden door opens to a small room with a single bed in it. It has a pink duvet cover on it and lots of little pink and purple cushions piled up high over the pillows. A pine bedside locker has a pink lampshade on it and Tess shows me how to switch it on and off.

I really like the walls. They have little pink roses on them with green leaves and there’s a wardrobe in the corner that looks a bit like the one from The Chronicles of Narnia.

Tess opens the double doors, but there’s no fur coats in there. Instead there are a couple of outfits hanging up and a row of shelves, with items folded neatly on them.

‘I popped into town earlier and went into Penny’s to get a few bits for you. Underwear, socks, pyjamas, a few tops and a pair of jeans. But we’ll get some more things when we work out what you need.’ Tess tells me. ‘I never know what a child will have until they walk through the door. And I think I’ve got your size all wrong. Look at those lovely long legs you have. I might have to get a bigger size in the jeans.’

I peek at her, expecting to see irritation on her face, but she doesn’t look upset at all by the length of my legs. She’s smiling as she pulls out a dressing gown and a plastic pack with a pair of brand-new pyjamas in it. They are fluffy pink ones with big red hearts on them. I decide I like them a lot.

‘I’m pretty sure these are your size, though. Would you like to get all comfy and put them on?’ Tess asks me. ‘I like to do that of an evening. You know, when there’s nobody due to visit, nothing nicer than to get cosy in a pair of pyjamas. Then we can put on the TV and have our tea on our laps. As a special treat to celebrate you arriving here.’ She smiles at me expectantly.

I blink twice and nod, feeling overwhelmed. She’s being so kind and I don’t know how to respond. I want to cry, but I know without Dee-Dee telling me that I shouldn’t do that. Don’t frighten Tess, she seems really nice. But I can’t find any words to say either. They’re all stuck in my throat.

‘Come here,’ Tess says and leads me to the bed. She pats the spot beside her so I sit down on the edge.

‘I know you’re scared, Belle. Good Lord, I would be too, if I was in your shoes. But I promise that if you give me a chance we can be happy here. You’ll be safe in this house, I give you my word on that and we might even have some fun together, you wait and see.’ She looks at me and smiles and I am overjoyed. Her smile reaches all the way up to the crinkles in the corners of her sockets. I’ve not seen one of those in a long, long time.

‘I like her,’ Dee-Dee whispers to me.

Me too.

2

Don’t let the past steal your present. This is the message of Christmas. We are never alone.

Taylor Caldwell

December 1988

We’ve been putting decorations up for the past four hours, all over Tess’s house. There’s not a single spot in the hall, kitchen, living room, even the bathroom, that doesn’t have something Christmassy pinned to the walls.

Tess has a lot of stories. Every time she picks up a new decoration, she starts a new tale, all about how she bought it, who she was with, what she was doing. She insisted that we both wear a Santa hat while we hang them all up. Tess sings along to all the Christmas songs which are on a tape deck, on loop over and over, in the kitchen. She’s so funny because she keeps making up her own words to them, getting them wrong all the time.

Her good sitting room now contains rows upon rows of Christmas music boxes and toys. Snow globes, which when you shake them, reveal little figurines skating on a blue lake, with the soft snowflakes falling at their feet. A Rudolph the reindeer cuddly toy that sings about red noses when you touch his antler. Music boxes that play every Christmas jingle and song I’ve ever heard, over and over.

My favourite, though, is Santa Claus, sitting on a wooden rocking chair. He’s wearing a green plaid shirt and bright-red trousers with black boots. His long white beard is like snow and he has little glasses that are perched on his nose. There’s these little books and when you clip them into his right hand, his chair starts to rock and he begins to read The Night Before Christmas.

I could listen to his voice all day. If I had a grandfather, I would want him to talk exactly like that and have him read me a bed-time story every time I visited. But I didn’t. I only had my mother.

My parents don’t want to know me. Disowned me. And you want to know why? Because of you, Belle. My life is ruined because of you.

My mother’s voice is never far from my thoughts. She keeps popping up, catching me unawares. There’s no grandfather for me and that’s my fault. I feel shame and guilt.

I turn my eyes back to the decorations, I start to turn on all the musical boxes, all at once, to try and delete her cruel voice.

‘Do you fancy helping me make my Christmas pudding?’ Tess asks, making me jump. She’s standing in the doorway, watching me. I wait for her to give out to me about the noise. But she holds her hand out to me and when I clasp it, she pulls me in for a hug, kissing my head. She keeps doing that. Hugging me for no reason.

I like baking, so I follow her into the kitchen.

Lined up on the table are bowls filled with raisins, currants, eggs, breadcrumbs, flour, sugar, treacle, loads of jars of spices and even a bottle of Guinness.

‘I’m a little bit late in getting this done this year but I was waiting for you to arrive, to help me stir it all together,’ she says. ‘Now some bakers, of course, prefer a lighter pudding, but for me, I like it dark and rich.’

I help her add all the ingredients one by one into a large ceramic mixing bowl. We take turns to stir them all together and she tuts and aahs as she adjusts the taste.

‘We have to get the right balance, or it could be a complete disaster on Christmas Day,’ she tells me. ‘Now time to add Mr Arthur himself.’ She giggles and I join in, even though I’m not sure who Mr Arthur is. She pours a large bottle of dark stout into the mixture.

One last dip of her little finger into the batter and she licks it and declares the batter to be just perfect. She then takes out her purse and pulls out a coin.

‘Can you wrap that up for me in a bit of foil?’ she asks.

I don’t know why it feels like such an honour to do this, but it does. She’s given me a job of grave importance so I make sure that the coin is completely covered, folding the corners of the foil carefully.

‘Now stir it into the bowl and make a wish as you do,’ she orders me, smiling and nodding in encouragement.

I close my eyes and wish with all my might.

‘I’m gasping for a cuppa now. That’s been a busy day hasn’t it?’ Tess says, putting the kettle on. ‘I think it’s time for the first mince pie of the season too. I made a batch last night when you were asleep. I’ll just give them a little heat in the microwave and we’ll have one with a dollop of cream.’

A few minutes later, with my mouth full of sugary mincemeat and shortcrust pastry, I look up to see Tess watching me intently.

‘Would you do something else for me, Belle?’ she asks.

I nod quickly. I would do anything for her right now. I’ve had more fun today than I can remember ever having. I like Tess and I want her to like me too.

‘Can you write a letter to Santa for me? I’ve asked you a few times, but you’ve not done it. I’d really like you to do it for me, even if you don’t want to. I know that Santa is always happy to make a guess as to what you want, but he prefers a letter, you know, if it’s at all possible. I happen to know that he enjoys reading every single one of them,’ Tess says.

She hands me a piece of paper and a pen and moves her chair closer to me at the table.

‘I can write it for you, if you tell me what to say,’ she says kindly.

I shake my head at this suggestion. I can write it by myself. I’ve written lots of letters to my mother. She just doesn’t ever answer me.

It’s just, I don’t know what to ask for. Joan and Daniel always said that we couldn’t ask for anything too big, that Santa didn’t have much money. So I used to just tell them that I wanted a surprise from him and they seemed to like that.

But Tess seems to think that Santa wants me to have a say about what I get. I look at Dee-Dee and ask her for advice on what I should write down.

Another doll? I tease her. She doesn’t find that one bit funny.

‘You know what you want,’ Dee-Dee tells me.

But I can’t ask for that, silly.

‘Why not?’ she replies. ‘Santa is magic, he can get anything you want. Everyone knows that.’

I start to write and concentrate so hard to make sure my writing is in a straight line. Sometimes I make my letters too big and it looks all wrong. I hate making a mess of it. But I’m determined to make this the most perfect letter ever. Because this letter is very important.

There, I’m done.

I fold it up and push it across the table to Tess, feeling shy and unsure of myself.

‘Can I read it?’ she asks me. I shrug and I suppose she takes that as a yes, because she unfolds it carefully.

‘Let’s see, what do we have here?’ She sticks on a pair of her glasses and exclaims, ‘Oh, look how neat your writing is.’

I’m chuffed with her praise and am so pleased I tried my hardest. She starts to read the letter aloud and I mouth along with her. I know it off by heart.

Dear Santa,

My name is Belle and I am eight years old. I live in a new house now with a lady called Tess. I don’t live with Joan and Daniel any more, they are a long way away now. I like Tess, she’s nice and gives me biscuits. Do you like biscuits too? I can ask Tess for some to give you on Christmas Eve.

This year, I would like to have a best friend for my Christmas present, someone to play with me. I don’t mind if it’s a girl or a boy, but I’d prefer a girl. Dee-Dee says she would love a new dress too, her favourite colour is gold.

Thank you,

Belle Bailey

I watch Tess’s face as she reads my letter and my stomach flips in disappointment. Oh no Dee-Dee I’ve done something wrong. Tess looks upset with me.

‘You shouldn’t have asked for a dress for me,’ Dee-Dee scolds me. ‘That was too much.’

‘Is that all you want, Belle?’ Tess asks me, looking down at my letter again, then back up to my face.

I nod. She picks up a magazine from the table and starts to fan herself with it and then blots her face with a tea towel too.

‘Well now. If this isn’t the nicest letter I’ve ever seen in my life … I have no doubt that you’ll find a best friend when you start school after the holidays. No doubt in my mind about that fact at all, a lovely, kind girl like you. But I’m going to have a word with Santa and ask him to put a few surprises in your stocking too. Maybe a few toys and games, what do you think? Because I know you’ve been a very good girl and you deserve to have a stocking full of presents. And I’m sure that he can find some nice new clothes for Dee-Dee and for you too. Oh and we can’t forget about some chocolate. A stocking wouldn’t be complete without some chocolate now, would it?’ Tess asks and when I smile at this, she looks happy and not upset any more.

She stands up and walks to the press and pulls out a plate. It has a picture of Santa on it and he’s smiling, his big blue eyes twinkling, just like the talking Santa in her good sitting room.

‘This is my special plate that I keep just for biscuits for Santa on Christmas Eve,’ she tells me. ‘You can put as many as you like on it this year.’

I trace my finger over Santa’s white beard and the smile on my face just gets bigger and bigger.

‘Ho, ho, ho,’ Dee-Dee says.

If Tess can talk to Santa about adding all of those things onto my list, well then she’ll make sure he knows where we live now too. All my worries about him not finding me vanish.

Maybe this Christmas is going to be special after all.

3

It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. ‘Maybe Christmas,’ he thought, ‘doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas … perhaps … means a little bit more.’

Dr Seuss

Christmas Eve, 1988

‘You know there’s only one thing that I really want for Christmas?’ Tess says to me.

We’ve been busy all morning already, making sausage rolls and mince pies. The kitchen smells like a bakery and it’s making me so hungry. A ham is bubbling away on her range cooker too and the turkey is defrosting in the sink.

She places a plate of sausages and toast in front of me at the kitchen table and my stomach rumbles hello to them.

I lick my lips in anticipation, but then as Tess’s words sink in, I look at Dee-Dee in panic. What are we going to do? We don’t have any money. We can’t buy Tess a present. And I have to get her something good. She’s so nice, she deserves something special. I reckon I’ve no more than forty pence in my savings, which would not buy much. I suppose I could get her a bar of chocolate.

‘She loves chocolate, that’s for sure,’ Dee-Dee says. ‘You have that picture you drew too.’

I did take ages and ages to make sure I coloured it all in. But I’m not that good at drawing Christmas trees, I think it looks a bit wonky and more like a Christmas cracker.

‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, Belle. All I want this year is to hear your voice,’ Tess says. ‘I bet it’s just as pretty as you are.’

Oh.

‘You should say something,’ Dee-Dee says.

And I nod. I want to, but I can’t seem to make my mouth co-operate. I don’t want to upset Tess, though.

Yesterday, when we were watching that movie, I wanted to say something to her. I was so cross with Jack Frost trying to take over Christmas, but I couldn’t get the words out.

‘Maybe she’ll throw us out, if you don’t talk,’ Dee-Dee tells me and I start shivering at the thought. Where would we sleep, Dee-Dee? She doesn’t have an answer for that and I hold her in close to me again.

‘Don’t be getting upset,’ Tess says, reading my mind. ‘I have lots of patience for you, my little butterfly. You speak when you are good and ready. I can wait.’ She kisses my head and goes back to the frying pan to plate her own breakfast.

Maybe it’s going to be okay. I think I’ll draw a butterfly on her picture, though. With lots of bright colours on its wings. Because she’s always calling me that. She must really like them.

‘Who’s that on the phone at this ridiculous hour?’ Tess says when the phone rings out, filling the house with its shrill sound. She shuffles in her slippers out to the hall, to answer it.

These sausies are good. I ask Dee-Dee if she wants some, putting one up to her face so she can have a nibble.

When Tess comes back a few minutes later, she’s singing in her off-key voice, ‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas’ and I start to hum along with her. I like that song a lot.

‘Well, it appears that you really have been a good girl this year, Belle. Santa has arranged it so that one of your presents will arrive early. This very afternoon, in fact. So eat up your sausages, we’ve lots to do. I have to go down to Tesco to get a few last bits for our special surprise.’ Tess is beaming at me and I feel a thrill of excitement.

I’ve never had an early present before. I beam back at her.

‘I bet it’s my dress,’ Dee-Dee says. ‘A big, gold sparkly one.’

‘Answer the door, there’s a good girl,’ Tess tells me, when it buzzes. She jumps up and quickly stubs her cigarette out. Then she starts waving her magazine around the place to disperse the smoke. As I walk out the door, she’s sticking the ashtray under the sink to hide all the evidence.

‘What Mrs Reilly don’t know, won’t kill her.’ She winks at me.

I wonder, is this my present at the door? I’ve waited all day for Tess to give it to me. But what has Mrs Reilly got to do with it? Why is she talking about her? I get my answer and see her standing on the porch.

The problem is that I’ve come to realise that whenever Mrs Reilly arrives, so does bad news.

Oh no, Dee-Dee, she’s come to take us away. I move backwards towards Tess, and I want to scream at her, let me stay, I like it here. Tess is smiling, though, and nodding towards the door, telling me to look in that direction. She doesn’t have that look that I’ve come to recognise on grown-up faces that they all get when they are about to tell you that it’s time to go.

She places her hands on my shoulders and directs my eyes towards the door again. And then I notice that standing just behind Mrs Reilly is a boy.

A tall, lanky, thin boy with hair the colour of a fox. It’s wavy and it’s falling over his eyes. He’s got his head looking down, though, and I notice his fists are clenched by his sides. He doesn’t look very happy, I realise. My heart contracts. I know that feeling.

‘Hello, Jim.’ Tess says, moving towards him. She welcomes them both inside and closes the door behind them. ‘Belle, will you come over and say hello to Jim. He’s coming to stay with us for a while. And he’s eight years old, too, just like you are. Imagine that.’

She gives me a triumphant look and I get it. Even before Dee-Dee screams at me, ‘this must be Santa’s present,’ I get it.

‘He’s not a girl, though,’ she laments. I agree that’s a pity, but he looks okay, for a boy, that is.

He looks up through his hair and I see the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen before. Freckles are scattered densely across his nose too.

Then he looks up and shoots me a dirty look, as if to say, what you looking at? He looks me up and down and sneers.

‘He looks a bit cross,’ Dee-Dee says, stating the obvious.

‘There’s not a pick on you,’ Tess declares, taking him in too and I sneak another glance at him.

Yeah, he’s skinny alright.

‘Well, there’s a challenge for me. How quick can I sort that out for you, young man? I reckon I can put some meat on those bones, quick smart. I’ve enough food in to last us a lifetime in there,’ Tess jokes, thumbing the kitchen.

‘I’ve a boy at home the same way. All legs and not an ounce of fat. He eats me out of house and home,’ Mrs Reilly says to Tess and they both tut at the misfortune of it.

‘Sure I only have to look at a bun …’ Tess says and I giggle.

‘She does more than look at buns,’ Dee-Dee jokes.

‘Do you want to put your bag up in your bedroom?’ Tess asks the boy. ‘You’ll be sleeping in the room at the top of the stairs, first door on the left.’

He looks upwards and suddenly his face doesn’t look cross any more, instead he just looks scared.

I recognise that look. Something in my heart contracts again in sympathy and I feel myself moving forward towards him.

I don’t think about it or plan it, but somehow or other, the words tumble out of my mouth with ease. ‘I’ll show you where your room is if you want me to.’

Before he has a chance to answer, Tess rushes over to me and pulls me into her, so that I’m squished into her big boobs. It feels nice, even though I can’t really breathe. I take in her smell, her Tess smell, which I reckon is the not-unpleasant concoction of onions, sausages, chocolate and tobacco.

‘I knew your voice would be pretty, my little butterfly,’ she says. I think about pulling away from her, but it feels nice and safe here. So I put my arms around her waist, as far as I can make them go and think that I could stay here like this a long time.

‘You do like it here,’ Mrs Reilly says in approval. ‘I told you so.’

‘I like it a lot,’ I say to her and turn to Jim, who looks a bit bewildered by the scene that just unfolded.

I want to show him that I understand how he feels right now, that I know that he’s scared. I want him to know that I feel the same way, most of the time too. But even though it’s scary, it’s going to be okay here. Tess is okay. More than okay. I’ve worked out that she’s kind of wonderful.

‘I know how you feel,’ I whisper to him. I stare into his eyes and he looks at me, our eyes locking. Neither of us moves a muscle and it feels like he gets that I’m trying to tell him something important.

‘Okay,’ he says and smiles for a second. I run up the stairs and can hear him running up behind me, two steps at a time.

When we get to the top, I say to him. ‘You’re my Christmas present, you know. I asked Santa for you. And look, here you are.’

And even though he must think I am barmy, he doesn’t say anything, he just looks away. I can tell that he’s all embarrassed by my declaration. But I don’t care.

‘I’m in there.’ I point to my bedroom on the other side of the landing, then open the door to his room. Tess was up in here for ages earlier, I didn’t know what she was doing. But I can see that she was getting the room ready for Jim. It’s like mine, but it has a blue duvet on the bed instead of pink. There aren’t any cushions, but there is a mat on the floor in the shape of a car. And the wallpaper has blue stripes on it.

I thinks it’s pretty cool.

‘It’s a boy’s room,’ I tell him and he sits down on the bed, trying it out for size. ‘Mine is a girl’s room. In pink.’

He looks at me, head cocked to one side, as if he’s trying to work me out. ‘Do you have to stay here too?’ he finally asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I suppose I do.’

‘For how long?’ he asks.

I shrug. I don’t know the answer to that. But then I surprise myself by saying, ‘I hope it’s forever.’

He doesn’t like that answer, though. He’s starts to shake his head and the angry look is back on his face again. I didn’t mean to upset him. I’m not sure what I said wrong.

‘I’m going home soon. I won’t be here for more than a day or two, you wait and see. My mam says she will come get me when she feels better and gets herself sorted. It will be any day now.’

‘Oh, you’re a temporary.’ I say. I’ve seen lots of them over the years. Boys and girls who come for a few days, sometimes as short as one night, until some family member comes by to take them home.

I haven’t met as many like me, who stay for a long time.

‘You’re lucky so. I don’t have a mam,’ I tell him.

‘Everyone has a mam,’ he replies, looking doubtful at my statement.

‘Not me,’ I say, as my mother’s face jumps into my thoughts, making me a liar.

I’ll be back later. Don’t you dare leave this house. And don’t break anything.

Don’t go, mam. Don’t leave me here on my own. I’m scared. I want you.

I don’t want to talk about mothers any more. ‘Do you like biscuits? Tess has lots of them,’ I say.

He nods and I’m relieved that he looks happy enough to drop the subject. So we run downstairs to get some. I know Tess will already have the tin out.

I’ll be back soon, Dee-Dee, I shout to my friend, as I run out the door. She smiles happily to me, telling me to have fun.

‘Simon’s a computer, Simon has a brain, you either do what Simon says or else go down the drain.’

Jim and I are both in stitches as we chant the song over and over, each taking turns on my new computer game.

Out of all the things Santa put in my pillowcase last night while we were sleeping, this is my favourite. Jim is still marvelling at how Santa knew where to find him at such short notice. He even got the exact same Lego set he’d asked for.

Santa is magic, I keep telling him. I wish I could see Santa right now to give him a big hug. I hope he liked the biscuits I left out for him. He sure ate lots of them.

We’ve been playing Simon for most of the day, only stopping for a little bit to have dinner. I’m the best at remembering and I keep beating Jim’s best score, which is driving him mad.

‘Have a go, Tess,’ I shout to her. She looks like she’s almost asleep, her head bobbing up and down to her chin.

‘I wouldn’t know what to do,’ she splutters.

‘It’s easy. It has four different-colour panels. And all you have to do is touch them quickly to copy whatever pattern that Simon sets. Easy peasy.’ I show off my skills and give her a quick demo.

She gives it a go and Jim and I giggle when she’s out after only a few seconds.

Then, she throws the game back to me, sitting up with excitement in her chair.

A movie is starting, it’s in black and white and the song Buffalo Gals fills the room.

‘It’s not Christmas till I watch this. It’s a Wonderful Life. My absolute favourite movie of all time. What I wouldn’t do to George Bailey if he came a knocking on this door looking for refuge. I’d not turn him away,’ she sighs. ‘You will both love it …’

But before she can finish, Jim jumps up, knocking his juice to the ground as he runs out of the room.

‘Jim?’ I call after him and he shouts back, ‘I don’t want to play any more.’

What did I do? I can hear him tearing up the stairs, so I scramble to my feet to follow him.

‘I’ll go,’ Tess says, placing her hand gently on my shoulders. I can’t understand what’s happened.

Tess is gone for ages and I don’t feel much like playing any more. I half-watch the movie, but I can’t concentrate on it. I flick though my new Bunty annual, but even that can’t keep my interest.

After an age, Tess comes back down. ‘He’ll join us in a bit. Nothing to worry about, I promised you. He’s just a bit lonely for his mam, that’s all. It’s A Wonderful Life is her favourite Christmas movie too, it appears. They always watched it together. So I’m afraid it made him a little homesick.’

‘Where is his mam?’ I ask. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ The way Jim talks about her, she’s the perfect mother. So why isn’t she here with him right now?

‘She’s not well,’ Tess lowers her voice to a whisper and says, ‘She suffers from her nerves, God love her. She’ll be grand soon enough.’ Tess sighs and starts to mop up the spilled juice with her ever-present tea towel.

‘Tell you what, why don’t we open up those chocolates? See if we can take that frown off your little face.’ She says to me.

I decide that I’ll save some chocolates for Jim too. As I nibble on my favourite soft caramel, I wonder what is worse: having no mother at all or having one, then losing her.

I don’t have an answer to that.

4

If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you.

Winnie the Pooh

May 1988

‘You’re the only black person I’ve ever known,’ Jim says, hoisting himself up on his pillow. We’re in our den, eating chocolate that we’ve nicked from Tess’s secret stash.

‘Well, you’re the only red-haired boy I know,’ I say, sticking my tongue out at him and he laughs in response.

‘What’s it like being black?’ he asks.

‘What’s it like being an eejit?’ I reply and throw a packet of cheese-and-onion Tayto crisps his way.

But I don’t mind his questions in the slightest. Within a few weeks of arriving, Jim became my very best friend. Just like I asked Santa for Christmas.

‘Thanks for today,’ I say to him.

He shrugs off my praise. ‘Shut them up anyhow.’

‘Sure did,’ I say.

Joyce O’Connor and her cronies had shoved past me so I fell down and then started pointing and laughing at me. I’ve got one of those faces, it seems.

‘What you looking at?’ Jim shouted at them, standing on his feet.

‘What are you looking at?’ Joyce mimicked and her friends laughed some more.

‘Not much, from where I’m standing,’ Jim replied.

‘Where’s your friend from? Bongo-bongo land?’ she shouted.

‘I told you, I’m from Dublin, just like you,’ I said and started to pick up my lunch stuff. I just wanted to get away. I could feel myself getting angry and when that happens, I usually end up in a fight and that never ends well for me.

‘Liar,’ Another one shouted at me and then they all started to chant ‘Bongo, Bongo, Bongo,’ over and over.

‘Take that back. She is not a liar and that’s not nice.’ Jim clenched his fists and walked towards them.

‘Oh. I’m shaking,’ Joyce, the obvious ringleader, said.

‘Wagons the lot of them. If they weren’t girls, I’d give them a slap,’ Jim said.

‘It’s no big deal,’ I replied. I pretended to yawn and hoped he didn’t look too closely at my eyes, which I knew must be shiny with unshed tears.

Then Jim stood up and sauntered over to them, his hands in his pockets. ‘You know who she is? That girl over there, that you’re picking on?’ He pointed in my direction.

‘Who?’ Joyce sneered. ‘The Queen of Sheba.’

‘You know who Paul McGrath is?’ He said, and of course they all nodded. Everyone in Ireland knows who he is. He’s our most famous footballer and a hero to practically the whole nation.

‘Well, Belle is his niece. I’d be nice to her if I were you. Because I don’t think he’d like it if he heard kids were picking on his favourite girl.’ He walked away, leaving them all gawping at me with their mouths wide open.

‘Jim,’ I said. ‘I’m not. …’

He winked at me as he replied, ‘Sure, how do you know? You could be. You said yourself that you don’t know who your father is.’

‘You know, I didn’t know I was black until I was four.’ I tell him. ‘I hadn’t noticed that I was any different to anyone else.’

‘What do mean?’ he asks. ‘Surely you’d looked in the mirror? Sure you couldn’t miss that ugly mug.’

I look around for something else to throw at him, but as he’s tucking into my crisps now, I realise that he’s only deliberately baiting me, just to rob my treats.

‘I know your game,’ I tell him and slowly open my bar of Cadbury’s Tiffin. I know it’s his favourite and pop a piece in my mouth. That will teach him. I was going to share it with him, but now I won’t.

‘What I mean is that I’d never heard that term before. Black. As in, used to describe someone, that is. Not until I moved into my last foster house, Joan and Daniel’s. They had this big house out in Dun Laoghaire, three stories high,’ I tell him.

I’m pleased to see that he looks impressed at that nugget of information.

‘It had a basement too and they had it made into a playroom for all the children they fostered.’

‘Deadly,’ he replies.

Yeah, it was deadly, I agree.

‘There was more than just you living there with them, then?’ he asks.

‘They had loads of kids. There was always someone coming or going. Some came for a day or two only, others for weeks or months. I was there the longest, though,’ I tell him.

‘Did you call them mam and dad, then? Seeing as you were there for ages?’ he asks.

‘No. Never.’ I answer quickly.

‘Why not?’ he asks.

‘Because they weren’t my mam and dad, stupid,’ I say. He’s so dumb sometimes.

But what I don’t tell him is that they never asked me to call them mam or dad either.

‘I’d love a playroom,’ Jim says. ‘When I’m grown up, I’m going to have the biggest one ever in my house.’

‘With a slide,’ I say. Jim is always sliding down things.

‘Natch,’ Jim replies. ‘And I’ll put in a swing for you.’

‘Natch,’ I say. That’s our new favourite word. Followed closely by ‘deadly’. We say them a lot.

‘You’d have loved their basement, though. It was cool. It had shelves painted in every colour you can think of. It looked kind of like a rainbow. And all the shelves were stacked with lots of cool stuff.’ I say.

‘Like what?’ he asks.

‘Well, Lego, books, puzzles, dolls, cars. Kind of like a toy shop. Everything,’ I boast.

‘Wow,’ he’s well jealous now.

‘Yeah.’ The first time I saw the playroom I gasped. I was overwhelmed by the size of the house, my new home, which looked strange and scary to me.

I look at Jim and decide to tell him something. ‘Sometimes I don’t feel like talking.’

He stops munching his crisps and gives me his full attention.

‘And on that first day at Joan’s, I was having one of my non-talking spells’ I say.

I’m expecting Jim to make a smart comment here, but he doesn’t.

‘Why don’t you talk? Why go all quiet?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I’ve just got nothing to say.’ I reply. I don’t tell him that I learned very young that sometimes it’s safer not to talk.

Shut up with all your constant whingeing. I’m sick to death listening to you. SHUT UP.

‘Fair enough,’ Jim says, satisfied with my answer and I try not to think about her any more.

‘Joan was nice. She made me smile and laugh. Pretty soon I was chattering away to her and the other kids who lived there.’ I close my eyes, remembering those early days.

‘There was a shelf full of dolls there,’ I tell Jim.

‘Is that where you got your doll Dee-Dee, then?’ Jim asks.

I nod and in an instant I’m back in the moment we found each other.

Joan bends down and pulls out a white basket from the bottom shelf and as she does a lone doll falls forward. It is a Barbie doll too, but this one looks different. She has a brown face. And short, black curly hair with long red earrings that dangle from each ear. Her dress is long and bright red with a gold necklace attached to the front of it. She looks exotic and beautiful and I can’t take my eyes off her.

I hold Dee-Dee in my hands for the first time and know that I’ll never let her go.

‘She looks a little like you,’ Joan says to me. She looks down to the doll and back up to me again.

I look back up to Jim. ‘Joan said to me that I was black just like Dee-Dee.’ He doesn’t say a word and I’m glad.

Black. I don’t understand what she means. That word panics me. I don’t want to get into trouble. The whole way over to Joan’s house, my social worker warned me not to get dirty. I’d been so careful.

I must have gotten messed up somewhere along the way to their house. I look down at my hands and fingers, but they are spotless, even my nails. I’m a good girl. I stayed clean. I don’t know what she is talking about.

‘She’s so beautiful, isn’t she? Daniel got her on one of his trips to the US. Her name is Dee-Dee.’ Joan tells me. ‘You should keep her.’

I look at Dee-Dee and cannot believe that she is mine. I pull her in close to me and I smile my thanks to Joan.

Later that night, I can hear my foster carers whispering outside my bedroom door.

‘It’s probably the first black doll she’s ever seen. Nice for her to have a doll that looks like herself.’ Daniel tells Joan.

Dee-Dee looks like me?

Do you Dee-Dee?

I pull the red dress off Dee-Dee’s plastic body and then lift up the sleeves of my pyjama top. Are we alike? I can’t understand why they call us ‘black’.

‘You’re brown,’ I realise suddenly. And Dee-Dee smiles back, agreeing with me. ‘So are you,’ she says. ‘We’re both brown.’

I worked it out eventually, what they meant.

‘After that day, I’d hear people call me black all the time. I used to look at the other kids in school or on our street, searching to see if anyone else had the same colour skin as mine.’

‘And is your mother black, then?’ Jim asks me.

I shake my head and sigh. No. She’s not. Blonde and white. She couldn’t be more different to me if you tried.

‘I have one picture of her,’ I tell Jim. ‘Do you want to see her? My mother?’

Jim nods. So I run to my bedroom and take it out of its secret place, in my favourite book, The Faraway Tree, right at the back of the bookcase.

I feel a little shy showing it to him. I’ve never shown it to anyone before. He looks at it and then at me and agrees we don’t look alike.

My mother looks up at me from the picture. Her face is smiling, but it’s one of the fakers. Her blue eyes are dull and without any mirth. Her mousy-blonde hair is tied back in a low ponytail. It’s fine and straight, again the complete opposite of my afro hair.

‘Maybe you look like your father,’ Jim says.

‘Ooh aah Paul McGrath,’ I joke, but there’s no merriment in my words and they fall flat between us.

‘I asked Mrs Reilly for a photograph of him, but she got all weird and did that thing with her voice.’ I say.

‘All high, like she’s being squeezed tight?’ Jim asks and I nod. I knew he’d get it.

‘She kept putting me off, but then when I pushed her, she told me that they didn’t have a record of who he was,’ I say.

‘That sucks,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t know who my father is either. My mam always starts to cry when I ask her about him. I’ve given up trying. Who needs a father anyhow? Losers.’

‘Yeah. Losers,’ I agree.

A tiny bit of me feels jealous of Jim, though. I know his mother is cracked, but at least she comes by every now and then. I think of mine and feel a pain in my heart.

‘Does she ever call you?’ he asks.

I shake my head no. ‘I wrote to her a few times. I was real careful to make sure it was perfect, with no mistakes,’ I say.

I was so proud of those letters.

Shame floods me now at how stupid I was.

‘You have good writing. Better than mine,’ Jim says. ‘I bet they were great letters.’

He’s not wrong about his writing. He mixes up his ‘b’s and ‘d’s all the time and his letters are way too big. I’m going to have to give him some lessons, because he’ll get in trouble at school if not.

‘I got Joan to put a picture of me in the last letter I sent, so she could see what I looked like now. I put on my best dress and stood in the garden by the rose bush for it. Joan had one of those Polaroid cameras,’ I finish softly.

‘What happened?’ Jim asks, his voice so quiet I can barely hear him.

In our cocoon, made of white-and-blue cotton sheets, I suppose the sound of my silence is his answer.

He doesn’t break my silence, doesn’t question me any further, but reaches behind him to his stash of treats and hands me his Club bar. I know he’s been saving this one till last; he loves to suck the thick chocolate off. So I push it back towards him. I can’t take it. But he gives it to me again, insistent.

Neither of us say a word, we just sit there sucking our chocolate bars, lost in our own thoughts of absentee parents.

For weeks I would run to the postman, check through the piles of letters and when I saw a white envelope my heart would soar in hope. But it was never for me.

No reply. No card. No phone call. Nothing.

I look at Jim and hold up Dee-Dee. ‘Until you came, all I had was Dee-Dee. She was my best friend.’

I take a deep breath. I want to tell him something, but I’m afraid that he might laugh. ‘I’m glad that I have you now.’

He looks embarrassed and starts to push his Spider-Man truck up and down the walls made of sheets. But he doesn’t laugh and I catch him peeking at me. I think he looks pleased with what I’ve said.

And even though he doesn’t say it back, I know he thinks it too.

‘Why did you leave their house, if it was so good there?’ he asks when he turns back to me a few minutes later.

‘I had no choice,’ I admit. ‘Joan and Daniel left Ireland.’

‘Oh,’ he says and his eyes are wide.

‘I begged them both to take me with them. Daniel had gotten a job in the US, in some place called the Silicone Valley. They said that they couldn’t take foster kids with them,’ I say.

‘Oh,’ he repeats and his face is like one of those comic books, when it freezes into a shocked look at the end of a chapter.

I wonder what he’d say if I told him about how I pleaded with them the night before Mrs Reilly came to take me away. I feel a flush of shame overtake me again as I remember how much I begged and begged, but how it made no difference whatsoever. I still had to go.

‘You could adopt me,’ I whisper to them. ‘Then you can bring me with you. I wouldn’t be a foster kid any more. I’d be yours. And I’ll be so good. I promise I’ll be good.’

I hold my breath as they look at each other. Daniel looks uncomfortable and starts to fidget and Joan won’t look me in the eye.

I don’t wait for them to answer me, I just get up and walk out of the family room. I know the score. I ignore Joan’s anguished cries that she wishes things were different.

‘Our hands are tied,’ Daniel shouts at my retreating back.

And even though I’m only eight years old, I know already that if they wanted me, if they really did, they could have made it happen.

Better not to tell Jim all that. And I don’t want him to know about the day Mrs Reilly took me away from them either.

Joan cries and tells me that she will always care for me. But I don’t answer her. I can see that my silence is hurting her. I know that she wants me to let her off the hook, to tell her I understand why I can’t go with them.

But I don’t want to make it easier for her. I hate her. I hate Daniel too and I hope that their plane crashes and they die.

Shame floods my body for thinking such a bad thing. And I know that it is my own fault that they don’t want me.

Who would want me? My own mother didn’t.

Mrs Reilly puts me in her car and takes me away. I can feel their eyes watching me as we drive off, but I keep looking forward.

Maybe they’ll change their minds, Dee-Dee says. But we both know that’s not true. So I move into a new temporary home. One where people keep trying to make me talk and unzip my lips.

But I am so tired. What good do words do anyhow? No one ever listens to me. They do what they want to do and send me away.

I turn my back to Jim and pick up my Simon game. I don’t want him to see me cry.

‘Why did you speak to me when you saw me on that first day?’ Jim suddenly asks and his voice is gruff. I can’t help it, I look back towards him.

Because you were the answer to my wish. Because I know that you were in pain and scared and I know what that feels like. Because … Just because.

‘I dunno. Felt sorry for you, I suppose. Loser,’ I say instead, joking to try to banish the tears.

He looks at me for a moment, locks his eyes on mine and even though he doesn’t say anything, I know that he knows the real reason. And in that look, he is thanking me and I am thanking him too.

‘You’re alright for a girl,’ he says.

He looks away and throws his Spider-Man car down to the ground.

‘I feel sorry for you now, Belle Bailey, cos’ I’m about to beat your record on that stupid Simon game of yours. Prepare to be destroyed.’ He replies, picking it up and switching it on.

‘In your dreams, Jim Looney,’ I say.

5

Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale of all.

Hans Christian Anderson

July 1990

It’s one of those days where the heat is so strong, the air around me looks hazy. And even lifting my hand to move the pages in my book is too much effort.

‘That story is for babies,’ Jim says, flicking my Cinderella book closed as he passes me by.

‘Get lost,’ I reply and kick myself that I’ve not got a wittier retort. ‘I’ll have you know that Cinderella is a story for all ages.’

Strictly speaking, I know that I should have outgrown my Disney princess stage about five years ago, but no matter how old I get, I never tire of this story. My copy is battered and the corners of the book are curled from constant sticky fingers and thumbs working their way through them.

‘You wouldn’t catch me reading fairy tales,’ Jim tells me. ‘They are so lame.’ He demonstrates said lameness by pretending to limp around the room.

I resist the urge to laugh. It only encourages him.

‘You think you know everything, Jim Looney, but you’re a mere ten,’ I sigh and open my book again. He’s such a pain sometimes. I should just go upstairs and hide from his childishness, but I’m too hot to climb the stairs.

‘So does the princess always get the prince in these fairy tales of yours?’ Jim asks, as I stick my nose back into Cinderella again.

I put my book down and give him my best withering look. I’ve been practising it in front of my mirror and think that it’s pretty good. ‘Of course they do. That’s what always happens in fairy tales, you big eejit,’ I reply.

‘And you reckon that one day a prince is going to just rock up here to Drumcondra, on a white pony, and ask you to marry him too?’ he says, as he balances his football on one foot.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I shake my head. Sometimes I just give up with him. ‘We’ve had this conversation before, Jim. You know what’s going to happen.’

He pretends to put a gun to his head to shoot himself. ‘Not that again.’

‘Haha, very funny.’ I say. ‘But you can’t fight the inevitable.’

As he runs out the back door, I shout after him, ‘I’m going to marry you one day, Jim Looney. You wait and see. I cannot wait for the day when you drop to one knee just like Prince Charming.’

Jim laughs, his usual response to my bold prediction. I’m sure many would be offended by his obvious mirth, but I’m not in the least bit worried by his reaction. First of all, he’s a boy. Second of all, he’s only ten. And okay, I know I’m only two months older than he is, but it’s a proven fact that boys don’t mature as quickly as us girls.

Mind you, I have noticed something. I’ve been telling him he’ll marry me for years now and even though he always laughs, he never says he won’t either.

I think about going for a kick-about too, but it’s just too hot. Tess has had to go to bed for a few hours. She said she was about to melt.

As it goes, I’m not too bad at football. Jim jokes that I’d give Paul McGrath a run for his money. With every ‘OOH AAH Paul McGrath’ that the whole of Ireland has chanted over the past couple of years, my life has gotten way easier.

The best defender Ireland has ever had, Jim reckons. All I know is that he has made it cool to be black. He’s a legend in my books and one day I’ll tell him so, if I ever get the chance to meet him.

‘Your head is full of nonsense from all those fairy tales you read,’ Tess says, as she walks into the kitchen. I jump at the sound of her voice. Despite her considerable size, she has always had this uncanny ability to sneak into rooms without making a sound.

‘What, you mean there’s no such thing as fairy godmothers?’ I say feigning mock horror.

‘The only fairy you’ll find around here is the one on top of the Christmas tree,’ Tess says, laughing at her own joke.

‘Fairy tales are magic. And magic exists. I’ve seen it. You just don’t believe any more. It’s not your fault, all adults stop believing, it’s out of their control,’ I say.

‘Is that so?’ Tess says.

‘Yes. Fact,’ I reply. ‘But I’ll not stop. No matter how old I get, I’ll always believe.’ I don’t care what anyone says.

‘Well, magic me up my fags, there’s a good girl,’ Tess says, laughing again. She’s a regular comedienne, my foster mother. ‘So one day my prince will come, what?’

She coughs up half her lung laughing again at her quip. I don’t see what’s so hilarious, I mean why can’t there be true love in her future? Tess has always been quite vocal about her feelings on love. She doesn’t believe in it, not one bit. Not the romantic kind, anyhow. In fact, in the two years I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen her go on a single date, now that I think of it.

‘Love only exists in fairy tales and Disney movies. In the real world, here in North County Dublin, there’s no such thing,’ she laments.

I shouldn’t take the bait, I don’t know why I bother arguing with her, because she’s proven to be unmovable in her opinions in the past.

As she plonks herself down into one of the kitchen chairs, her bum spills out on either side of it. I wonder if it will break, it seems to groan at the weight. She lights her cigarette, inhaling and releasing smoke with a satisfied smile. I fill the white kettle with water and stick it on. If she’s having a smoke, she’ll want tea.

Waving her cigarette in my direction, she tells me, ‘There’s no Prince Charming in my life, Belle. Love doesn’t happen to the likes of me.’

‘Why not?’ I refuse to believe her. ‘You know, Tess, Prince Charming could be just around the corner, waiting to bump into you.’

She snorts with laughter at this and her belly jiggles up and down, like a bowl of jelly. I giggle as I hand her a cup of strong tea and watch her as she stirs in three heaped teaspoons of sugar.

‘That’s too much,’ I admonish. We’ve been learning about healthy eating in school and all that sugar isn’t on the list of recommended foods in the pyramid.

She ignores me, by stirring the cup and then taking a big slurp. ‘I’ve met a fair few princes in my time alright. I even married one. His name was Prince Liar Liar.’ Her pale-green eyes fill and she dabs her tea towel over her face. I can’t tell if it is tears or sweat that she is wiping away. She sweats a lot. Jim says it’s because her body is weeping at the weight of heaving around what must be at least twenty-odd stone.

I’m a bit worried about her weight. And she smokes too much. I decide that I’m going to hide the biscuits. I push the fruit bowl towards her, pointedly. I want Tess to have her own Prince Charming. She’s lovely and everyone should have their own special someone, like I have my Jim.

I just have to make her believe.

I pick up my book and flick to the last page. Cinderella is iridescent in a flowing white wedding dress, with flowers entwined through her golden hair. She looks up adoringly at her Prince, his head tilted towards hers, as if they are about to kiss.

Yuk. Something just occurred to me. Kissing. That could be a problem. I mean I want to marry Jim. Everyone knows that. But I don’t want to kiss him. That would be gross.

I’ll have the white wedding dress and the flowers and the castle to live in, alright, but I’m not ever, no way, kissing him. I better make sure he knows that, just in case he’s under any illusions of my lips ever touching his.

I trace the words ‘and they lived happily ever after’ written in fancy script on the last page. And bam, I realise something humongous.

‘The happy ever after only happens on the last page.’ I say to her, pointing to the words. ‘You’ve just not got to your last page yet, Tess.’

Ha. I am triumphant and for a moment my words seem to make an impact. The look of disdain that normally lives on her face when talking about love is replaced with something that could be described as hopeful. But it doesn’t last long, it’s just a fleeting moment and disappears in a haze of cigarette smoke.

She rasps, ‘Go away out of that’ and snaps her tea towel at me. She pushes herself up from her chair, muttering to herself about silly girls as she walks out of the room.

I look out of the window at Jim, who is trying to dribble his football in and out of a row of flower pots he’s lined up. It doesn’t matter what Tess thinks, because as long as I believe, I can help make it all happen. And I’ve read enough books to know that me believing is the crucial part in this whole ‘living happily ever after’ malarkey. It all goes pear-shaped the moment you stop believing.

I’m not delusional. I do know that things are not picture-perfect for me. Like, for example, Jim and I didn’t do so well in the whole parents’ lottery. But I also know that it could be a whole lot worse.

It has been a lot worse. I rub the backs of my legs, as if doing so I can erase the stinging memories of my early childhood at home.

I’m not thinking about that now. I’m going to focus on here and now, because since I got to Tess’s, life has been great. She’s right at the top of my cool list, aside from her chain-smoking. I need to do something about that, I vow again. Hiding cigarettes doesn’t work; she just gets another packet.

She keeps telling me that she has few comforts in life. How can I remove one of them? Especially when she’s so good to us two.

A few months ago, Tess let us both pick new wallpaper for our bedrooms. Anything we wanted, she said. It was the first time in my whole life that I got to have a say about how to decorate my bedroom. We all went to Woodies and spent ages looking at all of the papers and paints. Jim, of course, has no imagination and has footballs all over his walls, his bed, his floor. It gives me a headache just sitting in that room.

I looked at every colour chart and pondered for ages. But jumbled up in my head were all the rooms I’ve ever slept in, a hodge podge of every colour in the spectrum. And then it came to me. I knew exactly how I wanted my room to look.

White. Every single part of it. Pure white.

Tess said I was mad, it would be a nightmare to keep clean. But I really wanted it to be that colour. So she made it happen. Even painting my wardrobe and pine bedside lockers white. She replaced the bookshelves with a new set, in white of course.

The bed linen is broiderie anglaise and so pretty. I love it so much in there. And even Tess has to agree that I’m really good at keeping it clean.

Actually, I think I’ll go up there now to finish my book. I’m halfway through The Lord of the Rings. Dinner won’t be for ages anyhow. I’m still stuffed from lunch. It was one of Tess’s specials: deep-fried everything, with a side of fries.

Jim catches me watching him from the window. He starts to show off then, his skinny legs moving quickly as they weave the ball in and out. His wavy red hair flops over his forehead and he brushes it back before taking aim at the back fence again.

‘He shoots, he scores, back of the net.’ He shouts at his imaginary fans and then he turns to me. ‘And the crowd goes wild …’ He pulls his sweatshirt up over his head and runs around the garden.

‘You big eejit.’ I shout, laughing, and he takes a bow.

I know I’m lucky. Up until Tess and Jim came along, I’d never known proper love. But Jim’s arrival seemed to have a knock-on effect all around me. When he came here, a ripple of fun, love and joy spread into all areas of my life. Sometimes I can’t remember how bad things were before. And I don’t want to. I’ve nearly managed to block out what it felt like back then. Nearly.

Every now and then I remember the fear, that feeling of being so scared all the time that I wanted to curl up into a ball and hide in a corner.

But there’s something else that I remember even more than the fear.

The loneliness. What if she forgets all about me and leaves me here, locked up in my room? What if she never comes home?

I pick up a biscuit and nibble on it, looking at my best friend through the window. All I ever really wanted was someone to play with me. And being really greedy, I wanted that person to love me and me to love them too.

Jim Looney. My best friend.

I’ll read later. Frodo and Samwise will have to wait.

Shouting to him as I run out the door, ‘Get ready to cry, ’cos I’m going to take you down, all the way to Chinatown,’ and I catch him off guard, grab the football from him and take aim at the back fence, our makeshift goalpost.

‘That’s how you do it.’ I laugh and we both run towards the ball.

6

And that is how change happens. One gesture. One person. One moment at a time.

Libba Bray

December 1990

I can’t listen to him for one more minute. He’s driving me mad with his constant chatter about the big visit. You’d swear it was the Pope coming. I mean, I know it’s a big deal. He’s not seen his mam for a few weeks now, so of course he’s excited. But come on. Enough already.

And it’s not like we don’t go through this every time she comes. Now that I think about it, she’s been visiting more often recently. I think this could even be her third visit this month. It used to be only once a month at the most.

Don’t get me wrong, she’s alright – for someone who is as mad as a bag of cats, I suppose. And she loves Jim, so that makes her alright in my books. It’s just you don’t know what version of her she’s going to arrive with, when she does call round. It could be the ‘happy normal mammy’ or the ‘crazier than Michael Jackson and his pet monkey’ version.

She’s been okay for a while now, but last month when she brought the crazy with her, well, Jim was in bits for ages afterwards.

We were upstairs on the landing. There’s this big window ledge, which we’ve put cushions on, so it’s like a seat. We often hang out there and watch the world go by. Tess says we’ll take root there one of these days.

Anyhow, there we were, waiting and watching for his mam to arrive. As it happens, we heard her high heels clipping the crazy pavement before we even noticed her arrival, because we were busy monitoring the slow trail of a spider up the wall.

So we look down and Jim is all excited, he’s practically bouncing on the seat, but then his smile disappears. I knew without even looking that it must crazy mam time. I looked down and sure enough there she was doing this ridiculous zig-zag dance all the way up to the front door.

She was clutching a brown paper bag to her chest for dear life and her eyes darted to and fro around the driveway, as if she was expecting something awful to happen.

‘What is she doing?’ I asked, incredulous by the display below. I’d never seen anything quite so bizarre in my life before.

‘She doesn’t like cracked pavement slabs,’ Jim replied. ‘I haven’t seen her do that for a while. I thought she’d gotten over it.’

His whole demeanour changed, gone was all his excitement and instead now his face looked worried and anxious.

My laughter at his mother’s expense disappeared when I saw his face. He went downstairs, shoulders slumped and I followed on behind. She was as white as a ghost by the time she got to the front door and a line of sweat was over her forehead, matting her hair to it.

‘Are you okay?’ Tess asked kindly.

‘I think I managed to avoid them all.’ She answered. ‘But they are everywhere. You need to get them fixed. It’s dangerous. Anything could happen if you were to stumble on a crack.’ She looked back at the driveway, as if she’d just managed to circumnavigate her way through a minefield.

‘What happens if you stand on one of the cracked ones?’ I asked. Tess kicked my ankle hard. ‘Ow,’ I yelped in pain. I thought it was a fair question. I was interested. I mean, it must be something bad if she went to so much trouble to avoid them.

‘Stepping on a cracked pavement slab is unlucky. You could unleash some really bad luck forevermore into your life, with one false step,’ she answered, starting at something on the wall behind my head.

The maddest thing of that whole episode was, that after all the effort of the bunny hop hop to the front door, when she got inside, she stayed all of five minutes, then hopped her way back down the drive again.

Told you, mad as a bag of cats. So as you can imagine, I’ve not got high hopes for this visit, I think crazy mam is due, we’ve not seen her for a few weeks.

And it’s me who has to clean up the mess after she goes. When she left that time, Jim hid in his room for hours, wouldn’t let me in. I wasn’t going to say one smart word about her either. I knew that he was upset and didn’t want to talk about it. I was upset too, upset for him. I wanted to go to him, comfort him, tell him how sorry I was.

‘Leave the lad be. His mam isn’t right yet,’ Tess said, catching me as I was about to break into his room. She tapped her head three times. ‘She suffers terrible with her nerves you know that. It’s an awful affliction.’ She shook her head sorrowfully and heaved her groaning body down the stairs again, with a purple snack in her hand, half-eaten.

I felt like crying for him that day. But I knew that would make him even sadder. So I bit down hard on my lip instead and sat outside Jim’s door on the patterned hall carpet. I was there for so long waiting my bum went numb and I had pins and needles all the way up my two legs. But there was no way I was moving. I had to be there, so that when Jim did come out, he would see me and know that I loved him.

I couldn’t make his mother’s nerves any better, but I could make sure he knew he had a best friend. When he did come out, he looked down at me and said nothing. I didn’t mind, though. I understood, more than anyone, that sometimes there are no words.

He was silent, sullen and I knew the reason why that was his heart was smashed into a hundred million pieces, again.

I didn’t try to make him talk, I just fell into silent step with him, then we walked downstairs. I followed him outside and played football for ages with him and the garden was silent, bar the sound of our ragged breaths, as we ran and ran.

Then Tess shouted for us to come in for our tea. She had gone to a lot of trouble, makings all of Jim’s favourites, to try and make him feel better. And by the time we were in the living room watching TV that night, he started to smile a little bit.

So here we go again, waiting to see which version of his mother turns up today. And to make matters worse, the big eejit has gotten it into his head that this time is the time that she’s come to take him home. Something else we go through every single time. He always thinks the same thing, and each time he ends up disappointed.

Tess told me once that her grandmother suffered from her nerves too. She used to take to her bed for weeks when they were kids. I asked her if she ever got better and she just shook her head sadly. Maybe his mam can change. Maybe she can get better, unlike Tess’s gran.

I just want him to be happy. And I know that if I’m thinking about the last disastrous visit, so is he, no matter how much he prattles on about how this is going to be different.

‘How’d I look?’ he asks, walking into the room. He’s plastered down his hair to one side with half a bottle of gel, by the looks of it, and he looks pure ridiculous. He’s also got on a grand-daddy shirt, in a blue stripe. It looks like a pyjama top. What is he thinking? His Irish jersey looks much better on him.

‘You look stupid,’ I tell him and as my words bounce off him, his face crumples.

Why did I say that? I feel awful. I want to take the words back, stuff them into my mouth again, but it’s too late.

‘Will I wash it out?’ He asks, frantically rubbing his hair with the sleeve of his shirt and I feel like crying, the guilt is so strong.

Tess always says that jealousy is a shocking thing and she’s right. Because I know that I’m being horrid all because I’m jealous. I’ve never ever got to feel the excitement of seeing my mam come to visit. Not that I’d necessarily want her to, I suppose. But even so.

Because despite the fact that Mrs Looney is off her head loopy-loo style, at least she comes to see Jim. At least she makes an effort to stay in touch and there’s no denying she loves him. It’s written all over her face.

I’m not being a very good friend and I know it.

‘No, leave it alone, let me fix it. You don’t really look stupid, I was just joking. You just used too much gel, that’s all.’ I run my hands through his glooped-up hair and restyle his wavy locks into a halfway decent style, using my fingers as combs. He looks like Jim again and I tell him, ‘There, that’s perfect. Your mam will love it, don’t be worrying.’

‘I just want it to go well,’ Jim says for the one hundredth time, pulling at his shirt. He glances at the bouquet of flowers sitting on the hall table. He bought them out of his savings for her. I hope she knows how lucky she is, having him love her like he does.

‘It will go well,’ I assure him, even if I don’t believe a word of it. She’ll more than likely do another crazy dance all the way up the path, just to disappoint her son once more before turning around to go home.

I vow to myself that I’ll be right by his side to pick up the pieces again. I already have two bars of his favourite Tiffin chocolate hidden in my top drawer upstairs, ready to console him.

After the last time, Tess has forbidden us from watching out for her upstairs. So instead she has us all sitting around the kitchen table, listening to Jim tapping his knee with his fingers.

Tess is on her third cigarette and it’s freezing because she has the doors and windows all open to let the smoke out.

I’ve got to find a way to stop her smoking. Not just because she’ll freeze us all out, but because that wheeze in her chest is getting louder all the time.

When the doorbell rings, we all jump and look at each other. Tess stubs out her cigarette and hides the ashtray under the sink. Jim fixes his shirt – again – and I take a deep breath.

I stand side by side to him when Tess opens the door. And we all hold our breath, waiting to see which Mrs Looney will walk through the door.

She looks nervous, but she’s not out of breath. Maybe there was no crazy zig-zagging this time. Without looking at Jim, I can feel the relief seeping from his very core.

I look her up and down, taking in her bright-pink batwing jumper and her tight, white trousers. She’s got on white high-heel shoes and I wish I had a pair like them. She’s had her hair done and it looks glossy and swings onto her shoulders, like one of the models in a l’Oreal advert. Last time she was here, it was streaked with dark roots and she was wearing an awful blue and grey shell tracksuit.

She’s practically unrecognisable.

This version is a new one. She didn’t look like this the last visit.

It’s great that she’s smiling and when she pulls Jim into a big hug, I could burst with happiness for him.

Why is my stomach flipping about and why do I feel so uneasy?

‘You’ve grown so much,’ she says to Jim, her eyes look like they’re about to pop out of her head. ‘You’re almost a man now, up to my shoulder already.’

‘They’re like weeds, the two of them,’ Tess moans. ‘I’m going to put a block on their heads one of these days. I can’t keep clothes on them,’ she quickly adds, ‘Not that I mind, of course.’

‘Of course,’ his mam replies and they both look awkward.

‘What’s in the bag?’ I ask, changing the subject. I wonder if it’s the same bag that she had the last time she visited. She was clutching it like it was the crown jewels, but we never got to find out what it contained because she didn’t stick around long enough.

Jim’s mam smiles at me and thrusts the brown bag to Jim. ‘It’s for you both.’

We both smile in anticipation and peer into the bag when Jim opens it. Bars, in bright wrappers, purples, pinks, yellows all gleam up to us, accompanied by the most wonderful sweet smell of cocoa.

‘I didn’t know what your favourites are, so I bought a few of everything,’ she tells us.

‘Jim loves Tiffin.’ I say, feeling superior. I know him better than you, I wanted to say. But I don’t.

‘Belle loves caramel bars,’ Jim says.

‘Oh, I don’t think I bought any Tiffin.’ She looks upset about that.

‘It’s okay. I love Star Bars too,’ Jim says and pulls one out, ready to pull the wrapper off.

‘I’ll take them,’ Tess says, swooping in and confiscating them. ‘I am very careful with their diet. Just one bar each as a treat at the weekend. I’m all about their five a day. Healthy eating and all that.’

Jim and I snigger under our breath. Yeah, right. Five bars of chocolate a day, she means.

Tess does this all the time whenever the social workers come by. Pretends to be super-perfect or something. And the thing is, she is perfect. She doesn’t need to pretend.

She tells his mam that she’ll hand them out over the next few weeks, one bar a day, but Jim and I know that’s rubbish.

‘Let’s leave Jim and his mam be,’ Tess says, giving me a dirty look. She knows we’re teasing her. She ushers me up the stairs to my bedroom. ‘You go on into the living room, Mrs Looney. I’ll send in some tea.’

‘You’d swear she had servants, the way she’s speaking,’ I whisper to Jim. ‘Good luck. She looks well, it’s a good sign.’ I squeeze his hand quickly before I run upstairs.

Did I mean that? I’m not sure. I know that I want Jim to be happy, but I’m scared of what his happiness might mean for me. It’s all so complicated. His mam looks much better than the last time and that has to be a good thing, right?

Then there’s that nasty voice in my head again.

When he asks her to take him home today, she might say yes, then what will you do?

I’ll be on my own again.

I swallow back a lump of putrid, acidy sick that has burned its way up my throat. I don’t want him to go. I feel ashamed again that I am being so selfish, putting my own needs ahead of his. He’s my best friend. I should be on his side. End of. Jim has been talking about going home ever since that first day he arrived here. He loves her, crazy bits and all.

I quickly cross my fingers that she’s well again and vow that I will be a better person if Jim gets his wish. I’ll not say a word, I’ll not cry. I’ll just hug him and tell him I’m so happy. And I’ll be okay, if he goes, because I have Tess.

I glance at Dee-Dee sitting on the end of my bed amongst an array of stuffed toys. I haven’t played with her in a long time. She doesn’t talk to me any more, but then again, I don’t really talk to her. I pick her up and hug her, but I don’t feel any comfort the way I used to.

Now that I’ve had a real best friend, I don’t want a doll.

I perch my bum on our windowsill and flick my way through a battered 1983 Bunty annual. It’s years out of date, but even so, I still like reading it. I envy Bunty’s life and sometimes pretend that I’m her.

I’m living in a big house, blonde, pretty, rosy-cheeked and I’m living a normal, carefree life, with my mam, dad and little brother.

I forget about Jim and his mam for a while, as I get immersed into Bunty’s latest escapade on a snowy mountain side.

I’m not sure I could pull off the cute ski gear she’s donning, though. I’m so tall, my legs seem to be too long for everything. Tess goes mad every time I go up a size, she says that it’s impossible to find a new pair of jeans for me that fit, so she has to get out her sewing kit to make some alterations.

A door slams and I look down. Jim’s mam is leaving already. That flew by. She’s got her arm around him as he walks her to the gate. She actually walks straight through the cracked pavement slabs. Another good sign.

I watch them hug for ages and feel weird watching them, like I’m snooping. But I can’t take my eyes off them all the same. It’s a lovely moment and I’m envious again. He’s got one of his goofy smiles plastered over his face and that makes me happy at least.

Relief floods me as I realise that I’m happy to see him smile. Maybe I’m not such a bad person after all. I run downstairs two stairs at a time. I can’t wait to hear all about it.

‘Well, Jimbo, did she like your hair?’ I ask.

And before he says anything back to me, I know. His face looks different. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him in the past two years. I mean, we’ve laughed a lot. Once we snorted so much that I even peed my pants.

‘She’s taking you home,’ I say.

He looks at me for the longest time. Then he nods. I make a tremendous effort to put a smile on my face, to make him believe that I’m happy for him. It must be working, I must be fooling him, because his goofy grin is back again.

‘She’s rented a two-bed flat in Ranelagh and the landlord has said that I can decorate my bedroom any colour I want.’

Green. He’ll pick green, because that’s his favourite colour.

I hear Tess sigh and the click of her lighter as she ignites another cigarette.

I’m losing him. Tess knows it. Jim just doesn’t know it yet.

‘How long do we have left?’ I ask. I’m surprised that my voice sounds okay, considering the fact that I want to cry.

‘You make it sound so dramatic, Belle,’ Jim laughs at me. ‘I’m just going to live somewhere else, that’s all. Nothing else is going to change. We’ll be best friends forever, you’ll see.’

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