Artichoke Hearts Read Free Page A

with the rest of my family gathered for the usual birthday tea. I would rather not be here. Mum and Dad have given me a mobile phone,
a watch and a diary. The mobile is a sea-green pebble, and it fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. The watch has a black leather strap, glass face, silver edging and a number for each hour.
It’s definitely my first grown-up watch and that somehow seems like a sign. I’m into signs, omens, superstitions . . . whatever you want to call them . . . mostly I call them
‘Notsurewho Notsurewhat’. This watch makes me think that something is about to happen to time. Today feels like the end of something, and the countdown to the beginning, of this, my red
leather diary with golden edging at the corners of each page.
    ‘Where are the dates?’ I ask Mum as I flick through the pages of the diary.
    ‘I thought you’d prefer to fill them in yourself. That way you can write as much or as little as you want and, knowing you, I expect you’ll want to add the odd artwork. When I
used to keep a diary, some days I had nothing much to write about and other days I’d write pages. It’s more of a journal really . . . for your writing class.’
    So I start writing, just like I would for any other piece of homework, because Pat Print’s told us to, only now I’ve found something to keep all my secrets wrapped up in I
can’t stop, because no matter what’s happened to me before today, or what’s going to happen in the future, something is happening to me right now. Present tense.
    Nana is inspecting my new mobile phone.
    ‘It’s quite pretty, I suppose, but I just don’t understand the point of having a mobile phone at your age . . . and I’m sure I read somewhere that the rays can
cause tumours. Uma, have you checked that out?’ Nana calls out to Mum, who’s in the next room. I don’t think Mum even hears. She’s too busy trying to get Laila to stay still
while she changes her cacky nappy.
    ‘I mean who are you going to call? You’re always with your mum and dad or me anyway.’
    Jidé Jackson . . . he’s the person I would most like to call, but I’ll never have the guts to actually do it.
    ‘Well?’ nudges Nana.
    ‘You, Mum and Dad, Millie, Aunty Abi, Nana Kath and Grandad Bimal,’ I list.
    ‘That’s five numbers. I rest my case.’
    Nana Josie is quite hard to argue against, even if you really disagree with her, which I do, about the phone, but of course I don’t say anything. She has her feet up, resting on my knees.
I smooth my hands over the skin of her cracked brown leather soles. On the sides of each foot, she has hard bony knobbly bits, bulging, where mine are smooth. Her feet are icy cold, like
she’s just stepped out of the North Sea, but it isn’t cold. In fact, it’s a sunny day, the cherry blossom trees are out in the garden, like they are every year on my birthday . .
. but Nana feels cold, because she’s so thin. She feels cold all the time these days.
    Nana lies on her schlumfy old sofa, with her bright purple shawl wrapped round her shoulders, holding her present for me in her hands.
    ‘Come on, Mira, aren’t you going to open it?’
    What I love about Nana is how she’s always so excited when she gives you a present. Even though she’s this ill, she’s still gone to the bother of wrapping it up in pale green
tissue paper and covering it with sparkly butterfly stickers. I always open her presents so carefully, because it’s like the wrapping is part of the gift, and you don’t want to do it
too quickly, or it would seem clumsy.
    It’s a skirt, folded between sheets of tissue paper. It’s bright pink (why can’t people notice when you’ve moved on from pink, like, years ago?) and sea green, with
sequins and butterflies sewn all over it . . . and there’s something else . . . a tiny Indian purse, with a button for a clasp. It’s one of Nana’s; I’ve seen it before.
    ‘Open it then,’ she orders.
    As soon as I see her bare wrist, I