After Iris: the Diaries of Bluebell Gadsby by Natasha Farrant Page B

Twig launch themselves at Father. GRANDMA storms out of the house. For all her child slavery/cold water swimming/galloping on horseback philosophy, she has a rule about rolling around in wet grass, which is that you shouldn’t do it. She is about to shout, but her face softens at the sight of Father crying with laughter, being tickled by Jasmine and Twig. She smiles. Even Flora is laughing. The camera turns away from them and up, to where puffy white clouds chase each other across the blue, blue sky.
    It is hard to believe anything bad could happen in a place like this.

Sunday 6 November
Sunday 6 November
    Last night when I went to bed, Flora was waiting for me, looking troubled because she had just eavesdropped on a conversation between Dad and Grandma in the kitchen. Basically, Grandma was angry with Dad because he says he has to leave tomorrow , and with Mum because she is not here at all.
    ‘What can I tell you?’ said Dad. ‘She’s needed in Beijing.’
    ‘SHE’S NEEDED HERE!’ shouted Grandma. ‘THESE CHILDREN NEED THEIR PARENTS!’
    Dad said we were fine, which Flora says is just typical. Flora says of course we are fine, but Dad would say that even if we were in the middle of an earthquake, and a towering inferno to go with it. And then Dad said, very quietly but loud enough for Flora to hear, ‘Do you remember what Papa said when you left London to come and live here? He said, you had both always dreamed of living in the country, and now you were following your dream. I’m happy, Mum. I’m doing something that makes me happy, and for the first time in three years I don’t wake up every morning wanting to howl.’ Grandma said, ‘But what about your family?’ and Dad said he would tell us soon enough and when he did he was sure we would understand. And then Grandma asked what Mum thought of all this and Dad sounded really sad and said he couldn’t remember the last time he and Mum had a conversation without arguing.
    Now Flora is more convinced than ever that Dad is in love with someone in Warwick. Some weird teacher type from the uni. She said they probably read their books out loud to each other in bed, and that she was very pessimistic about the future. But then in the end, Dad did stay. He was all set to go back after the tickling frenzy on the lawn but Jas clung to his legs, and Twig explained (very slowly, like Dad was the child and Twig was the grown-up) that we had a guy, and that later we were going to make a bonfire and burn him, and that there would be sausages and baked potatoes and marshmallows, and also fireworks in the village.
    ‘You have to stay, Daddy,’ said Jas, and then she did her round cat’s eyes and Dad sighed and said what the hell, all right, he would stay and we could all go home together on the train.
    So Dad came bodysurfing with us, and even though he yelled when he went in the water (he got a wetsuit without socks, which is not a mistake he will ever repeat), afterwards he couldn’t stop talking about it.
    ‘Remember when we all caught that same wave?’ he said.
    Also, ‘I haven’t had so much fun in ages!’
    And, ‘Why don’t I do this every year?’ forgetting that whenever Grandma makes us do this on New Year’s Day, he stays at home by the fire and sleeps.
    When we were warm and dry again, we built the bonfire. We piled up all the wood we had gathered over the week, along with the junk Grandma had hoarded for a year: newspapers, vegetable crates, cardboard boxes, a broken chair, rotten floorboards from the old shed. We piled it as high as we could and sat the guy on top. We drove to the village for the fireworks display, and then came home to light the fire, and Dad made us hold hands and dance around it, singing old songs he knows from the seventeenth century when Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament. We ate the sausages and potatoes, and then Grandma brought out blankets and we wrapped them round ourselves and lay on our backs to watch