Carry You

Suzanne Allen Yes, that is definitely good. Perturb away – it will help.

Daisy Mack Great, thanks Suze. Now I know it’s good to be perturbed, I am less perturbed. Is this a paradox?

Georgia Ling Everything ok hun? xx

Five months ago, my mum died. It was her second outing into breast cancer, and unfortunately it didn’t go as well as the first. But isn’t that always the way with sequels – never as good as the original, are they? Look at Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Still a great film, don’t get me wrong. Col and Hugh are still geeky sex gods, they still fight like inept girls and Bridge gets to snog both of them again. But … We’ve seen it before, haven’t we? We know she’s hopeless, and can’t stop smoking and wishes she was thinner. And as much as we love her, in the end we’d have preferred to watch the first film again. It had a much better ending.

I’m watching Love Actually in my silky dressing gown now. Second time today. I’m supposed to be cleaning. Better get on with it, I suppose.

Daisy Mack

Gloves, actually.

Suzanne Allen OK, I’m deciphering that to mean you’re cleaning.

Daisy Mack Wow, you’re good!

Suzanne Allen Elementary. It’s spring so they’re not woollen gloves. You don’t own a motorbike. You don’t like gardening. You don’t work with radioactive material or infectious diseases. Oh, and puppets scare you. Ergo, cleaning. Well done! X

Daisy Mack Mind = blown.

There, that’s that done. Abby’s coming round in about half an hour so I may have to finish the film off later. She wants to talk about the MoonWalk. When she told me she’d signed me up for that, I have to say I panicked.

‘Shit, Abby, you haven’t!’ I yelled. ‘I can’t do it! I failed science, remember? And I hate heights, and fast things. Remember Alton Towers? I nearly passed out on that Nemesis thing. And that’s only, like, a hundred feet off the ground. I can’t go ten million miles up, I’ll die! And look at me – I’m so unfit, you said so yourself. I’ll never get through the training programme …’

I stopped there because she was already laughing. I mean really, really laughing. She actually bent over and put her hands on her knees. Then she stood up, took a deep breath, looked at my face and started laughing all over again.

Turns out she didn’t actually mean a walk on the moon. Apparently they don’t offer that to members of the public. Well, how was I supposed to know?

‘It’s a night-time walk, Daze,’ she said, wiping her eyes.

‘Huh?’

‘It’s called the MoonWalk because it’s at night. It’s a twenty-six-mile walk round London, starting at midnight, for charity. Nothing to do with Michael Jackson, and we don’t have to walk backwards.’ Her face calmed at this point and her smile faded. ‘It’s for breast cancer.’

Which meant of course that I couldn’t say no. I don’t think Abs would have let me say no even if it had been for Homeless Llama relief, or something. Anyway, how hard can it be? It’s only walking.

Back on the sofa now, my instant messenger pops.

Abby Marcus All right you, I’m leaving now. Get off your computer and clean up a bit. This is important.

How did she know I was on my computer? I might have been doing the hoovering.

Abby Marcus Don’t try and convince yourself that you might not have got that message. I can see your name on my screen and it says you’re online. You’re always online. Get offline NOW.

Daisy Mack OK, I’m going …

She wants to talk to me about training today. Apparently she’s got a plan. No doubt it will involve a lot of walking. I’m thinking, the walk itself is just under two months away, on May 30th, so we should get a couple of good walks in a week or so beforehand. No need to go mad. I’ve been walking for years – piece of cake. I can do it almost without thinking now. I glance at the film. Hugh has just seen Billy Bob Thornton trying to kiss Nathalie. Ooh, he’s mad about that.

Abby Marcus Get offline, numpty!

I close my laptop and put it down on the sofa, then pause the film on Liam Neeson’s face. Abby’s right, I don’t really have time for this any more. Time is running out.

I have already picked up all the rubbish and dirty crockery from the living room floor, so it looks a lot better than when Abby arrived yesterday. And I’m dressed, in jeans and a clean-ish hoodie, so she won’t hassle me. Not that she judges me, I know she doesn’t. She’s been so fantastic since Mum died, I don’t know what I would have done without her. For the first couple of days I just lay on the sofa under a blanket and Abs stayed, rubbing my back, bringing me food and drink, stroking my head. Nagging, eventually. It’s what she does best, love her. Get out of bed, change your clothes, clean your teeth, all that. Of course, I didn’t really have the luxury of lying prostrate with grief for very long. Mum’s husband, Graham, my stepdad, ill with emphysema, still relied on me then to look after him, which Abby knew. He of course was grieving too and didn’t come out of his room for a week, so could have starved or shrivelled up to a dry old husk in there for all I knew. I was so consumed by my own wretchedness, I didn’t even think about him. I was unbelievably selfish, and Abby let me be. She took over the job of looking after Graham until I felt up to it again. And then two months ago, three months after Mum, Graham died too. As if he’d looked at living without her, given it a try, but didn’t like it. Nah, it’s not for me, he thought, and jacked it all in.

Oh, she’s here.

‘Well, this looks a lot better,’ she says when I let her in. She walks around the room like Mary Poppins, checking the floor for wrappers, looking between the chairs for tell-tale socks or plates. Then she gives a Poppins-esque nod. ‘Well done.’

‘Do I get a treat?’

‘Shut up.’

‘Right.’

‘OK. Sit down.’ I do. It’s like a kind of mind control thing she’s got. She says sit, I sit. She says clean up, I clean up. She says we’re walking twenty-six miles round London during the night, I’ll even do that. I am powerless against her penetrating stare and firmly set jaw. I think she can speak to snakes too. She’s rummaging through her bag now, and eventually pulls out a piece of folded-up paper, which she spreads out on her lap. ‘Daze, we have got our work cut out for us.’

I nod. ‘Right. Uh-huh. Yes. Sure. What do you mean?’

‘I mean the guidance says that to walk a marathon it takes at least twelve weeks’ training. We have seven. It’s going to be tough, but it’s do-able.’

Twelve weeks’ training! For walking? Who writes these guidance things? Some eighty-year-old granny with arthritic ankles? No, no, actually I bet it’s the trainer manufacturers. Of course. They’re onto a winner there. Put it out that walking twenty-six miles will require three months’ training, national panic ensues, trainer sales hit the roof. Classic herd mentality at play. They must think we’re such brainless idiots who can’t think for ourselves, while they rub their hands together and count their ill-gotten gains. They didn’t reckon on me though: I see straight through their wicked plans.

‘OK,’ I say, nodding.

Abs looks up from the sheet of paper on her lap and eyes me seriously. ‘But before we start training,’ she says ominously, ‘there’s something else we need to tackle.’ She raises her eyebrows, apparently waiting for me to fill in the missing blank. I don’t want to though. I’d quite like that particular blank to stay missing. I look away quickly before her eyes compel me to do her bidding, but I’m just a fraction of a second too late. ‘Daisy,’ she says, as if she’s trying to get me to own up to smashing something. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

I do. She’s right. Of course. As if to reinforce the message – as if it needed reinforcing – I catch a brief glimpse of the ‘For Sale’ sign through the window, the small ‘Sold’ panel in its centre drawing the eye like a blood stain. The house is sold. I have to move out by Friday. It’s Monday.

‘Yes,’ I say quietly.

‘Yes,’ she agrees, more forcefully.

But that’s easy for her to say. It’s not her that’s got to do it. And it’s a complicated business. She doesn’t understand that you can’t simply pack all your belongings away and move out; there are things that need to be done first. I mean, I haven’t got any of the stuff I’ll need – cardboard boxes, marker pens, tape …

‘I’ve got a load of boxes, pens and tape in the car,’ she says helpfully.

‘Oh that’s helpful. Thanks.’

‘Right. Let’s do this.’ She slaps her hands on her thighs and stands up. ‘I’ll get the bits from the car, you get upstairs and start sorting out your stuff.’ She performs an elaborate comedy ‘I’m-about-to-dash-off’ move, swinging one arm and leg backwards across herself, holds it, then trudges off slowly.

I raise myself off the sofa, feeling as if there are suddenly a million tons of air pressing down on me. It makes moving around unimaginably difficult.

‘What the hell are you still doing standing there?’

Ah, she’s back already, staggering into the room under a giant stack of flat cardboard boxes. She’s peering at me round the side of them, and even though more than half her face is obscured by ‘Young’s Frozen Fish’, she still manages to look disapproving.

‘Get upstairs and start getting your clothes out.’