Ellie McCrae Character Analysis

He gave Marcus a vinyl copy of Nevermind, because they didn’t own a CD player, and a Kurt Cobain T-shirt, so he could keep in with Ellie; he gave Fiona a pretty groovy and pretty expensive plain glass vase, because she’d complained after the hospital business that she didn’t know what to do with the flowers. Marcus gave him a crossword-solver’s book to help him with Countdown, and Fiona gave him The Single Parent’s Handbook as a joke.

Even though what they were talking about was miserable, Marcus was enjoying the conversation. It seemed big, as though you could walk ‘round it and see different things, and that never happened when you talked to kids normally. [...] his mum must have conversations like this with Suzie, conversations which moved, conversations where each thing the other person said seemed to lead you on somewhere.

‘How do you know? How do you know he wasn’t just messing about? I’ll bet you he never does anything like it again.’

‘You don’t know him,’ Ellie said.

‘Neither do you,’ Marcus shouted at her. ‘He’s not even a real person. He’s just a singer. He’s just someone on a sweatshirt. It’s not like he’s anyone’s mum.’

‘No, but he’s someone’s dad, you little prat,’ said Ellie. ‘He’s Frances Bean’s dad. He’s got a beautiful little girl and he still wants to die. So, you know.’

Marcus did know, he thought. He turned around and ran out.

‘You don’t know anything.’

‘I know some things. I know about that. I’ll tell you, Ellie, you don’t feel anything like my mum, or Kurt Cobain. You shouldn’t say that you feel like killing yourself when you don’t. It’s not right.’

Ellie shook her head and laughed her low nobody-understands-me laugh, a noise that Marcus hadn’t heard since the day they met outside Mrs. Morrison’s office. She was right, he hadn’t understood her then; he understood her much better now.

Some of these people he hadn’t known until today; some of them he had only known for a little while, and even then he couldn’t say that he knew them well. But here they were anyway, one of them clutching a cardboard cut-out Kurt Cobain, one of them in a plaster cast, one of them crying, all of them bound to each other in ways that it would be almost impossible to explain to anyone who had just wandered in. Will couldn’t recall ever having been caught up in this sort of messy, sprawling, chaotic web before; it was almost as if he had been given a glimpse of what it was like to be human.

‘Who are these loads? Ellie and Will and people like that?’

‘Yeah, people like that.’

‘They won’t be around forever.’

‘Some of them will, some of them won’t. But, see, I didn’t know before that anyone else could do that job, and they can. You can find people. It’s like those acrobatic displays.’

‘What acrobatic displays?’

‘Those ones when you stand on top of loads of people in a pyramid. It doesn’t really matter who they are, does it, as long as they’re there and you don’t let them go away without finding someone else.’

He gave Marcus a vinyl copy of Nevermind, because they didn’t own a CD player, and a Kurt Cobain T-shirt, so he could keep in with Ellie; he gave Fiona a pretty groovy and pretty expensive plain glass vase, because she’d complained after the hospital business that she didn’t know what to do with the flowers. Marcus gave him a crossword-solver’s book to help him with Countdown, and Fiona gave him The Single Parent’s Handbook as a joke.

Even though what they were talking about was miserable, Marcus was enjoying the conversation. It seemed big, as though you could walk ‘round it and see different things, and that never happened when you talked to kids normally. [...] his mum must have conversations like this with Suzie, conversations which moved, conversations where each thing the other person said seemed to lead you on somewhere.

‘How do you know? How do you know he wasn’t just messing about? I’ll bet you he never does anything like it again.’

‘You don’t know him,’ Ellie said.

‘Neither do you,’ Marcus shouted at her. ‘He’s not even a real person. He’s just a singer. He’s just someone on a sweatshirt. It’s not like he’s anyone’s mum.’

‘No, but he’s someone’s dad, you little prat,’ said Ellie. ‘He’s Frances Bean’s dad. He’s got a beautiful little girl and he still wants to die. So, you know.’

Marcus did know, he thought. He turned around and ran out.

‘You don’t know anything.’

‘I know some things. I know about that. I’ll tell you, Ellie, you don’t feel anything like my mum, or Kurt Cobain. You shouldn’t say that you feel like killing yourself when you don’t. It’s not right.’

Ellie shook her head and laughed her low nobody-understands-me laugh, a noise that Marcus hadn’t heard since the day they met outside Mrs. Morrison’s office. She was right, he hadn’t understood her then; he understood her much better now.

Some of these people he hadn’t known until today; some of them he had only known for a little while, and even then he couldn’t say that he knew them well. But here they were anyway, one of them clutching a cardboard cut-out Kurt Cobain, one of them in a plaster cast, one of them crying, all of them bound to each other in ways that it would be almost impossible to explain to anyone who had just wandered in. Will couldn’t recall ever having been caught up in this sort of messy, sprawling, chaotic web before; it was almost as if he had been given a glimpse of what it was like to be human.

‘Who are these loads? Ellie and Will and people like that?’

‘Yeah, people like that.’

‘They won’t be around forever.’

‘Some of them will, some of them won’t. But, see, I didn’t know before that anyone else could do that job, and they can. You can find people. It’s like those acrobatic displays.’

‘What acrobatic displays?’

‘Those ones when you stand on top of loads of people in a pyramid. It doesn’t really matter who they are, does it, as long as they’re there and you don’t let them go away without finding someone else.’