Katy

by Jacqueline Wilson

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ I said.

  Izzie looked at me. ‘Oh Katy, don’t tell me you’ve lost it!’

  ‘No. But – but I broke it.’

  ‘Oh no! And you were so proud to have Helen’s lovely necklace,’ said Izzie.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m hopeless. Nag at me all you want, Izzie, I deserve it.’

  But for once Izzie didn’t nag.

  ‘Where is it? Let me see if there’s any way I can mend it,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t even remember properly where I put it. It was the day of the accident. I tugged at the chain without meaning to and it broke. Everything was awful that day.’

  ‘I’ll find it. I’ve got to know most of your hiding places,’ said Izzie.

  She was as good as her word. She ran up to my room and came back within a minute with my treasure box.

  ‘You have a look. It’s your special box. I think you might have tucked it in here.’

  I opened my box silently, brought out the necklace and handed it to Izzie.

  ‘The seahorse isn’t broken; it’s just the chain. We can easily get that mended, you silly girl. And meanwhile you can use the chain on Cecy’s locket. Let’s see if we can thread your seahorse on to it,’ Izzie said.

  The chain threaded through the link on the seahorse easily.

  ‘There you are!’ said Izzie, doing up the clasp round my neck. ‘And don’t go tugging at this chain!’

  21

  I hugged Helen when she came. She only had short arms but mine were long, so we could both lean forward and embrace. I started crying again and then scrubbed at my eyes furiously, embarrassed.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’ve blubbed like a baby practically every day since the accident,’ I sniffed.

  ‘Of course you’ll cry, Katy! Who wouldn’t be sad? You’ve had your whole life turned upside down,’ said Helen.

  ‘Yes, but it was all my own fault,’ I wailed. ‘Did Izzie tell you how it happened?’

  ‘Yes, she did. It must seem so horribly unfair. A little swing from a tree! I bet a hundred thousand kids have swung from a tree just like that without falling. And if they did fall, very few would have the bad luck to hurt themselves so severely. A broken arm, a broken leg, and then they’d be as right as rain in a few weeks,’ said Helen.

  ‘Whereas I’m stuck like this forever and ever,’ I said.

  ‘Well, as far as we know. They might find some way of helping people walk again in ten or twenty years – who knows.’

  ‘And then we’ll both be able to walk!’

  ‘I don’t think so. My poor little legs have gone for a burton. I’ve had replacement hips and knees and yet I can only walk one or two steps like a clockwork soldier, then I fall over – clonk.’

  ‘Have you been stuck in a wheelchair ever since you were a baby?’ I asked. I hadn’t liked to ask the last time Helen came; it seemed much too rude and intrusive to bombard her with personal questions. But now we were both in the same situation it made everything seem different.

  ‘I was fine when I was really little. In fact, my mother says I was one of those toddlers that never kept still. I ran round and round the garden until I got dizzy and then I’d fall over, shrieking with laughter. But then I developed rheumatoid arthritis when I was three or four and I was in and out of hospital for most of my childhood.’

  ‘How did you get to be so brave? You never ever complain. Dad thinks you’re an absolute angel,’ I said earnestly.

  ‘Oh, that’s hilarious! I’m anything but. But how sweet that your dad sees me like that. I think he’s the angelic one. He’s always been so kind to me. My own father’s a bit withdrawn and has always been a bit awkward with me. I think my disability embarrasses him, though he’d never admit it. I used to fantasize that your dad was my dad. You’re so lucky to have him, Katy. I know he’s always taken time to play with all of you, and he reads aloud, doesn’t he? And he always talks to you sensibly and explains everything carefully. Whenever I cried as a little kid, because I hurt and I was scared of having injections and operations, he was always so gentle and understanding,’ said Helen.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am lucky. He is a lovely dad. But actually he’s been a bit weird with me since the accident. He tries ever so hard, but he gets grumpy sometimes too. And he hates it when I get really upset. He keeps making out I’m doing splendidly, when I’m not,’ I said.

  ‘I think that’s because he loves you so much. He probably feels incredibly frustrated because he’s a doctor and yet he can’t cure you. He’s not even in charge of your medical care. He’s just a dad and he feels helpless.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it exactly! You’re so wise, Helen! Why can’t I work things out like that?’

  ‘Because you’re eleven and I’m more than twice your age,’ said Helen. ‘What about Izzie? How is she reacting?’

  I cocked my ear, making sure Izzie was still in the kitchen getting lunch ready. ‘Well. She’s been weird too. Before, she used to nag, nag, nag me all the time. We were always arguing. I could never do anything right. But now she’s horribly patient with me all the time.’

  ‘Horribly?’

  ‘Well, it sort of gets on my nerves. I don’t want her to be nicey-nice with me. I don’t want to have to feel grateful all the time.’

  ‘Oh yes. I understand that. It’s the great trial of the disabled: having to be bloody grateful when we can’t help ourselves and have to get people to do things for us,’ said Helen.

  ‘We had a big row yesterday, Izzie and me. I said horrible things to her. She did get angry then and say stuff back. But then she phoned you, which was lovely of her. I suppose I’m pretty horrible to her a lot of the time. And I’m mean to the others too, especially Elsie. It’s awful, Helen. I didn’t used to be such a nasty person, but now I can’t seem to help it.’ I was nearly crying again.

  ‘It’s because you’re angry. You go through all these stages when you’ve had a serious life change like your accident. You’re sad, you’re angry, you’re resentful, you’re depressed. Oh, it’s a right bore for you, and for everyone else!’

  ‘Did you go through all these stages?’

  ‘I’m sure I did when I was little. But it all happened more gradually for me. And now I can’t really remember ever being so-called normal. I’ve grown up different. Maybe it’s easier for people like me.’

  ‘But you’ve been ill longer.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve grown up being used to it. This is me, this little person in her wheelchair, bowling along. Whereas I bet you don’t feel like you’re the real Katy any more.’

  ‘Yes! Oh, you’re the only person who really understands! Apart from Dexter. He’s this boy in the hospital. He used to say dreadful things to the nurses and do these really dark, wonderful, cartoony things. Dexter is the coolest boy I’ve ever met, but he’s kind of scary too. He emailed me once after I got home,’ I added proudly.

  I’d emailed him back – one, two, three times – but he hadn’t responded further.

  ‘It’s amazing how close you can get in hospital,’ said Helen. ‘You find yourself talking about real things, not all the trivial stuff.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. Like us! I feel like I’ve changed so much since the last time we met, when I just wanted to burble on about our silly games,’ I said.

  ‘You can still play games now. You can do all sorts of things. Those are my two favourite words, Katy. Can do!’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit daft,’ I said, then blushed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. But how can I do anything now? I can’t do a blessed thing!’

  Helen looked at me earnestly. She reached out and took hold of me by the shoulders, though it was a great stretch for her.

  ‘I think that’s maybe the big difference between those of us like me who’ve been disabled ever since they can remember and people like you who have become disabled overnight. You’re thinking right now of
all the things you can’t do. But maybe soon you’ll be able to start thinking of all the things you can do. Maybe new, fantastic things you’d never have thought of before.’

  ‘Like what?’ I said, and it came out more rudely than I meant. But Helen wasn’t the slightest bit fazed.

  ‘Like travelling, especially when you’re older and can do it under your own steam. Like writing – I’ve done all sorts of articles for newspapers and magazines. Like acting – I’ve seen groups of people with all sorts of disabilities putting on fantastic shows. Like educating – I’ve given lots of talks in schools to try to show what it’s like to be disabled, and I tackle all the weird stuff that people say about us. Stop wincing, Katy! You hate that word disabled, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s horrible. I don’t want to be it!’

  ‘But you are, sweetheart. And it’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m proud to be the way I am.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s OK for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you’re so clever. You’re an academic, aren’t you? You can do all those things.’

  ‘How do you know you’re not clever too? I bet you did well at school.’

  ‘I was always mucking about.’

  ‘Well, you can still muck about now. The main thing is to get you back to school,’ said Helen. ‘You must be getting bored out of your mind hunched up here at home day after day, and you’re probably driving poor Izzie crazy into the bargain.’

  ‘Yeah, but which school? Dad went and looked at this special school somewhere, but they don’t do proper GCSEs, and they haven’t got any spare places anyway.’

  ‘Which school were you going to go to?’

  ‘Springfield. It’s where Cecy and all my friends from my old school have gone. But I’m not going there, not where some of them know me. And anyway, I can’t go there. Dad’s phoned up. They haven’t got any lifts, so I wouldn’t be able to go to any of the classrooms upstairs.’

  ‘But you’d be able to go to the classrooms downstairs – and lobby hard to try to get them to put in a lift! I think that’s the first step you need to take, Katy.’

  I stared at Helen. ‘But how would I manage? You know. The toilet stuff. Izzie does it all for me.’

  ‘You can certainly learn to look after most things yourself. And maybe it’s time to be more independent at home. Do you shower and dress yourself?’

  ‘Well. Sometimes. But I’m so slow at it now.’

  ‘That’s because you’re out of practice! You’ll get much quicker and learn little tricks for doing things. Of course it will always be quicker if someone else helps you – but you want to do it by yourself, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. But – but I still don’t see how I could manage at Springfield. What would all the others say? Some of them can be really mean. What if they laugh at me?’

  ‘Then you have to laugh back. Or swap insults. Show them you don’t give a stuff. Show them that you’re still Katy Carr and they can’t mess with you. Right?’

  ‘Right!’ I said.

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Helen smiled at me and then picked up the little seahorse round my neck. ‘It looks great on you, Katy. It was my lucky charm, so I hope it brings you lots of luck too.’

  Izzie called that lunch was ready and we sat together in the kitchen, just the three of us. Helen and I stopped talking about special things and just chatted generally, but it was still very enjoyable with no children butting in every second. Izzie had made a lovely lunch too, a special home-made asparagus quiche with three different salads, and then my favourite Eton mess for pudding – meringue and cream and strawberries. She’d used the special blue-and-white willow-pattern china and put some late roses and a few Michaelmas daisies in a pretty jug.

  ‘This is lovely, Izzie,’ said Helen. ‘You’ll have to give me the recipe for this quiche – it’s wonderful. Katy, why don’t you get Izzie to give you a few cooking tips?’

  I waited for Izzie to start telling her the tale of my disastrous pancakes, but she just smiled and said, ‘That’s a good idea.’

  When we were all nibbling Turkish delight Dad came dashing in, having come all the way home just to snatch a precious half-hour with Helen. He practically ignored Izzie and me. I rolled my eyes and Izzie smiled at me.

  I realized just how special Helen was. We all vied with each other to talk to her. It didn’t matter in the slightest that she was in a wheelchair and couldn’t walk. Maybe I could get to be a special person too.

  Dad told Helen more about little Archie. Helen told us about the book she was writing. Izzie showed Helen some of her handbag designs. I started thinking of Helen’s can do approach.

  I could help small children come to terms with being in a wheelchair. I could write a book: not an academic discourse, naturally, but maybe a storybook for younger children. I could make something: perhaps not a boring old handbag, but some kind of toy or soft sculpture. I thought of all my old hopes and plans. I could still have my big house, only I’d be stuck on the ground floor. No! – can do, CAN DO! I could install a lift. That would be the coolest thing ever, to have a lift in the house. Then I could swoop right up to the top floor and down again, keeping an eye on all the children. Well, they wouldn’t be children then. Maybe they’d have children of their own, and I’d be Auntie Katy, and they’d all cluster round my wheelchair and I’d devise games for them and let the winner have a little ride on my lap, and then when they were tired I’d read them all a bedtime story. Even the very littlest would listen entranced to Mary Poppins …

  ‘You’re quiet, Katy,’ said Dad, suddenly squeezing my hand. ‘Why don’t you make the most of Helen while she’s here?’

  ‘I have been, Dad. We’ve talked and talked,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been preaching at the poor girl,’ said Helen. ‘I bet she can’t wait to see the back of me.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ I insisted. ‘It’s been lovely to see you. I only wish you lived nearer. I want to see you every day!’

  ‘Well, I’ll second that,’ said Dad. ‘In fact, my cup runneth over right this minute. I’m with my favourite patient, favourite daughter, favourite wife.’

  Then he started, because he realized exactly what he’d said. Favourite wife? Any other time I’d have kicked off royally in defence of my mum. But I knew why he’d said it. He’d simply got carried away. He’d told Helen she was his favourite, but he wanted to include Izzie and me too. I knew I wasn’t actually his favourite daughter. He either said he didn’t have any favourites or insisted we were all his favourites, but even so I was pretty certain Clover was his actual favourite. Just as I was certain Mum was his favourite wife, always and forever, but it would be unkind to say that in front of Izzie. For the first time in my life I didn’t want to be unkind to Izzie either.

  Dad was glancing at me anxiously but I just reached for another little white-dusted delight and popped it in my mouth. Izzie smiled at me and Helen did too.

  Dad had to dash off back to work. Helen and I took a little nap together in the library, both of us lying on top of my bed. It took quite a bit of manoeuvring for us to get there, and Izzie did have to help, but it was somehow fun being gently pushed and shoved together. We didn’t actually do any proper napping. We just lay there with the curtains drawn and I spoke into the dark and told Helen that I knew I was still me, but I wanted to be a new version too. I intended to be totally mature and thoughtful and everyone would think me as heroic as Helen and marvel at my fortitude. This resolution only lasted till we transferred back to our wheelchairs and Clover and the littlies came home, fetched by Mrs Hall.

  They all clamoured round Helen. Elsie was so eager to get to her that she tripped over the wheels of my own chair and literally landed in my lap. I might have been fantasizing about having a child on my lap an hour or so ago, but in reality it was alarming, even though I couldn’t properly feel Elsie’s weight.

  ‘Get off, you numpty! You know you’re not allowed to do that! You could reall
y hurt me,’ I yelled.

  ‘I’m sorry! Oh Katy, I’m truly sorry! Have I really hurt you?’ Elsie gasped.

  I saw Helen looking at me and felt terrible.

  ‘No, I’m OK,’ I mumbled.

  Helen reached out to give Elsie a reassuring hug and she was happy again. I felt ashamed. I watched Helen talking to all my sisters and brothers, careful to pay attention to each one, cleverly diverting their attention if they got too shrill or boisterous, and I felt even worse. I’d never had that patience with them. Before the accident I’d controlled them easily enough, but that was because I was the biggest. I could run faster, I could think quicker. Now I couldn’t run at all and I couldn’t even seem to think properly any more. My brain seemed to be turning to jelly inside my head.

  After ten minutes or so Izzie called them all away to have their juice and biscuits.

  ‘Phew!’ said Helen. ‘They can be quite full-on, can’t they?’

  ‘You’re so good with them all,’ I said.

  ‘It’s easy for me. I’m the novelty. But I’m not sure I could be Miss Sweetness and Charm if I had to cope with all of them every day,’ said Helen.

  ‘I seem to be Miss Snarl and Bite. Especially with Elsie,’ I said ruefully, lowering my voice. ‘I don’t know what it is about her. She’s just so whiny and needy and clumsy.’

  ‘Poor little Elsie,’ said Helen. ‘It’s funny … I think she’s the one I’d make into my special pet. Why don’t you try making an extra fuss of her? She’d love that. She really looks up to you, Katy.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t! She’s all over Clover now. They’re total best friends,’ I said. I heard the whine in my voice and blushed. ‘That’s a good thing of course,’ I added.

  ‘Oh Katy. You’re the one who matters most to all of them,’ said Helen. ‘And you matter to me most too. I was so worried after Izzie’s phone call, but it seems to me you’re doing all right, truly. Just get back to school and get on with your life.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘I wish you lived nearer, Helen. I think I need you to come and sort me out every single day!’

  ‘I’ll phone. And email. And I’ll be thinking of you all the time,’ said Helen.