Contents
Family Group
The Scream
The Forest
Martha
Landscape from a Dream
The Waterfall
To the Unknown Voice
Martha
Grannies
Martha
Looking Back to a Bright Future
Fairy Tale
I’m Too Sad to Tell You
Martha
The Persistence of Memory
Summer
Dimpled Cheeks
Cracked Earth Removed
Here I Am, Here I Stay
The Dog
Last Sickness
Martha
In the Garden
Fish and Frogs
Life Death, Knows Doesn’t Know
Me and the Moon
The Dance of Life
The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living
Acknowledgements
Puffin Web Fun
The Story of Puffin
PUFFIN BOOKS
Rebecca Westcott was born in Chester. She went to Exeter University to train as a teacher and has had a variety of teaching jobs that have taken her to some very interesting places, including a Category C male prison. Rebecca now teaches in a primary school and lives in Dorset with her husband and three children. Her acclaimed first novel Dandelion Clocks was published in 2014, shortly followed by Violet Ink. Five Things They Never Told Me is her third book.
Visit Rebecca at www.rebeccawestcottwriter.com and follow her on Twitter @westcottwriter
Books by Rebecca Westcott
DANDELION CLOCKS
FIVE THINGS THEY NEVER TOLD ME
VIOLET INK
For my fabulous little sister, Elizabeth. The idea for this book came from a story she told me and she didn’t even moan a little bit when I abruptly ended our phone conversation so that I could start writing! Thank you, Lizzy – your support and love and sisterly brilliance is never taken for granted.
And for Pauline and Brian, my granny and granpa, who shared their own memories and experiences and stories with me. I love you both very much.
Family Group*
Having a choice is not always a good thing. Sure, choice is great when it comes to menus and films and clothes and books. I like choosing when it’s a choice of ice-cream flavours (mint choc chip, every time) and I like choosing what music to listen to on my iPod. I do not like choosing between my parents, though, which is what they asked me to do exactly forty-one days ago.
‘We’re not asking you to choose between us,’ said Dad.
‘Absolutely not,’ agreed Mum, although her eyes told a different story.
‘We just want you to make the right choice for YOU, Erin. We can’t make this decision for you. You’re old enough to decide for yourself.’
That made me mad. Every single time I’ve asked if I can do something exciting they’ve told me that I’m too young; that they are the adults and they know what’s best for me. All of sudden, just because it suits them, I’m old enough to make my own decision.
So I did make my own choice. Dad thinks I chose him because I must love him more. Mum thinks I didn’t choose her because I mustn’t love her as much. A week later she packed her bags in silence and gave me a hug and told me that I could change my mind any time. She said there would always be a place for me in the huge house she now lives in, along with a tall, sad-looking man called Mark who has found his reason to live again now that he’s stolen my mum. Him and his tragic little boys who have taken my mum to fill the gap left in their home by his dead wife. I hope they’ll all be very happy together.
But the truth is that I chose neither of them. Not that they have any idea. How could I possibly choose between two people who didn’t choose ME? After all the fighting and yelling and sobbed conversations about betrayal and waste of a marriage, after the arguments about who was going to keep the TV and the teapot that had been a wedding present and the chair that Mum said was a family heirloom from her grandmother but Dad said that he always sat on, after all that, they were remarkably calm about who got to keep me. There was no shouting about that at all. It’s like nobody actually wanted me. I am less important than a teapot.
No – I didn’t choose Mum OR Dad. I chose Picasso. If it wasn’t for him I don’t think I could have survived the last few months in our house. Every time it got bad I would head to my room where he would be waiting for me. He’s not supposed to be in my room but there’s no point in following the family rules when we’re not actually a family any more.
So now Mum’s gone and it’s really fine. Dad’s out at work every day and when I get home from school the house is empty. It feels a bit weird sometimes but I tell myself that another word for silent is peaceful – and it’s definitely better than the suffocating atmosphere that I would feel when I stepped through the door and into the middle of another one of their rows.
And it’s not like I’m actually alone. As I close the front door and turn round I can hear him leaping out of his basket and bounding across the kitchen floor. I crouch on the floor and laugh as he runs up to me, his slobbery face pushing against mine as he says hello. Picasso might not be able to talk but he can tell me exactly how he’s feeling without words, which is a good thing because I’ve had enough of words to last me a lifetime.
I go into the kitchen and tip the contents of my school bag on to the table. Most of my homework can wait until another night but I’m quite keen to make a start on my art project. Miss Jenson has given us our summer holiday homework early because she says that it’s such a big project we might as well get going on it right away. I love art. I suppose I must have got that from Dad but we never really talk about it. We never really talk about anything, actually.
I pull my art book towards me and turn to a fresh page. Our project is called ‘What Art Means To Me’. Everyone groaned when Miss Jenson told us about it but I think it sounds kind of fun. We have to choose different pieces of artwork and write about how it makes us feel. What it makes us think about. There’s no limit to the number of pieces of art we can choose but the more we do the better our grade will be. To get us started, Miss Jenson has given us all a picture of a sculpture by Henry Moore. It’s called Family Group, which right away puts me in a bad mood.
Dad’s late home tonight and I’ve written my reaction to Henry’s sculpture and put some sausages and chips in the oven when he walks into the kitchen. He looks tired, which is pretty much how he always looks at the moment.
‘How was your day?’ he asks me, putting his workbag down in the corner and then turning the kettle on.
‘There’s no water in there,’ I tell him as the kettle starts to whine in protest. He picks it up and walks across to the sink and I wonder what he would do if I wasn’t here.
‘Was school OK?’ he says but I can tell he’s not really desperate for an answer. He’s making sure that he’s done the Dad-routine. It’s been Thirty-four Days Without Mum and he’s pretty much asked these questions every day. Have I asked Erin about her day? Check. Have I made sure she’s eaten some food? Check. Has she got money for lunch tomorrow? Check. He thinks he can relax if he’s done all of this – that he’s fulfilling his duties as a father. I think he’s doing the best he can but it doesn’t come even close to being good enough.
The smell of burning drifts through the kitchen and Dad scowls.
‘Have you put something in the oven?’ he asks me, rushing across the room and opening the oven door. Smoke pours out and he steps back, flapping the air in front of him and grabbing the oven glove.
‘Erin! What have I told you about this? You’re twelve years old, for goodness’ sa
ke. Far too young to be using the oven when I’m not here. You could have burned the house down!’
He pulls out the tray and we both look at the charred remains of the chips. They look disgusting.
Dad sighs. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this AGAIN. I have to be able to trust you, Erin. What were you thinking?’
I look at the floor, trying to keep my anger hidden.
‘I was hungry,’ I whisper, my voice shaking with fury.
‘There’s no need to cry,’ Dad says hurriedly. He can’t stand me showing emotions of any kind, particularly not anything he thinks is girly. He just has no clue about how to deal with it. ‘Don’t feel bad. We all make mistakes.’
He thinks I feel guilty. He thinks I’m looking and sounding like this because I know I’ve done something wrong. I can feel the blood rushing through my veins, getting ready for me to explode at him. I try to swallow the nasty taste in my mouth but it’s no good. It has to come out. I look up at Dad and let him have it.
‘I DON’T feel bad!’ I say. ‘I was HUNGRY! It’s six o’clock and I’ve been at school all day and I needed to eat some food. You weren’t here! And I thought I was supposed to be old enough to make my own decisions now?’
Dad looks surprised for a moment and then he glares at me.
‘I wasn’t here because I was working. Which is how I get the money to put this food on the table. And I don’t appreciate you ruining decent food and then having the nerve to shout at me. There’s a family rule, Erin –’
I snort when he says this but the look he gives me stops me from saying anything else.
‘There is a FAMILY rule that you do not use the oven when you’re in the house on your own. And until you hear otherwise, that is a rule that you will follow. Understood?’
I glare back at him and for a second we are standing in silence with sparks of rage shooting from our eyes. ‘UNDERSTOOD?’ he repeats and I know that I’m going to have to lose this one.
‘Yes,’ I mutter, looking away. Let him have his family rules if it makes him feel better. Personally I think he’s completely deluded if he thinks we’re a family. How can two people who can hardly bear to be in the same room as each other count as a family?
‘I’m just trying to keep you safe,’ he says, dumping the chips in the bin and rescuing the sausages from the oven.
Whatever. Keep telling yourself that, Dad. We both know it’s got nothing to do with that and everything to do with Mum leaving and you being stuck with me.
Dad gets the bread out of the cupboard and puts it on the table with some butter. I get some plates and we sit, silently making sausage sandwiches, which I am too furious to eat. Dad tries to start a conversation but I’m not interested so in the end he gives up and turns on the television. I know that he won’t let me go to my room until I’ve eaten my tea so I try to eat as fast as possible, but the bread sticks to the roof of my mouth and the burned sausages taste like misery and each mouthful needs me to chew it about a million times before I can manage to swallow it down. And with each swallow I plan how to show my dad that I am a force to be reckoned with. That I can’t be shoved in a corner and just forgotten about.
The Scream*
It takes until Saturday morning, Thirty-seven Days Without Mum, for me to get the opportunity I need. I probably wouldn’t even be bothering but Mum rang last night and Dad insisted that I talk to her, despite the fact that I was obviously gesturing to him to tell her that I was out. I had to stand in the hall, holding the phone away from my ear, while meaningless words floated out of the receiver as she went on and on about how much she’s missing me. She started saying how she wished that tomorrow were one of ‘our’ Saturdays – like that’s suddenly a thing, and how she’s still my mum. Words are easy to say – if she really meant it then she’d still live in the same house as us. Anyway, Dad caught me not listening and had a real go at me afterwards. So he’s brought this on himself. He’s still in bed and I’ve checked that he’s fast asleep by listening at his bedroom door – I can hear faint snores coming from the other side so I know it’s safe to carry out my plan.
I get dressed quickly and creep downstairs into the kitchen. Picasso trots over to me and bumps my hand while I fill his bowl with dog food. Once he’s distracted and munching away I tiptoe towards Dad’s workbag, which is lying in the corner of the room where he always puts it when he gets home. I know it’s silly but I really don’t want Picasso to see me doing this.
I kneel down and open the zip. Inside the bag is Dad’s skanky lunchbox that he hasn’t unpacked yet and some of his tools. I take all of this out and rummage around in the bottom, my heart pounding until my hand closes on the thing I’m looking for. Pulling it out I open up his wallet. Staring up at me is a photo of me, Mum and Dad, taken on holiday last year when we were still the three of us. I don’t know why he’s kept that in there. Ignoring the happy, smiling faces I open up the cash compartment and remove eight £20 notes. That’s a start but it won’t get me very far – not with the day I’ve got planned. Rooting through the old receipts I strike lucky.
‘Yes!’ I hiss, holding up Dad’s debit card. This is exactly what I need. I stuff the wallet back in his bag and then shove the tools and lunchbox on top, zipping it back up. No point in alerting him earlier than necessary. Turning round I see that Picasso has finished eating and is staring at me across the room, his head on one side and his eyes looking mournful. Picasso is a black and tan dachshund with one brown eye and one blue eye. One half of his face is white and the other half is dappled brown and black. He’s the weirdest-looking dog I’ve ever seen. Mum says that he suits me – that we’re both highly interesting and unusual. Except that I can’t be that interesting, or she wouldn’t have wanted to replace me.
Anyway, Picasso looks like his face has been split down the middle. That’s how he got his name. I’ve always loved those weird paintings that Pablo Picasso did of faces, all wonky and multicoloured, plus the artist Picasso had a dachshund called Lump who he really loved. I’ve got a copy of the picture he drew of Lump, on the wall in my room. It’s just one line but it really does look like my dog.
‘It’s OK,’ I tell him. ‘I’m just borrowing it really.’ I feel bad saying this but I really don’t want Picasso to think I’m dishonest. He pads over to me and I sit down next to him, burying my head in his soft, furry coat. I suppose I could always put the money back? Dad would never know. I could just pretend this hadn’t happened and make him a cup of tea and then let him cook me bacon and eggs for breakfast and take me out for a picnic and a walk at the sculpture trail, like he said last night. Dad’s got a piece that’s being displayed as part of the trail and he’s been promising for ages that we could go and take a look.
But then I remember how I felt when he was mad at me about the burned chips. And I think about how he says he wants me to act my age and grow up but never actually lets me do anything fun. I think about how he still takes Mum’s side, even though she’s not here. And I remind myself that I’m just an inconvenience to him. That neither him or Mum wanted me and I’m just a problem that needed to be solved.
And who wants to waste a beautiful Saturday morning on a rubbish walk, looking at a load of carved wood, anyway? Especially when it’s mostly the reason that Mum left in the first place. It used to drive her crazy that Dad had got this amazing talent but that he ‘refused to do anything with it’. That was what she said. She used to go on and on about how, if only he’d believe in himself, he could sell his sculptures for thousands of pounds and then he wouldn’t have to work as a badly paid gardener at a care home. Then he’d tell her that he liked being a gardener and that the day he started creating his sculptures for money and not for love would be the day that he stopped making anything worth looking at. I’ve got no idea if she even knows that he’s got a piece being shown in the sculpture trail. I suppose it’s a bit late now, anyway.
I rub my hand one more time down Picasso’s firm back and then I stand up. They think I’m a p
roblem so I’m going to show them that they’re right. That should make them happy – maybe they’ll finally find something they both actually agree on.
The bus driver starts to make a fuss about me paying for my fare with a £20 note but I just look at him and tell him it’s all I have. He mutters about how he’s not going to have any change for the rest of the day, but I smile sweetly and he gives me a ticket, grumbling under his breath. I go straight to the back of the bus and look out of the window as we drive towards town. I’ve done this before lots of times with Lauren and Nat but it’s the first time I’ve been on my own. Everything looks a bit different today. Brighter and sharper and a little bit scarier. Maybe that’s because I know that there’s no way I can wriggle out of what I’m about to do. There’s no way I can say it was an accident, that I didn’t mean to do it – because I am doing this one hundred per cent on purpose.
We reach the town centre faster than I thought we would. I get off the bus and look around me. Where should I go first? My stomach starts rumbling and I remember that I haven’t had any breakfast yet. I’m right next to the coffee shop where I have to meet Mum every other Saturday but I hate that place now and I know that Dad would go crazy if he thought I was getting breakfast in McDonald’s so I head there and order food to take away. It’s sunny today, only two weeks until the summer holidays, so I find a bench and sit outside watching the shops come to life while I eat my Egg McMuffin. It tastes surprisingly good – especially when I imagine what Dad would say about me eating junk food this early in the morning.
When I’ve demolished my breakfast I scrunch up the paper bag and lob it towards the bin. It goes in and I grin to myself.
‘Nice shot!’ says a voice behind and when I turn round I see a boy chaining his bike to a lamp post. I recognize him from the year above me at school, but I’ve never spoken to him before. I look behind me to see if he was talking to someone else but there’s nobody there and when I turn back, he’s smiling at me.
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