‘What’s the problem?’ he asks.
‘You’re the problem, dumb-head,’ I say. ‘Asking Martha if she misses dancing.’
‘It was just a question,’ he says, and I sigh, wondering if all boys are this insensitive.
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘But all that talk of dancing made her realize that her dancing days are over. How upsetting is that for poor Martha?’
Frog looks at me like I’m being a bit stupid and I resist the urge to punch him on the leg.
‘Erin,’ he says slowly. ‘I think Martha knows that she won’t be doing the jitterbug again, don’t you?’
‘But it doesn’t hurt to tell her that she might, does it?’ I explode at him. ‘You know – give her something to look forward to. A bit of hope.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ says Frog, standing up and walking over to the fountain. ‘I think lying to her is patronizing. She’s not a child. She knows what she can and can’t do. I think Martha would prefer people to be honest with her.’
‘Oh, and you’re basing this on knowing her for all of five seconds, are you?’ I’m properly angry now. How dare he waltz in here and act like he knows Martha better than I do. She’s MY friend.
OK, yes – she IS. She’s actually my friend. I’ve told her stuff I haven’t told anyone else and I’m the one who can help her to get better.
‘You can’t help her get better from being old,’ Frog tells me, once again behaving like a freaky mind reader. ‘And the reason I asked if she missed dancing was because I thought we could figure out a way to show her some jitterbug dancing. Like on YouTube, or something.’
‘Oh.’ I am quiet for a moment, letting this new information sink in. ‘I suppose that is quite a good idea.’ I know that my voice sounds grudging but I’m a bit fed up that I didn’t think of it myself.
‘I know you want to help Martha,’ says Frog, coming back to sit next to me on the bench. ‘And so do I. But I don’t think you have to pretend that she’s going to suddenly leap out of her wheelchair and start racing round the garden. I think she just likes having a bit of company.’
I look at the water fountain. The water has gone – it’s completely dry because of the baking hot sun.
‘I don’t even know why she mentioned dancing in the first place,’ I grumble. ‘Not if it was just going to make her all miserable and depressed.’
Frog picks up a pebble and throws it towards the fountain. It falls into the lowest basin with a clattering sound.
‘I think she likes remembering. Memories are probably a bit pointless if you’ve got nobody to share them with.’
I choose a pebble and aim it carefully.
‘Ten points if I get this in the top basin,’ I say, but my throw goes wide and the pebble shoots off into a bush. ‘That was a practice shot,’ I inform Frog, bending down and choosing another pebble. ‘So you reckon it’ll cheer Martha up if we show her some clips of people dancing the jitterbug?’
This time my pebble flies through the air beautifully, curving down towards the water fountain and falling into the top basin with a satisfying thud.
‘Well, it’s probably not as good as watching it for real, but we can try,’ says Frog.
‘What is the jitterbug, anyway?’ I ask him.
‘I’m not totally sure,’ he admits. ‘But I do know it’s kind of fast and a bit tricky. I’ll Google it when I get home later and see what I can find out. I’ll be back here on Thursday. Meet you then?’
I nod and feel glad that we’ve got some sort of a plan. But I know, deep down, that Frog has got it wrong. I CAN help Martha get better. I can help her have a better life, maybe even a longer life – that’s why she likes hanging out with me. I’m doing something worthwhile, something that shows I can be a good, inspirational sort of person after all, no matter what Mum thinks about me.
Summer*
I wake up on the morning of my thirteenth birthday feeling miserable. Seventy-six Days Without Mum and I’m fairly sure today is going to be rubbish. Dad has never been responsible for my birthday before. It always used to be Mum who planned my parties and bought my presents. Dad would write his name in the card.
I get up as slowly as possible and throw on the same clothes that I wore yesterday. I can’t be bothered to make an effort, specially as Frog isn’t going to Oak Hill today. I’ve turned off my phone and I’m avoiding the computer. I’m not sure I could cope with hearing all about Lauren and Nat’s amazing plans for their barbecue party. I didn’t bother asking Dad if I could have the day off from my punishment. I know that stealing his money was a really bad thing to do. I suppose I’m lucky that he hasn’t spent the entire summer sulking with me.
The first surprise of the day happens as I’m brushing my hair. The sound of four feet bounding up the stairs and into my room is so unexpected that I hardly have time to turn round before Picasso throws himself at me and I stagger back on to the bed. For a little dog he can be very energetic sometimes – although I haven’t seen him behave like this for ages.
‘What are you doing up here?’ I gasp, grabbing hold of his long body and burying my face in his neck, smelling his lovely Picasso smell. He replies by giving me a huge, sloppy lick, which makes me squeal. Then he flops down on to the bed next to me, panting and looking at me with his huge brown and blue eyes.
Picasso is NOT allowed in my bedroom. In fact, he’s not allowed upstairs, full stop. This was one of the things that Mum and Dad were in perfect agreement about. Picasso always knows that he’ll be in serious trouble if even one paw touches the first stair. That means that one of two things has just happened. Either Dad let him come up to me or Picasso knows it’s my birthday and is risking a telling-off so that he can be with me.
‘At least someone knows today is an important day,’ I tell him, ruffling the fur behind his ears, just how he likes it.
I spend ten minutes cuddling Picasso and trying not to remember this time last year, when Mum and Dad took me to London for my twelfth birthday treat and everything was good and my family was a proper family. Then I hear Dad clattering about downstairs and realize that if I want to start the day with breakfast then I need to move.
Picasso and I slink out of my bedroom door and across the landing. Picasso is an excellent slinker – he was born to slink. I look at him and put my finger to my lips, and then, keeping my back pressed against the wall, put my foot on the top stair. The theme tune from Mission Impossible is in my head and I bend down, putting one hand on Picasso’s collar so I can guide him slowly towards the hall.
Just as we’re halfway down, the kitchen door opens and Dad comes out. We freeze, me with one foot in mid-air and Picasso stretched across three stairs. But Dad goes into the living room and I take my chance, launching myself down the remaining stairs with my daft dog flinging himself after me. We race down the hall and into the kitchen and by the time Dad comes back in I am sitting at the kitchen table.
Dad glances at Picasso, who is trying to look casual, but completely overdoing it. He is flopped in his basket with his tail wagging madly and as Dad looks at him he seems to raise one eyebrow, as if he’s saying What? I haven’t done anything! I glare at him behind Dad’s back and I swear he grins at me. That, or I really need to spend more time with actual people this summer.
Dad smiles at Picasso and then walks over to the kitchen counter.
‘I’ve made you some toast,’ he says, handing me a plate. ‘Happy Birthday, lovely girl!’
‘Thanks, Dad!’ This is the second surprise of the day, and it’s only 8 a.m.
The third surprise is only moments behind the second. Dad sits down opposite me and starts buttering his own toast.
‘You don’t need to come in with me today,’ he tells me. I’m so busy watching, transfixed, as he spreads half a pot of strawberry jam on one piece of toast that it takes a few moments for his words to sink in.
‘What?’ I ask him. ‘Why?’ Obviously, turning thirteen hasn’t improved my ability to speak elegantly.
<
br /> ‘You’ve been really good about going to Oak Hill every day,’ he says. I have no idea how he’s going to eat that toast without spreading it over half his face. It’s literally dripping with jam. ‘You deserve the day off. And I gather your friends have plans for you. They can be very persuasive when they want something – quite terrifying, actually.’ He grins at me and raises an eyebrow.
I look at him in shock. I didn’t say a word about the barbecue party, which means that Lauren and Nat must have told him. And he’s actually letting me go? It’s quite possible that my friends are the best friends in the entire universe.
Quickly I turn my head to look out of the window. Today can’t really be this good – it must be pouring with rain or thunder and lightning. But no – the sky is a brilliant blue and the sun is already shining brightly. Perfect weather for a barbecue.
I look back at Dad. The toast has been eaten in three bites and none of it is on his face. Impressive.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say. He nods at me and gets up to rinse his plate under the tap. The standard of washing-up in this house has definitely deteriorated since Mum left.
‘Really. Thank you,’ I repeat, wanting him to know how much I appreciate this. He hasn’t given me a gift or anything but at least he hasn’t forgotten. And he’s giving me a whole day with my friends, which is kind of like a present.
Dad walks over to me and I stand up. He pulls me into a big hug that lasts for a while and when it ends he lets go of me and takes a step back, looking at me hard.
‘We’re OK, aren’t we?’ he asks me. He sounds nervous and I suddenly have a flash of insight about what this might all be like for him. Looking after a teenage girl on his own probably wasn’t his idea of living happily ever after. When him and Mum got married he probably thought it would last forever. And I know that he didn’t want her to leave. I heard him telling her, one awful night, that he’d always love her, no matter what. And that if she ever changed her mind then he’d be here, waiting for her.
‘We’re fine, Dad,’ I tell him. I’ve been a selfish cow. I’m not saying he’s the best father in the world, but he’s the one I’ve got and at least he’s here with me. Not off with another family, trying to find perfection in a new beginning.
‘I know this isn’t like your other birthdays,’ he says quietly. ‘Everything’s different to how it was before.’ I have never heard my dad sound so unsure. It makes me stand up a bit taller.
‘Different is OK,’ I tell him. ‘We’re starting again, you and me. It doesn’t have to be the same as it used to be.’
Dad smiles at me. ‘When did you get so old and wise?’ he jokes.
‘Oh, about thirty seconds ago,’ I say. ‘I AM thirteen now, you know.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ He looks at me again. ‘You’re growing up, Erin. If you’d rather live with Mum for a while then I’d understand.’
My eyes flash towards Picasso, who has sat up since this conversation began, looking eagerly between us as if he understands every word that we’re saying.
‘Mum has agreed that Picasso can live at her house, if that’s where you want to be,’ says Dad, sounding as if he is making himself tell me this new piece of information.
I pause, thinking carefully. I’ve missed Mum so much over the last few weeks, even if I am furious with her. But sometimes it’s a mistake to try and hold on to the past.
‘She’s really not coming home, is she?’ I ask Dad. He shakes his head sadly but firmly.
‘Then it’s time for a new beginning,’ I tell him. ‘Me and you and Picasso. Boldly going where no family has gone before. Well, actually, they probably have, but we haven’t so it’s a whole new beginning for us.’ I stop, before my rambling gets any worse.
‘A whole new beginning,’ repeats Dad. ‘Yes, I like the sound of that.’ He looks out of the window and smiles to himself, before turning back to me. ‘Have a great day, sweetheart. And enjoy the first day of being a real-life teenager!’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say. Maybe this day will turn out to be better than I expected.
After Dad leaves for Oak Hill I wash up my plate and cup and head back upstairs. When I walk into my bedroom, the fourth surprise of the day is waiting for me. There, lying on my bed, is a parcel. It’s sort of square and quite flat and looks like something that I might really, really want to have.
Stuck to the top is a gift label. Tearing it off I turn it over and read the message.
To Erin. Happy Birthday. Mum and I both agreed that this would be the right time for you to have this. Love Dad x
I sit down on my bed and pick up the parcel. Its weight is familiar and with my heart pounding I pull off the wrapping paper and look at the plain white box. It’s beautiful and even before I open it up I know exactly what’s inside. I just can’t quite bring myself to believe that they’ve let me have it, after everything that’s happened.
My hands are shaking as I open the lid. And there it is. My own iPad. I pull it out and look at the back, just to be sure. Erin Edwards is engraved on to the metal.
I turn it on eagerly and spend the next twenty minutes playing around. It takes me no time to get my email set up and when I check my inbox I see that Lauren and Nat have both sent me messages, telling me that the barbecue party starts at 3 p.m. and I’d better not be late. Lauren has sent me an extra, shorter message telling me to wear my funkiest clothes and put some make-up on. I ignore her – I am totally not putting on make-up for a barbecue with my two best friends! It’s not like there’ll be anybody there who needs impressing.
I grab my iPad and go back downstairs. Picasso is waiting for me in the hall and I decide that, as it IS my birthday, he should be allowed in the living room with me. After all, it was mostly Mum who had a problem with him. She made a house rule that he was only allowed in the hall and the kitchen because she ‘didn’t want dog hair all over the cushions and beds’. Dad probably only went along with it to make her happy. I’m starting to think he did quite a lot of that.
I sink down on to the sofa with Picasso snuggled up next to me and carry on playing with my iPad. It’s when I’m on level five of Angry Birds that I realize something is wrong.
I put down the iPad and stroke Picasso, trying to work out why I’m feeling weird. There’s a churning sensation in my stomach and my head feels crowded – like there’s a thought trying to push its way in but I’m not letting it. I get up and stretch. Maybe a drink and a biscuit will sort me out. Picasso’s asleep again so I cover him with the blanket off the back of the sofa (Mum would literally have a fit if she could see me doing this) and walk into the kitchen. I put the kettle on and while I’m waiting for it to boil I hear the thunk of the post dropping through our letterbox.
Racing into the hall I see a huge pile of brightly coloured envelopes and a slightly squashed Jiffy bag lying on the doormat. I recognize Mum’s writing on the squashed parcel immediately so I open it up and pull out a postcard with a picture of a donkey on the front. Mum’s written to me on the back:
Dear Erin,
Happy 13th Birthday! I so wish that I could be with you today but I bet you’re having a great time with your friends! Maybe you’d like to come over when we get back from holidays and we can celebrate your birthday all over again?
Do you like the picture on this postcard? I chose it because the place we’re staying has a donkey that looks just like this one! The boys have been having such fun, feeding him carrots and going for rides. I wish you were here with us – I think you’d love it.
Have a great day! I can’t believe my little girl is 13 years old! I can’t wait to see you. Mark and the boys send their love.
Lots of love,
Mum
PS The enclosed is just a daft little extra present! Your real present from Dad and me is the iPad.
I put my hand inside the Jiffy bag and feel something hard. Pulling it out, I unfold it to see that Mum has sent me a Spanish fan. It’s completely not me – as if I’ve got any use for an old-lady fa
n. Though I suppose I should be grateful that it isn’t a straw donkey.
Back in the living room I walk over to the sofa. Picasso is still snuggled up like a baby under his blanket, fast asleep and snoring quietly – funny little dog snores that make me smile. I pick up my iPad and settle down next to him. And straight away I feel horrible again, like my insides are squirming with snakes. I can feel the awful thought, battering against my brain and demanding to be let in, and this time I can’t keep it away. I know exactly why I’m feeling like this.
I feel guilty.
I look down at the iPad in my hands and I know that I totally don’t deserve to have it. In an absolute, definite, I-am-not-good-enough kind of way.
I stole from my dad. The same dad who has always been there for me even when I’ve behaved like a brat. Even when he’s been so sad that he seems to have forgotten how to smile. And Mum. She’s tried pretty hard to talk to me about everything but I’ve completely ignored her. I even pretended I couldn’t hear her when she last tried to talk to me about why her and Dad have split up.
I’ve been so angry with Mum and Dad for the last few months and I’ve sort of got used to feeling mad at them most of the time. But I don’t feel angry now. This is much worse. I wish they’d never let me have this stupid iPad back because now it feels like I’m the bad one. Which I suppose I am, in a way.
I turn off the iPad and carefully pack it back into the box. Then I put it high up on a shelf above the TV. It’ll be safe there and maybe I’ll start to feel a bit better if I’m not actually looking at it.
I spend the rest of the morning tidying my room and reading my book. Weirdly, I keep thinking about Oak Hill and what Martha’s doing. I know Frog isn’t visiting his grandad today but even so, I can’t stop thinking about what I’d be doing if I were there. When lunchtime comes I make a cheese sandwich but it doesn’t taste as good as it normally does when I’m sitting with Dad in the garden, my back propped up against his shed and the sun on my face.
Five Things They Never Told Me Page 9