‘What’s going on?’ I ask him, peering around. Everyone seems to be looking in the same direction and I can’t work out what’s so interesting because all I can see in front of me is a lot of grey hair and bald heads.
‘Isn’t it brilliant!’ yells Frog. He needs to yell because, for a bunch of old people, they certainly know how to make some noise.
‘What?’ I shriek back. ‘Isn’t what brilliant?’
‘That,’ shouts Frog and he points to the front of the room. I turn to look and at that moment the crowd parts slightly and I see Martha, sitting in her wheelchair and playing tennis. Against Frog’s grandad. And from the looks of things she is completely annihilating him.
I look back at Frog, my mouth gaping open. ‘What …? How …?’
‘I brought it in from home,’ Frog tells me proudly. ‘I thought of it after the other day when you said that Martha can’t resist a challenge. Look at her backhand!’
I push my way through the Oak Hill residents who are yelling encouragement at the players and stand by Martha’s chair. She glances up at me briefly but then looks straight back at the TV screen, her focus utterly on the tennis game.
‘Looks like you’re doing OK,’ I tell her.
She nods and grins and then leans across to rally a particularly demon serve that Frog’s grandad has just dished up.
‘Hey, watch out!’ I yelp, leaping to the side just before she sideswipes me with the Wii controller.
On the screen, the tennis ball whizzes through the air and even though Frog’s grandad tries his best to reach it, he misses and the point goes to Martha. The crowd goes wild.
‘Game, set and match!’ shouts one old man, leaping out of his chair in excitement. I look at him in alarm – I’m not sure he should be doing that at his age.
Martha passes the Wii controller to the lady next to her and then wheels herself slowly over to Frog’s grandad. She stretches out her left arm and they shake hands, grinning at each other.
‘It’s been a while since I’ve played tennis,’ he tells her. ‘I enjoyed that. Maybe we’ll have a rematch one of these days?’
Martha smiles and nods at him and then I push her wheelchair carefully through the mass of people who are demanding that Frog sets up the Wii so that they can go bowling. We find a space at the back of the room and I sit down next to Martha, watching as Frog explains the rules.
‘You’re pretty good at tennis,’ I say to Martha. ‘Did you play when you were younger?’
She nods at me and then smiles at Frog as he emerges from the crowd and flops down on to the chair next to me. He’s laughing.
‘I didn’t think I was going to make it out alive,’ he says. ‘It’s a good job you can attach the controllers to their wrists – Doris can’t remember to hold on to it and every time she bowls she throws it at the TV!’
‘This was a really good idea,’ I tell him. ‘They all love it!’
‘Well, it was just sitting around at home. Nobody really goes on it any more and Mum said that it was OK to bring it here for the rest of the summer. Just on a loan.’
I turn to look at Martha. She looks a bit warm – her face is flushed and her breathing is quite fast and her eyes are shining like she’s excited. She points towards the TV and starts to push herself forward, but I’m worried that it’s all been a bit much for her.
‘Maybe you should have a rest for a while?’ I ask her. My answer is an instant scowl.
‘Do you want to go back on the Wii?’ Frog asks. ‘We could play baseball next!’ His reward is a beaming smile.
I’m not convinced that she hasn’t overdone it, though, and the last thing I want is for Martha to get ill, so I get up and fetch a glass of water from the table by the door.
‘You need to drink this,’ I tell her.
She reaches out her left hand and very, very slowly brings the glass to her lips. I want to help her but I can tell that she won’t appreciate me interfering so I try to look as if I’m not paying her any attention. I can see, though, out of the corner of my eye, that the water is almost all going into her mouth, with only a tiny bit dribbling on to her chin.
I turn to her as she starts to lower her arm and as I take the glass from her our hands touch. Martha’s skin is warm and soft and I feel a jolt of something rush through me. It takes me by surprise and I busy myself taking the glass back to the table for a bit longer than necessary as I try to figure out what it is.
When I look back to where we were sitting, and see Frog casually dabbing at Martha’s chin with a tissue like it’s no big deal, I realize what it is that I’m feeling. It feels warm. It feels safe. It feels right. It feels like I might, just a little bit, love these two people.
Here I Am, Here I Stay*
Martha has disappeared. Frog and I wait for her for ages in the garden but she just doesn’t turn up.
‘Where do you think she is?’ I ask Frog.
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. You don’t think she’s left, do you?’
‘What d’you mean left?’ I say. ‘Where could she have gone?’
‘Maybe she’s living in a different care home?’ suggests Frog, but he doesn’t sound very convinced.
‘This is stupid.’ I get to my feet and pull Frog with me. ‘We need to track down Beatrice and find out where she is.’
We walk down the path, intent on heading up to the house where Beatrice is bound to be sitting with one of the old people. We don’t get there, though, because just as we’re about to turn the corner I hear voices ahead of us.
‘Well, you say that like it’s easy, but Martha is one of the most stubborn women I’ve ever met.’
I freeze and Frog walks straight into the back of me. He lets out an oomph sound and I turn quickly, shushing him with my finger on his lips. His eyes open wide in surprise but he stands still and I turn back towards the hedge and creep a bit closer, Frog right behind me.
An unfamiliar voice laughs loudly and then I hear someone we know.
‘It must be so hard for her, though. I gather she was a very independent lady before the stroke.’ I can hear the concern in Beatrice’s voice even from here. She properly cares about Martha and not just because it’s her job.
‘Well, what about her family?’ asks the other person. Her voice has a hardness that is putting me on edge. I hope she doesn’t have anything to do with looking after Martha. She doesn’t sound kind. ‘It’s all very well shelling out to send them here but a visit every now and again wouldn’t go amiss. Take the pressure off us a bit too. We’re not paid enough to be their friends.’
‘She hasn’t got any family,’ says Beatrice. ‘And actually, I don’t need paying to be Martha’s friend. She’s a fascinating, funny lady when you stop and get to know her.’
If I pull apart the leaves in front of me and squint with one eye I can just make out two pairs of feet, a few metres away. Beatrice is obviously on a break with one of the other care workers. As I watch, something is thrown to the ground and a foot stamps on it and grinds it into the path. The smell of cigarette wafts over the hedge and it reminds me of the first and last time I tried to smoke. The first time that I met Martha. Even the memory makes me want to cough.
‘Oh, don’t give me that.’ Uncaring sounds annoyed. ‘Everyone’s got family somewhere – especially if they can afford to live somewhere like Oak Hill. There’s got to be some distant relative sniffing about for a slice of her cash when she’s gone.’
I feel Frog stiffen next to me and then he too makes a gap in the hedge so that he can do his own spying.
‘Well, she hasn’t,’ says Beatrice in a firm-sounding voice. I don’t think she likes Uncaring very much. ‘She lost her childhood sweetheart, Tommy, in the war. They didn’t have time to start their lives together before it was all over. No chance of children and she never fell in love again. When she first arrived here she wrote down that she had a younger sister, but she died ten years ago. She has nobody left.’
‘I suppose that accounts f
or her being the way she is, then.’ Uncaring sounds as if she knows she’s narked Beatrice off and she’s trying to be nice, but it clearly doesn’t come naturally to her. ‘And she may well be fascinating, but she’s also the most devious, cunning old woman I’ve ever met. Lording it up in that wheelchair! She could walk if she put her mind to it – she just wants to make us push her around all day. If she’d only put more effort into her exercises then she could be talking and walking like everyone else. Mrs Thompson is just waiting for her to mess up again so that we can send her packing. She’s not exactly the type of resident we want at Oak Hill, is she? Far too high-maintenance.’
‘She’s very unwell and there’s nothing to motivate her,’ says Beatrice sadly. ‘I just think she can’t see the point in fighting any more. Since her stroke it’s all been too hard, and this new illness is just too much. She doesn’t want to leave her room or see anyone. I’m really worried that she isn’t going to rally from this. This could be the end for her.’
There’s a sudden movement and Beatrice’s legs come into view as she stands up. We both let go of the leaves and the hedge snaps back into place as we hear both women walk away down the path, conversation about the weather drifting back to us on the breeze.
I turn to look at Frog. ‘Did you hear all that?’
He nods. ‘That care worker talking to Beatrice is mean! She didn’t sound as if she even likes old people.’
‘Never mind that.’ I march down the path, Frog running after me to keep up. ‘Didn’t you hear what they said about Martha? She’s really ill. We have to do something to help.’
‘Like what?’ Frog asks, puffing away behind me as I speed-walk towards Dad’s shed.
I don’t answer him until we’ve reached the shed and sat down, our backs against the side.
‘Like what, Erin?’ repeats Frog. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I reluctantly admit. ‘But neither of us is leaving here until we’ve figured something out. We can’t just abandon Martha and you heard what Beatrice said. She needs something to motivate her, something that will make her do her exercises and help her get better. She needs cheering up or she might not be OK. She might even die. Now – no speaking until one of us has got an idea.’
We sit, just thinking, for what feels like ages. After about four minutes, Frog cracks.
‘We could bake her a cake?’ he suggests.
I tut. ‘Duh! How is that going to cheer her up? It’s not very special, is it?’
‘Well, you think of something better then, mastermind.’ He scowls at me and folds his arms. ‘Come on.’
‘I am thinking,’ I tell him. ‘Shush.’
My brain is whizzing through hundreds of ideas. I think about what Mum used to do for me if I was unwell, but I don’t think having a blanket nest on the sofa and watching Bedknobs and Broomsticks will have the same appeal to Martha. I actually used to quite like being unwell because it was the only time Mum would let Picasso into the living room. Snuggling up with him and feeling his warm little body cuddled up next to me under the blanket was the best feeling in the world. Even when I’m well, stroking him and sensing how much more he loves me with each stroke makes me feel happier than I can describe.
‘How about if –’ starts Frog but I hold my hand up to stop him. I know I seem rude but there’s a thought flitting round the edges of my brain and I need him to be quiet if I’m going to catch it.
‘Hang on, hang on,’ I say, waving my hands around wildly as if I can literally pluck the idea out of the air. And then I do.
‘Picasso!’ I breathe, letting the thought fill my head.
‘Sorry?’ says Frog, utterly confused.
‘Stroke! Two different types of stroke! That’s what made me think of it. Martha’s stroke and stroking a dog. That’s called a homophone by the way – I learnt it in school!’ I am ranting but I don’t care. This is brilliant!
‘What are you going on about?’ asks Frog, staring at me as if I have lost the plot.
So I take a deep breath and tell him my plan. And Frog agrees that, quite possibly, this is the best idea ever known to mankind and that I, Erin Edwards, may well be the cleverest individual on the planet right now.
The Dog*
Carrying out my ingenious plan takes some forward thinking and a lot of nerve. My alarm clock goes off earlier than it’s ever gone off before and I’m out of bed faster than you can say #groundedforeverifIgetcaught.
The keys to Dad’s van are on the table in the hall and I’ve managed to sneak the dog bed out of the kitchen and outside to the van before Dad even comes downstairs. I thought he might be surprised that I was already up but he’s got a big delivery of garden stuff today so he’s just pleased that I’m virtually ready to go.
We eat our breakfast in silence, him going through his delivery inventory and me hoping that everything is going to work. I’ve put the dog bed into a corner of the van and wedged it in place with Dad’s toolkit. The last thing I want to happen is for Picasso to be skidding and sliding across the van floor every time we go round a corner.
Today I am a dog smuggler. OK, it might not be on the same level as drug smuggling, but actually, when you think about it, there’s loads of drugs at Oak Hill already, what with all the medication the old people are taking. There are no dogs at Oak Hill, though. And I suspect the punishment for taking a dog into a strict No Animals environment is probably worse than the punishment for taking drugs in. People can be weird like that. I remember Dad telling me at the start of the summer that he’d lose his job if he allowed me to take Picasso into the grounds. I cross my fingers under the table and hope that I’m not about to make another monumental, Erin-sized mistake.
I offer to wash up while Dad goes to clean his teeth and as soon as he’s gone I whistle to Picasso. He looks up from his breakfast and gives me his daft, doggy smile and then he gets up and pads across the floor on his little legs. I bend down and pick him up and then as quickly and quietly as I possibly can I open the back door and race round the outside of the house to where Dad’s van is standing in the drive.
I unlock the double doors and crawl inside. Picasso jumps out of my arms and does that random, running round in a circle thing that I normally find cute and hilarious. Today, though, I don’t want to encourage any silly behaviour.
‘In your bed,’ I whisper, pointing him in the direction of the dog bed. But Picasso isn’t having any of it. He skips over to Dad’s strimmer and starts sniffing it, his tiny tail wagging as if it’s Christmas Day.
‘Picasso!’ I hiss. ‘That is not for you! In your bed!’
This time he has the decency to look at me before bounding across to a spade and testing it out with one paw. I’ve had enough. It’s time to get serious before Dad comes out here and my plan is doomed before it’s begun.
I crawl further into the van and pick up my excited, crazy dog.
‘Do you want a treat?’ I ask him. He stops wriggling and I deposit him into the dog bed. ‘Then you have to promise to stay there until I come to get you. Understood?’
Picasso gazes at me with his mismatched eyes, his nose pushing into my hands to find the promised treat.
‘OK, then. I’ll be back really soon. Don’t be scared. We’re doing the right thing.’
I leave him happily munching on a biscuit and scoot in through the back door just before Dad comes into the kitchen.
‘Have you seen my van keys?’ he asks, patting his trouser pockets.
I wave them at him. ‘I’ve got them already. We need to get going if you don’t want to be late.’
‘Thanks, love,’ says Dad, and the smile he gives me is so trusting that I feel a moment of guilt. But then I tell myself that I haven’t actually lied to him and I haven’t taken anything that isn’t mine. And that sneaking Picasso into Oak Hill is really the right thing to do to help Martha get better.
The drive to work is agonizing. Every time we go round a corner I cross my fingers tightly and hope like m
ad that Picasso is OK. As we get closer to Oak Hill my heart starts to race. This part of the plan is less clear to me. It goes something along the lines of look for a way to distract Dad before he opens up the van. I am suddenly aware that I perhaps needed to put a bit more thought into this stage, but it’s too late now.
We pull in through the gates and up the drive. And salvation is staring me right in the face. Or rather, Frog is. He is waiting for us by the front door and as soon as he sees us he races over to where Dad is parking. Dad barely has a chance to open his door before Frog starts talking, his words coming out in a garbled rush.
‘Mr Edwards! I’m so glad you’re here! There’s a flood in the kitchen and Beatrice doesn’t know what to do!’
Dad jumps out of the van and strides towards the back.
‘I’d better grab my tools then,’ he says.
I stare in desperation at Frog while I struggle to undo my seat belt. Frog is all over the situation, though. He darts past Dad and stands blocking the van doors. I hear him start to speak and I wrench at the seat belt, finally managing to get free. I dive out of the cab and rush round the van.
‘… to just go straight there,’ Frog is saying. ‘She said she wants your opinion as soon as possible.’
Poor Dad doesn’t stand a chance. He nods at Frog and thanks him and then heads towards the house, ruffling my hair as he walks past.
The second he’s out of sight I open up the van doors and get hit in the chest by a furry sausage. I grab it with both hands and the three of us run across the car park and into the trees where we can’t be seen.
‘What is that?’ asks Frog, when we stop running.
‘It’s not a that, it’s a he,’ I say, pretending to be offended. ‘This is Picasso. He’s a dachshund.’
‘He’s a sausage dog,’ states Frog and we both start laughing because Picasso totally looks like a sausage. He looks like a cartoon dog.
Five Things They Never Told Me Page 12