‘Dachshund means “badger dog” in German,’ I tell Frog.
‘That’s a way better name than “dachshund”, he says. ‘Badger dog sounds quite menacing and freaky. You should call him that.’
Picasso gives a little bark and I put him down on the ground.
‘Let him sniff you,’ I say to Frog, who stands very still while Picasso walks round his feet.
‘Why is he doing that?’ whispers Frog and I stifle a grin.
‘Cos he’s trying to figure out what the terrible stink is!’ I tell him. Frog glares at me and I see that he actually looks quite worried. ‘Haven’t you got a dog?’ I ask him.
Frog shakes his head. ‘My mum says we’re not around enough to look after one. I don’t know if I really like dogs, to be honest. They always seem a bit … I don’t know. A bit unpredictable?’
I laugh. ‘They are! That’s what makes them fun. Look, sit down next to me and meet Picasso properly. He won’t hurt you.’
Frog still looks unsure but he walks over to me and we sit down together on the mossy ground. Picasso has a last sniff of Frog and then curls up between us.
‘He wants to be stroked,’ I tell Frog. ‘Look – like this.’ I stroke the dog’s back with firm, flowing movements and after a moment Frog joins in.
‘He’s trembling,’ he says. ‘Is he scared or something?’
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘He thinks he’s a cat. He’s sighing. He does that if he’s happy – a bit like purring!’
Frog smiles and we sit, stroking Picasso and discussing the best way to sneak into the house without being caught.
We’ve made our plans and I’m just starting to think it’s time to act when disaster strikes. One second Picasso is so blissed out he’s virtually asleep and the next second he’s gone.
‘What?’ exclaims Frog, leaping to his feet as Picasso shoots away from us, so fast that he’s almost a blur.
‘Picasso!’ I yell, before I remember that he shouldn’t be here and that his presence at Oak Hill is classified, need-to-know information. And that absolutely nobody except Frog and me needs to know.
‘Where’s he gone?’ asks Frog, his head spinning round in a useless attempt to spot Picasso.
‘Squirrel!’ I hiss, taking off at a run. Well, I would be running if it wasn’t for all the branches and twigs and lumpy bits of ground that keep trying to trip me up.
Frog overtakes me and I follow him through the trees. We are both trying to move quickly without a) being seen or b) making any noise. This means that we are doing a comedy run, bent double and only landing on our tiptoes. We must look ridiculous.
‘When you say squirrel,’ Frog mutters over his shoulder, ‘do you mean an actual squirrel? Like, is that something dogs genuinely get excited about? Cos I thought that was just a joke.’
‘I meant an actual squirrel,’ I confirm, squinting ahead to see if I can spot Picasso.
‘But why would your dog think he had a chance of catching a squirrel?’ asks Frog. He’s not letting up on this subject and if we don’t find Picasso soon then we’re in serious trouble. ‘I mean, not to be rude or anything, but your dog has a bit of a weight issue going on. I’m fairly sure he couldn’t climb a tree. And squirrels are pretty agile.’
There! Up ahead I can see Picasso. I gesture to Frog to circle behind him and I approach nice and slow, using my best calm, reassuring voice.
‘Who’s a silly dog, then? Who’s a very naughty dog that’s going to get his owner grounded for the rest of her life if he doesn’t start behaving sensibly?’
Picasso looks over at me. He is standing up with his front paws resting against the trunk of a tree. And he is yapping very loudly.
Frog appears from behind the tree and I grab Picasso’s collar and pick him up. The yapping gets louder and I look up to see what is causing all the trouble. Frog follows my gaze. There, on a branch above our heads, is a squirrel. It isn’t trying to hide and as I watch, it seems to jiggle about from foot to foot.
‘Er, Erin?’ says Frog.
‘Yes, Frog,’ I answer.
‘You see that squirrel?’
‘I do, Frog.’
‘I think it’s taunting us.’
I look at Frog and then back again at the squirrel. Picasso is going crazy in my arms, as if I am the only thing between him and a squirrel lunch. I am about to tell the stupid squirrel exactly what I think of it when I hear voices and realize that we’re closer to the path than I had thought. I have to be content with flinging a rude word in the squirrel’s general direction before we dive back into the trees. It is time to regroup and carry out Mission Picasso.
We make it through the grounds without being spotted. I’m wearing a big, baggy hoody and I’ve managed to zip Picasso inside. If you saw me from a distance you wouldn’t even know he was there.
When we get to the side door, Frog goes ahead and uses our pre-agreed sign to let me know it’s safe to proceed. We spent ages trying out different signals: rubbing his nose meant ‘all clear’, coughing meant ‘someone’s coming’, double blink meant ‘retreat to safety’, alternate winks meant ‘stand still’. In the end we decided they were all too confusing so now we’re using the sophisticated ‘thumbs up’ and ‘thumbs down’ approach, which seems to be working well.
And now we’re at Martha’s door. Frog has already scoped out Beatrice’s position and she’s busy in the day room handing out cups of tea. She should be there for ages yet. I knock quietly on the door but there’s no sound from within so tentatively, and feeling quite nervous, I nod at Frog and he opens the door just wide enough for us both to slip inside.
The room is in darkness and doesn’t smell too fresh. I tiptoe over to the bed where Martha is propped up and bend down over her. Her eyes are open and my first thought is that she must be dead. I gasp and she blinks, and I realize that even though she’s obviously alive, she isn’t OK.
‘Martha,’ I whisper. ‘It’s us. We’ve come to visit you.’
She doesn’t say anything but that’s all right. Nothing different to normal. It’s her eyes that are bothering me. There’s nothing in them. None of the moodiness I saw when I upset her. None of the naughtiness that was there when Beatrice told her off. None of the happiness and excitement she had when she was playing on the Wii. Nothing.
‘You try,’ I tell Frog and while he attempts to get a response I open the curtains and let the sunlight in. While I’m there I fling open the windows too. I’m not sure if this is what Martha wants but I’m willing to do anything to get a reaction out of her, even if it’s a cross one. This zombie Martha is starting to freak me out.
‘Any luck?’ I ask him when I go back to the bed, but Frog just shakes his head.
‘Then it’s time,’ I say, unzipping my hoody. Frog looks nervous but I know this is the right thing to do. Martha needs something to make her smile. She needs something to cuddle. Picasso is our only hope.
‘You know what to do,’ I whisper into his floppy, gorgeous ears and then I place him on the bottom of her bed. Frog and I back away until we’re standing right next to the door and watch.
Picasso turns round a few times to get his bearings and then he spots Martha. She hasn’t seen him yet but as he gently navigates his way across the blanket she obviously feels him because her head turns slightly and her eyes open a little wider in surprise.
Picasso trots right over to the head of the bed, where he stops. Resting his front paws on the propped-up pillow he raises himself until he is level with Martha’s head. The two of them look at each other for a long time. I can feel Frog next to me, holding his breath, and I do the same, desperate for this to work. Desperate for Martha to see that there are good things here. Things worth getting better for.
After a while, Picasso lowers his paws. My heart starts to sink until I see that he has no plans to leave Martha. He turns round very carefully so as not to stand on her, and then tenderly snuggles down into the crook of her right arm. Martha looks across at me for the first time
and I take a step forward.
‘His name’s Picasso,’ I tell her. ‘He loves being stroked more than anything in the world.’
Martha looks from me to Frog and I see something flare up in her eyes just for a second. Then she looks down at Picasso and slowly, haltingly, she brings her left hand up and across in order to stroke Picasso’s back. He shudders slightly in his happy-dog way and settles further into the bed. And I lean against Frog and watch as Martha starts to come back from whatever lonely, miserable place she’s been in for the last few days.
It’s my fault. I forget to keep an eye on the time. Frog and I end up sitting on Martha’s bed and chatting quietly while she strokes Picasso and he shamelessly cuddles up to her, enjoying all the attention. I’m explaining to Frog that Picasso is not your usual dachshund.
‘Dachshunds aren’t supposed to like strangers,’ I tell him. ‘But I don’t think Picasso got that particular memo because he likes everyone. Especially if they play with him or feed him.’
‘I wouldn’t mind having –’ begins Frog but he is rudely interrupted by the door flying open and a very irate Beatrice stomping in.
‘Who gave you two permission to come in here?’ she asks, her voice cross. ‘Martha doesn’t want any visitors at the moment. You can’t just waltz in here whenever you feel like it.’
She approaches the bed, glaring at us. I scoot closer to Frog, hoping to block Picasso from her sight.
‘I’m sorry, Martha,’ she says. ‘They had no right to just –’
She’s seen him. Her forehead wrinkles in a frown and her eyes narrow. I smile at her, hoping to win her over. After all, we’re only in here because we care about Martha, just like she does.
It doesn’t work.
‘What is that?’ she asks, although it’s one of those rhetorical questions that aren’t really a question. Beatrice already knows the answer. She’s not stupid – and even if Picasso is more sausage than dog it’s fairly obvious that he is an animal. And therefore banned from Oak Hill.
‘This is –’ I start but Beatrice slams her hand up in front of me, barely missing my nose, and I stop speaking.
‘You have got to be kidding me,’ she mutters under her breath. ‘You kids brought a dog in here?’
She turns her steely glare first on me and then on Frog.
‘Up!’ she barks and we both leap off the bed.
‘We thought –’ says Frog but I elbow him in the ribs and he shuts up. I can tell that this is no time for trying to justify our actions.
‘Unbelievable,’ murmurs Beatrice. I’m not sure if she’s talking to us or to herself so I don’t say anything, but the three of us stand in a line and stare at the bed. Martha hasn’t stopped stroking Picasso but she is looking at Beatrice. And her eyes look like they’re throwing Beatrice a challenge.
Beatrice sighs and lets her shoulders slump forward. She looks tired for a moment but then she straightens herself and turns to look at us.
‘This calls for some damage limitation,’ she says. ‘Get that dog out of here before anyone sees you.’
She’s not going to tell on us. All we have to do is sneak back to the van with Picasso and we’ll be home and dry! I risk a quick grin at Frog and take a step towards the bed.
‘What on earth is going on in here?’ shrieks a voice from the doorway. A voice that I know I’ve heard before. It’s hard and cold and bossy, just like it was yesterday in the garden when she was talking to Beatrice.
I spin round to see Uncaring striding into the room. She looks like she should be in the army or something. She marches towards us and then freezes when she spots Picasso. He chooses this second to let us know how much he is enjoying his day by breaking into his howly happy song. His yaps make me wince.
‘There’s a dog in that bed,’ states Uncaring in a disgusted voice. Ten out of ten for observation, I think, but I manage not to say it. I do have some self-preservation.
She turns to Beatrice and looks at her accusingly.
‘Did you know about this?’
Beatrice looks back at her. She seems outwardly calm but I can feel her dislike for Uncaring radiating out from her. Picasso obviously feels the same way because he stands up and starts barking. Like, properly barking. Really loud, obnoxious, I-don’t-like-you barking.
‘I was dealing with it,’ Beatrice tells her. She has to shout over the noise that Picasso is making. ‘They’re just leaving.’
‘Oh no,’ says Uncaring, scowling at us all. She even scowls at Martha, who glares back at her. ‘They aren’t going anywhere until I’ve called Mrs Thompson in here. This is a situation for senior management. And their parents too. This is an atrocious disregard for our rules and regulations. I said that we shouldn’t allow young people in here in the first place.’
She turns to me. ‘Where is your mother, young lady? I need to speak to her.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I mutter. ‘She left eighty-five days ago.’
‘Erin,’ says Beatrice, a warning in her voice.
I stare down at my shoes. ‘My dad is out in the garden,’ I tell her.
‘Oh – you’re the gardener’s daughter,’ says Uncaring. I don’t like the way she spits it out, as if being a gardener’s daughter somehow explains my shabby behaviour. I take a step forward but then Frog reaches down and takes hold of my hand, pulling me back to stand next to him. A buzz of something unexpected tingles in my hand as I feel Frog’s fingers tighten round mine but there’s no time to think about that because a crash from behind makes us all jump and we turn to the bed where Martha is struggling to sit up, her right hand still on the bedside table where she has slammed it.
She leans against the pillows and points her finger, first at Picasso and then at herself. Her hand is shaking but I think that right now that’s down to anger, not old age.
Uncaring narrows her eyes and looks at Martha.
‘Are you saying this is your dog?’ she says.
Martha nods, glaring at Uncaring.
‘That is interesting.’ Uncaring turns to look at Beatrice. ‘You are witness to the fact that she just admitted responsibility. She deliberately allowed a dog into a no-animals environment with no regard for the health and safety of the other residents.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake –’ starts Beatrice, but Uncaring interrupts her.
‘Is that what you’re saying? You are responsible for the presence of this dog?’
Martha nods and I am shocked by the look of triumph on Uncaring’s face. I clench my fist but then Frog squeezes my hand and when I look at him he nods across to Martha.
She is smiling at me. And as I start to smile back I see her lips move. There is no sound but there doesn’t need to be. It’s easy to lip-read the ‘thank you’ that she mouths at me across the room. It’s easy to see the sparkle in her eyes as Uncaring insists on going to fetch the manager and leaves the room, instructing Beatrice to make sure we don’t escape, like she’s the Child Catcher or something.
My amazing plan worked. And this makes it easier to cope when Dad is dragged in from the garden and Picasso and I are presented to him, along with instructions to ‘take them both home right away’. It makes it easier to grip Frog’s hand while his mum tells him that he should have known better and that she is ‘disappointed’ in him. All of these things are easy because we saved Martha from feeling like she had nothing to live for.
And I would do it all again tomorrow if I had to.
Last Sickness*
I have had the best idea for our Martha Challenge EVER (or since the last time I had the best idea ever, anyway). Dad wasn’t as cross as I thought he’d be about the whole Picasso/Oak Hill thing. In fact, I got the feeling that he thought it had been quite a good idea, even though he’d never actually say that to me. He gave me a hug when we’d got Picasso back into the van and told me that some care homes actually encourage people to bring animals in, that pet therapy can help people in all kinds of ways. That totally makes sense to me – Picasso always ch
eers me up if I’m feeling rubbish. Anyway, I’m allowed back at Oak Hill as long as I promise faithfully not to smuggle any animals of any kind in ever again. So I needed a plan that would help Martha without getting me into trouble.
She’s much better than she was last week. I think the worst might be over now. When I went to see her a few days ago she was sitting up in bed, and yesterday she was actually in the day room. I’ve decided that we need to focus again on helping her move forward. On getting her living properly again. And I’ve got an idea that should do just that, as well as solving a problem of my own.
I haven’t been able to get my iPad out of the box since my birthday two weeks ago. The guilty feeling I get when I even just look at it is horrible. And what makes it worse is that I know I’m really confusing Dad. He thought I’d be overjoyed to get it back – and I know it was really generous of him and Mum (he told me that Mum gave him half of the money that I stole from him when I bought it in the first place).
So my plan for today is doubly brilliant.
Dad looks a bit surprised and dubious when I get into the car carrying the iPad.
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, love?’ he asks me. ‘You don’t want it to go missing or get broken.’
‘I’ll take really good care of it,’ I promise him. He HAS to let me take it to Oak Hill today. Now I’ve thought about this properly I can’t wait any longer to carry out my plan.
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he says, reversing out of the drive.
The second we arrive I leap out of the van.
‘See you later, Dad!’ I call to him and then I walk as quickly as I can towards my secret hideaway. The day is hotting up already but it’s starting to feel different. Like I can smell school in the air. It reminds me that I haven’t got much time to help Martha before I’ll be back in that place.
I’m so focused on the iPad that I don’t even hear Frog approaching until he sits down next to me.
‘Cool!’ he says, reaching out to take it off me. ‘I didn’t know you had one of these. Give me a go!’
Five Things They Never Told Me Page 13