He thinks for a minute and I’m glad that he doesn’t just give me a rehearsed answer. I like that he actually stops and thinks about it.
‘I think we can feel anything we want,’ he tells me.
The Dance of Life*
We stand for a while and I think about what Frog has said. We can feel anything we want to. Is he right? I have no idea. I just know that I usually get it wrong and when it comes to thinking about how I feel about Martha leaving and how I feel about Frog being here right now, I don’t even know where to begin.
Eventually Frog pulls away from me.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ he tells me. ‘Close your eyes.’
‘Frog!’ I protest, as he moves behind me and covers my eyes with his hands. ‘It’s pitch-black out here! I can’t see a thing as it is.’
‘Just keep them closed and walk,’ he says and then he nudges me in the back of the knee, forcing me to take a step.
I stretch my arms out in front of me. ‘If you let me bump into something,’ I warn him, ‘I’ll be seriously narked off with you.’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ he says and I can hear that he’s enjoying himself.
‘Like to live dangerously, don’t you?’ I mutter, taking tiny steps and trying to visualize where we’re going.
Then we stop and Frog removes his hands and I open my eyes and blink. There, standing in front of me, is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. Even for Dad, this is good. It’s more than good.
‘It’s perfect,’ I breathe.
‘I think it looks like Martha,’ says Frog, and the sound of his smile makes me feel warm and lit up.
It’s a dancer. Dad has used willow canes to create a flowing sculpture that almost looks like it’s been made out of liquid. Her head is thrown back and one of her arms stretches out behind her while the other reaches up to the sky. She looks passionate and proud and completely at one with the earth.
‘Your dad says that if we keep it watered then it’ll probably grow leaves in the spring,’ Frog tells me. ‘It’s a living willow sculpture. It should keep on growing every year.’
I can’t tear my eyes away from the dancing Martha. Her body is full of life.
‘I’m ready.’ I turn to Frog and take his hand. ‘This is perfect.’ And as the words come out of my mouth I realize that I actually mean them. Here is perfect and our plan is perfect and we can do this.
We walk through the dark, Frog leading me to a circle of mown grass that I hadn’t noticed before.
‘What about music?’ I ask him. ‘There’s no plug socket out here.’
‘Batteries,’ he says. He bends down and shows me his CD player, sitting on a bit of wood to keep it safe. Taking off my jacket I walk over to the bench and lay it over the top. When I turn back I see Frog, standing in the middle of the circle, waiting for me. For a moment he’s frozen and I think that this is a memory that I would like to keep forever. The fairy lights and the lanterns and Frog. Then he presses ‘play’ and I run across to where he’s standing on the grass.
We both spent weeks practising in the summer. The plan was to surprise Martha with an actual performance, and that kind of didn’t work out, but I don’t think that matters now. Anyway, our hard work has paid off because as the music blares out across the darkening sky, we spin and kick and twirl – all without falling over once. And we’re dancing not just for Martha but for the summer and for us.
As Frog spins me towards him for our grand finale I imagine Martha, sitting in her wheelchair and clapping. I dip down towards the grass, my head thrown back and I look up at the sky. I’m dancing. And I’m not actually as awful as I thought I’d be.
Frog pulls me back up and my face is suddenly inches away from his. I can see his eyes, staring, and it looks like he’s just seen something wonderful so I try to twist my head to look behind me. I want to see what he’s looking at.
But he brings his hands up and holds on to my face and I have another moment of knowing. He’s looking at me. The music must have stopped – either that or the insane beating of my heart is drowning out all other sounds. And as Frog brings his lips towards mine I think of what I want to tell Martha right now.
I want to tell her that I understand. That growing older doesn’t mean having to grow up. I want to tell her that I have just said goodbye to finding a happy ending and hello to a new beginning. I want her to know that I danced and I truly didn’t care if I was good or bad – I just got up and danced anyway.
And as Frog and I kiss each other I know two things. The first is that I will always be glad that my very first kiss was mint choc chip. And the second is that this IS my last summer. Everything has changed. Martha and Frog and this kiss mark the start of a whole lot of new, different types of summer. I will never again be the person I was before Frog kissed me. This feels like an OK thing.
The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living*
Here are four things that I know. They are things that Martha told me and they’re things that it took her a lifetime to discover. Nobody told her this stuff, but she told me so that I wouldn’t waste a single minute more.
You have to grow old. That’s kind of obvious. Nobody can stop time and people age – even people who fight against it and get all sorts of freaky plastic surgery. They’re still getting older on the inside, every day. But you don’t have to grow up. Nobody can force you to be sensible or mature if you don’t want to be. And when you’re old, you’ll still be you. Just a bit more wrinkly and tired, that’s all.
If you can’t find a happy ending then look for a new beginning. It’s OK to start again – people do it every day. We shouldn’t waste our energy trying to fix a situation that can’t be fixed. And you never know, the new beginning might end up leading you to a better story anyway.
Nobody cares if you are totally and utterly rubbish at dancing. You should just get on your feet and dance. I’m glad I’ve not had to wait until I’m an old lady to learn this one, otherwise I’d have spent my entire life not dancing. Now I can do a pretty passable jitterbug, even if I do say so myself.
Nobody will tell you when you’ll have your last summer and there’s a good chance that you won’t even know it. My summers will never be the same again – I know that I’ve had my last true summer as a kid. I need to do what Martha told me and live for the now. And I think that maybe Martha knew this was her last summer and she spent it doing exactly what she wanted to do.
Martha taught me these four things over the summer and I know I’ll never forget her, not even when I’m an old lady and probably have no memory of what I had for breakfast.
I had to wait for the fifth thing she taught me until three weeks after she left.
The sound of the postman dropping the letters through the door makes me look up. Every so often Frog writes me a letter. It’s silly really. We see each other most days at school and hang out together at the weekends – but still, his letters make me feel like the most important person in the world. Like I’m somebody worth spending time thinking about.
I was worried that nothing would be the same after Oak Hill, that the magic of our time together might have ended when normal life kicked in. And it isn’t the same. It’s better. I’ve still got my amazing memories of the summer and they feel really special – but I’m mostly enjoying the NOW, not living in the past.
I leave my sketchpad on the kitchen table and head out into the hall. There’s quite a lot of post and I sift through quickly, putting most of it in a pile for Dad to deal with. The last envelope is addressed to me, though.
I can tell straight away it isn’t from him. It’s not written in a young person’s handwriting. Tearing it open I reach inside and pull out a compliment slip with the Oak Hill logo on the top. I pause for a moment, suddenly reluctant to read the message. What if it’s bad news? I haven’t heard anything about Martha since the day that she left – it’s like she’s disappeared off the face of the planet – but it’s in the back of my mind
that she was old and ill. One of these days is going to be her last day and I’ll never know.
Dear Erin,
I hope this finds you well. I came across this when I was sorting through some paperwork. Martha asked me to pass it on to you – my apologies for not posting it sooner. I hope we’ll see you at Oak Hill with your dad sometime soon.
Best wishes,
Beatrice x
Inside the envelope is a single sheet of A4 paper. I ease it out carefully and recognize it instantly. It’s the picture I did of Martha, back on our last afternoon of the summer. And at the bottom is a message. I can tell that Martha wrote it with her right hand because the handwriting is all wobbly and spidery. I read the words that probably took her ages to write.
The sketch is good. I know that sounds big-headed but it really is. Martha looks happy and vibrant and alive. I think that when I remember her, I’m going to remember this Martha, because that’s who she really was. Her tired, frail body slowed her down but in her head she was young.
I look again at her message.
Dearest Erin,
Our summer together is over and we have both changed, in many different ways. I have happened. But you are happening right now. This is the truth and I am glad of it. Regret nothing – live in the moment. And thank you for helping me to end well. It mattered.
Fondest love,
Martha
X
I walk back into the kitchen and put the picture carefully on the table. I crouch down next to Picasso, who is fast asleep, and ruffle his fur. He’s been sleeping a lot lately and Dad has started talking about his age and saying that, in dog years, he should be drawing his pension by now. I know what he’s trying to tell me but I don’t want to think about it too much. I just make sure that I give Picasso even more cuddles than normal. His blanket has fallen off his long body and I tuck him back in carefully. Helping him to stay warm and cosy. Helping him to end well
And then I pick up my iPad and start writing an email to Mum. Maybe I’ll go and see her at the weekend. Probably I could play Pictionary with the boys. I could take Frog and we could teach them how to jitterbug. For some reason they seem to like me and that’s OK, I suppose. Once I’ve done this I think I’ll go out and join Dad in the garden. If I ask him nicely I’m sure he’ll let us order pizza for tea tonight. It’s been 191 Days With Dad and we’re finally starting to figure each other out. Pizza helps. We can talk to each other over a pizza. Life is different now. Different, but still life.
This summer I’ve learnt stuff that I’d never have learnt at school – five things that will be so much more useful to me than fractions or spellings or stupid grammar. And I wasn’t looking for any of it. This has been the best and the worst summer of my life. It has been the last summer and the first, and I will never, ever forget it.
Acknowledgements
It has taken quite a lot of people to create the book you’re now holding in your hands and I am incredibly grateful to all of them for their time and support.
Thank you Adam, Zach, Georgia and Reuben who, as always, have been excited and positive about this whole writing adventure.
Thank you, Mum, for reading several drafts and helping point me in the right direction and, Polly, for your advice (particularly about Picasso and typical dog behaviour …!).
My Aunty Helen, who lives in Canada, spent hours answering questions about her childhood and teenage years for me, as did my granny. Thank you both – some of your memories are included in this book and the rest are being kept safe for future use!
I also need to thank Erin B (whose name I borrowed!), Kate K, Amanda B, Paula L & Sophie E for providing critical feedback, guidance and encouragement in the early stages.
And thank you to Julia, Alex, Carolyn and the team at Puffin. I really appreciate all your support and hard work.
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* Family Group (1948–49) by Henry Moore. This sculpture is supposed to show a family the way it’s meant to be. You know, a kid and a couple of parents, all close and hugging each other. Yeah, well, I reckon that someone needs to make a new sculpture, because not all families look like this. My Family Group would show a screaming mum walking away, while the dad sat quietly with his head in his hands and the kid plugged herself into her iPod and wished that they’d all just shut up. That’d be way more realistic.
* The Scream (1893) by Edvard Munch. This freaky painting shows a figure in front of a red sky. Nobody knows why he’s screaming but I think it’s obvious. He’s sick and tired of nobody listening to him, that’s why. He knows that just normal talking isn’t going to get him noticed, so he screams instead. And it works, because everyone in the world knows this painting. His scream got him some attention.
* The Forest (1927) by Max Ernst. This picture makes me feel like it’s hard to breathe properly. The trees are so close together and the spaces between them look like zips – as if at any moment the trees might get zipped together and the sky will be shut out. The bird is trapped in a cage, surrounded by scary, sinister forest and no matter how much it cries it can’t get free. This picture means only bad things. It reminds me of the story of Hansel and Gretel – that story always gave me serious heebie-jeebies.
* Landscape from a Dream (1936–38) by Paul Nash. I love this oil painting. There’s a mirror that reflects a landscape totally different to the landscape in the painting. I think it means that things aren’t always what they first seem. That maybe, if you turn round, you’ll find something that you weren’t expecting. It reminds me of a book that Mum gave me that had been hers when she was younger, called Marianne Dreams by Catherine Storr. Totally freaky but in a good way.
* The Waterfall (1943) by Arshile Gorky. Whe
n I look at this painting it feels like I can almost hear the sound of running water. I like abstract paintings (although sometimes I do think that maybe I could just chuck some paint on a canvas and give it a random title and sell it for millions). This painting looks peaceful to me.
* To the Unknown Voice (1916) by Wassily Kandinsky. Every time I look at this picture I see something different. I think you could use this watercolour and ink painting to tell a hundred stories, but never really know whose voice you can hear.
* Grannies (2006) by Banksy. We did a whole topic last year in school about whether graffiti could ever be classed as art. This was one of my favourite pictures. The two grannies are working so hard at their knitting and it’s only when you see the words that they are knitting into their jumpers that you start to think. The granny writing ‘thug for life’ looks like my Granny Edna. It’s kind of hard to imagine an old person being a thug but that’s what this picture makes you do. I suppose it isn’t just young people that can behave badly.
* Looking Back to a Bright Future (2003) by Julie Mehretu. This artist makes massive pictures on huge canvases using ink and acrylics. When I look at this painting it makes me feel that there might be good things ahead but that getting there could be difficult. It makes me wonder if it’s really worth all the effort?
* Fairy Tale (1944) by Hans Hoffmann. I think that this looks like two arms, creating a messy, complicated, world. It’s called Fairy Tale because it’s full of fear and dark forces and winding pathways that never lead anywhere. It shows the uselessness of looking for a happy ending.
Five Things They Never Told Me Page 17