by Jean Ure
So I made a list, which I have lost now, but these are some of the things that were on it:
London Dungeon
The Waxworks
The Zoo
Chessington World of Adventure
Burger King
Covent Garden
I put Covent Garden because I once heard Tracey Bigg telling Aimee and Leanne that there was some street theatre there and it was fun. She’d seen people walking on stilts! I’d love to walk on stilts. I bet I could, too! I bet I’d be really good at it. I can already walk on my hands and do cartwheels.
Tracey Bigg can’t. She tried in the playground and just went flump.
I was really looking forward to doing things as a family, and so was Mum. I don’t expect, really, that we’d have been able to afford to do everything that was on my list, but we could have done some of them. We could have gone to Covent Garden to see the people on stilts, and we could have had a burger. And then maybe we’d have made a picnic and gone on the tube somewhere to eat it. Somewhere nice and green, like … like the park, or somewhere. We might even have looked at houses all day and chosen which one we’d like to buy when my book is published.
Whatever we would have done, it would have been fun. But the very first day of the holiday, it all went and got ruined.
I was really happy that day! I spent all morning doing wall painting, and then I opened a tin of tomato soup and put a packet of crisps in it (yum yum! Two of my favourites), and then I did a bit of recording, and then I thought perhaps I ought to do some housework, as I’d promised Mum, so I went and got the plastic sacks where she keeps the ironing and I was just setting up the ironing board when there’s this ring at the door bell, which makes me jump, ‘cos nobody ever rings at our door bell, hardly. And the ironing board goes and folds itself up on one of my fingers and makes me yell.
There’s something wrong with the ironing board. Mum bought it second-hand at a boot sale and it’s always collapsing. Dad’s supposed to have looked at it, but he never has. Anyway, I don’t expect he could do anything.
I went kind of slowly down the stairs, sucking at my finger ‘cos it really hurt, and old Misery’s peering out, all nosey parkering same as usual. She goes, “Who is it? Who are you expecting?” And then she tells me not to take the chain off ‘cos it could be a mugger. She’s always going on about muggers. She thinks there’s a mugger hiding behind every dustbin.
Anyway, I kept the chain on, just to make her happy; I wasn’t really expecting it to be a mugger. Afterwards I wished it had been. ‘Cos what it was, it was even worse. It was my nan.
She said, “Oh, so you’re here! I’ve been trying to ring you all week.”
I explained that the telephone wasn’t working, and she said, “You mean it’s been cut off, I suppose,” and made this cross tutting sound with her tongue. I said, “It wasn’t their fault, they forgot to pay the bill. I should have reminded them. They have ever so many things to think about.”
Nan said, “Rubbish! They’re totally useless, the pair of them.” And then she said, “Well! Aren’t you going to let me in?”
So I let her in and we went upstairs and she said how she’d been going to ask old Misery Guts what had happened to us.
“I thought you’d all been murdered in your beds or your mother had finally managed to set fire to the place. Either that, or you’d been thrown out. Where is your mother, anyway?”
I said that Mum was at work and Nan nearly hit the roof.
“You mean she’s left you here on your own?”
I said, “I’m old enough!” I wasn’t going to have Nan slagging my mum off.
Nan said, “Don’t be absurd, you’re nowhere near old enough. A child of your age!”
I really resented that. I told Nan that in some countries there were people far younger than me out on the streets having to look after themselves. Nan said that didn’t make it right and that Mum ought to be ashamed of herself. She said, “It’s an absolute disgrace!”
I said, “Why pick on Mum?” It wasn’t that I wanted to get my dad into trouble, but I didn’t think it was fair, only having a go at Mum.
Nan said, “They’re both as bad as each other. And where did you get that black eye?”
I didn’t like to tell her I’d gone through the floorboard. She’d only have started on again about Mum and Dad being useless. I said, “I fell over in the playground.” Nan made this snorting noise down her nose and said, “Fighting, I suppose.”
Indignantly I told her that I didn’t fight. “People pick on me.”
“Oh, yes?” said Nan. “And what in heaven’s name has been going on in here?”
She’d barged her way past me, into the kitchen. I have to admit, it did look a bit of a mess.
I started to explain that I hadn’t yet got around to tidying up when there was yet another ring at the front door bell. I couldn’t believe it! Twice in one day!
I said, “I’ll go!” and went galloping back down the stairs.
Old Misery yelped, “You keep that chain on!” but this time I didn’t ‘cos I was just about sick of old Misery Guts and the way she kept poking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.
I thought that if it was a mugger I would ask him in and first he could mug Misery Guts and then he could go upstairs and mug my nan. I wouldn’t let him mug me, I’d kung fu him!
But I reckoned he’d probably have done enough mugging by then. Anyway, it wasn’t a mugger, it was Mum. She giggled and said, “Good thing you’re here! I forgot my key.” I said, “Mum,” trying to warn her, but she was in one of her bubbly moods and didn’t listen. She set off up the stairs, burbling as she went.
“Eh, Mandy, guess what? Guess what old Sourpuss gave me? A birthday cake! It was for this woman that never come to collect it, so she reckoned I might as well have it. It’s got ‘Happy Birthday Barny’ on it, so I thought what we could do, we could change Barny into Barry and give it your dad and—”
That was when Mum reached the top of the stairs and bumped into Nan.
She said, “Oh! H–hello, Mum.” Nan said, “Why has this child been left on her own all day? It’s a disgrace!”
And then old Misery Guts’ voice came shrieking up the stairs: “That’s not the only thing that is!”
“What’s she on about?” said Nan. She peered over the banisters and called down. “Who pulled your chain?”
“Ask them, ask them!” yelled Misery Guts. “Rowing and carrying on at all hours! They’re not fit to have a child!”
“You just keep your lid on!” shouted Nan. “We don’t need you shoving your oar in!”
“She’s always having a go at us,” said Mum.
“Yes, and not without cause, I’d say.” Nan turned to go stomping back into the kitchen. “What’s all this?” she said. She’d suddenly noticed the yellow blodges and the fried egg. I said it was paint, and Nan said she could see that, thank you very much.
“What’s it doing there?”
So then I had to explain about the floorboard, and Mum told her about the water heater and how the landlord wouldn’t do anything, and how the banisters had broken, and the kitchen cabinet wouldn’t stay on the wall, and there were holes in the lino and the roof leaked and the whole place was just a tip; and Nan listened to it all with her face growing grimmer and grimmer.
“It’s a death trap,” said Mum.
“Yes,” said Nan, “and you go waltzing off to work and leave this child to cope on her own.”
“I can cope!” I said. “And Mum has to go to work ‘cos we couldn’t pay the bills otherwise.”
“Don’t you talk to me about paying bills!” snapped Nan; and I knew that I’d gone and said the wrong thing. “Look at this child!” said Nan. “Look at the state of her!”
“It was the floorboard,” pleaded Mum.
“What was the floorboard?”
“How she got the black eye!”
“Oh?” Nan swung round on me. “What d’you want to go telling me lie
s for?”
“My Mandy doesn’t tell lies!” cried Mum.
“I cannot believe—” Nan’s bosoms sort of heaved upwards “—I cannot believe that it has come to this!”
“To w–what?” stammered Mum.
“This!” Nan flung out her arms. “I’m sorry, Sandra, but it cannot be allowed to go on. I am not having a grandchild of mine left all day and every day in this—this rubbish dump! That interfering old busybody downstairs is quite right. You’re not fit to be parents. Either of you!”
“Mum and Dad can’t help it,” I said. “It’s not their fault the house is falling to pieces, it’s—”
“Amanda, will you please BE QUIET!” roared Nan.
My name isn’t Amanda. It’s Mandy.
“Just go to your room,” said Nan. “I want a word in private with your mother.”
She took Mum into the sitting-room and slammed the door, and I crept up and tried to listen but I couldn’t hear very much, only the sound of Mum crying. And then the door opened and Mum came out and went running straight past me, all blotched and tear-stained, and Nan sailed after, looking like one of those things they have on churches that the water spouts out of. *
Really cross and horrible.
She said, “Right, that’s settled. Go and get your bags packed. You’re coming to live with me.”
Not just stay with her.
Live with her.
It was my worst nightmare come true.
I don’t really want to tell this next bit.
I’d rather tell something else.
Like, for instance… the day Iwent to my friend Janis’s school sports and they had a PHAB race *and Janis was in her wheel chair and I was pushing her and we won first prize and had our pictures in the paper.
That was great, that was! I’d much rather talk about that than all about what happened next in my life.
I mean, I don’t have to talk about what happened next. If I really don’t want to. Nobody can make me.
Except then perhaps they wouldn’t publish it. They would say, this girl is so boring, she is so happy all the time with her mum and dad. Why does nothing bad ever happen to her?
So I suppose I had better do it.
I suppose.
All right! I’ll do it.
I shall take a DEEP breath and open my mouth and just talk.
* Note from Cat’s mum:They’re called gargoyles.
* Query from Cat’s mum: Does this stand for physically handicapped-able-bodied? Yes!
When Nan said I was to go and live with her, my heart just fell right down with a great thunk! on to the floor. I knew it wasn’t any use arguing. You can’t argue with Nan. Once she’s made up her mind, that’s it.
But it was awful. It was really awful. Nan was all puckered and pursed, and Mum was just sobbing and sobbing, and then Dad comes home and says, “What’s going on?” and Nan tells him what’s happened, and how she’s taking me away “Until you two get your act together”, and Dad just goes mental. I mean, he just goes crashing and banging all about the place, and he’s smashing his fist on things and shouting, and Misery Guts is howling up the stairs, and Mum’s still sobbing, and Nan’s trying to get Dad to calm down and “Listen to a bit of sense, for goodness’ sake!” But Dad won’t. Not for ages.
When at last he stops crashing and shouting, he grabs me and pulls me to him and says, “You can’t do this! You can’t take my Mand!”
To which Nan retorts that if she doesn’t take me it’s only a matter of time before someone like old Misery Guts calls the Social Services.
“And once they get their hands on her, you can kiss her goodbye. She’ll be sent to a children’s home or put with foster parents, and that’ll be that. And I wouldn’t blame them, either! This way, I’m giving you a chance. You get yourselves sorted, I might consider letting you have her back. But I’m not having my grandchild brought up in a pigsty just because her mum and dad are too stupid and irresponsible to look after her properly. So there!”
There was a long silence after Nan said this. Dad went pale and even Mum stopped sobbing. Nan said, “Look at the place! Look at the state of it! You’re like children, the pair of you. Just playing at keeping house. Look at this!” She ran a finger along the top of the mantelpiece. “Filth!”
I said, “I was going to see to that,” but Nan turned on me, really sharp, and snapped, “It’s not up to you!” And Dad chimed in with, “That’s right. It’s not up to Mandy. It’s up to her mum!” He glared at Mum as he said it, and that set Mum off crying again, and to my complete amazement Nan snarled, “Don’t you try shifting all the blame on to Sandra! You’re no better. Useless great lummock!”
I’d never known Nan turn on Dad before. It’s always been Mum she’s had a go at. But she was really mad. She kept on about “the Social” and how the shame of it would kill her. She said, “You’d just better pull your fingers out, the pair of you! Get this place cleaned up and start taking a few lessons in elementary housekeeping!”
Dad looked rebellious and started muttering, but Mum wept and said, “We will, we will!”
“Both of you,” said Nan. “That means you, lummock!”
And she actually poked a finger right in the middle of Dad’s chest.
Dad’s jaw dropped way, way down.
I almost would have laughed, it looked so funny! But Mum was still sobbing, and there was my bag standing all packed and ready to go.
And any minute now Nan was going to say, “Right! That’s it. Come along, Mandy,” and I just couldn’t bear it. I felt something hot and prickly happening in my eyes, and at first I couldn’t imagine what it was but then it was like seeing everything through a window that rain is dripping down and I knew that I was crying.
But I don’t cry! Not ever. I didn’t even cry when the kitchen cabinet fell on me and cut my head open. Not even when I had to have stitches. Not even when Tracey Bigg makes up her horrid rhymes about me.
Crying is a sign of weakness. I didn’t want to cry! Nan said, “Come on, then, child. Let’s get going,” and I raced over to Mum and threw my arms around her and whispered, “I’ll be back, Mum! Don’t forget to make out shopping lists.” If Mum doesn’t make out shopping lists, she can’t remember what she needs to buy. “And give Dad proper meals, Mum! ‘Cos he needs them.”
And then I raced over to Dad and hugged him, and begged him to be kind to Mum and not fly off the handle.
“Please, Dad! Don’t get cross with Mum. I hate it when you do that!”
Next thing I know I’m being pushed down the stairs in front of Nan, and old Misery’s there spying as usual, but for once she doesn’t say anything, and we’re out on the pavement and the front door’s shut behind us and all I can think of is Mum sobbing and Dad going round bashing things.
Nan said, “It’s the only way. They’ve got to learn. It’s high time they grew up and started to behave like responsible adults.”
But I loved my mum and dad just the way they were! I didn’t want them to be any different. I hated Nan for taking me away from them. I felt that it was my fault. I felt like I’d let them down. If only I’d tidied up the place before Nan had come! I could have made it look ever so nice. Really spick and span. Then maybe she wouldn’t have got so mad. And I could have told her I wasn’t really on my own, I could have told her old Misery was keeping an eye on me, or that I’d been over to Deirdre’s, or just anything. Anything that would have stopped her having a go at Mum.
That first night when I said my special prayer, I added a bit at the end. After “For ever and ever” ten times, but before “Amen”, I added, “And please let me go back to them soon. PLEASE!”
I just couldn’t see how they were going to manage without me to keep an eye on them. I kept having these nightmares that Mum would do something daft and ruin Dad’s tea and Dad would rise up in a rage and say that that was it, he’d had enough. And then he’d walk out and Mum would be on her own and she wouldn’t know what to do, and she’d be so lone
ly, poor Mum! ‘Cos we’re the only people she’s got in the whole world, me and Dad. And Dad would jump on a ship and go to Australia, which was what he was always threatening to do, and I wouldn’t ever see him again.
I wasn’t going to see them again for ages and ages, anyway. Nan had said she wanted them both to stay away until they had got themselves sorted. She said, “I want this girl given a fair chance. I don’t want you coming round and upsetting her.”
And Mum and Dad were ever so meek. They just did whatever Nan told them. She’d gone and scared them by saying how old Misery could go to the Social Services. Even Dad’s scared of the Social Services, even if he does call them snooping do-gooders.
That first week at Nan’s I said my prayer over and over, not just when I went to bed but when I woke up in the morning and lots of times in the day, as well. Once I was doing it, with my eyes screwed tight shut, when Nan started to say something to me. But I still went on doing it! Nan got angry and said why didn’t I listen when she spoke to me? She said, “Are you sulking about something?”
I said, “No. I was thinking.” Nan said, “Well, you just stop thinking and pay a bit of attention! It’s very rude to go on thinking when someone’s talking to you.”
I could have told her it was rude to interrupt a person when they had their eyes closed, but you can’t argue with Nan. She always likes to have the last word.
Grandy isn’t so bad, but he is what Mum calls “under Nan’s thumb”.
He just likes to come home at tea-time and light his pipe and have a quiet life. During the day he is on guard in a bank, wearing a uniform and keeping an eye open for armed robbers. It is a great responsibility, guarding all that money, and I think Nan ought to let him rest when he comes in instead of keeping on at him the way she does.