Midsummer Meltdown

by Cathy Hopkins

  Mr Squires nodded as soon as he saw us approaching. He looked worn out, like he’d aged about ten years.

  ‘How is he?’ I asked when we reached them.

  Mr Squires shrugged his shoulders and opened his palms as if to say we don’t know.

  ‘No one will tell us anything,’ said Will in a solemn voice. ‘Bloody doctors don’t realise they’re dealing with human beings, not lumps of meat.’

  His dad put his arm round him. ‘Hey now, don’t swear, lad.’

  ‘But you did,’ said Will.

  Mr Squires looked at his wife and rolled his eyes and she half smiled back at him. I got the feeling that Will had just repeated something that he’d heard his father say earlier.

  ‘Do you know what happened yet?’ Mum asked.

  ‘The ambulance men said that there was an accident,’ Mrs Squires replied. ‘At the crossroads at the top of Kingsand village. They say a car was coming down the hill and went straight . . .’ Her voice began to wobble and Mr Squires put his arm round her.

  ‘We’re not sure what happened,’ he continued for her. ‘Seems there was a crash between a car and Squidge on his bike. We don’t know how bad it is yet as no one will give us the details. He’s in with a couple of doctors at the moment.’

  I felt like I was going to faint as my ears began to buzz and I was still finding it hard to breathe. This is all my fault, I kept thinking, all my fault.

  ‘What was Squidge doing down in the village?’ asked Mr Squires, as if he’d picked up on my thoughts.

  ‘Oh . . .’ I didn’t know what to say. Mum was standing there and if I said that Squidge had gone to get me sunglasses for the Morocco trip, Dad’s surprise would be ruined. But did that even matter anymore? If Squidge was badly hurt, there might not even be a Morocco trip. And if Squidge’s parents knew he’d gone to fetch something for me then they might blame me for the accident and hate me forever. And they’d be right to as it was my fault. ‘I . . . er . . .’

  ‘She doesn’t know, love,’ said Mrs Squires to her husband. ‘She called me . . . oh must have been half an hour before the accident, remember, Lia? You rang to ask if I knew where Squidge was and I said I thought he was with you and . . .’

  Luckily my inquisition was interrupted and I didn’t have to think about what to say as a young doctor came out of a nearby room and walked towards us.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Squires?’

  Squidge’s mum and dad nodded, stood up. Mr Squires took his wife’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Yes. That’s us. Is he going to be all right?’

  The doctor shifted about on his feet and looked down at them. ‘We can’t say for certain yet. He’s concussed so we’re running tests to see if there’s any lasting damage. I’m so sorry I can’t tell you more at present. We should know within the hour. Apart from that, he’s broken his left leg, his collarbone is fractured and his wrist is sprained and . . . well, we’re still doing tests to make sure that his spine hasn’t been damaged as it appears that he took a knock to his back when he came off the bike.’

  Mrs Squires let out a moan and reached for her husband.

  I felt the corridor start to spin and sat down on the nearest chair. Mum immediately sat next to me and put her arm round me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said the doctor. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as we can.’

  ‘Can I see him?’ asked Mrs Squires.

  The doctor hesitated and quickly glanced at all of us, then he nodded. ‘Five minutes as we still have tests to do.’

  Mrs Squires quickly disappeared into the room that the doctor had just come out of. The rest of us sat outside in silence waiting until I couldn’t bear it any longer.

  ‘I’m going to phone Cat, Becca and Mac,’ I said to the others.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Mr Squires. ‘We ought to let them know. Yes. Good. In fact, I ought to make a few calls too, let people know.’

  ‘You can’t use your mobile in here,’ Will piped up. ‘It can interfere with the machines and blow them up and make people explode.’ He pointed to a poster saying that mobiles weren’t allowed.

  ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘I’m going outside.’

  Once outside, I called Mac, Cat and Becca and each of them was horrified when they heard the news. I tried to reassure them that there was nothing that they could do but, like me, each of them wanted to be where Squidge was.

  When I got back inside, I saw that Mum was holding Mrs Squires’s hand.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked. ‘Has something else happened? Where’s Squidge’s dad?’

  Will pointed at the room. ‘He’s having a visit with Squidge. Doctor said we could have a few minutes each.’

  ‘How was he?’ I asked Mrs Squires.

  She shook her head. Her eyes were red from crying. ‘He . . . he looks so peaceful. Like he’s sleeping. His leg’s all trundled up and his arm’s in a cast. There are all these machines . . . Oh God, please let him wake up.’

  A moment later, Mr Squires came out and sat heavily beside his wife.

  ‘Can I go in?’ I asked and Mr Squires nodded but, just as I was about to open the door to Squidge’s room, a doctor came up behind me, put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me back. ‘Maybe later,’ he said. ‘We have to finish our tests.’

  I nodded and went back to join the others.

  After a while Mr Squires stood up. ‘I can’t stand this. I’m going to phone around . . .’

  Mum also stood up. ‘And I’ll go and get some coffees. Who wants something?’

  Everyone shook their head. No one wanted anything.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Mum. ‘You might change your minds later.’

  As the evening went on, the hospital corridor began to fill up with friends and relatives. Cat. Becca. Mac. Cat’s dad. Squidge’s aunts. Uncles. More aunts and uncles. Squidge calls his family ‘the tribe’ as there are so many of them. Sometimes it seemed like they ran the whole of the Rame peninsula. One ran the pub, another the dry cleaners, another the bakery and so on. Squidge would be glad to know that they were all here. Oh please please, God, let him come round. And please God let him be all right.

  Cups of coffee were bought, drunk. Tears were shed. Anxieties shared. Everything seemed unreal, like time had stopped still and we were all in some strange dream. Or nightmare.

  ‘Squidge is really popular, isn’t he?’ said Mac as Squidge’s Uncle Ed pitched up.

  I nodded. I didn’t feel like talking much.

  After about half an hour, the door to Squidge’s room opened again and the doctor came out. He looked tired and surprised as so many pairs of eyes turned to look at him questioningly.

  ‘I think he’s going to make a full recovery,’ he said and there was a collective sigh. ‘A few broken bones, a few nasty bruises and he’s still concussed but we’re confident that there’s no lasting damage.’

  ‘What about his spine?’ asked Mr Squires. ‘Will he be able to walk?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘When the broken bone in his leg heals, yes, he will be able to walk.’

  ‘Oh thank God,’ said Mrs Squires.

  ‘Can I see him now?’ I asked then turned to Mr and Mrs Squires. ‘If that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Family member?’ the doctor asked, directing the question to Squidge’s dad.

  ‘Girlfriend,’ his dad said, grinning.

  ‘Ah, go on, then. I don’t see why not,’ said the doctor. ‘But don’t stay too long.’

  He opened the door for me and I crept into a darkened room. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust after the bright light of the corridor but they soon did and there was my Squidge lying there, his leg and arm in casts and wired up to monitors behind the bed. As his mum had said, he looked so peaceful. Like he was asleep. I tiptoed over to the bed and looked for his hand. I gently put my right hand on top of his left.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Squidge. It’s all my fault.’ I sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his forehead with the tips of my fingers on my left hand. ‘Oh please c
ome back to us. Please come back. It’s me. Lia. You’ve been in an accident but you’re going to be all right. But please wake up. I’m so sorry.’

  But it seemed that Squidge was in the deepest of deep sleeps.

  After another minute, the doctor put his head around the door. ‘Best leave him for now.’

  I got up to leave and leaned across to kiss Squidge lightly on the top of his head. As I moved across, I saw his eyes flicker and he let out a soft groan.

  I quickly went to the door, opened it and looked for the doctor who was standing nearby talking to Mr Squires.

  ‘Doctor, doctor,’ I called. ‘I think he may be coming round.’

  There was a louder groan from behind me and as I turned, I saw Squidge move slightly in the bed. And then a louder groan. And then he opened his eyes, looked at the ceiling then tried to turn his head.

  ‘Errrgh . . .’ he moaned. ‘Galloping gonads. Where the bejesus am I?’

  I ran over to the bed. Oh thank you thank you, God.

  Squidge was back.

  ‘EVERYTHING WENT INTO SLOW MOTION,’ said Squidge as Mac sat by his side and drew a cartoon down one side of his leg cast. ‘The moment I got hit keeps replaying and replaying in my head as though a CD has got stuck in there.’

  ‘It’s probably your brain trying to make sense of it,’ said Cat. ‘Trying to take it in.’

  It was Tuesday night and Cat, Becca, Mac and I had gone straight to the hospital after school bearing gifts of grapes (which Becca ate), chocolate (which Cat ate) and a bakewell tart (most of which Mac ate). Squidge didn’t seem to have much of an appetite but at last he was able to tell us what had happened, as when he came round last night, the doctors told everyone to go home and rest so we didn’t get to find out.

  Squidge was sitting up in bed when we arrived and he looked tons better than he had the previous night. The colour had come back into his cheeks and his eyes looked bright.

  ‘So whose fault was it?’ asked Becca.

  ‘Not mine,’ said Squidge. ‘I don’t think the guy was even looking at the road. I think he was looking down into the bay and taking in the view. There were no other cars on the road so I reckon that he thought he could relax. He certainly wasn’t looking out for a bike.’

  ‘God! Was he hurt as well?’ asked Becca.

  Squidge shook his head. ‘Just freaked out that he’d hit me, I think. He looked totally shocked when he stopped and realised what had happened. Not as shocked as I was, though!’

  I squeezed his hand. ‘Well, I’m so glad you’re OK . . .’

  Squidge grimaced and looked at his leg. ‘Call this OK? Broken bones and man I ache every time I move . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

  ‘Lia, for the millionest, squillioneth time, it is not your fault. I do not blame you in any way. I blame the plonker who was driving the car for not looking where he was going.’

  ‘Yes, but if I hadn’t sent you for the sunglasses . . .’

  ‘You didn’t send me. I volunteered, as far as I remember,’ he said then looked pleadingly at the others. ‘Will you tell her?’

  ‘OK. OK,’ I said. ‘But I am sorry. So there.’

  Squidge shrugged. ‘I guess it could have been worse. Thing that really pisses me off is that I can’t go to Morocco now. Doctors are keeping me in as they want to do some more tests on my brain or something. OK, so it’s a bummer to have a broken leg, etc, etc, but that will mend. But the Morocco trip – that was the chance of a lifetime.’

  ‘I’m not going either now,’ I said. ‘Not if you’re not.’

  Four faces registered shock.

  ‘You’re not?’ asked Squidge. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Since when?’ said Becca.

  ‘Since Squidge got hurt,’ I replied.

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ Becca blustered. ‘You never said anything at school.’

  ‘I wanted to tell Squidge first.’

  Cat and Becca looked disappointed.

  ‘Because I’m not going doesn’t mean that you can’t go,’ I said. ‘Your places are still booked. Mum and Dad will understand.’

  ‘No way,’ said Cat. ‘We can’t go without you.’

  ‘Did your mum suss anything yesterday?’ asked Squidge. ‘I’d hate to think I ruined her surprise.’

  I shook my head. ‘I was about to tell her everything when I thought that you might not come round but then . . .’

  Squidge grinned. ‘Ah. Had you all worried some, did I?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ said Mac. ‘Seriously.’

  ‘But you said your mum and dad will understand. Does that mean you haven’t told them yet?’ asked Becca.

  I shook my head again. ‘Not yet. Well, it’s Dad I have to tell, really, and I didn’t see him this morning before I left for school. He’d gone out riding.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Squidge. ‘You can’t not go because of me. Forget it.’

  ‘I can not go and I’m not going. I’ll stay here and look after you. And we won’t miss out totally. There’s still the midsummer party to look forward to.’

  Squidge shook his head. ‘No. No way. Your no go is a no go. What do you think, Mac?’

  Mac shrugged. ‘Not up to me, man. Your call.’

  ‘Yeah and I’m not letting this happen,’ said Squidge then looked at Cat, Becca, then Mac. ‘Can you give us five?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mac and he and the others got up to leave.

  ‘Want a drink or something from the machine?’ asked Becca.

  ‘No thanks. Just give us five minutes.’

  When they had gone and closed the door, Squidge took my hand and looked into my eyes. ‘Remember what we said about always telling the truth? No matter what?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, this is the truth, Lia. I really don’t want you to stay here. What are you going to do? Sit by my bedside and read to me? No way when you could be in Marrakech and Essieooo . . .’

  ‘Essaouira.’

  ‘Yeah. There.’

  ‘But it won’t be the same without you. No. I don’t want to go now.’

  ‘You have to.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Do.’

  ‘You can’t make me.’

  ‘Can.’

  ‘Can’t.

  ‘Can.’

  ‘How?’

  Squidge sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I can’t be responsible for you not going and it’s not fair that you are laying that on me when I’m in this state.’ He lay back on his pillows and groaned a long, loud, theatrical groan. ‘Oooooooooh. Argghhhhhhh. Eeeeeeeee. See, physical pain is one thing, but to carry the mental pain of knowing that I have wrecked not only your weekend but your mum’s fortieth birthday would be too much. The guilt. The guilt . . .’

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ I said. ‘Stick with your photography, because I can tell you one thing for sure: you haven’t got a future as an actor.’

  Sadly my resistance to his amateur dramatics only spurred him on. He put the back of his good hand on his forehead and continued to act as tragically as he possibly could. ‘You are very cruel to do this to me. Oooooohhhh, the m-e-e-e-e-ent-a-a-a-al tort-u-u-u-u-ure. The burden I have to bear. The weight of the world.’ (Sigh, heavier sigh.) ‘Imagine the damage you would do by playing the martyr and staying behind to tend to my needs, my humble needs. It would make me feel like a failure,’ (he looked sadly at his broken leg) ‘as well as a cripple. Emasculated. I will probably have to go into counselling for years and years to get over it.’

  I had a feeling that I was being manipulated or blackmailed or something, and I also got the feeling that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  ‘OK. OK. You win. Anything to stop this dreadful performance. I’ll go. I’ll go. I wouldn’t want to put you in therapy for the rest of your life.’

  Squidge sat up again and grinned. ‘Good. Because I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Take photos for me.
Everything. Seeing as I can’t go, I’ll give you my digital camera to take and you can bring it all back to me.’

  ‘Of course I will. And I’ll come and see you every night before I go and I’ll be round the minute I get back.’

  ‘Good. And one more thing. The truth thing again. Seriously. I want you to tell me about all of it. What you see, hear, feel, taste and don’t hold back because you think I might feel I missed out. I know I’m missing out and that’s why I want to hear it all from you when you get back.’

  He linked the little finger from his good hand with the little finger from my left and pulled.

  ‘Truth,’ he said.

  ‘Truth,’ I repeated after him.

  ‘Excellent. Now. Is there any of that bakewell tart left or did Mac scoff the lot?’

  ‘WAHEY. THIS IS SOOOOOO FANTASTIC,’ said Becca, as she draped herself Cleopatra-style across the corner sofa on the plane.

  Cat sniffed the air. ‘Yeah. And it smells so expensive. Like good cologne and leather. And wow, look at that movie screen. It’s like a private cinema in here.’

  We’d just boarded the plane at Newquay airport and the girls were well impressed. Walnut-panelled walls. Tasteful abstract prints. Honey-coloured leather sofas and chairs arranged around small tables – it was more like being in the lounge of a posh hotel than on an aeroplane.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And there’s a DVD library . . .’

  ‘Library!’ exclaimed Becca. ‘I thought we got a choice of three movies.’

  ‘Not when you go private. That’s part of the fun.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Cat picking up a card from the coffee table in front of us. ‘And have you seen this menu? Ohmigod. Basically, we can have anything we like. Champagne . . . Dom Pérignon, Cristal . . . Blimey! I wonder if I could get a plain Coke?’

  I had to smile at them. They were really enjoying themselves and we hadn’t even taken off yet. I’d flown privately loads of times but it was different being with my friends. It was like seeing it all through new eyes.