Cool!

by Michael Morpurgo

  “Robbie, it’s your checkmate, Morris.” Morris, a real boffin, the school chess champion – looks like Harry Potter – brain like a computer. I only ever beat him once, and then I cheated. Bit of a weirdo. He’s always making jokes, and then explaining them as if you’re stupid or something. He’s doing it now. “Checkmate. Checkmate. Get it? Checkmate. Come back soon, so’s I can checkmate you again. Right?”

  “Hey Robbie. This is Barry. Remember me?” Not likely to forget you, am I? Barry being friendly? Barry being nice? “Listen, I just want to say get better, that’s all. When you come back we could be mates, yeah?” And he sounds as if he really means it, too. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought after all.

  “This is Freya. Can you hear me, Robbie?” That’s Freya Porter, who’s very quiet and always wears those mules – sort of clog-type shoes. I think her mother’s Dutch. She speaks with a bit of an accent, but she’s better at spelling than any of us. “I think what happened to you was terrible. I say prayers for you each night and hope that will help. I hope you come out of your sleep very soon.”

  “Imran here, Robbie.” Bill Sykes in Oliver Twist. “You’ve got to open your eyes and do stuff, ‘cos if you don’t, you won’t get to be in our next show. I just came back from my holiday in Spain when I heard about your accident, and my mum and my dad and me hope you get better very soon.”

  Then Sam. Then Juliet. Then Joe. All of them. Everyone in my class. I just want to jump out of this bed, run down the road, across the playground, into the classroom, and shout out: “Here I am! I’m back! I’m better!” But all I can do is lie here and cry inside. Now they’re singing another song from Oliver – You’ve got to pick a pocket or two. I love that one. Inside I’m laughing and crying all at the same time.

  “Did you hear all that, Robbie?” Dad again. “They’re all rooting for you, just like all of us are, me and Mum and Ellie and Gran. Wake up, Robbie.” He’s shaking my shoulder now, gently. “Please, Robbie. Listen, I’ll try to put things right with Mum, OK? Would you get better if I did that? I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. I’ll really try. Would that help?”

  Yes, Dad. That would help. That’d be cool, really cool. The best. But all my words are inside my head. I want to let them out, so Dad can hear me. But somehow they can’t escape.

  Dad’s going. He’s hugging me. He’s been crying. I can feel the tears on his cheeks. I wish I could cry. I wish I could cry buckets.

  COMA BOY NO BETTER

  Robbie Ainsley is still in a coma at Wonford Hospital in Exeter after being knocked down by a car over two weeks ago. The driver, Mr George McAllister, a forty-five year old solicitor from Dumfries in Scotland, was questioned at the time and released. Police say that no criminal charges will be brought against him. From his home, Mr McAllister today made this statement: “I deeply regret what has happened to young Robbie Ainsley. I was not speeding. I did all I could to stop. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I just hope and pray that Robbie will pull through.”

  3

  I’ve been having these horrible thoughts about Mum and Dad. I’ve had them ever since Dad left home, but they keep coming back and I can’t stop them. I just can’t get them out of my head. I’ve tried. But I keep seeing that huge collage of family photos in our front hall at home, stretching from the kitchen door to the back room. There’s hundreds of pictures of all of us, going back years and years – holidays, school photos, Christmases, birthday parties – all mixed together, a sort of family patchwork, a patchwork of memories. Lucky sleeping inside my pram. Lucky swimming with me. I used to stand there in the hall when I was little, gazing up at them, usually looking for me and Lucky. Now I can see them in my head. I’m looking at them now.

  There’s lots of photos of Mum and Dad before they got married, before they had me. They look really young and happy, on a skiing trip together, by the sea, just having fun. There’s wedding photos – Mum in a long white dress and Dad all posh in a suit. Then I’m there with them. After that they don’t look quite so happy in the photos ever again. I always seem to be between them – first me, then Ellie.

  Since the day Dad left us, I think I’ve always known it – no matter what Dad told me the other day. I know that it was me that split them up, me and Ellie, but mostly me I think, because I was the first. I caused the split. I made Dad leave – not on purpose, of course not, but just by being there, just by being born.

  If Dad could only put things right with Mum, like he says he will, then I know I wouldn’t have to have these horrible thoughts any more. I hope he can. I so hope he can. I’d cross my fingers if I could.

  I doze, off and on, on and off. But I’m still here. I’m always still here, lying on my bed. People come and people go all the time. Marty pops in to see me sometimes, but he never stays long because he doesn’t know what to say. He never talks about the accident. No one does. He never says a word about Lucky. No one does. But at least he gives me the football scores. Chelsea lost on Saturday to Arsenal, and Marty was over the moon. That’s the only sad thing about Marty – he’s an Arsenal fan. Then Mrs Tinley brought me some flowers when she came. Mum was there. “Mrs Tinley’s got you some lovely freesias, Robbie,” she said. “Isn’t that nice? You can talk to him if you like, Mrs Tinley.” I don’t think Mrs Tinley wanted to talk to me, not really. She cleared her throat. “Well Robbie. I hope you liked the tape we sent you. You’d better get back to school quick you know. You’re missing a lot of lessons.” I hadn’t thought of that before she said it, and it made me feel like laughing. But I couldn’t.

  Sometimes I seem to get muddled about who was here and when, and about who’s still in the room. I think Mrs Tinley must have gone, because Mum and Gran and Ellie have been here for a while now, and they’re not talking as if Mrs Tinley’s still here. Ellie’s been moaning on about how I don’t look after Pongo like I should, because she found him on the floor under the bed. And Gran keeps crying and sniffing and saying she can’t help it. Mum’s saying it’ll be time to go soon. And I’m dozing off again.

  Dad’s here now. Only a short visit, he says. He has to get off to rehearsals. He’s really happy. He tells me he’s got another job, in panto. He’s going to be one of the ugly sisters in Cinderella at the Northcott Theatre. “On at Christmas,” he says. “You’ll have to come and see me.” So I’ve got a Dad who’s an ugly sister. Weird or what? He whispers in my ear as he’s going: “I think I’ve got a nice surprise for you, Robbie. It’ll take a bit of fixing up, but when it comes, it’ll be the best surprise in the world. I promise you. Can’t tell you what it is, or it won’t be a surprise. The doctor says surprises are good for you, and the bigger the surprise the better. This one could really wake you up, Robbie. That’s what he says. This is a whopper of a surprise. A real whopper!”

  I know at once what it is. Obvious. Him and Mum, they’ve got together again. And that’s cool. Really cool!

  I’ve been lying here ever since he left, feeling so happy about it. But I’ve been thinking that Dad shouldn’t have said anything to me about the ‘surprise’, because now I’ve guessed what it is, it won’t be a surprise, will it? And if it isn’t a surprise then it can’t wake me up, can it? It hasn’t worked so far. I mean, I’m still asleep inside my coma. Coma – funny word, that. Looks a bit like comma. Sounds like it, too. Hope my coma is a comma, and not a full stop. I’m not exactly frightened of the “full stop”. But I would miss everyone, everyone at home, Marty, Chelsea, Zola. I’d miss Zola a whole lot.

  Anyway, it’ll be great for Ellie if Mum and Dad have got back together again. When Dad left she was always coming into my room and crying her eyes out, and there was nothing I could do or say to make her feel any better. So even if my coma does turn out to be a “full stop” and I don’t wake up, at least Ellie will be happy again. That’d be cool. Don’t know why Mum hates me saying that so much. ‘Cool’ is really cool!

  Tracey says it a lot too. She said it just a moment ago when she came in to give me
my bedbath. My best time of the day. I get to feel so fed up sometimes, and then Tracey comes in and she’s always happy and cheerful and chatty. “Bedbath, Robbie. Oh, look at the lovely flowers someone’s brought you! Here, smell.” And she wafts them under my nose. “Freesias. The best. Really cool. I only like flowers that smell nice. Don’t see any point in flowers if they don’t smell. So Robbie, I hear you’ve got an ugly sister for a Dad. He was telling me that what he wants most in all the world now is for you to come and see him in the panto at Christmas. That gives you just five weeks to wake your ideas up and get yourself out of here. Not that I want to see you go. You’re good company. You know what I like about you, Robbie? You never complain. But then I suppose you’re the one patient I want to complain. The day you wake up and complain, you’ll be on your way out of here, and that’ll make everyone really happy, especially me.”

  She chats on and on all the way through my bedbath. “By the way, Robbie, your Mum rang up. She’s coming in to see you again this evening, and she’s bringing someone else with her. She didn’t say who. Your Gran, I suppose. She’s lovely, your Gran.”

  Please not Gran again. She’ll only sniffle. I mean, I love her lots. She’s the coolest Gran anyone could ever have, a real wizard on computer games and she makes great pancakes, but she sniffles and she smells all powdery when she kisses me. And she’s been kissing me quite a lot lately. Everyone has, except Tracey. And I sort of wish she would. I like Tracey. I mean I get fed up hearing about all her troubles with Trevor the nerd, and all about her diet; but at least she talks to me like I’m listening, like I’m really alive, like I’m going to stay alive.

  “There, that’s your bedbath done,” Tracey says. “That should make you feel a little better.” And she’s gone. I want so much to thank her. Because I do feel better. I feel fresher now, not sticky any more, not so manky. And anyway, I always feel better when Tracey’s around. From her voice I’ve made up a picture of her in my head. She’s about thirty and she sounds very pretty. She’s tall, I reckon, and she’s got dark hair. And she has a nose ring. I don’t know why, but I’m sure she’s got a nose ring. I’ll see for myself one day, see how right or wrong I was. Not that it matters. She’s cool, anyway.

  Mum’s come in again, like Tracey said she would. But Gran’s not with her. No powdery kiss. There’s someone else. “Robbie, I’ve brought someone in to see you. It’s all right, Mr McAllister. You can talk to Robbie, he’ll hear you.”

  “Robbie? Robbie?” Not a voice I know, not a name I know. “I just had to come to say how sorry I am. My name’s Ian, Ian McAllister. It was me that knocked you down. Ever since it happened I’ve been wanting to tell you, to explain…just to say how terrible I feel. And then your Mum rang me, and said it might help if I came to see you.”

  You feel terrible. How do you think I feel? “It all happened so quickly. One moment there was your dog running out into the road, and that other car hit it. And then you were there, right in front of me. I saw you too late, Robbie. I tried to stop. I really did…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He sounds Scottish, and he sounds upset, too, really unhappy.

  “Robbie, Mr McAllister has come all the way down from Scotland to see you.” What do you want me to do, Mum? Do you want me to dance a Highland fling? Do you want me to wake up and say thank you? OK. Thanks for running me over, Mr McThingemejig. I’m so angry. I’m churning up inside. I’m thinking: if you hadn’t been driving along in your silly car when I ran out, then I wouldn’t be here, would I? I mean, what are brakes for, Mr McThingemejig?

  “Robbie, if I could turn the clock back…” He’s taking my hand. He sounds as if he’s got a moustache and a very short haircut. He sounds kind too, and honest. He’s saying what he feels, and suddenly I’m not so angry with him any more. “I’ve got kids of my own, Robbie, a bit older than you. And do you know what? I don’t even dare tell them about what I’ve done. Back home I can’t look folk in the eye any more.” He’s not crying exactly, but his voice is very wobbly.

  “I didn’t know what to bring you. But your Mum told me how you love your football. So I’ve brought you a footie for when you get better. OK? Just you get better now, Robbie, so’s you can wake up and give it a right good kicking. And you can maybe give me a right good kicking and all, for putting you where you are now. How’d that be?” Cool, I’m thinking. He’s patting my hand. “I’m off now. See you, Robbie.”

  Mum’s showing him out. “Thanks for coming,” she’s saying.

  “Listen, Mrs Ainsley. I’d do anything, anything at all to help. And thanks, thanks for letting me come. I feel so terrible about this.”

  “It was an accident, a dreadful accident. No one’s fault. The police said you were driving slowly and safely. It just happened. All that matters now is to get Robbie better, and your coming here might just help bring him round. Anything to stir him up, to make him angry, that’s what the doctors told me. And thanks for the football.”

  He’s gone, and now I’m alone with Mum again. She’s come to sit beside me. She’s upset at me for not waking up. “Please Robbie, for God’s sake. For my sake. Be angry. Be angry at him. Be angry at me for making you take Lucky out for his walk. Shout at me, I won’t mind. Just say something. Say ‘cool’ if you like. Shout it out a thousand times and I won’t mind. I won’t ever mind again, I promise.” She’s crying and I want to wake up so she’ll stop. I don’t want to shout at her, I want to wake up and hug her.

  I reckon I’ve had half a dozen doctors in to see me, all looking after different bits of me – my head, my brain, my leg. But mostly I have Dr Smellybreath. He’s here now, pulling back my eyelids and breathing his garlicky breath all over me. Mum keeps asking him questions which he doesn’t want to answer. “Is there any change, Doctor?” “What about brain damage?” “Has the swelling inside gone down, d’you think?” “Doctor, how long can he just lie there like this?” When Dr Smellybreath finishes all his poking and prodding, they go outside together, so I never hear the answers. It’s me you’re talking about, you know. Me – my head, my brain, my life. Don’t I have a right to know what’s going on?

  In between my dozings off, all I can think about is Dad’s big surprise. Mum never let on anything about it. But that’s cool. She wouldn’t, would she? After all, it’s a secret, isn’t it?

  Tracey’s come bouncing in. “All alone are we, Robbie?” She’s bending over me. “I’ve got news for you,” she whispers. “You’re the first person I’ve told. See this, Robbie?” Silly question, Tracey. Course I can’t. “My ring. Just a cheap ring for now – we’ll get a proper one later. Trevor. He’s only asked me to marry him! Isn’t that great? Isn’t that cool?”

  Cool, Tracey. Yeah, really cool.

  ROBBIE STILL FIGHTING FOR LIFE

  A month ago today Robbie Ainsley was knocked down by a car outside his home in Tiverton. He suffered serious head injuries and a broken leg and has been in a coma and on a life support system at Wonford Hospital ever since. Doctors say that the longer he remains in a coma the less likely he is to make a full recovery. His mother, Mrs Jenny Ainsley, said today: “Robbie’s fighting to stay with us. The doctors and nurses are doing all they can. And we, his family and friends, are all praying and hoping. We have to believe the best. We have to believe he’ll come through this.”

  4

  Dad seems to have forgotten all about that big ‘surprise’ of his. I’ve been looking forward to it happening every day, longing for it, but each time Mum and Dad come to see me, they come in separately. Mum doesn’t talk about Dad. Dad doesn’t talk about Mum. Nothing changes. Dad’s always promising things. I don’t know why I ever believe him. Neither of them ever says a word about Lucky. But then if he’s dead, why would they? They’d know it would only upset me.

  Ellie thinks I’m half-dead already. She keeps asking Mum if I’ll go to heaven when I’m dead. There’d better be football in heaven, that’s all I can say. If I’m going to be dead, I want there to be a heaven. But I don’t want to go the
re yet, or anywhere else. I want to stay here, and I want to stay alive. I know that if I want to stay alive, I’ve got to wake myself up. I must. I try really hard to break out, but my mind just won’t let me. It’s like it’s locked from the outside and I can’t find the key.

  It’s funny. Before the accident I used to love dreaming. I can remember knowing I was in a dream and trying not to wake up from it, trying all I could to stay inside my dream to find out where it would take me, what would happen in the end. But I’d always wake up before I wanted to, so I’d never find out how my dream ended. Now, all I want is to get out of my dream – that’s what I’m in, a sort of dream-bubble that I know is real. I so want it to burst, for me to break free, live properly, be me again. Instead, I just lie here like a great vegetable, wired up to machines that keep me alive. All I do is exist.

  There’s a strange sort of buzz about the hospital today. Everyone’s whispering instead of talking. It’s like they’re trying to keep something from me. Even Tracey’s gone all mysterious on me. She’s giving me an especially long bedbath. “I’m not saying a word, Robbie, not a word, not if you opened your eyes this minute. If you offered me a million quid, you wouldn’t get it out of me. No way José!” Now she’s singing that song again: “Days I’ll remember all my life…and this is your great day, Robbie. I want you to look your very best for your great day.” What great day? What is she going on about? Am I leaving hospital? What do they know that I don’t?

  I can hear lots of giggling going on outside, then lots of shushing. Now the door’s opening. It squeaks and clunks, which is lucky for me because I can always tell when someone’s just come in or just gone out. That door’s been squeaking and clunking a lot more than usual in the last couple of hours.