Cool!

by Michael Morpurgo

  “Hello Robbie. You all right, then?” Dad. Dad sounding excited, but trying to hide it. He’s coming nearer. “Robbie, you remember that surprise I told you about? Well, today’s the day. It’s here. Or rather he’s here. You’re not going to believe this, Robbie. But he’s come to see you specially, because he’s heard all about you and he wants to help you to get better. All the way from Chelsea Football Club, Robbie. It’s your hero. It’s Zola. Number 25. Gianfranco Zola.”

  “Robbie?” It’s his voice. I recognise his Italian accent. I’ve heard it on TV. It’s him! It’s really him! It’s Gianfranco Zola, the coolest footballer in the world, and he’s come to see me! “Hey, Robbie. It’s me. It’s Gianfranco. It’s like your Papa says. I came to see you, because I want you to wake up. You want to wake up for your Mama and Papa, Robbie! You want to wake up for me? You want to do this for me?”

  Do I? Do I? Of course I do. I’m screaming inside, screaming with excitement, screaming to wake up. Zola! No 25! God! Right here. So close I could reach out and touch him. I want to open my eyes and see him more than anything else in the whole world. And I should be able to do it, because this is a real surprise. So if the doctor’s right, I should be waking up. But I haven’t.

  The truth is – and I can hardly believe I’m even thinking this – but the truth is I’m a little disappointed. I’m disappointed because this isn’t the surprise I’ve been expecting, or hoping for. I was hoping that Mum and Dad would be coming to see me together, that Dad had moved back home and that he’d be staying. This is just silly. I’ve got Gianfranco Zola in my room, my absolute hero of all time, and I’m feeling let down.

  I hear the chair by my bed move nearer. He’s sitting down. He’s taking my hand. “Your Papa, he wrote to me, Robbie. He says, please come to see my boy. So I am here. Listen. If you don’t get better, you can’t come back to Chelsea and see us, can you? You want to see us again, eh? ‘Course you do. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep a seat, especially for you, in the Directors’ Box when you wake up. You like that? Next month, it’s the big match. We play Manchester United at home, at Stamford Bridge. You want to be there? We’ll wipe the floor with them. We’ll play them off the park. We’ll do it just for you. But first you’ve got to wake up. Do it for us, Robbie. You want us to beat Man U, OK? You’ve got to be there to help us. You hear me?” I hear you, Zola, I hear you. And I’m going to be there, I promise.

  “And after we beat them out of sight, I tell you what we’ll do, Robbie. You and me, we’ll go out on the pitch and we’ll kick a ball about. And I’ll teach you a few tricks. How’s that?

  “I’ve got to go now. I’ve got training. I never miss my training. But I think about you all the time, and you think about me. OK?” He’s getting up. He’s going. Wake up! Say thank you! Say goodbye! Don’t just lie there. “Oh, Robbie, I forgot something.” He’s coming back. “I’ve brought you a shirt. It’s not from the Megastore. Nothing like that. It’s my shirt, my Number 25 shirt. I wore it last week when we played West Ham. We should have won but we got lazy in the second half. Still, a draw is not too bad. And don’t you worry. It’s all washed nice and clean for you. Not smelly.”

  He’s laying it over me. I can feel its softness. I can feel its blueness. I can feel the magic of it soaking into me. “It suits you just fine, Robbie. You and me, we’re both little people. But it’s not about size, is it? It’s about what goes on in your head. When I was a boy, maybe your age, I was always the smallest one. They told me: Gianfranco, you’ll never be a footballer. You’re too small, too weak. I thought inside my head, I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone. So. You show me, Robbie, you show everyone. You wake up. I’ll look for you in the stand when we play Man U. So you’d better be there, OK?”

  Then he’s saying goodbye to Dad and this time he’s gone for good, and I’m filling up with sadness, overflowing, bursting with it. It’s like that song Mum’s always playing on her Buddy Holly CD at home. It’s raining, raining in my heart.

  I can feel somehow that there’s lots of people in the room now. I thought before that it was just Zola and Dad and me.

  “Don’t worry, Mr Ainsley. These things sometimes take time.” Dr Smellybreath is examining me as he talks. “His pulse is up. So is his blood pressure. He was listening. He was hearing. I’m sure he was. We just have to give him time.”

  “How much time, Doctor?” Dad’s saying. “How much time has he got?”

  “Who knows? I’ve known patients live for months like this.”

  “But some of them don’t come out of it, do they, Doctor?”

  “You mustn’t think like that, Mr Ainsley,” Tracey’s saying. “Robbie’s doing his best. So are you. So are we. If we don’t believe he’ll come out of it, then he’ll know it. If we give up on him, Mr Ainsley, he could give up on us.”

  “I don’t know what more I can do,” Dad says. “I really thought Zola would do the trick. I really did.” I think he’s sadder than I’ve ever known him.

  “Listen.” Tracey’s speaking almost in a whisper now. But I can hear. “If Zola can’t bring him back to us – and he still might – then there’ll be another way. We’ll just have to find it, that’s all.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Let’s talk about it outside, shall we? I don’t think we should be talking like this in front of Robbie. He could be hearing every word we say.”

  The room’s emptying. Everyone’s going out. “That Zola,” Tracey’s saying as she goes, “he’s dishy. He’s really dishy.” Then the door’s squeaking and clunking and I’m alone again.

  Dishy! Dishy! That man is only the best, only the coolest. And I’ve got his Number 25 shirt, his very own shirt. I wish Tracey would put it on me. I want to wear it. It’ll be the magic I need to bring me out of myself and back to the land of the living. I know it. It’s just got to be.

  ZOLA IN MERCY DASH TO SAVE ROBBIE

  Lying in a coma, 10-year-old accident victim Robbie Ainsley had a visit today from his great hero, Chelsea and Italy superstar, Gianfranco Zola. Zola said afterwards: “When I heard about Robbie, that he might wake up from his coma if I came to see him, I didn’t have to think about it. I came to do what I can. I am a father too.”

  Sadly, the visit does not yet seem to have had any effect on Robbie Doctors at Wonford Hospital say that his condition remains unchanged.

  5

  It’s weird, but I think that maybe I’ve got a sort of mind-mail communication going with Tracey. Telepathy, I think it’s called. Anyway, whatever it’s called, it works. I’ve done it a few times now and I think it’s really working. One moment I’m thinking something, and the next she’s talking about it. It’s like I can almost make her think things. Is that cool or what?

  This morning I had definite proof of it. After Dr Smellybreath had examined me – again – he said something to Tracey over by the door, where he thought I couldn’t hear, something I can’t put out of my mind. He said: “Robbie’s not looking good this morning, Tracey, not good at all. I’m beginning to think we may lose him.” Lose me? Lose me? I was thinking…Who does old Smellybreath think he is? I’m not going to die. I’ll show him. Like Zola said, I’ll show him. I’ll show all of them. The doctor was feeling my forehead. “How long is it exactly?” he said. “How long’s he been with us?”

  “Six weeks tomorrow,” said Tracey. “But he’s still fighting, Doctor. I know he is. He wants to come out of it so badly. And he will. I know he will. It’s funny, doctor – of course he’s never spoken a word to me – but sometimes I feel I really know Robbie, know what he’s thinking. And I just know he’s determined to live.”

  “Well, I’ll be back to see him later,” said Dr Smellybreath as he went out, leaving the door squeaking and clunking behind him.

  “Bed bath for you, Robbie,” said Tracey.

  I was almost sure this mind-mail communication thing was really real, that I wasn’t inventing it, but I decided I’d put it to the test. I lay there forcing myself
to think about one thing and one thing only. I focused my mind entirely on Zola’s shirt. Inside my head I said to her: “Tracey, I want you to put it on me. I want to wear it. Ever since Zola came to see me and gave me his number 25 shirt I’ve wanted to wear it. It’ll bring me luck. I know it will. Put it on me, Tracey. I want to feel its magic.” And that’s all I thought of as Tracey was giving me my bedbath. “Put the shirt on me, Tracey. Please. Please.” I tried not to listen to anything she was saying, tried to close my ears, to shut out her voice. Zola’s shirt. Zola’s shirt. Number 25. Chelsea Blue. Chelsea 1, Arsenal 1. It’s the shirt he wore against West Ham. I pictured me in it. I pictured Zola in it, and those were the pictures I kept trying to send into Tracey’s mind.

  At first it didn’t seem to work. No matter how hard I tried I just could not make her understand. So in the end I gave up trying altogether. I’d been kidding myself all along. Of course I couldn’t make contact. Vegetables can’t communicate, and I’m a vegetable, nothing but a lousy vegetable. I was feeling very angry with myself for ever believing that such a thing was even possible.

  She was brushing my hair and arranging my pillows when she suddenly said it. “I know what you want, Robbie. You want your Zola shirt on, don’t you? You want to wear it. I’ve hung it up on the back of the door so it would be the very first thing you see when you wake up. But I think you’re trying to tell me you want to wear it. All right, if that’s what you want, Robbie. It’s your shirt. It’ll be a bit big, mind, but who cares?”

  It took her a while to wriggle me out of my hospital gown and into my Chelsea shirt. She was right. It was big for me, big and loose and lovely. I lay there basking in my bed in Zola’s Number 25 shirt. And then Tracey said: “Hey Robbie, you look cool, really cool. And you look happy too.” And I was. I am. Not only because I’m wearing his shirt, my shirt, but because I told her what I wanted her to hear, and she heard it. I had passed a mind-mail message from me to her and she had received it! I don’t feel alone any more, and it’s the greatest feeling in the world.

  Dad’s just come in. “Hello Robbie. You all right, then?” Same old Dad. But when he kisses me, I know it isn’t the same old Dad at all. It’s someone else, someone softer who smells a lot like Mum. It is Mum! It’s her! They’ve come. Mum, Dad, they’re both here, together! I wonder if Ellie is there too, but she isn’t. There’s no one leaping on the bed, no wet licky kiss in my ear. I miss that. I like her being here. She makes me laugh inside. But this is cool. I’ve got Mum and Dad together again. Maybe it took me being knocked down and Lucky being killed to bring them together, but between us we did it.

  The funny thing is that no one’s saying a word. Not me, not them. Then Dad’s whispering to Mum, “You first. You tell him.”

  “No, you.” And suddenly I have this horrible thought in my head. Maybe they’ve come here to tell me the worst news, that they’ve decided it’s not worth keeping me alive any longer. They’re going to unplug me from my life support system, and let me drift away and die. I’ve seen it on TV, when someone’s been in a coma for ages and ages, and they just make up their minds that there’s no point in going on any more. They just flick the switch and that’s that.

  “Robbie?” It’s Mum, and she’s sounding so solemn, and serious, and sad. Don’t say it, Mum. Please, I’m fine inside here. I’m going to wake up. Just give me time. Don’t do it, Mum.

  “Robbie, your Dad and me have been talking.”

  Oh God! Please, Mum. Can’t you be like Tracey? Can’t you read my thoughts? I want to live, Mum. I want to stay with you. Please.

  “Well, it’s like this, Robbie. Your Dad and me, we’ve decided…we’ve decided to try again – you know, being together like we were. Only not like we were. Better. Happier. We’ve made a mess of things, we know that, and we know how much that’s upset you, upset Ellie. It upset us, too. But that’s all over now.”

  They’re not going to switch me off! They’re not going to give up on me! I feel as if I’m swimming in deep warm water up towards the light, up towards the air. But I can’t reach the light. I can’t breathe the air. Dad’s holding one of my hands, Mum’s got the other. They’re trying to pull me up and out, trying to save me from drowning, willing me to break free. But something’s still holding me back.

  “Robbie, are you hearing this?” Dad this time. “It’s you that’s done this, Robbie, you and Lucky and all that’s happened to you. You made us stop and think. When I’ve been in here with you sometimes, I could really feel you wanting us all to be together again. And Mum says she’s felt just the same. So we’re going to try – for us, for you, for Ellie. We’re going to do our very best to make it work, Robbie. Only we want you with us. We want you to be here with us, Robbie, to come home.”

  Me too, Dad, me too.

  “Your Dad moved back home yesterday, Robbie,” Mum’s saying. “So far so good.” And they were both laughing like they used to do when Lucky did his party tricks, and I can hear they’re easy together again, and happy.

  So I should be happy too, shouldn’t I? Gianfranco Zola has been in to see me and he’s given me the shirt off his back – sort of. And Mum and Dad are back together. What more could I possibly want? I have this picture in my head of all of us out in the garden together, and Lucky’s rolling over and over and bowing to the queen, and standing up on his little hind legs and they’re all laughing and Ellie’s giggling her head off.

  But then I’m suddenly sad because I know Lucky is gone and will never come back. It was Lucky that always made us all laugh. I remember how I was laughing myself silly when he went skittering off after that cat, before I noticed the front gate was open, before he went under the car.

  He had two black eyes like a panda, and a stubby little tail that never stopped wagging, and I loved him. We all did. He was our clown, our joker, and he was our best friend. Marty and everyone thought he was the coolest dog around, even when he came to the park and spoilt our football game, chasing after the ball, biting it, snarling at it. And when we shouted at him, he’d go running off all smiley and panting and tongue-hanging-happy. I should have put the lead on him. I should have remembered. He was dead and it was my fault.

  The house would be so quiet without Lucky. Who would bite the post when it came through the door? Who would go mad and chase his tail when the telephone rang? Who would dig up Mum’s flowers and send her potty? Even if I did wake up, things would never be the same without Lucky. I’m lying here with so many of my dreams come true, and yet so sad inside, as sad as I’ve ever been.

  “That shirt suits you,” says Dad. “Like Zola said, it really suits you. Wasn’t he the best, coming to see you like that? It’s been in all the papers, you know. Picture of him. Picture of you. I’ll keep them for you, for when you come home, all right?” They’re whispering together again. I can hear Mum crying and Dad’s holding her, trying to comfort her. I know he is. They’re going out and I wish they wouldn’t. I’m trying to call out to them to come back. But no sound comes out. The door’s squeaking and clunking. They’ve gone. And I’m alone. I hate being left alone. I hate it.

  Tracey comes in. She’s singing again. It’s her other song – Imagine. John Lennon. She’s a big John Lennon fan. So’s Dad. “Imagine all the people…” And she sings it all the way through really well. She could be a popstar, but I’m glad she’s not, otherwise she wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t be able to send her my mind-mail messages. I’m telling her now about Mum and Dad.

  “Nice to see your mum and dad together,” she says. She’s hearing me, she’s really hearing me! She’s closing the curtains now. “Nasty out there. Raining.” And then she comes and sits on my bed. “You hang in there for me, Robbie. You can do it. I know you can. I’m going off duty now. I’ve got a date with Trevor, and tomorrow we’re going to look for a flat. He makes me really happy, you know – and he likes John Lennon. I’ll see you the day after, right? Stay cool. See you.”

  And I’m thinking: Will you, Tracey? Will you? I’
m not so sure. Maybe I’ll be dead by then. I am so tired, Tracey. I’m tired of living like this, half alive, half dead. Maybe dying won’t be so bad. Maybe I’ll get to see Lucky again. I really hope so.

  FEARS FOR COMA BOY

  Fears for the life of 10-year-old Robbie Ainsley were growing last night as his condition was reported to have worsened. Robbie has been on a life support system in Wonford Hospital since his accident over six weeks ago. Despite all efforts to revive him, doctors say Robbie is still in a deep coma. They are still hopeful of recovery, but they point out that the longer Robbie stays in a coma the less likely this is. His family are almost constantly at his bedside, and prayers were being said for Robbie today at the parish church in Tiverton where Robbie sings in the choir.

  Doctors would not comment today as to how long they would keep Robbie alive on his life support system.

  6

  It’s strange, but lately people have almost stopped talking to me – except Ellie of course who never stops talking anyway. But they never let her stay for long. Tracey or Gran or someone always takes her outside to play because she’s making too much noise. I wish they wouldn’t, because at least she’s giggly and happy, and I like her noise. It’s normal. No one else is normal, not any more.

  Marty tries to talk, tries to be cheerful, but he’s not very good at pretending. He can’t keep it up for long. He’s never got used to seeing me like this, I think. It still upsets him. I try to send him my mind-mail messages, but somehow I can’t reach him. And I reckon he’s lying to me, too. Just lately, almost every time he comes in, he tells me Chelsea have won another match – second in the league now, he says. Well, Chelsea never win all their matches, they’re up and down like yoyos. He’s just trying to make me feel better. He put his hand on mine last time he came and squeezed it and told me to wake up. Then he cried and went out. First time he’s touched me. I miss him. I miss football. I miss school. I miss everything.