Five Things They Never Told Me (15 page)

Carrying out my ingenious plan takes some forward thinking and a lot of nerve. My alarm clock goes off earlier than it's ever gone off before and I'm out of bed faster than you can say
#groundedforeverifIgetcaught
.

The keys to Dad's van are on the table in the hall and I've managed to sneak the dog bed out of the kitchen and outside to the van before Dad even comes downstairs. I thought he might be surprised that I was already up but he's got a big
delivery of garden stuff today so he's just pleased that I'm virtually ready to go.

We eat our breakfast in silence, him going through his delivery inventory and me hoping that everything is going to work. I've put the dog bed into a corner of the van and wedged it in place with Dad's toolkit. The last thing I want to happen is for Picasso to be skidding and sliding across the van floor every time we go round a corner.

Today I am a dog smuggler. OK, it might not be on the same level as drug smuggling, but actually, when you think about it, there's loads of drugs at Oak Hill already, what with all the medication the old people are taking. There are no dogs at Oak Hill, though. And I suspect the punishment for taking a dog into a strict
No Animals
environment is probably worse than the punishment for taking drugs in. People can be weird like that. I remember Dad telling me at the start of the summer that he'd lose his job if he allowed me to take Picasso into the grounds. I cross my fingers under the table and hope that I'm not about to make another monumental, Erin-sized mistake.

I offer to wash up while Dad goes to clean his teeth and as soon as he's gone I whistle to Picasso.
He looks up from his breakfast and gives me his daft, doggy smile and then he gets up and pads across the floor on his little legs. I bend down and pick him up and then as quickly and quietly as I possibly can I open the back door and race round the outside of the house to where Dad's van is standing in the drive.

I unlock the double doors and crawl inside. Picasso jumps out of my arms and does that random, running round in a circle thing that I normally find cute and hilarious. Today, though, I don't want to encourage any silly behaviour.

‘In your bed,' I whisper, pointing him in the direction of the dog bed. But Picasso isn't having any of it. He skips over to Dad's strimmer and starts sniffing it, his tiny tail wagging as if it's Christmas Day.

‘Picasso!' I hiss. ‘That is
not
for you! In your bed!'

This time he has the decency to look at me before bounding across to a spade and testing it out with one paw. I've had enough. It's time to get serious before Dad comes out here and my plan is doomed before it's begun.

I crawl further into the van and pick up my excited, crazy dog.

‘Do you want a treat?' I ask him. He stops wriggling and I deposit him into the dog bed. ‘Then you have to promise to stay there until I come to get you. Understood?'

Picasso gazes at me with his mismatched eyes, his nose pushing into my hands to find the promised treat.

‘OK, then. I'll be back really soon. Don't be scared. We're doing the right thing.'

I leave him happily munching on a biscuit and scoot in through the back door just before Dad comes into the kitchen.

‘Have you seen my van keys?' he asks, patting his trouser pockets.

I wave them at him. ‘I've got them already. We need to get going if you don't want to be late.'

‘Thanks, love,' says Dad, and the smile he gives me is so trusting that I feel a moment of guilt. But then I tell myself that I haven't actually lied to him and I haven't taken anything that isn't mine. And that sneaking Picasso into Oak Hill is really the right thing to do to help Martha get better.

The drive to work is agonizing. Every time we go round a corner I cross my fingers tightly and
hope like mad that Picasso is OK. As we get closer to Oak Hill my heart starts to race. This part of the plan is less clear to me. It goes something along the lines of
look for a way to distract Dad before he opens up the van
. I am suddenly aware that I perhaps needed to put a bit more thought into this stage, but it's too late now.

We pull in through the gates and up the drive. And salvation is staring me right in the face. Or rather, Frog is. He is waiting for us by the front door and as soon as he sees us he races over to where Dad is parking. Dad barely has a chance to open his door before Frog starts talking, his words coming out in a garbled rush.

‘Mr Edwards! I'm so glad you're here! There's a flood in the kitchen and Beatrice doesn't know what to do!'

Dad jumps out of the van and strides towards the back.

‘I'd better grab my tools then,' he says.

I stare in desperation at Frog while I struggle to undo my seat belt. Frog is all over the situation, though. He darts past Dad and stands blocking the van doors. I hear him start to speak and I wrench at the seat belt, finally managing to
get free. I dive out of the cab and rush round the van.

‘… to just go straight there,' Frog is saying. ‘She said she wants your opinion as soon as possible.'

Poor Dad doesn't stand a chance. He nods at Frog and thanks him and then heads towards the house, ruffling my hair as he walks past.

The second he's out of sight I open up the van doors and get hit in the chest by a furry sausage. I grab it with both hands and the three of us run across the car park and into the trees where we can't be seen.

‘What
is
that?' asks Frog, when we stop running.

‘It's not a
that
, it's a he,' I say, pretending to be offended. ‘This is Picasso. He's a dachshund.'

‘He's a sausage dog,' states Frog and we both start laughing because Picasso totally looks like a sausage. He looks like a cartoon dog.

‘Dachshund means “badger dog” in German,' I tell Frog.

‘That's a way better name than “dachshund”, he says. ‘Badger dog sounds quite menacing and freaky. You should call him that.'

Picasso gives a little bark and I put him down on the ground.

‘Let him sniff you,' I say to Frog, who stands very still while Picasso walks round his feet.

‘Why is he doing that?' whispers Frog and I stifle a grin.

‘Cos he's trying to figure out what the terrible stink is!' I tell him. Frog glares at me and I see that he actually looks quite worried. ‘Haven't you got a dog?' I ask him.

Frog shakes his head. ‘My mum says we're not around enough to look after one. I don't know if I really like dogs, to be honest. They always seem a bit … I don't know. A bit unpredictable?'

I laugh. ‘They are! That's what makes them fun. Look, sit down next to me and meet Picasso properly. He won't hurt you.'

Frog still looks unsure but he walks over to me and we sit down together on the mossy ground. Picasso has a last sniff of Frog and then curls up between us.

‘He wants to be stroked,' I tell Frog. ‘Look – like this.' I stroke the dog's back with firm, flowing movements and after a moment Frog joins in.

‘He's trembling,' he says. ‘Is he scared or something?'

‘No,' I tell him. ‘He thinks he's a cat. He's sighing. He does that if he's happy – a bit like purring!'

Frog smiles and we sit, stroking Picasso and discussing the best way to sneak into the house without being caught.

We've made our plans and I'm just starting to think it's time to act when disaster strikes. One second Picasso is so blissed out he's virtually asleep and the next second he's gone.

‘What?' exclaims Frog, leaping to his feet as Picasso shoots away from us, so fast that he's almost a blur.

‘Picasso!' I yell, before I remember that he shouldn't be here and that his presence at Oak Hill is classified, need-to-know information. And that absolutely nobody except Frog and me needs to know.

‘Where's he gone?' asks Frog, his head spinning round in a useless attempt to spot Picasso.

‘Squirrel!' I hiss, taking off at a run. Well, I would be running if it wasn't for all the branches and twigs and lumpy bits of ground that keep trying to trip me up.

Frog overtakes me and I follow him through the trees. We are both trying to move quickly without a) being seen or b) making any noise. This means that we are doing a comedy run, bent
double and only landing on our tiptoes. We must look ridiculous.

‘When you say
squirrel
,' Frog mutters over his shoulder, ‘do you mean an actual squirrel? Like, is that something dogs genuinely get excited about? Cos I thought that was just a joke.'

‘I meant an actual squirrel,' I confirm, squinting ahead to see if I can spot Picasso.

‘But why would your dog think he had a chance of catching a squirrel?' asks Frog. He's not letting up on this subject and if we don't find Picasso soon then we're in serious trouble. ‘I mean, not to be rude or anything, but your dog has a bit of a weight issue going on. I'm fairly sure he couldn't climb a tree. And squirrels are pretty agile.'

There! Up ahead I can see Picasso. I gesture to Frog to circle behind him and I approach nice and slow, using my best calm, reassuring voice.

‘Who's a silly dog, then? Who's a very naughty dog that's going to get his owner grounded for the rest of her life if he doesn't start behaving sensibly?'

Picasso looks over at me. He is standing up with his front paws resting against the trunk of a tree. And he is yapping very loudly.

Frog appears from behind the tree and I grab Picasso's collar and pick him up. The yapping gets louder and I look up to see what is causing all the trouble. Frog follows my gaze. There, on a branch above our heads, is a squirrel. It isn't trying to hide and as I watch, it seems to jiggle about from foot to foot.

‘Er, Erin?' says Frog.

‘Yes, Frog,' I answer.

‘You see that squirrel?'

‘I do, Frog.'

‘I think it's taunting us.'

I look at Frog and then back again at the squirrel. Picasso is going crazy in my arms, as if I am the only thing between him and a squirrel lunch. I am about to tell the stupid squirrel exactly what I think of it when I hear voices and realize that we're closer to the path than I had thought. I have to be content with flinging a rude word in the squirrel's general direction before we dive back into the trees. It is time to regroup and carry out Mission Picasso.

We make it through the grounds without being spotted. I'm wearing a big, baggy hoody and I've managed to zip Picasso inside. If you saw me
from a distance you wouldn't even know he was there.

When we get to the side door, Frog goes ahead and uses our pre-agreed sign to let me know it's safe to proceed. We spent ages trying out different signals: rubbing his nose meant ‘all clear', coughing meant ‘someone's coming', double blink meant ‘retreat to safety', alternate winks meant ‘stand still'. In the end we decided they were all too confusing so now we're using the sophisticated ‘thumbs up' and ‘thumbs down' approach, which seems to be working well.

And now we're at Martha's door. Frog has already scoped out Beatrice's position and she's busy in the day room handing out cups of tea. She should be there for ages yet. I knock quietly on the door but there's no sound from within so tentatively, and feeling quite nervous, I nod at Frog and he opens the door just wide enough for us both to slip inside.

The room is in darkness and doesn't smell too fresh. I tiptoe over to the bed where Martha is propped up and bend down over her. Her eyes are open and my first thought is that she must be dead. I gasp and she blinks, and I realize that even though she's obviously alive, she isn't OK.

‘Martha,' I whisper. ‘It's us. We've come to visit you.'

She doesn't say anything but that's all right. Nothing different to normal. It's her eyes that are bothering me. There's nothing in them. None of the moodiness I saw when I upset her. None of the naughtiness that was there when Beatrice told her off. None of the happiness and excitement she had when she was playing on the Wii. Nothing.

‘You try,' I tell Frog and while he attempts to get a response I open the curtains and let the sunlight in. While I'm there I fling open the windows too. I'm not sure if this is what Martha wants but I'm willing to do anything to get a reaction out of her, even if it's a cross one. This zombie Martha is starting to freak me out.

‘Any luck?' I ask him when I go back to the bed, but Frog just shakes his head.

‘Then it's time,' I say, unzipping my hoody. Frog looks nervous but I know this is the right thing to do. Martha needs something to make her smile. She needs something to cuddle. Picasso is our only hope.

‘You know what to do,' I whisper into his floppy, gorgeous ears and then I place him on the
bottom of her bed. Frog and I back away until we're standing right next to the door and watch.