Five Things They Never Told Me (16 page)

Picasso turns round a few times to get his bearings and then he spots Martha. She hasn't seen him yet but as he gently navigates his way across the blanket she obviously feels him because her head turns slightly and her eyes open a little wider in surprise.

Picasso trots right over to the head of the bed, where he stops. Resting his front paws on the propped-up pillow he raises himself until he is level with Martha's head. The two of them look at each other for a long time. I can feel Frog next to me, holding his breath, and I do the same, desperate for this to work. Desperate for Martha to see that there are good things here. Things worth getting better for.

After a while, Picasso lowers his paws. My heart starts to sink until I see that he has no plans to leave Martha. He turns round very carefully so as not to stand on her, and then tenderly snuggles down into the crook of her right arm. Martha looks across at me for the first time and I take a step forward.

‘His name's Picasso,' I tell her. ‘He loves being stroked more than anything in the world.'

Martha looks from me to Frog and I see something flare up in her eyes just for a second. Then she looks down at Picasso and slowly, haltingly, she brings her left hand up and across in order to stroke Picasso's back. He shudders slightly in his happy-dog way and settles further into the bed. And I lean against Frog and watch as Martha starts to come back from whatever lonely, miserable place she's been in for the last few days.

It's my fault. I forget to keep an eye on the time. Frog and I end up sitting on Martha's bed and chatting quietly while she strokes Picasso and he shamelessly cuddles up to her, enjoying all the attention. I'm explaining to Frog that Picasso is not your usual dachshund.

‘Dachshunds aren't supposed to like strangers,' I tell him. ‘But I don't think Picasso got that particular memo because he likes everyone. Especially if they play with him or feed him.'

‘I wouldn't mind having –' begins Frog but he is rudely interrupted by the door flying open and a very irate Beatrice stomping in.

‘Who gave you two permission to come in here?' she asks, her voice cross. ‘Martha doesn't
want any visitors at the moment. You can't just waltz in here whenever you feel like it.'

She approaches the bed, glaring at us. I scoot closer to Frog, hoping to block Picasso from her sight.

‘I'm sorry, Martha,' she says. ‘They had no right to just –'

She's seen him. Her forehead wrinkles in a frown and her eyes narrow. I smile at her, hoping to win her over. After all, we're only in here because we care about Martha, just like she does.

It doesn't work.

‘What is
that
?' she asks, although it's one of those rhetorical questions that aren't really a question. Beatrice already knows the answer. She's not stupid – and even if Picasso is more sausage than dog it's fairly obvious that he is an animal. And therefore banned from Oak Hill.

‘This is –' I start but Beatrice slams her hand up in front of me, barely missing my nose, and I stop speaking.

‘You have got to be kidding me,' she mutters under her breath. ‘You kids brought a
dog
in
here
?'

She turns her steely glare first on me and then on Frog.

‘Up!' she barks and we both leap off the bed.

‘We thought –' says Frog but I elbow him in the ribs and he shuts up. I can tell that this is no time for trying to justify our actions.

‘Unbelievable,' murmurs Beatrice. I'm not sure if she's talking to us or to herself so I don't say anything, but the three of us stand in a line and stare at the bed. Martha hasn't stopped stroking Picasso but she is looking at Beatrice. And her eyes look like they're throwing Beatrice a challenge.

Beatrice sighs and lets her shoulders slump forward. She looks tired for a moment but then she straightens herself and turns to look at us.

‘This calls for some damage limitation,' she says. ‘Get that dog out of here before anyone sees you.'

She's not going to tell on us. All we have to do is sneak back to the van with Picasso and we'll be home and dry! I risk a quick grin at Frog and take a step towards the bed.

‘What on earth is going on in here?' shrieks a voice from the doorway. A voice that I know I've heard before. It's hard and cold and bossy, just like it was yesterday in the garden when she was talking to Beatrice.

I spin round to see Uncaring striding into the room. She looks like she should be in the army or something. She marches towards us and then freezes when she spots Picasso. He chooses this second to let us know how much he is enjoying his day by breaking into his howly happy song. His yaps make me wince.

‘There's a
dog
in that bed,' states Uncaring in a disgusted voice.
Ten out of ten for observation
, I think, but I manage not to say it. I do have
some
self-preservation.

She turns to Beatrice and looks at her accusingly.

‘Did you know about this?'

Beatrice looks back at her. She seems outwardly calm but I can feel her dislike for Uncaring radiating out from her. Picasso obviously feels the same way because he stands up and starts barking. Like, properly barking. Really loud, obnoxious,
I-don't-like-you
barking.

‘I was dealing with it,' Beatrice tells her. She has to shout over the noise that Picasso is making. ‘They're just leaving.'

‘Oh no,' says Uncaring, scowling at us all. She even scowls at Martha, who glares back at her. ‘They aren't going anywhere until I've called Mrs Thompson in here. This is a situation for
senior management. And their parents too. This is an atrocious disregard for our rules and regulations. I said that we shouldn't allow young people in here in the first place.'

She turns to me. ‘Where is your mother, young lady? I need to speak to her.'

‘Good luck with that,' I mutter. ‘She left eighty-five days ago.'

‘Erin,' says Beatrice, a warning in her voice.

I stare down at my shoes. ‘My dad is out in the garden,' I tell her.

‘Oh – you're the
gardener
's daughter,' says Uncaring. I don't like the way she spits it out, as if being a gardener's daughter somehow explains my shabby behaviour. I take a step forward but then Frog reaches down and takes hold of my hand, pulling me back to stand next to him. A buzz of something unexpected tingles in my hand as I feel Frog's fingers tighten round mine but there's no time to think about that because a crash from behind makes us all jump and we turn to the bed where Martha is struggling to sit up, her right hand still on the bedside table where she has slammed it.

She leans against the pillows and points her finger, first at Picasso and then at herself. Her
hand is shaking but I think that right now that's down to anger, not old age.

Uncaring narrows her eyes and looks at Martha.

‘Are you saying this is your dog?' she says.

Martha nods, glaring at Uncaring.

‘That
is
interesting.' Uncaring turns to look at Beatrice. ‘You are witness to the fact that she just admitted responsibility. She deliberately allowed a dog into a no-animals environment with no regard for the health and safety of the other residents.'

‘Oh for goodness' sake –' starts Beatrice, but Uncaring interrupts her.

‘Is that what you're saying? You are responsible for the presence of this dog?'

Martha nods and I am shocked by the look of triumph on Uncaring's face. I clench my fist but then Frog squeezes my hand and when I look at him he nods across to Martha.

She is smiling at me. And as I start to smile back I see her lips move. There is no sound but there doesn't need to be. It's easy to lip-read the ‘thank you' that she mouths at me across the room. It's easy to see the sparkle in her eyes as Uncaring insists on going to fetch the manager
and leaves the room, instructing Beatrice to make sure we don't escape, like she's the Child Catcher or something.

My amazing plan worked. And this makes it easier to cope when Dad is dragged in from the garden and Picasso and I are presented to him, along with instructions to ‘take them both home right away'. It makes it easier to grip Frog's hand while his mum tells him that he should have known better and that she is ‘disappointed' in him. All of these things are easy because we saved Martha from feeling like she had nothing to live for.

And I would do it all again tomorrow if I had to.

I have had the best idea for our Martha Challenge EVER (or since the last time I had the best idea ever, anyway). Dad wasn't as cross as I thought he'd be about the whole Picasso/Oak Hill thing. In fact, I got the feeling that he thought it had been quite a good idea, even though he'd never actually say that to me. He gave me a hug when we'd got Picasso back into the van and told me
that some care homes actually encourage people to bring animals in, that pet therapy can help people in all kinds of ways. That totally makes sense to me – Picasso always cheers me up if I'm feeling rubbish. Anyway, I'm allowed back at Oak Hill as long as I promise faithfully not to smuggle any animals of any kind in ever again. So I needed a plan that would help Martha without getting me into trouble.

She's much better than she was last week. I think the worst might be over now. When I went to see her a few days ago she was sitting up in bed, and yesterday she was actually in the day room. I've decided that we need to focus again on helping her move forward. On getting her living properly again. And I've got an idea that should do just that, as well as solving a problem of my own.

I haven't been able to get my iPad out of the box since my birthday two weeks ago. The guilty feeling I get when I even just look at it is horrible. And what makes it worse is that I know I'm really confusing Dad. He thought I'd be overjoyed to get it back – and I know it was really generous of him and Mum (he told me that Mum gave him half of the money that I stole from him when I bought it in the first place).

So my plan for today is doubly brilliant.

Dad looks a bit surprised and dubious when I get into the car carrying the iPad.

‘Are you sure that's a good idea, love?' he asks me. ‘You don't want it to go missing or get broken.'

‘I'll take really good care of it,' I promise him. He HAS to let me take it to Oak Hill today. Now I've thought about this properly I can't wait any longer to carry out my plan.

‘Well, if you're sure,' he says, reversing out of the drive.

The second we arrive I leap out of the van.

‘See you later, Dad!' I call to him and then I walk as quickly as I can towards my secret hideaway. The day is hotting up already but it's starting to feel different. Like I can smell school in the air. It reminds me that I haven't got much time to help Martha before I'll be back in that place.

I'm so focused on the iPad that I don't even hear Frog approaching until he sits down next to me.

‘Cool!' he says, reaching out to take it off me. ‘I didn't know you had one of these. Give me a go!'

‘No!' I say, pushing his hand away. ‘It's not for you. It's for Martha.'

‘OK.' Frog looks at me. ‘What's she supposed to do with it, then?'

For a split second I consider not telling him. Just making it MY thing. But then I remember how generous he was with the Wii and a picture of him wiping Martha's chin pops into my head and I know that this will be far more fun with Frog than without him.

So I show him what I've found. And his mouth drops open and his eyes light up and when he looks at me I feel like he is REALLY looking at me, in a way that makes my face feel a bit hot.

‘That is properly brilliant, Erin,' he tells me.

‘I know, right?' I could pretend to be modest but I won't pull it off so there's no point. It IS properly brilliant!

‘Shall we go and find Martha now?' he asks. I nod and together we walk down the path.

It's easy to track her down. She's in the dayroom with Frog's grandad playing on the Wii.

They're playing baseball, which from the sounds of it, is a bit of an extreme activity. I can hear Frog's grandad laughing before we even
open the door and I'm glad that Martha has made a friend. It'll be good for her when Frog and I are back at school and can only visit at weekends.

‘Hi, Grandad,' calls Frog, going over to give him a hug. ‘How's it going?'

‘Well, apart from not understanding the rules of this ridiculous game, I'm very well,' his grandad says, winking at me. ‘Martha, my dear, shall we go back to the more civilized sport of tennis?'

‘Sorry, Grandad,' says Frog. ‘Erin needs to borrow Martha for a bit. She's got another plan.'

Martha looks at me and raises her eyebrows.

‘You'll love it,' I tell her. ‘I promise.'

‘Oh well, another time, then,' says Grandad. Then he calls across the room to a lady who is snoozing in a chair. ‘Hey, Doris! Fancy a quick round of golf before Beatrice brings the tea trolley in?'

I push Martha out of the room, Frog following behind us. When we're in the corridor I lean round the chair.

‘Are you OK if we go for a walk?' I ask her. She nods, so Frog pushes open the side door and I carefully manoeuvre her on to the path. We've decided to take Martha to our secret hideaway. That way we won't be disturbed by anyone.

It turns out that pushing a wheelchair for any kind of distance on a gravel path is actually quite tricky. We take it in turns but still, I'm sweating and puffing and panting by the time we make it through the trees. The last part is super-difficult and I'm grateful that it hasn't rained for a while, otherwise the wheels would just sink straight into the grass. I know Uncaring said that Martha could walk if she wanted to, but I think that was just her being a cow. Martha's old. Her legs are probably really tired.

By the time we get to our bench I am exhausted, but I'm too excited to wait any longer. I've been carrying the iPad in my rucksack and I pull it out now and put it on Martha's lap.

She looks at it in confusion.

‘This is going to help you talk again,' I tell her. ‘Look.'

And then I turn it on and open the app that I bought with some of my savings. I get to the right page and start to explain, pointing out the buttons on the screen that need to be pressed.

‘I've customized some of them to make them more personal, but there's loads of words already downloaded and if you want anything else we can create it ourselves. Look – I even added Picasso,' I tell her. ‘You have a go.'

But Martha just sits, staring at the screen, looking as if she hasn't got a clue what I'm talking about.

I look in desperation at Frog. This HAS to work. Why isn't she trying it?

With his freaky mind-reading powers he answers my question.

‘Show her again,' he whispers. So I do.

I show her how to swipe the pages to find different categories. I find the animal page and show her the button for ‘frog'. I find the basic communication page and show her how to build a sentence. I show her everything and she doesn't make a single sound. She doesn't even twitch. She just sits, looking at the screen.

Eventually I get up and walk a few steps towards the stream. Frog follows me and puts his hand on my shoulder. He can tell I'm upset.

‘She hates it,' I whisper, trying not to cry.

‘I'm sure she doesn't,' Frog says but his voice isn't convincing.

I sigh and look up at the sky. There are more clouds now and there's a bit of a chill in the air. I hug myself, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. This is not at all how I thought it would be.

‘We should probably get her back to the house before it rains,' I tell Frog. I feel completely miserable
and for some reason, I wouldn't mind sharing a flask of tea with my dad right now.

‘I guess,' says Frog. ‘And then we can figure out something new to do with Martha. A new challenge.'

I haven't got anything to say to that. How can I tell him that I'm done? I'm out of ideas. I was so sure that this would work. My failure to improve Martha's life feels like a bad head cold – it's filling up my mind and making me feel stuffy and tired.

‘Maybe she's too old for new technology,' I mutter. ‘You know – that saying about how you can't teach an old dog new tricks.'

‘I don't know,' says Frog thoughtfully. ‘She handled the Wii pretty well.'

‘Yeah, OK, no need to gloat,' I snap, without turning to look at him. ‘Why don't you just say it – I'm never going to work out how to make her better.'

‘Erin, it's not about making her better,' starts Frog. ‘I think you should know that I was talking about Martha with my mum the other day and she told me that –'

But before he can tell me whatever it was his mum told him, we are interrupted by a sound. No, actually by a voice. A robotic voice that I'm
sure sounds nothing like Martha's real voice, but a voice all the same.

‘
I like Picasso
.'

We spin round and gape at Martha. She is sitting up very straight in her chair, iPad on her lap and smiling the biggest smile that I have ever seen. I walk over to her and stand, looking down at the iPad.

‘Can you do it again?' I ask her, holding my breath. Frog is next to me and I grab his hand, squeezing it tightly. I wouldn't normally be so brave but I need the moral support right now. I really think this idea might work!

Martha bends her head over the iPad so that I can't see what she's doing. Then she sits up and touches the screen. The iPad speaks to us.

‘
Thank you, Erin
.'

And I burst into tears. Which is highly embarrassing, especially as Frog doesn't let go of my hand, so I can't reach for a tissue and end up having to wipe my face with my sleeve.

Martha moves her fingers slowly across the iPad and I've started to get a grip when the next sentence arrives.

‘
No cry face
,' she makes the robot voice say, which makes me cry a little bit more.

When I've stopped being lame we sit with Martha for half an hour, talking. It is the best thirty minutes of my life. Martha gets the hang of the communication app really quickly for such an old person and by the time we realize that the sky is getting dark, she's told us that her favourite food is trifle, she loves the rain and she wants us to keep practising the jitterbug.

The first raindrop splashes on to the iPad screen and I hurriedly grab it off Martha's knee and ram it into my rucksack.

‘You might love the rain,' I tell her as Frog and I both take a wheelchair handle and shove her across the grass with all our strength, ‘but Beatrice will not love us if we take you back soaking wet!'

And as the sky opens and chucks its contents down on to our heads, we race down the path, Martha shaking with laughter and Frog whooping like some kind of demented cowboy, and me feeling like I'm part of something important and special that will last forever.

Four days later I am sitting by the water fountain. It's just Martha and me today – Frog's mum insisted on taking him for a haircut and to buy new school uniform.

‘I don't even want to think about this summer being over,' I tell Martha, plucking a blade of grass and trying for the millionth time to make that whistling sound that Frog's so good at. ‘It'll be horrible thinking of you here on your own all day.'

‘
I am lucky
,' Martha says. Well, obviously the iPad says it but she's getting quite speedy at selecting her sentences and we've programmed in loads of extra words so she can pretty much talk about anything.

‘Yes, but it won't be the same when we can only come over at weekends,' I say.

I've been thinking about this a lot. It's not just Martha I'm going to miss when September starts. I can't seem to stop thinking about Frog when we're not together and he's always so friendly and funny but I have no idea if he likes me in the way I'm starting to like him. And he's in the year above me at school so I'm barely going to even see him during the week.

‘I thought this summer was going to be rubbish,' I say. Martha grins. ‘But it
hasn't
been,' I rush to tell her. ‘Things have changed since that first week. Me and Dad are getting on quite well now and I can kind of see that him and Mum are better off apart.'

I saw Mum yesterday. I hadn't been sure about going but Martha persuaded me. Well, she didn't exactly persuade me because that suggests that there was a certain degree of discussion about the whole thing. Which there was not. I mentioned that I hadn't seen Mum for a few weeks but that she wouldn't stop ringing the house now that she's back from her holiday, and that she wanted me to go for tea with her and Mark and the mother-stealing children. Martha wrote a message in her notepad and wouldn't stop waving it at me until I eventually caved in and agreed to go just to shut her up. Her note was simple.

Your mum loves you. New beginnings.

And it wasn't that bad, actually. Dad dropped me off and as soon as Mum opened the door she pulled me into a huge hug that felt really good. And Mark was OK, I suppose. He didn't try and act like my dad, which is a good job because I'd have definitely told him where to go if he'd tried that. The kids were pretty sweet. Annoying and noisy, but sweet. I ended up feeling bad that they didn't have a mum. I mean, my mum might
not live in my house but at least she's alive. At least I can talk to her if I want to.