Five Things They Never Told Me (4 page)

There is nothing I hate more than old people. Constantly going on about their bad backs and their gammy hips and other medical problems that I have no desire to hear about. It never ceases to amaze me that the rest of society expects us to enjoy each other's company, based purely on the commonality of us all being over the age of seventy-five. Pensioners are no different to teenagers in that respect. Some old people are nice; some of us are foul. Some are good-natured and are happy to spend their days knitting and chatting while others of us are grouchy and angry and would rather stab ourselves in the foot with a knitting needle than suffer the indignities of attempting to
knit one, purl one.

And no. You do not get a prize for working out which group I belong to.

I would like to say that I haven't always been bad-tempered and troublesome but it wouldn't be the truth. As a girl I was a constant source of worry and disappointment to my parents. I just didn't understand why there had to be so many rules. Rules about who I could be friends with; rules about what I could wear. Rules about what time I had to be home.

I found the last rule particularly difficult to abide by. I remember one evening having far too much fun to be home in time for my curfew. When I eventually returned my parents were furious. They said I wasn't allowed to see my friends for three whole weeks, which frankly I thought was a bit much. Not that it spoilt my fun. I would send a note to Tommy telling him to meet me outside our garden at certain times and then I'd pretend to be going to bed. As soon as the bedroom door was closed I was out of the window, climbing down the roof of the outhouse and into the back garden. I wasn't caught once.

It's just a shame that my climbing days are over. Life at Oak Hill would be a whole lot easier if I could sneak out of my window. At least I'd stand a fighting chance of that awful care worker not catching me in the act.

If you ask me, it's a total disgrace. I was born in 1929 and I believe I have enough years behind me to know what I want. And if, in my final months on this earth, I choose to smoke the occasional cigarette now and again then that is only my business. Oh, I'm not saying that smoking is a nice habit. I actually find it fairly unpleasant and there's nothing worse than the sight of yellowed fingers and foul teeth. And apparently, it does something quite disgusting to your insides.

No, it's not that I think smoking is a particularly good idea. I just don't like being told that I can't do it. It's the same with alcohol. In all honesty I'd prefer a nice cup of tea, but laying down ridiculous laws about what we can and cannot do just makes me cross. I'm too old to be told.

So apparently, I am now officially on
strike one
. I am ‘upsetting the other residents' with my militant behaviour. They have suggested that I may be happier elsewhere. That made me laugh. As if happiness is a necessary emotion. Three strikes and Oak Hill will no longer be prepared to provide for my complex medical and behavioural needs.

Let the games commence.

‘Erin!' Dad is calling up the stairs and I wonder if I can get away with ignoring him. I wonder what he'd do if I burrowed down under my duvet like a little rabbit and refused to come out. Then I sigh and sit up. He's already mad with me – not that I care, but I know him when he's like this and the only chance I have of convincing him to let
me stay at home is to go along with what he wants for a few days. Maybe if he thinks I've taken my punishment without too much fuss then he'll relent and let me have at least a few weeks hanging out with Lauren and Nat.

I get dressed in an old pair of shorts and a T-shirt and then grab my school bag and empty out all my schoolbooks and pencil case. I won't be needing
them
for a while. I fill my bag with the essentials needed for a long, boring day – my iPod Shuffle, a book, my sketchpad and a box of pencils. And then, even though it makes my bag super-heavy, I add a couple of Dad's art books that I took from the shelf in the living room. I'm getting quite into my art project so I may as well use the time to carry on with it while I'm hiding from old people. Then I trudge downstairs, deliberately stamping on each stair with a heavy foot so that Dad knows how miserable he is making me.

He meets me in the hall.

‘Here you go. Drink this and I'll meet you in the car,' he says, handing me a glass of juice.

‘What about my breakfast?' I am utterly aghast. I'd get better treatment if I were in prison.

‘I called you to get up at least half an hour ago,' Dad tells me. ‘If you'd wanted breakfast I assumed
you'd get out of bed. You can eat a banana and a yoghurt on the way.'

I sink further into complete and total misery. The only motivation for getting out of bed these days is the thought of a hot piece of toast, slathered with strawberry jam and eaten sitting on the floor, with Picasso leaning against me. It's how I've eaten nearly all my breakfasts since she left, and as it's now Fifty-three Days Without Mum it has become quite a habit.

Dad pulls on his work boots and opens the front door.

‘I need to get some tools from the garage – I'll expect to see you in the car in two minutes.'

He walks outside and I pull a face at the back of his head. But there's no point in standing here sulking. If I want breakfast I'm going to have to sort it fast, so I head into the kitchen and grab a banana. I ignore Dad's suggestion of yoghurt – I really would have thought he knew me better by now. Yoghurt has always tasted sour to me – it reminds me of sick and there's no way I'd
ever
eat it for breakfast.

There's just time to check that Dad's fed Picasso, give him a quick hug and tell him that he
can get out through the dog-flap if he needs a wee. Then I put my bag on my shoulder and leave the comfort of my peaceful, quiet home. Old people and endless boring days, here I come.

My first impression of Oak Hill Care Home is not good. We go through a sinister pair of iron gates and turn down a drive. I want to ask Dad how he could possibly have brought me here, to this freaky, remote place. It's probably haunted.
This is my summer holiday!
, I want to shout at him, but then I remember that I'm not talking, as a protest that nobody ever listens to me, so I stay silent and look out of the window.

We drive through what feels like miles of dark, crowded trees and then we're suddenly here. Yeah, Oak Hill is a definite contender for housing things that go bump in the night. Dad parks the car and I get out, standing on the gravel and looking up at the huge house that seems to loom over me. Despite myself I am starting to feel a tiny bit excited. Maybe hanging out in a spine-tingling, ghost-infested mansion could be quite a cool thing to talk about when I go back to school in September.

We walk into the reception area and the spooky, Gothic vibe instantly disappears. Straight away I can tell I'm going to hate it here. It reminds me of school – everything seems fake. It doesn't feel like a proper home at all. Before Granny Edna died I used to visit her all the time with Mum and her house was crammed full of trinkets and knick-knacks. Stuff she'd collected over a lifetime that used to remind her of all the places she'd visited and all the things she'd done. I'd pick up some tacky little ornament and she'd go off on some long story about a holiday in Devon or a boy she once courted. I'd laugh when she said stuff like that and tell her that nobody says ‘courted' these days – but, secretly, I quite liked hearing her stories and she'd always look so happy when she was remembering the old days.

I don't know how the old people who live here can ever remember anything, because it's all so bare and clean and impersonal. There can't be any memories for them here at all.

Dad walks me down a corridor and into a large, sunny room. It's filled with chairs and sofas. There's an old man sitting in front of the TV but I don't think he's watching it because his eyes are
closed. I wonder for a minute if he's even alive, but then he twitches a bit and shuffles in the chair and I realize he's just sleeping.

‘You can sit in here if you like,' says Dad. I look again at the old man and shake my head. He might die while I was sitting next to him. Or even worse, he might wake up and want to talk to me.

‘OK.' Dad starts walking through the room towards a door on the other side and I scurry to catch up with him. ‘Then you can help me out in the garden.'

This is not what I had planned, but it suddenly seems like the best of the rubbish options available to me. Dad shows me where I can stash my bag and then hands me a trowel. He doesn't seem in the slightest bit bothered that I haven't spoken a word to him since we got out of the car. I don't actually think he's noticed.

He leads me outside and round the corner of the house. I am not an outdoors kind of person but even I can see how beautiful these gardens are.

Dad points to a flower bed.

‘This needs weeding,' he tells me.

I must look puzzled because he smiles at me and crouches down on the grass. ‘You see all of
these green bits? They need pulling out. Put them in a pile at the side and I'll be back to check up on you in a while.'

He ruffles my hair and strides off in the opposite direction to the way we came. I kneel down on the grass and look at the flower bed. Everything looks quite green to me. I have totally no idea which ones he said were the weeds.

I spend a few minutes pulling random bits of plant out of the soil and chucking them on the grass. This is so dull and even though it's still quite early I'm getting pretty hot. Dad will be really mad with me if I've been pulling up his prizewinning flowers instead of weeds, so probably the most sensible thing to do is stop before I get it completely wrong. Maybe I should scope out the rest of the gardens – get a feel for the place where I'm going to be spending the majority of my summer.

I stand up and rub the soil off my hands. My knees have got green grass-stains on them and I look like a little kid. The thought makes me angry and without bothering to search for Dad I stomp across the lawn and on to one of the gravel paths that lead away from the house.

As soon as I'm out of sight I feel myself starting to relax. I'm on a little pathway that twists and turns round bushes and under trees. The sunlight can't get through and the air feels different – full of something interesting, maybe. I keep walking, stepping from shadow to shadow and leaping over the occasional puddles of sun that have managed to slip through the heavy branches above me.

And then I'm out in the open. The brightness makes me blink and it takes me a few seconds to register what I'm seeing. And when I can see properly, my brain can barely make sense of it. Because what I'm looking at is utter perfection.

Hidden among the trees is a clearing. It's obviously still part of Oak Hill because I haven't gone over any fences or stiles, but it looks like it's a forgotten part of the garden. The path has stopped and there's a strip of grass stretching down to a stream that winds its way through the bottom of the clearing. On the other side of the stream is a steep field that reaches up to the horizon, making it feel a bit like a secret valley. Everything is wild and overgrown, filled with buttercups and weird, random plants that I
haven't ever seen before. I take a few steps forward and when I turn round it's almost impossible to see the opening where the path begins – it's hidden from view and I can tell straight away that nobody can see me here.

A sudden feeling of excitement bubbles up inside me and I want to laugh out loud. My own secret hideaway! I can spend the summer here, doing what I want and nobody can make me listen or talk or do any stupid jobs. It's completely perfect. I want to whoop and run about for no reason, or lie down and roll around on the grass – and I haven't felt like doing those things since I was little. It's a shame I'm too old to do them now because this place is crying out for someone to play in it.

I walk around the top end of the clearing, peering through the undergrowth and making sure that I really can't be seen, that it really is as private as I think it is. Thick trees surround the grassy area and it's completely impossible to see anything on the other side. As I get towards the middle I can see that there is a bench, hidden under what even I can tell are weeds. Yanking at the long strands I try to free the bench from captivity but the plants have been there for a long
time and I can't budge them. I need serious tools for this job and I know just the man to give them to me.

But there's plenty of time for that. For now I'm happy to sit on the grass, hugging my knees up to my chin, and looking down towards the stream. This place is mine.