Five Things They Never Told Me (5 page)

It's been Sixty Days Without Mum. I saw her yesterday (a walk in the park this time, instead of our usual coffee shop) and all she wanted to talk about was whether I'd changed my mind about going on holiday with them. I could tell by her extra-smiley face that she was confident I'd give in, that I'd much prefer two weeks in Spain to going to Oak Hill every day with Dad.

‘Mark's happy to pay for an extra ticket,' she told me. ‘But time's running out, sweetheart.'

I wanted to tell her that, on the contrary, time is growing, not running out. After all, I'm not counting down the days until I SEE her, am I? Every day is another day marked off on my calendar – the days without her are mounting up and if anything, time seems to be getting faster. It feels like it'll be no time at all before it's been Eighty Days Without Mum, and then Ninety-nine Days Without Mum and before I know it, it'll have been six months or a year and it'll be normal for everyone except me.

‘I can't leave Picasso,' I told her, and then ignored her while she went on and on about how Dad can look after him and how she misses me and really wants to spend some ‘quality time' with me. I couldn't help thinking that if she wanted to see me that much then she should have fought to keep me with her. Then she bought me a mint choc-chip ice cream as a treat so I told her that I only eat vanilla now – that mint choc chip was totally yesterday's flavour. She looked kind of surprised and a little bit sad too but I'm not going to let myself feel bad about that. It's not my fault.

Last week was kind of OK, in the end. I borrowed a gardening tool from Dad's shed at
Oak Hill – he didn't know but I'm sure he wouldn't have minded – and used it to tidy up the bench in my clearing. Dad said that as long as I didn't leave the grounds then he didn't really mind where I went – although then he spent half an hour giving me a long lecture on how I should be polite and helpful and friendly to anyone I met. He still hasn't noticed that I'm not talking when we're there. I worked really hard with the tool – it was like a massive pair of scissors – and now the bench is weed-free. It's the perfect place to sit and sketch and the hours passed really quickly every day.

I'm still dreading going back today, though. I've been begging Dad every morning to let me take Picasso with me, but he says there is a total no-animals rule at Oak Hill and there's no way he can come with us. Dad said that he'd lose his job for sure if he brought a dog into the grounds. It's a shame because if I had him with me then I think this could end up being a good summer after all.

I'm feeling quiet in the car and not really in the mood for conversation. Not that Dad would pick up on that in a million years. He thinks everything is fine between us. And that is just not true. I
might have found a cool place to hang out at Oak Hill but that doesn't mean I've forgiven him for stealing my summer, any more than I've forgiven Mum for stealing my happiness.

As we get out of the car Dad is wittering on about a fence that needs repairing at the far end of the garden and I suddenly can't stand it any more. I feel like I'm just pretending to have a life this summer when really, it's impossible to be living when all your choices have been taken away from you. I follow Dad silently round the side of the house and watch as he gets his tools and tells me that he'll be on the north side of the garden if I need him.

Then I sink down on to the floor of the shed next to his bag and wonder if anyone else my age could possibly be feeling as desperate as I'm feeling right now. I can sense the holidays trickling through my fingers and there's not one single thing I can do to stop them. I'm going to go back to school in September and Lauren and Nat will have a whole summer of shared experiences and I'll have nothing to say.

I flop my head on to my knees and groan. The opportunities for rebellion are highly limited in this place. I suppose I could steal a wheelchair
and take it for a spin? Or trample all over the flower beds? Not exactly dramatic. Nobody's going to be impressed with that when we go back to school.

I look around the shed, trying to find inspiration. I suppose it's a coincidence that inspiration finds ME by waving at me from Dad's workbag. I know, I know – I should have learnt my lesson the last time I stole from him but this is a bit different. Because he's not exactly in a position to get mad at me for this, unless he wants to be the world's biggest hypocrite.

When Mum was still part of our family, she made Dad promise that he would never smoke another cigarette as long as he lived. And he promised. He crossed his heart and hoped to die – which is what Mum said would happen if he didn't pack in the ciggies. But sticking out of the side pocket of his bag is an opened packet of Benson & Hedges – so he lied. And that means that he can't really have a go at me, not when he's my main role model these days. And anyway, I'll only take two so he'll never even notice they've gone.

I reach across and pull the packet out of the bag. Opening it up I see that it's three-quarters
full. Perfect. Quickly I pull out two cigarettes and ram them into my pocket. Then I get up and walk to the door, running back at the last minute to take his lighter.

The sun is hotting up when I step out of the shed. Everyone's saying that this is the best summer on record since blah blah blah. I don't listen when they start talking about that – it just makes me crazy when I think about how I could be spending endless days at the park or the outside pool with Lauren and Nat. I'm in the mood for sketching and as I walk towards my hidden clearing I see another path that looks kind of interesting. I'm not in a rush so I walk down it to where it ends next to a water fountain. The fountain looks really old and is covered in green, yucky slime but I can still see how weird and amazing it is. Throwing my bag down on to a bench, I take out my sketchpad and start outlining the three stone tiers that are stacked like a wedding cake.

I've just got to the bottom level and am struggling to draw the strange goblin-like creatures that are holding up the base, when I hear voices. Looking around I see Beatrice, one of the care workers, pushing a wheelchair down the path. There's no
time to make my escape because Beatrice has seen me and is making a beeline straight towards me, a big smile on her face. There's something about Beatrice that makes me think it would be a bad idea to annoy her. I've known her since I was little and she's always really nice but I get the feeling that she doesn't stand for any messing about.

‘Here you are, lovely!' she beams. ‘We've all been wondering where you've been disappearing to every day!'

I squeeze my lips together, desperately keeping the words inside so that I don't tell her about my secret hideaway. Beatrice doesn't notice, though – she's one of those people who will fill any silence with every thought that pops into her head.

‘What a beautiful day,' she says, parking the wheelchair up next to my bench. ‘Such a shame to waste it indoors! That's why I've brought Martha down here.' She sits next to me and claps her hands in joy. ‘Look, Martha! Erin's drawn a picture. Oh – isn't that fantastic! How lovely!'

The strain of not running away is starting to get too much but before I can break Dad's rule and be completely unfriendly, a shrill beeping sound fills the air. Beatrice grabs her phone out of
her pocket and looks at it, leaping off the bench as she reads the screen.

‘Oh, goodness,' she mutters, turning to look first at Martha and then at me. ‘Erin – can you do me a big favour, please?'

I don't have time to answer her before she rushes on.

‘I'm needed back at the house. Will you stay here with Martha, just until I get back?' Beatrice turns away and starts back along the path.

‘I'll be back as soon as I can. Thanks for helping out, Erin.' And then she is gone, leaving the stillness to flood back into the space left behind her.

I sit in stunned silence for a moment, feeling like a whirlwind has just passed through the garden. Then I turn and look at the inhabitant of the wheelchair for the first time. Martha. That's what Beatrice said she was called. She is sitting upright, facing straight ahead, with her legs tucked up tightly in a blanket and a silk scarf round her neck, despite it being scorching hot out here. I stare at her for a minute but she just keeps on looking at the fountain and I get the distinct impression that she doesn't want to be sitting next to me as much as I don't want to be sitting next to her.

Sighing, I turn back to my sketch but the enjoyment has gone since Beatrice said it was ‘lovely'. I want to leave but Martha is so quiet and so old and Beatrice asked me to help her out by staying. And then I start to feel angry again, because I'm totally not responsible for some random old person who I don't even know and isn't even in my family. And I'm so angry that I want her to know that she means nothing to me – that even though she's an adult she's too old to be like a proper adult and she can't stop me from doing anything I want.

So I reach into my pocket and take out a cigarette and the lighter and I put the cigarette in my mouth and light it up, just like I've seen kids do in the park. And I take a deep breath and wait to see what all the fuss is about. I wait to see what it feels like to tell the world that I am in charge and that nobody can make me behave. And then I start coughing so hard that I think my stomach might actually come up through my mouth and tears are streaming down my face and I wonder if I might actually cough myself to death, here by this beautiful, freaky water fountain and this silent old woman.

It seems to take forever for me to stop choking and when I do I throw the cigarette on the floor
and stamp on it with my trainer. Then I look across at Martha and wait for her to tell me that I'm too young to smoke and that she's going to tell my dad. But she doesn't say a word. Instead, she turns her head very slowly and looking me right in the eye, brings her left hand up to her face and mimes smoking.

I'm not sure what she means so I just stare back at her. She frowns at me and repeats the gesture, this time pointing at me and then back at herself, making it clear what she's asking.

‘You want a cigarette?' I ask her and she nods, her head bobbing up and down. ‘Sure,' I say, and reaching into my pocket I pull out the second stolen cigarette and hand it to her.

Martha takes the cigarette with a shaking hand and slowly, painstakingly, moves it up to her mouth. It dangles there between her lips and I am still for a moment, fascinated by the sight of her ruby-red lipstick. She has surprisingly nice lips for such an old person. Then she turns to me again and glares and I realize my mistake.

‘Oh, sorry – you need a light.' She nods, her head barely moving and I pick up the lighter from the bench and gesture towards her. This just earns me another scowl, though, and I look at her in
confusion – why is she such a grumpy old cow? I'm actually trying to be nice.

Martha's shoulders seem to slump forward and she slouches in her chair for a moment. Then she sits upright again and jerks her head in my direction, her chin pointing towards the lighter and I understand what she wants.

‘OK, OK,' I mutter, flicking the lighter so that a small flame is flickering in the sunlight. ‘Jeez – you must be used to being waited on around here.' I scoot across the bench. Martha leans towards me and I light her cigarette, watching as she inhales deeply and then breathes out, closing her eyes and relaxing back in her chair.

We sit like that for a while, and the silence is quite nice. After a bit, just when I'm wondering whether to continue with my sketch, there's the sound of footsteps coming down the pathway from the house. Martha and I must hear it at the same time because she spins her head in my direction, her eyes filled with something – I'm not sure if it's panic or amusement. I really, really don't want her to get caught smoking. There's bound to be questions about where she got the cigarette and I don't need the hassle. Her left hand is moving slowly towards her mouth but there's no time – she's too slow, so
quick as a flash I reach across and yank the cigarette out from between her lips, grinding it into the gravel with my heel just as Beatrice appears in front of us.

‘Have you two been having a lovely time?' she asks, her voice breaking our peaceful silence. I snort slightly – I only met Martha fifteen minutes ago but even I know that ‘lovely times' are not really her thing. ‘Thank you so much for helping out, Erin. I can see it's going to be handy, having you around this summer!'

I scowl at my feet. No way am I going to put myself in this situation again. What am I, a glorified old-person-sitter?

‘Anyway, we don't want you getting too hot, do we, dear?' she says, moving behind Martha's wheelchair and taking hold of the handles. ‘Time to say goodbye to Erin!'