Five Things They Never Told Me (17 page)

Dad was in a great mood when I got home and we stayed up late, watching a film and eating popcorn with Picasso snuggled up next to us on the sofa and trying to sneak popcorn when he thought we weren't looking. Dad was singing this morning when I got downstairs for breakfast. I think we're going to be OK.

‘Anyway,' I tell Martha. ‘It'll be no time really until October half-term and after that we've got two weeks off for Christmas. Then it'll be next year and before you know it we'll be nearly at the summer holidays and we can all be together for the whole six weeks!'

Martha is smiling as she chooses her words.

‘
Don't wish time away
,' she tells me.

‘I'm not!' I say. ‘I'm just thinking ahead. We should make plans for next summer – really get out and do some stuff. We could take you for days out – maybe the beach, or shopping. What d'you reckon?'

I look at Martha to get her reaction. I know it might sound weird – after all, she's totally ancient and I didn't even know her at the start of the holidays – but I feel like she's almost family now.
Like she matters. I want to make sure that we don't all drift apart just because of something rubbish like school and I'm sure that Martha will be pleased I'm making plans for our time together.

But she isn't smiling any more. She's looking at me with a worried expression on her face, and when she puts the iPad to one side so that she can write her reply in her notepad, it seems to take her longer than normal to choose the right words. The iPad is brilliant but sometimes Martha still finds it easier to write things down, even though her hand is all shaky.

Finally she sits up and shows me what she's written.

Nobody will tell you when it's your last summer and you probably won't even know it.

I frown at her.

‘What does that even mean?'

She underlines the first part of her message.

Nobody will tell you when it's your last summer.

I don't understand what Martha is trying to tell me. How can this possibly be my last summer?
She must be able to see my confusion because she turns to a fresh page and writes again.

Things change. You are changing. I am changing. Growing older.

‘Oh, I get it,' I say. ‘Yeah – things ARE different now to how they were before.' I grin at her, feeling a bit sheepish. ‘I was a bit of a cow at the start of the summer, wasn't I?'

Martha shakes her head but she's smiling at me.

‘I was completely childish about Mum and Dad splitting up. I acted like a right brat. I wasn't that great to you, either.'

Martha is furiously writing so I pause to give her time.

You'll be all right.

I think for a moment. ‘Of course I will. And so will you. But you're right – I'm getting older. This is my last summer of being a kid. Next year I'm going to be utterly responsible and mature and Beatrice will let me and Frog take you out and we'll have a brilliant time!'

Martha looks tired and I stand up.

‘Time to take you back for your rest,' I tell her. I pack away the iPad and start pushing her towards the house.

Afterwards, sitting behind Dad's shed with the sun on my face, I replay our conversation in my head. And I can't help feeling that Martha was talking about something else. That maybe it isn't just
my
last summer. There's a prickling sensation on the back of my neck and I shake it away. She shouldn't talk like that. Sure, we're all getting older, every single day but there's no point thinking about it. Not while there's still us. Not while there's still life.

Two strikes. They debated for a long time about whether the incident with the dog was serious enough to merit evicting me there and then, but eventually they decided that they would prefer to prolong the agony and keep me a little while longer. I suspect Beatrice was fighting my corner, arguing that I meant no harm. She really shouldn't have wasted her time.

I was actually feeling very low that day. I'd been thinking more and more about Tommy and Mim and those summer days that I thought would never end. I didn't think that Erin had it in her to genuinely surprise me but I must admit, when I saw that ridiculous dog standing next to me I was impressed. She's got something about her, that girl. I think she'll do well in life, as long as all her
spirit and attitude isn't ground out of her, by those who think they know best.

This has not been a summer that I could have predicted. I have grown quite fond of Erin and Frog. The boy means well and has a good heart but he is not the one for Erin. Not like Tommy and I. The pair of us were well matched. We could have had a happy life together. Frog isn't strong enough to deal with Erin. He'll be much happier with someone good-natured like him. She has a darkness that needs to be dealt with by someone who feels it too. Someone who understands.

The summer is nearly at an end. I've been wondering about
lasts
and
ends
for some time now. When was the last time I rode a bicycle? When was the last time I tied my hair up in a ponytail? Who was the last person to give me a hug? There is a fact – when you do something for the last time you will probably have no idea of the significance. You will have no idea that this is the last time you will eat chocolate or the last time you will listen to music. You are blissfully unaware that this is the last train journey you will ever go on or the last book you will ever read. In fact, the last book you read may be one you dislike. It almost definitely will not be your favourite book.

Do not think, for one second, that these
lasts
only exist when you are old. They start creeping up on you. When I was thirty-five years old I realized that I had done my last handstand. I couldn't tell you when I did it but all I knew was that I could no longer perform a handstand if my very life depended upon it. My last handstand had happened.

I don't remember the last word that I spoke with my own, normal voice. I expect it wasn't important at the time. It feels quite important now, though.

I do remember my last summer, however. The months after Tommy had gone were the longest months of my life. Every day I waited for news and every day I was disappointed. I took to wearing the wedding ring he had given me, despite my parents' disapproval, and I bitterly regretted the way I had left him in the woods. I vowed to wait for him for as long as it took and I promised myself that when he returned I would never again leave him alone.

It was a beautiful sunny day when the news came. I remember vividly how the sky was the kind of blue that you see in paintings. It was almost too perfect to be real. I was sitting on the
front step, peeling potatoes, and when my mother came down the street I could tell immediately that something was wrong. She stood in front of me and spoke the words and I looked over her shoulder at the sun and was amazed that it wasn't turning red. How could it continue to shine on a world where Tommy was no more? On a world that let living boys go to war and return as dead men?

Nothing was ever the same after that. Summer never felt like proper summer. But I kept my promise. I have continued to wait for Tommy, even though it has ended up taking a lifetime. My lifetime.

It's time to go. The children will be gone, back to their real lives and it's time for the ending. My ending. And, partly thanks to them, it's going to be a happy ending after all, despite what I've always imagined. This summer has brought a surprising end to many lonely years and I am alone no longer. I'm sure she'll never know it, but Erin has helped me to get better. A good death is as important as a good life and I am ready.

‘Pass me another sandwich,' I tell Frog, stuffing the last bits of crust into my mouth.

‘Yes, your royal highness.' He salutes me and then chucks a ham sandwich across to me.

‘Hey!' I protest, scrambling to catch it before it falls on the rug. ‘Didn't your mother teach you anything about presentation?'

He smirks at me and starts peeling an orange. I lean back on my elbows and look around. I'm hungry, but not for the amazing picnic that Frog's mum has packed for us. What I'm craving is memories. I'm desperate to store up everything that's happened this summer, because school starts tomorrow and it's going to suck.

Our secret hideaway looks even better than it did the first time I stumbled into it. The grass is full of cornflowers and daisies and it's grown really long. Sitting here we are hidden from view. Nobody would know we're here unless we wanted them to find us. Which we don't. I wonder for a few minutes if we could hide out in the gardens of Oak Hill and avoid going back to school. Delay September for just a few days. I'm not ready to give all of this up yet – Martha is using the iPad every day and getting faster and faster. It's almost like having a normal conversation with her now.

She hasn't mentioned anything about the past for ages. I think it's because she doesn't need the memories to feel happy. I think it's because Frog and I are making her happy. We're making her better. Giving her a reason to live.

She did give me that same message again the other day, though. She wrote it on a piece of paper and made me take it with me.

Nobody will tell you when it's your last summer. Enjoy the now, Erin. Live for the NOW.

It's all very well telling me to live for the now, but Martha isn't looking at spending the next eight weeks trapped in a smelly classroom, listening to Lauren and Nat witter on about their fascinating love lives with only algebraic fractions to distract me. That's if they'll even talk to me at all.

‘Can I have a seggy?' I ask Frog.

He looks at me with pretend horror on his face. ‘Can you have a
what
?'

‘A seggy. You know – a segment of your orange.'

He frowns. ‘I've just expended more energy on peeling this thing than I'm actually going to gain by eating it, you realize? You reckon I like you enough to share a piece of my hard-fought-for orange?'

‘I know you do,' I tell him, stretching out my hand expectantly.

Frog passes me two segments of orange. ‘It's true,' he sighs dramatically. ‘I am powerless to resist your charms. In fact, is there anything else I can do for you while I'm here? Peel you a grape? Wash your stinky feet?'

He grabs my foot and starts to unlace my trainer. I shriek and thump his arm.

‘Get off me, you weirdo! Don't go anywhere near my feet!'

‘Ahh, I spot a weakness in your armour,' says Frog, but he lets go and lies down on the rug. ‘Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. I won't tell a soul about your foul, fetid, feet.'

‘FYI, I do NOT have smelly feet,' I tell him, trying to sound huffy but failing miserably. I lie down next to him and put my hands behind my head. ‘Oh god, why do we have to go back to school tomorrow. I don't think I can cope.'

‘You'll cope,' Frog says. ‘You have to. Anyway, aren't you looking forward to seeing your friends?'

I groan. The thought of Lauren and Nat makes me feel even worse. I feel like I've changed a lot this summer and I just can't imagine spending my lunchtimes sitting on the wall and watching them snog whichever boy is flavour of the month.
Particularly when they always choose disgusting coffee flavour and I've got delicious mint choc chip right here next to me on this rug and I don't know how to tell him that I like him.

I really like him. A lot. I like him in that way where I always know where he is, even if I'm not looking right at him. I like him in the way that if he's nearby then all the hairs on my arm will stand up on end before we've even brushed against each other. I like him in the way that I miss him on the days we're not both at Oak Hill.

And after today it's all going to be over. Sure, we've promised that we'll visit Martha at weekends but I know he's got loads of friends. As soon as he's back at school he'll forget all about me. Frog's going to be in Year 10 and it's pretty much social death for any of them to talk to anyone in Year 9. And there'll be loads more homework for me and choosing my options for GCSEs and lots of other pointless activities that apparently are necessary if we are all to grow up.

And now it's our last afternoon. The last afternoon of summer and we can't decide what to do. Beatrice has brought Martha down to the water fountain and Frog and I are slumped on the bench, trying to agree on a fitting activity.

‘We could practise the jitterbug,' suggests Frog. Martha looks keen but I shake my head.

‘I am NOT in the mood for dancing,' I tell them.

‘So what shall we do?' asks Frog. ‘We don't want to waste the last afternoon.'

And that's the exact problem. It's too important a time to waste doing something rubbish – and nothing seems good enough.

‘
A walk round the garden?
' types out Martha on the iPad, but I groan.

‘Boring,' I tell her and then ignore her grimace. She hates me saying that. Last week she spent ages choosing the words in order to tell me that ‘
only boring people use the word boring
', which I told her was even more boring than the thing that had made me bored in the first place.

This is useless. I just want to spend the afternoon having fun with my two favourite people but we're all sitting here acting like we're at a funeral. If we don't decide on something soon then the afternoon will be gone.

I pick up my sketchpad from beside me and grab a pencil from my rucksack. I might as well do
something
until someone comes up with a
plan. Without thinking about what I'm doing I start sketching Martha, using light pencil marks to outline her face.

After a few minutes I realize that Frog and Martha are watching me.

‘Can I have a go?' asks Frog, and I tear a sheet of paper out of my pad and pass him a pencil. Then I carry on with my drawing. I've just got as far as Martha's nose when she thrusts a note at me.

And me?

I look up at Martha, unsure that I've understood her correctly. But she's smiling and pointing at my sketchpad, so I rip out another sheet and give her one of the art books that I've been lugging about for the last few weeks to lean on.

And then we sit quietly, the only sounds the scratching of the pencils. Frog is leaning over, resting his paper on the seat of the bench and glancing up at me every now and again. Martha is relaxed in her wheelchair and I'm pretty sure she's drawing Frog. I focus on my sketch and soon I am only aware of the picture, as I define
the shape of Martha's face and shade and rework the marks I'm making until I can see her looking up at me from the page.

Eventually, Martha puts her pencil down and stretches in her chair. Frog stops fairly soon after and they talk to each other using the iPad while I finish. I don't want to rush – I can tell that this picture is going to be one of my best.

When I'm finished I look up. The last afternoon has gone. The sun is sinking fast and Martha looks like she feels cold.

‘Where did the time go?' I ask.

Frog laughs. ‘I guess we were all busy. Let's see your picture then!'

I'm suddenly a bit shy. ‘No. you first. Come on – time to reveal your talents!'

‘OK, you asked for it! Just remember that I did warn you about my lack of artistic ability.'

Frog spins his paper round to face us, with a big flourish.

‘Ta da!' he says.

I was right. He has drawn a portrait of me. And he wasn't kidding, either – art is definitely NOT one of his strengths. And yet … there's
something
. I take the picture from him and look at it closely. It looks nothing like me – the nose is
too big and the chin is too square (at least I hope my chin doesn't look like that), but there's something about it that makes me feel good. Maybe it's the eyes. The me in the picture looks happy. She looks warm. She looks like the person who drew her really, really cares about her.

‘I love it,' I tell Frog in a quiet voice. ‘Can I keep it?'

‘Yeah,' he says, and when I look up at him he looks me straight in the eyes and I see that his eyes are warm and happy and full of something special.

‘Show us your drawing, Martha,' I say, forcing myself to look away from Frog before I say or do something utterly stupid.

Martha picks up her paper and passes it to Frog. I peer over his shoulder and stifle a laugh.

‘Er … that's great?' he tells Martha hesitantly.

Martha smiles, which is good because I can't restrain the giggles that have been building up in my throat any longer. She has drawn a picture of a frog. And it's pretty awful. One eye is twice the size of the other and some of the lines zip right off the page.

‘You can tell it's meant to be a frog, though,' I say, through my laughter. It's really important to
be positive about other people's art – even when it's virtually impossible to find something to be positive about.

Martha smiles and wiggles her right hand at us.

I look at her in surprise. ‘You used your right hand?'

She nods proudly.

‘Martha! That's brilliant! I didn't know you could hold a pencil yet. You must have been doing your exercises then?'

She nods.

‘In that case,' says Frog, ‘this is an amazing piece of art. I shall treasure it forever!'

We laugh and I suddenly feel that we've spent the last afternoon doing something perfect.

‘Your turn, Erin,' Frog tells me. ‘Come on, you can't wriggle out of it any more. Show us what you've got.'

I get up and stand next to Martha.

‘I did this for you,' I tell her. ‘I wanted to show you what I see when I look at you.'

I put the paper down on her lap and wait. Martha looks down at the page and my drawing. I have drawn her, but not how she looks now. I've tried to look behind the wrinkly skin and the saggy eyes and the tired mouth. Instead I've
drawn the Martha who could do the jitterbug. The Martha who loved No-good Tommy. I don't know if I've got it right until she looks up at me, tears streaming down her face.

‘Don't cry!' I say, feeling alarmed. ‘I didn't mean to make you sad. I'm sorry!'

Martha wipes her eyes with her sleeve and looks again at the picture, pointing first at it and then at herself.

‘You can keep it,' I tell her. ‘Just no cry face, OK?'

Martha leans over and grips my hand, her grasp surprisingly firm. I can feel the bones beneath the soft, wrinkly skin and I think that this is what being old is all about. The same person inside but barely recognizable to yourself in the mirror. I think about how Martha isn't bothered about rules and all the things she's taught me this summer. I wonder if I'd have found those things out for myself anyway or if I'd have had to wait until I was an old lady to work out what really matters. I wonder how much stuff we don't get told before it's too late.

And that's it. The last afternoon has been and gone. When I get into bed that night I prop up
Frog's picture against my bedside lamp, where I can see it as I fall asleep. I wonder if Martha has done the same thing with my drawing. The words she gave me are buzzing round my brain and even though I'm trying not to think about it I can't help knowing two things.

This was the last afternoon. And it was also the last summer.