Five Things They Never Told Me (8 page)

I tend to believe that old worn-out clichés are genuinely a complete load of bunkum and today has proved me right, yet again.
With experience comes wisdom
. I've never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life. I have lived for eighty-five years and had a great many experiences but I am no closer to being wise than I was as a girl of twelve.

Erin is self-centred, self-absorbed and only interested in her own needs. Normally I would applaud those characteristics but she has overstepped the mark today. She failed to keep her word and that is a trait I refuse to accept in even my closest friends. I suppose, here, I must acknowledge that I no longer have any close friends, but that's not the point. There are rules and while I, possibly more than the next person,
believe that rules were made to be broken, there is no excuse for breaking a promise. She agreed to stay with me in the garden and she wandered off at the first opportunity. No backbone, that's her problem.

I must admit to feeling a little sad when she turned up at the water fountain and refused to speak to me. I had hoped that her chattering would provide me with some entertainment. Instead I've had to listen to Beatrice, who means well but is overworked and underpaid and gives out a perpetual aura of exhaustion. I have enough exhaustion in my life – what I crave, what I need, is youth and verve and enthusiasm. Zest for life and couldn't-care-less. The girl has all of that flowing out from her in waves. She has enough to share.

I've been thinking about my childhood since Erin asked me those questions the other day. It's funny, the things that you remember. Growing up in the war, you'd think it was all terror and misery, but we children just didn't see things like that. I remember being given our gas masks and Mim and I having to practise putting them on. They were hot and smelt of rubber, which I loathed. I couldn't see the point of carrying them around
with me everywhere I went. I had no fear of death. Death wasn't something that happened to children, or so I thought in the early days.

I hated the gas mask – although I loved the small cardboard box that we were supposed to keep it in. It had a long strap that I wore over my shoulder and if I took the gas mask out and hid it under my bed, there was room in the box for my penknife and a pencil and an apple. I used to imagine it was my handbag.

Of course, Mim cottoned on to what I was up to and reported me to Father. He was furious and I had to present myself to him every evening at 6 p.m. for gas-mask checks.

Death wasn't something that was part of my life until the summer that I was fourteen years old. I was playing with my friends in the field behind our house when a German plane, obviously in trouble, swooped right low down by us, preparing to land. I could see the pilot's face through the cockpit window and my feet just wouldn't move. They were rooted to that field as if I was wearing a pair of concrete boots – there was no chance of getting out of his way. Everything happened very quickly. My friends were screaming and I saw him looking at us, and then he zoomed up again into
the sky, only to crash into the next field where his plane burst into flames. I have often wondered if his mother knew of his bravery and the way he sacrificed himself to save his enemy's children.

It surprises me, when I've been remembering, to look in the mirror. In my memories I am a young (and rather beautiful) girl. The reality is shocking and it can take me a moment to work out who the wrinkled old woman is that appears to be standing by my shoulder. The problem is that everyone from the old days has gone – there is nobody left to see the Martha who was young, full of energy and love. Only I know that I'm still here inside.

It's Saturday and we're back at Oak Hill. Dad had the chance of some overtime and when he asked if I minded I told him that it didn't really matter to me – being grounded in the house is just as bad as being grounded at Oak Hill. I think he looked a bit sad when I said that but I don't care – I hope he feels guilty for wrecking my summer.

Nobody has said a word to me about what happened the other day with Martha. I turned up
at the water fountain as usual the day after but she didn't appear. I expected to get hauled in front of Dad and given a hard time, but it's like nobody knows that I abandoned her. Almost as if she didn't tell anyone, which I find difficult to believe because I definitely get the impression that she can't stand me. She could have written it down in her notebook and shown Beatrice.

After saying goodbye to Dad at his shed I race through the gardens, heading straight for my secret hideaway. A whole day on my own will be good – I could do with some peace and quiet after all the excitement of this week.

I run round the corner and screech to a halt. There is somebody here. In MY hideaway. I haven't spotted a single person here all summer but now I can see somebody crouched down in the long grass by the stream. I stand still, unsure whether to turn and run before I'm spotted or march over there and tell them to get lost.

Before I can make up my mind, the figure stands up and looks straight at me.

‘Hey!' he calls. ‘Come and see this!'

He crouches back down in the grass and I walk forward slowly, staring at him in disbelief.
It's him again
. The gorgeous, scruffy-haired boy. The
one that raced in to rescue Martha the other day. Why is he HERE, in my secret place? Maybe he's come to have a go at me about leaving Martha all alone. I make a pathetic attempt to smooth my hair down as I get closer to him and wish that I wasn't wearing my old jeans and a ratty T-shirt.

He looks up as I get close.

‘Look! It's so cool!'

I look where he's pointing and my first instinct is to recoil in horror. It is not cool. It is disgusting. There, right next to gorgeous boy, is the ugliest, wartiest frog that I have ever seen. Not to mention the biggest.

‘I haven't seen one this size before,' he says, sounding excited. I sigh, feeling disappointed. There's always something to spoil it. He might look stunning and seem kind of friendly – but he's obviously a total weirdo.

‘Er – no,' I say. ‘Me neither. But then again, I don't exactly go out of my way to look for frogs.'

‘It's not a frog!' he says, laughing and standing up. ‘It's a toad.'

‘Oh – I'm so sorry. My bad. Frog – toad. Whatever.'

I'm aware that I'm not being very friendly but I'm seriously put out that someone else has
intruded into my personal space – even if he is really good-looking. Plus I'm getting ready to defend myself if he starts blaming me for Martha's fall.

‘I'm Lucas,' says Frog Boy. ‘We go to the same school, don't we? You're about to start Year Nine, right?'

He holds out his hand and it takes me a moment to realize that he wants us to shake hands. I hesitate – if he's been touching that frog then I have no intention of getting slime on me and anyway, who shakes hands in this day and age?

‘It's OK,' he tells me. ‘I haven't got
toady
hands.' And then he grins at me and I find myself putting my hand in his – this strange, mind-reading, gorgeous Frog Boy.

‘You must be Erin,' he says and I feel my insides lurch. Maybe he is actually psychic. I really hope he didn't read my mind when I was thinking mean thoughts about him.

‘Yeah,' I say. I am not behaving like a particularly sophisticated young lady right now but thankfully, Frog Boy either hasn't noticed or doesn't care.

‘My grandad told me about you,' he says and we start walking through the grass towards the bench that I spent hours clearing. ‘I've been
looking out for you for a while – I mean, Grandad's great and everything but when him and Mum start rambling on about the old times I do get a bit bored. I thought I'd tracked you down the other day but then we had to deal with Martha falling out of her chair. By the way, sorry if I sounded bossy – it's just that you looked so freaked-out and I knew we needed to get some help! And today I stumbled upon this place – I guess I've found your hidden lair!'

‘I guess so,' I mutter weakly.

‘You come here every day, right?' continues Frog Boy. I nod – he seems to have stolen my voice. ‘Cool! Mum wants to visit Grandad loads over the next few weeks because she's taken some time off work. We can hang out.'

We've reached the seat and for the first time in the last few minutes, Frog Boy seems unsure of himself. ‘I mean, only if you want to. I don't want to invade your space or anything.'

I look at him, my brain trying to think straight. I don't know why, but I just can't seem to say the right thing to this boy and, even with his weird frog fixation, I think that I might like him. But I'm messing it up and now he's smiling at me and nodding a bit and walking away, and in two
seconds he's going to have gone round the corner and out of sight, and I'll have missed my chance.

‘I'd like that!' I suddenly call. ‘Hanging out, I mean. I'll be here on Monday afternoon.'

Frog Boy grins again and holds up a hand to wave goodbye. I wave weakly back in reply and it is only then, as I watch him disappear down the path, that I have two thoughts. One: that he doesn't seem to know that Martha's fall was my fault, and Two: that he held my hand all the way from the frog to the seat. And I didn't even notice.

I spend most of Sunday planning my outfit for Monday and my meeting with Frog Boy. (I know he told me his name but I totally can't remember it so I'm hoping it just kind of comes up in conversation.) It needs to be fabulous but completely casual – like I've chucked on some old clothes but still look amazing. In the end I settle for skinny jeans and my short-sleeved check shirt. Mum used to say that the purple and black in the shirt brought out the dark brown in my eyes. I don't know if that's true but it's always been my favourite top since she said that.

I think I must be quite distracted because Dad asks me if I'm OK at least three times. I tell him I'm fine but I don't think he believes me. I've shown Picasso my outfit and I think he approved. It was kind of hard to tell, though, because all he seems to want to do is sleep at the moment. He's getting seriously lazy.

I get to the secret hideaway before Frog Boy and wander down to the stream, lying on my stomach and dangling my fingers in the water, watching the sunlight reflect off the ripples and make funny patterns on the stones.

‘Looking for your frog?' A voice yanks me out of my doze and I look up, squinting into the sun.

‘Huh?' I say, carrying on the tradition of behaving like a complete idiot in front of this boy.

Frog Boy sinks down on to the grass beside me.

‘Looking for your frog? You know, the one you have to kiss to turn him back into a prince so that you can live happily ever after!'

‘Yeah, well,' I say, turning back to the stream, ‘I'm kind of over
happily ever after
s. Turns out they don't even exist.'

‘Yeah.
Happily ever after
should be sued by the Trade Descriptions Act,' agrees Frog Boy, picking a piece of grass and holding it between
his thumbs. Then he cups his hands together and blows into them, making a high-pitched, whistling sound.

‘Hey! How do you do that?' I ask, scrambling up on to my knees. We spend the next twenty minutes with him trying to teach me, but the only sound I can make is a farty, raspberry noise – nothing like the shrill squeal that he can do.

By the time I give up we're laughing and chatting as if we've known each other forever. I can't remember feeling like this around a boy before – like I can just be myself and not pretend to be someone I'm not.

In fact, I'm so chilled out that when I see the shadow being made by a tree across the stream, I don't think twice about pulling my sketchbook out of my rucksack. Normally I'd never let anyone see it, just in case they thought I was rubbish. I sit, cross-legged in the grass, and start drawing and even though I've only just met him, I'm pretty sure that Frog Boy won't mock me.

He doesn't say anything for a while, but after ten minutes or so he scoots closer to me and peers over my shoulder.

‘That's really good,' he tells me, and I feel myself flush with pride. ‘I like the way you've
used the pencil lightly – almost like I have to imagine what might fill in the gaps.'

I look round at him. ‘Do you like art too?' I ask. He laughs.

‘Like it? Sure. Am I any good at it? No chance.' He lies back on the grass and looks up at the clouds, skittering across the sky as if they're in a hurry to get somewhere before dark.

‘I bet you
are
good. You probably just don't know it,' I say. I want to make him feel good too, like he's made me feel.

‘No. Seriously, I'm terrible at art. If I try to draw a cat everyone thinks it's a hamster. On steroids. I got an A for effort and an F for achievement on my last school report.'

I wince. That is pretty awful. Frog Boy sees my face and grins at me again.

‘Don't worry about it. Art just isn't my thing. What I love more than anything is writing.'

I leap on this with enthusiasm. ‘Ooh – what sort of thing do you write? I bet you're great.'

He sits up and looks at me carefully, his big blue eyes looking as if they're trying to decide something. ‘Well …' he says slowly, ‘I have got this one idea for a book that I think could be huge.'

‘Go on!' I say, totally focused on every word. My mind is already racing ahead – he could write a book and I could do the illustrations. How cool would
that
be?

‘OK, I'll tell you. But you have to swear you'll keep it a secret.'

‘I swear,' I breathe. There's something about Frog Boy that makes me believe he could do anything he wanted.

He looks down at the grass and then peeks up at me through his eyelashes, making himself look even more adorable than usual. He has every single bit of my attention.

‘It's about a boy,' he starts.

‘Go on,' I say.

‘It's about a boy who goes to boarding school.' He pauses. ‘A magical boarding school for wizards.'

‘Hang on –' I say, starting to feel suspicious.

‘Let me finish!' interrupts Frog Boy. ‘I haven't got to the best bit yet. Don't you WANT to hear my idea for a bestselling novel?'

I nod, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt.

‘As I was saying, it's about a boy who goes to a magical boarding school for wizards. His name
(and this is the genius part), his name is – Gary Botter!'

Frog Boy erupts into laughter as he watches my face. I thump him on the arm.

‘You are such an idiot,' I tell him, trying really hard not to snigger.

‘Come on, though – I totally had you,' he says, lying back on the grass.

‘Not even close,' I tell him, lying next to him on my stomach with my hands under my chin. ‘You'll have to do a lot better than that to fool me.'

The sun is still hot and it's totally silent except for the sound of the breeze blowing through the leaves and the stream flowing over the stones. I'm not sure I've ever been anywhere this peaceful in my whole life and I think it'd be nice to stay here and not have to worry about other people and how they're feeling.

‘So, what's the deal with Martha, then?' asks Frog Boy suddenly, ruining my chilled vibe.

‘What d'you mean?' I think it's best if I play it cool until I've figured out what he knows.

‘Well, my grandad told me that you were hanging out with her, but you haven't even been into the house to visit her since she fell. She's fine, by the way – just a few bumps and bruises.'

I redden and say nothing. It hadn't even dawned on me to visit her. I'd be the last person she'd want to see.

‘Grandad thought it was a shame. He said you were good for her.'

I look at Frog Boy in disbelief. ‘Good for her? She hates me. She probably never wants to see me ever again.'

Frog Boy looks at me with a weird expression on his face. ‘Er, OK …' he says slowly, drawing out the syllables of each word. ‘Not sure where you're getting your information but Grandad reckons she really likes you.'

I don't know what to think about this. It makes no sense. ‘What do you mean?' I say. ‘She's completely grumpy and miserable whenever I see her.'

Frog Boy laughs.

‘Oh, she is,' he tells me. ‘Super-grumpy. Grandad always says that if there were an award for grouchiest pensioner then Martha would win hands down. But he only says it to make her scowl. He likes her really. And he said that she definitely frowned less after she'd had a visit from you. That's why he thought you were good for her. Gave her something to think about.'

I don't know what to say to this. I think for a while but my thoughts are all jumbled up and I can't seem to work out what I should do next. I groan and roll on to my back, looking up at the clouds and wishing that, just for once, life could be simple.

‘What's wrong?' asks Frog Boy. He has heard my groan and propped himself up on one arm, looking down at me.

‘I wasn't actually that nice to Martha,' I tell him. ‘I thought that she – well, anyway, it doesn't matter what I thought. I didn't really think about her at all, I guess. But you know, she's so old and everything …' My voice tails off when I realize that there isn't really any excuse. I thought she was old. I thought she hated me. I forgot she was real.

Frog Boy gets to his feet and grabs my hand, pulling me up to a standing position.

‘I don't know how to make it better,' I tell him as we start walking back towards the house.

He stops for a moment, pulling his jumper on, and even though the jumper is muffling his face when he speaks, I can still clearly hear his reply.

‘We'll think of something,' he says, and as his head pops out of the neck of his jumper he smiles
at me reassuringly. ‘There's still weeks of the holiday left. We'll work on it together.'

We. Together. Just like that I feel my guilt get less. Like Frog Boy has actually taken some of it from me. I have someone to talk to who can talk back. Someone who will listen and share their thoughts. I am not alone.