Mr Speed sighed.
‘I can’t do that, Samantha. I can sometimes solve little tiny problems but I can’t do a thing about big sad problems. Not even mine. My own marriage broke up a while ago. I know just how you’re feeling, poppet.’
‘Did you leave your children, Mr Speed?’
‘I don’t have any children,’ he said. He gave a funny little grin. ‘Maybe teaching all you lot put me off having any of my own?’
‘But if you did have children would you walk out on them?’
‘Oh, Samantha, how can I possibly answer that one?’ said Mr Speed.
‘I bet you wouldn’t,’ I said. I thought about my dad. I saw him walking off, his arm round Sandy. I stood still in the corridor. ‘I hate my dad,’ I whispered. The words tasted bad in my mouth so I spat them out louder. ‘I hate my dad!’
‘Yes. I can understand that,’ said Mr Speed. ‘Though you still love him lots too. But you’re very, very angry with him. That’s why you started punching his picture. But that’s not really a good idea, is it? You only hurt your poor old hand.’ He carefully patted my bandage.
‘What do you think I should do then, Mr Speed? Punch my dad?’
‘That’s maybe not a good idea either.’
‘Our Simon kicked his girlfriend. She got a big bruise on her leg.’
‘Oh dear. I shall wear shinpads when your Simon comes up into the Juniors. He’s in Miss Morgan’s class, isn’t he? She’ll channel all his energy into finger painting or digging in the sandpit. Excellent activities! How about a spot of digging, Samantha? How about getting a spade and having a good dig in your garden whenever you feel especially cross or miserable?’
‘We live in a flat, Mr Speed. We haven’t even got a window box.’
‘Ah. Well . . . perhaps we could purloin a little patch of the school garden?’ Mr Speed smiled. ‘Let’s go and have a look round, see if we can find the right little corner.’
So Mr Speed and I went across the playground over to the garden. I’d played on the grass heaps of times but I’d never really looked properly at the garden bit before. I peered at the plants. Mr Speed started spouting all these long Latin names. I listened politely, not really taking any of it in until Mr Speed pointed to a patch of earth behind a big bush.
‘Aha! This looks the perfect plot. OK, Samantha. This is your patch. I’ll find you a spade. You can dig here any playtime or lunchtime, before school, after school, whenever.’
I tried having a little dig there and then. I couldn’t do too much because of my sore hand. I wasn’t very good at it at first. I was too quick and clumsy and couldn’t budge the hard earth. Mr Speed showed me how to do it slowly and rhythmically, putting my foot on the spade, straightening up so I wouldn’t hurt my back.
‘That’s it! Ah, you’ve got into the swing of things now. We’ll be hiring you out on building sites at this rate. You’ll have muscles like Madonna by the end of the month.’
I think digging has made me stronger. Greg was mucking around in the corridor doing a silly dance and showing off in front of Holly. He did a twiddly bit and banged right into me. I pushed him away so hard he nearly fell over! That’ll teach him. I can’t stick Greg now. I don’t envy Holly one bit. I wouldn’t want him as a boyfriend if you paid me.
I don’t want William as my boyfriend either. But he seems to think he is!
I cheered up a bit after I had my first little dig. I felt mean for making William cry so I went up to him after school. He cowered away as if I was going to hit him. That made me feel worse – so I put my arm round him.
‘Sorry I yelled at you, William,’ I said, and I gave him a hug.
I thought that was it. It was as far as I was concerned. But now William goes pink whenever I go near him and he follows me around like a little dog. He tries to carry my schoolbag and rushes to get my school lunch for me and whenever I go for a dig William trails after me and wants to dig too.
I had a little moan about it to Mr Speed.
‘It was my private patch, Mr Speed, and now William wants to dig too.’
‘Yeah, I can see it’s annoying having young William under your feet all the time, Samantha. But on the other hand he needs a bit of digging therapy himself.’
‘OK, Mr Speed. But I wish he didn’t have to dig on my bit. I tried planting an apple core just to see if it might just grow up into an apple tree and William dug it up the very next day.’
‘Perhaps you could mark off your special bit and make sure William keeps to his? And I’ll let you have a few seeds and bulbs if you fancy a spot of real gardening. That’s a great idea.’
So I divided my patch into two and told William he could dig all he wanted on his own bit. Mr Speed brought us lots of lovely things to plant in our new gardens. Mine were a mixture of pretty flower seeds: pinks and pansies, primroses and sweet peas.
‘And I’ll see if I can get some raspberry canes too. They’ll be a lot speedier than apple trees,’ said Mr Speed. ‘I thought you’d like to grow something to eat too, William, seeing as you’re the lad of gargantuan appetite. I thought potatoes would be more in your line. Think of all those chips! And we might go for something really exotic like a marrow. That would be a challenge for the Enormous Mouthful contest! But you’d better have a few flowers too.’
Mr Speed handed him a seed packet with a picture of deep purply-red-and-white little flowers on it. They were called Sweet Williams!
‘I wish there was a flower called Sweet Samantha,’ said Mr Speed.
So now I’ve stopped digging and started gardening. Little weeny green shoots are starting to grow through the very well-dug earth. They might just be little weeds though. We’ll have to wait and see.
Mr Speed brought William and me a tomato plant today. My dad loves tomatoes. He can gollop up a whole pound, easy-peasy. If he comes to visit when my tomatoes are ripe I might offer him his very own home-grown tomato salad. But if he doesn’t come then Mum and Simon and me will eat them all up. Well, I’ll save enough for a special tomato sandwich for Mr Speed.
I have one worry less. My teacher really does like me lots!
The first Worry Website story about Holly was made available on the Internet last year by BOL and the Guardian. I suggested we have a competition to see if any children wanted to make up their own story about a child in Mr Speed’s class who has a worry to type onto the website. I was delighted that there were 15,000 entries. The shortlisted stories I personally judged were all of such a high standard that it was agonizing only being able to choose one. but that one story was so special that it simply had to be the winner. It’s by Lauren Roberts, aged twelve.
I’d planned to make Lauren’s the last story in the book but it ends so sadly that I decided to add one more story myself, just to try to end things on a happy note.
So here is Lauren’s wonderful prize-winning Worry Website story.
Jacqueline Wilson
TYPE IN YOUR worry:
I . . .
I think . . .
Oh, this is useless. I could type in a thousand worries if I had to, but I can’t find one un-stupid enough to put in. I do that. Make up words from somewhere. I make lots of things up, fantasy things, like creatures and magical people so I can disappear into my own world whenever I like.
I don’t need to disappear anywhere at home though; I’ve got my mum. She’s the best mum in the world. Sometimes I draw her with flowing black hair and piercing blue eyes, trapped in a tower waiting for a prince to come and rescue her. My mum is beautiful, and she’s trapped. Stuck in a flat with me and the wicked wizard who spends all our money on beer and cigarettes.
The wicked wizard is my dad. We only see him at teatime and in the morning now. He’s out all night at the pub. My mum keeps saying that he’ll change. He never will.
I remember when I was little, and we all used to sit on their big bed and he used to read to me. My favourite was The Ugly Duckling. I can remember my mum reading the swan’s parts in a smooth soft voice, a
nd Dad doing the ugly duckling and the ducks’ parts in funny high-pitched voices that made me giggle. I loved that room. It had a nice musky smell. We had to move when I was seven because Dad got a new job. That’s when he started changing.
He was always late home, and then he went straight to bed. He stopped playing games with me and Mum. He didn’t talk any more, only shouted.
I missed my old school and my best friend, Sarah. We used to be inseparable. The teachers would rush up to us before breaktimes and ask us to keep the Reception classes under control, because we were one-hundred-per-cent reliable. We kept them occupied by doing this little comedy routine. Their favourite was the ‘she’s behind you’ routine. Sarah stood in front and said, ‘I wonder where Lisa could be’ – and just then I’d run past behind her and pull funny faces. The classes would all point and shout, ‘She’s behind you!’ Then I’d hide again. They loved that.
When I came to my new school I didn’t fit in. Some of the girls tried to talk to me but I wouldn’t talk to them. I really wanted to make some friends but whenever someone talked to me I remembered Sarah and felt guilty.
The boys ignored me until we did football in PE (girls v boys) and we won 6–3. I scored five goals. Then all the boys picked me for their footie team, and reckoned I was dead sporty. They picked me for other teams, like rounders and basketball, but soon I realized I couldn’t hit a rounders ball with a bat the size of Calcutta and I couldn’t score a basket if they paid me.
Mrs Bryn shouted at me a lot for being behind in class and not doing homework. I was glad to move up to Mr Speed’s class.
Mr Speed was great at cheering me up. He helped me catch up with my work and make friends. It felt great.
But one day after I’d been to Claire’s house, I came home and my mum was crying. She said that she’d just banged her arm and bruised it. I hugged her tight and told her she’d be all right. She had hurt her face too, but it didn’t cross my mind what might be going on until I went to bed. It was just as I fell asleep that I understood that my dad – the same squeaky duckling, imaginary games, laughing, smiling dad that I had loved with all my heart right up until the point he changed – could be hurting my mother.
I was afraid to leave my mum in the morning, so I started coughing like crazy, and she tucked me up on the sofa. I pretended to be asleep and heard my dad shouting and my mum trying not to let him wake me, which made him shout more.
I opened my eyes in time to see him hit Mum and leave. My body froze. As soon as the door closed I rushed to my mum’s side.
The next day when he came back he was all lovey-dovey, looking for forgiveness. I expected Mum to turn him right away, but she let him in! He still lives with us, and he’s being nice so far. He’ll snap any second now.
Type in your worry:
I’m starting to get spots.
After all, there are some things you don’t want people to know.
TYPE IN YOUR worry:
I wish I could take part in the concert.
Mr Speed is organizing a concert. The whole class keeps going on about it. William is fussing because he can’t do anything. Everyone else is singing or playing a musical instrument or reciting a poem or dancing. I can’t sing or play or recite or dance. But people don’t expect me to be able to perform. I can’t even walk or talk. But it’s OK. I manage. I use a wheelchair. It’s electric and powerful so sometimes I can muck about chasing the other kids. I have a special speaking machine too. My fingers work in a shaky sort of way so I can press the right button and words get said. Not always the words I want. I can’t say rude words when I’m cross unless I spell them out laboriously. I usually choose to say short easy words because it’s so much quicker.
It makes me sound a bit simple. I know I look it. But I’m NOT. I go to a special school but we have proper lessons, Maths and English and Science and stuff just like everyone else. And one day a week I go up the road and round the corner to Mapleton Juniors to see what it’s like in an ordinary classroom.
Only it’s not the slightest bit ordinary. They have this really wacky teacher Mr Speed. I wasn’t sure I liked him at first. He leaps about a lot and shouts and uses weird long words. The teachers and helpers at my special school walk carefully and talk quietly and use words everyone can understand. I got a bit nervous when he came near me at first. My arms jerked about more than usual and I shrank down even smaller than usual. Most people think I’m younger than I am because I’m quite little. They treat you like a baby anyway if you use a wheelchair.
But not Mr Speed.
‘Hello, Natasha,’ he said, straight to me. Lots of people look at Wendy, my helper, even though they’re talking to me.
I made my machine say hello back. Mr Speed told the class about my talking machine and asked if I’d say hello to them too. I did. Then I added, ‘Let’s make friends.’ This was artful. I knew they’d all go, ‘Aaah!’ and say yes. You need to get children on your side. Sometimes they can be sooo mean. They can call you Spaz and Dummy and the Veggie. You can’t have thin skin if you have a disability. Sometimes I’ve had to have skin like a rhinoceros to stop all the rude remarks hurting me.
But Mr Speed’s class were all good to me right from the start. Almost too nice. The girls begged Wendy to let them push me around and they treated me like a doll, fussing with my hair and fiddling with my chair strap and speaking very loud and very s–l–o–w–l–y. The boys waved at me a bit nervously, keeping well clear of my wheelchair – in case I leapt up and bit them? They were all ever so polite though – apart from William. He didn’t mean to be rude. He isn’t that sort of kid. He just stared and stared and stared at me, as if I was an extraordinary television programme. The pretty girl, Samantha, gave him a little nudge and whispered to him not to stare so.
‘Why?’ said William.
‘Because it’s rude,’ Samantha hissed.
‘But she looks so funny,’ said William.
‘Sh!’ said Samantha, going pink.
‘She can’t hear, can she?’ said William. ‘She can’t speak.’
It seems to me that it’s old William who has the disability – a mental one. But I suppose he can’t help it. Same as I can’t help looking funny. William’s right about that. My mum says I’ve got a lovely smile and my dad says I’m his Pretty Princess and Wendy says I’ve got beautiful blue eyes – but they are simply being kind. Mr Speed says I have lovely long hair. He gently pulls my plaits and calls me Rapunzel. I quite like this. I like my hair too. But I know pretty hair doesn’t stop me looking weird. Well, not unless I turned into a real Rapunzel and grew it down to my ankles and covered myself with it, like a great furry hood and coat.
I’d like that. I could stay hidden inside. You’re always so obvious if you have a disability. You can’t hide behind the other kids or creep to a corner of the classroom. You’re always on display in your big wheelchair, often with your helper beside you. You can’t whisper secrets when you have a voice machine. You can’t have secrets.
I had to get Wendy to tap in my worry on the website as I can’t reach the computer keys properly. And when I wanted to look at the replies I couldn’t just wait for an appropriate moment and nip across and have a quick glance. I had to get Wendy to manoeuvre my wheelchair in and out the desks and then click on all the right places on the screen.
I waited until after school when everyone had gone home. Mr Speed was still there, but he pretended not to notice what Wendy and I were doing. He was trying to construct some kind of fairy-tale carriage out of cardboard boxes for the concert. He was doing his best with gold paint and old pram wheels but the audience might have to be kind and use their imagination. A girl called Lisa was painting scenery in a corner. She nodded to me shyly and then went on with her work. She seemed much more artistic than Mr Speed. She’d painted an all-purpose fairy-tale land with princesses with long golden hair and pink enchanted castles and wicked wizards swigging from their own bubbling cauldrons.
That’s another thing I can�
�t do. Paint. I know exactly how I want to do it in my head but it won’t come out like that on the page. My hand just jerks and it all splodges. I won’t even try now.
Mr Speed saw me staring at Lisa’s scenery.
‘It’s good, isn’t it, Natasha?’
‘Very, very, very good,’ I said with my voice machine. Wendy thought my finger had gone into spasm by the third ‘very’ and went to help me. I shook my head at her impatiently. Then I felt mean. It is so hard to have a helper all the time when you don’t want to be helped.
Lisa looked up and smiled.
‘Thank you,’ she muttered, and carried on.
‘The class members who lack specific talents are all in this mini-pantomime at the end of the concert. That’s what all this scenery is for. Oh lordy, this wretched concert,’ said Mr Speed. He pressed down too hard on his fairy carriage and it collapsed. Mr Speed said a very rude word and then put his hand over his mouth. ‘I hope you girls didn’t hear that,’ he said.
Lisa giggled. I giggled. Wendy giggled too.
‘Why do I get involved year after year?’ said Mr Speed. ‘It’s just one big worry.’
‘Type your worry into the website!’ I spoke slowly.
Mr Speed waited patiently and laughed when I was finished. ‘Teachers aren’t allowed to have worries,’ he said.
He glanced ever so casually at the screen.
‘What sort of comments has the latest worry attracted? I believe someone wants to be in the concert?’
‘You know the someone is me,’ I said.
‘You’re not daft, are you, Natasha?’ said Mr Speed.
The Worry Website Page 6
