Ice Lolly

by Jean Ure

  “But I’ve got it right here!” I’m eager for her to read it, so we can talk about it together. But Mrs Caton says quite honestly, just at the moment, she doesn’t have the time.

  “I’m completely snowed under! But I will read it, I promise you. It sounds like fun.”

  “There’s this lovely bit,” I say, “where Mr Pooter paints the bath with red paint.” I flick through the pages, trying to find it. “He goes to have a bath and it all comes off all over him and—”

  And then I have to stop, because a Year 7 butts in wanting to know where she can find the Woodland Fairies books. I know the library is for everyone, but I really hate it when my conversations with Mrs Caton are interrupted, specially when it’s people asking silly questions about silly books. What’s a Year 7 doing, still reading Woodland Fairies? And why can’t she go and find them for herself?

  It’s wrong to think like that. Mum would say it’s better to be reading Woodland Fairies than not reading at all, and that everyone needs to be encouraged. I know this! It’s just that my moments in the library are the best moments of the day. Me and Mrs Caton always have so much to talk about!

  Mrs Caton goes off in search of fairies and I continue flicking through the pages of Diary of a Nobody.

  “I’ve got it!” I cry, as Mrs Caton comes back with the Year 7 and her fairy book. “This is where he’s in the bath. He says—”

  “Oh, now, Laurel, don’t ruin it for me!” Mrs Caton holds up a hand, like a policeman stopping the traffic. “Let me discover it for myself. There you are, Amy.”

  The Year 7 scuttles off with her book. I put Diary of a Nobody back in my bag.

  “Anyway,” I say, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to read something else, but I can’t quite decide what.” I lean across the desk, fiddling with the date stamp. I’m looking forward to a long cosy discussion about books, and which one I should read, but before we can even get started the telephone’s gone and rung and Mrs Caton’s answering it. Of course I know she has to. I peel myself off the desk and wander about amongst the shelves, looking for something to read. I come across Jane Eyre. I could read Jane Eyre! The bit at the beginning, where she’s locked in the red-room. I always used to find that really scary.

  I gallop back, triumphantly, to get the book checked out.

  “Oh, yes,” says Mrs Caton. “Jane Eyre…one of my favourites!”

  I tell her that I’m going to read the bit where Jane is locked away in the red-room.

  “It’s really scary! Did you find it really scary? When you were young? Did you read it when you were young? I read it when I was ten years old. Well, Mum read it to me. I didn’t understand quite all of it, but—”

  “Laurel, that was the bell,” says Mrs Caton. “You’d better go, or you’ll be late for class.” She hands me back Jane Eyre, and reluctantly I take it. I would stay here in the library all day, if I could. “Have a nice weekend,” says Mrs Caton. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

  It seems a long time to wait. We’ll have loads to talk about by then! I’m never at a loss for words with Mrs Caton, but I can’t help being a bit relieved, now, that I didn’t lend her Mum’s copy of Diary of a Nobody. I want her to read it, but suppose something happened, like she left it on a bus or dropped it in the bath? I know she would buy me another copy, but it wouldn’t be the same. This one still has Mum’s touch on it. and besides, it was given to her by Andi. I’m sure he must have been someone Mum was in love with.

  At the end of English, I go to the front of the class and read my page from Jane Eyre. When I’ve finished reading, Mr Tinsley says, “All right! Who has any comments?”

  There’s a silence; then Michael puts up his hand. He says he thought the bit I read was quite interesting, but it wouldn’t actually make him want to go and read the book. When Mr Tinsley says why not, Michael says he doesn’t know. “It just wouldn’t.”

  A boy called Todd Masters yells, “Too girly!” and everyone laughs, except me and Mr Tinsley.

  “Well, if you want to know what I think,” says Mr Tinsley, “I think it was an excellent choice and beautifully read. Well done, Laurel! I’m glad there’s still someone who’s prepared to read the classics.”

  I try not to be smug, though it’s hard not to feel just a little bit pleased. Maybe I look smug, even though I don’t mean to. Or maybe it’s just that Carla’s still mad at me after this morning, being forced to sit by me. as soon as the bell’s rung for the end of class, and Mr Tinsley’s left the room, she plants herself before me and goes, “Hey, Stinky! Jane Eyre. Excellent choice. Trust you!”

  I don’t understand what she means, trust me. What have I done now?

  Michael suddenly steps forward. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he says. “She’s just lost her mum.”

  There’s this long, uneasy silence. Then Carla recovers herself.

  “Yeah, well,” she says. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. I’m an android.”

  I freeze. I can’t believe that’s my voice speaking. Why does it keep doing this? Why can’t it just be quiet? They’re all looking at me, like I’m mad.

  “What’s she talking about?” says Carla. “What’s an android?”

  One of the boys says it’s like a robot.

  “You mean, like a Dalek or something?”

  Not like a Dalek. Like a robot in human form. Androids can do everything that human beings can do. They just don’t feel anything. Like ice lollies.

  As we leave school at the end of the afternoon, Carla shouts, “Bye, Dalek!”

  Maybe it will become my nickname. Mum had a nickname when she was at school. It was Wally, because of her surname being Walters. And then she got married and became Winton. I don’t care if people want to call me Dalek. It doesn’t matter to me what I’m called.

  I think over the weekend I will make up a new diary entry for Mr Pooter. Mrs Caton would enjoy that.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “This morning Carrie went to visit her friend Mrs James of Sutton. While she was away—”

  It’s Monday, lunchtime. I’m in the library, reading my diary entry to Mrs Caton.

  “While she was away I found a big tin of yellow paint in the cellar. It seemed a good opportunity to redecorate the front parlour, which has marks down one of the walls where Lupin scraped it while moving a piece of furniture. Lupin is Mr Pooter’s son,” I explain.

  “I see.” Mrs Caton nods. “Jolene, could you make a start on putting those books away. and Maria, maybe you could see to the magazines. Put all the old ones in the cupboard. Yes, go on, Laurel. Lupin is Mr Pooter’s son—”

  I say, “Yes, and he is a sore trial to him. Anyway.” I continue with my reading. “By the time Carrie was due back I had painted the entire room. I had even painted the floorb—”

  “Just a second, Laurel! Yes, Tom. What can I do for you?”

  I wait, patiently, while Mrs Caton sorts out a problem with a book. Before she’s finished, someone else comes in with another problem. Why can’t they sort these things out for themselves? I would!

  “The floorboards,” I say – and immediately have to stop again. This time it’s Jolene, wanting to know whether Elinor M. Brent-Dyer goes under B or D. She should have learnt by now!

  “Right,” says Mrs Caton. She turns back to me. “Where had we got to? He’s painted the room—”

  “And he says, I thought it looked very bright and cheery and felt sure Carrie would agree with me. As soon as I heard her key in the door—”

  “Over there,” says Mrs Caton, pointing to the magazine cupboard.

  “I went into the hall to meet her, saying, ‘Did you have a good day, my love? I am glad to see you back as I have a nice surprise for you. Pray go and—”

  “It’s locked!” cries Maria. “It won’t open!”

  The cupboard isn’t locked; it’s just a bit stiff. I say, “Tug it!” and she tugs, and all the magazines come spilling out on to the floor. that is because they were not put away prop
erly to begin with. Mrs Caton goes over to help clear the mess. I trail after her, still reading. I’ve reached the bit where Carrie comes out of the parlour, screaming that there has been a terrible accident. “I asked her—”

  “Excuse me, Laurel!” Mrs Caton is busy collecting up magazines. “Can you just move a bit to your right? That’s it, that’s better.”

  I move away but go on reading. “…asked her what she meant, and she said, ‘Someone has been monstrously sick all over the floor.’ Oh, I did laugh! I thought that Carrie would also laugh when I explained to her that it was yellow paint, but I fear she has lost her sense of humour. She told me that she was not sure she wanted her parlour to look as though it was covered in sick. So now I have to go to all the trouble of re-doing it. A man’s work,” I finish up, triumphantly, “is never done.”

  “And neither, it seems, is a librarian’s,” says Mrs Caton, stuffing magazines back into the cupboard. “Jolene! Easy Readers…down there! That was excellent, by the way, Laurel. It really makes me want to read the book.”

  I knew she would like it. I say maybe she could buy a copy for the library, and she says she will certainly think about it.

  “Though I am not sure,” she adds, “how many people would share your enthusiasm. You’re obviously a very committed reader. But look,” she says, as we go back to the desk, “I’ve got all the help I need today. Why don’t you have a bit of a break and go outside in the sunshine?”

  I tell her that I like being here, in the library.

  “And I like having you here,” says Mrs Caton. “But if we’re not careful I shall get into trouble for overworking you! You don’t want me to get into trouble, do you?”

  I hesitate. I’m almost certain she’s just joking. She has to be. I know that Jolene and Maria mean well and have to be encouraged, but I am the one Mrs Caton depends on. She said so herself! Where would she be without me?

  “Laurel?” she says.

  “I’ll just go and sort out the magazines,” I say. “Put them all in date order.”

  Mrs Caton sighs. “Well, all right,” she says. “They could certainly do with it. But, Laurel—”

  I wait, expectantly. Mrs Caton shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says. “Don’t worry. Go and see to the magazines.”

  At the end of the day, I go home with Michael. We have to use the bus on the way back. Usually I’m on my own, but today he is with me. We walk down to the main road to the bus stop and I tell him that I want to visit Tesco to buy some cat food for Mr Pooter.

  “He doesn’t like the dry stuff, he’s not used to it.”

  Michael says his mum got the dry stuff specially. He sounds a bit hurt, like I’m criticising. “She thought it would be better…less messy. Save having to keep washing up cat bowls all the time.”

  I tell him that I would wash them up. I always did, at home. I did all the washing up. And the drying. And the putting away. Mum couldn’t manage it, so I took over. I didn’t mind.

  We go into Tesco and I buy four tins of very expensive cat food. I can only afford four out of my pocket money. Michael seems to think I’m mad, spending all that on a mere cat. He doesn’t say mere cat, but I know that is what he is thinking. He says why don’t I get own brand? “It’s probably just as good.” I say that Mr Pooter needs to be tempted. He hasn’t been eating well just lately.

  “That’s probably cos he’s old,” says Michael. “I mean…how long can cats live?”

  I don’t want to think about how long cats can live.

  “Fifteen?” says Michael.

  Mr Pooter is sixteen. But Stevie had cats that lived to be twenty.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him,” I say. “He just doesn’t like dry food. It may be because of his teeth. this’ll be easier for him.”

  “Well, you’d better not let Mum know,” says Michael. “She wouldn’t like the thought of you feeding him tinned stuff in your bedroom. She doesn’t mind if it’s dry, but not out of a tin.”

  “It’s all right, he won’t make a mess,” I say. “He’s a very clean cat.”

  Michael goes “Hm,” like he doesn’t believe a cat can be clean.

  “I know your mum hates him,” I say.

  “She doesn’t hate him. She just doesn’t like having animals indoors.”

  “He can’t live outdoors!”

  “No, she wouldn’t make him,” says Michael. “She wouldn’t be unkind, or anything. But she likes the place to look nice. She didn’t have nice things when she was a girl. Nan and Grandad always had to struggle.”

  I think to myself that Mum and me had to struggle too, especially after Mum got ill. And we didn’t have nice things, either; just each other, and Mr Pooter, and loads of books. It was all we needed, really.

  “See, Mum and Dad,” says Michael, “have worked hard to get where they are. It upsets them when things get spoilt. I guess it would upset anyone, unless they were millionaires.”

  I wonder what millionaires have to do with it.

  “They could replace stuff,” says Michael. “Mum and Dad can’t. I don’t suppose your mum could, either.”

  I agree that she couldn’t. “But Mum didn’t mind a bit of mess. She always said she’d rather have Mr Pooter and the odd furball or scratched chair than everything neat and clean and no cat to keep us company.”

  “I guess everyone’s different,” says Michael. and then, as we leave Tesco and start walking back to the bus stop, he says, “What did you mean the other day when you said you were an android?”

  “I just…” My voice trails off; I don’t know how to answer. How can I explain what I meant? I wish I’d never said it. “I just…it was just…an expression.”

  “Androids aren’t human,” says Michael. “D’you reckon you’re not human?”

  I stand at the bus stop, clutching my bag full of cat food tins. Slowly, I shake my head.

  “They don’t feel anything. D’you reckon you don’t feel anything?”

  I stay silent.

  “Dad says you’ve closed up. He says that’s not good.”

  I stare determinedly, straight ahead.

  “Mum says it’s your way of coping. She says if you want to talk, you’ll talk, and if you don’t, it’s up to you. anyway.” Michael sticks out his hand as the bus appears. “You feel something for Mr Pooter,” he says, “so you can’t be totally android.”

  We don’t have much conversation as we sit on the bus. I look out of the window and Michael takes a magazine from his bag. As soon as we get home I race upstairs as usual and into my bedroom. Mr Pooter is waiting for me, on top of the wardrobe. I didn’t know he could still jump that high. He chirrups at me, and I stand on a chair and very carefully lift him down. We roll on the bed together and he head butts me, purring and dribbling. Anxiously I scan the room, checking that he hasn’t been sick anywhere. He hasn’t! My heart lifts.

  I fetch his feeding bowl and open one of the tins. Mr Pooter kneads the duvet, in anticipation. His claws have made tiny pinpricks, which I hope Auntie Ellen won’t notice. I haven’t got a spoon and I don’t want to go down and get one in case someone sees me and asks what I want it for, so I squish stuff out with the end of my ruler.

  “There,” I say, putting the bowl in front of Mr Pooter. “Real kitty food!”

  Mr Pooter gobbles it down. I knew it was the dry stuff he didn’t like. You can’t change an old cat’s habits. I stroke him and tell him he’s a good boy.

  “You stay there,” I say. “I’ll get you some clean water.”

  I refill his water bowl in the bathroom, and wash the ruler. I don’t know what to do with the cat tin, which is still half full. I can’t put it in the fridge, Auntie Ellen would go ballistic. In the end I tear a page out of my maths book and fix it over the top of the tin with an elastic band, then I hide the tin at the back of the wardrobe. Fortunately the weather is not too hot, so I think it will keep all right for a couple of days. I put the other tins in with it.

  I will have to go down, soon,
for tea. Auntie Ellen is very strict like that; we all have to eat together, at the same time. We also have to sit up properly, at table, not just slob around like me and Mum, on the sofa.

  I perch on the edge of the bed and tip up my bag. A shower of books falls out. My pencil case isn’t done up properly and all the pens and pencils scatter across the duvet. While I’m scrabbling them up I see something white tucked down the back of the bag. I pull it out. It’s a letter. It’s addressed to Ms A. Stafford c/o Erudite Publishing Ltd, with PERSONAL and PLEASE FORWARD printed underneath in Mum’s rather wobbly handwriting. She’d got so she couldn’t hold a pen very well so usually she had me write things for her or do them on the computer (until it conked out).

  I sit, clutching the envelope, thinking that I am holding it where Mum held it all those weeks ago. Cos I remember, now. She gave it to me that morning and asked me to buy a stamp and post it for her. She wasn’t feeling very well and I didn’t want to leave her. But Mum said she’d be all right, she said that Stevie would be looking in.

  “She’ll sit with me for a bit. You go on! I don’t want you missing school.”

  So I went, but because I was late I didn’t stop to buy a stamp; I jumped straight on to the bus. I slipped the letter into the pocket at the back of my bag, meaning to post it on my way home. But then halfway through the morning I was called out of class and and told that Mum had been taken to hospital, and when I got there I found Stevie waiting for me, and she said, “You’re a few minutes too late,” and after that the letter just went right out of my mind. It’s been in my bag all this time.

  I take a deep breath. I am Ice Lolly. I am an android.

  Androids don’t feel anything.

  Mr Pooter lands on my lap with a thump. Mechanically, I stroke him. I wonder who Ms A. Stafford is and who Erudite Publishing are. I wonder if the letter is important and whether I should read it. I think perhaps I ought; Mum was very anxious that I should post it. I start to slip a finger under the flap of the envelope to ease it open. Then I stop. Me and Mum never had secrets, but still it doesn’t seem right to open one of her letters. Specially when it says PERSONAL. I think of Mum going to the trouble of spelling it out. I see her hunched over, trying to grip the pen, trying to keep her hand steady. I won’t read the letter! I’ll get a stamp from Uncle Mark and I’ll put it in the box first thing tomorrow.