by Jean Ure
I’m working really hard at Three Men in a Boat. What I’m doing, I’m imagining that Mum’s reading it to me. Every now and again I read bits out loud, pretending that I’m her, and Mr Pooter looks up at me and seems puzzled.
Auntie Ellen and Holly have come back. Auntie Ellen goes into the house with the shopping; Holly comes over to me and Mr Pooter.
“What’s that?” she says, pointing to the pot of mashed prawn. I tell her that it’s special food for Mr Pooter. She picks it up and sniffs at it.
“Smells like fish…why’s it all pink?”
I say that it’s pink because it’s prawns.
“Prawns for a cat?” She shrills it at me, accusingly. Her eyes are popping. “Where’d you get prawns from?”
I tell her that I went down the road and bought them.
“For a cat? You could have paid Mum back some of her money!”
“He’s not very well,” I say. “He needs special food.”
“He’s a cat,” says Holly. Her eyes, still popping, swivel round the garden. “I hope he’s not doing messes in Mum’s flowerbed.”
He’s just sitting here, minding his own business. Good as gold, soaking up the sunshine. I cuddle him closer. I feel all the time that I have to protect him. I don’t think even Holly would ever do anything mean; it’s just that they all seem to hate cats. Except for Michael. He doesn’t.
“What are you reading?” says Holly. She peers down at the cover of Three Men in a Boat. “Yuck! It’s all old men again. What d’you want to keep reading about old men for?”
I say that I don’t specially want to read about old men.
“So why do it?” she says.
I tell her because someone lent it to me. “A friend.”
“What friend?” Holly pops her eyes at me. “You haven’t got any friends.”
I have, too! I say, “Mrs Caton, if you must know.”
Holly demands to know who Mrs Caton is. I tell her that she’s our school librarian.
“And she’s your friend? She can’t be your friend. She’s like a teacher! Teachers can’t be your friend.”
Mrs Caton is my friend. She wouldn’t have lent me Three Men in a Boat if she wasn’t.
Holly stands, frowning. I try to go on reading, but I can’t with her standing there. I wish she’d go away!
“You know those shorts you’ve got on?” she says. “They’re really gross!”
I feel my cheeks start to fire up. I know my shorts are old and a bit washed-out. They weren’t even a very good colour to start with; a sort of egg yolk yellow. I got them last year at the Oxfam shop. But it’s rude of Holly to say they’re gross!
“Mum was going to take you into town tomorrow,” she says. “She was going to get you some new stuff for when we go on holiday. But I don’t know whether she will, now. Not after having to pay all that money to the vet. She isn’t made of money.”
I say that’s all right, I don’t want new clothes.
“Well, you can’t go away looking like that,” says Holly.
So maybe I’ll stay behind. I will stay behind! I’m not leaving Mr Pooter. He needs me to look after him.
There’s a long silence. I read the same sentence three times without taking it in. Holly tosses her head.
“Well, if you don’t want to talk,” she says.
She goes off in a huff. I feel that I may have been ungracious, but I don’t think, really, that she was trying to be friendly.
I feed Mr Pooter another blob of prawn and read a bit more of Three Men in a Boat. It’s hot in the sunshine and I’m finding it quite difficult to concentrate. But I am definitely going to finish this book! Mrs Caton will be so disappointed if I don’t.
Auntie Ellen has come into the garden. She says that tomorrow she is taking me into town to go clothes shopping. I tell her – very politely – that she really doesn’t have to.
“Unfortunately, I do,” says Auntie Ellen. “I can’t have you going round like some waif that’s got all its clothes from an Oxfam shop.”
Does she know that this is where me and Mum used to buy most of our stuff? You can find good bargains! It’s true, however, that you do sometimes have to put up with egg yolk yellow cos it’s all they have in your size. I say to Auntie Ellen that it honestly doesn’t bother me, clothes aren’t that important, though even as I’m saying it I can’t help thinking that it would be nice, just for once, to be able to go into a proper shop and choose.
Auntie Ellen says that it may not bother me, but it bothers her. “I’m not having people say that I’m not doing my duty by you!”
At tea time the telephone rings and Uncle Mark goes to answer it. When he comes back he says it was the vet.
“They’ve had the results of the blood test. You can go in tomorrow to pick up some tablets.”
“And how much are they going to cost?” says Auntie Ellen.
Uncle Mark says he doesn’t know. “But if he has to have them—”
“Well, does he?” says Auntie Ellen. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Her eyes bore into Uncle Mark. Uncle Mark seems uncomfortable. He clears his throat and pours himself another cup of tea. I glance anxiously from him to Auntie Ellen and back again. Why doesn’t Uncle Mark say something?
“They can’t be that much,” he mumbles. “They’re just giving us a fortnight’s supply to start with. See how he gets on.”
Auntie Ellen purses her lips. “And what happens then?”
“Then they…” Uncle Mark waves a hand. “Review the situation.”
“And so do we,” says Auntie Ellen.
What does she mean? What is she talking about?
“Pity they don’t have a national health service for animals,” says Michael.
“They do,” says Auntie Ellen. “It’s called insurance. Responsible pet owners insure their animals.”
“Yes, well, Sue probably couldn’t afford it,” says Uncle Mark.
Auntie Ellen’s lips go all pinched and narrow. “If you can’t afford them, you shouldn’t have them. It’s the same with children. Holly, stop messing your food around! Laurel, get on and eat.”
I dredge up a forkful of spaghetti and suck it into my mouth. I have to force myself to swallow it; it’s like worms slithering down my throat. I’m just not hungry. I push my plate away and ask to be excused.
“I really don’t know why I bother,” says Auntie Ellen.
Next morning, on the way into town, we stop off at the vet to collect Mr Pooter’s tablets. The nurse starts to explain to Auntie Ellen how he has to have two a day, one in the morning and one in the evening, but Auntie Ellen stops her.
“It’s my niece’s cat. She’s the one who needs to know.”
Auntie Ellen goes off to pay the bill. She comes back looking grim. We pile into the car and Holly whines that we’re going the wrong way.
“We’re going back home,” says Auntie Ellen.
“But you said we were going into town! You said you were going to buy her some new clothes! You s—”
“I know what I said.” Auntie Ellen pulls up at some traffic lights. She does it so viciously the car almost stands on its head. “The clothes will have to wait.”
“But she can’t go away like that!” Holly bounces round in the front seat to look at me. I’m wearing the shorts again, and an old T-shirt. “What’ll Nan say?”
I clutch Mr Pooter’s tablets. I don’t care about the shorts! I just want Mr Pooter to get well.
Auntie Ellen says it can’t be helped. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” She says she is going to go through my wardrobe and see what I have that is wearable.
As soon as we get back I go upstairs to give Mr Pooter his first tablet. He won’t take it! He won’t open his mouth and I don’t know what to do. I ring Stevie and wail at her. She says, “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” She is always very impatient with anyone who doesn’t know as much about cats as she does. She wasn’t with Mum, but that was because Mum was special.
&nbs
p; “I’ve tried and tried,” I whimper.
For a moment I think she’s just going to bark “Common sense!” and ring off, but instead she heaves this big disgruntled sigh, like how can anyone be that useless, and says, “Grab his ruff, back of neck. Soon as his mouth opens, pop tablet in, close mouth, rub throat. Make sure he swallows. Nothing to it.”
I say a humble thank you and turn sternly to Mr Pooter, who’s watching me from the bed.
“I don’t want any more trouble,” I say. “You have to take your medicine.”
I’m a bit nervous, cos I don’t want to hurt him. Very gently, I do what Stevie says. His mouth opens, so I can see all the pretty pink ridges. In goes the tablet. I rub his throat, and he swallows. It works, it works! I almost ring Stevie back to tell her, but think perhaps I’d better not.
I spend the morning in my room, reading Three Men in a Boat. We can’t go down to the garden because two of Holly’s friends have come by and they’re all out there, shrieking and running about. Holly wouldn’t like it if they saw me in my gross egg yolk shorts. I could put something else on, but probably she wouldn’t like it whatever I wore. anyway, Mr Pooter might be frightened; he’s not used to people running about.
After lunch, Auntie Ellen takes Holly to the dentist, so me and Mr Pooter sit outside where I finish Mrs Caton’s book. I decide to write a review of it, specially for Mrs Caton. this is some of what I write,
THREE MEN IN A BOAT by Jerome K. Jerome
This book was written in 1889. It is about three men and their dog who all go off together in a boat. In places it is quite amusing. For instance,
And then I have copied bits from the book, to show that I have read it properly and not just skipped.
I come back upstairs with Mr Pooter and write it out again, nicely, in my best handwriting. then I do a title page:
REVIEW OF THREE MEN IN A BOAT
by Laurel Winton
and draw a picture of the three men and their dog. I don’t draw the boat, as I can only do people, but I think Mrs Caton will be pleased with it. I wish I could give it to her straight away! I want her to know how quickly I have managed to get through the book. I’m sure it will surprise her.
I wonder where she lives and whether she is in the telephone directory. If it is somewhere not too far away I could go and visit her. I could take her book back, and I could – I could lend her Diary of a Nobody! She would like that. I felt really honoured when she lent me Three Men in a Boat, cos you don’t lend books to just anyone. You only lend them to people you can trust, not to people who are going to lose them or forget to give them back. If I lend Mrs Caton my copy of Diary of a Nobody she will know that I trust her.
I go downstairs and find the local directory. I don’t know whether Caton is a common name or not. Catley, Catlin, Catmull…Caton! There is only one in there. Caton, C. Mrs Caton’s first name is Christine. It must be her! I write down the address, 28 Denning Avenue, Horley Wood. I don’t know where Horley Wood is, but there is a street map by the telephone. I look up Denning Avenue, and it doesn’t seem like it’s too far, except I don’t know how to get there.
Michael is in the front room, doing things on the computer. I ask him if he knows where Horley Wood is. He says yes, why? I tell him that I want to go there.
“To Horley Wood?” He sounds surprised. “There’s nothing there.”
I say that I know someone. “A friend.”
He looks at me, oddly. He doesn’t actually say “But you don’t have any friends!” Still, I know that that is what he is thinking.
“Can I walk there?” I say. Michael says no, I’d have to get a bus, but he doesn’t know which one.
“D’you want me to find out?” He goes to Google and puts in Horley Wood. “There you are…129 goes all the way. You can pick it up down the road.”
I’m so grateful that I say thank you about a million times. Michael looks embarrassed and says, “You’re welcome.” And then he says, “So when are you going? Not right now?”
I say no, tomorrow.
“Mum could probably drive you there,” says Michael, “if you wanted. It’d only take about ten minutes.”
I tell him that I’d rather get the bus. “I don’t like having to ask Auntie Ellen for things.”
There’s a bit of a pause, then Michael says, “OK.”
I think he understands.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I wake up feeling happy. Mr Pooter is eating his special cat food and has stopped being sick, and I am going to see Mrs Caton! I am quite excited. She will be so pleased that I liked her book.
I put Three Men in a Boat and Diary of a Nobody in my bag. It occurs to me that really I ought to telephone first, to check that Mrs Caton will be there, but I am not very good on the telephone. and anyway, I want it to be a surprise!
I tell Auntie Ellen that I am going to visit someone.
“Who’s that?” she says. “Someone from school?”
“It’s that woman!” shrieks Holly. “I bet it’s that woman!”
Auntie Ellen immediately wants to know which woman.
“That woman that’s a teacher,” says Holly.
I say she’s not a teacher, she’s a librarian.
“Mrs Caton?” says Michael. “You’re going to see Mrs Caton?”
“Has she invited you?” says Auntie Ellen.
Before I can answer, Holly’s chipped in with, “She thinks she’s her friend!”
I say, “She is my friend. I’m taking her book back to her.”
“Well, don’t outstay your welcome,” says Auntie Ellen. “Where does she live? Do you need a lift?”
Michael nods at me, but I tell Auntie Ellen that I can catch the bus. I add that I’m quite used to finding my way around.
“Very well,” says Auntie Ellen. “But take your phone, just in case. Give me a ring if you need picking up. Do you have enough for your bus fare?”
Oh! My face falls; I hadn’t thought of bus fares. I used up most of my pocket money on prawns and special cat food tins. Auntie Ellen, as if resigned, takes out her purse and gives me some pound coins. Holly sends me this really filthy look.
“You’re mad,” says Michael, following me out of the room. “Mum could have got you there in ten minutes…she did offer!”
How can I explain that I want to go by myself? It would ruin things if Auntie Ellen took me. It would make it feel sort of…tainted. But I can’t say this to Michael.
“Is Mrs Caton really your friend?” he says.
I tell him yes. “We’re both book people.”
I can see he thinks it a bit odd, but he says he’s glad I’ve found someone. “It must have been hard, starting a new school in the middle of term. And some of those girls, they can be really mean.”
I’ve already forgotten about them; they don’t bother me. Nothing bothers me, now that Mr Pooter’s getting better.
“Well, have a nice day,” says Michael.
He is such a polite boy. I really like him.
It takes me ages to walk to the bus stop, and then I have to wait fifteen minutes for the bus, but I don’t mind. I’m fizzing with anticipation. I imagine Mrs Caton’s face when she sees me on the doorstep.
“What? You’ve read it so soon?” she goes. (In my imagination, that is.) She invites me in so that she can read my review. We have this long, cosy chat together, all about books, and I lend her Diary of a Nobody. She promises she will read it straight away. “I’ll call and let you know,” she goes (still in my imagination). “Then you can come round again and we can read my review!” She might even lend me something else.
Of course, she may not be there; I have to be prepared for that. But I’ve brought a pen with me, and some paper, and I can always write her a note. then she can ring me and I can come back another day.
I find her road quite easily. It is a tiny close and her house is the second one along. I ring the bell and wait, anxiously. I really hope she’s in!
The door opens. Two small chil
dren are standing there; a girl and a boy. I never thought of Mrs Caton having children. the little boy has jam all over his face; the girl is covered in what looks like flour. Solemnly she says, “This is the Caton residence.”
I ask her if Mrs Caton is in. She turns and shouts, “Mu-u-um!” and Mrs Caton appears. She is carrying a mixing bowl and beating something with a wooden spoon.
“Laurel!” she says. “What on earth are you doing here?”
She sounds every bit as surprised as I thought she would; just not in the way that I imagined. Suddenly, I’m feeling a bit uncertain.
“Why are you here?” she says.
I swallow, and say that I’ve brought her book back.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says. “I told you, next term. How did you find my address?”
Something isn’t right. She doesn’t seem happy to see me. I mumble that I looked her up in the telephone directory.
“Well, you really shouldn’t have come here, you know.” She hands the mixing bowl to the little girl and tells her to take it back to the kitchen. “It isn’t right.”
I swallow, and hold out the book. She takes it from me. She doesn’t even ask me if I enjoyed it.
“I…I’ve…done a review.” I pull it out of my bag. She looks at it, frowning. “And I’ve brought you Diary of a Nobody!”
“Laurel, I’d honestly rather not,” she says. “Not right now. Bring it next term, will you? Will you do that?”
I nod, miserably.
“Please don’t be upset,” says Mrs Caton. “I’m sure you meant well, but you must see, it’s not really appropriate. You can’t just call round like this. Apart from anything else—” She smiles at me, trying to make a joke of it. “It’s holiday time! Even librarians need a break.”
I stammer that I thought we were friends.
“Well, of course we’re friends! School friends.” She takes the review from me, but not Diary of a Nobody. “Next term we’ll have a good long talk about Three Men in a Boat. Meanwhile, I’ll look forward to reading what you have to say about it. All right?” She smiles again, and I do my best to smile back. “That’s better! Now, you’ll have to excuse me, we’re in the middle of baking a cake. It’s Sally’s birthday tomorrow and she’s having a party, so it’s all a bit hectic, I’m afraid. See you in September!”
