by Jean Ure
I turn, and trail down the path. I shouldn’t have come. I have been intrusive. Mrs Caton isn’t really my friend; she was just pretending, because she feels sorry for me. And now I’ve made a nuisance of myself, trying to force Diary of a Nobody on her. She obviously doesn’t want to read it. She was just trying to keep me happy. I feel so humiliated.
Slowly, I retrace my steps to the bus stop. I desperately, desperately don’t want to go back. If it wasn’t for Mr Pooter, I might even run away. Except what would I do? Where would I go?
A bus comes along and I get on it. Half an hour later I’m walking up the path, using my key to let myself in. I can’t see any sign of Holly or Michael, but I can hear Auntie Ellen on the phone. I start up the stairs, and there is Holly, waiting for me on the landing.
“You’re back,” she says. She pushes past and goes galloping down, yelling, “Mum, she’s back!”
I go into my bedroom – and my heart almost stops beating. the rug which I used to cover up Mr Pooter’s sick has been removed, and there on the pink carpet, just inside the door, is an ugly yellow stain.
I hear Auntie Ellen’s voice, calling up the stairs, “Laurel! Can you come down here, please?”
My heart starts up again, bam bam bam, thudding and panicking inside my rib cage. auntie Ellen is waiting for me, at the end of the hall.
“Come out here,” she says. “I want a word with you.” She is looking very grim. We go into the kitchen and firmly she closes the door on Holly. “Sit down.” She points to a chair. I sit, stiffly, on the edge of it. “Right! Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”
I don’t ask, about what? I am not brave enough; and anyway, I know.
“I asked you a question,” says Auntie Ellen. “I should like an answer.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I’m not making any sound. I can’t speak!
“All right.” Auntie Ellen pulls out a chair and sits down opposite me. “Let’s try it another way…what is that stain on your bedroom carpet?”
I sit, silent and frozen. Auntie Ellen drums her fingers.
“Laurel! I’m waiting. Will you please tell me…what is that stain?”
“It’s…”
“It’s what? It’s cat sick, isn’t it?”
I nod, miserably.
“And you put the rug over it in the hope I wouldn’t notice!” Her voice has gone all Welsh and sing-song, swooping up and down. I shrink back on to my chair. “If you’d owned up at the time,” says Auntie Ellen, “we might have been able to do something about it. It’s far too late, now. It’ll never come out. the carpet’s ruined.”
I manage to croak that I’m sorry.
“Sorry?” The word comes out as a hiss. I see a little spray of spit fly through the air. “Sorry’s not good enough! I know you were brought up to believe it didn’t matter if you lived in a pigsty, but we happen to have higher standards. We like the place to look decent. That’s my mother’s room, you know…the room she stays in when she’s here. We only did it up last year, we got that carpet new. Now what am I to do? You think we’re made of money?”
I shake my head and say again that I’m sorry.
“It’s not much use being sorry after the event. Why didn’t you tell me at the time?”
I whisper that I was too scared.
“Scared? What do you have to be scared of? Has anyone ever lifted a finger against you?”
“I was scared—” I gulp down a lump that’s blocking my throat—“that you’d blame Mr Pooter.”
“I don’t blame dumb animals,” says Auntie Ellen. “I blame the owners. For goodness’ sake, Laurel! You’re old enough to know better.”
I suddenly jump up. “I’ll go and scrub it!”
“Scrubbing won’t do any good, it’s soaked in. The carpet’s ruined, just accept it. But if that cat is going to keep being sick all over the place—”
“He’s not!” The words come wailing out of me. “He’s getting better, he’s not doing it any more!”
“Cats shouldn’t be in bedrooms anyway,” says Auntie Ellen. “They should be outside.”
“Oh, please,” I say, “please! He can’t stay outside, he’s old, he’s not used to it! He might get attacked, he might get lost, he’d be so confused…please don’t say he has to go outside!”
Auntie Ellen stands up and begins clattering saucepans in the sink. “I don’t know,” she says. “I shall have to think about it.”
“Please,” I beg.
“Laurel, I know things have been difficult for you,” says Auntie Ellen, “but you have to understand that they’ve been difficult for us, as well. It’s very disruptive, having to take someone in. We were quite prepared to do it, after all you’re family, but you really haven’t made things easy. You block the toilet, you cost us a small fortune in vet’s fees, and now you’ve ruined a perfectly good carpet. What do you want me to say? Just go on and ruin the rest of the room? Ruin the rug, ruin the duvet? It may be the way you were used to living, but it’s not the way we live here!”
I hang my head and stare down, fixedly, at my feet. They seem an extraordinarily long way away. It’s like they’re in a mist. I can’t see them properly, my eyes are all wet.
Why? Why are they wet? I draw myself up. I am an ice lolly. Frozen solid. Back, back, into my ice house! I breathe, deeply, and the wetness turns to frost.
“Laurel?”
I jerk my head up.
“Are you listening?”
I say yes; I’m listening.
“If it happens one more time—”
What? I look straight into her eyes, daring her to say it. Say it, say it! She drops her gaze.
“Just make sure that it doesn’t,” she says.
Out in the hall I find Holly; I suppose she’s been listening. She calls after me as I go back upstairs, “I don’t know what’s going to happen when my nan comes to stay!”
They all go out in the afternoon. I sit in the garden with Mr Pooter and think about running away. there’s only one place I could go, and that is back to London. To Stevie. What would she say if I turned up on the doorstep? She would be even less pleased than Mrs Caton. But I don’t think she would turn me away. She certainly wouldn’t turn Mr Pooter away. Stevie would do anything for a cat.
I haven’t any money, and I don’t know for certain that Uncle Mark is going to give me any. Not now that Auntie Ellen has discovered the carpet. He might say I can’t have any more until I’ve paid for a new one.
But that is all right. There is a pot in the kitchen cabinet where Auntie Ellen puts all her loose change; everything from 20p down to 1p. Mum and me used to have a pot like that. When it was full we used to give it to Stevie for her cat charity. Auntie Ellen uses hers to buy treats. I know it would be stealing if I took it, but I don’t really care. I would care, if it was for cats. Or any other charity, if it comes to that. But it isn’t, so I don’t.
By the end of the afternoon I have taken the money and put Mr Pooter in his carrying box and caught the bus into town. I’ve gone to the station and bought a ticket for London and am on my way to Stevie’s. In my imagination, that is. I haven’t quite got around to imagining what Stevie will say, but that is not important. Whatever she says, I know she will look after Mr Pooter. that is all that matters.
I feel strong now that I have worked out a plan. Even when the car arrives back and Holly comes into the garden and starts on again about the carpet, it’s like she is just a fly buzzing against a window pane.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she says.
No. I have nothing to say.
“You’d think you’d at least be sorry.”
I rub my cheek against Mr Pooter’s fur.
“Mum loved that carpet,” says Holly. “She chose it specially…it’s dusky pink.”
I think, hysterically, that now it’s sickly yellow; and without warning a mad giggle bursts out of me.
“You’re evil,” says Holly. “You know that? You’re evil!”<
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She runs off, into the house. I think that I probably ought to be upset – or insulted – or something. But I’m not. I’m not anything. I’m inside my ice house, clutching Mr Pooter, and there isn’t anything anyone can say or do that will get to me.
Later on, I’m in my room. Uncle Mark is back from work and we have had tea, and now I have come up here to be with Mr Pooter. I know Auntie Ellen hates him being downstairs, but I won’t leave him on his own. He likes to be with people. Mum said that when I was at school he used to sit on her lap all day long. Even though she couldn’t get out, she never felt lonely with Mr Pooter to keep her company. He’s the most loyal cat there ever was! He never left Mum’s side, and now that he’s old I won’t leave his.
There is a tap at the door and Michael’s voice asks if he can come in. I am glad it is Michael and not Holly. He comes over to the bed, where I am sitting with Mr Pooter.
“How is he?” he says.
I say that he is much better now that he is taking his tablets. “He’s eating properly – and he’s not being sick any more!”
I say this in case Auntie Ellen has sent him up here to spy, though I don’t think that is why he has come. He seems to want to say something, but doesn’t quite know how. He’s standing there, looking awkward.
“What’re you reading?” he says.
I show him.
“Little Women?” He pulls a face. “Isn’t that a bit yucky?”
I tell him that it was one of Mum’s favourites, and mine, too.
“Don’t you ever read ordinary books?” he says.
I frown and ask him what he means by “ordinary books”.
He says, “I dunno…the sort of stuff that girls usually read. Stuff that Holly reads.”
I tell him, not meaning to brag or anything, that I have grown out of the sort of stuff that Holly reads, but I do read lots of teenage books. “It’s just that I haven’t actually got any.”
I used to get them from the library. I went to the library practically every week. Sometimes, as well as books for me, I’d pick up ones that Mum had ordered, then I’d stagger back triumphantly with my school bag full to bursting. I can’t go to the library now cos there isn’t one. Not anywhere close.
“I can always go up the attic for you,” says Michael. “Get you something down.” He reaches out a hand and strokes Mr Pooter’s head. There’s a silence. He’s definitely trying to say something, but I don’t know what. And then, abruptly, he says it, “I just heard Mum and Dad talking. I heard Mum saying that it’s time—” He stops. Little by little, I start to edge back into my ice house. Michael swallows. “She said, it’s time that cat went. She said she can’t have the place ruined and they can’t afford to keep paying out small fortunes to the vet.”
There is another silence; longer, this time. I curl myself up, a tight ball in the middle of the ice.
“Dad said…he said he couldn’t do it to you. then Mum said, But you don’t mind doing it to me.”
“Doing what?” I say. My voice is quite calm and steady. Just a bit frosted, because of the ice.
“Well, like…letting the place be messed up and everything?” I see Michael’s eyes flicker across to the yellow stain on the carpet. “I didn’t hear any more cos they stopped talking soon as they realised I was there. So I don’t know if Mum – if she managed to – to talk Dad round. She usually does. But maybe this time…I don’t know. I just thought I ought to – well, like, warn you. Or something. Cos I know how you love Mr Pooter!”
He is so embarrassed, he is practically squirming. I felt like telling him, it’s all right, I’m in my ice house.
Desperately he says, “Maybe you could talk to Dad. He’s on your side, he really is! It’s just that Mum…she kind of bullies him. You know?”
I nod.
“So you’ll talk to him, yeah?”
I say maybe.
“I think you should,” says Michael. “Cos otherwise—”
Otherwise, Auntie Ellen will have her way. But even if she doesn’t – even if Uncle Mark sticks up for me – I would still be scared to go out and leave Mr Pooter alone with her. I would be scared of coming back and finding him not there. So I am not going to talk to Uncle Mark. I know what I am going to do.
I call after Michael, as he leaves the room. “Is it tomorrow you’re going to visit your auntie?”
“Auntie Mei. Yes! We’re all going,” says Michael. “You’re coming with us.”
“I think p’raps I’ll stay behind,” I say.
“You can’t do that,” he says. “We’re going to be out all day! Mum won’t let you.”
She can’t make me go.
CHAPTER NINE
“Well, it’s her choice,” says Auntie Ellen. “If she prefers to shut herself away—”
“No, no, we can’t have that!” says Uncle Mark. “She’s family, of course she must come. She’s been invited.”
“For heaven’s sake, if the child doesn’t want to,” says Auntie Ellen. She sounds exasperated. “Why force her?”
“Yes,” says Holly. “Why force her?”
“No one’s forcing her,” says Uncle Mark. “I’d just feel happier if she came.”
They argue for a while, then Auntie Ellen says, “Laurel, just make up your mind! Are you coming, or not?”
Uncle Mark looks at me almost pleadingly. “Laurel?” he says. I stay silent, trying to do it in an apologetic kind of way, as I would hate for Uncle Mark’s feelings to be hurt.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” snaps Auntie Ellen. “Just leave her. She’s old enough to know her own mind.”
Auntie Ellen wins, like she always does. For once I’m relieved, though I do feel a bit sorry for Uncle Mark, especially when he asks me if I’m sure I’ll be all right, left on my own.
“We’re not likely to get back till some time this evening. It’s going to be a long day.”
I tell him that I don’t mind being on my own, and he goes off shaking his head and looking worried, which makes me feel guilty. Uncle Mark has been kind to me. He’s tried his best and I know he loved Mum in spite of them being so different. He is always talking about his “little sis”. But I have to look after Mr Pooter!
I watch from my bedroom window as the car pulls out of the drive. As soon as it has gone, I take Mr Pooter’s carrying box from the bottom of the wardrobe and settle him in it, with one of my sweaters for him to lie on. Then I pack my school bag with as many clothes as I can cram in, and sit down to write a note for Uncle Mark. I have been composing it in my head all night and know exactly what I’m going to say.
Dear Uncle Mark,
Please don’t be upset but I am running away with Mr Pooter to keep him safe as I know Auntie Ellen does not like him in her house.
Thank you very much for all that you have done for me, and especially for paying the vet’s bills. I know they were expensive.
Yours sincerely, Laurel
PS I am very sorry that I have had to use some of the money from Auntie Ellen’s pot but I needed it for my train fare. I promise I will do my best to pay it back.
I take one last look round the room and realise that I can’t possibly go without Diary of a Nobody. I squash it in amongst my clothes. then I see Blue Bunny, forlornly sitting on my pillow, so I squash him in as well. I hate leaving all the rest of Mum’s books behind, especially as I am not sure Auntie Ellen will ever let me have them back, but what else can I do? I know that Mum will understand. She loved her books, but she loved Mr Pooter more.
I pick him up in his carrying box, sling my bag over my shoulder, and go downstairs into the empty house. I think the best place to leave my note would probably be on the kitchen table. I put an apple on top of it, to keep it from blowing away. auntie Ellen’s pot of money is in the kitchen cabinet. I tip it out on to the table and begin to separate all the 10 and 20p pieces. I feel like a criminal. I hope, if Mum is watching, she understands why I am doing it. Silently I explain to her that it’s not for me, it’s for Mr P
ooter. and I will pay it back, just as soon as I’m old enough to start earning money.
There is too much to go in my purse, so I have to use a plastic food bag, which I bury under all the knickers and T-shirts I’m taking with me. It is very heavy, and so is Mr Pooter in his carrying box. It takes me for ever to reach the bus stop as I have to keep breaking off to give my arms a rest. But I get there in the end and sit on the seat in the sunshine, waiting for the bus. I keep talking to Mr Pooter and telling him that we are going to Stevie’s. He loves Stevie! All cats love her. She is truly a cat person.
At last we reach the station. It is a good thing the bus stops practically outside as I am not sure how much further I could walk, carrying Mr Pooter. Well, I would have to, of course; if it was a mile I would still walk it. But I am very glad that it is not.
I buy a single ticket to London from one of the machines and go to look at the indicator board to check the next train and see which platform it leaves from. Mum would be proud of me, finding my way round! I am rather proud of me myself. I am sure Holly couldn’t do it, she is too used to being taken everywhere by car. I know she is only ten, but I think even when I was ten I would have had no problem.
Once we are on the train, I start to relax. I wonder whether I should call Stevie and tell her we are coming, but I am not quite brave enough. She always sounds so angry over the telephone. And she is sure to be in, because she always is. She never leaves her cats, except just to go shopping.
It takes fifty minutes to reach London. I remember, from when me and Mum came by train. I was younger, then, and it seemed like a really long journey. Now it seems quite short, it seems like we are rushing to our destination at the speed of light. I think this is perhaps because I am a little bit anxious about what is going to happen when we get there. Partly I am anxious about Stevie and what she will say. I know she will welcome Mr Pooter, but I am not so sure she will welcome me. She really hates having people in her house! The other thing which makes me apprehensive is the journey from King’s Cross to Gospel Road. I think I can remember how it is done, and even if I can’t I can always find out. But how will I manage, on tubes and buses, with Mr Pooter? Well, I will just have to, that is all.
