Five Things They Never Told Me
Read Five Things They Never Told Me Online
Authors: Rebecca Westcott
Looking Back to a Bright Future
Life Death, Knows Doesn't Know
The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living
PUFFIN BOOKS
Rebecca Westcott was born in Chester. She went to Exeter University to train as a teacher and has had a variety of teaching jobs that have taken her to some very interesting places, including a Category C male prison. Rebecca now teaches in a primary school and lives in Dorset with her husband and three children. Her acclaimed first novel
Dandelion Clocks
was published in 2014, shortly followed by
Violet Ink
.
Five Things They Never Told Me
is her third book.
Visit Rebecca at
www.rebeccawestcottwriter.com
and follow her on Twitter
@westcottwriter
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For my fabulous little sister, Elizabeth. The idea for this book came from a story she told me and she didn't even moan a little bit when I abruptly ended our phone conversation so that I could start writing! Thank you, Lizzy â your support and love and sisterly brilliance is never taken for granted.
And for Pauline and Brian, my granny and granpa, who shared their own memories and experiences and stories with me. I love you both very much.
*
Having a choice is not always a good thing. Sure, choice is great when it comes to menus and films and clothes and books. I like choosing when it's a choice of ice-cream flavours (mint choc chip, every time) and I like choosing what music to listen to on my iPod. I do not like choosing between my parents, though, which is what they asked me to do exactly forty-one days ago.
âWe're not asking you to choose between us,' said Dad.
âAbsolutely not,' agreed Mum, although her eyes told a different story.
âWe just want you to make the right choice for YOU, Erin. We can't make this decision for you. You're old enough to decide for yourself.'
That made me mad. Every single time I've asked if I can do something exciting they've told me that I'm too young; that they are the adults and they know what's best for me. All of sudden, just because it suits them, I'm old enough to make my own decision.
So I did make my own choice. Dad thinks I chose him because I must love him more. Mum thinks I didn't choose her because I mustn't love her as much. A week later she packed her bags in silence and gave me a hug and told me that I could change my mind any time. She said there would always be a place for me in the huge house she now lives in, along with a tall, sad-looking man called Mark who has found his reason to live again now that he's stolen my mum. Him and his tragic little boys who have taken my mum to fill the gap left in their home by his dead wife. I hope they'll all be very happy together.
But the truth is that I chose neither of them. Not that they have any idea. How could I possibly choose between two people who didn't choose ME? After all the fighting and yelling and sobbed conversations about betrayal and waste of a marriage, after the arguments about who was going to keep the TV and the teapot that had been a wedding present and the chair that Mum said was a family heirloom from her grandmother but Dad said that he always sat on, after all that, they were remarkably calm about who got to keep me. There was no shouting about that at all. It's like nobody actually wanted me. I am less important than a teapot.
No â I didn't choose Mum OR Dad. I chose Picasso. If it wasn't for him I don't think I could have survived the last few months in our house. Every time it got bad I would head to my room where he would be waiting for me. He's not supposed to be in my room but there's no point in following the family rules when we're not actually a family any more.
So now Mum's gone and it's really fine. Dad's out at work every day and when I get home from school the house is empty. It feels a bit weird sometimes but I tell myself that another word for
silent is
peaceful
â and it's definitely better than the suffocating atmosphere that I would feel when I stepped through the door and into the middle of another one of their rows.
And it's not like I'm actually alone. As I close the front door and turn round I can hear him leaping out of his basket and bounding across the kitchen floor. I crouch on the floor and laugh as he runs up to me, his slobbery face pushing against mine as he says hello. Picasso might not be able to talk but he can tell me exactly how he's feeling without words, which is a good thing because I've had enough of words to last me a lifetime.
I go into the kitchen and tip the contents of my school bag on to the table. Most of my homework can wait until another night but I'm quite keen to make a start on my art project. Miss Jenson has given us our summer holiday homework early because she says that it's such a big project we might as well get going on it right away. I love art. I suppose I must have got that from Dad but we never really talk about it. We never really talk about anything, actually.
I pull my art book towards me and turn to a fresh page. Our project is called âWhat Art Means
To Me'. Everyone groaned when Miss Jenson told us about it but I think it sounds kind of fun. We have to choose different pieces of artwork and write about how it makes us feel. What it makes us think about. There's no limit to the number of pieces of art we can choose but the more we do the better our grade will be. To get us started, Miss Jenson has given us all a picture of a sculpture by Henry Moore. It's called
Family Group
, which right away puts me in a bad mood.
Dad's late home tonight and I've written my reaction to Henry's sculpture and put some sausages and chips in the oven when he walks into the kitchen. He looks tired, which is pretty much how he always looks at the moment.
âHow was your day?' he asks me, putting his workbag down in the corner and then turning the kettle on.
âThere's no water in there,' I tell him as the kettle starts to whine in protest. He picks it up and walks across to the sink and I wonder what he would do if I wasn't here.
âWas school OK?' he says but I can tell he's not really desperate for an answer. He's making sure that he's done the Dad-routine. It's been Thirty-four Days Without Mum and he's pretty much
asked these questions every day.
Have I asked Erin about her day?
Check.
Have I made sure she's eaten some food?
Check.
Has she got money for lunch tomorrow?
Check. He thinks he can relax if he's done all of this â that he's fulfilling his duties as a father. I think he's doing the best he can but it doesn't come even close to being good enough.
The smell of burning drifts through the kitchen and Dad scowls.
âHave you put something in the oven?' he asks me, rushing across the room and opening the oven door. Smoke pours out and he steps back, flapping the air in front of him and grabbing the oven glove.
âErin! What have I told you about this? You're twelve years old, for goodness' sake. Far too young to be using the oven when I'm not here. You could have burned the house down!'
He pulls out the tray and we both look at the charred remains of the chips. They look disgusting.
Dad sighs. âI can't believe you've done this AGAIN. I have to be able to trust you, Erin. What were you thinking?'
I look at the floor, trying to keep my anger hidden.
âI was hungry,' I whisper, my voice shaking with fury.
âThere's no need to cry,' Dad says hurriedly. He can't stand me showing emotions of any kind, particularly not anything he thinks is girly. He just has no clue about how to deal with it. âDon't feel bad. We all make mistakes.'
He thinks I feel guilty. He thinks I'm looking and sounding like this because I know I've done something wrong. I can feel the blood rushing through my veins, getting ready for me to explode at him. I try to swallow the nasty taste in my mouth but it's no good. It has to come out. I look up at Dad and let him have it.
âI DON'T feel bad!' I say. âI was HUNGRY! It's six o'clock and I've been at school all day and I needed to eat some food. You weren't here! And I thought I was supposed to be old enough to make my own decisions now?'
Dad looks surprised for a moment and then he glares at me.
âI wasn't here because I was working. Which is how I get the money to put this food on the table. And I don't appreciate you ruining decent food and then having the nerve to shout at me. There's a family rule, Erin â'
I snort when he says this but the look he gives me stops me from saying anything else.
âThere is a FAMILY rule that you do not use the oven when you're in the house on your own. And until you hear otherwise, that is a rule that you will follow. Understood?'
I glare back at him and for a second we are standing in silence with sparks of rage shooting from our eyes. âUNDERSTOOD?' he repeats and I know that I'm going to have to lose this one.
âYes,' I mutter, looking away. Let him have his family rules if it makes him feel better. Personally I think he's completely deluded if he thinks we're a family. How can two people who can hardly bear to be in the same room as each other count as a family?
âI'm just trying to keep you safe,' he says, dumping the chips in the bin and rescuing the sausages from the oven.
Whatever. Keep telling yourself that, Dad. We both know it's got nothing to do with that and everything to do with Mum leaving and you being stuck with me
.
Dad gets the bread out of the cupboard and puts it on the table with some butter. I get some plates and we sit, silently making sausage
sandwiches, which I am too furious to eat. Dad tries to start a conversation but I'm not interested so in the end he gives up and turns on the television. I know that he won't let me go to my room until I've eaten my tea so I try to eat as fast as possible, but the bread sticks to the roof of my mouth and the burned sausages taste like misery and each mouthful needs me to chew it about a million times before I can manage to swallow it down. And with each swallow I plan how to show my dad that I am a force to be reckoned with. That I can't be shoved in a corner and just forgotten about.
