Ice Lolly (7 page)

I am about to take out my pen and start writing things down, to tell Mrs Caton, when Michael knocks at the door and says, “Dad wants you to come downstairs and be with the rest of us.” I hesitate. “You’re part of the family,” says Michael. “You can’t keep hiding away.”

Reluctantly, I put down my notebook. Michael looks at me. He seems concerned. He says, “Don’t you like being with us?”

I feel my cheeks grow pink. I mumble that I don’t think Auntie Ellen really wants me here. It’s not a criticism! If this was my house, I probably wouldn’t want me here.

Now I’ve made Michael’s cheeks go pink, as well. He says that Auntie Ellen is doing her best to make me feel welcome. “She wants you to be happy…I think you should come down.”

I leave Mr Pooter curled up on the duvet and obediently go with Michael to join the rest of the family. Holly, very self important, informs me that Auntie Ellen has just finished making her costume for Book Week. “I’m going as a Woodland Fairy…
Holly tree
fairy! Can I try it on, Mum?”

She puts it on and starts pirouetting round the room.

“Yuck,” says Michael; but he’s not being fair. Auntie Ellen is good at sewing. She’s made this really brilliant holly costume, all decorated with shiny green leaves and bright red berries.

“Did you ever dress up for Book Week?” says Holly. “What did you dress up as?”

“A pirate,” I say.

“A
pirate
? You don’t have girl pirates!”

“Why not?” says Michael.

“Cos you don’t! Why did you go as a pirate?”

“Just fancied it,” I say.

I didn’t really fancy it. I really wanted to go as a fairy. Rainbow Fairy. that’s what I’d set my heart on. But Mum wasn’t ever very good at sewing. My fairy skirt was all limp and saggy, and the top bit didn’t fit properly. And when I picked up my fairy wand it immediately collapsed, which made Mum giggle. I didn’t giggle; I burst into tears. I sobbed and raged, cos now what was I going to do?

“I look like I’m wearing a dish rag!” I blamed Mum for leaving everything till the last minute. “Like you always do! Everyone else has had their costumes for
weeks.
”

Mum immediately stopped giggling and promised that she would make me something else. “Something better! Even if I have to sit up all night.”Which she did. She made me this pirate outfit and I wasn’t in the least bit grateful. I shouted that I didn’t want to be a pirate, I wanted to be a Rainbow Fairy. Poor Mum! She begged me to give her a kiss and say she was forgiven, but I wouldn’t. I went off in a sulk and spent the whole day being jealous of all the people who had proper mums, who made them lovely sparkly fairy dresses which didn’t sag and bag. I was still cross when I got home. Mum tried so hard to make it up to me.

“Oh, Lollipop, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m such a rotten mum!”

But she wasn’t. She wasn’t! She was the best mum anyone ever had. I wish so much that I’d told her so!

I have to go back upstairs. I need to cuddle Mr Pooter.

“Where are you off to?” says Auntie Ellen. “You’ve only just come down.”

I tell her that I have to write a book report for Mrs Caton. “I want to do it while it’s fresh in my mind.” Auntie Ellen shakes her head, like,
I give up!

“Go on, then,” she says. “If that’s what you want.”

I gallop back up the stairs. Mr Pooter opens an eye and stretches. I check the room, but I don’t think he’s moved, so that is all right.

“Good boy,” I say. “Good boy!”

I settle down beside him and start writing in my notebook. I put down the bit about Montmorency and his gang of dogs. I put down the cat bit. I can’t think of anything else. The truth is, I am finding this book quite difficult to get into. Maybe it is because I am worried about Mr Pooter and not in the right mood. Or maybe it’s because this is the first grown-up book that I have tried to read on my own, without Mum. If Mum were reading it to me, and doing all the voices, then I am sure I would find lots to laugh at. But I am not going to give
up! I am a real book person and Mrs Caton is eagerly waiting to know how I get on.

On the way in to school this morning Uncle Mark says that he will ring the vet and make an appointment for this evening. Auntie Ellen is with us, as it is one of her days when she works in the shop. She says that she is the one who will be coming with me. My heart goes plummeting. I don’t want Auntie Ellen coming with me! But I haven’t any choice. It’s Thursday, and late-night shopping, and Uncle Mark won’t be home in time.

After lunch I go to the library. I take out my notebook and read Mrs Caton the bits I’ve written down.

“I think those bits were hilarious,” I say.

I wasn’t quite sure what the word hilarious meant until I looked it up in the dictionary. It means “very funny”, and I didn’t honestly find either of the bits
very
funny. Just a little bit funny. But Mrs Caton looks pleased.

“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it,” she says. “I thought you would.”

I promise her that I will make a note of all the other bits I find funny, so that I can tell her about them. She says that’s a good idea.

“It’ll be something to look forward to at the start of next term.”

“I’ll have finished it long before then,” I say. “I’ll probably have read a million others by then!”

Now I’m being boastful again. I don’t mean to be, but it’s probably true, I will have read a million others. there are eight long weeks to go and I can’t think what else there’ll be to do.

I get home to find Auntie Ellen waiting impatiently for me. “Go and fetch the cat,” she says. “Put it in its box, we have to be at the vet for 4.15.”

I hate that she calls Mr Pooter “the cat”. He’s Mr Pooter! I go upstairs to get him and he purrs amiably. I think he quite likes his box. Holly, for some reason, insists on coming with us. She says she’s never been to the vet’s before and she wants to know what it’s like. I tell her it’s like being at the doctor’s, except all the patients are animals.

We sit in the Reception area, waiting to be called. I hold Mr Pooter on my lap, in his box. He crouches, watchfully. There are other people with cats, some people with dogs, one little girl with a pet rabbit. I try to interest Mr Pooter in the rabbit, but Auntie Ellen tells me sharply not to make a nuisance of myself. all I was doing was just turning his box in the right direction, so he could see! Holly wrinkles her nose and says there’s a smell. auntie Ellen tells her it’s disinfectant and she goes, “Ugh! Yuck! Poo!” But then a vet puts his head round the door and calls out, “Fluffy Marshall?” and Holly giggles – “
Fluffy Marshall!
” – and wants to know whether that’s the name of the cat or the name of the owner. auntie Ellen tells her to be quiet and stop showing off, so then she sits in a sulk, scuffing her feet on the floor.

When it’s our turn the vet calls, “Pooter Walters!” He’s not Pooter Walters, he’s Pooter Winton, but I suppose it’s not really important. What’s important is that the vet is going to make him better.

We all troop into the surgery. the vet asks what the
problem seems to be, and I tell him about Mr Pooter being sick and not wanting to eat.

“And how old is he?” says the vet.

Proudly I say that he’s sixteen.

“Quite an old fellow,” says the vet.

He examines Mr Pooter all over. Mr Pooter is so good! He doesn’t complain once. I stroke him and tell him that everything is going to be all right.

“Well,” says the vet, straightening up. “In view of his age, I’d say it’s almost certainly a kidney problem, but we’d better do a blood test to make sure.”

“Is that really necessary?” says Auntie Ellen.

The vet says if we want a proper diagnosis, it is.

“What I mean,” says Auntie Ellen, “is it really worth it? At his age?”

I hold my breath. I squeeze Mr Pooter.

“We can’t treat him if we don’t know what’s wrong,” says the vet. “I agree that he’s old, but he’s not ancient. Cats can easily live to be nineteen or twenty. Even older.”

I am so relieved I let out my breath in a big
whoosh
. I
don’t think Auntie Ellen is too happy, but she lets the vet take a sample of Mr Pooter’s blood. I keep him very close and whisper in his ear and he doesn’t even flinch. He is a very brave cat. the vet says the results will be through in a couple of days and then we can decide on the appropriate treatment. In the meanwhile, he says, we should try him with a special diet.

I put Mr Pooter back in his box and we go out to Reception to collect some cans of special cat diet and pay the bill. I am scared when I see how much the bill comes to. I would have to save up my pocket money for months before I would have enough to pay it. Auntie Ellen is outraged. angrily she drives us home, saying over and over that it is daylight robbery. I tell her that I will pay it back, that Uncle Mark needn’t give me any more pocket money until—

“Until kingdom come!” snaps Auntie Ellen. “Don’t be absurd.”

“It’s her cat,” says Holly, “so she
ought
to pay it back.”

I say that I will. “I promise!”

“It’s only fair,” says Holly.

Auntie Ellen tell us both to be quiet. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

As soon as we’re back I go upstairs with Mr Pooter and ring Stevie. It’s only five o’clock, so maybe she won’t be too cross. She’s not cross at all! She wants to hear about Mr Pooter. I tell her what the vet said and she says that the special diet will help, but if Mr Pooter is still being picky I could try buying some prawns and whizzing them up in the food processor.

“Make them into a nice soft mush…that should tempt him.”

I am going to go out first thing tomorrow and buy some prawns with what is left of my pocket money. Before I stop getting pocket money. I am not sure whether Uncle Mark is going to go on giving me any or not. When he came in I told him he needn’t, “I’m going to pay back every penny!” Uncle Mark told me not to be silly. He said of course I didn’t need to pay him back. But then Holly chimed in with “It’s her cat!” and Auntie Ellen said again about daylight robbery. So now I don’t really know. that is why I am going to buy the prawns, quickly, while I still can.

Auntie Ellen and Holly are getting ready to go into town to do some shopping. auntie Ellen wants to know if I’m going with them, but I say I can’t as I have to finish reading my book.

“All this reading,” says Auntie Ellen, sounding irritable. “There has to be more to life!”

“I just want to finish it,” I say.

They’re only going to Tesco. I don’t know why it makes her so cross, but lots of the things I do make Auntie Ellen cross. I think she doesn’t really like me very much. I try to pretend that I don’t care. But deep down, I do. I just can’t think what to do about it.

As soon as she and Holly are gone, I’m going down to the minimart near the roundabout to buy prawns for Mr Pooter. there! That’s it. they’ve gone. I wait for the sound of Auntie Ellen’s car, backing out of the garage, then I snatch up my purse and dash off.

I come back triumphantly with a medium-size bag of frozen prawns. I fetch Mr Pooter from the bedroom so he can see me warm them up under the hot tap and put them in the blender. He sits on the table, looking interested.

“Special treat,” I tell him. He’s definitely interested. the only time he’s ever tasted prawns was one Christmas, when me and Mum had prawn cocktails for a treat and he got so excited he jumped up and started hooking
prawns out with his paw. We laughed so much, we didn’t have the heart to tell him off. In the end, he ate more prawns than we did. But as Mum said, “It’s his Christmas too.” I wonder if he remembers?

I put the prawn mush into a plastic pot and carefully wash and dry the blender. I don’t want Auntie Ellen knowing what I’ve done; she’d be sure to disapprove.

“Let’s go outside,” I say. I pick up the pot, plus Mr Pooter’s dish and
Three Men in a Boat
, and Mr Pooter follows me into the garden, where we settle down on the grass and I spoon out some of the mixture. Mr Pooter’s nose is twitching. He seems really eager. He’s eating! I’m so happy I immediately ring Stevie to tell her. Stevie says that’s good. “But only little bits at a time. Don’t want him throwing up.” I ask her how little the bits should be, and how often I should give them to him, but she just snaps “Common sense!” and rings off. I think perhaps just a couple of blobs every half hour.

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.

“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?”