Fruit and Nutcase (15 page)

“It’s a death trap,” said Mum.

“Yes,” said Nan, “and you go waltzing off to work and leave this child to cope on her own.”

“I can cope!” I said. “And Mum has to go to work ‘cos we couldn’t pay the bills otherwise.”

“Don’t you talk to me about paying bills!” snapped Nan; and I knew that I’d gone and said the wrong thing. “Look at this child!” said Nan. “Look at the state of her!”

“It was the floorboard,” pleaded Mum.

“What was the floorboard?”

“How she got the black eye!”

“
Oh
?” Nan swung round on me. “What d’you want to go telling me lies for?”

“My Mandy doesn’t tell lies!” cried Mum.

“I cannot believe—” Nan’s bosoms sort of heaved upwards “—I cannot believe that it has come to this!”

“To w–what?” stammered Mum.

“This!”
Nan flung out her arms. “I’m sorry, Sandra, but it cannot be allowed to go on. I am not having a grandchild of mine left all day and every day in this—this rubbish dump! That interfering old busybody downstairs is quite right. You’re not fit to be parents. Either of you!”

“Mum and Dad can’t help it,” I said. “It’s not their fault the house is falling to pieces, it’s—”

“Amanda, will you please BE QUIET!” roared Nan.

My name isn’t Amanda. It’s Mandy.

“Just go to your room,” said Nan. “I want a word in private with your mother.”

She took Mum into the sitting-room and slammed the door, and I crept up and tried to listen but I couldn’t hear very much, only the sound of Mum crying. And then the door opened and Mum came out and went running straight past me, all blotched and tear-stained, and Nan sailed after, looking like one of those things they have on churches that the water spouts out of.
^*

Really cross and horrible.

She said, “Right, that’s settled. Go and get your bags packed. You’re coming to live with me.”

Not just stay with her.

Live
with her.

It was my worst nightmare come true.

I don’t really want to tell this next bit.

I’d rather tell something else.

Like, for instance… the day Iwent to my friend
Janis’s school sports and they had a PHAB race
^*
and Janis was in her wheel chair and I was pushing her and we won first prize and had our pictures in the paper.

That was great, that was! I’d much rather talk about that than all about what happened next in my life.

I mean, I don’t
have
to talk about what happened next. If I really don’t want to. Nobody can make me.

Except then perhaps they wouldn’t publish it. They would say, this girl is so boring, she is so happy all the time with her mum and dad. Why does nothing bad ever happen to her?

So I suppose I had better do it.

I suppose.

All right! I’ll do it.

I shall take a
DEEP
breath and open my mouth and just
talk.

*
Note from Cat’s mum:They’re called gargoyles.

*
Query from Cat’s mum: Does this stand for physically handicapped-able-bodied?
Yes!

When Nan said I was to go and live with her, my heart just fell right down with a great thunk! on to the floor. I knew it wasn’t any use arguing. You can’t argue with Nan. Once she’s made up her mind, that’s it.

But it was awful. It was really awful. Nan was all puckered and pursed, and Mum was just sobbing and sobbing, and then Dad comes home and says, “What’s going on?” and Nan tells him what’s happened, and how she’s taking me away “Until you two get your act together”, and Dad just goes mental. I mean, he just goes crashing and banging all about the place, and he’s smashing his fist on things and shouting, and Misery Guts is howling up the stairs, and Mum’s still sobbing, and Nan’s trying to get Dad to calm down and “Listen to a bit of sense, for goodness’ sake!” But Dad won’t. Not for ages.

When at last he stops crashing and shouting,
he grabs me and pulls me to him and says, “You can’t do this! You can’t take my Mand!”

To which Nan retorts that if she doesn’t take me it’s only a matter of time before someone like old Misery Guts calls the Social Services.

“And once they get their hands on her, you can kiss her goodbye. She’ll be sent to a children’s home or put with foster parents, and that’ll be that. And I wouldn’t blame them, either! This way, I’m giving you a chance. You get yourselves sorted, I might consider letting you have her back. But I’m not having my grandchild brought up in a pigsty just because her mum and dad are too stupid and irresponsible to look after her properly. So there!”

There was a long silence after Nan said this. Dad went pale and even Mum stopped sobbing. Nan said, “Look at the place! Look at the state of it! You’re like children, the pair of you. Just playing at keeping house. Look at this!” She ran a finger along the top of the mantelpiece.
“Filth!”

I said, “I was going to see to that,” but Nan turned on me, really sharp, and snapped, “It’s not up to you!” And Dad chimed in with, “That’s right.
It’s not up to Mandy. It’s up to her mum!” He glared at Mum as he said it, and that set Mum off crying again, and to my complete amazement Nan snarled, “Don’t you try shifting all the blame on to Sandra! You’re no better. Useless great lummock!”

I’d never known Nan turn on Dad before. It’s always been Mum she’s had a go at. But she was really mad. She kept on about “the Social” and how the shame of it would kill her. She said, “You’d just better pull your fingers out, the pair of you! Get this place cleaned up and start taking a few lessons in elementary housekeeping!”

Dad looked rebellious and started muttering, but Mum wept and said, “We will, we will!”

“Both of you,” said Nan. “That means you, lummock!”

And she actually poked a finger right in the middle of Dad’s chest.

Dad’s jaw dropped way, way down.

I almost would have laughed, it looked so funny! But Mum was still sobbing, and there was my bag standing all packed and ready to go.

And any minute now Nan was going to say, “Right! That’s it. Come along, Mandy,” and I just couldn’t bear it. I felt something hot and prickly happening in my eyes, and at first I couldn’t imagine what it was but then it was like seeing everything through a window that rain is dripping down and I knew that I was crying.

But I don’t cry! Not
ever.
I didn’t even cry when the kitchen cabinet fell on me and cut my head open. Not even when I had to have stitches. Not even when Tracey Bigg makes up her horrid rhymes about me.

Crying is a sign of weakness. I didn’t want to
cry! Nan said, “Come on, then, child. Let’s get going,” and I raced over to Mum and threw my arms around her and whispered, “I’ll be back, Mum! Don’t forget to make out shopping lists.” If Mum doesn’t make out shopping lists, she can’t remember what she needs to buy. “And give Dad proper meals, Mum! ‘Cos he needs them.”

And then I raced over to Dad and hugged
him,
and begged him to be kind to Mum and not fly off the handle.

“Please, Dad! Don’t get cross with Mum. I hate it when you do that!”

Next thing I know I’m being pushed down the stairs in front of Nan, and old Misery’s there spying as usual, but for once she doesn’t say anything, and we’re out on the pavement and the front door’s shut behind us and all I can think of is Mum sobbing and Dad going round bashing things.