Lottie Project (20 page)

Jo turned round. ‘Stop being a pig,’ she mouthed at me.

I gave one small snort for her
benefit
. Robin blinked at me in surprise.

‘She’s OK,’ said Jo.

‘And you’re OK too, Robin?’ Mark asked. ‘You don’t feel sick or anything?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Robin mumbled. ‘But maybe Birdie does a bit.’

Oh great. I didn’t care for the idea of Robin chucking up all over me.

‘Talk to Robin, Charlie,’ said Jo. ‘Take his mind off it.’

I didn’t want to talk to Robin. Or his dad. Or my stupid mother, all got up in her fluffy pink top and her tiny skirt. To match her new shrunk tiny brain and her fluffy pink persona. Bimbo Mum. Out with Bambi Man and Birdie Boy.

‘What’s
up
with you, Charlie?’ Jo said, her voice sharp.

There was nothing up with me. I was the only person in the car acting anywhere near normal.

‘She’s shy,’ said Mark.

Me, shy! I snorted again.

‘She’s not shy,’ said Jo. ‘Are you, Charlie? I’m the one who always gets into states about things and can hardly say boo to a goose. Charlie’s always had far more guts than me. She was born a fighter, eh, Charlie?’

She was sucking up to me now. It was sickening. Robin seemed to find it sickening too. Literally.

‘Birdie’s starting to feel
very
sick,’ he gasped, his face pale green.

I snapped into action mega fast, opening his
window
and sticking his little head out just in time. He was sick all over the car, but at least it was outside, not inside. We had to pull up in a lay-by and get him mopped up and the car wiped down. I backed away from both these proceedings. As Mark had to deal with the car Jo had to sluice the sicky dribble off Robin. She’s always had a weak stomach. Still, she was the one who wanted to play Happy Families. Let her be Mother.

Robin started wimpering that he smelt, and eventually Jo had to waste a bottle of the picnic water washing him. Then Robin snivelled that Birdie smelt too, because one tiny tip of his wing had got stained. Birdie had to have a regular little bird-bath too.

I was practically at screaming point by the time we drove off in the car. The day didn’t improve. The world and his wife had decided to visit the Red River Theme Park. We were not the world and we certainly weren’t ever going to be anyone’s wife, but we were stuck in their traffic jam. It took hours before we got there, and then there was a huge queue to park and by the time we staggered through the entrance we felt as exhausted as if we’d already had a day out.

Still, I decided I might as well make the most of this opportunity and I clamoured straight away to go on the really scary famous Red River Run.

‘Let’s go a bit gently first,’ said Jo. ‘Robin still looks a bit pale. What would you like to go on, Robin?’

He twittered and skittered and eventually decided
he
wanted to try the Treetops ride because Birdie might see a lot of big birds up there. I was getting heartily sick of all this twee Birdie nonsense by now. I wished Birdie would flap his wings and fly away, sharpish.

We went on this Treetops ride and it was a bit babyish because you rode round this aerial scenic railway ever so slowly, absolutely no swooping up and down or looping-the-looping. Big birds were very few on the ground too. Well, few in the air, shall we say. I’d have stuck stuffed parrots to every branch and dangled a few eagles in the air just to make the view a bit livelier. You couldn’t rely on the real birds to put on an entertaining aerial display. A few sparrows flapped far away and that was our lot.

It was all very tame. For me. Not for Robin. He went a familiar pale green.

‘Put your head over the side of the truck,’ I said quickly.

But when he did as he was told he looked down
through
the treetops and got so scared he couldn’t even be sick (which was just as well for all the unsuspecting folk wandering around underneath!) Robin just opened his mouth and screamed.

‘Hey, Robin! It’s OK, son. Don’t yell like that. It’s meant to be fun,’ said Mark, turning round and trying to put his arms round him.

‘Don’t look down, Robin.
Look
up at the trees. Look, there’s a pigeon,’ said Jo.

‘Can’t anyone shut him up?’ I said. ‘Robin, you’re giving Birdie a headache. Look, he’s had to put his head under his wing. Shut up, OK?’

It wasn’t OK. He didn’t shut up until we’d finished the ride and hauled him off. Mark picked him up and he buried his head in his shirt and gradually adjusted the scream to an intermittent sob.

‘Well, he’s having a whale of a time,’ I said.

Jo gave me a shove. ‘Will you stop being so hateful?’ she hissed. ‘Poor little Robin.’

‘Yes, poor little wimpy-pimpy,’ I said. ‘Come on, Jo. He’s not a baby. He’s five, for goodness’ sake. In Victorian times he’d be old enough to shove up a chimney.’

‘I wish I could shove you up a chimney,’ said Jo. ‘Look, he acts like a baby because his mum’s cleared off and he feels like his whole world has fallen apart. Can’t you understand?’

I was starting to feel that way myself. Like my own mum had cleared off. Jo turned her back on me and started fuss fuss fussing over Robin, and all the time Mark was looking at her with this sickening soft expression so that now I was the one who felt like throwing up.

Robin wouldn’t go on any other rides, apart from a twiddly little roundabout for tiny tots. He sat bolt upright in a little car and held on to that steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were practically bursting out of his skin. Jo and Mark waved like crazy every time he
came
round but he never once looked at them. He stared straight ahead, as if he were watching the road.

He wanted another go. And another.

‘Look, this is loopy,’ I pointed out. ‘It costs a fortune to get in and you’re supposed to go on all these incredible rides and all we’re doing is watching Robin go round and round a roundabout that would only cost fifty pence at a summer fête.’

‘At least he’s liking it,’ said Jo.

‘But this is his last go. I agree with you, Charlie. Hey, we’ll go on the Red River Ride, eh, you and me?’ said Mark.

I couldn’t stand the way he was trying so hard to get on with me.

‘I’ll go on my own, thanks,’ I said.

But for some infuriating reason they didn’t let kids under twelve ride on their own.

‘You come, Jo. Go on. Please,’ I said, practically begging.

But it was no use. I ended up surfing the Red River with Mark. It spoilt it all utterly. People seeing us together might have thought he was my
dad
. I sat as far away from him as I possibly could. He kept yelling, ‘Isn’t this fun! Isn’t this great!’ though he’d gone almost as green as his son. When we lurched up to the very top and then swooped down like crazy he screamed so that I could see the fillings in his back teeth. When we got to the last and largest hill of steel before the watersplash he actually tried to put his arm round me.

‘Do you mind?’ I said, and I wriggled as far away as I could just as we went over the top. My head jerked forward as I hurtled down and I banged my nose hard on the safety bar. Pain exploded in my head as water splashed right over us and soaked us to the skin.

‘Wow!’ said Mark. ‘Hey, Charlie, what’s up? Did you bump your head? Your poor nose is all red.’

‘No. I’m fine,’ I said thickly, trying to blink my tears back.

I didn’t want his soggy sympathy. Even though it was all his fault. Him and his silly snivelly son.

Jo was still so busy fussing over Robin that she didn’t even
notice
that my nose had suddenly turned into a tomato. So I decided I wouldn’t bother to tell her. Even though it was more than likely broken, and my looks would be marred for all time.

We went to the picnic area but I wasn’t really hungry. My nose throbbed so much and chewing aggravated it. The picnic wasn’t up to much anyway. The sandwiches had gone limp inside and hard out because Jo had made them the night before. She’d packed the crisps under the cans of Coke so that they were all broken into little bits. The grapes had got so squashed that one more trample would have turned them into wine.

The only good part of the picnic were my fairy cakes which I’d packed myself in a nest of paper tissues inside a big tin. They were delicious. And
carefully
iced with witty messages. I handed them round so that everyone got the right one.

Mine said
HEY, BEAUTIFUL
.

Jo’s said
TRAITOR
.

Mark’s said
DEADLY POISON
.

Robin’s said
GET LOST
.

‘What does it mean, g-e-t l-o-s-t?’ said Robin, licking his message tentatively.

‘Oh, it’s just Charlie being silly,’ said Jo, glaring at me. She didn’t even touch her cake. Mark gave a great false roar of laughter and ate his in two gulps.

‘Yum yum, delicious,’ he said, and then he gasped and pretended to choke.

‘Daddy?’ said Robin.

‘It’s OK, Daddy’s just dying,’ I said.

‘It’s a silly joke, Robin,’ said Jo, cramming the lid back on the rest of the cakes. She looked like she wanted to cram me inside too. Without any airholes. ‘How would you like another go on that little roundabout, Robin?’