Katy Read online

  ‘Katy? Katy! Don’t doze off, dear. It’s very important you stay awake. That’s another tip I’ve learned from the telly. You must keep talking to me. What television programmes do you like? I think Pointless is a lovely programme; do you ever watch that? What are those two men called? Oh, I always forget a name. Come on, dear, you tell me. I’m sure you know. Or tell me about children’s television. Did you know, it was only on for an hour when I was a little girl? And oh how I loved those programmes! Whirligig with Humphrey Lestocq and Mr Turnip – now I can remember their names – and little Jennifer, the announcer. Oh, she talked so nicely! Children did in those days. Do you remember her? No, of course you don’t. It was years before you were born; years before your mother was born.’

  I still had my eyes shut, but I started listening properly.

  ‘Tell me about my mother,’ I murmured.

  ‘Oh, a lovely girl, truly a gem. Such a tragedy that she left us so soon. I used to visit her, you know, when she started getting so sick, and she was so brave, chatting away, quite the ticket. But one day she burst out crying and said, “What’s going to happen to my poor babies?” It made me cry too. I felt so sorry for her. There … I’m getting choked up now. Talk to me, Katy. You remember your mother, don’t you?’

  Of course she remembers me!

  Mum was back, shaking her head in fond exasperation at Mrs Burton’s prattling. She knelt beside me.

  Come on, poppet, up you get. You’d better come with me. That’s the way. My goodness! We’re the same height now, you and me.

  She pulled me upright and gave me such a hug. It was wonderful feeling her arms round me, so strong, so warm, so undeniably there. I was standing up, the pain was all gone, I was all right after all, perfectly fine.

  ‘Oh Mum, I thought … I thought I couldn’t even walk!’

  ‘You will walk, Katy, I’m sure you will, but you mustn’t try to move now. Keep still. I’m sure the ambulance men will get here any minute.’

  Why was Mrs Burton still talking to me? Mum and I had strolled up the garden together arm in arm. I could hardly hear her now.

  ‘There now, love. Keep very, very still. We’re just going to pop these foam blocks round your head and neck – that’s the way. Oh, what a brave girl.’

  What was happening? Who was this? Why were they fussing so? I was fine, couldn’t they see? I was with Mum and everything was going to be all right. I didn’t want them to keep pulling at me. They were dragging me back.

  ‘Oh Lordy! Has the poor little kiddie broken her back?’

  ‘It’s too soon to say. Are you Grandma?’

  What were they talking about? As if anyone as old and sad and decrepit as Mrs Burton could possibly be my grandmother! And what were they doing? They were feeling me carefully! And now they seemed to be sliding something hard under my back.

  ‘No, no, don’t do that!’ I said. ‘Stop them doing it, Mum.’

  But none of them seemed to hear me now. I couldn’t even hear myself. I was flying through the air again, and I couldn’t hang on, and I was falling, falling, falling …

  14

  Katy.

  Katy?

  Katy!

  So many voices, all of them talking to me.

  I felt I was so many Katys.

  I was Katy the eldest, organizing all the others, playing games. I was Katy the best friend, giggling and whispering with Cecy. I was Katy at school, chatting to Ryan, sneering at Eva Jenkins. I was Katy with Helen, helping to look after her. I was Katy with Dad; little Katy sitting on his lap. I was Katy with Mum; me in my little red car, Mum running along beside me, laughing. I was laughing too, laughing and laughing.

  No, I was crying and crying.

  ‘Poor darling. Here, let me wipe those eyes. There now. We’ll give you something for the pain.’

  Yes, pain. My head. My back. It hurt so much at the top of my spine that I screamed.

  ‘They’ve given you morphine, baby. It will make you feel nice and woozy very soon, I promise.’ It was Dad, real Dad.

  ‘But you’re swimming,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Mrs Burton was waiting at her front door to tell us, bless her. God, what a shock you’ve given us all!’

  ‘Are you very cross with me?’

  ‘Oh darling. No, I’m not cross. Not cross at all. And I’m going to stay here with you now while they X-ray you and give you a CT and an MRI scan,’ Dad said, stroking my cheek.

  I couldn’t understand why he was talking in letters. I didn’t know what he meant. But it was enough that he was with me.

  ‘And Mum? Is Mum here too?’ I asked.

  He paused. He was standing, bending over me so I could see his face. It suddenly creased up, as if he were trying not to cry.

  ‘Dad?’ I said, really frightened. I’d never seen Dad cry in my life. I wanted to hug him. ‘Let me out of this thing round my head!’ I begged, but my words wouldn’t come out right.

  So I asked Cecy and Ryan, I even asked Eva, because they were all round me, chattering and laughing but taking no notice of me whatsoever, and then they turned into nurses who pushed me in and out of machines. One was a really scary machine like a never-ending tunnel, and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t see; I could just hear really loud thumps and rattles and I couldn’t tell if they were inside or outside my head.

  Then at last I was free and in the air again, real air, outside.

  ‘Dad! Dad, am I going home now?’ I asked, desperately hoping this was true.

  ‘Not yet, darling. They’re transferring you to a special paediatric spinal unit.’

  ‘To a … what?’

  ‘A special hospital for children with bad backs.’

  ‘But my back isn’t bad.’ Izzie had a bad back sometimes. She’d hurt it when the twins were little, lumping them in and out of their buggy, and it still played up now. She had a little, hard, black cushion to put behind her back when she sat on the sofa, and when it was really bad she ate paracetamols like Smarties.

  ‘I’m not old like Izzie,’ I said.

  ‘Oh Katy. Izzie’s not old. Though we’re both feeling positively ancient right this minute.’

  ‘Old-man dad,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, very-old-man dad. You’re a bit out of it, sweetheart, now the morphine’s kicked in. Oh Katy, darling …’ Dad screwed up his face and then bobbed back, out of my sight.

  ‘Dad? Dad, don’t go!’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. I’m right here, beside you,’ said Dad. His voice was thick. He was crying.

  ‘Dad – Dad, I am going to get better, aren’t I?’ I asked.

  He murmured something. I couldn’t hear him properly.

  ‘Dad, please! Promise me I’m going to get better,’ I repeated.

  ‘They’re going to try their hardest to make you better, my special girl,’ said Dad. He stroked my face again, outlining my eyebrows and nose and lips as if he were drawing me. I lay still, liking the distracting tickling feel on my face. The roar inside my head had dulled. The pain in my back was still there, but not quite so sharp. I fell asleep, murmuring, ‘Better, better, better.’

  Then there were more nurses, joltings, a journey, but every time I cried out Dad held my hand and reassured me. Perhaps I was given more morphine when I got to the spinal unit because for a while I felt I was wafting along through the air, several feet above my body, looking down at myself being shunted along endless corridors. Dad was one side of me, Mum the other, and Clover was curled up by my feet, weeping so hard that my toes were quite wet. I was wet and yet my throat was dry, so very dry that my voice cracked when I tried to talk.

  ‘Can I have … a drink … drink of water?’ I whispered.

  ‘Not just now, darling,’ said Dad.

  ‘I want one,’ I said, starting to cry. It seemed incredibly mean to me that I couldn’t have a little water when I felt so dreadful, and I hadn’t had anything to drink all day long. Or was this even the next day? It felt as if years had passed since I fell from