a long journey ahead of us and the traffic will be horrendous at this time of day.
I hurry after her to the car. I can see that Mr Miah has something more he would like to say, and I don’t want to seem rude, but I am worried about Mr Pooter. I cram myself into the back seat and pull his carrying box on to my lap. It is an old cardboard one of Stevie’s, a bit crushed and battered. I waggle my finger through one of the air holes and hear a chirrup. I relax. If he’s chirruping, it means he’s happy.
There’s not much room on the back seat as it is piled with boxes. The whole car is crowded out with boxes. We got them from Mr Miah, and me and Stevie spent all yesterday filling them. Auntie Ellen had already warned me that there wouldn’t be room for everything.
“We don’t have much cupboard space, so try to be a bit selective. Just bring what’s most important. Clothes, obviously.”
But clothes are the least important. What’s most important, apart from Mr Pooter, is books. Mum loved her books! I have packed all of them. Every single one. I told Stevie she could have everything that was left over for the local Animal Samaritans. I know that’s what Mum would have wanted.
Auntie Ellen turned a bit pale when she saw how many boxes there were. She said, “Laurel, I told you to be selective!”
I said that I had been. “Most of it’s books.”
“Books?” She almost shrieked it. I wanted to giggle, cos it was like I’d said I’d packed up a load of tarantulas, or something. Imagine being scared of books! She looked across at Uncle Mark and said, “Now what do we do? We don’t have room for all this lot!”
Uncle Mark said that we didn’t have time to start unpacking. “We’ll just have to sort it out the other end.”
Auntie Ellen wanted me to leave some of the boxes behind, but I wouldn’t. So here they all are, and here are me and Mr Pooter, squashed up against them. I wish we could have gone to live with Stevie. I’m sure she wouldn’t have minded Mum’s books, not even if they did have to be kept in heaps on the floor. Stevie isn’t houseproud like Auntie Ellen. But of course they wouldn’t let me. They said it wasn’t a suitable placement, meaning there are cats roaming everywhere and it isn’t hygienic. People are a great deal too bothered about hygiene, if you ask me. Stevie seems to have lived quite happily all these years without being troubled by it. They’d probably have said me and Mum weren’t hygienic, either. We didn’t go in very much for housework. We had more important things to worry about than dust, or cobwebs, or whether there was a rim round the bath – which I now realise there was, since Auntie Ellen remarked on it only this morning, shuddering as she did so. People care about the weirdest things.
I stare out of the window, wondering where we are.
Auntie Ellen says, “I told you the traffic would be bad.” Uncle Mark says it’s no problem. Once we hit the motorway we’ll be all right.
“Assuming there aren’t any hold-ups,” says Auntie Ellen.
I think to myself that Auntie Ellen is one of those people who enjoy looking on the black side. Uncle Mark catches my eye in the driving mirror.
“OK back there?”
I nod, without speaking, and bury my nose in Mr Pooter’s fur. I’ve opened his box so that we can have a cuddle.
“Home in time for tea,” says Uncle Mark.
I force my lips into a smile. He is trying so hard to make me feel wanted, though I am sure I can’t really be. I know Auntie Ellen doesn’t want me. And I don’t suppose Holly does, either. They are only taking me because they feel it’s their duty. I know I ought to be grateful, and I am doing my best, but it is not easy. I would so much rather have gone to live with Stevie!
Mr Pooter sits up and rubs his head against mine. I rub back. Auntie Ellen says, “You make sure that cat doesn’t start jumping about.”
I tell her that Mr Pooter is too old to jump about. Mum had him before she was married. “He’s almost sixteen.”
Auntie Ellen says she doesn’t care. “It’s not safe, having a cat loose in the car.”
I close up one side of the box, so that it looks like he’s shut away. I keep my hand in there, to reassure him. Mr Pooter purrs and dribbles.
“Motorway coming up,” says Uncle Mark. “Home before you know it!”
Up until last week, home was the cottage that I shared with Mum. Old, and crumbly, and tiny as a dolls’ house, with a narrow strip of garden going down to the railway. Now I shall be living on an estate, with hundreds of houses all the same, and everything bright and new. Our cottage was cosy, even if we did have a rim round the bath and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. Uncle Mark’s house is not cosy. It is too tidy. And too clean.
Uncle Mark looks at me again, in the mirror. “It’s been a while,” he says, “hasn’t it?”
I don’t understand what he means.
“Since you were last with us,” he says.
I say, “Oh.” And then, “Yes.”
“You must have been about Holly’s age. The age she is now.”
The Christmas before last. I was ten and a half. I’m thinking back. Remembering me and Mum, wrapping up presents at the last minute, waiting for Uncle Mark to come and fetch us. I can hear Mum saying that we must be on our best behaviour and not do anything to upset Auntie Ellen.
“It’s very good of her to put up with us.”
I remember being cheeky and telling Mum that she was the one that did all the upsetting. “Arguing about politics and stuff.” And Mum saying that this year she wasn’t going to even mention politics. “And if anyone else does, I shall just keep quiet.”
To which I said, “Ha ha.” But Mum insisted that she meant it. She said it was very bad manners, in someone else’s house. “Though I suppose,” she added, “we shall have to watch the Queen’s speech.” And then she snatched up a cereal bowl and balanced it on her head, like a crown, and posed, all regal, on her chair. “My husband and I…”
Mum was brilliant at being the Queen. She sounded just like her! I give a sudden squawk of laughter. Auntie Ellen springs round.
“What’s the matter?”
Nothing’s the matter. I’m just remembering Mum, being the Queen. I stick my head inside Mr Pooter’s box, to stifle another squawk which is about to burst out of me.
“What’s so funny?” says Uncle Mark.
I can’t tell him; he would think I was being rude. Mum said afterwards that our behaviour was unforgivable. But it was her fault! We were all sitting there on Christmas Day, in front of the television, waiting for the Queen to get going, when Mum leant across and whispered in my ear, “My husband and I…” and I immediately started giggling and couldn’t stop. So then Mum started giggling and she couldn’t stop. We just sat there, helpless, with Auntie Ellen growing more and more offended, which I suppose you can’t really blame her for, what with it being her house, and us being her guests.
I
