“Lol?” We’ve come off the motorway and pulled up at some traffic lights. Uncle Mark turns to look at me. “You sure you’re OK?”
I tell him yes. I try to force my lips back into a smile, but this time they won’t do it. I know Uncle Mark is only trying to be kind, but he shouldn’t call me Lol! That was one of Mum’s names for me. Lol, Lolly. Lollipop. Lol was for every day. Lollipop was when I was little. Lolly was for fun. I suppose now that I am frozen, I am an ice lolly…
That is a good joke! Ice Lolly. I wish I could tell Mum, we would have had such a laugh about it together. We laughed at most things, me and Mum. We didn’t believe in being miserable.
Mr Pooter reaches out a paw and dabs at my face.
“Laurel, I told you before, put that cat back in its box!” thunders Auntie Ellen.
The Ice Lolly does what she is told. She closes the box and sits, frozen, staring straight ahead.
“That’s better,” says Auntie Ellen.
I’m upstairs in my bedroom. My new bedroom, in my new home. I’ve been here four days, now. I suppose I’ll get used to it in time, though it is a bit like living in a foreign country where everyone has different customs and speaks a different language. However hard I try, I know that I don’t really fit in. Auntie Ellen blames Mum; I heard her say so to Uncle Mark. She said, “What can you expect, with that upbringing?”
When she says things like that, it makes me think that I just won’t bother, I’ll just go on being me. Except that if you are in someone else’s house, that is maybe not very polite. Mum always insisted on good manners. It is why she was so cross with us for giggling during the Queen’s speech. I wish she was here! I wish I could ask her what to do.
Holly is standing in the doorway, watching. “You going to get started?” she says.
I’m supposed to be choosing books to go on the bookshelf that Uncle Mark has put up for me. I’ve opened all the boxes, and very slowly, one by one, I’m taking out the books.
“Better get a move on,” says Holly. “Be here all day, otherwise.”
I know that she’s right. But there are far more books than there’s room for on the bookshelf. The shelf will only take about thirty. All the rest are going to have to be put back in their boxes and shut away in the loft. How can I possibly decide which ones get to stay and which ones are banished?
“Just pick your favourites,” says Holly. She makes it sound easy. But it’s not! They are all my favourites. Well, Mum’s favourites. I hate the thought of Mum’s books being sent into exile. I say this to Holly, and she looks at me like I’m something from another planet.
“They’re only books,” she says. This is what I mean about people speaking a different language. “Keep the ones with the nicest covers.”
I tell her that you don’t choose a book by its cover, but Holly says that way they’ll look good on the shelf. “Specially if you get them all the same size, so they line up. It’s untidy when some are short and some are tall. I think you should just have paperbacks, then you’ll get more in.” I guess she’s trying to be helpful. She’s come into the room and is rummaging about in the boxes, in search of books with nice covers that are all the same size. She takes one out and pulls a face. “What’s this, all falling to pieces?”
It’s Middlemarch. I have to admit it hasn’t got a very nice cover, and it is a bit tatty. Me and Mum found it in an Oxfam shop.
“Don’t want to keep that,” says Holly. She tosses Middlemarch on to the bed. Mr Pooter, who is snoozing, opens an eye. “Ought to be chucked out.”
I think sadly of poor Middlemarch, thrown away with the rubbish. Mum was so happy the day we found it. She said, “Middlemarch! I did that for A level. It’s a wonderful book, Lol! You must read it when you’re older.”
I’m not chucking out a book that Mum wanted me to read. But for the moment I reluctantly agree that it can go up to the loft. It still makes me feel like I’m some kind of traitor. Like I’m committing cruelty to books. Mum’s books are like free range. They’re used to being out in the open, where books ought to be. Not shut away in the dark.
“Maybe they could go on the floor,” I say, hopefully. I have visions of them lined up all the way round the room. But Holly looks outraged. She says, “This is where Nan sleeps when she stays.”
I personally think it would be quite comforting, sleeping in a room full of books. When I have my own house I will have shelves of books going from floor to ceiling in every room. I try saying this to Holly, but she doesn’t respond. She’s pulled out Mum’s Shakespeare that used to belong to Gran. She looks at the title – Collected Works of William Shakespeare – and pulls another face. “Don’t want that.” Shakespeare is dumped on the bed next to Middlemarch. I can’t help wondering what Mum would say. But the Collected Works are so big and fat they’d take up almost a quarter of the shelf. It wouldn’t be fair on all the others.
Holly is tossing books like mad, thump thump thump, on to the bed. Mr Pooter curls up into a tight ball and tries to pretend it’s not happening. I try too.
Thump. There goes another one. “Honestly! Is reading all you ever did?” says Holly.
I say no, of course not. But I’m thinking to myself that it was one of the best things we ever did. I used to love curling up on the sofa, cuddling Mr Pooter, while Mum read to me.
“So what else did you do?” says Holly.
I say, “Lots of things.”
“Like what?”
Like listening to music. Watching television. Playing Scrabble. Talking. Me and Mum used to talk all the time. But that isn’t what Holly means. She means didn’t we get out, and go places, like normal people. She thinks that me and Mum were seriously weird. She throws another book on to the bed.
“Didn’t you have any friends, or anything?”
I hesitate. If I say no, she’ll think I’m weirder than ever. Not that I really care what she thinks.
“You must have had some.” She yanks out another book. “Who was your best friend?”
I mutter that I didn’t have a best friend.
“Well, who did you hang out with?”
I hesitate again, then say, “Girl over the road.”
“What was her name?”
“Temeeka.” We didn’t really hang out. We just used to play together when we were little.
“Was she an immigrant?” says Holly.
I frown and say, “Why?”
“It’s
