hold out my hand for the book. “Please,” I say. “I have to keep that one.”
Holly shrugs. “That’s it then. The rest’ll have to go. I’ll tell Michael.”
It’s Michael who’s going to take the boxes up to the loft. Into exile. Holly opens the door, then stops as something strikes her. “Is that why he’s called Mr Pooter?” she says.
Mr Pooter twitches an ear at the sound of his name. I say yes, Mum called him that because he has a long beard, like Mr Pooter in the book. Well, long for a cat; cats don’t usually have beards. But Mr Pooter is special. He has this lovely fringe of white fur all round his face.
“He’s odd-looking,” says Holly. “And he shouldn’t be on your bed! It’s not healthy, having cats in the bedroom. As for that—” She points an accusing finger at Mr Pooter’s litter box, tucked away in the corner. “That’s just disgusting!”
I tell her, indignantly, that it’s clean as can be. “I empty it all the time!”
“Cats ought to go in the garden,” says Holly.
“He can’t, he’s too old, and you haven’t got a cat flap. Anyway, it’s scary for him, a new place. He might get lost, or run over.”
Holly doesn’t actually say that she’d be glad if he did, but the truth is, nobody in this house likes cats. She grumbles that she doesn’t know what’s going to happen when her nan comes to stay.
“You’ll have to sleep in my room, and I’m not sleeping with cat poo! Not sleeping with a cat in the room, either. He’ll have to go outside then.”
I say in that case I’ll go outside with him. “We’ll both sleep in the kitchen.”
“Then we’ll have cat poo in the kitchen! That’s even more disgusting. We’ll all get poisoned!”
Stevie’s never got poisoned. I wish I could have stayed and lived with Stevie! I’m sure it’s what Mum would have wanted. But maybe Stevie wouldn’t have liked it. In spite of being so good to Mum, she really only loves her cats.
Holly flounces off and I hear her thudding off down the stairs. I don’t have the heart to begin cramming all the books back into their boxes. I throw myself on to the bed and rub my face in Mr Pooter’s fur.
“It’s all right,” I whisper. “I won’t let them put you out.”
Mr Pooter gives a chirrup and stretches out an arm. He crimps a paw, then yawns and tucks his arm back again. I sit, cross-legged, beside him. What goes on in a cat’s mind? Does Mr Pooter ever wonder where Mum has gone? Does he miss her? I’m sure he must, he was with her such a long time. Ever since he was a tiny kitten. But while he has me to look after him, he is safe. And he will always have me. That is a promise.
I’m still holding Diary of a Nobody. Mum and me were in the middle of reading it again; the bookmark’s still in it. We’d got about halfway through. We were always reading Diary of a Nobody. I can’t remember how old I was when Mum introduced me to it. I think I must have been about eight. Too young to properly enjoy it. Now I know it almost word for word. Mum did too. We both had our favourite bits that we waited for. One bit Mum specially loved was where Carrie and Mr Pooter send out for a bottle of Jackson Frères champagne whenever they feel like celebrating. It always got Mum giggling, so I used to giggle too, though I was never absolutely certain what I was giggling at. But whenever Mum and me wanted a treat, like at Christmas, for instance, or on Mum’s birthday, she’d say, “Let’s have some Jackson Frères!” Then after a while everything became Jackson Frères. A can of Coke, a glass of milk. Even just a glass of water. “Pass the Jackson Frères!” we’d go. It was like our private joke.
Michael has arrived. “Come to take the boxes up,” he says.
I haven’t even started packing them. I scramble guiltily off the bed.
“’s OK,” says Michael. “I’ll do it.” Mr Pooter watches, carefully, as he starts collecting books. Michael looks at him. “Is he some kind of special breed?” he says.
I say no, he’s just a common domestic short hair. That’s what Stevie said.
“He looks like he’s some kind of breed.” Michael pats Mr Pooter on the head as if he’s a dog. Mr Pooter lets him. He is such a good cat. “Pretty,” says Michael. “Like sort of…dappled.”
My heart swells with pride. Me and Mum always thought Mr Pooter was pretty.
“Like someone’s spilt a can of orange paint over him.”
“Or marmalade,” I say.
“Yeah. Maybe he’s a marmalade cat!”
Michael’s busy, now, packing books. I’m handing them to him, one by one, and he’s putting them in the boxes. He’s not just stuffing them in all anyhow, like Holly would have done. He’s stacking them neatly, in piles. Big ones at the bottom, small ones on top.
“This is a lot of books,” he says. “I guess Auntie Sue was really into reading.”
I tell him that Mum loved her books more than anything. “She always said books are what she’d rescue if the house ever caught fire. After Mr Pooter, of course. But once he was safe, she’d go back for her books.”
I can see that Michael thinks it’s strange, anyone rescuing books, but he’s too polite to say so. He’s like Uncle Mark, he’s really trying to be kind. He picks up a box and carries it to the door. It’s obviously heavier than he’d thought.
“Don’t reckon she’d have managed to rescue very many,” he says.
Regretfully I say that I haven’t, either. “There’s not room.”
“Maybe Dad could put up another shelf, only—” He stops. I know why he’s stopped. It’s because Auntie Ellen didn’t want a shelf put up in the first place. This is where Holly’s nan sleeps, and it’s a tiny little room like a cupboard. It’s why I wasn’t allowed to bring Mum’s bookcase. “Far too big,” said Auntie Ellen. “Wouldn’t fit in.” It would if the wardrobe was taken out. I wouldn’t care about not having a wardrobe. But Holly’s nan probably expects it.
In this cheering-up kind of voice Michael says, “It’s not like they’re being got rid of. They’re only up in the loft.” He adds that he can always go up there and get a book down for me if there’s one I specially want.
He is trying so hard. He really wants me to be happy. It ought to make things easier. Why does it make them worse?
“There’s no problem,” says Michael. “I’m up and down there all the time. Just let me know. OK?”
I seal up the chinks in my ice house wall.
“I will,” says Ice Lolly, in her icicle tones. “Thank you.”
Michael gives me this strange look. “By the way,” he says, “next week—” Next week is when I’m starting back at school. The same school Michael goes to. “I just heard, you’re going to be in my class.”
I can’t think what to say
