Dad’s here. He comes most days, but never with Mum. They don’t do anything together any more, not since he moved out. He’s reading to me. The BFG again. It’s always The BFG. I like it, but not that much. I know why he’s doing it, though. Doctor Smellybreath’s always saying it, to everyone who comes to visit me. He says anything could wake me up at any time – a voice I recognise, a book I know, a song I like, or some big surprise. He says everyone’s got to try to find a way through to me, and one of the best ways is by jogging my memory.
So Dad sits here reading The BFG. I know it by heart, Dad, and it’s not waking me up. Talk to me, Dad. I just want you to talk to me, like you used to. But he doesn’t. He always says exactly the same thing when he first comes in to see me. “Hello, Robbie. You all right then?” Silly question, Dad. Then he gives me a kiss on my forehead, pats my hand, sits down and starts to read. He doesn’t even tell me who won the football.
Sometimes he stops reading for a while and I hear him breathing, and I feel him just sitting there looking at me. He’s doing that now. I know he is. He’s moving his chair closer. He’s going to talk to me. He’s going to say something.
“Robbie? Robbie? Are you there?” Of course I am, Dad. Where else would I be? My nose is itching, Dad. I wish you would scratch it for me. I wish I could scratch it for me.
“Say something to me, Robbie. Move a finger, or anything. Please.” I can’t, Dad. Don’t you think I would if I could?
“I’ll finish the chapter then, shall I?” He’s closer still now, so close I can feel his breath on my ear. “It’s The BFG, Robbie. Your favourite.” I know it is, Dad. Please don’t read to me, Dad. Just talk to me. But I hear him turning the page. On he goes. I shouldn’t complain. He reads it brilliantly. Well, he should. He is an actor after all. His BFG voice is really cool, all booming and funny, like laughing thunder.
Great! Tracey’s come in again. She’s singing. I love to hear her singing. Days I’ll remember all my life. Kirsty MacColl. It makes me feel all happy and warm inside. “Hello, Mr Ainsley,” she chirps. “How are we today? How’s Robbie doing?”
“The same,” Dad says. “Much the same. Sometimes I don’t see any point in this. I don’t think he knows I’m even here.” I wish he wouldn’t sound so gloomy.
“Don’t you believe it,” says Tracey. “He knows, don’t you, Robbie? I know he knows, Mr Ainsley.” She’s changing the dressing on my head. “He knows a lot more than you think, I’m sure of it. He’s doing just fine, Mr Ainsley. What he doesn’t need is people around him who are worrying themselves silly about him.” You tell him, Tracey. I can feel the warmth of her hands on my head. “Well, the bump on his head is going down very nicely, and that’s just what we want. But it’s swollen on the inside, Mr Ainsley. That’s the big problem. All we need is for that swelling to go down too, and with a little bit of luck, and with a lot of encouragement, he’ll come out of his coma.”
“Mrs Tinley – she’s Robbie’s Headteacher,” Dad’s saying, “she gave me this tape to play for Robbie. The kids in his class have sent messages to him – you know, get-well messages. She thought it might help, help him to wake up. What d’you think?”
“I think that’s really sweet,” Tracey says. “And what’s more it’s a great idea. I’ll go and find the cassette machine. We’ve got one somewhere, I know we have.” And she goes out, leaving Dad and me alone again.
There’s a bit of a silence, and then suddenly Dad starts to talk. For the first time he’s actually talking as if he really believes I might be able to hear him. “Robbie, it’s about your mum and me. We both feel really bad about this. She thinks that if she hadn’t sent you off to walk Lucky in the park, then none of this would have happened. And I know that if I’d been at home, then I’d have been there to take you and Lucky to the park myself. I’d have been there to look after you.
And there’s something else, Robbie. About your mum and me splitting up. I should have said something before, I should have explained. It was my fault, not Mum’s – mostly anyway. I couldn’t get work, Robbie, and I got all down in the dumps, and fed up and depressed. I thought I wasn’t any use to anyone – not her, not you, not Ellie. She had enough of me moping about the place, feeling all sorry for myself. I don’t blame Mum. We both said things we shouldn’t have said. Now I’m upset and she’s upset.”
Dad never ever talks to me like this. He isn’t talking to me as if I’m a kid at all. I like that. I like that a lot. “I’ve got a job now, Robbie. It’s not much, just a little part on TV, in The Bill. But it’s something, a start. I’m getting back on my feet. I’d come home like a shot, but I think I’ve blown it and I don’t know if Mum’ll have me back.”
Course she would, Dad. Ask her. She misses you like anything. We all do. Ask her, Dad. Just ask her! I want to shout it out loud. But I can’t even open my mouth to talk.
Tracey’s back. “Here it is,” she says. “I’ll plug it in, shall I? Not too loud now. Good luck.” And she’s gone again.
“It’s your friends from school, Robbie. They all wanted to say hi. That’s nice, isn’t it?” All of them? I don’t think so, Dad. Certainly not Barry Bolshaw, him with the big mouth, who has a go at me whenever he can, just for the fun of it. I hate his guts, and he hates mine. I can’t say my ‘r’s very well, so he calls me ‘Wobbie’ or ‘weedy Wobbie’, just because I’m a bit on the small side.
Dad’s really hopeless with machines, always has been. He keeps pressing the wrong buttons. Ah, at last. Here we go.
“Hello Robbie,” Mrs Tinley’s voice. “This is Mrs Tinley.” Well, I know that, don’t I? “Class 6c are here with lots of messages to help you feel better. First a song to cheer you up. Ready children? One. Two. Three.” “Food, glorious food…”
They sing the whole song, and I sing along with it in my head. I know it off by heart. I can hear Marty droning along in the background. He’s useless at singing. He can only sing one note, but he doesn’t seem to know it, and the trouble is he always sings really loudly.
Marty’s my best friend, ever since Infants. He’s got sticking out ears and sticking up hair. That’s the thing about Marty – he sticks out. He’s got huge great feet, like his Dad. I tried on his Dad’s shoes once when I was little. Like clowns’ shoes they were. I often go round to Marty’s place. I love it there. No one ever tidies up, and his Mum and Dad laugh a lot, and so does Marty. Sometimes I take Lucky with me. They’ve got a big garden, and Lucky races around and digs in the sand pit, and they love him to bits. Marty dog-sits for us when we go away. It’s like a second home for Lucky – or it was. Marty’s a brilliant footballer, too – he’s goalie in our school team. He’s got great big hands, like spades, and the ball always seems to stick to them.
The song’s over and Mrs Tinley’s banging on about how much they all want me to get better. “Now, Robbie. Here’s Marty with the first message.”
“Hi, Rob. We played St Jude’s on Saturday, and we won, of course. We hammered them 4-1. And the goal they got was a penalty, which wasn’t fair – I never touched their centre forward. He dived. Get better soon because we miss having you around. And we need you back in the team, too. See ya.”
“Hiya Robbie. It’s Lauren. I’m the new girl who sits at the back and has coloured braids in her hair. You’ve got to get better soon, because we all get very sad when we think of you in hospital. Bye for now.”
“Robbie, it’s your checkmate, Morris.” Morris, a real boffin, the school chess champion – looks like Harry Potter – brain like a computer. I only ever beat him once, and then I cheated. Bit of a weirdo. He’s always making jokes, and then explaining them as if you’re stupid or something. He’s doing it now. “Checkmate. Checkmate. Get it? Checkmate. Come back soon, so’s I can checkmate you again. Right?”
“Hey Robbie. This is Barry. Remember me?” Not likely to forget you, am I? Barry being friendly? Barry being nice? “Listen, I just want to say get better, that’s all. When you come back we could be mates, yeah?” And he sounds as if he really means it, too. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought after all.
“This is Freya. Can you hear me, Robbie?” That’s Freya Porter, who’s very quiet and always wears those mules – sort of clog-type shoes. I think her mother’s Dutch. She speaks with a bit of an accent, but she’s better at spelling than any of us. “I think what happened to you was terrible. I say prayers for you each night and hope that will help. I hope you come out of your sleep very soon.”
“Imran here, Robbie.” Bill Sykes in Oliver Twist. “You’ve got to open your eyes and do stuff, ‘cos if you don’t, you won’t get to be in our next show. I just came back from my holiday in Spain when I heard about your accident, and my mum and my dad and me hope you get better very soon.”
Then Sam. Then Juliet. Then Joe. All of them. Everyone in my class. I just want to jump out of this bed, run down the road, across the playground, into the classroom, and shout out: “Here I am! I’m back! I’m better!” But all I can do is lie here and cry inside. Now they’re singing another song from Oliver – You’ve got to pick a pocket or two. I love that one. Inside I’m laughing and crying all at the same time.
“Did you hear all that, Robbie?” Dad again. “They’re all rooting for you, just like all of us are, me and Mum and Ellie and Gran. Wake up, Robbie.” He’s shaking my shoulder now, gently. “Please, Robbie. Listen, I’ll try to put things right with Mum, OK? Would you get better if I did that? I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. I’ll really try. Would that help?”
Yes, Dad. That would help. That’d be cool, really cool. The best. But all my words are inside my head. I want to let them out, so Dad can hear me. But somehow they can’t escape.
Dad’s going. He’s hugging me. He’s been crying. I can feel the tears on his cheeks. I wish I could cry. I wish I could cry buckets.