Ice Lolly Read Free Page B

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 a funny name.”
    “So what?”
    Holly tosses another book on to the pile of rejects. “Mum says there’s lots of them where you were. She says it made her feel like a stranger in her own land.”
    I point out that Auntie Ellen is Welsh, which means it’s not her land anyway. Not if you’re going to think like that. I don’t, and neither did Mum, but I know that Auntie Ellen does. Was it rude of me to say about her being Welsh? Well, it doesn’t matter; Holly doesn’t get it. She’s still going on about Temeeka and her funny name and whether she was an immigrant. She says, “ Was she?”
    I play for time, trying to make up my mind. I say, “Was she what?”
    “Was she an immigrant!”
    OK. I take a deep breath and say, “Yes, since you ask.” It’s a whopping great lie. I only said it to show that I wouldn’t have given a rap even if she was. Holly rubs me up the wrong way, same as Auntie Ellen used to rub Mum. She’s nodding now, looking smug and satisfied, like she’s scored some sort of point. She picks up yet more books and lobs them on to the bed. In this really condescending voice she says that it must have been hard to make friends “living where you lived.”
    It wasn’t anything to do with where we lived; it was cos of Mum not being well. At the end of school each day I used to rush home fast as I could, cos of knowing Mum would be there waiting for me. I’d call her when I was on my way, to see if we needed anything, then I’d stop off at the shop on the corner. Weekends I stayed in so we could be together. Even if I was invited to parties, though that didn’t happen very often, I used to make excuses and say I couldn’t go. I didn’t tell Mum; I wouldn’t have wanted her thinking she was holding meback. Cos she wasn’t! It was my choice. I enjoyed being with Mum more than with anybody. If the weather was good we’d go up the park. I’d push Mum in her wheelchair and we’d go all the way round. Mum used to worry in case it was too much for me, but my arms are really strong. I could even push her uphill. There was that one time, though, when the chair tipped over going up a kerb and Mum nearly fell out. I was so ashamed! I feel ashamed even now, just thinking about it. How could I have let such a thing happen? To my own mum? Mum just giggled. She said, “You have to see the funny side of things!”
    Mum always saw the funny side. It is what I try to do. It is just people like Holly and Auntie Ellen who make it so difficult.
    Holly’s still throwing books on to the bed. “Don’t want that! Don’t want that! This one’s too big. Don’t want big ones! Don’t want—”
    Quickly I say, “I want that one!”
    “This one?” She looks at it, scornfully. “ Winnie-the-Pooh? You can’t still be reading Winnie-the-Pooh ! I grew out of that years ago.”
    I tell her that you can’t grow out of Winnie-the-Pooh. Mum and me used to read it every Christmas. It was one of our traditions. “Anyway,” I say, “it was a present.”
    “Who from?” She’s peering inside, to see what’s written there. “ To Lollipop, from Mum .” Plus a row of kisses, but she doesn’t read that bit. “Was that what she