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Authors: Louise Beech
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someday – if you collapse or you have one of those hypos.’
‘I wish you were dead!’ she screamed, and ran back up the corridor.
For a moment, so did I. I turned and walked the long way back, not wanting to get home. The sea followed me. The smell was so powerful I wondered if I was losing my mind. Once home, without work or Jake or Rose to fuss over, I hardly knew what to do with myself.
I went upstairs to get the book.
Over seven nights I had patiently worked at the black ribbons; releasing each knot gave me the thrill of feeling closer to my prize. I couldn’t bear to cut them. I felt that if such knots had been twisted into it over and over then I should have it not easily. I was supposed to work for it. When I was small I’d often scribbled stories in those five-year diaries that had a tiny silver padlock. Then I’d lose the key and not be able to access the words that I’d strung together. Now I worked to find words that I was sure my grandad, Colin Armitage, had written.
Rose had eyed the brown book on the bedside table when we did her late blood test one evening. I watched her sneak another glance as I prepared the finger pricker. I smiled privately.
The next evening I made sure I spent a little longer fiddling with the ribbons, looking up to see if she was watching. Immediately she turned away. Perhaps it was good that something had piqued her interest. But I wasn’t about to offer her, even let her look at what she found so intriguing; I didn’t want the appeal to end too soon.
And so the book took on more weight; maybe Rose’s interest would mean she settled. I shouldn’t have felt so optimistic.
One morning, she left for school before we’d even done the injection. I lectured her about not having done homework, went into the dining room to get her maths book, came back, and she’d gone, leaving the door open and Bran Flakes strewn like soil on the table. I hurled the bowl at the wall. As abruptly as it came, my frustration went. It slid with the cereal pulp down our lilac wallpaper. I’d no energy to chase her, to go to the school, to do any of it anymore.
Like a weary soldier home from a long march, I slumped into a chair and put my head in my hands.
‘Is it a bad time, pet?’
I jumped. Shelley stood in the open doorway. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Yes. No . I thought you were coming on Wednesday?’
‘It is Wednesday,’ she said, coming into the kitchen.
‘Is it?’ I looked at the clock like that might help me. ‘I lose track sometimes. I can stick to the injection schedule but days run away from me.’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Rose here?’ she asked.
‘She went to school without doing her injection.’ I held my hand up, expecting a telling off. ‘Yes, I know, I’m trying ! I do everything the way I’m supposed to. It’s been three weeks nearly and still she resists.’
‘Shall I talk to her?’ asked Shelley, gently.
‘Look what happened last time!’ Rose had sung ‘Baa, Baa Black Sheep’ while Shelley tried patiently to engage her, and I’d yelled that she was a rude madam.
‘If it makes you feel any better, this behaviour is normal. Children her age who get diabetes often behave differently. She’s likely depressed, anxious. With you, she’ll get through it though, pet.’ Shelley paused. ‘What does she like?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘What does she enjoy? What hobbies does she have?’
I looked off towards the book nook in the dining room. The cushions spat dust now when you sat in them and the jackets of most of the books had faded from sitting too long in the same spot, like they had floated adrift in the sun.
‘She used to love reading,’ I said, softly. I’d was still trying to recapture her imagination, sneaking paperbacks under her sleeping head. In the morning they’d be upside down in the bin.
‘Could you read together while you do her injection?’
‘I’ve suggested that,’ I sighed. ‘She’s not
‘I wish you were dead!’ she screamed, and ran back up the corridor.
For a moment, so did I. I turned and walked the long way back, not wanting to get home. The sea followed me. The smell was so powerful I wondered if I was losing my mind. Once home, without work or Jake or Rose to fuss over, I hardly knew what to do with myself.
I went upstairs to get the book.
Over seven nights I had patiently worked at the black ribbons; releasing each knot gave me the thrill of feeling closer to my prize. I couldn’t bear to cut them. I felt that if such knots had been twisted into it over and over then I should have it not easily. I was supposed to work for it. When I was small I’d often scribbled stories in those five-year diaries that had a tiny silver padlock. Then I’d lose the key and not be able to access the words that I’d strung together. Now I worked to find words that I was sure my grandad, Colin Armitage, had written.
Rose had eyed the brown book on the bedside table when we did her late blood test one evening. I watched her sneak another glance as I prepared the finger pricker. I smiled privately.
The next evening I made sure I spent a little longer fiddling with the ribbons, looking up to see if she was watching. Immediately she turned away. Perhaps it was good that something had piqued her interest. But I wasn’t about to offer her, even let her look at what she found so intriguing; I didn’t want the appeal to end too soon.
And so the book took on more weight; maybe Rose’s interest would mean she settled. I shouldn’t have felt so optimistic.
One morning, she left for school before we’d even done the injection. I lectured her about not having done homework, went into the dining room to get her maths book, came back, and she’d gone, leaving the door open and Bran Flakes strewn like soil on the table. I hurled the bowl at the wall. As abruptly as it came, my frustration went. It slid with the cereal pulp down our lilac wallpaper. I’d no energy to chase her, to go to the school, to do any of it anymore.
Like a weary soldier home from a long march, I slumped into a chair and put my head in my hands.
‘Is it a bad time, pet?’
I jumped. Shelley stood in the open doorway. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Yes. No . I thought you were coming on Wednesday?’
‘It is Wednesday,’ she said, coming into the kitchen.
‘Is it?’ I looked at the clock like that might help me. ‘I lose track sometimes. I can stick to the injection schedule but days run away from me.’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Rose here?’ she asked.
‘She went to school without doing her injection.’ I held my hand up, expecting a telling off. ‘Yes, I know, I’m trying ! I do everything the way I’m supposed to. It’s been three weeks nearly and still she resists.’
‘Shall I talk to her?’ asked Shelley, gently.
‘Look what happened last time!’ Rose had sung ‘Baa, Baa Black Sheep’ while Shelley tried patiently to engage her, and I’d yelled that she was a rude madam.
‘If it makes you feel any better, this behaviour is normal. Children her age who get diabetes often behave differently. She’s likely depressed, anxious. With you, she’ll get through it though, pet.’ Shelley paused. ‘What does she like?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘What does she enjoy? What hobbies does she have?’
I looked off towards the book nook in the dining room. The cushions spat dust now when you sat in them and the jackets of most of the books had faded from sitting too long in the same spot, like they had floated adrift in the sun.
‘She used to love reading,’ I said, softly. I’d was still trying to recapture her imagination, sneaking paperbacks under her sleeping head. In the morning they’d be upside down in the bin.
‘Could you read together while you do her injection?’
‘I’ve suggested that,’ I sighed. ‘She’s not
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