something.’
Martha didn’t say anything. Holding hands, they went out of Grandma and Grandpa’s road towards the park, trying to keep up with Dad, who strode ahead, muttering to himself.
13
T he clock with the luminous face showed 11.00 p.m.
Martha sat on her bed with
Little Women
lying unread in her lap. She ought to be asleep, but she didn’t feel like sleeping. She was too busy thinking about Dad.
Dad was sitting in the shed in the garden. She knew he was there because every half an hour she went onto the landing and stood on tiptoe at the high window overlooking the garden, to check.
She didn’t know what
he
was thinking about.
From Tug’s room came the soft rasp of snoring, and she felt lonely. Getting off the bed, she went to her bedroom window and looked out at the moon in the sky.
Like a stain
, she thought sadly.
Like something someone’s spilled and has to clean up
.
She felt the beginnings of a headache. But she gave herself a shake. ‘I won’t be sick,’ she said to herself. ‘Because I have to look after Tug. And I won’t mopebecause Mum always told me that moping gets nothing done.’ She sighed. ‘But what shall I do?’
Standing in front of the mirror on her wardrobe door, she pointed her small nose at herself. ‘What would Mum do?’ she asked her reflection.
Her reflection didn’t say. It gave her a narrow look, then turned on itself and disappeared.
Barefoot and dressed only in her pyjamas, Martha went down the stairs in the silence and darkness, through the kitchen and out of the back door, into the garden.
On the patio she hesitated. She was going to do something. She just didn’t quite know what. She looked down the garden towards the shed, where Dad was. It was dark in the garden; the bushes down the edge were flat and black, and everything seemed nearer than it did in the daytime. Nothing stirred, and the silence was as thick as the darkness. Fear of the dark crept over her, she felt it tickling her skin like the spiders’ webs that grew across the bushes, but she took a deep breath, stepped into the shadow and let it cover her completely. Feeling her way across the broken patio, she tiptoed quietly down the overgrown lawn, the grass cold on her feet.
Dad was sitting on a chair inside the shed, shecould see the shape of him through the doorway, and when she was nearly there she whispered, ‘Dad?’
There was a bang, and something fell and smashed.
‘Dad?’
‘Martha?’ he said thickly. He sounded as if he had just woken up. ‘Martha?’
He made a scrabbling noise as if he were hurriedly looking for something, or tidying something away, then suddenly fell silent as she went in.
There was a smell of something, like paint.
Hunched on the broken chair, surrounded by a mess of tools and boxes and shopping bags, he lifted his face and gave her a sullen look. He was so dishevelled, with dirt in his hair and a wet streak across his chin, that for a second she couldn’t speak for shock, and there was silence.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said at last, and it sounded odd hearing herself speak to him in the darkness of the shed. It was an odd thing to say too, she realized at once, the sort of question she often asked Tug, and which Mum had asked her when she was small. Even her voice sounded strange, reminding her of Mum’s, sympathetic but practical.
She didn’t feel practical though. Her mouth was dry, and her skin crawled again.
Dad didn’t reply.
‘What are you doing out here?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. Thinking.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing.’
With his head bowed and his arms round his knees, he looked almost square. She didn’t like him looking like that. She wanted him to get up and put his arms round her, and tell her that everything was OK. But he stayed where he was, square and sulky, like a big Tug.
‘Are you angry with us?’ she asked timidly.
‘No!’ he said. ‘Not with you,’ he added.
‘Are you angry with
Martha didn’t say anything. Holding hands, they went out of Grandma and Grandpa’s road towards the park, trying to keep up with Dad, who strode ahead, muttering to himself.
13
T he clock with the luminous face showed 11.00 p.m.
Martha sat on her bed with
Little Women
lying unread in her lap. She ought to be asleep, but she didn’t feel like sleeping. She was too busy thinking about Dad.
Dad was sitting in the shed in the garden. She knew he was there because every half an hour she went onto the landing and stood on tiptoe at the high window overlooking the garden, to check.
She didn’t know what
he
was thinking about.
From Tug’s room came the soft rasp of snoring, and she felt lonely. Getting off the bed, she went to her bedroom window and looked out at the moon in the sky.
Like a stain
, she thought sadly.
Like something someone’s spilled and has to clean up
.
She felt the beginnings of a headache. But she gave herself a shake. ‘I won’t be sick,’ she said to herself. ‘Because I have to look after Tug. And I won’t mopebecause Mum always told me that moping gets nothing done.’ She sighed. ‘But what shall I do?’
Standing in front of the mirror on her wardrobe door, she pointed her small nose at herself. ‘What would Mum do?’ she asked her reflection.
Her reflection didn’t say. It gave her a narrow look, then turned on itself and disappeared.
Barefoot and dressed only in her pyjamas, Martha went down the stairs in the silence and darkness, through the kitchen and out of the back door, into the garden.
On the patio she hesitated. She was going to do something. She just didn’t quite know what. She looked down the garden towards the shed, where Dad was. It was dark in the garden; the bushes down the edge were flat and black, and everything seemed nearer than it did in the daytime. Nothing stirred, and the silence was as thick as the darkness. Fear of the dark crept over her, she felt it tickling her skin like the spiders’ webs that grew across the bushes, but she took a deep breath, stepped into the shadow and let it cover her completely. Feeling her way across the broken patio, she tiptoed quietly down the overgrown lawn, the grass cold on her feet.
Dad was sitting on a chair inside the shed, shecould see the shape of him through the doorway, and when she was nearly there she whispered, ‘Dad?’
There was a bang, and something fell and smashed.
‘Dad?’
‘Martha?’ he said thickly. He sounded as if he had just woken up. ‘Martha?’
He made a scrabbling noise as if he were hurriedly looking for something, or tidying something away, then suddenly fell silent as she went in.
There was a smell of something, like paint.
Hunched on the broken chair, surrounded by a mess of tools and boxes and shopping bags, he lifted his face and gave her a sullen look. He was so dishevelled, with dirt in his hair and a wet streak across his chin, that for a second she couldn’t speak for shock, and there was silence.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said at last, and it sounded odd hearing herself speak to him in the darkness of the shed. It was an odd thing to say too, she realized at once, the sort of question she often asked Tug, and which Mum had asked her when she was small. Even her voice sounded strange, reminding her of Mum’s, sympathetic but practical.
She didn’t feel practical though. Her mouth was dry, and her skin crawled again.
Dad didn’t reply.
‘What are you doing out here?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. Thinking.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Nothing.’
With his head bowed and his arms round his knees, he looked almost square. She didn’t like him looking like that. She wanted him to get up and put his arms round her, and tell her that everything was OK. But he stayed where he was, square and sulky, like a big Tug.
‘Are you angry with us?’ she asked timidly.
‘No!’ he said. ‘Not with you,’ he added.
‘Are you angry with
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