The Tutti-frutti Collection - Jean Ure

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and eat us out of house and home. So naturally I thought as these were free, and were tiny, she’d say yes right away, no problem.

      Instead she just laughed, sort of nervously, and said, “Puppies are always small, to my knowledge.”

      I said, “Yes, but these are going to stay small. Their mum is a Jack Russell and their dad was a Yorkshire terrier.”

      You can’t get much smaller than a Yorkshire terrier. And anyway, she promised. As good as. After Dad left and Mum and me were on our own she said, “We’ll get a dog to keep us company.” But she never did. Now here was I offering her one free, so why didn’t she jump at it?

      Because of Slimey Roland, that’s why. I said, “You promised!” and this shifty look came into her eyes and she didn’t want to meet my gaze, which is a sure sign of guilt. She said, “I don’t think I actually promised.” I said, “You did! You promised!” Mum said, “I may have mentioned it as a possibility. That’s all.” I said, “Well, now it is a possibility! They’re going for free!”

      And then Mum sighed and said, “Cherry, I’d love a dog as much as you would, but how can we? You know Roly’s allergic.” I said, “Allergic to dogs?” How can anyone be allergic to dogs? I said, “I know he has hay fever.” But hay fever is pollen. Mum said, “I’m afraid it’s not just hay fever. The poor man’s allergic to all kinds of things – dust, pollution, house mites …”

      And dogs. He just would be, wouldn’t he? He’s that sort of person. All wimpy and sniffly and red-eyed. So Mum has to break her promise just because of him!

      Saturday

      That creep shoved another note under my door. Something about a tortoise. I don’t want a rotten tortoise! I want a dog. Mum promised me.

      This morning we went into the shops and I got a couple of bras, one white and one pink. I suppose they’re all right, but it’s all gone a bit sour now that I know she and Slime have been sniggering about it. I keep picturing them lying in bed together having this good laugh.

      I chucked his note into the waste-paper basket along with all the others. If he doesn’t stop doing it, it’ll soon be full to overflowing. Mum said today that we are going to have a new regime. She said, “I looked into your bedroom yesterday and it’s like a pigsty,” to which I instantly retorted that as a matter of fact pigs left to themselves are extremely clean and intelligent animals. It’s only horrible farmers that make them dirty by not allowing them to lead natural lives. To which Mum said, thinking herself very clever, “Well in future I am going to leave you to yourself and we shall see how clean and intelligent you are. From here on in – ” (that is a phrase she has picked up from Carol my godmother, who has picked it up in Austin, Texas) “ – from here on in I wash my hands of your bedroom. You can take sole responsibility for it. Right?”

      I just humped a shoulder, feeling generally disgruntled on account of Mum breaking her promise about the dog. Mum said again, “Right?” and I muttered “Right,” and Slimey Roland did his best to catch my eye across the table and wink, but I refused to take any notice.

      Later on, Avril Roper rang to find out if we were going to have one of the puppies. I didn’t want to say no, so I said we hadn’t yet decided, and she said me and Skinny could go round and see them sometime if I liked. She said, “They’re so sweet. You won’t be able to resist them. You can hold them in the palm of your hand!”

      So then I rushed back to Mum and said, “Mum, they’re so tiny you can hold them in the palm of your hand! Oh, Mum, can’t we have one? Please?” thinking that if I really begged hard enough she wouldn’t be able to say no, but she was obviously feeling in a mean mood because all she did was snap at me. She said, “I already told you, the answer is no! Roly’s health happens to be of more importance to me than a dog. I’m sorry, but there it is.”

      I gave her this really venomous look as I slunk out of the room.

      Sunday

      It is after breakfast and I am writing this sitting on my bed. If Mum doesn’t do my bedroom soon the waste-paper basket will be overflowing with notes from Slimey Roland. I am on strike. Mum always used to do my bedroom.

      I used to help Dad clean the car but Slimey hasn’t got one because he can’t drive. And Mum can’t have one because Slimey won’t let her. He says they pollute the environment and we all have to walk or use bicycles. I am not going to help him clean his bicycle!!! He looks like a total idiot riding about with his helmet on and his soppy little cycling shorts. Like a stick insect with his head stuck in a goldfish bowl.

      Anyway, I help with laying the table and putting things away and doing the wiping up. She won’t let me do the washing up any more because she says I use too much washing-up liquid (Greencare, natch. Slimey won’t have ordinary Fairy liquid in the house, you bet he won’t. He’s a complete nutter. He goes round reading all the labels and checking the lists of ingredients and spying on me and Mum to make sure we don’t buy anything that might punch holes in the ozone layer).

      Another reason Mum won’t let me do the washing up is that she says I cause too many breakages. So now Slimey gets to do it and he does it ever so s-l-o-w-l-y and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y and nearly drives me mad.

      Dad never used to help in the kitchen, it was one of the things that he and Mum had rows about. But Dad used to go out to work all day. Slimey works at home (if it can be called work, just drawing pictures of elves). It’s only fair that he should help.

      It wouldn’t have been fair if Dad had had to. I don’t think it would. When I was little and Dad was in an office we were really really happy. He and Mum hardly ever had rows or shouted at each other. It was only when Dad got made redundant and couldn’t find another job and had to go and do the mini-cabbing that it all became horrible. That was when the rows started, because of Dad having to go out and do something he didn’t like while Mum just went on sitting at home and reading her books. Of course she was being paid money to do it but it wasn’t the same as having to go mini-cabbing. That was what Dad said.

      One thing about Slimey, he is interested in Mum’s work. Sometimes he reads the books and they discuss them together. Also, he and Mum don’t have rows. Yet. But they sit and hold hands and do a lot of kissing and I can’t stand it! I hate to think of them holding hands and kissing all day while I’m at school. It makes me feel sick. Kissing with a beard. I hate beards.

      It’s eleven o’clock now and I’m going to go down the road and fetch their Sunday papers for them, which is another of the jobs I have to do that Mum doesn’t take into consideration when she goes on about my bedroom. When I come back I might ring Skinny Melon and see if she’s going to take Lulu up the park. Or I might ring Avril and find out how the puppies are. Imagine having a dog all of your own! I could have, if it weren’t for Slimey. He’s in the back bedroom at the moment, drawing elves, and Mum is downstairs on the word processor, writing to her friend, Carol in Austin, Texas. They write to each other every single week! It’s almost unbelievable. What on earth do they find to say???

      141 Arethusa Road

      London W5

      Sunday 27 September

      My dear Carol,

      Lovely to have all your news and so glad things are working out for you. Just forget all about Martin. He was a jerk and you are well rid of

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