Free Simon's Choice by Charlotte Castle Page A

amphibian.
    One day Simon returned from school lugging with him a beach bucket full of worms, pilfered from his father’s compost heap. He peered through the glass, noting with interest that the dandelion greens he had provided the day before were untouched. Simon pushed his NHS spectacles back up his nose, and tapped the side of the glass. George lay on the raised, dry area of his tank. Simon stared at the tiny turtle, willing it to respond. Still, George remained motionless, his flippers ominously facing upwards.
    Simon bit the inside of his mouth, a tic he habitually performed when concentrating or concerned. He thought methodically through the available options.
One, his pet was dead.
Two, George had got even poorlier than yesterday and was having a very long nap.
Three, George was better and was having a very long nap.
Pushing possibility number one to the back of his mind, Simon plumped for option two.
    He lifted George gently out of the tank and placed him in a shoebox lined with cotton wool and loo-roll. He cleaned out the tank meticulously, removing the uneaten food and replacing it with fresh. Dropping one of the pilfered earthworms into the tank, he stowed the rest in an old ice-cream box in his wardrobe. Then he carefully replaced George back on the rock on which he had found him.
    Three days later, George had yet to stir. Simon’s research in the library of Shelton Park Primary had produced limited information. A tatty collection of out-of-date encyclopedias had finally provided some data - terrapins did not hibernate. Terrapins were not supposed to smell - George stank.
    Returning from school that day with a heavy heart and an even heavier book-laden bag, he was mildly surprised to find Barbara and Terry waiting for him at the kitchen table. A large plastic margarine container took centre place on the table, and nestled amongst strips of newspaper and tissue lay George.
    His mother sniffed. “Simon, sit down, lovey. We’ve got something to tell you.”
    Simon wrinkled his nose. George really did pong. “I know,” he said simply.
    “Simon, lad.” His father began, disconcerted by Simon’s calm. “Your mother found George today. She smelt something funny in your room and when she took a look at George, well, I’m sorry to tell you lad, but George is dead.”
    “I know,” repeated Simon.
    Terry cleared his throat, briefly catching the eye of his wife. “Well, what the devil were you keeping him for, lad? He must have been gone a week.”
    Simon shrugged, uncomfortable under his parents' perplexed gaze. He chewed his cheek and stared at his shoes. “I thought he might wake up if I gave him long enough. I thought I might make it better.”
    Terry sighed. “You should have told us, lad. That was a right stink your mother’s had to clear. Now, we’ve made him a coffin and I’ve dug a hole. I thought you might like to be the man to put the lid on it. He was your terrapin and that. Then we’ll pop him in his grave in the garden and you can say a few words if you like. Your mum’s taken some cuttings. You can lay some flowers on the grave, right proper like.”
“No.” Simon looked at his father staunchly.
“No? Well, I can do it alone if you’d like. If you think you’d find it too upsetting, like. Perhaps that’s a better idea.”
“No. I don’t want him to be buried. He won’t like it out there.”
    Terry looked at Barbara again, the well-rehearsed scenario not playing as it was meant to. “He’s dead, laddie. He doesn’t know anything.”
    “I don’t care. He’s not going in a hole. He’ll be lonely.” Simon held his father’s gaze steadily, chewing his inside cheek furiously until he tasted the tang of blood. He knew his pet was dead. He was not stupid. But he was not going to let George be alone in the dark and in the cold. George would not like it, dead or not.
    “Simon,” his mother began tentatively, “Simon, lovey. George is in heaven now. It’s only his little body