This Wonderful Thing

by Adam Baron

  It’s not perfect, our house. The back window in the kitchen’s a bit rotten. We stuff odd socks in the gaps in winter to stop the wind getting through. The fridge sounds like it’s haunted unless you kick it and, when the washing machine spins, all the cups fall off the draining board on to the floor. The stairs creak so much that I can actually tell which one Mum’s on when she comes to see if I’m asleep – but none of that matters because it’s OUR SPACE, just Mum’s and mine, and the people who’d come to invade it were there above our heads.

  RIGHT NOW.

  I swallowed. Mum had slipped over towards me and she took my hand. With our eyes fixed on the stairs, she led me into the hall. We were silent – until a door creaked above us and Mum gasped. It sounded really loud and so we just RAN, and do you remember what I said at the start about it being the worst of times, and those coming first? Well, as I stumbled out on to the street, I didn’t think that the day could get ANY worse.

  But I was wrong.

  Our new neighbour, Mr Fells, had come out to see what the fuss was about. Mum ignored him, though, and pulled me across the road. On the far pavement she hunted in her bag, but the first thing she grabbed was a hairbrush. I urged her to get a move on, because if the police got there soon they could nab them. She eventually found her phone and I watched her type in her PIN, one eye on our door, which was still swinging on a single hinge.

  ‘Police,’ she stuttered. ‘We’ve been burgled. We’re being burgled – 19 Banning Street, SE10 9JK. Please come as quick as you can!’

  Then she hung up, about to put her phone back in her bag, but I stopped her.

  ‘You should take a picture,’ I said. ‘To show the police – if the burglars come out!’

  Mum nodded and put in her PIN again. She got herself ready and I did too because they weren’t getting away with this. I’ve never played American football, but I’ve seen it on the telly – and I braced myself. I’d run at the first burglar to come out. I’d grab a leg and cling on, though maybe I wouldn’t have to – something was coming round the corner on Morpeth Street!

  Was it the police?

  Were they THAT quick?

  I swivelled round, ready to wave, ready to point at our door. But it wasn’t the police. It was just a white van, sunlight spangling the windscreen. I started to ignore it, my eyes going back to the door again.

  But the van was slowing. And it was nosing towards our house!

  Once again I focused on it – was this the getaway driver? Were the burglars ready to come out? Were they going to load up all our stuff, including my Subbuteo AND our Hungry Hungry Hippos?! I braced myself. I just had to focus. All I had to do was grab one of them. All I had to do was hold one for the police. Maybe it could be the getaway driver, though …

  W E I R D.

  I’d moved forward. Towards the van. I’d stared at the window, expecting to see someone in a mask behind the steering wheel, or if not a mask then a scarf or something. At the VERY least I expected the driver to snarl at me, or maybe even screech away. But, when the sun went in and the glare disappeared, he did neither.

  Instead, he nodded.

  And then he smiled!

  And then he began to wave!

  At ME.

  ‘In?’

  I stared at the bin and then at Mum’s face. I blinked, waiting to see it soften, like it ALWAYS does. I was hoping to see the real Mum again – but she wasn’t having it. Her face grew even harder if anything.

  ‘You’ve found another excuse to argue,’ she said. ‘So I’m getting rid of it.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘NOW,’ she insisted.

  And there was nothing I could do. So, VERY s-l-o-w-l-y, I pulled the teddy round, as I wondered something. Was she actually right? Was the teddy just something for us to argue about? Would it have been the same if it had been a toy truck? I didn’t know, but I held the teddy out, and then lifted it higher until it was over the bin, bin-stink oozing towards me (or was that Milly?). Then something embarrassing happened. I couldn’t stop them: tears welled up and then ran out of my eyes. Mum stared at me, her mouth opening as a voice sounded from behind me.

  ‘Kath, love.’

  That’s all Dad said. He was lifting Benji out of the car. Mum turned to him and I expected Dad to go on, but he didn’t. He just looked at Mum, his mouth closed, like he was reminding her of something, something they’d spoken about before perhaps. Something important. Mum – reluctantly – seemed to understand and she took a juddery breath. Her hands went to her hips and she stared off to the side.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  And she banged the bin lid shut. I was relieved, but what would Mum do now? She wasn’t going to forget it. I could tell that. So would she make us cut the teddy in two, like Solomon?

  No.

  ‘Wash it,’ she said.

  Had I heard right? ‘Wash it?’

  ‘Yes. Then we’ll see. Do it NOW. Okay?’

  ‘Er, okay,’ I said.

  And I did NOT hesitate.

  And neither did Milly.

  I looked around, desperate to get on with it before Mum changed her mind. It was such a relief to see her sane again, though I still wondered why she’d flown off the handle. But I couldn’t think about it now – Milly ran off down the side of the house. I followed, watching as she grabbed a bucket. I put the teddy in. We took turns squirting it with the hosepipe (we got soaked), though that didn’t actually do much good. The teddy really was trashed.

  ‘Kitchen,’ I said.

  We took the teddy indoors and Milly dropped it in the sink. I put the washing-up gloves on (massive) and then turned on the hot tap. I waited until the water was REALLY steaming, put the plug in and then squeezed the middle of the washing-up liquid bottle.

  And I scrubbed.

  And SCRUBBED.

  And it was strange as STRANGE.

  When I’d first seen the teddy, it had taken me a second to realise what it actually was. It was THAT dirty. But now, second by second, bit by bit, it started to emerge. First I scrubbed its tummy. Then I scrubbed its legs. After that, I did underneath its legs (sorry, teddy) and then I did its back, and its ears, before concentrating on its face, though I still couldn’t really make it out because of all the bubbles.

  ‘That’ll do,’ Milly said. ‘Surely.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. And I stopped the scrubbing and held the teddy under the tap, the bubbles shivering down it into the sink, as we just stared.

  Two soggy arms were offering us a hug.

  Two orange eyes twinkled out at us.

  The teddy’s wet fur was golden and fresh. So new-looking, almost like it was a real baby (though no way did Milly ever look as cute as that). The idea that it had been snagged in a river only a few hours before was almost impossible to believe – though the transformation wasn’t quite complete.

  ‘Get the hairdryer,’ I whispered, and for ONCE in her life Milly didn’t argue. She ran off and I put the teddy on the draining board. When she came back, Milly handed me the dryer and I turned it on, the teddy’s ears flapping, its fur shivering this way and that while Milly did her impression of Mum’s hairdresser.

  ‘It’s me bladder,’ she said, sounding SO like Elaine. ‘I’ve had too many kids. Pelvic floor like quicksand. If I jog for more than twenty minutes, I wee my knickers and have to squeeze me legs tight all the way home!’

  I laughed, but not like I normally would at one of Milly’s impressions. I was just so riveted by the teddy – until I turned the dryer off. The fur stopped moving. The ears stood up still, and I can tell you this. Jellycats? Rubbish. Beanie Boos? You can keep ’em. Because Milly and I were looking at the

  HUGGABLIST teddy bear in the WHOLE WORLD.

  And, if you don’t think HUGGABLIST is a word, it is now.

  And it wasn’t just better than other teddies.

  Seen kittens playing with wool on YouTube?

  Seen puppies sliding over the floor in Tesco?

  Forget them. Y
ou can even forget Benji when he was little, sleeping in his cot or kicking his legs about in the bath. Because, quite simply, we had never seen anything so cute and new-looking. I wondered again what would have happened if we’d found a toy truck. We probably would have fought about it, but after cleaning it up we wouldn’t have felt like this.

  I sighed. ‘We were pretty terrible,’ I said, turning to look at Milly. ‘Weren’t we? And it was really nice of Mum to change her mind about the bin, wasn’t it?’

  I thought I was going to have to convince Milly – but she must have felt bad as well. She sighed too, and nodded, and then we both just stood there as I thought about how the day had started. Mum had been SO cheerful. She’d been working SO much. It was her first whole day off for ages. She’d made sandwiches and rice-crispy cakes. She’d sung stupid songs while she loaded up the car, then made up a story as we drove along about a naughty unicorn called Dave who couldn’t resist poking the other ones up the bum. Dad had been really jolly too and I remembered again how we’d walked, and fed ducks, and played Poo(h) Sticks (EXTREME VERSION). It had been great as GREAT – until Milly and I argued.

  Why had we?

  It had seemed so logical at the time. All the reasons seemed clear, and right, but now I couldn’t remember any of them. All I could think was that it had been SO stupid. It was like it had been two other girls, not us.

  ‘Mum does work hard,’ Milly said.

  I nodded. ‘Especially these days. She deserves a break. And Dad does too.’

  Milly nodded back and bit her lip. Then she picked up the teddy, her fingers almost disappearing in its fur.

  ‘You did see it first,’ she said, and held it out to me, but I shook my head.

  ‘You rescued it, though. And perhaps if you hadn’t it would have been washed away.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘So it’s ours. How about that?’

  ‘Only if you mean us,’ Milly insisted. ‘Benji just said, “Yuck.”’

  ‘I know. So it’s ours but NOT Benji’s. Let’s go and say sorry. Though …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve got to give her a name, haven’t we?’

  And it’s odd that I’d only just thought of that. All my teddies have names. Some are understandable. My cat is called (guess what) … Cat. My shark is called (drumroll) … Sharky. But I’ve also got a snake called Uncle Trousers and a blob thing that Mum made when I was two called Mrs Banana Toes, which is not yellow, or banana-shaped, and doesn’t have any feet (let alone toes).

  So what would we call this teddy?

  I was about to suggest something, but Milly’s nose was curled up. ‘You said her. You mean his name, don’t you?’

  I blinked. ‘His?’

  ‘Because teddies are male.’

  ‘Are they?’ I’d never thought of that. ‘Why?’

  ‘Dunno. But they are. And this one looks like a boy.’

  ‘It doesn’t! Just look at her …’

  ‘At him!’

  ‘At HER!!’

  ‘At HIM!!!’

  ‘Oh,’ came Mum’s voice. ‘At it again, are we? I CANNOT believe it.’

  She was standing in the doorway. I spun round, and when I saw her face I groaned. She was horrified, and shocked, but there was also something there that said she wasn’t surprised. Most of all she looked angry – with herself. For letting us keep the teddy. Milly must have seen it too because she tried to laugh. I just wanted to explain to Mum that she’d simply come in at the wrong time. We WEREN’T arguing. Yes, the teddy had started us doing that, but now we’d stopped. We really had and we wanted to say sorry. But before I could speak Mum’s face changed again – setting hard like it had outside.

  ‘Hold that teddy up, please,’ she said.

  Milly did so, while I just stared at Mum. She looked absolutely determined, like she was planning something. I didn’t know what it was, but I wanted to stop her by saying that Milly and I were friends now. Mum ignored me, though, and did something odd. She had her phone in her hand and she pointed it at the teddy.

  And took a photo of it.

  Now that was weird. A photo? Milly looked at me and I looked at Milly. Then I tried again to get Mum’s attention, but with her jaw still set tight, she started tapping at her phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said.

  But Mum didn’t answer. When she’d finished on her phone, she reached out and took the teddy from Milly. Then she turned away and we both watched, dumbstruck, as she marched out into the hall.

  ‘Mum?’ I said.

  But again Mum didn’t answer. Instead, she strode into the living room, Milly and I following. I watched as she went over to the printer and looked at her phone again. Then the printer started to make clicking sounds. It whirred. After that, it went silent, whirred again, and Mum picked up a photo from the plastic tray.

  Which was doubly weird. I’ve told you that Dad’s not been feeling that great, haven’t I? What I haven’t said is that he’s also given up his job. I wasn’t quite sure why – something about having a ‘career change’ – but Mum’s taken on more shifts at the hospital. We’ve had to cut back on things, which, when I thought about it, might have been why Milly and I were SO excited about the teddy. It was the first new thing we’d had for months. And printer ink is EXPENSIVE. Mum didn’t seem to care, though – she just held the photo up to us while I frowned again.

  Because the photo was of the teddy.

  But we HAD the teddy.

  Why did Mum need a photo of it?

  AGAIN I was going to ask, but this time Mum cut me off.

  ‘You two,’ she hissed, ‘have to understand that you live in a family.’

  ‘But we do! We’ve just—’

  ‘Which means that you are going to STOP ARGUING.’

  ‘I know! We both know! We’ve just decided—’

  ‘No!’ Mum held a hand up. ‘I’m sorry. I get this EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. You were just arguing now. Well, this might teach you.’

  I frowned at the photo. ‘We don’t need teaching. We’ve learned. The teddy’s not mine OR Milly’s. It’s OURS.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Mum said.

  ‘It is! We’re sharing it. We won’t—’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Mum insisted. ‘You’re forgetting someone.’

  ‘Benji?! No, Mum. He just said yuck. And he’s got millions of teddies. He—’

  ‘Not Benji. Right then. I wasn’t going to do this, but you’ve convinced me. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Long?’

  ‘The post office isn’t far.’

  ‘Why are you going there?’

  ‘To put this up.’ Mum waggled the photo. ‘With my details. I’ve also put it on Instagram.’

  She turned her phone round to show us the photo on her screen.

  ‘On—’

  ‘And my Facebook page. And Twitter. And my Friends of Cuckmere Haven WhatsApp Group. Someone should recognise it, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. But why would they? And why would you want them to?’

  ‘So that they can find me.’

  ‘Who can find you?’

  ‘The person who lost it. This teddy. Because that’s who it really belongs to. Isn’t it?’

  The driver KEPT waving at me. And he KEPT smiling – and I realised: this wasn’t an evil villain. It wasn’t a dastardly getaway driver.

  It was Mum’s fiancé. Stephan.

  And his two girls were in the seat right beside him.

  I blinked. The waving now made sense, but I was still confused. Yes, Mum had said he was coming round – but Stephan’s got a Volkswagen Golf. Why was he driving this big van?! For a second I thought that maybe he WAS the getaway driver, and Ellen and Mabel were his accomplices. That was stupid, though, and the truth came to me. Mum was right – she had been trying to tell me. I just hadn’t wanted to listen. Now I swallowed as Ellen climbed out. She’s the oldest, in my year, though not at my school of course. Normally, we get on, but she look
ed mad – at ME! Once on the pavement, she glared. I had no idea what I’d done and I stepped back, frowning, as Mabel jumped out behind her, her unicorn backpack wobbling as she stared at me.

  ‘Thimbeline!’ she screamed at the top of her squeaky voice.

  Mabel is only four. I’ve tried a million times to get her to say my name right, but she still calls me that (something Lance has started to do too, which is SO annoying). Now I just wanted to ignore her – and keep watch on our open door. But I didn’t get a chance because Mabel immediately collected herself, put her head down, and did something she’s been doing to me ever since the very first day that I met her.

  She CHARGED.

  And talk about American football. Stephan’s from New Zealand originally and Mabel was like one of the All Blacks. She smashed into me and then clung on to my leg (like I was going to cling on to the burglars). And she beamed.

  ‘Thimbeline!’ she cried. ‘Daddy said you wouldn’t BE here!’

  ‘I know,’ I stammered.

  ‘He said you were going away! He said you were going to see Mr Messy.’

  ‘What? No,’ I said. ‘And it’s not Mr Messy!’

  ‘Is it Mr Bump then? He’s funny.’

  ‘No. I was going to see Lionel … Oh, never mind. And anyway I …’

  ‘Decided not to bother,’ Mum said. ‘Didn’t you, love?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t really … fancy it. But …’

  ‘Yes, Thimbeline?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘THAT’s not very nice!’

  ‘No. I mean in that van?’

  Mabel giggled. ‘We need it, don’t we, Ellen?’

  I looked at Ellen, but she just hissed and twisted her head away. Mabel giggled again so I turned to Mum. She had her eyes shut, though, and was punching the top of her head!