“No one else is available, son, and we really need the money. Layla, where are you dear? My dad will look after you, I know he isn’t perfect, not really understanding the differences between the livery of national and continental trains, but he does love you very much.”
“I know, Dad, sorry.” Mike suddenly felt a little guilty.
“Daddy!” Layla ran downstairs and jumped into Dad’s arms with a big smile on her face. “I missed you! I just finished painting that model train for you that I did in pink.”
“Bless you, my dear. Please get your stuff darling. You’re staying at Grandad’s tonight.”
“OK, Dad.” She ran back up to her room.
Layla and Mike had packed up a few things for their journey and Dad was loading them in the car as they sat in its chipped maroon-painted shell. Layla was up in the front. There was never any fighting over this, as Mike always preferred to be in the back. That way, he could duck for cover, should they drive past one of the children from school! He could not be seen dead in this old car, and well, live it down as it were. Layla was not as bothered about this as he was, but he knew this was because boys were more focused on cars than girls, so she could get away with it really.
Fortunately the drive was incident free, with no schoolchildren spotted at any point on the journey. Grandad lived in a village further up the road so once they were close by, Mike was practically free -- as most children around went to a different school.
His father passed him his cherished army-style backpack and gave Layla her pink one before he knocked hard and loud on the front door, then continued to press the bell for a full three minutes!
Finally, knocking at the window as it shook got a response, and Grandad’s old tired face came to the door to open it. Dad kissed them both on the forehead and quickly thanked his own dad for the help, then looking at his watch, hurried off. The car had already begun to bleed a puddle of oil on the side of the road by the time Dad started off again.
The familiar but unwanted smell met Mike and Layla as they took their stuff to the spare rooms. Think of living in the breadbin mentioned earlier in this story for the fragrance, Reader!
Going down the stairs that Grandad rarely used these days, Mike sat in the front room with Layla. Layla gave Grandad a kiss and a drawing she had made, and signed, just in case it was worth a fortune in the near future. Mike doubted it would be, but did not want to say that to her as she had some talent and was only young like himself. Mike wanted to be a great footballer after all, but he could not do everything that the famous Ramsbottomly Rovers Winger James Smithadinihou could do (pronounced with a cough on the J). Not just yet anyway, though he was getting better over time like Layla was with her art.
“You OK, Grandad?” Mike asked with no response given. “Are you OK, Grandad?” Mike asked louder.
Still no sign of acknowledgement.
“GRANDAD! ARE YOU OKKK?” Mike shouted. Instead of a reply, Mike got a large thrumping, pumping sound that came from his grandfather’s backside, which sounded something like this and lasted the same amount of time it takes to read:
BrRRRRRrrttTTTTTThHHuUUUUrRRRRRRRRrrrmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmpppPPPPpparrrRRRrttTTTTttissssSSSSssseeeeEEEeeeeeettttttTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTttttttttttttttttttttttttttttteeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Just when Mike thought it was over, a last little “eeeee” came out and then an “ahhhhh” from Grandad’s mouth. Mike thought he could almost see a cloud of toxic smoke and vapour before his watering eyes.
“How are you, Mikey? It looks a little bit windy today! Is it cold out?”
With his breath held as long as possible, Mike nodded, which he thought was the safest thing to do. He then ran as quickly as possible to the end of the back garden to breathe the sweet air outside. The air seemed to have never tasted so good after the stale and now extra toxic air of Grandad’s house. It was now Mike saying “ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” in relief.
After Mike considered it was a safe time to return -- a good fifteen minutes later, he stepped back into the front room to sit down again. Layla was merrily humming a tune to herself as she did another picture. What it was could have been anybody’s guess. It looked like the colours, which were many in number, were trying to wrestle with each other for attention in this masterpiece. There was certainly an animal in one corner, but whether it was living or extinct, was again hard to tell. The sun was drawn well, and the lawn of grass that looked familiar to what Mike had just been stood on.
“Didn’t you suffocate from the gas, sis?” Mike asked quietly, even though he didn’t really need to lower his voice to avoid being heard.
“It is not so bad when you get used to it, my little brother. At least we know he is still going strong if he can create such powerful bursts!” she smiled.
“Erm, I think it means the opposite than him being well, creating such toxic bombs as that, Layla!”
“You know your dad used to like drawing and painting also, little Layla. The only darn problem was he only ever did one thing!” Grandad said, as he often did when he saw Layla doing her art.
“TRAINSss!” Mike and Layla said in unison, with a squeak of a fart to follow, as if to make the word stand out even further.
“Not guessed it then?” Grandad said, not hearing them again.
“Trains,” he said. “The only time he was not as interested in trains was when he met your lovely mother.”
Mike decided to go outside once more, not wanting to hear the same things he would say about his mother again which mainly made him sad, especially when he thought of how Dad was now. His mother, he knew, had changed his father and made him very happy, much more than he was now. She was the only one to have the magic power to take his mind off trains, as his grandfather would be saying inside.
His father put on a brave face to him and his sister, but the haunting sound of the trains and sobbing filled Mike’s thoughts, to remind him he was not like that anymore. Layla never seemed to get tired of hearing the same things about her, and her effect on Dad. It did not seem to hurt in the same way for his sister. Although he could only see the back of her head, he could imagine her smiling at Grandad, as he was likely providing a background percussion noise from his backside while talking about Mum.
Mike eventually headed back inside again to do some of his homework, which was algebra tonight. He did not really mind algebra, and found it very easy, but he never ever understood the point of it! If x + y + z, what is y? Y did it matter? It’s not like anyone used this stuff in real life:
“Including the cabbage and the loaf, that will be xy plus z in total Mrs Waterhouse.”
“Darn it, if I could just get x to equal z I could buy that bike I always wanted.”
“I will give you z minutes to do it, but not a letter more!”
Mike didn’t get it! And why was it always the letters near the end of the alphabet that were used. The first letters didn’t get so much as a look-in with algebra. Mike had thought however that to be fair, as there were many songs about the abc’s and that most words did not use the xyz’s, it was a nice way of them being used -- so they wouldn’t feel left out. Dinosaur names use them for the same reason, obviously.
When Grandad wasn’t making loud noises with his bum, he was making them most other times with his mouth and nose. He had fallen asleep again watching his quiz programmes. He loved these shows: Scoreless, Gamble or no Gamble, or the Weakest Wink with Anna Ribonson, to name but some of his favourites. Mike didn’t understand why he watched them, as he could barely hear anything anyway, no matter how loud the TV was turned up to! They would often hear him mumbling to himself, which Mike thought maybe answers to some of the questions, but it was hard to tell. The mumbling then would turn into loud snores, sounding like a mix of an old saw cutting through metal and a giant bear roaring him to stop the snoring as he is trying to hibernate, thank you very much!
Dad sa
id that Grandad was always good with remembering strange facts and figures, ever since he was young, but Mike never saw much sign of this himself. It was hard enough to get a conversation going with him, never mind trying to get an answer to what was the average temperature in Timbuktu!
It was getting dark outside, so Mike decided to go to bed. Layla went upstairs also, having finished her, as yet, untitled picture. Mike made sure the doors were locked and all the lights off. You could not turn off the TV, as this would always make Grandad wake up -- which was somewhat surprising considering his major hearing problems.
Layla went to the second guestroom she always stayed in, that was fully Laylalised. That is to say, very pink and full of her pictures, and Mike went to the first guestroom from the landing that had some of his own items. There was a picture of Gary on the wall that Layla had done -- his favourite by far, where she had got the eyes perfect. He missed Gary. Sometimes he brought him, but he needed his light in the colder months. It was difficult having to bring the large vivarium over all the time, so he usually stayed at home.
Mike pulled out his favourite book from his camouflaged backpack. It was a book about the history of Ramsbottomerly Rovers FC, full of glossy pictures that included a section showing all of the trophies they had won -- this was only a small section, as I am sure you will have guessed, Reader. The rest of the pictures showed the small stadium from many different angles, and players, past and present. Before long he fell asleep with the book resting on his stomach, dreaming of playing for his beloved team, scoring goals and basking in title-winning glory . . .
Chapter 4
New Fly in Soup
Mike stood in-line, waiting for the mealtime muck that passed for lunch at his school canteen. He knew he was getting close to the front now, as he tightly held his tray. Not just because he could see this as you might expect, but because he could smell Margery the school cook’s body odour. The children at the front were already holding their breath. You could see a line of pink faces close to him, to red, then purple closest to Margery. Only when they left at the end did they breathe for air and turn back to their normal colour again, like a deep sea diver after a long plunge.
“Margery the Meal Murderer” was her name for most school kids.
She was called a cook, but there was no real evidence she had even a small amount of ability to do this. Every meal, no matter how much you thought you liked it before, would be ruined forever after having one of Margery’s slop versions of it. Burger and Chips or Lasagne, as Mike liked, were gruesomely murdered by the time Margery had used the ingredients (and added some special ones of her own!) to deliver a pile of gruel. It did not matter what the menu said; when served, it was always green, even if none of the ingredients were actually green!
“Nexxxttt! Hey, you, I said NEXXTT!!!” she shouted at the violet boy who had hesitated to wonder if life was really worth this. “What’s your name, boy? Speak up now and tell me which class you are in?”
This was a usual evil method Margery used so children had to give up holding their breath and smell the putrid stench of her sweaty BO mixed with the green muck she scooped from a giant vat beside her. The poor boy nearly passed out when it hit him, but, fortunately, his friend helped him stay up. He quickly grabbed his tray and sloshed his green slush all over as he ran for freedom.
NNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEXXXXXXXXXXXTTTTTTT!!!
Mike’s forehead was getting clammy as he was holding his breath, hoping he would not get the same treatment as he got closer to Margery’s wicked eyes. One was particularly wicked, as it sloped and always looked in another direction to the other one, to make you feel even more uneasy. She had just dipped her fingers (dark yellow through years of smoking) into the vat and licked them clean.
“MMMMmmmm, it is even better today than usual! Compliments to the chef!” She often said this with a wicked smile. Her full moustache, around a large island of a mole, was covered in green where she had largely missed her mouth.
Mike gulped, which is not easy to do when you’re holding your breath and trying not to use your nose all at the same time! He moved closer and she looked at him with her right small, squinty eye, ghastly green to match her slodge. She looked like she was going to ask him a question, when something seemed to get her attention from her other eye. Mike was so thankful for this mercy from the Universe.
He quickly moved down to a table as far as possible away from Margery. The problem was that everyone had the same idea, so unless you were really early at lunch, you had a table within metres of the queue’s front line and Margery’s stink of a stench. Usually, the late ones were either sick or didn’t eat until they got home. I am sure you have heard parents say that my child never stops eating!, but with school dinners like this children have to put up with, is it any wonder I ask you???
Mike speedily finished his pond-soup which was supposedly ‘Hot Dog on a bun’! There were tales that the main ingredient was always one thing that made all these meals green: snails! You would find gritty black bits sometimes in your sludge, which people said were the shells, but Mike really didn’t want to think about it right now.
He was just about to leave when he noticed a new green face he had not seen before. A boy around his age, but with red hair, slicked-back, was sitting diagonally to him and alone at a table. It was obvious from his face and colour-tone that he was new and had not had the pleasure of trying one of Margery’s wonderful concoctions before. Mike tried to make eye contact in a friendly way but when his eyes met with his own, he just turned away and left the canteen. Fine, Mike thought, if he wants to be like that.
Mike sat down for his History class with Mr Barnell. Most called him Mr Badsmell but Mike didn’t think he smelled half as bad as Margery did. On getting his workbook out, he noticed someone in the corner of his eye, sitting beside him. It was the same boy he saw before, but less green and generally more human-looking. He didn’t acknowledge him. Mike said ‘hey’ trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, but only got a mumble back.
“Today we are going to learn more about the Tudor Monarchy, children,” Mr Barnell said, with a chorus of groans being heard as he finished the sentence.
“Can’t we do something else please, sir?” Stacey said with her cutest smile.
“I am afraid not, Stacey, turn to page forty-five of your textbooks, please.”
Mike was usually quite good at History, even with some of the boring parts, which were many, but whenever he was going to put his hand up to answer, the boy next to him got there first and answered correctly. This, he found very annoying. He only managed to get there once before him and that was near the end of the class. Looking sheepish, Mike was told this was wrong but close as he was two years out.
This new boy, Stephan -- not Stephen or Steven but Stephan -- was getting right up his nose, nearly as much as the horrible smells of the canteen.
Mike saw Layla in the distance as he waited for her at the school gates. She was talking with her usual friends, the best one probably having been decided that morning. Mike noticed that she was also talking to someone else and was smiling like her friends. The other person had slicked-back red hair and was showing off his sparkly white teeth.
Layla finally managed to ply herself away from them and walked towards him.
“Let’s go, Layla,” he said abruptly to her.
“OKkkkk, Michael,” she said to wind him up, no doubt sensing his bad mood.
They walked for ten minutes without saying much when Layla asked him, “What’s wrong smelly face?” He ignored her, but she would not stop and asked again.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your new ginger friend, seeing as though you like him so much!” Mike said in a firm tone.
“Oh you don’t like Stephan, now I see. He’s cool.”
“He is not, it’s him who has the problem, not me. I mean who does he think he is?”
“Stephan??!!”
“
Whatever, Layla, you are sooo annoying at times!!!!”
They continued in silence for the rest of the short route from school to home.
Dad’s rust bucket of a car was slouched on the drive, no doubt resting after spewing up clouds of smoke all the way from Dad’s work.
Chapter 5
Off-Track--
On entering the house, there was no sign of Dad. Layla and Mike checked all the rooms downstairs, then worked upstairs, but still couldn’t find him. Mike had noticed a screwed-up piece of paper in the kitchen bin. Part of it was sticking out of its lid, which he left undisturbed.
Mike thought he heard something as he was on the upstairs landing, very faint, that horrible sound he had heard before: sobbing. Quickly followed was the sound of the Flying Scotsman hurtling down its track, as it sounded its warning of arrival. Mike tried to jump up, but he was still not quite tall enough to reach the pull-string for the attic door. “Dad, we’re back. Can we come up to help with the daily routes?”
“Not now, son!” Mike heard him say in a sharp tone.
“But we just wanted to---”
“I SAID NOT NOW, SON!” Mike had never heard his father shout so loud, from what he could remember. Layla was halfway up the stairs, wearing a mirrored look of his own: shock and worry.
Mike went into his room to get his school books out of his backpack, ready for his homework when he suddenly heard strange sounds coming from above his ceiling, which now shook as if it was part jelly.
SSSSSSSSSSSSMMMMMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKkkkkkk,
CRrrrrRRRRAAAAAAAAAACKKKKKKTtt,
BBBBbbbbbbOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM
BBBBBBBbbbbbbbAAAAAaNNNNnnnGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGgggggggggggg
Like an old episode of Batman, but without the fun noises, sounds of destruction came down from the attic. His football lampshade was swinging side to side as his heart quickened in his chest.
--Back-on-Track-- Page 2