by Hilary McKay
‘I were smoking Black Twist in my pipe, so it were all right for me, see?’
‘Why?’ asked Rachel.
‘Black Twist were right strong,’ explained Graham’s grandad, ‘and it covered the smell. Well, then we tried to lift it.’
‘If he’s upsetting you,’ said Mrs Brocklebank to the girls, ‘the lads can take him out, and welcome.’
‘They’re enjoying it,’ said Mark. ‘Look at their faces!’
‘Jim took a hold and we all said, “Right then!” and lift together and poor old Jim slips on a rock and falls, and …’
‘Mark and Peter,’ ordered Mrs Brocklebank, ‘take him out. I’ve had enough.’
‘Every word true!’ bawled Graham’s grandad, as he was escorted to the door, and they could hear him groaning with laughter.
‘I don’t know WHAT you’ll think of us,’ burst out Mrs Brocklebank, and found herself surrounded.
‘We go to a terrible school,’ said Ruth, patting her arm. ‘We hear things much worse than that every day.’
‘I thought he was funny.’ Phoebe spread out her arms to show how funny he was. ‘Funny and kind, to tell us his story.’
‘Big Grandma would love to have heard him,’ agreed Naomi. ‘Please could I have some apple tart, because apple tart’s my favourite.’
‘When my dress blew away I thought perhaps I wouldn’t be able to come here,’ said Rachel, getting down from her chair to hug Graham’s mother. ‘But we found it in a rock pool, so I could. Very lucky. It was beautiful, beautiful trifle. I could scrape out the bowl if you like.’
‘It was very lucky,’ agreed Graham’s mother, and she handed Rachel the trifle bowl and Naomi the apple tart and the party became happy again.
‘Thank you very much for having us,’ said Ruth, much later, when at last they left for home, having helped with the washing up, visited the kittens in the hay barn, inspected Graham’s new school uniform and climbed all over the tractor. ‘It was the nicest tea ever.’
‘Brilliant,’ agreed Naomi, ‘and we really liked listening to Graham’s grandad.’
‘I’ll put it all in my diary,’ promised Rachel. ‘The trifle and that cake and the Black Twist. Everything.’
‘When can we come back?’ asked Phoebe.
‘You come whenever you feel like a bit of baking,’ said Mrs Brocklebank, hugging them each in turn ‘and we’ll have a goodbye tea before you go.’
‘A good riddance tea,’ remarked Graham.
‘We’re not going yet!’ said Ruth and Naomi, looking so alarmed that Mrs Brocklebank hurried to agree that they must have at least a week or two left. ‘And it’s nice to know you’re enjoying yourselves so much,’ she added.
‘It’s almost perfect,’ said Ruth, pulling herself together from the shock of hearing eternity described as a week or two, ‘except that there’s nothing to read at Big Grandma’s.’
‘Nothing to read!’ exclaimed Mrs Brocklebank. ‘Surely your grandma’s found you more than enough to keep you quiet for ages!’
‘Shakespeare and cookery books,’ said Naomi, ‘don’t count.’
‘Did you like them, then?’ Graham asked his mother at the end of that day.
‘I thought they were smashing lasses. They had lovely manners,’ said Mrs Brocklebank. ‘When your grandad was so awful, that was lovely, lovely manners.’
‘Was it?’ asked Graham, very surprised.
‘Yes,’ said his mother. ‘It was.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The summer was passing. During the weeks in Cumbria the girls had lost track of time. In the beginning it had seemed as if they were destined to an endless exile. No one had been able to stop thinking of all the money that was being wasted at home. Then, gradually, the view from the house grew familiar. Big Grandma’s cooking stopped tasting like an outsider’s cooking and became ordinary. Strangers no longer paused to look for resemblances to their much-pitied grandmother. Graham gave up watching them for signs of madness.
Mrs Brocklebank’s talk of goodbye teas and a week or two left before they went back had been disturbing.
‘I’m not going home yet,’ said Phoebe. ‘Or I’ll go home and get my money and come back. With some books.’
‘I wish I’d swum to the Isle of Man now,’ said Ruth regretfully. ‘And I still haven’t seen any badgers.’
‘It’s school when we go back!’ said Naomi.
This appalling reminder caused deep gloom amongst her sisters. Earnestly each one began to pray the holiday and weekend prayer of the Conroy girls.
‘Please God let the school burn down. But let the hamsters and gerbils be rescued. (And the stick insects.) Amen.’
‘There’s too many things we haven’t done yet,’ said Rachel. ‘We haven’t eaten the dog food. We haven’t found out what’s through the door in Big Grandma’s bedroom—’
‘What door?’ interrupted Naomi.
‘One we found when you were at the hospital. It goes into the top of the garage. We forgot to tell you about it.’
‘Mother,’ said Mrs Conroy on the telephone to Big Grandma one day, ‘what on earth are the girls talking about when they say they have no books to read?’
‘They haven’t,’ said Big Grandma. ‘Simple as that.’
‘Good gracious!’
‘I told you they read far too much. They were addicted. Pure escapism, bad for anyone,’ said Big Grandma, conveniently forgetting the large doses of literature she indulged in herself. ‘I’m curing them,’ she added complacently. ‘They are already very much improved.’
‘But your house is full of books!’
‘Was full! No longer.’
‘What have …’
At that moment Phoebe came charging into the hall, demanding to speak to her mother, and so Big Grandma had no time to explain that almost her only preparation for her granddaughters’ visit had been to pack up every one of the several hundred books she owned into cardboard boxes and pile them up in the storeroom above the garage. Graham, who had helped carry out this operation, had been sworn to secrecy. Carefully arranged pieces from an old dinner service now filled the empty bookshelves. The only things that had been forgotten were the enormous volumes of Shakespeare and the cookery books in the kitchen. This way her granddaughters had been forced to stop escaping for long and unhelpful periods down literary boltholes, and lately Big Grandma had allowed herself to think that her efforts were being rewarded. The long quest for something, anything, to read appeared to be almost forgotten.
Not that this was the only problem. They were far from civilised yet.
‘Good morning,’ said Big Grandma, coming into Ruth and Naomi’s room early one bright day. ‘Where’s Naomi?’
‘Down the garden.’ Ruth inspected her jumper carefully, found the label that should go at the back, turned it round, and put it on backwards.
‘Ruth,’ said Big Grandma impatiently, ‘you would make a good ostrich!’
‘Why?’
‘Just because you personally can no longer see the drips down the front of your jumper doesn’t mean that they’re no longer visible!’
‘I thought my hair covered them up.’
‘Just what Lady Godiva said.’
‘I can’t seem to find anything clean,’ Ruth explained.
‘Where are your other clothes?’
Ruth looked around the bedroom. It seemed a bit of a silly question.
‘There, mostly,’ she said. ‘In that heap.’
‘If you carried it downstairs,’ suggested Big Grandma, ‘and loaded it into the washing machine and switched it on …’
Ruth, suddenly inspired, began excitedly grovelling under her bed, pulling out garments which she had long given up as hopeless.
‘On second thoughts,’ said Big Grandma, when she saw what was emerging, ‘just take them downstairs. I’ve got some other things to sort out too. I’ll put them all in together.’
Rachel wandered aimlessly between the house and the garden, waiting for something to happen.
She had been trying to make a financial asset out of her diary by renting it to her sisters, but they had all very meanly refused to part with their money. Sighing, Rachel peered through the kitchen window to see what selfish pleasures Big Grandma was enjoying.
Sorting out the washing ! thought Rachel. About time!
Big Grandma looked up, saw Rachel, waved a friendly sock, and then carelessly tossed it into the rubbish bin.
‘Phoebe, look!’ exclaimed Rachel in surprise. ‘She’s throwing our clothes away!’
It was true. Big Grandma had the kitchen rubbish bin on one side of her, and the washing machine door open on the other. From the laundry basket in the middle of the two she pulled items of clothing and either tossed them neatly with her left hand into the washing machine, or else flipped them into the bin on her right.
‘Won’t you get into trouble?’ shouted Rachel through the glass, but Big Grandma didn’t seem to hear her question, so she went inside to repeat it.
‘Who from?’ asked Big Grandma, discarding a torn purple T-shirt of Naomi’s.
‘Mum?’ suggested Rachel.
‘No.’
‘But we wear them,’ Rachel pointed out.
‘Well, you’ll have to wear something else now,’ said Big Grandma reasonably, shook the last few socks from the laundry basket into the bin, washed her hands and switched on the machine.
‘You needn’t worry, Rachel,’ she said briskly. ‘I’m only throwing rubbish away. It’s a healthy thing to do, now and then.’
‘Is it?’ asked Rachel, her gaze wandering to the cupboard under the sink.
‘Very. And this is a good day to do it because the bin men will be here in an hour.’
‘Why is that good?’
‘Think, Rachel!’
‘Because it will be too late if anyone minds.’
‘Clever girl!’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Good. Now, I hope you won’t think I’m intruding,’ said Big Grandma politely, ‘but your mouth and your chin and parts of your nose have gone blue. As have your hands and your wrists.’
Rachel peered into the kitchen mirror and stuck out a blue tongue.
‘I’ve been writing,’ she explained.
Big Grandma smiled her approval. Rachel would never have thought of writing if she’d had enough books to read.
‘Naomi is gardening?’ she asked, wishing to hear further proof that her methods were working.
‘Um,’ agreed Rachel. ‘Measuring her lettuces, she said.’
‘Did she?’ Well, Big Grandma supposed, measuring lettuces, while not very useful in itself, showed at least that Naomi had the right idea.
‘And Ruth?’
‘Ruth’s behind the compost heap,’ said Rachel cautiously. ‘Cooking something on a little bonfire because you said she couldn’t do it in the kitchen.’
‘Natural history,’ said Big Grandma, ‘is best done outdoors.
Ruth’s Interesting Bone Collection was growing. The latest addition (Donated by: G. Brocklebank) was the head of a recently deceased herring gull, and Ruth had tried to remove the not inconsiderable amount of herring gull still attached to the skull by boiling it in the kitchen. A frightful stench had rapidly penetrated every room of the house, and Big Grandma in her wrath had cursed eldest granddaughter’s new hobby and hurried the saucepan outside. Nevertheless she was glad to hear that Ruth had not given up. Natural History was a study to be encouraged.
‘And Phoebe is fishing in a bucket,’ finished Rachel. ‘See!’ she pointed as she spoke.
It happened that so far Big Grandma had not been aware of this new adventure. Today, however, Phoebe sat in a patch of sunlight clearly visible from the kitchen window. Big Grandma, who could find reasons to be pleased with lettuce-measuring and dead-bird-boiling granddaughters, could not discover anything praiseworthy in fishing in buckets. Nor could she bear the sight of such a waste of time.
‘Good Heavens!’ she exclaimed.
‘She’s been doing it for ages,’ remarked Rachel.
‘Oh really, how ridiculous!’ said Big Grandma, hurrying outside. ‘Take the bin out for me, Rachel. Whatever are you doing, Phoebe, with that bucket and that stick?’
‘Fishing,’ Phoebe dreamily replied, ‘and thinking.’
‘Well, at least you’re thinking,’ said Big Grandma, a little comforted. ‘That’s something anyway. And far be it from me to ask what thoughts you find so entrancing.’
‘I’m thinking about money.’
‘Money?’ asked Big Grandma. ‘At your age? Do you often think about money?’
‘Always when I’m fishing,’ Phoebe told her. ‘Graham’s brother has a motorbike.’
‘Oh?’ asked Big Grandma, sitting down beside her. ‘And you were thinking?’
‘Girls have them as well as boys.’
‘Of course they do.’
‘Graham said they didn’t.’
‘Well, Graham’s wrong.’
‘I know,’ Phoebe nodded. ‘Here’s a stick.’
‘Ah.’
‘Graham’s brother can just get on and go wherever he likes.’
‘You can with motorbikes,’ said Big Grandma, inspecting the stick. ‘They are extraordinary things. Much more freeing than a car.’
‘The string’s fixed already. You need to tie on a stone, or else it floats. Did you have a motorbike?’
‘For many years,’ said Big Grandma. ‘Yes. I travelled all over Scotland and Ireland. Round by the west coast of France. It was a great joy … Like this?’
‘You can jiggle it. You don’t have to hold it still. What happened to your motorbike?’
‘I left it in France, with a friend. After many adventures.’
‘Many adventures is what I’d like,’ said Phoebe. ‘Do they cost much?’
‘Not as much as cars. Of course, you can’t carry as much. But you can carry enough. I never took passengers.’
‘Never?’
‘Well, hardly ever. Perhaps a few.’
‘Did you ever let them drive?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Neither will I. But I’ll give people rides. Rachel perhaps, and Mrs Brocklebank.’
‘Lucky Mrs Brocklebank!’
‘Would you like a ride?’
‘Yes, Phoebe, I would.’
‘All right.’
They swished their fishing rods energetically and smiled at each other and Rachel, watching them from the window, thought they were both mad. She also thought, since Big Grandma was safely out of the kitchen, she would do a bit of throwing away herself.
A healthy thing to do, now and then, she remembered Big Grandma saying, and she rummaged in the cupboard before she took the bin outside.
Two minutes later, feeling extremely successful and brave, and free forever from the worry of eating dog food, she sauntered off to find somebody to tell.
Ruth and Naomi, sitting upwind of the unsavoury saucepan, looked at her suspiciously as soon as she arrived.
‘What have you done?’ demanded Ruth, for it was plain that the nonchalant, swaggering Rachel had done something.
‘Chucked away the dog food.’
‘What if she notices?’
‘She won’t.’
‘You said that yesterday when you cut your pink dress up and she did and you told her we made you.’
‘You’re not telling her that this time,’ said Naomi.
‘I don’t want to. And I’ll tell her myself, only I’m waiting till after the bin men come because it will be too late then if she minds.’
Such sudden independence was too much to argue with. Ruth and Naomi sat silent.
‘You ought to be grateful to me,’ said Rachel, poking the fire and nearly dislodging the saucepan.
‘You’re not to mess about with fires,’ remarked Ruth automatically.
‘Shall if I like,’ said Rachel cheerfully. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘BECAUSE YOU’RE STILL TOO YOUNG!’ shouted Ruth and Naomi together.
‘I’m going,’ said Rachel, getting to her feet with dignity, ‘because it smells here!’ And she went.
‘Good old Rachel,’ said Ruth, not entirely cheerfully. ‘Not that Big Grandma would have cooked that stuff anyway. It was just a joke.’
‘We’ve been training Rachel to do something like that for years,’ answered Naomi, ‘but it still feels funny now that she has.’
‘Anyway,’ said Ruth, looking on the bright side, ‘it will be nice not to get the blame for everything she does wrong. Go on with what you were saying before she came.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that room over the garage. There’s only one thing I can think of that she’d bother locking up in there.’
‘Books?’ asked Ruth, who had also been considering the matter.
‘That’s what I thought. Oh quick! Your saucepan’s fallen over!’
Ruth dived through the reeking smoke to rescue it. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ she said, prodding rather sadly.
‘I’m off,’ said Naomi. ‘Natural History always sounds nice and clean in books. I don’t know why yours always is so disgusting.’
She poked at the cooling saucepan disparagingly as she passed, tipped it sideways, and got herring gull juice on her plaster.
‘I don’t know what you see in it at all,’ said Naomi.
Alone, Ruth buried Graham’s present in the compost heap. Interesting Bones had, for the moment, lost some of their charm. A proper naturalist, she knew, would be investigating real live animals, and she had seen very few of these. The small garden in the dusty street of the red brick town where Ruth had spent her life, offered very limited opportunities for the amateur naturalist. So far Ruth had seen three dead mice, caught in traps in the shed, one grey squirrel that lived in the school playground, attracted by an unlimited supply of crisps and sandwich crusts, several Cumbrian rabbits, and assorted, unremarkable birds.
It wasn’t much of a record. Ruth knew it wasn’t, and was ashamed. It was bad enough for someone who lived in Lincolnshire, but for someone who had spent a summer in Cumbria, it was disgraceful.
Especially when only a mile or so away from that person lived the oldest and most wonderful of all British animals, the bear-like, panda-faced, earth-dwelling ancient of the countryside, the badger. All Ruth had to do was sit quietly in sight of a sett one night, and she would see them.