Nicking Time

by T. Traynor

  Bru gives him a grin and a thumbs-up of appreciation.

  We spread our souvenirs out in the centre of the den. These are mainly fragments found in or chipped off the stand. Maybe they wouldn’t look too impressive to an outsider – weird-shaped lumps of crumbling concrete, random chunks of wood, a bendy wedge of rusty corrugated iron – but if you know their story, you know their true value. All totally priceless, because we’d never give them up, not for anything.

  So we’re all talking at once, getting louder and more animated as we remember extra things. We’re totally buzzing – agreeing and debating and laughing. Then suddenly we’re like those toy bunnies in the adverts, the ones that play the drums. Not the one that keeps on going, forever and ever. We’re the ones whose batteries have run out of juice and we’ve stopped with one arm in the air, lacking the oomph to even bring it down.

  Lemur’s actually quiet – that’s how bad things are.

  “It’s just,” says Skooshie, “that it was so good.”

  “Yeah. Nothing will ever be that good again. Ever. Will it?”

  “No…”

  “We can’t do nothing.”

  “We need to do something.”

  “Yeah…”

  “What about The List, Hector?”

  Hector rummages in his pocket. He pulls out the scrap of paper and unscrunches it. It’s become more grey than white in colour and it’s been scribbled on so much I think only Hector can decipher it now.

  We wait as his eyes flick down, his expression staying gloomy. Then he makes an exaggerated pfff! noise, like he’s lost all hope.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “We need to do something,” says Bru. “There’s not that much of the holidays left—”

  “BRU!” This is the worst thing anybody has said yet.

  “I know, I know. But it’s true. We’ve got to make the most of the time we’ve got left.”

  “Is there really nothing on The List at all, Hector?”

  Hector looks again. He knows we’re depending on him.

  “Well,” he says, “we could go to the park?”

  “We could borrow somebody’s dog and take it to the park for a walk,” I suggest.

  “No dogs,” says Skooshie firmly.

  “Aw, Skoosh…”

  To be honest, I’d forgotten about Skooshie’s dog phobia. We used to take people’s dogs for a walk quite a lot but then there was an incident when one of them bit Skooshie. Well, Shep didn’t really bite him. We were rolling down the hill in the park and he just got a bit excited – Shep, not Skooshie – and thought part of the game was to grab hold of Skooshie’s leg. It was more of a playful nip than a bite, though the way Skooshie tells the story, you can actually hear the Jaws theme tune in the background.

  Which is why Skooshie’s not so keen on dogs any more. Doesn’t matter how toaty they are – in fact, he says the wee ones are worse because of the way they bounce about and get at your ankles. At least you can see the big ones coming. That’s maybe why he likes playing at the flats so much. We’re not allowed dogs here. Or cats. I think in fact there might be a ban on pets of any kind. Though the McIntyres in our flats used to have a secret tortoise. That seemed like a safe kind of choice: it doesn’t create much mess or noise and it’s an easy one to disguise, if Glasgow Corporation send round any kind of Pet Spy. But it turned out that tortoises are harder to manage than you’d think. You know the thawing out thing you have to do to them after hibernation? I didn’t know about it either, but apparently it’s kind of important and the McIntyres didn’t do it right, so poor old Speedy Gonzales bought it. But it was a whole month before they worked out it was dead – they just thought it was dozing. So, all kinds of drawbacks to having a tortoise as a pet. A lot less chance of being bitten by it while you’re rolling down a hill, though.

  “Absolutely no dogs,” says Skooshie, like he’s been following the whole dog-tortoise-dog chain in my head.

  “Fair enough,” I say.

  “We could go round the doors and ask people for ginger bottles,” he counter-suggests.

  “What would we do with the bottles?” says Lemur, puzzled.

  “Aw, Lemur, you’re not one of those people that don’t take their ginger bottles back, are you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “So you are. Let me explain. For every bottle you take back to the shop, you get some money. Enough bottles, there’s enough money to get sweets, or more ginger, whatever you fancy.”

  “You pay a deposit on the bottle.”

  “No – they give you money.”

  “I get that – I mean, you’ve paid a deposit when you buy the ginger.”

  “I don’t think so,” says Skooshie. “This is free money.”

  “So you go to someone’s door and ask them for their bottles and they give them to you?”

  “People do,” says Skooshie.

  “That is free money,” says Lemur, impressed.

  “Some people don’t,” Skooshie feels obliged to add. “Some laugh and shut the door. Some shout and shut the door. A few swear at you – not that many though. You’d be surprised how many can’t be bothered to take them back. We’re like a public service.”

  “Let’s do that,” says Lemur, getting up. “If we do it in the flats, we’ll be able to get round lots of doors without walking very far.”

  “Eh, no,” says Bru.

  “Why not?”

  “My mum says it’s just glorified begging. It’s a total no-no in my house.”

  “Mine as well,” I add.

  Skooshie snorts. “Begging! Do your mothers not know a good business opportunity when they see it? C’mon – let’s go and do it in my road.”

  “You’re on!”

  It turns out to be quite a successful venture. An hour and a half later and we’re clinking our way to the Mount Florida Café with two full plastic bags.

  Which makes you think. When we grow up, maybe Skooshie’s the one of us who’s going to make a fortune.

  ***

  Over the next few days, we get back to normal. Bru’s right – we can’t afford to waste any time pining for what’s been and thinking we’ll never do anything to beat it. Cathkin fades slowly and magically into legend. And although it might be true that we’ll never do anything quite so pure dead brilliant again, we have it to hold onto – something that totally fantastic and out of this world. It’s there – shining – in our memories for whenever we need it.

  Well, I say things get back to normal. In fact, they take a turn for the weird. The totally weird.

  22

  We’re sitting in the den passing round a bottle of American cream soda that is nearly done. Our talk today is serious.

  “I’ve never known anybody that’s died,” says Bru.

  “Yeah, you have,” says Hector. “D’you not remember Skooshie’s cousin’s other gran?”

  Skooshie pauses in draining the last dregs of ginger from the bottle to contribute, “Yeah – her,” then up-ends the bottle into his mouth again.

  “Well, we never met her,” says Bru. “Skooshie’d never even met her. But we met Mr Murphy – remember that day when he grabbed Lemur and had a go at him? We actually knew him quite well.”

  “It is spooky,” agreed Hector. “Where is Lemur anyway?”

  We were never there before him. “Must be planning a big entrance,” I say.

  “Oh,” says Skooshie. “Should I have left him some cream soda? Ah well, never mind.” He puts the empty bottle down. “Talk of the devil, here he is.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Just out and about. Then I went to get you, Midge.”

  He glances at me. This is to make up for the other day, the Mr Murphy day. And I’ve just announced to everybody that he’s only late to be the centre of attention, which makes me feel a bit pish as a pal.

  “You weren’t in – but your sister was. She’s really annoying, isn’t she? She bombarded me with questions.”
/>   “What about?”

  “Ghosts, dens… and school uniforms?”

  Hector snorts. “Girls. Totally off their heads.”

  There’s no space for Lemur on the cushions. He gets down on the ground, lying flat out and closing his eyes.

  “Been running?” asks Hector.

  “No. Just tired. What’s happening?”

  “I’ve got news,” I say.

  “About that Mr Murphy,” says Skooshie before I can get started. “Remember that man in Midge’s flats that was shouting and accusing you?”

  “Oh, him. What about him?”

  “He’s dead!” says Hector.

  “When?”

  “Last night,” I say loudly. This is my news and I’m not having them hijack it.

  “So?”

  “Well, we were just saying we don’t know that many people who have died. So it’s news.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Midge jumped out at him when the lift opened and gave him a heart attack.”

  “Shut up, Hector. My mum says he died because he was lonely.”

  “People don’t die because they’re lonely,” says Skooshie. With five brothers and sisters, Skooshie does not believe that loneliness exists.

  “That’s probably true,” I admit. “My dad says he was just old.”

  “So, he was an old man and he died.” Lemur shrugs.

  This was my news and we were enjoying it before Lemur blundered in. Even though he’s lying down and not bouncing around like usual, somehow he still does actually manage to make himself the centre of attention. Plus I’m surprised at his reaction. I’d thought Lemur would care. It’s like the conversation we had the other day about Mr Murphy never happened. Like Lemur never visited him, never saw Mr Murphy crying. I’m so annoyed I hunch over and poke the ground, like I’ve discovered something really interesting down there.

  And so I miss the start of it. By the time I tune in again there’s a heated debate in full flow.

  “Every four years,” Bru’s saying. “Every year is 365 and a quarter days long. The extra quarters add up to a day every four years. So there’s a leap year every four years. Like this year.”

  “No, you’re wrong there,” says Hector. “Because a year is a bit less that 365 and a quarter days – just a toaty bit less. But over time that adds up. So some years when you’re expecting a leap year, it doesn’t happen.”

  “Like when?” Skooshie’s very doubtful. “I’ve been watching out for leap years ever since I was born and they’ve never missed one yet. Every four years, regular as clockwork, like Bru says.”

  “So how many have you lived through?” says Hector, less than impressed by the vastness of Skooshie’s experience.

  Skooshie does a bit of discreet counting on his fingers. “This will be my fourth. Wait a minute… I was born in 1964 but after the 29th of February – does that one still count?”

  There’s a general feeling that it does, that if there had been no leap day in the year of Skooshie’s birth, somebody in his family would have mentioned it to him.

  “OK – four, and they haven’t missed one.”

  “They don’t skip them that often,” Hector explains. “Just three times every four hundred years.”

  “So how do you know when they’re going to skip one?” asks Bru.

  “It’s the years ending in zero zero, when the century changes. You don’t count three of them. So 1700, no leap year. 1800, no leap year. 1900, no leap year. 2000 leap year.”

  “So the 29th of February, 1900 didn’t exist?” I say, because I’ve forgotten to still be annoyed. “Weird.”

  “No one was expecting it to,” says Lemur, who’s now propped up on one elbow and looking a bit livelier. “But there was a time when some days people were waiting for were actually lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “Where?”

  “How?”

  “Well, a long time ago, they used to think like Bru – that you needed a leap year every four years. The extra days started adding up and making a difference. They realised that meant the link between the year and the seasons was getting broken. The date was slipping behind the season. By the eighteenth century, when the calendar said the 25th of March, the weather said the 6th of April.”

  “So if they’d kept going like that, we’d have ended up with Christmas in the summer?”

  “Eventually,” says Lemur.

  “Like in Australia,” says Hector, knowingly. His cousins live in Australia so he’s something of an authority on the place.

  “Would we have got kangaroos as well?”

  Hector opens his mouth to respond to Skooshie’s question but Lemur’s not for any more interruptions. “So they decided,” he continues loudly, “to change the calendar and miss out some days so the dates and the seasons matched again.”

  “How did that work?”

  “In 1752 on the 2nd of September everyone went to sleep. And when they woke up, it was the 14th of September.”

  “So those days – the 3rd to the 13th – they just didn’t exist?”

  “No – they were lost.”

  “That’s so weird… Can you imagine what that would feel like?”

  “Some people thought the days had been stolen from them,” says Lemur. “There were riots in the street!”

  “People protesting that they wanted their eleven days back?”

  “Yes – weren’t they stupid?”

  “Were they school days?” asks Bru. “I wouldn’t be asking for those back!”

  “They were just days,” says Lemur. “What use were they? The people went to sleep, they woke up and it was later than they thought it would be. So what?”

  “Well, what if something important fell on those days? My birthday’s on the 10th of September – I’d’ve missed it.”

  “Yeah, it’s not just the days that were lost. It’s everything that might have happened on them.”

  “The same things just happened a few days later,” says Lemur.

  “Not in the same way. Take Hector’s birthday. It just wouldn’t feel the same celebrating it on the 14th.”

  “It is like having time nicked from you.”

  “Time’s just time,” says Lemur. “It didn’t belong to them. How could it be stolen?”

  He’s getting red in the face. I can sense that no one’s going to back down on this one. It could go on forever.

  Then Bru comes to the rescue. “They were time thieves, you know,” he says, his voice mysterious. “They didn’t nick the days to fix the calendar. They nicked them to cover up what really happened then – things so strange that they couldn’t allow anybody to remember them. It’s been a secret for all this time. We’re the only ones to have worked it out. And we owe it to the world to remember the things that actually happened, the things they tried to hide. You first, Midge.”

  I could see where he was going with this and I’m ready.

  “You might have asked yourself whether the Loch Ness Monster is actually real…”

  “Too right she’s real!” hoots Skooshie, and he’s backed up by a general hullaballoo of agreement.

  “Well, you might have asked yourself what Nessie looks like…”

  “Like this!” Skooshie, Bru and Hector do a three-man impersonation (or should that be im-monster-ation?) of Nessie, arching up out of the water. The sound effects are impressive: a cross between a tyrannosaurus rex in a bad mood and a zombie pig.

  “Cool… Well, have you ever wondered how she got into Loch Ness?”

  “That I have asked myself,” Skooshie admits.

  “Then let me tell you. It all happened on the 3rd of September, the first day to be nicked by the time thieves. At this time, Nessie lived in the River Clyde.”

  “The Clyde? Here in Glasgow? Isn’t Loch Ness miles away?”

  “Yeah, Midge, it definitely is.”

  “Maybe she got out and ran cross-country for part of it—”

  “Will you just SHUT UP and LISTEN
?”

  “We’re listening!” This in an aggrieved tone, like I’m being unreasonable.

  “Her mother had been the very last of the dinosaurs – and before you ask, it was a type of dinosaur that hasn’t been discovered yet. (Hey, Dinosaur Discoverer – that’d be such a cool job! I might put that on my list.) Anyway, she’d managed to hide an egg at the bottom of the Clyde. It stayed hidden for hundreds and thousands of years. Then one day there was a thaw after a freezing cold winter and the egg hatched…

  “Nobody suspected the baby dinosaur was in the river. She ate fish and things like oranges that fell off the boats (she was especially keen on oranges), and she grew bigger and bigger. And at the same time the Clyde got busier and busier.

  “So, there was Nessie, minding her business, just chasing a big juicy fish. In her excitement she bobbed up a bit too close to a boat. There was a shout – she’d been seen! They were after her! Some wanted to capture her, so they could sell her to a circus. Others wanted to kill her and make her into Nessie burgers.”

  “Aw, no!” says Skooshie, looking really anxious, even though he’s got a fairly clear idea of how this one’s going to end.

  “She swam like she’d never swum before, desperate to escape. But in her panic she went inland instead of out to sea. The river got narrower and shallower, too shallow for Nessie – her front legs hit the riverbed. She couldn’t swim any further! And she was too big and heavy to outrun them. But she didn’t give up, not for a minute – because Scottish dinosaurs don’t. There was one more thing she could try. Pushing up off her strong back legs, she reached for the sky. To the astonishment of everybody watching, the webbing on her front legs meant they worked as wings! There was nothing the chasers could do – just try and steady their boats against the blasts of wind from Nessie’s flapping as she soared up into the sky and away.”

  “Yeah! Go, Nessie!”

  “She flew until she found a nice big, deep loch to settle in. And that’s where she’s been since 1752. And sometimes she likes to play games by popping her head above the water and shouting, ‘Yoo hoo!’ to people with cameras on the banks.”

  “Good one, Midge…”

  “My turn! On the 4th of September the people were awoken by a weird storm. The sky was raining Irn-Bru and throwing down hailstones made out of marshmallows…”