Catcall

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Right, Josh. Thanks,’ Mike said, looking a bit dazed. ‘If I’ve got any questions, I’ll know who to ask.’

  I’d completely forgotten about trying not to talk. The words had come straight out of my mouth, as if Mike had pressed a button. It was hard to stay silent at home, never mind at school, with everyone chatting and asking questions. The only way I’d manage to stay quiet all day would be if I gagged myself.

  And now here I was, lying in the dark next to my silent brother.

  I was thinking: what if Jamie’s not there? What if that body in the next bed isn’t Jamie at all? What if he’s gone–gone for ever?

  Little J. Little Josh. Like a little version of me.

  Are you there, Jamie? Anyone at home?

  Where’s my Jamie, the Jamie I’m used to? He’s an irritating little pest at times, but he’s good fun.

  Not much fun as a silent lump, though.

  What’s got into him?

  I thought again about that big O, the only explanation he’d given. Well, clue, at least. He wasn’t doing any explaining.

  O, I puzzled, O. What could it mean?

  A doughnut, a rubber ring, a hula hoop, a football, a plate, a pizza, the Roman Colosseum?

  A mouth. An open mouth, with nothing coming out of it.

  But in the middle of the night, Jamie shouted out. His loud yell of fright grabbed me out of sleep and made my heart pound.

  I groped for the light switch and blinked in the sudden brightness.

  ‘Jamie? Hey, what’s up?’

  Jamie looked at me, his eyes big and startled. There was no way he was going to tell me. He half sat up, leaning against his pillow, clutching the duvet to his chin.

  ‘Wait there!’ I said. ‘I’ll fetch Mum.’

  She was already on her way, stumbling across the landing and pulling her dressing-gown round her, with Mike behind, bleary-eyed.

  ‘Was that Jamie?’

  ‘Yes! He shouted–really shouted!’

  We all gathered round. In that second when he’d gazed at me, I’d seen Jamie looking out–the Jamie I know. Now his shut-in look had taken over. He sat plucking at the edge of the duvet with his finger and thumb. A tuft of hair curled on top of his head, like Tintin’s.

  ‘Hey, Jamie, you gave me a fright!’ I said, trying to be normal and friendly.

  Mum sat on the bed and smoothed his hair down with her fingers. ‘What was it, love? What did you dream?’

  Nothing. Jamie gave no sign of having heard. Mum and Mike tried hard. They coaxed him, they fetched a pen and paper, Mike went down and made hot chocolate. Jamie wouldn’t respond at all–not even with a nod or a shake of his head.

  Eventually Mum said, ‘Mike, could you stay here? I’m taking Jamie to sleep in our bed. I want to be with him if he has another bad dream.’

  Obediently, Jamie got out of bed, and Mike got in, yawning. I heard Mum talking and talking to Jamie as she led him across the landing to the big bedroom. Next thing, I bet myself, Jennie would wake up and need feeding.

  ‘You all right, Josh?’ Mike was a big man for Jamie’s narrow bed, and the mattress creaked as he settled himself. ‘Must have made you jump.’

  ‘Yeh, it did.’

  ‘Turn the light out, then, there’s a good chap. You’ve got school tomorrow, and it’s another broken night.’

  At least, I thought, there couldn’t be much wrong with Jamie’s vocal cords. Then, across the landing, I heard Jennie starting to cry. Nothing wrong with hers, either.

  10

  FLOSS

  Jamie stayed at home next morning. As early as she could, Mum phoned for an appointment with Dr Awan. When I left for school, Jamie was sitting at the table eating porridge. He gave me a smug look that said, clearly as anything, You’re going to school and I’m not. I stared back. That was a Jamie look, and it meant Jamie was definitely in there.

  First lesson was Drama. For a warm-up, we had to work in pairs and pretend one of us was the mirror reflection of the other. Noori, Brody and I stood together, because some teachers let you stay in a three even when they’ve said pairs, but Ms Otandu made us swap around. ‘Let’s mix up the girls and the boys. Brody, you go with Freya. Noori with Sophie. Josh with Floss.’

  Brody made a face at me, and Freya moaned, ‘Oh, do I have to?’ She did that thing girls do, rolling her eyes and huffing air at her fringe. She and Brody moved together but stood apart. Floss bounced over to me, smiling.

  Floss was new. She’d only started at Langtree two weeks before we broke up for Christmas. Not only was she new at our school, she’d never been to any school before. Her parents had been teaching her at home, but now she’d decided for herself that she ought to try school out, and see how she liked it. Mrs Sharman, our form tutor, told us all this before Floss came. Course, everyone had a lot to say about that.

  ‘Never been to school before? Can she read and write?’

  ‘What, you mean we don’t have to come to school? Why am I here, then?’

  ‘She wants to? What, she thinks she’s missing something?’

  ‘So if she doesn’t like it, she can just clear off back home? Can we all do that if we want?’

  ‘Parents can choose to educate their children at home,’ Mrs Sharman explained. ‘They have to do it properly, though, covering all the different subjects. They even get inspected, the way schools are. It’s not an easy option,’ she told us. ‘No sitting round watching TV all day–I bet that’s what you’re imagining, Toby.’

  ‘First time in a school? She hasn’t got a flea’s chance,’ Toby said, when we left our form room for Maths.

  I could have told him that the flea is one of the most adaptable creatures around, being a parasite that can jump from one carrier to another, but of course that wasn’t what he meant, and I didn’t think it was worth sounding like a prize boffin. He must have been imagining, like I was, this quiet, shy thing with pigtails, gazing around in astonishment, getting lost between lessons, being pushed and shoved and teased.

  Floss, though, wasn’t quiet and shy. Not loud, either. She was just herself. What I mean is, she didn’t put on any kind of act. She just seemed to say, ‘Well, here I am, folks. This is me.’ She was tall and skinny with very blonde hair, and a tanned face even in the middle of winter, and an accent that I thought at first was American, but it turned out to be South African. Sarth Effrican, the way Toby and Bex took the mick.

  It was her confidence that got those two, and the way she was a bit different, but didn’t mind being different. One of the things that made her stand out, apart from her height and her accent, was that she didn’t immediately pal up with one or two other girls, and stick with them. She’d talk to anyone, girls or boys–just wander over to a conversation or a game, and butt straight in. She didn’t know what you do and what you don’t do.

  That’s why Toby set her up with Rick.

  Mr O’Shea’s the Deputy Head. He’s one of the oldest teachers, and the strictest, and always wears a suit. He doesn’t have to tell you he means business. He teaches Maths, and although he didn’t take our class he’d stood in once when Mr Phillips was away on a course. No one messes about in Mr O’Shea’s class, ever. Even Bex, who’s got an instinct for winding up teachers, behaves like Goody-Two-Shoes when Mr O’Shea’s around.

  It was Noori who nicknamed him Rick–Noori’s clever like that. (Rick O’Shea–ricochet–har har!) So that’s what we all call him now. Not to his face, obviously. You’d have to be a bit kamikaze to do that.

  About Floss’s third day, Toby came into our form room and handed her a small brown envelope. ‘From Mr O’Shea,’ he told her. ‘Just passed him on my way in. He said to give you this.’

  Floss took the note and read it. ‘What’s all that about?’

  Toby looked innocent. ‘No idea.’

  Later, he told Brody what he’d done–printed out a little note on his computer. It said, ‘I need to speak to you about your timetable. Please come to my office at morning break. Ask f
or Rick.’ And he’d signed it with an unreadable signature.

  Not surprisingly, Floss does what it says and turns up at his office, in the Admin Area, with her timetable in her hand. ‘Hi! I guess you must be Rick,’ she says to Mr O’Shea, when he opens his door. He peers at her over the top of his glasses, but he’s not stupid, and he knows about Floss being new. ‘Round these parts, they tend to call me Mr O’Shea,’ he goes. ‘It’s Florence Darrow, isn’t it?’

  ‘Floss, actually,’ says Floss, and Rick goes, ‘Well, Floss. Actually, what can I do for you?’ So she says, ‘Well, you sent for me,’ and he’s baffled till she shows him the note. ‘I think someone’s having a joke at your expense, my dear,’ he says. ‘Or maybe at mine.’

  I got this from Noori, because he saw Toby and Bex setting off behind Floss to hide by the photocopier. Noori had a form about Science Team to hand in to the secretary, so he tagged along behind.

  The thing was, when Floss came back to the class for French, she didn’t say a single word to Toby about setting her up. All that came out of it was Toby started calling out ‘Florence! Flo!’ whenever he saw her. She got her own back by calling him Toby Jug. As he had big ears that stuck out like handles, that was soon a class joke, and Floss got a bit of respect.

  So, anyway–there we were in Drama, doing this mirror-miming. Floss was good to work with, because she took it seriously and put in all these weird moves, doing a slow glide, then surprising me with a sudden twist or jerk. All the time, she had this perfectly serious look on her face that gave nothing away. When it was my turn to lead, she gazed straight at me the whole time, and followed my moves only a nano-second behind. She was good. After that, when we had to make up an improvisation about a misunderstanding, she had smart ideas for that, too.

  The problem with Floss was she didn’t know the rules. I don’t mean the rules about putting your litter in the bin and not running in corridors. I mean the unwritten rules. For example, everyone knows that if you’re a boy, you don’t go and sit next to a girl, and if you’re a girl, you don’t willingly sit next to a boy–unless you’re Toby and Bex, that is. Some of the teachers mix us up, but left to ourselves you’d think we were two separate species. Boys, when girls are around, are like iron filings repelled from the wrong end of a magnet.

  Next lesson after Drama, the heating had broken in the mobile where we usually have French, so we were moved to one of the Maths rooms. Noori and Brody sat together with me in the row in front, and a spare place next to me. That was OK, I liked having room to spread out, and I could turn round to them when we had the conversation practice. Mr Dawkins checked our names and was handing out books when Floss strolled in, smiling vaguely.

  ‘Yes?’ said Mr Dawkins, a bit snappish. He was already irritated, because of the room change.

  Floss looked at him, and said, ‘I’m here for French.’

  ‘What I meant,’ Mr D explained patiently, ‘is that when you’re late for a lesson, you’re expected to offer an apology.’

  ‘Oh. Well, see, I got talking to Wilbur, and then I didn’t know what room to come to.’

  There’s only one Wilbur at school, and that’s Wilbur Evans, the Site Manager. Two weeks in school, and Floss had made friends with him. She chatted to everyone.

  ‘Mr Evans has work to do, and so do you,’ said Mr Dawkins. ‘Take a seat.’

  I knew what would happen then. Floss gazed around the room looking for a place, saw me, and came straight over. We had to spend the rest of the lesson parlez-vousing about shopping in the boulangerie and the supermarché. Floss knew French quite well, only she spoke it with a South African accent.

  Of course, that was it. Two lessons in one day! According to Bex, that made us an item. ‘Josh and Floss!’ she chanted. Others joined in, and by lunchtime it had become JoshnFloss. ‘Hey, there’s JoshnFloss! How sweet!’

  Noori nudged me. ‘Bowandarrow? Josh Bowman and Florence Darrow?’

  He’d said it quietly, but Brody started going, ‘Bowandarrow! Bowandarrow!’ and jigged round pretending to aim arrows at me.

  ‘Thanks a lot.’ I glared at both of them.

  Course, Bex overheard. From then on it was JoshnFloss! Bowandarrow! even when Floss and I weren’t within twenty metres of each other, which I made sure was most of the time.

  11

  SATSUMA JUGGLING

  A phone message was brought to our classroom at afternoon registration. It said: Joshua Bowman 7SS. Your mum phoned. Jamie’s at school this afternoon so she’ll meet you 3.40 outside the primary school.

  I thought this meant the doctor had given Jamie a pill or an injection and changed him back into Normal Speaking Boy. I was wrong.

  We had PE last thing, so I was a bit later at St Luke’s than usual. Jamie was already by the gate with Mum, holding on to the buggy, wearing his no-one-at-home face. There was a chill in the air that felt almost dangerous, making me shiver at the thought of night’s cold grip and the darkness to come. Jennie, in the buggy, was zipped up in one of those all-in-one padded suits, with a hood, so all you could see was the pale little circle of her face.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Jamie.’ Then I remembered to say, ‘Hi, Jennie,’ as well. I waited till we were walking along the pavement before whispering to Mum, ‘What did the doctor say, then?’

  ‘We’re going back in two days.’ Mum darted an anxious look at Jamie, who trundled along beside us, his head round and neat in a Chelsea knitted hat. ‘Dr Awan thought he might as well be at school, as he’s otherwise behaving normally–it’s more stimulating for him than sitting at home. And he might just start to speak again, but Mr Rose says he’s not made a sound since I brought him at lunchtime.’

  ‘Didn’t the doctor give him any pills or medicine or anything?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, Josh.’

  I kicked at a twig. ‘So it was useless, then, taking him?’ If doctors couldn’t do anything, who could?

  ‘Oh no, it wasn’t useless. She looked at his ears and throat and eyes, and at least she doesn’t think there’s anything physically wrong.’ Mum lowered her voice. ‘If there’s no change when we go back, she’ll refer us to a child psychologist. A specialist. Someone who’s used to this sort of thing, and can give us some help.’

  ‘This sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes. It’s unusual, but it does happen to other children. So, Jamie!’ Mum said, suddenly putting on a louder, cheerful voice. ‘Mr Rose told me you’re having a visit tomorrow from some mime artists–that’ll be fun, won’t it? I wish I could come!’

  And she chattered away to Jamie, while it was my turn to fall silent. My brain kept circling round one word. Psychologist.

  Normal people don’t go to psychologists. I mean, it’s not like the dentist or the optician. ‘I’ve got the psychologist this afternoon–just a check-up!’

  No. Psychologists are for mad people, aren’t they?

  Soon as we got in, I Googled psychologist. Once I’d learned how to spell it right, a whole list came up. It was well confusing. From this list, I found out there are clinical psychologists, forensic psychologists, counselling psychologists, health psychologists and even industrial psychologists. There were lots of long articles with words I couldn’t understand. But nothing that said what to do if your brother suddenly stopped talking.

  Then at last I found something that explained what psychology is, and it seemed quite simple after all:

  WHAT IS PSYCHOLOGY?

  Psychology is a science-based profession. It is the study of people: how they think, how they act, react and interact. It is concerned with all aspects of behaviour and the thoughts, feelings and motivation underlying such behaviour.

  Well, I thought, is that all? Just study? Just behaviour? No electrodes, brain scans or impossible tests? I could do that! I’m good at studying, and after all, no stranger could study Jamie better than I could. I’ve known him all his life. I share a bedroom with him. I know all his habits: how funny he can be, how annoying, what he likes and
doesn’t like to eat, what makes him laugh.

  It seemed ages since I’d heard that funny hiccuppy laugh of his. I missed it. Mr Bean hadn’t managed to make him laugh, but maybe I could.

  So I tried. I went down to the front room, and found him sitting on the sofa looking at the television, though it wasn’t even switched on. I’d give him something better than TV to look at. I told jokes, I did silly walks. I tried to walk on my hands, and nose-dived to the carpet.

  Jamie stared, like I’d gone mental. Like I’d gone mental.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ I told him. ‘You could try joining in!’

  Running out of things to do, I picked up three satsumas from the fruit bowl and started trying to juggle. It was harder than I thought. The satsumas were bashed and dented from rolling all over the floor by the time Mike came in and saw what I was doing.

  ‘No, Josh, no,’ he went, and I thought he was telling me off for wasting satsumas. But instead he collected them up, and said, ‘You don’t pass from one hand to the other. Juggling’s all about throwing.’ And off he went.

  How was I to know Mike was a secret juggler? He was good, even when I threw in an apple. Then he nodded for me to chuck in a banana as well, and they all went whirling round like an airborne fruit salad.

  Course, Jamie couldn’t sit watching this without wanting a go himself. He wasn’t even as good as me, which wasn’t saying much, and soon Splodge got fed up with having to dodge flying fruit every few seconds and went to hide behind the TV cabinet, but the important thing was that Jamie was looking like Jamie. He was even doing a few hic-hic-hics, not exactly laughing, but sort of revving-up towards laughing, with all the effort of concentrating. We did this until Mum came down and asked Jamie if he wanted to help bath Jennie and put her to bed. It turned out that Mum didn’t know Mike could juggle either, so he had to do more demonstrating, and then she had a go. When they were all tired of juggling except me–if Mike could keep five things in the air, surely I could manage three–Jamie went upstairs with her quite willingly to see to Jennie.