Running on the Cracks

by Julia Donaldson

  We understand that all contact between yourselves and your son was severed as a result of his relationship with Miss Watts, and are unaware whether you know of the existence of their daughter Leonora, who is now fifteen.

  Following the death of her parents, Leonora was entrusted to the care of my wife and myself, being the closest known relatives. Unfortunately our niece, despite every effort on our part to ensure her comfort, and despite appearing to enjoy the company of her cousins (our two daughters Florence and Caitlin), disappeared from our home on September 10th of this year, and has not been seen since. We have reason to suspect that Leonora may have travelled to Glasgow, perhaps with the intention of seeking you out, and we are appealing to you for news of her.

  Our niece was understandably in a disturbed frame of mind following the death of her parents, and it is possible she may not fully have appreciated our good intentions – indeed, that she may even have circulated some untruths about the care she received in our home. Should this be the case, we would appeal to your better judgement, and request that for her welfare you write with the utmost urgency to the above address (and NOT to our previous Bristol address, which Leonora may have given you). A good home and school await my niece.

  Yours sincerely

  John Baldwin

  Midnight Mary

  Leo!

  Leo hen!

  Wakey wakey!

  Rise and shine!

  Rise and shine and walk the line!

  Leo hen, wake up!

  It’s time for the dancing!

  Aye, it’s the middle of the night.

  The middle of the night when the stars shine bright.

  It’s time for the banquet!

  It’s time for the bash.

  You and me and Johnny Cash.

  Cash, cash, lots of cash.

  Where is it?

  Where’s the cash?

  Someone’s hidden it.

  It’s under the pillows. It’s under the sofa.

  Get up, hen! They’ve hidden the cash.

  They’ve hidden the money for the banquet.

  It’s no there. They’ve taken it.

  That Lorraine, she’s taken it.

  That big-mouth, that long-tongue liar.

  Liar, liar, long-tongue liar,

  Tell the lads her tongue’s on fire.

  No, I didnae spend it.

  No, I’ll no go to sleep.

  We’re celebrating!

  Jammie Dodgers – that’s what we need.

  Cornflakes – that’s what we need.

  Where’s that salad bowl?

  We’re making cornflake salad.

  Dumplings – that’s what we need.

  Leo hen, make some more of they dumplings.

  They dumplings were fit for a king.

  Macbeth! We’ll feed Macbeth. We’ll feed the King of Scotland.

  No, I’ll no turn it down.

  Turn up Johnny! Turn up the cash! Turn up the cushions.

  Dance, hen. Dance, Leo hen!

  If ye’ll no dance I’ll dance with Zigger.

  He’s a beauty, he’s a barker, he’s a barker in the park.

  Hark, hark, the dogs do bark.

  The beggars are coming to town.

  We’ll no be beggars, we’ll be rich, we’ll be rolling,

  We’ll be on the pay roll. You and me and the Godfather.

  Look in the mirror, what do you see?

  One two three, I see me!

  Turn it round, it’s unlucky. Turn it to the wall.

  Help me, hen! Help me, Leo hen!

  Leo – Footsteps

  I don’t care if someone does recognise me. I had to get out. I had to.

  So now I’ve got a new job and a new name.

  The job is Ross McGovern’s paper round.

  Ross wasn’t very good at getting up in the mornings, so Rab sacked him, and Finlay introduced me. Or rather, he introduced Emma Clark – that’s what we told Rab I was called.

  I’ve got a disguise too. Not just the school sweatshirt, but some white make-up. It’s the Goth look, though I think I look more like a ghost. Rab think so too. ‘Does that head come off ? Can you tuck it under your arm?’ he asked me. That’s about the only question he did ask, thank goodness.

  Glennie Avenue has old-fashioned paving stones. Don’t tread on the cracks and you’ll be all right. Tread on the cracks and a dragon will get you. I’m not a child any more and I don’t believe in dragons, but I do avoid the cracks – just in case.

  It’s all right. No one will recognise me. No one is after me. Everyone has forgotten about me. I haven’t been in the papers since that Big Issue piece nearly two weeks ago.

  Oh, it’s so good to be outside, away from the clutter and the smoke and the noise. And away from her.

  Poor Mary. She’s such a kind soul, and I owe such a lot to her. She’s funny too, and plucky. But now she’s got this wild look in her eyes all the time. And she just talks nonsense, streams and streams of it. And worst of all, she doesn’t sleep.

  At least the others aren’t round so much, those friends of hers – if you can call them friends. Ronnie’s back in hospital, and I haven’t seen Squirrel or the President since the night I cooked the dumplings. I don’t think it was the dumplings that put them off (though the President was a bit rude about them – he said they were like something you’d find hiding under a rock). No, it must be because Mary’s benefit has run out that they’ve drifted away. The Godfather has dropped in once or twice, and Lorraine did come over the other day but Mary wouldn’t let her in. She seems to think Lorraine is plotting against her.

  That’s it – 147 Glennie Avenue, the last house. It’s 8.45. Finlay and the others will be on their way to school but I’ll have to go back to Mary’s now. Please let her be asleep!

  I’ll go back along the canal. It looks different from when I sketched it a month ago. I’d like to sketch it again, with all those leaves floating in it.

  This is the place where I snatched Finlay’s camera. Funny to think he was the enemy then. Now I don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s got me this job, and this disguise. Yes, he’s better at running my life than his own. But I do worry about him. He spends so much time at Mary’s and he keeps missing bits of school.

  Finlay doesn’t seem to care. And he doesn’t give up. He still thinks he can track down my grandparents. He wants me to write a letter for the music college to forward to them. I’m still dithering about that. It seems so risky: supposing someone at the college opened it? But wouldn’t that be better than just vegetating in Mary’s flat doing nothing?

  All these questions flitting round my head. What am I going to do about Finlay? What am I going to do about Mary? What am I going to do about me?

  It’s so quiet here by the canal. Except for a bird singing in that tree, and the leaves crunching under my feet. Now the bird’s stopped. If I stop there’ll be silence. Lovely lovely silence.

  But there’s not. I can still hear a crunching of leaves. Someone’s walking along behind me. Don’t be so jumpy. Just set off again. Don’t run, and don’t look round. Just walk normally – but don’t tread on the cracks. If you don’t tread on the cracks it will be all right, it will only be someone going to work or to the shops. If you tread on a crack, it could be him.

  ‘Hey, you!’

  A man’s voice. He doesn’t sound Scottish.

  ‘I want to talk to you.’ His voice? Finlay thinks he’s here, in Glasgow, looking for me.

  Walk faster, but don’t run.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ He’s walking faster too. He’s running.

  I’m running too. Run, run – but not on the cracks.

  Through the gap in the hedge. Round the corner, into Endred Close. There’s a parked car in a driveway. I duck down behind it.

  He’s turned the corner. Let him walk on past!

  He doesn’t.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  I’m cornered. He’s blocking the drivewa
y. I look up.

  It’s not him. Of course it’s not. It’s a man with a newspaper, and he’s pointing to the front page.

  I must be in the paper again. How could I have missed it?

  ‘It’s not me! I just look like her,’ I tell the man, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. I saw you put it through the letter box,’ he says. ‘Don’t you people ever get the message?’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘I’m not taking the Herald any more. I’ve left two messages on the answer phone and I spoke to the boy last week, but you still keep delivering it. Here, take it.’ He thrusts the paper into my hand. ‘And tell that Rab of yours I don’t want to see it on my bill.’

  Talking to the Birds – 4

  Look at this! What is it? It’s a lantern, look! Can Georgie make it swing? Clever boy! Georgie Porgy Pudding and Pie Kissed the Girls and Made them Cry. I didn’t kiss the girls. I wasn’t following her. I was going past her school anyway. Who’s got a nice soft neck then? Who’s got a nice soft chest then? We’re still waiting. We’re waiting for that letter. Are you waiting too? Don’t worry, Daddy’s going to open the door. That’s right, out you come. Have a fly around. It’s nice to fly around, isn’t it, Georgie? Don’t worry, they’re not going to lock Daddy up.

  Finlay – the Spy

  It was a rainy Saturday morning. The Barras market was emptier than usual as Finlay splashed through the puddles between the food stalls, breathing in the aromas of Bill’s Burgers and Mr Chung’s Spicy Chicken Wings. He’d woken late and missed breakfast but there was no time to stop and buy anything – and no money, come to that.

  Marina was waiting for him in the doughnut van.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. The bus got held up,’ Finlay told her.

  ‘I’ve heard that one before. You watch out or I’ll be giving you one of they enemas or whatever you call them.’

  ‘N of Ms,’ said Finlay. ‘Don’t remind me – I’ve had three this week.’

  ‘What for? Not more forgery, I hope.’

  ‘No. One was for failure to come equipped with adequate classroom materials, one was for persistent garrulousness, and the other was … oh yes, persistent inattention.’

  ‘They like long words, don’t they? So what’s with the persistent inattention then, Finlay? I’ve been noticing a spot of that myself recently. Is it something on your mind?’

  ‘No, not really. Well, sort of …’

  Marina’s blue eyes had that piercing look as if they could drill their way through to Finlay’s innermost secrets, and for a moment he was tempted to blurt out everything. How he’d spent most of his savings on those dumpling ingredients; how he was worried that thanks to him Leo’s uncle was on her trail; how Ailsa Coutts kept on at him because he still hadn’t given her back her sweatshirt.

  Then there was all the trouble with his parents. Why were they so suspicious all the time? They seemed to be part of some parental spy ring; Finlay had even found a file on his dad’s computer labelled ‘Finlay’s Friends’. That must be how they got Ross McGovern’s number and found out from Ross’s parents that he hadn’t been there the night he’d come back from Mary’s smelling of alcohol. How could he go on seeing Leo and taking Zigger for walks with them breathing down his neck?

  Finlay was saved from replying by a couple of girls who bought a bag of doughnuts to share, and after that Marina lost interest in his problems. ‘Five doughnuts for a pound,’ she called out, leaning out of the van and waving a bag about rather half-heartedly. A few more potential customers were drifting past, with anoraks and umbrellas, but Marina seemed less interested in them than in the huddle round the new hot-dog van opposite.

  ‘Why do they all want that muck?’ she grumbled.

  ‘They’re tasty,’ said Finlay, who was still hungry.

  ‘We’ll have to think about going savoury, Finlay. We’ll have to start a new line. What do you think – beef burgers? Chicken wings?’

  ‘There’s stalls for those already. How about roast pigeons?’ said Finlay with a sly look. He knew that Marina’s husband kept racing pigeons.

  ‘You let my Kenny hear that and it’ll be roast schoolboys. Tell you what, son. You go and do a spot of market research.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I thought they’d tell you at school, with all their long posh words. It’s finding out what the punters want.’

  ‘You mean what things are popular.’

  ‘Aye, and if there’s any glaring gaps. I can spare you for a quarter of an hour or so.’

  ‘Can I taste anything?’

  Marina rolled her eyes. ‘I might have guessed that was coming. Here you are.’ She handed him the pound coin which the two girls had given her. Finlay put it in the pocket of his baggy jeans.

  ‘What’s happened to that chain of yours? The one you usually have dangling out of your pocket?’

  ‘I swapped it with Ross McGovern for a T-shirt.’

  ‘Going off the Goth look, are we?’

  ‘No, I just liked the T-shirt,’ said Finlay, though actually Marina was right. Somehow the spiky accessories and the black clothes were beginning to lose their attraction. So were the Goth girls in his class; Ailsa Coutts was actually a lot prettier than they were, without the dark lipstick or ghostly cheeks. And when Finlay had given Leo the white make-up and black nail varnish for her paper-girl disguise he couldn’t help thinking how silly it looked on her, and wondering for the first time if he looked silly to other people.

  ‘Off you go, then,’ said Marina. ‘Spy out the land.’

  This was a job after Finlay’s heart, and one which he was sure he could do well, thanks to his newly-developed detective skills. His confidence was only slightly dented when Marina called out after him, ‘Your trousers are falling down!’ She obviously didn’t realise that this was an intentional part of his New Look. Along with the chain, Finlay had abandoned his usual spiky belt.

  He retraced his steps, this time inspecting the different food stalls keenly. Mr Chung’s Spicy Chicken Wings was clearly doing better than Bill’s Burgers. Finlay considered investing in some chicken wings; that way he could get into conversation with Mr Chung and ask him if he knew any Chans – a detective’s work is never done. But the chicken wings cost £2 a portion. Carlito’s Chips with Curry Sauce were much better value at 80p, but as he approached the stall he heard a burst of laughter from a neighbouring van and decided to investigate.

  A boy who didn’t look much older than Finlay was standing outside the van handing out flyers. Finlay took one. ‘DIM SUMPTUOUS!!!’ it said in giant capitals, with some Chinese writing beneath, and under that: ‘Authentic dim sum. Genuine Chinese family food like in China, freshly steamed on the premises.’

  Inside the van a girl of about eighteen was taking the lid off a bamboo basket. ‘You taste these, you’ll never go to your local takeaway again,’ she said to two cheery-looking men, one tall and the other short.

  ‘You’d talk the hind legs off a donkey, you would,’ said the tall man.

  ‘That’s probably what she puts in these!’ said the short one, and they both roared with laughter.

  The Chinese girl, who was transferring the contents of the basket into two plastic containers with a pair of tongs, joined in the laughter. ‘There’s a money-back guarantee if you find any donkey’s legs in here,’ she said. ‘It’s all good stuff. It’s my granny’s secret recipe. Very nutritious. It’ll make you grow,’ she said to the short man, who guffawed again.

  ‘Do you have another recipe to make my pal shrink?’ he asked.

  The man in need of shrinking noticed Finlay’s interest. ‘Are you queuing up to take your life in your hands?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, he can be our taster,’ said his friend. ‘Just like the Roman emperors had. Here, lad, check this out, just in case it’s poisoned!’ He held out the plastic box to Finlay. Inside were six dumplings looking very like the ones Leo had made.

  ‘I’ve
had these before. My friend makes them,’ said Finlay.

  ‘But not in Glasgow, I don’t think,’ said the girl. ‘Not the same as this.’

  Finlay popped one of the dumplings in his mouth. It tasted just like Leo’s ones, except that the dough was a slightly different texture, more moist and stretchy. ‘I think my friend uses dough from a packet – these are better,’ he said.

  ‘Does this advertising come free or is he on the pay roll?’ the tall man asked the girl. His companion roared appreciatively and added, ‘At least he’s not dropped dead, that’s the main thing.’

  Still laughing, the two men picked up their food boxes and departed.

  Finlay’s neck was tingling with excitement.

  ‘Why did you think my friend’s dumplings wouldn’t taste like this?’ he asked the girl.

  ‘Well, dim sum is a special kind of cooking. Not many people do it in their homes – usually it’s just in restaurants. And there’s not many dim sum restaurants in Glasgow. My grandparents used to own one, but it closed down. I don’t think another restaurant would do this flavour – it’s a special recipe from my granny’s village.’

  Village dumplings. Wasn’t that what Leo had called her ones? The tingling spread down Finlay’s back.

  ‘Would you mind telling me your name?’

  ‘I’m Jacqueline.’

  ‘No, I mean your surname.’

  The girl laughed. ‘Why do you want to know my surname? Ah, I know, you want to look me up in the telephone book! But I haven’t got time for a boyfriend, you know! And I think you’re a bit young for me. Sorry! Anyway, my surname is Yeung.’

  ‘Oh.’ This wasn’t the name Finlay had expected to hear. Suddenly he felt flat, and foolish.