There was a brand-new mattress propped up in the corner, still in its plastic, and the pieces of a new bed still in its box.
Grandad’s bedroom used to be so full of stuff you could hardly get in. Now there was a pile of wood under the window, which I recognized as his old wardrobe and desk, but taken apart. All his clutter was piled up in a corner, stuffed in bin bags. Under the bin bags I could see a wooden box with metal corners. Grandad’s sea chest! I’d found his sea chest. Piled up with rubbish. That was just wrong. I tried dragging it out. Jessie came to help me.
‘Prez,’ she said, in a low, quiet voice as if she was worried that there might be someone in the next room, ‘you know what’s going on here? Someone else is moving in. New people. They’re throwing all your stuff out. That’s not nice.’
– No. It’s not nice.
‘Prez, you don’t live here any more.’
I tried opening the chest, but it was locked. I suppose Grandad had the key. I took some Post-it notes and a Sharpie out of my bag, wrote a note and stuck it on the sea chest:
‘Post-it notes?’ said Jessie. ‘In your bag? Oh. Does that mean . . . the ones in the bathroom – are they yours? Did you stick those up?’
I used to stick Post-it notes on things to help Grandad remember stuff. There were still some on the mirror and the cistern in the toilet. Some on the backs of doors and a lot still in the kitchen.
‘I’ve never met anyone who needed to be reminded to wear trousers.’
‘I never met anyone who needed to be told a house is not a ship before. Were you really confused when you lived here, or what?’
Then she found one stuck to the bedroom door. It was a school photograph of me, with a note stuck to it that said:
‘Oh, I get it now,’ said Jessie. ‘You didn’t write these for you, did you? You wrote them for your grandad. To help him remember stuff. Jeez, he must have been really forgetful. You don’t think . . . maybe he just moved house and forgot to tell you?’
She was so wrong I actually laughed. She laughed too.
Then she went to the front door and shouted up at Mrs Mackie, who was still smoking out of her window, ‘Excuse me, do you know what happened to old Mr Mellows? Is he no coming back?’
‘Sandy? No, Sandy won’t be coming back, hen. Prez will tell you. The police came and took him away.’
‘The police?’
‘Aye. In a police car. They put him away, and not before time.’
It’s a funny thing, but I’d forgotten everything about that day. Now that she said it, it all came back to me. The sirens. The woman police officer. Me wondering whether I should run away or maybe hide. Of course they put him in prison! It was during his shouting-at-the-telly phase. He’d somehow got into Mrs Mackie’s flat and started shouting at her telly. When she asked him to stop he said, ‘Sorry, I got confused. Shall I show you how to chop carrots really fast? Pay particular careful attention.’
He’d barely got his wee chopping knife out of his top pocket, where he always kept it, when Mrs Mackie shouted, ‘Oh my God, he’s got a knife!’ and Mr Mackie called the police.
They locked Grandad up. Of course they did. How had I forgotten that?
He was never coming back.
Look at the flat.
There was nowhere to come back to.
‘So your grandad’s in prison? Did you not know?’
‘Aye,’ I said, ‘I ken that. I just forgot about it.’ And suddenly there I was, talking.
I started to tell Jessie everything about him. How at first it was just little things, like he would make a pot of tea but forget to put the tea bags in. Or he would forget which day it was. Or whether it was morning or night-time.
‘Then he took to going off on big walks. At different times. I thought he was just wandering, you know, not knowing what he was doing. But then I found a tide timetable he’d left in the toilet, with the times of high tide underlined. And I figured out what he was doing. He was going out every day at high tide. So I stuck the tide timetable up on the kitchen wall, and a few minutes before high tide every day I would say, “OK, Grandad, time to go and see if there’s any ships in.” But there were never any ships in because there are no ships on the River Nith. But still he liked the walk. We’d get down to the footbridge and I’d say, “Och, Grandad, we just missed the boat!” And he’d say, “Never mind,” and tell me about one of his voyages.’
‘What if you were at school?’
‘Oh, that was the worst. First time he rang me in school I wasn’t that bothered. He said the electricity had gone and he needed me to come back urgently, it might be engine trouble. I sneaked out just after registration. When I got home he said, “Come in, come in. It’s really dark.”
‘ “That’s because the curtains are closed,” I said. I ran my hand along the wall. I found the light switch. I flicked it. All the lights came on.
‘ “Smooth work, sailor,” he said. “You’re the best electrician in port. Have you got a business card?”
‘ “Grandad it’s me, Prez.” He’d completely forgotten who I was.’
‘That must have been hard,’ said Jessie.
‘It didn’t stop him ringing me up all the time,’ I said. ‘One time he called me during break and said, “Is that the electrician?” And I was like, “No, it’s your grandson.” He said, “They’re trying to kill me.”
‘ “Who’s trying to kill you? Where are you?”
‘ “I’m not sure. I’ve lost my bearings.”
‘ “How can I come and get you if I don’t know where you are?”
‘Then he said, “This is a distress call. Mayday, Mayday.” The phone started to bleep. I think he was tapping out Morse code on the buttons.
‘I had to shout, “If you’re in danger, you need the police. Not an electrician.”
‘ “They’re trying to kill me. Using electricity.”
‘I had to get him to describe where he was. He was stuck on the central reservation on the bypass just past Homebase.
‘I said, “They’re not trying to kill you, Grandad, they’re just driving past. They don’t expect to find an old sailor wandering around.” So I went and got him.
‘He never threw anything out. You could hardly see the bed. The room was rammed with stuff. Piles of magazines were sliding into each other. There were stacks of boxes with words Sharpied on the sides, like “shoes”, “maps”, “memories” and – this was a bit strange – “teeth”.
‘ “I get confused,” Grandad said, “about what’s important and what’s not. So I keep it all.” He looked around the room. “The really important things I keep in my sea chest, but –” he carried on looking around the room – “I don’t know where the sea chest is.” He looked at me. “Prez,” he said, “I fear I am adrift.”
‘I’d say, “Don’t worry, Grandad. I’ve got the helm. Just like you had on the night the iceberg came.”
‘He’d say, “Just don’t let them set me down at Shangri-La, eh?”
‘I didn’t know what he was talking about. Maybe I should have called for help then. But I was worried they’d take him away. So I kept on covering for him. And then they took him away anyway.’
That was the most I’d spoken in ages. It might be the most I’d ever spoken. It was definitely the saddest thing I’d ever said. So you can see why I was a bit surprised to look up and see Jessie laughing at me.
‘Why are you laughing?’
‘Your accent.’
‘What about my accent?’
‘You sound just like an ordinary person. Like someone from round here.’
‘I am an ordinary person from round here.’
‘Aye, but . . . we didn’t think you were. You never spoke so, you know, that was mysterious. Except that time in Spanish. So we thought maybe you were Spanish. Or Mexican. And you’re good with animals.’
‘I’m good with animals? Really?’
‘Aye! Most of the Temporary Kids, they run a mile when they see a cow. You were t
here washing udders and collecting hens’ eggs. You’ve got a gift. You even calmed the cows down when they were all stampeding.’
‘That was actually me,’ said Sputnik, swanning into the room half covered in curls of old wallpaper.
‘And the dog, of course,’ said Jessie. ‘The dog seems to understand every word you say . . .’
‘He doesn’t say any words,’ said Sputnik.
‘. . . or at least every word you don’t say,’ said Jessie.
We were in my bedroom then. Or what used to be my bedroom. I tried to put everything back the way it was in my head. The wardrobe. I had a lampshade that looked like the moon. Where was that? I had photographs. How could anyone just take your photographs? It was like a bomb had gone off in there. Like a bomb had blown up everything I had.
‘Prez,’ said Jessie, ‘this is not your house any more. We probably shouldn’t even be here. We’ve got to go.’
She had thirteen missed calls from her mum.
So we went back to the farm. It wasn’t like there was anywhere else to go.
14.
31 July – St Peter’s Summer Treat
It was late when we got back. Almost dark as we walked down the loaning. They obviously knew that we’d tried to make a run for it. But they didn’t say anything, just served the tea.
‘We’ve been thinking about the best thing for Sputnik,’ said the mum, ‘and for all of us. And we’ve decided it’s just not right to send Sputnik to the animal rescue.’
‘Yay!’ whooped Jessie. ‘So Sputnik is staying here?’
‘Well, not quite. We’re going to have to send him away, but not very far. The McCrimmins are going to take him.’
The McCrimmins were the people who owned the ponies.
‘The McCrimmins?! They’ve got everything already. They’ve got a trampoline! And they’ve already got dogs. They’ve got packs of dogs.’
‘So Sputnik will have lots of company. It’ll be nice for him.’
‘They live in town. How can it be nice for a dog to live in a town?’
‘They live in Kirkcudbright,’ said the mum. ‘It’s only just up the road. You’ll be able to see Sputnik whenever you like.’
‘They’re coming over to the Hayfield on Sunday. We’ll hand him over then.’
The Hayfield wasn’t just a field with hay in it. It was a thing. ‘Back in the day,’ the dad said, ‘when they brought in the hay the fields would be full of folk. Singing and laughing. And when the work was done, the farmer’s wife would lay out a big tea in the field. Now you never see a soul in the fields. It’s all machinery. And no one does the hay, only the silage in the big black bin bags.’
‘But we still do a Hayfield treat. Our church is over in Kirkcudbright. Once a year I mow the bottom field and everyone from the parish comes down. And the people from the caravan site come up. We make a hay castle out of hay bales. There’s races and flags and stalls. It’s all in a good cause. We call it the St Peter’s Treat. You’ll love it, won’t he, Jess?’
‘You are sending Sputnik away,’ said Jessie.
‘Yes, but not to—’
‘You’re sending him away.’
‘Not away away. Not like—’
‘You’re sending him away. Say it.’
‘I’m sending him away.’
On the morning of the Treat I collected the eggs and went down to the stables to see Sputnik. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the kitchen or the hallway. In the house there was nothing but Blythes shouting:
Annabel appeared at the top of the stairs.
Jessie was standing next to her.
Sputnik was behind them.
‘What. On. Earth – have you done to that poor dog?’
‘Dressed him up!’ whooped Annabel.
‘If he’s going away,’ said Jessie, ‘he’s going away in style.’
Sputnik wasn’t wearing his usual flying helmet. His hair was curled up on top of his head in thick ringlets. More ringlets were piled up like a big hairy crown, all tied together with ribbons. Three ribbons. Sparkly ones.
‘You used curling tongs on the dog?’
‘Curls!’ trilled Annabel.
‘Oh, please tell me . . . no . . . really . . . you haven’t . . .’ The ribbon was not the only sparkly thing about him. ‘You’ve painted his toenails?’
‘Shiny!’ explained Annabel.
‘Attractive,’ said Ray, ‘but inappropriate.’
‘Cruelty. Pure and simple. Poor thing.’
‘Let’s get those ribbons off for a start.’
The dad reached up to undo the ribbons. Sputnik threw his hands up to stop him.
‘He likes it!’ whooped Annabel.
‘No one,’ snarled Sputnik, ‘touches my ribbons.’
‘He likes it all!’
‘I,’ said Sputnik, ‘look amazing.’
The dad hitched a wooden trailer piled with hay bales on to the back of the tractor. We all climbed up and sat in among the bales while the tractor trundled down to the bottom field. There were some flags and a tent, a long wooden table and a pile of chairs.
‘We need a finishing line for the races.’
‘The McCrimmins are doing the pony rides at the bottom end. So the hay castle goes up here.’
They all seemed to know what they were doing. They did it every year. They were a team. I got left behind with Annabel, Sputnik and a cartload of hay.
– We have to stop them sending you away.
‘Dead right we do,’ said Sputnik. ‘Otherwise your wee planet will soon be even more wee.’
– Couldn’t you just show them that you’re not a dog?
‘That’s not up to me. That’s up to them. All I can do is keep being amazing and hope that someone figures it out. Come on.’ He leaped up on the trailer and put his back to one of the bales.
‘Come on! Keepy up! Don’t let it hit the ground. Find the gravity stream and let it float.’ The bale didn’t fall off the trailer. It drifted gently towards the ground like a deflating party balloon. You could pat it through the air, send it whichever way you liked with a touch of your hand, make it rise a bit further into the air with a poke of your knee.
‘Magic Sputnik!’ yelled Annabel.
Soon we had a system going. Sputnik floated bale after bale off the side of the trailer and I poked and patted and guided them through the air until they landed in the right place. I soon figured out how to land one on top of the other and another on top of that, so we could build really high walls. It was like herding helium-filled sheep. We stacked them higher and higher.
‘Nearly done!’ shouted Sputnik as one more bale drifted by. I picked Annabel up and popped her on top of it. She giggled and squealed as I shepherded it up towards the top of the castle.
‘Last one!’ called Sputnik. I jumped on that one myself and steered it with my feet, like a skateboard. On floating bales we chased each other round the battlements of the hay castle, then down to the ground past the sweet-smelling walls. It was only when we landed and looked up that I realized what we’d done.
– Sputnik! It’s leaning!
‘It’s supposed to be. Look! You’ve built the Leaning Tower of Hay.’
– How will it stay up?
‘Same as the Leaning Tower of Pisa.’
‘How . . . what . . . how did that happen?’ Ray had come back. He stared up at the castle. ‘You didn’t do that, did you? Not on your own. Who helped you?’
‘Magic Sputnik,’ said Annabel truthfully.
There was tug-of-war for tractors. A hook-a-duck stall and a coconut shy. Someone with two pet owls. Donkey rides. A burger van.
And there was a dog show.
Jessie had wanted to enter Sputnik, but Sputnik entered himself. He walked up to the judges and looked at them with his head on one side.
‘Oh, aren’t you lovely?’ said the judge whose jumper was decorated with hundreds of little begging dogs.
‘What breed?’ asked the judge in the tweed jacket.
‘Explorer,’ said Sputnik.
‘Mostly lurcher, we think,’ said Jessie.
‘And genius,’ said Sputnik.
‘But sort of collie-ish too,’ said Jessie.
‘And aviator,’ said Sputnik. ‘Probably the greatest aviator.’
‘I’ll put him down as indeterminate,’ said the first judge, licking the end of his pencil. ‘Age?’
‘About a billion years old,’ said Sputnik. ‘Give or take a millennium or two.’
‘Eight,’ said Jessie.
‘I was talking in dog years,’ said Sputnik. ‘I’m not a dog.’
‘Does he have any special abilities?’
Sputnik’s special abilities scrolled through my brain – gravity surfing, the shop-robbing, his amazing ability to get the most out of an instruction manual.
‘Very good at finding the TV remote control,’ said Jessie.
‘Any special notes?’ said the judge.
If he’d asked me I would have had to say, ‘Not actually a dog.’
– Entering a dog show when you’re not actually a dog is surely cheating.
‘You’re like a dreich day in Dunoon,’ laughed Sputnik. ‘If folk insist on thinking I’m a dog, the least they can do is give me a prize for it.’
Everyone was clapping as Sputnik and the dogs took up their places. One of the other dogs was Figaro. Sputnik said hello to him, but he never replied. The judge with the doggy jumper said, ‘First test will be to see how many times you can make your dog fetch in a minute. Owners, please take a stick . . .’ He handed out some sticks. Jessie waggled her stick in Sputnik’s face.
Sputnik looked at me and said, ‘I’ll sit this one out.’
– Jessie will be really sad. Go on, just for her.
‘And . . . go!’
Owners threw sticks. Dogs flew after them. Owners threw sticks again.
‘Go on, Sputnik, go on! Fetch!’ yelled Jessie increasingly desperate.
‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,’ said Sputnik. ‘Sputnik does not fetch.’
Sputnik's Guide to Life on Earth Page 10