Sputnik's Guide to Life on Earth

by Frank Cottrell Boyce

  – That’s true.

  ‘The Roman soldiers on that wall, building their baths and eating their olives in the mist and the rain, hundreds of miles from where they grew up, trying to make it feel like home. People crossing the sea in little boats looking for somewhere safe to land, somewhere to call their own. Remember Laika up in that rocket? She had the whole of space. What did she look at? Earth. The place where she grew up. Home.’

  – What if you haven’t got a place to look back at?

  ‘Home’s not a building. Home is other people, isn’t it?’

  – What if you haven’t got other people?

  ‘You have. Your grandad. Look . . .’

  – I don’t know where he is.

  Sputnik tugged on the string of atoms, hauling it in, and gathering it up, unfolding what he’d folded until I could read the map again. He moved it around over the moonlight until it found a little patch of Grandad’s writing just at the top of George Street.

  ‘What does that say?’

  It said ‘Shangri-La’.

  ‘Do you think there really is a mythical magical Himalayan mountain at the top of George Street that no one else has noticed?’

  – No.

  ‘Then you should probably go and see what really is there.’

  22.

  Shangri-La

  I brushed my hair.

  I put my uniform on.

  Ate my breakfast.

  Brushed my teeth.

  Fixed myself a packed lunch. Said goodbye.

  I did all the things you’re supposed to do on a school morning. I walked to the corner, then nipped in behind the bus shelter and waited for Sputnik. He’d sneaked out down the fire escape.

  ‘Got the map?’ he asked.

  I waved the map at him.

  ‘Let’s go. To Shangri-La!’

  It was just a big house at the top end of George Street. The one next door had been turned into a hotel. Another one was flats. The Shangri-La was an old building with new windows and new gates. It had a front garden with a big swing seat and a bird table and a sign with a poem about gardens being like heaven. There was a kind of bike shelter off to one side. There were no steps up to the front door. Just a ramp.

  – How can we get in without anyone seeing us?

  ‘Why don’t you want anyone to see us? Just ring the doorbell and ask.’

  – Ask what?

  ‘Ask them if they want you to take your old grandad away. They’ll probably be only too glad to get rid of him, with him being a criminal and everything.’

  I rang the bell. A nurse in a grey uniform with his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail came to the door.

  He looked down at me. ‘We don’t do work experience, if that’s what you’re here about,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve come to see my grandad.’

  ‘Visiting time doesn’t start until four. What’s your grandad’s name?

  ‘Mellows. Mr Mellows.’

  ‘There’s no one here by that name.’

  ‘Are you sure? I really thought . . .’

  But the man wasn’t listening to me. Sputnik had put his head on one side and was smiling with all his teeth.

  ‘Well, aren’t you just the best?’ said the man, crouching down and chucking Sputnik under the chin.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Sputnik. ‘The best. The very best at nearly everything.’ He shook the man’s hand.

  ‘He understands every word. Every little word. You understand, don’t you? Don’t you?’

  Even if Sputnik had been an actual dog, the way he went on would have been a bit much.

  ‘What’s your name? What’s your name? What’s your little name?’

  ‘You don’t need to know my name,’ said Sputnik. ‘You need to listen to this . . .’

  And he whistled a loud clear piercing whistle. He whistled ‘Flower of Scotland’. The nurse stood up and took a step back. His eyes almost exploded.

  ‘Elsa!’ he called. ‘Elsa, you have to see this! The residents have to see it. The world has to see it. Come in. Come in. My name’s Gregory by the way. I’m so, so pleased to meet you.’ Gregory, it seemed, was a man who had waited all his life to meet a whistling dog.

  Elsa turned out to be the boss. She agreed completely with Gregory that the old people had to hear Sputnik whistle. Right now. She made it sound like a whistling dog might possibly be the cure for being old.

  So that’s how we got in.

  Straight into the lounge.

  A big room with big windows open on to a garden. A big telly on, showing MasterChef on maximum volume, with subtitles for the hard of hearing. Chairs all around the walls. An old person in every chair. Some of them asleep. Some of them watching the telly. And one of them leaning forward in his seat shouting, ‘That’s no how you chop an onion!’ at the man on the telly. It was my grandad.

  He was not in jail at all. He was just sitting in an armchair, in the breeze from the French windows.

  Shangri-La – it turns out – is an old people’s home.

  Just an old people’s home.

  23.

  Stairlift

  It was ages since I’d really wanted to tell anyone anything. But I was bursting to tell Grandad . . . everything.

  All about the Blythes.

  About how I’d thought he was in jail.

  Even about Sputnik.

  Just the feeling of wanting to talk was exciting.

  ‘Grandad!’ I said. ‘They said you weren’t here.’

  ‘This is your grandad?’ said Gregory. ‘But his name’s not Mellows. It’s Mala . . . Mela . . . Hang on, I never get this right . . .’

  Grandad turned away from the telly and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Meletxea,’ he said. ‘It’s Basque. It means “home in the hills”.’

  Grandad must be really confused today. Even on the bad days when he couldn’t remember my name, he’d know his own. ‘No,’ I said, ‘your name is Mellows.’

  ‘Mellows was my wife’s name. I used it because I couldn’t be bothered spelling out Meletxea to people all the time. Meletxea. It means “home in the hills”.’

  My mind couldn’t keep up with this news. ‘So, that means that my name is Mela . . . Mala . . . unpronounceable too? That my name isn’t what I thought it was? I’m not even Prez Mellows?’ But Grandad wasn’t listening.

  ‘Don’t slash at the onions like that!’

  Gregory wasn’t listening either. He was too busy gathering the other residents. ‘No one should miss this.’

  ‘Don’t start without us,’ said Elsa.

  ‘There’s a dog! A dog in the room!’ shouted a man in a bright yellow cardigan.

  ‘The dog is the entertainment,’ said Gregory.

  ‘Just you wait and see,’ said Elsa.

  ‘AN ONION IS NOT MADE OF WOOD! DON’T SAW IT! CHOP IT!’ yelled Grandad.

  ‘Grandad,’ I said, ‘it’s me!’

  ‘Oh!’ He stared at me. ‘Ah. You came. That’s great. Everyone, listen! He’s here! He’s finally here.’

  All the other residents looked at me. I waved at them. The man in the yellow cardigan waved back. A couple of the others said I was very welcome. The woman in the next chair whispered very loud, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘This,’ said Grandad, pointing at me, ‘is the electrician I was telling you about.’

  Everyone seemed to be pleased to hear this.

  ‘He fixes light bulbs, light switches, anything you want to name. He’s a chuffing genius. Going to fix the telly, aren’t you, bud?’

  Bud?

  So.

  He didn’t know who I was.

  My grandad had forgotten me.

  ‘Well, say something.’

  What could I say?

  ‘What’s wrong with the telly?’ asked Sputnik. If you ever wanted to get Sputnik’s attention, all you had to do was mention that some electrical item wasn’t working.

  ‘What is wrong with the telly, Grandad?’ I was hoping that if I kept calling him Grandad
he might remember who I was.

  ‘I’ve been trying to attract this chap’s attention all morning.’ He pointed to the chef on the screen. ‘He can’t seem to hear me. I think one of the speakers mustn’t be working.’

  ‘Grandad, tellies aren’t two-way. You can hear him, but he can’t hear you.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s exactly the problem. You’ve put your finger on it. See how he put his finger on the problem right away? I told you he was good. Now go on and fix it.’

  ‘Not really, Grandad. Tellies can’t hear.’

  ‘Have you got the manual?’ said Sputnik.

  ‘That’s not how tellies work.’

  ‘You say that about everything,’ said Sputnik. ‘Where’s the manual?’ There actually was a manual for once, in a clear plastic cover on top of the telly. Sputnik flicked through it. ‘Seems straightforward enough,’ he said, wrenching the back off the television. He dug around in his backpack for a screwdriver.

  ‘I think you should disconnect it before you do anything to it.’

  ‘You always make such a fuss,’ said Sputnik. Then he said, ‘OW!’ Electric sparks showered around him. His sporran blazed. ‘Brilliant,’ he said, patting the fire out with his bare hands. ‘That’s that all sorted. Do I smell something edible or is that my smouldering sporran? Anyway, all you need to do now is press the red button. He should be able to hear you.’

  The chef was back on the telly. He’d stopped chopping onions now and was cutting courgettes into twisty strips with some kind of gadget.

  ‘WHA—?! I’VE SAILED THE SEVEN SEAS WITH CRIMINALS AND KINGS BUT THAT’S THE MOST AMAZING THING I’VE EVER SEEN!’

  ‘Grandad, it really doesn’t . . .’

  But the telly chef had stopped spiralizing. He was looking up in the air, and behind him, as if he could hear a voice.

  ‘OVER HERE!’ yelled Grandad.

  The chef looked straight into camera. He seemed to be looking into the room. ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘WHERE CAN I GET ONE OF THEM SPIRAL THINGS? I WANT ONE.’

  ‘Mel,’ said the chef, ‘is this supposed to be happening?’ A man in a set of headphones stepped into view and looked into the camera. Grandad waved at him. Mel looked very puzzled but he was too polite not to wave back.

  By now all the residents were crowding round the telly, staring into the screen. ‘Well, go on,’ said Grandad. ‘Give them a wave.’

  All the residents gave the telly a big old wave. Mel and the chef waved back.

  ‘Is this some kind of prank?’ asked the chef.

  ‘WHERE CAN WE GET ONE OF THOSE TWISTY THINGS?’

  ‘The spiralizer is available from all good stores,’ said the chef. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘I think it’s to do with interactivity,’ said Mel. ‘Are you people watching us on your TV?’

  All the residents said yes, they were. Some of them clapped their hands. They were loving this.

  ‘Could we possibly ask you to be quiet? Or perhaps to change channel? We do have a show to get through.’

  ‘Could we switch to a channel with that George Clooney on?’ said the lady in the chair next to Grandad’s. ‘I like him.’

  ‘Can’t change channel. We’ve lost the remote. Don’t mind us!’ called Grandad. He patted me on the head. ‘I told you he was a great electrician,’ he said. Then he asked, ‘What’s your name, son?’

  I looked away so he wouldn’t see if I got upset. It was a good job I did look away, because I was just in time to spot Sputnik slipping out into the hall. He had found the stairlift.

  He was standing in the middle of the hallway, hands on his hips, watching Gregory and Elsa help a shaky old lady on to a kind of big metal chair attached to a rail at the top of the stairs. Once she was safely strapped in, the chair chugged into position, then slowly, slowly glided downstairs, its lullaby motor humming.

  ‘That,’ said Sputnik, ‘is disappointingly slow.’

  – It’s supposed to be slow. It’s for old people.

  ‘Old people don’t want to go slow. They’ve got hardly any time left. They’ve got to make the most of it. I’m going to look into this. I must say, I’m very glad we came here. The place is full of electrical challenges.’

  The old lady climbed out of the chair and patted him on the head. ‘Is this him?’ she said. ‘How exciting. I’ve heard of a dog whistle, but I’ve never heard a dog whistle.’

  Sputnik didn’t reply. He was already tinkering with the motor. The chair slid back up the stairs. An old man in a bow tie was waiting to get on board. He lay his walking stick across his knees and told Gregory he was ready.

  ‘That should work,’ said Sputnik.

  – What have you done?

  Gregory threw the switch. The stairlift whined. For a second the old man looked worried, then he looked blurred. The chair shot down the stairs like a bullet. It screeched to a halt at the bottom. The old man’s bow tie was undone. His eyes blazed like a pair of moons.

  ‘A definite improvement,’ said Sputnik.

  ‘Mr Leithen!’ Elsa gasped. ‘Are you OK?’

  Mr Leithen looked up the stairs.

  Mr Leithen looked at his feet.

  Mr Leithen checked his bow tie.

  He was trying to figure out where he was. And how he’d got there so fast.

  Then he said, ‘Again. Do it again.’

  Elsa was fussing with his safety belt. ‘Let me help you out. I’m so sorry. I’ve no idea how that happened.’

  ‘Again,’ said Mr Leithen again. ‘I want to do it again.’

  ‘We’ll have you out in no time.’

  ‘I don’t want to get out!’ Mr Leithen poked her away with his walking stick. ‘I want to do it again.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Sputnik. He flicked the switch. Like a rocket the chair zoomed up the stairs. ‘This. Is. The. Finest. Thing. Ever!’ whooped Mr Leithen. ‘Again. Again!’

  By now there was a queue of old people waiting to come down. When Mr Leithen said he wanted another go, they were all furious. ‘No, no!’ they yelled. ‘It’s my turn. Me next!’

  Elsa was nearly in tears. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on,’ she said to me. ‘Please accept my apologies. Please give us a moment to sort out these technical difficulties. I hope your dog is not too upset.’

  There were times when it was a relief that people thought Sputnik was just an innocent pet doggy and not what he actually was.

  Back in the day room the rest of the residents were still crowded around the telly. But Grandad was back in his chair, dreaming about the courgette spiralizer. ‘I’ve had knives and I’ve had graters. I had a potato peeler that was so good I wouldn’t let it out of my sight. But in all my puff I have never seen anything like that.’

  I went to him. I thought that now it was just the two of us, and everyone else was busy, something might click. He smiled at me.

  ‘Do you think they do electric spiralizers?’ he said. ‘Could you get me one?’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  But I thought I knew what to do.

  I took the map out of my pocket, unfolded it and put it on his lap. He looked at it. He frowned. ‘Where,’ he growled, ‘did you get this?’

  He didn’t give me a chance to answer. He leaned forward in his chair. He put his finger on the corner of the map. ‘This is a private map. This map is private between me and someone else. Where did you get it? Have you been going through my sea chest?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Gregory! There’s a thief in the house! A burglar!’

  Gregory didn’t come. He had his hands full trying to stop pensioners speeding on the stairs.

  ‘Grandad, you drew this map. You drew it for me. You said we went to all these places in the world. Except it’s not a map of the world; it’s a map of Dumfries. You must remember.’

  ‘Gregory!’

  Still Gregory didn’t come.

  But Sputnik came.

  He said, ‘OK. I found your gran
dad. Now you have to show me this last wonderful thing and I can go.’

  – I haven’t found my grandad. He’s still lost.

  ‘He’s sitting right in front of you.’

  – He doesn’t know who I am.

  Then I had a thought:

  – You’re good at fixing things. He’s broken. Can you fix him?

  ‘People aren’t stairlifts. You can’t just fix them. People don’t come with a manual.’

  – I said that to you once. About backpacks. You still made mine fly.

  ‘And talking of making things fly . . .’ He was staring out of the French windows. A lady in a pink cardigan was riding one of those mobility scooters across the lawn. ‘Why didn’t you bring me here before? This place has all the best stuff.’ And he was gone.

  ‘Greg-o-ryyyy!!!’ called Grandad.

  Gregory and Elsa came in, herding four very excited old people in front of them. The old people were talking non-stop about the new, improved express stairlift. Elsa was trying to keep things calm. ‘We’ve had a bit of excitement this morning, but now we can all calm down and enjoy the whistling dog. Where is the whistling dog?’

  She looked around for Sputnik. She didn’t see him. What she did see was most of the residents of Shangri-La standing around the telly, yelling. The cookery show was over now and there was one of those programmes where people shout at each other about private stuff. The old people were all really angry about the people on the screen. The presenter was looking into the camera, ‘Please,’ he pleaded, ‘whoever you are, please stop shouting. We can’t hear our guests shouting.’

  ‘What on earth is going on here?’ said Elsa. ‘We’ve got a special surprise for you all. Please, ladies and gentlemen, do go and sit down.’

  ‘Excuse me! Are you in charge here?’

  Elsa looked around but couldn’t see who was talking.

  ‘Yeah, she’s in charge,’ said Yellow Cardigan Man.

  ‘Can you get everyone to calm down, please?’ said the voice. ‘This is supposed to be a thoughtful, respectful programme.’

  ‘Who’s talking? Where are you?’