It’s very hard, not dwelling on the bad stuff.
I keep glancing at the TV news for pictures of flames. And I’m listening for the distant sound of fire trucks.
I tell myself everything’s OK. That there’s no need to alarm Felix on his birthday. No need to upset him with the news that his granddaughter is an idiot who lights candles out of doors during a total fire ban.
Except if everything’s OK, why are my hands so sweaty and why is my head thumping and why is my cardiovascular system beating so fast?
Calm down, Zelda, you’re not a fire alarm.
I’m cleaning my teeth.
I shouldn’t be.
I shouldn’t even be in the bathroom. I should be up on the roof, checking the horizon. Keeping my eyes peeled for glowing embers.
Flickering flames.
Huge exploding fireballs.
And while I’m up there I should be ringing the fire brigade and telling them I’ve set fire to bulk correspondence and probably started hundreds of fires all over the state.
Instead I rinse my toothbrush and give myself a long look in the mirror.
You’re a panic merchant, Zelda. Dad’s always saying so. He reckons it’s because you’ve grown up with people talking so much about hospitals and operations and war.
I tell myself to calm down.
It’s the middle of summer. Everyone’s on bush-fire alert. It was on the news. The moment a burning thank-you letter lands in their backyard, people will be sloshing water onto it and spraying foam at it and smothering it with wet blankets and bulldozers.
It’ll be fine.
I nod so my reflection knows it definitely will. But my reflection doesn’t get the message. She looks like she’s being strangled.
To get my mind off things, I take Zelda’s locket and the bottle of metal polish out of the bathroom drawer. I grab some toilet paper and clean the locket till it shines. Then I hang it on the towel rack.
It looks good.
Felix will see it when he comes in for his bath.
The last of his happy birthday surprises.
As I step quietly out of the bathroom, I have a little pang of jealousy. Felix is lucky. Each evening when he has a bath, he gets happy memories of all the bathtimes he had with his parents when he was little. I’ve tried doing the same, but it didn’t work for me. Probably because we mostly had showers at home. I don’t think showers are as good for memories. Maybe that’s why Felix prefers baths.
Felix comes out of his room in his bathrobe.
‘Nighty night, babushka,’ he says. ‘Thanks for a lovely birthday.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I say.
He blows me a kiss and goes into the bathroom.
I wish I could just collapse into bed and forget the whole day. But I can’t. My cardiovascular system won’t let me.
I don’t care how much people slosh and spray and totally smother Felix’s thank-you letters with bulldozers, I won’t get to sleep until I check properly that there are no fires.
I go into my room.
Jumble is on the bed. He looks at me sleepily.
‘Nighty night,’ I say, patting him. ‘Don’t wait up. There’s something I have to do before I come to bed.’
I can see he understands because he thumps his tail a couple of times and puts his head inside my school bag.
I creep out of the house.
Now, Felix’s ladder.
I think he keeps it in the carport.
Yes, here it is.
OK, Zelda, quietly. Don’t demolish anything.
The ladder is heavy but I manage to carry it over to the side of the house without banging into stuff, and after a bit of wrestling I get it propped up against the gutter.
I know I shouldn’t be doing this without somebody to hold the ladder steady, but I haven’t got anybody.
Anyway, Mum and Dad told me how when Felix was a kid, after he left his hiding hole, he spent some time helping Jewish partisans fight the Nazis, and I bet Felix didn’t have people to hold things steady for him the whole time.
I climb up the ladder and slither onto the roof.
It’s been dark for hours, but the sheets of metal are still warm. Crouching for balance, I waddle up the slope to the chimney and hang on to the bricks and peer around at the horizon.
The sky is clear and the moon is out and all I can see are dark treetops.
There isn’t a single glimmer of fire anywhere.
I’m trembling with relief.
It’s pretty good up here. It’s like I’m sailing on a sea of trees. No, I’m on the observation deck of a spaceship, hovering over a planet totally covered with giant broccoli.
I close my eyes and imagine the warm breeze is gently wafting all my worry and stress away, away, away beyond the farthest trees to the town tip.
I sigh contentedly.
Then I smell smoke.
My eyes snap open and I peer into the distance for the leaping flames I’ve missed.
Nothing.
‘Hope you’ve got a stethoscope up there, Doctor Zelda,’ says an unfriendly voice, loud in the darkness. ‘You’ll need it if you fall off.’
My insides give such a jolt I almost do fall off.
Tonya.
I see her, standing inside the front gate with her mates, three shadowy figures in the moonlight, each one with a glowing cigarette.
‘What do you want?’ I say.
I have a crazy hope that Josh was right. That she wants to apologise.
But the way she’s standing, with one hand on her hip, isn’t the way people stand when they’re saying sorry.
‘My brother reckons you’re gunna get his asthma cured,’ says Tonya. ‘I just want to know if you’re telling the truth, or if he’s going to end up sad and disappointed.’
Her tone of voice sounds like she thinks Josh will probably end up sad and disappointed. And like she wants to make me suffer for it now.
Before I can reply, a light comes on and Felix hurries out of the house in his pyjamas and birthday jumper.
‘What’s this?’ he says to the girls.
‘Just having a chat with your granddaughter,’ says Tonya, glaring at me.
Felix peers up at me. His mouth falls open.
‘Babushka,’ he says. ‘What are you doing? Are you all right?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’
That’s not completely true. My bare feet are starting to sweat and I can feel them getting a bit slippery.
‘Are you the old grandad that cures people?’ says Tonya to Felix.
Felix doesn’t answer for a while, just keeps looking at me like he’s trying to work out why I’m up here. Then he turns to Tonya.
‘If you don’t put those cigarettes out,’ he says, ‘I’ll be the old grandad who turns the hose on you. There’s a total fire ban.’
Even though the night air is hot, I can feel myself blushing.
The girls stub out their cigarettes.
‘I used to be a surgeon,’ says Felix. ‘But I’m retired. I haven’t treated anybody for fourteen years. If it’s urgent I can take you to the hospital in town.’
Tonya doesn’t answer.
Instead she glares up at me.
‘Typical,’ she says. ‘Zelda the lying storyteller. You should be locked up. With a tattoo on your head that says liar. Vermin like you are a menace.’
Tonya turns to leave.
Before she can, Felix grabs her by the shoulders.
‘Locked up?’ he says. ‘Vermin? Can you hear yourself? People die because of stupid vicious talk like that.’
She looks at him, stunned.
He starts shaking her.
‘Innocent children,’ he shouts. ‘Murdered. Don’t you know anything?’
I stare down at Felix in shock.
I’ve never seen him do a single violent thing in my whole life. And now he’s lifting his hand as if he’s going to hit Tonya.
‘Felix,’ I yell. ‘Don’t.’
<
br /> He looks up.
For a moment he doesn’t even seem to recognise me. Then his face goes sort of limp. He lets go of Tonya, who staggers backwards, swears at him and runs off with her mates.
Felix stands there, his arms hanging like floppy ropes.
He looks like he’s going to cry.
I scramble down the ladder as fast as I can, my sweaty feet slipping on the rungs. My thoughts are slippery too and I can’t get hold of them.
Felix has never done anything like this before.
He told me once that a surgeon has to control his emotions. But he wasn’t controlling them just then.
It was like something was controlling him.
Now I’m down the ladder I can see how badly Felix is trembling.
Panic flares up inside me. He’s breathing very fast and he looks like he’s in pain. What if poor Felix is having some sort of stroke?
I’m no good with medical emergencies.
Frantically I try to work out what time it is in Darfur and whether Mum and Dad can get on a plane and fly home straightaway or whether they’ll have to finish sewing up kids first.
‘I’m OK, babushka,’ says Felix. ‘I just need to lie down for a moment.’
I give up on the maths and help him indoors.
He flops down on his bed.
I get Felix a glass of water and a jam tart. When I come back from the kitchen he’s just lying there staring at the ceiling.
At least he’s not shaking now, and his breathing seems back to normal.
‘That was unforgiveable,’ says Felix.
I sit on the edge of his bed and hold his hand.
‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I don’t really mind. They’re just year nine bullies. They don’t mean half of what they come out with.’
Felix keeps staring at the ceiling.
‘I’m talking about me,’ he says quietly. ‘The way I behaved. I’m ashamed of myself.’
I give him the jam tart to show him he doesn’t have to be. Not ever.
‘You were standing up for me,’ I say.
Felix looks at me. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.
‘Don’t feel bad,’ I say. ‘Even brilliant surgeons can’t be expected to control their emotions all the time. If you did, how could you enjoy watching cricket or reading scary stories?’
Felix frowns. He looks like he’s having lots of thoughts. I hope they’re about how whatever’s troubling him can wait till tomorrow. How it all won’t seem so bad after a good night’s rest.
Felix does a big sigh.
‘I need to go to sleep now, babushka,’ he says.
I kiss him on the cheek.
‘Sleep tight,’ I whisper.
‘And you,’ he says.
‘Jumble,’ I murmur. ‘Be quiet.’
I open my eyes.
I’m in bed in the dark, and now that I’ve started waking up I’m realising where the noise is coming from.
It’s not Jumble, even though he’s asleep with his nose in my ear. It’s Felix, calling from his room. He’s calling my name and he sounds really upset.
I sit up.
Jumble gives a startled yelp and falls into my lap. I pick him up and scramble out of bed still half asleep and hurry into Felix’s room.
Felix’s bedside lamp is on as usual because he hates the dark.
‘Felix,’ I say. ‘What’s wrong?’
He doesn’t answer. I can see he’s still asleep.
‘Zelda,’ he moans. ‘Zelda.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say, giving him a gentle shake. ‘I’m here.’
Felix opens his eyes and sees me and sort of blinks with the look he gets when he eats gherkins too fast.
I kneel by his bed and give him a hug. His breath has a sleepy smell, but it’s no worse than Jumble’s. Anyway, I don’t care because he needs a hug. I’ve never seen him looking so unhappy.
‘Was it a bad dream?’ I say.
Felix sighs.
‘Horrible, Margaret,’ he says. ‘I’m giving it zero.’
Poor Felix. He’s not used to bad dreams. Mum reckons he hardly ever has them. Which is pretty amazing for someone who was shot at as a kid and has seen hundreds of people’s insides.
I squeeze his hand.
‘At least I was in the dream with you,’ I say. ‘Keeping you company.’
Felix gives me a look, like there’s something he wants to say but he’s not sure how to say it.
I notice something peeping out from under the edge of his pillow.
The locket.
I am such a dope.
Now I’m awake properly, of course I know it wasn’t me in Felix’s dream. For a start, he never calls me Zelda. I don’t think he realises he doesn’t, but I know that name is reserved for someone else. I think Felix probably wishes Mum and Dad hadn’t given it to me. How confusing must it be, having two people you care about both with the same name?
‘I was dreaming about a long time ago,’ says Felix quietly.
I nod.
I know.
I’m not surprised.
When Mum and Dad started telling me things about Felix’s childhood, I looked at stuff online about World War Two and the Holocaust and I saw photos of Jewish people being starved and killed.
Children lying dead on the ground with people just stepping over them.
How can anyone not have sad dreams with memories like that?
Felix sighs again.
I want to let him know it’s natural to have sad dreams when people you love aren’t around any more. I do it all the time.
‘Zelda was your best friend,’ I say.
Felix nods.
I wish he’d tell me about her. I think it would help him if he could talk about her sometimes.
‘She must have been very special,’ I say to him.
Felix looks at me as if he’s not sure what to say.
Then he tells me just how special she was. And funny. And really good at drawing. How she helped him survive the war. How her loving spirit has inspired him to do everything he’s done in his life since.
Stuff like that.
I can’t concentrate on all the details. Part of me has to concentrate on trying not to feel jealous.
‘I wish they hadn’t given you her name,’ says Felix. ‘Your parents did it as a gift to me, but it’s not fair on you, babushka.’
I agree.
I reckon you should only be given a person’s name if your parents think you’re as clever and brave and special as the original person was.
But I don’t say that to Felix because it isn’t his fault his best friend is so impossible to live up to.
‘You must really miss her,’ I say.
Felix nods. He has the miserable look he had in the taxi when he told me he wasn’t a hero.
‘I miss her a lot,’ he says. ‘But there’s something else as well.’
He struggles to say more.
The words won’t come out.
Poor Felix. Something is torturing him. I wish I could help. But I’m not up to it. When I try to help people, trees die.
I can’t get back to sleep.
Jumble is trying to relax me by licking my face. Usually that helps a lot. I think dog saliva must have a relaxing chemical in it because usually I go to sleep very quickly when he does that.
But not now. My legs won’t stop wriggling and the sheets are getting all tangled.
I can’t stop worrying about Felix. About how he got so upset with Tonya he almost hit her.
I don’t get it.
Felix has spent his whole life healing, not hitting.
So what made him do that? What made him flare up like a bunch of thank-you letters in a hot wind? Can grief and sadness from seventy years ago make a person do that, or is it something else?
I sit up in bed and tell myself to calm down and stop carrying on like a forensic psychologist.
I met a forensic psychologist at one of Mum and Dad’s barbeques and he had da
rk rings round his eyes like he hardly ever slept.
I think I’m getting those rings.
Or maybe it’s just dried dog saliva.
If only Mum and Dad were here. Then I could ask their advice about how to help Felix. And after they’d given it to me, Mum could help me get to sleep by stroking my head like she used to when I was little.
I decide to ring them.
I check the world clock on my phone.
It’s 7.43 p.m. in Darfur. Even dedicated doctors who devote all their time to healing wounded kids probably knock off by 7.43 p.m.
I ring the African clinic using the Médecins Sans Frontières number that Mum and Dad left me in case of an emergency.
This is definitely an emergency.
Please answer.
But all I hear is a very faint recorded message in a foreign language, then beeping whistling sounds.
I send Mum and Dad a text.
i need 2 talk r u there
I wait for a reply.
One doesn’t come.
I sigh.
For the millionth time in my life I wish I had a sister. Someone to keep me company and give me advice.
But I don’t.
It’s just me.
Jumble is nuzzling me and whimpering in my ear. For a sec I think he’s telling me he’s suffering from insomnia too. But the way he’s looking at me with his eyes big and caring, and the way he’s panting in a very loyal way, makes me realise what he means.
‘I’ll be your sister,’ he’s saying.
I put my arms round him.
‘Thanks, Jumble,’ I say. ‘You and me. We’ll look after each other, and Felix.’
Jumble sticks his tongue up my nose, which I think is his way of saying, ‘Yes, and we’ll do a really good job.’
My phone beeps.
It’s a text.
Mum and Dad must have replied.
I grope under the sheets and Jumble helps me find the phone. If I had a tail I’d be wagging it with excitement like him.
I read the message.
yr hole family shd b locked up
I snap the phone off and flop back onto my bed.
I’m glad Jumble can’t read.
Even though he definitely can’t, he still knows how disappointed I feel.
I can tell because he’s licking my eyelids. And thumping his tail on the bed impatiently.
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