Weird

by Jeremy Strong

  ‘We are the champions!’ cried Miss Dash.

  ‘You pushed me,’ I complained to Fizz.

  ‘No, no, that was me,’ said Miss Dash, popping her left eye and polishing it with her cardigan. ‘It’s so difficult to steer a straight line when you only have one good eye.’

  ‘What is going on here?’ roared Major Trubshaw.

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Miss Dash.

  ‘Ooh là là,’ went Madame Dupont, as he came thundering towards us like a rogue elephant. His ears are pretty large.

  We were all in trouble. The Major spoke to the lot of us as if we were kids. Mrs Kowalski was brilliant.

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that! I am eighty-six years old, almost old enough to be your grandmother. If I were a few years younger I’d spank your bottom and make you stand in the corner.’

  The Major ignored her of course and carried on blasting us, but Miss Dash kept interrupting with raspberry noises. Then I realized she wasn’t pretending.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she said. ‘It always happens about this time of day.’

  ‘Mais oui, there was a Frenchman who made money like that,’ said Madame Dupont. ‘His name was Le Pétomane. He used to play tunes by fixing a kind of trumpet to his derrière and he’d blow out candles too.’

  ‘Madame Dupont!’ roared the Major.

  ‘He was very popular, Major,’ she said. ‘We all have to earn a living.’

  But the Major was dead set on blowing us all up and he packed us off to our own little dark corners. It was back to the washing-up. I guess we were lucky he didn’t spank us. What the Major couldn’t do was wipe the smile off our faces, so it was well worth the row.

  Funny way to earn a living, though. I’m definitely going for the astronaut option.

  Fizz

  Why did Josh take me to his dad’s? His mum’s house can’t be that noisy. And he never said what kind of noise because we kind of got talking about poetry instead. When he told me what his mum did I thought it’d be, like, you know, soppy stuff about angels and that, and how sunshine’s a gift, but she writes about stick insects. How cool is that? I don’t suppose anyone in the world has written a poem about stick insects before. I like writing too but I’m not an insecty sort of poet. I do more sort of parents-get-off-my-case kind of poems. You know, reality stuff. They’re usually quite short. I did one about Lauren. This is how it goes.

  Lauren – I hate you.

  It might need a bit more work but the main thrust is there. Anyhow, I’m wandering off the subject, as usual.

  Maybe all will be revealed on Thursday, when we shall go to his place to do our project work. Meanwhile, it is now Wednesday and he’s coming back here this afternoon and I have a plan, a BIG plan. It makes me tingle all over. He is going to LOVE it. And me too, hopefully.

  Dad almost didn’t let me out of the house this morning.

  ‘You’re not going out like that, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s what I wore yesterday.’ This was not entirely true, but the effect was the same. It was just another miniskirt. What else am I supposed to wear? I’ve got great legs, I know I have. My friends keep telling me, enviously, ha ha. And I haven’t got anything else to boast about, have I? My boobs require a magnifying glass and my mouth’s a scrap-metal yard. I glanced down at my skirt. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Fizz, I know that teenage girls have to go through various mating rituals and that is why they wear such outlandish costumes…’

  ‘No way is this outlandish!’

  ‘… rather like female baboons sporting multicoloured bottoms when they want a mate.’

  ‘Darling, I don’t think we need to know about female baboons at breakfast,’ said Mum.

  ‘I AM NOT A BABOON!’

  ‘I’ve no idea why either of you find it upsetting. It’s a scientific fact. That is what female baboons do and they pay no attention to whether or not it’s breakfast time. What I was going to say, if you will give me the opportunity…’

  ‘Do get on with it, darling,’ sighed Mum.

  ‘… is simply that a skirt that barely covers what it’s meant to cover is hardly suitable attire for working in an old people’s home, is it?’

  I stared at him. Shocked. What was wrong with him? Was he turning into Matron?

  ‘Father,’ I began, formally, so he knew he was in trouble, ‘I am sure you realize, because it’s a scientific fact, that all old people are almost completely blind and deaf and I could turn up there naked and they wouldn’t notice. So what’s wrong with this skirt?’

  ‘For one thing, you have to walk up the street to get there. Secondly, there are the people who work there. I don’t suppose your boss up there thinks much of it.’

  ‘You’re just jealous of my legs, aren’t you?’

  Dad clutched his forehead. He appeared to be in great pain for several seconds. At last he let go, shook his head like he was trying to rid it of some midget goblin trying to climb in his ear, and said, yes, that was exactly it, he WAS jealous of my legs and to please go, go, go, and take the spade too, if I must.

  ‘What spade?’

  ‘The one you’ve got in your hand.’

  ‘Oh, right, yes.’

  I’ll never understand him. So it was off to Marigolds, where I hid the spade behind a bush near the front door. Air-bags (I’m sure they’re getting bigger) gave me the evil eye and kept her lips pressed so firmly together you’d have thought they’d been stapled shut. (Good idea, Matron – go for it!) I waited for her to say something about my legs, skirt or baboons, but she didn’t. Good for her. I almost told her she could have a smiley face sticker. But I didn’t. Just occasionally I DO know when to stop. Anyway, I had some deception to practise.

  ‘Was that Mrs Kowalski?’ I said to Matron, and I looked concerned, which is not a look I do all that much so I had to act the part and be all actressy. I think I’m probably quite good at actressy-type things and I certainly fooled Air-bags.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I thought I just saw her go round the corner.’

  ‘Heavens above, don’t tell me she’s got outside!’ And she went scooting off round the building. This was all part of my deception and by the time Matron came bustling back without Mrs Kowalski because Mrs Kowalski had never been there in the first place I had retrieved the spade, slipped it into the building and stuck it in the umbrella stand. It didn’t look much like an umbrella handle sticking up but I had to hope that Matron wouldn’t notice and she didn’t because she was in a fluster by this time and desperate to get back inside, shut the door and keep all her prisoners locked up.

  The morning was totally boring even if I did get a change of job, which meant I couldn’t get back to the umbrella stand. I had to ask Josh if he could remove the spade, which he did. He’s so cool. He should be a spy, not an astronut. The only interesting thing about putting toilet rolls and soap in bathrooms is that I got to meet a few more of the residents – but still no sign of the mysterious Winkleberry.

  Mrs Ogweyo asked me to get some food for Freddie. I looked round the room but the only living creature I could see (well, half-living) was Mrs Ogweyo herself. ‘I must find him,’ she said. ‘We’re not allowed pets, you know.’

  ‘Has he gone out?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s probably under the bed, but if I get down on my hands and knees I shall never be able to get up again.’

  Aha – Freddie must be a pet, so that ruled out him being human, unless of course Mrs Ogweyo was even stranger than I thought. I looked beneath the bed. Nothing.

  ‘I can’t see him.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s so dark under there, you might have missed him.’

  So, Freddie was dark in colour. The possibilities were being narrowed down fast. Now I knew what Sherlock Holmes must have felt like. I could now infer that Freddie was some kind of dark-coloured animal, of a size that would fit beneath an old lady’s bed. That meant it could be anything from a mouse to a crocodile.

  �
��He’s definitely not there,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, he’ll be in the bathroom then. He likes the bathroom. He likes to jump in the bath and play with the plug.’

  Right, that ruled out the mouse, but it could still be a crocodile. ‘What sort of food does Freddie like?’ I asked, cunningly setting a trap.

  ‘Oh, the usual,’ said Mrs Ogweyo.

  I wanted to kill her.

  ‘He does love those fishy nibble sticks.’

  I gave her a commuted life sentence instead.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I told her and she gave me a grateful smile. To tell the truth, I was actually feeling pretty stupid because I had only just twigged that Freddie almost certainly didn’t exist. I’m sure he had once. Maybe before Mrs Ogweyo came to the home – sometime in her past, at any rate – she had once had a cat called Freddie. I think it was a cat. I had to accept that a crocodile was pretty unlikely. I was beginning to understand why Dad said conclusions were better than inferences. And I was beginning to understand Mrs Ogweyo too.

  When I was four or five I had a pretend playmate. Her name was Lavinia. I thought it was a lovely name. It sounded rather fragrant, like ‘lavender’. Now I know it’s a stupid name because I once met a girl called Lavinia at a party and she had a long, long face with bulging eyes, like a cross between a giraffe and a frog, and she managed to spill her cola down my front and tread on my foot by accident on purpose. I went off Lavinia after that, real and unreal. What were her parents thinking of, giving her that name? Lavinia. The way she looked I would have called her something completely different like Please Do Not Feed The Animal. But all that came later. Before that, I had this pretend playmate, because big sis, Lauren, (make protective sign) wouldn’t play with me and I was lonely. Now Mrs Ogweyo had nobody to play with… except Freddie.

  I saw Madame Dupont too. She asked me how things were going with Josh, and I found myself blushing. I did! And she saw! My head had suddenly filled with images of Josh and me rolling about on the floor.

  ‘Ah, I think there has been something, yes?’ ‘Not really. We were just fooling about.’ ‘Fooling about is good,’ nodded Madame Dupont, before waggling a finger at me. ‘But don’t tell me details. I don’t need to know, as long as you are happy.’

  ‘I gave him a neck massage but he didn’t say much.’

  ‘Oh, he liked it, but he’s a man, and they don’t know how to say what they like. They cannot express themselves, like women. They are strange creatures, men.’

  Report for Wednesday by

  Josh Cameron and Felicity

  Foster-Thompson

  Fizz thought the house would be empty and it was. Her father didn’t normally get back until seven. Her mother worked late at the clinic on a Wednesday. Lauren was out. She was almost always out – her friends, her boyfriends, whoever.

  ‘I don’t think we’d better write about what happened this afternoon,’ suggested Josh. ‘It won’t look good.’

  ‘We don’t have to say we got into trouble. We could say we arranged some games and the wrinklies enjoyed them. That would at least look good. You know, school would think, like, oh good, they’re showing initiative.’ She smiled at Josh. ‘Hey, what do you think an initiative looks like?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Josh, a trifle cagily. He never could work out where Fizz’s brain was going.

  ‘Like, we’ve been showing initiative. It sounds like you’re showing knobbly knees or something. “Do come and look at my lovely pair of initiatives, Vicar!” So what does your initiative look like?’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  Fizz wished Josh would relax. She’d never get anywhere with him while he was like that. ‘It was just a thought,’ she muttered. ‘OK. I’ll do the first bit.’

  Wednesday

  Today was very exciting because Josh and I were allowed to swap jobs. This meant that, just for a change, I could put toilet rolls and soap in the bathrooms and Josh could make the tea and do the washing-up. When Matron told us that this would be the plan for today Josh and I were overwhelmed with excitement.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ sniffed Josh.

  ‘It’s sarcasm,’ Fizz pointed out. ‘What’s wrong with you this evening? Where’s your sense of humour?’

  ‘Where’s your sense, full stop?’ asked Josh. He sat nervously on the edge of Fizz’s bed, among a farmyard of stuffed toys – dogs, horses, cats, ducks, teddies and several unrecognizable creatures. It reminded him of his own home, except that Fizz’s soft toys didn’t creep up on you unawares and surprise you in the shower, or leave their droppings in your shoes. Tomorrow he was going to have to take Fizz there. Josh gazed gloomily at the floor. Around his feet were strange, bedraggled bits of knitwear that didn’t resemble anything known to humankind, and cast-off clothing – a jumper, a bra, socks, trainers, a school shirt. His eyes rested on the bra and he wondered if Lauren would come home soon.

  I could hardly contain myself as I told Josh that all these toilet rolls and bars of soap were preparing us for the world of work as adults. Josh said he couldn’t contain himself either.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ He leaned forward and read the passage again. ‘You’re still being sarcastic, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well done!’

  However, we have to report that Major Trubshaw and Matron are acting very suspiciously. The residents report all sorts of restrictions and this has led to Josh and myself suspecting that something fishy is going on. Residents are kept in their rooms most of the time. Some of them have said they would like to leave, but they can’t. They feel as if they are being held prisoner, and certainly Matron behaves like a prison warder.

  Fizz pushed back her chair. ‘Do you want to do some now? I’m bored.’

  ‘Not really.’

  Fizz turned and looked at him. She bit her lip and then went for it. ‘You look even more tired than you were yesterday.’

  ‘I think I pulled a muscle pushing that wheelchair. Or, more likely it was when someone pushed me into the wall at high speed, deliberately, because they’re a cheat.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it was a game. You’re not still smarting over that? Tell you what, we’ll get this finished and then I’ll give you a massage, like yesterday. Will that make up for it?’

  Josh flashed a dark look and said nothing, but yes, that would make up for it, he thought. Fizz’s insides went ‘Yes!’ and she turned back to the computer.

  In the afternoon Josh and I organized some activities for the residents. Not all the residents were able to take part, probably because they were confined to their rooms, but Mrs Kowalski, Madame Dupont and Miss Dash joined in. We all had great fun and they found the games…

  ‘How do you spell “invigorating”?’

  ‘No idea.’

  … exciting. Miss Dash was the winner, even though her false eye almost fell out halfway down the corridor. Although the ladies liked the games Matron and Major Trubshaw didn’t seem to agree and they soon asked us to stop. They felt it might be too exciting for the residents. However, that is not what the residents told us. So now we are even more suspicious and perhaps the home ought to be put under investigation by the authorities.

  Fizz did a quick word check. ‘Two hundred and ninety-eight. One hundred and two short. My brain hurts.’

  ‘Let me,’ grunted Josh.

  Mrs Kowalski is one of the most interesting residents. She has led an interesting life…

  ‘That’s two “interestings” in one line.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Taylor says that’s bad English.’

  ‘Yes, well, as you may have noticed, Mrs Taylor is not here. Do you want me to do this or not?’

  … During the Second World War she was a pilot, one of a handful of women pilots who delivered new aircraft to distant airfields. She flew Hurricanes and Spitfires.

  ‘Is that true?’ asked Fizz. ‘Cool. Mrs Ogweyo is interesting too. She’s got a pretend cat.’

  ‘That’s not interesting, it’s just stupid.’
r />   ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Fizz thoughtfully. ‘They’re not allowed pets, and Mrs Ogweyo obviously loved her cat Freddie, so now she pretends he’s still there with her. It’s better than having no company at all.’

  ‘But he’s not there. She does have no company.’

  ‘You may say so. Matron and the Major may say so. But what Mrs Ogweyo says is that Freddie is living in her room with her, and it makes her happy. It’s her way of surviving life in a prison camp. I don’t see much wrong with that.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ muttered Josh, who was getting desperate for material to write about.

  Mrs Ogweyo is also interesting because she has got a cat called Freddie that nobody else can see because it doesn’t actually exist. Mrs Ogweyo suffers from D.P.O. Syndrome (Delusional Pet Ownership). However, since the cat doesn’t exist it is not doing any harm.

  Tomorrow is Thursday and we look forward to discovering what our work will be.

  ‘Now who’s being sarky?’ Fizz said brightly.

  ‘That’s three hundred and ninety-nine. Do you think Mrs Taylor will check?’

  ‘I doubt it. Come on, I’ll sort out that neck of yours. We’ll do it downstairs.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Mum’s private treatment room is down there.’

  ‘Won’t she mind?’

  ‘Duh! She’s not here, is she?’

  Downstairs, Fizz showed Josh into her mother’s consulting room. Unlike Fizz’s bedroom, it was clean and clear of clutter. In the centre was a low bed, with a small hole in the middle at one end. Josh eyed it nervously.

  ‘Take off your shoes and shirt and lie face down,’ said Fizz. ‘Put your face where the hole is so that you can breathe.’

  ‘I’m not taking off my shirt.’

  Fizz folded her arms. ‘Do you go swimming with your shirt on? Do you go on the beach with your shirt on? All I’m going to do is massage your neck and shoulders. If you want me to do it properly I shall need to use oil. Of course, I can always rub oil over your shirt if you prefer. I’ll be back in a mo.’