‘Oh.’ Grandad stops smiling. ‘Do you?’
I’ve started now, so I finish. ‘Yes. And I think maybe he stays over.’
‘Really?’
‘Two or three nights a week.’
Grandad is staring at Buster, who doesn’t look even the tiniest bit sick. Or guilty. Or interested. He cleans his whiskers with his elegant paws and sniffs snootily at his plate of untouched, low-price food. He blinks. And yawns. We are boring him. His tongue is sea-urchin pink.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘But I think Miss Wolfe is slowly kidnapping your cat.’
Grandad pulls a face. His eyebrows lift and separate like Tower Bridge. We are quiet for half a minute. Buster stretches each of his legs, one at a time, front first, then back. He is in no kind of hurry. He points his toes captivatingly, like a dancer.
‘Feeding him, eh?’ Grandad says.
‘Yes. The posh stuff. In foil packets. With fluffy cats on the lids.’
‘Right.’ He tickles Buster behind his perfect, ungrateful ears. ‘I see.’
I tickle Buster too. He is incredibly soft and impossibly beautiful. His purr rumbles like there is a tube train running through his middle. I can’t help picturing the passengers as mice.
‘At least this means he’s not sick,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ Grandad says, not smiling but not frowning either. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
He picks up Buster’s breakfast and gives it a light sniff. ‘I wouldn’t eat that either,’ he says, and he lets it slide off the plate into the bin.
‘We could buy some fancier food,’ I tell him. ‘That might do the trick.’
‘Yes. Or I could shut him in.’
‘Like Claude?’
‘Yes,’ Grandad says, then he looks sternly into Buster’s eyes and says, ‘You’re GROUNDED.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ I say, and he shakes his head.
‘No. I wouldn’t.’
Buster starts purring and rolls over onto his back, quick and curly like one of those fortune-telling fish you put on your palm. He could not care less about this problem if he tried. His fortune fish would read: Not even a tiny bit bothered at all.
‘Perhaps I should go and have a word with this Miss Wolfe,’ Grandad says.
‘What kind of word?’ I ask.
He looks like he is thinking.
‘Would you do it nicely?’ I say. ‘She does seem very twinkly and kind.’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I am a very nice person. I am extremely well-mannered and polite.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I say. ‘Of course. You very much are.’
I’m not feeling good about getting an old lady into trouble, and I do actually want them to be friends, so I say, ‘If it helps, I don’t think it’s strictly Miss Wolfe’s fault.’
‘No?’
‘I think Buster keeps her company,’ I tell him. ‘I think she is lonely.’
‘Lonely?’ he says, like he has never even heard of the word, and then it is my turn to Tower Bridge my eyebrows, and I say, ‘Yes.’
‘So Buster is being kind,’ he says, which is not the first word I would use to describe him.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Exactly.’
‘In that case I think I’ll sleep on it,’ Grandad says.
‘What does that do?’
‘It gives me time.’
‘For what?’
‘To find out the full story.’
‘The full story?’
‘People do things,’ Grandad says, ‘and it’s not always obvious why.’
‘Okay. Is it the same with cats too?’
‘I am going to think it through, and make sure I don’t jump to the wrong conclusions about this Miss Wolfe and my beloved Buster.’
‘That sounds very wise,’ I say, and I am not just thinking about Miss Wolfe or Grandad or the cat any more, I am thinking more than ever about Benny and Clark.
Even with the divorce word hanging over us, it is lovely spending proper time with my sister. I really do quite like it when she is banned from having a phone. We make origami animals and talk about all kinds of stuff like we used to: planets and football and marine biology and Ancient Egypt. Sailing and the constellations and books she thinks I should read.
I tell her that I am secretly trying to fix Grandad up with a girlfriend, which she says is gross and I say is helpful. I tell her a bit more about the Benny problem. Claude has a way of looking at things that is extra to mine, the same way two torches are better than one in the dark. She is never scared of people like Clark Watson. She is fearless and good at standing up to big things. One of the first things I remember about being alive is Claude swimming like a crocodile in a paddling pool in Colombia, snapping at the bright blue water with her sharp white teeth at a gang of boys who were trying to splash me. She is also astonishingly good at origami. She makes three owls and a rabbit in the time it takes me to make one wonky zebra.
‘I’m going to have to make friends with him,’ I tell her.
‘Who?’
‘I told you. Clark. Jet Watson’s little brother.’
Claude blows her hair out of her eyes. She rubs her face with the palms of her hands. She says, ‘What are you on about?’
‘It’s the only way I can think of to stop him picking on Benny.’
She is staring very intently at the instructions for making a flying eagle.
‘Continue,’ she says. ‘Explain.’
‘Well, if Clark Watson was still his friend, then Benny wouldn’t have lost his school bag or his phone or his lunch money. And he wouldn’t be so quiet and secretive and worried and sad and un-Benny-ish.’
Claude yawns and stretches. ‘That sounds like Benny’s problem.’
‘It is Benny’s problem. And I am Benny’s best friend. So I’m going to have to fix it.’
‘You?’
‘Yes. Me.’
Claude turns to face me. ‘How are you going to manage that?’ she says.
‘I already said. I’m going to make friends with him.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Well, he must have some good points.’
Claude says, ‘That’s what you think.’
And she is right. I do. Even though the signs right now might be pointing to zero, I am trying to be on the lookout for reasons that Clark Watson isn’t all bad. I am trying to stay sure that nobody is, because that’s what I have always believed, and I don’t want to have to stop. Take Grandad, for example. He is pretty much all good sides, even though at the beginning, when we came to stay, I couldn’t find them because he was too busy telling me to tidy up and not to touch about a million different things, and to stay out of the way on the stairs, for pity’s sake. Or Mrs Hunter, who is mostly angry when you first meet her, but is actually quite shy, and doesn’t sleep very well, and has sore knees, and a soft spot for caterpillars, and could do with a holiday. Maybe Clark likes running or chocolate cake or going fishing in the canal. Maybe he is into origami or flying kites or hamsters.
I say, ‘I won’t know until I ask.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ says Claude. ‘You’re going to say, Hello, Clark, let’s be friends, love from Joy?’
‘Something like that.’
And it is almost true. In my head, I have been trying to write Clark Watson a letter.
I am not sure how to start it, so I’ll just go with: Hello, Clark.
Maybe I will write: It’s Joy here. I know we don’t speak much, and I hope I’m not being a total nosy parker, but are you okay?
Or maybe I will try: I am quite keen to find out what your hobbies and talents are. Do you like swimming? Are you interested in books? What are your thoughts on fancy dress? Are you secretly a really talented actor? Card player? Long-distance runner?
What I really want to ask is: Why did you fall out with Benny? Do you throw things at him because you are bored? Do you want to help us look for treasure? We would happily split our findings with you three ways.
When I tell C
laude this, she laughs and rolls over on the bedroom carpet onto her back.
‘You deserve a medal,’ she says.
‘For what?’
‘For always having your glass half-full.’
‘What does that mean?’
Claude tells me, while her perfect paper eagle circles overhead, that some people see a glass that’s half-empty, and some people see it half-full.
‘It’s the same glass,’ she says, ‘but people look at it differently.’
‘That,’ I say, ‘is pretty amazing.’
‘I’m the first kind,’ Claude says. ‘I’m the empty kind.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I know so,’ Claude says, sitting up and coiling all her shiny red hair on top of her head like a giant conker. ‘And do you know what you are, Joy?’
‘What am I?’
‘The third kind.’
‘Is there a third kind?
‘Yep. And it’s the best one.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘It’s when you’re grateful for the glass.’
I guess it is true that I see only good when sometimes other people see problems.
Like on a bright morning when Grandad tuts about the mucky streaks that show up on the windows, but I just see the sun. Or when Mum’s laptop runs out of battery so she can’t finish the vital and mind-numbing thing she’s been doing, but I’m glad because it means she’ll spend more time with me. Or when Claude gets annoyed that there are so many green sweets in the packet because she hates green ones with a passion, and they happen to be my favourite. Or the time we had a power cut and Dad was ranting about the government and I just loved the way the candles made every room look golden and flickery and exciting, like the whole of Grandad’s house had turned into a birthday cake.
‘Thanks, Claude,’ I say. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has said since Benny called me contagious.’
And my sister laughs and says, ‘See?’ because apparently even that is proving her point.
So now I am thinking about this letter to Clark Watson too, as well as all the others, from breakfast to supper, and during every other conversation I am having, and while I am cleaning my teeth and looking for my pyjamas and getting into bed. It is a non-stop, all-day rumble, like Buster’s purring. In my head the letter I write to him is perfect, and fixes everything. But that’s my head. And even I know that sometimes life is not as easy and as grateful for the glass as that.
At school, in the hall, 5J do a class assembly. They act out lots of scenes, and Tumelo, who is the tallest boy in Year Five, plays the part of a policeman. Mrs Jackson, who is 5J’s teacher, plays an old lady in a big grey wig and keeps forgetting her lines. At the end, the whole class opens out a big banner which says,
I can still see it even when my are eyes closed, like when you hold something up against the too-bright sun. The banner is burned into my eyeballs, so I can’t ignore it, and it is telling me exactly what to do.
To start with, at morning break, I stay behind and ask to speak to Mrs Hunter. Benny gives me a quizzing look and the rest of the class file out into the corridor, and Mrs Hunter sighs and looks at her watch and says, ‘What can I do for you, Joy?’
I give her the letter that has been hiding for ages at the bottom of my bag. It is a bit damp and crumpled and it looks as if something might have been nibbling the corners of the envelope.
‘I wrote this a while ago,’ I say. ‘And I’ve been carrying it around with me. Sorry.’
Mrs Hunter holds the envelope between her pointing finger and her thumb, like it is something she has just pulled out of the drain. ‘What is it?’ she says.
‘It’s a letter.’
‘I can see that it’s a letter,’ she says. ‘But why are you giving me a letter when you see me almost every day?’
‘It’s a thank-you letter,’ I say. ‘I wanted to thank you.’
Mrs Hunter looks quite bewildered.
‘Thank me?’ she says. ‘What for?’
I look at the letter that she is still holding like the back leg of a frog. I’m not sure why she is asking me all these questions when she could just open it and find out.
‘For being my teacher,’ I tell her. ‘For being kind to caterpillars and knowing so much about nature-y things. For joining the Historical Society and working hard to save our school tree. And for helping me understand the point of fractions. And queuing.’
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That’s my job, Joy. That’s okay.’
‘And for getting used to me?’ I say, sort of like a question. ‘And giving me the benefit of the doubt?’
Mrs Hunter blinks.
‘I know you are tired and your knees hurt,’ I tell her. ‘And I know I’m a big chatterbox and you mostly just want a bit of peace and quiet.’
Mrs Hunter’s eyebrows can’t get any higher. If they did, they would be hovering like matching millipedes above her head.
‘But I really do like school now,’ I say. ‘And I like you too. I just wanted you to know that.’
Mrs Hunter is a bit lost for words. She looks in her handbag for something she doesn’t find, and she drops the letter in without reading it and then she says, ‘What a nice thing to say, Joy.’
‘I don’t think there is a single spelling mistake in there,’ I tell her. ‘And I think it’s probably about an eight out of ten for punctuation.’
‘Well, it’s ten out of ten for effort,’ she says.
She even smiles, which makes me very nearly open my mouth and spill the beans about Benny. But at the very last minute I change my mind. I want to speak to Benny before I do it, and not just give away his private secrets behind his back. I don’t want my best friend to feel I have let him down when all I am really trying to do is help. So I tell Mrs Hunter I am going to make my own T-shirt with the words BE KIND written on the front. I say, ‘I think it should be our new school uniform,’ and her smile flickers out like a candle. I’m not sure she can take any more from me at this moment. She is looking like she could do with sitting down.
Out in the playground, Benny asks me where I have been.
‘Speaking truth to Mrs Hunter,’ I tell him. ‘In a good way.’
He looks worried. As usual. There is a bruise on his forearm, he has bags under his eyes, and his clothes look like they have been dragged through a puddle.
‘Get ready,’ I tell him.
‘Why?’ he says. ‘What for?’
‘You’re next.’
‘What do you mean?’ he says, and I say, ‘Benny. You are extremely brilliant and popular and funny and caring and clever. You have lots of friends and loads to smile about. Your family are amazing. You even have a very important birthday coming up. But right now, you are nothing but miserable and unhappy.’
Benny’s bottom lip wobbles.
I say, ‘I know you don’t want to tell anyone else what is happening.’
He pushes his glasses back up his nose.
‘But I am your best friend and I am here to help you.’
Benny sniffs. A single tear slides under his glasses and down his cheek, all on its own.
I squeeze his hand and I don’t give up. ‘We have to try and fix the Clark Watson problem together.’
He looks at me and then at his new favourite place to look, which is the floor, and says in a small voice, ‘Yes. We do.’
‘And if we can’t,’ I tell him, ‘we are going to have to speak up and tell the truth and ask somebody for help.’
Instead of going to Sunningdale after school, I go straight home to keep Grandad company. While I walk, I try to concentrate on something upbeat and positive, which is Benny’s secret surprise treasure hunt birthday plan. I am determined to make it extra-special so it will cheer him up and help him remember how lucky and loved he really is.
In the park, a man is digging a hole to plant a tree. He stands on the spade like it’s a pogo stick, and jumps on it to push it further down into the grass. It is a big wide spade with a wooden han
dle and it glints in the light. It is the thing that gives me my best idea yet.
I am going to make Benny a present which is a wooden box full of gold coins and then I will bury it somewhere clever. We can make a trail and the invitations can be an actual true-to-life map. All of his friends can hide along the route, according to the map, like extra surprises, and then at the very end, when we are all together at Plane Tree Gardens, Benny can dig where X marks the spot, and find his buried present.
I know it’s a great idea because I am fizzing with excitement about it. I can’t wait to tell Grandad. Also, I need to ask him if I can dig a hole in North Korea so I can hide my box of coins there. I am thinking that if I put a nail or something metal inside it, Benny will be able to use his brand-new metal detector to locate it. I am very much hoping that Grandad’s answer to the hole-digging question is going to be a yes. But when I get to 48 Plane Tree Gardens, he is not at home. I am so used to him dozing in his chair between four and five o’clock that I am not sure what to do. He has always been one hundred per cent reliable, apart from today. His newspaper is there, neatly folded, and his reading glasses, but no actual Grandad. He isn’t cleaning something in the kitchen or ironing his underpants in his room, and he isn’t out in the garden either, front or back.
He is absolutely nowhere.
Weirdly, it’s Buster who is asleep on the chair all alone in the middle of the afternoon, and Grandad who is nowhere in sight. They have switched places.
When I have given up on looking, I write a letter to my friend Fedor who wants to be a magician when he grows up. I tell him that a wizard might have put my grandad into the body of his own cat. I say that the cat is snoozing in an armchair, and I am on the lookout for an old man who can wash his own feet with his tongue and likes to sit under a honeysuckle bush and catch birds in his open mouth.
If Claude was home I would ask her to draw some pictures to go with my letter, but she is still at school because it is Thursday and she has Art Club. My sister is an extremely good artist. Her teacher is called Ms Feldner. She is from Bavaria and she is tall and angular like an ink drawing and wears mostly long black clothes so you can’t see her feet. At parents’ evening, Ms Feldner told Mum and Dad that even if Claude fell down the stairs and broke both her hands she would still get a 1 in art. When Dad can’t remember her name he calls her Morticia.
Love From Joy Page 5