by Jean Ure
Not to say lewd.
“That’s a bit off!” my mum would cry
If my ditties she could espy.
Mum is never going to espy my ditties! I think she might faint if she saw some of the things I have written. That is why I keep this book under lock and key. I wonder where Harmony keeps hers?
When it is published it will be different, because then I shall be an author. Nobody minds if an author uses bad language or has lewd thoughts.
This morning Jason Twelvetrees came to talk to us. I was very surprised when I walked into the hall and saw him perched there, on a stool. He is quite old and threadbare. Like, he was wearing this really saggy tweedy jacket and these tatty jeans with the knees all ballooning out and the bottoms all frayed.
I thought an author would be quite rich and smart, but I don’t think Jason Twelvetrees can be very rich as he told us that he had to travel by train as his car had broken down. In this gloomy, graveyard voice he said, “It’s not a very reliable vehicle at the best of times … it’s vintage. Like me.”
He is quite a lugubrious sort of person. He started off by asking, not very hopefully, how many of us actually enjoyed reading. My hand at once shot up, and so did Harmony’s. Bones’s sort of flapped at half-mast. Three of the girls also draped their arms in the air, though I think they only did it to score brownie points (in front of the teachers) as I have never seen any of them in the library.
So then Mr Twelvetrees asked how many people didn’t enjoy reading. I don’t think it was very wise to have done that. There was this long silence, and I saw eyes flickering to the side of the hall, where all the teachers were sitting.
“Don’t be afraid to tell the truth,” said Mr Twelvetrees. “I believe corporal punishment has been abolished.”
Me and Harmony laughed at this. So did the teachers. One or two other people tittered, rather nervously, but I think a lot of them, probably, didn’t know what corporal punishment was.
“Be honest!” said this poor foolish author. I mean, boy, was he ever asking for trouble! “How many of you positively do not like reading?”
Well! I couldn’t have counted the number of hands that shot up. Kelvin Clegg put up both of his, and Stuart Sprague yelled out that he hated it.
“Hate it!” he went. “Hate it!”
Poor Mr Twelvetrees looked a bit taken aback at this. He said, “Well!” and took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
All the teachers sat there looking grave. I could see their eyes going like laser beams, ready to zap any trouble-makers.
“Well, I certainly asked for that, didn’t I?” said Mr Twelvetrees.
Kelvin Clegg agreed, in his raucous Neanderthal voice, that he had. Mr Mounsey went all purple in the face and glared at him.
Fortunately, Mr Twelvetrees told us, he was a man who expected very little of life. He said, “I am not by nature what you would call an optimist. The cold winds of fortune have buffeted me. Nil esperandum is my motto.”
Me and Harmony and some of the teachers laughed again. I mean, it was obviously a joke of some kind, so it seemed only polite. (Harmony explained it to me afterwards: “Nil desperandum, never despair. Nil esperandum, never hope.” That girl knows everything!)
So anyway, old Mr Twelvetrees, he starts telling us how he came to write this book called Doomageddon that we’d all read. I have to admit, he’s not the most inspiring speaker I have ever heard as he sort of mumbles and chews on his words, and he keeps stopping every now and again to mop his brow and take sips from a glass of water, but he wasn’t as boring as all that. I mean, if you actually bothered to listen to what he was saying, it was quite interesting. Only of course nobody did. Just me and Harmony.
Kelvin Clegg started a punch-up and had to be sent out. Stuart Sprague fell asleep. Some of the girls giggled. I felt really sorry for Mr Twelvetrees. He was probably sitting there thinking they were giggling at him and wondering if he’d got snot hanging out of his nose or was wearing odd shoes, or something. That’s what I’d have been thinking if I’d been him.
At the end he asked if anyone had any questions. Harmony wanted to know if he could tell us how to get a book published. He said, “With immense difficulty, my dear young lady. With immense difficulty.”
He said that you had to be very thick-skinned and not break down in tears every time a publisher rejected you. He said, “Swear, by all means! Swear as much as you like. But then pick yourself up and carry on.”
Bones whispered to me, “I’m going to ask him something!” Bones wanted to know how much money an author earned. I saw Mr Mounsey raise his eyes heavenwards and I knew he’d have something to say to Bones afterwards. But as Bones explained to me, “These things are important.”
Anyway, Mr Twelvetrees told us that most authors don’t even earn enough to live on. He said, “It is a grossly underpaid occupation. Enter it at your peril. Any more questions?”
He peered at us over his glasses, and there was this deathly hush. Some people started to look at their watches. I didn’t want him to go away feeling unappreciated, so I put my hand up and said, “I’m writing a novel.” Lots of people groaned, but I reckon old Mr Twelvetrees was pretty pleased because he said, “Are you, indeed? A tale of spills and thrills, no doubt?”
I said, “Well, actually, it’s about the inner life of a cockroach. I could tell you how it begins, if you like. I am a cockroach. I live in dark places, shunning the light. I am a lowly creature, vilified by all.”
It is a good word, vilified. I hope Mr Mounsey was listening. He is always saying how we should extend our vocabularies.
I told Mr Twelvetrees the whole story of Cockroach. Well, almost the whole story. I’d just got to the part where the exterminators come with their exterminating gear when Mr Mounsey said, “This is fascinating, Salvatore, but I think we shall have to call it a day.”
It was a pity he stopped me, as the next bit is really exciting.
Mr Twelvetrees thanked me quite profusely. He said that he would really like to read the book when I have finished it.
I almost have! I am going to finish it tonight and send him a copy.
All the time I was telling my cockroach story I could see Lucy, turned round in her seat, looking at me like she just couldn’t believe it. I found that very encouraging. At lunch time, in the canteen, I managed to get in the queue just behind her.
“Well, look who it isn’t!” she said. “Mr Cockroach himself!”
I told her that I had something for her. She said, “What is it this time?”
I handed her the sealed envelope in which I had placed her poem and hissed, “Read this when you are alone!”
“Not more?” cried Lucy.
She was definitely impressed!
P is for pimples, in other words, spots,
Of which adolescents can have lots.
A spot on the bum is a right royal pain,
So’s a spot on the conk if you’re
someone that’s vain.
Spots, however, can be fun!
You can burst them, one by one.
This is how to burst a spot:
First you squeeze, and then you pop.
The head flies out – ping, thunk, plop!
After which there comes a gush
Of utterly disgusting mush.
Getting rid of putrefaction
Gives a lot of satisfaction.
I have come to the conclusion that picking spots is all the satisfaction I am ever likely to get. My life is a disaster. I asked Lucy if she’d like to meet me this Saturday, anywhere she chose. She said, “Get a life, Tomato! You are just so sad! You know that? You are just so sad!”
She said she’d had enough of me hanging around after her. She said I was a stuck-up twit, “droning on about your stupid cockroaches,” and that if I thought saying someone’s cheek was squishy was poetic, I must be out of my mind.
She said, “Why don’t you do us all a favour? Dig a hole and bury yourself!”
/>
And then as she flounced off she hurled the word “Cockroach!” at me over her shoulder.
I can’t think what I have done to upset her. What is wrong with the word squishy? Lucy’s cheeks are soft and squishy. Other people’s cheeks are fishy. You’d think she’d see that it was intended as a compliment.
And why did she say I was stuck up? Just because I told Jason Twelvetrees about I Am A Cockroach! I don’t understand it.
I obviously have a long way to go before I unravel the mystery of the opposite sex. But I do know that the path of true love never runs smoothly, so I do not intend to despair. What it probably means is that she fancies me like crazy but is too scared to commit herself. I must be patient with her.
Right now I shall follow my intellectual pursuits. For example, I have finished Cockroach. The last words of the book are the same as the first:
I am a cockroach. I live in dark places, shunning the light.
I have done this deliberately, so the reader will feel that hefn1 has come full circle. I wonder if it is possible to make a book in segments, like an orange?
This would be ideal!
A circular book!
I have sent a copy to Mr Twelvetrees. (Me and Harmony both asked him for his address.) This is the letter that I wrote to go with it:
Dear Mr Twelvetrees,
I very much enjoyed your visit to my school this week and feel that I have learnt a great deal from it.
The things that I have mainly learnt are:
a) an author must not burst into tears when a publisher does not want to publish their book
b) authors do not earn very much money and
c) people become authors at their peril.
I have considered this last point very carefully, but I feel that in this life you have to be prepared to take risks and so I have decided that an author is what I am going to be.
I am sending you a copy of my book, ‘I Am A Cockroach’, that I told you about. I should be most grateful if you would read it and tell me whether you consider it is good enough to be published, and if so please could you give me the names of some publishers.
I am waiting eagerly to hear from you.
Yours very sincerely,
(signed) Salvatore d’Amato
P.S.I realise you must be extremely busy writing your own books, but I would like you to know that your talk inspired me tremendously.
This last bit was not strictly true but I felt he needed all the encouragement he could get. I felt that it was quite brave of him to stand up and try to talk about books in front of people such as Kelvin Clegg, although I expect he didn’t have much choice as he probably needed the money for getting his car repaired. Before he left I heard him asking Mr Mounsey whether his cheque was ready. I hope it was. I think he deserved it.
Harmony says that she has also written to Mr Twelvetrees. She has also sent him a book! She said, “It’s about the Great Wall of China in the fifth century. I’ve done fifty pages so far. There are going to be more than five hundred when I’ve finished.”
I was amazed. I Am A Cockroach only has forty-six! I told this to Harmony and she said it was obviously a novella rather than a novel.
I said, “What’s a novella?”
“A little novel,” said Harmony.
It didn’t seem little while I was writing it. I hope it isn’t too short!
As well as finishing Cockroach and writing to Mr Twelvetrees I have also started on a poem for Harmony.
Harmony Hynde,
I love your mind.
That is as far as I have got. I shall add to it as more ideas come to me. I am waiting for inspiration.
Here is another figure of speech: over the moon.
Q is a letter that’s followed by U
And that is the best that I can do.
Met Harmony at the library. We were both taking our Jason Twelvetrees back.
“I can’t think of anything for Q,” I said. “Can you?”
Harmony said she hadn’t got as far as Q. She said, “Why don’t we go and have a pizza and I’ll think about it? Unless you’re meeting Lucy,” she added.
Just for a minute I felt a glow. Because if Harmony reckons that me and Lucy are going out together, other people must too! But then I remembered that Lucy had told me to dig a hole and bury myself, and I came over all glum and said, “No, I’m not meeting her.”
We went to the Caromon Cafe that’s in the library and bought a couple of pizzas and sort of got talking about things. I told Harmony about my sister, about how she’s got Tourette’s and how I was worried in case I might get it.
Harmony said, “Is Tourette’s that thing where you can’t stop swearing?”
“Yes,” I said. “Four-letter words just come spewing out of you before you can stop them.”
“So what are you worried about?” said Harmony. “It sounds like fun!”
She told me how in her road there was this sweet old lady, very respectable, who shouted swear words at car drivers when they cut her up. She said, “I’m going to do that when I’m old.”
I said, “It’s all right to do it when you’re old. They don’t get mad at you like they do when you’re young.”
Harmony said, “That’s true.”
I then told her how I hated my name. I said that parents did these terrible things to their children without ever stopping to think.
“I mean,” I said, “Salvatore.”
“But it’s Italian,” said Harmony. “It’s nice!”
I said she wouldn’t think it was nice if she was a boy and kept being called Sally.
“It was Mum,” I said. “Going through her Italian phase.”
“Going back to her roots,” said Harmony.
“It’s not her roots!”
“Well, your dad’s.”
I said, “My dad doesn’t even speak Italian! His name isn’t even Italian. He’s called Jake!” And I told her how Dad’s great-great-grandad had come to this country in 1885, for goodness’ sake!
That shut her up a bit. Just for a few seconds.
“It’s still a good name,” she said. “Not like mine. Imagine what it’s like being called Harmony!”
I’d never thought about that. Harmony told me that her parents were seriously unbalanced. She said that she had two sisters – a younger one that was called Viola, pronounce VeeOla, and an older one that was called Melody.
She said, “They did it because they’re music freaks.”
She said that everyone in her family played a musical instrument. Her mum plays the cello, her dad plays the clarinet, VeeOla plays – the veeola! Melody plays the piano and Harmony plays the violin.
“Honestly,” she said, “it’s a cacophony.”
I said, “What do you think they’d have called a boy?”
Harmony rolled her eyes and said, “Sax? Tuba? Tuba Hynde!”
“It’s criminal,” I said. “It shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Did you know,” said Harmony, “that there was once a couple that christened their baby Thingie?”
I said, “Thingie?” and we both collapsed.
“You see, it could be worse,” said Harmony. And then she said, “I’ve thought of something for Q! How about, Q is for quart, which rhymes with wart? Or else you could have, Q is for queen, which rhymes with obscene. Or, Q is for queer, which rhymes with leer.”
It never occurred to me to do that. I said, “I kept trying to think of rude words that began with Q!”
“I don’t think there are any,” said Harmony. “It’s not a very rude sort of letter.” Then all nonchalant she goes, “By the way, I’ve bought you a present. Here!”
And she thrust this tatty old brown envelope at me. Inside the envelope was – a copy of Brewer’s! Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.
“I’m afraid it’s only second-hand,” she said. “But I thought you might like it.”
I said, “That’s great!” It is too. I keep breaking off to look things up in it. It�
�s what Mr Mounsey would call a mine of information. Inside, she’s written “For Salvatore with love from Harmony”. (I only noticed that when I got back home.)
“I was hoping I’d bump into you,” she said, “so that I could give it to you.”
I said, “Hey, wow, thanks, Harmony!” and she looked really pleased. I told her that I’d got a present for her. “Only I haven’t finished it yet … it’s a poem I’m writing for you.”
“For me?” squeaked Harmony; and her face turned this sort of pale rose-pink. It made her look quite prettyish. Not as pretty as Lucy, of course! No one could look as pretty as Lucy.
Luscious Lucy, so divine!
Lucy, please won’t you be mine?
I can’t stop thinking about her! My hormones must be in a terrible state. I picture them as being these little self-important blobby things with legs, frantically dashing about in my blood stream.
Harmony wanted to know what sort of poem I was writing. She said, “Is it a disgusting one?”
I said, “No, of course it’s not.”
She said, “Is it a funny one?”
“No,” I said. “It’s a serious one.” And then quickly, before she could go getting the wrong idea, I said, “But it’s not yucky.”
“You mean, it’s not a love poem,” said Harmony.
“Well – um – no,” I said, “not exactly.”
“It’s all right,” said Harmony. “I wouldn’t expect you to write me a love poem. That’s more the sort of thing you’d write for Lucy.”
When she said the name Lucy, all my hormones rushed to my face and started yammering to get out. It was like I was on fire! Harmony looked at me, sympathetically.
“Does it hurt?” she said.
I said, “Does w-w-what hurt?”
“Being in love,” said Harmony.
I said, “I’m n-n-n-n—”
Harmony rested her elbow on the table, her chin on her hand, and leaned towards me.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
I said, “I c-c-c-c—”