by Annie Murray
‘Come here love.’ Mum led me to the sofa, held my left hand in both of hers and looked at me with sad, worried eyes.
‘You mustn’t worry. I’m not going climbing, not like Dad. I’ve just got to go, because unless I do…’ She was struggling hard not to cry but it wasn’t working and her voice was breaking up. She could cry, but I couldn’t. ‘I just can’t take in that he’s gone….’
‘He hasn’t gone!’ I raged at her. ‘He’s out there somewhere - with Kanche!’
She didn’t know about Kanche. Talking very carefully, as if one of us might snap in half if she raised her voice, she went on, ‘I’ve got to see his resting place, even if it’s not the exact spot. If he’d died at home we’d have a grave to visit, but we’ll have to make a special place for him. And I’ll take photographs…’
But I wasn’t listening. I snatched my hand away, tore up to my room and flung myself on my rumpled up quilt, curled up tight and squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to think about anything. I just wanted the darkness behind my eyelids blanking everything out and my bed and soft quilt where it felt safe. I didn’t want Mum making plans for me.
‘Janey…’ She sounded calm now, and steely. I wouldn’t be able to argue because everything was already decided. I felt the side of the bed sink down as she sat on it, then her warm, strong hand stroking my back.
‘You’re going to do something very exciting. And brave. Dad’d be so proud of you.’
Did she expect me to look up and be all interested? I just lay there with my eyes closed. Then I felt something fluffy against my ear, my soft, noseless bear, Grimley (he lost his black plastic nose in a nasty accident involving the back wheel of the car, so there’s just a creamy ring of fur in the middle of his brown face). She was stroking me with his paw – as if that was going to make everything OK, as if I was some kind of baby. I clenched my fists and curled up tighter, but then it did tickle and I couldn’t help a smile creeping over my face. In the end I opened my eyes. Mum was smiling back. Grimley was looking as wise as anyone can without a nose.
‘You’re going away too.’ She used a story time voice and I realized I did need her to treat me like a baby. Just for a few minutes, anyway. ‘I phoned Grandpa George and Auntie Brenda and asked if you could come and stay while I’m away. And Grandpa said, well, yes, of course she can, but I’m Going on a Journey.’ (She said it the way Grandpa speaks sometimes, like announcements with Capital Letters at the Beginnings of Words). ‘He and Brenda had planned to go away, so if you’re staying with them, you’ll be able to go too.’
‘But…’ I protested, sinking inside. I hardly knew Grandpa George, let alone his new wife Brenda. My Granny Jean, Mum’s mother, died when I was six and Grandpa married again just two years ago. Brenda was a very prim lady with black bat-wing glasses. ‘I don’t want to go with them! Why can’t I come with you?’
‘I can’t take you, love. It’d be too much for you – it’s a tough place. And you know, Pete – your Dad – ‘ Her face crumpled for a moment at his name. ‘He and I have been very bad about keeping up with family. We were always too far away and too busy, and then when Mum died I lost contact even more. It’ll mean you get to know your Grandpa better. It’s important.’
‘I don’t want to know him better!’ I burst out. Grandpa sold antiques and all I remembered about his house was that it was crammed full of dark old stuff, wooden chests like coffins and stuffed birds and spinning wheels. ‘He’s creepy and his house is creepy and Brenda’s bossy and his dog’s smelly and I’m not going! Why can’t I go to Lorna’s, or stay here on my own?’
But there was no arguing with her.
‘I know Grandpa’s a bit odd, but he’s not creepy – you know that’s not fair, don’t you?’
I had to nod.
‘He’s more like a big kid himself really. And it won’t be for long. I just need to see the place, and as soon as I’ve finished, I’ll come and join you, wherever you all are. I promise.’
I couldn’t seem to get my voice above a whisper. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To Italy,’ she said.
‘In a caravan?’ Charlotte wrinkled her nose. ‘Isn’t that a bit weird?’
We were in her room where she had a sofa which opened out into a bed, with silky cushions on. Her Mum and Dad had let her paint two of the walls purple. Dad said her parents were ‘academics,’ so they had off-beat ideas.
‘I s’pose,’ I said.
I didn’t want Charlotte to think it was weird; I wanted her to be envious, even though I thought it was pretty weird too. But mostly I was just glad she was talking to me and not treating me as if I might smash like a vase and going off with Katy Harris because they did ballet together and she didn’t know what to say to me because I’d got hair like a scarecrow’s and they thought my dad had died. But then, I conceded, would I have known what to say if it was her? I decided I’d better try a bit harder.
‘It means missing school, at least.’
Charlotte grinned suddenly. She had a lovely friendly grin which wrinkled up her freckly nose. ‘Lucky thing. Here – want some?’
She’d got a big packet of wine gums. Charlotte loved jelly sweets. I took four: red, green, black, orange and grinned back at her.
‘Pig,’ she said.
‘Pig yourself! So what if I am?’
Things were starting to feel right again and inside I was whirling with happiness. Charlotte’d been my best friend since she came to the school when we were six. I couldn’t stand it if that went as well.
‘Yummy. Thanks.’
‘So let’s get this straight – your Mum’s going to India and you’re going to Italy?’
‘Ummm,’ I nodded, mouth squishily full of wine gum. Just for a second I was enjoying this. It made my life sound interesting and exotic, even if I what I ached for was to switch everything back to three months ago when Dad was still here and everything was all right.
‘India and then up to the mountain – it’s on the edge of Nepal and Sikkim.’
Wide-eyed Charlotte asked, ‘So when’re you coming back?’
I shrugged. ‘Dunno. July, August?’
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Epic.’ Her family were going to a house in Brittany like they did every year.
But I was still wobbly about everything. There was something I badly needed to know.
‘If I write will you write back?’
Charlotte shook back her mop of chaotic brown hair, gathering it in a bunch behind her head.
‘Course. But how’m I going to do that?’
‘Mum says there are places you can write to called Poste Restante, where they keep letters for you. We give you the address – you write and I’ll pick it up.’
‘Golly. OK then.’
She didn’t sound too sure.
‘Promise?’ I didn’t want her to know how desperate I felt but I must have sounded it.
She shook her hair loose again and it rippled gorgeously over her shoulders. ‘Course. We’re best friends aren’t we?’
‘Yeah.’ My grin grew and spread. ‘Course we are. Always.’
IV.
‘Hello my Little Dears!’
Grandpa came out to meet us as the Two CV scrunched to a standstill on the gravel drive. He was wearing a natty suit in blinding red and green checks on a coffee coloured background, a red bow tie and a straw hat. Running beside him on short, muscley legs came his dog Mungo the Bassett Hound, brown and white, long and sausagey, with saggy eyes and the longest of ears. Mungo gave a deep ‘WOOF’ several times in an interested sort of way.
‘Hello Dad!’
Mum sounded shy as she climbed out of the car and I saw her enfolded in Grandpa’s arms. Kissing her cheek knocked his hat off and it skittered across the gravel like a frisbee. He looked over at it with astonishment.
‘My word – I‘d forgotten I’d got that on!’
Grandpa’s face was very suntanned and almost as saggy as Mungo’s, with a big nose and sticky out ears and
a shock of white, unruly hair. Even though he was old as the hills he somehow looked like a little boy and his eyes, as he gazed at Mum, were watery blue. ‘’My poor little girl – what a time of it you’re having.’
That set Mum off crying, saying she was so sorry she hadn’t been down more and something about her Mum dying and how she’d been thoughtless…. While all this was going on I squatted down to talk to Mungo, who gave my pumps a thorough sniff and pushed his wet brown nose into my hand, wagging his tail and looking at me with big, mournful eyes.
‘Eh Mungo, are you bothering Janey? Come here, m’dear!’
I went to him, feeling awkward, but then I was in Grandpa’s arms. It felt nice, with his tweed jacket rough against my face and his smells in my nostrils of sweet tobacco and dog and Imperial Leather soap. I felt safe and cosy as he cuddled me, and sorry that I’d said to Mum that Grandpa was creepy. I didn’t really mean it.
‘There, my Little Dear,’ he said. ‘Now don’t you worry. Let’s go in and have a Nice Cup of Tea.’
That was when I really looked at the house which I hadn’t seen for ages. It had taken us hours, driving south until we reached this village in Berkshire with its narrow lanes and cottages with thatched roofs like Grandpa’s and flowers bursting out of gardens and pots on windowsills. Grandpa’s cottage was set back from the road and at the entrance to the drive, a white sign dangled from a post with ANTIQUES painted on in old-fashioned letters. The house was crumpled and rickety looking like Grandpa, with beams and wonky windows like eyes, thatch for hair and the front door like a long mouth saying ‘OH!’. Along the front grew masses of flowers in beds and wavy red and white hollyhocks bigger than me and pink clematis climbing the walls like a flowery beard.
At the side of the house, squeezed in between the wall and the overgrown hedge, I caught a glimpse of the caravan with red and white spotty curtains at the windows. Just for a moment I felt excited.
Grandpa George led us to the house carrying his straw hat and I followed Mum, feeling a bit better about things. His hug had sort of warmed me up. But there was still Brenda.
It wasn’t a very big house for them to live in and have as a shop as well, so there was stuff spilling out all over the drive: chairs, stools, a long table stacked with piles of plates, china dogs and shepherds, some swords and a pretty clock. All along the little flowerbed under the window was a row of mysterious looking boxes.
‘Know what they are?’ Grandpa paused by the step with Mungo following as if he was glued to grandpa’s ankles. ‘They’re old rat-traps.’
‘Goodness,’ Mum said. ‘Do they sell?’
‘Oh yes,’ Grandpa replied airily. He pointed to one with a little metal slope for the unsuspecting rat to scuttle up into the trap. ‘That model is called “Delusion.”’
The hall was narrow and dark and we passed two rooms on each side, so crammed full of furniture that there was barely space to move. Grandpa and Brenda lived at the back of the house.
‘Brenda m’dear!’ Grandpa called, flinging his straw hat over the head of a gold plaster cherub balanced, smilingly on one leg. He turned and winked at us both.
‘Are they here yet?’ The sound of the flustered voice calling from upstairs made my stomach clench again. I only remembered Brenda from her wedding to Grandpa, with her scary glasses and tight face under her veil.
‘Yes – home and dry! I’ll get the kettle on!’
The kitchen and living room were all one long room along the back of the house with a kitchen one end and a snug sitting room the other. There were dark red rugs on the floor and a big open fireplace with logs in it. Mungo settled himself on his blanket in the corner with a loud grunt which made Mum and me laugh. Mungo looked rather offended.
‘He knows how to look after himself all right,’ Grandpa said as water slooshed into the kettle.
‘Well now, hello dears!’
Brenda sounded nervous, as if she was trying a bit too hard. She wasn’t dressed up like the last time I saw her, so she looked more normal, in dark blue ‘slacks’ (her word for trousers) and a light blue wool top with short sleeves. She was a small woman, her hair short and tightly curled, looked hard as if she’d got a whole can of hairspray on it. And you couldn’t exactly see her face because of her big specs which seemed to take over the whole area.
Scuttling over to us she pecked Mum on the cheek, saying, ‘Liz dear – you poor girl,’ and then did the same to me. She seemed frightened of us, and I felt chillier all of a sudden, as if I’d been kissed by the Snow Queen. I shot Mum a desperate look. Please don’t leave me here, not with her! You just can’t!
But of course she did.
Mum stayed one night, the two of us crammed into a tiny room at the back of the house, her in the bed and me on the floor. Cuddled up under the old eiderdown I missed my quilt and everything smelt musty and strange. I didn’t say anything to Mum. I knew she felt awful about leaving me and I didn’t want to make it any worse.
In the morning Brenda fussed about, giving us boiled eggs in little china cups. She couldn’t seem to sit still for a moment, popping up saying, ‘Would you like more toast? Some marmalade? Another egg?’
‘It’s all right Brenda,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t worry, we can make it ourselves.’ But it was no good. I just wished Brenda didn’t seem to find us so terrifying.
After breakfast Mum packed her bag into the Two CV. I could see she was trying not to cry so I stopped myself as well. Sometimes, Dad would say, you just have to put one foot in front of the other and get through things.
Grandpa didn’t try and stop Mum going to the mountains either. He could see she needed to do it.
‘Go well my dear, and take very good care of yourself. Janey will be in safe hands with us!’ And he kissed her on both cheeks and held her tight for a moment.
‘Do be careful, won’t you?’ Brenda said.
Last night when we were eating sausages she’d said, ‘I don’t know how anyone could climb mountains like that. It makes me go cold just thinking about it.’ And then, half to herself, she said, ‘What a waste.’ She was talking about Dad, and although I was angry with Dad for not being here I wanted to say to her, ‘Don’t criticize him! He’s brave and strong and he’s on his way home!’ But of course I couldn’t.
Mum cuddled me close and my chest ached, but my tears were locked deep inside. She gently pushed me away, held the top of my arms for a moment and looked very seriously at me.
‘I’ll be back soon. Grandpa’s told me roughly where you’re going. I’ll come and find you all.’
‘Give my love to Daddy,’ I whispered, because I didn’t want to say things like that in front of Brenda.
Mum nodded, her eyes staring deep into me, as if she was pouring love into me to last me through. Then she got in the car and drove away. The last thing I saw was her white hand waving.
Fizz and the Ship of Dreams
I.
Two days later we were, as Grandpa said, ‘OFF.’
Grandpa’s car was a battered green Land Rover with chunky wheels, three seats at the front and lots of room to pack things in the back.
Stowed on top of the suitcases was a feather bed – like a giant quilt stuffed with feathers and very heavy.
‘You’re not taking that Victorian monstrosity are you?’ Brenda protested as Grandpa staggered out carrying it. Her own arms were piled with plastic boxes of sugar, flour and tea.
Grandpa clearly was taking ‘that Victorian monstrosity.’
‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘Goose feathers. Utter comfort.’
Brenda rolled her eyes behind her batty glasses.
‘And Janey can lie on it in the back if she likes, and cuddle up.’
I liked the sound of that. Things were OK when I was with Grandpa. From the day we arrived, he never wore that loud suit again. Instead he appeared in washed out blue trousers and a blue and white checked shirt, sleeves rolled up, his arms deep brown and sinewy like old tree branches. He wore a coloured scarf tied at
his neck instead of the scarlet bow tie, and always, always, the straw hat. And while he got things done, fiddling with the car and caravan, carrying things back and forth and getting me to help, he had a stream of tunes coming from him in ‘pom-pom-poms’ and ‘woof-oof-oofs.’
Mungo, at his heels, woofed as well, at anyone who went past on the road, until that evening when we had to take him to the kennels where he was going to stay while we were away. The lady who owned the kennels put Mungo in a big pen with chicken wire all round, with his own bowls inside for food and water. Mungo’s ears stood out from his head when he heard all the other dogs barking round him. He looked worried and bewildered.
‘Easiest if you say goodbye and go quickly,’ the woman ordered.
‘Bye bye Mungo.’ I patted the soft top of his head. It seemed so mean to leave him.
Grandpa bent over and patted Mungo’s toffee and white back.
‘Cheerio old boy. See you soon.’
The bossy lady shut Mungo in, and Grandpa seemed to be a bit watery round the eyes.
‘Now,’ he said, taking a deep breath as we walk away. ‘Just One More Thing. Then we’re ready to go.’
The One More Thing was a big cardboard box which he asked me to help him stow in the car under the goose feather bed while Brenda was inside cooking. It was wide but not deep and I could lift it: it wasn’t too heavy.
‘What’s in there?’ I asked.
‘Something I should have dealt with a long time ago. You’ll find out, in due course.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Best not say anything – all right?’
‘Five o’clock,’ Grandpa said, perched on my bed next morning. ‘Time to be on the move.’
Outside the air smelt delicious, full of flowers and dew and the scent of night turning to morning. I sat up between Grandpa and Brenda. The Landrover’s engine sounded very loud in the silent village. Light gradually washed over the fields and Brenda spread a tea towel over her lap and opened a packet of very tidy egg sandwiches, and coffee in a flask. The smell of it made me feel a bit sick but she’d brought me some orange squash instead. When I spilled some of it on my jeans, Brenda dabbed at it with the tea towel. She was wearing a neat, mauve dress and cardigan.