by Danny Weston
‘Err …’ Owen felt vaguely foolish talking to a dummy, but he answered anyway. ‘My name’s … Owen.’
‘I know that!’ snapped Mr Sparks. ‘I’m not cloth-eared, I did hear the conversation earlier. What I mean is, what have we got here? What sort of a fellow? Good, bad, smart, stupid?’ He leaned forward slightly on Mr Schilling’s lap. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ he whispered.
‘Er … I suppose so.’
‘Good. I’m not a dummy. I’m a real boy.’
Mr Schilling looked down at him sternly.
‘Now then, Charlie, what have I told you about making things up?’
‘I’m not making it up!’ protested Mr Sparks. ‘You know me, Otto, I only ever speak the truth. Cross my heart and hope to die.’ He leaned even closer. ‘Unlike Otto here, who tells everyone he’s Belgian, but we know that’s not true, don’t we, Owen? We know Mr Schilling actually comes from Aachen, which is across the border from Belgium, so technically speaking …’ He flipped his eyebrows up and down, making a squeaking sound. ‘He’s a flipping Hun … a German!’
Owen couldn’t help but laugh at this, but Mr Schilling looked genuinely angry. ‘Charlie, I’ve told you before! You mustn’t go around saying those things about me. You’ll cause me all kinds of problems.’
‘Huh. You think you’ve got problems! Try being squashed in a box all day long and see how you like that.’ He returned his attention to Owen. ‘So … Owen. Have you got a surname?’
‘Er … yes. It’s Dyer.’
Mr Sparks’ eyes seemed to light up at this news. He burst into a little poem. ‘This is the tale of Owen Dyer. He tried to join a male voice choir. The choirmaster said, “No fear! We don’t want no Dyer ’ere!”’ Mr Sparks threw back his head and guffawed delightedly. ‘See what I did there? Dyer ’ere. Diarrhoea!’
Owen had been watching Mr Schilling intently as the poem was recited. It was an amazing performance. There was not the quiver of a lip or the twitch of an Adam’s apple to give the game away. ‘That’s fantastic,’ he said.
‘Don’t be looking at him!’ protested Mr Sparks. ‘I’m the one doing all the hard work. That old fool just smiles and takes the money.’ He fluttered his eyelashes. ‘So, Owie … you don’t mind if I call you that, do you?’
‘I prefer Owen.’
‘But it sounds better, doesn’t it? It sounds less … Welsh. Not that there’s anything wrong with the Welsh. Some of my best enemies are Welsh. What was that poem I used to know? Oh yes! Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my house and stole a leg of beef—’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ interrupted Owen, looking accusingly at Mr Schilling. ‘That’s not very nice.’
‘I’ve told you,’ protested Mr Sparks. ‘Don’t be looking at him! You think he controls what I say? I’d like to see him try. Now look, maybe we’ve got off on the wrong foot, Owie. Let’s be friends. My friends call me Charlie so you can call me … Mr Sparks!’ The dummy waggled his head from side to side for a moment, before continuing. ‘No, seriously … I need to ask you a question.’
‘Umm … right?’
‘That steaming old baggage downstairs … I’m sorry, I mean that charming lady at the desk. That was your mother, was it?’
‘No it wasn’t. That’s my Auntie Gwen.’
‘Ooh! This is the tale of Auntie Gwen, who sat upon a fountain pen. The pen pushed through, her pants so blue. She still leaves ink marks, now and then!’ Mr Sparks sniggered at his own cleverness. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice again. ‘Shall I tell you another secret?’ he murmured.
‘Erm …’
‘You don’t like Auntie Gwen very much.’
‘Oh, that’s not—’
‘You don’t! I can read you like a book!’
‘Don’t pick on the boy,’ suggested Mr Schilling. ‘You’ll hurt his feelings.’
Owen looked at the old man, nonplussed. This seemed a bit rich. After all, it was him making the dummy say these terrible things.
‘She’s … not so bad,’ said Owen, trying to sound matter of fact.
‘Not so bad as in not so good? I reckon she’s a right old nag. Where is your mummy, Owie?’
‘She’s … not around,’ said Owen, trying to keep the misery out of his voice. ‘She’s … in a hospital.’
‘Oh dear. Hope it’s not the Spanish ’flu?’
‘No. It’s … not that sort of hospital.’
‘Oops.’ Mr Sparks waggled his eyebrows and glared at Mr Schilling. ‘Quickly, Otto,’ he hissed. ‘Change the subject, change the subject!’ He turned back to look at Owen and somehow affected a look of sympathy. ‘And what about dear old Dad?’
‘He … died in the War,’ said Owen quickly. ‘Or at least, he—’
‘Oh my goodness. You have been in the wars, haven’t you? Well, obviously it was your dad that was in the wars. You’re just the innocent bystander. Aww, poor little Owie! What a tragedy. Your poor old dad. Murdered.’ He turned to look up at Mr Schilling. ‘By the wicked Hun,’ he added slyly, and he gave Owen a broad wink.
‘Charlie,’ snapped Mr Schilling. ‘One of these days, you really will go too far and then …’
‘Then what, Herr Schilling? Don’t forget who puts the bread on the table. If I decided to stop talking, you’d be in a right old pickle, wouldn’t you?’
They gazed at each other for a moment and it seemed to Owen that in the silence, he could feel waves of mutual hatred pulsing between them. Finally Mr Sparks turned slowly back to look at Owen. ‘So from what you’re telling me … you’re practically an orphan.’ He put his head to one side and fluttered his eyelashes, making a faint clattering sound. ‘Aww … kind of gets you right there, doesn’t it?’ Mr Shilling lifted one of Mr Sparks’ hands and placed it briefly on his chest. Mr Sparks closed his eyes for a moment as though thinking, then opened them and said, ‘You know what I’m thinking, Otto? This could be the one we’ve been looking for.’
Mr Schilling studied Owen for a moment. He shook his head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘He’s just a boy.’
‘Well, you were a boy once … back in the Dark Ages.’ He gave a hideous little cackle. ‘How old are you, Owie?’
‘I’m … twelve.’
‘Oh yes, the golden age. I remember when I was twelve … ah, happy days. Of course, we made our own entertainment then. You could get an old wooden tea chest and play with it for hours. God, we were bored!’ He chuckled. ‘How old d’you think I am, Owie?’
‘Err … gosh, I don’t know.’
‘Take a wild guess!’
‘Umm …’
‘Go on, guess. GUESS!’
‘Er … thirty-five?’
Mr Sparks’ jaws snapped shut with a click. He sat there, his big blue eyes gazing mercilessly at Owen. ‘That’s how old you think I am? Thirty-five? Thirty-flipping-five? Is that how old I look to you?’
‘Well, no, you look like a little boy, but I thought … somebody could have made you a long time ago, couldn’t they? Maybe you’re older than you look.’
Mr Sparks’ grin seemed to grow across his face. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘He’s young, Otto, but he’s smart. He’s using the old grey matter.’ Mr Schilling lifted one of the dummy’s hands to clunk it against the side of his head, making a hollow sound. ‘Well, if that’s your thinking, let me tell you that I am actually two hundred and fourteen years old. But not looking bad on it, I reckon!’ He giggled. ‘You know, I like you, Owie Boy. I think we could be on to something here.’ He swivelled his head to look up at Mr Schilling. ‘I really think he could be the one.’
Owen wondered what Charlie was getting at. What one?
Mr Schilling looked wary and Owen thought a little scared. ‘I don’t think he’s suitable at all,’ he said. ‘You need to find somebody more—’
‘More what? Smarter? Older? Taller? Fatter? I keep suggesting people but you keep ruling them out. Let me remind you, Otto, we don’t have that much time … the sands are r
unning out, my old friend, in more ways than one. You need to start giving some serious thought to what happens next. You’re not well!’
Mr Schilling sighed. ‘You’re tiring me out, Charlie,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to go back in your trunk.’
Mr Sparks reacted dramatically to this, his eyes rolling in his head, his mouth opening and closing. ‘Oh no, don’t put me back in the box! Please! I’ve only been out for five minutes.’
‘I told you. I’m tired. I need to rest.’
‘Otto, wait! I was only making a suggestion!’
But now Mr Schilling was getting up from the chair and carrying Mr Sparks the short distance across the room to the trunk and it looked to Owen as though the dummy was actually wriggling in Mr Schilling’s hands.
‘Hold still, damn you!’ roared Mr Schilling. ‘You will go back.’ Now he was pushing Mr Sparks down inside the cramped drawer space.
‘No, please, just five more minutes. Five more minutes! I’ll be good, I promise. Owie! Tell him not to do it!’ The drawer slid shut and the voice was magically diminished. ‘Otto! Otto, let me out. LET ME OUT! Please …’
‘I warned you, Charlie. You’ve got to stop spreading rumours about me. It’s not fair!’
‘Let me out, Otto. PLEASE! I’ll be good, I promise.’
Just at that moment, Aunt Gwen’s voice came echoing up the stairs.
‘Owen? What have you been doing up there all this time? I’ve got a hundred jobs waiting for you down here.’
Owen sighed. He left the old man and his dummy to it, wondering as he did so what it took to make a man continue in such a fashion, even when he wasn’t on stage. Perhaps, he thought, Mr Schilling was a little crazy. A brilliant ventriloquist though. He went to the door and stepped outside, closing it behind him. But he lingered for a moment, listening, as the two voices continued to rage at each other, one at full volume, one muted by layers of cardboard and leather.
‘Otto, listen to me. You can’t just pretend this isn’t happening. We have to find somebody soon!’
‘Charlie, I’m tired. Let me sleep!’
Owen let out a long breath. ‘Crazy,’ he muttered. But then he thought of his mother, all alone in that horrible place in Denbigh and he felt guilty for even having thought the word. He sighed and went downstairs to find Aunt Gwen.
3
The Deal
There was no sign of Mr Schilling all the rest of that day and Owen didn’t have much time to spare. Following Aunt Gwen’s barked commands, he filled the hours by fetching and carrying, scrubbing and cleaning and as far as he knew, the old man didn’t emerge from his room once.
In between giving out orders, Aunt Gwen fretted about this.
‘What kind of a man sits in his room all day and doesn’t even order a glass of water?’ she asked Owen as he stood at the sink, peeling potatoes for dinner. The chef, Mr Cadwallader, a big, heavy-gutted man with a stubby beard, was at the other end of the large kitchen doing something complicated with a leg of mutton.
‘I think he was tired,’ said Owen; and thought, I know how he feels.
‘What kind of a man is he?’ continued Aunt Gwen.
‘He’s an entertainer,’ said Owen, not daring to look up from his work. ‘One of those ventriloquist people.’
‘A what?’
‘You know, they have a dummy and they make it speak, without moving their lips. He has this one called Mr Sparks. He put on a little show while I was up there. Er … just while I was getting the trunk set up and everything. He was very good.’
‘Hmph! No wonder you took so long up there. I ought to take it out of your wages.’
‘You don’t pay me any wages,’ Owen reminded her.
‘No, but I give you a roof over your head, don’t I? A decent bed to sleep in. And a square meal in your belly. That’s more than your mother can do for you.’
Owen’s hand tightened on the potato knife. He hated it when Aunt Gwen got on to the subject of her sister. The two had never got along with each other and since Ma’s dramatic change in fortunes, Gwen seemed to take every opportunity to gloat. She started now on a familiar topic. ‘I told Meg, I said to her, “Don’t you be getting all high and mighty with me, just because you’ve met some man. Life has a way of taking you down a peg or two,” I said. And sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.’
Owen felt like telling Aunt Gwen what he really thought of her, but knew that he couldn’t do that. He’d learned by now that the only way to get her to go along with anything you wanted was to appeal to her better nature. And surely even she must have one hidden away deep down inside.
‘I was wondering …’ he said.
Aunt Gwen sniffed. ‘Wondering what?’ she asked him, suspiciously.
‘I was thinking that it’s been ages since we visited Ma. You did say we could go again, after the summer season. And … well, it is October.’
Aunt Gwen scowled. ‘It’s such a job getting there,’ she said. ‘Those dirty smelly trains. And besides, I don’t really see the point. I mean, it’s not as if she even knows we’re there, is it? She just sits in that chair staring out of the window.’ She did a mock shudder. ‘Fair gives me the creeps, it does.’
‘I think she did know we were there, last time,’ said Owen. ‘She squeezed my hand.’
‘Yes, well you want to be thankful it wasn’t your throat she was squeezing. I tell you, there’s nothing much left of the Meg I used to know. I’d be afraid to be left alone with her.’
Just then, the door opened and Effie, one of the younger maids, popped her head in.
‘Please, miss, we’ve had a request for a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. The gentleman in room seven.’
‘Thank you, Effie,’ said Aunt Gwen and watched as she closed the door again. She rolled her eyes. ‘The last of the big spenders,’ she said. ‘A cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. I ask you! Mr Cadwallader?’
‘I heard, marm,’ said the chef patiently. He stopped what he was doing and waddled over to the sink to wash his bloody hands. Then he went to the cold box to get cheese.
‘You can take it up to him,’ Aunt Gwen told Owen. ‘Since you were getting along so famously.’
‘Umm … all right. And … about Ma?’
Aunt Gwen shrugged her shoulders. ‘We’ll see,’ she said. Which Owen knew from bitter experience actually meant, ‘No chance.’ He watched as she strode out of the kitchen, looking for somebody else to order around and not for the first time, he thought wistfully about running away from here and leaving the Sea View far behind.
Owen carried the tray carefully up the stairs and tapped on the door of room seven.
‘Come in,’ said a weak voice. He turned the handle and pushed open the door. Mr Schilling was lying in bed, the covers pulled up to his chest. His pale features were propped up by a mound of pillows, his grey hair in disarray. He didn’t look well at all, Owen thought, even worse than when he’d first arrived.
Owen stood for a moment, unsure of what to do, but the old man beckoned him closer with a skeletal arm. ‘Bring it over here,’ he said, gesturing at the bedside cabinet.
‘Are you all right?’ Owen asked him, as he set the tray down. ‘I could call for a doctor, if you like.’
Mr Schilling gave him a strained smile. ‘It’s nothing that any doctor can fix,’ he assured Owen. ‘It’s called old age. You have it all to look forward to, my boy, but it’s a long way down the line for you.’ He gave a dry chuckle that somehow mutated into a hacking cough. He was obliged to pull a handkerchief from under the covers and hold it to his mouth. When he took it away again, Owen couldn’t help noticing some crimson spots on the white fabric.
‘You’re really not well,’ said Owen. ‘Perhaps I could …’
Mr Schilling waved him to silence. He reached out and picked up the glass of milk with a shaking hand, then lifted it to his lips and drank.
‘Hey, what about me?’ said a muffled voice from the direction of the trunk and, once again, Owen m
arvelled at the old man’s skill. He’d seen the trick done by other ventriloquists, but never so well. ‘Have I been forgiven yet?’
Mr Schilling lowered the glass and set it down on the tray. He looked at Owen. ‘Will you oblige me?’ he asked, pointing in the direction of the trunk.
‘Oh … yes, of course.’ Owen walked across the room to the trunk and as he did so, he experienced a strange kind of anticipation. He stooped, took hold of the handle of the central drawer and pulled. It slid smoothly out and Mr Sparks’ pink features gazed up at him. ‘You certainly took your time,’ he said.
Owen couldn’t help it. He jumped back, startled, because the dummy’s mouth had moved along to the words. But how was that possible when Mr Schilling was lying in bed on the other side of the room?
‘Are you going to stand there gawping like a goldfish or are you going to pick me up?’ demanded Mr Sparks.
‘Er … yes … sure.’ Owen looked at Mr Schilling, who was lying there staring blankly up at the ceiling, not taking any interest in the proceedings. Owen reached in and picked up Mr Sparks, handling him with exaggerated care, as though he was a baby. He was amazed to discover that he was surprisingly heavy and that he actually felt warm through his clothes. A low vibration seemed to emanate from him, almost like an electric current. Owen carried the dummy across to the bed and not sure of what to do, laid him alongside his owner. Now two heads stared up at Owen from the pillows – one pale, drawn and anxious, the other round, pink and grinning gleefully.
‘That’s better,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘And how is Owie Bowie?’
‘I’m well, thank you. How … how are you?’ A thought flashed through his mind. You’re talking to a wooden puppet, you idiot! But he couldn’t help himself. There was something so compelling about Mr Sparks, something that seemed … real. But that couldn’t be the case. So how was it done? As far as he could see, Mr Schilling wasn’t even touching the dummy. His hands were lying by his sides on top of the bed covers.
‘Oh, I’m just fine and dandy. Thank you for asking.’ Mr Sparks turned his head to one side. ‘Nice polite boy,’ he observed.