A Boy Called Hope

by Lara Williamson

  “Put Dad out of your head,” says Grace, eyeballing me.

  I pick up the pirate again. “I have no plans whatsoever,” I say, manoeuvring the pirate to the edge of the coffee table. “If I had any thoughts of going on a quest, I have squashed them like a doubloon trampled under the foot of a one-eyed, overweight pirate with a parrot squawking, ‘Pieces of eight!’ in his ear. Nope, I would rather walk the plank than search for the treasure I desire.”

  “You’re weird,” replies Ninja Grace, prising the pirate from my fingers and throwing it onto the floor.

  “Awww…you’ve thrown him into the Ocean of Swirly Carpet.”

  That evening, as I lie on the bed playing my guitar, thoughts of Dad gallop through my mind. I’ve missed him. As my fingers find the strings, I think about how I need a dad in my life. It’s as if, all those years ago, I planted a little Dad seed in my soul. I watered it and cared for it and suddenly, without me realizing, it has turned into a leafy tree. I hum softly. Mum would flip if she knew I was making plans to contact Dad, but that’s because she’s loved-up with the new boyfriend she met in June. Big Dave, he’s called. He owns Kwik Kars and apparently their eyes met over the bonnet of our old Charade. The Charade has gone now but they’ve been together for six months. Music puddles into the dark corners of my bedroom and I play until my fingers ache and I have to stop.

  “Dad,” I whisper into the darkness.

  “Yes, Dan,” I reply in my gruffest voice.

  “You still want me in your life, don’t you? I mean, you wouldn’t hurt me a second time, would you?”

  Dad doesn’t answer.

  From: Dan Hope

  Sent: 22 November 07:54

  To: Malcolm Maynard

  Subject: HELLO

  Hi Dad,

  When I first saw you on telly I was more surprised than when Charles Scallybones the First (the dog Mum bought me when you left) threw up in my school trainers and I put my feet in them. I thought, there is my Dad and he’s FAMOUS. As you can see, I’m so excited it deserves caps.

  I have tried to imagine what it will be like when you reply to this email, but I can’t. So if you’ll reply then I won’t have to.

  By the way, Grace is still alive. She has this new boyfriend called Stan, but enough of her.

  Back to me: I am eleven now, I can play the guitar, and I’m an expert on a skateboard and the mysteries of Sherlock Holmes. Bet you’d forgotten that you left two books on our bookshelf. One was about getting to the bottom of piles and the other was a book about Sherlock Holmes and how he solved all these mysteries. Well, guess what. I tried to read the one on piles but there were too many strange illustrations, so I read the one on Sherlock Holmes instead. Twice.

  I’ve also redecorated my bedroom since you last saw it. My bed looks like it has been dumped in a galaxy. Imagine lots of glow-in-the-dark stars tacked to the ceiling and you’d be right. And I’ve got a hanging planet mobile that Big Dave, Mum’s friend, bought me. Grace isn’t all that impressed with it. She says no one wants to look up at Uranus. And Mum moans about the mess on the bedroom floor and says my room’s a black hole. I looked up black holes and they’re a region in space where nothing can escape, not even light. There are different black hole classifications. A supermassive black hole is ~105–1010MSun. An intermediate black hole is ~103MSun. A stellar black hole is ~10MSun and a micro black hole is up to ~MMoon. When I told Mum about this she said the black hole in my bedroom is supermassive.

  I’ve never been described as supermassive before. I could get used to this.

  That’s all my news. Could you send me an email telling me what you’ve been up to? It would be nice if we could be pen pals. Do you think we could meet up soon? You don’t have to come to 10 Paradise Parade. I could come to your palace instead. That would be even better than the supermassive black hole.

  Please reply to my email address as soon as possible. I got yours from the TV website. Clever, aren’t I? Mum says I take after her, although I’m not sure this is strictly true.

  Love, Dan. :)

  As I walk down Paradise Parade towards school, I feel different. I probably look different. It’s as though I’m surrounded by a mist of golden ectoplasm. One that says: Dan Hope is the happiest boy in the universe because he has contacted his dad. I even wave and shout, “Hello!” to Mrs Nunkoo as she nudges Samson into the garden. He cocks his leg and releases a golden arch onto her slippers. Mrs Nunkoo waves back but looks mildly surprised. I’d like to think this is because she’s spotted my magical glow but I think it’s because her feet are steaming.

  Turning into Agapanthus Road, I allow myself a little smile. In my mind, I can see Dad opening his emails. His mouth makes an O of surprise when he realizes that his long-lost son has got in touch. Perhaps he’s so happy he’s wiping away a tiny teardrop. No, no, that’s too much, but Dad can’t wait to send me an email back. That message will say that he’s sorry for walking out and not being part of my life. The email will be waiting for me when I get home from school.

  It isn’t.

  The ectoplasm might have lost a bit of its glow but I’m not going to let myself feel too sad. After all, Dad’s a busy man now he’s on TV. He’s probably signing autographs and attending village fêtes and turning up to the opening of an envelope. That’s what Mum says celebrities do these days. I bet I’ll hear from him later this evening, or even tomorrow morning before I go to school.

  I don’t.

  The following day when I walk towards school, the golden ectoplasm has been replaced by a stodgy black cloud. Mrs Nunkoo is bringing in the milk and shouts, “Hello!” and I mumble back as though I have a mouth full of scrambled eggs. My eyes don’t move from the pavement as I turn into Agapanthus Road. It seems my cunning plan hasn’t gone according to plan. Why hasn’t Dad answered yet? The question is on a merry-go-round inside my head.

  Last night, when Mum was doing the evening shift at Aladdin’s Supermarket and Grace was at Stan’s, I switched on the TV and Dad popped up. I watched him for any signs that he’d read my email. I wasn’t expecting him to be wearing a big badge, but I was hoping I’d see something. Perhaps there would be a twitch or a tugging of his earlobe, a secret message between father and son. There was nothing. Dad looked completely calm. In fact, I’d almost say Dad hadn’t given me any thought at all. And I was so annoyed that I didn’t bother having a conversation with him because I knew I’d end up arguing with myself.

  “What’s up with you?” asks Jo, in between drinking from the water fountain in the school playground. “You’ve been in a mood all morning and you didn’t even smile when Mrs Parfitt asked you to give out all the art stuff.”

  “I’ve got a headache,” I reply in a flat voice. I lean against the wall and watch as Jo wipes a dribble of water from her chin.

  “A headache?” Never before has someone looked so happy that their friend has a headache as Jo does at this moment. “That’s great news,” she says. Her hands spring forward and she clasps my shoulders as she insists she can sort it out. “I’ve got this bit of fabric that touched the head of a person who touched the head of a person who touched the head of—”

  “Yeah, get on with it.”

  “Saint Teresa of Avila knew all about headaches. If I touch your head with it your headache will disappear,” says Jo. “And if your headache has given you sore eyes, I’ve got a bit of fabric that touched the grave of a person who touched the grave of a person who touched the grave of Saint Augustine of Hippo, patron saint of sore eyes. Then again, Saint Augustine was also the patron saint of brewers so I’m not sure how useful he’ll be. Anyway, come over to mine after school for a healing session.”

  There is no headache other than the headache Jo is beginning to give me. And I’m pretty sure that a piece of fabric that’s touched a hippo can’t help me with what’s really wrong, which is my lack of contact from Dad. “Yes, okay, if I must,” I say slowly. “But I’m on
ly coming if you don’t put holy water in my orange squash.”

  “I haven’t got any. Dad blocked the toilet yesterday and he grabbed the bottle of holy water and used it as a container for the soggy toilet roll taken from the bowl. I wasn’t very happy.”

  “I bet you weren’t.” I lift my body off the wall.

  “It wasn’t so much about losing the holy water, as the fact that he didn’t ask me first. If he had, I would have directed him to pray to Saint Jude Thaddaeus. Because once Dad has blocked the toilet, he needs help from the patron saint of desperate cases.”

  Mum texts me back to say she doesn’t mind me going to Jo’s, which is just as well because we’re already in Jo’s bedroom and Jo is pressing a plastic card with a scrap of fabric inside onto my forehead. It feels cool against my skin but other than that I can’t say it has made me feel any better. To make Jo happy, I stare at her wall poster of Saint Aloysius Gonzaga with his eyes raised to heaven. Then I roll my eyeballs back before snapping them forward again as if I’m healed. My acting skills aren’t all that, because Jo isn’t convinced.

  “I don’t think this is about a headache at all,” says Jo, setting the card on her bedside table. “There is something else you’re not telling me. By the way, friends don’t keep secrets from one another.”

  “Which saint told you that?”

  “My mother, but she’s not exactly a saint.” Jo folds her arms and blocks my view of Saint Aloysius Gonzaga. “You should tell me your problems.”

  I open my school bag and make this huge deal of pulling out a book and then pretending to read it. “I don’t have any problems.” I don’t look at Jo because I’m so busy reading this absolutely fascinating textbook about the life cycle of a maggot.

  “Your book is upside down,” replies Jo, placing her hands on her hips. By the time I’ve righted it, she’s reached into her bedside table drawer and is holding her hand aloft in a fist. “This is for you. Borrow it for a while. Give it back to me when you’ve got all the answers and you’re healed. And you can’t refuse. It’s rude to say no to a present.” Jo thrusts her hand open and holds it below my nostrils. There, in the centre of her palm, is a silver medal about the size of a ten-pence piece – that’s if you squashed it with a steamroller and made it oblong and therefore nothing like a ten-pence piece at all. On one side, I can see an engraving of a saint who I don’t recognize. Although to be honest, I don’t recognize any of them.

  Cross-eyed, I stare at it. “How many times do I have to tell you my head is fine?”

  “Yes, and I heard you. This isn’t for your head,” Jo admits. “Let me introduce you to Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows. This medal is how I got interested in relics in the first place. It was given to me by the grandma I lost playing bingo. Just after she heard the words ‘Lucky seven, God’s in heaven’ she shouted ‘House!’ and keeled over. They tucked her bingo card in her coffin and Dad said she went to heaven smiling. Dad was smiling too because he inherited her winnings.”

  I only manage to squeak that if it isn’t a medal for illness then what is it for?

  “It’s for someone who needs healing. It’s for someone who is carrying a secret sorrow and they need a dream to come true. It’s for someone like you.”

  Jo told me to write a list of ten things I’d like to happen and treasure it along with the medal of Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows. I said I couldn’t write a list because it would be silly, but she said if I wrote a list Saint Gabriel would read it and heal me by making one of my dreams come true.

  “Do not make the list completely ridiculous,” she warned.

  “Why?” I asked. “Is it because saints can’t work miracles?”

  “Oh, Dan.” Jo shook her head with the look of a weary mastermind on all matters religious. “You know nothing of their mystical ways. You cannot pick them up, ask them for things and then put them down again. Again, I repeat, do not ask for the Crown Jewels because Saint Gabriel will not get them for you. Pick ten things he can do and he’ll choose one from the list of ten and make it happen. It will be the most important one.”

  “How will he know which one is most important?”

  Jo listened carefully then punched at her heart. “He knows because he can see inside you.”

  I figure out that if he can see inside me then there’s no point in writing a list, but I don’t tell Jo.

  Money

  A new sister who doesn’t say horrible things

  A dog with a strong stomach

  An email

  A new bike

  A swimming pool full of chocolate cereal

  To go to a school for wizards instead of Our Lady of the Portal

  To live at 221b Baker Street

  My own rocket called Hope 1

  A dad

  I fold the list around Saint Gabriel, then place him under my bed in a treasure chest on my toy pirate island. I say, “I’m not doing this because I believe you can heal me or anything. I don’t. And if I’m a teeny bit sad it’s because I’ve got a lot of homework to do and nothing else. Anyway, I’m doing this so Jo will shut up about me needing help.” I pause. “But if you could…nah…” Then I spill out, “If you could see your way to making Dad send me an email, then that would be okay.”

  I rush over and fire up the computer.

  No email.

  Thin splinters of anger drive into my heart as I click on the mouse at least ten times. I even double-check that I used the right email address. Of course I did. I look in the spam folder – Dad’s not there either. It is now a fact that my cunning plan to make contact with Dad has failed and he’s ignoring me. So is Saint Gabriel by the looks of things.

  The second email I send isn’t quite as chatty as the first. I tell Dad I’ve been getting loads of gold stars at school and if he’d like to know more he has to email me back. Yes, I realize he is a celebrity and therefore a busy man but I hope he has time to contact his only son. With a finger like a speeding bullet, I hit send and go downstairs for those potato alphabet letters that Mum’s always getting with her staff discount from Aladdin’s Supermarket.

  Big Dave is sitting at the table with a potato X clenched between his teeth. “Sit beside me,” he says, swallowing it and pulling out a chair. Today is Tuesday and for the last three months Big Dave has been eating with us on a Tuesday. I don’t mind because Mum always makes sure we have a good pudding when he’s here. On the days he’s not here we get limp tubes of yogurt, but on Tuesdays we get puddings straight from the big freezers at Aladdin’s. To be honest, it’s not only about my stomach. I like Big Dave because he makes Mum happy. For a long time after Dad left we were all sad. Then I got a dog but Mum got nothing. When Big Dave turned up he was as good as a puppy for her because she started laughing again. That’s when I got my old mum back.

  “Want some more alphabet shapes?” says Mum, offering round the bowl.

  Big Dave manages to spell NO with the alphabet shapes left on his plate and shows this to Mum.

  I almost fall off my chair laughing but then have to stop abruptly when Ninja Grace starts sighing and letting her eyeballs do a three-sixty. When she’s like this it means she’s about to go off on one. Ten seconds later, I can report, she does.

  “The recession hasn’t hit you,” says Grace, putting a Q in her mouth and letting it squelch through her teeth.

  Big Dave scratches at the tattoo on his left arm, leaving tiny traces of grease on the big inked heart. Then he shrugs, flexes his arm and goes back to mopping up his leftover brown sauce with some garlic bread. The tattooed heart pumps and, underneath, the thin scroll saying Caroline 1973 wobbles.

  “What I’m trying to say is that you’re so busy you’ve only got one or two evenings free per week. So the recession has passed you by.” Satisfied, Grace picks up an O and puts it between her lips before sucking it in. “You must have a lot of commitments that stop you seeing Mum.”

  This conversation is going in a direction I don’t like, and it doesn’t help whe
n Grace’s foot connects with my shinbone. I disguise the agony by pretending I’m choking on a B. Grace didn’t have to break my tibia for me to realize what she’s getting at. A few days ago, Nina Biddolpho the newsagent told me Big Dave was married and had a little boy. “Heard it through the grapevine, innit,” said Nina. “Don’t know much about the kid. But that’s what the grapevine told me.” As I’d pondered how big this grapevine must be, she told me the name of Big Dave’s wife.

  “Caz, innit,” she said.

  I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that Caz was short for Caroline and Caroline 1973 were the words lovingly inked on Big Dave’s bulging bicep. All the pieces of the jigsaw started to fit. Big Dave couldn’t be with Mum every night of the week because he was still with his wife, Caroline. I’d told Grace. We’d jumped to conclusions. Well, she did really. She was on a super-sized trampoline with springs on her feet, she was jumping so high. Grace said she knew it all along. Big Dave, it seems, was too good to be true.

  From this point on, Ninja Grace was out to get Big Dave. Apparently, he was Mr Wrong and not Mr Right. I wanted to give him a chance but Grace said no, men wanted to have their cake and eat it. To be honest, I thought that sounded okay but Grace said it wasn’t.