I examined the medal. ‘The George Cross,’ I said admiringly. He must have risked his own life to get it. ‘One day I’ll find out just how he won it.’
‘Actually, we know,’ Dad said. ‘He was in the Civil Defence Unit during the War. The munitions factory in Enfield was bombed and Uncle Albert pulled people from the collapsing building. He saved at least ten lives.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘As soon as we found the medal, I made a few phone calls. You can check these things.’
‘But I planned to write to that neighbour. I thought it would take ages!’
‘David, has it ever occurred to you that someone who’s worked in Data Protection for twenty years might know where to enquire?’
It hadn’t actually. ‘So you managed to do all this and burn down two houses,’ I said admiringly.
Mum and Dad looked shame-faced.
‘Yesterday evening we drove around trying to find you,’ explained Dad, ‘but we couldn’t.’
‘Unfortunately …’ Mum began. Now she did look really ashamed. ‘Unfortunately I’d rushed my chores that morning and set the fire with embers still hot from the day before.’
‘While we were out the fire must have started up, set light to the wooden fire screens in front of it, and the whole lot went up,’ Dad explained.
I shook my head, what irresponsibility. ‘You two make Psycho Phil seem normal.’
‘Who?’
‘Psycho, he’s been haunting next door for months. You know, “dear little Philip”. Six foot three, taking a year off. Slowing down from a dead stop.’
‘Psy-chic Phil, you mean,’ said Ian, coming in with Helen. ‘Psychic, we nicknamed him that after he predicted the winner of the Grand National.’
Abbas’s mum had let Ian and Helen in. ‘So this is the brave young man,’ she said. ‘You did a brave thing.’ It was a long speech for her.
Ian blushed. He looked as shy as Abbas’s little brother. ‘Anyone would’ve done the same,’ he muttered.
Both Mum and Dad looked at him in the way I remembered from when he used to win prizes and scholarships every week.
I felt proud of him too, but I knew he hated being the centre of attention. ‘Pity Psychic Phil couldn’t predict fires,’ I said. It was the first distracting thing I could think of.
Dad smiled. ‘The worst thing is that when we came back and discovered both houses on fire, we blamed Ian and Helen,’ admitted Dad.
‘If the fire started in no 10, and you were out, who called the fire brigade?’
‘I did,’ said Helen.
‘Thought so,’ nodded Abbas.
‘I had to run to a neighbour’s though,’ complained Helen, shaking as she remembered her panic. ‘No 10 was locked. I couldn’t make no 6 hear. I was frantic! I had to try four houses before I could dial 999.’
‘Why didn’t you phone from no 8?’ I asked.
‘Because Harry wouldn’t get off the phone. He’d phoned me to say he was prepared to give me a second chance. The nerve of the man! As he was talking, I saw smoke billowing out of Mum and Dad’s kitchen window. I put down the phone and tried to dial 999, but Harry hadn’t put his receiver back. The line was engaged!’
‘You did fine,’ Dad said, hugging her. ‘We’re very proud of you.’
‘Quick thinking for a beautician,’ I said admiringly.
Mum sighed. ‘We’ve learnt that our children are in some ways more responsible than we are.’
I felt genuinely sorry for her then. She looked so small and crumpled. She was crumpled because she didn’t have a change of clothes, just like the rest of us, but from now on, to me, the smallness was permanent.
‘Mum …’ I began. I wanted to explain that I appreciated her owning up. She’d made a mess of things, but at least she’d admitted it. That’s not easy. But I couldn’t find the words.
‘You know the glass ship,’ I began, irrelevantly.
‘Uncle Albert’s? Yes, I remember it.’
‘I’ve found one just like it. I’m buying it.’
Dad stared. ‘David, you really are a remarkable boy.’
Me – remarkable! The younger brother of a genius – remarkable!
Mum smiled in agreement. ‘Thank goodness we’ve got you to keep the family together,’ she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Another Hero and Another Win
No 82 Highfield Road became the Stirling headquarters after the fire. ‘This is a little house,’ Abbas’s mother said, ‘but home for all our friends.’
So Mum and Dad arrived early on the day of the Cup Final just to drink Ceylon tea. ‘So hospitable,’ Mum said. ‘They must be wonderful neighbours.’
My mind was on the weather. A bitter wind blew. When rain began to lash against the windows of Abbas’s house just an hour before the game was to start, Mum said, ‘I expect that nice Mr Sullivan will postpone the Final until the weather is better.’
‘What?’ I gave a hollow laugh and carried on packing my gear. ‘That “nice Mr Sullivan” would have us playing in a hurricane.’
I’d expected Mum and Dad to come and support St Joe’s but when Helen got into the car, I was surprised. And when Ian got in too, I was staggered. ‘This is a rugby match, not a concert,’ I said.
‘This is your big day. I’m coming to cheer,’ he replied, without a trace of irony.
Then another figure squeezed into the back of the car. ‘Psycho Phil,’ I exclaimed.
‘Kick, Psy-kick,’ corrected Ian.
‘Are we adopting him or what?’ I asked.
‘Leave the poor lad alone,’ ordered Mum, Helen, Ian and I smiled – that’s exactly what she would have said when she was driving a bunch of seven-year-olds to school.
Helen edged over and allowed Psy-kick Phil some space. We drove on towards school. But then we drove past the school.
‘Shan’t be a moment,’ Dad reassured me. ‘I just want to pick something up.’
That’s not how it turned out though. Dad shot out of the car, having parked it on a double yellow line and given Mum instructions about driving off if a traffic warden appeared. But when he came back he was empty-handed.
‘He won’t give it to me,’ he said to Mum. He added, ‘David, come with me.’
He led me through the streets, past McDonald’s and, as we headed down a side alley, I began to guess where we might be going. When he pushed open the door of Flanigan’s antiques, I knew.
‘Well, here he is,’ Dad said triumphantly to the antique dealer.
‘Is it the same boy?’ asked the dealer. ‘The other one was …’ He raised his arms in despair as an accurate description eluded him. I don’t suppose he has many customers who turn up in hob-nail rugby boots.
‘It’s me,’ I acknowledged.
‘I expect he was more normal when you last saw him,’ said Dad, adding unnecessarily, ‘This is more his usual state.’ He was counting out five-pound notes as he spoke.
The antique dealer took the wad of money and went into the back. He returned carrying the ship.
‘Ah yes, I remember it now,’ said Dad. ‘I couldn’t quite picture it. It’s a work of art.’
The antique dealer handed the domed ship to me. ‘I had to be sure it was the lad who’d paid the deposit,’ he said, somewhat defensively.
‘Of course, of course.’ Dad had remembered the car on the double yellow line. He was keen to be away but, as before, money had loosened the antique dealer’s tongue.
‘Your uncle also had a George Cross, I remember.’
I was clutching the glass ship. It was quite a weight. I could only just see over the top of the dome. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘But you lost it.’
I nodded, but the nod was lost behind the dome. Fortunately Dad chipped in, ‘Yes, but we’ve found it now.’ He was heading towards the door, trying to avoid seeing or hearing the dealer’s obvious enthusiasm.
Back in the car Mum turned to look at the ship on the seat b
eside me. ‘You know. It really is beautiful,’ she said with admiration.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve always known.’
‘I remember the other one, Uncle Albert’s. I used to take it for granted. Something that was just there, taking up space.’ She sighed heavily, and turned to look at Dad.
‘Sometimes you have to look with fresh eyes to see beauty,’ said Dad. He paused for a moment. ‘You know, I think he wanted to buy Albert’s medal.’
I had only ten minutes before my game started, but some decisions are easily made.
‘Ian can sell the medal if he wants to,’ I said.
There was silence. We were all thinking about how brave he’d been in the fire. The medal rightfully belonged to him. His violin had been destroyed in the fire and, if he was to get into the Royal Academy of Music as he now wanted to do, he’d have to replace both his piano and the violin.
‘David, are you sure?’ Mum asked.
It’s difficult to made a dignified, noble gesture when you’re wearing rugby shorts and you’ve got an antique ship resting on your knees, but I did my best. ‘Yeah, I’m sure. He–’ I began.
But Helen interrupted. ‘Who’s that cute guy over there?’ She shook her blond hair and smoothed it down. It was a gesture we knew and dreaded. She was wearing no make-up. That had been consumed in the fire, but she looked beautiful.
‘Sullivan, my coach.’
‘Introduce me.’
Families! I had a battle ahead of me and my sister expected introductions. I got out of the car, leaving Psychic holding the ship. I gave Ian a grin, then told Helen. ‘Afterwards. Haven’t got time now.’
The time for words had gone, Now my game had to do the talking.
About the Author
Creina Mansfield has a Master’s degree in novel writing from Manchester University. She has written My Nutty Neighbours, a sequel to this book; Cherokee, a novel about a young boy and his grandfather who both love to play jazz; Fairchild; and, for younger readers, Snip, Snip! in which a little obsession with scissors leads to interesting situations.
Copyright
This eBook edition first published 2012 by The O’Brien Press Ltd,
12 Terenure Road East, Rathgar, Dublin 6, Ireland
Tel: +353 1 4923333; Fax: +353 1 4922777
E-mail: [email protected]
Website: www.obrien.ie
First published 1995
eBook ISBN: 978–1–84717–475–8
Copyright © Creina Mansfield
UNAUTHORISED COPYING IS ILLEGAL
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilised in any form or my any means, including electronic, digital, mechanical, visual or audio, or mounted on any network servers, without permission in writing from the publisher. Carrying out any unauthorised act in relation to a copyright work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution. For permission to copy any part of this publication contact The O’Brien Press Ltd at [email protected].
British Library Cataloguing-in-publication Data
Mansfield, Creina
My nasty neighbours
1.Parent and teenager - Juvenile fiction 2.Children’s stories
I.Title
823.9’14[J]
The O’Brien receives assistance from
Editing, typesetting, layout and design: The O’Brien Press Ltd
Cover illustration: Kate Sheppard
My Nasty Neighbours Page 8