‘So pleased to meet you . . . Keener?’ She made her forehead wrinkle. ‘But I don’t think Keener can be your real name, can it?’
‘No. But no one calls me anything else.’
‘In my book that makes it real,’ said Jonno’s dad.
‘It’s very nice to meet one of Jonno’s friends at last. I thought perhaps he was making you all up.’ She laughed and the beads played a kind of tune.
‘No, I’m definitely real . . . er . . . and so’s my name,’ I said. I can’t usually think of anything to say when people are joking or teasing so I was quite pleased I’d come up with that.
‘Touché,’ she said. It sounded lovely but I had no idea what it meant.
‘Will you be staying for supper?’ the dad asked.
‘Of course he will.’ Will I?
‘Er . . . I’d have to tell my mum.’
‘I can do that for you, Keener. I haven’t spoken to your mum since that day I met her in the surgery and she invited Jonno for tea. I haven’t thanked you either, have I? It definitely helped him get over those new-school butterflies.’ (Mums are great at saying the wrong things.)
‘Thank you, Mrs Lock.’
She giggled, not in a silly way, in a nice way. ‘Call me Frances.’
‘Jonno’s up there on the right,’ the dad said. ‘Go ahead, Keener.’
‘Thank you, Mr Lock.’
I ran up. The door on the right was shut so I knocked.
‘Come.’
I turned the handle and poked my head in.
Jonno was sitting at a huge desk with his back to me, playing something with lots of little men making lots of noise on a giant computer screen. He didn’t look round – probably some critical bit that he didn’t want to muck up.
‘Hi,’ I said.
He twisted round. He was really surprised but pleased too. I could tell by his smile.
‘What are you doing here, Keener?’
‘I’ve had an idea. And it needs you.’
‘OK. I’m all ears just as soon as I destroy the Gauls with my trebuchet.’
I watched him. It was good. I’m going to get it for my birthday. You can never have too many computer games.
Finally he clicked Yes to Are you sure you want to quit?
‘OK. It’s about our patch. I’ve been trying to work out a way to save it and I think I’ve come up with something, or in fact, you have.’
He looked interested.
‘Weevils,’ I said.
‘I know what they are.’
‘And you know where they live,’ I said. ‘In our area. We launch Save the We evils. Not Save the Trees or Save Tribe’s Patch. Save the cute little insects that love dark, damp, shady places. It becomes a fight for bio . . . eco . . . green stuff . . . recycling . . . you know, Bee’s sort of thing.’
He didn’t say anything for ages. I waited for his verdict.
‘Keener, it’s awesomely brilliant. I can see it now. We can name all the creatures that thrive under the bark and on the stump. We can call it murder because they won’t find anywhere else to live in the city. But . . . there’s only tomorrow . . .’
‘Then we’d better get working.’
Jonno ran downstairs to get some books he said we’d need. I sat on his computer chair and spun round and round. His room was fantastic. I could see loads of things to go on my birthday list: lava lamp, beanbag chair, his own computer and a TV – in his room!
‘I’m back.’
He reversed into the room because his hands were full.
‘You’re so lucky. Computer in your room!’ I said.
‘Mum likes to keep me and my mess in here. She’s a neat-freak.’ He grinned but it didn’t seem like a joke.
He plonked two massive books and one smaller one down on the desk. ‘There we are, Keener. Anything and everything we need to know about weevils and beetles.’
I wasn’t sure what he expected me to do. The insect bit was his department.
‘Shall we write a list then?’
‘I think we can do better than that. Let’s get their names, the habitats they prefer, see if any of them are rare – that would be a winner – maybe get some pictures too.’
‘Fine by me. But wouldn’t it be quicker to use the internet?’
‘Books are best.’
Jonno started flicking through, doubling back, humming and haaing, jotting down names and drawing lines between them.
‘Can I have a go at your game?’ I nodded at the computer.
‘Sure. Log in as a guest so you don’t make my army commit suicide.’
A while later, Jonno leant back and stretched his arms out. ‘That should do.’
I glanced over but didn’t really look. There was too much happening on the screen. ‘Great,’ I said.
Next thing I knew, his arm had reached over and pressed Quit.
‘Jonno!’ I was really angry. ‘I was just about to —’
‘This is more important.’
Not to me it wasn’t. I wanted to kill the rebels and seize the loot.
‘Fine,’ I said. Meaning exactly the opposite.
He started talking me through all the species. It was very impressive and boring beyond belief.
MALE STAG BEETLE’S FACT FILE
• Latin name: Lucanus servus
• Lives in:
log piles
tree stumps
compost heaps.
• Likes:
fighting
showing off to lady stag beetles.
• Eats: nothing at all.
• Adult only lives six months (sob).
• Not very good at flying – often bumps into things and crash lands.
‘What are we going to do with all that?’ I asked, looking at his sheets of tiny writing.
‘I’m not sure. Make an appointment to see the Head and plead for their very survival?’ He made a pleading face.
‘Even better,’ I said. ‘Plead in Friday morning assembly in front of the whole school.’
‘A greed. I’ll ring round – tell everyone to get to school early.’
There was a knock at the door. ‘Supper’s ready.’
It was a good moment for Jonno’s mum (Frances!) to interrupt us. Identifying all the creatures was the easy bit, the timing was set for assembly, but how we convinced the school to save them was something else all together. Something to be sorted out tomorrow.
‘What’s for supper?’ Jonno asked.
‘Bobotie,’ said his mum.
‘Brilliant.’
Oh no! I had no idea what it was. Sounded runny. Could I suddenly invent a reason to go home?
There was no time. I was swished along into a dining room with a glass table and everything set for four. Two sets of glasses, serviettes: it was like a restaurant. Jonno was right about his mum being neat.
‘Why don’t you sit here, Keener.’ She pulled the chair out slightly.
I did a recce of the table. There was a bowl of green vegetables – those peapods with nothing in the middle, broccoli and something like cabbage but much darker, a jug of water and a bottle of wine. No sign of the bootybooty or whatever she called it.
Oh, it was just arriving.
‘Can you serve, Adrian?’ said Jonno’s mum.
His dad did my plate first. It was cat food with a thick yellow topping, like custard but solid.
‘Help yourself to vegetables,’ he said. I took the smallest spoonful I could and waited because I know it’s rude to start before everyone’s got their food and anyway, I didn’t want to eat mine.
Jonno poured everyone some water while Frances picked up the wine and filled Jonno’s dad’s glass and her own.
I so wished I’d gone home for tea. I couldn’t eat the custard mince.
‘Dig in,’ said Jonno’s dad.
‘Thank you,’ I said. And I did.
Don’t ask me what happened. One minute I was sitting there
thinking, Please let a hurricane come and blow me on to an island where there are only bananas and the next I was putting my fork in and chewing and swallowing and sipping my water and chatting (careful to speak only when my mouth wasn’t full). It wasn’t like talking to someone’s mum and dad. It was as though a slightly older cousin was catching up with your news – one that hadn’t seen you for a while. The conversation made the bootybooty go down fine.
After we’d finished, nobody leapt up like they do at mine, to escape clearing up or to get to the telly first. We all sat around, still talking.
I asked a few questions, but not as many as I wanted to. I didn’t know parents could be like Jonno’s.
Frances told me about the day Jonno locked himself in the car because he didn’t want to go to stay with his granny. Jonno butted in and said his granny was a lunatic who made him sit for hours holding the wool for her knitting. Frances laughed and her beads made the clicky-clacky tune again. Miss Walsh was positively dull compared to Jonno’s mum.
‘Well, I want to catch the documentary on the abyss. Do you mind?’ said the dad.
Surely he wasn’t asking me?
‘I might join you, Adrian. Excuse us.’ She paused. ‘You’ll clear, won’t you, Jonno?’
They left us at the table.
‘Your mum’s so . . .’ I couldn’t find the right word. Kind? Charming?
‘Tall?’ said Jonno, trying to help.
‘No, that’s not what I was going to say.’
‘Black?’
‘No! Nice . . . really nice.’ It sounded a bit lame, but ‘fabulous’ would have made me sound weird.
‘Most people look twice when they see us together. There’s Dad with his red hair from his Irish side, and Mum, she looks more like my granddad who was Nigerian but now he’s dead. And then me, pale skin with fair afro-hair.’
‘I’ve never thought about it. Does that mean you’re mixed race?’
‘I suppose so, but that’s not what I call myself – I prefer Jonno.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, not sure whether I’d said something wrong.
‘What for? It’s fine. I expect you’re mixed race too.’
‘Me? I don’t think so. My mum and dad are from London, and so’s my nan.’
‘Well, you might just be a Londoner but most people have got a bit of something else. Look at Bee.’
‘What about Bee?’
Jonno realised he was going to have to give me a hint. ‘Have you met her mum?’
‘Yes, of course I have. Loads of times.’
‘Well, she’s Italian, isn’t she? At least, her parents were. Why do you think she makes such lush lasagne? And Copper Pie’s bright orange head comes from his Irish grandmother. Forty-six per cent of Irish people carry the red hair gene.’ (How did he know all this?) ‘So what about you, Keener? Mixed race or pure bred?’
‘I’m very blond. Which countries have the most blond genes?’
‘Maybe Sweden?’
I quite liked the idea of being a bit Swedish.
‘Sweden. OK, I’ll ask my mum and tell you tomorrow.’
While we were talking, Jonno cleared away all the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. He put a funny stopper thing on the wine, threw away the serviettes (they were paper) and wiped the table.
‘Shall we go back up to my room?’ he said.
‘No. I’ve got to go.’
I really did have to go, but I had one last question. ‘Why did you make your parents sound so horrible? You said they don’t like children.’
‘Well, they don’t like children – at least, not the sort that climb on furniture and leave their bogies on the arms of the chairs and won’t eat anything that’s not with chips and tomato sauce. They like the sort that tidy away after meals, keep their rooms clean and don’t talk when a documentary is on. It’s hard work being the sort they like, believe me.’
Two thoughts went through my head:
1) Jonno’s parents wouldn’t like Copper Pie.
2) I’m so pleased I ate the bootybooty.
But I said, ‘I’d better go. It’s really late and it’s not even the weekend.’
It was ten to nine and we had the list of endangered wildlife, but no plan except to hijack assembly. It was five of us, including three who knew nothing about it yet, against the Head, the staff, most of the kids and the combine-harvester driver. Too bad. Something would turn up. With Tribe it always did.
BREAKFAST AT JONNO’S
Frances: Keener seems very nice.
Jonno: He is.
Frances: It’s great that you’ve made a good friend here.
Jonno: What would be great is if we can stay here.
Frances: There’s no need to sound so angry, Jonno. Lots of families move around.
Jonno: No they don’t. Keener and Fifty and Copper Pie and Bee have been friends all their lives. They’ve never moved and they’re never moving.
Frances: Jonno, ‘never’ is a word you can’t really trust. Who knows what will happen in the future?
Jonno: I know what will happen in my future. I’ll make really good friends, like I did with Ravi, and then you and Dad will decide you don’t like the . . . wallpaper, and we’ll move hundreds of miles away and I’ll have to start all over again.
Frances: Jonno, I won’t have you talk to me like that. Perhaps these new friends of yours are not as nice as they seem if this is the behaviour you’ve picked up.
Jonno: Mum, perhaps it’s you who’s not as nice as you seem.
Frances: What on earth is wrong with you this morning?
Jonno: I’m fed up with being new, that’s what. Fed up with no one knowing anything about me. I want a chance to hang out with old friends, not just new ones all the time. Bye. I’m off.
please let the ground swallow me . . .
I was standing at the back of the hall waiting for the Head to join the other staff at the front and then I was going to do it. I had a lump in my throat the size of Cyprus and my hands were shaking and, even though I’d been twice already, I still needed the loo.
I couldn’t believe it when the other Tribers nominated me to do the talking. Of all of us, I’m the most useless at speaking in public. Even Copper Pie would be better, although I could see that no one would believe he wanted to save some itsy-bitsy weevils.
It was Jonno’s idea. He had this theory that because I’m a goodie goodie, geek etc, I would be the most credible – that’s the word he used. Fifty said it means, inspiring trust and confidence. That was a lot to live up to.
I was making sure I took lots of slow, deep breaths because it calms you down. If this is calm, what’s panic like? I thought.
The double doors swung open and in marched the Head. She nodded at the school – that’s the sign to sit down. I’d have given away both my sisters and all my models (even the Spitfire that hasn’t made it home yet) to sit down with them but I didn’t. I waited a few seconds for the fidgeting to stop and then walked through the rows of getting-smaller-nearer-the-front children and tried to ignore the disbelieving faces.
Miss Walsh was making go-and-sit-down-now-and-we’ll-talk-about-it-later hand movements but I made my eyes focus on the clock behind her.
The Head is always saying that lessons and assemblies are all about taking an active part. The more the pupils get involved, the more they enjoy it and the more they learn. Not all the teachers agree – some of them go mad if there are any interruptions whatsoever, but we were banking on the Head not wanting to refuse me in front of the whole school.
‘Please, Miss, I’ve got something I’d like to show the rest of the school. It’s quite important.’
‘I’m sure it can wait,’ said the Head. ‘Go and sit down and pop up and see me after assembly.’ A fake smile followed.
‘No,’ I said. It came out a bit strong so I quickly added, ‘Please help, it’s a case of life or death.’
‘It truly is,’ shouted a voice I recognised from the back. Thanks, Bee.
; ‘Most unusual, but, as you all know, I always welcome contributions from the children. We have got a full assembly planned out but, if it’s important, I’m sure we can spare a few minutes. Hurry up then.’ Her fake smile got a whole lot faker.
I turned my back to the teachers, faced the school and started to read aloud the words Jonno and Bee had written. I could feel that I’d gone the Pinky Prince colour but that was the least of my worries.
‘Size is often used as a weapon. Big children pick on littler ones, large countries threaten smaller ones, large animals prey on smaller animals. There are lots of small animals that live in our playground, and probably have done for generations. I want to save those creatures from being thrown out of their homes by a larger animal, us.’
I paused and looked towards the back of the hall. The other Tribers were on their feet holding up photocopies of the Save the Stag poster with the list of creatures on the back that we’d made in the forty minutes between getting to school and the bell.
I carried on reading out loud but most of the audience were ignoring me and trying to see what was going on at the back. It was a shame because Jonno had found loads of good stuff about how some insects that used to be common were being driven out by the building of more roads and office blocks. I could hear a few whispers, but I couldn’t tell whether anyone was on our side.
‘At first me and my friends were against the clearing of the wooded area because it’s where we hang out.’ (Fifty said we should be honest as everyone knew that anyway.) ‘But when we realised how many other species share the space, we decided to try and save it for them, not us. We didn’t want to watch a . . .’ (My mouth was trying to say combine harvester but my brain was trying to stop it) ‘. . . bulldozer kill all the insects, including the rare longhorn beetle and the endangered stag beetle.’
I’d got to the end of the speech so I walked back down through the other kids. A chant was growing, started by Bee I think, but quickly picked up by the rest.
‘Save the stag. Save the stag.’
The Day the Ear Fell Off Page 13