by Hilary McKay
While Max was busy and Louis was studying ivy, Abi was exploring. She found a tunnel in the yew hedge, wriggled through and discovered the old graveyard. Theo wriggled after her, much to her dismay.
‘Can’t I have one private place?’ she demanded.
‘Yes,’ said Theo, ‘so long as you have it with me. I won’t tell Polly and I won’t tell the boys, but every time you come here, you’ve got to let me know.’
‘Why?
‘Because I’m your dad and it’s my job to look out for you. Come on, Abi, promise!’
Abi promised, and so the graveyard became their secret. Over the years it had become a wild place, a patch of countryside in the middle of a city. Abi discovered hoverflies and insects amongst the long purple-headed grasses, slow-worms under the hedge, strange gold lichens painting weather-worn angels – best of all, a fox family, their cubs at dawn, light feet amongst ancient stones. Abi bought puppy biscuits and scattered them on an old table-top grave, warm in the sunshine.
MARIAN HEPPLE, 1802, AGED 9. A LOVING HEART FOR ALL GOD’S CREATURES, read the inscription.
The cubs crunched, their eyes half closed with pleasure. Abi thought Marian would be pleased. She wrote and told Granny Grace about them, and about the ivy and Mrs Puddock, and the Narnia lamp and the books she had found in her room, and the way that Polly was not as annoying as she had been at first, though Max was just as bad, and Louis even worse.
Foxes have germs, wrote back Granny Grace (ignoring Abi’s grumbling as she always did):
You make sure you wash your hands. I send you a pink hibiscus flower from the bush beside my door. Tell your father that I said to be careful on his bike. Remind him that he rode into our neighbour when he was nine years old, and the dustcart when he was eleven.
Now, my very dearest Abigail, study some schoolwork so you start off well next term, and write back soon to your loving Granny Grace.
So much ivy, so much news! What a time of green magic!
Green magic, thought Abi, and nodded, because the words seemed right.
CHAPTER THREE
Towards the end of summer there was a great trying on of school uniform. Max’s blazer seemed to have shrunk up his arms, and his school trousers dangled high above his bony school-socked ankles.
Louis had changed schools and needed everything new. Abi could manage, except for her shoes, but her school bag had split.
‘Perhaps coats can wait for a month,’ said Polly.
‘Who wants coats in September?’ asked Max. Louis’ red sweatshirts came from his school’s second-hand-uniform shop. Theo mended the split in Abi’s school bag, but it still showed a bit.
Abi asked Theo privately, ‘Are we paying the rent?’
‘Yes we are,’ said Theo, hugging her, ‘and as soon as school goes back I’m picking up extra shifts. Polly’s work is taking off too. In fact, there’s a bit of a problem about that . . .’
The problem was that by the time the new school term began, Polly had gone from being nearly always at home, to nearly always at work. Theo seemed to be nearly always at work already and, when his extra shifts began, life took a lot of organization. Polly made worry lists, adding things to the bottom faster than she ticked them off at the top. As well as school and uniform, they had had to find a school bus for Abi and a cycle route for Max.
Polly ticked Bus Abi and Bike route Max off the top of her worry list, and wrote a few more things on the bottom. The very last thing added was: Rocking-horse room.
The rocking-horse room was the name that first Louis, and then the whole family, had given to the sitting room.
‘Do you think we’ll ever get it done?’ asked Polly, looking around it one day. It was still untouched, except that Rocky had moved in, together with the old sofa that was too big for the kitchen.
‘It only needs cleaning, and a fire,’ said Theo.
‘Rugs,’ said Polly, ‘and curtains.’
‘A proper-sized telly,’ said Theo. ‘Max and I are tired of miniature football.’
‘Football can never be too miniature,’ said Polly. ‘The panelling polished and the ceiling painted.’
Theo looked up at the ceiling, which had a garland of plaster leaves and roses round the edge, all laced together with dirty cobwebs. ‘Brushing first, then painting,’ he said. ‘That chimney needs sweeping!’
‘How do you know?’
‘Soot comes down when it rains. In Scotland in the old days,’ said Theo, who had lived there until he was six and therefore considered himself a Scot, ‘they would get a bunch of heather, tie it to a rock, climb on the roof, drop it down the chimney . . .’
‘This is London,’ said Polly.
‘North,’ said Theo. ‘Practically Scotland, it’s so north.’
‘You can see the Shard,’ said Polly. ‘Sometimes. Nearly. Now and then. So it’s London. Anyway, it’s definitely not Scotland . . .’
She flopped down on the sofa to write ‘Rocks: Chimney (No)’ on her worry list.
‘What else is on it?’ asked Theo.
‘Abi. I’m worried about Abi. She’s so quiet that sometimes it’s almost like she vanishes. And when she’s not vanished, she’s reading. Do you think she reads too much?’
‘I used to wonder that, but her granny said it’s not possible,’ said Theo. ‘And Abi and I have a vanishing agreement, so cross that off your list too. Go on, what’s next?’
‘Mrs Puddock.
‘Mrs Puddock?’
‘I knew you’d laugh, but that joke’s gone on too long. Poor Louis. Oh, Theo . . .’
Theo looked at her.
‘How will I tell him that I have to go away?’
‘Do you, Pol?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not for long?’
‘At least three weeks, maybe more. That’s also on my list: how to tell you.’
‘Polly!’ said Theo, hugging her. ‘We knew from the start it would probably happen. I’ll look after Louis!’
‘Max is on the list too. The other day he said to me, “Obviously Dad won’t be coming back, now Theo’s on the scene.” After more than five years of not hearing a word from his father! Who knew he was thinking like that? No wonder he’s sometimes so awful.’
‘Max is no way anything even close to awful!’ said Theo. ‘You don’t know what awful is, Pol! You should see some of the fourteen-year-old kids that get brought into A-and-E at two o’clock in the morning and, actually, they’re not awful either.’
‘I know I should worry about all the other fourteen-year-olds in London,’ said Polly, ‘but right now I just care about Max. He’s not got his head round you and Abi yet, and now there’s Esmé . . .’
‘Max will soon get used to Esmé,’ said Theo.
‘Esmé’ was Esmé-the-Art-Student. She was the latest addition to the house. Her job was to pick Louis up from his After-school Club and stay with him until a grown-up got home. Neither Max nor Abi could do it, because picker-uppers had to be over sixteen. Until Theo’s shifts changed, after Christmas, Esmé was the only way to save Louis from a ten-hour-long school day.
Polly had found her by way of a friend who worked at the art college. The friend was Danny’s mum. That was the problem.
‘Why did you have to ask Danny’s mum to find someone for Louis?’ demanded Max, crashing into the kitchen the first day he heard the news.
‘Why not? She works at the art college – she’s the perfect person!’ said Polly. ‘She was bound to know a student who wanted to earn a bit extra by . . .’
‘. . . babysitting!’ Max had finished, dropping his school bag and kicking it. ‘Babysitting!’ he repeated, slumping down in a kitchen chair. ‘Babysitting!’ he complained, shoving away a mug of tea so hard it tipped and flooded the table, Louis’ homework book and a pile of clean school shirts.
‘Max!’
‘Leave me alone!’ said Max.
The school week had started perfectly well for Max – very well, hilariously well – only the day before.
He’d arrived in the entrance hall just in time see his good friend Danny doing his morning locker-jumps. Danny was as short as Max was tall. He was the shortest person in the school. Yet at the start of term he’d been given a top-row locker. Out of pride, he’d refused to swap. Instead, he did a lot of jumping.
So far, Max had politely ignored his friend’s locker-jumping antics. He should have carried on ignoring them. He should not have laughed and gripped him by the shoulders of his next-eldest brother’s old, ripped parka and hoisted him up to reach.
And yet, at the time, Max had hardly noticed he had done it. It had just been a five-minute joke, the sort of thing he did to Louis every day.
However, Danny wasn’t Louis. Louis didn’t care. Danny did.
Danny had spluttered and wriggled until he tumbled right to the floor, leaving his empty jacket in Max’s hands. Then he had scrambled to his feet, grabbed his jacket and marched away without a word.
His revenge had come the next morning.
That day, Danny, trusted partner in the bike-repair and car-cleaning business – long-time-best-friend Danny – had yelled across the crowded school entrance hall, ‘Oi, Max! My mum says she’s found you a really good babysitter!’
‘What?’ Max demanded. ‘What did you just say? What?’
‘She’s found you a babysitter!’ Danny had shouted, even louder than the first time. ‘She said to tell you to let your mum know. Esmé, she’s called! She’s an art student . . .’
Danny had to pause at that point to double up with laughter at the sight of Max’s face. ‘She can be with you every day, right up to Christmas . . .’
‘What are you actually on about, Danny?’
‘She’s just what you need, Mum said. And she’s French.’
‘French? French? What d’you mean, French?’
‘French is what they call people from France,’ explained Danny (now enjoying himself very much indeed). ‘E.g. your new babysitter. Don’t tell me you don’t want a French babysitter, Max!’
Lots of people were listening now, listening and laughing and egging Danny on. People coming in late were asking, ‘Hey! What’s this about?’
‘It’s about Esmé-the-Art-Student,’ Danny explained obligingly. ‘My mum’s sorted her out for Max. To babysit. She’s French!’
Howls of laughter, calls and whistles.
‘I’ve got a picture if you want to see what she’s like,’ continued Danny helpfully. ‘From when I went in to college with Mum yesterday to help set up an exhibition. There!’
Danny fished out his phone and produced a photo of his mum’s art class, with himself in the middle, like a mascot.
Max had refused to look, but everyone else crowded round. ‘Wow!’ said some of the boys, and, ‘Definitely French!’ said some of the girls.
‘Too good for Maxi-babe, that’s for sure!’ said awful Danny, ex-best friend.
Max’s French babysitter was the best news of the term.
Ever since then, Max – round-faced, logical, ordinary Max, the Max who had made the first joke, and was even almost beginning to get his head round Theo and Abi – had become a new person. A bad-tempered, door-slamming, prejudiced-against-art-students type of person. A person who found it completely impossible to be in the same room as eighteen-year-old Esmé, preferring, if necessary, to sulk upstairs for hours.
Whatever Theo said to comfort Polly, Max had not got used to Esmé.
A few weeks after Esmé started looking after Louis, Polly went away. She stuffed the freezer, picked an ivy leaf or two for company on the journey, hugged them all, said, ‘Look after each other! Don’t forget to sort the recycling!’ and vanished.
Suddenly the house was different. Max, who had laughed at Danny’s ‘spooky’ in the summer, now wondered: Is it?
One day they’d had a power cut at school, and everyone had been sent home early. Max had arrived at an empty house and, looking up at Louis’ window, glimpsed a swift movement.
Max was no coward. He’d unlocked the front door, clattered his bike into the dark hall, propped it against the wall, and gone straight up to Louis’ room. There was Louis’ tidy bed pushed under the window and his row of cardboard boxes lined up against the wall, his chest of drawers, with a neat line of small cars, and another of ivy leaves, his shelf of stuff: the unhugged teddy bear and the unopened boxes of Lego from his last birthday, the unpulled Christmas crackers and the intact Easter egg.
Everything immobile. Not a flicker of movement.
CRASH! went Max’s bike downstairs in the hall, and Max turned and raced downstairs.
There was no one there either.
Spooky? wondered Max.
Abi also felt the change. Theo was working. Polly was gone, and Abi was surprised how much she missed her. At first she’d thought (feeling guilty), One person less to share Dad, but it didn’t seem to work like that. No Polly made Theo extra busy, and Louis extra demanding of attention. Esmé wasn’t enough for him. She brought her art work back with her, and when it was spread out on the kitchen table, she became entirely absorbed. Often, when Louis bothered her with questions, she answered him in French. ‘You’re in London!’ Louis would protest, and Esmé would murmur, ‘Mais oui.’
Max made everything more uncomfortable. He stayed in his bedroom, refusing to admit that Esmé existed. His silent resentment of her seeped under his bedroom door, and down the stairs, and added a shadow to the days.
The fox cubs were grown and scattered, and the evenings cold and dark. Abi would have been lonely, except she had books. Books, and also the house. Abi never thought, Spooky, because she loved it. The glow of the Narnia lamp. The warmth of wood under her hand. The friendly creak of the stairs. Her own private room. And the feeling of living in a guarded space, cloaked in green ivy leaves. She told Granny Grace, ‘This house is kind.’
My sweet Abigail, Granny Grace wrote back. I am so happy your house is kind . . .
Granny Grace could email and Skype, and she did, now and then, but more often she wrote letters on thin blue paper, usually with a flower or two folded amongst the pages. Proper letters that arrived through the letter box, and could be carried around all day, with detailed instructions for the best (and only) way for Abi to manage her life.
While you have the French girl with you, take your chance and learn the language, wrote Granny Grace. You will find it comes easily; there are many French words in English. Make sure you get your sleep and your bones will grow strong and long . . .
Louis envied those letters.
‘Abi, couldn’t Granny Grace write to me?’ he begged.
‘No!’ exclaimed Abi. (Was she going to have to share Granny Grace now, as well as everything else?) ‘Anyway, why? You hate reading!’
Louis didn’t argue. It was true. He wouldn’t read and he didn’t read. He detested it. Loathed the little black words that crawled like beetles across the pages. Hated the way that as soon as he had laboured through one boring paper-covered book, he was handed another, even harder.
Still, he longed for a letter of his own.
‘Granny Grace could send me a flower, like yours,’ he suggested. ‘No writing, just a flower – couldn’t she?’
‘No.’
Louis gave a great sniff and wiped his nose on his hand. He’d caught a cold. No matter how quickly people passed him tissues, they were never quite in time. He sneezed unconfined sneezes. Abi searched the kitchen cupboards and made him a hot lemony drink with honey in it.
‘I might not like it,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t matter, you still have to drink it.’
‘Can I ride Rocky if I do?’
‘No. Not till your nose has stopped running.’
‘What if it never stops?’
‘Then you never can. Get on with your lemon. Breathe the steam!’
‘Why?’ asked Louis.
‘Granny Grace always says that.’
‘Tell me some more about her,’ said Louis, breathing steam so industriously that A
bi found herself sharing a little piece of Granny Grace after all.
‘She used to bake cakes on Saturday mornings. I used to help.’
‘What sort of cakes?’
‘All sorts. Chocolate. Orange and lemon. Toto cake like she had when she was little in Jamaica.’
‘What’s Toto cake?’
‘Coconut with lime and spices. Cinnamon and nutmeg.’ Even to name those spices gave Abi a pang of wistfulness for Granny Grace and her spice cupboard, and the smell of toasted coconut, and the small sunny kitchen with its windowsill filled with growing plants.
‘She grew ginger root in a flowerpot. We used to wait for it to flower.’
‘Did it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could we grow it?’
‘I suppose.’
‘And make that cake with coconut?’
‘Not until you stop sneezing everywhere.’
‘Oh,’ said Louis, sniffing hideously. ‘What else?’
‘She would make you do your homework,’ said Abi, sternly. ‘Where’s your reading book?’
‘It wasn’t reading homework today,’ lied Louis. ‘Homework today was colouring in.’
‘Well, go and do it!’
Louis sighed, but settled down at the kitchen table with his pencils. Esmé was already there, engrossed as usual. She had spread out her huge, heavy portfolio book. It was full of drawings and paintings, with glued-in scrapbook samples, unfolding maps, and colour patches: yellow ochre, rust red, charcoal dark. It fascinated Louis.
Abi, busy with her own homework in the rocking-horse room, where she could guard Rocky while she worked, heard Louis ask, ‘Can I help, Esmé?’
And Esmé’s firm reply: ‘Non.’
It became peaceful. Abi finished her maths, and picked up the old hardback book with the blue cover from the collection she had found in her bedroom. It was the one that had the seashell ocean sound, and the strange words in the title: Kon-Tiki.
The parrot fidgeted, high up on the crossbeam over the dark square sail, the long blue waves lifted and rolled, slapping against the raft. Reflected light glinted and scattered, the sun was high overhead.
‘We were visited by whales many times. Most often they were small porpoises . . .’