Dead Hairy

by Debbie Thomas

  ‘Dandruff.’

  Abbie gave a gasping gurgle; or was it a gurgling gasp?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Perdita reassuringly, ‘just think of it as brain peel. Full of vitamins.’ She crept up to Ollie. ‘I’m coming to get you!’ Ollie shrieked as she grabbed him in a bear hug. Then he wriggled free and dashed off round the lawn. Perdita ran after him, huffing and puffing in pretend exhaustion.

  Abbie watched them. Her stomach went tight. Why hadn’t Ollie asked her to play? She joined in the chase.

  ‘Two against one,’ yelled Ollie. ‘Noffair!’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she snapped and humphed down on the patio.

  Mum knocked on the kitchen window. ‘Yoo hoo,’ she called. ‘Anyone for biscuits?’

  They trooped inside. Ollie and Perdita were panting and giggling. ‘You’re too quick for me,’ said Perdita, wagging her finger at him.

  ‘And I’m only five,’ he said proudly. He sat next to her at the table.

  Grandma appeared at the door. It usually annoyed Abbie the way Squashy shared her gift for sniffing out snacks: partly because it was a reminder that they were related, and partly because Abbie hated sharing snacks. Not this time though. For once she was delighted to watch Grandma, and everyone else, grab a biscuit.

  ‘Coconut!’ said Mum, examining the little white flakes. ‘My favourite. You must give me the recipe, dear.’

  ‘It’s actually da–’ said Perdita. Abbie kicked her under the table ‘… Dad’s secret. But I can make you some more.’

  ‘You have such an interesting house.’ Mum took another biscuit.

  Mum, seconds? Blimey, thought Abbie, call the doctor.

  ‘I hear it’s a museum for hair,’ said Mum, nibbling delicately.

  ‘Just a few wigs,’ said Perdita casually. It was my mum’s idea. She dis–’ Abbie kicked her ankle again ‘… designed the whole place. She’s a hairdresser.’

  ‘How lovely. I’ve often fancied hairdressing,’ said Mum, stroking Bob. ‘I’d love to meet her.’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Perdita definitely.

  ‘’Airdressin’?’ said Grandma. ‘Waste of time if you ask me. Snippin’ and stylin’, potions and lotions – it all falls out in the end. And then you ’ave to buy one of these itchy devils.’ She scratched her wig. It slipped over her left ear.

  Abbie closed her eyes. Couldn’t Squashy once – just once – behave herself in front of visitors?

  But Perdita was nodding in sympathy. ‘You need a better wig. There are some great ones around now.’

  Squashy jiggled her false teeth impatiently. ‘And where would I find one of those, young lady?’

  ‘Perdita was only trying to help, Grandma,’ said Abbie.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Perdita cheerfully. ‘I’ll see if we’ve got a spare one at the museum.’

  ‘None of them fancy Mozart jobs, mind,’ said Grandma.

  ‘What a sweet girl you are,’ Mum said, beaming at Perdita.

  Abbie grinned. Never mind Mr Platt and his chimneys. Perdita was charming the pants off Mum. No worries about Abbie visiting again.

  ***

  Matt put away the Soot Soothing Spray. ‘That should c-calm your chimney down, Mrs Fugg,’ he said. ‘C-call me if you have any more problems.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Platt. Me cough’s better already. What do I owe you?’

  Matt looked from Mrs Fugg’s frayed slippers to the holes in her cardigan. ‘Don’t mention it,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I c-could help.’

  ‘You’re an angel,’ she said, her baggy face crinkling with gratitude.

  Matt got into the van and sighed. No wonder he earned so little from Very Odd Jobbing. Mustn’t tell Perdita. She’d tick him off again for being too soft. And she’d be right. Money was getting very tight. Which was why his experiments had to succeed.

  ***

  ‘Hold still, love. It’ll hurt if you wriggle.’ Coriander clipped Winnie’s narrow fingernail. It reminded her of clipping Perdita’s. A tear fell onto the nail scissors. Winnie kissed Coriander’s hand.

  ‘Thank you dear.’ Coriander blew her nose and looked at her watch. Still four hours to go till her rounds. Till she could escape this stinky room and breathe fresh (well, fresh-ish) air again. Better go and wash the brushes and combs. Oh, and sharpen the hair scissors. Wasn’t Silvio due for a trim? He’d get upset if it took too long.

  And you really didn’t want to upset Silvio.

  6 - Hoot

  Dad insisted on taking Abbie the next day.

  ‘Stone the crows,’ he murmured, parking by the field. ‘Pelt the puffins,’ he gasped, catching sight of the hedges with hairstyles. ‘Bomb the buzzards!’ he cried, staring at the plaited pink tower.

  He opened the car door. ‘I’ll just pop in with you, Abbs.’ He was trying to sound all cool. ‘Keen to see this hair business.’

  ‘No!’ squeaked Abbie. No way was Dad coming in. This was her adventure. ‘The thing is,’ she gabbled, ‘Mr Platt’s too busy. He hasn’t got time to show you round.’

  Dad’s big face drooped as only big faces can. ‘Just for a min? Maybe Perdita could give me a tour.’

  ‘No.’ Abbie shook her head till it hurt. ‘She’s busy too. Bye, Dad.’ She clambered onto the gate.

  ‘Oh, Mum said remember to eat with your mouth closed,’ Dad shouted to her back.

  Perdita was waiting at the front door. She seized Abbie’s hand. ‘Dad’s given us a great job to do. He said he’ll pay us £3 each! Come on.’ She leapt up the stairs.

  Abbie puffed after her. ‘My mum thinks you’re lovely,’ she panted.

  ‘I think she is too,’ Perdita shouted down the stairs.

  Abbie reached the first landing. Without waiting for her to get her breath back, Perdita hared up the next flight. Abbie joined her on the second landing. It was exactly like the first, except for the sign over the door.

  ‘Hair Science,’ she read. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s where Dad does his inventing.’ Perdita tried the door handle. ‘Locked again,’ she sighed. ‘Ever since Mum left it’s out of bounds. Never used to be. Up we go.’ And she was off again.

  Abbie staggered up to the next landing. They must have climbed nearly a hundred stairs. No wonder Perdita was so skinny.

  The sign on the door said:

  ‘This was – is – Mum’s favourite room,’ said Perdita. Abbie got ready to gasp. The gasp died in her throat.

  The room was dotted with glass cases and things on stands. Apart from a large empty cage on the left, it looked just like a normal museum, the sort that’s full of ancient tools and bits of pottery, with draughty bathrooms and loo seats that make your bottom ping with cold. The sort that’s duller than dust on dung.

  Except –

  On a stand in front of her sat a stuffed bird. It was the size of a goose. But instead of feathers it had shaggy white hair. Its beak was a hairy tube. At the front of the tube was a round flap, like a lid.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Abbie. The bird fixed Abbie with cold glass eyes, as if insulted that she’d had to ask.

  ‘A Hairy Hoot,’ said Perdita. ‘From Greenland. They were hunted to extinction a hundred years ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘People used their beaks as thermos flasks. The hair keeps the heat in – perfect for hot drinks. Mum found this one preserved in ice.’

  Abbie didn’t remember reading about Hairy Hoots in her book Dodos and Other Dead Dudes.

  But before she could say so, Perdita grabbed her arm and led her to a glass case.

  ‘Look at this, then.’

  Abbie could see Perdita was waiting for a ‘wow’. But it’s hard to ‘wow’ at a piece of silver string pinned to a cushion. So instead she read out the label on the case. ‘Single hair of the Bald Bobus (Baldus bobissimus).’

  ‘It’s the only one in captivity,’ said Perdita proudly. ‘Took Mum three years to collect it. Go on.’

  ‘The Bald Bobus,’ Abbie read, ‘is a nocturnal
mammal the size of a squirrel. It nests under the Yabooka tree in the Borneo jungle. It spends up to four hours a day polishing its single hair. The hair grows for six years. Then it is pushed out by the next emerging strand. The Bobus uses the moulted hair as a skipping rope. Lifespan: twenty-one years (three and a half hairs).’

  Abbie snorted. ‘Oh come on! Never heard of it.’

  ‘Few people have,’ said Perdita, ‘let alone seen it. But Mum did. Four years ago. It was gathering berries at night. She guessed, from the length of its hair, that it would fall out after two years, ten months and twelve days. So last year she went back to the same spot. And watch this.’

  Fixed to the wall above the case was a TV and DVD player. Perdita stood on tiptoe and pressed Play. A crouching figure appeared in the foreground with its back turned. In the background was a nest made of twigs and leaves. For a minute nothing happened. Then a silver strand fell out of the nest. A tiny paw reached out to grab it. But the crouching figure reached forward and snatched it first. It put another silver thread into the creature’s paw.

  ‘That’s Mum taking the hair. Did you see how she gave the Bobus a piece of silver string so it could still do its skipping?’ asked Perdita.

  Abbie’s jaw reached for the floor.

  Perdita slapped her on the back. ‘Come on Fishface,’ she laughed, ‘I’ll show you the fish.’

  She led Abbie to the back of the room. Against the curving wall stood a fish tank. Abbie stared through the glass. Everything inside had hair: the plants, the stones on the bottom, even the fish. A tiny blue fish wove from left to right, trailing golden hairs twice its length. A sea horse bobbed towards Abbie with a bushy green mane and tail. An eel with a glittering red beard wriggled up the side of the tank. And a white crab with hairy legs scuttled across the bottom.

  ‘The Hairyquarium,’ said Perdita, handing Abbie a pot of fish food, ‘Mum’s pride and joy.’

  Abbie sprinkled a few flakes onto the water. ‘I – I had no idea there were such creatures. Why haven’t I read about them?’

  Perdita shrugged. ‘Maybe no one’s written about them. And even if they have, maybe no one believed them. Like this poor guy.’ She skipped across the room to the empty cage on the left that Abbie had noticed before. What she hadn’t noticed was the tangle of dark brown hair in one corner. Perdita reached through the bars and picked it up.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Abbie, holding up her hand as if to stop traffic. ‘Nostril hair. From a yeti.’

  Perdita squealed. ‘How did you know?’

  Abbie gulped. ‘I was joking.’

  ‘Well, you’re spot on! Mum tweezed it from a sleeping yeti on Mount Everest. Dad’s supposed to be growing it. Then we can have a yeti model in the cage covered in real hair.’ Perdita sighed. ‘If he ever gets round to it.’

  ‘Gets round to what, plumcake?’

  The voice was soft and tinkly. Its owner, standing in the doorway, was elegant and thin. She wore a honey-coloured dress that matched her honey-coloured hair. She flowed across the room towards the girls.

  ‘You must be Abbie. I’m Aunt Melliflua. We spoke on the phone.’ She smiled. Her teeth were neat and tiny, like two rows of tic tacs. Her amber eyes were big and beautiful – or big and froglike – Abbie couldn’t quite decide. They were certainly very shiny.

  Aunt Melliflua took Abbie’s hand. Her fingers were as cool as knitting needles.

  ‘I’m so glad Perdie’s made a friend. She gets quite lonely here, what with all the work round the museum and not going to school. Don’t you sweetie?’ She beamed at her niece.

  ‘No school? You never told me. Lucky jammer!’ said Abbie to Perdita. Aunt Melliflua’s arched eyebrows arched even more. ‘Didn’t she now? Really –’ she wagged her finger at Perdita in mock annoyance – ‘after all my hard work. I home school her, you see, sweetie,’ she said to Abbie. ‘Ever since her mother started all that travelling.’ Aunt Melliflua shook her honey head. ‘Such a terrible thing. Perdie’s told you, has she?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

  ‘My only sister.’ Aunt Melliflua’s shiny eyes went even shinier. ‘But we have to carry on. I’m so glad Uncle Dirk and I are here to help.’ She put her arm round Perdita.

  ‘Me too Auntie.’ Perdita snuggled against her.

  Aunt Melliflua sighed. ‘Anyway, sugar, just to remind you, dinner’s at six.’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ Perdita looked at her watch. ‘We’ll just do this job for Dad then I’ll come.’

  ‘What is the job?’ said Abbie.

  ‘Mending a shrunken head.’

  Aunt Melliflua’s arm fell off Perdita’s shoulder. ‘Euggh! Not that thing! I can’t understand why your mother brought it here. It’s so …’ she shuddered. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Toodlepip. Lovely to meet you, sweetie.’ Tickling the air in a little wave, she glided out the door.

  And when Perdita showed her the shrunken head, Abbie felt like gliding out too.

  ***

  Downstairs in Hair Science Matt stared at the ant. It scuttled round the matchbox in exactly the same way as before he’d dipped it into the mixture. How could you tell if it was brainier, for goodness sake? Give it a sum and a pen to write the answer? The poor little mite would be crushed in an instant.

  Talking of writing – still no letter from Coriander. Matt’s glasses blurred with tears. He put a finger into the matchbox. The ant crawled over his knuckle. ‘Go on, sting me,’ whispered Matt. ‘What do I c-care?’

  ***

  Coriander finished writing. She sighed and popped the letter into her pocket, ready for Charlie. He was so brave, smuggling out all her letters and posting them.

  Coriander frowned. If he was posting them. How come she hadn’t had any replies? Was Matt still angry with her after their argument? Surely not. And even if he was, why hadn’t Perdita written back?

  Coriander stroked Vinnie’s dozy head. It had been a dreadful bust-up. Maybe Matt had told Perdita everything. Maybe Perdita was furious with her too. Maybe neither of them wanted to see her again.

  No! Coriander grasped her left plait. There was always hope.

  7 - Hairies

  Imagine a prune with a face. Imagine the wrinkled eyelids, sewn shut. Imagine puffy purple lips tied together by dangly bits of string. Imagine blue-black hair gushing from the crown like a too-big wig. Imagine a little triangular goatee beard dangling from the chin. And imagine the whole thing fitting into your hand.

  Abbie didn’t have to. She was looking at it.

  ‘That. Is. Disgusting,’ she gasped.

  Perdita grinned. ‘Well you wouldn’t look so cute if you’d had your head cut off. And your skull taken out. And your scalp boiled. And hot stones shoved inside. Oh yes, and hot sand stuffed up your nostrils.’

  ‘S’pose not,’ mumbled Abbie.

  ‘This was Mum’s last find.’ Perdita scoured her chin with her teeth. ‘She picked it up in the Amazon jungle a few months ago. Actually she found two. But the other head fell out of a hole in her bag.’

  Abbie felt a little sick. ‘What do we have to do to it?’

  ‘Darn it.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘No, I mean we have to darn it. Sew it up again. The stitches are all rotten.’

  Abbie felt a bit sick.

  ‘Come on. You hold the lips together while I unthread them. We wouldn’t want the tongue to fall out, now would we?’ Perdita chuckled.

  Abbie didn’t join in. The world went fuzzy as she reached out a finger and thumb and pinched the lips together gently. They felt surprisingly hard and smooth, like eggshell.

  Perdita hummed as she pulled out the stitches. ‘You can let go now.’

  Abbie wished she hadn’t. The lips lolled apart. Black flakes crumbled out of the mouth.

  There was a low groan. ‘Pardon me,’ said Abbie. She backed away from the stand, holding her stomach.

  Something whizzed past her feet. It was that grey furry something she’d seen the last time she came
. She screamed.

  ‘What?’ asked Perdita, turning round.

  ‘A rat!’ gasped Abbie.

  Perdita laughed. ‘That’s not a rat. That’s Chester.’ She reached out her hand and made sucky noises, as if calling in a cat for food. ‘Chester,’ she called, ‘here Chess. Come and meet Abbie. She won’t hurt you.’

  The furry thing poked out from behind a stand. It crawled across the floor. Abbie got a proper look. What she’d thought was fur was actually a tangle of grey hair. It was changing shape all the time. One minute it was a thin rectangle, the next a triangle, the next a ball. It stopped at Abbie’s feet and curled into a question mark. Then it jumped up and landed on her sleeve.

  ‘Yeurrch!’ Abbie shook her arm wildly. ‘Get OFF!’ The hairy thing leapt up, flew through the air and slammed into the wall behind the Hairyquarium. It clung there, shivering.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Perdita. ‘You’ve frightened him off. He’s very sensitive. It’s OK Chester.’ She held out her hand again. The thing slid down the wall and crept across the floor to Perdita. It crawled up her leg and jumped into her palm. There it snuggled into a C-shape. Perdita stroked it gently. ‘Feel him,’ she said to Abbie. ‘He can’t bite – he hasn’t got a mouth.’

  Abbie stretched out a finger nervously. She touched the curls. They were soft and silky. ‘What is it?’

  ‘He,’ corrected Perdita. ‘Our pet. Dad found him. In hospital.’

  ‘I see,’ said Abbie faintly, not seeing at all.

  ‘Two years ago Dad burned his hand. Tickling a toaster.’

  ‘Like you do,’ said Abbie, who’d never done anything of the sort.

  ‘And he was waiting to see a nurse. There was this pile of grey hair on the floor. And it – he – jumped onto Dad’s arm.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Abbie, as if it was the obvious place to jump.

  ‘And when the nurse came in, he dived up Dad’s sleeve.’

  ‘Right,’ said Abbie, as if she’d have done exactly the same thing.

  ‘Left, actually. And Dad brought him home. Mum said he was a patch of chest hair. Probably shaved off an old man before an operation. So we named him Chester. He’s the biggest help ever.’ Perdita tickled him. ‘Sweeping, dusting, cuddling us when we miss Mum. And he understands everything. Don’t you Chess?’ He squashed into a ball and bounced up and down on her palm. ‘Now, come and say hello to Abbie.’