by Mark Lowery
“Thanks for taking me,” I say. “I appreciate you going out of your way.”
“’S all right,” replies Lizard, picking his teeth. “Hen rings me up out the blue and says, Take me to Plymouth, boy. I’m only working mornings this week so I say, All right, why not go on a bit of a mission, eh? I’ll pop in and see my nan while I’m there. No bother to me if you hop in too. More the merrier, I say.”
I feel myself frowning. This doesn’t make any sense. If Hen had wanted to go to Plymouth in the first place, why didn’t she stay on the train? That’s where it was heading after all. She’d have gotten there way quicker if she hadn’t gotten off. Okay, I know the conductor had told her off for not having a ticket, but she didn’t exactly look scared of him. And in any case, on the train she’d said she might go to St. Bernards.
“I didn’t know you were going to Plymouth too,” I say to Hen.
“Just decided when we got off the train,” she replies. “Was gonna stick around in Exeter for a few days but—”
Lizard interrupts her. “Did your mum know you were passing through town?”
“Drop it, Wesley,” she says, running her hand through her hair. I notice the way she uses his real name. The atmosphere in the car suddenly feels tense.
“Well. Just saying. I saw her in the store last week and she said she ain’t seen you in four months and don’t know if you’re alive or—”
“I said drop it,” she snaps.
“Ooh,” jokes Lizard. “Someone’s tired.”
Hen shakes her head and half laughs. “You’re an idiot.”
“You just suddenly decided to go to Plymouth?” I say, blurting out the question before I can stop myself. The post–panic attack wooziness seems to stop me from holding things in.
“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” says Lizard cheerfully. “Bit of a wild one, our Hen.”
“Stop it,” says Hen, but her voice is playful, not angry, now.
“All set to go to art school last year. Then what does she do? Quits school just before her exams.”
“I left,” mutters Hen. “Don’t like being tied down.”
Lizard taps the steering wheel. “You can say that again. Goes wherever the wind takes her. Then shows up back here whenever she feels like it.”
Hen sniffs. “Nothing wrong with seeing a bit of the world. And anyway, if I stay in one place too long, the police get to know my face. And that isn’t what I want, trust me.”
I gulp. Why doesn’t she want the police to know her? Is she a terrorist? Or a murderer? What the heck am I doing in this car with her? The feeling that this was a bad idea comes flooding back. The speedometer is jiggling around at about fifty miles an hour. For a moment, I try and figure out what will happen to my body if I open the door and dive out.
Lizard glances up at the mirror and seems to notice my worried expression. “Ha. Don’t worry. She ain’t a criminal. She’s a juggler.”
“A juggler?” I say.
Hen is too busy squirming in her seat with embarrassment to answer me, so Lizard speaks for her. His voice is extremely enthusiastic. “Oh yeah. Best ’un I’ve ever seen. Just shows up in a town. Juggles away. Draws in a crowd. Few coins in the hat. Then does one before the coppers catch her. Dunno why they don’t like her, though. Doesn’t do any harm far as I can see.”
“They don’t like anyone different,” mutters Hen.
“Tell you what, though,” continues Lizard, slapping the steering wheel for emphasis, “you should see her with them fire sticks. She really scares me, man. I swear she’ll go up in flames one day.”
“It’s paraffin,” she says matter-of-factly. “Doesn’t burn too hot. Looks worse than it is. Sorry for scaring you with it on the train by the way. Just trying to break the ice.”
A juggler. Of course. What a relief! I laugh to myself. I feel a bit foolish for thinking she was going to blow up the train.
I try and relax and look out of the window at the open land. I’m really starting to feel like maybe everything might be okay. . . .
Dolphin and Chips
“Hey!” I said, banging on the bathroom door. No answer. Mum told me to let him be, but I wasn’t having it. “Stop ruining our vacation and get out here. You promised Dad—being miserable wasn’t an option, remember?”
“Leave me alone,” replied Charlie.
I took a deep breath.
“Aw, come on,” I begged. “We’re supposed to be having fun. Look. We’ll do whatever you want.”
I didn’t know if this was true or not, but I had to try something.
“Anything?” he replied finally.
I looked over at Mum, who was putting dishes away in the kitchen cabinets. She nodded. “Yes,” I said.
The bathroom door opened slowly. Charlie was standing there with Dad’s cell phone in his hand and a sly grin across his face. I smiled. He was back. “What do you want to do, then?”
“Fish and chips for dinner,” he said cheerfully, as though nothing had just happened. “Back in St. Bernards. The seafront. Seven o’clock tonight.”
“Is that it?”
He nodded.
“And you promise to stop spoiling everyone’s fun?”
He saluted solemnly. “Brownie’s honor.”
For the rest of the afternoon, we went to the site’s outdoor pool, which was pretty sweet. It had slides and inflatable rafts, and me and Dad played volleyball with a family from Wales. Charlie didn’t join in. Mum thought he should rest after his asthma attack. At first, he was a bit fed up about it, but Mum bought him a pad from the store and he sat at a plastic table and drew pictures of dolphins, which seemed to keep him entertained. When I got out, I told him they were amazing, even though they had that scruffy, babyish look that all Charlie’s pictures have. Charlie grinned, extremely pleased with himself. It’s rare for him to sit still for that long.
At exactly twenty past six (Charlie was determined we left on time), we piled back into the car and drove into St. Bernards. Dad got annoyed because he didn’t want to drive again, but Mum told him we’d promised Charlie and that was that. He soon cheered up, though, because Charlie was back to his excitable self, firing out jokes like torpedoes the whole way there: “Did you hear the one about the man with five willies? No. His underpants fit him like a glove.”
And so on and so on.
When we got to St. Bernards, Dad and I went to the restaurant while Mum and Charlie found a bench. It was crowded in the restaurant and all along the walkway. The evening was warm and clear, and it seemed like everyone in town had the same idea. Finally we got to the front of the line, grabbed four trays of chips and a couple of fish to share (a complete rip-off, according to Dad), and wandered along the front to find Mum and Charlie.
The tide was in again. Out to sea, the sun was beginning to set, and a rippling, golden path stretched across the water from the harbor wall to the horizon. The air was sharp with seawater and vinegar.
When we found Mum and Charlie, they weren’t on a bench. Charlie was standing on the bottom rung of the railings, with Mum next to him. They were part of a group of people staring out to sea.
“She’s back!” Charlie cried, bouncing up and down. “I knew she would be back and she is! Look!”
As if he’d called it over, the dolphin cut through the water right in front of us, skirting the harbor wall right by our feet. Up close it was so beautiful: a gray shadow ringed by a glistening halo of water.
“Yes!” cheered Charlie, leaning out between the bars. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Mum had to pull him back by the sweater. “Calm down, Charlie. I don’t want you having another attack.”
So we stood by the railings, eating our chips and watching the dolphin as it glided around and around the bay, sometimes dipping down for a few minutes, then popping up somewhere else, sometimes hissing out a cloud of spray as it eased past. It was amazing how much happiness it gave people. Everyone was clapping and hollering as it passed them.
Once, it stopped
just thirty feet in front of us, its head nodding up and down, a wide smile and sharp little teeth visible over the gentle waves, a crackling, squeaking noise coming from its throat.
“Oh wow! Oh wow! She’s looking right at me!” cried Charlie. And then, without warning, he grabbed Dad’s portion of battered cod and threw it into the sea. It landed with a splash and sank under the water. The dolphin ducked its head and followed it down.
“Ha-ha! Go on, girl!” cried Charlie.
Dad was furious. “What’d you do that for?”
“Easy,” said Mum.
“That’s four pounds worth of fish,” protested Dad. “I hadn’t even had a bite.”
“The dolphin looked hungry,” said Charlie to Dad. “Here, have you got any ketchup to go with it? She might be a fussy eater.”
Mum and I giggled.
“I’ll turn you into ketchup if you’re not careful,” said Dad, but he said it in a kind of not-so-mad-anymore way that made Charlie smile. “Right. Finish your chips and let’s get back. I’d like a beer from the fridge.”
“Awww,” begged Charlie. “Just ten more minutes.”
“No,” said Dad firmly.
But Charlie refused to move. In fact, we ended up staying for nearly an hour. Even though we loved watching the dolphin, Mum, Dad, and I got a bit bored after a while. Plus, it was getting darker and cooler, and by quarter past eight, we were all shivering and we could barely even see the dolphin anymore.
In the end, Dad had to pry Charlie’s fingers off the railings and drag him away. Even then, Charlie made him promise that we’d come back at least once a day for the rest of our vacation to see the dolphin again.
And we did.
Drop-Off and Search
There’s a line of buses outside Plymouth station (more rail replacement issues, I guess), so Lizard drops us off as close as he can and says he’ll do a spin around the block and see if he can find somewhere to park.
I thank him and climb out. Hen looks around and takes off her multi-colored coat. “Put it on,” she says to me. “The police can email your photo to every station in the country. Doesn’t take much to confuse them, though. Trust me.”
Even though it’s really warm for September, I do as she says and follow her over to the station entrance. She walks quickly, making me keep a gap between us. As I follow, I wonder what made her quit school and start juggling for a living, running around the country, dodging the police, and never seeing her mum. And I wonder why she pretends to be so angry when she’s actually really nice and kind.
We reach the entrance, which is a pretty dreary place, a low 1970s building next to a big apartment building. It’s even more depressing when I see that Charlie isn’t waiting for me outside. But then I think it through. Why would he be here? He’ll be expecting me to come from the train, so he’ll be on the platform. I know it.
The inside of the station is surprisingly nice, with white tiles on the floor and these cool sail-shaped things underneath the glass roof. It’s quiet, and there’s still no sign of Charlie. Luckily I can’t see any police either.
“Go and wait over there. There’s a chance that this is a setup and they know it’s your bag. If you see any cops, run, all right?” says Hen, pushing me toward a rack of tourist leaflets. I flick through one about an aquarium, but really I’m peering over the top of it for Charlie.
A couple of minutes later, Hen comes back. She hands me my backpack. I check inside—the cookie tin is still there, which is awesome beyond words. The bottom of the bag’s a bit damp and sticky, so I guess the juice has leaked, but that doesn’t matter. “Thank you so much!” I say.
“No worries,” she replies. Her phone beeps and she reads the screen. “Lizard. He’s parked somewhere he shouldn’t be, so he’s not gonna stick around. I’ll run and get my stuff from his car. You find your brother. I’ll meet you on the platform, and we’ll sort out a plan.”
I tell her to thank Lizard for me as she darts out of the station. But as soon as she’s gone, I start to feel uneasy. What did she mean by a plan, exactly? I thought she’d help me get the bag and Charlie and then we’d go our separate ways.
Hmmm. I’ll figure this out once I’ve found my brother. There’s a bored-looking guard standing by the turnstile. “Excuse me. What platform did the last train from Birmingham come in on?” I say, as confidently as I can.
She frowns. For a moment, I think she must know who I am, but then she says, “Platform six, love.”
I feed my ticket into the machine and sprint up the stairs, along the bridge, and follow the sign down to platforms five and six. I run down the steps as quick as I can, then search for Charlie. There are a few people scattered around the platforms, reading papers, drinking coffee, and messing around with their phones, but I can’t see him anywhere.
Just as I’m starting to feel worried, I notice a bench at the far end of the platform. There’s a small boy sitting there. Confused face. Scruffy hair. Baggy sweater. Thick glasses. Peppa Pig eye patch.
“Charlie!” I shout.
He looks up and gazes around. I call again and wave my arms like crazy, and eventually he peers toward me. A grin slowly spreads across his face.
My Brother Charlie
A Recognition
Tiny fighter
Crib biter
Inn keeper
Dreadful sleeper
Walrus flopper
Card dropper
Cottage upgrader
Cookie-tin raider
Sandwich rhymer
Dune climber
Patch wearer
Bedroom sharer
Asthmatic wheezer
Little geezer
Dolphin watcher
Now I’ve gotcha!
By Martin Tompkins
Age 13
Stage 5
Plymouth to Somewhere Else
Distance–Not sure how many miles
Train
Hugs and Rolos
I sprint along the platform and dive onto Charlie, giving him the biggest rib-crushing hug ever.
“Gerroff!” he says, but he’s laughing his head off and I don’t want to let him go ever.
There are tears running down my cheeks, and I’m digging my nails into his shoulders, hugging him tighter and tighter. I’m crying like a baby, but I honestly don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in my life. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“That’s nice,” he croaks. “But I think my lung’s just collapsed.”
Snuffling and giggling at the same time, I let him go, slap him on both shoulders, and have a look at him. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Where did you disappear to?” he asks. “I looked everywhere for you. I’ve been sitting here like a lonely penguin.”
“Didn’t you hear the announcement on the train about the police?” I asked. “It’s been . . .”
I can’t finish the sentence, though, because I’m crying again and I’ve got to cover my eyes and clench my teeth together for a few moments.
“No, I didn’t,” he says. Then there’s a pause and his eyes sparkle with excitement. “The police? Cool! Are we wanted men?”
I swallow and take a deep breath, then wipe my face with my sleeve. “Sort of. But it’s fine. I think. I had to run away but I was in a rush so I forgot you and the bag and I’m so sorry, honestly . . .”
I’m about to cry again, but Charlie waves his hand. “Forget it. What was all that you were saying in the train toilet about the dolphin? Is it really back?”
“Yes!” I say. “It’s back, and we’re going to see it, I promise.”
“I knew it!” exclaims Charlie, clenching his fists and shaking them excitedly. “We should celebrate. Look at this; I found a couple of Rolos on the train when I came out of the bathroom. Bit squashed and warm, like someone had been sitting on them, but still . . . amazing what people throw away. Would you like one?”
He holds them up to me. They’re flat as pancakes, and they’re n
ot even wrapped. Gross! I shake my head. Charlie shrugs, then chucks them both into his mouth.
“Cool coat, by the way,” he says, the Rolos slopping around in his cakehole. “Did you rob a thrift store? Is that why the fuzz are after you? And, hey, what happened to your hands?”
“I borrowed the coat from a friend. And I had an argument with a wall,” I say, but the mention of the police makes me uneasy. “We should get moving. The next station we need’s called St. Something-or-other.”
“St. Something-or-other,” he says, pushing his specs up his nose. A trickle of Rolo juice dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. “Is that near Who-Knows- Where-Ville?”
“There’ll be a schedule somewhere. I’ll know the place when I see it written down,” I say, thinking yet again about the piece of paper in my room with the train times on it. “It’s about two hours away I think. We can change trains there, and it’s about another ten minutes after that. Not long now, I promise.”
“And then we’ll get to St. Bernards?” he says.
“Yep.”
“And then we’ll see the dolphin?”
I look up at the station clock, five to three, and bite my lip. “Hope so.”
“And then I can have one of the special-leftover-from-Christmas cookies.”
“We’ll see.”
At that moment, there’s a shout from across the tracks. “Martin!”
I look over. At first, I tense up in case it’s a policewoman, but then I can see Hen. She’s standing opposite us on the next platform.
Charlie’s face hardens, and he narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Who’s that?”
“Hen,” I reply, waving over to her.
“I’ll come over!” she calls, pointing toward the stairs. But our view of her is blocked off by a long, sleek train that rolls slowly up to our platform.
“I don’t like her,” says Charlie.
“Huh?” I reply, totally surprised. “But you don’t know her. She helped me get the bag back. And she got me a ride. I wouldn’t have found you if it wasn’t for her.”