by Mary Evans
Virgo suddenly gasped.
‘Maybe the chicken is on a quest!’ she cried. ‘It undertakes the perilous journey to “cross the road”, risking its life to reach “the other side”! I knew I could understand jokes! Now explain again how the bubble gum becomes attached to its foot?’
‘Shhhh!’ hissed Josie as she stabbed at the eggs on her plate. ‘I’m eating my breakfast.’
Elliot stifled his irritation and headed outside to meet Reg, his mind still spinning with a carousel of questions. Why was his dad in prison? What had his parents ‘agreed’? And why hadn’t anyone told him the truth?
‘Morning, young Hooper,’ Reg called across the paddock.
Elliot silently took the post from him.
‘Lovely day,’ said Reg, raising his face to the sun. ‘Makes you feel good to be here. Not as good as Martin Houseman’s gonna feel tomorrow, though – you going to his bash?’
‘No,’ said Elliot distractedly.
‘Well,’ said Reg, leaning in conspiratorially, ‘you didn’t hear it from me, mind – but his missus has spent six months organizing a massive surprise party for his sixtieth! Sworn everyone to secrecy! And loads of people from the village are going. I told him all about it this morning. Cheerio, then.’
A thought suddenly struck Elliot. Reg had lived in Little Motbury for ever. Perhaps . . .
‘Reg,’ he began cautiously. ‘Did you know my dad?’
The postman stopped in his tracks.
‘Before he went to prison, I mean,’ said Elliot quietly.
‘So your ma’s finally told you, then?’ said Reg, pushing his bike back towards the farm. ‘I thought she might when I saw that letter t’other day – I never forget a person’s handwriting. None of my business, mind . . .’
‘So did you?’ Elliot pushed. ‘Know him?’
‘Know him!’ Reg laughed. ‘The whole county knew your pa! He was a local legend!’
‘Was that a good thing?’
‘Most of the time,’ winked Reg. ‘He and my son used to knock about when they were kids. Caused some havoc, nothing too bad. I’ll never forget the Little Motbury County Fair – must have been fifteen year ago now. My Gary bet your dad a hundred quid that he couldn’t hit all the targets on Farmer Belbow’s shooting gallery. Your grandad went near mad!’
‘Why?’ said Elliot. ‘That’s not so hard.’
‘My boy only bet Dave he couldn’t do it blindfolded!’ Reg laughed. ‘Your pa took the bet! With respect to your grandparents, may they rest in peace, they didn’t have a hundred pound no more than I’ve got a third leg.’
‘What happened?’ asked Elliot.
‘So not only does your dad take the bet, not only does he put on the blindfold – the daft beggar only bets Gary double or quits he can do it backwards!’
‘That’s impossible,’ said Elliot.
‘So my son thought!’ Reg guffawed. ‘He’s happy as Larry thinking he’s got two hundred quid in the bank, your grandad’s shouting blue murder while your nan tries to calm him down, and by now half of Little Motbury is standing round old Belbow’s stall!’
‘Did he do it?’ said Elliot, his heart picking up pace. ‘My dad, I mean – did he win the bet?’
‘So Dave starts swinging his gun all over the shop like he’s never seen one in his life,’ said Reg. ‘He’s got the crowd screaming and carrying on – he always was a bit of a showman, your pa. Finally he turns around, holds the gun over his shoulder, takes aim and . . . Bam!’
Elliot jumped.
‘First target straight through the middle. He lines up the second. Bam!’
Elliot jumped again.
‘True as an arrow,’ said Reg. ‘Third one he takes his time . . . then Bam! Bam! Hits three and four in less than a second. Now he’s only got one left. I swear you could have heard a flower grow in that field.’
‘And . . .?’ said Elliot, leaning in further. ‘Did he make it?’
‘Your dad sways from side to side,’ Reg whispered. ‘He makes the sign of the cross. He tells your nan he’s sorry. And then . . .’
‘Yes?’ gasped Elliot.
‘BAM BAM BAM BAMAMAMAM!’ shouted Reg. ‘Blow me if your pa hadn’t shot a bloomin’ smiley face into the last target! The crowd went nuts! Your grandpa stormed off! And my Gary had to take three summer jobs to pay me back that two hundred pound! It was the talk of the village for weeks!’
As Reg wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, Elliot processed this new information about Dave Hooper. His dad sounded reckless. His dad sounded irresponsible.
His dad sounded kinda cool.
‘Yeah – he was a one-off your dad, that’s for sure,’ sighed Reg. ‘Besides, this mysterious new beauty had just arrived in Little Motbury and your dad went completely cuckoo over her. I’m sure he only did it to impress her.’
‘Did it work?’
The postman winked. ‘You wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t. Yep – your pa could shoot the petals off a daisy by the time he was knee-high to a donkey. That’s what made it all so sad really . . .’
‘Made what so sad?’ asked Elliot.
The postman looked guiltily around him. ‘I’d best be getting on,’ he said, getting back on his bike. ‘You go ask your ma.’
‘I can’t,’ Elliot blurted suddenly.
The postman eyed him quizzically.
‘I mean, she gets really upset whenever we talk about it,’ said Elliot quickly. ‘I don’t want to stress her out.’
Reg took a deep breath and stared at Elliot. Elliot really wanted to know whatever was on the tip of the postie’s tongue.
‘Go to the library,’ Reg said eventually. ‘You’ll find some answers there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Elliot, trying not to look disappointed. How was he going to find out anything about his dad at the library?
‘My pleasure. You didn’t hear it from me, mind. Now I’d best be off. Mrs Jeffery from the bakery can’t lose “Thirty Pounds in Thirty Days” without her fitness DVD. Mind you, between you and me, she’ll only lose thirty pounds if she drops her purse down the loo . . . Cheerio, young Hooper – best to your ma.’
‘So this is your location?’ said Virgo, finding Elliot on a hay bale in the top field. She knew he’d be keen to hear her latest thoughts. He often sat in rapt silence when she spoke.
‘No one’s seen you since breakfast. I’m still awaiting my quest. I was hopeful when Aphrodite said she required vital assistance. But she only wanted to know which jeans were optimal for her backside. Hermes has been entertaining your mother with something Athene disapproves of on the internet. Why the protracted absence?’
‘I wanted to be by myself,’ said Elliot quietly.
‘I quite understand,’ said Virgo, sitting down next to him. ‘I have some joking for you. What do you call a camel with three humps?’
‘Dunno.’
‘A freak genetic mutation!’ laughed Virgo. ‘Camels have a maximum of two! I made it up myself!’
Elliot didn’t mock her. She found this most irregular.
‘Explain something to me,’ she said, producing the letter that she’d accidentally found in the bread bin while searching the kitchen. ‘Why have you never mentioned that your father was imprisoned?’
‘Give me that!’ Elliot shouted, snatching the letter from her. ‘It’s private!’
‘Your anger is predictable,’ Virgo nodded. ‘According to What’s What, mortals are easily upset by secrets of which they are ashamed. It advises behaving with tact and sensitivity. This difficult issue could make you prone to irritability and even worse hygiene.’
‘Stay out of it,’ said Elliot, stuffing the letter into his pocket. ‘It’s none of your business.’
There was that code again. She knew this letter was significant.
‘What’s What also suggests that talking to a sympathetic individual can help,’ Virgo continued. ‘From your sullen mood and strong, unwashed aroma, I conclude that you were unaware of your father’s s
ituation. Why were you not informed by Josie-Mum?’
Elliot was silent for a moment. Eventually, he exhaled deeply. This gave Virgo two pieces of data. Firstly, he had decided to take her into his confidence. Secondly, he had neglected to clean his teeth for at least seventy-two hours.
‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Elliot. ‘Trying to protect me, I guess.’
‘I am confused by families,’ said Virgo, tucking her brown hair behind her ears. ‘What’s What says they are a close-knit group of relatives who support each other at all times – unless they support opposing football teams or play a board game on Christmas Day.’
Elliot shrugged.
‘And yet what I observe of the Gods suggests that families are prone to intense dislike and threats of unpleasant biological consequences,’ she continued. ‘Yours mystifies me also.’
‘You’re not the only one,’ said Elliot.
‘If he is released, will you allow your father to return?’ asked Virgo.
Elliot paused. ‘No,’ he said eventually.
‘What do the Gods advise?’ Virgo asked.
‘I haven’t told them,’ said Elliot quickly. ‘And you’re not to either. I need to think about this without all their . . . stuff.’
‘I’m sorry, Elliot, I cannot agree to this,’ said Virgo. ‘I would be failing in my duty as your appointed companion and vast superior if I did not inform them of this—’
‘If you tell them, I’ll tell Zeus that you ate his secret biscuit stash,’ said Elliot.
‘This is a wild accusation!’ said Virgo. ‘You have no proof!’
‘Who else would eat a whole packet of chocolate digestives?’
‘Actually, they were custard creams and there were barely any . . .’
Elliot’s triumphant smile suggested that her negotiating position had weakened.
‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘We should respect each other’s privacy. I felt strongly about this when searching through your dirty laundry. But I am surprised about your father. You are nosier than Pandora’s nasal hair. Are you not curious about him?’
‘Couldn’t care less,’ said Elliot.
Virgo was unconvinced. Mortals often said something inaccurate in order to mask the truth. Especially politician mortals.
‘What crime did your father commit?’ asked Virgo. ‘Did he slay his brother in a duel? Did he steal another man’s wife and start a war? Did he wear salmon pink trousers? Hermes assures me this is a most serious offence.’
‘It could be anything,’ said Elliot. ‘Lying. Stealing. Murder . . .’
‘All those misconducts have the same punishment?’ exclaimed Virgo. ‘You are imprisoned?’
‘Sure,’ said Elliot.
‘But they are so different,’ said Virgo. ‘Mortal justice is sub-optimal. A liar is not as dangerous as a killer.’
Elliot appeared to consider her words more carefully than usual. It was about time.
‘You might be right,’ he said after a pause. ‘That feels weird.’
‘I am always right at least three times before lunch,’ Virgo said. ‘My point is, perhaps it would influence your decision if you discovered the precise nature of your father’s crime?’
‘You’re freaking me out now,’ said Elliot. ‘That’s two good points you’ve made in one conversation. Stop it.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Virgo, congratulating herself on remaining humble in the face of her brilliance. ‘Listen, why don’t we go to the library and perform Mr Boil’s task? We may as well get it out of the way.’
‘The library,’ said Elliot thoughtfully. ‘You’re right . . .’
‘You see,’ smiled Virgo brightly as she followed him through the field. ‘That’s the third time. And it’s not even midday.’
8. Local History
Elliot hadn’t been to the Little Motbury library for ages. He and Mum used to come every week to choose a book. There was one about a burping frog he’d taken out a million times, just to hear her champion belches. But that seemed a long time ago. He’d never wanted to come on his own. Besides, there wasn’t much to do there. It was just full of books.
‘Local studies is on the second floor,’ said Virgo, reading the sign in the entrance hall.
They climbed a creaking staircase to a small room at the top of the building. Elliot caught a musty waft as he opened the door. If old had a smell, this room was it.
‘What an extraordinary collection,’ said Virgo, surveying the leather-bound volumes crammed on to every shelf.
Elliot glanced over the books of council minutes and planning applications. Reg had said he’d find answers about his dad here. How would any of this help?
‘Why would anyone keep this stuff?’ Elliot said under his breath.
‘So people can find it,’ said a sharp voice behind him.
Elliot turned around sheepishly. Sitting behind a desk Elliot hadn’t noticed was a middle-aged man with a thin beard and even thinner glasses. His left eyebrow was raised not unpleasantly as Elliot fished around for an apology.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
‘Felix,’ said Virgo, reading his name badge. ‘That’s a pleasant name.’
‘How kind,’ smiled Felix. ‘How can I help?’
‘We’re from Brysmore School,’ explained Virgo.
‘Ah – your history topic?’ said Felix, pulling out a piece of paper. ‘Sign in here, please?’
Virgo wrote her mortal name, Anna Hooper, on the paper and Elliot scribbled his carelessly underneath. Felix stared intently at the names, then peered at them through his glasses.
‘Hooper?’ said the librarian with his eyebrow raised even further. ‘Of the Home Farm Hoopers?’
Elliot nodded cautiously. Was that a good thing?
‘Your family goes back a long way around here,’ Felix reassured. ‘I’ve archived many documents about you all. I was sorry to hear of the loss of your grandparents.’
‘Thanks,’ said Elliot softly.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Felix.
‘Something about drains?’ said Virgo.
‘Lucky you,’ smiled Felix. ‘Follow me.’
Felix picked up a black cane from beside his desk and used it to stand. He led them to what looked like a computer’s great-grandfather, his cane tapping the wooden floor with each slightly uneven step. He switched the enormous machine on and it slowly whirred to life.
Elliot watched as Felix removed four small cardboard boxes from a nearby drawer. Each one contained a spool of shiny black ribbon.
‘What’s that?’ asked Virgo.
‘Microfilm,’ Felix explained. ‘On these rolls are photographs of every single edition of the Little Motbury Gazette, put there by hand.’
‘Wow,’ said Elliot. ‘What saddo did that?’
Another raised eyebrow gave Elliot his answer.
‘Oh,’ said Elliot with a blush. ‘Well done.’
Felix loaded the film in the machine, wound the end around a second wheel and put the film under the glass panel in the centre of the machine. A wonky photograph of an old edition of the LMG popped up on the screen.
‘So if you press these here,’ said Felix, pointing to some red buttons with arrows in opposite directions, ‘you can move forwards and backwards through the paper. All of Little Motbury’s history in one collection. From cake sales to crime sprees. Although I’m pleased we’ve had rather more of the former.’
Crime?
A thought suddenly lit up Elliot’s mind like a lightning storm. What if the local paper had reported on Elliot’s dad going to prison? Perhaps there would be a record of his father’s crime? That must have been what Reg had meant.
‘So these newspapers have everything that ever happened in Little Motbury?’ he asked.
‘Pretty much,’ said Felix.
Elliot suddenly felt nervous. Did he really want to know what his dad had done? What if it was really horrible? There were some things you couldn’t unsee. He knew that from the time
he’d seen his PE teacher, Mr Meaner, wearing Speedos at the leisure centre.
‘OK,’ said Elliot. ‘So how would I search for a name?’
‘You use your eyes,’ said Felix.
‘No, I mean where do I put someone’s name in to search for them?’
‘You don’t,’ said Felix. ‘You have to look through every single page until you find what you want.’
‘You’re kidding!’ said Elliot. ‘That’ll take hours!’
‘We close at six,’ said Felix with a slight smile, returning to his desk.
Elliot slowly dropped into the chair in front of the computer, as Virgo switched on the one next to his.
‘Hours of poring over decades of information,’ sighed Virgo. ‘What an optimal day.’
Elliot didn’t share her enthusiasm. Over the next few hours, he read dozens of copies of the Little Motbury Gazette. He learnt about people bathing in custard for charity, and the time a soap star fused the Christmas lights. He became an expert in the controversy surrounding zebra crossings, and everyone who ever turned one hundred. But by mid-afternoon, there was still no mention of his dad.
An irregular tapping interrupted his concentration.
‘Here you go,’ said Felix, putting glasses of water on the table next to Elliot and Virgo. ‘Drink these. Otherwise you’ll dehydrate and then I’ll have to dust you up as well.’
Elliot gratefully accepted the drink as he exhaled with frustration.
‘How’s it going?’ Felix enquired.
‘Tremendously,’ said Virgo, shuffling her copious notes. ‘Little Motbury’s drainage system is fascinating. The Great Hair Blockage of 1964 was quite something . . .’
‘How about you, young man?’ Felix asked Elliot.
‘It’s impossible,’ said Elliot despondently.
‘Perhaps I can help?’ said Felix. ‘I’ve lived here my whole life and archived many people’s. I have a good memory. What are you looking for?’
‘I don’t know,’ grumbled Elliot.
‘When did it happen?’