“Ah!” he answered, and was clearly satisfied he had answered completely.
“Ah?” indignated Susie. “That’s supposed to be an answer? ‘Ah’?”
“Ah,” Mr E ahed again. But whether he was repeating the first ‘ah’ or whether this was also the reply to Susie’s second question Susie never discovered. “Perhaps,” Mr E continued, “that’s what we’re meant to find out in Grammarcloud.”
“Grammarcloud,” Susie snorted. Mr E smiled back at her and shrugged. Behind them the frogs had resumed their earlier cavorting. But Susie no longer seemed to be interested. “So,” she asked, her tone having moderated just a little, “this Grammarcloud, what is it then?”
“It’s where we’re whooshing to.”
“All right, fine, so don’t tell me,” sulked Susie.
“It’s in the clouds, don’t you know.”
“Clouds aren’t places. Everyone knows that,” she superiored at him. “Clouds are just … well … air and things.”
“Not Grammarcloud.”
“Why not Grammarcloud?”
“Ah!”
“Don’t ‘ah’ at me like that. I hate it when you ‘ah’ like that.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr E.
“So?” Susie asked.
“Because,” said Mr E with a firm full-stop.
Susie looked at him blankly. “‘Because’?” she repeated. “That’s it? The lump sum total of the explanation: ‘because’? That’s almost as bad as ‘ah’.”
“Yes,” said Mr E blandly.
Susie took him to the window. It had been her intention to explain clouds to him. But the moon was shining. Shining brightly. And the moon glimmered on a piece of metal. Susie peered more carefully. She saw that the metal belonged to a bicycle. To Wilmer’s bicycle.
For the second time that day she dropped Mr E hot-potatoly. And she fled from the room. She had a Wilmer to meet.
She had a Wilmer to confront.
Chapter 5
Conscious of the fact that technically she was banished to her room, Susie tiptoed carefully – oh so carefully – down the stairs. The third step was a squeaky one. She levered herself between the banister and the wall and swung over the top of it.
Her eyes never left the kitchen door. Her ears were alive to the smallest change beyond: any lull in the conversation, the sound of crockery meeting the stainless steel of the sink; anything which might indicate the imminent opening of the door.
Only two steps to go.
Just one.
The shock was a big one. There was no warning at all. The kitchen door opened. Her mother. Oh God.
“What the …?” she stammered.
“You don’t understand, Mum.”
“Bedroom, Susie. And I mean, right now.”
“But, Mummy, Wilmer …”
“Right now.”
“Wilmer, Mummy …”
“Do you ever want there to be a time, Susie, when you’re ungrounded? Ever?”
“It’s important …It’s really important.”
“You’ve got to the count of three, young lady, for me to hear the bedroom door close behind you.”
“But …”
“One …”
Susie slouched her neck and slugged her exasperated way back up the stairs.
“Two …”
Wilmer could only be there if he had a guilty conscience. That conscience could clear Susie, could exonerate her. The entire mess could be cleared up here and now. Maybe then people would start believing her again.
“Two-and-a-half …”
But Susie also knew men. The guilt of their consciences was so flighty that, by comparison, the average butterfly seemed like a hippopotamus. They were elusive creatures, male guilty consciences. You caught them at a given moment. Or never again.
She closed the door. And she charged to the window.
The bike had gone!
Just as she would have expected.
“You’re not to leave that room – do you hear me, Susie? – not for a second. Not till I tell you.”
But her words scarcely penetrated. Susie knew what she had to do. She was by then halfway through her window.
She’d never done it before – never even seriously thought about it before – but she reckoned she could jump from her window to the top of the gnarled old apple tree. Which she could climb down to the ground. Easy-peasy.
And if she did kill herself, well, whose fault would that be?
At the last minute she decided to take Mr E with her. Vaguely she was conscious of the phone ringing downstairs. At the lastest minute of all she remembered her key! All these Zorro-like athletics, they were all great going downwards. Coming back up? Well, not even Susie could be expected to defy gravity.
To something of her surprise, Susie found herself on the ground bearing not so much as a graze or a bruise.
She slid into the garage with the stealth of a shadow. She retrieved her bike. Pushed it over the grass, rather than the gravel, until she reached the tarmacced lane. Where she swung herself into the saddle and started to pedal furiously. As if her life depended on it.
Which, to a very real extent, it did.
She had to catch up with Wilmer before he got to the hill. She had to.
The hill she was talking about was not really a hill, more a not so small mountain, so steep it was almost perpendicular.
His was a top-of-the-range mountain bike, which would negotiate that hill … well, okay, not maybe easily, but at least with confidence. Susie’s, on the other hand, was a bottom-of-the-range molehill bike. And which had about as much chance of getting to the top of that hill as would, to the summit of Everest, a three-legged stoat on a skateboard.
She pedalled hard. Harder. She had to overtake Wilmer before he got to the hill. She had to, she had to.
The night was still. There was only a sprinkle of stars visible. Presumably the day’s clouds had not yet dispersed. But such stars as there were seemed, perhaps in compensation, to sparkle that much more brilliantly.
Harder she pedalled. Harder yet. Had to get to him before the hill. Had to; had to.
And it was cold. Bitingly cold.
“Damn!” Susie panted. She’d arrived at the hill. She was sweating heavily, puffing like a dragon with terminal hiccups. “Damn, damn, damn!” she said.
There was no sign of Wilmer. It wasn’t that he could have gone another way. If he wasn’t there, it was because he had already gone.
Susie looked at the moonlit hill. She’d seen it many times in the daylight. She knew it was steep. It was this hill, indeed, the reason she had to travel with her mother and Phil to and from school, instead of (as she would have ginormously preferred) cycling there herself.
In the darkness it looked even steeper than she knew it to be. It seemed wall-like in its steepness. Its surface no longer seemed to be tarmac, but a black treacle so sticky it would glue her tyres the moment they made contact. In the next second, it had the slipperiness of a zillion black, black eels.
Okay. So there we were. And there, Susie, we would continue to be for just so long as we started allowing perfectly normal country roads suddenly to be made of treacle or eels or anything else. There was only one thing for certain, Susie: The hill was not about to be climbed by her standing there gazing at it.
It was all just a matter of confidence: If she thought she could do it then she could. And of course she could do it. She could do it and she would. There was nothing more to be said.
She took a couple of deep breaths, just to get the adrenalin revving. “Keep your mind on the job, girl. Just one foot at a time.”
She pushed off.
Her bottom wiggled, almost mooning the moon. “One foot after the other, girl. One foot …”
Well, that was the first twenty yards done. Not so bad. “Don’t look – at the top, Susie,” she started to pant. “Just con – centrate on what’s – there. One foot – after the other. – One foot …”
The sweat
she’d sweated previously had become a fond memory of a gentle dew. Now it was Niagaraing off her. And freezing at the same time. Like she had an icicle of sweat running the length of her spine. “One – foot – after – the – other, – girl. – One – foot …”
She did look up. Towards the top. “Oh Gooooooooood!”
She was not a quarter way up the hill. Not an eighth. She was never going to make it. Never. Not in a million years.
“Keep – going, – girl. – Got – to – keep – going. – Got – to – clear – your – name. – Got – to, – Susie. – Got – to, – girl.” She wobbled another few yards uphill. “One – foot – after – an – oth – er. – Got – to – keep – go – in – ng. – Got – to, – Su – sie, – keep …”
She collapsed on the side of the road, a jelly of dripping despair. And not just of sweat. Even the inside of her legs seemed to be teeming with water. She felt queasy – nauseous, even.
Most of all, though, she felt useless.
Completely, utterly useless.
By Monday – sure as eggs is eggs – Wilmer would have changed his mind. The police would be called. She’d be expelled. Probably thrown into prison. She shivered deeply just at the sound of the word. And it was a shiver that was colder than even a North Pole shiver. A shiver that could air-condition Hell.
Her life would be ruined. Her whole life. All the ‘not yets’ of her future would with one bound have caught up with her. And all because she was so … pathetic she couldn’t even get to the top of one stupid hill. So utterly pathetic. Her whole life.
From inside her pocket she became vaguely aware of Mr E wittering on about something or other. But she couldn’t find the interest within herself to care. Frogs weren’t going to get her out of the mess she was in, not croaking ones nor talking ones.
In terms of terrain, the ride home, because mostly downhill, was considerably easier. But with each rotation of the wheels Susie’s despair seemed to become more acute. She hadn’t stolen the cup. Why would no-one believe her? … Would her mother ever believe her again?
The light was on in the sitting room. Thank God! The first break she’d had in the whole of that stupid evening. That meant they were watching television.
Susie gingered a tip-toed foot into the flowerbed. She wanted to check. Yes, it was the television. Good. That would mask any sounds she might make.
Well, maybe, at the very least, she’d get away with this … whatever it was … escape bid, whatever.
“Don’t bark, Bo,” she prayed. “Oh, please, Bo, don’t bark.”
A millimetre at a time, she inserted her key into the front-door lock. Slowly, slowly she turned it.
Nothing. A millimetre at a time, she withdrew the key. She pushed the door ajar. Slowly, slowly, slowly.
Nothing. Not a thing.
Great.
All she had to do now was to close the door, negotiate the stairs, she was home and dry. She turned slowly on her heel to close the door. Slowly, slowly. She started to swing the door to.
In its shadow stood a figure.
“Got you,” said her mother.
Chapter 6
“I can explain,” said Susie.
“Oh?” her mother challenged her.
“Exceeding not clever, munchkin,” Phil said, en route to the kitchen where the kettle was whistling.
“It was Wilmer. He was at the house. That’s why I came downstairs. Don’t you see? If he was here, that means he did it. Or helped to do it, anyway. If he did it, then I didn’t. I couldn’t. I went after him. I didn’t catch him. But … oh, don’t you see?”
Phil, having silenced the kettle, stood in the kitchen doorway. “The theft’s not the point any more,” he said.
“I’ll deal with this, Phil, thank you,” said her mother.
“Susie, do use your brain,” Phil said pointedly, and disappeared back into the kitchen, presumably to make the tea.
“What does that mean?” Susie asked. “The theft’s not the point?”
“About an hour ago, Mrs Adelaide phoned. Someone had ... I don’t know … rung her front door, I think she said. Whatever, she found the cup on her doorstep. And attached to it was a note – anonymous, of course – admitting you’d been framed. You were (so we thought) here at the time. Mrs Adelaide conceded that it therefore couldn’t possibly be you who had returned the cup, and it was therefore pretty unlikely you were the thief. She even apologised. Well, vaguely apologised, at least.”
“Nothing vague, though, when I was accused,” Susie pouted.
“Susie!” her mother admonished that’s-not-the-pointly.
“No, Mummy, she accused me publicly, she should say sorry publicly too. Shouldn’t she?”
“Neither, Susie, the time nor the place. Do you have the first idea of the worry you’ve caused me? Me and Phil? Have you the first idea? Do you ever, Susie, ever, for one second, think of anyone but yourself?”
“Yes,” she answered defiantly. “In fact, usually.”
“Well, I see no evidence of it. Room, Susie, right now. I don’t yet know precisely how I’m going to punish you. Other than that it will be really unpleasant. Grounding will be involved. That you can put money on. Not that you’ll have any. Because loss of pocket money will also be involved. A lot of both. Along with a lack of television. Some other unpleasantnesses I’ve yet to devise.”
“Why don’t you just take me out and shoot me?”
“Good idea. I’ll discuss it with Phil. Room, Susie. Don’t say, ‘It’s not fair’.”
“Oh, so you think it is, do you?”
“Do you think it’s fair to me, fair to Phil, to frighten us half out of our minds? ... Well, do you?”
“I’m sorry,” Susie barked. And she was sorry. Sort of sorry, anyway. But she so hated being in a position where she had to apologise that an apology thereby tendered was rarely … well, tender.
“What I said,” her mother sighed, “no thought for anyone but yourself.” That was so unfair, so unfair. “And clean your room,” her mother added as a sort of post stricture. “I want all the toys off the floor, all the frogs back on their shelves. I want the whole room sparkling like a new pin.”
Susie was tempted to slam the door. Prudence prevailed, however. Maybe because prudence simply had to.
It was a bomb-site. She’d had Mr E with her. The other frogs had been alive. They’d taken advantage of her absence to create … chaos.
Susie should, she felt, be feeling triumphant, exultant. She had, when all was said and done, been cleared, been vindicated. As it was she felt … lousy. And betrayed. Betrayed in that, in her hour of vindication, she was feeling lousy.
She took Mr E from her pocket. “Thanks a bunch,” she snarled.
“Grammarcloud?” he asked.
“You know the hot of the hot water I’m already in?”
“Water cannot heat beyond boiling.”
“And what does that mean?”
“We’ll be back before you know you’ve even gone.”
Susie wavered. “I’ve got this …” the chaos “… to clear up.”
“I think it would be a good idea, this being the first time, that you take the maximum with you, don’t you know. Till we know how strong the whoosh is, that type of thing. Take the six of us.”
“Hello?” said Susie, as if to a deaf man. “I said, I cannot go, I have got this mess to clear up.”
“Those, don’t you know, who stay behind can clear this up. The Sufrogs were caught off-guard, that’s all. Obviously, we can’t be alive around adults.”
“Oh, obviously,” said Susie, her sarcasm flying around like a parrot in mid-ocean, desperately seeking a roost.
“Well?” hoity-toitied one of the other frogs, the one Susie had that day taken with her to school. Bo had one day decided this frog would make good eating. When such had proved not to be the case, Bo had exacted a fearful revenge. Susie’s mother had had to perform emergency surgery. The frog’s looks had been lost forever
. Her eyes had been chewed out of alignment: The left one looked like a hodge-podged periscope and gave her an air of undauntability and undefined menace; the right seemed to disapprove permanently and with authority. In an attempt to improve the frog’s looks, Susie had tied a bright red scarf round her neck. But the difference this made, like the equally bright redness of her lips, was only cosmetic – in every sense of the word.
“Well?” Susie asked back.
“Pick, child, pick. We haven’t got all night,” said the wonky-eyed frog. She wrapped the scarf around her neck.
“Pick what?”
“What do you think? Your nose? Us, child, us.”
Susie looked blankly at Mr E for elucidation.
“You have to pick, don’t you know, the six of us you wish to accompany you.”
“Whoa, there. I haven’t yet said I’m going. Not anywhere.”
“Well, you sort of blueming have, Suse,” said the Australian frog. “And the sort of was so sort of blueming sort of that, really and blueming truly, you have.”
“So now you have to choose,” said O’Nestly, the sponge.
“Choose, choose,” chorused most of the frogs.
What the hell? It was a game. Susie knew it was a game. It had to be better than soccer. She’d play along with it for a minute or two. I mean – get real! – what else did she have to do? “I’ll take you, Mr E,” she said.
“That’s very kind,” said Mr E. “You don’t have to, you know.”
“We’ll choose the rest,” said the scarred frog, the wonky-eyed one.
“Can she do that?” Susie asked Mr E as an aside.
“Probably,” said Mr E. “Certainly she thinks she can. That is Miss Chief.” The voice was curtained with doom.
“Well, we pick us, of course,” said Miss Chief.
“And then there’s myself,” O’Nestly interrupted her, “Mimimi, Bluemerang and Nespa.”
“Nespa’s not even a frog,” snootied Miss Chief.
“I am,” said Nespa, the French dog, “a frog honorary.”
“Let’s get blueming on with it,” said Bluemerang, the blue frog from Perth, Australia.
“Okay, Susie?” asked Mr E.
Susie and the Snow-it-alls Page 3