Frankie Fish and the Sonic Suitcase

by Peter Helliar

  ‘WHAT!?’ yelled Frankie. ‘You can’t send me there!’

  ‘Francis, your father and I are very busy with the pest-control business,’ said his mum. ‘We just haven’t got time to worry about you misbehaving –’

  ‘No way,’ said Frankie, shaking his head vigorously. ‘I’m not going. That place is like Old-People Jail.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’ll make you its youngest prisoner!’ said Ron Fish, glaring into the rearview mirror at Frankie, who looked like he’d just swallowed a fart. ‘Because you’ll be spending the whole school holidays there – starting TOMORROW.’

  The following day, the Fish Pest Control minivan was as silent as a church service for mice. Frankie glared out the window as they drove. He hated visiting his grandparents. It wasn’t just that it was boring, although it definitely was.

  Nanna and Grandad, also known as Mavis and Alfie Fish, were basically living in the dark ages, with only one TV and no computers. The only vaguely modern thing in their whole house was Nanna’s electric can-opener, which she thought was ‘all a bit whiz-bang’. Frankie thought it might have been because they’d lived in Scotland before they came to Australia. Maybe people in Scotland didn’t have the internet and computers and stuff like everyone else.

  The real problem, in any case, was Grandad Alfie Fish: the grumpiest, sourest, meanest old man in the history of mean old men. He made Old Man Harris look like the Easter Bunny. Grandad barely spoke to anyone besides Nanna, preferring to spend almost all his time in the shed at the bottom of the garden, where no-one else was allowed to go.

  It didn’t help that Grandad had a hook instead of a right hand, which Frankie secretly thought was a bit creepy.

  He knew he shouldn’t, but he did. Annoyingly, nobody would tell him how Grandad had lost the hand in the first place. It was just never spoken about, like Miss Davis’s moustache or Principal Dawson’s nineties cover band, the Matchbox Blossoms.

  So Frankie Fish was left to draw his own conclusions.

  A. Grandad’s hand was bitten off by a shark.

  B. Grandad was actually Luke Skywalker in disguise.

  C. Grandad had high-fived Edward Scissorhands and come off second-best.

  Frankie had once prayed that it was B.

  Frankie liked Nanna Fish OK, because she LOVED kids, had sparkly blue eyes and made good pancakes. But visiting Frankie’s grandparents was like sitting down to a bowl of ice-cream when there’s a plate of rotten meat beside you. Sure, ice-cream is nice, but it’s hard to enjoy when there’s the stench of putrid flesh in your nostrils.

  Frankie’s mum turned around from the front seat of the car. ‘You know your grandad lost his driver’s licence recently,’ she said. ‘You can help your grandparents out by running errands. They could really use an extra hand around the place.’

  At any other time, Frankie might have laughed at the accidental joke, but today he couldn’t even muster a smirk. His not-a-smirk soon drooped even lower as the Fish family’s mini-van pulled into the long driveway.

  They’d arrived at Old-People Jail.

  ‘Dad, I’m sorry, OK?’ Frankie said desperately, trying to sound EXTRA sorry. ‘You’ve made your point. Now let’s go home.’

  But Ron Fish just gave Frankie a look, and then honked twice.

  ‘Be good, Francis,’ said his mum, giving him a squeeze.

  Saint Lou gave her brother a sympathetic look, which Frankie misinterpreted to mean, ‘Suck eggs, loser!’

  ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ he said to his family, trying to keep a wobble out of his voice. Maybe if they were reminded how boring it was at Nanna and Grandad’s, they’d realise this was a ridiculously big punishment. Maybe he’d even be allowed to go away with Drew after all. Or at least be able to call him.

  But Tina and Ron weren’t falling for that. ‘Help Nanna around the house,’ his mum said, ‘and stay out of Grandad’s way. And remember, DO NOT go near his shed.’

  A moment later, Frankie was left standing in the driveway as his family’s mini-van screeched off like they’d just robbed a bank – taking his dreams with them.

  Five minutes later, Frankie sat down on Nanna’s couch with his boogie board (which he’d brought just in case). His jail sentence felt super harsh, especially when he thought of all the fun he should’ve been having at the beach. He tried very hard not to cry, and bravely succeeded.

  Frankie could hear Nanna humming in the kitchen as she prepared morning tea.

  Grandad was sitting in his armchair with a newspaper open in front of him. He turned a page, ignoring Frankie completely.

  Frankie stared at Grandad for a moment, and then at the painting above his head. It was of dogs playing poker, and had hung on that wall for as long as Frankie could remember. He didn’t find it particularly funny but perhaps Grandad did.

  ‘Dogs playing poker,’ he said meekly. ‘Classic.’

  Grandad didn’t even move his head to acknowledge the comment.

  After another long silence, Frankie decided to start again. ‘Um, hi, Grandad,’ he tried. ‘What’s in the news today? Anything good?’

  Silence. Grandad turned another page.

  ‘Did you know you can read a newspaper on a computer these days? That might be easier on your hook because, um, you don’t have to turn pages on a computer,’ Frankie went on politely. ‘Yeah, we all use computers now. Do you even know what a computer is?’

  More silence. A frown deepened across Grandad’s forehead.

  Frankie cleared his throat. It occurred to him that it’d been a while since he’d seen his grandad, and it was possible that he’d gone deaf since then. Frankie increased the volume. ‘Grandad? I said –’

  Suddenly, Grandad stood up and glared at Frankie. Then he scrunched up his newspaper and slammed it on the table – which would have been very dramatic and scary, except that several of the pages got stuck on Grandad’s hook, and he had to wave the hook around wildly to get them off while the sports section flapped about like a pelican in a bathtub.

  Frankie froze, not even daring to snicker.

  Grandad finally freed the crumpled newspaper from his hook, banged it on the table and stomped out of the room. A moment later, Frankie heard the back door slam. Without even noticing, he let go of his boogie board, which was fast becoming the saddest boogie board in the world.

  So began Frankie’s school holidays.

  The one good thing about his grandparents’ house was that it was clean and smelt nice (no thanks to Grandad Fish Guts). The floors were regularly mopped, the polka-dot curtains framed spotless windows and the aroma of blueberry pancakes wafted through the air.

  Another plus was that Grandad, Captain Hook, spent most of his time in his shed. But it was frustrating that no-one else was ever allowed to take so much as a peek inside.

  What if you were being attacked by zombies? ‘NO. Stay out of Grandad’s shed.’

  What if you were being attacked by zombies with axes and guns and girl germs? ‘NO. Stay out of Grandad’s shed.’

  What if you desperately needed to do a poo and the last roll of toilet paper in the whole world was in Grandad’s shed? ‘NO. Find a newspaper and STAY OUT OF GRANDAD’S SHED.’

  Of course, being forbidden just made Frankie more curious than ever.

  ‘What does Grandad do all day in that shed?’ he asked Nanna as she brought over a bag of marbles.

  ‘I’m not really sure, dear,’ admitted Nanna. ‘He tinkers mostly, I think. Whatever it is, it keeps him busy and out of my hair.’ She winked as Frankie’s eyes darted up to her purple hairdo.

  Nanna didn’t seem to mind keeping Frankie in her hair, though. Which was lucky, because it wasn’t like there was anywhere else he could go. There was nothing for Frankie to do but play marbles, listen to talkback radio, and watch game shows on the little TV that Nanna loved so much. Sometimes he laid his boogie board on the lounge carpet and tried to pretend he was riding a dolphin at the beach with Drew Bird.

  Nights overtook mor
nings and mornings overtook nights as Frankie’s sentence ticked away, and one thing remained the same: he was BORED out of his BRAIN. And then late one afternoon, just as Nanna sat down with a cup of tea for another episode of Family Feud, Frankie decided enough was enough.

  He sneaked into the hallway and picked up the ancient landline.

  A chirpy Ron Fish answered the phone. ‘Fish Pest Control! If there is a pest, we’ll do the –’

  ‘Hi, Dad. It’s me, Frankie.’

  ‘Frankie?’

  ‘Yeah, your son?’

  ‘Hey, Francis,’ Ron said, sounding more normal. ‘How are you enjoying Nanna’s?’

  Frankie took a deep breath. ‘Look, I was just wondering if I could come home,’ he said politely. ‘I’ve been here for a very, very long time now –’

  His dad groaned loudly. So much for customer service, thought Frankie.

  ‘Mate, it’s been forty-eight hours,’ his dad said. ‘Don’t call us at work unless it’s an emergency, OK? We need to keep the line free. Your mother will come get you when we’re ready.’

  Click. The phone went dead, and so too did Frankie Fish’s hopes of early release.

  Frankie dragged himself back into the lounge as the Murphy family on the TV tried to think of another thing you might do with a zucchini.

  ‘Erm … use it to clean your ear?’ suggested Mrs Murphy.

  Frankie slumped onto the coffee table, feeling the weight of his sentence on his shoulders. Near his head was a little vase of blue flowers. He stared at it glumly.

  Nanna’s bright eyes twinkled as she looked at him. ‘Do you know what those flowers are called?’ she asked, turning down Family Feud for a moment.

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Blue roses?’

  ‘Myosotis sylvaticas,’ Nanna Fish said.

  ‘Oh yeah, that was my next guess,’ replied Frankie sheepishly.

  Nanna plucked a single flower from the vase. ‘Otherwise known as forget-me-nots,’ she said, popping it in Frankie’s shirt pocket.

  ‘Um, thanks,’ Frankie replied, not sure what he was going to do with a flower. Then, just to make conversation, and even though he knew the answer already, he said, ‘Where’s Grandad?’

  Nanna looked at Frankie, a smile tugging at her lips. ‘In the shed, most likely.’ Then she sighed. ‘He’s been spending a lot more time in there lately. He’s been a little grumpy, too. Have you noticed that?’

  ‘Um,’ said Frankie. He wanted to say that Grandad was never not grumpy, but he didn’t want to hurt Nanna’s feelings. ‘Not really,’ he said carefully. ‘He seems the same as always.’

  Nanna closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Losing his driver’s licence was a big deal for your grandad,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s loved driving his whole life, even after the terrible accident that cost him his hand …’

  Frankie held his breath. Could this be the moment when he finally found out what happened to Grandad’s hand? Not even Saint Lou knew that. Frankie would have bragging rights forever. ‘What accident?’ Frankie asked, not wanting to sound too keen. ‘Has he crashed into other bakeries before? Or was it … a butcher’s?’ Nanna shook her head. ‘You will never guess,’ she said. ‘Not in a MILLION years.’

  ‘Was Grandad a pirate?’ Frankie guessed enthusiastically. ‘Was he made to walk the plank and had his hand eaten by a crocodile?’

  Best. Theory. Ever.

  But then Nanna looked at the clock on the wall and said exactly what Frankie was hoping she wouldn’t say. ‘Oops, it’s late – I’ve got to serve up dinner.’

  She gave Frankie another bright smile, though he thought her eyes looked a little moist. ‘You go tell Grandad to his face that if he isn’t sitting at this table in thirty seconds, he’s not having any dinner at all.’

  ‘But he’s in his shed,’ protested Frankie. ‘I’m not allowed in there!’

  ‘Just knock and call out his name then – that should do it.’

  ‘Okaaaay,’ Frankie said, unconvinced.

  He headed outside, past the roses and daffodils, through Nanna’s beautiful garden, which truly was like Disneyland for bees. He walked past the sunflowers and the forget-me-nots, down the brick path to the shed. He felt like a golden retriever, but instead of retrieving a tennis ball he had to bring back a cantankerous, crusty old man. A tennis ball would have been way more fun and much less angry.

  The back of the garden seemed dark and ominous, though that was maybe just the shade of the leafy maple tree hanging overhead. With every step Frankie’s feet grew heavier.

  He arrived at the shed door with his palms sweaty and his heart beating. Frankie had never been within two metres of the shed before, so it felt like a historic moment. If he’d had his dad’s iPhone with him, he would have taken a quick selfie to mark the occasion.

  KNOCK KNOCK!

  ‘Grandad-Nanna-said-if-you-don’t-come-now-you-won’t-get-any-dinner.’

  He said it quickly, ready to run if the old man yelled at him.

  No response. Frankie repeated himself, this time louder and slower. Still nothing.

  Frankie felt himself get a little bolder. He banged on the door a few times. ‘Grandad, Nanna said if you don’t come now, she’ll let the neighbours’ cat wee in your cornflakes.’

  Nothing. He thumped the shed door. Hard.

  ‘Grandad, Nanna said if you don’t come now, she’ll wash all your clothes in gravy and then roll them in seeds so you get attacked by pigeons on your morning walk!’ Frankie yelled at a volume that could be heard four blocks away.

  Nothing again.

  Frankie was really annoyed now. He hated being ignored by the kids at school, and he hated being ignored at home even more – but at this moment, there was nothing worse than being completely ignored by Grandad.

  ‘GRANDAD!!!’ Frankie yelled, and then, in a moment of utter madness, going against everything he knew to be good and wise and holy, he pushed open the door and stomped INSIDE the forbidden shed.

  Frankie was breathing heavily, his shoulders bobbing up and down like beach balls lost at sea. He couldn’t believe that he was actually inside the totally-out-of-bounds, not-even-in-a-zombie-apocalypse shed … but where was Grandad?

  Frankie gulped as he hung nervously near the doorway. ‘Grandad?’ he said softly, just in case the old crank was hiding.

  He knew he should probably get out of there, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity – like kicking the winning goal at the World Cup or eating ice-cream for breakfast. So Frankie decided to take a sneaky peek around. He felt like Neil Armstrong arriving on the moon: one small step for Frankie Fish, and one huge leap for Fish-kind.

  Inside, the shed was dark and dusty. Frankie crept in stealthily, like he was attempting to steal jewels from around the Queen’s neck while she slept. The dusty floorboards creaked under his feet, and with every sound his heart raced a little faster. In the centre of the shed he stopped and waited impatiently as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Finally he would get to see what his grandfather kept hidden in here!

  Hmm … Spare parts from dishwashers and car engines adorned the benches, alongside jars brimming with rusty screws.

  Frankie sighed. Total. Bummer.

  This was the biggest anti-climax since the top deck of the Double-Decker Bus was ruled out-of-bounds on the Double-Decker Bus excursion because of Miss Merryweather’s fear of heights. Taking a deep breath, Frankie sneaked even deeper into the shed. Maybe the good stuff was right at the back.

  But there were no moon craters or alien life forms to be seen, just wonky shelves lined with dusty trophies, frayed ribbons and faded certificates, as well as some dog-eared black- and-white photos of a car race.

  Frankie leaned closer to examine the blown-up photograph of a dashing young driver. He was leaning against a number 42 racing car, looking cheerful and strangely familiar. Squinting, Frankie read the faded lettering in the photo’s white border: Alfie Fish. Glasgow 1952.

  WHAT. THE?!

  The blond bombshell ne
xt to the racecar was Frankie’s own grandad! He looked so different. Fit and healthy and weirdest of all … happy. A strange feeling burbled inside Frankie Fish. This guy was cool.

  In another photo, Alfie held up a huge trophy as two smiling women in stiff, old-fashioned dresses poured a bottle of champagne over him. Frankie knew that if he tried that, he’d be in big trouble – but in the photo Alfie was beaming.

  At the back of yet another shelf was a photo of an older man in a trench coat leaning into young Alfie’s racecar. The writing on the border said: Ernest gives me last minute instructions.

  Frankie wasn’t exactly an expert on the Fish family tree, but he knew his great-grandparents’ names were Ernest and Edna. He examined the image closely. Ernest had hands the size of Christmas hams and a smile as wonky as a day-old donkey. Behind the car was another figure – a boy who looked a lot like Alfie, only smaller. Could this be his grandad’s mysterious brother, the one no-one ever spoke about?

  Frankie scratched his forehead. Was he called Robbie? Ronnie? No, Roddy – that was it. Roddy was staring at Alfie like he thought he was the greatest person ever, but Alfie was paying him no attention. I know how that feels, thought Frankie bitterly.

  Returning the photo to the shelf, Frankie caught sight of something yellow sticking out of a book. Carefully, he took the book off the shelf – Gravitational Space: The Mechanics of Time Travel, it said on the cover – and removed two delicate pieces of paper.

  The first was a newspaper clipping, headed:

  BIG RACE ENDS

  IN BIG TRAGEDY

  Frankie read aloud to himself:

  One thing is certain: the championship of 1952 will be remembered not for reigning champion Clancy Fairplay taking the chequered flag, but for race leader Alfie Fish skidding through an oil mark on the final turn and tragically crashing. Reports are emerging that it has cost him his right hand – and maybe even ended his boyhood dream.