by Judi Curtin
She went back into the hall, and smiled nervously at the stranger. The stranger smiled back. ‘My name is Mrs Clifford. I’m from Social Services. Can I speak to your mother or your father, please?’
By now Dylan had appeared in the hallway. He was standing next to his brother, with a tear-stained face. They’d had another of their mega-rows over whose turn it was to heat up the baked beans for tea.
Elma smiled again, as if a smile would distract Mrs Clifford from the state of her brothers. ‘My mum isn’t here. Dad is, though.’
Mrs Clifford smiled. ‘Can I come in to speak to him?’
Elma wondered if she could say no, but then her dad called from the TV room. ‘Bring the woman in, Elma, there’s a love.’
Elma beckoned Mrs Clifford into the hall and closed the door behind her. Then she hesitated. The TV room was filthy, but the kitchen was totally impossible, as the baked beans that weren’t dripping down Zac’s t-shirt were spattered all over the table and the floor.
Reluctantly she opened the TV room door, and ushered Mrs Clifford towards her unshaven, grubby-looking father. Then she closed the door, and went back to begin tidying the kitchen.
Before long, Mrs Clifford appeared in the kitchen.
‘May I sit down?’ she asked.
Elma shrugged, so Mrs Clifford sat down on top of a small pile of beans that had slid from the table onto the chair.
She took out a notebook. ‘You must be Elma, Dylan and Zac.’
Zac grinned at her. ‘How did you know?’ he asked. Elma glared at him, and he put his head down and looked at the floor.
Mrs Clifford spoke softly. ‘It’s my job to know that kind of thing. Now, why don’t we all have a nice chat?’
Zac smiled again, until he saw his sister’s angry face. Mrs Clifford cleared her throat. ‘Who minds you after school?’
Dylan spoke quickly, sure he knew the right answer. ‘Elma does. She’s very good at minding us. She brings us home from school. She gets our tea, and helps us with our homework. She’s great. She–’
Elma knew for sure that this was the wrong answer. She knew that kids weren’t meant to be minding other kids. She put her hand on Dylan’s arm to make him stop talking. ‘Thanks, Dyl,’ she said. ‘I just help out a bit. But we all know that it’s Dad who really minds us, don’t we?’
Dylan looked at her for a moment. He knew she did all the work, and it wasn’t fair to let their dad get all the credit. He jumped up. ‘No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. He just lies on the couch and does a big fat nothing all day long.’
Mrs Clifford wrote something down in her notebook, and then she turned to Elma. ‘It sounds like you’re a very good girl. But what happens when you go out with your friends? Or when you do after-school activities? Who looks after the boys then?’
Out with her friends? What friends? Elma thought angrily. There was only Tara, and she was getting fed up of Elma always saying ‘no’ to stuff.
And what after-school activities? She hadn’t done anything for years. For Elma, after-school activities were only a distant memory. Nowadays her only after-school activity was doing the washing-up.
But she couldn’t tell the truth. The truth would get everyone into trouble. So she just smiled and said, ‘I like being with the boys. We have such fun. And Dad’s always here if we need him. Everything here is just fine. You really don’t have to worry about us.’
Mrs Clifford didn’t reply. She closed her notebook, and stood up. ‘When would be a good time to speak to your mother?’
Zac blurted out, ‘She works every day. She–’
Elma interrupted him. ‘She’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Tell her I’ll be here at four thirty,’ said Mrs Clifford, and then she headed for the front door. Zac and Dylan began to giggle when they saw the clump of baked beans sticking to the back of Mrs Clifford’s coat. Elma hushed them. There was nothing at all funny about any of this.
Next afternoon, Mum cancelled her cleaning job and walked home from school with Elma and the boys. Evil Josh hissed at Elma as they passed by, ‘Gravy Davey. Lumpy Gravy Davey.’
Mum was puzzled. ‘Why is that nasty boy calling you that?’
Elma spoke quickly, before Zac or Dylan could tell the truth. ‘Oh, don’t mind him, Mum. It’s just Josh. He’s crazy.’
When they got home, everyone scurried around trying to clean up and make the house look a bit normal. Dad even helped by chaining Snowball up in the shed, and then turning the TV down to normal volume levels. One of the other dinner ladies had told Mum that a house always seemed nice and safe if there was a smell of bread baking. Of course Mum was in so much of a rush that she just shoved a sliced loaf into the oven, and turned the heat up high. As Elma suspected, it wasn’t a good idea to leave the wrapping on the bread, and by the time Mrs Clifford arrived, instead of a cosy baked-bread smell, the house smelled badly of burning paper.
Mrs Clifford spent ages talking to Mum. For most of the time Elma had her ear pressed to the kitchen door, so she knew what was going on. Basically, Mrs Clifford said that Dad wasn’t competent to mind the children, and Elma was too young, and that if things didn’t change very quickly, there would have to be further investigations about the welfare of the children.
After Mrs Clifford left, Elma went to where her mum was sitting in the kitchen.
‘Can we get a babysitter, Mum?’ she asked. Already she could imagine a real cool teenager, who’d do great things with her. She could teach her about hairstyles, and make-up and music and stuff.
Mum didn’t even wonder how Elma knew what was going on. She shook her head sadly. ‘No, love. That wouldn’t work. Babysitters are very expensive. And beside, Social Services are already on our case. I don’t want to give them any excuse to find fault with us. There’s only one thing for it.’
Elma whispered. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’ll have to give up my cleaning jobs. I’ll have to spend the afternoons here with you.’
She gave a sudden tired smile. ‘Let’s look on the bright side. At least I’ll be able to make your tea every evening.’
Elma tried to smile back. ‘Sounds great, Mum.’ Inside she was crying. Baked beans were a bit boring, but at least they weren’t likely to poison you.
Her mum patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ve probably been asking you to do too much anyway. Maybe this is all for the best.’
Elma closed her eyes and tried to tell herself that things would be better from now on. She made a list of nice stuff in her head:
She’d be able to visit Tara’s house after school
She could join some after-school clubs
She wouldn’t have to do so much cooking and cleaning
She wouldn’t have to mind the boys all the time.
But the nice list kept evaporating as the one big bad thing galloped around her brain – Mum was going to be home more, so there would be more time for her and Dad to fight.
Elma didn’t have to wait long. The first big row began as soon as the boys went to bed that night. As her parents screamed at each other, Elma took out Luke’s last letter and read it. She was glad the stamp was upside down again.
She addressed her envelope, stuck the stamp upside down, and began to write. At first she wrote the usual lies, but as she signed the letter and folded it, there was a loud slam of a door, and then the TV began blaring out something about a hill-tribe in Thailand.
Elma began to cry. Life was just going to turn into a big long series of fights. Dad had to get his act together. He had to shake himself up and get a life again, before he ruined everyone else’s. But how could Elma make that happen? She had no good ideas, and there was no one she could talk to. There was no one with whom she could share the awful truth.
Elma made a sudden decision. Luke Mitchell was a stranger. It wouldn’t matter if she told him a small bit of the truth. And maybe he’d have an idea of how she could help her dad. She unfolded the letter, picked up her pen, and wrote
a long PS.
Then, before she could change her mind, she folded the letter again, put it into its envelope, and sealed it.
Dear Luke,
Poor you, being mugged. I’m glad you got better quickly. It’s kind of you to buy your mother a washing machine. The biggest thing I ever got my mum was a bottle of perfume that cost eight pounds. It lasted a whole year.
Jessica can walk really well now, and she knows lots of hard words. We think she might be a genius.
I hope you had a happy birthday. You didn’t say if you got a new racehorse for Christmas. Maybe you got one for your birthday instead.
Bye,
Elma
PS Do you mind if I ask you something? Remember I told you my dad had an accident? Well he still isn’t very well, and he can’t go back to work yet. I think he’s getting a bit fed up. He hasn’t got any hobbies or anything. He just spends all day watching the National Geographic Channel on TV. Mum and I are trying to get him to go out more, but he won’t listen to us. What would you do if you were me?
LUKE
Helen had some terrible disease. She was probably going to die.
There was no other way to explain what was going on. She was definitely sick – Luke had heard her throwing up in the bathroom loads of times in the last few weeks. And then last night, when he was lying in bed trying to sleep, he heard Mam coming home from work, and then Helen opening her bedroom door and going downstairs.
And for what seemed like a long time, he could hear their voices going back and forth in the kitchen. Helen sounded like she was crying, and Mam – Luke couldn’t decide what Mam sounded like. He must have fallen asleep then, because he didn’t remember them coming upstairs, but there was no sign of Helen at breakfast.
‘Is Helen sick?’ Luke asked his mother.
She nodded, looking paler than usual. ‘She won’t be going to school today.’
And when Luke came home that afternoon, Granny told him that Mam and Helen were gone to the doctor’s, which meant that Helen had to be seriously ill. Mam didn’t believe in going to the doctor unless you were really bad – she always said most things could be cured with a visit to the chemist, which cost nothing. The only time she’d taken Luke to the doctor’s was when he got really bad sunburn years ago, and started throwing up all over the place.
Now he closed the Harry Potter book he’d bought with Granny’s Christmas book token and looked out the window again. Almost time for tea, and still no sign of them. He remembered when Helen had stayed out all night, about three months ago now. He remembered wondering if she was dead, if her picture would be in the paper.
What if she died now? What if Mam came back alone from the doctor’s and told them that Helen had been rushed into hospital, and she had only a few weeks, or even a few days, left to live? Would Anne be allowed in to say goodbye to her, when she was only seven?
Luke was glad he’d got Helen the HMV token for Christmas, even though she still hardly ever spoke to him. No wonder she was always so sad and cross looking, if she had some kind of terrible disease. That would make anyone sad and cross.
Helen and Mam came home at twenty-five to seven, just as Granny was putting two plates of food into the oven to keep warm. Helen looked as if she’d been crying again, and went straight upstairs.
Mam took off her coat and sat at the table. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said to Luke and Anne. Luke glanced at Granny, who was taking Mam’s plate out of the oven. She didn’t look curious – she must know already.
‘Helen is …’ Mam paused, ran a hand through her hair. Anne and Luke waited. Luke felt suddenly afraid.
‘Helen is … going to have a baby.’ Mam looked from Anne to Luke. ‘In June, she’s having a baby in June.’ She lifted her shoulders, let them drop again. ‘That’s it.’
Anne said, ‘But where is she getting it from?’
A tiny smile passed over Mam’s face. ‘From heaven, where I got you.’ Mam looked at Luke. ‘What do you think?’
Luke hadn’t a clue what to think. Helen was pregnant, not dying. She was going to have a baby. Her tummy was going to swell up like a watermelon, and she was going to have a baby, and be its mother.
And – the thought struck him like a shock – he was going to be its uncle. Uncle Luke. And Mam was going to be a granny, and Granny was going to be a great-granny.
Luke considered. It didn’t seem so bad really. Another thought occurred to him. ‘Will it live here, with us?’ He tried to imagine a baby in the house, filling the place with nappies and bottles and crying in the middle of the night. A buggy in the hall. Teddies on the stairs.
Mam was frowning. ‘None of that has been decided yet,’ she told them. ‘We’ll have to sort out a lot of things.’
‘You’ll be its auntie,’ Luke told Anne, and the uncertain expression left her face and she burst into a smile.
‘Will I be able to feed it?’ she asked Mam, and Mam shrugged.
‘We’ll see, lovie,’ she said. ‘It’s a long way off.’
When he went upstairs later to do his homework, Luke paused outside Helen’s door and listened. Nothing. He put up a hand and tapped lightly.
‘Who is it?’
‘Luke.’ He waited for her to tell him to get lost, but after a second, Helen appeared at the door.
‘Yeah?’ She didn’t look cross, just a bit tired.
‘Mam told us,’ Luke said. And then he wasn’t sure what to say next.
Helen looked at him. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what do you think?’
Luke risked a tiny smile. ‘I think I’m going to be an uncle,’ he said. He waited for the door to slam in his face.
Helen looked at him blankly for a few seconds, and then she gave a shaky smile back at him. ‘Uncle Luke,’ she said. ‘Go and do your homework.’ He’d almost forgotten what she looked like when she smiled.
In his room, Luke reread his penfriend’s letter. And then he read the last bit twice more. It was a bit weird, the way both their fathers had something wrong with them. Her dad sounded very like Luke’s, sitting around all day doing nothing much. So all her stories about going to Disneyland Paris and bowling and everything must have been made up, just like Luke had made up things. The thought didn’t make him cross with her – more like a bit sorry for her. It was no fun having a dad that didn’t want to do anything with you any more.
And now she was asking Luke’s advice – like she thought he really might be able to help. What on earth should he say to her? He had enough problems with his own father, let alone anyone else’s.
He put her letter aside while he did his homework, but all the time he was writing out his sums, or going over the dates of the Second World War battles, or practising the new tin whistle tune Mrs Hutchinson had given them to learn, Luke’s mind kept tiptoeing back to Elma’s letter, and the questions she’d asked him.
When his homework was finished, Luke went back downstairs and knocked softly on his father’s door. After a few seconds he opened it and walked in and sat in his usual chair in the half-dark, breathing in the scent of his sleeping father.
What should he say to Elma? He had to say something, couldn’t just ignore her questions when he wrote back. He sat by his father’s bed, thinking hard.
After about fifteen minutes he got up, touched his father’s warm cheek, and left the room. Then he poked his head around the sitting room door and told Granny he was going to bed.
‘Right, lovie, see you in the morning.’ She turned back to the TV.
Luke stood with his hand on the door. After a minute he said, ‘Granny?’
‘Yes, love?’ His grandmother looked at him enquiringly.
‘What do you think about this baby?’ Luke asked.
Granny thought for a few seconds. Then she said, ‘Well, it’s not the way any of us would have wanted it, but we’ll have to make the best of it now, won’t we?’
Luke nodded. ‘You’ll be its great-granny.’
Granny smiled. ‘So I will,�
�� she said. ‘Now there’s a thought.’
In his room, Luke opened the box of notelets that Granny had given him for his birthday. They all had paintings of the sea on them. He picked a stormy one, with huge white-capped waves dashing against grey and black rocks.
He stuck his stamp on upside down, addressed the envelope and began his letter to Elma.
Dear Penfriend,
Here’s a bit of news for you. My sister Helen is going to have a baby. It’s not the way we would have wanted it, but we’re going to make the best of it. The baby is coming in June, and I’ll be its uncle. I’ve never been an uncle before, so I’ve got a lot to learn.
Still no sign of the gang who mugged me. The guards say they could have fled the country by now. If you see them in Manchester let me know, ha ha.
For my birthday I got a box of notelets from my granny, a new pair of jeans and trainers from my mam, a picture from Anne and a lottery scratchcard from Helen. I didn’t win anything on the scratchcard. This is one of the notelets I’m writing on.
I’m sorry your dad is fed up. I’ve never seen the National Geographic Channel on TV–we don’t have cable in our house, and I don’t watch a lot of telly anyway. But we have a collection of National Geographic magazines in our class that our teacher brought in to help us with our geography projects, so I’m guessing that the TV channel has the same kind of stuff on it. If your dad watches it a lot, he must be a real expert on geography by now. Maybe he could get a job writing geography books for schools – or is there any quiz show on radio or TV that he could go on, or something? That’s all I can think of for now.
It’s funny your dad being like that – I don’t mean funny, I mean strange, because something happened to my dad too, a few years ago. It’s a long story, maybe I’ll tell you sometime.
Anyway, that’s all for now,
Luke
ELMA