by Judi Curtin
Luke stuck on his upside-down stamp and wrote Elma’s name and school address on the envelope. Then he picked out a sunny seaside notelet – blue skies, yellow sand, people splashing in the foamy water – and began his letter.
Dear Penfriend,
I’m glad your dad is feeling better. Let me know how he gets on in the quiz.
I’d like to visit Australia. Maybe when I’m an uncle I’ll go there, ha ha. I have an uncle called Jack who lives a few miles from us, and he has a farm where I help out on Saturdays.
My granny is knitting teeny clothes for the baby. They look like they’re for a doll. I don’t think I was ever that small.
I know you asked me about my dad, but I don’t want to talk about what happened to him, except to say that when it happened, it changed everything, and for a long time our house was not a good place to live in. But I think things are getting a bit better now. I hope so anyway.
Now I must revise for tomorrow’s history test.
Luke
PS I hope this doesn’t make you cross, but I made that up about climbing in the Pyrenees. I don’t know why I did it really.
ELMA
Everyone was a bit tense on the days leading up to the regional final. There were lots of fights, but then that was nothing new for the Davey family. On the day of the competition, however, everyone was in a great mood. It was a Saturday, so the whole family was able to go to cheer Dad along. Zac even wanted to bring Snowball, managing to forget in all the excitement that he was actually terrified of the huge Alsatian. Luckily, Mum said no, she didn’t think they’d be able to get him past the security guards at the BBC.
Dad spent ages getting ready. He’d had his hair cut the day before, and now he shaved off his straggly beard and moustache. Elma met him on the stairs, and almost jumped back in fright. All of a sudden it was as if the ghost of the dad she used to know had come crawling back from wherever it had been hiding for the last few years.
When everyone else was ready to go, Dad appeared in the hall. He was wearing a freshly ironed, crispy white shirt, and new jeans. Dylan gasped. ‘Dad, you look great,’ he said. ‘But it’s radio, remember. No one will see you.’
Dad patted his shoulder. ‘Appearances are important, kiddo, never forget that.’
Elma giggled. Dad seemed to have forgotten about that for the past three years, while he was lounging around the house in his shabby old tracksuit. She didn’t say anything, though. There was no way she was going to mess up this special day.
Mum drove them all to the BBC studios. Elma couldn’t remember when the whole family had been in the car together before. When they got there, everyone got special security passes, and went to wait in a big green room. While they were waiting, Elma saw a famous TV chef walking past. She wondered if she should grab him and persuade him to give her mum a few cookery lessons. But while she was wondering, he vanished into a room and the moment had passed.
Four other contestants arrived. They hadn’t brought their families with them, and Elma wondered if Dad felt a bit stupid now. No one said very much. Then Zac nudged Dylan and pointed to a skinny man in the corner, and said in a much-too-loud whisper, ‘He doesn’t look very clever. Dad will easily beat him.’
Everyone laughed nervously, and then sat in uneasy silence until the contestants were called. Dad looked very scared as he followed the others out of the room. Elma gave him a thumbs-up sign, and a smile she didn’t feel like. For the first time, she began to wonder if her plan was such a good one. What if Dad made a complete fool of himself? What would happen then? And she’d boasted about this at school, so everyone would be listening. How would she face school on Monday if Dad came last? Evil Josh would have one more thing to tease her about, and surely Tara would finally give up on her as a total loser.
The quiz was going to be broadcast live. There was a speaker in the corner of the room, so the family could listen. There was lots of music, and boring talk, and then the presenter said, ‘And now it’s time for the Manchester regional final of this year’s Great Geography Quiz.’
Everyone sat up straight and giggled excitedly as the contestants introduced themselves.
‘That’s Dad,’ said Zac when he heard his father’s voice, like no one else had noticed.
Next the presenter explained the rules. It was all buzzer questions. If you buzzed and got the answer right, you got two points, but if you got it wrong, two points would be deducted from your score. There was a huge drum-roll, and then the quiz began.
Mum grabbed Elma’s hand and squeezed it tight. Zac and Dylan sat with tense, serious faces. The first round was over very quickly, and Dad hadn’t buzzed once. Zac started to cry. ‘Is it over? Dad didn’t say anything.’
Elma spoke as brightly as she could. ‘It’s OK, Zaccy. Dad’s just warming up. There’s four more rounds.’
Round two started, and the family waited in vain to hear Dad’s voice. Finally, halfway through the round, he buzzed for the question, ‘In which country is Lake Volta?’
His voice was hoarse, and he sounded like he was miles away, even though Elma knew he was only just along the corridor. ‘It’s em, er … it’s … I mean … it’s … is it in Zambia?’
There was the dull thud of a gong, indicating a wrong answer. Elma looked at her mother, and noticed tears in her eyes. She wished she could run into the studio and shake her dad. It just wasn’t fair. He knew more about geography than any of the others, she was sure of it. All he had to do was get his act together and start answering some questions.
Round two came to an end and the presenter called out the scores. There was a tie for first place with eighteen points, and Dad was bringing up the rear with a total of minus two points.
Elma jumped up and stamped her feet a few times, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Dylan wanted to go home, but Elma knew they had to stay until the bitter end. Then they could all go home and be unhappy again.
Round three started, and Elma could hardly bear to listen. Then, on the fourth question she heard Dad’s voice again. This time he got the answer right, bringing his score up to a grand total of zero. Then a minute later, he buzzed again, and got another two points. This was quickly followed by two more correct answers. Zac started to jump up and down. ‘Is he winning?’ he asked. ‘Is he winning?’
Mum smiled at him. ‘Not yet, love, but he’s doing better.’
Dylan tapped Elma’s arm. ‘Is Dad going to win?’
Elma shrugged. All she knew was, if she wasn’t going to be the laugh of the school on Monday, Dad needed to answer a few more questions.
At the end of round three, there was still a draw for first place, and Dad was still last, but at least he was no longer quite as far behind.
Round four started well. Dad got the first four questions right. Zac and Dylan jumped around the room, and knocked over a huge plant. Leaves and soil went everywhere, but Mum wasn’t even cross. She was staring at the radio speakers, like they held all the secrets of the universe. Then it seemed like Dad could do no wrong. He buzzed and buzzed, and only made one mistake. Round four ended, and now there was one leader, with Dad only six points behind her. Mum grinned at Elma. ‘Six points,’ she said. ‘That’s nothing. It’s only three questions.’
Elma couldn’t reply. She felt sick, and her hand hurt from her mum’s tight grip.
Round five was very dramatic. It was almost as if the other contestants had given up, and mostly it was just Dad and a woman who were answering. Elma struggled to keep score on her fingers, wishing the quiz could have been on TV so at least the score would be on a screen.
After what felt like a hundred years, a bell rang, signaling the end of the show. The presenter called out the results, starting with fifth place. Then he called out fourth and third, but there was no mention of Dad. Elma could hardly breathe. Dad was first or second. Second would be good, but not good enough to get him to the national finals. The presenter took a deep breath. ‘And in a very noble second place, we have ………
. Suzanne Wall.’
Now Mum and Elma joined in Zac and Dylan’s crazy dance. Dad had won! Elma could hardly believe it. It seemed like all her wishes had just come true.
Shortly afterwards, Dad came back to the waiting room. He was grinning so much, Elma thought his face was going to burst. Everyone ran and hugged him tight until he begged for mercy. ‘Back off, guys,’ he said. “I need to be in good shape – for THE NATIONAL FINALS!!’
Then everyone was so happy they hugged him some more.
Finally Mum pulled away. ‘Let’s go home, and I’ll cook a big celebration dinner,’ she said. ‘I’ll do roast chicken, and roast potatoes, and carrots, and lots of gravy of course, and then–’
Elma’s heart sank, but then her Dad interrupted. ‘Thanks, love,’ he said. ‘That sounds lovely, but you could do with a rest. How about we all go out for a pizza?’
And then there was so much cheering and shouting that a security guard came to see what was going on.
Elma smiled when she read Luke’s next letter. She couldn’t really be cross about Luke lying about the climbing trip to the Pyrenees; not when most of what she wrote to him was still lies. This would be a good opportunity to tell Luke that she hadn’t exactly been truthful herself, but she couldn’t find the right words.
Dear Luke,
You are not going to believe this. My Dad won the regional final of the Geography Quiz. He was sooooo fantastic. He was on the radio, and everyone heard him. We were all very proud. Soon he’s going to be in the UK final in London. The whole family is going there with him on the train. (But not Snowball, of course. She doesn’t like travelling.) I can’t wait. I just know Dad’s going to win. He’s going to be famous. And so am I because he’s my dad. I always wanted to be famous.
Now maybe Mum won’t bother writing the book about gravy and carrots. To be honest, I don’t think it would ever have been a big success.
I’m sorry your dad never took you climbing in the Pyrenees. And I’m sorry about the bad thing (whatever it was) that happened to him. Is he any good at quizzes? – because that certainly worked for my dad.
Must go now and plan what to wear in London,
Elma
PS We’ve been writing to each other since forever. Why do you still call me Dear Penfriend instead of Dear Elma? Is it because you don’t like my name? Don’t blame me, because I didn’t choose it. If I could have picked I would have called myself Saffron.
LUKE
Helen brought her boyfriend home for tea, so he could meet the family.
His name was Sean. He had short, light brown hair and pale blue eyes and a thin face scattered with little red spots. He brought a small box of chocolates for Mam when he came to tea, and an apple tart that his mother had made. He shook hands with their father and called him sir, and he didn’t seem to notice that their father wasn’t really interested in talking.
He blushed if anyone spoke to him, even Anne. He cut into his fried egg with the side of his fork, instead of using his knife, and he ate every bit of his rasher, even the skin. But he had a nice smile, and when he looked at Helen, his face went soppy.
He worked in the garage across the road from Helen’s school, and he lived at home with his parents and older brother. He was almost eighteen, and he was training to be a mechanic. When Luke mentioned his car washing jobs, Sean said he could probably get Luke a few more customers.
Nobody at all mentioned the baby, not even Anne.
Granny made custard to go with the apple tart, and they all had a slice. Mam told Sean that he must get the recipe for her, and he blushed and smiled, and would have knocked over his water glass if Anne hadn’t caught it just in time.
A whole month had gone by without Anne wetting the bed. Granny took her shopping one day for new socks, and they came home with three pairs of socks, a red dress and shiny red shoes. Mam laughed and said Granny would be broke from them.
The Saturday after Sean came to tea, Luke asked his uncle Jack if he had a camera.
‘I have, a digital one,’ Jack told him. ‘Got it for Christmas.’
‘Will you take my photo with Chestnut?’ Luke asked him. ‘I want to send it to a friend.’ So Jack got his camera and took a few photos of Luke sitting on Chestnut’s enormous back, and then he printed off the best one and gave it to Luke.
‘Look,’ Luke told his father. ‘Here’s me on Uncle Jack’s horse.’
His father looked down at the photo. He touched Luke’s face gently in the photo. ‘Luke,’ he said. ‘Son and heir.’
He had mostly good days now, hardly ever sat facing the wall. Helen began reading bits of the paper to him when she came home from school, and Anne drew him pictures of cats and ballerinas and stuck them on the wall behind his bed.
And Mam was talking to him again. Luke heard her, in the bathroom when she was shaving him, or as she was helping him down the hall to the kitchen for tea. Luke heard her telling Dad how sweet Sean was, and how she was sure he’d stand by Helen, and how it looked like Anne was over the bed-wetting at last.
Dad didn’t answer her much, but Mam kept on talking to him. And on her evenings off from work, she’d sit beside Dad’s bed as he fell asleep, still talking softly. It was like she was telling him all the things that she’d saved up for the past three years.
On the day that Sean came to tea for the second time, Mam announced that she’d been promoted to branch manager in the travel agency, and now she could afford to give up doing the overtime in the evenings. The next day Granny baked a coffee cake and Helen wrote Congratulations Mam in purple icing when she came home from school, and Luke bought a bottle of sparkling grape juice, and they all drank a toast to Mam’s promotion.
That night, Luke sat down to write to his penfriend. He wrote her address and stuck on his upside-down stamp, and then he folded up the photo of him and Chestnut and slid it into the envelope.
It was time to tell the truth. He sucked the end of his biro for a few minutes, and then he started his letter. And as he wrote, he felt something changing inside him, some heaviness falling away and leaving him with a feeling he couldn’t name …
… and as he got to the end of the letter, he decided it just might be happiness.
Dear Saffron,
I called you penfriend because I thought if I didn’t use your real name, then I wouldn’t be writing a real letter to a real person. I thought that it wouldn’t matter what I wrote, that I could make up the craziest stories, and it wouldn’t make one tiny bit of difference. It wouldn’t be like telling fibs, or lies, because it was all imaginary. You were just part of my homework, that was all – nothing to do with real life. And if I called you penfriend, it made it easier to go on believing that.
Does any of that make sense? I hope so, because for the first time I’m writing the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. This is the real story of Luke Mitchell, whether you want it or not.
I already told you that I made up the bit about climbing the Pyrenees with my dad. The truth is, for the past three and a half years, my dad hasn’t been able to climb the stairs in our house. He sleeps in what used to be our dining room, and he has to use a walking frame, like old people use, to help him get around the downstairs.
He never goes out, except when my mam takes him for check-ups to the hospital, or when my uncle Jack, his brother, brings him out to the farm for a visit. He can’t cut up food, or shave himself or even do a jigsaw properly.
The reason why my dad is like this is that he drove through a red traffic light and crashed into a jeep, and damaged his brain. I was in the car with him, but the only bad thing that happened to me was that I swallowed my two front teeth. (I have false ones now, that look just like the real thing.)
My mam was mad with my dad for a long time afterwards, because he drank two glasses of wine before he drove, and because I wasn’t wearing my seat belt. (She was always very strict about wearing seat belts.) She didn’t talk to my dad when he came home from hospital, even though she ha
d to shave him and help him eat and lots of stuff like that.
Our house felt terrible, with Dad being the way he was, and Mam being mad at him. My sister Anne started wetting the bed, even though she was four at the time. My sister Helen (who isn’t a model, just a schoolgirl) started staying out late and not telling us where she was going, and that caused a lot of rows with my mam.
Our granny moved in with us after Dad’s accident, to help out, but she was often stuck in the middle of some row, and I was always afraid she’d go back to her own house, but she never did.
We don’t live in a big fancy house. We live in a cul de sac, in a normal semi-detached house with four bedrooms, and we don’t own any horses. The picture I’m sending you is of me on Uncle Jack’s horse, Chestnut, which is the only horse I know. Chestnut never won a race in his life – he’s a big farm horse who’d probably run the wrong way. But I ride him around Uncle Jack’s field every Saturday, and I feed him apples.
You can see from the photo that I don’t look a bit like I described myself. And in case you can’t see clearly, I haven’t anything pierced, or any tattoos either – I’m pretty sure Mam would kill me if I ever did anything like that.
The good news is that things have got a bit better lately. Everyone seems kind of happier. I’m not sure why, but I think in a funny sort of way, it has something to do with Helen having a baby, even though she’s not married and only sixteen. But since she told us the news, she and Mam have stopped having rows, and Mam has started talking to Dad again. And Anne has stopped wetting the bed all the time.
My dad will never get better, and that makes me a bit sad, because I miss him a lot, all the time. You can’t talk properly to him any more, because he doesn’t really understand a lot of what you say. But most of the time now he seems quite happy, and that cheers me up too.