by Duncan Ball
‘What is your poem supposed to be about?’ Mrs Eyefinger asked.
‘Our teacher wants us to write about something exciting that happened to us. But I can’t think of anything. My life is just boring boring boring.’
‘Emily, I’m surprised at you. You’ve had so many great things happen to you, thanks to your eyefinger. Remember when you saved some kittens in a tree?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know how to write a poem about it.’
‘And the time you were a secret agent and caught King Crim and his gang.’
‘Mum! That’s a strictly secret government secret!’ Emily said. ‘I’m not supposed to tell anybody about that, ever! And don’t you tell either.’
‘Then how about finding mice with Malcolm Mousefinder and his father.’
‘That’s too hard,’ Emily sighed. ‘Besides, I don’t even know what kind of poem to write. There are so many different kinds.’
‘How about one like “Little Miss Muffet”? That was always your favourite poem, remember?’
‘Oh, Mum.’
It was true. When she was little, Emily loved ‘Little Miss Muffet’. She liked it so much that she learned it all by heart. She would walk around the house saying it in a loud voice:
‘Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet
Eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider
And sat down beside her
And frightened Miss Muffet away.’
After she said it, she used to roar with laughter. She didn’t know what a tuffet was and she’d never heard of curds and whey (though she was sure they tasted terrible) but she laughed and laughed till she cried.
One time she laughed so much that she made her parents laugh too. Her father said ‘What’s so funny, dear?’
‘The spider —’ Emily said. ‘The spider —’ but she was laughing so hard she couldn’t talk. Tears streamed down her face and a little tear even dripped out of her eyefinger.
‘Spiders are funny little things aren’t they, Emily?’ her mother had said.
Emily just kept shaking her head and trying to say no, that wasn’t it at all. That wasn’t what was so funny.
‘He sat down —’ she laughed. ‘He sat down beside her. That’s so funny.’
‘What’s so funny about that?’
‘Spiders can’t sit,’ Emily explained. ‘They don’t have bottoms. I mean, they do have bottoms but they never sit on them. Spiders never ever sit down. They always stand up except when they’re dead and then they lie on their backs with their feet up in the air.’
‘I think you’re right,’ her mother said. ‘I wonder if the person who wrote “Little Miss Muffet” knew as much about spiders as you do?’
‘I think they were just being silly,’ Emily said.
Sure enough, from then on whenever Emily used her eyefinger to look at insects close up, she checked to see if there was a spider sitting down. There never was. They always stood up, or clung to their cobwebs with all eight legs but they never ever sat. Even when she was older, Emily giggled when she heard about a spider sitting down beside Little Miss Muffet.
Emily’s mother put some more pins in the hem of Emily’s Cinderella dress.
‘Remember the time when you and Janey were having a picnic?’ her mother said, holding pins between her lips. ‘And a bull came along and you ran away?’
‘How could I forget?’ said Emily. ‘I saw him behind me with my eyefinger.’
‘That would make a good poem, don’t you think?’
‘Hmm. Maybe it would. Have you finished pinning?’
‘Yes. Slide this off very gently.’
Mrs Eyefinger turned on the sewing machine and Emily went off to her room and started writing. In a few minutes she came back.
‘Oh, Mum,’ she said, ‘I wrote a poem but it doesn’t rhyme. Listen:
‘Little Miss Eyefinger
Sat on a stone
Eating her cucumber sandwich.
Along came a bull
Who just stood there and looked at her
And frightened Miss Eyefinger away.’
‘You’re right,’ Mrs Eyefinger said, ‘it really isn’t a poem — well not the kind of poem your teacher wants.’
‘It’s terrible. What can I do?’ Emily asked.
‘I think it’s going to be hard to find something that rhymes with Eyefinger, but since your middle name is Hall, why not write something like Little Miss Hall sat on a wall? That rhymes very nicely.’
‘But I wasn’t sitting on a wall. I was sitting on a rock,’ said Emily.
‘I know, dear, but when you write poetry, you’re allowed to change things. You can call yourself Hall instead of Eyefinger and you can make it a wall instead of a rock. It’s called poetic licence.’
‘Ms Plump told us about that but I forgot what it means.’
‘It’s not a real licence like a driver’s licence. It just means you can change things a little and nobody will mind.’
‘Right,’ said Emily and off she went again. In a few minutes she was back.
‘I made it rhyme,’ she said. ‘Listen to this:
‘Little Miss Hall
Sat on a wall
Eating a pear that was grey.
‘Nothing rhymes with cucumber sandwich,’ Emily explained. ‘So I made it a pear that was grey. Besides, it sounds a little bit like curds and whey — only I think I’d rather eat a pear.’
‘But aren’t pears usually yellow or green or even brown? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a grey one,’ her mother said.
‘You have now,’ said Emily. ‘It’s poetic licence. Listen:
‘Little Miss Hall
Sat on a wall
Eating a pear that was grey.
Along came a bull
All covered with wool
And frightened Miss Hall away.
‘You see, “grey” rhymes with “away”,’ Emily explained.
‘Are you sure you want a bull that’s all covered with wool?’ her mother asked. ‘Sheep have wool, not bulls. Bulls just have short fur or something.’
‘But fur doesn’t rhyme with bull.’
Mr Eyefinger was in the kitchen, washing the dishes. ‘How about “Along came a bunny, all furry and funny?”’ he called out.
‘No, Dad,’ Emily said, ‘a bunny wouldn’t have frightened me away. Bunnies are cute.’
‘I guess you’re right. How about, “Along came a bird, all pretty and furred?”’
‘Dad, don’t be ridiculous. Birds don’t have fur, they have feathers.’
‘Well then how about, “Along came a goat, in a lovely pink coat?” Or “Along came a dog, dressed up like a hog?” No, I’ve got it. “Along came a rat, in a firefighter’s hat?” That would frighten me away.’
Emily laughed.
‘Now you’re being really silly,’ she said. ‘No, I think I have a better idea. How’s this?
‘Little Miss Hall
Sat on a wall
Eating a pear that was grey.
When she was full
Along came a bull
And frightened Miss Hall away.’
‘That’s perfect!’ her mother said, and her father clapped his wet hands and yelled, ‘Bravo for Emily the poet!’
‘Thank you,’ said Emily proudly. ‘It’s not as good as “Little Miss Muffet” but it will have to do.’
And that is how Emily wrote her first poem.
2.
Emily and the Mysterious Moustaches
Emily and her parents went to a special party at an artist’s studio. The artist, Mr Paintswell, had been working on a painting for six months. Now it was finished and he had invited his friends to see it.
Mr Paintswell met them at the door.
‘I’m so glad you could come,’ he said. Then he whispered, ‘Someone is trying to ruin me! I need your help!’
‘What’s wrong, Pierre?’ Mr Eyefinger asked.
‘Shhh! Not now. I will tell you later
. Please come in.’
All the people in the big room turned to see who had come in. Emily followed her parents.
Mr Paintswell was a tall, thin man who always wore a hat, even when he was indoors. Under his nose was the biggest, blackest moustache that Emily had ever seen. Its ends pointed straight up in the air. Emily wondered why they didn’t droop down.
Mr Paintswell’s helper, Gerald, was passing around drinks and bits of food on a silver tray. At one end of the studio was the painting that everyone had come to see. It was huge but no one could see it yet because it was covered by a piece of black velvet.
Mr Paintswell suddenly clapped his hands.
‘Attention, good people,’ he said. ‘Now is the moment you have all been waiting for. I will show you the best painting that I have ever made. It is a portrait of Celia, Cecile and Cecily Ritzy, the Ritzy sisters. As you know they asked me to paint it. They haven’t seen the painting yet either so it will be a surprise for everyone.’
Emily noticed three women at the back of the studio. They were dressed in expensive clothes and wearing diamond and pearl necklaces. They pushed forward to see the painting. Right away she knew these were the Ritzy sisters.
‘Here it is!’ cried Mr Paintswell as he pulled back the velvet. ‘The Ritzy sisters!’
There it was: the most beautiful painting that Emily had ever seen. It showed one of the sisters sitting in a gold-coloured chair. Another was lying on a lounge. The third one was standing up, holding a kitten.
Suddenly everyone gasped. There was something dreadfully wrong. On the top lip of each of the three women was painted a huge, black moustache just like Mr Paintswell’s. And it wasn’t just the sisters who had moustaches. Even the kitten had one.
‘Is this a joke?’ one of the Ritzy sisters screamed.
‘It must be a joke!’ another sister said.
‘He’s making fun of us!’ the third sister cried. ‘We’ll teach you to make fun of us! Let’s get out of here, girls!’
Emily watched as Celia, Cecile and Cecily Ritzy stormed towards the door, pushing people out of the way as they went.
‘Oh, no!’ cried Mr Paintswell. ‘No, ladies, please! Come back! It’s a mistake! I would not make a joke of you! I did not paint those moustaches! Please!’
But it was too late. The only thing he could see was the glitter of diamonds and pearls disappearing out the door.
‘My friends! My friends!’ Mr Paintswell cried. ‘This is terrible! Someone has ruined my beautiful painting. I can’t stand it. I must ask you to go home now. You, too, Gerald. I am so sorry.’
‘This is awful,’ Mrs Eyefinger whispered to Emily. ‘Pierre has such a good eye for painting.’
‘What does “a good eye for painting” mean?’ Emily asked.
‘Oh, it’s just an expression, Emily. It means that he’s a very good painter, that’s all.’
‘Please, Eyefingers,’ Mr Paintswell said. ‘Could you stay for a moment? I must talk to you.’
When everyone else had left he told them about his problem.
‘Whenever I paint a portrait,’ he said, ‘a moustache mysteriously appears on it. Every one I do is the same way. I paint over the moustache and fix up the face again — and this takes a long long time — then pooof! It’s back again.’
‘Who would want to ruin your paintings?’ Mrs Eyefinger asked.
Emily went over to the painting of the Ritzy sisters and looked carefully at the moustaches. They had each been painted in one paint stroke. She studied them even more closely with her eyefinger.
‘I don’t know who would want to hurt me like this,’ Mr Paintswell said. ‘But I think it might be Gerald.’
‘But Pierre,’ Mr Eyefinger said, ‘he’s your best friend.’
‘In the whole world,’ Mr Paintswell added. ‘He pretends he doesn’t know who is doing this, but it must be him. It started two months ago. I painted a portrait of the mayor. Gerald sent it to him and then the mayor called me up and was very angry. “Why did you paint that horrible moustache on me?” he asked. At first I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then I got the painting back and saw. I painted the face again and this time Gerald and I always keep our eyes on the painting. Gerald sent it once more and, again the moustache. Then it happened with a painting of a lady and then another one with a young girl. Moustaches, always the moustaches.’
Emily wandered to the back of his gallery and into another room that was his artist’s studio. Next to the studio was a small storeroom filled with paintings and packaging materials. She could hear Mr Paintswell still talking to her parents.
‘Now nobody will want me to paint their portrait. Instead they will all go to that horrible man, Valdo Versmeer. Can you imagine? He is a terrible painter! Terrible! He makes everyone look awful.’
‘But at least they don’t have moustaches,’ Mr Eyefinger said.
‘Yes, that is true,’ Mr Paintswell said. ‘You see, Gerald must be doing this. He packages up the painting and they are okay. Then they are sent and the moustaches appear. We took turns watching this painting of the Ritzy sisters and look. He must be painting them on when I am not looking.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Paintswell,’ Emily said, coming back into the gallery, ‘I don’t think that Gerald is doing it.’
‘But, Emily, why do you say that?’ Mr Paintswell asked.
‘Because Gerald is left-handed,’ Emily said. ‘I noticed that when he was pouring drinks for people.’
‘That is true,’ Mr Paintswell agreed. ‘But left-handed, right-handed, what does it matter? Either one can paint a moustache.’
‘Not like these,’ Emily said. ‘Have a good look.’
Mr Paintswell and the Eyefingers looked closely at the Ritzy sisters’ moustaches.
‘They must have been painted very quickly,’ Emily said.
‘How do you know that?’ asked Mr Paintswell.
‘Because they were all done with one long wavy line.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Now if you paint with your left hand you would paint a moustache from right to left, isn’t that true?’
‘Yes, of course, Emily.’
‘And wouldn’t the paint would be thinner on the left side of the moustache because the paint brush would be running out of paint?’
‘My goodness, you know a lot about painting.’
‘It’s just common sense,’ said Emily modestly. ‘Now look and you will see that the paint is thinner on the right side — not the left. So it must have been painted by someone who was right-handed.’
Mr Paintswell put his face so close to the painting that his own moustache was touching the kitten’s moustache.
‘Emily!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are right! So Gerald isn’t doing it! That eyefinger of yours is amazing!’
‘It is very handy,’ Emily said with a smile.
‘So who can be doing this?’
‘When did you cover up the painting?’ Emily asked.
‘Just before the guests arrived.’
‘And were there moustaches on it then?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then someone at the party must have painted them,’ Emily said.
‘But they were all my friends,’ Mr Paintswell said. ‘Well, all of them except that man who just walked in off the street.’
‘The one with the coat?’ Emily asked.
‘So you saw him too, Emily!’
‘No. I knew whoever did this must have had on a coat to hide his paintbrush and paint. He must have sneaked over to the painting and waited till no one was looking. Then he pulled up the cloth and painted the moustaches. That’s my guess, anyway.’
‘I wonder who that man was?’ Mr Paintswell said. ‘He had a red beard. I’ve never seen him before. And how could he have painted the moustaches on all the other paintings?’
‘Mr Paintswell, I know that people pay you lots of money for a portrait,’ Emily said. ‘And I don’t have much money. But would you paint a picture of me? If
you do, I may be able to find the person who is painting the moustaches.’
‘Emily!’ Mrs Eyefinger exclaimed. ‘You can’t just ask Mr Paintswell to paint your portrait. It’s not polite.’
‘Never mind,’ Mr Paintswell said. ‘If she can help solve this mystery I will be happy to paint a painting of her for nothing.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Emily. ‘One more thing. Are you going to fix the painting of the Ritzy sisters?’
‘Yes, I guess I will have to paint over the moustaches.’
‘Good. As soon as you’ve finished, I’ll come over and you can do my portrait.’
The next Saturday Mr Paintswell called and Emily hurried to his studio. Mr Paintswell and Gerald were waiting for her. And there was the painting of the Ritzy sisters and the cat — all looking very beautiful without their moustaches.
‘Now where do you want to be when I paint your portrait?’ Mr Paintswell asked.
Emily walked around the studio for a moment and then stopped.
‘This is the perfect spot,’ she said.
‘Good, but remember that you have to stand very still, Emily.’
Mr Paintswell wrapped a long piece of cloth around her. Then he put a big clay jug on her shoulder. She held it with both hands. Gerald handed Mr Paintswell his paints and brushes.
‘One moment, please,’ Emily said. ‘Could Gerald please wrap up the painting of the Ritzy sisters?’
‘Yes, anything you say, Emily,’ Gerald said.
From where Emily was standing she could see beside her with her eyefinger. She watched Gerald begin wrapping the painting. Mr Paintswell was in front of her painting very quickly with a long, thin paintbrush.
Emily was not good at standing still. And it was even harder to stand still holding a jug on her shoulder. The jug was getting heavier and heavier. After a few minutes, she began to wobble. She wobbled from side to side, trying not to drop the jug.
Gerald finished wrapping the painting. Then he put it next to a window and came back into the studio. He began sweeping the floor.
Mr Paintswell didn’t look happy.
‘Stop squinting, Emily,’ he said. ‘And bend that left leg the way it was before. Lift your elbow. Stand up straight. And will you please stop wobbling?’