‘Brian?’ Dad’s face was in his face. ‘BRIAN?’
‘Ow,’ said Brian as a tear landed on his forehead.
‘Ow?’ said Dad. ‘Ow?’
Alf’s face joined Dad’s. ‘Ow?’ he cried. ‘OW!’ If they were trying to make conversation, Brian wasn’t impressed. ‘You’re back, Cap’n! You’re with us!’ Alf saluted. ‘Aye blessed aye!’ Another tear fell onto Brian’s nose.
‘Ow,’ he said.
‘OW!’ yelled Dad.
‘OW OW!’ sang Alf.
Brian would roll his eyes if they weren’t so sticky, and if he wasn’t beginning to realise that he’d actually survived that living nightmare of heat and smoke and pretty much hell. No wonder it felt as if he’d been stung by a zillion bees.
Bees? It all came crashing back. Quincy Queaze, the cellar-cum-classroom, Florrie, his classmates and … ‘Dulcie!’
‘Dulcie?’ said Dad, smile-frowning over him.
‘Dulcie?’ said Alf, stopping his rumba round the room.
‘I mean – my earring.’ Brian tried to lift his hand. Big screaming ouch. He dropped it.
Dad raised his eyebrows at Alf in a what’s-he-on-about? kind of way.
‘The bee,’ said Brian. ‘Is it still inside?’
‘No. Why?’
And now it was Brian who was crying, except that his tears were all dried out. So he had to make do with little rhythmic sobs like the rasp of a handsaw. That got Dad and Alf crying again and reaching over to hug him as gently as they could.
‘She must’ve died in the fire,’ whispered Brian.
‘No,’ said Dad. ‘She’s OK. And the children too. They’re all recovering along the corridor.’
‘I don’t mean Florrie.’ In a parched whisper, Brian told them about the tiny friend who’d bossed and encouraged him, coaxed and cajoled – who’d stuck by him, literally, until the end.
Dad’s mouth was a perfect O.
Alf’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. ‘Except,’ he said at last, ‘that she didn’t.’
‘Didn’t what?’
‘Stick by you. I was wondering how my girls knew where to find you. She must have escaped from your ear, flown to their hive and waggled your whereabouts.’
Never mind the pain, never mind the shattering of a thousand cheek cells, Brian’s grin was wider than his face. ‘She must be there now. Go and get her, Alf.’
‘Aye aye, Cap’n.’ Saluting, Alf hurried out the door.
Dad drew his chair closer to the bed. ‘Brian.’ He sat down. ‘I know I’ve not, ah, been the best dad. I’ve been so caught up in myself since …’ he took a deep breath, ‘since your mum died. I thought nothing worse could ever happen.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But it did, almost. What I’m trying to say –’
And making a right cowpat of it, thought Brian.
‘Is that when I look at you I see her. And up until now that’s been … hard. But now … now that I nearly lost you too, I’m so, so grateful.’
‘It’s OK.’ Excitement bubbled in Brian. He tried to sit up, winced and sank back on the pillow. ‘I know you think that I made her fall. That I pulled her from the tree. And I thought so too. But it’s not true.’
Dad frowned.
‘You couldn’t see properly from the ground. And I couldn’t remember. But Dulcie could. She was right there on Mum’s hand, and she saw everyth–’
‘No,’ said Dad softly.
‘What?’
‘She was in my pocket.’
Brian’s chest iced over.
‘Your mum asked me to look after the ring while she climbed. Dulcie didn’t see a thing. And I – I did.’
He said no more. He didn’t have to.
‘So I did kill her.’ Brian’s voice was flat.
‘What?’ Dad looked as if he’d been punched in the face. ‘Of course you didn’t! Is that what you’ve thought all this time? Oh, my dear, dear …’ he looked wildly round the room, as if in search of the right word … ‘dear.’ He shook his head. ‘And when I was so distracted and sad, you thought I was blaming you for a terrible, terrible accident that was nobody’s fault.’
Brian swallowed. ‘Nobody’s?’
For the first time in two years, one month and twenty-nine days, Bernard O’Bunion looked – really looked – at his son. ‘Nobody’s fault at all.’
*
It was the oddest weather forecast. Despite the warm front, Sharlette Briquette looked as if she’d been in a hurricane. Her hair was a haystack. Her lipstick danced over her cheeks. Her blouse was creased, her brooch upside down.
She had been in a hurricane. And now it was over. ‘My Tracy’s OK!’ she shrieked at the camera. ‘She’s talking and eating. She’s charming the pants off doctors and demanding more pocket money. What do I care if the rain falls in Spain or what’s blowin’ in the wind? The sun has got his hat on and he looks like this!’ The camera panned to the weather chart. And instead of little suns indicating fine weather over Ireland, there were little Brian O’Bunions.
‘Turn it off, Dad.’ Sitting up in bed, Brian blushed. As Dad pressed the TV remote, there was a knock at the door. Alec, Tracy and Pete shuffled in. Alec was leaning on a crutch. Tracy had bandages on her arms and red blotches on her face. Pete’s unbeatable legs, and one unbeatable foot, were bandaged. They smiled at Brian. And he knew at once, from their clear, admiring gaze, that they were free. Whether it was the shock of the fire, or the hours they’d spent without honey, something had woken them from their stupor.
Dad pulled up three chairs. The children hobbled over and sat by the bed.
‘How are you, Brian?’ Tracy sounded almost shy.
‘Fine.’
Alec propped his crutch against the chair. ‘We brought you these.’ He took something out of his dressing-gown pocket and laid it next to Brian’s hand. Tracy and Pete did the same.
‘The thing is.’ Alec coughed. ‘You were cleverer than me.’
‘And.’ Tracy’s red face went even redder. ‘Everyone thinks you’re the coolest boy in school.’
Pete tapped his unbandaged foot on the floor. ‘You beat the gardaí to find us. You beat the fire. You’re unbeatable.’
Brian stared at the three gold medals. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘But they belong to someone else. Though I’m not sure they’ll fit round her neck.’
The children blinked.
Brian smiled. ‘If you hang around, you can give them to her yourself.’
Fifteen minutes later there was a knock. The door opened.
‘Where is she?’ Brian leaned forward as far as he could.
Alf stood in the doorway, staring at the floor.
‘NO!’ Brian fell back on the pillow. ‘NO!’
Dad laid a hand by his cheek.
Alf looked up. ‘She got to dance, Cap’n,’ he said softly. ‘And she danced for you. But it must have been too much for her poor little body.’
Brian stared at the ceiling. ‘And she lied about Mum to make me feel better.’ Now he found his tears. They ran down his temples and soaked the pillow.
Alec, Tracy and Pete looked at Dad in bewilderment. He shook his head. They sat in silence.
At last Alf cleared his throat. ‘I – um, we – were wondering. My girls and I.’ He pressed his fists together. ‘Apart from me they don’t have any male relations. No decent ones anyway. Those drones are a dozy lot. So I – um, we – thought p’raps you might consider …’ he rubbed his hands, ‘doing us the honour …’ Brian raised his head, ‘of becoming their godfather.’
CHAPTER 26
HEROES
The Tully Tattle
19 June
CREEPY CRAWLER CAUGHT ON THE HOP
By Ptolemy Pilps
Tullybun’s lousiest lawbreaker is in custody. Gardaí last night arrested a bug-eating thug. In a rare burst of competence, Sergeant Filo Poggarty netted Quincy Queaze after finding the missing schoolchildren in a burnt-out cellar (see yesterday’s special evening edition).
‘We were later alerted to a suspicious-looking character in a school uniform seen buying petrol at the garage on Tullbridge Road,’ said the man who’d win Tullybun’s Favourite Grandpa competition if there was one. ‘His car registration was noted by the attendant and we later found the vehicle parked outside Tullbridge Natural History Museum. The suspect had broken in and was examining the butterfly collection. When he unpinned a Red Admiral and popped it into his mouth, we knew we had a nutcase of the first cocoon.’
Queaze, the bees’ knees of sleaze, is now awaiting trial on charges of kidnap, arson and perfectly good hearing.
NOTICES
Event:
Public unveiling of statue
Date:
17 July
Time:
3 p.m.
Venue:
Tullybun Primary, High Kings of Ireland Street
Please bring:
hands to clap, feet to stamp, streamers and party poppers
It was a tall order. Taller and wider than anything Dad had ever made. But as he was the one who’d ordered it, he didn’t complain. For the next four weeks he worked on nothing else, though he was very strict with his hours: two on, two off to play Monopoly with Brian; two on, two off to look through photos of Mum together; two on and the rest off to cook pizza for the classmates who visited Number Six Hercules Drive with invitation upon invitation to the parties they’d planned for when Brian was well.
Which, by the seventeenth of July, he was: or at least well enough to sit in a deckchair on High Street along with Alec, Tracy and Pete and wonder what might be under the canvas-covered lump that Dad was unloading from Drooly McDooly’s greengrocer van.
‘You must have some idea,’ said Tracy.
Brian shook his head. ‘I’ve been banned from Dad’s workshop since I came home from hospital.’
‘Look at the crowd,’ said Pete. People were arriving, pushing and shoving to get a good view but leaving a respectful circle around the seated children.
There were mums and dads. There were mums or dads. There were grandmas and/or grandpas. There were two hundred and ten aunts, a hundred and ninety-four uncles and four hundred and fifty-two-and-three-quarters neighbours (Mrs Mildew Pritt was wearing high heels). There were three reporters from the local paper. And a patch of pavement was fenced off so that pet rabbits, gerbils and hamsters could come and watch the festivities while nibbling jelly beans. Everyone with any link to the village was there.
Almost. One very important person was missing. Or so it seemed at first.
When the crowd had settled to a whispering fidget, Sergeant Poggarty stood up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he boomed, ‘children and pets. I’m sure you can’t wait to see Tullybun’s newest …’ Mrs Fontania Mallows tapped him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear … ‘er, only statue. And here to unveil it, in her last public engagement before she resigns, is the principal of Tullybun Primary. Please give a warm welcome to Mrs Loretta Florris.’
The warm welcome involved whistles, whoops and a burp from Kevin Catwind as the crowd made way for Florrie. She was leaning on the arm of her husband, a thin, pale man seen outdoors so rarely that rumour had it he was nocturnal.
Standing by the statue, the soon-to-be-ex-principal looked saggy and lost. Her helmet of curls had collapsed to a floppy cap. Her nose was Tipp-Ex-free but the permanent marker had lived up to its name. She still sported a faint moustache.
‘I am delighted,’ she mumbled, looking anything but, ‘to unveil this memorial.’ She reached forward and pulled off the canvas.
The crowd gasped. People shielded their eyes from the sunlight glinting off the statue. Drooly McDooly, whose head was also glinting impressively, stepped forward. He raised his hand for silence. Then he turned towards the great golden bee with its hunched body, perspex wings and fat back leg. Bending down, he read out the inscription on its gleaming butt.
Brian and Dulcie, a Class Act
The crowd went wild. Hands clapped, feet stamped, party poppers popped and streamers streamed all over Brian O’Bunion.
(When word had got round the village that a twenty-million-year-old bee had alerted Alf and his girls to the fire, reaction had varied. ‘Nonsense!’ said Fontania Mallows who, as president of the nitting circle, felt a stab of envy on behalf of her rather more timid charges. ‘Coo-wull,’ said Kevin Catwind, who went and had his own ear pierced but let the hole grow over when he couldn’t find an earring that talked. ‘Whatever,’ said Anemia Pickles, blowing a huge spearmint bubble. But everyone agreed that the statue did Brian proud.)
So proud that he couldn’t speak. Not that it mattered because Sergeant Poggarty hadn’t quite finished. ‘I believe,’ he said, patting the air for silence, ‘Mrs Florris has a few final words for Brian.’
She sniffed. She coughed. She licked her teeth and chewed her cheek. Then she blinked at Brian. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, ‘for saving my life. And s … ss …’
But she couldn’t do it. The ‘sorry’ died on her faintly moustachioed lips.
There were whistles and whoops and a fake fart from Kevin Catwind as the very-soon-to-be-ex-principal was led away by her husband.
And then Miss Emer Pipette stepped forward. In her acceptance speech as the new principal (she’d agreed to come out of retirement), she promised to feed and water the tiny seeds of Tullybun so that they’d bud, blossom and bear much fruit in life, especially strawberries.
And when she asked for volunteers to help her plant small fruits in the school garden, Brian O’Bunion was the first to raise his hand.
Every weekday during the summer holidays he dug, sowed and weeded. Alec, Tracy and Pete tried helping too but gave up when they found that they lacked Brian’s green fingers. Much as he enjoyed their company, he was delighted to be left to his other friends: the butterflies, beetles and bees who fluttered and scuttled and buzzed around his work.
On Saturdays he helped to clear up the horror of Quincy’s creations. After pouring weedkiller on the magnetic flowers, he worked with other volunteers to convert the house into an insect community centre. In glass cases around the ground-floor room you could watch silkworms eat mulberry leaves and poop shining threads, and butterflies stagger out of cocoons. Fontania Mallows ran her nitting circle there on Tuesdays and started a beetle drive on Thursdays, where the creatures could learn to drive in tiny cars that zoomed round the floor.
And on Sundays Brian helped Alf. They started by moving the poor magnetic bees to a new hive, next door to Brian’s forty thousand godchildren. As the weeks went by, and the bees fed on Alf’s roses, the iron was washed from their bodies. They began to produce normal honey. Not much, though. Their bottoms remained bulbous and their flight sluggish. So Alf never took honey from their hive and left them to buzz around in peace.
Then came September and secondary school. Brian continued to garden at Tullybun Primary at weekends. Weeding and watering helped him to forget the misery of Maths and the pain of PE. And when he left school it was only natural that Miss Emer Pipette should offer him a permanent job.
Brian adored his work. He loved pruning the raspberry bushes and mowing the calm, comforting lawn. But sometimes, while scraping moss from the rockery or polishing the gnome’s hat, he found himself sighing. And if he saw two butterflies scrapping in the air he shivered, too, at the thought of the man he could have become. Then, to reassure himself, he crouched down and picked up a handful of dark, bitter-smelling earth. Opening his palm, he let it fall away through his outspread fingers.
Years passed. Children often came over during break to help him water the redcurrants or pick gooseberries. Not the clever, popular or sporty ones; they were too busy selling their homework or arranging parties or scoring goals. But those who weren’t so good at work or friends or football loved to hear him talk about the golden statue, the only spot in Tullybun where no one ever stuck chewing gum. Brian never tired of telling them the story of Tullybun’s greatest and tiniest hero.
&nb
sp; And when the bell rang at three, he locked up his tools in the tumbledown shed behind the cypress trees and went home to his wife, his children Lily and Tobias, and his old, old dad who still liked to tinker in his workshop at Number Six, Dulcie Drive.
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