The Day the Screens Went Blank

by Danny Wallace

  He looks up at the stars and breathes in, happy, then pounds his chest.

  ‘FRESH AIR!’ he shouts.

  Mum looks terrified by all this.

  ‘Anyway, it’ll do for a night,’ mutters Uncle Tony. ‘I’ll wake you up early for your eggs.’

  * * *

  Mum is finding whatever bits of old furniture she can to prop up against the door so no one can get in, but the problem is, the door opens outwards.

  The caravan smells of old foxes or something, and there’s a leak in the skylight.

  It’s cold. I can hear owls.

  Me and Teddy are shivering in our sleeping bags on the saggy bed, pretending we can’t hear Mum trying to keep her voice down.

  She’s like, ‘What on earth were you thinking?!’

  And Dad’s like, ‘We have hardly any petrol and he’ll give us breakfast and a map!’

  And she’s like, ‘He might be a lunatic! You let a lunatic called Uncle Tony into our car so we could drive to a farm called Angry Woods in the middle of nowhere at night so we could sleep in a stinking caravan called Bad Bertha’s Resting Place! Who’s Bertha? And is this where she rests? Or is this where she died?’

  And Dad’s like, ‘We’ll take turns sleeping!’

  And Teddy sits up and says, ‘Why do we have to take turns sleeping?’

  And Mum and Dad say, ‘No reason, darling!’ at the exact same time in the exact same everything is fine voice.

  They lie down beside us, propped up on thin pillows. Mum seems keen on keeping one eye on the door.

  I go to sleep, listening to that massive animal or whatever it is outside, snuffling and shuffling about.

  * * *

  When we wake up, light is just starting to sneak in through the skylight. The first thing I notice after that is the smell. But the second thing I notice is that the whole caravan is moving from side to side.

  It’s properly shunting from left to right. Like a seesaw. The whole caravan!

  ‘Wake up!’ says Mum. ‘WAKE UP!’

  Dad has obviously been dreaming and screams, ‘I will PAY for the food, madam!’

  We all sit up in bed.

  And we cannot quite believe what we are looking at.

  It’s in front of us, standing at the edge of our bed, looking VERY confused indeed.

  ‘A COW!’ yells Dad.

  He’s right. A cow. Just there. A cow at the end of our bed. A cow right here in this caravan.

  ‘Get it out!’ screams Mum.

  ‘How?!’ shouts Dad.

  ‘I don’t know!’ screams Mum.

  ‘Why is that a cow?’ asks Teddy.

  The cow has massive eyes and enormous nostrils and it doesn’t seem happy we’re here. It’s got mud all over its ankles and, dare I say it, a very bad attitude.

  Dad begins to try and give it a speech.

  ‘So, cow, here’s the thing—’

  The cow suddenly sneezes in Dad’s face.

  ‘I’ve been SLIMED!’ he wails, blinded by whatever bright-yellow badness just shot out at him.

  ‘Cow! Out!’ says Mum, in her best Mum voice.

  Then she kneels on the bed and puts one hand on her hip and points at its face.

  ‘Bad cow!’ she says.

  It has no effect.

  ‘BERTHA!’ comes a voice, and then Uncle Tony rocks into the caravan, carrying a massive shotgun.

  Mum and Dad scream but I don’t know what they’re worried about. The cow seems the most pressing matter. We can deal with the mad gunman after.

  ‘This is where Bertha sleeps, normally,’ says Uncle Tony, who I notice is wearing exactly the same clothes as last night. ‘I told you, Bertha – we have guests! You have to use the lower field, like the other cows.’

  He looks at us to explain, still waving his shotgun about.

  ‘She treats this place like a B&B,’ he says. ‘Thinks she’s my wife!’

  None of this makes Uncle Tony sound more normal.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Breakfast time,’ he says. ‘Five thirty a.m.’

  Okay, so let’s be clear: that is so not breakfast time.

  Dad blinks and wipes his mouth.

  ‘Uncle Tony,’ he says, politely. ‘Is there anywhere I can wash this excess cow gunk off my face?’

  ‘Use the tap by the pigs. After that, we get to work.’

  We all stare at him.

  What does he mean, ‘work’?

  I felt sorry for Mum. She’d never milked a cow before, and it didn’t look like she’d turn semi-pro anytime soon.

  She looked horrified when we first saw her sitting on that stool near the pond; she couldn’t even look at the cow. She just had to keep squeezing its udders, which she said felt too personal. And the milk was going everywhere except the orange bucket. She had milk on her shoes and milk on her trousers, and I don’t know if I told you, but she’s generally dairy intolerant. Every time she squeezed an udder she made a little ‘ew’ sound.

  Ew squirt ew squirt ew squirt.

  I’m sure that once upon a time that would have made Dad laugh, but he wasn’t in a particularly jolly mood right now.

  He’d been told to clean out the pig houses.

  They don’t really look much like houses to me. They look more like pigloos.

  Dad was doing his best, although he wasn’t really wearing the right clothes. He was still wearing what he’d been wearing yesterday, which was essentially what he’d been wearing to the office, except with cow pats on. Now he had a shovel, a brush and a scraper and he was removing everything from the floor that had once been in a pig. He kept making that weird face grown-ups make when they’re really disgusted by something. He kept jerking his head back and forward like a chicken and sticking his tongue out because whatever he was doing was turning his stomach. Meanwhile, pigs kept nudging at his legs and grunting. A particularly big one with a bush of black hair seemed to have a real problem with him. I think he saw straight through my dad’s bravado.

  But me and Teddy? We’re fine. Our job is to collect the eggs from the chickens, and each of the chickens has a different name.

  ‘That’s Laura,’ says Uncle Tony, walking alongside us. ‘That’s Samantha. And that one over there is Egbert.’

  ‘Haha!’ I say. ‘Egbert because it sounds like “eggs”!’

  ‘Eh?’ says Uncle Tony, and I decide not to press it any further. Also, I thought chickens were all girls. I would not want to be a girl called Egbert. Things are hard enough.

  Collecting eggs is not as easy as it sounds though. You have to be gentle with the chickens. You have to smile at them, and apologize, but still be rather firm. And you have to do it quickly. You lift up the hen, say, ‘Thank you for the eggs,’ pop them in the basket and move on before they ask too many questions.

  ‘So what’s your story then?’ says Tony. ‘What do you kids do?’

  I thought he meant for a living, so I say, ‘I’m currently unemployed, unless you count professional schoolgirl.’

  ‘For fun I mean. What makes you laugh? Knock Down Ginger? Marbles?’

  Marbles? What year did he think this was? And Knock Down Ginger is where you knock on people’s doors and run away. Also known as Ding Dong Ditch. I’m pretty sure people are jailed for that.

  ‘Well, Teddy likes aeroplanes and no, I don’t really like marbles.’

  ‘What kids don’t like marbles?’ he replies.

  ‘Marbles are a bit chaotic,’ I say. ‘I find it stressful that they just go everywhere. I prefer more controlled world-building like in Roblox or Minecraft and so on.’

  ‘Don’t sound like you get out much.’

  I smile because, although this is meant as an insult, he’s right. It’s nice to be out here. Doing something. Fetching eggs with a breeze on my face. Being kind to chickens. There are literally zero chickens in my house.

  ‘You’re a natural farmhand,’ Uncle Tony says. ‘But you don’t get it from your dad.’

  I look u
p and see Dad is slipping around in all the muck and mud, using his shovel to try and keep his balance, like one of those gondoliers you see on Newsround when they do a thing about Italy. That big pig didn’t like what Dad was doing at all.

  ‘How old are you?’ says Teddy, suddenly.

  I know it might not seem like much to you, but this was quite brave for Teddy. I was proud of him.

  ‘How old am I?’ says Uncle Tony. ‘How old do you think I am?’

  Teddy stares at him, then says, ‘Fifteen?’

  ‘I’ll be eighty next month,’ says Uncle Tony.

  ‘Are you having a party?’ says Teddy.

  ‘No,’ says Uncle Tony.

  I feel a bit sorry for Uncle Tony then. I mean, everyone should have a party with their friends on their birthday. Although I don’t even know what you’d do for an eightieth birthday party. You probably don’t go to a trampoline park or whatever.

  ‘What do you do with all these eggs?’ I ask.

  ‘Pop ’em in boxes,’ he says. ‘Along with a cauliflower, a few potatoes, some carrots and onions. Bottle of milk. Maybe some flowers from the meadow if I’ve time.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Drop ’em round the old folks’ houses,’ he says. ‘Them that can’t get it for themselves.’

  ‘Don’t you sell any of it?’

  That’s when Uncle Tony shakes his head and looks off into the distance, like how they do in films. A bit melancholy (word of the month in February).

  ‘I’ve got fields full of food, but farm’s coming to an end, I think,’ he says. ‘My knees are shot. There’s no one around to help pick the veg any more or sort out the chickens or the cows. People want it all online anyway, not from little farms like mine. They get it all from the supermarkets with their vans. So best I just give this stuff to people who need it. Problem is, there’s so much of it and it’ll be wasted.’

  Just then there was an almighty YELL. Dad was running away from that massive pig. Dad had opened up the gate to the pig houses and it had seen its chance.

  Dad was headed straight for the pond, screaming and yelling, with a giant thundering pig squealing right behind him.

  We all just sort of ignored it.

  ‘Your dad said you’re on your way to see your gran,’ says Uncle Tony.

  ‘We don’t see her much and with all this going on we thought we’d better… see her,’ I explain.

  ‘You ever wonder why you don’t see her much?’ he says, like he knows something.

  I frown at him because how can he know more than me about my family?

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘she lives miles away. And my mum and dad are busy with work. And we have Skype so it’s fine.’

  ‘Then it’s fine,’ says Uncle Tony, but something about the way he says it makes me think he doesn’t really think that at all.

  * * *

  ‘So, Uncle Tony,’ says Dad, shivering, as we stand outside our car. ‘Is there any chance I could have a quick shower before we head off?’

  Dad still has bits of old reeds and pond dirt in his hair. I bet if you checked his pockets you’d find a fish in one of them.

  ‘Shower?’ says Tony. ‘Don’t have one. Don’t believe in them. What’s wrong with you? You just had a swim in the pond!’

  He makes it sound like Dad had a choice.

  ‘Here’s your petrol,’ says Tony, handing over a big red canister. ‘Don’t have much but it should get you most of the way there.’

  Then he points at a box he’s already laid on the bonnet of the car. ‘And some milk and vegetables for when you get there.’

  ‘Thanks for letting us stay, Uncle Tony,’ says Mum.

  ‘One more thing,’ says Uncle Tony. ‘Your map.’

  Dad looks delighted he’s going to get a map at last. But his face falls when he sees what Uncle Tony is holding out to him.

  ‘Did you not have a proper map?’ says Dad.

  ‘What’s wrong with this one?’ says Uncle Tony, frowning. ‘I drew it myself.’

  Dad looks at the scrappy paper and the thin lines drawn in biro.

  ‘It’s got “Here Be Dragons” written on it as we approach the A12.’

  ‘Kept it exciting,’ says Uncle Tony with a wink. ‘For the lil’uns.’

  * * *

  It was sad to say goodbye to Uncle Tony. I felt like he’d kept us safe for a bit and I liked being around all the animals.

  I had the cardboard box of vegetables on my lap as Dad waved him goodbye and pulled away from the farm.

  ‘Well, that could have been worse,’ says Mum, looking relieved. ‘He could have had two shotguns, two sneezy cows and two angry pigs.’

  Then she squeezes Dad’s hand.

  ‘I think you secretly enjoyed bits of that though. Am I right?’ she says.

  What’s she on about? Why would she think Dad enjoyed waking up to a cow and being chased by a pig? But I can see Dad trying not to smile.

  ‘Something about it,’ he says. ‘Just being somewhere else. Doing something new.’

  I just keep quiet and watch because it feels like they’re properly agreeing on something, though I don’t quite get what.

  ‘Feels like there’s a lot more going on when you look around, doesn’t there, kids?’ says Mum. ‘I want to get to Grandma’s and make things. Grow things. Play things. See things. So step on it, Dad!’

  ‘I refuse to drive aggressively,’ replies Dad. ‘It’s lunchtime on a new day. We’ll be there early evening. Let’s just not stress. I am fed up of being stressed. I thought I was stressed at work. I thought I was stressed in life. But here I am with no work stress and a totally different life and also every time I’m stressed I end up filthy or in a pond.’

  Dad always thinks he can fix things, but it seems like without all his tools – his phone, his computer, his email, his texts – he’s realized it was just him and Mum and us and maybe we should just let whatever happens happen.

  I’m starting to think he’s right. As you know, I pride myself on being organized. But, if all you worry about is doing the right thing at the exact right time, maybe that means more can go wrong. I used to think that being spontaneous was all well and good, so long as you planned it properly. But watching Dad up close has made me think perhaps it’s okay to let go.

  Mum and Dad have gone a bit quiet and I decide I should just do what I feel, and ask the thing that’s been on my mind since this morning.

  ‘Dad, Uncle Tony was asking about Grandma and why we don’t see her more than we do,’ I say.

  He looks at me in the mirror.

  ‘Oh, uh, yeah,’ says Dad. ‘Basically, Tony had a fight with his sons years ago about the farm. He was telling me on the very, very, very long walk back to the car last night.’

  ‘What kind of fight?’ I say.

  ‘A disagreement, that’s all,’ says Dad. ‘These things can happen. It’s very complicated. And now they don’t really see each other much.’

  I wonder if that’s why he calls himself Uncle Tony. He must have a nephew or a niece somewhere who called him that. Maybe he’s hanging on to it. There are some things that even if they’re taken away you can still keep hold of.

  So, anyway, this makes me look at his vegetables for some reason. Don’t ask me why. Maybe because it was the only thing I had of his. I don’t just immediately look at vegetables when I’m sad. It’s not like every time I stub my toe I immediately yell, ‘Bring me a courgette! I must stare at it to end my pain!’

  There are some baby potatoes, which are cuter than normal potatoes. There’s some rosemary (I think?) and there’s carrots.

  But I notice something in between the potatoes and the carrots. A small bag with a drawstring.

  I pull it out and pour what’s in it into my hands.

  Marbles!

  They click and clack together and make that squeaky sound that makes your teeth feel funny. I hold one up to the sunshine. Such a small thing, but it’s like there’s a whole different universe to be fou
nd in there if you just take the time to look.

  And there’s something else in the bag. A polished metal badge, almost like a medal, with a picture of a plane on it, and underneath, in blue, the words Royal Air Force.

  I nudge Teddy and hand it to him.

  ‘Cooool,’ he says.

  ‘That’s from Uncle Tony,’ I say. ‘To make you happy.’

  Dad slows down as we come up behind a bunch of cyclists who are taking over the whole road. I look at Dad because I know he hates cyclists. Maybe he never had a bike when he was a kid. Sometimes I wonder if he ever played at all. In Mousehole, when he has to get to Penzance in a hurry, he’ll always end up stuck behind some cyclists on a road and be fuming. I see Mum glance at Dad to see if he’s going to kick off. But this time Dad just takes a deep gulp of air, leans back in his seat and drives more slowly.

  ‘Shall we put the radio on?’ says Mum.

  ‘Music,’ says Dad. ‘Just some music. No news.’

  So Mum puts on the radio and finds some music. Normally, if we go on a long drive, I would organize a complete playlist, with a range of options for every mood. And I’d have listened to it quietly on my headphones, while Mum and Dad put something random on the radio. I always thought that was the weird thing about radio. Like, when you listen to the radio you can’t even choose what song to hear. You can’t press a button and immediately get what you want. With radio, you get what you’re given. Things you’ve never heard before. Which seemed much too disorganized for my liking.

  But actually I suppose there are more surprises that way. Like on this trip.

  ‘When I was a kid, you used to have to record the songs you wanted to hear off the radio,’ Dad says to us, looking all daydreamy.

  ‘Record them?’ I say.

  ‘You used to have to get a tape and stick it in a cassette player and then press play and record at the same time when the song you wanted came on. So you’d always miss the beginning and there’d always be some random DJ talking over the start of it.’