The Boy Who Sailed the Ocean in an Armchair Page 14

  I am not dating Camille Ogdon, the Fondant Fancy lady. I am just talking to her because I miss you. I was wrong to leave our house in a hurry. We want you back. Let’s forget everything that has happened.

  I think for a second.

  And start all over again.

  I put three kisses and then figure it might be too many for Dad and just put one. I hit send. Almost instantly the phone bleeps back with a message from Pearl.

  Okay, Sugar Plum. Sorry about last night. Let’s forget it. X

  Sugar Plum, ugh! I wipe both messages in case Dad sees them and realizes what I’ve been up to. As I leave Dad’s bedroom, I could almost hug myself with my own genius.

  The rest of my Thursday night could be summed up like this:

  Dad got out of the shower and said he’d brought home some leftover cod from his delivery round and he’d cook it for tea because he’s figured out the oven. Billy said he didn’t like cod unless it had fingers and Dad said fish didn’t have fingers. Billy said they did because he’d eaten fish fingers many times. Dad didn’t argue but I heard him mutter “Oh my cod” under his breath as he went into the kitchen. I wasn’t bothered what we ate because I was too busy spending the whole time smiling to myself because I had a secret and Billy got fed up and asked if my teeth had been glued together and I said “Nnnnn”, and Billy said he couldn’t understand me and I said it was because my teeth were glued together.

  Cat came round and said she hoped we’d enjoyed the shepherd’s pie and Dad said it was lovely and stared at me. I went very red when I remembered I’d left it in the fridge and it was probably still there. Cat asked if I wanted to make some extra pocket money by helping her on Sunday evening on one of her special rounds to the old people’s home. She needed assistance carrying her hairdressing kit and then I could entertain the waiting clients while she was busy. I said yes because even though I had no idea how to entertain anyone, I like money, I’m not going to lie.

  Billy didn’t speak to Dad the entire evening. Later, when I asked him what was wrong, he said he was doing a sponsored silence. When I asked for which charity he said there wasn’t one because he’d sponsored himself.

  Brian ran away from the circus – which is strange because I thought everyone ran away to the circus – and I found him in my fluffy sock slippers, but only after I’d put my bare feet in them.

  Later on, Dad knocked on our bedroom door and asked me what I was doing folding paper and I told him I was making paper cranes like the one he found but I didn’t say I had to make one thousand to get a wish. Dad said I reminded him of Mum because she was always making things. I felt sad but proud at the same time. Sad that Mum wasn’t here and proud that Dad said I was like her. Then Dad told me it was probably the time to stop as it was nearly midnight. He said the light would wake up Billy. I said, “You’re in for a surprise,” and Dad asked what it was. Then I had to think really quickly because I didn’t want to divulge that I’d sent Pearl a text pretending I was Dad so I said I’d left Brian in the kitchen earlier and he was trying to make a friend. Dad pulled a face and said he hoped there weren’t any other snails living in the kitchen. I said his “friend” was a sticky tape dispenser.

  I got up to go to the toilet and I found an even bigger surprise than the surprise I had for Dad. There was something white in the bowl, when white wasn’t the colour I was expecting. After some inspection, I realized there was a paper crane in there and I was one hundred per cent certain I hadn’t started pooping folded bits of paper.

  “Why are you drawing an armchair on water?” hisses Mimi the next day, looking over at my weekly science paper. “You’re not supposed to be drawing pictures on your test paper. I’m going to tell.” Mimi sticks her hand up to get Mr Beagle’s attention.

  As Mr Beagle approaches with a face like thunder he asks if I’ve answered all the test questions and I say I have and he takes my paper. When he looks over at Mimi she says she was just stretching her arm and Mr Beagle says it would be much better if Mimi stretched her fingers and actually wrote down the answers. “Look at Becket, he’s already finished his science test.” Mr Beagle claps me on the back. “Now his time is his own while everyone else finishes.”

  There is a tiny groan from the rest of the class.

  Mr Beagle says groaning won’t help with the answers.

  I take THE GOODBYE LIST from my blazer pocket and look at it. There’s nothing left. Since I got all caught up in the Pearl situation I’ve not done anything for Mum and I feel guilty. Trouble is, I can’t think of any new ways to say goodbye. On the back of the list I draw a little storm cloud and the sea below and then I draw the armchair and two boys on it. I draw teardrops and then I draw a paper crane and then Mr Beagle shouts, “Time’s up!” and I put the list back in my pocket, still with no ideas what to put for number ten.

  After collecting our science tests, Mr Beagle says we’re going straight to the garden patch and we’re actually going to start planting. “Remember, the Eden Echo is coming so we want to make it—”

  “POOP,” shouts Donté Moffatt.

  “‘Amazing’ is what I was going to say,” retorts Mr Beagle. He lines us up like soldiers and marches us through the playground until we reach the garden patch. The earth has already been prepared by Sam Swiss and all the plants have been bought. There is a criss-cross of trowels and Mr Beagle instructs us how and where to dig. When I glance over at Nevaeh, she’s standing by the white wall, just staring at it, and she doesn’t even turn around when Mr Beagle tells us to pick up our trowels.

  After five minutes of digging little holes, I see something small and white in the soil and I know exactly what it is, having seen the same thing in the toilet bowl last night. Now, this is getting really weird. Paper cranes are following me all over the place. One of two things is happening: 1) The cranes are magical like I first thought; 2) I am folding cranes and they’re getting caught up in my clothes and then falling out at a later stage. Thing is, I’ve made one hundred paper cranes now and not one of them is perfect. That only leaves me with one option: the cranes are magical. Back to square one. I hold the crane up in the air and Mr Beagle waves his hands and asks what I’ve got. I tell him it turned up in the soil.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t find that in the soil. It’s the paper crane from your show-and-tell.”

  “No, sir, it isn’t,” I argue. “Mine is at home. I don’t know how this one got here. I found one in the toilet last night too.” Okay, it was a mistake to announce that, because everyone around me starts laughing. Annoyed, I say, “Is there something else to the story, sir? Something you didn’t tell us, like the cranes can turn up anywhere?”

  Mr Beagle stifles a giggle. “Like a bad penny that always turns up? No, there’s nothing I didn’t tell you. But since this paper crane seems to be causing such a stir and stopping everyone from getting on with work, I think I’ll just keep it on the bookshelf in the classroom and you can collect it later.”

  After lunch, Mr Beagle returns our science papers and as he delivers Mimi’s I hear her take a sharp breath. She mutters, “No way.” After a second she hoists up her hand and asks Mr Beagle if there was some mistake.

  “With your science test?” asks Mr Beagle. “No, you did well. You can go into the weekend knowing that you did a good job.”

  “But I didn’t get them all right,” says Mimi, looking shocked. “And I have extra tuition after school.”

  “You did well,” repeats Mr Beagle.

  “‘Well’ isn’t good enough,” says Mimi, slouching back in her chair. “‘Well’ won’t make my parents happy. I do lots of after-school clubs – French, ballet, kung fu – and I want to be on Top Model and I’m—”

  “Not yet an A* student in science but that’s okay because it gives you something to work for. I don’t expect you – or anyone else – to be perfect all the time,” explains Mr Beagle, setting my test paper in front of me. “Well done, Becket. You did get one hundred per cent. Is there anything you d
on’t know about the human body?”

  “Not really, sir.”

  Mimi throws herself back on her chair, her lower lip jutting out. She sighs, leans down, pulls up her sock, throws her plait over her shoulder and then puts her hand up. “Yes?” shouts Mr Beagle. Mimi says she needs the toilet. “Are you sure you’re desperate? Or is it just that you’re upset about your results.”

  “It’s Donté Moffatt’s fault, sir.” Mimi points at Donté. “I’ve got a sore belly. He recommended getting something from Burger, She Wrote.”

  “It’s not my fault,” pipes up Donté Moffatt. “It was Becket who recommended it.”

  Mimi glowers at me and gets up out of her chair as Mr Beagle says she’d better go because the last thing he wants is an accident in class. Mr Beagle goes on handing out the science tests as I look at mine, marvelling at my own genius. Knuckles points at his and says he’s done pretty well on the questions about the bones in the hand and Nevaeh just draws butterflies on her arms as if she’s not bothered what her score was. Out of the corner of my eye I see someone at our classroom window, hands pressed flat and making stupid faces. When I look up, it’s Mimi, and she sees me and gives a smile worthy of a comic book villain. Something tells me she’s in no hurry to get to the toilet at all. Something tells me Mimi was lying.

  Later when the home-time bell goes and Mr Beagle shouts that we’re to have a lovely weekend, I hang back and after everyone has gone I ask if I can have my crane back, please. Mr Beagle moves towards the bookshelf and his eyes scan back and forth. Books are moved, rearranged, pulled out and the pages fluttered.

  “I’m sorry, Becket,” says Mr Beagle, scratching his head. “The crane appears to be gone.”

  Sunday evening comes and I’m taking a large black holdall bag from Cat’s hand as she locks the front door of Crops and Bobbers. Humming, she takes out her car key and flicks the button and then tells me to get in.

  “I feel a bit guilty being paid to carry a bag,” I point out.

  “Not a bit of it,” says Cat briskly, starting the car. “You’ll be doing more than that. And it’s worth every penny of my five English pounds.” We whiz through a blustery Eden before parking outside the Green Acres Old People’s Home, where Cat jumps out of the car and negotiates her way along a pathway, either side of it overgrown with tangled weeds. There’s a jigsaw puzzle of moss on the grey stone of the old Victorian house and Cat gives me a little salute before ringing the doorbell. A buzzer sounds for us to enter.

  When we get inside, Cat signs us in and waves to all the staff. Then she beckons me into a large living area with pink floral wallpaper and giant draping curtains like you’d find on a stage. There’s a big bay window at the back and lots of elderly people sitting in armchairs. “Haircuts one hundred,” shouts Cat. “And I’m not talking about that eighties pop group, but the average age of everyone here.” There is tittering and nodding of heads. “And don’t all hurry to get your purses because it’s on the house, as usual.” I’m not sure anyone could rush to get their purses, because they actually are all about one hundred, even if Cat was just joking.

  Cat pulls a red velvet armchair up to the window and sets up a small mirror on a table with wheels and asks for her first willing victim. Then she points at an elderly lady and says she doesn’t want to show favouritism, but if no one else minds she’ll start here with this beautiful woman.

  As instructed by Cat, I try to entertain those waiting, but all I can think to do is talk and I’ve never been any good at that. An old man in the corner tells me about the war and his memories of it and a woman tells me about her bloated belly, which I love – not because she has a bloated belly, but because I can help her think of new ways to make it better. I talk about how the herb peppermint might help and I tell her all about my winning garden design. I talk about the magic of paper cranes and show them all the bracelet with the butterfly. All the time the queue for Cat gets shorter and there’s an Everest of silver hair on some newspaper she has laid on the floor. After an hour and a half, I realize I’ve talked non-stop.

  “Until next time, Nana,” says Cat, kissing the first lady whose hair she cut. “Don’t tell anyone else, but you’re my favourite customer.” Cat winks.

  Back in the car, I tell Cat how much I enjoyed it. “And your nana was lovely. I didn’t realize she lived there.”

  Cat turns the steering wheel. “I’m glad you liked it so much. I like going there too, and especially seeing Nana. Everyone is so much fun and they’ve got fascinating stories to tell if you take the time to talk to them.”

  “I’m not good at talking.”

  “It looked like you were doing a pretty good job to me,” says Cat, swinging the car left at a junction. I catch sight of the lily tattoo on her wrist and notice there’s a little date underneath it. “In fact, I’d say you were both a good talker and a good listener and that’s a great mix.”

  “Cat, you said lilies were your mum’s favourite flower. Does your mum live in Eden too?” I ask. Condensation has built on the inside of the car window and I turn to it and draw a tiny heart. The water runs down from the point like a tear running down a cheek.

  “I suppose she does. I’m very happy to talk about Mum now, but it wasn’t always that way,” explains Cat, stopping at some traffic lights. As we wait for them to turn green, she faces me. “You see, my nana, the lady you’ve just met, brought me up because I lost my mum when I was thirteen.”

  I gulp. “You lost your mum too?”

  “Yes, sadly I lost her when I wasn’t much older than you. It was my inheritance from Mum that meant I could open my own hair salon. Don’t look so surprised,” says Cat, driving on again as the lights turn. “You’re not the only person in the world that it’s happened to, even if you feel that way. There are lots of us about. You just can’t tell by looking at us, because we’re normal. Maybe if we were wearing a sign it would help.”

  “But…” I hesitate. Then the words tumble out. “I feel different to everyone else.”

  Cat takes the first exit at the roundabout. “That’s okay,” she says. “We all feel like that about something. But there is always someone who has gone through the same thing.” She turns right and then left and then pulls up at a cemetery.

  “It’s locked,” I point out. “They don’t open at night.”

  “You’re right,” says Cat. “But I stopped here because I wanted to tell you that my mum is buried in here. However, I didn’t bring you here to make you sad. Don’t be. I brought you here to say my mum’s not really in there. Not really.”

  “Where is she then?” I feel my throat burn and my stomach does a little somersault inside my ribcage.

  Cat leans over and points at my drawing on the window. “You already know where she is. She’s in my heart. Just like your mum is in yours.” I stare at my hastily scribbled heart on the window and I know what Cat is saying. She pauses and lets it sink in before adding, “I know it’s hard to grow up without your mum.”

  “I don’t want to grow up without her.”

  Cat touches my shoulder and her hand feels warm and comforting. “Even if you don’t want it, growing up will happen no matter what.”

  Cat starts the car engine again and I ask her if she’ll do something for me and stop by the ocean for a few minutes. Even if it’s dark and I can’t see anything, I don’t care. I just want to be there, I tell her. Cat promises and ten minutes later she pulls the car up by the edge of the road overlooking the sea.

  “I miss my mum,” I say, looking out across the ocean. “Dad told me he’d scattered her ashes on the sea. I didn’t go because I was too young. Dad said it was sad letting go but then a gust of wind came and carried Mum off to the sea. Well, most of her. Dad said a tiny bit of Mum blew backwards and landed on him.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s okay. Dad said he thought it was Mum’s way of saying a tiny bit of her would always be with him.

  “I’m sad I couldn’t be there with Dad.” Here I am talkin
g about Mum. Stranger still, I’m talking about Mum with Cat and somehow it feels right and Cat understands what I mean. I could never have done this with Pearl even though I always thought she was easy to talk to.

  “I know, it’s hard for those left behind,” replies Cat quietly and she presses a button and the windows glide down. A gust of sea air fills the car and when I lick my lips I taste the tang of salt. When I ask Cat if she had the chance to say goodbye to her mum, she says, “Would it make it better for you if I did? Would it make you feel better if I didn’t? No, I don’t think it would. And that’s why you have to find your own way, Becket. My story is the same as yours, but different.”

  “At least your nana lives nearby,” I offer.

  “Sometimes she doesn’t know who I am any more,” says Cat. “And it feels like I’m losing my mother all over again, only this time slowly. But there’s one thing I know for certain and that is I’ve been very lucky and no matter what happens in the future I’m going to carry the people I’ve lost with me for ever.”

  Staring out to sea again, I say, “One day I’m going to say a proper goodbye to my mum. I’ve been trying – I’ve got THE GOODBYE LIST and I’ve written all these ways to say goodbye, but the trouble is none of them have been any good.”

  Cat nods and says there’s nothing wrong with me writing things down if it helps me. She starts the car again and drives towards our flats.

  “I just don’t know how to do it,” I add.

  “Yet,” points out Cat. “You just don’t know how to do it yet.”