A Boy Called Hope Read online

  Then the world goes black.

  Silence drapes over us until a small voice squeaks, “Dan, my eyes have gone funny. I can’t see a thing. Help me!”

  “It’s a power cut,” I say, blinking through black.

  “What’s that?”

  “I dunno, but I think we wait until the lights come back on.”

  Only they don’t. Not immediately anyway and we stand in blackness so dense that it’s like midnight. To my left I hear a door open and a blade of torchlight swings up towards my face. “Boys, it’s a power cut, that’s all,” says Mrs Parfitt. “Mind you, the audience weren’t sure at first. They saw the Virgin Mary glide down the catwalk and then everything went black. Someone shouted it was the Second Coming and I had to shout back that it was a power cut. Anyway, the lights will come back but we’re not sure when. Unfortunately, the audience are getting fidgety.” I hear a long sigh and a sniff.

  “Dan could make it better.” The torchlight swings towards Christopher, then back to me.

  “How?” I hear myself ask the question.

  Christopher says his idea relies on none other than the talents of good Daniel Hope. This turn of events horrifies me. Christopher has gone mad. In his mind he’s omitted an O from his statement. Clearly, he doesn’t think I’m good, he thinks I’m GOD. What can I do about a thunderstorm?

  Mrs Parfitt clears her throat. “And how, might I ask, is Daniel going to entertain a whole audience sitting in total darkness?” Yes, Christopher, I think, how am I going to do that?

  Christopher begins to play “Over the Rainbow”, stumbling over some of the notes. “This is what he’s going to do. He’s brilliant at playing this tune. Put him out onstage and let him play, Miss. The audience might have lost their sense of sight but they can still hear.”

  Before I know what’s happening, I’m standing at the side of the stage and Mrs Parfitt is introducing me to a clapping audience.

  There is a chair centre stage and Mrs Parfitt has passed the torch to Yeti Man Kevin, who is going to highlight me for the duration of the performance.

  I shuffle out onto the stage and take my seat in a thin circle of light. Once, a while back, Mrs Parfitt told us if we ever had to give a speech or a performance we should imagine communicating with one person only. In my mind this one is for Dad, who at this moment is sitting in the darkness, and I am in the light at last.

  As my fingers find the strings, the circle of torchlight zooms up to the ceiling then skates back across the floor before it finds me again. There is an audible sigh of relief from the audience and then a wave of laughter as Kevin shouts, “Oops, my fault, butterfingers. I’m sweating like a gorilla in a sauna in this fur.”

  I find the first chord and begin to play “Over the Rainbow”. And for a while it goes pretty well. And then my mind wanders off to the last time Dad was in Paradise Parade. A memory comes back to me and it is one I’ve tried to squash for four years. I saw Dad leave that night. I remember it clearly now. I was sitting at the top of the stairs as he stormed into the hallway. I called to him and he looked up at me, a small shivering figure in asteroid pyjamas. Dad came up the stairs and whispered “Goodbye” into my ear. I gripped his jacket but he pulled away until my fingers lost their hold. Then Dad walked back down the stairs, and even though I called him once more, he didn’t turn around. He left, slamming the front door, and I rested my head among the frilly daffodils.

  My finger hits a wrong chord and then another. Kevin shakes the light as if it will somehow wake me out of a trance. It does, but not in a good way. I hit more wrong notes and can’t find my way back to the tune. My hands fly off the guitar and a snooker ball pots itself into the back of my throat. Despite wanting to say sorry, I can’t. My throat won’t let me.

  Soft footsteps echo behind me and I know, without turning, that Mrs Parfitt has come to whisk me off the stage. If she had a giant hook, she’d probably flick it round my neck and whip me off so fast my feet wouldn’t touch the ground. The footsteps grow louder. With a forced grin and tears in my eyes, I prepare to get up and slink away. A firm hand clasps my shoulder and forces me back into these at. What is Mrs Parfitt doing? The music of “Over the Rainbow” wraps around me like a warm duvet and as I turn, Christopher gives me a sympathetic nod.

  He leads me along the pathway of the tune as I begin to play the chords again. Together we are strong and the liquid music pours through the audience and I can feel them urging us on. Dad can’t think I’m a failure now. Perhaps he’ll think it was all part of the act: me pretending not to be able to play, then suddenly I’m amazing. It’s no different to those reality shows where the person is nervous and everyone thinks they’ll be rubbish but then they open their mouths and they’re phenomenal and everyone gives them a standing ovation.

  We get our standing ovation too. Row upon row of chairs scrape as the audience jump to their feet and shout for more. Rather than disappoint, we do it again. In fact, we play it twice more and the final time the audience begin to sing and we both feel confident enough to walk around the stage (much to Kevin’s displeasure, because it’s hard to get one torch on two people at different ends of the stage).

  When it’s over, Mrs Parfitt pads onto the Project Eco Everywhere catwalk and thanks us for our impromptu concert and the audience for not leaving after the Second Coming. She laughs and Kevin angles the torch so the light is under Mrs Parfitt’s chin. The shadows make her look like a scary beast. Mrs Parfitt, suddenly aware that the audience are shrinking back in horror, frowns and signals Kevin to switch off the torch. Once again the stage is plunged into night and Christopher and I have to crawl off on our knees because we’re afraid of tripping and falling off the catwalk.

  At last, when the electricity comes back, we’re backstage and the whole class is buzzing around us with excitement. “You were all kinds of awesome,” says Jo. “It was like the real Virgin Mary was in the audience and saw everything go wrong and made a miracle happen.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” I say, moving away from her because her head smells like roast chicken.

  “Seriously,” says Yeti Man Kevin. He wipes some sweat from his upper lip. “That was the best. Do you need an agent, or even a torch technician? For a small fee…” Before I can say anything, Mrs Parfitt approaches and the whole class parts like string cheese.

  “Daniel, you are a credit to this school.” She stops in front of me and grins. Further back, someone clears their throat and Mrs Parfitt flips around and says, “And, Christopher, I haven’t forgotten how you helped a friend in need. I am proud of you too. Now I want everyone to take a bow. The lights are back on, so it’s your moment.”

  This is it!

  We walk, arms connected, onto the Project Eco Everywhere stage, as the audience holler and whistle. One by one we take a bow. I’m sure we’re there for at least five minutes and all the while I’m staring at every single face in the audience. Mum is waving a wet hankie and shouting, “That’s my boy. He’s the guitar player.” When someone behind tells her to shush, she yelps, “You can’t shush me, I’m gestating.” But where is Dad? I’m certain he’s not there. (Neither is the Virgin Mary, but then I wasn’t really expecting her.)

  The second I’m off the stage I grab my coat and guitar and race into the ballroom to find Dad before he leaves the building. Malcolm Maynard, TV star – Dad – is going to be standing under the glittering chandelier, waiting for my autograph. We’re going to meet at last.

  This is like the movies.

  This is not like the movies. The ballroom is almost empty and a constellation of stars have fallen from the ceiling and been trampled underfoot. Around the room, programmes have been scattered as if they were dominoes and someone knocked down one and the rest fell over in a chain reaction. While Mum chats to Mrs Parfitt, I dash through the remaining stragglers looking for Dad, but he isn’t there.

  He’s got to be in the toilet.

  Grace appears from the Ladies as I run towards the Gents. “Hey,” s
he says, blowing a bubble with her gum. “You’re in a hurry. You were okay up on that stage. Mum was in floods. Mind you, she’s pregnant and will cry at anything.”

  “Was Dad impressed?”

  “Dad?” The bubble bursts on her lips.

  “What did he think of me?” I whisper.

  I watch her, wondering what she’s going to say next. Instead of words, she takes my hand in hers.

  “No,” I mutter. “No. No. No.”

  “Dan, listen to me.”

  “No,” I repeat. “No, please don’t say it.”

  “I’ve told you before, Dad isn’t worth it. He walked out right at the beginning when he read the names in the programme. He must have seen your name and I’m sorry but I have to say it like it is: Dad is no good for us.” Grace’s voice drops away to nothing.

  “He didn’t see me on the stage?” Grace shakes her head. “Didn’t hear me play guitar?” Her dark ponytail swishes from side to side. “Doesn’t he love me any more?” Grace doesn’t move her head but her eyes look away. Looking away in body language terms means I’m right. Dad doesn’t love me. The guitar slips from my fingers and makes a soft clunk as it falls onto the ivy-patterned carpet. There it lies, choked and silent. Tears prick my eyes as I run towards the front door of the Amandine Hotel.

  The air is sharp like sour candy and I inhale, then cough. At this moment I realize I have to get as far away from the Amandine Hotel as possible. I sprint down the driveway while Grace shouts from the front door, telling me to come back because she can’t run after me because her gladiator sandals are no good in the rain. “They were in the winter sale,” she screams. “Half price.”

  I run like I’ve never run before. Houses blur, trees are woody smears, and bruised clouds are crying tears on me. As the rain drenches my face, it’s impossible to tell which tears come from the clouds and which are my own.

  Dad has destroyed my night, stamped on my moment, poured more weedkiller on the little tree growing inside my soul.

  Rivers flood the gutters and I tear through them, my feet bursting their inky dams. And I tell myself if I don’t stand on the cracks in the pavement Dad will come back. Zigzagging along, I scream in frustration when I hit a crack.

  “He won’t come back now because you’ve jinxed yourself!” I yell. “It’s your fault.” I run faster. “It isn’t my fault. It isn’t. It isn’t. He’ll come back.” As I try to soothe myself, a small voice inside my head shouts me down. “He lives twenty minutes from your house and knows the address and still he doesn’t visit. Dad doesn’t want you.” I pound the pavements, stepping on every single crack I can. “I can stand on any crack because it doesn’t make a difference. I used to think if I avoided them he’d come back to me. Anyway, I’m not listening to you any more.” The voice comes back. “You can’t ignore me because I am you.”

  The voice of doubt follows me all the way home and chases me upstairs and under my bed. I used to think that monsters lived under this bed and now I know monsters don’t always hide. Sometimes they’re in disguise, sometimes they live with you and pretend they care for you, only to change their mind at a later date. Charles Scallybones joins me there, curling his body around me like a giant Quavers crisp. His heartbeat falls into rhythm with mine and I think we drop into a damp, uneasy sleep, because the next thing I know a text jolts me and I bang my head on the underside of the bed.

  Where r u? U disappeared from the hotel without saying where u were going. R u with a friend and 4got 2 say? Ring me. Mum. x

  I switch off my mobile and bury my nose into Charles Scallybones’s fur. His head bobs up and a sandpaper tongue swishes against my nose before he slips his head back down between his paws and lets out a soft groan.

  “You wouldn’t let me down.” I ruffle his ears and he opens one eye then closes it again. “You’ve always been here for me.”

  The next time I check my phone I’ve got five voice messages. In the first, Mum has got that ranty outraged grown-up voice on. She says if I don’t contact her I’ll be in big trouble. By “big” she means “the size of the entire world”.

  Messages two and three are much of the same except she threatens to sell my guitar if I don’t ring. In the background I hear Grace shout, “Do it!”

  Message four and Mum’s voice is softer and she says she loves me very much but I’m not allowed to run off like that. Mum says she’s going home and she’ll take the guitar with her. She expects me to phone her there.

  In the fifth message Mum says that I’m all that matters to her. Grace shouts, “Don’t I matter then?”

  When I hear the key in the lock and Mum and Grace’s voices in the hallway, I ease myself from under the bed. “Mum, I’m upstairs,” I call weakly from the landing. I lean against the banister, waiting for Mum to shout so loud she blows my hair back, but she doesn’t. Taking two stairs at a time, she runs towards me with her arms outstretched.

  I’m enveloped in a cloud of vanilla cupcake scent. “Grace told me why you ran off and I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

  Mum takes me by the hand and leads me back into my bedroom and closes the door. I bet Grace is downstairs moaning that I’m getting all the attention. Mum leans over and smoothes my hair and clucks about me being in wet clothing.

  “What are dads for?” I bite my lip hard in an attempt to stop my eyes leaking. It doesn’t work and a tear spills onto my cheek.

  “Oh,” Mum says, wiping it away with her sleeve. I can see a flash of worry in her eyes. Mum slips her fingers into mine. “I know you’ve had a rough ride with your dad but don’t let that make you sad. A dad can be many different things to many people. Just because your dad felt he needed to move forwards in his life without us doesn’t mean he’s not still your dad. Do you understand? Is keeping him a secret the problem? I won’t mind if you want to tell a close friend.”

  “I don’t really want to tell anyone that Dad’s on TV.”

  “I understand.” Mum smiles, but there are tears in her eyes too. “We don’t have to talk about Dad being famous. We could just talk about him being your dad.”

  “Do you believe in angels?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Mum looks surprised. “There are many things in heaven and earth that I don’t understand, and angels are among them. But if you want to believe in them that would be okay. There’s no shame if it will help you.”

  “I don’t believe in them. Jo in my class says they drop feathers to let you know everything is fine.”

  “Why are you asking me about this?” Mum looks at me. “I thought this was about your dad.”

  “Jo has her life sorted because she has something to believe in. That’s the point. She believes things will always get better, in signs from above, in living happily ever after. She even believes in angels. I have nothing to believe in, not even a dad.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you the answers.”

  “I’m waiting for Saint Gabriel to give me those.”

  “I’m confused. Where does Saint Gabriel fit into this?” Mum sighs but she’s bewildered. Clearly, this conversation isn’t going the way she had planned it.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I just thought Dad was at the Amandine Hotel to see me in Project Eco Everywhere. I wanted him to watch me and be proud, but he ran away. So what? I won’t lose any sleep over it.” I shrug.

  Mum shakes her head. “I know you and I know it hurts so I want to let you in on a secret. You might have forgotten this but I want to remind you.” She leans closer to me and I can smell vanilla batter rising from her neck. “Dad loves you.”

  The words make me take a sharp breath. I don’t think I’ve heard her say that in the last four years.

  “Dad loved you before and still loves you now, in his own way.”

  In his own way. That spoils it. I don’t like the way Mum added that to the end of the sentence. It suggests his way is different to that of normal fathers out there. The truth is: I don’t like Dad’s way. I want to
be the same as everyone else. I reach my hand under the bed and bring out the treasure chest holding Saint Gabriel and show the medal to Mum.

  “Jo gave me this and said it would heal me but it hasn’t. All it has given me are weird dreams about Dad.”

  “It’s pretty,” says Mum, looking at it and handing it back to me. “I don’t know if a medal can heal you or give you the answers you’re looking for, but angels and saints aside, you’ve got me.” I inhale, ready to say something only Mum stops me. “And I know I can’t be a mother and father to you, but I want your happiness more than anything in the world. I’m sorry your dad did what he did. I’m also sorry he stopped contact with you. Children think adults never do anything wrong, but they’re human and sometimes they slip up and make mistakes. But despite all that, a long time ago, Dad gave me a wonderful gift.”

  “Was it a skateboard?”

  Mum smiles and shakes her head. “The wonderful gift Dad gave me was you. I’m always going to love him for that.” With that, Mum rises, kisses me on the top of my head, and makes her way to the door, before turning back. “You deserve happiness and I love you enough for two parents.”

  I smile as she slips out of my bedroom. When she’s gone and can’t hear me, I whisper, “I love you too, Mum – but you’re right you can’t be a mum and a dad.”

  The envelope has my name on it, although I don’t recognize the writing. Carefully, I pick it up from the mat and carry it upstairs to open alone. Why I do this, I don’t know. It’s not as if I’m expecting any post. I can’t even remember the last time anyone wrote me an actual letter. Expectation travels down my spine as I slip my finger under the flap. As the envelope splits apart, it reveals a piece of carefully folded lined paper, telling me to move on.

  The letter is written in capital letters, as if Dad is screaming at me. I turn it over to see if it says anything else on the back. It doesn’t. I look at the envelope for more clues. There are none. Even Sherlock Holmes would soon realize this isn’t much of a mystery. It’s simply an angry note from a father who doesn’t want his son. He knew I was at the Amandine Hotel and left straight away and then posted this letter to make sure I got the message. It is clear to me that Dad is dumping me once and for all. Operation Baskerville is over.