The Boy Who Sailed the Ocean in an Armchair Read online

  I’m still grinning when I get to school. Even maths can’t swipe the smile off my face.

  “You’re very happy with yourself,” says Nevaeh, as I cross the school playground at morning break. “I saw you grinning to yourself in class. You were even happy when Mr Beagle gave us that maths test. Is it the bracelet? Oh, I know it must be. Has something amazing happened already?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not the bracelet,” I say. Nevaeh looks like I’ve just stamped on her foot wearing some very large clown shoes. “Um…okay, it is the bracelet. It must be doing something, because I’m so happy.” I cross my fingers, because everyone knows if you cross your fingers you can say anything you like.

  “See! I knew it would.” Nevaeh’s face glows like I’ve just shoved a buttercup under her chin. “That’s brilliant.” She tugs up my sleeve to check on the bracelet and then looks disappointed. “You’re just saying all that, Becket. The bracelet can’t have worked because it hasn’t snapped off yet, which means you’re telling me fibs.” Nevaeh leans against the wall, her brows knitted together like one long slug.

  “No way.” I cross my fingers again.

  “The bracelet doesn’t lie. If you’re still wearing it then nothing amazing has happened and you’re just saying it has to get rid of me. Well, you can’t get rid of the bracelet and you can’t get rid of me.”

  “Why do you think these bracelets make things happen?” I ask.

  “It’s not the bracelet so much,” explains Nevaeh. “It’s the butterfly really. Anyway, I know you need something good in your life. You just have to believe.”

  Goggle-eyed, I stare down at the rubber bracelet and the tiny blue butterfly that is dangling off it. Sure, I’ve seen butterflies before, but I’ve never thought they were all that special. I mean, they start off as ugly caterpillars. What’s great about butterflies? I ask her.

  “Butterflies are our loved ones,” Nevaeh tells me, “coming back to bring us love and luck.”

  My heart stutters. I just about manage to squeeze out the words that I don’t need a loved one coming back to make me feel happy. I’m lying though because I’d give anything to have my mum come back. I’d give anything to tell her I love her one more time. I’d give anything for a hug, a smile, a kiss.

  “Oh yes you do,” replies Nevaeh, as if she can read my mind.

  When I get home from school I bring out the paper cranes. I’m going to keep making them until my wish comes true. Forget what Nevaeh says about the bracelet. Bracelets don’t work. “The paper cranes are better,” I whisper. If there was a fight between a butterfly and a crane, the crane would win wings down.

  That’s when I get to thinking. I’ve already made four cranes, even if the last one was the only one that was any good and, by rights, that means some of my wish should come true, even if it’s just a tiny part. I check my phone to see if Pearl has texted us yet.

  Nope.

  Okay, maybe I haven’t made enough cranes yet.

  I make twenty more.

  Still no text from Pearl.

  I make twenty more.

  There is a sea of paper on the bedroom floor.

  I decide to give Pearl a little nudge, because the cranes are giving me courage. I send her an emoji story.

  Nothing.

  But I’m not giving up on the cranes yet.

  And I’m not giving up on Pearl yet either.

  My heart feels like a brick under an elephant when I go into the kitchen for dinner. Dad asks why the long face and Billy says it’s because I’m a little horse, which is not even funny. Dad says he ordered the food from Mr Wong’s and helps himself to a dumpling. We’re living on takeaways at the moment. Don’t get me wrong, I like takeaway, but not every day. Dad says it’s because he can’t work the oven.

  “Want some?” asks Dad, swallowing down another dumpling. I can see it pass his Adam’s apple. He wipes the grease from his fingers on his koi carp so that its scales glisten, then he asks what sort of day we’ve both had.

  “I got a gold star today,” says Billy proudly. “The teacher asked me if my daddy won two thousand pounds on the lottery and gave me half, what would I have?”

  “So you said one thousand pounds, right?” Dad picks up some seaweed with a pair of wooden chopsticks and drops it into his mouth. Dark green strands dangle from his lips like coloured streamers on St Patrick’s Day. Slowly he slurps them all in and chews until his teeth are full of green flecks.

  “I said I’d have a heart attack,” answers Billy.

  Dad coughs and punches himself in the chest. Then, just as I’m considering the Heimlich manoeuvre, he smiles and says that Billy did well to get a star for that and he’s glad Billy’s settling in.

  “Then, on the way home from school, I had a good look in the mud and that was even more exciting than the gold star,” Billy goes on. I just nod because Billy is always poking about in the mud and I’m so used to it now that I hardly even notice he does it any more. “Plus I’ve got a huge secret that I can’t tell anyone.” He stops playing with a spare pair of wooden chopsticks long enough to give me a big wink.

  Billy repeats that he has a secret and winks at me again. He presses so hard on the chopsticks that one snaps. Not liking where Billy is taking this conversation and because I know that winking is a SNOOP secret mission sign, I swing my foot out and Dad suddenly howls like a werewolf. When Dad asks me what that was for, I tell him I was just checking his patellar reflex – at his age you’ve got to keep an eye on these things.

  “Aren’t you interested in my secret?” Clearly Billy isn’t giving up, even though I’m ignoring him so much he could be wearing a cloak of invisibility.

  You see, Billy’s big secret can only be one thing if it’s linked to SNOOP. My stomach spins like a paper windmill when I think about how he’s going to tell Dad that we went to give Pearl a letter at our old house and now we’re sending her emojis. Dad will flip like a tiddlywinks counter if he hears that. I also ask myself why Billy is bringing this up now but then I give up asking myself such difficult questions because why Billy does anything is still a complete mystery to me.

  To stop Billy saying anything else, I tell Dad I need a drink of water and when he asks why I can’t get it myself I say it’s because I’m a little hoarse. Billy cracks up at that, repeating “A little horse” over and over. With Dad heading to the sink, I whisper to Billy that he’s not allowed to tell Dad about anything we’ve done with SNOOP or we’ll be in big trouble. And by big, I mean Big-Ben-as-a-pocket-watch size big.

  “Okay,” hisses Billy. “I won’t say a word.” He touches his nose to show it’s our secret.

  “Remember, we’ll never find Pearl if you mention any of this to Dad. He won’t want us to be spies. He doesn’t seem to want us to find Pearl. Do you understand? You can’t tell him the secret.” I emphasize the words to make sure Billy is getting me.

  I hear the gush of water from the tap as Dad fills my glass.

  “But that wasn’t the secret I was talking about anyway,” whispers Billy.

  “What was with the eye winking then?” I stare at Billy. “It’s our SNOOP sign.”

  “Oh,” hisses Billy. “I forgot about that. I just had something in my eye. Probably a bit of mud because I found a snail earlier when we were walking back from school and called him Brian and put him straight in my pocket.” Billy starts humming to himself. “Then I gave him a new home.”

  “What’s so secret about that?” I ask.

  “The new home is in your bed.”

  I am so annoyed about not only not getting a text back from Pearl, but also finding a slimy maze in my bed, that I ask Dad if I can go out for a walk after dinner. Billy says he wants to come with me but Dad says he needs a bath; he can’t go to school smelly. Billy says I do and then he huffs and puffs about having to stay at home more than the wolf in The Three Little Pigs.

  When I get outside, and far enough away from our flat not to be spotted, I pull the stupid snail I’ve retrieved
from my bed out of my pocket and fire it into someone’s garden, saying, “Sorry, mate, but I don’t share my bed with snails.” That’s when I realize there is someone in that same garden and I’ve just lobbed a snail missile at his head.

  Quickly, I duck down behind a hedge as the person rubs the back of his head, half glances around and then turns again to continue digging this hole. My SNOOP instincts kick right in and I think there has been a crime committed and this boy is about to bury something. Or someone.

  I imagine what would happen if, as a SNOOP spy, I ring the police and say:

  ME: I need to speak to an officer about a crime taking place on Chantry Row, Eden Estate, Eden.

  POLICE: I see. Can you explain what sort of crime it is? We can be with you in minutes.

  ME: Someone is digging a hole. This proves something.

  POLICE: Yes, it proves they are digging a hole.

  ME: What if they are about to bury a body?

  POLICE: How big is the hole, sir?

  ME: Not very big.

  POLICE: It’s not a body then. Can you please identify what they place in the hole?

  ME: Oh, it’s a plant.

  POLICE: (hangs up)

  It’s true – I see the boy place nothing more exciting than a plant in the ground before arranging soil over the base. Then he steps back to admire his work. That’s when I see them properly: his hands, his big ham hands. Realizing who the boy is, I gallop away as fast as my legs will carry me. (At this stage, I’m wishing I am a little horse.)

  When I get home, Billy is waiting for me, his hair dripping onto a towel round his shoulders. Judging by his scrunched-up face, he’s not happy. He pulls me into the bedroom and says that Brian has gone now too, just like Pearl. He drags my duvet off the bed and waves it under my nose. “Look, I put him in your bed and now he’s gone,” he cries. “This is another mystery for SNOOP to investigate. Perhaps he’s hiding somewhere in the bedroom.” And he insists I help him look for the snail.

  We don’t find Brian, which doesn’t surprise me because I already know exactly where Brian is. I don’t tell Billy that Brian is probably very happily lolling in the newly dug earth in Robert Absolom’s garden. Instead I lie and say that we should regroup again tomorrow in daylight. I mean, we wouldn’t want to stand on Brian if he’s on the floor. Shocked, Billy agrees.

  When Billy finishes drying his hair with the towel, he asks me again if Pearl has been in touch. Two seconds later, after I’ve checked my phone, I shake my head.

  “Maybe she’s busy,” I tell Billy.

  “Too busy for us,” whispers Billy. “How can our almost mum be too busy for her children?”

  I don’t know the answer.

  After Billy goes to sleep, I get out some pieces of paper and attempt to make at least ten more paper cranes. I don’t mind saying that it feels like Pearl has dropped off the face of the earth. Billy’s right, it is a mystery. And why was her portrait in the garden at our old house? Why was there a hole punched through it? Who would do something so horrible? That’s another mystery I can’t figure out.

  I make one crane after the other, pleased that I’m getting good at it. Buoyed up by my new-found folding skills, I think I’ll attempt another goodbye to Mum, seeing as I can’t really text Pearl again so soon after sending the last one. So I pad over to the window and pull back the curtains. The moon is like a giant wheel of cheese in the sky and the stars glitter and blink at me, tucked into their navy blanket.

  “Mum,” I whisper, trying not to disturb Billy. I turn back and look at him and he snuffles softly like a piglet. “Number six on THE GOODBYE LIST is to say goodbye to you by naming a star.” I turn back to the window. “I hope this is the right way to do it. None of the other ways felt big enough. I asked Dad for some seeds last night – that was number eight on the list – and he asked if I meant bird seeds and I said plant seeds and he said actually it didn’t matter because he had neither.” My toes grip the carpet. Mum is so important that I worry no goodbye will ever be worthy. Inhaling, I ask, “Is naming a star enough?” I stare out towards heaven and the moonbeams wash my face in silver. One star is brighter than all the others and I press my fingertip to the glass. It leaves a tiny planet of heat. “I am calling this star ‘Mum’,” I whisper. “Goodbye, Mum.” My eyes prickle as I realize that the star is still bright and it’s going to be there for ever and Mum isn’t and it feels all wrong.

  At five forty-three in the morning Billy wakes me from a dream, saying he’s had another nightmare. I take him to Mum’s chair again and say I’ll tell him more of the story about how two brothers sailed the ocean in an armchair.

  I tell him how the other people in their vessels could not hear the mysterious voice the boys had heard. They were adults and maybe they didn’t believe in magic the way the two boys did. “The boys believed that if they called for help it would come,” I say. “And even though they could not see the person who spoke to them, they knew that that person was all around, because the voice seemed to be in the sea, the sky and the earth. One of the boys even wondered if the voice was inside himself.”

  “Inside himself?” Billy murmurs. “What…?” But before he can finish the question, he yawns the biggest yawn. His eyes are drooping too. So I tell him to go back to bed, because the story can wait.

  In morning lessons, I am secretly drawing a picture called GOODBYE MUM (number four on THE GOODBYE LIST) when Mr Beagle shouts that he’s got an exciting project for the class and can we please keep our eyelids wide open? He turns to face the interactive whiteboard, but then adds, “Becket, I’m talking to you. Please stop drawing pictures under the desk and pay attention.” What is it with teachers? Do they go to teachers’ school to learn how to have eyes in the back of their head?

  I quickly scrunch up the drawing and hide it in my rucksack. It was no masterpiece anyway. I wanted to draw me and Mum together. I had this big speech bubble saying goodbye and Mum was looking at me. Only I couldn’t really remember what Mum looked like, so I had to guess, and I think I guessed wrong because Mum sort of looked like Queen Kong. So there was no way this was the correct goodbye either.

  “Right, we’re going to be working on this,” continues Mr Beagle. He brings up some pictures on the interactive whiteboard of a group of smiling children drawing pictures in their classroom. Then there’s another shot of them choosing plants and digging in muddy patches, and finally there’s one of them standing triumphantly in front of a small garden patch.

  Apparently, we’re going to be doing exactly the same thing. This will be a chance to take something unloved and turn it into something very special that will flourish and grow under our care. Mr Beagle says this is a project that will work on many levels – and then he forgets to tell us what these levels are, other than planting stuff in a rough patch of ground at the back of the playground, near the old white wall. But according to Mr Beagle, when the garden is complete we’re going to invite our parents along to view our labours and marvel open-mouthed at the beauty we’ve created. At least that’s the plan.

  “This is a living project and something you can sink your teeth into.”

  “The only thing I’d like to sink my teeth into is a burger,” whispers Donté Moffatt.

  I lean over and say I know a good burger van called Burger, She Wrote. Dad bought our dinner from it last week.

  “What’s more, we’re going to The Garden of Eden garden centre on Friday for our Year Six trip,” says Mr Beagle. “There we will be looking at, writing about, and sketching the plants that we’d like to include in our garden. Now, I don’t want you all to get overexcited, but part of this project is a competition. You will each come up with a design for the final garden and I will pick the best one for us to use when we start planting on the rough patch of ground.” Mr Beagle stops, looks around at the bored faces and says, “There will be a prize.”

  The class nearly takes the roof off.

  “It’s a winner’s certificate.”

  The roo
f is firmly back on.

  Mr Beagle says it’s called Project Observation Of Plants.

  Donté Moffatt says that’s POOP and Mr Beagle says it isn’t, thank you very much, and if Donté says that word one more time he’ll be writing lines about POOP (which doesn’t sound all that great, if you ask me).

  Mimi says, “I’m not working on anything POOP. I have high standards even if you lot don’t. One day I’m going to say—”

  “That you’ve worked on POOP!” shrieks Donté Moffatt. Mr Beagle utters the word “Lines” and Donté Moffatt pretends he’s quieter than a graveyard.

  Mimi narrows her eyes. “One day I’m going to say I was in a class of idiots but I got through it.” She turns around and looks in my direction.

  Confused, I turn around to see if she’s looking at someone behind me and then I realize I’m in the last row.

  Mr Beagle says, “Simmer down,” like he’s talking to a load of overexcited kettles, not kids. “Project Observation Of Plants is exactly that. I want you all to observe the plants and how they grow. This will be so exciting.” I think Mr Beagle’s idea of exciting and mine are pretty different. “Anyway, I want you to start by writing down things or people that could inspire you in this project. Does your grandmother remind you of roses because she wears rose perfume? Stick that on the list. You could plant a rose garden.”