The Boy Who Sailed the Ocean in an Armchair Page 6

  “Or does your dad smell of manure?” Donté Moffatt laughs at his own joke. “You could plant a garden of—” And then Mr Beagle is rushing towards Donté, blustering about how he needs to pipe down or he’ll be in trouble.

  “Hey,” I mumble, leaning forward and tugging on Robert’s blazer in front of me. “You’d be good at planting a garden.” He turns around and glares at me. When I try to say that he’d be good with soil and stuff he asks me why and his eyes narrow. Right now, saying I hit him on the head with a snail cannonball last night doesn’t seem like the brightest idea in the world.

  “Er…because you’ve got big hands,” I mutter, wishing the ground would open and swallow me up. Unfortunately, the ground doesn’t and Robert thumps the desk and tells me I know nothing about plants and what they mean to him.

  I didn’t say I did.

  “A POOP garden,” laughs Billy as we walk towards Dad’s van after school. Dad told us this morning he’d pick us up but didn’t say why. “I don’t think I want one of those POOP gardens at school. Smelly! Although…” Billy thinks about it for a second and grins. “Would you get lots of bugs in it? I like bugs. Even bugs in POOP.”

  I flip my school bag over my shoulder. “I suppose,” I say. “We’re going to plant a whole garden patch and then our parents can come and see what we’ve grown.”

  Billy’s eyes flick to the pavement. The smile drops from his face. “But we haven’t found Pearl so that means our parents can’t come and everyone will know we don’t have a mummy if it’s only Daddy that comes.”

  I tell him we’ll find Pearl before that, I promise. But if I’m going to keep that promise we’re going to have to ramp SNOOP up a notch. In fact, we’re both going to have to go all out to make contact with Pearl in time to come to the unveiling of POOP. Billy isn’t listening though, because he’s ducked down and is rummaging through a patch of mud. When I tell him he hasn’t got time for that because Dad’s here, Billy bobs back up with a snail in his hand, shouting that it’s Brian.

  “It’s not Brian and we don’t need any more snails bringing home,” I mumble, thinking how I’ve only just managed to get the slime off my duvet.

  “It is Brian,” says Billy, popping him in his blazer pocket. “I’d recognize that face anywhere.”

  Dad is waiting for us, the engine idling. “Here, chocolate bars,” says Dad, throwing them at us as we climb in and do up our seat belts. “We’re going on a little shopping trip.”

  “For what?” I get my chops around the chocolate, spraying shrapnel all over the seat.

  “Decorating our lad pad, my son, decorating our lad pad.” Dad puts his foot down. “We’re going to make the flat shinier than a goldfish in a golden wrapper.” Then he looks down at my wrist and says, “Ooh, what’s that on your wrist? I haven’t noticed it before.” Sometimes I think Dad wouldn’t even notice if a zombie introduced himself and said, “Pleased to eat you.”

  “Oh yeah.” I give the bracelet a twang, hoping it might break and fall off. “A girl in my class gave it to me on the first day of school. I can’t take it off.” Dad asks me why and I mumble something about it being stuck, and then I change the subject and say we’re going on a school trip on Friday that Mr Beagle told us all about today. Dad asks me where: an indoor skiing centre, an adventure playground, a mountain biking course?

  “The local garden centre,” I reply, trying to sound enthusiastic. “We have to observe the plants, make notes on them and then design our own garden. There’s a class competition and the winner will have their garden design used on an old patch of ground. Parents are going to be invited to come and view it.” I pause and swallow down a chunk of chocolate before adding, “Do you think Pearl would come if I invited her?” I let the words sort of dangle in the air like Dad’s pine-tree air freshener.

  Dad doesn’t look at me; instead he keeps his eyes on the road and gives a little cough before saying she’s probably very busy. My fellow SNOOP spy elbows me to pursue my line of questioning. So that’s what I do.

  “I still think Pearl would love to see the POOP garden,” I reply carefully. “Maybe I could I ring her myself because I’ve got her phone number…”

  The Codfather van suddenly feels like it is sucked dry of air and I want to gasp a little, or clutch my throat dramatically. Surely what I said wasn’t that bad? Only it feels like it was; like I just said the worst thing in the world.

  “No, you’re not ringing Pearl,” snorts Dad. “I’ve already told you this. She’s too busy for POOP or anything else and we’re busy too, getting on with our lives.”

  That’s it. There’s no way I can ask any more questions because a furry little creature feels like it has curled up in my windpipe, making it impossible to do anything but grunt. Beside me, Billy turns away and looks out the window of the van. This is bad because I can’t see his eyes. If they’re watering, I don’t know. All I can do is look straight ahead and try not to cry myself. What’s more, the stupid seat belt is cutting off the circulation to my belly – or maybe it’s just that every time Pearl’s mentioned and Dad gets frostier than a snowman in the Arctic, it makes my tummy ache.

  Eventually we reach Eden’s shopping mall.

  “Now, boys, this is going to be a lovely afternoon because…” Dad pauses before continuing, “it’s our lad pad we’re shopping for. A place where we can eat takeaways, watch whatever TV we like and don’t have to worry about eating healthy food, or tripping over silly tubes of paint. And there isn’t someone using my razor.”

  But I liked eating healthy food and the time I stood on Pearl’s tube of brown paint and it squirted on the carpet was hilarious because I told Dad Billy had diarrhoea. I liked all those things and I liked having Pearl there and so did Billy.

  With that, Dad zooms straight into a department store, picking up bits for the flat and then setting them back if he’s not sure. He picks up a cushion with a scorpion printed on it and Billy says he doesn’t want to park his bum on that. Annoyed, Dad sets it back, and chooses a pair of plain beige cushions and a throw the colour of porridge, saying it’s a perfect match for our living room. Yes, it looks like sick. Next, he picks a silver photo frame, a glass vase, towels, a canvas that says “Life doesn’t get better than this”, toilet brush, flannels and a few strings of fairy lights. In the corner, tucked away, I spy cushions with blue swallows on them and I ask Dad if we can get one of those.

  He nods.

  It reminds me of Mum’s wallpaper in our old house at Honeydown Hills. It makes me feel happy. I will put it in Mum’s armchair.

  Then Dad is off to the section full of artificial flowers. There are splashy poppies and sweet peas that look like they’re wearing frilly bonnets, a rainbow of roses and lilies. Lifting a handful of lilies, Dad says we must get some because they were Mum’s favourite flower. It’s the first I’ve heard of it and I stare at the long white silky trumpets in Dad’s hand and think how they’ll never die.

  When Dad goes off to pay for his items, Billy pulls me by the elbow over to the light section. Underneath lights like blown bubbles and dangling swan feathers, he says, “I could draw a missing person poster for Pearl. You said we needed to ramp up SNOOP.”

  Oh no. I shake my head. Portraits aren’t Billy’s strong point. Last time he drew me, I looked like a monster with two heads – both ugly. When Billy sees me shaking my head, he says we could phone the police instead. That’s the only other thing left to do.

  “And say what?” Exasperated, I roll my eyes.

  “Pearl’s on a spaceship and we need her back?”

  “Great idea,” I mutter, as Dad returns, overloaded with bags.

  As we trot out of the shopping mall I see a man in the car park holding loads of helium balloons. I remember number five on THE GOODBYE LIST: a balloon. Dad thinks I’m being daft when I insist I need the horse balloon more than I’ve ever needed anything before. He thinks I’m a bit old for balloons, so I tell him no one is too old for balloons or why would grown men book those
adventure hot-air balloon trips? Dad says I have a point.

  So I am the proud owner of a horse balloon. Mum was never interested in horses but then again she was never interested in giraffes either and that was the only other type of animal helium balloon they had. Billy opted for the Happy Birthday Princess balloon and when Dad said no one had a birthday, Billy said Dad could call it an early birthday present for him (as in, eight months early). Anyway, Billy said he was a princess, so that counted.

  As we walk towards The Codfather van, I let the ribbon loosen around my fingers. Gently it unravels as I whisper, “Goodbye, Mum,” and then I let the horse go. There, I’ve done it. I’ve said another goodbye. Maybe this is the one that will feel right. Only the horse doesn’t gallop away on the wind far enough, because Billy grabs the ribbon at the speed of light and says he’ll keep the balloon if I don’t want it.

  The whole way back to the flat I am squashed in the passenger seat not only by Billy’s pink birthday balloon but by the back end of my own horse.

  Dad has a bright idea as we ascend the steps towards our flat. He’s going to knock on Cat Woman’s door and when she answers he’s going to ask her if she’d like to come to our surprise flat-decorating party. The surprise obviously being that Cat isn’t expecting to be put to work as our interior designer this evening.

  When Cat answers the door and Dad explains we’ve been shopping and we’d love her help, she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, her face lights up like an arcade game and she says she enjoyed chatting to Dad the last time and she’d love to give us a hand.

  “Only one?” says Dad and laughs. “I think you’ll require both, because the flat needs some serious attention.”

  Cat laughs too.

  Five minutes later Cat turns up in our flat with her hair in a messy bun secured with a comb. Within half an hour she has positioned the beige cushions on a diagonal on the old sofa, propped the canvas on the mantelpiece, hung the fairy lights over the window, put the silver photo frame on a shelf and told us to find a photo for it and put the fake lilies in the vase and placed them on the table.

  As Cat steps back and admires the flowers, I say, “They’re my mum’s favourites.”

  “She’s dead though,” pipes up Billy. I blink.

  Cat doesn’t say anything. Instead she pulls up her sleeve and shows me a tiny lily tattoo on her wrist. “Look,” she whispers. “Lilies are my mum’s favourite flower too.”

  Just as I’m about to ask more questions about the tattoo, Dad appears with a toilet brush, waving it in the air and asking what he’s supposed to do with it. Cat grins and says it’s up to him but she usually shoves it down the toilet with a bit of bleach. Dad laughs and soon, with a bit more work, the flat is looking more cheerful than it did when we moved in. To be fair, I think it’s because Cat’s here and she’s made Dad put on the radio at full blast and now she’s singing at the top of her voice. It sort of feels as though the sun has just come out from behind a cloud.

  Even Billy is happily wandering around, wearing the muddy-coloured throw and pretending he’s invisible. Every so often Cat tickles him through the fabric and I can hear Billy snort and laugh before running away again.

  As a reward for everyone, Dad says he’ll order in a pizza (our favourite) and asks what we’d like. Billy and I choose cheese and tomato, Dad wants spicy pepperoni and Cat says she doesn’t mind and will eat anything. So Dad orders half and half. Cat ends up giving Billy her last slice of pizza and when she says she’d better get home Billy doesn’t want her to go and gives her the biggest hug. Cat hugs him straight back, only it’s longer and tighter.

  It gives me a warm feeling in my tummy.

  Mind you, that could have been the pizza.

  When Cat’s gone, I sit on the sofa and stare at the lilies for the longest time. Reaching out and rubbing the soft petals between my fingers, I think about how there’s so much about Mum that I don’t know. But instead of feeling sad about it, I feel just that little bit better because when I find out new stuff about Mum it makes her feel alive to me again, like she’s all around me and it wasn’t the end. Tonight, I mentioned Mum and it didn’t feel strange talking about her.

  Billy joins me on the sofa and says, “Do you think we’ll ever see Pearl again?” He adds how he really liked having Cat around earlier but she’s not Pearl. Pearl is just that bit more special.

  Billy’s right, because Dad always told us pearls are special. He said they’re one-of-a-kind, beautiful, and if you find one it’s magical and you’ll want to hold onto it for ever. Once he told us how real pearls are made. The magic starts when a tiny speck of grit gets under the skin of an oyster. To protect itself, the oyster covers the object in the same stuff that makes up its shell, eventually forming a pearl. In all his time in the fish factory and on the fish delivery rounds, Dad said he had never found a real pearl. But in real life he had found one, because Pearl was every bit as beautiful and special as a proper pearl.

  But Dad didn’t hold onto his Pearl for ever, like he said. He let her go. And I still don’t understand why.

  At school today something weird happens at morning break, something that helps SNOOP big time. Just as I’d almost given up on finding Pearl, I discover exactly where she is – and it’s all thanks to Mimi Dixon.

  It starts off with Mimi beckoning me over in the playground. She’s drinking a carton of orange juice, and as I walk towards her, she crushes it with one hand and fires it into the bin. When I reach her, she sucks in her cheeks.

  “What’s with the face?” I ask.

  Mimi stares at me and says she is practising for when she’s on America’s Next Top Model. I say she doesn’t live in America and she says they’ve had a UK invasion before. (I realize that none of this explains how she helped me find out Pearl’s whereabouts. But what she utters next does.)

  “You’re not even here,” says Mimi, relaxing her pout. She folds her arms and leans back against the wall.

  “How come I’m talking to you then?” I reply, getting a bit tired of Mimi’s attitude.

  Mimi ignores me and says, “You’re just a figment of my imagination.” She pushes herself off the wall and reaches into her blazer pocket, pulling out a watermelon lipgloss that she slicks over her lips.

  “Your imagination is ace.” Yes, I’m quite good at giving attitude back.

  Mimi puts the lipgloss away and spits, “Actually, my imagination is ace. I’m good at everything. I do loads of after-school clubs and have medals for my kung fu. And…” Mimi waves her arms. “I’m top of the class here too and no new person coming in is going to take that away from me – especially one who’s not even really here.” This girl is clearly crackers. I begin to walk away. “You can’t walk away from me because you’re not even supposed to be here!”

  Sweet Baby Cheeses! What is wrong with her?

  “I know you’re being homeschooled, and if you’re being homeschooled you’re not supposed to be here.” When I turn, Mimi pulls a face at me. If Ibiza Nana was here she’d warn Mimi that her face will stick like that if the wind changes. What’s more, with a face like that she’s never going to win a model competition, in America or anywhere else. “It must be true because it was your mum that said you’re being homeschooled. And that means you should be at home, not here, and I’m going to tell on you.”

  Um…nope, my mum did not say that.

  Turns out, Mimi’s cousin, Chloe-Jasmine, met my mum and had a little chat with her.

  Hold your horses, as Ibiza Nana would say (not that she has ever held horses, because Ibiza Nana did not like horses after an unfortunate incident with one that mistook her finger for a carrot). “I think your cousin is mistaken,” I say.

  Mimi’s voice is smug when she says, “Chloe-Jasmine goes to your old school and I was at her house and I happened to mention there was a new boy in my class called Becket Rumsey and she said she knew all about you. Chloe-Jasmine said you’d left your school in a mega-hurry and never came back after half-term and e
veryone was talking about you. Then one day Chloe-Jasmine bumped into your mum, who was putting up these posters in Honeydown Hills for her new painting classes…”

  “I don’t think so,” I whisper, remembering that there was a girl called Chloe in the year below me. My friend, Spud, used to say she had teeth like a hippopotamus, which sort of figures, because Mimi’s teeth are a bit like that too.

  “Yes, it was your mum.” Mimi nods so much it’s a wonder her head doesn’t fall off. “Chloe-Jasmine had seen her at the school gates before when she was picking you up from school and everyone knew she was an artist. Chloe-Jasmine got talking to her about art because her dad likes drawing. Anyway, your mum said she was doing life classes in Honeydown Hills and Eden if her dad wanted to attend. When Chloe-Jasmine told her mum, her mum said no way was her dad painting naked ladies. Anyway, Chloe-Jasmine got talking about you and asked where you were and your mum said you were being homeschooled. Yet here you are.”

  I insist it’s all a mix-up but I feel my eyes prickle with unformed tears and it isn’t because Chloe-Jasmine mistook Pearl for my mum, but because Pearl has been pretending she’s still part of our lives when we haven’t spoken to her in over a week. What’s more, Pearl hasn’t answered our texts either. Why is Pearl lying about me? A real mum would never do that.

  “I see you’re still wearing the butterfly bracelet,” whispers Nevaeh, writing down that the coloured part of the eye is the pupil in our science test.

  “I,” I mutter, pointing.

  “I…what?” Nevaeh hisses back.

  “I-ris, not the pupil.” I write down my answer as Mr Beagle asks the next question. He glances at his watch and says we don’t have long before lunch and can we please speed up a little bit.

  “I saw you talking to Mimi in the playground,” whispers Nevaeh. She writes that the long pipe that shifts food from the back of your throat to your stomach is called drain. “You looked sad.”