A Boy Called Hope Page 7

  Mrs Parfitt lifts my teddy bear from the bookcase. “No harm done,” she says, dusting him off and handing him back to me. “Let’s just say it was a silly prank and one that won’t ever happen again.” Mrs Parfitt looks pointedly at Christopher, who is shaking his head. “I think Christopher is sorry so let’s continue with our show-and-tell. I want to hear all about this lovely teddy bear who likes eating pitta bread.”

  Obviously, I get through it and the class claps politely and Mrs Parfitt puts a gold star by my name on the whiteboard. All I can think is: I don’t deserve a star for my bear story. To be honest, it’s a pity star.

  Later that afternoon, when I find an envelope in my pocket, I think it must be an apology from Christopher. I carry it to the only private reading place in the whole school: the toilet cubicle. As I lock the door and peel open the envelope, a person enters the urinals. They shuffle about, unzip their flies, grunt, and then I hear the release of water.

  “No way,” I yell as I start reading the letter.

  A voice squeaks, “I’ve soaked my shoes.” I hear the rasp of a zip and the squelch of footsteps as they leave the urinals.

  “No way,” I repeat. “I don’t want to do this.” I fold up the letter and stick it back in my pocket.

  At three forty-five, Grace arrives at the school gates. Her nose and mouth are the only things visible beneath her furry-hooded coat. “You got my letter then,” she says, blowing warmth into her fingers.

  I think about it for a nanosecond before saying, “We’ll get caught. That’s if we can even find out where Big Dave lives.”

  “Oh yes,” replies Grace. “I forgot to mention that I’ve already done a little digging and know where he lives.”

  “What?”

  “After he left our house I accidentally found myself walking behind him until he went into this house on the Ireland estate.”

  “Whoa! You followed Big Dave and staked out his house. That’s so wrong.” I stop, remembering how I was hiding in Dad’s garden only a few nights ago.

  “Get off your high horse. It must be cold up there,” says Grace, her eyes like flint. “I did it for Mum, remember.” That’s Grace’s answer to everything, because if she says she’s doing it for Mum then I can’t exactly argue. She hands me a balaclava and a toy walkie-talkie. “We need to be in disguise and in communication at all times.”

  “Where did you find the walkie-talkies?”

  “Under your bed,” Grace replies. “I had to wear rubber gloves, mind. Didn’t want to touch that pants graveyard you’ve got under there.”

  I stick the woolly balaclava over my head and sigh into the wool. This day is turning into an epic disaster, so I might as well hide my shame behind a knitted sheep.

  When we reach Big Dave’s house we separate. Grace directs me to a bush on the opposite side of the road and she takes the easier hiding place behind Big Dave’s car. I click on the walkie-talkie. “This balaclava is making me sweat, over,” I mumble.

  Grace clicks her walkie-talkie on. “Stop bleating or we’ll alert the neighbours, over.”

  “You don’t think a stranger lurking in a holly bush will do that? Over.”

  “Not if you crouch down and stop complaining, over.”

  “Easy for you to say when you don’t have a piece of holly up your bum. Why did you bring these walkie-talkies when we could have communicated via mobile phones? Over.” My eyes peep through the holes in the balaclava.

  “Duck, over,” hisses Grace, diving down. “Neighbour twitching curtains but trying to pretend they’re adjusting fairy lights on Christmas tree.”

  “Over, over,” I mutter into the walkie-talkie.

  “Over what?”

  “You forgot to say over, over,” I say, breaking cover. When I run across the road and join Ninja Grace, she aims the walkie-talkie at my ear hole. “But saying over is um…overrated anyway,” I say.

  “Let’s just stick to the plan and quit with the smart comments,” replies Grace, putting the walkie-talkies in her bag. “We’re supposed to be staking the place out to see if he’s there or not and if there’s any sign of Caroline 1973. After that we can make a decision on what to do next.”

  Big Dave’s doorbell parps when I push it and Grace is hiding in next door’s garden. The door flings open and Big Dave stands in front of me, looking baffled. “Hello?”

  “Hello,” I mutter through a mouthful of wool, wishing that Grace’s plan of staking the place out didn’t actually involve me ringing the bell.

  “Hallowe’en is in October not December.” Big Dave shakes his head and starts to close the door until I shove my foot in it.

  “Ta-da. It’s me.” I pull the balaclava up so Big Dave can see my face.

  “Arrggh,” he says. “Put the mask back on, it’s an improvement.”

  I have to think fast to explain why I’m on Big Dave’s doorstep in a balaclava. Unfortunately, my brain is thinking so fast that my mouth doesn’t catch up and I say, “Umm…I was taking Charles Scallybones for a walk and I spotted your car. The tyres are flat.” I fold my arms and try to look concerned and even stroke my chin, which is a sure sign I’m perplexed by this matter. “I thought you’d like to know, so that’s why I rang the bell.”

  “Where?” Big Dave asks.

  “Where are the car tyres?” I look at him as though he’s stupid and point to his silver Mondeo parked outside the house.

  “No, where is the dog?”

  I say the first thing that comes into my head. That first thing being a load of utter drivel. “Chasing rabbits. This housing estate is riddled with them.” Big Dave looks at me and pulls a face but follows me to the Mondeo anyway.

  For the next five minutes I try to explain to Big Dave why the tyres look flat. Unfortunately, I am no match for the car mechanic that is Big Dave who is now explaining, without drawing breath, that he checked them yesterday when they were a perfect 32psi and they don’t look any different.

  “Let me sit in it,” I say, stalling for time. “I want to learn to drive.”

  “You’re eleven.”

  “Yes and you’re about forty and it doesn’t stop you. I’ve read the driving theory book cover to cover,” I say. “And it’s never too early to sit in such a fabulous car and get a feel for it. You know that I love your Mondeo.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Grace actually exit from Big Dave’s house with something pink draped over her arms. She must have sneaked in when I was talking. My stomach catapults as she bounds into the neighbour’s garden and drops behind the hedge and out of sight once more.

  “If you love it so much, I suppose I could get the car keys,” says Big Dave, looking at me.

  “Nah, you’re alright,” I say, walking away. “I don’t love it as much as I did five minutes ago.”

  Grace catches me up at the alleyway beside The Frying Squad. She looks triumphant and in her hand she’s holding a pink silk dressing gown. “You’re not going to believe this,” she says.

  From the look on her face, I’m guessing she’s right.

  New information received today via the internet: Unborn babies look like aliens.

  Pregnancy is also known as: The Club.

  Notes about The Club: Boys can’t join. I do not care because The Club does not seem like fun. If you are a member you must be ratty with everyone. You will act strangely from time to time. This is your hormones. (Hormones explain why Grace did something so crazy at Big Dave’s house.)

  New members must: Smell like a dog. Not literally. But your nose will be like a bloodhound’s muzzle and will pick up strange scents that make you sick.

  Sick: As in puke, not as in good.

  Length of membership: Life. What’s more, you will never be allowed to jump on a trampoline any more in case you wet yourself.

  You will be in stitches: Apparently, while in stitches you won’t want to laugh. Confused? I know I am.

  Worries: The Club. Grace is no good with stuff like this. She couldn’t even stick it out for a month at Br
ownies.

  Important: Take folic acid.

  From what I’m reading, Grace’s pregnancy is doomed – doomed, I tell you. I click on another page and scroll down until I find a clip of a tadpole and his buddies swimming towards a full moon. This is like a big tadpole party. Unlike a human party, they all want to get there first. In real life, turning up first is for losers. One tadpole dies, actually conks out in front of his mates, and they swim on totally unconcerned. No tadpole funeral for him, by the looks of it. They’re harsh, these tadpoles. Eventually, one little tadpole reaches the full moon and almost does a fist punch, if he had any fists. I figure that I need to get Grace this folic acid stuff, because if she doesn’t take it she might end up giving birth to a frog.

  Underneath the tadpole party there is a stick drawing of a man and woman. The man has a full fluffy beard, nothing like Stan, and the woman is smuggling a football under her puffy dress. She looks nothing like Grace either. Grace only has one puffy dress and she wore it to her first Communion, with a veil. The stick lady isn’t wearing a veil. Apparently, veils have nothing to do with The Club.

  I ease back into my seat and scratch my head. So a lot of the information I’ve found suggests that pregnant people act weird. Which in turn explains Grace’s act of stupidity last night. It’s all because she’s in The Club and there are tadpoles having a party in her belly.

  After we’d been to Big Dave’s house Grace told me she’d found all the evidence of Caroline 1973 that she needed. “The bedroom was ready for love and lit with scented candles,” she said. “Sandalwood, I think.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Not about the sandalwood,” she replied. “Could have been amber, I suppose. But I’m quite sure it was a love nest. And I nearly got caught. Someone went to the toilet while I was in the bedroom and I had to grab the first thing I could and run. I knocked over some stuff on the dressing table, including a bottle of Poison.”

  “Poison?”

  To my horror, Grace laughed. Then she said, “Poison is a perfume, you idiot. We won’t tell Mum about this yet but we’re definitely going to tell her when the time is right.”

  “Who decides when the time is right?”

  “Me.” Grace rubbed her hands together like a pantomime villain.

  “Why are you drawing boobs?” asks Kevin Cummings.

  “They’re not. They’re footballs with spots in the centre,” I reply. Kevin is not convinced and says as much. “Okay, they’re boobs,” I admit, hoping this is the end of the matter. No such luck because when I say I don’t want to talk about it, Kevin Cummings sticks up his hand.

  “Mrs Parfitt, guess what?” he whines.

  As she approaches I have to draw smiley faces on the boobs and hiss to Kevin that I’ll tell him the whole story later. Grinning, Kevin tells Mrs Parfitt he needs the toilet. As he slips out of the classroom he pulls the front of his school jumper out to make it look like he’s got moobs (which he does anyway).

  This is the point where I come unstuck. I plan to run away after school, but Kevin Cummings is too clever for me. Just before the bell rings he tells Mrs Parfitt his bowels have gone into meltdown thanks to a right royal disaster, otherwise known as The King Kebab with extra jalapeño sauce. Since there’s an inferno in his guts, could he possibly go to the toilet again, take his school bag and then go home from there? When her back is turned he makes his armpit fart and suddenly she can’t wait to let him go. Only, Kevin Cummings has no intention of getting up to his knees in toilet paper – instead he’s waiting at the school gate for me.

  “What’s with the boobs?” asks Kevin as we walk away from school.

  “What’s with your guts?” Kevin has a habit of answering a question with a question, which is annoying, so I’ve learned to use his own trick against him.

  “You got a girlfriend?” he asks.

  The easiest and quickest answer to get him off my back is yes. When I take this option he replies, “Nah, you don’t.”

  “Okay, promise you won’t tell?”

  “Cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die.”

  “Grace is in The Club,” I say.

  “What club?” Kevin looks at me blankly. When I wink at him and tell him it’s The Club, he makes an onion ring of his mouth. “Oh, I get you now. Who’s the father?”

  That’s when I make a big mistake – bigger than the big mistake of telling him in the first place. “It’s Stan,” I say as I cross the road. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

  “Wow. That streak of bacon. I’m impressed.” Then Kevin says something I’m not too happy about. “By the way, I crossed my fingers when I promised not to tell.” Everyone knows that crossing your fingers cancels out a cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die.

  I wonder if a punch to the guts cancels out a crossing your fingers.

  “Okay, so now I’ve told you my secret, you can do something for me,” I say, narrowing my eyes. Kevin looks confused as I explain that I need him to go into the chemist to get some acid for Mum’s car battery. “It’s called folic acid,” I say.

  “Why can’t you do it yourself?”

  I pull my mobile phone from my school bag and switch it back on. We’re allowed to take phones into school but not switch them on, so this is the first chance I’ve had to use it all day. “It’s the baby. I’ve got to make an urgent call to Grace. Here’s some money.”

  “Oh,” says Kevin and he takes the cash. “I suppose it’ll only take a minute.” He nips into the small chemist at the end of the road while I wait outside, mouthing into the phone.

  On his return, Kevin hands me a small bag. He looks ill and is sweating like cheese left out on a hot day. “What did Grace say?”

  “Nothing,” I reply. “I forgot to ring her.”

  Kevin leans against the wall and wipes his forehead on the arm of his blazer jacket. “I asked the chemist for folic acid to rev up an engine. Then the chemist said my engine was in fine working order if it was folic acid I was after.” He glares and his jaw hardens. “After that, he asked how old I was. ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but what has my age got to do with it?’ The chemist burst out laughing, as did a queue of old ladies. It was so hilarious the ladies had to cross their legs and the chemist directed them to pads.”

  “Brake pads,” I say, trying not to laugh.

  “I know what sort of pads they were,” says Kevin. “My nan is always buying them.” Kevin storms off (as much as you can storm off when the strap on your school bag snaps).

  The folic acid tablets don’t look too scary. They’re small and white, a bit like the circle of paper that comes out of a mini hole-punch. I stare at the bottle as I walk home and it’s still in my hand when I step into the house – which is a mistake, because Mum is in the hallway. “What’s that you’ve got?” asks Mum and – abracadabra! – I have to pull off this fantastic magic trick that makes the folic acid disappear down the back of my trousers.

  “Nothing,” I reply, clenching my bottom to stop them falling down my leg.

  “Oh, right.” Mum starts going on about her dysfunctional digestive system. “Honestly, I’ve not known whether I’m up or down in that toilet bowl. But there’s an end in sight.” She rubs her nose. “I just can’t quite see it among the diced carrots.”

  “You were ill last week too,” I reply, squeezing my bum cheeks together. “It must be what you’re bringing home from Aladdin’s.”

  Mum laughs. “I can assure you that there’s nothing wrong with what I’m bringing home. You’re eating it, aren’t you?”

  So I say, “You’re not dying, and keeping it a secret from me, are you?” And clench.

  After that, Mum says she is dying but then so is everyone else from the moment they’re born. That’s the best explanation she can offer. Anyway, she says she has no plans to die quite yet and it’s nothing I need to worry about.

  “That’s okay then,” I say. “I can’t lose you.” The bottle feels like it’s slipping until I do another quick bum squeeze.


  Mum smiles and nudges my arm. “Stop standing in the hallway fretting about things that aren’t going to happen. I can assure you this is nothing whatsoever to do with me dying. We can’t be parted, Dan Hope.”

  I can’t move and it’s nothing to do with the folic acid hidden in my trousers. It’s because a little part of me can’t help remembering that that’s what Dad said once.

  On Tuesday I try to give Jo the medal back. Instead of Saint Gabriel helping me, he’s making everything go wrong. I’ve got hardly anything left on my list and I don’t believe he’s going to make a dream come true. I tell her I wasn’t unhappy to begin with so I don’t need to hold onto him. I urge her to give him to some other poor person who is truly sad and needs healing.

  “That is the precise reason why you need it. You’re still sad and need healing,” echoes Jo, pressing Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows back into my palm. She holds my hand for a second. “Keep it. I won’t accept it back. I know you’re not going to tell me what’s going on but I want you to understand that Saint Gabriel is here for you.” She nods knowingly. “Remember how he sent me a feather. It was a sign from beyond the grave. That’s what I wanted most and it happened to me because I believed.”

  From the corner of my eye I can see Christopher staring at us and I pull away from Jo’s grip. Too late – Christopher’s turned away. “Hallelujah, Jo,” I say firmly, “but I don’t need you to tell me how to feel. And I’ve told you before where I think feathers come from.” As I force the medal back into my pocket I cannot get the image of a bird’s bum out of my mind. Jo looks upset and walks away, but not before telling me she knows I’m hurting, so she’ll try to forgive me.

  “Just so you know, there were no birds around when Grandma sent me that feather,” Jo calls back. “And by the way, you need to brush your teeth in holy water because the words coming from your mouth are cruel.”

  Is it cruel not to believe in a bit of metal? Is it cruel to be angry that my friend Christopher has deserted me because of it? Is it cruel that nothing on my stupid list has come true? And am I losing my marbles by asking myself all these stupid questions about whether things are cruel? I had to score off the new bike (number five) when Mum said she was buying me something small for Christmas. And I gave up on number three when Charles Scallybones brought up another pirate, a rowing boat, a skeleton and the Southern hemisphere (aka the bottom half of my planet mobile).