This Wonderful Thing

by Adam Baron

  I just sighed and shifted closer to her, the teddy between us. Which is when I finally realised. I finally knew why this teddy, of all things, meant so much to us. Dad. Him being ill. The teddy was a new thing in our life, like his illness, but it wasn’t something we had to worry about, or pretend to think was better than it was, or wasn’t bad at all really. It was just something soft. And warm. It was something that we didn’t have to feel nervous around. It was something we could hold on to whenever we wanted, and which wouldn’t change.

  ‘Mr Goldy,’ I said. ‘Good name.’

  ‘I know. Because Dad’s gold too, isn’t he?’

  I said, ‘Yes. He is.’ Then I lay there, listening to Milly’s breathing until she was asleep.

  But now Milly was moving – behind my back. I was a bit alarmed. I thought she was going to run round in front of me and slam the door in the lady’s face. I swallowed, not knowing if I really didn’t want her to do that or I really did. In any case, she didn’t. Instead, she turned and – before I could stop her – she fled upstairs. I sighed, thinking of her face down on her bed, crying her eyes out. I wanted to go up and cuddle her, but how could I? I couldn’t just leave the lady there in the doorway, on her own. Could I? I turned to the stairs and back again, trying to decide.

  But I didn’t have to. Because thirty seconds later, much to my surprise, Milly came back down the stairs.

  And, in her hand, was Mr Goldy!

  No!

  Milly had stuffed him into a Sainsbury’s bag! And, before I could think of anything to say, she moved past me and held her hand out!

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I … I hope that you enjoy him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the lady replied, a bit surprised but pretending not to be. I saw that she wasn’t smiling any more. ‘But you found him at Cuckmere Haven?’ Milly nodded. ‘In the river?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then my grandson will be pleased.’

  ‘Did he drop him in?’

  She turned to me. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where? Oh. Whi—’ She stopped herself and coughed. ‘You wouldn’t know it. But now I have to go. Thank you very much.’

  And, in a flash, she whisked the plastic bag out of Milly’s hand.

  Then we both watched her walk away, speeding up as she approached the corner shop. Just before she got there, though, she pulled the teddy out, letting the bag drift down to the pavement behind her.

  Mum told Mr Mansour that we were taking Veronique home. Veronique wanted to know why, so Mum explained about the burglary. Veronique didn’t have to walk in on it like me, but she still reacted the same as I had. In her case, though, it wasn’t Hungry Hungry Hippos she was worried about.

  ‘My violin!’ she exclaimed. ‘And my chess set!’

  Her mum had already confirmed that both things were still there, though. ‘It’s just a couple of laptops,’ Mum said. ‘And mess, I’m afraid. You don’t want to see it. It was pretty awful at our house, wasn’t it, Cym?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Awful is exactly the word to describe our house.’

  Mum sighed and led us out of the playground.

  Veronique was really nervous on the way back. She kept thinking of things that might have been stolen, Mum having to phone her mum to ask. I just asked them both to please hurry up. For one thing it looked like it might start raining. I also wanted to get home before Ellen and Mabel got back from their school (which was still near where they used to live). I forgot that they had an inset day, though (another reason for them to move to our house when they did). And I didn’t have to wait until we got home to remember. We hadn’t even turned off the main road when I heard it – quiet at first like a mosquito. Then it sounded like a swarm of them.

  ‘What’s that?’ Veronique asked, as we turned into our street.

  ‘The Squeaky Chicks,’ I said, and I pulled out two of the socks that I’d forgotten to give back to Lance. ‘Put these in your ears if you like.’

  Veronique asked what the Squeaky Chicks were, but I didn’t get a chance to answer her – because of Mr Fells. I’m not a big fan of Mr Fells, if I’m honest. Our last next-door neighbours were really nice, but he complains about everything. London, he says, is dirty and loud and full of litter (which makes me wonder why he came to live here). When my football goes over his fence, he claims it damages his chrysanthemums (whatever they are). He doesn’t send it back for days, which is actually counterproductive. The more I practise, the less likely I’ll be to kick the ball over, won’t I? I’ve tried explaining this to him, but he just moans, and he gives Mum a hard time too.

  About her underwear.

  ‘Is it decent?’ he asked over the fence one time when Mum was hanging the washing out. ‘To display those … items of yours in public?’

  ‘It’s not in public,’ Mum said. ‘It’s in my garden.’

  ‘But I can still see them,’ said Mr Fells.

  Mum frowned. ‘Only if you’re looking. I can’t help that. Or the fact that I’m a woman, Mr Fells.’ She glanced up at the line of flapping bras and pants. ‘Those are the things that I wear. Your sister will wear similar things, I expect.’ Mr Fells’s sister lives somewhere outside London, and he often tells us he’s going to visit her.

  ‘But a little modesty wouldn’t hurt, would it? It is a Sunday, you know.’

  Mum said she did know: because it was the only day she ever found time to hang out the washing! She told Mr Fells that she’d think about what he’d said, but she didn’t stop hanging her pants and bras out – except for some frilly red ones. ‘Don’t want to give the poor chap a heart attack,’ she muttered, as she slung them on top of a radiator.

  This time, however, I was actually on Mr Fells’s side. He wasn’t complaining about my footballs, or about me at all. He was complaining about the noise. Mum said she’d ask the girls to turn it down.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Fells said, stopping Mum as she went to go inside. ‘I’ve noticed these girls. Are they living with you now?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘And you have a man in the house. Their … father may I presume?’

  Mum raised her chin. ‘You may.’

  ‘Are you married to this man now?’

  ‘Actually,’ Mum said, ‘you’re wrong. I don’t have “a” man. I have two.’

  ‘Two men?’

  ‘Yes. I have two men here at the moment. Good day to you, Mr Fells.’

  And Mum pushed the door open and we went inside, just as the rain started to smash it down.

  Mum did tell the girls to turn the music down, though she didn’t really need to. When Mabel saw that we had a visitor, she stopped ‘dancing’ immediately. She ran up to say hello, her eyes widening when she saw Veronique.

  ‘I’ve met you!’ Mabel squealed. ‘I remember! Because you’re SO pretty!’

  ‘I’m not!’ Veronique said. ‘You should see Vi, or Lizzy, or Daisy. They’re—’

  ‘But you ARE pretty!’ Mabel insisted. ‘Isn’t she, Thimbeline?’

  I decided not to comment.

  ‘Come on, Cymbeline,’ Ellen said. ‘Answer.’

  ‘I.’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘I.’

  ‘It’s all right, Veronique,’ Ellen said. ‘He does think you’re pretty. He thinks you’re REALLY pretty. I can tell. I’m right, aren’t I, Cymbeline?’

  I didn’t answer. I just hung my coat up and marched past Ellen into the kitchen, catching sight of Stephan in the garden. Mr Fells was wagging his finger at him over the fence. I poured Veronique and me some milk. Well, Veronique got a glass. I only got a dribble because after that we’d run out. I asked Mum if she’d go and get more, but she said no because the shop up the road only sells it in plastic bottles.

  ‘We’ll have to wait for the milkman tomorrow. I’ll get him to leave a few more pints.’

  I sighed, then pulled the biscuit tin down from the shelf.

  Now Mum has a rule about biscuits. Aft
er school, I have to have one PLAIN biscuit first, such as a digestive, ginger nut or custard cream. It’s a bit like having to eat your vegetables. After that, I am allowed ONE regular-sized CHOCOLATE biscuit or TWO chocolate fingers. It’s a tricky choice to make, though today I was hoping Mum would let me break the rule because of Veronique’s burglary. But she couldn’t. Yesterday there’d been a WHOLE PILE of Jaffa Cakes in the tin, the top of each one as shiny as a fresh conker. But when I opened the lid that afternoon it was like a demolition site: just crumbs, lumps and a couple of broken triangles.

  ‘Sorry, Cymbeline,’ Ellen said, with a big, fake smile.

  ‘Great,’ I said.

  Veronique said she didn’t mind. Ellen went into the living room while I tipped the crumbs out on to plates. We sat at the kitchen table and Veronique went serious. ‘It’s so weird,’ she said, ‘to think of people breaking into your house.’

  ‘I know. Especially as they burgled us too.’

  ‘They?’ Veronique licked the end of her finger and used it pick up biscuit crumbs. ‘You don’t mean “they” like it was the same lot of burglars, do you?’

  I shrugged. ‘My house. Your house. It is a bit of a coincidence.’

  ‘Really? I mean, it would be if we lived closer to each other. There might be a gang in the area, going round local houses. But I live miles away.’

  I turned round. ‘Mum?’ I said. ‘How did the burglars get into Veronique’s house?’

  ‘Broke the door down, I’m afraid. Oh.’ Mum’s face lit up. ‘I wonder if Stephan could go round and …’ She hurried through to the garden.

  ‘See?’ I said, but Veronique wasn’t impressed.

  ‘It’s not like it’s an uncommon way of getting in.’

  ‘True, but it doesn’t look like they stole much at yours, just like here. They even left my piggy bank.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t want to steal from a kid.’

  ‘After they’d trashed my room? They didn’t care about that, did they?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Well, maybe it was the same people. But it’s still not that unusual. Non-violent crime has gone up twelve per cent since last year. Did you listen to the Today programme this morning?’

  I had, actually. And I still couldn’t quite get it, because everything they were talking about seemed to have happened yesterday. I also thought it odd that Veronique didn’t remember what she herself had said about our burglary: that the burglars might have gone into our house for a specific reason.

  ‘So maybe they were looking for something,’ I said. ‘They didn’t find it at our house so they broke into yours?’

  ‘But what?’ Veronique said, tipping the last of the crumbs into her cupped hand.

  I shrugged. I had absolutely no idea.

  ‘Right,’ Mum said, coming back inside with Stephan, who had his toolbox in his hand. ‘Homework.’

  She meant all of us. Mabel didn’t have any of course as she’s only in Reception, but she joined us at the table anyway (to draw unicorns). Ellen and Veronique both got maths sheets out and I could tell that, secretly, Ellen was impressed: Miss Phillips gives Veronique super-hard things to do, her sheet littered with all these funny boxes, brackets and squiggles (like hieroglyphs off Awful Egyptians). That actually shut Ellen up for a second or two, until she turned to me.

  ‘Well, Cymbeline? Aren’t you going to get your maths out?’

  The answer was no – not in front of her. Maths isn’t my greatest subject in the world. Instead, I pulled out my picture of Elizabeth I’s medal. I sat up straight and spread it out in front of me so Ellen could get a proper eyeful – because I’m good at art. It’s the one school subject I am good at, because of Mum. Ever since I was little, I’ve been going with her when she runs art workshops at galleries and playgroups, picking up tips along the way.

  I wanted some now because I was stuck. I was proud of what I’d done so far – especially the ruffles round Elizabeth I’s neck – but my picture didn’t quite look real. I couldn’t work out why until I remembered: though Elizabeth was looking to the right on the medal, like a pharaoh on the side of a sarcophagus, the medal wasn’t quite flat. It was made out of metal so there were little shadows on it – which I hadn’t done. As soon as I realised that, I wanted to add them, but I hesitated. The picture had taken me quite a long time and I wasn’t sure about shadows. I didn’t want to ruin it.

  I turned round, wanting Mum to show me, but she was out on the pavement, giving Stephan directions to Veronique’s house. He drove off and I thought she’d come in, but Dad showed up then and Mum and he started to have a ‘conversation’. Mum asked Dad if he’d sorted out a new place to live, and Dad wanted to know if she was enjoying living with Bob the Builder. I think he meant Stephan. I sighed and turned back, thinking I could have a little go at the shadowing, but Ellen was now looking at my picture.

  ‘What’s that?’

  I told her – about Hall Place. ‘It was amazing,’ I said. ‘We saw some piano keys that had actually been played by Elizabeth the First.’ Veronique glanced up from her maths, giving me a funny look. ‘And this is a medal she actually wore.’

  ‘Well, it’s wrong,’ Ellen said.

  ‘You can do better? Show me then. Draw something.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Ellen pointed at my picture. ‘We’re doing the Tudors too. There was Lancaster and York and then it was all joined. You’ve got the wrong number of roses.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Have I?’

  And (without mentioning that I’d thought that too) I told her how the Tudors liked to show they were top dogs. Ellen said I was making it up, but Veronique glanced away from her maths again.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said. And I thought that would shut Ellen UP.

  But it didn’t.

  At first Ellen seemed annoyed. But then she sat up, a thought coming to her that made her smile. ‘Wow, Veronique, that maths looks hard.’

  Veronique bit the top of her pencil. ‘Not really. It’s just about understanding which fractional component is …’

  ‘Can you show me?’ Ellen said.

  Showing Ellen meant Veronique switching places with me. She did sums on some scrap paper while Ellen watched, asking questions and telling Veronique how brilliant she was.

  ‘You should be a teacher!’ she said. ‘I can so understand, the way you say it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Veronique replied. ‘Though after my PhD I’ll be going into research. I’ll—’

  ‘Do you like reading?’ Ellen asked.

  Veronique said she did. Ellen asked what she was reading, then got Veronique to tell her all about A Tale of Two Cities. Ellen said it sounded amazing.

  ‘Have you read any more Charles Dickens?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Veronique said. ‘Great Expectations is brilliant.’

  ‘Can I borrow it?’

  ‘Borrow …? Of course. It would be great to have someone to discuss it with. It’s the same with music. No one really—’

  ‘But I love music!’ Ellen said, and she reached for her dad’s phone, which he’d forgotten. She turned the speaker on, and I thought she was going to blitz us with the Squeaky Chicks, making Veronique wince. But piano music started to play.

  ‘Rachmaninoff!’ Veronique exclaimed. ‘My favourite!’

  ‘Really? Mine too! Do you play?’

  ‘Yes. I’d show you but they haven’t got a piano here.’

  ‘I KNOW!’ Ellen sighed. ‘So annoying. I’ve brought my ukulele, though. Want to come upstairs and play that with me?’

  ‘Great,’ Veronique said.

  And, without glancing at me, Veronique and Ellen pushed their chairs back and ran upstairs.

  I was angry. I’d thought that, after our homework, I could take Veronique to my room and make some space for my Subbuteo. She’s getting better every single time we play. I sighed, and prepared myself to wait until Veronique had finished playing the ukulele with Ellen. But they played it for AGES, after which Veronique taught Ellen h
ow to do the Rubik’s cube that she’d given me for Christmas (still in its box).

  After that, Ellen showed Veronique her walkovers and handstands, and THEN they did each other’s hair! I didn’t even know Veronique cared about hair. She normally only has a ponytail, but Ellen did all sorts of things to it while they both COMPLETELY ignored me. I should have joined in, and I sort of wanted to, because footballers are really into doing their hair too. Lance says that the managers make them, because of the TV cameras. My hair’s only a centimetre long, though, and Ellen and Veronique continued to ignore me anyway, Ellen pulling Veronique over to sit next to HER at the dinner table. They chatted away to each other as if they were in a soundproof box and couldn’t hear anything I said. I gave up trying to get them to listen and turned to Dad, who was leaning towards Mum and telling her all about his latest casting. He was doing all the other actors’ voices and Mum was actually laughing, in spite of herself. Mabel laughed too.

  ‘Tell that to my daddy,’ she said. ‘When he gets back from mending the door!’

  ‘Sure,’ said Dad. ‘No problem.’

  He turned back to Mum, but for some reason she didn’t want to listen any more, just concentrating on her dinner.

  And then we’d finished.

  Ellen asked if she could take Veronique off to watch TV. Mum said yes and so, of course, I pushed my chair back too. I was about to suggest Horrible Histories, but Dad put his hand on my arm.

  ‘Why not help me with the washing-up?’ he said. ‘Dad and son bonding over bubbles, yeah? Got to make ourselves useful around here, don’t you think?’

  ‘But they’re not doing anything!’ I said, pointing at the two girls as they laughed their way out of the door.

  ‘Veronique’s our guest,’ Mum said. ‘Why not let her and Ellen enjoy themselves? Ellen can help tomorrow, can’t she?’

  I sighed, and shook my head, and did the washing-up as fast as I could. Then I went through to the living room and sat on the edge of the sofa. But Veronique and Ellen didn’t even notice me, just gawping bug-eyed at the screen. And not at Horrible Histories. Ellen had put on this programme set at a gymnastics club. Boys and girls in shiny leotards were doing flick flacks on a big mat, which looked pointless to me. Without a ball, and goals, it was so, well, empty.