Catcall

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Yes, he was counting in Italian,’ I told Mr Rose. ‘Mike started teaching us. You know, our stepdad.’

  ‘He’s not from Italy, is he?’

  ‘No, from Leighton Buzzard.’

  ‘And did Jamie speak in English as well?’

  ‘Yes! He seemed perfectly OK.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything about feeling unwell? Having a sore throat?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘He’s not said a single word since he got here, not even to Arran, not even to answer his name in the register.’ Mr Rose looked at me anxiously. ‘Was he upset about coming back to school after the holiday?’

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘And he’s not been ill over Christmas and New Year?’

  ‘No!’

  We were in the corridor now. I could see the open door to my old classroom, the grouped tables, the little class library and reading corner, and dollopy paintings all along one wall. There’s something different about the smell of this school–warm, and polishy, and dinnery–that made me sad to have left it all behind.

  ‘Jamie’s in the sick room,’ said Mr Rose. ‘I thought it best if he waited for you there. Make sure you get him straight home, won’t you?’

  ‘OK. I’ll just tell Noori and Brody not to wait.’ I didn’t really see what the fuss was about. Maybe Jamie just didn’t feel like talking. More often we got told off for talking when we shouldn’t.

  Two minutes later, I was in Mrs Curwen’s office. She’s the school secretary, and must be about as old as Nan. ‘Hello, Josh! How nice to see you!’ she said from behind her desk, all smiles. ‘Gosh, you’re getting tall! Jamie’s the spitting image of you, when you were here.’

  Everyone says we’re alike, Jamie and me. He’s a smaller version of me. We’ve got the same thick brown hair (‘like a thatched roof,’ Mum says) and the same greeny-blue eyes as Dad’s. We’ve got some of the same expressions, according to Nan, but of course I can’t see what my own face does, so can only go by Jamie’s. When he started school, none of the teachers had any trouble knowing who he was–they’d say, ‘Oh, you must be Josh’s brother!’ Still, sometimes, Mr Rose calls him Josh by mistake. That always makes Jamie furious.

  ‘How’s things at big school?’ Mrs Curwen asked.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I told her. I was feeling a bit homesick for this school, to tell the truth.

  She got up and pushed back the curtain to a screened-off area at one side of the office. ‘Josh is here, Jamie,’ she called. ‘You’ll be going home in a minute.’

  Jamie was huddled up on the bed in there, and Arran was sitting on the edge. He’s OK, Arran, and a good little striker. He’s Jamie’s best friend.

  ‘Jamie? How you feeling?’ Mrs Curwen gave his shoulder a nudge.

  ‘All right, Jame?’ I said, in a jokey way. ‘Thought you’d get out of lessons, did you? Good one!’

  Jamie didn’t say anything–just looked at me, then hid his face under a curled arm.

  ‘Don’t feel like talking today, is that it? Cat got your tongue?’ said Mrs Curwen. ‘That’s what we used to say when I was a girl. Funny old saying, when you think about it.’

  ‘Don’t you feel well?’ I tried.

  No answer.

  ‘Lost your voice? Can’t you talk?’

  A shrug.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  Nothing.

  Mrs Curwen looked at Arran. ‘You haven’t had an argument, you two?’

  ‘No!’ Arran shook his head vigorously.

  ‘Did something upset him in the playground? Someone push him, or hurt him, anything like that?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong!’ Arran told her. ‘Not a single word since we got to school! I showed him my new calculator and my new coloured pencils and he wasn’t even interested.’

  ‘What about this morning, walking in? Did he talk then?’ I asked him. We were all talking about Jamie as if he wasn’t there. His arm was bent over his face and I couldn’t tell whether he was listening or not.

  ‘At first he did. He started telling me about going to stay with your dad.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, you were waiting for us at the main road, and remember Troy came up and started yakking? I don’t think Jamie said any more after that.’

  I didn’t get this. ‘Why should Troy coming up make Jamie stop talking? What did Troy say?’

  Arran frowned. ‘Can’t remember, really. Nothing much. He just sort of witters on and on. That’s why I didn’t notice Jamie wasn’t talking.’

  ‘I phoned your mum, ten minutes ago,’ Mrs Curwen told me. ‘And I took his temperature, but it’s quite normal, so she thought he’d be all right to walk home.’

  I wished Mum was coming to fetch him. I don’t like anything to do with illness. Mum could easily have walked here in ten minutes, but I suppose she was too busy with the baby as usual.

  ‘We’re going home,’ I told Jamie. ‘Come on! Get your shoes on.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Are you mucking about?’ I was starting to get impatient. Did he think he was going to lie here all night? I looked at Mrs Curwen, then at Arran.

  Mrs Curwen nudged Jamie to make him get up. ‘Come on, then! Rise and shine! Josh’ll look after you. I expect you’ll be right as ninepence when you’ve had a good rest.’

  At last she got him into his shoes and coat and scarf–pushing his arms into the coat sleeves and tying his shoelaces, like he was one of the infants. I said goodbye to her and Mr Rose, and we set off for home.

  The way Jamie walked, you’d have thought he was a zombie. We trailed along like this till we reached Arran’s turning. Arran said, ‘Bye, Jamie. Hurry up and get better.’ Jamie gave no answer–no sign of having heard, even.

  I was thinking of what Mrs Curwen had said: Cat got your tongue? I’d heard it before, but never really thought about it. It was a horrible idea–a cat swiping someone’s tongue out of their mouth, then playing with it, batting it about like Splodge did with his toy mouse. But of course Jamie still had a tongue–he was choosing not to use it, that was all.

  There was something quite deliberate about this, I felt sure. He could have talked if he wanted to. He was kidding us there was something wrong with him, for a joke or something.

  Anyway, we’d be home in a minute. I could stop being sensible big brother, and hand him over to Mum. She’d know what to do.

  8

  O

  The problem was, she didn’t.

  Soon as we got in, she was all over Jamie. ‘How do you feel, darling? Are you hot? Dizzy? Tummy-ache? Headache?’

  She got him to open his mouth wide so that she could look at his throat. She made him drink hot Ribena. She felt his forehead, she found the thermometer and took his temperature, she asked him again what the matter was. It was no use. Jennie was more talkative than Jamie was–she said ‘a-a-ah!’ and ‘mm!’ and other baby sayings that no one else understood.

  ‘Can you write it down for me?’ Mum tried, after she’d run through everything that might possibly be wrong, from sore feet to earache. ‘Can you write down why you can’t talk? Josh, could you fetch a pencil and paper?’

  I ran upstairs and found a blunt pencil, sharpened it, got some drawing paper and went down. Mum had sat Jamie at the table, ready to write.

  ‘Thanks, Josh,’ she said. ‘Now then, Jamie. Write it down for me, there’s a good boy.’

  Jamie picked up the pencil. He felt the sharp point with his finger. He held it in both hands and rolled it between finger and thumb. I watched him, thinking: he’s teasing us, making us wait. At last, he gripped the pencil in his right hand, leaned over the paper and drew, very carefully, .

  Mum leaned forward eagerly, waiting for more, but that was it. .

  ‘O! What does that mean, O? O or naught?’

  Jamie put the pencil down and leaned back in his chair. Mum and I both gazed at him, but he didn’t look at either of us–he looked towards the
window with that odd blank look I was getting used to.

  ‘What does it mean, Jamie?’ I started to guess. ‘Zero? Nil–like West Ham on Saturday? A circle? A ring? A hoop? O for Orange? Oxygen? Or for Owl…Octopus…Ostrich?’

  Jamie looked at me, and I could tell that this game had got him interested.

  ‘Orang-utan?’ I tried. ‘Osprey? Okapi?’

  He picked up the pencil and carefully shaded in the centre of the .

  ‘Can’t you tell us what it means?’ Mum pleaded. ‘Write some more, Jamie! Write words!’

  But the pencil was lying on the table, and Jamie was sitting back with his arms folded, like infants do to show they’ve finished.

  So the writing hadn’t worked, but now I thought of something that might. What if I could get Jamie to laugh?

  He’s got this peculiar laugh, Jamie has, that sounds like hiccups. Hic-hic-hic-a-hic-a-hic-a-hic-a-hicca-a-hic, he goes. Quite often it gives him hiccups. It’s the sort of laugh you can’t listen to without laughing yourself.

  ‘Mum! I’ve got an idea,’ I whispered.

  We retreated to the sink, and Mum switched the kettle on. Its whishing noise covered up what we said–not that Jamie was taking much interest, anyway.

  ‘You know that old Mr Bean video of Mike’s?’ I said. ‘The one where Mr Bean pretends to be a hairdresser and starts cutting people’s hair? Jamie loves that. It’ll make him laugh. And once he laughs, he might talk.’

  ‘Oh, Josh! That’s a clever idea.’ Mum’s face lost its anxious look. ‘Why didn’t I think of it? You find the tape–I’ll bring Jennie in, and we’ll all watch it.’

  I went back to Jamie. ‘Come on, Jamie! We’re going to watch Mr Bean!’ I found myself doing the thing I’d noticed other people doing–speaking to him very loudly and clearly, as if he was deaf. As if he was an idiot.

  Jamie didn’t smile, but quite eagerly he got down from the table and into the lounge, where he sat on the sofa. I found Mr Bean, stacked with all the things Mike records and then never gets round to watching. Mum and I settled down to watch–Mum next to Jamie, Jennie lying on her back on her cushioned mat, me sharing the bean bag with Splodge. Splodge thought the bean bag was his, so he gave a little yah of protest as I pushed him gently aside. Jamie looked round, startled.

  ‘It’s all right, I’m not hurting him!’ I brushed white cat hairs off my sweatshirt. ‘I want to share, that’s all.’

  This Bean tape of Mike’s was pretty ancient, but still good. It doesn’t spoil it at all, knowing what happens next. Mr Bean’s waiting in the barber’s when a boy comes in with his mum. The mum mistakes Mr Bean for the hairdresser, so she tells him to cut the boy’s hair while she goes somewhere else to find her purse. Mr Bean can’t resist having a go. He gets out the clippers and shaves a great thick parting down the middle of the boy’s head, making him look a complete prat.

  I laughed loudly. So did Mum. The boy looks at himself in the mirror, and instead of going ballistic like you’d expect, he decides he likes it. Then the mum comes back in, and Mr Bean plonks the boy’s cap back on before she can see the new haircut. She pays him, and even gives him a tip!

  By now, Mum and I were putting on a real laughing performance. It’s a lot harder than you’d think. We chuckled and giggled, we rocked with laughter. We collapsed in our seats, limp with laughing. We looked at each other and at Jamie to share every joke. All the time, I took quick little looks at him out of the corner of my eye, and I saw Mum doing the same. He was watching the screen, all right. Once or twice he gave half a smile. But he didn’t laugh out loud, not once. Not a single hic. It hadn’t worked, but just in case, I carried on watching the next episode. Mum sighed, and went out to the kitchen to start getting tea ready.

  ‘Come on, Jamie,’ I told him, getting fed up with this. ‘It’s a game, isn’t it? I know you can talk if you want to.’

  He looked back at me, and just for a second his mouth quivered as if he was going to speak. Then I saw the determination come back into his face and he gazed at me steadily.

  He wasn’t mucking about. He was asking me for help.

  9

  STRANGER

  Jamie was asleep, but I’d never been wider awake.

  I couldn’t settle. I was in my own bed, in my own room, same as usual. But Jamie wasn’t the same as usual, and it felt all wrong.

  For as long as I can remember, we’ve shared a bedroom. I’m used to his snuffles and half-asleep moans, and his annoying way of mumbling when he’s reading in bed–not so that I can understand what he’s reading, just odd words, that stop me concentrating on my book or magazine. And he complains that I snore–yeah, I believe that!–and keep him awake, fidgeting and kicking at my duvet during the night and making my mattress creak.

  Now, I’d have liked it if he’d complained or read his book aloud. I’d have been really pleased.

  It had been an odd kind of evening. In some ways, Jamie was just the same as usual. He ate up all his tea–fish-fingers and mashed potato and peas–and even had an extra helping of ice-cream. Mum had chosen his favourite things, hoping to get some spark of interest out of him. He was keen on eating, all right, but that didn’t mean he had anything to say about it.

  After tea, Mike got out his pack of cards–we’d all got into card-playing, over Christmas. We started with Sevens, because Jamie likes that best. Then Mike taught us a new game, and Jamie beat us both first go. He smirked, but didn’t say a word. Mum made his milk drink and took him up to bed, and spent a while settling him down and reading to him and checking on Jennie. All just the same as any other day.

  ‘Finished your homework, Josh?’ Mum said when she came down. I hadn’t given it a thought. I took out my book and pens, and sprawled on the front-room floor while Mum and Mike cleared up in the kitchen. They had the radio on and they must have thought I couldn’t hear, but I could–Mum’s voice was worried, Mike’s low and ordinary.

  ‘Wait till tomorrow,’ Mike was saying. ‘He’ll be back to normal, I bet.’

  ‘But what if he isn’t?’ said Mum. ‘What if there’s something seriously wrong with him? Like–his vocal cords are paralysed, or something?’

  ‘If he’s still not talking, then take him to the doctor,’ Mike told her. ‘We’ve agreed that. But I think he’s choosing not to talk. I don’t think there’s anything stopping him.’

  Mum wasn’t having that. ‘How can you possibly tell?’

  ‘He’s doing it to get attention,’ Mike said.

  He’d done that all right, I thought, colouring in my picture of a Roman centurion. He’d had everyone’s attention, all afternoon and all evening.

  ‘Oh, surely not!’ went Mum’s voice. ‘If it were just for a half an hour or so–but for a child of eight, to say nothing all day long–he’d never be able to keep it up! Not if there wasn’t some other reason.’

  The next bit was drowned out by the clatter of knives and forks, but then Mike said, ‘Kids react in funny ways to having a new baby in the family.’

  ‘Yes, I know! But we’ve been so careful to make sure Jamie understands–and Josh. We’ve read the books, we’ve thought about it, we’ve done everything we could…but none of the books said anything about this. Do you think that’s what it is? He feels pushed aside by Jennie?’

  ‘Could be.’ Mike’s voice was muffled, as if his head was in the saucepan cupboard.

  ‘I’ll go up and read him an extra bedtime story,’ Mum said, ‘if he’s still awake. And give him another cuddle.’

  ‘OK. I’ll get the coffee on. Cappuccino, mocha, espresso, double espresso or latte?’

  ‘Instant, thanks,’ Mum said.

  I decided to try saying nothing, to see what it felt like. I clamped my mouth shut in case any words got out by accident. I didn’t say a word when Mum came down from seeing Jamie, or when Mike came in with the coffee. I concentrated on drawing round my centurion in fine black pen. He’d turned out quite well. I’d done the plumes of his helmet in bright red, and his bre
astplate in silver, with my felt pens.

  ‘Any luck?’ Mike asked Mum.

  She shook her head miserably. ‘He was already asleep. Well, at least he’s sleeping. But this is all my fault–it must be!’

  ‘Oh, Liz, come here!’ Mike gave her a big hug and a sloppy kiss, while I made a yuk face and bent over my centurion. ‘Don’t be silly, love! Of course it’s not your fault!’

  ‘If only I knew what was going on in his head.’ Mum sank wearily on to the sofa.

  ‘He’ll be all right tomorrow, you see if he isn’t.’ Mike had brought in the coffee, and the Belgian chocolates Nan had given us at Christmas. Mum said, ‘So much for my New Year diet,’ but took one anyway.

  ‘New Year diet! What nonsense. You’re feeding Jennie, you need to look after yourself.’

  ‘I need to look after Jamie,’ Mum said wretchedly.

  ‘You do look after him. We both do. And so does Josh. Us Bowmen–sorry, Bowpersons–we look after each other. That’s what we’re for.’ Mike passed me the chocolates, and bent down to look over my shoulder. ‘Hey! That looks stupendous. You doing a project on the Romans, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘He’s a centurion. You can tell because he wears his sword on his left side, not his right, and his armour’s silver. The ordinary soldiers are called legionaries. See, he’s got this special spear, called a pilum–that’s for throwing. The sword is for stabbing. His leg-things are called greaves, they protect his legs. And his special sandals are called caligae. This shield’s called a scutum. The soldiers had to stay in the army for twenty-five years.’