A Morris Gleitzman Collection

by Morris Gleitzman

  The Health Inspector sniffed the fish again.

  Why’s he doing that, wondered Keith. Does he think we’re going to eat it?

  Keith turned to Mum and Dad. ‘Aren’t the colours great?’ he said. He had the awful thought that perhaps Mum and Dad were colour blind and had forgotten to tell him.

  The Health Inspector straightened up.

  ‘If the next time I look that fish isn’t there,’ he said slowly, ‘I won’t have to issue a summons for having stale fish on the premises, will I?’

  No, thought Keith, you won’t. Cause in a month’s time when you’re back it won’t be there. It’ll be in the freezer.

  Then suddenly Keith had the fish in his hands.

  Dad had snatched it out of the fridge and thrust it at him.

  Not now, thought Keith, wait till he’s gone.

  Dad put his face close to Keith’s. It wasn’t a happy face.

  ‘Get it out of here,’ he said, in a voice that was so quiet it sent a shiver down Keith’s spine. ‘Now.’

  Keith opened his mouth to explain to the Health Inspector that it was all a misunderstanding and that the fish wasn’t stale stock, it was more of a dead pet.

  But Dad spoke again, and his voice was much louder.

  ‘Take it outside and get rid of it. NOW.’

  Keith stood in the drizzle, boiling.

  OK, he thought, that’s it. Enough. Finish.

  If Mum and Dad want to be misery guts, they can be misery guts. But they aren’t turning me into one.

  He stared at the grey houses and the grey shops and grey flats.

  There must be somewhere in the world, he thought, where people are happy. Where mums and dads laugh, and sleep in the same bed, and paint their fish and chip shops orange without worrying about a few splashes on the pavement.

  He looked down at the fish. The thousand pastel colours twinkled through the raindrops that covered it.

  Bet you come from a place like that, he thought.

  Then he heard a voice.

  ‘Told you it wouldn’t dry in this weather.’

  Keith looked up.

  Mr Naylor was standing in his doorway, prodding the paint on the front of the shop with his finger. He showed Keith his orange fingertip.

  ‘You’ll have to scrape it all off and start again.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Keith. ‘I’m going abroad.’

  5

  Mrs Lambert wasn’t much help.

  ‘Dunno,’ she said, peering at the fish.

  Come on, thought Keith, you’re a geography teacher, you must have some idea where it comes from.

  ‘Looks tropical,’ said Mrs Lambert, struggling into her raincoat.

  Keith sighed.

  How could he plan his new life if he didn’t know where his new life was going to be?

  ‘Could be from the Caribbean,’ said Mrs Lambert, buttoning up her coat. ‘Though I’m guessing. I didn’t get to eat any fish when I was there. Upset tummy.’

  Keith’s arms were hurting from holding the plastic bag open. He tried to jog her memory.

  ‘Africa?’

  Mrs Lambert looked at him quizzically.

  ‘That’s right. I had an upset tummy there too. How did you know?’

  Keith sighed.

  The travel agent wasn’t much help either.

  ‘Tropical,’ he said, ‘definitely tropical.’

  He turned to his other customer, a woman in a dripping mac looking glumly through a pile of brochures.

  ‘How about Greece again?’ said the travel agent brightly.

  The customer shook her head. ‘The chips tasted of garlic.’

  Great, thought Keith. Here am I trying to find out about my destiny and he’s more worried about a week in Cairo or whatever the capital of Greece is.

  ‘Spain?’ said the travel agent. ‘You liked Spain.’

  The customer shook her head. ‘Mum had her shopping trolley nicked.’

  ‘Turkey?’

  ‘Palm trees were nylon.’

  The customer peered into Keith’s plastic bag at the fish.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘I like that.’

  She turned back to the travel agent.

  ‘Where does that come from?’ she asked.

  ‘Greece,’ said the travel agent, avoiding Keith’s eyes.

  Keith sighed.

  The tropical fish expert at the Natural History Museum was a lot more help.

  ‘Parrot fish,’ he said. ‘Found in the tropical north along the Great Barrier Reef’

  ‘Thanks’ said Keith.

  ‘Anything else?’ said the tropical fish expert.

  ‘Yes’ said Keith. ‘Where’s the Great Barrier Reef?’

  Keith stood looking up at the big old stone building. City traffic roared all around it. Pigeons perched high on its grimy windowsills.

  For a moment he thought he’d come to the wrong place. Then he saw the sign.

  Australia House.

  When the man at the museum had told him about Australia House, Keith had imagined a blond brick bungalow with a barbeque and a swimming pool like in ‘Neighbours’.

  Oh well, he thought, they probably couldn’t get planning permission to build one like that in London.

  He went in through the big doors.

  The receptionist took a look inside the plastic bag and before Keith could ask her anything, she was talking into her phone.

  ‘Carol,’ she said, ‘come and have a look at this.’

  A woman with hair just like a couple of the women in ‘Neighbours’ came out of a side door and looked into the bag.

  ‘Don’t see many of those here in Pommyland,’ she said.

  Keith explained about the hotel and the market and the museum.

  ‘This Great Barrier Reef,’ he said finally, ‘is it anywhere near Ramsay Street?’

  The receptionist and the woman grinned at each other.

  Nice, thought Keith. Instead of grinning like a couple of loonies, how about lending me an Australian street directory?

  ‘Come in here,’ said the woman.

  She led Keith into an office. On the wall was a map of Australia. The woman pointed to a place called Melbourne right down the bottom.

  ‘Ramsay Street, legend has it, is here,’ she said. ‘The Great Barrier Reef is up here.’ She ran her finger along the coastline at the top right hand corner of Australia.

  ‘Is it a happy sort of place?’ asked Keith.

  The woman grinned again. ‘It’s underwater,’ she said, ‘but apart from that it’s pretty happy.’

  She pointed to a poster further along the wall.

  ‘Here’s your bloke here.’

  Along the top of the poster it said, ‘Fish of the Great Barrier Reef. The woman was pointing to a fish just like the one in Keith’s bag.

  Keith stared.

  There were hundreds of them. Hundreds of multicoloured fish. All different. All with different names. He imagined Mum and Dad’s faces, seeing this. Then he remembered he wasn’t trying to cheer them up anymore.

  ‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ said the woman. ‘Beaches up that way aren’t too bad, either.’

  She pointed to another poster behind Keith.

  He turned round.

  It was like a dream, except that Keith’s dreams were mostly like the telly with the colour knob turned up too high.

  This was perfect.

  A deserted beach of white sand with palm trees hanging over it and a turquoise sea lapping at the edge. And the bluest sky he’d ever seen.

  The only sign of human habitation was a wooden sign on a post in the shade of one of the palm trees.

  Keith couldn’t read what the sign said, but he knew anyway.

  No Misery Guts.

  He realised he’d been gazing at the poster for ages and the woman was looking at him.

  Never mind. She’d understand when he explained to her that he’d just found the place where he was going to spend the rest of his life.

&n
bsp; All the way home on the train Keith saw nothing but the beach.

  Waterloo Bridge, the Bermondsey Gas Works, the Deptford tower blocks and several thousand gallons of dirty rain slid past the carriage window and Keith missed them all.

  He was working out how long till he could get away.

  Dennis Baldwin’s older brother had left home when he was fourteen. Though that had been to go to a juvenile correction centre.

  The train pulled into Keith’s station and he realised with a shock where he was.

  He opened the plastic bag and looked at the fish.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Then he left the fish on the seat so that someone else could find it and have their life changed as well.

  Mum was writing something at the kitchen table when he got in.

  She looked up.

  ‘Keith,’ she said, ‘here a minute.’

  Keith’s stomach sank. School must have rung up about him being away for the afternoon.

  ‘Love,’ she said, ‘about the other night. Dad and me hadn’t had a fight. He was on the settee because his tummy was playing up and he kept fidgeting and keeping me awake.’

  Despite the fact that he wasn’t meant to be giving a toss about Dad any more, Keith felt a twinge of concern.

  ‘Not an ulcer?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Mum. ‘Your cake.’

  Keith wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or offended.

  ‘Well, partly your cake,’ Mum continued. ‘He hasn’t been sleeping well for a few months.’

  She sighed and Keith tried to count the frown lines on her forehead. He got lost at eleven.

  ‘Things are getting him down,’ she said.

  Another entry, thought Keith, for The Most Incredibly Obvious Statement Ever Made.

  ‘What have you got there?’ asked Mum.

  Keith realised the bundle of Australia House brochures he’d been holding under his jacket had slipped and a couple had fallen onto the floor.

  Mum picked one up. She looked at it. ‘Escape To Queensland’s Tropical Far North,’ it said.

  ‘Are you doing a project on Australia at school?’

  Keith was about to say yes, then stopped himself. This was his new life. He didn’t want to lie about it.

  He didn’t say anything.

  Mum was looking at the brochure wistfully.

  ‘Looks like paradise,’ she said. ‘That’s what we could do with, a bit of that.’

  Keith realised his heart was beating fast.

  Mum handed him the brochure.

  ‘Dreams,’ she said, mostly to herself. She went back to her writing.

  Later, in his room, a thought came to him. That was the first time he’d ever seen Mum doing the pools.

  Keith crouched on the stairs and watched Dad at the fryers, skimming golden lumps of cod and rock salmon out of the foaming oil and sliding them into the heated cabinet.

  He’d always liked watching Dad fry. Dad always looked good over the fryers, even when he was a bit grumpy. The cabinet lights made his face shine and the steam made his hair curl at the front.

  Tonight, though, Keith wasn’t looking at the shining cheeks or the curly hair. He was looking at the droopy mouth lines and the dark patches under Dad’s eyes.

  I can’t do it, he thought.

  I can’t leave them here to plod through a life of sleepless nights and cheap flour and freezing rain and Owen the milkman.

  Every time I lie back on that white sand and take a sip from a coconut and let the warm sea breezes clear up a pimple, I’ll be thinking of them back here, being misery guts.

  Dad lowered a basket of chips into the fryer and the oil bubbled noisily. He stood watching it, shoulders stooped.

  I’ll have to take them with me, thought Keith.

  The thought made something bubble up inside him. Fear, excitement, indigestion, he wasn’t sure.

  ‘Dad,’ he said as casually as he could, strolling into the shop.

  Dad looked up.

  ‘Have you ever thought of . . . um . . . moving?’

  ‘Where?’ said Dad.

  ‘Um . . . down south. Quite a long way down south.’

  ‘What,’ said Dad, ‘Lewisham?’ He thought about it and shrugged. ‘No point.’

  ‘Further south than that,’ said Keith. ‘Australia.’

  Dad looked at him, taken aback.

  ‘Australia?’

  Keith nodded.

  Dad suddenly swung round and started frantically scooping pieces of plaice out of the oil. Keith saw they were a bit burnt.

  Dad turned back to him, mouth almost drooping to the floor.

  ‘I can’t even cook fish properly here any more. Why would I want to go to Australia?’

  6

  Keith pressed the button on the slide projector.

  Click.

  Grandpa appeared on the wall, asleep in a deck chair on a pebble beach under a grey sky.

  ‘Didn’t rain the whole week we were away,’ said Nan to Mum, who was sitting next to her on the settee.

  Keith shone his torch onto the projector. Only four slides left.

  I’ll have to do it soon, he thought. His tummy gave a quiver.

  ‘It was windy, mind,’ Nan continued, ‘but it didn’t rain once.’

  ‘Yes it did,’ growled Grandpa. ‘Rained the Thursday night. Twice.’

  ‘No it didn’t,’ said Nan. ‘That was wind.’

  Keith heard Dad give a long sort of sigh from the back of the room.

  Nan turned to Mum again. ‘You lot should think about getting away, Marge. You haven’t been away for years.’

  ‘I know we haven’t,’ said Mum wearily. ‘Trouble is, holidays aren’t easy, what with the shop and everything. Still . . .’

  ‘Next slide Keith,’ said Dad.

  Keith took a deep breath.

  OK, he thought, this is it. Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one.

  Click.

  On the wall appeared a gleaming stretch of white sand. An expanse of sparkling turquoise sea. Palm trees against a clear blue sky.

  Nice one, thought Keith. Worth every penny of the return trip to Australia House and the ninety potatoes for the slide.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Nan. ‘That’s not Worthing.’

  ‘Bognor,’ said Grandpa. ‘That’s Bognor, that is.’

  ‘Chemist must have mixed them up,’ said Nan. She peered at the screen. ‘Doesn’t look like Bognor.’

  Keith fumbled in the dark for his cassette player. He pressed the play button. The sound of a gentle surf filled the room.

  At least that’s what Keith hoped the others would think it was. Rather than the sound of an RV 106 steam locomotive climbing a hill just outside Swansea which had been the closest thing to a gentle surf on Rami Smith’s dad’s sound effects record.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ said Grandpa. ‘Is there a gas leak?’

  ‘Keith’ said Mum, ‘what’s going on?’

  Keith switched on the torch and shone it on the brochure in his other hand. He started reading in a loud and what he hoped was a persuasive voice.

  ‘Tropical Australia, idyllic paradise where your troubles and cares are as far away as yesterday . . .’

  ‘Keith,’ said Dad. He didn’t sound as though his troubles and cares were as far away as yesterday.

  Keith pressed on. ‘. . . where warm, fragrant breezes murmur songs of happiness . . .’

  He pulled a can of air freshener from his pocket and sprayed some in the general direction of the others.

  ‘. . . and where rainbow choirs of exotic birds proclaim the joys tomorrow holds in store.’

  He put down the torch, the brochure and the air freshener, cupped his hands to his mouth and made what he hoped was the happy sound of an exotic tropical bird. Mr Smith’s record had only had ducks.

  In the darkness Keith could just make out Mum and Dad and Nan and Grandpa staring at him, open-mouthed.

  It’s working, he thought, they�
�re stunned by the beauty of the place.

  He saw they were all frowning.

  They’re thinking, he told himself, thinking why didn’t they go there years ago.

  Dad snapped the light on.

  ‘Keith,’ he said quietly, ‘I said I didn’t want to hear another thing about Australia.’

  ‘Australia?’ said Nan.

  ‘It’s alright Mum,’ said Mum.

  Keith decided to swing his emergency plan into operation. He thrust his hand down behind the armchair cushion and pulled out the soft pink and gold fruit that had cost him a hundred and sixty potatoes at Selfridges.

  He put it on the coffee table in front of them all.

  ‘The mango,’ he said, just part of nature’s bounty in Australia’s tropical wonderland . . .’

  ‘Keith . . .’ said Dad.

  ‘Keith . . .’ said Mum.

  ‘We’ll be able to have fresh ones for breakfast every day,’ said Keith.

  Nan gripped Mum’s arm in alarm. ‘Marge, what’s all this about Australia? You’re not . . .?’

  ‘Australia?’ said Grandpa, ‘nobody said anything to me about Australia.’

  ‘There’s no way you’d get us going to a place like that,’ said Nan. ‘Mrs Bridge’s daughter went. They don’t even have corned beef in tins.’

  ‘Mum . . . ‘ said Mum.

  ‘Typical,’ said Grandpa, ‘nobody ever tells me anything.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Dad.

  ‘Mangoes grow on trees out there,’ said Keith. ‘They just fall onto the streets. Knee-deep sometimes . . .’

  ‘KEITH,’ roared Dad, ‘BE QUIET.’

  The whole room went quiet.

  ‘We are not,’ said Dad, almost whispering, ‘going to Australia.’

  Keith lay in bed with his eyes closed, trying to remember.

  It was his favourite memory, the one of him when he was a little kid, three or something. He was in a park, watching an ant with wings climb up a dandelion. Next to him on the grass Mum and Dad were talking and laughing softly to each other. Then they went quiet. He looked up at them. They were both gazing at him, smiling gently, eyes shining.

  Keith squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to see the memory more clearly.