They’d have all stood round speechless and watched the flames gobble up Mum and Dad.
Then they’d have turned to Keith, stunned. ‘Why?’ they’d have asked him. ‘Why have you destroyed your work of art?’
‘I’ve gone off it,’ he’d have replied casually. ‘There was a mistake in the bathmat.’
Keith sighed in the dark.
The real mistake, he thought sadly, was the whole idea.
Thinking anyone could feel romantic about two people with dodgy legs, wobbly bottoms, saggy tummies, bad posture, blotchy skin and tired hair.
Keith switched his bedside light on and stared up at the tropical rainforest painted on his bedroom ceiling and tried not to think about Mum and Dad and how they were going to be lonely and unhappy for the rest of their lives because they’d let themselves go physically.
He concentrated on the swirls of colour above his head, the happy orchids and the cheerful parrots and the carefree waterfalls, and soon he was thinking about Tracy.
She’ll be here in a week, he told himself, and we’ll have heaps of fun and I won’t have to think about Mum and Dad’s problems once.
3
Hope I’ve remembered everything she likes, thought Keith as he hurried down the street. He read through his shopping list again.
Beetroot (tinned).
Vegemite (large).
Pineapple (fresh).
Coconut (whole).
Peanuts (boiled).
Sugar cane (unprocessed).
Bubblegum (mango).
Right, he thought. Start with the hardest. Where am I going to find mango bubblegum in South London?
‘Hello Keith,’ said a voice behind him.
Before he could turn round a hand had snatched the list.
Keith sighed.
Mitch Wilson.
‘Why would anyone boil peanuts?’ said Mitch, looking up from the piece of paper.
Keith snatched it back and glared at him.
‘Is it to kill the germs?’ said Mitch.
Keith took a deep breath.
Sometimes the only way to shake off pesky ten-year-olds was to answer them, specially when they were taller than you.
‘In Queensland,’ said Keith, ‘boiled peanuts are regarded as a delicacy.’
‘This isn’t Queensland,’ said Mitch, ‘it’s England.’
Tragic, thought Keith. The body of a thirteen-year-old and the mind of a whelk.
‘My best friend’s arriving from Australia on Thursday,’ said Keith. ‘I’m getting some Australian food in for her so she’ll feel at home.’
‘My dad says when foreigners come here they should eat English food,’ said Mitch.
‘She will eat English food,’ said Keith.
‘So why are you getting her all this Australian stuff?’ said Mitch.
‘She’ll eat it as well,’ said Keith. ‘She’s a big eater.’
As they turned the corner he wondered if there was a better way to shake off pesky ten-year-olds.
Like whacking them round the head with a shopping bag.
Then he stopped.
Parked in the street in front of him was an ambulance with its back doors open.
A small crowd of people were watching two ambulance officers carry a stretcher out of a house.
‘Look,’ said Mitch excitedly, ‘someone’s hurt themselves.’
Keith looked at the house to see if it was anyone he knew.
It wasn’t.
He decided to let Mitch do the gawking for both of them.
Before he could get past, the crowd stepped back to let the stretcher through, blocking the pavement.
Under the blanket covering the stretcher Keith could see the outline of a person’s body.
‘He was only fifty-eight,’ said a woman in the crowd. ‘Poor thing.’
‘Bet it was his heart,’ said another woman.
‘No,’ said the first woman. ‘Lost the will to live, more like. Mrs Mellish was killed by a bread van eight years ago. Poor Mr Mellish has been on his own ever since.’
‘Kill you stone dead, loneliness can,’ said a man.
Keith stared at the stretcher.
A dreadful feeling was growing in his guts.
What if they were right?
What if loneliness could kill people stone dead?
Even people who were only thirty-six and thirty-seven and who were perfectly healthy apart from a bit of sagging and wobbling?
The people in the crowd chewed their lips while the ambulance officers heaved the body on the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.
Keith realised his chest had gone tight.
His eyes were hot and prickly.
Mitch Wilson was staring at him.
‘Did you know him?’ asked Mitch.
Keith turned away, blinking back tears.
There were some things you couldn’t expect a ten-year-old to understand, even one who was abnormally tall for his age.
Keith squeezed his way through the crowded market.
This is ridiculous, he thought.
Here’s Mum and Dad doomed to an early grave and I’m off buying tropical fruit. He tried not to think about it.
Mum and Dad’s bodies being carried out on their lonely settees while the neighbours muttered about how tragically young they were.
A sad-faced minister at the funeral saying how their lonely deaths could have been avoided if only they’d done something about their leg veins.
Keith sent a stern message to his brain.
Stop it.
Concentrate on the shopping.
He peered through the jostling crowd at the various stalls.
There must be pineapples or coconuts here somewhere, he thought.
Then he saw it.
A bundle of long greeny-gold sticks leaning against a van behind a stall.
Sugar cane.
As Keith pushed his way over to the stall he remembered the first time he’d chewed into a sweet, juicy length of sugar cane.
At Tracy’s place in Orchid Cove.
Tracy’s Aunty Bev had given it to him and while they’d chewed she’d told him all about her work as a beautician.
Keith smiled as he remembered Aunty Bev’s huge plastic parrot earrings and how they’d jiggled each time she’d given Tracy some beauty advice.
Tracy had rolled her eyes a lot, specially when Aunty Bev had explained that a kid with Tracy’s fair skin would look much better cane-toad hunting in a lighter shade of gumboot.
But she’d had to admit that Aunty Bev’s motto was a good one.
‘If you want people to take notice, dazzle the buggers.’
Even though the market was full of people yelling about how fresh their caulies were and how their spuds were lovely, Keith could hear Aunty Bev now in his head, as clearly as he had in Tracy’s back yard under the brilliant tropical blue sky and the black smoke from Tracy’s dad’s barbecue.
‘Dazzle the buggers.’
Keith stopped pushing his way towards the sugar cane.
An idea was sizzling in his head like one of Tracy’s dad’s sausages.
Of course.
The mistake he’d made at the art show was to paint Mum and Dad the way they actually were.
Wobbly bottoms and dodgy legs.
That wasn’t going to dazzle anyone.
What he should be doing was painting Mum and Dad the way they could be if they pulled their fingers out and got a grip on themselves and started to think positive.
Keith gave a huge grin.
‘Thanks, Aunty Bev,’ he said.
Then he turned and pushed and wriggled his way out of the market as fast as he could.
‘A mural?’ said Mr Dodd.
Come on, thought Keith desperately, you own the biggest hardware shop for about six streets, you must know what a mural is.
‘It’s a large painting on a wall or other vertical surface,’ said Keith.
‘I know what a mural is,’ said Mr Dodd, follo
wing Keith out into the street, ‘I’m just not sure if I want one.’
He put his hands into the pockets of his dustcoat and looked doubtfully up at the side wall of his shop.
‘It’ll brighten up that dirty brickwork no end,’ said Keith.
Mr Dodd frowned.
‘I was planning to rent that wall out,’ he said. ‘For advertising.’ Keith sent an urgent message to his brain. Think. ‘That’s exactly what my mural will be doing,’ said Keith. ‘Advertising.’
Mr Dodd thought about this.
Keith saw a glint of interest appear in his eyes.
‘You mean advertising my paint?’ said Mr Dodd.
‘Um . . . yes,’ said Keith hastily. ‘That’s it. Advertising your paint.’
Mr Dodd’s eyes gleamed and he started tracing words in the air with his hands. ‘Dodds Hardware For All Your Paint Needs. Expert Advice. Lowest Prices.’ He grinned excitedly at Keith. ‘Good, eh?’
Think faster, Keith begged his brain.
‘Actually, Mr Dodd,’ he said, ‘I was thinking of something a bit different.’
‘Rock Bottom Prices?’ said Mr Dodd.
‘A painting of this street,’ said Keith, ‘except instead of doing the houses like they are now-boring front doors and off-white window frames and dirty brick walls—I’ll do them in really good colours so people can see how great their places would look if they bought some paint from you and did them up.’
He stopped, out of breath.
Mr Dodd had gone thoughtful again.
‘And you wouldn’t want any money?’ he said. ‘Just the paint?’
Keith nodded.
‘Are you any good?’ asked Mr Dodd.
Keith unrolled the paintings he’d brought.
He watched anxiously as Mr Dodd scrutinised the first one.
‘That’s my friend Tracy on her roof in Australia chasing cane toads,’ said Keith.
‘Why’s she got green hair?’ said Mr Dodd.
‘It’s a shower cap,’ said Keith. ‘You have to wear protective headgear when you’re chasing cane toads.’
Mr Dodd looked at the next painting.
‘That was the fish-and-chip shop we had In Queensland,’ said Keith.
Mr Dodd was frowning.
Keith held his breath.
‘Nice colour,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘Make sure you use plenty of that Tropical Mango Gloss in the mural.’
Keith felt like hugging Mr Dodd, but he managed to control himself.
Mr Dodd tapped his finger on the painting, pointing to where Tracy was doing a handstand outside the fish-and-chip shop.
‘Don’t have too many people in the mural,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘they’ll obscure the paintwork on the houses.’
‘I won’t,’ said Keith. ‘Just two.’
‘And no scruffs,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘Make them presentable.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Keith happily, ‘they’ll be very presentable.’
4
‘It’s Disneyland,’ said Mitch Wilson.
‘It’s a Nintendo game,’ said Dennis Baldwin.
‘It’s a row of dolls houses seen through the infrared night scope of an F-111 fighter plane,’ said Rami Smith.
‘Blimey,’ said Eric Cox. ‘It’s this street. Why would you paint a street on a wall?’
Keith sighed.
Bet the great painters of history didn’t have to put up with this, he thought. Bet when the great painters of history were risking their lives up a ladder painting a mural they had armed guards to stop the general public making distracting comments.
‘Hey, Shipley,’ Eric Cox yelled, ‘you’ve got the colours all wrong.’
Keith tried to glare down at them, but seeing the ground so far away made him feel giddy and sick. He gripped the ladder tighter and concentrated on the Vivid Purple he was using for number 21’s windowsills.
‘Number 19 hasn’t got a green and pink front door,’ yelled Mitch Wilson.
‘Number 21 hasn’t got red and purple windows,’ yelled Dennis Baldwin.
‘They will have,’ said Rami Smith, ‘after the F-l11 fires its heat-seeking missiles and splatters the whole street with blood and guts.’
Keith sighed again.
‘Nice,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘Very nice. That Custard Yellow on number 23’s front fence looks a treat. And that’s a knockout idea, giving number 25 Mediterranean Blue and Atlantic Green striped guttering.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith.
He didn’t look down, partly because he didn’t want to get giddy again and partly because he needed all his concentration for the Tropical Mango TV aerial he was giving number 27. TV aerials were always fiddly, even on a painting as huge as this one.
‘Keith,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘don’t forget to use some Suntan Gold. I overordered on Suntan Gold and I want to try and shift it before stocktaking.’
‘Don’t worry Mr Dodd,’ said Keith, waving his brush, ‘I’ll be using plenty of Suntan Gold.’
‘Good one,’ said Mr Dodd. ‘I’m closing for lunch now. Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been up that ladder for hours. You must be exhausted.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Keith, hoping his aching arm didn’t drop off there and then in front of Mr Dodd. ‘I want to get this finished before dark.’
Keith almost had second thoughts as he heard Mr Dodd locking up the shop.
A fried egg sandwich would be nice.
But he gritted his teeth and carried on.
Bet the great painters of history didn’t knock off for lunch, he thought. Specially not when they’d almost got to the most important part of a picture.
He sent a message to his aching arms and his aching neck and his aching back and his aching legs.
Stop aching.
Then he finished number 27’s aerial, gave them a Tropical Mango front door, wiped some drips off number 23’s front fence, and touched up a couple of places he’d missed on the road.
And then it was time.
At last.
For the part he’d been waiting for.
Mum and Dad.
Suddenly he was so excited he hardly felt his aching bits at all as he climbed down the ladder to get the tin of Suntan Gold.
‘Mmmm,’ said Mr Browning. ‘Interesting.’
Keith waited anxiously for him to say more. Can’t be easy being an art teacher, thought Keith. You pop out for some groceries in the school holidays, come round a corner with your shopping bags, and there’s one of your pupils finishing off a twenty foot painting.
‘Title?’ asked Mr Browning.
‘Dazzle The Buggers,’ said Keith.
Mr Browning gave him a look, then crossed the road, stared at the mural from a distance and came back over.
‘Excellent use of colour,’ said Mr Browning.
‘Thanks,’ said Keith. ‘Mr Dodd actually chose the colours.’
‘And very good brushwork,’ continued Mr Browning, gazing up at the wall, ‘specially on the two people standing in the middle of the road in their underwear.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith. ‘Actually they’re Swimming costumes.’
He watched proudly as Mr Browning studied Dad’s muscular Suntan Gold legs, non-saggy Suntan Gold lower buttocks, flat Suntan Gold stomach, broad Suntan Gold chest and smiling Suntan Gold face, and Mum’s cascading Goddess Blonde ringlets with Suntan Gold highlights, erect Suntan Gold shoulders, non-droopy Suntan Gold hips, smooth Suntan Gold legs and bunion-free Suntan Gold feet.
‘A superbly-balanced composition,’ said Mr Browning, ‘particularly the way the frying pan full of sausages in the man’s hand is exactly the same size as the Monopoly board under the woman’s arm.’
‘Thanks,’ said Keith.
‘Next term,’ said Mr Browning, ‘remind me to show you a book about the French artist Magritte. He did a lot of paintings like this.’
Keith opened his mouth to ask if Magritte had any luck saving his mum and dad’s lives.
Then he decided he’d rather not
know.
‘Keith,’ said Mr Browning, ‘do your parents know you’ve done this?’
‘No,’ said Keith, ‘not yet.’
‘Amazing,’ said Mum.
‘Incredible,’ said Dad.
‘You did all this by yourself?’ said Mum.
Keith nodded.
He couldn’t understand why he was feeling so giddy.
He wasn’t up the ladder, he was standing on the pavement with Mum and Dad and Mr Dodd.
Then he realised he was holding his breath.
He took a lungful of air without taking his eyes off Mum and Dad, and his ears tingled, partly from the oxygen and partly from the excitement.
It was working.
Mum and Dad were fascinated by themselves as big tanned fit handsome happy people.
Mum’s shoulders were already looking straighter inside her parking inspector’s uniform, and Dad’s bottom, sticking out through the back of his cafe apron, was already looking firmer.
Keith could see the thoughts going through their minds.
Exercise, Dad was thinking. Hair transplant. Sun-tan lamp.
Perm, Mum was thinking. New swimsuit. Get my feet done.
‘Great houses,’ said Dad. ‘Who are those weird people?’
Keith looked over his shoulder.
There was no one there.
He realised Dad meant the people III the mural.
‘Those,’ said Mr Dodd, ‘are people who’ve discovered that repainting the house cuts down on maintenance so much they’re left with bags of time for a holiday in Spain. Isn’t that right, Keith?’
Suddenly Keith was having trouble breathing.
‘It’s a joke,’ said Mum. ‘Keith’s making fun of all those ads for cars and chocolate bars and perfume that are full of people the rest of us couldn’t ever possibly hope to look like. It’s very funny, Keith. I like it.’
Keith was suddenly feeling so giddy he had to hold on to a lamppost.
Why couldn’t they recognise themselves?
They weren’t that different in the mural.
Their faces were the same.
And their hands.
Plus they had their phone numbers written on their tummies in blockout cream.
Stay calm, he told himself.
All that’s happened is that Mum and Dad’s eyesight is going.
‘Lovely brushwork,’ said Dad, ‘but why didn’t you take it right into the corners?’ He pointed up at the brickwork still showing at the top corners of the wall.
A Morris Gleitzman Collection Page 17
