A Morris Gleitzman Collection

by Morris Gleitzman

  Keith and Tracy walked back into the cafe.

  They stopped and stared.

  A tall, sophisticated figure was standing at the stove in a cloud of smoke jiggling a frying pan.

  For a sec Keith thought Dad had gone off to watch telly and been replaced by a nightclub playboy in a tropical shirt who liked to cook his own sausages.

  Then the figure stepped out of the smoke and Keith saw it was Dad.

  ‘What do you think?’ grinned Dad, modelling the shirt. ‘Bit of all right, eh?’

  Even the parrots on the shirt looked impressed with how smart they were.

  Keith tingled with excitement.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘brilliant.’

  ‘And,’ said Dad, ‘smell.’

  He bent over and Keith sniffed his neck. A sweet spicy aroma of tropical fruit and seaweed and air freshener filled Keith’s nostrils.

  ‘Barrier Reef For Men,’ said Dad. ‘The real stuff.’

  Keith felt dizzy, partly from the amount of Barrier Reef Dad was wearing, and partly from happiness.

  ‘Couple of little prezzies,’ said Aunty Bev, ‘to say thanks for your dad’s hospitality.’ She gave Keith a big wink.

  Keith beamed at her and wondered if people who wore really tight clothes could be nominated as saints.

  ‘OK,’ said Dad, ‘let’s eat.’

  He led them all over to the stove and Keith saw what was on the benchtop.

  A bowl of creamy batter.

  Pieces of cod in matzo flour.

  Hand-cut potatoes.

  ‘Fish and chips!’ yelled Keith in delight.

  Just like the old days.

  It was working.

  Dad really was perking up.

  ‘Yum,’ said Tracy, ‘I’m starving.’

  While Dad slid the fish through the batter and dropped them into a big pan of foaming oil, Keith glanced around the cafe.

  The customers were taking notice of the new Dad too.

  A couple of women over by the window couldn’t take their eyes off him, and they were both over seventy.

  As Keith and Tracy and Aunty Bev and Dad ate the fish and chips, Keith decided it was the best meal he’d had since Mum and Dad split up.

  Even though Aunty Bev only ate three mouthfuls of fish and no chips.

  ‘Would you prefer sausages?’ Keith asked her. ‘Or a burger?’

  Aunty Bev just smiled and shook her head.

  What a trooper, thought Keith. Doesn’t want to off end Dad.

  Then Tracy told them about her second cousin Glennys who made fish sausages once and nearly choked the cat because she forgot to take the bones out.

  Dad chuckled.

  Aunty Bev added that she wasn’t surprised as Glennys always ate prawns with the shells on.

  Dad roared.

  It continued to be Keith’s best meal right up to the point where Dad offered Tracy seconds.

  ‘Yes please,’ said Tracy, ‘this fish is tops.’

  Before Dad could put a couple more pieces on Tracy’s plate, Aunty Bev raised an arm. Keith sent her an urgent message.

  Leave it out.

  The message didn’t get through.

  Aunty Bev began tweaking.

  Tracy’s face fell.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I won’t have any more, thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Dad.

  ‘I’m feeling a bit tired,’ said Tracy. ‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit.’

  Keith watched her go with concern.

  ‘Is she OK?’ said Dad.

  ‘Just a bit highly-strung,’ said Aunty Bev. ‘Always has been.’

  Funny, thought Keith, I’ve never noticed that.

  He resisted the temptation to tell Aunty Bev how too much aerobics could be damaging for kids whose bones were still growing.

  After all, Aunty Bev was almost a saint.

  But as soon as he’d eaten Tracy’s bits offish, he went up to see how she was.

  The first thing Keith saw as he got to the top of the stairs were the tins lying on his bedroom floor.

  Corned beef.

  Apricot halves.

  Both empty.

  Then, as he reached the doorway, he saw Tracy.

  She was sitting on his bed reading one of his video game magazines and spooning baked beans into her mouth with the fold-out spoon on her Swiss Army knife.

  Poor thing, thought Keith. Her body clock’s all haywire. One minute she wants to go to bed, the next she wants to have breakfast.

  ‘Tracy,’ he said softly, ‘why don’t you ask Aunty Bev to leave the aerobics till you’ve got over your jet lag? She’s a reasonable woman, she’ll understand.’

  Tracy stared at him, startled.

  He waited for her to say something.

  She tried to, but Keith could see she couldn’t find the right words.

  He was glad he hadn’t had jet lag this bad when he went to Australia.

  Suddenly Tracy jumped up and dropped the tin and pushed past him and ran down the stairs.

  Keith stood there for a second, stunned, watching the baked beans make a puddle on the floor.

  Then he realised what was going on.

  ‘Wait,’ he shouted as he hurried down after her. ‘It’s OK. They’re for you.’

  10

  Sometimes, thought Keith, as his feet pounded the dark pavement and his lungs burned, it can be a real pain having a best friend who can run faster than you.

  He didn’t catch up with Tracy till they were almost at Mum’s block of flats.

  She was standing under a street light looking lost and tearful.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he gasped, collapsing against the light pole, ‘you can eat as much of that stuff as you like. Mr Kristos doesn’t mind.’

  She didn’t seem to hear.

  She was glaring up at the tower blocks looming all around them.

  ‘I’ve forgotten which one’s your mum’s,’ she said angrily, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Pretty dumb, eh?’

  Keith was shocked.

  Tracy’s sense of direction was legendary in Orchid Cove. Mr Gambaso in the milk bar reckoned you could blindfold her anywhere in North Queensland and she’d find her way to his hamburger counter without help.

  ‘Come on,’ said Keith gently, ‘this way.’

  On the way over to Mum’s block Keith composed a letter to the airlines suggesting they put a notice in their inflight magazines warning that jet lag could play greater havoc with people’s bedtimes and sense of direction than was generally believed.

  As they climbed the stairs to Mum’s floor, Keith took Tracy’s hand to show her he understood.

  After a few seconds she pulled her hand away.

  ‘I’m alright,’ she said quietly.

  While he let her into the flat, he tried to think of something else he could do to help.

  ‘Would you like a sandwich?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got some Vegemite and tinned beetroot.’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I just want to go to bed.’

  She went into the bedroom and closed the door.

  Keith sighed.

  Poor old Tracy, he thought. She’s probably homesick as well.

  He decided to make the Vegemite and beetroot sandwich anyway. Even if she didn’t feel like eating it, just looking at it would probably make her feel better.

  He was on his way to the kitchen when someone came out of the bathroom.

  Keith blinked.

  For a fleeting second he thought they were being burgled by someone with attractive hair and good posture.

  Then he realised it was Mum.

  She was wearing a lilac tracksuit that hugged her body.

  Her hair was curly and bounced as she walked.

  Her face was smooth and her eyelashes were thick and her lips were red.

  Keith knew, heart pounding with excitement, that it wasn’t because she’d been eating beetroot sandwiches.

  ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘you look great.’

/>   ‘Bev needed a guinea pig to try out some new beauty products on,’ she said with an embarrassed grin. ‘And to say thank you she insisted I borrow this outfit. I can only just squeeze into it.’

  Keith could see what she meant.

  Think positive, he told himself. It’s meant to be skintight. Mum’s just got a bit more skin than Aunty Bev, that’s all. At least she’s holding her tummy in and keeping her shoulders back.

  ‘It’s a knockout,’ he said happily.

  ‘I’m glad you’re home early,’ said Mum. ‘I was about to ring you at the cafe to let you know I’ve just been invited away for the weekend.’

  Keith stared at her in delight.

  ‘It’s only for two nights,’ she said quickly, ‘with some people from work. They’ve got a caravan at Bognor.’

  Keith wanted to throw his arms round her and give her a hug, but was afraid she’d smudge.

  You’re a wonder Aunty Bev, he thought joyfully, a blinking marvel.

  It was working.

  Everything was going to be OK.

  ‘They’re picking me up in half an hour,’ said Mum. ‘I know it’s very short notice, what with Tracy and Bev being here . . .’

  ‘Mum,’ said Keith, struggling to keep his voice from wobbling, ‘I want you to go.’

  Keith crept into the bedroom.

  As his eyes got used to the gloom he saw Tracy lying on the bed, eyes closed.

  Carefully he put the Vegemite and beetroot sandwich on the chest of drawers next to her.

  He sent her a quiet message.

  When you wake up, I hope the jet lag’s gone and I hope seeing something familiar makes being in a strange country a bit less stressful.

  Tracy opened her eyes.

  ‘Keith,’ she said, ‘I reckon what you’re doing to your mum and dad sucks.’

  Keith opened his mouth but nothing came out.

  ‘You’re trying to make them into something they’re not,’ she said, ‘and I reckon that’s crook.’

  Keith tried to stay calm.

  She can’t help it, he reminded himself, she’s just having a relapse.

  It was no good.

  He felt his face getting hot.

  ‘I’m trying to save them from being alone,’ he said.

  Tracy sat up.

  ‘Perhaps they want to be alone,’ she said.

  Sometimes, thought Keith with an exasperated sigh, best mates can be really thick.

  ‘Nobody wants to be alone,’ he said. ‘Look at Mr Mellish. Being alone killed him.’

  ‘How do you know?’ said Tracy.

  Keith decided that all long-distance planes should have a health warning printed on them.

  FLYING CAN INJURE YOUR BRAIN.

  ‘Because,’ said Keith, ‘he told me. And he told me it could happen to Mum and Dad. He came back from the dead to tell me.’

  Tracy swung her legs off the bed and pulled her shoes on.

  ‘Prove it,’ she said.

  Keith crouched by Mr Mellish’s back steps, his heart thumping, partly from the sprint across the garden, partly because he was worried the neighbours had heard and were at that moment rummaging around for torches and kitchen knives, but mostly because he couldn’t hear a single mournful wail.

  He strained his ears.

  Nothing.

  ‘Well,’ said Tracy, ‘what now?’

  Keith thought frantically.

  He needed something to keep her occupied while he tried to make contact with Mr Mellish.

  Keith turned to her dark shape crouched next to him.

  ‘See if you can find a key,’ he whispered. ‘Mind out for glass, I broke a milk bottle last time.’

  While Tracy shone her torch around the steps, Keith sent an urgent message to Mr Mellish.

  Sorry about this, I know it’s rude disturbing you this late, but if you could explain the situation to Tracy it would be a huge help. Thanks.

  He strained his ears again.

  There it was.

  Very faint.

  Almost drowned out by the distant hum of traffic.

  But definitely a wail.

  ‘Ow!’ said Tracy.

  ‘Shhh,’ whispered Keith, ‘I can hear him.’

  ‘I’ve just cut myself,’ said Tracy.

  Keith sighed.

  It was his fault for allowing a jet-lagged person near broken glass.

  ‘But I’ve found the key,’ she whispered. ‘It must have been in the milk bottle.’

  Keith took the torch and had a look at the cut. It was on one of Tracy’s fingers and even though it was small it was bleeding quite a lot.

  Keith offered her his hanky, but she said no.

  He turned his attention back to listening.

  The wail was still there.

  Just.

  ‘Hear it?’ he whispered.

  ‘No,’ said Tracy.

  ‘Don’t suck so loud,’ said Keith.

  Tracy stopped sucking her finger and listened.

  ‘I still can’t hear it,’ she said.

  Keith took a deep breath and licked his dry lips.

  He had hoped they wouldn’t have to do this, but now he realised they had no choice.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered, his heart thumping even louder than before, ‘you’ll hear better inside.’

  Inside the dark house Keith sent an urgent message to the fish and chips in his stomach.

  Don’t panic.

  Stay where you are.

  This is just the normal musty smell of a house that’s been shut up for a bit.

  It is not, repeat not, the smell of rotting flesh hanging off the putrid and decomposing body of a ghost.

  ‘I still can’t hear anything,’ said Tracy.

  Keith listened.

  She was right.

  The wailing had stopped.

  ‘He’s probably just having a rest: whispered Keith. ‘You probably get out of breath easily when you’re dead.’

  Tracy took the torch and shone it around.

  A ghostly white shape loomed over them.

  Keith flinched.

  But it wasn’t Mr Mellish, it was the water heater above the kitchen sink.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Keith as the torchlight shone on a pile of mould-covered plates. ‘Vegetable scraps. Meat scraps. Bread scraps. He obviously didn’t die of a bad diet.’

  Keith took the torch and shone it into the cupboards.

  ‘No empty bottles,’ he added, ‘so it couldn’t have been drink.’

  He shone the torch around the kitchen.

  ‘And no microwave,’ he concluded, ‘so it wasn’t a radiation leak.’

  He shone the torch on Tracy.

  ‘Looks like it was loneliness alright,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Or his heart going bung,’ said Tracy. ‘Or cancer. Or him choking on a vegie. Or . . .’

  Tracy stopped.

  She listened intently.

  Keith could hear it too.

  The mournful wail.

  ‘See,’ whispered Keith, heart pounding, ‘he’s telling us it was loneliness and we’ve got to save Mum and Dad from the same fate. Satisfied? OK, let’s go home now.’

  He tried to steer Tracy towards the back door, but she took the torch and pulled away from him.

  ‘Let’s have a squiz,’ she said and moved off into the darkness towards the wail.

  ‘Wait,’ said Keith, following her down a narrow hallway, ‘he might not want to meet us in person.’

  A stairway loomed up to his left.

  ‘It’s coming from upstairs,’ said Tracy. ‘Come on.’

  Keith felt sick.

  Nice one, he thought as he went after her up the stairs, forty million best mates in the world and I get the maniac cane-toad hunter with the guts of steel.

  Still, he told himself as they crept along the landing towards the open door the wail was coming through, that’s probably just as well. Because when we see what’s in that bedroom I’ve only got fish and chips to keep down, but s
he’s got corned beef, apricot halves and baked beans.

  As they slowly poked their heads round the door, Tracy gripped his arm.

  She was shaking just as much as him.

  He hoped that when they’d finished screaming she wouldn’t be too exhausted to run for it.

  The torch lit up the room.

  Keith opened his mouth to yell.

  But he didn’t.

  Because in the neat little bedroom with its neat little bed there wasn’t a ghost to be seen.

  Just a small thin shivering wailing black and grey dog.

  11

  Keith and Tracy and the dog were all still shivering when they got back to Mum’s place.

  ‘Hope it hasn’t caught a chill in the night air,’ said Keith, anxiously peeking inside his jacket for signs of a runny nose.

  The dog peered out at him with mournful eyes.

  Keith could feel its ribs quivering against his own.

  ‘Dogs are pretty tough,’ said Tracy. ‘Buster shut himself in the freezer once and we didn’t find him for twenty minutes. Would have been longer except we heard him coughing up frozen peas.’

  Keith stroked the dog’s head.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ he said. ‘It’s probably just suffering from overexcitement like us.’

  ‘That and not having anything to eat or drink for nine days,’ said Tracy.

  They all had some warm milk, and then the dog had some more.

  And some more.

  And some more.

  By the time it had finished its fourth bowl they’d all stopped shivering.

  Keith and Tracy lay on the kitchen floor watching the dog lick milk off its paws and face.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Keith. ‘I couldn’t go nine hours without food, let alone nine days.’

  ‘Wolves can go ages without food,’ said Tracy, ‘and all dogs are descended from wolves. Except Buster, he’s descended from a garbage disposal unit.’

  The dog was looking at Keith again with its sad eyes.

  ‘Shouldn’t we give it some solids?’ said Keith.

  ‘Not too much at first,’ said Tracy, ‘or it’ll get gut-ache. Try it with a bit of sugar cane.’

  Keith got the sugar cane out of the fridge and sawed a piece off with the bread knife and put it on the floor in front of the dog.

  The dog sniffed it, chewed it half-heartedly, then went to sleep.

  ‘Buster does the same thing with cane toads,’ said Tracy.

  Keith lifted the dog onto his jacket and watched its ribs rise and fall under its straggly black and grey fur.