by Anne Fine
‘Is he kind?’
‘He was always all right with me and the cats.’
I lost my temper then.
‘If he was never any better than all right,’ I snapped, ‘why did you bother to have me?’
Mum laughed, and stretched out her hand to stroke my hair.
‘Oh, you,’ she said. ‘You’re all right, too, you are.’
You see? Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. So I gave up.
But then, a few days later in school, we started something new: a project on Families. Mr Russell told everyone to be quiet, and then he tossed up to see whether we were to start with mothers or fathers. And fathers won, so fathers it was.
‘I haven’t got one,’ Andrew said.
‘Neither have I.’
‘Mine’s in Australia.’
‘Lucky you!’
Then Mr Russell told everyone to be quiet again. ‘If you haven’t got your own, real, original, biological father,’ he said, ‘pick out the person who comes closest. Pick someone -’ He paused, and waved his hands around in the air, searching for an example. ‘Pick someone you would ask to fix your bike.’
‘I haven’t got a bike,’ said Joel.
‘My mum always fixes my bike,’ said Sarah.
‘I asked my dad to fix my bike,’ grumbled Arif. ‘Six weeks ago! He hasn’t even looked at it yet.’ He scowled, and added with real bitterness: ‘And he’s my own, real, original, biological dad.’
‘My uncle fixes my bike. He’s got a bike shop.’
‘Nothing has ever gone wrong with my bike.’
‘I’ve never even had a bike,’ Joel said sadly.
‘At least you’ve got a father,’ said Andrew.
Joel was just telling us he thought he’d much prefer a bike, when Mr Russell told everyone to be quiet again.
‘Father,’ he said. ‘Or someone like it. I want a picture or a photograph, and two whole sides of writing, by Friday.’
We all groaned loudly. And by the time Mr Russell had told everyone to be quiet again, the bell had rung.
I ran off home.
Mum was leaning against the draining-board. She was wearing her plum-coloured plastic boots and her fishnet stockings. She was fiddling with her tarantula earrings. Crusher Maggot was slouching at the kitchen table, wearing funny dark glasses and playing a tune on his skull with his knuckles.
What do they do all day long when I’m away at school, that’s what I’d like to know.
I asked Mum:
‘Do you have a photo of my real dad?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘No. I don’t know. No. Yes.’
I do try to be very patient.
‘Which?’ I said. ‘Yes or no?’
‘Both, really,’ she replied. ‘I do have a photo of him, yes. But I’m afraid that my left elbow got in front of most of his face, and what little of him is showing is terribly blurry. You’d never know that it was him.’
‘Weren’t there any other photos?’
Mum tipped her head on one side to think. One of the tarantula earrings crawled over her cheek, and the other got tangled in her hair. It was very off-putting.
‘There were some others,’ she recalled. ‘But you were in them, too, so he took those with him.’
I thought that was a little daft, myself. One of them might have realized I would grow up, and want to see them. But, still as patient as could be, I asked:
‘Where is this famous photo of part of his blurred face and your left elbow?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Mum said. ‘I think I’ve lost it.’
(I simply can’t think why they call it ‘home’ work. I’d stand a better chance of getting it done on the moon.)
‘I need a photo,’ I told her, ‘to take to school.’
‘Take that nice one of Crusher,’ she told me.
I’ve mentioned this photograph of Crusher before, I think. Do you remember? It’s the one with his hair in flaming red and orange spikes, and his teeth ferociously bared, and his tattoo showing.
‘No, thank you,’ I answered as politely as possible. ‘I’d like one of my own, real, original, biological father.’
‘All right,’ said Crusher. ‘Suit yourself. I’ll ask him for one next time I see him.’
I turned and stared.
‘See him?’ I said. ‘Do you get to see him?’
‘Quite often,’ Crusher said. ‘I always fill up with petrol at his garage. Why, I stopped in and had a couple of words with him only a week ago.’
I was amazed. Simply amazed.
‘How is he?’ I asked. ‘How is my very own, real, original, biological father?’
Crusher wasn’t at all irritated by this display of crippling sarcasm.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘He was all right.’
But Mum was a little put out by my rudeness.
‘Original and biological he may be,’ she said. ‘But who fixes your bike?’
(I’d really like to know where they pick up all this fix-your-bike business.)
I was still angry.
‘Next time,’ I said, as cold as ice, ‘next time that someone drops in to have a few words with my own, real, original, biological father, do you think they might possibly bother to mention it to me?’
‘I’ll do better than that,’ Crusher offered. ‘I’ll take you down there.’
‘When?’
‘When you like.’
I thought about it.
‘I need the photo before Friday,’ I told him.
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow. All right.’
So that’s how it came about that the very next day I borrowed next door’s fancy new camera, and Crusher borrowed the other side’s car since his own still wasn’t going, and I travelled with him all the way down the motorway. It meant I had to take the whole afternoon off school. Mum said it didn’t matter since I’d be doing school work in taking the photo, but I didn’t dare tell that one to Mr Russell. That sort of thinking really annoys him. He calls it ‘slack’. I did consider trying to explain, but he was in one of his terribly busy moods and in the end I just did what everyone else in the class does, and told him that I had to go to the dentist.
It took Crusher and me exactly two hours and forty minutes to drive down the motorway as far as the garage.
It was a big one, set back a little from the road. There were several lines of pumps, and every one of them was busy with people filling cars and motorbikes.
Crusher pulled up beside the air and water. ‘Tell you what,’ he suggested, picking next door’s fancy new camera off the back seat and thrusting it into my hands. ‘I’ll give you over to your own, real, original, biological dad, and then I’ll nip off for a while and do what I was going to do.’
‘What were you going to do?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious.
First Crusher looked blank, then a little bit shifty.
‘I really haven’t the time to stop and explain,’ he told me.
I gave him a look – one of my searching looks.
‘You drove all the way down here just to bring me to see my dad, didn’t you?’ I accused him.
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Crusher.
‘Oh yes you did.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You did. I can tell.’
‘All right,’ said Crusher, embarrassed. ‘All right. Maybe I did, but I certainly didn’t drive all this way just to sit in the front seat of the car arguing with you.’
And he got out.
I followed. Crusher was looking round the garage forecourt. Suddenly he nudged my elbow.
‘There,’ he said, nodding towards a man in overalls who was bending over a pile of cut-price tyres. ‘There he is.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. That’s him.’
And Crusher bellowed across the crowded forecourt:
‘Hey, Bill! Bill! Here’s your young Minna come to see you!’
The man in overalls lifted his head and
stared in our direction. I say ‘our’ direction, but it was only ‘my’ direction by then, because Crusher Maggot had disappeared in a flash after making his announcement, and I was left standing alone on the petrol-station forecourt, clutching a camera, and ten yards from my own, real, original, biological father I hadn’t seen for ages.
It was all right. In fact, he was jolly nice, really. He gave me tons of comics and free bars of chocolate from the garage shop, and a brand-new film for the people next door to make up for my borrowing their camera. He helped me take a lot of photos, and even showed me how to set the time-release button so we could get some of us standing together with his arm round my shoulders. He made me promise to send him copies of all the ones that came out properly, and he laughed like a drain when I told him about the only photo of him that Mum has left.
He asked quite a lot of questions about our family, and he seemed pretty interested when I told him all about Crummy Dummy. He said he was glad to hear I had company now, and he made me promise to send a photo of her, too. And a good one of Mum.
He asked me about school, and my friends, and the house. He said that he was very pleased to hear I could swim, and he sounded interested in my roller-skating. Then he left someone else looking after the forecourt, and took me for a spin up the motorway in one of the open sports cars parked round the back of the garage.
That was fantastic. The wind blew my hair till it stuck out like Mum’s. (He said I looked a bit like Mum, anyway) He drove miles faster than Crusher Maggot does, and when I told him so, he grinned, and said that he was glad to hear it.
I didn’t know quite what to call him. I tried to say the word ‘Dad’ once or twice, but it sort of got stuck because I didn’t know him well enough yet. Then he said: ‘Why don’t you just call me Bill? Everyone else does.’ And that was easier.
When we drove back towards the garage, I could see Crusher standing, waiting, on the forecourt.
Bill slowed the car right down. And just before we came close enough for Crusher to overhear, he asked me privately:
‘Do you get on with him? Is he all right?’
I looked at Crusher, who was watching me anxiously to see how I was getting on with my own, real, original, biological father.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He’s all right.’
‘Good,’ Bill said. ‘Good.’
So that was that, really. The three of us shared a quick cup of tea out of the machine, and I ate one more chocolate bar, and took one more for the journey. Bill insisted on filling the car up for nothing. ‘It’s not every day my daughter comes down to visit me,’ he said. Then Crusher and I got in and drove off.
I waved, and Bill waved and shouted that he’d pop in next time he came up our way, and I was to give his best wishes to Mum. Then we were out of sight.
Crusher settled himself more comfortably in the seat, then:
‘Well?’
‘All right,’ I told him. ‘He was all right.’
When we got home, it was dark. Mum was really pleased to see us. All of the photos came out fine. Some were really good. (I’ve got the best ones pinned on my bedroom wall now.) I even managed the two whole pages of writing about my own, real, original, biological father – though I could tell that Mr Russell was really disappointed that I’d chosen to do him instead of Crusher Maggot, whom he’s seen hanging around for me at the school gates.
And now, as you can see, I’m in the habit too. Yesterday, when Arif and I were sitting on the curbside watching poor Crusher trying to fix our bikes, Arif asked me what my real father was like. And, without even thinking, I answered:
‘Oh, he’s all right.’
Sometimes I worry that I’m getting just like all the rest of them, honestly I do.
7
Elk Money
I’ve never been in trouble at school before. And, mind you, even this time it wasn’t really my fault. It was my mum’s.
I may have mentioned to you before that, when it comes to getting me to school every day, and on time, my mum could do better. It’s really up to me. If I didn’t watch out for myself, I’d never get through the gates in the morning before the bell rings and, if I did, I’d have the world’s worst bags under my eyes.
You’re going to find it a little hard to believe, but this is how bedtime generally goes in our house:
ME: I really think I ought to be going up to bed now.
MUM: (astonished) Why?
ME: (patiently) Because it’s getting rather late.
MUM: It’s not that late.
ME: (looking at my watch) It’s well past my bedtime.
MUM: Oh, you’re getting older all the time. You don’t need that much sleep.
ME: I do. Look at me. I’ve already got great big grey bags under my eyes.
MUM: That’s just the light.
ME: No, it isn’t.
MUM: Well, what about this board game? Surely you can stay up just long enough to finish the game? It’s nearly over.
ME: It’s nowhere near over. It’ll take ages.
MUM: (sulking) Oh, well. Suit yourself…
ME: (firmly) Mum, I need my sleep!
MUM: Oh, all right. Go on, then. I’ll come up in a little while and tuck you in.
ME: (really relieved) Oh, good, Mum. Thanks.
See? It’s ridiculous. It’s the same battle every single night. I just can’t stand it. And often I turn up at school the next morning, yawning, with real grey-blue shadows under my eyes. And don’t think Mr Russell doesn’t notice.
Then, one day, I was really late. And that wasn’t my fault, either. It was Mum’s.
It happened on Tuesday. Tuesday’s the day we’re all supposed to bring in our Elk Money. It isn’t much. It’s only ten pence each, but it’s important because our class is sponsoring this elk. All the schools in our district were sent these letters from the local zoo, begging for sponsors. Mr Russell is very democratic by nature, so our class got to vote for what we wanted. We argued for weeks, and in the end we voted to ask for a gorilla. But we had taken so long discussing the matter democratically that elks were all the zoo had left by then. Miss MacPherson across the corridor isn’t a bit democratic by nature. She just chose any old animal herself, and wrote back the same day. She chose the gorilla and her class got it. Henry Boot overheard Mr Russell muttering something in the corridor about ‘simple dictatorship being a very easy matter’, but Miss MacPherson snapped back at him pretty sharpish about ‘the limits of democracy’, and was cross enough not to share her gorilla.
So our class has this elk. Her name is Elsie and she eats a lot. ‘Keep those ten pences rolling into school,’ pleads Mr Russell. I think he worries that if enough of us forget to shell out, then he will have to make up the amount himself. We all know exactly how poor he is, because they’re always telling you about teachers’ pay on the telly. So we all try very hard to remember our Elk Money every Tuesday, and Mr Russell gets quite testy if we forget.
And I forgot. Well, I didn’t forget. I remembered only too well. It was just that I hadn’t any money of my own, and Mum refused to lend me any of hers. It’s not that she’s mean. She’s not. In fact, Gran says she’s positively daft with her money. It’s just that she disapproves of zoos. Hates them, in fact. She says the animals are cramped and miserable and bored silly, and now almost everyone’s got a colour telly there’s no excuse for zoos at all, and she won’t support them.
‘I’m not asking you to build a new east wing for the monkeys,’ I said. ‘I just want to borrow ten pence Elk Money off you. That’s all. Ten pence isn’t going to keep the zoo gates open, is it?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mum. ‘I really am. But you know how I feel about zoos. So I can’t lend you your Elk Money.’
‘But, Mum! If I haven’t got ten pence, I’ll be in trouble!’
‘I’m sorry, Minna. But the answer’s no.’
I must say, I was pretty shocked. Wouldn’t you be? Your very own flesh and blood prepared to drop you in the soup like that, r
ather than lend a miserable old ten pence!
Extraordinary!
In fact, so extraordinary that I thought about it all the way to school that morning. I couldn’t help it. I was trying to work out just what it was about the lives of animals in zoos that so offended her.
And maybe I did drift off into a bit of a daydream about what it really would feel like to be a gorgeous, powerful, wild tiger locked up for ever in a small pen and yard no larger than somebody’s back garden. And maybe I did make-believe a little that I was a baby chimpanzee, chock-full of beans, and couldn’t ever swing any higher or wider than the top of the cage or the sides of the cage. Maybe I did get thinking really deeply, and slow down walking, and start to drag my feet a bit along the paving-stones, and take my time, wondering, wondering…
I didn’t know I was going to be that late, did I? And there was absolutely no need at all for Mr Russell to say in quite so waspish a tone of voice:
‘I’ve had quite enough of this, Minna! Last week you said you had a dental appointment and disappeared for the entire afternoon. On Monday you turned up so tired I could see the bags under your eyes. Today you’re horribly late and, on top of everything, you’ve even forgotten to bring in your Elk Money! Now I’m going to send a note home with you today, asking your mother to come in to school tomorrow morning and have a little chat about things.’
My eyes must have gone as round as saucers. I simply couldn’t think what good he thought talking to my Crummy Mummy would do!
But there’s no accounting for teachers, so I just kept quiet.
I did try to get Mum to dress sensibly for the meeting, though.
‘Not the angora top with the puff sleeves and the low bosom,’ I told her. ‘And not the purple, scalloped wellies. Not the plastic viper necklace. And no yellow eye-shadow. Please, Mum.’
Mum put her head inside a Tesco paper bag.
‘I suppose you’d like me to go in to school like this,’ she said.
‘That’s nice,’ said Crusher Maggot. ‘That really suits you.’
