Dr Boogaloo and the Girl Who Lost Her Laughter

by Lisa Nicol

  Blue smiled at the memory. Dr Boogaloo smiled too.

  ‘Any little hee hees in that time?’ asked the Doctor.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ho hos?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘What about tee hees?’

  ‘No,’ said Blue, barely a whisper.

  ‘Haw haws, yuk yuks?’

  Eyes to the floor, Blue shook her head.

  The Doctor could tell what a sensitive child Blue was and abandoned his painful line of questioning. He didn’t want to distress the poor girl unnecessarily.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Dr Boogaloo, scribbling in his notebook, trying not to appear alarmed. But no laughter was definitely a case for alarm! No laughter was serious! Dr Boogaloo hadn’t heard of a case of no laughter since the 1950s and back then people barely laughed, anyway. And it was always adults.

  Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember a single case of a child with No Laughing Syndrome in all his years of musical cures. It was simply unheard of for children not to laugh. Even starving, homeless orphan children! Their laughter had been heard bouncing and echoing off the walls of their empty tummies as they laughed like madmen at their own terrible misfortune.

  Dr Boogaloo got up and pulled down a giant red book from a long shelf lined with giant red books. Printed on the front in big gold lettering were the words:

  He looked up ‘Laughter’ in the index. There was an entry on page 308,704:

  NO LAUGHING SYNDROME

  Also known as No Chuckling, Giggling or

  Chortling Syndrome

  * No Laughers are very difficult to treat, particularly when left without laughter for long periods of time. Not considered serious in adults – who don’t laugh very much, anyway – but critical in children.

  External Causes of No Laughing Syndrome

  * A condition afflicting 0.00000000000000000000000000000067% of people. Often occurs before a war or an environmental disaster of a grand scale. Like canaries in a coalmine, the No Laughers feel vibrational irregularities unfelt by your average Laugher. In 1887, before the catastrophic floods in China, there was an epidemic of No Laughing Syndrome across the world, with 2089 cases recorded. If cause of no laughing is external, it will not be an isolated case and super-sensitive people everywhere will be suffering from No Laughing Syndrome.

  Internal Causes of No Laughing Syndrome

  * Many and varied and almost impossible to pinpoint. Usually related to conditions of the heart or soul.

  Treatment

  * Sometimes responsive to string and wind instruments – particularly brass and woodwinds combined with percussion and obscure African rhythms.

  Dr Boogaloo looked up from his book of cures. ‘I’ll have to run a few tests,’ he said. Dr Boogaloo suspected Blue’s mother’s sense of humour was not quite as brilliant as she thought it was. In fact, the Doctor’s first impression was that she was perhaps a little cold and uncaring. Not at all like most mothers.

  ‘Can you bring Blue back tomorrow and leave her with us for the day?’ asked Dr Boogaloo. ‘I’ll get my wife, Bessie, to take her to the Snorkel Porkel Crumpety Worpel Laughter Clinic for testing.’

  ‘I’m flying to Europe tonight to collect the most beautiful white lamp,’ said Blue’s mother. ‘I’ll arrange for my chauffeur, Melvin, to bring her in.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Dr Boogaloo. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow then, Blue.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Blue

  Melvin drove Blue and her mother home. Blue was relieved her visit to the Doctor was over. She had been nervous all morning about going. How she hated people finding out she couldn’t laugh. She felt deeply ashamed. Surely not being able to laugh was the very worst thing in the world. Blue thought she’d rather not be able to see or hear or talk or walk! Anything would be better than not being able to laugh. What sort of a person can’t laugh?

  Blue lived with her mother and father in a gleaming white mansion. It was so huge and so white, children in the neighbourhood had taken to calling it the ‘Iceberg House’ and, rather unkindly, Blue the ‘Ice Princess’.

  Melvin pulled up at the mansion.

  ‘Bye, Mum,’ said Blue. She leaned in to give her mother a kiss.

  Blue’s mother leaned back, flinching, her eyes scrunched, lips inside out. ‘Sorry, darling, you know kissing messes up my lippy.’ Her mother made three ‘mwah’ noises in Blue’s general direction. ‘The cleaners are here. Your maths coach arrives at five. Airport please, Melvin.’

  Blue got out of the car.

  ‘Thanks, Melvin. Have a great trip, Mum,’ she said, waving and trying her best to look happy. Blue knew how irritating her mother found it having such a misery guts for a daughter. ‘I hope the white lamp is as lovely as it looks online.’

  But Blue’s mother didn’t hear. She had already closed the window of the family’s white stretch limousine and instructed Melvin to hotfoot it to the airport, even though her plane didn’t leave till later that night.

  ‘Lord! Here’s hoping they have some funny movies on the plane,’ Blue’s mother said. ‘I need a laugh almost as much as I need a glass of bubbles. Honestly, Melvin, whatever you do, don’t have children, they ruin your life.’

  Melvin was almost eighty. He had nine children and twenty-three grandchildren, all of whom he loved to bits. Indeed, their pictures were stuck all over the dashboard. A kind of mobile family photo album. Melvin had nicknames for every one of his grandchildren. There was Cheese Ball, Cookie Dough, Lamp Chop and Little Pea. Blue always asked Melvin how Lamp Chop was doing at school, or how Little Pea was going with her dancing lessons, or if Cheese Ball had mastered any new magic tricks. She was that sort of girl. Thoughtful. And always interested in other people. Melvin, proud as punch, loved nothing more than reporting back to Blue what all twenty-three of his grandchildren had been up to that week. But Blue’s mother had never noticed Melvin’s photos. In the ten long years he’d been the family’s chauffeur, she’d never even been interested enough to ask him a single question about himself or his family.

  Blue’s house really was enormous. Her mother had a thing for ‘en suites’, which is a terribly posh word for bathroom. All up, there were nineteen en suites. Or ‘onsweees’, as her mother would say in her terribly fake French accent. Needless to point out, Blue’s mother did not do her own cleaning. Keeping those white bathrooms sparkling was the job of not one but two full-time cleaners, Luz and Tracee. They had recently arrived from the Philippines.

  ‘Why so many toilet, Blue? Too much wooork! Our place in Philippines other way round. Nineteen people, one toilet … ha ha ha ha!’ they would say, snorting with laughter as they slid along the white floors side-by-side with rags on their feet.

  Blue went upstairs to look for Luz and Tracee. She found them in bathroom eleven.

  ‘Ah, thank goodness you home, Blue. We have big exam tomorrow. Tracee got Immunology. I got eCommerce.’

  Blue had been helping Luz and Tracee prepare for their university exams. Tracee was studying medicine so she could become a doctor. Luz was in her first year of a business degree. She had big plans to open a restaurant empire – ‘A sleeping shrimp is carried away by the current, Blue! I’m going to be Queen of Pork, bigger than the Colonel!’ Luz had an old Filipino saying for pretty much everything.

  Blue opened the bathroom cabinet. Hidden behind the soaps and her mother’s mountain of mud masks and beauty products was a pile of textbooks. While Luz and Tracee polished the marble tiles inlaid with pearl and Hawaiian abalone shell, Blue quizzed them on ‘epigenetic modifications’ and ‘digital strategies for revenue growth’. She had no idea what any of it meant. Blue simply loved helping others. It was just the way she was.

  When Blue was sure Luz and Tracee were well enough prepared for their exams, she headed back downstairs to get herself some afternoon tea. Waiting for her on the kitchen bench was a very large parcel. Blue knew straight away who it would be from – her father. He was overseas on business and he always sent her pr
esents. The longer he was away, the more extravagant the presents became. Which meant whatever was inside the box was bound to be pretty extravagant, considering he left on a two-week business trip two years ago.

  Blue missed her father. Especially when he was in a different time zone. At least when their time zones were in sync, she could Skype him to say goodnight and he could blow her a virtual kiss. Last time they’d Skyped, he was in Botswana buying a diamond mine. As a gift, he’d sent Blue a pair of high heels covered in rare pink diamonds. They even had diamonds on the soles. Blue wasn’t too sure why anyone would want diamonds on the soles of their shoes. And, for the life of her, she couldn’t walk in them.

  ‘They are gorgeous!’ Blue’s mother had said. ‘What a perfect gift! People will be drawn to looking at your fabulous feet, rather than your miserable face! Such a thoughtful man, your father.’

  Blue’s mother believed every girl should know how to walk in high heels, and so she’d arranged for Blue to practise daily with an instructor and a pair of ski poles for balance. To tell you the truth, Blue preferred to wear sneakers. And even after a month of lessons, she could hardly take a single step without poles.

  Blue looked at the stamps on the parcel. They were from Namibia and pictured two dusky sunbirds on a branch. Blue carefully peeled off the stamps. She planned to add them to her collection of favourite bird pictures she kept in a beautifully bound book. Blue sliced open the box, and a mountain of white feathers erupted onto the table. She fished them out as best she could; the feathers just seemed to keep on coming. Holding them every which way, she decided the fluffy feather shagpile must be some sort of avant-garde coat.

  Blue was right. She found two holes and put her arms through them. The coat swallowed Blue up completely. It was far too big. Her hands, lost inside the sleeves, were nowhere to be seen. Blue shuffled to the mirror in the hall. She blew away the feathers engulfing her face so that she could see. She looked like Snuffleupagus without the trunk.

  Blue shuffled back to the box and pulled out the card inside.

  To my little ray of sunshine,

  I thought you’d look smashing in this coat. I shot the ostrich myself while on safari in Namibia. Look – here’s a picture of me and big bird! Maybe next school holidays you could come with me on a hunting safari. Send my love to your mama for me.

  There’s no internet out here, so hopefully we can Skype from the next town … maybe …

  Lots of love,

  Daddy

  In the photo, her father was kneeling behind a magnificent ostrich. In one hand he held a rifle. His other hand held up the bird’s head as if he were some evil puppeteer or ventriloquist, its long neck stretched straight up. Spread out either side like a ballerina’s tutu were the flightless bird’s majestic wings.

  Blue ripped the coat off as fast as she could and stuffed it back inside the box. She felt ill. She loved animals. All animals! Even mosquitoes! But especially birds. Blue found many things about her parents difficult to understand, but her father’s love of hunting was one of the hardest. How could anyone shoot such a beautiful creature? How could anyone enjoy shooting such a beautiful creature?

  At moments like this, Blue felt as though she’d been born into the wrong family.

  She looked at the box. Her heart thudded inside her chest. It reminded her of the time she’d begged her parents for a pet and instead they’d bought her a polar-bear rug. A real one! Its legs outstretched like a four-pointed star, its mouth open as if about to catch a fish; a puddle of white fur, the bear inside somehow melted into the floor. ‘Oh, it’s so soft and chic!’ her mother had declared gleefully while rolling about on the rug. ‘And all the fun of a pet without having to pick up any poop!’ Needless to say, Blue never asked for a pet again.

  From the kitchen, Blue could hear the next-door neighbours’ children playing in the garden. They were bouncing on their trampoline, appearing then disappearing behind the fence, their water pistols squirting in a mid air fight.

  ‘Which one of you boys forgot to flush the toilet again?’ yelled a very cranky voice. It was Mrs Taylor.

  ‘It was Ned,’ said Tom.

  ‘No, it wasn’t. It was Riley,’ said Ned.

  ‘It wasn’t me. It must have been Tom,’ said Riley.

  ‘Did not!’ said Tom.

  ‘Of course it was no one again, was it?’ said Mrs Taylor, clearly irritated. ‘Well, your sister’s just dropped my car keys in the bloody toilet and now I’m going to have to fish them out.’

  ‘Ooh, ooh, I’ve got my horseshoe magnet. We could tie it on a string, Mummy, and drop it in. It’s super powerful and you don’t have to stick your hand in Riley’s pee,’ said Ned.

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ said Riley.

  ‘Ouch!’ yelped Ned.

  ‘Don’t kick your brother, Riley! Now, where’s that magnet?’

  ‘Can I do it? Can I? Can I?’ said Tom.

  ‘No, I want to do it. It’s my magnet!’ said Ned.

  ‘Well, it’s my pee!’ said Tom.

  ‘I knew it was you,’ said Ned.

  ‘You did not, you said it was Riley.’

  The Taylors were a very LOUD family. All up, there were three boys, a baby girl called Jeannie and one very barky dog called Moose. Blue’s mother had forbidden her to play with the Taylor children. In fact, she’d built an especially high fence so she didn’t have to look at them.

  ‘Hideous common people!’ Blue’s mother had shrieked. ‘I might have to listen to them, but I don’t have to look at them! All those children! Big families should be banned! They’re noise pollution! They bring down the whole tone of the neighbourhood. They’re affecting the value of my property. People shouldn’t be allowed to keep breeding if it’s going to affect other people’s house prices. It should be illegal!’

  Blue so wished she had a brother or sister to play with, but her mother had categorically ruled out that idea. ‘One is enough!’ she’d said. ‘Your father and I want to travel and read the paper on weekends and have some sort of life for ourselves.’ And after her parents’ idea of a family pet, Blue had felt it best to leave that subject well alone.

  It was true, having lots of children was not very civilised. Mrs Taylor sounded permanently exhausted. She was always yelling at her boys to do this or that. ‘Pick up your wet towels! Who left the bloody Lego all over the floor? Your sister will choke on that! Turn off that bloody computer or I’ll throw it out the bloody window! Just you bloody watch me!’

  Mrs Taylor was always saying ‘bloody’.

  Most days, the Taylors’ place was as noisy as a building site! Crying and fighting and doors being slammed. But to Blue it sounded wonderful. She didn’t mind uncivilised. There was something comfy and snug about all that racket. Whenever she felt lonely or sad, she would sit under the fence and just listen to the demolition derby of their everyday life. Somehow it made her feel less alone.

  You see, ever since Blue’s laughter had vanished, so too had all her friends. She felt left out of some cosmic loop of happiness. Blue tried to hide her terrible problem with a spectacular fake laugh: ‘AAR HA HA HARRR!’ But in truth, she sounded more like a slightly snobby pirate than a ten-year-old girl. Slowly but surely, her friends drifted away. Soon, there was no room for her at the library table. Games in the playground were always full up. And kids on the bus preferred to stand rather than sit next to Blue. Blue tried not to sook about it. After all, what good would that do? But it wasn’t always easy.

  Blue put the box with the coat outside the front door so she couldn’t see it anymore. She poured herself a glass of milk and sat back down at the long white kitchen bench. It was so long she could barely see the other end. The white bench had arrived with her mother’s ‘white phase’. Blue’s mother was always in a phase. And right now it was white. Everything in the kitchen was white – the bench, the chairs, the walls, the cupboards, the fridge, even the fruit bowl! Sometimes Blue had to feel around just to find the fridge.

  Whene
ver Blue’s mother entered a new phase, she would redecorate the entire house. There was nothing she enjoyed more than poring over paint charts. Since her mother’s white phase began, Blue had discovered just how many shades of white there were. Magnolia white, Coconut Delight white, Chantilly Lace white – Blue couldn’t tell the difference. And she wasn’t fond of white, either. The house felt about as homey as a hospital.

  Before her mother’s white phase, it was lavender. And before that, it was beige. You can probably guess what phase she was in when she named her daughter Blue. And after blue, came grey. During her grey phase, Blue’s mother tried to change Blue’s name to ‘Slate’. She thought paint charts were a fabulous place to find unusual names. Before Blue was Blue, her mother called her Magenta. And before that, she was Mahogany, then Gladiola, and then Shimmering Honeydew! In fact, her father still called her ‘Maggie’ – short for Magenta. Which was fair enough, considering that was her name the last time he left on his overseas business trip.

  ‘Slate is sooo sophisticated and original! I don’t know what I was thinking when I called her Blue. It’s such a downer name,’ her mother had explained to the Registrar-General – the person you need to see when you want to change your child’s name. Luckily for Blue, the Registrar-General disagreed. Since it would have been Blue’s fifth name change, she declared it was no longer in the public interest and refused. Blue wrote a letter to the Registrar-General to say thank you. She didn’t fancy the name Slate at all.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Blue practised her gymnastics in the garden. With a bit of luck, her dad would Skype her any day now. She couldn’t wait to tell him about Dr Boogaloo and show him her newly mastered back-walkover-into-a-handstand-splits-in-the-middle-then-into-a-cartwheel-front-flip-backflip routine.