Love From Joy

by Jenny Valentine

  I am not sure that Benny is being honest about how bad it is. I am completely one hundred per cent certain that you-know-who took his lunch money, and threw his bag over a wall, and broke his new phone. This is the saddest and most afraid I have ever seen him. It is like the Benny I know is being buried under something heavy and he is trying his best to clamber out but he is just too tired.

  So I start digging.

  Because he hasn’t got any lunch, we share my cheese-and-cucumber sandwich, my bag of cherry tomatoes and a banana muffin. While we are sharing, I ask him some questions about Clark Watson, like, ‘Have you always known him?’ and, ‘Is his brother friends with your brother?’ and, ‘Does he have any other friends?’

  Benny just shrugs. And chews. He is being about as enthusiastic as Claude.

  I say, ‘Does your mum know you broke your phone?’ and Benny shrugs again.

  I say, ‘Where did you last see your school bag?’

  I say, ‘Where is your lunch money exactly?’

  Benny has less than nothing to say. He seems very interested in the writing on the side of my juice box, for much longer than it should actually be taking to read.

  This is not the Benny I am used to having lunch with. He has shrugged more in this one conversation than in the whole entire time I have known him. He is hiding from me and he does not want to be found, just like Clark Watson’s kind side, and Mrs Hunter’s approval, and Claude’s sense of humour, and Grandad’s cat, and Mum and Dad’s actually listening, and all the other things that are missing or hidden or sneaking about in the deep and murky dark.

  Benny is too afraid of Clark to tell the truth about what is happening, and I think he wants me to agree with him and join in. I am supposed to block my ears and cover my eyes and seal my lips and keep my nose out, because Benny doesn’t want anyone to know or talk or even think about the problem. This must be an example of a secret you are absolutely not allowed to tell, even when you want to, even when you think you should. I am not sure I’m going to be any good at those. I am not at all sure I am the kind of person who can watch her best best friend shrinking before her eyes and do nothing to fix it.

  But instead of saying what I really think, I change the subject.

  I talk about how fast greyhounds and whippets can run. I ask Benny what kind of dog he would get if he was allowed one. And what animal he would be if he could pick one. I ask him why Labradoodles aren’t called Poobradors. I give him an update on the Buster situation. I do all of this because when you are looking for real buried treasure, you have to dig very carefully. You have to go slowly and use special spoons and little pencils and tiny brushes that move aside specks of dust, one at a time. You can’t just race ahead and wave a big shovel around and uncover the prize. That’s not how it works.

  Rare and precious things are no good to anyone if they are smashed to smithereens.

  After school we go to Benny’s house. Our journey up the stairs this time is uneventful. Nobody throws anything and nobody gets stung by stone wasps and I for one am extremely relieved. Inside, Benny’s dad Ed is listening to a piece of music with my name in it. He is conducting an invisible orchestra in the sitting room and the volume is turned up mind-bendingly loud. I am trying to work out if it might be a good idea or the right time to try and talk to him about Benny, and how worried and sad he is, but Ed has his eyes closed inside the music, and he wouldn’t be able to hear me even if I shouted about Clark Watson at the top of my voice.

  Angela comes in with a bowl of green apples that are the exact same colour as the scarf she is wearing in her hair.

  ‘AH,’ she yells, over some trumpets. ‘ “ODE TO JOY”. HOW BRILLIANT. DO YOU LIKE IT?’

  I make the shape of the word ‘YES’ with my mouth and I nod at the same time.

  She hands me an apple. She has gold rings on her fingers and gold hoops in her ears.

  She looks around the room. She makes the shape of ‘WHERE’S BENNY?’ and I point to the bathroom.

  ‘OH,’ she says, and she taps Ed on the arm so he opens his eyes and stops conducting and turns the orchestra down a smidge. It is still loud, but now at least I can hear myself think. Benny’s mum and dad nod at each other and then they both move a bit closer to me.

  ‘We need to ask you something,’ Angela says.

  ‘Okay.’

  For a second, I think this is going to be about the Clark problem, but then I realize it can’t be, because they are smiling. They are as filled with happiness and light as two sunbeams. I am almost disappointed.

  ‘We,’ says Ed, ‘have had an idea.’

  ‘For Benny’s birthday,’ says Angela. ‘We want your opinion.’

  Benny’s birthday is in less than two weeks and he is going to be eleven. This is a very big deal and something to get very excited about, in my opinion. But anyone would think Benny Hooper was allergic to getting excited about birthday celebrations. That is how little he seems to want to talk or think about it.

  Thankfully, his mum and dad have other ideas. They are still beaming at me.

  ‘We’ve been wondering about a surprise party,’ Angela says.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, and Ed says, ‘What do you think?’ and then Benny’s mum says, ‘Sam is all for it. He said to talk to you because we need a theme and you will know what it is.’

  I start making a picture of it in my head. There are banners and flags and silly party hats and an enormous cake. There are people singing and dancing and playing games. There are drinks in paper cups and an actual punch bowl and a piñata and a chocolate fountain and maybe even a band. I think maybe it is happening at 114 Sunningdale, or maybe outside, in the street.

  And that’s when something brilliant pops into my head. It sparkles like diamonds. It glints like gold coins.

  ‘OOOOH,’ I tell them. ‘I think I do have an idea.’

  Ed and Angela’s smiles get even wider. ‘Tell us!’ they say together. They are whispering and shouting at the same time, and the music is still loud and there is no sign of Benny yet. Ed does a little drum roll on a bookshelf in anticipation.

  ‘How about a treasure hunt?’ I say.

  ‘That’s it!’ Benny’s mum and dad clap their hands together with delight and Angela does a little turn on the spot like she is dancing.

  Ed says, ‘We knew you’d be the best person to help us,’ and Angela says, ‘Oh, that is brilliant. You are so creative and clever!’

  And then quickly, because I think we can hear Benny coming back from the loo, she says, ‘We were thinking about getting him a metal detector. What do you think?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  Now it is my turn to dance on the spot. Benny’s eyes will pop when he sees it. He will feel like the luckiest boy on Earth. I cannot think of one thing more guaranteed to cheer him up.

  ‘PERFECT,’ I say, and then Benny is back and we are all eating apples and conducting the violins and pretending to be the person on the big bass drum, like nothing has happened. Benny lurks a bit in the doorway. I know he is trying to hide a red mark on his forehead that is suspiciously the size of Clark Watson’s thumb.

  ‘Benny?’ Angela says, extra-loud and extra-cheerful to cover up our secret chat. ‘Come over here. What are you up to?’

  He shuffles across the floor with his hat half-pulled down over his eyes. His bottom lip is sticking out like a shelf.

  Ed laughs and tickles him under his chin. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you this week, son.’

  I want to tell him that the answer is on the ground floor of Sunningdale but Benny gives me a quick dark look that means, Don’t you dare. So I don’t. But I do give him a look back that says, I won’t keep my mouth shut for ever.

  As if I didn’t already have enough letters to write, I have realized that there are even more that I need to finish and deliver, much closer to home. Firstly, I have written one to my teacher, Mrs Hunter, which is burning a hole
in my school bag, and may or may not be the kind of letter that you write but never send. And right now I am considering writing her another one just about the Benny problem, although I haven’t made up my mind about that yet. It’s hard to go behind someone’s back and against their wishes, even if you are doing it to help them. It’s not a black-and-white decision to make.

  Then, on top of that, there are all the invitations to Benny’s surprise birthday treasure hunt. And I am halfway through a note to Miss Wolfe at 57 Plane Tree Gardens, about a certain four-legged someone called Buster and a certain two-legged someone called Thomas Ernest Blake.

  Grandad might be worrying about Buster’s health, but I’m not. I don’t think his cat is sick at all, I just think he isn’t hungry, because he is busy getting double rations. That is my theory anyway.

  I think Buster has started disappearing to Miss Wolfe’s house for sleepovers. I am guessing that he has graduated from outside in her beautiful garden to inside her sitting room, on her comfortable sofa. He has been going missing for longer and longer stretches of time, and when he saunters back in without an explanation, he definitely does not look like he’s been having fights or sleeping under a hedge. He looks sleek and satisfied and well-rested. He smells of perfume and drops the odd bit of cushion fluff. Grandad doesn’t wear perfume or enjoy a fluffy cushion, so I think that is evidence – exhibits A and B.

  I have started observing Miss Wolfe, so I can get some more information, and see if my theory about Buster is right. She lives on her own, and she doesn’t leave the street very much. She is small and quite round and she has short grey hair and very dark twinkly eyes that make me think of hedgehogs. Sometimes she goes to the shop on the corner, but that’s about it. I have observed her coming back from there with bags of cat food and this is why I am pretty sure that Buster is her new part-time lodger, because Miss Wolfe doesn’t have a cat. I am also pretty sure that Buster is no fool, because the cat food Miss Wolfe buys is the fancy kind that comes in little foil trays with pictures of blow-dried kittens on the top, and he is not getting that kind of treatment around here.

  The problem with my theory being right is that it is doing less than nothing to help Grandad with his loneliness problem, and that’s why I am writing to Miss Wolfe. I have chosen some paper that is covered down one side with bugs and flowers, and I am using a grass-green pen that smells of apples because I think she will like it. I want to tell her what I know and still stay on her good side. I am trying to keep it short and snappy, but friendly too, so she is not discouraged.

  Dear Miss Wolfe,

  It is very nice that Buster comes to visit you so often. I am sure he is very grateful for the fancy food, and it’s all fine, really, but I want you to know that he already has an owner – your neighbour, my grandad, Mr Thomas Ernest Blake, from number 48. Maybe you could invite him over too? He has lots of time on his hands, he would like to learn all about gardening, and he is very fond of a Bakewell tart.

  Love from Joy x

  I put it through her door in the morning, on my way to school, and make a little wish that it does what it’s supposed to. I peek through the letterbox to make sure it has landed safely on the mat. The inside of her house smells of clean sheets and honeysuckle and traces of a certain familiar perfume. From where I am crouching, I can see the corner of a fluffy cushion on the sofa and a shiny silver cat bowl on the kitchen floor. The bowl has its own mat underneath, bright red like famous people’s carpets. No wonder Buster is feeling so at home over there.

  I have very high hopes for my letter. In our Save the Tree campaign at the Historical Society, Grandad talked a lot about the power of the written word. So here goes. My fingers are crossed that the power of mine will bring him and Miss Wolfe together, and solve two loneliness problems in one single go. I am excited to see what Miss Wolfe will wear at their wedding. I can already picture Buster carrying the rings in a jingly little pouch attached to his collar.

  Claude might not be talking to Mum and Dad, but she is non-stop talking to me, and this week it is mainly about different bits of her body. This is not what I would call riveting, but it is highly strange. Apparently, according to her, she is so monstrous, it is a miracle she can even show herself in public without people screaming in terror and running for their lives. She makes me stand in front of the mirror with her and talks me through all the things that aren’t right. She also talks a lot about a boy called Riddle, who I have met once, a while ago, when me and Benny went to the fair. He is called Riddle because his name is Jamal Riddler. I think this is the perfect name for him because why Claude likes him is one hundred per cent a mystery to me. He mumbles a lot and wears a hairband. I’m pretty sure he is Claude’s boyfriend. She acts very strangely and not at all like herself around him. The real Claude would tell Riddle to speak up, and tell funnier jokes, and try harder at just about everything if he wants to even think about impressing her. But the Claude that I saw when he was there looked uncomfortable in her own skin, like she had forgotten how to do simple things like walk or smile or hold a paper cup or eat candyfloss or use a seat belt.

  I stand in front of the mirror with my sister and I remind her that she is smart and funny and clever and has lots of other talents that are way better and more important than being nice to look at. I tell her that she is not at all a hideous monster. I say all the right things, but she stares at me like I am not making any sense. She is trying on jeans. She has to stand on the bed to get a proper view.

  ‘Riddle thinks I look better in skirts,’ she says out of nowhere.

  I tell her I bet Riddle looks better in skirts too.

  ‘You like jeans,’ I say. ‘You love them.’

  ‘Yes, but Riddle doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, who cares what he thinks?’ I ask.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask her.

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘What’s so golden about Riddle’s opinion?’

  Claude frowns. ‘Good question.’ She is really thinking about it.

  ‘So? What’s the answer?’ I say.

  She puts her sweatpants back on and jumps down off the bed. ‘I’ll have to get back to you,’ she says, ‘because I don’t even know.’

  After that, while we are lying on the floor and Claude is drawing faces and I am colouring them in, she starts talking about Mum and Dad. She doesn’t look at me while she is speaking. She says our parents are having problems and she says that’s why they are acting so weird all the time and she says that they are going to get a divorce. This word turns my stomach into a glass of bubble tea and makes me want her to stop talking and being nice to me and just be quiet and go back to looking like she’s died on the sofa.

  ‘They aren’t even married, are they?’ I say. ‘They can’t get divorced.’

  ‘Well.’ Claude holds her not-drawing hand out, palm up, like she is showing me something. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘How do you know they are having problems?’ I say, and she says, ‘Oh, come on. It doesn’t take a genius.’

  She says, ‘They are never in the same room for more than five minutes and they are always furious and busy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘I thought that was work stuff.’

  ‘Yes. Well, it’s making them miserable. And now they don’t love each other any more. And they’re taking it out on me.’

  ‘No, they aren’t.’

  ‘I’m grounded,’ she says.

  ‘You’re not grounded because Mum and Dad don’t love each other,’ I tell her. ‘You’re grounded because you climbed in the window after midnight and got caught.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Claude says, which is the closest she is ever going to get to admitting that I’m right.

  On Saturday morning, Claude is upstairs sulking about being grounded and Mum and Dad are out somewhere possibly not loving each other any more. I am waiting for Benny to come over so we can go and look for priceless antiques in the flower beds at t
he park. Grandad is alone in the kitchen, leafing through some Historical Society pamphlets. One is about the grand opening of the library in 1879. One is about the train station. And one is about parks and trees, and that’s got our school oak tree on the cover. I am standing outside by the front door. It is quiet on the street, with no traffic and not even a breeze. All I can hear is Grandad, at the other end of the house, loudly sighing.

  I close the front door to go and find out why the leaflets are making him so unhappy. Maybe they are full of misprints and spelling mistakes. I know from experience that Thomas Editor Blake is not at all fine about those. Punctuation and grammar should probably be on his list of favourite hobbies. But when I walk into the kitchen, it is not Historical Society print-outs he is holding, it is Buster. He strokes his beloved, unfaithful cat. Buster is just about putting up with it, like being constantly adored takes real patience.

  Grandad looks into his eyes and says, ‘What’s got into you, little fellow?’ and I say, ‘I think you should have a word with Miss Wolfe about that.’

  I don’t tell him about my letter. I keep that under my hat. There are some secrets you should tell and some you shouldn’t.

  ‘Who?’ Grandad says, blinking up at me.

  ‘Miss Wolfe.’

  He looks at me blankly.

  ‘She lives at number 57. Across the road,’ I tell him. ‘With the nice garden.’

  ‘Well, what about her?’

  I say, ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, Buster does,’ I tell him, as delicately as possible. ‘I think they might be friends.’

  Buster jumps off his lap and lands gracefully and soundlessly on the floor. Grandad smiles. His smile says, Buster is friends with lots of people. He is a dynamic, popular cat.

  ‘I think she might be feeding him,’ I say.