Papa Georgio

by Annie Murray

  ‘Why does he keep saying that?’ I said through my giggles. The parrot sounded like a crotchety old lady.

  ‘He thinks that’s his name. He used to be in a pub and they kept telling him to shut up all the time. He used to say worse stuff as well.’ Fizz opened a cupboard behind him. A loaf of sliced bread fell out and hit him on the head. He stuffed it back in, tutting in annoyance. I saw there were a whole load of other loaves in there.

  ‘Won’t it go stale?’ I asked.

  ‘Umm,’ Fizz frowned, not really answering me. He seemed to close into himself again. Reaching carefully back into the cupboard, he brought out some black and white striped sunflower seeds which he trickled through the bars of the cage. Pecky cocked his head to look, but did not move to eat them.

  ‘He’s an African Grey – psittacus erithacus in Latin…’ Fizz jumped up. ‘This is where I keep my stuff.’

  He squatted down and pulled out a deep drawer. I saw felt pens, a messy sheaf of papers and a whole heap of books, on the top a fat one which said ‘SHELLS’ on the cover. Fizz picked up a pair of goggles and pulled them on, with the breathing pipe.

  ‘My snorkel…’ He made a goofy face which looked truly funny. I was loving this. And I liked Fizz, I decided. I’d never met anyone the least like him before. He was odd, but he was funny and you never knew what was going to happen next. It was exciting being with him in this weird van. I couldn’t wait to write and tell Charlotte about it.

  ‘You look like a sea monster!’

  He threw the mask off, then rummaged in the drawer. From among all his stuff he brought a mouth organ, silver and heavy looking.

  ‘Oh – can you play it? I’ve had a go, but I could never…’

  But he was off already, rocking back on his heels, playing ‘My Old Man’s a Dustman,’ his hands cupped round it, frowning with concentration. He mostly hit the right notes and it was so jaunty it made me tap my feet. Then he played ‘Hey Mr Tambourine Man’ which I knew because it was Bob Dylan and one of Dad’s favourites – at least he played the chorus and stopped. To my surprise it made me feel happy, not sad.

  ‘That’s hard,’ he said.

  ‘You’re good. That’s really difficult.’

  ‘I’ve practised for ages,’ Fizz said, chucking it back in the drawer. ‘Sometimes there’s not much else to do. Hey – d’you know any jokes?’

  ‘No – well, only – you know, pathetic ones.’ All Charlotte’s ‘Knock-Knock’ jokes.

  ‘Go on – do one then.’

  ‘It’s really stupid.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter – say it.’

  ‘Knock knock.’

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Ears.’

  ‘Ears who?’

  ‘Ears looking at you kid!’

  Fizz chuckled a surprising amount at this. ‘That’s good, that.’

  ‘No it’s not – it’s terrible!’

  We looked at each other then and burst out laughing at how bad it was. Still squatting, Fizz leaned against the cupboard, head back. I’d never seen anyone whose face changed so much between being serious and laughing. His features re-arranged themselves into ecstatic folds of merriment which made me laugh all the more. He looked younger suddenly and infectiously full of fun.

  ‘Go on – you tell one,’ I said once I could speak.

  ‘Ok, ok - right. There’s a lady, right, from the town, Manchester or somewhere, goes out into the country and gets to a farm. And she says to the farmer, “Eh – why doesn’t this cow have any horns?” And the farmer’s dead patient, like and he says, “Well, its like this. Cows’ horns are really dangerous, they can gore you, kill you even, so we cut them off and keep them trimmed down. Course, not all breeds of cattle have horns anyway. But the reason this cow doesn’t have any horns, madam, is because…”’ Fizz leant back and held out his arm for the punchline. ‘“It’s a horse!”’

  He leaned back, face crumpling again and the sight of him, much more than the joke, sent me into fits of laughter. We sat there, side by side cackling together. Fizz’s strong legs were close to mine. I could feel warmth coming off him.

  ‘What d’you call a cat that tells jokes?’ Fizz spluttered.

  ‘I don’t know?’ I wiped my cheeks.

  ‘A witty-kitty!’

  I groaned and giggled and in the middle of us chortling away Pecky the parrot screeched, ‘Shut up!’ which sent me helpless and for a few moments there was nothing but jokes and the two of us here laughing and being silly together until our tummy muscles ached. Then we both subsided, the mood slipping away and Fizz’s face was solemn again.

  He leaned over, restless as ever, rummaging in his drawer and brought out a green oval tin which fitted into his hand. When he opened it, it let out a strange, perfumed smell and, lying on a green bed was a curving, spiny, pretty creature.

  ‘Sea horse.’ Fizz leaned close to me. ‘Ever seen one before? Archie gave it to me. He found it during the war – this is an old tin of hair cream.’

  The sea horse was lovely on its green, waxy bed. I wanted to ask Fizz why he didn’t call his parents Mum and Dad, but I didn’t. I didn’t want him asking me questions either. Nicer to keep things as they were.

  ‘With seahorses, it’s the males who have the babies,’ Fizz said, closing the tin again. ‘The females give them the eggs and they get pregnant.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’

  ‘There are about fifty different species of them - some of them eat up to three thousand brine shrimp every day…’ He put the tin back in the drawer.

  ‘Did you do them in science?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Science – at school.’

  He looked up at me. ‘I told you - I don’t go to school.’

  By the time we got up on deck the sun was out. The wind was very strong and I wished I had my anorak. We stood leaning on the rail. Fizz kept pushing his hair out of his eyes. I was shivering.

  ‘You cold?’ Fizz asked. He turned to look at me. Those eyes again, greeny-brown, powerful.

  ‘A bit,’ I said. ‘Well, freezing actually.’

  His didn’t seem to feel the cold but it was nice that he’d noticed. He pressed his shoulder against mine and it didn’t really make me any warmer, but I felt as if it did. It was funny how it felt as if we’d known each other for ages.

  ‘Look,’ Fizz said. ‘France.’

  We could just see it, a hazy brown ridge at the furthest edge of the blue water growing gradually bigger.

  ‘D’you know where you’re going?’ he asked, shouting a bit over the wind.

  I shook my head. ‘Not really. Grandpa said something about Naples.’

  Fizz nodded, looking down at the foaming water.

  ‘P’raps we’ll see yer then.’ He tried to sound casual, but I could hear his loneliness, which met mine.

  ‘D’you think so?’ I hoped so. A lot. It all felt better if we could set out on it together.

  ‘We’ll be heading south too,’ Fizz said. A smile flickered on his lips.

  I winked at him. ‘Here’s hoping.’ And I really was hoping, a lot.

  He turned to me as if he was going to say something, but then looked away, frowning slightly.

  We stood in the strong wind as the hazy coast of France slid towards us, growing higher and clearer. But for a long time, all we could see across the ruffled water and spray was the blurred, sandy coast, mysterious as a land never explored before.

  Dear Charlotte…

  I.

  LOG BOOK

  I’m going to use this diary as a ‘LOG’ like Dad does when he’s on an expedition. So, just for reporting things, describing. Dates, times, places. (Not feelings and stuff) So that Mum can read it and know where we’ve been.

  But I’m not sure exactly where we are at this moment. Grandpa says we have ‘one toe in France.’ Since we’re in a field somewhere and it’s pitch dark, it’s hard to see what France might be like, toe or no toe. So far - roads, grass, trees
– it looks pretty much like England to me, except for the cars which are either Two CVs like Mum’s or have a mean, narrow-eyed, crouching look. Citroens, Grandpa said. And they drive on the other side of the road.

  I’m sitting at the caravan table (which slots into a thing on the wall) while Brenda is heating up chicken and potatoes. Grandpa has lit the lamps which are things called gas mantles and people used them in the old days. They are little white meshes and you light them with a match. They’ve turned the room very white and make a funny popping noise.

  Grandpa taught me to wind down the ‘legs’ of the caravan with a metal thing called a windlass. When I slotted it on to the legs and turned it, they unfolded at each corner like unclenching arms, pushing down against the ground to help to hold the van steady.

  Ah, here comes Brenda with the plates. They’re hard plastic. Mine’s purple, Brenda’s pale blue and Grandpa’s grey. Our dinner smells delicious. I’m starving. Brenda says it’s the sea air.

  I met a boy on the ferry today called Fizz. He was AMAZING. He has a parrot and a mouth organ. I hope we’ll see him again...’

  ‘Your tea’s ready!’ Brenda announced.

  ‘Well, I hope we shan’t see that Dreadful Man from Manchester again,’ Grandpa said, sprinkling salt on his potatoes. It was hard to tell if he really meant it. Sometimes I thought Grandpa just liked winding people up. He poured wine into his glass. ‘Ah, that’s what’s wanted – a Damned Good Drink.’

  ‘Don’t go overdoing it now, will you dear?’ Brenda cautioned, eyeing the glass. ‘Yes, they were a very odd couple. The state of that boy - deplorable! I’ve never seen a child more in need of a barber.’

  I felt like answering her back but knew I’d better not. What did Brenda know about Fizz? I thought stormily. As we said goodbye he came up close and said, ‘Well – TTFN.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Ta ta for now. See yer then.’ He was back to being casual. It was me that said, ‘Hope so!’ It felt lonely when they’d gone.

  ‘They’ve got a parrot,’ I told them. Brenda obviously didn’t find this as impressive as I did.

  ‘Well – there you are, dirty creatures!’ she said, as if this proved there was something dark and sinister about the whole family.

  It was true that Fizz’s family were not like anyone I’d ever met before. But I’d never before wished so powerfully to see someone again either, the way I did Fizz and Pecky Shut-Up. I was thinking about being with Fizz in the Ship of Dreams, like a magic place. And him going on about parrots in Latin, and sea horses and tunes and how everything he did seemed exciting and important…. Then I realized Auntie Brenda was saying something to me.

  ‘... couldn’ t we?’ She finished, getting up from the table. She couldn’t seem to sit still. I wished she’d just relax and then I might be able to relax with her a bit more the way I could with Grandpa. He was sitting back puffing on his pipe. Brenda was looking for something in a cupboard at the back of the van.

  ‘Um….?’ I said.

  ‘A patchwork. I’m sure that would be nice.’ She brought over a cloth bag with wooden handles which seemed to be full of material. ‘Would you like that?’

  I goggled at her, trying to get this straight in my mind. Was she seriously suggesting that I, domestic science disaster area of the entire class, if not school, if not the world, do sewing? Oh, please tell me I’m not hearing this right! I couldn’t even thread a needle without pricking myself and bleeding all over the place.

  ‘Er….’ I said, my spirits clunking down into my shoes.

  ‘It’s something we can do together – I’ll show you!’ Brenda was all bright and enthusiastic. ‘I’ve got some very pretty material in here. We can make it our project for the journey, can’t we?’

  I looked into her eyes, all eager behind those black specs. What would she look like without them, I wondered? She was trying so hard and was so jumpy with me that I felt scratchy, and sorry for her at the same time. After all, I wasn’t a monster, was I?

  ‘It’ll be fun!’ she says. ‘Won’t it?’

  My face wanted to look horrified and appalled but I managed to wrench it into a smile. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’d be lovely. It’ll improve my sewing.’

  Everything was strange that first night, washing in the little orange bowl – a separate one from the yellow washing up bowl. This time I got away without having to pee in the chemical toilet in the caravan, thank heavens. Grandpa and I walked across to the toilet block for my first meeting with French toilets as well as with several moths.

  Brenda went over when we got back and Grandpa perched on the edge of my bed to say goodnight.

  ‘Well, you’re as snug as a bug in a rug aren’t you?’

  I smiled up at him. I liked the way Grandpa smelt of old woolly jumpers and sweet tobacco and usually of dogs as well, but less now Mungo was not with us. And I liked his creaky voice.

  ‘Got everything you need, my Little Dear?’

  ‘Yes thanks.’ I pulled the covers up to my chin. I felt very very tired suddenly.

  ‘Don’t worry about Brenda,’ Grandpa said, lowering his voice even though she wasn’t there. ‘She’s got a warm heart, you know. She’s had rather a hard life and she’s not used to children, that’s all. We’ll rub along together all of us, won’t we? And you and I…’

  He put his hand on my head, just for a moment and it felt warm and nice. ‘We’ll have some adventures together. And when we get to Italy, we’ll….’ But he stopped himself and drew his hand away. ‘No – that’s for later… But I’ll need your help.’

  I wanted to ask him what he was going to say, but then Brenda came back in and he moved away.

  The grey and white material which had been wrapped round Grandpa’s feather bed turned out also to be a curtain which could be hung up along the side of my bed.

  ‘It’ll stop the light disturbing you,’ Brenda told me, ‘while your Grandpa and I are fiddling about getting ready for bed. Night, night dear.’ She bent down, giving me a stiff little kiss. ’Sleep well now.’

  It was nice and cosy once the curtain was up, hanging soft on my right, with the padded wall on my left. I lay listening to Grandpa and Brenda murmuring to one another as they made up their own bed in the place where the table went in the day time. I heard Grandpa lumping about with the feather bed.

  ‘Darn hard old things, these cushions,’ he complained. ‘Good job I brought this as well.’

  And I heard his coughing and Brenda pouring water into the orange plastic bowl for her wash and there was a flick of brighter light as she caught her elbow on my curtain and tugged it back for a moment. She’d pinned all her hair up in curlers. I smelt Pears soap and talcum powder and then mint as she cleaned her teeth.

  Then came creaks from the bed and more murmurings: ‘Are you settled there all right, my Little Dear?’ ‘Could you spare a bit more blanket, George? I say, you’ve got jolly cold feet!’

  They seemed to forget that because I was behind the curtain I wasn’t deaf as well. Grandpa let out a burp which made me want to giggle.

  ‘I do hope that child will be all right,’ Brenda said into the darkness, after all the lumping about had finished. ‘She’s had such a terrible shock – she looks very washed out and sad, don’t you think?’

  ‘We must look after the Little Dear,’ Grandpa’s voice sounded so sad. ‘That’s what she needs – Looking After.’

  After that they drifted into silence, and in the quiet night, drops of rain began to tapple on the caravan roof. I lay and wondered where Mum was. She ‘d be on her way to Kathmandu, before the next leg of her journey in buses to the very top right hand corner of Nepal, to the wild land of snow and blue, crackling ice. To the kingdom of Kanche….. Of Daddy…Daddy... And the gentle footsteps of the rain on the roof lulled me to sleep.

  II.

  Somewhere near Switzerland!

  June 8th, ‘72.

  Dear Charlotte, (best pal!!) :-)

  Well, Grandpa
has been whizzing through France! That’s why I haven’t written sooner – he’s a slave driver. All he can think about is getting to Italy!

  Mum said France was pretty at this time of year and she was right. There are fields of green rippley corn and pink and white blossom trees in people’s gardens. They have lots of adverts all along the roads, on the shops and the sides of houses. The farms are the best thing, nestling in the curves of hills with barns full of hay and chickens pecking fussily near the road. I saw one house with a tiled roof and white walls and all over it were pots and pans, brushes and saucepans. I suppose they were selling them.

  Every morning we wake up in a different place and go out to buy long loaves of bread. The best ones are still warm and smell delicious! I have learned to say ‘bonjour’ for ‘good day,’ and ‘merci’ – thank you ‘ and ‘ou et la toilette’ which is very handy.

  If there’s one thing I DON’T like in France though, it’s the toilets. They’re terrifying! We’ve stayed in four campsites so far and the one at Compiegne was the worst. They’re all ‘stand-up’ toilets with places to put your feet, and they’re dirty.

  But the WORST part is flushing them. What I do now, (‘cos I thought

  I was going to drown the first time) is open the door, reach across for the chain,yank it and RUN! There’s this great big CLANK and the water WHOOSHES out all over where you put your feet. You need wellies really, if not waders!

  All along the roads we keep seeing fields full of white gravestones. Grandpa says they’re the graves of young men who died in the Two World Wars. He says he was only little when the first one was on, 1914 – 1918. (Auntie Brenda calls it the Great War. I don’t know why ‘cos it doesn’t sound great at all) Grandpa was there in the second one, 1939 – 1945. He keeps on talking about being a soldier.

  Last night something AMAZING happened. We were camped in this field which Grandpa calls a ‘wet little meadow.’ He and I went for a walk through the farmyard and we saw that one of the barn doors was open so we went to have a nose. There was a lamp on the straw floor and inside were a man and a plump young woman. What was happening was that a cow was having a baby, right there and then! The poor old cow stood there mooing loudly, then two bony legs came out of her bottom, then a head, and then the rest of her slithered out. She bellowed! The little calf was all wet and so sweet. It stood up with its legs bending and staggering about as if it was drunk. Wish you could have seen it. Grandpa said the young woman was like the milkmaid in every fairy story.