Conor's Caveman

by Alan Nolan

  ‘We better go!’ said Charlie, putting her rucksack on her back.

  Conor repacked his rucksack slowly. ‘We can’t leave him,’ he said. Ogg looked at both of them. Despite his gigantic size, the poor lunk looked as helpless as a small puppy.

  ‘Of course we can’t leave him,’ said Charlie, ‘but you’ll have to bring him home. We have no room for him in our house, but there’s plenty of room in yours, especially since …’ She wanted to say ‘since your dad left’ but wasn’t sure how Conor felt about it. It was hard to tell how he felt about anything at all when he never spoke.

  Much to her relief, Conor broke in and saved her the embarrassment of saying the wrong thing. ‘We have room alright, but Mum would go crazy. If he’s coming to mine, we’ll have to keep him a secret for now.’

  ‘How will we do that?’ asked Charlie, not unreasonably.

  ‘We’ll have to smuggle him into Mum’s car,’ said Conor.

  ‘And how will we do that?’ asked Charlie, still not unreasonably.

  ‘Haven’t a clue. We’ll just have to wing it and hope for the best.’

  Conor took Ogg’s hand again and began to pull him towards the scout camp. There was one little problem: Ogg wasn’t budging. As hard as Conor pulled, Ogg wouldn’t move. Charlie even tried pushing him from behind, but still Ogg stayed, stuck in place, as solid and unmoving as a dolmen stone. Then Conor had an idea. He took a packet of salt & vinegar crisps out of his rucksack and opened them. Standing in front of Ogg, Conor put a crisp into his own mouth and MMMMMMMMMed and OOOOOOHHHHHed and rubbed his tummy. These were really tasty crisps, and Conor wanted Ogg to know it.

  Ogg licked his lips. He was still starving after his six-thousand-year fast, and those crisps smelt delicious.

  Conor moved away from Ogg, into the woods on the path to the camp, dropping a salt & vinegar crisp on the ground every couple of metres. Ogg moved with him, stopping to gobble up a crisp from the trail that Conor was making and then moving on to the next, getting closer to the camp with each mouth-watering crunch. Charlie shook her head at Conor’s ingenuity and quickly followed behind them.

  As they neared the camp they could hear the chaos of all the kids rushing around, gathering up their equipment and stuffing it into the boots of their parents’ cars. Through the trees at the edge of the camp, Conor could see his own mum, Clarissa, leaning on the bonnet of her car and looking at her watch. He looked into the crisp bag. There were three or four crisps left: just about enough for what he had in mind.

  ‘Okay,’ said Conor. ‘Charlie, I need you to go up to my mum and ask her to help bringing my stuff out of the boys’ tent. Tell her you’re not allowed go in, and I am running an errand for Dennis Deegan. I’ll use the last of the crisps to get Ogg over to the back of the car, and I’ll get him inside. If we throw the picnic blanket over him, maybe Mum won’t notice.’

  ‘Lucky you have an estate car,’ said Charlie. ‘He will just about fit. You’ll have to find an excuse to keep the windows open, though. Remember – this guy hasn’t had a bath for six thousand years. Peeeeeeeewww.’

  She laughed and ran off towards Clarissa. While Charlie was busy spoofing his mum, Conor led Ogg around to the back of the car, which was half hidden by trees from the rest of the camp. He opened the hatchback and threw in the last couple of crisps. Ogg scrambled in, eager to get his huge hands (and teeth) on the tasty treats. Once he was safely inside and happily munching, Conor covered him with Charlie’s picnic blanket.

  ‘Be quiet, Ogg. Understand?’ said Conor, motioning with his finger to his lips. Ogg pulled the blanket over him, smiled at Conor, and looked like he was just about ready to fall asleep. Conor hoped he would. Then he hoped that if he did, he wouldn’t snore. Holy moley, thought Conor. He had arrived at the scout camp with nothing but a beaten-up rucksack, and he was leaving with a fully grown, recently defrosted, six-thousand-year-old caveman. Funny how things work out.

  The drive home was as frosty as the glacier Ogg had been stuck in. Conor’s mum wasn’t too happy at having to gather all Conor’s belongings up, even though Charlie had helped her; she wasn’t happy that they were practically the last to leave the camp because of ‘stuck-up, nose-in-the-air, hoity toity’ Dennis Deegan’s last-minute (bogus) errands that Conor had to do; and she definitely wasn’t happy that Conor insisted on having ALL the car windows open as they drove. He claimed it was because he had recently become allergic to the smell of the Christmas tree–shaped pine air freshener that hung from the rear-view mirror. Clarissa offered to chuck it out the window, but Conor wouldn’t let her, telling her all about Gulliver and Damian’s littering on the side of the mountain. So the windows stayed open; Ogg, hidden in the back, stayed asleep (thankfully not snoring); and Conor stayed talking – which Clarissa found odd, as he was usually much quieter. Maybe this scouting lark was good for him after all!

  Their home was in Clobberstown, an area of South Dublin nestled in the foothills of the Dublin Mountains. It was famous for three things: stray horses on all its green areas, the Clobberstown Dunkers basketball team, and its proximity to a large shopping centre that was called the Square, even though it quite plainly had a pyramid on its roof.

  The Corcoran house was a three-bedroom semi-detached building with a scraggy garden at the front and an even scraggier one at the back. Where the lawns should have been, there were just weeds – the grass seemed to be much more interested in growing up through the cracks in the concrete paths.

  Clarissa pulled the car into the small driveway at the front of the house and switched off the engine. She had a thumping headache, probably the result of working four hours already today, even before she went to pick up Conor from deepest, darkest Wicklow. Since Conor’s dad had walked out on them, Clarissa had worked four jobs just to make ends meet. It seemed to Conor that she was always working – during the week she was a part-time nurse in Shady Acres old people’s home and a part-time hairdresser in Sherlock Combs hair salon, and in the evenings she worked part-time in a fish and chip shop called The Codfather. At weekends she manned the desk (or wo-manned the desk, to be more precise) in Clobberstown Leisure Centre, all day Saturday and 8am to 12 noon on Sundays. Sunday afternoon was her only time off and she usually spent it with her boyfriend, Frank, so she wasn’t best pleased to have to spend this Sunday afternoon picking up her son from scouts.

  ‘Come on, Conor,’ she said, getting out of the car with a humph-ing sound. ‘You’ll have to bring in your stuff yourself. I’m going for a lie down – I’ve a steaming headache.’

  Conor was relieved. He had spent the car journey home frantically trying to think of a plan to get Ogg out of the car boot and into the house without his mum noticing, so this maternal cranial cramp was perfectly timed.

  When he was sure his mum was safely up the stairs and in bed, Conor took in his scout stuff from the back seat of the car and put it away neatly. Then he went back to the car and opened the hatchback boot, where he had left Ogg sleeping under the picnic blanket. It was empty! He ran around to the back seat, but there was no caveman sitting there either. A very strange feeling came over him. Had he dreamed he found a caveman? Just thinking about it now, standing outside his house in dear old Clobberstown, the whole idea of finding a live, six-thousand-year-old caveman frozen in a mini-glacier and hidden in a cave seemed sort of … well, far fetched?

  Then he heard it. A deep, rumbling bass sound that shook the glass in the window panes slightly. It seemed to be coming from the side of the house. Conor peeked around the corner into the messy side passage. The path that SHOULD have led to the back garden was partially blocked with the rusty red skeletons of old, battered bikes, an overgrown creeper bush, and the big disused dog kennel. The DOG KENNEL! Conor trotted over and looked inside. There was Ogg, fast asleep, with the picnic blanket pulled over him. So, not a dream after all. The huge caveman cradled his wooden and stone spear like a teddy bear in his huge, hairy arms. Cobwebs inside the kennel shivered and shook as he snored his low sno
re.

  The caveman must have somehow sensed Conor in the doorway of the kennel, because in his sleep, quite loudly and distinctly, he said, ‘Con. Nor.’

  Holy moley, thought Conor, he knows my name!

  Chapter Five

  Ogg’s Duvet Day

  Conor woke the next morning to the sound of his alarm clock. When he sleepily opened his eyes, the first thing they focused on was an A4 refill pad page taped to the chair beside his bed. It read: ‘NOT A DREAM!’ His eyes sprung open. OGG!

  He jumped out of bed and hastily pulled his trousers on over his pyjama bottoms. He ran down the stairs, two at a time, not worrying about the racket he was making as he knew his mum had already gone to work in the old people’s home. She was always up and out a couple of hours before Conor, leaving him to fend for himself with breakfast and getting to school.

  He opened the front door and looked around the side of the house. There was Ogg, sitting outside the kennel, scratching his matted, hairy head. He looked like he had just woken up too. Conor was glad that the thick creeper bush kept Ogg hidden from the view of anyone walking up Clobberstown Crescent.

  Ogg looked up. ‘Con! Nor!’ he said and smiled a huge, toothy smile.

  So it wasn’t a fluke, thought Conor. He CAN speak. Well, kind of.

  Ogg got to his feet, which were huge and just as hairy as his arms. Conor took him by the hand and led him into the house, after first checking that no passersby or nosy neighbours were looking.

  Ogg was a bit reluctant to go through the door, but Conor tugged him through. He supposed Ogg probably found the dark, drafty kennel to be more cave-like that this nice, warm house.

  ‘Right, Ogg,’ said Conor, ‘I have to go to school soon. You’ll have to stay here until I figure out what to do with you.’

  He led the caveman into the kitchen. Ogg was so tall he was practically hitting his head off the top of the door frames.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Conor asked.

  Ogg looked down at him impassively.

  Conor pointed to his mouth and added, ‘You know, hungry? Are you starvin’ Marvin? Fancy a bit of brekkie?’

  ‘Brekk. Eee,’ said Ogg.

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ cried Conor, amazed at how quickly Ogg was catching on to the language. Conor himself was almost three years old before he spoke his first word, and, being the quiet boy he is, he hadn’t spoken that many since.

  Conor looked through the kitchen presses. ‘Okay, we have cornflakes, shredded wheat, Wheetie-Wheels?’ He handed Ogg the packet of Wheetie-Wheels. Ogg shook it. He sniffed it. He stuck out his big tongue and licked it.

  ‘No!’ said Conor, remembering how Ogg had eaten the chocolate bars, wrappers included. ‘You have to open the packet first!’

  Ogg looked at Conor quizzically, then understanding seemed to dawn. He ripped the cardboard packet apart, and Wheetie-Wheels went flying all over the kitchen in a massive explosion of sugary toasted wheat.

  Conor sighed. ‘Never mind. Mum won’t be back until tonight, so I’ll clean it up later. How about we cook something?’ He opened the fridge. ‘We have sausages, rashers, fish fingers, a little bit of custard … Do you like eggs, Ogg?’ He held up an egg to Ogg.

  Ogg’s face lit up. He held one finger up and put his other hand under the fur he was wearing and rummaged around. After a moment he took out of his furs the biggest egg Conor had ever seen – it was so enormous it made the egg Conor was holding look like a Tic Tac in comparison. It was a greenish-blue colour and looked like it may have been laid by a prehistoric ostrich or emu. Ogg’s hand, as colossal as it was, could barely hold it. ‘Ogg. Egg. Ogg,’ said Ogg.

  Conor shook his head in wonder, shrugged his shoulders and took out the biggest frying pan he could find. Even that didn’t seem big enough for Ogg’s mega-egg, so Conor got up on a chair, climbed onto the kitchen worktop and reached up to take down the wok from the top of the press. His mum had bought it for cooking Chinese food, but she worked so much she never got time to cook any more.

  Conor turned on the stove, heated some oil in the wok and, with Ogg’s help, broke the heavy egg into it. The smell from the egg was ATROCIOUS! Conor had to take a kitchen chair and sit down! He pulled the neck of his school jumper over his face and opened up the window. He looked like a bandit from a cowboy movie, but at least it kept the stench out. Ogg looked delighted, standing over the wok as the egg cooked and licking his lips. Conor wondered what a six-thousand-year-old egg would taste like and then decided he actually never wanted to find out.

  When the egg was done, Conor had to use a garden spade to lift it out of the wok – none of the ordinary kitchen implements were big enough to shift it. He put it on a plate, and while he gathered up the huge bits of broken, jagged eggshell and put them in a bin bag, Ogg tucked in. He ate with no knife and fork, using only his bulky, sausage-like fingers. He smacked his lips as he ate, wiping his nose with his hairy forearm.

  When he was finished, Ogg sat back happily in the chair and let out the loudest BBuUuUuUuURRrRrRRPpPpPPP! Conor had ever heard. He checked out the front window to make sure nobody else on the road had overheard Ogg’s prodigious wind-breaking, but all out on Clobberstown Crescent – unlike in Conor’s kitchen – was quiet.

  Conor checked his watch. Time to go. ‘Okay, Ogg,’ he said, leading Ogg into the living room and sitting him down on the sofa, ‘I have to go to school now. You will have to stay here until I get back.’

  Ogg looked up at him from the sofa. ‘BE GOOD,’ said Conor. ‘Don’t answer the door. Don’t answer the phone. Just sit here and watch the telly, and when I’m back I’ll figure out what to do with you.’

  Conor switched on the television, which came to life with colours and noises blaring. Ogg jumped up and hid behind the sofa. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ said Conor. ‘It’s only morning TV, but I’m sure you’ll find something you want to watch.’

  He went into the kitchen and returned with the half empty, half torn apart packet of Wheetie-Wheels. ‘Eat some of these if you get hungry again,’ said Conor, and Ogg’s head popped up slowly from behind the sofa. He could smell the Wheetie-Wheels.

  As soon as Ogg was sitting back on the sofa with the Wheetie-Wheels packet in his lap, Conor grabbed his school bag and ran to the door. ‘See you later, Ogg!’ he whispered, not wanting the neighbours to hear. He closed the door quietly and set off for school, hoping that the six-thousand-year-old caveman he had left sitting on his couch wouldn’t wreck his house.

  Conor hadn’t even reached his garden gate when his phone beeped. For one mad second he thought it was Ogg texting him, but he shook that crazy idea away – the caveman seemed to be very good at picking up words, but picking up a mobile phone and sending a text? Conor didn’t think so.

  He looked at his phone; it was from Charlie.

  HOW IS R LITLE FREND? it read.

  FINE, he texted back.

  He was as economical with the written word as he was with the spoken word. Besides that, it is dangerous to text while you are walking down the street – you could be so distracted you could easily walk out under a bus.

  Which is what Conor almost did. As he pressed SEND he stepped out onto the road, right into the path of a number 75 double decker. He felt a hand on his collar, and this time it was Charlie’s turn to save HIS life. She pulled him back onto the path in the nick of time. The bus driver blew his horn and shook his fist.

  ‘You shouldn’t be texting while you’re walking!’ said Charlie.

  ‘YOU shouldn’t be texting ME while I’m walking!’ said Conor. ‘You should also learn how to spell!’

  ‘I liked it better when you didn’t talk so much,’ said Charlie, with a laugh. ‘Come on, the bell will be ringing in a couple of minutes.’ They hurried off.

  When they arrived at school, Damian Deegan and Gulliver Quinn were loitering at the front gates. Damian snickered a weasely laugh as Conor and Charlie passed through. ‘Here comes Conor “No Mates” Corcoran. Interesting fact: did you know
, Gulliver, that Conor has to hang around with girls because no boys want to be friends with him?’

  ‘I was not aware of that fact, Damian. That is indeed very interesting.’ Gulliver did his ‘griggling’ thing again, grunting and giggling at the same time.

  ‘Ignore them,’ said Charlie, ‘and don’t take any notice of Gulliver. I think he’s a bit worse for the ink.’

  Gulliver put his hand over his blue-stained lips and looked guilty.

  ‘Watch it, Charlie Finch,’ said Damian, pushing himself off the wall he had been leaning on and blocking Charlie’s way. He wagged a finger in her face. ‘Just because you’re a girl doesn’t mean I won’t fight you.’

  Charlie narrowed her eyes at Damian.

  ‘I mean, em, just because you’re, em, a girl doesn’t mean Gulliver won’t fight you.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ said Gulliver quietly.

  Charlie sighed and smiled sweetly. Then she grabbed Damian’s finger and twisted his arm around his back. Damian made an AIEEEEEE! sound. ‘Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, threatens to fight a girl. Do I make myself clear?’

  Damian simply squeaked. Just then the bell rang. Charlie dropped Damian’s finger, and he gasped in relief. ‘Good! I’m glad we sorted that out!’ said Charlie.

  She smiled again and sauntered off to assembly in the school hall with Conor in tow. In tow of Charlie, and in AWE of her!

  Ms. Hennigan, the school principal, took her place on the small platform at the top of the dingy hall. The hall was built in the 1970s and was in bad need of good repair. It had broken gym equipment around the walls and a rusty corrugated-iron roof, and it smelled faintly of the body odour of all the children who had trained there, played five-a-side there, put on plays there, and generally got sweaty there for the last forty years. Ms. Hennigan hadn’t been there for forty years – she was relatively new to the post – but sometimes she felt as if she had been. Especially on Monday mornings. And even more especially on Monday mornings when it was raining – she could hear the first heavy drops beginning to hit the corrugated-iron roof. Oh no, that was all she needed.