Puppy Fat

by Morris Gleitzman

Nothing.

  OK, he thought, the key.

  He felt under the mat.

  Nothing.

  In the darkness he could make out some flowerpots next to the back step.

  He felt inside them.

  Behind them.

  Under them.

  Nothing.

  Come on, he thought, everyone hides a back door key somewhere.

  He groped around the other side of the step, feeling for an old gardening shoe like Uncle Derek and Aunty Joyce used.

  There wasn’t one.

  Just an empty milk bottle which toppled off the step and smashed loudly.

  Keith froze.

  He waited for all the neighbours who’d gawked at the body on the stretcher to come rushing out of their houses and grab him and drag him off to the police station where he’d be charged with breaking and entering.

  ‘I wasn’t really breaking and entering, officer,’ Keith rehearsed in his head, ‘I was just trying to find out how Mr Mellish died. Whether it really was from loneliness or whether it was from something else like drink or bad diet or radiation from a leaky microwave. There are two lives at stake. Three if you count me worrying myself to death.’

  After several rehearsals Keith realised he was still alone in the dark with his eardrums pounding.

  When they’d stopped, he began carefully feeling around for a key again.

  Then he heard it.

  Coming from inside the house.

  A high-pitched wail.

  It was very faint but Keith knew as soon as it started that it wasn’t a door creaking or a microwave leaking or the wind in a plug hole.

  It was somebody crying.

  Somebody or something.

  A thin, eerie, mournful sound.

  Keith’s eardrums started pounding again.

  He had a stern word with himself, reminding himself that he’d been around and he knew that ghosts were just a figment of the imagination.

  He tried to swallow but the inside of his mouth felt dry and woolly like the blanket that had covered Mr Mellish’s body.

  The wailing was the saddest thing Keith had ever heard.

  A thought slipped into his mind.

  What if . . .

  It was crazy so he waited for it to go away.

  It didn’t.

  What if, he thought, the wailing is Mr Mellish trying to tell me he did die of loneliness and I mustn’t give up trying to save Mum and Dad from a similar fate?

  Keith realised he was shaking all over.

  He had an even sterner word with himself, reminding himself that he hadn’t believed in ghosts for over two years.

  He listened to the wailing again.

  Then he turned and ran for the back gate as fast as he could.

  Keith lay on his bed at Dad’s place.

  He could feel his heart trying to jump out of his chest, partly from the running, partly from Mr Mellish’s wailing, but mostly from the brilliant idea he’d had on the way home.

  When his hands had stopped shaking, he found a pen and wrote a fax.

  Dear Tracy,

  Sorry about your dad. And the boat. But don’t give up. Think positive. Somebody else could come with you.

  My suggestion is Aunty Bev. She’s single, selfemployed and has a very positive attitude to life. I bet when she finds out your mum’s ticket is up for grabs, she’ll jump at the chance.

  Tell her that once she’s here she won’t have to pay for any meals and Mum will make sure she doesn’t get any parking tickets.

  Don’t give up. It’s a matter of life or death. (I’ll explain when you get here.)

  Love, Keith.

  Then he flopped back onto the bed and crossed his fingers very hard and hoped that Aunty Bev was open to new challenges in her work as a beautician.

  The reply came two days later.

  Dear Keith.

  Ripper! Aunty Bev has said yes! Mum says I can come! See you Thursday (same flight). Ripper!

  Love Tracy.

  PS. Aunty Bev can be a real pain sometimes, but I’m hoping travel will broaden her mind.

  Keith stood in the newsagents and felt the brick in his guts melt away. He realised Mrs Smith and Rami were smiling at him from behind the counter.

  ‘What does ripper mean?’ asked Rami.

  Mrs Smith gave him a clip round the ear.

  ‘It’s an Australian word,’ grinned Keith. ‘It means everything’s going to be OK.’

  6

  ‘Come on, Keith,’ yelled Dad. ‘Shake a leg. The plane lands in an hour.’

  ‘Nearly ready,’ shouted Keith.

  He stopped and listened and heard Dad down in the cafe stirring sugar into a cuppa.

  Good, thought Keith, that gives me at least another five minutes.

  Now, where are those baked beans?

  I know.

  The wardrobe.

  Keith pulled open the doors of his wardrobe and ran his eyes over the cartons stacked inside.

  Peas.

  Spaghetti.

  Marmalade.

  No baked beans.

  Keith dropped to the floor and lifted the edge of his bedspread and peered under his bed.

  As his eyes got used to the gloom, the printing on the sides of the boxes became clearer.

  Corned beef.

  Apricot halves.

  Baked beans.

  Good one, thought Keith. He ticked baked beans off his list.

  ‘Keith,’ said Dad, ‘we’re going to be late.’

  Keith looked up.

  Dad was standing in the doorway with a steaming mug in one hand and a bacon sandwich in the other.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Just stocktaking,’ said Keith, standing up.

  Dad looked wearily at the cartons piled up around the room, sighed, and sat down on some boxes of fruit salad in heavy syrup.

  Keith watched his mouth droop.

  There were some lines at the corners Keith hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Not a great set-up, is it, sleeping in a storeroom?’ said Dad. ‘Wish I could afford a place with a room of your own, but I can’t.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Keith.

  ‘You’re a good kid,’ said Dad, ‘but be honest, this isn’t as good as your room at Mum’s, is it?’

  Keith sent an urgent message to his brain.

  Make Dad feel better.

  ‘It’s very similar,’ said Keith. ‘Mum keeps her spare chocolate fingers under my bed. Well, she used to.’

  It wasn’t true but he hoped it’d help.

  ‘If you want me to shift some more of this stuff into my room, I will,’ said Dad quietly. ‘If I put the Irish stew on top of my wardrobe . . .’

  ‘Dad,’ interrupted Keith, ‘I wasn’t making a list for that. I was just checking we’ve got enough food for Tracy. I like staying with you.’

  Dad’s drooping mouth slowly straightened itself.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right.’ Then he grinned. ‘What was it Tracy used to say? “I’m so hungry I could eat the fingers off a goat”?’

  ‘Fish,’ said Keith, grinning too. ‘I could eat the fingers off a fish.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Dad. ‘OK, we’d better get out to that airport before she has a go at the luggage scales. Scales. Fish. Get it?’

  Keith realised he hadn’t heard Dad make a joke for months.

  Amazing, he thought as he followed Dad out of the room, Tracy’s not even here yet and she’s perking him up already.

  And as for those lines at the corner of his mouth, I won’t have to worry about those any more.

  Not once Aunty Bev gets her hands on them.

  Keith stood at the barrier on tiptoe and strained for a glimpse of Tracy among the arriving passengers.

  He couldn’t see her.

  For a horrible moment he had a vision of Tracy and Aunty Bev under arrest at Singapore airport because Aunty Bev’s parrot earrings had set off the metal detector. Then he remembered they were plastic. He
wondered if Aunty Bev had many fillings.

  ‘G’day Keith.’

  That familiar voice.

  His heart did a backf1ip and he turned and there was Tracy coming towards him, grinning and waving behind a trolley piled with luggage.

  Keith felt his own grin nearly splitting his cheeks.

  Even his insides were grinning.

  ‘G’day Tracy,’ he said.

  She hadn’t changed a bit. Same fair hair, same tanned face, same pink patches where the brown was peeling off.

  ‘I didn’t reckon the plane was ever gunna get here,’ said Tracy. ‘I thought the pilot had fallen asleep in the movie and missed the turning at Bombay.’

  Same old Tracy, thought Keith happily.

  Except something was different.

  It took Keith a moment to realise what it was.

  He looked down at her feet to see if she was giving herself a ride on the trolley.

  No, her feet were on the ground.

  Blimey, thought Keith, she’s almost as tall as Mitch Wilson.

  He stepped closer to her, amazed.

  Five months ago she could have chased cane toads with six green shower caps on her head and still been shorter than him.

  Now, without even one, she was the same height.

  And he was wearing really thick socks.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ said Tracy, still grinning. ‘Have I got ink on my teeth? While we were landing I got a bit excited and chewed the sick bag.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Keith, stepping back, ‘just getting used to seeing you again.’

  No point in embarrassing her.

  Anyway, he thought, it’s probably just temporary. Some people’s feet swell on long flights, with other people it must be their spinal fluid. She’ll be back to normal in a couple of hours.

  ‘Where’s Aunty Bev?’ he asked.

  He’d just realised with a jab of alarm she wasn’t there.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Tracy. ‘Maybe customs shot her.’

  Keith looked anxiously towards the customs exit.

  No sign of her.

  Just a glamorous international model in a pink tracksuit probably coming back from starring in an instant coffee commercial in Jamaica or somewhere.

  ‘Tracy,’ said the glamorous international model, ‘I asked you to wait for me while I was in the ladies.’

  Keith saw with a jolt that the glamorous international model was wearing plastic parrot earrings.

  ‘Sorry, Aunty Bev,’ said Tracy.

  Keith realised his mouth was hanging open.

  ‘G’day, Keith,’ said Aunty Bev, ‘good to see you again mate.’

  ‘G-g’day,’ stammered Keith.

  She shook his hand and the movement made her blonde wavy hair bounce up and down.

  No wonder I didn’t recognise her, thought Keith.

  At Tracy’s barbecue her hair had been black and Keith was pretty sure that hadn’t just been the soot from the sausages.

  He tried not to stare.

  It was incredible.

  All the other passengers had got off the plane looking like they’d just spent twenty-four hours in with the luggage. Keith had never seen so many puffy eyes and rumpled clothes and saggy bottoms and flattened hairdos.

  There wasn’t a single part of Aunty Bev that was puffy, rumpled, saggy or flattened. Her shiny red high-heeled shoes weren’t even scuffed.

  ‘Is your dad here?’ she asked.

  Keith struggled to tear his eyes from Aunty Bev’s face, which looked like it had been painted by one of those great painters of history who specialised in painting faces without a single crease, wrinkle, line, pimple or droopy bit.

  ‘Urn, he’s still parking the car,’ said Keith.

  ‘This way?’ said Aunty Bev, pushing the trolley on ahead.

  They followed her, Keith’s chest thumping with excitement.

  ‘She’s a bit of a gutful,’ whispered Tracy, ‘but I’m hoping your mum and dad’ll knock her into shape.’

  Keith decided not to say anything, not just yet.

  Wouldn’t be fair, telling a best mate who’s still woozy from one of the world’s most gruelling flights that she’s got everything back to front.

  ‘Nice car,’ said Aunty Bev as they sped along the motorway.

  ‘Sixty-eight Jag,’ said Dad. ‘It’s my boss’s. He rebuilt it.’

  ‘I think that’s a wonderful thing to do,’ said Aunty Bev, ‘take old wrecks and restore them to their former glory.’

  In the back Keith sighed happily.

  He wondered if Dad knew she wasn’t just talking about cars.

  From the way Dad was grinning at her and nodding it looked like he did.

  All I’ve got to do now, thought Keith, is make sure Dad and Mum don’t start squabbling about which one of them Aunty Bev’s going to fix up first.

  He felt a tap on his arm.

  ‘Brought you a prezzie,’ said Tracy.

  She was holding out a cane toad money box.

  Keith took it, delighted.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘it’s just what I need.’

  Trust a mate to know when your old money box was on its last legs.

  Keith thanked Tracy again and asked her if she’d made it herself and she said she had and explained that the hardest bit was getting its guts out through its bottom. Then Keith remembered he’d brought something for her. He pulled it out of his jeans pocket and unwrapped it.

  ‘It’s sausage and onion,’ he said, ‘to keep you going till we get home.’

  ‘Ripper,’ said Tracy, taking the sandwich eagerly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Tracy,’ said Aunty Bev from the front, ‘do you remember what we were yakking about on the plane? About how eating too much when you’re sitting around a lot can bugger your metabolism?’

  Tracy paused with the sandwich halfway to her mouth.

  Keith waited for her to tell Aunty Bev that those sort of theories didn’t count for cane toad hunters with huge appetites.

  Tracy sighed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I forgot.’

  She wrapped the sandwich up again.

  Keith stared.

  ‘It was a really nice thought,’ she said to Keith. ‘I’ll have it later.’

  Keith looked out the window, stunned.

  Must be the effect of the flight, he decided. Poor thing must be exhausted. Once she’s had a chance to unpack and get her spine back to normal she’ll be fine.

  7

  Keith sent an urgent message to Tracy.

  Wake up.

  Please.

  The bedroom door stayed shut.

  Come on, pleaded Keith silently, you’ve been in there for hours. Anyway, you shouldn’t sleep too long directly after a long flight, you can get leg clots, it’s a known fact.

  The bedroom door stayed shut.

  Tracy, continued Keith urgently, Mum’ll be going to work in a sec.

  ‘Keith, I’ll be going to work in a sec,’ called Mum from the bathroom.

  Keith sighed.

  Tragic.

  A whole day of Mum being perked up going to waste.

  Well not if I can help it, he thought.

  He headed for the bedroom door.

  If he could get Tracy to cheer Mum up for just a couple of minutes now, Mum’s posture would almost certainly improve a bit and male motorists were bound to notice while she was writing out their parking tickets.

  ‘Keith,’ called Mum, ‘here a sec.’

  Keith sighed and went into the bathroom.

  Mum was brushing her hair in the mirror. Keith watched her sadly. On telly when women did that it made their hair thicker and bouncier. When Mum brushed hers it made it flatter.

  ‘When Tracy and Bev wake up,’ said Mum, ‘make sure they have everything they want. The chocolate fingers are in the medicine cupboard.’

  Keith looked at her.

  She opened the bathroom cabinet and pointed to the top shelf.

  Keith stood on tiptoe and co
uld just see the chocolate finger box.

  Fair enough, he thought, they are a type of medicine.

  ‘I put them up there so you wouldn’t scoff them all,’ said Mum.

  Keith decided not to argue.

  If he reminded her that she was the one with the chocolate finger problem it would probably make her hair even flatter.

  ‘Don’t forget to clean your teeth,’ he said to her, and hurried to the bedroom.

  Tracy was stretched out on his bed asleep, still in her jeans and T-shirt.

  Beside her on the pillow was the half-eaten sausage and onion sandwich.

  He shook her gently.

  She mumbled and turned over, still asleep.

  ‘Tracy,’ said Keith, ‘it’s urgent. I need you to tell Mum about your dad’s cousin Phil.’

  Tracy opened her eyes and stared at him blearily.

  ‘Uh?’ she mumbled.

  ‘You know,’ continued Keith, ‘about how he got trampled in that rodeo and had to have thirteen metal pins surgically implanted in his body which gave him good posture for the first time in his life plus greatly improved TV reception.’

  Tracy rolled over.

  ‘Not now,’ she moaned into the pillow. ‘I need more sleep. Aunty Bev didn’t stop yakking the whole flight.’

  Keith watched as her body went limp and her breathing became heavier.

  Poor thing, he thought.

  Normally she’d swim through wet cement to finish a sausage and onion sandwich and here she was, too tired to even pick out the fried onion.

  ‘It’ll only take a couple of minutes,’ he said, ‘then you can go back to sleep.’

  She didn’t stir.

  Keith was debating whether to give her another shake when Mum appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I’m going now love,’ she said. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Mum, wait,’ said Keith.

  ‘What is it love?’ she said.

  Tracy started snoring.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Keith.

  Mum went.

  Keith sighed, picked up the sandwich and took a bite.

  Oh well, he thought, one more day won’t kill her.

  He opened his wardrobe and pulled out a blanket. While he was spreading it over Tracy he noticed something.

  She was wearing the jeans she’d ripped crawling under a cane harvester to rescue a frightened blue-tongue lizard.

  He saw how short they were on her now.

  That day in the cane field they’d fitted her perfectly. She’d tucked them into her socks so snakes wouldn’t crawl up her legs.