‘Please don’t,’ Tim said to himself.
Richard started to unroll his treasure. Soon a long ribbon was fluttering out from his arm. Longer and longer like a never-ending flag. Flapping and waving in the sunshine. Finally it broke. The wind caught the fragile paper and lifted it above the head of the crowd. Kids jumped and reached, yelling and laughing. The toilet paper twisted and snaked towards the school. Finally it drifted down and the mob grabbed it wildly, pulling the sheets apart and throwing them into the wind.
Richard swung around in the tree like a ghostly monkey. He began pulling his paper bandage away and throwing it down on the laughing mob of kids.
Tim’s heart dropped as he saw teachers coming with a ladder. He had to get Richard down before they frightened him. Otherwise he might fall on someone. Or hurt himself. If that happened Richard might be sent home. For good.
Tim closed his eyes and tried to shut out the angry blood-red clouds that swirled inside his head.
‘Think of snow,’ he said to himself.
A wonderful picture filled his mind. Soft, silent flakes of snow fell gently to the ground. Imaginary houses carried banks of whiteness. Every branch bowed beneath a cold burden. A snowman stood watching without a word. Peace. Nothing disturbed this wintry peace.
Now Tim knew what to do. The snow had never let him down.
2
Tim opened his eyes. Teachers were hustling across the yard with a ladder. Kids were jumping and shouting, enjoying the show. He had to hurry. He limped towards the tree on his crutches and then started fishing around in his pocket. ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ he said to himself. And then, ‘Got ’em.’
He pulled out two squashed sachets of honey that his Dad had brought back from a motel. The type that have just enough for one slice of toast. Tim quickly pushed them both into a hole in the side of the tree. ‘Hey, what’s this in here?’ he called in a loud voice. He pretended to be very interested in the hole. Out of the side of one eye he could see Richard peering down. ‘Oh, look,’ he shouted to himself. ‘Honey.’ He pulled out one sachet and made a great show of peeling back the lid and slurping the contents. He sucked and chewed noisily.
Richard watched from above.
‘I wonder if there’s any more,’ Tim yelled into the hole.
In a flash Richard dropped lightly to the ground and thrust his hand into the tree. He pulled out the sachet and shoved it into this mouth without opening it. He munched happily, not knowing or caring that the whole school was watching. Finally he spat out the plastic container.
‘Well done, Tim,’ said Ms Fish.
The two boys headed for the classroom. Tim paused as a pain growled inside his chest. He winced and then kept going. He wondered how long the teachers would go on letting Richard disturb the class. He didn’t seem to be learning anything at all. And he was annoying everyone else.
That night Richard sat in the corner of the lounge and fiddled with a toilet roll. He turned it over and over. He seemed hardly aware that Tim and his mother and father were in the room.
Dad tossed Richard two sachets of honey. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Give one to Tim.’
Richard turned them over in his hand. He looked at Tim for just a second and then shoved both into his mouth.
‘Aren’t you going to share?’ said Mum.
‘A bit late for that,’ Tim grinned. He gave Richard a friendly punch. ‘One day,’ Tim told him. ‘One day me and you are going to the snow.’ He closed his eyes and described what he saw. Richard fiddled with the toilet paper, not taking his gaze from it for a second.
‘That snow,’ said Tim, ‘is as fresh as an apple still on the tree. It is as cool as the breeze across a deep, deep lake. Oh, I see that snow like it is here now. Me and you there, Richard. We are sliding down the slope on skis.
And there is a snowman. And you know what? You know what the snowman is doing, Richard? You know what the snowman is doing? Is he just standing there? Is he just silent under the blue sky?
‘No. That snowman is dancing, Richard.
‘Oh, you should see him. He is leaping around and skipping and throwing up his arms. He is picking up snow and throwing it into the air. Oh, that snowman. He is full of joy. He doesn’t care that the sun will melt him away. He doesn’t worry about what is coming. He is king of the snow. There is no tomorrow for him. Oh, look at him dance, look at him dance.’
Tim smiled beneath his closed eyes.
‘We will see him, Richard. We will. You and me. One day we will see snow. One day we will go to the mountains. One day we will see the snowman dance.’
Tim opened his eyes and the snow-covered scene vanished. ‘I’m going to lie down,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel too good.’ He picked up his crutches and swung out of the room.
Richard turned over the toilet roll. Over and over. ‘Aargh, aargh, aargh,’ he said.
The boys’ mum and dad looked at each other with tear-filled eyes.
‘Tim will never see snow,’ said Mum. ‘Not in Australia in December.’
‘He might make it,’ said the father. ‘It sometimes snows in the mountains in June.’
‘June will be too late,’ said Mum.
‘I should have taken him last year,’ said Dad.
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Mum. ‘The doctor wouldn’t allow it, remember.’
‘Aargh, aargh, aargh,’ barked Richard. The noise was louder and more violent than usual. He hugged the toilet roll to his chest and rocked like a baby.
Mum glanced over at Richard. ‘Do you think he knows?’ she said.
Dad scowled as a truck changed gear on the road outside. It sounded its horn loudly. ‘He doesn’t know about anything. Except toilet rolls. Here we go again.’
Richard’s face lit up. He raced out the door. ‘Aargh, aargh, aargh.’ At the front gate he jumped up and down waving his arms crazily. The truck has a large toilet roll painted on the side. Underneath was written ‘SOFT AS DAWN’. The driver leaned over and wound down the passenger side window. Then he threw something into the air.
It turned over and over and then bounced crazily into the front yard.
Richard scampered after his prize. One tightly wrapped roll of toilet paper. He grabbed it eagerly and clutched it to his chest. ‘Aargh, aargh, aargh,’ he yelled happily.
Another truck rounded the corner and the driver also threw out a toilet roll. He tooted and laughed as Richard gathered up the bouncing paper. A third and a fourth truck did the same. Each driver enjoyed this daily ritual. Passers-by stopped and stared at the strange sight.
Richard ran back inside with the loot. He headed towards his favourite place. The loft. A large, warm space in the roof of the house. He climbed up the ladder and disappeared through a manhole.
3
‘Geeze, I don’t know,’ said Dad. ‘All these blasted toilet rolls. We have to put a stop to it. It’s just making him worse. We’re the laughing stock of the neighbourhood. Harry James asked me if we’re going to build a public toilet in the front yard. I’ll bet the factory doesn’t know their drivers are throwing away rolls and rolls every day. It’s been going on for years.’
‘Have you looked at his face?’ said Mum. ‘It’s the only time Richard ever smiles. When those toilet rolls come bouncing over the fence he’s happy. You can’t stop that.’
‘It’s a fire risk,’ said Dad. ‘All that paper up inside the roof. The whole place could go up in smoke.’
‘Think of it as free insulation,’ said Mum.
‘Have you been up there lately? Go and have a look. And don’t let him see you or you’ll cop the usual.’
Mum silently climbed the ladder and peered in the loft. Her eyes widened. A huge castle made of toilet rolls filled the entire space. It was so much bigger than before. Turrets and walls and a tall, arched entrance. Paper stairs made their way to the top of the ramparts. Dolls and teddy bears were propped up like archers peering down at the enemy. The whole loft was crammed with thousands and thousands of toilet rol
ls.
‘Aargh, aargh, aargh.’ Richard’s face appeared over the battlements. He began to fire on the intruder. A shower of bouncing toilet rolls peppered Mum. She quickly ducked down and closed the loft hatch above her.
‘Right,’ yelled Dad. ‘That’s it. I’m not putting up with this nonsense for one more second.’ He climbed quickly up the ladder and opened the hatch. ‘Richard, get down from there. I’m putting a stop to this. Tomorrow I’m going to the factory to stop those drivers throwing out toilet rolls. And all of this is going. Every last one. It’s ridiculous. Now come down here at once.’
‘Aargh, aargh, aargh.’ Toilet rolls fell around Dad like mortar shells. He shook his fist at Richard as the angry boy lobbed the rolls over the castle walls. Dad ducked and hit his head on the side of the hatch. Then he fell, screaming and grabbing at the rungs of the ladder. He crashed heavily to the floor.
‘Damn and blast,’ he yelled.
Mum tried to smother a smile. ‘Are you okay, dear?’ she asked.
‘No I’m not. It’s not funny. I mean it. Every last bit of paper is going out of that loft.’
Another hailstorm of toilet rolls bounced down on top of him and the hatch banged shut.
4
In his room nearby, Tim lay on his bed and listened to the commotion. He shook his head. He knew what the toilet roll castle meant to Richard. Terrible things would happen if he lost the toilet rolls. He had been collecting them for years. Building with them. Wrapping things up. His loft was a refuge. A place to go to. A warm world of his own. Angry red clouds rolled in Tim’s head. Why couldn’t Richard talk? Why did he always have to live in a lonely world of his own?
Tim looked at his crutches propped against the bed. Life wasn’t fair. He closed his eyes. And thought of snow.
Gentle, falling snow. Drifting down. Cleaning the world with its whiteness. Covering the streets and the cars. Happy children threw snowballs and laughed.
And there he was. The best bit of all. The snowman. Dancing, dancing. Lifting his black hat with a snowy arm. Winking with his coal-black eyes. Beckoning Tim. Calling him. ‘Oh, look at that snowman dance,’ said Tim. A wonderful peace filled his mind. He lay back on his pillow and for a while the pain in his chest melted away.
‘I’d love to see snow,’ he said to himself. ‘If I could see snow. Just once. I’d be happy for ever.’
Tim opened his eyes and the vision vanished. Outside the window the summer sun cooked the brown grass.
‘Oh no,’ said Tim.
A figure was loping across the lawn, dragging a large garbage bag behind him. ‘Aargh, aargh, aargh,’ said Richard.
Tim could see that Richard was angry. He knew that his brother was running away from home. Taking his most precious possessions with him.
‘Come back, Richard,’ yelled Tim. But he was too late. Richard had already disappeared along the footpath. Tim struggled out of bed and searched frantically for his shoes. Where were they? Under the bed. He grabbed a crutch and hooked them out. He quickly put on the shoes and limped outside. ‘Richard, Richard,’ he yelled. His voice echoed along the empty street. Richard was nowhere to be seen.
Tim set off along the road. His crutches rubbed under his arm and with every step the pain in his chest grew worse. He knew that he was supposed to take it easy. Not strain himself. ‘Richard,’ he called. ‘Richard.’
Tim was worried. He should have told Mum and Dad so they could use their car to search. But Dad was angry with Richard. That might be the last straw.
Richard could be in danger. He would often run across roads without looking. At this very moment he might be on top of someone’s roof. Or hanging off a bridge over a river. Or crawling down a drain.
Blood-red clouds began to swirl in Tim’s mind. But there was no time to call the snowman to drive them away. Sweat began to form on his brow and he felt faint.
5
Tim wandered the streets for hours. Up and down. Along and around. He couldn’t find Richard anywhere. He had tried all of the usual places. The bridge. The station. The river. Nothing.
Finally Tim leaned his crutches on a wall and sat down. He felt very, very tired. He had just decided to give up and go home when something caught his eye. A letter-box. A letter-box wrapped in toilet paper.
Richard had been this way.
Tim struggled on. A dog ran past. A dog wrapped up in a paper bandage. This dog had met Richard for sure.
The houses gave way to fields. A herd of black cows grazed lazily in the sunshine. Twenty black cows. And one white one. A farmer was cursing and pulling away the shroud of paper which entwined his mooing animal.
Tim hobbled on, following the paper trail. He found it hard to breathe. He was hot and the pain in his chest grew worse and worse. But he kept going. He had to.
Finally he stopped. A long stream of paper fluttered in the gutter. It wound like a country road through the long, brown grass to a barbed-wire fence. A few strands of paper were impaled on the wire. The trail led through the fence and onto…
‘The train line,’ gasped Tim. He rolled under the fence and climbed up onto the tracks. Cold sweat formed on his brow as he followed the steel and paper trail. His breath came in gasps. His chest seemed to be enclosed in a ring of iron which grew tighter and tighter. The tips of his crutches slipped and jarred on the heavy stones between the tracks.
Tim knew what lay around the corner. He tried not to think about it. ‘Think of snow,’ he said to himself. ‘Think of snow.’ But the snow would not come. The dancing snowman had deserted him. There was nothing but angry, red clouds. And a railway line running across a tall, tall bridge.
In the centre of the bridge a tiny figure danced crazily, waving a long, white stream of paper. A fragile rope which suddenly broke and fell uncaringly into the river far, far below.
6
Tim stopped when he reached the bridge. It stood on huge wooden legs which spanned the river beneath. At the top it was narrow with one set of tracks which ran along close to the edge.
Gentle vibrations, growing strongly, came up through Tim’s crutches. The train was somewhere on the other side of the bridge. Tim wanted to run onto the bridge and grab his brother. But he knew in his heart that if he did, neither of them would come back.
‘Richard,’ he screamed. ‘Richard. The train is coming. This way, quick. Get off the bridge.’ He took one wobbling step towards his brother but could go no further. One crutch lodged in a gap in the planks. Tim fell sprawling between the tracks. His chest hurt terribly. And one leg was bleeding freely. For a second he just wanted to stay there. Just stop and let things happen. Blood-red clouds swirled. He lay back and shook his head. Then he closed his eyes. ‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘Where are you? Don’t let me down now.’
And through the mists of his mind came the wonderful, dancing snowman. Calling, calling, calling. Beckoning with a snowy finger.
Tim smiled. He opened his eyes and crawled towards his crutches which were balanced on one of the rails. He moved his fingers like the legs of a spider. He could just reach the crutches and scratch them towards himself. In a second he had them and was up on his feet. The vibrations from the tracks grew stronger and stronger. He looked towards the other side. In the distance a train whistle sounded.
‘Richard,’ he shouted. ‘This is for you.’ He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a sachet of honey. He lifted his arm and threw it with all his might. The tiny container arced into the air and then fell down, down, down until it disappeared in the pebbles by the river.
The train was on the bridge. Thundering towards Richard. Brakes screaming. Sparks flying high into the air.
Richard looked down after the honey. He looked at Tim. He looked at the train behind him. ‘Aargh, aargh, aargh,’ he screamed. Then he ran, stumbling towards his brother. Fleeing before the steel monster which screeched and roared towards him. He fell at Tim’s feet.
The train was upon them. Richard peered down the grassy slope towards the river,
searching with his eyes for the honey. Then he jumped off the tracks and bounded over the fence and down the hill.
Tim had no strength. He simply fell, like a tree teetering after the axeman’s last blow. He toppled sideways, away from the train. The thundering wheels crunched his crutches to splinters. Tim rolled like a log. Down the gentle bank and under the fence. At last he stopped by a small stand of bushes.
‘Aargh, aargh, aargh,’ came Richard’s voice from the river far below. He scrabbled among the rocks, looking for the honey.
‘Stupid little idiots,’ came a fading voice from the last carriage of the train as it rushed into the distance.
Richard struggled back up to his brother with the sachet of honey. He held it out in one hand. But Tim was too tired to even notice.
7
Later, at home, the doctor pulled the sheet back up to Tim’s chin and looked at the sleeping figure. ‘He’s a very sick little boy,’ he said to the two parents. ‘He must have walked ten kilometres. On crutches. And that fall down the bank. It was too much for him. It was getting near the time anyway. You should think about putting him into hospital soon.’
Tim’s dad shook his head. ‘We’ve talked about this over and over,’ he said. ‘We knew this day was going to come. And we’re ready for it. We want him to spend his last days in his own bed. At home with us.’
Above their heads, in the bedroom ceiling, an eye swivelled and stared down through a small hole. The eye moistened and formed a tiny droplet. The tear wobbled for a second and then fell. It spun glistening through the warm air and plopped onto Tim’s cheek. His mother wiped it away, thinking it was her son’s. She was right. And she was wrong. ‘He’s crying in his sleep,’ she said. The eye in the ceiling blinked.
‘He wanted to see the snow,’ said Dad. ‘He’s never been to the snow. He’s never seen a snowman. Or a snowstorm. It’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.’
They all looked out of the window. Insects buzzed in the warm summer air.
Paul Jennings' Trickiest Stories Page 9
