From deep inside Big Dave’s throat I hear a laugh building and his legs flop down. “You won,” he says. “Look over there.” Big Dave suddenly points into the sky. “A shooting star. Make a wish.”
Far above me a star skitters across the sky, leaving behind a hailstorm of silver sparkles.
I wish with all my heart that I had a dad who would pretend to run through the stars with me.
“Come on, if you’ve made your wish we need to fly this baby.” Big Dave rises up and marches to a clearing that he says is perfect. “We have to avoid power lines, buildings and trees or anything else that could catch fire. You can’t be too careful, you know.” He hands me a pair of gloves and tells me to put them on to protect my hands.
Big Dave very carefully attaches the candles and lights them before handing the lantern to me with a warning not to let go until I feel the lantern tug in my hands. “Some people like to write messages on the ricepaper,” he says. “Then they let their messages go. I suppose it’s a nice thing to do if you’ve got something you want to get off your chest.” The lantern is pulling away from me now and my fingers release their grip.
Up it flies, floating and dancing into the darkness like a golden dandelion clock on a breeze. Big Dave and I watch as it sways this way and that, before travelling higher and further. We follow it on foot, like two wise men and one sickly dog following the Star of Bethlehem. Snow begins to fall, settling on our heads like juicy flakes of dandruff.
Beyond us the sky lantern runs out of steam under the weight of snow and as the candle goes out, it floats back down to the ground. Charles Scallybones finds it but by the time we get there he’s eaten some of the ricepaper. “Don’t worry,” says Big Dave, picking it up and shaking off the snowflakes, “we can always make another one. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
As we walk home, I feel windswept and happy and Big Dave tells so many jokes that my jaws ache. In fact, we’re still laughing when we get to 10 Paradise Parade and we laugh some more as we enter the living room. But when I see Grace with a face like a smacked kipper, I stop. While Mum asks if we had a good time, Grace slips from the room. When she returns it’s hard not to gawp, because she stands in the middle of the living room and then begins ballerina-twirling and spinning, pink fabric billowing into the air and parachuting back down again.
“Is that a new dressing gown?” Mum peers over the newspaper.
My stomach falls onto the carpet with a splatter and Big Dave applauds and shouts, “Bravo!” (although I suspect this is more for Grace’s performance than my stomach). Mum is laughing, but baffled. I’m horrified and keep making these hand-cutting motions.
“Don’t do this,” I hiss helplessly as Grace does a curtsey. But at that moment I know nothing will stop the word ninja on her mission.
“No, Mum. I didn’t buy this dressing gown. Big Dave did,” says Grace, bobbing back up. “I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. You’ve always brought us up to be truthful with one another.”
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” Big Dave scratches his arm and then runs his fingers across his bald head, which is now simmering like a boiling egg. “I’ve never seen that dressing gown in my life.”
“That’s odd,” Grace puts a finger to the crease at the side of her lips, “because it came from your house. Actually, it came from your bedroom.”
That’s done it. If we had a load of pigeons in the living room, Grace would have just put a hungry tiger among them.
“Mum, we didn’t want to tell you this.” I hate how Grace has just used the word we. “Big Dave has been lying to you. He’s got a wife, no matter what he’s told you. He’s still living with her. This is her dressing gown and this is the evidence we got for you.” There we go again. It was Grace’s idea to break into Big Dave’s house and I was carried along. It wasn’t we, it was her.
“Okay…” Mum rolls the word around her tongue. “I didn’t know you’d been invited to Big Dave’s house.” She folds the newspaper and sets it on the coffee table.
Big Dave is bubbling: soft-boiled, I’d say. “Grace, you’re wrong. You’ll realize you’re making a fool of yourself.” He glares at her. Yup! We’ve just reached hard-boiled Big Dave.
Mum echoes, “When were you at Big Dave’s house?”
No one could blame Big Dave for telling Mum the truth about what happened on the night of the fire, but he doesn’t. I bet he’s worked out that I distracted him while Grace was inside stealing the dressing gown and turning his bedroom into a barbecue. Instead, Big Dave’s head sinks down into his shoulders. All the while he’s repeating that this is stupid, that he shouldn’t need to explain himself. Apparently, he hasn’t seen his wife for ages. He doesn’t even know exactly where she is these days.
Grace’s performance is almost finished. Almost. Before taking a final bow she wafts the pink robe under Mum’s nose. “Smell this, Mum.”
“Poison,” Mum says archly.
“Exactly.” Grace’s eyes narrow. “Poy-zon.”
Big Dave blusters and says he doesn’t keep poison in the house. He flaps his arms and tells us he’s not with his wife, as Mum’s eyes brim with tears. Mum tells him her children wouldn’t make it up. If they say he has a wife still living with him, then he must have. Mum delivers the final blow by saying her children are not telling lies and she believes them and nothing he says will make a difference. She needs time and space away from him. Ding-ding! The fight is over and Big Dave is out.
I recall the moment Dad walked into the hallway, opened the front door and slammed it shut. I remember thinking he’d come back, before the slow realization that he never would spread over me. Big Dave has just done the same thing. The door made a flam sound then a tinkle, as the force made the knocker on the front flip up and down again. The colour skids from my face and my heart sails into an iceberg. Here I am, sinking in the fear that I might not see Big Dave again, and the fun we had with the sky lantern seems a million miles away.
“It had to be done,” says Grace when I confront her in her bedroom.
“You’ve sent away the person Mum loves,” I say flatly.
“That’s a bit rich. Are you sure it’s not because you’re starting to love him? All those secret meetings you’ve been having.”
“We were only flying a lantern. You could have come. It doesn’t mean anything.” I bite my lip, knowing that I’m betraying him. It did mean something, I tell myself. I enjoyed it. Grace says she feels sorry for me because I’m letting him into my life and I’m going to get hurt again. “I’m not,” I say fiercely. “If Big Dave had to leave for good then I could live without him. It’s not as if he’s my real dad.”
“Yeah, well, we managed to live without him too.” Grace shrugs.
I’d like to say something clever, something important, something that will express how I really feel, but there just aren’t any words. The stupid thing is I’m only living without Dad because I have to. It’s not my choice and it’s not as if I haven’t tried to contact him many times. If Dad was back in my life, everything would be good once more and I wouldn’t care about pink dressing gowns. All I can do now is hope that Project Eco Everywhere is going to wave a magic wand and deliver Dad back into my arms.
“Dan, you can close the door on your way out. I’ve got to text Stan now.” Grace pulls out her mobile and stares at the screen.
“You’re back with him then?”
Grace’s fingers move across the keypad. “Uh, yeah, we’re dating again, no thanks to you. Stan understands that I’m at a disadvantage by having such a ridiculous brother. He didn’t even believe Kevin Cummings anyway.”
“But he dumped you.”
“Au contraire, mon stupido frère. There was no dumpage. We had an amicable separation and he thought about dating another girl but he didn’t because he accepts that I’m his one and only. During our…”
“Amicable separation,” I repeat.
“Yeah,” says Grace, “during that time I lost ab
out two kilos through stress. Now I can get into my skinny jeans and Stan thinks I look hotter than ever. I’ve still got it.” As if to prove her point, Grace shakes her booty, touches it with a finger, makes a hissing sound and points me to the door.
When I flop on my own bed and pick up the guitar, I let my fingers sing a sad song. Ribbons of music flow from my fingertips up through my arms. When they reach my heart they wrap themselves around it so tightly that I feel an ache. Next door, from Mum’s room, I can hear soft sobs and then the whoosh of tissues being pulled from a box. I want to go in but I don’t know what to say. If Big Dave is still in love with Caroline 1973 then I suppose it’s better to feel the hurt now rather than later. Mum sobs again. I set down the guitar and rise from my bed and pad across to my door. My fingers touch the handle but I can’t bring myself to turn it and go to comfort Mum. Instead, I walk to the window, wondering if there are any shooting stars I can wish on in the snowy sky.
Some of the little terrace houses on Paradise Parade are sugar-frosted with snow. Others glimmer with pinpricks of jewelled fairy light. Mrs Nunkoo’s dog is covered in snowflakes and yapping at the full moon. I bet he secretly thinks he’s a werewolf. I smile at such a daft thought but the smile soon drops when I see someone huddled in a pool of street light. Someone chunky and wearing what looks like a bad snow wig over their bald head, someone with their shoulders drooping and their head in their hands.
That someone looks a lot like Big Dave.
Big Dave doesn’t return the next day, or the day after. Mum says she asked him to stay away for a while. Said she needed to think about the future of her family, including the baby. Mum is sad. Yes, she hides it well but I know she’s missing him. I want to tell her to contact Big Dave, because a baby needs a dad, but the words are prisoners inside my throat. Some days Mum forgets to make my packed lunch and I have to share Christopher’s and Jo’s sandwiches.
“Here, have some of my holy guacamole. Doesn’t your mum make you food any more?” says Jo, passing me some bread with green sludge on it.
“She forgot to do it today,” I reply, adding, “because she has a lot on her mind,” for good measure.
“My dad gets like that sometimes. He can be grumpy too, although you’d think he’d be happy because he’s got this new girlfriend,” says Christopher.
“Is she nice?” asks Jo.
“I’ve never met her but I’ve spoken to her a few times on the phone, although not recently.” Christopher bites into his sandwich, leaving a snail trail of peanut butter and jam on his chin. “Families are weird anyway.”
“You should borrow my sister. She’s as weird as they come.”
“No, thanks,” says Christopher. “I’ve got a hamster.”
“Would you like to borrow my patron saint of lunch?” asks Jo, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s Friar Tuck.” She bursts out laughing and I dodge in case some holy guacamole makes a break for freedom.
“Things are going to get better,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. “There’s the Project Eco Everywhere show coming up and that’s going to be the best moment of my life.”
“Are you serious?” Jo splutters. “I didn’t know you were into this modelling stuff. You never told me. Plus you’re not even going to be onstage, are you?”
I realize I was thinking aloud. I’m not interested in modelling. I’m interested in meeting Dad. Christopher is busy wiping his chin and moaning about his dad working late and how his Aunty Yvonne has been staying with them for ever, Jo is preoccupied talking about how she thinks she is going to be discovered at Project Eco Everywhere and then whisked away to Paris to sign a modelling contract for a bazillionty pounds, and I’m preparing for an event of life-changing proportions. If only they knew how important this show really is.
Later in the afternoon, the class sets off for the Amandine Hotel. “We’re going to get our bearings,” says Mrs Parfitt, shooing us onto the school bus. “I want you to familiarize yourselves with the hotel. I will point out where you’re going to be and at what stage of the proceedings you’ll be expected to step onto the Project Eco Everywhere catwalk. At the end of the show, I’ll allow everyone to go onstage for a bow. That includes Christopher and Daniel.”
I almost jump up into the air and do a fist punch. I am going to see Dad after all. I’m not going to be behind the scenes the entire time. I’m going to get my moment in the spotlight, flooded by gold and with Dad clapping wildly when he sees me.
“There you go,” whispers Jo as we find our seats on the bus, “good things do happen when you believe in saints.”
I want to say this has nothing to do with saints, but I imagine that would be like bopping a baby fawn on the head. This is so exciting my legs will hardly bear my weight. All the way to the Amandine Hotel I’m planning my first conversation with Dad in my head. Of course, I will say all the right things. Dad will be impressed by how well I’m doing at school. He’ll say he’s sorry. Whatever he says I will forgive him, because he is my dad.
“What?” Jo flicks her head towards me while I look at her blankly. “You just said ‘Dad’.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah, you did.” Jo looks back out of the bus window. “Out of the blue. We weren’t even talking about anything.”
I don’t know why I do, but I begin telling Jo about my dad. Not the bit about how he’s famous now, but how he was when he was a proper dad and living at 10 Paradise Parade. How we lived happily together and how Dad used to tell me stories at bedtime. My favourite was the one about the rainbow. He used to tell me that no one ever dies because they go over the rainbow. Just behind that arc of colour were lots of beautiful souls living in a dream world.
“But you can run up to a rainbow,” says Jo, her eyes wide.
“Yes, but when you reach it, it disappears and turns up in another place, so it’s like you know there are people there but when you try to touch them they evaporate. It’s sort of a story, but I imagined the people were red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet-coloured zombies, and that made it even more exciting.”
Jo is silent for a long time and then says, “You never usually talk about your dad.”
“He left us years ago,” I say. “Walked out and never came back.”
“But you’re still in contact, right?” asks Jo.
“Oh look,” I say, pointing. “We’re here.”
Spotting the Amandine Hotel is a cop-out and allows me to change the subject, which has got too uncomfortable. This position I’m in with Dad is a funny one. Sometimes it’s like I’m on a see-saw and I’m in the middle and everything is balanced on either side of me. When I choose to talk about Dad the balance tips and the see-saw starts to tilt and I slide down towards the edge, and then I have to struggle to get it back to an equal balance. But I want to talk about Dad because not talking about him makes the see-saw ride seem flat and never-ending, like a life where staying silent is almost more painful than talking.
“Right, class, line up and get off the bus carefully, please.” Mrs Parfitt herds us into duckling lines and leads us off the bus and straight into the ballroom of the Amandine Hotel.
If rooms could smell of money, then this one would. It has red velvet wallpaper that, when you stroke it, feels like the fuzz on a peach. Beneath us there is a polished wooden floor and high above our heads is a huge chandelier, dripping with thousands of crystal raindrops that dance in the breeze of twenty-eight excitable children. Straight ahead are heavy curtains falling in deep crimson folds and tied back with long golden tassels that look like Rapunzel’s hair. Mrs Parfitt points to the curtains and says we’re going to appear from behind those and walk down the catwalk, stop, then look into the audience and “smize”.
“That’s smile with your eyes,” hisses Jo to me, “it’s a phrase from Tyra Banks, the supermodel.”
I frize back (frown with my eyes).
Saleem looks bored and Kevin is pretending to moonwalk, only he’s got really squeaky trainers on and it
sounds like he’s strangling a mouse. We’re still not talking since the whole episode of him telling Stan that Grace was pregnant. When Mrs Parfitt tells him to put a sock in it I have to chew the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing in his face.
“This”, says Mrs Parfitt, leading us backstage, “is the room where it all happens.”
The room where it all happens looks like a room where nothing happens. Against the wall there are empty rails for clothing. The wallpaper is blistered and the place stinks of stale sweat, fruit cocktail and toilet cleaner. To my left there is a discarded spotty sock and a rose hairband. Even the rose has been crushed and one of the petals has stuck to the edge of Mrs Parfitt’s leopard-print pump, making it look as though the leopard has a pink tongue.
“On the night I’d like the class to come fully dressed, but if you need to attach wrapping foil or pie cases or whatever then you can do that backstage with Daniel and Christopher to help. Over there will be a table with a mirror. By the way, is everyone’s hero attending? Everyone except Jo’s heroine, that is.”
Everyone choruses, “Yes.” But me, I shout the loudest, because I know my dad will be in the audience too. Jo gives me a funny look, but before she gets the chance to say anything Mrs Parfitt asks if there are any questions. That shuts Jo up. Still, she squints at me and mouths that she thought my dad had walked out.
I ignore her because I’m zorbing in an invisible bubble of happiness. Next time I’m at the Amandine Hotel, standing under the glittering chandelier, my dad will be here too. I, Dan Hope, am going to be revealed as the son of a famous star. I, Dan Hope, will be living the dream.
Dear Grace and Dan,
Just having a little lie-down and, before you worry, it’s nothing more than baby-building tiredness. Growing this little one is exhausting. Your dinner is already in the microwave and all you have to do is set it to four minutes and hit the button. When it pings take the food out and eat it. Not too quickly, mind, or you’ll take the roof off your mouth – the microwave can turn food into molten lava. By the way, it’s Aladdin’s Comforting Cottage Pie. If you need me, knock on the bedroom door and I’ll get up. Don’t forget to do your homework.
A Boy Called Hope Page 12
