But Helen didn’t reply. I felt so ill that I couldn’t even waste energy on being resentful. Helen would be a dead loss as a nurse anyway. My head ached and my stomach heaved. I started thumping on the wall, hoping that Mum and Dad would hear. Nothing.
‘Ian,’ I tried. From the direction of Ian’s bedroom came a sound that would have surprised me if I hadn’t been preoccupied with my own sickness. It was the once familiar strains of Ian’s violin. He was playing a beautiful melody, a lingering mournful tune. But I was being sick again.
Drastic action was necessary. I wrapped my dressing-gown around me and staggered down the stairs. My only hope was to reach no 10. There I would surrender myself to Mum and Dad’s care and sympathy.
I pushed my way through the wet clothes and boots that blocked the back doorway. So much for Helen’s ideas about uncluttered decor.
The cold air struck me as I slid on the encrusted snow. Despair hit me when I found the back door locked. Had Mum and Dad gone out? I had no idea what time it was. Perhaps they hadn’t unlocked the house yet. I pushed my right shoulder against the door in a move similar to one that had crushed many an opponent on the rugby field, but in my weak state, the door seemed to push back at me. Silver sat snugly inside on the kitchen window sill, pretending that he didn’t see me.
‘Open this door!’ I yelled. At last I heard the beautiful sound of the door being unlocked.
‘David.’ Dad stood there in his pyjamas, looking shocked at my appearance. I barged into the kitchen and slumped at the table.
‘Dad, I feel awful,’ I complained.
Mum came downstairs and the Stirling Care and Rescue Service moved into action. I was led gently away to the spare bedroom, given lots of hot drinks and advice about how to get better. Even the advice was welcome after Helen and Ian’s cruel indifference.
I’ve left a mess next door, I thought and smiled to myself as I slipped into sleep between the clean, well-ironed sheets.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Spend, Spend, Spend!
Over the next few days, while the snow melted, I was recovering from whatever it was I’d had.
‘You could’ve picked up any number of germs in those … unsanitary conditions,’ said Mum with a shudder. ‘When I went round to clean up your room, I saw some very strange mould in the sitting-room. It was pinky-grey with lumps …’
‘They’ll have the Environmental Health Officer round next,’ said Dad, winking at me, ‘though a little untidiness is not a bad thing.’
Both Dad and Mum showered me with attention. Must be great, being an only child, I thought to myself. Here, in no 10, everything was cleanliness and order. There was a routine for everything, from lighting the fire to meal-times. For instance, I realised how a blazing fire was regularly achieved. Every morning Mum would rake out the ashes, then put firelighters on crumpled-up newspaper in the grate, so the fire was ready to light later. She’d even put wooden fire screens in front of the fire, so everything was neat and tidy. Dream on, Helen!
I was unenthusiastic about returning to no 8. Ian and Helen were no fun to live with. By Saturday I was well enough to go next door and collect some of my belongings. I walked back into no 10 carrying a load of clothes and Great Uncle Albert’s tall boy.
When Mum saw the statue she smiled. ‘Come to stay then?’ she asked.
I nodded. ‘It’s much better here,’ I told her.
A visitor was sitting at the kitchen table, sampling the cakes.
‘Here’s someone we haven’t seen for ages,’ said Mum, delighted. ‘Young Philip.’ She sat down at the table and helped herself to a rum baba. ‘I used to drive you to school when you were just this high,’ she explained to Psycho Phil.
Like he’s going to be impressed, I said to myself. Mum was treating him as if he’d been in Australia for ten years. She didn’t seem to realise this was Psycho Phil who’d been dossing down next door and harassing her daughter. With my mum all you needed to do to get away with anything is to prove that you were once seven years old.
‘So what are you doing now, Philip?’ Mum asked brightly. Points, Leaving Cert, qualifications – parents’ favourite topics were about to be discussed.
‘I’m taking a year off,’ grunted Psycho.
‘Before university?’ Mum guessed.
‘No, between serial murders,’ I said softly.
But Mum was off. ‘Are you still interested in dinosaurs?’ she asked.
‘Every seven-year-old is interested in dinosaurs,’ I pointed out, reaching for a butterfly cake. The way Psycho was putting the cakes away, there would be none left for me.
‘I’ve decided to spend Great Uncle Albert’s money,’ I told Mum, hoping to get her attention. ‘I’m going shopping, I’m going to buy a camera tripod.’
But Mum was too deep in discussion about Jurassic Park to hear me. I grabbed another cake and left her to fuss over Psycho Phil.
I called into Abbas and we made our way to the shops. The tripod cost a mint, but it’d be worth it. I was going to make sure that from now on there would be records of our family’s greatest moments.
On our way home we took a short-cut through a lane full of antique shops. As we passed one called Flanigan’s I saw something in the window that made me stop and stare.
‘Great Uncle Albert’s ship!’ I cried, pointing at the glass case in the centre of the window.
‘What?’ said Abbas, staring at the ship, but I couldn’t wait. I was half-way into the shop, with Abbas muttering behind me, ‘This place looks pricey.’
The antique dealer came out from a back room. He looked disappointed when he saw us. ‘How may I help you?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness.
‘That ship, in the window,’ I began. ‘How much is it?’
‘Ah yes, Venetian glass.’ He didn’t seem able to answer my question. He carried the dome out of the window and placed it on his desk.
I looked at it closely, remembering those times when I’d had to strain to look up at the ship on Great Uncle Albert’s mantelpiece. ‘There were tiny bubbles, I remember,’ I said more to myself than anyone else, then explained, ‘In my great-uncle’s. He had one like this.’
The antique dealer began to look more sympathetic. ‘Ah bubbles. Then that one was quite old. This one was made in – oh, probably about 1930.’
If it wasn’t very old, it wouldn’t be too expensive, I hoped. ‘How much?’ I asked again.
‘Two hundred pounds,’ he answered, without looking up.
‘Two hundred pounds,’ echoed Abbas. ‘Well, that’s that!’
I took out the rest of my money and counted it out as the antique dealer and Abbas watched. ‘Why do you want this if your uncle’s got one like it?’ Abbas asked, realising I was serious about buying it.
‘That one disintegrated,’ I explained. ‘It was the best possession my great uncle had, apart from his medal.’
‘A medal! What did he do to win that?’ asked Abbas.
‘I don’t know. Nobody ever bothered to ask him,’ I said indignantly. ‘It was the George Cross,’ I added.
The antique dealer looked up sharply. ‘The George Cross – very impressive. Did you know that only a hundred or so were ever awarded?’
‘What were they given for?’ asked Abbas.
‘For valour. A civilian would have to do something for which there was a ninety percent chance of his being killed to be awarded the cross,’ he told us.
‘You know,’ he added, and his tone had changed, he was sounding quite human, ‘I couldn’t go below a hundred and fifty pounds for the ship. That’s what I paid for it.’
‘Well, would you keep it for me if I gave you this?’ I held out the rest of my money. One hundred and ten pounds in crinkled ten-pound notes.
‘Hang on.’ Abbas held out seven pounds. ‘You can have this towards it.’
I looked away, not sure what to say. He was a good friend, Abbas. He was the same on the rugby field: he gave one hundred percent.
�
��Thanks,’ I managed.
The antique dealer took over. I suppose the sight of money had given him extra energy. ‘Let’s say, if I take this …’ he took the ten-pound notes, and ignored Abbas’s proferred seven pounds, ‘… that you owe me thirty pounds. I’ll keep the ship for you as long as you like.’
‘A deal,’ I smiled. I was getting the ship for one hundred and forty pounds. Abbas and I examined the glass ship as the antique dealer slowly and carefully wrote out a receipt for the money I’d paid him.
‘They’ve got such detail,’ said Abbas admiringly, pointing to the sailor-figures climbing up the glass rigging.
‘And the colour,’ I added. As far as I could remember every detail was identical to the original.
‘And,’ the antique dealer handed me my receipt, ‘what happened to your relative’s medal?’
‘Lost,’ I replied.
‘A pity. A George Cross would fetch quite a sum at auction.’
‘How much?’ Abbas asked eagerly.
‘Well,’ the reluctance to say anything definite seemed to have returned. ‘It depends on the citation of course, but one sold at Sotheby’s for in excess of …’
We waited.
‘… ten thousand pounds.’
‘Phew! Are you sure it’s lost?’ Abbas demanded.
‘Sure,’ I said. That the medal was worth a lot of money only confirmed what I had known anyway – that it was valuable. I felt that familiar sense of disappointment with my family. Why couldn’t they be bothered to find out what Great Uncle Albert had done?
But then I looked at the glass ship which was, in effect, mine, and that had been unexpectedly restored to me. I cheered up.
The antique dealer accompanied us to the door, seeing us out with a smile. ‘Keep the receipt,’ he advised with a friendly wave.
‘He changed his tune,’ commented Abbas as we walked idly towards Highfield Road.
‘Money talks,’ I replied. I felt pleased with my shopping, even though all I was taking home was the tripod.
‘Come back to my place for tea,’ I suggested to Abbas as we reached the hill.
He looked uneasy. ‘Your place?’
‘Not no 8,’ I assured him. ‘That’s turned into a right dump. No 10, Mum’s probably spent the day baking. We’ll have a choice of about ten different types of cake.’
We hurried up the hill towards Highfield Road. ‘I think I’ll write to Great Uncle Albert’s neighbour, see if she can tell me what he won the medal for,’ I said.
I was thinking about this as Abbas and I entered the kitchen of no 10, just in time to see Mum hurling a cream meringue at Dad’s retreating back.
Abbas muttered an excuse about getting home for tea and left, while I stared accusingly at Mum.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked, putting down the tripod.
‘Your father’s infuriating,’ yelled Mum, picking up cups and plates from the table and just thumping them down again in a different spot.
‘What’s he done?’
‘I’ve told him a thousand times to put the spoon on the dish marked “spoon”,’ she continued.
‘What spoon?’ I asked.
‘The spoon he stirs his tea with, of course,’ answered Mum. ‘And have you noticed the way he stirs his tea? Round and round and round. Anti-clockwise,’ she added, as if anticlockwise was a crime.
‘Really,’ I said, reaching for my shopping. ‘How terrible, anticlockwise.’
Mum sat at the kitchen table, staring miserably at the cakes. ‘Oh, David, I know it’s silly,’ she wailed, ‘but he’s getting on my nerves.’
I had a strong feeling that I didn’t want to hear this. ‘He never used to,’ I said sullenly.
‘I know,’ answered Mum. She’d started eating a meringue in a mournful sort of way. ‘Dear Uncle Albert,’ she said. ‘He told me it was the same during the war.’
‘The same as what?’ I asked. She was definitely rambling and she was starting on another meringue.
‘People were united during the war,’ Mum replied. ‘Like your dad and I used to be. And for the same reason, don’t you see? Because we had a common enemy.’
I stared. ‘You three,’ Mum explained. ‘Your dad and I never argued when we had you three to battle with!’
Charming! I thought as I dragged my tripod up to my room. Nobody was interested in hearing what I’d bought. The common enemy!
Over twelve years of tolerance and unselfishness and that was my reward?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A Blaze
I took refuge in Joe’s house, even though it was a three-mile walk across the city.
It was dark by the time his mum hinted that I should be on my way. I set off gloomily for home. Back through the entire city centre, over O’Connell Bridge, across towards Highfield Road, I didn’t pass one human being who looked as miserable as I felt.
I shivered. I tried imagining myself idling comfortably in front of a fire. But I couldn’t picture where that fire was.
And then I saw it, straight ahead, glowing red against the darkening skyline – a bigger fire than the one I had imagined. Realising that it was in Highfield Road, I began to run up the hill.
The jangling of fire engines sounded behind me. It’s no 6, I thought. Obviously batty, the old lady must have made a bonfire of her Christmas cards and torched the whole house.
The sirens of two fire engines were deafening as they passed me.
Abbas, I thought, panting now as I tried to quicken my pace. Thick, dark smoke was clouding around the flames as I imagined Abbas’s little brother setting fire to no 82 with a forbidden match.
Only when I caught up with the fire engines in Highfield Road did the most obvious explanation occur to me – Helen and Ian! Either Helen had tried to cook for some new bloke and flambéed no 8, or Ian’s dodgy amplifier had been left plugged in and finally blown the electrics!
As the two fire engines joined the police patrol car outside the terrace, one thing was clear: it was nos 8 and 10 that were ablaze. An ambulance sped away, blue light flashing.
‘Stand back!’ shouted a fire officer, holding his arms wide to push us back from the heat of the fire.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘He’s here!’ It was Abbas’s voice.
Then I saw Mum. ‘Davy, Davy,’ she cried, hurtling towards me. And Dad – just a bit more controlled. ‘David, thank heaven you’re safe!’
‘Me? Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘We thought you were in no 8,’ Mum explained.
Dad was shouting across to the fire officer over the crackling and spitting of the fire, ‘He’s here! We’ve got him!’
The officer ran towards us. ‘That’s everyone accounted for?’
‘Everyone,’ confirmed Mum, holding Silver in her arms.
‘Helen and Ian! Where are they?’ I asked.
‘Helen’s gone with Ian.’
‘Where?’
‘To the hospital.’
‘Further back, please,’ yelled the same fire officer at the growing crowd. We hurried across the street, turning back quickly as the roof of no 10 crumpled and fell.
In the confusion of sparks and falling roof-tiles, I was separated from Mum, Dad and Abbas. Frantically I searched for them, desperate to know about Ian.
I glimpsed Dad in the crowd. ‘Dad!’ I shouted. ‘What happened to Ian?’ The houses, the furniture, none of it mattered now. I just wanted to know my brother was okay.
I pushed through the crowd. ‘Dad!’
He was staring at the fire as the burning staircase of no 10 finally collapsed. I shook him. ‘Dad, is Ian burnt?’
He turned towards me, his face lit up by the flames. ‘Ian’s fine, David. Ian’s a hero.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Hero
Sleep’s the last thing you want after a fire. Sleep would be like death, and when your home’s burnt down, that’s what you’re happy to have escaped.
So I stayed with Abbas and we talked through t
he night, and Mum and Dad went off to Gran’s.
First Abbas told me about Ian. ‘The whole street knew there was a fire. Everyone shouted across the garden fences or hammered on doors, but no one remembered the old lady in no 6.’
The deaf old lady in no 6. I remembered how, before we moved in, Ian had regarded her deafness as a personal favour.
‘Did Ian go in and rescue her?’
‘Yeah. He was out when the fire started. He just drove up as we were leaving the house. And he ran straight into the house to get her.’
‘Hang on. No 6 wasn’t on fire!’
‘She wasn’t in no 6. She was in no 8. She was delivering something.’
A threatening note, of course.
‘The front door was open and she’d gone in because she saw flames, then got frightened and confused by the smoke.’
‘Obviously she didn’t phone the fire brigade. So who did?’
‘Helen, I think …’
Ian was fine. He was taken to hospital for observation, because he inhaled a lot of smoke, but he wasn’t hurt or burnt.
What impressed me was the way he chose to save the old lady rather than his violin. If he was lucky she’d recycle a ‘Thank You’ card to him for his courage.
Mum and Dad called round in the morning with the good news, Ian had been discharged.
Abbas’s mum made Ceylon tea for us all while Abbas’s little brother stood in the corner of the sitting-room watching us, his eyes wide. He’d been asking Abbas and myself hundreds of questions about the fire, but he was shy in front of Mum and Dad.
Mum tried to put him as his ease. ‘Look at this,’ she said, holding up a faded blue ribbon. At first I thought it was just something to get his attention, then I realised it was more important.
‘Uncle Albert’s medal,’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ Dad said.
I took it from Mum.
‘It was hidden inside the tall boy. We found it yesterday when it … er … got broken,’ Dad continued. So Mum hadn’t stopped at throwing cream cakes.
My Nasty Neighbours Page 7
