by Anne Fine
Roy didn’t answer, so Mum turned to Dumpa, who was standing forlornly in the snow, sucking a sodden mitten.
‘Come with me, Dumpa.’
Dumpa looked anxiously at Roy, who simply handed him a little pile of plastic flowerpots to carry to the dustbins.
Beside me, Callie hissed:
‘The Beard’s a pig! An interfering pig! I hope he stays out all day and freezes to death!’
But Dumpa was the problem. For just a moment it looked as if Mum might lose her patience and reach down to snatch him up. But she thought better of it. All of us know it’s almost impossible to keep Dumpa from Roy’s side when he’s at home. And anyway, I don’t think she could face the idea of Roy watching her carrying him, screaming and thrashing, back to the kitchen.
So in the end she simply said to Roy, with as much dignity as she could muster:
‘I hope you’ll come to your senses in a few minutes, and bring him in.’
He didn’t, though. The two of them had carried at least three more loads to the dustbins before Mum cracked.
‘Robbo,’ she said to me. ‘Please try and get him to come in for me.’
I had a go. I took the tiny pair of dry gloves Mum handed me, and went outside. The freezing wind gusted straight down the neck of my jacket. It was so cold, I played my best card first.
‘Dumpa, if you come in, I’ll throw balls for you to head-butt.’
Dumpa just shook his head. I turned to Roy.
‘Mum’s worried about him. She wants him back inside.’
Roy took the dry gloves from me.
‘He’s wrapped up perfectly warmly. It’s only snow.’
He peeled off Dumpa’s wet mittens, then prised open the clenched little fists to pull on the gloves. Dumpa’s fingers were stiff with cold, and Roy’s weren’t much better.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked. ‘Why choose today to clear the shed? Dumpa would follow you, if only you’d come in.’
‘Come in to what, though?’ Roy asked sarcastically, before stamping off.
And I couldn’t answer, because I knew exactly what he meant. Come in to a house that was colder to him, in its own way, than working in a January garden. Come in to wintry little looks, and icy silences and frosty glares.
But then I thought of something, and called after him.
‘You could at least do it for Dumpa’s sake!’
Roy swung round. His eyes flashed to match the droplets of snow glistening in his beard.
‘Don’t tell me what to do for Dumpa’s sake!’ he snapped. ‘I’m still here, aren’t I? Isn’t that enough?’
I stared. It honestly hadn’t ever occurred to me that, if it weren’t for Dumpa, Roy might not still be in our house. I realized for the first time that when Roy took off that week, he hadn’t intended to come back again. Why hadn’t Callie guessed that? It was the sort of thing she always used to work out first. Perhaps she’d been so busy wishing him gone, she hadn’t noticed that, if it weren’t for Dumpa, he’d have been just as glad to stay away.
So Dumpa was the problem for Roy, as well.
I think it must have worried Roy to see me staring at him for so long, not saying anything. In the end, he broke the silence himself.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Take Dumpa in with you.’
Dumpa put on his stubborn look.
‘Come along,’ I said, holding out my hand.
Dumpa hid both hands behind his back. I could tell we were in for a long haul. And so could Roy.
‘What do you reckon?’ he muttered to me over Dumpa’s head.
‘Strawberry rocket,’ I mouthed. (I’d tried my best shot already, don’t forget. And Dumpa’s passion for ice lollies lasts all year round.)
‘Okay,’ Roy told Dumpa. ‘I’m sending Robbo in to fetch you an ice lolly. And when it’s finished, you go back inside. Is that a deal?’
Dumpa nodded. Every toddler has his price. And then he trailed me to the kitchen door, and stood there grinning at Mum while I fetched a strawberry rocket out of the freezer.
‘Right,’ I said, anchoring its thin stick more firmly through a hole in his glove. ‘As soon as that’s finished, in you come.’
He nodded again, and stamped off through the snow. I turned to Mum and Callie.
‘Success!’ I announced proudly.
Well, more fool me! The three of us stood in a line and watched for nearly an hour as Dumpa outsmarted us. Not once did he stick out his tongue to take so much as a lick from that strawberry rocket. The thing stayed upright, pink and perfect on its stick. And in the icy air, colder than any freezer, it didn’t even begin to melt.
‘I’m going out to fetch him now,’ Mum kept insisting. But, though she put her boots on several times, it was quite clear she couldn’t face another argument with Roy.
‘He’s totally mad,’ said Callie, wiping yet another viewing hole in the misted pane. ‘Why won’t he come back in the warm?’
‘Because he’s his dada’s son.’
I must have heard Mum say it a thousand times. But always, before, it sounded patient and amused. This time it sounded different. It sounded trapped.
‘I didn’t mean Dumpa,’ said Callie. ‘I meant Roy. Why won’t he come inside?’
I honestly can’t explain quite what it was that made me tell her. I’d like to kid myself it was because I’d suddenly realized Mum had had enough of being the umpire between Callie and Roy. (And how could she stop? If she gave up believing that one day the two of them might learn to live together under one roof, she’d have to ask Roy to leave. Then, either she’d lose Dumpa, or Dumpa would lose his precious dada.) But maybe I was as fed up as Roy with the grim atmosphere inside our house. The whole business seemed to me suddenly to have gone on far too long – like one of those soccer matches that turn to stalemate almost as soon as they begin, and drag on for ever. No loose balls. No flying passes. No brilliant breakaways.
Coach always tells us: ‘Force it open, boys!’
‘I’ll tell you why he won’t come back inside,’ I said. ‘Because he’s as fed up as we are. He feels unwelcome in this house. In fact, he’d really like to leave, but Dumpa’s the problem.’
Mum sank on the edge of a chair as if I’d punched the stuffing out of her.
‘Robbo! That is a terrible thing to say!’
You can trust Callie to come up in support when it’s a chance to have a dig at Roy.
‘You know you’ve been arguing recently,’ she told Mum.
‘Everyone has arguments,’ Mum defended herself and Roy. ‘Children Dumpa’s age are tiring. Very tiring. Most of our arguments are about silly things like ice-cream left to melt, and baby-sitting mix-ups. If Roy and I could only have a little break occasionally, there’d be far fewer of these little spats.’
‘They’re not all little spats,’ I persisted. ‘Roy did walk out on us for a whole week.’
Mum flushed.
‘That was quite different. That was –’
Glancing at Callie, she broke off. But Callie met her eye.
‘I know what you were going to say. That was about me.’
Mum nodded. ‘It isn’t easy,’ she said. ‘You get upset with him. He gets upset with you. And I’m stuck in the middle.’ She shook her head. ‘Never mind. It’s just a matter of time, I’m sure.’
Coach says: ‘Keep up that pressure. Push them hard.’
‘How can it just be a matter of time?’ I argued. ‘Roy moved in almost as soon as Dad moved out. And you’ve been getting on with Dad a hundred times better than Callie’s been getting on with Roy.’
Mum stared at me.
‘What has got in to you today? Why are you coming out with all this?’
‘Because I’m fed up with it all,’ I told her. ‘I want to start over again. New season. Fresh game.’
I gave Callie a really meaningful look.
‘And maybe even fresh teams.’
Callie stared back as if, at last, she’d understood what I was prodding her
to try and say.
‘Yes,’ Mum agreed. ‘A good idea. Let’s all try again. New season. Fresh game.’
I noticed she’d missed out ‘fresh teams’. And so did Callie.
‘No,’ she said firmly to Mum. ‘Don’t carry on pretending. There’s no point. I can’t get on with Roy. I’ve tried and tried. But I can’t stand him.’
She saw the look on Mum’s face, and her voice rose to a wail.
‘Don’t look at me like that! You know it’s true. I just can’t bear him. I can’t bear his face, or his voice, or his beard, or anything about him. I can’t stand him when he’s trying to be nice, and I can’t stand him when he’s cross with me. I especially can’t stand him telling me what to do.’
The tears were pouring down her face.
‘Don’t tell me I’ll get used to it! It isn’t going to work. I know it. Robbo knows it. Even Roy knows it. And, if you’re honest with yourself, you know it too. I’m never going to get used to Roy. Never, ever, ever. He’s never going to feel like family to me. He’s like a stranger in the house.’
She dropped her voice to a whisper.
‘And when he’s here, it doesn’t even feel like home to me any more.’
I watched the second hand swing round the clock. Don’t lose it now, Callie, I was willing her. Go on for goal.
Mum stretched out her arms, and Callie threw herself on her knees on the floor, and buried her head in Mum’s lap. Gently, Mum patted her hair, to comfort her. Frankly, I thought it could only be the whistle now. Time up. Game over. Lost it by a hair.
But I was wrong. Callie’s next words came out so muffled that neither of us could hear them properly. But they came out.
Mum stopped the patting and looked up at me.
‘What did she say?’
Sometimes you have to take a risk to finish the game. I took a deep breath.
‘I think she probably said she wants to go and live with Dad.’
Mum looked as if I’d slapped her.
‘But Callie doesn’t even like your father’s place! She says it’s cold and gloomy, and not like a real home at all.’
Callie just buried her head deeper in Mum’s lap. So, once again, it was up to me.
‘I think she’d still rather be there, even without us, than here with Roy.’
Mum stared at the wall. Again, I watched the second hand on the clock sweep round and round. All I could hear was Callie’s muffled sobbing.
And finally, finally, Mum found the courage to lift Callie’s tear-streaked, stricken face.
‘Do you really dislike him that much? Do you really?’
And finally, finally, Callie found the courage to nod.
So there we are. My sister’s moving to Dad’s house at the end of next week. She’ll have to change schools, but not even that’s going to stop her. Mum’s spent the last few weeks reading poor Dad the riot act about checking Callie’s homework properly, and not letting her out with her friends on any school nights. And his whole house has been done over, too. Mum’s been round a dozen times, changing Dad’s curtains for nicer ones ‘because they’re warmer and Callie easily catches cold’, and putting pictures and photos and plants all over ‘because they’re Callie’s favourites’, and even dragging Dad on shopping trips to the arcade.
‘Because Callie’s very interested in new bath mats and table lamps,’ Dad said sarcastically.
But you could tell he didn’t really mind. I think that, in a way, he was relieved that Mum was helping him make the place look more like a home.
‘Right,’ Mum said last night, as she dumped Callie’s new sheets and blankets on the bed. ‘I’m finished now. I think you’re properly sorted out.’
Dad followed her back into his new cosy sitting-room.
‘You’ll need a holiday after all this work.’
‘Fat chance,’ scoffed Mum. ‘You could look after Robbo, of course. But Dumpa’s the problem.’
I looked at Callie. Callie looked at me. She knew she owed me one. Like Dad, she knows it hasn’t been easy for Mum, over the last few weeks, telling the school, explaining to her friends, comforting me.
‘We could look after Dumpa here,’ she said.
Instantly, I charged up behind her in support.
‘Yes. Why not? He’d love it here with us. He’d have a ball.’
I realize Dad could hardly have made a fuss. Not after all Mum’s work. But even I thought he showed far more enthusiasm than he need. His eyes lit up. ‘Yes! Why don’t you and Roy push off together somewhere very soon? I’m sure the two of you could do with a nice break.’
So much for Callie’s dreams of mended love! But still, she didn’t seem to mind. She watched him pat Mum’s hand, and say,
‘Yes, you leave Dumpa here with us. He’ll be no problem.’
And she just grinned.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Dumpa’s no problem. None at all.’
See? Coach is right. New season. Fresh teams. Brand-new game.
*
Surprised, both by himself and by the tale he’d told, Robbo raised both arms in a victory salute.
‘I did it! Pixie told me to start with “My mum and dad…” and out it all came. My story!’
Ralph tactfully let the moment of triumph pass before pointing out:
‘It was your sister’s story, really.’
‘Same thing.’
‘No. That’s not true.’ Ralph reached for the album lying on Pixie’s bed. ‘Your sister has more in common with Richard Harwick than with you. Both of them can’t stand their stepfathers. Both of them have to leave. And you’re not like that.’
‘So I’m like Little Charlotte, am I?’
Ralph grinned.
‘No. I’m just saying Callie’s story isn’t yours. Everyone’s story is different.’
There was a fresh patter of rain against the windows as Robbo thought about it. Then he asked Ralph:
‘Do you think Callie really ought to stay?’
‘No.’ Ralph’s surprise was evident. ‘Why?’
Robbo shrugged.
‘You know… Being like Richard Clayton Harwick… Running away…’
Ralph told him fiercely:
‘You mustn’t say that! Your sister isn’t running away. She’s simply trying something different to make things work. She’s only doing what everyone has to do, over and over. I’ve done it. Pixie’s done it. So has Claudia. You heard their stories,’ He swung his arm round. ‘And even Colin, when he finally runs away, is going off to find something that worked for him before. He’s not just going to disappear.’
He caught the look of unease that flitted over Colin’s face.
‘Are you?’ he demanded.
There was no answer.
‘Are you?’ he said again.
‘Ralph,’ Claudia said softly. ‘Better leave it.’
Ralph waved away the warning.
‘You saw his face. He isn’t simply running off to find his stepdad. He plans to disappear.’
‘How else is he supposed to run away?’ Robbo demanded.
Ralph answered irritably:
‘Don’t be so dense. There must be a dozen ways to keep in touch without letting anyone find you, and drag you back. And Colin’s probably thought of all of them. He’s had enough time.’
‘Maybe that’s the point,’ Pixie defended Colin. ‘Maybe he’s had too much time. Maybe he thinks it’s someone else’s turn to sit at home missing someone horribly, wondering where they are, and what they’re doing.’
Ralph spread his hands.
‘I understand how he feels. But he can’t do that.’
‘Why can’t I?’ Colin asked him sullenly.
‘Because, like Richard Harwick said, you’d just be piling one wrong on to another, till everything was broken from the strain.’
‘She should know how it feels,’ Colin insisted stubbornly.
Ralph’s voice was very much gentler now.
‘Misery isn’t a baton in a relay
race,’ he said. ‘You can’t get rid of it just by passing it on.’
‘You don’t know anything about it.’
‘I know what everybody knows,’ insisted Ralph. ‘Unhappiness works like one of those huge snowballs you see on parks. The more you roll it round and round, the more there is of it. And your tiny bit that started it stays in the middle, cold and hard, where you can’t get at it any more. And where it lasts the longest.’
He snatched up the album.
‘That’s why I’m glad that Richard Clayton Harwick isn’t here tonight. I’m glad we didn’t have to sit and listen to him telling his story. I might have told him something. I might have said that he didn’t try hard enough and he didn’t try long enough. He just threw in his chips and made a ruin of his house and home.’
Colin was unconvinced.
‘And what’s so wrong with that?’
Ralph spun the pages through his fingers.
‘What’s wrong with that? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that. It means he was behaving no better than them!’
He tossed the album back on the bed.
‘Somebody has to make the effort,’ he reminded them. ‘And, as we all know, the ones who mess everything up in the first place aren’t quite so good at fixing things again after.’
The longest silence fell. Pixie reached for the album and turned the pages over, one by one. Colin stared stubbornly out of the window at the grey ribbon of cloud lightening steadily to pink. Robbo inspected his fingers, and Claudia watched Ralph. Outside, the stain of darkness gradually slipped away, and the faded stripes on the far wall were suddenly shot with silver.
Claudia spoke.
‘It’s time to put it back.’
Without a word, Pixie handed her the faded binder. Robbo pushed open the false section of wall, and Ralph followed Claudia into the little tower room. Gently, he spun the globe as he went by. The quiet rumble filled the room as Claudia first lay the album back on the spindly wooden desk, then, changing her mind, pulled out the drawer beneath and slipped it safely away, far at the back, well out of sight. When she drew out her fingers, she held a tiny splinter of wood.
‘What’s that?’
‘The leg from Charlotte’s little wooden cow.’
‘Oh. Right.’
Ralph turned away and sprang the window catch. It moved as easily as if he’d done it yesterday, a hundred years ago, and all the days and nights between. Far, far beneath, the driveway wound into the dark of the shrubbery. The lawns lay shrouded in the silver mist. Somewhere, an owl hooted.
