by J A Mawter
‘S’cuse us for calling you a liar,’ adds Banjo, folding his arms across his chest.
‘I’m no liar!’ yells Warren and he goes on to explain. ‘When my grandpa died my gran was so upset she took him home. My family stayed over for a few days. Me, too.’ He opens his arms in appeal. ‘See? I slept with my dead grandfather.’
‘Huh!’ says Doug in disbelief.
‘Yeah-h-h,’ says Banjo.
Warren laughs. ‘Why don’t you two join me. Come stay at Gran’s and see Grandpa for yourself.’
Banjo pulls a sour sucker sort of face. ‘Is ’e still there?’
‘Crusty!’ says Doug at the same time.
‘Yup,’ answers Warren. ‘He is.’ Warren lets the news sink in before asking again, ‘Wanna come and stay at Gran’s? Huh?’
Doug scratches his nose, pulls the tip, then goes in for a quick tunnel.
Banjo crosses his legs, hoping against hope that he’s not so spooked that he’ll wet the bed.
‘Well?’ goads Warren after minutes have passed. ‘Dare ya!’
Chapter Two
A few moments later Warren picks up the phone. ‘Gran? Hi! It’s me, Warren.’ There is an excited garble from the phone. ‘No, Gran. Warren.’ Warren’s lips turn down and a furrow appears between his eyebrows. ‘I’m Rosie’s boy.’ There is a pause. ‘Rosie, your daughter.’ Warren rolls his eyes at Doug and Banjo and points to his ears, at the same time mouthing the words, ‘Bit deaf.’
Banjo listens, secretly hoping that she’s busy and they can’t go.
Warren is yelling, now. ‘Next Friday night, Gran!’ You can see him fighting for control. ‘FRIDAY NIGHT!’
Doug starts to giggle. No ghost could survive five microseconds in that noise.
‘I’D LIKE TO BRING MY MATES!’ Warren runs his hand through his hair.
Banjo grins at Doug, enjoying Warren’s mounting frustration. He starts to giggle, too.
‘No, Gran. There’s nothing wrong with the gate.’ Warren gulps at the air. Banjo erupts into giggles while Warren tries again. ‘I said, MATES. You know, my friends.’
Warren wants to hurl the phone out the window. Instead, he chucks out Doug’s pillow.
‘Hey!’ says Doug. He jumps out after the pillow.
‘I’m with him,’ adds Banjo and he jumps out, too.
By the time the boys get back inside the arrangements have been made.
‘Next Friday. Five o’clock,’ Warren tells them.
Doug gulps and sits down. Banjo has to stop his knees from shaking.
Warren goes on. ‘Gran says to bring your own.’
‘Bring our own what?’ asks Banjo.
‘Bring our own pillow?’ asks Doug.
‘Nah,’ says Warren, shaking his head. ‘Bring your own dead person!’ And with that he gives a blood-curdling cry and flings himself at Doug and Banjo for a serious bout of Raptor Wrestling.
When Friday comes around the boys decide to meet at Warren’s place after school and then continue on to his gran’s, a few blocks away. On their way they tell jokes for courage.
‘This brunette and a blonde were walking through a park,’ starts Warren, ‘when the brunette says, “Aw, look at the dead bird.” The blonde looks up in the sky and says, “Where? Where?”.’ Warren laughs at his own joke but Doug and Banjo’s lips barely twitch.
‘Got another one,’ says Warren, then he launches off. ‘This barrister was cross-examining a witness in a trial. “Doctor”, he says. “How many autopsies have you performed on dead people?”.’ Warren changes position and adjusts an imaginary tie, pretending to be the doctor. ‘“All my autopsies are performed on dead people.”’ Warren’s laugh bounces around the street.
Doug joins him but Banjo does not crack a smile. He’s too worried about the night ahead.
Warren elbows Banjo in the ribs. ‘He who laughs last thinks slowest,’ he jokes. Banjo smiles, but it’s a bunged on sort of smile. All too soon, Warren announces, ‘Here’s the street.’
‘Maggot Street!’ reads Banjo in disgust.
Warren hoots with laughter. ‘It’s pronounced Mag-go,’ he says. ‘You drop the “t”.’
‘Oh,’ says Banjo, but he’s unconvinced.
The boys walk up to the front door and knock. Nothing happens. They knock again. ‘Maybe she’s not home.’ says Doug, suddenly full of optimism.
‘Maybe she’s asleep?’ says Banjo.
‘She’s just deaf!’ says Warren and hammers on the door with his fist. It does the trick.
‘Welcome, boys,’ says his gran, with a voice like tissue paper—all dry and crinkly. She adds, ‘Call me Gran.’
Banjo looks at Warren’s gran. Child height. Halo of white hair. Sunken smile. He swallows. It’s all good, he tells himself. Warren’s gran looks harmless. But what’s that tucked under her arm? A bottle? It is made of some sort of metal, maybe copper, which has a yellowy glow.
‘Boys, I’d like you to come in and meet Bert.’ Here Gran’s voice rasps, like slowly-tearing paper. ‘My dear departed husband.’
Banjo doesn’t know what to do. He looks around the room, expecting to see a dead grandpa lying in state on the dining table, but all he sees is a lounge and two chairs, separated by a cluster of tables with nick-knacks on them.
Doug wrinkles his nose, all wide-eyed, and looks around the room, too.
‘G’day, Grandpa,’ booms Warren, waving in his grandmother’s direction. ‘I’d like you to meet my mates, Banjo and Doug.’ He turns. ‘Banjo and Doug, meet Grandpa.’
Banjo frowns. Warren’s obviously gone gah-gah, he’s thinking, lost the plot, schizo. Banjo looks to Doug for help. Doug shrugs, his face as puzzled as Banjo’s.
Silence hangs like smog in the air.
‘What’s the matter?’ hisses Warren through the corner of his mouth. ‘Say hello, boys.’
In an equally hushed voice Doug replies, ‘We can’t see him,’ then shrugs as if to apologise.
‘No!’ agrees Banjo, shaking his head. ‘We can’t see your grandpa. Is he out the back, or something?’
‘Nuh!’ says Warren.
‘Is he a ghost, then?’ asks Doug, peering at the ceiling, as if expecting an apparition to suddenly materialise.
Warren laughs saying, ‘Nuh. He’s no ghost.’ He gestures. ‘He’s over there.’
At this point Gran tries to help. She holds out what she’s clutching saying, ‘Here, boys.’
Doug peers at the object in Gran’s hands. ‘Is it a bottle?’ he asks.
Gran smiles. ‘Why, no,’ she answers.
‘A jar?’ asks Banjo.
‘No-o-o-o,’ says Gran, with a little shake to her head.
Doug tries again. ‘Some sort of wine glass perhaps?’
‘No!’ exclaims Gran. ‘It’s an urn, silly.’
Banjo, who has never been introduced to an urn before says the first thing that pops into his head. ‘Lovely to meet you.’ He reaches out and shakes the urn by a handle. ‘You look like a nice sort of vase.’
Gran’s eyes fly open in horror.
Seeing her distress Banjo tries again. ‘If you put some flowers in it maybe it will brighten it up?’
Gran’s lips make funny, popping noises. Saliva splotches the air like fireworks. ‘It’s Grandpa’s urn,’ she manages to say.
Banjo gulps. Sweat erupts on his forehead. He fights the urge to irrigate the carpet. He smiles—a fake flower sort of smile.
Doug does what he always does when he’s feeling out of his depth—a root ’n run up the left nostril. He wipes his hand across his jacket and with a little wave says, ‘Um, hi, Grandpa.’
Warren grins like a garden gnome whose found its way home and hugs his gran, saying, ‘Don’t mind them, Gran. They forgot to pack their manners.’ He walks past his grandmother and flings himself on the lounge saying, ‘C’mon in Doug, Banjo, and pull up a chair.’ The boys nudge past, as bewildered as Gran, and find themselves a seat.
Warren laughs. He pats the vacant space on t
he lounge calling, ‘Sit here, Gran.’ It takes a while but finally Gran perches beside him. Warren leans over and gives his gran another hug. ‘Nice to see you, Gran.’ He winks to the boys. ‘Looking good, for an old girl.’ He turns and pats the urn. ‘You, too, Grandpa.’
Gran beams at the praise. She strokes the urn then holds it up. ‘I’m afraid poor Grandpa’s lost his sparkle. He could do with some spit and polish.’
Banjo wonders why anyone would want to spit into an urn.
Doug nods, pretending to agree with Gran. And you’ve both lost your marbles, he thinks with an inside frown but an outside smile.
‘Give him to me,’ says Warren. ‘I always wanted to get closer to Grandpa.’ He turns to the boys. ‘Anyone wanna help give Grandpa a clean-up?’
‘N-n-no,’ says Doug, taking a step back, his pointer finger poised in his left nostril. ‘I mean, no thank you.’
Banjo’s now standing, swaying, his legs crossed at the ankles. He shakes his head mumbling, ‘I’m no good at cleaning up.’
Warren shrugs, takes the urn off his gran and holds it close to his chest. ‘Come with me, Grandpa. When I’ve finished with you you’ll look as good as new.’ He heads for the hall but at the doorway he pauses. Looking at Banjo and Doug he says, ‘Dinner’s always served at 5.30 pm. Why don’t you two put your gear down then meet us in the kitchen. Bedrooms are down the back. Gran’s on the left. Us guys’ll be on the right. Go and chose your final resting place, er, I mean, bed.’
And with a cackle he takes off.
Chapter Three
The room on the right has three beds in it. ‘I’m not sleeping next to the doorway,’ blurts Banjo.
‘Me either,’ says Doug, then tacks on, ‘Or the window.’
‘Me either,’ agrees Banjo.
Both boys eye the centre bed. At exactly the same time they fling themselves onto it. The bed promptly collapses. It is a camp bed. ‘Easy-y-y!’ calls Warren, rushing in to see what the commotion is about. He arrives to find Doug and Banjo in a gridlock, neither willing to let go of the centre bed.
‘It’s mine,’ shouts Doug.
‘Mine!’ yells Banjo.
Grabbing the only thing that is near to him Warren holds up the urn. ‘If you two don’t cut it out, one of you cops this.’
Doug and Banjo spring apart then halt, eyes to Warren and poised for action.
‘Doug. You’re near the door. And Banjo, you’ve got the window.’ Warren readies to throw. ‘Anyone wanna argue?’
Without taking their eyes off the urn Doug and Banjo creep to put their gear on their beds. Warren lopes out the door calling, ‘Meet you in the kitchen.’
After Warren has left Doug turns to Banjo. ‘I don’t want to stay here,’ he wails.
‘Me either,’ says Banjo. He punches the bed. ‘But we said we would.’
‘I’m so scared,’ whimpers Doug. ‘Every nerve is on Red Alert.’
Banjo laughs. ‘I know how you feel. But we can’t abandon ship. We’d never live it down.’
Doug hangs his head and kicks at the leg of his bed. ‘I guess,’ he answers.
‘Din-n-n-er!’ Warren calls from the kitchen. ‘Come an’ get it!’
When Doug and Banjo enter the kitchen they are surprised to see that the table is set for five places.
‘Someone else here for dinner?’ Doug asks Warren in a voice soft enough so Gran won’t hear.
Warren shrugs saying, ‘You’ll see,’ as he sits down. ‘Pull up a seat.’
Gran is busy stirring a pot on the stove. A second pot is bubbling furiously on another burner. Doug and Banjo sit side by side, opposite Warren. Gran drains one pot then scoops some pasta onto five plates. Next she tops them with bolognaise sauce and a spoonful of cheese before handing them to Warren to pass along.
Banjo leans forward and takes an appreciative sniff. ‘Spaghetti!’ he says. ‘My favourite. This smells delicious.’
Gran titters at the compliment. ‘I hope you boys have a good appetite,’ she says. ‘There’s plenty more.’ All three nod their heads. ‘Now, eat up the four of you,’ says Gran as she picks up her spoon and fork.
Banjo blinks. Doug frowns. They do a quick head count. One, two, three.
There are only three of us, thinks Doug. But just then he notices something. At the head of the table, propped up on a pillow, is the…Doug does a double take. Yes, it is definitely the urn. He nudges Warren under the table and jerks his head in the urn’s direction.
‘Grandpa!’ cries Banjo and he drops his spoon with a clatter.
‘For sixty-five years it’s been his favourite spot,’ explains Gran. She leans forward and lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Spaghetti is his favourite, too.’
Banjo glances at Warren. Spoonful after spoonful is disappearing into Warren’s mouth. He doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong.
‘Eat up, boys,’ says Gran. ‘Grandpa’s chosen bread and butter pudding for dessert.’
‘Yum,’ says Banjo despite himself, wondering how Grandpa talks to Gran. He picks up his spoon and begins to eat. Doug follows suit. Soon the silence is punctuated by the sound of chewing. Suddenly, Gran stops eating and turns to the fifth plate. She picks up the unused spoon. Doug watches, his own spoon frozen in mid air.
Carefully Gran scoops some spaghetti onto the spoon.
Banjo stops eating, too, his mouth full of food that he’s forgetting to chew.
Gran scoops some sauce onto the spoon.
Warren starts scraping the sides of his bowl then soaking up the leftovers with a slice of bread.
Doug and Banjo look like someone has put them on pause. So when Gran pretends to feed the urn Banjo starts to choke and Doug jerks so hard that spaghetti flies through the air.
Finally Warren notices. He shrugs as he nods at the urn and says, ‘It’s his favourite.’
Doug and Banjo soon learn that Grandpa loves to clean his bowl with bread, too. And he must have custard with his pudding. And apple juice. No meal has taken so long. Doug and Banjo are busting to be excused. But after dinner, things don’t get any better. Grandpa sits in his favourite armchair to watch TV. The News would be his favourite program. And Grandpa hates the heating on. But he loves a dim light so that the only light comes from the lamp in the corner with a fifteen-watt globe.
‘It hurts his eyes,’ explains Gran.
Shadows dance across the walls. The air sinks with cold. Doug shivers as he gives his nostril a reassuring dig. He looks at Banjo and decides he is just as miserable. Banjo is sitting with his legs outstretched, one crossed over the other, and his back ramrod straight. He looks as comfortable as a pig on a spit. Doug pretends to yawn. ‘Time for bed,’ he announces, wishing the night was over.
Banjo leaps to his feet. ‘Sure is,’ he says as he stamps to get the pins and needles out of his feet. ‘Night.’
‘Thanks for dinner, Gran,’ calls Doug.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ says Banjo.
‘It’s been our pleasure,’ says Gran, smiling at the urn sitting in Warren’s lap.
The two boys disappear before Warren can protest. By the time they reach their bedroom Warren is hot on their heels. ‘Be back in a minute,’ says Warren, and then to explain he waggles the urn, saying, ‘Just delivering Grandpa to Gran. They always sleep together. Aw-w-w. Isn’t that romantic?’
Doug perches on his bed. Despite previous evacuations he finds a tiny grain of snot, loosens it, then pops it in his mouth, taking comfort from the familiar salty taste.
On his own bed, Banjo squeezes his legs together, trying to squash the urge to pee. ‘May as well get ready for bed,’ he says to Doug.
Chapter Four
‘Aren’t you too big for Thomas?’ asks Warren when he returns, pointing to the tank engines on Doug’s pyjamas. Doug blushes as he says, ‘Mum thinks I’m still a baby.’
‘Aw, cu-u-ute,’ Warren goes on, now pointing at Banjo. ‘Fluffy ducks!’
Banjo hangs his head as he mumbles. ‘They’re Sara’s. Mum’s packe
d them by mistake.’ Sara is Banjo’s older sister. ‘Stupid, Mum!’
Warren laughs as he asks, ‘How is a duck like a Banjo?’ He pauses. No one answers. ‘They can both be plucked!’ Warren roars as he pretends to pull out feathers from Banjo’s pyjamas.
‘Very funny,’ says Banjo.
‘I think so,’ says Warren, breaking into a fit of giggles.
The boys nip into the bathroom, brush their teeth, then settle down for the night.
Doug puts two hankies and a box of tissues beside his bed. ‘Just in case,’ he explains.
‘In case of what?’ asks Warren. ‘A snot-alanche?’
On the floor, away from prying eyes, Banjo places an old jam jar in a brown paper bag. He lies in bed, praying that no-one discovers his little secret. Banjo tries to sleep but his leg has other ideas. It keeps jerking up and down, up and down. Faster than a piston, he thinks. Pis-ton! Private joke.
Warren’s watching. He sees Banjo’s blanket jerking about. ‘Steady on down there,’ he whispers to Banjo.
Banjo can feel the blush. It starts in his tummy and spreads up.
‘You’re not at home,’ says Warren.
Banjo yells, ‘You are so dirty!’ before flinging himself out of bed and adding, ‘S’cuse me but I need to pee.’
‘Sure,’ says Warren with a wobble in his voice. ‘And I’m a choir boy on Sundays.’
‘Ha, ha!’ cries Banjo, lurching to the door. ‘Very funny.’
‘Second on the left,’ calls Warren. ‘Make sure you don’t go into the first door, or you’ll be sleeping with the wrinklies.’ Warren stops. ‘On second thoughts, make that one wrinkly and one powdery.’
