by Kaye Umansky
‘You’ve missed a bit,’ said the van man, pointing at a patch of mud on the hubcap.
‘I’ll get it, don’t worry,’ I said.
‘Well, I’ll leave you the cash now. I’m nippin’ out. Four, weren’t it?’
He handed over a handful of loose change, mostly ten and twenty pence coins.
‘Reckon you’ll find there’s bit more there,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Nah, you’re all right. Doin’ a good job. Mind you make sure you turn the tap off properly.’
It wasn’t until I’d finished rinsing, wiping, polishing and turning the tap off properly that I counted out the money and found he’d short changed me by fifty two pence.
Honestly. Some people.
Chapter Two
I was nearly dead when I finally got back home. I was so wet that it looked like I’d swum there. My hands looked like wrinkled plums. Alone and unaided, I’d worked my way along my road and done another four whole cars, sustained in my heroic efforts by Flora’s cheese roll, which she’d kindly left for me. Despite being my neighbours, nobody had given me any tips, so altogether I had earned the grand total of twenty-eight pounds forty-eight pence. Good, but not good enough.
As I’d expected, the house was in turmoil. Everywhere you went, you tripped over pushchairs, toys, tiny shoes, little puffy jackets, half-eaten biscuits, more toys, carrier bags full of soggy nappies, banana skins, abandoned dummies and orange potties.
Mum was on all fours under the kitchen table with what looked like raspberry jelly in her hair, scraping up some nasty yellowish goo with a knife.
She always dreads Wednesdays. That’s when it’s her turn to look after Bernard, Rosie and Damian, who are supposed to be Kenny’s best friends but really are the demon offspring of three women she knows who’ve agreed to look after each other’s children once a week so they can go shopping, or whatever it is mums do when they’re not being mothers.
Bernard, Rosie and Damian. I call them the Three Demons. Kenny doesn’t like them much, and nor do I. Bernard shouts, hates fish fingers and won’t share. He always takes over the TV remote and screams if you try to take it away. Rosie has watery blue eyes, speaks in grunts, and cries if you offer her a banana. Damian’s nose is always running and he only eats spaghetti hoops, which he gets in his hair. His favourite game is sitting in Kenny’s yellow tractor and peddling full speed at Alf, our cat, who now spends every Wednesday hiding under the bed in my room.
When I arrived, they were parked in front of the TV in the living room with the door wide open so Mum could see them from the kitchen. The screen featured a large, blue bear that lives in a house. It was supposed to be Quiet Time, Mum said.
If this was Quiet Time, I’d hate to hear Noisy Time. Demon Bernard was clutching Kenny’s giraffe as if it was his own, shouting ‘No!’ very loudly if any of the others so much as looked at it. He was sitting on the TV remote. Demon Rosie was standing on Kenny’s special cushion, staring at the ceiling and shrieking ‘Blah! Blah! Bicky Blah!’ for some mysterious reason known only to herself. Demon Damian was wearing an orange potty on his head and bashing away at our glass coffee table with a plastic hammer.
Poor old Kenny was sitting on his own on the sofa, sucking his thumb and turning the pages of a picture book called Are You My Duck? It was clear he’d had quite enough friendship for today, thank you, and just wanted them to leave.
‘So how’s it going?’ I asked Mum, opening the fridge and looking for something – anything – to eat. There was a plate of mashed banana, a kiwi yogurt, a bottle of wine and some cans of beer, which my dad likes. Oh, and some milk and a tub of margarine. That was it.
‘What does it look like?’ snapped Mum from under the table.
‘What time are their mums coming?’
‘Soon, thank heavens. What have you been doing? You’re soaked!’
‘You tend to get a bit wet, washing cars all day,’ I pointed out.
‘A bit wet? You look like you’ve been dragged out of a pond. What’s that lump on your head? What are you doing in the fridge?’
‘Looking for food. I’m starving.’
‘Well, you’ll have to wait. I need to get this kitchen cleared up before you go making more mess. I’ll make you something later, when Dad comes home with the shopping. Take those trainers off and change out of those wet jeans. You’ll catch your death.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I got on?’ I said, rather hurt. I had asked her about her day. She could have asked me about mine.
‘How did you get on? I hope you were careful.’
‘Yes, I was. I did nine cars.’
‘Nine? That’s good.’
‘Yeah, but it nearly killed me. I was working on my own all afternoon.’
‘On your own? I thought you were with Josh?’
‘He went off home and left me to it.’
Mum crawled out from under the table and stood up, looking cross. ‘Tim, I thought I said I didn’t want you knocking on strangers’ doors on your own. I only agreed to this car-washing business if there were two of you.’
‘It’s not my fault that Josh went off.’
‘Maybe not, but you should have come straight home. I thought I could trust you more than that.’
That hurt.
‘I only did our road after Josh went,’ I said. Well, I had. ‘I did the Robinson’s Vauxhall and Miss Price’s Mini and Joe Smart’s Peugeot and Mr Singh’s VW. I didn’t knock on strangers’ doors.’
Well, I hadn’t.
‘Even so. You do it with someone else, or you don’t do it at all. I asked you what’s that lump doing on your head. Have you hurt yourself? Let me look.’
A sudden crash came from the living room, followed by a loud wail. Damian had pulled the lamp flex and brought the whole thing down on top of himself. Rosie and Bernard immediately began to howl in sympathy. Kenny didn’t, I noticed. He just sighed, turned a page and carried on looking at ducks.
‘There! Now see!’ snapped Mum, as if I was to blame, and hurried from the room, my head lump forgotten.
I’m a neglected child.
I pulled off my saturated trainers and trudged upstairs to my room. Alf was under the bed, as I knew he would be. I tried to encourage him out, but he just stared, hollow-eyed, and refused to budge.
I put the trainers on the windowsill to drip dry. I stripped off my wet, filthy clothes, slung them in the basket and found some dry ones. I was pulling on a pair of warm socks, when my mobile rang. It was Flora.
‘What’s all that screaming in the background?’ she enquired.
‘Kenny’s friends playing.’
‘Playing at what? Human sacrifice?’
‘I wish,’ I said, imagining Damian in a cooking pot with spear-wielding cannibals dancing around. That’d give him something to complain about. He’d be glad if it was just a lamp falling on him then.
‘I was thinking,’ she went on. ‘I could come and help you wash cars tomorrow, if you like.’
‘Really?’ I said. ‘That’d be great. Mum says I can’t do it unless there’s two of us.’
‘Good. See you in the morning, then. Nine o’clock at my place? I’ve got a better bucket.’
Perfect! The wonky one had finally given up the ghost. I’d chucked it into a skip on the way home. Probably the same one Josh had got it from.
‘That’s great,’ I said again. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. How’s your blister?’
‘Agony.’
‘Know the definition of agony? A man with one arm hanging from a cliff with an itchy bum. See you tomorrow.’ And with that, she rang off.
The rest of the evening wasn’t so bad, not once the Demons had been picked up and carted off back to the netherworld. Mum restored order in the kitchen and I came down to helpfully pick up things in the living room. I was feeling much better now I had a new business partner. I read Are You My Duck? to Kenny, who finally went to sleep upside down on the sofa
. Alf came downstairs and tortured his catnip mouse in celebration of Damian’s departure.
Dad arrived home in a good mood. His lottery ticket had come up and earned him a tenner. He gave two pounds to me for my skateboard fund, which was nice of him. That meant half a car less. He even offered to deal with the smelly carrier bags full of nappies.
We had shepherd’s pie for tea. Mum found some cream to put on my sore hands, some ointment for my head lump and a plaster for my thumb. She dug out some old rubber gloves for me to use the next day. I think she felt a bit guilty for neglecting me earlier.
They let me read at the table as a treat. They could see I needed the rest. I was currently re-reading Robin Hood, which is a favourite of mine. We did a play about it at school, where I was a tree, but that’s another story.
Before they turned on the television, they had a little chat about Kenny’s birthday. Mum said he ought to have a party, because that’s what all his playmates did. Bernard had had a bouncy castle at his, she said, and Damian had a grand affair at the community centre, with a real fire engine. Not because the place caught fire, you understand. Because his uncle’s a fireman.
Rosie had a dressing-up one, where all the girls came as fairies. I remember Kenny crying before he went, because he didn’t like being an elf. He cried when he came home, too, and found that he’d been given a girl’s party bag by mistake, making him the proud owner of a pink, fluffy, heart-shaped purse with the words ‘Little Princess’ written on the front.
‘Ridiculous,’ said my dad. ‘He’s three. What’s he going to remember?’
‘There’ll be photos for him to look at, though,’ said Mum. ‘It’s a special occasion, Ray. You’re only three once. Besides, I don’t want to seem mean. Kenny’s always getting invited to parties. He’s been to four in the last fortnight. I have to do something.’
‘So what are you suggesting? Bouncy castle in the hall cupboard? Fire engine in the spare room?’
‘Don’t be so silly. I thought just a simple celebration. A nice tea, and balloons, and party bags. A few games. Tim can take the coats upstairs.’
‘A noble task, befitting my skills,’ I said. ‘And one I shall be proud to undertake.’ Reading Robin Hood always tends to make me break into history speak.
‘Just hope you don’t have to empty any potties,’ said Mum, darkly, and I shut up.
‘How many kids?’ asked Dad, a bit worried.
‘I don’t know. A few. Ten, maybe?’
‘Ten?’
‘Something like that. You can organise the games. Pass the Parcel. Hide and Seek. Simple things.’
‘No fear,’ said Dad, alarmed. ‘I’ve seen what three of ’em can do to the house. I don’t mind blowing up balloons, but count me out on the games front.’
‘What about an entertainer, then?’ went on Mum. ‘I don’t think they cost much. They had a juggling lady at Alex Wilkins’ party. I heard she was very reasonable. Quite young. Rather pretty, actually. The children loved her.’
‘What does she juggle?’ asked Dad, sounding quite interested.
‘I don’t know. Balls, I suppose. Clubs.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose it’ll be knives or flaming torches, will it, Ray? Not at a little boy’s birthday party. I’ll look in the paper, shall I?
‘Suit yourself,’ said Dad. ‘But I still think it’s a waste of time and money. Wait until he’s eight, and I’ll take him to a football match. He’ll remember that.’
Mum went off to get the paper.
‘He won’t be eight for another five years,’ I pointed out. ‘He’ll have been to thousands of other kids’ parties by then. He might feel resentful.’
‘You didn’t have a party until you were eight. Did you feel resentful?’
‘I don’t remember,’ I admitted.
‘There you are, then!’ said Dad, triumphantly.
Mum came back, paper in hand.
‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘I can’t find the lady juggler, but how about this? Mr Happy Chappy The Clown. Magic, Balloons and Games. Shows For All Ages. Ring him up, Ray, see how much he charges.’
‘Why me?’ said Dad.
‘Why not?’ said Mum, and went off to put Kenny to bed.
Chapter Three
‘Hello, Tim,’ said Flora’s mum. ‘Long time no see. My, how you’re growing!’ She stood in the doorway, all pleased to see me. She walks with a stick. Something wrong with her leg, I don’t know what.
‘Hello, Mrs Ferguson,’ I said. ‘Is Flora ready?’
‘Up in her room. I hear you’re off washing cars. What fun! I expect both of you to be multi-millionaires by the end of the day. Treat me to a holiday in the Caribbean.’
‘Ha, ha,’ I chuckled, politely. ‘Let’s hope so, yes.’
‘Flora says you need a bucket. And I made a few sandwiches in case you get peckish.’
‘Great,’ I said, brightly. ‘Thanks.’ I hoped they weren’t peanut butter, which I don’t like. There’s something about the way it sticks to your teeth.
‘They’re peanut butter,’ she said. ‘I hope that’s all right?’
‘Lovely,’ I said, not quite so brightly.
‘Go on up,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll sort out the bucket.’
So up I went, tapped on the door and said, in my comedy voice:
‘Knock, knock!’
‘Who’s there?’ called Flora.
‘Dishwasher,’ I said.
‘Dishwasher who?’ asked Flora.
‘Dishwashern’t de way I shpoke before I had falsh teef,’ I replied, hilariously, and went in.
Flora was sitting cross-legged on the floor, with her horrible old jumble-sale puppets surrounding her. She had the princess in her hand, and was sewing up her frock.
I stared around. Flora’s room is usually a bit messy, but today it was the worst I’d ever seen it. There were bits of cardboard and scraps of red velvet all over the floor, and pots of paint on every surface. There was spilled glitter. There was a big pair of sharp scissors on the armchair, lying in wait for an unwary bottom. Her bed was piled high with all the stuff she’d had to move out of the way to make space for the tall, imposing construction that stood in the middle of the room.
It was a puppet theatre. Flora had made it out of a big cardboard box. The outside was boldly painted with red-and-gold stripes. A sign shaped like a swirly cloud was stuck on the top, with the words GRAND PUPPET THEATRE painted on in big, swanky letters. There was silver glitter all around the edge, to make it more eyecatching. A long piece of red velvet was stuck to the bottom edge of the box, reaching right down to the floor.
Some shiny gold material had been used to make curtains that hung down on either side of the stage. The back of the box had been painted with a sea scene. In the foreground were cut-out lobster pots, and a propped-up anchor. The background was dark-blue sea, and pale-blue sky. On the far horizon was a pirate ship with a tiny skull and crossbones fluttering from the top mast. Flora’s brilliant at art. I was impressed.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked. A silly question. It was obvious what she was doing. Flora thought it was silly, too. She said:
‘Waiting for my prince to come. He’s out giving the horse a nosebag. Good thing you caught me before we gallop away.’
‘No, I mean, I can see what you’re doing. But why are you doing it?’
‘Why d’you think? For the poor old puppets,’ said Flora, breaking off the thread with her teeth. ‘They’ve been rotting in a box for too long. I thought it was time they had somewhere decent to put on a show.’
‘I see,’ I said, studying the backdrop again. ‘I like the backdrop.’
‘Thanks. I’m going to do a couple more, so I can change them over.’
I walked around the theatre to see how Flora had made the whole thing so high. What she’d done was balance the box on top of an old wooden clotheshorse, which in turn stood on two piles of telephone directories. The red material fell down in
front, blocking off the audience’s view of the puppeteers, who would stand in the wide V made by the two arms of the clotheshorse. It was simple, but quite ingenious.
‘I haven’t written the script yet,’ Flora went on, ‘but I know the title.’
‘What?’
‘Kidnapped at Sea. A dark tale of heroic deeds and gut-wrenching evil. Want to help write it?’
‘Who’s going to watch?’ I asked.
‘I dunno. Who cares? I’m just doing it for fun.’
‘Why the sea theme?’ I enquired, squeezing onto her cluttered bed. If I were to be co-writer, I needed to know her creative thinking.
‘Well, we’ve got a sailor and a crocodile, so I thought it makes sense.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘You reason well, fair maiden.’
‘I know I do. Are you reading Robin Hood again?’
‘Verily, that I am.’
‘Thought so.’
‘No, but what I’m saying is you’ve got No-Leg the Sailor and No-Teeth the Crocodile. OK, they’re watery. But what about Princess No-Nose? And PC No-Eyes? And No-Jaw the Clown? And Little Rabbit No-Ears? How do they fit in?’
‘We’ll fit ’em in somewhere,’ said Flora, confidently, adding, ‘And he has got a leg. It’s wooden, that’s all.’
‘I’m not even sure crocodiles live in the sea,’ I added. ‘I think they live in swamps.’
‘The one in Peter Pan does,’ pointed out Flora.
‘All right,’ I conceded. ‘But what about the rest of them?’
‘We’ll just make up a story to fit the characters. It can start with the servant waking up our heroine, the princess, who is sleeping in her turret room.’
‘What servant?’
‘Her trusty old butler, who happens to look a bit like an earless rabbit.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. Well, it was. I know a teacher who looks like a mole, so why not a butler who looks like an earless rabbit? ‘Then what?’
‘The sun is shining. She goes outside to play. She has no hint of the nameless terrors that lie in store.’
