Emily's Penny Dreadful

by Bill Nagelkerke

  Emily’s Penny Dreadful

  More books by the same author

  Younger readers

  Cauliflower ears

  Going bananas

  Hippo Ears and the Stargazer

  Older readers

  The Field

  Hot money

  Old bones (Storylines Notable Book)

  Young Adult

  Demons

  The Houdini Effect

  Sitting on the fence (Finalist, NZ Post Awards)

  Translations from the Dutch

  Eep! (by Joke van Leeuwen)

  Timeline (by Peter Goes)

  The day my father became a bush (by Joke van Leeuwen)

  Who’s driving? (by Leo Timmers)

  Emily’s Penny Dreadful

  Bill Nagelkerke

  This e-book edition first published in 2016 by Bill Nagelkerke.

  Copyright 2016 Bill Nagelkerke

  Emily's Penny Dreadful

  ISBN-13: 9781311250568

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted. This book is copyright. All rights reserved. Except for the purposes of fair reviewing, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

  PART ONE

  UNCLE RAYMOND ARRIVES

  Chapter One

  Emily had never, ever heard of a Penny Dreadful, not until the day Uncle Raymond and Auntie Dot arrived.

  The week before, almost a year to the day since Gran died, Uncle Raymond and Auntie Dot’s home had burnt to the ground. Emily’s mum - who was Uncle Raymond’s sister - had immediately insisted that Uncle Raymond and Auntie Dot come and stay with them.

  “I like Auntie Dot a lot,” said Emily, when she heard the news from her sister Sibbie, “but not Uncle Raymond. Not very much.”

  “You never have,” Sibbie reminded her. “Not even when you were a baby. He made you grizzle and cry.”

  “Why was that?” asked Emily.

  “He pulled funny faces at you,” Sibbie explained, and

  “you were scared.”

  “I’m not scared of him now,” Emily said. “I just think he’s grumpy. And he still pulls faces, except they’re not funny. They probably never were.”

  “I thought they were,” said Sibbie. “And I can remember them better than you can.”

  “I don’t remember the early ones at all,” said Emily.

  “That’s because you were a baby. Babies don’t remember anything. People who write books are always grumpy,” Sibbie added. “They can’t help it. They suffer from brain-strain, Dad says so.”

  “At Gran’s funeral everyone was sad but Uncle Raymond stayed grumpy,” Emily remembered.

  “That’s just the way he is,” said Sibbie. “You’re grumpy too, a lot of the time. And you love writing stories, so you’ll probably turn out just like Uncle Raymond.”

  “I won’t,” Emily insisted. “I’m only grumpy now because I’ve had to move back in with you.”

  “Hmm,” said Sibbie.

  “Uncle Raymond says that a lot,” Emily pointed out.

  “So does Mum. Maybe you’re the one who’s like

  Uncle Raymond.”

  “Huh! No way!” said Sibbie. She went on: “Chances are that Uncle Raymond will be extra grumpy because he and Aunty Dot are having to move in with us.”

  “Why do they have to?” asked Emily. “When they came for Gran’s funeral, they stayed in a motel. Dad said Uncle Raymond didn’t even want to stay with us.”

  “I don’t blame him,” said Sibbie. “Who’d want to listen to you babbling on day and night?”

  “I don’t babble,” exclaimed Emily. “That’s just for babies. I have conversations.”

  “Is that what you call them,” said Sibbie. “At the funeral I heard Uncle Raymond say to Mum that you were precocious.”

  Emily considered. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “The way Uncle Raymond said it, it sounded bad.”

  “I don’t like Uncle Raymond very much,” Emily said again.

  “He does talk like he’s swallowed a dictionary,” said Sibbie. “Anyway, motels cost a lot. And, according to Mum, Auntie Dot and Uncle Raymond have had a big

  shock. Mum thinks it will be best for them to be

  around family for a while. It won’t be forever.”

  “It better not be,” said Emily. “How do you spell precocious?”

  “P R E C O . . . that’s how it starts, I think,” said Sibbie.

  Emily went to check in her dictionary.

  It was her favourite book.

  Chapter Two

  “The man’s a paid-up member of the Grammar Police,” Emily heard Dad complain to Mum that morning. “He really gets up my nose.”

  “Who are the Grammar Police?” Emily asked. “And what man are you talking about?”

  “Uncle Raymond of course. And the Grammar Police are people who not only mind their own ‘p’s and ‘q’s but everybody else’s as well,” complained Dad. “Last time he was here, Raymond told me off for saying ‘my wife and me’ when apparently I should have said ‘my wife and I’. Ridiculous! As if things like that matter. It’s a load of old tosh.”

  “Oh,’ said Emily. “Sibbie said I might turn out like Uncle Raymond. Does that mean I get up your nose, too?”

  “You’re nothing at all like Uncle Raymond!” said Dad.

  He kissed the top of Emily’s head and hurried off to work.

  Mum winked at Emily. “Don’t look so worried,” she

  said. “Your Dad and Uncle Raymond manage to get

  on well enough if they have to. And they will have to, for the next little while at least.”

  “Am I like Uncle Raymond?” Emily asked her mother.

  “You’re very different, believe me,” her mother answered.

  *

  Dad wasn’t home from work yet when Uncle Raymond and Auntie Dot arrived.

  Mum and Auntie Dot, as well as Sibbie, sat down at the kitchen table and got talking straight away.

  Uncle Raymond and Emily stood back from the huddle. They both looked grumpy. Uncle Raymond had something clenched under one armpit. He seemed to have put on even more weight since Emily had seen him last.

  “She likes to pretend she’s grown up,” Emily whispered to Uncle Raymond.

  “Who?”

  “My sister. But she isn’t. Grown up, I mean.”

  “Of course she isn’t,” said Uncle Raymond. “I suppose she suffers from delusions of grandeur?”

  “Yes,” said Emily.

  Mum paused midsentence. “Why don’t you show Uncle Raymond the room he and Auntie Dot are going to have,” she told Emily.

  “My room,” said Emily.

  “There’s really no need to show me,” said Uncle Raymond. “I still know my way around.”

  “I’d better,” said Emily. “I have to explain what you’re allowed and not allowed to move around in my room.”

  Uncle Raymond grunted. “Very well.” He pulled a face.

  “Don’t do that!” Emily said. “I might grizzle and cry.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Uncle Raymond.

  “You made me grizzle and cry when I was a baby,” Emily explained.

  “Did I? I don’t remember. All babies grizzle and cry, surely?”

  “According to Sibbie, you pulled funny faces, that’s why,” said Emily. “Just like you did now. Except that one wasn’t funny. It was an ‘I don’t like that’ sort of face.”

  “I wasn’t pulling a face,” Uncle Raymond said,

  i
mmediately pulling another one. He followed Emily down the hall. “Was I?” he asked.

  Emily turned round and nodded.

  “Hmm,” said Uncle Raymond.

  Chapter Three

  Emily stopped outside the door. “Here is it,” she said.

  “Thank you,” replied Uncle Raymond, in the careful and precise way that Emily remembered so well from the funeral. “As I told your mother, I remember the layout of this house from our last visit. I presume nothing has changed since then. The rooms have not shifted position, have they? Presumably the hallway still runs north to south? The French doors still open outwards and close inwards? The windows are still made of glass? The yappy little fox terrier next door is still barking mad? In fact, is that what I hear now?”

  Emily looked sternly at Uncle Raymond. “That’s definitely not funny,” she said. “Bertie is my most favourite dog. He’s teaching me to bark.”

  “I wasn’t being funny,” said Uncle Raymond. “Teaching you to do what?”

  “Bark. But everything has changed,” said Emily. “This is my room now.”

  Uncle Raymond sighed. “You said so just a moment before, somewhat emphatically. There’s no need to repeat yourself.”

  “But I have to say it more than once,” Emily pointed out. “If I don’t, you might end up staying forever. In that case, I’ll never get my room back.”

  “I see,” said Uncle Raymond. “Forever isn’t even a remote possibility, let me assure you.”

  Emily nodded. “Last time this was Sibbie’s room as well as mine,” she said. “That was before Dad turned the sunroom into a bedroom for her. He finished only two weeks ago last Saturday. That’s how long this room’s been completely mine. Not long at all.”

  “I appreciate your great sacrifice,” said Uncle Raymond. “Satisfied?”

  “Mum and Dad said I had to give it up,” said Emily. She gave Uncle Raymond a fierce look. “I’ve had to move back in with Sibs and her sunroom is tiny compared to this.”

  “Compared with, not to,” Uncle Raymond replied, using his most pompous voice. “To is the preposition to use when you are comparing two things that are essentially different.”

  “That’s grammar, isn’t it?” Emily asked.

  “Without a doubt,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Dad said you’re a paid-up member of the Grammar

  Police,” said Emily.

  “Did he, indeed?”

  Emily nodded. “He said it was ridiculous. And a load of old tosh.”

  “Did he?’ Uncle Raymond repeated. He pulled another ‘I don’t like that’ face.

  Emily nodded again. “But our teacher once told us that the police are there to help people. And she thinks grammar’s important. So what you’re doing must be okay.”

  Uncle Raymond’s face relaxed. “I seem to recall that you have ambitions to be a writer,” he said. “Is that correct?”

  Emily nodded a third time.

  “Well, then. Writers need to get things right. Especially grammar. Agreed?”

  “How do you spell that word?” Emily asked. “Not ‘agreed,’ I know how to spell that. I’m a good speller. The best in my class. Did you know that?”

  “No,” said Uncle Raymond. “I didn’t. Preposition, you mean? It’s P R E P O S I T I O N, meaning that it takes precedence. In other words, it comes first.”

  “Because it’s more important?” asked Emily.

  “You could say that,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Just like you’re more important than me,” said Emily. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be taking-over my room. Preposition has to be close to precocious in the dictionary,” she added, more to herself than to Uncle Raymond. “They both start with the same three letters.”

  But Uncle Raymond had stopped listening to Emily. He was staring into the room. Then stared down at Emily. “This is also a very small room,” he said. “Miniscule, in fact.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Emily.

  “It is.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Hmm. Then you, too, have delusions of grandeur,” said Uncle Raymond. “Perhaps, in this case, with a little justification. Compared with your sister’s room, this room might seem big to you. And of course, you’re small. But because Auntie Dot and I are big, to us this room seems small. Miniscule.”

  “Auntie Dot might not think so. And, besides, she’s not big. Well, she’s bigger than me, of course, but

  she’s not nearly as big as you.”

  Uncle Raymond looked down at Emily again. He didn’t just look down at her. He didn’t just pull a face. He looked down at her and, this time, he glared. “Precocious child,” he said.

  “I know what that means,” said Emily. “I read it in my dictionary. It means clever. But you make it sound the opposite,” she added.

  “How old are you?” asked Uncle Raymond. “Eight or nine? I’ve lost track.”

  “I’ve just turned nine,” said Emily. “And Sibbie is twelve. Nearly. That’s why she wanted the sunroom made into a bedroom for her. Even though it’s min . . . min . . .”

  “Miniscule.”

  “Miniscule. Yes. The sunroom’s away from everyone else and Sibbie sometimes likes to make a lot of noise.”

  “It must run in the family,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “She plays the drums and has her own drum kit, including the cymbals,” said Emily. “Except now she can’t play them very often because they’ve had to be

  stored in the garage until you and Auntie Dot leave.”

  “Thank heavens for small mercies,” said Uncle

  Raymond. “So, you’re nine?”

  Emily nodded.

  “Well then,” said Uncle Raymond. “In your case, precocious means clever, but too clever by far.”

  *

  Uncle Raymond stopped glaring at Emily and glared into the room instead. “Perhaps it’s a good thing your aunt and I have nothing left, other than the clothes on our backs,” he said. “Nothing else would fit in here.”

  “I had to leave most of my stuff,” said Emily.

  “Just to prove it really is your room, you mean?”

  “No, because there was nowhere else to put it. Now, listen. You’re not allowed to move anything except the books. They’re not my favourite books. My most favourite book of all is my dictionary, and I have taken that with me, along with my other best books. But these second-best ones you can borrow to read, if you like.”

  Uncle Raymond scanned Emily’s bookshelf. “Thank you, but no thank you,” he said. “They’re all children’s books. Juveniles, as the library of my childhood used to call them.”

  “I’m a child.”

  “Precisely,” said Uncle Raymond. “I, on the other hand, am not.”

  “But you were, once upon a time,” Emily said. “That’s why I thought you might enjoy reading them.”

  “I put childish things behind me a long time ago,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “That’s a pity,” said Emily. “I haven’t read any of your books,” she added.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Uncle Raymond. “They’re for adults. The polar opposite of juveniles.”

  “Last year I almost read Ghost under the stairs,” said Emily.

  “And?”

  “I didn’t finish it,” Emily said.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Uncle Raymond again.

  “It didn’t have an actual ghost in it,” said Emily. “That’s why.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why did you say ghost in the title when there wasn’t one?”

  “It was a metaphorical ghost. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I might,” said Emily. “Try me. I love remembering new words. I remembered ‘precocious’. And I’m going to remember ‘miniscule’ and ‘preposition.’”

  “Well then. A metaphor is a turn of phrase in which we describe something in terms of something else. That something else is most unlike the first something even though, when we compare the two somethings, the
y do seem to bear an uncanny resemblance to one another.”

  “You said all that way too fast,” said Emily.

  Uncle Raymond sighed. “The ghost under the stairs was, in reality, not a ghost at all but a shameful secret. Something hidden. Something secret. It was like a ghost.”

  “I understand like,” said Emily, happily. “That’s what’s called a ‘smile’. Your face is like a lumpy potato is a smile because it has the work ‘like’ in it. I learned that at school.”

  “Indeed,” said Uncle Raymond, touching his face. “I think you mean a simile, not a smile.”

  “I’m sure it’s ‘smile’,” said Emily. “Because that’s what happens when you say it. It makes you smile.”

  “Please yourself,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “We haven’t got up to metaphor yet,” said Emily.

  “Try leaving out the work like,” Uncle Raymond suggested.

  Emily tried. “Your face is a lumpy potato. It doesn’t make much difference,” she said. “They both make me smile.”

  Uncle Raymond didn’t smile.

  *

  “When you said that you and Auntie Dot don’t have anything left, except for the clothes on your backs, what did you mean?” asked Emily.

  “Exactly that,” said Uncle Raymond. “Everything we had was consumed in the all-consuming fire.”

  Emily pointed at Uncle Raymond. “So what’s that?”

  “Oh, this.” Uncle Raymond pulled a folded paper from under his armpit. “I’d forgotten it was there,” he said.

  “Is it a newspaper?” Emily asked.

  “No, it’s an old-fashioned sort of magazine. Inside is a story. Not the sort of story you would have the slightest interest in.”

  “Is it one of yours?” Emily asked.

  Uncle Raymond pulled a face, one that was almost

  another glare.

  “This magazine is called a Penny Dreadful,” he said. “It’s so old that when it was printed it cost only a penny . . .”