The Boy Who Sailed the Ocean in an Armchair

by Lara Williamson

  After Dad has ordered takeaway and we’re sitting at the table, Billy blurts out, “Why were you at the pink house today, Daddy?”

  “What pink house?” Dad’s head goes red as an embarrassed tomato and then he changes the subject. Obviously, Dad’s right – it’s very easy to forget stuff, especially when you don’t want anyone to know what that stuff is.

  Thanks to what Billy “big mouth” Rumsey said last night, Dad now knows that we know some stuff but what stuff we know, Dad doesn’t know, and we don’t know how much stuff we actually know. Basically all the stuff to do with Dad and Pearl is jumbled up and that’s where we are right now.

  At school, I draw a pentagon and add all the relevant names in at the points. DAD, PEARL, CAMILLE, NAKED MAN, SPOTTY SCARF WOMAN.

  I try to draw lines across the centre to see who will end up with whom. I’ve drawn a line between Dad and Pearl and then paired the Naked Man off with Camille but the lady with the polka-dot scarf is on her own. Sitting back, I admire my quite excellent diagram, only for Mr Beagle to wander past me and bellow that it’s a fine drawing of a pentagon but if I hadn’t noticed we are actually talking about POOP at the moment.

  “So, we are nearly at the end of the first phase of POOP,” says Mr Beagle, wandering back to the front of the class and tugging on his tie. He looks over and ignores Donté Moffatt, who has his hand up. “The next phase is for you to finish your designs and I will announce the winner. Then we will plant the garden, and of course the final and most exciting phase is when we invite your parents to come and marvel at their offspring’s talent.”

  Oh, fabulous! As if I wasn’t feeling rotten enough, Mr Beagle has just reminded me that Pearl won’t be coming to the POOP display. I glance over at Knuckles and he looks just as miserable as me. Maybe he’s annoyed that his dad can’t come too. As I catch his eye he looks away and pretends to be very busy, picking his nose.

  Mr Beagle says we have probably noticed that there is a table with items on it that we could add into our garden designs. “You may not have considered things like this going in a garden. For example: CDs. They glint in the light, look amazing and keep birds away; practical and pretty. Please take a look and you may choose something from the table and include it in your design or not. You are the designer here.”

  Everyone gets up to look at the items Mr Beagle has brought in. They include:

  CDs from the nineties. Vintage, as Ibiza Nana would say. Old, as I would say.

  An old washing machine drum. Mr Beagle says we could put flowers in it.

  Used tin cans. Mr Beagle eats a lot of beans.

  A biscuit tin. Mr Beagle also eats a lot of biscuits.

  A toy yellow dumper truck. Again, for plants, says Mr Beagle.

  An old boot.

  Knuckles strolls over to the table and picks up the dumper truck. Mimi is saying how she wouldn’t touch anything here with a barge pole, which is lucky because there is no barge pole. She rises from her chair and then saunters over to me at the table and mutters in my ear, “Nothing here for you then?” I just shrug and she continues, “I’m going to win anyway. My mum says I’m great at everything I do because I’m just like her. I’m always top of the class.”

  That’s when Knuckles accidentally knocks Mimi with the dumper truck and she squeals that he’s a complete idiot. “Just like your dad! I read about him in the paper.”

  I see fury erupt in Knuckles’s chest. Just as it’s about to kick off, I get in between them. Suddenly, Knuckles’s knuckles shoot forward and biff me right in the belly. Unfortunately, my belly does not have a sniff of muscle. Fortunately, I have about four folds of flesh that act like a trampoline and his knuckles bounce straight off. Without warning, my own hands fly forward and grab his wrists in a vice-like grip. Next, he twists around as if he’s dancing and that’s when Mr Beagle starts shouting that POOP is not about having a wrestling match and if we don’t stop tussling we will be in big trouble.

  “What’s this all about?” snaps Mr Beagle, separating us.

  “I don’t know,” seethes Knuckles. But he does know. It was because Mimi said Knuckles was an idiot like his dad. How could she say that about someone who has died? I don’t like Mimi one little bit. Mr Beagle tells us to get out of his sight and I hurry away as quickly as possible.

  Back at my desk, I pretend to be very busy finishing my design for POOP. Nevaeh, seeing my sad face, strolls past and before she can say a word to me about butterflies I say the bracelet isn’t making anything amazing happen. In fact, it’s making things go even worse. Look, I nearly got into a big fight wearing it.

  “Haven’t you heard that it’s always darkest before the dawn?” whispers Nevaeh, before walking back to her desk, humming as she goes.

  “Haven’t you heard that butterflies are just butterflies and bracelets don’t make amazing things happen?” I holler after her.

  Nevaeh glances back and I can tell she’s upset with me.

  After school, when I switch on my mobile there is a text from Dad.

  We need to talk. Dad x

  I text back:

  Is it about the & the ? Beck

  No! It isn’t! You’re too young to know about the birds and the bees.

  Okay, if it’s not a talk about growing up then Dad’s going to tell us what’s going on with him and Pearl and why he didn’t sound happy to get a phone call from her on Friday. He must have been spurred on because he knows we saw him at polka-dot scarf lady’s bubblegum house.

  Dad picks us up from the school gates and takes us to the park across the road from our flat. When Billy runs off and lunges at a swing, Dad turns to me and says, “We need this little chat. I’ve been meaning to do it for ages.”

  Okay… I inhale, thinking this is the moment the world will become clear again, like when you’re in a car wash and one minute surrounded by foam and the next you can see better than ever before. I breathe out as Dad reaches into his pocket and removes his mobile phone, before rummaging around for a tissue and then blowing his nose. He sets his phone down on the bench and settles beside it.

  Billy goes up and down, down and up, up and down, down and up on the swing.

  “He’ll be seasick,” says Dad, grinning. I sit down beside him and Dad takes the breath of a deep-sea diver before saying, “I wanted to talk to you because we’ve not had enough fun in this family recently.”

  Sweet Baby Cheeses! Is that it? Is that what the BIG talk was about? This is a bigger disappointment than when Ibiza Nana said she’d bought me a tablet and it turned out to be Scottish tablet, which was like hard fudge.

  “Let’s have a flat-warming party. How about next Tuesday? That gives us a week to organize it.”

  IS THAT IT? I’m screaming inside my head. Nothing about Pearl or Camille or the lady that trotted out of the bubblegum-pink house with the polka-dot scarf? There’s a tiny thread on my school jumper and as I tug it it begins to unravel. In fact, I’m so annoyed that if I pull any harder I’m not going to have a jumper left. Dad continues, “It’s exactly what we all need. So I’ll arrange it for next Tuesday at seven thirty. I’ll invite a few of the fish delivery blokes and you and Billy can invite anyone you like.”

  This is not a chat about what is going on.

  This is nothing to do with why Pearl isn’t with us and why he doesn’t want us to make contact with her or for her to contact us.

  This is nothing to do with Camille.

  This is nothing to do with how Billy and I feel.

  This is just like adding a cherry onto a cake that is already stale.

  Dad furrows his brow when he sees my face is sourer than a super sour sweet. “Don’t you want a party?”

  I nod and say very carefully that I do want one but…

  Billy has just run across the park and fallen in a heap on the floor because clearly he has no awareness of how his feet actually work and has managed to trip himself up. As Dad goes to help Billy, his mobile bleeps, and even though I think about calling Dad back, I ca
n’t resist reading the text first. Hey, I’m only human.

  Hi Stephen, it’s Camille. It was a pleasure to see you yesterday. Feel free to come back at any time. Orla will be here, if I’m not around. You could see her. Or if not Orla try Kimberley. I’ll give you a ring at some point anyway.

  Busted! Dad was most definitely with Camille yesterday and it sounds like there are loads of others too! This isn’t a love pentagon, it’s a love dodecahedron! When Dad comes back I pretend I haven’t been looking at anything anywhere near his phone, oh no. In fact, all this time I’ve been staring up into the sky at a seagull flying overhead (and praying it hasn’t eaten anything dodgy). Dad parks his bum back on the bench and picks up his phone, glancing at the message. His ears turn a funny shade of red and he clears his throat, before putting the mobile back in his pocket.

  “Any messages?” I blink innocently.

  “Nope,” replies Dad. “I’m Daddy-No-Mates.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I doubt that very much, only Dad stops me in my tracks by saying, “Your mother loved a party.” Billy is back on the swings now, going up and down, down and up. I’d like to shout at Dad: DON’T CHANGE THE SUBJECT! But at the same time I want him to change the subject, because we never talk about Mum enough. “Yeah, she was always at the heart and soul of a good party.” Dad sighs. “Your mum and I came here before, right to this spot. Did you know that?” I shake my head. “We lived in the house in Honeydown Hills but came here for a little day trip to see a seal.”

  I swallow. “Did you see one?”

  Dad smiles and ruffles my hair with his fingers. “No, but Mum found this old glass water bottle on the beach and said she wanted to do something special.” I remember the photo I saw in Dad’s bedroom in the flat where Mum was holding a bottle. “She wanted to send a message-in-a-bottle. Well, I told her it was pointless doing that because no one ever bothers with those things any more. Not now we’ve got emails and we can send phone messages.” Dad lowers his eyes until his lashes tickle his cheeks. “But your mum insisted that she wanted to. She said someone out there would get her message. They might be very far away from her but it would reach them and maybe they’d get in contact if she gave her address.”

  “And did someone get Mum’s message?” I swallow and blink rapidly. At this moment I don’t care about parties or anything else; what I want most in the world is for someone to have replied to Mum’s message-in-

  a-bottle.

  Dad keeps his gaze steady and when I lick my lips, waiting for his reply, I taste the tang of salt. “No,” Dad admits eventually. “She never did get a reply. A few years later we were looking at photos and we came across one from that day and I asked your mum if she minded that no one had ever replied and Mum said someone would. There was still time.” Dad sighs and rubs his eyes.

  But there wasn’t time. I swallow again and it’s like my stomach is on a helter-skelter whizzing downwards on a straw mat. “I wish Mum could come back and give me a hug,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone.

  “Oh, son, if she could she would. I could give you a hug in her place, if that would count. Mum would be happy with that.” I nod and take the hug from Dad and I close my eyes and imagine it is Mum, even though Dad’s about three times her size and he smells of fish and sweat and pine forests. And I imagine Mum smelling of vanilla cupcakes and flowers. For one pure and perfect second it almost feels real and I don’t want to let Dad go. If I try really hard I can imagine Mum’s heartbeat. Then Dad pulls away and just like that it feels like Mum has gone again.

  Knock, knock…

  Who’s there?

  Don’t know – because Dad is playing musical statues.

  We’re just home from the park and have taken off our coats when Dad hears someone at the front door, and he stands completely still and doesn’t move.

  Knock, knock…

  Who’s there?

  Still don’t know – because Dad appears to be glued to the floor even though somebody is repeatedly knocking.

  “Dad, what are you doing? We need to answer the door,” I say.

  “I’ll do it,” shouts Billy, although I think that might be tricky as he’s sitting on the toilet at the moment. I hear the rasp of the toilet roll holder as it revolves.

  “No way,” hisses Dad, edging slowly towards the front door. He puts on the chain, then opens the front door a teeny bit to see who it is. After a second, he takes the chain off again, opening the door properly.

  “Hello, boys,” says Cat breezily as she wafts in, carrying a dish of bubbling molten lava which she calls lasagne. “I’ve brought you this because I guessed you’re probably still finding your feet in the kitchen and a little bit of home-cooked food wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Dad pipes up, “You must be psychic.” Then his tongue literally unfurls and rolls across the carpet in the direction of the lasagne dish.

  Cat laughs and wanders into the kitchen. “Yes, if a psychic also happens to notice an awful lot of takeaway cartons in the rubbish.” She sets the dish down and tells Dad to be careful because it’s fiery enough to serve to Beelzebub himself.

  When Billy comes out of the toilet his tongue joins Dad’s on the floor. Dad says Cat must stay because there’s no way we can eat all this lovely grub by ourselves. Grinning, Cat ladles out great dollops of lasagne that squeaks and bubbles as she puts it onto plates and then she carries them to the table. Dad takes a bowl and fills it with cheese-and-onion crisps, saying he’s sorry he has no garlic bread, so this’ll have to do. Next, Cat suggests Dad should put on some music, because the flat has gone a bit gloomy again. “Hey, I thought you were getting the fun back after our evening of decorating. Come on, let’s get the party started,” she says, poking Dad playfully in the belly. There’s a lot to poke. Dad says he’s having a party next Tuesday for real and will she come? Cat says she’d love to.

  Within minutes the music is on and Cat is laughing at Dad’s stupid jokes and Billy is doing a little finger dance on the table. When I look around from one face to another it’s like the flat is waking up again – maybe even our family too. Cat grins at me, shoves a big forkful of lasagne into her mouth and asks if I’m enjoying it.

  Does the wood have trees?

  Does the ocean have water?

  Does hot lasagne take the roof off your mouth?

  “I love it,” I mumble through the boiling cheesy pasta blanket that slithers down my throat and nearly takes all my skin with it. After downing a glass of water I get a bit bold, happy on the atmosphere, like Ibiza Nana after a few drinks. I ask Cat if she’s married. She hasn’t mentioned a Mr Cat yet and since she’s about Dad’s age I’d expect a Mr Cat somewhere in the background. Dad tries to make cutting hand signals but Cat ignores him, thinking he’s doing a dance move to the eighties music he’s put on.

  “Why? Are you asking?” Cat leans over the table towards me. I smell cheese and onion on her breath.

  “Oh no,” I reply a bit too quickly. Cat laughs, leans back again and says it’s all right because she thinks I might be a little on the young side for her anyway. And no, she’s not married, she’s been divorced a few years now. Billy tells Cat no one would want to marry me.

  “No one would want you,” I hiss.

  “Brian would want me.”

  “You can’t marry a snail, stupid. They’d never make it to the altar because they’re so sluggish.”

  Dad tells us to stop bickering in front of guests and goes into the fridge and finds a few cans of fizzy cola and tells Cat it’s all he’s got. “I know I should have a bottle of wine but I’m not really organized at the minute.”

  “Ooh, I’m not sure I should drink anyway.” Cat taps her nose with her forefinger. “I’ve got to be able to get back home in one piece. It’s a long way.”

  Everyone laughs at the joke and Cat picks up a can and pulls the tab and takes a swig. For the next ten minutes we talk about everything from my garden design – which, when I show her, Cat says is amazing – to the park opposit
e, to what fish the restaurants are serving in town, to what’s going on in Cat’s hairdressing salon (mainly colouring). Cat tells us she set up her salon with an inheritance she had when she was younger. Then she says she likes to get out and cut elderly people’s hair for those that can’t make it to the salon.

  I can tell Dad is impressed because he’s gone a bit goggle-eyed as he picks up our empty plates and takes them to the sink. Billy jumps down from the table and disappears to our bedroom, coming back a minute or so later with Brian. He starts playing with his snail, piping up that Brian could be on a UK talent show. I say if that’s the best we’ve got to offer I’m definitely moving to another country. Cat peers across the table as Billy plonks Brian near the salt shaker.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” says Cat, reaching out. “You’ll kill him – snails don’t like salt.”

  Billy says that Cat has saved Brian’s life and he’ll never forget it. A few seconds later though he has already forgotten it, because Cat has to remind him once again to keep the snail away from the table.

  Cat seems so nice that I seize my chance and ask her about her mum. “When we were decorating the flat you said your mum likes lilies,” I whisper. “What’s your mum like?”

  There’s a huge clatter of dishes behind us and Cat excuses herself and rises from the table, dropping her square of toilet roll (which was doubling as a napkin – Dad said if it was soft enough for the bum, it would do just fine for the lips). Cat says she’ll tell me about her mum later because Dad needs help. Dad turns around and gives her a sheepish nod.

  A few seconds later there’s an awful lot of laughter and rattling of dishes. Cat flicks a load of foam at me and it sticks to my hair like I’ve got a bubble wig.

  “Don’t ever lose the fun,” laughs Cat. “It’s the law according to me.”

  “What’s the law according to your other superhero friends?” I ask.

  Cat looks at me as if I have two heads, neither of them making any sense. With a name like Cat Woman, you’d think she’d know everything about superheroes.