Five minutes later it’s just Dad, Pearl, Billy and me. Billy swings his legs against the sofa and Dad doesn’t say a word but his shoulders are slumped and his fingers locked together. Pearl is telling Billy how much she loves Dad but was very disappointed that one night everyone just disappeared and left her no forwarding address or phone number. “I went out for fresh air and when I got back you’d gone. Packed up and left no contact details. In the end I had to move out too.” Pearl’s mouth twists.
“Come live with us.” Billy claps his hands together.
“It’s up to your father,” says Pearl, staring around at the flat and clearly not liking what she sees. “But we’d have to get rid of those cushions and I can’t stand fake lilies.” I swallow, thinking: Not the lilies, they can’t go. “Your father just doesn’t appreciate that you have to work at relationships and it’s all about give and take. I told him this when we spoke recently.” It’s weird how Pearl’s talking as though Dad’s the Invisible Man. But I can see him, and I can see that Dad looks defeated, confused and more broken than a packet of reduced-price biscuits.
“You know why we left, Pearl,” he whispers, his hand skating over his head. “Let’s not do this in front of them.” He nods towards Billy and me and runs his hand back again – nope, still no hair. “They’ve already put up with such a lot. They don’t need this. You know what happened. You know everything.”
I swallow again, deeper this time.
“It’s all your fault,” hisses Pearl, leaning into his face and waggling her finger. Her nails are scarlet and I don’t like the colour. “You broke up a happy home. You were always daft, Stephen Rumsey. I don’t know how your wife ever put up with you.”
My heart feels like a Slinky going downstairs. Mum didn’t have to “put up” with Dad. Why would Pearl say that? Mum loved Dad and I don’t care what anyone says.
Dad agrees with Pearl that he can be stupid sometimes. Actually nods his approval like a nodding dog you see in the back of old people’s cars. I want to say that Dad isn’t stupid. The words roll around inside my head like a meatball on a plate but they never quite make it to my lips. Next Dad begins telling Pearl he’s sorry over and over.
All I hear is that Dad’s sorry, which is what makes me think he’s totally to blame for all this mess. That’s why I say it. “This is all because of Fondant Fancy, isn’t it?”
Dad’s eyebrows make a question mark. “Isn’t that a little pink cake?”
“Camille,” I spit. There’s a burning in my stomach as I continue, “The Fondant Fancy lady I saw you with the day I was on my school trip; the one who texted you.”
It feels like I’ve unleashed a Fondant Fancy Armageddon as Pearl squeals the question I’ve asked myself many times: “Who is Camille?”
Well, Dad suddenly has more bluster than a blustery day. “Oh, um, er…” Three pairs of eyeballs stare and glare at him. “It’s not what you think.” I’m thinking of the love dodecahedron, I don’t know what Pearl’s thinking. Whatever it is, it’s not great, judging by the way she’s narrowing her eyes. To be honest, I’m surprised she can still see. Thing is, I’m glad I’ve said it and it’s out in the open. I’ve wanted to ask Dad about it for ages and now he has to answer. “Camille is, um, er…” Dad eventually manages to splutter out that she’s a work acquaintance.
“Pffttt…” wheezes Pearl, her cheeks flushing pink. “Was that Camille you were frolicking on the floor with just now?”
“That was Cat,” offers Billy.
“Oh, so there’s two – Camille and Cat.”
“And polka-dot scarf lady, and Orla and Kimberley,” I add.
Dad’s eyeballs nearly fall out of their sockets because they’re bulging so much. He hisses that I’ve been reading his texts. I say the phone happened to bleep that day we went to the park and my eyes happened to fall on it and I can’t help it that I can read. He should be glad I’ve had such a good education.
“Pearl,” pleads Dad, addressing her directly, “honestly, it’s not what you think. I don’t know those other women and Cat just owns the hairdressing salon downstairs.”
“Next, you’ll be telling me she cuts your hair.” Pearl’s eyes fall on Dad’s bald head and she growls, “You’ve changed, Stephen Rumsey.”
Billy starts kicking the bottom of the sofa with his heels. Thump-thump-thump. Me, I’m staring at the fake lilies in the vase and thinking: imagine a lovely family evening. Now scrap that and imagine us. We’re like a row of sad ducks at a funfair waiting to be knocked down one by one.
Thump-thump-thump.
“I don’t think you know what you’ve done,” says Pearl, her voice buzzing around our ears like an annoying drone.
Thump-thump-thump.
Frustrated, Dad asks me to get Billy ready for bed and for us both to stay in our bedroom. He needs to talk to Pearl without little ears listening. As I softly close the bedroom door and get Billy into his pyjamas, he says that everything has worked out how Brian planned. That’s when the arguing starts for real. It’s soft at first, with only the occasional raised voice. Billy tilts his head, trying to hear what they’re saying. A few seconds later and Pearl is getting louder. Balloons are bursting and I’m telling myself parties aren’t supposed to end like this. Dad is trying to calm Pearl down but it’s not working because Pearl is shouting about Camille and how she doesn’t like Fondant Fancies.
The only safe place to go is the armchair and Billy and I curl up together and I pull the duvet over our heads to try and drown out the shouting but it doesn’t work. Even our safe place isn’t feeling so safe. Pearl is shouting about how everyone warned her. “Oh, they said I shouldn’t take on a bloke with a ready-made family. But I thought I knew better.”
Billy is all elbows and knees and whispers, “Becket, I don’t like it. Pearl is very cross with Daddy. Did I do a bad thing telling her to come to the party?” I assure him he didn’t.
Now Pearl is shouting about playing the field. Billy says Pearl can’t be cross now because this sounds like fun and he’d like to play the field too. Only Pearl has gone on to say men that play the field are horrible and cowardly. Billy’s face darkens again and he says actually he wouldn’t like to play the field after all. I can’t hear what Dad is saying in reply. He’s very quiet and there’s a dull thrum like a kettle boiling. Without warning, Pearl starts shouting that now isn’t the time for tea. I hear a door slam and then open again.
“Tell me the story,” whispers Billy. “I don’t want to hear them shouting.” He sticks his fingers in his ears.
My voice trembling, I say, “The boys stayed underwater with the beautiful creature for a long time and they loved her with all their hearts and she loved them. They forgot about the others of their kind who were still in the storm on the surface. They forgot about the land they needed to reach. And they forgot they had been invisible, because she saw them and they saw her. She sang them songs too and told the boys stories about her ancestors and how they had travelled through storms. But then one day, just when they had almost forgotten the life they had before, she told them that the storm had passed. She said they had to go back. But the boys did not want to hear that.”
There is a small knock at my bedroom door and we throw off the duvet. Dad pokes his head into the bedroom and says he’s sorry if we heard a bit of shouting. It’s all over now and we don’t have to worry. It was just a silly disagreement, all forgotten. Billy looks like he’s been in a wind tunnel, his hair sprouting off at different angles. Dad sighs, adding, “Would you mind if I went for a tiny walk with Pearl? She needs a breath of fresh air.”
“There’s air here, Daddy,” says Billy. He sucks some in to prove it.
“I know, son,” replies Dad, easing into our bedroom and ushering us from the armchair into our beds. “But Pearl wants to nip out for a second. I wouldn’t ask but I’m only going outside for a few minutes and I’ll come straight back in time to give you your goodnight kiss.”
Before I can stop him, Dad
is back at the bedroom door and blowing us a kiss. The door closes behind him. “Oh,” says Billy. He coughs. “That was quick.”
The front door closes quietly. The second it happens the flat feels different – scarier, somehow. I spend ages listening for Dad to come back. I even get up fifteen minutes later, pretending I need a glass of water, but really to check if Dad has sneaked back in and I haven’t heard. The living room is littered with crisps and there are vol-au-vent pastry cases scattered on tables, all the filling licked out. Dad hasn’t come back.
When I return to the bedroom, Billy perks up and asks why Dad hasn’t given him his bedtime kiss.
“I surrender. I’ll do it,” I reply, holding my hands up and padding towards his bed.
“No thanks,” says Billy. “I’d rather kiss Brian.” So that’s what he does.
At first I think I’m dreaming but then there’s a sharp elbow to the lumbar vertebrae at the lower end of my back (page 72 of Marvin’s Medical Manual) and it makes me jolt awake. I sit up in bed and in the sliver of moonlight that slices through the gap in the curtains I can see it’s Billy and he’s not in bed where he’s supposed to be.
“My belly is sore,” he moans.
I glance at my phone and see it’s stupid o’clock again. “I’ll get Dad,” I mutter, throwing back the duvet and rubbing my eyes.
“You can’t,” wails Billy, flopping down on top of my bed. “Dad’s left us.”
No word of a lie; my eyes have just zinged open like someone squirted lemon juice in them. Dad can’t have gone anywhere. There’s only one place dads should be in the middle of the night and that’s in bed, snoring their heads off and dreaming of what nice things they can do for their kids. Billy clutches his belly and I can hear it gurgling louder than a geyser. Next, Billy leans over me and says he’s feeling sick. Sweet Baby Cheeses! Don’t lean over me then.
Billy’s right about Dad. I’ve just checked the flat and Dad’s not in his bed and he’s not in the toilet either. I even open the cupboard doors, although I know Dad squeezing into a cupboard would be like an orang-utan squeezing into a monkey nut.
“This is all wrong,” I mutter, more to myself than Billy. “If Dad’s still talking to Pearl he must have a very dry throat by now.”
Billy reaches out for my hand and gives it a squeeze. I squeeze back but, nope, this isn’t okay. On a scale of one to ten, ten being okay and one being not okay, this is a 0.0001.
“Becket!” Billy wails, rising from the bed like a zombie. “There is a fire-breathing dragon living in my belly.” He’s up and clutching the bum of his pyjamas with his hand. “Ohmyflippingactualgod!” I scream, because now Billy is running towards the toilet, shouting that the dragon is coming out to play. The toilet door bangs against the wall as Billy flings it open and then there is the faint rumble of something unpleasant. I wince slightly as the toilet roll holder rasps as it revolves. The toilet flushes.
It flushes again.
And again.
Billy is back with a face the colour of an uncooked pasty. His hair is like tiny damp snakes and he says it must have been something he ate at the party. Surely it wasn’t the:
Five burned cocktail sausages
Two pork pies
Three mini pizzas with pepperoni
Prawn cocktail, pickled onion and salt-and-vinegar crisps
One prawn vol-au-vent (licked and put back on plate)
Six mushroom parcels
Four cupcakes with deep swirls of rose frosting
Five cheese sandwiches cut into triangles, with fluorescent yellow piccalilli that made the white bread look nuclear
Four bottles of fizzy pop, blue in colour
Three slices of ham quiche
Six chocolate-chip cookies
Without trying to panic, I encourage Billy to get back into his bed (basically I don’t want him puking in mine), but no sooner have I tucked him in and said he should get some sleep than he’s up and running to the toilet again, screaming it’s the dragon that needs a snooze.
While Billy’s in there I try to ring Dad on his mobile, but he isn’t picking up.
Answer the phone, come on, Dad
Billy is ill, it makes him feel bad
Answer the phone, before I get mad
Why am I rhyming, it’s really sad
After I put the phone down, I think about two things. Firstly, why do I keep making up poems when they’re utterly rubbish? Secondly, whatever has poisoned Billy’s belly will find one of two ways out, it always does when he’s sick. For the record, I think Niagara Falls has relocated to our bathroom.
Actually, now there’s a third thing I’m thinking and it’s this: sick is more slippery than sliding down a slope in slippers. I know this because I just ran into the bathroom and, holy guacamole, I nearly skidded into tomorrow. Billy is a mess; a sick-splattered, bathroom pebble-dashing mess. As I’m giving him a wipe with one of the new flannels Dad bought at the shopping mall, Billy unleashes yet another avalanche which I have to hide under the fluffy bath mat.
The last time Billy was this sick, we were on the ghost train at a fair. It was easier then though. Firstly it was dark and we couldn’t see the sick. Secondly, we were in our own carriage and moving. That definitely helped. Thirdly a fan blew it away from us. Mind you, there were a lot a screams behind us, which we thought were babyish because the ghost train wasn’t that scary. When we got out we realized the people in the carriage behind us were splattered in Billy’s sick but they seemed to think it was all part of the spooky experience and we just ran away laughing.
One sickly, miserable-as-Mondays hour later, after failing to get hold of Dad, I get Billy back into bed. He looks up at me with the eyes of a spaniel watching a sad movie and says, “I wish Cat, I mean Pearl, was here.”
“Yes, I know,” I reply, smoothing down Billy’s damp hair as he falls asleep. “But it would help even more if Dad was.”
Next morning Dad still hasn’t appeared, but I tell Billy I spoke to Dad while he was asleep – all a lie. Then I convince Billy that Dad said I was supposed to get him ready in his uniform and we’d walk to school by ourselves as usual, and then Dad would be home later on. Billy nods and says he’s hungry, but after looking around I realize there’s nothing healthy and the nine pork pie leftovers from the party are probably not a good idea. That’s when I remember I didn’t eat the apple in my packed lunch yesterday. I find it and hand it over to Billy and tell him to eat it. For a second it feels like I’m taking over Dad’s job and that isn’t good. For starters, I have too much hair to be Dad.
While Billy’s biting into the apple I get myself into my school trousers, shirt, tie and jumper and every few seconds I check my phone for messages from Dad. Nothing. There’s a little yelp from Billy and I go running to him in case he’s being sick again.
“Something terrible has happened,” says Billy, clutching at his throat.
“Are you feeling sick again?” My eyes widen and I look around wildly for something to catch the puke in. I find Dad’s good shoes in the hallway. They’ll do.
“It’s worse, much worse,” says Billy, clawing at his neck as I hold a shoe under his chin. “I’m growing a tree in my belly.”
Note to self: relax, set down the shoe, Billy is okay. I stare at him and tell Billy he is not growing a tree in his belly or anywhere else. Turns out he’d swallowed an apple pip. As I’m explaining how digestion works and how if you eat a monkey nut you won’t suddenly grow a gibbon in your belly, the phone rings and I run towards it, certain it has to be Dad.
It’s not Dad.
The line is spluttering and fizzing but the voice belongs to a woman. “Stephen?”
“Uh,” I mutter. “Huh?” I can’t hear properly because there’s more crackling than on one of Ibiza Nana’s pork dinners. The woman continues talking and says she’s glad I’m here because she tried to reach me on my mobile but I didn’t pick up.
“It’s me,” she adds. “Camille.”
I think I’
ve just swallowed a snooker ball hidden inside a bowling ball. I nearly stutter out that she’s the Fondant Fancy lady who has caused all this trouble and made Dad and Pearl argue.
“Camille from Dovedale House. I said I’d give you a call when I texted last week. I tried your mobile first but couldn’t get you so I thought I’d try this other number you gave me. I’m actually available next week, so if you want to come over to visit again you can. You know the address.”
The line crackles again.
“Can you hear me? This line is terrible. Are you okay, Stephen? Is everything okay? It’s just you sound a trifle…”
“I’m not a trifle,” I manage to squeak. “I don’t like jelly.” The line fizzes and crackles.
“Sorry… I can’t hear you very well. What did you say? Did you hear me say you sound a trifle strange?”
Oh.
“I think I’ll ring you another time, Stephen. But yes, next week, I’m free if you’re free.”
There is a yell from the bathroom and I have to hang up, pronto. Billy’s only gone tobogganing using the bath mat. That’s when I remember where I hid the sick last night. I have to pick Billy up off the floor and tell him he’s not supposed to be having this kind of fun without me. That we don’t want to discover any more patches of hidden sick today. Billy grins and says there aren’t any.
“Except on your school jumper,” he adds, pointing to my sleeve.
Ibiza Nana used to say bad luck came in threes. Well, 1) Dad was gone. 2) Billy was sick. And just as I am wondering what three is, someone knocks on the flat door. Billy says it’s Dad and I say it isn’t because Dad has a key.
The Boy Who Sailed the Ocean in an Armchair Page 12
