The Boy Who Sailed the Ocean in an Armchair
Page 21
Jo thought about it for a moment and replied, “Is this a holy wind-up?”
The following day, like the prodigal father, Dad returns to the TV. “Hey, Dad,” I announce. “I’m going to get in contact with you.” But Dad acts as if he can’t hear me so I pretend I am him, talking to me.
“Are you?” says Dad. I make my voice as deep as possible.
“Oh yes,” I reply. “I’ve got this bright idea. You’ll be impressed. In fact” – I lean towards the TV screen until my breath steams his face – “you’ll want to get to know me all over again.”
Dad pushes up his glasses then shuffles some papers on his desk. “Sounds exciting, Dan. When is it going to happen?”
I change my voice once more. “Don’t be too impatient. Mum says good things come to those who wait.” Then I say, “But it won’t be long.” I pick up a toy pirate that’s sitting on the coffee table. “Before you know it we’ll be sailing into an adventure together.”
The living room door opens and Ninja Grace appears. “Are you talking to yourself?” She grunts as I put the pirate on top of a magazine.
“He’s going to the island of um…Glamour,” I say, “on the good ship Fancy Celebrity Who I Don’t Know The Name Of.”
“You’re about to sail on the good ship Psychiatrist,” Ninja Grace spits. When she turns towards the TV screen she makes a vacuum of her mouth, sucking all the air out of the room. “Watching Dad again? Quit torturing yourself. And before you get any ideas about telling people your dad is a celeb, don’t bother. You wouldn’t want them to think we’re so boring he abandoned us for a better life.”
I shrug. “He did, didn’t he?”
“Oh yeah, but we don’t need to broadcast the fact. You might be okay being labelled boring, but I don’t want it. I told Mum he’s on the telly and she says we should keep it to ourselves and get on with our own lives. We don’t need his kind of fame and fortune, nor do we need to live in a big house.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Dad’s house will be massive, like Buckingham Palace x 3, with hundreds of windows and a Union Jack stuttering in the wind. The flag will have his initials on it: MM, like the Queen is ER. Surrounding the house will be a huge wall with electronic gates, two roaring lions will guard the front door and there will be a lawn so heavily clipped it’s like it’s had a number two haircut. I’ll have my own room in the Malcolm Maynard mansion and it will be the size of a football pitch and I’ll be allowed to paint my walls purple because that’s the colour of kings. Perhaps Dad will have a snappy little dog to warn off intruders. It could be like Samson, Mrs Nunkoo’s dog from number three. Samson looks like a cross between a shih-tzu and a poodle. I call it a shihtz-poo. Thinking about it, I’m not sure Dad would want one of those.
“Put Dad out of your head,” says Grace, eyeballing me.
I pick up the pirate again. “I have no plans whatsoever,” I say, manoeuvring the pirate to the edge of the coffee table. “If I had any thoughts of going on a quest, I have squashed them like a doubloon trampled under the foot of a one-eyed, overweight pirate with a parrot squawking, ‘Pieces of eight!’ in his ear. Nope, I would rather walk the plank than search for the treasure I desire.”
“You’re weird,” replies Ninja Grace, prising the pirate from my fingers and throwing it onto the floor.
“Awww…you’ve thrown him into the Ocean of Swirly Carpet.”
That evening, as I lie on the bed playing my guitar, thoughts of Dad gallop through my mind. I’ve missed him. As my fingers find the strings, I think about how I need a dad in my life. It’s as if, all those years ago, I planted a little Dad seed in my soul. I watered it and cared for it and suddenly, without me realizing, it has turned into a leafy tree. I hum softly. Mum would flip if she knew I was making plans to contact Dad, but that’s because she’s loved-up with the new boyfriend she met in June. Big Dave, he’s called. He owns Kwik Kars and apparently their eyes met over the bonnet of our old Charade. The Charade has gone now but they’ve been together for six months. Music puddles into the dark corners of my bedroom and I play until my fingers ache and I have to stop.
“Dad,” I whisper into the darkness.
“Yes, Dan,” I reply in my gruffest voice.
“You still want me in your life, don’t you? I mean, you wouldn’t hurt me a second time, would you?”
Dad doesn’t answer.
Shortlisted for Waterstones Children’s Book Prize 2015
Shortlisted for Independent Booksellers Week Book Award 2014
“Warm, heartbreaking and hilarious in turn… a fabulous book about love, families and making sense of life.” The Sunday Express
“A beautifully written and heartfelt novel that made me laugh and cry in equal measure.” Waterstones Booksellers’ Children’s Books of the Year
“A Boy Called Hope will tug at your heartstrings and probably make your eyes all leaky, but it’s such a great book for huddling under a blanket with.” The Mile Long Bookshelf
“Lovely, heartwarming, funny read. I laughed out loud, and I may have shed a tear or two.” Michelle Harrison, author
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This ebook edition first published in the UK in 2015 by Usborne Publishing Ltd., Usborne House, 83-85 Saffron Hill, London EC1N 8RT, England. www.usborne.com
Text © Lara Williamson, 2015
The right of Lara Williamson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Photography: Fish © RKaulitzki/Thinkstock; Origami star © humback/Thinkstock; Snail © dedalukas/Thinkstock; Armchair © Zastolskiy Victor/Shutterstock
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ePub ISBN 9781474906821
Batch no. 03225-02