by Mark Lowery
My Brother
There was a young fellow named Martin
Who gobbled baked beans by the carton
They went straight from his tum
Right down to his bum
And now he can’t stop himself fartin’
By Charlie Tompkins
Age 10
Stage 3b
Wolverhampton to a Shop at Birmingham New Street Station
Distance–18 miles
Train and Walking
Poems and Puke
I’ve got serious jelly legs as I step through the automatic door back into our train car. My hair and face are soaking wet from splashing water on them, and I have to hold the wall for support. I feel totally relieved because Charlie’s sitting there in my seat with the backpack next to him. He’s writing in my notebook, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he scrawls huge, slow letters across the page. The conductor and the girl have both gone.
“What are you doing?” I say, a bit too harshly, as I grab the notebook from him. We’re pulling out of Wolverhampton, which I know is close to Birmingham because we went past a sign for it on our way to Cornwall last year. Through the window, I can see the girl walking away along the platform. She doesn’t look back, which in a funny way makes me feel better.
“Writing a poem,” he replies. “Just like you. Hey! I didn’t know you write poetry, bro.”
Saying nothing, I glance at his poem. It’s a limerick about me and some beans. I might’ve found it funny if it wasn’t for the panic, the throwing up, and the fact I’m trying to be angry with him for going missing.
“Don’t ever disappear like that again,” I say, slipping the notebook back into my bag. “I thought I’d lost you. Where did you go?”
“I was using my head,” he says, tapping the side of his head. “I could see the conductor coming from right down the train, so I crawled onto the luggage rack and hid behind that massive suitcase. Didn’t wanna wake you up. I know you get cranky when I do that.”
“Huh,” I say. Charlie’s forever waking me up in the middle of the night to ask me some stupid question like Why’s mustard yellow? Or Why don’t the pyramids have any windows? I usually chuck a pillow at him.
There’s a long pause as he studies my face. Finally he asks, “Are you feeling okay?”
I check that the cookie tin is still closed before fastening up my backpack again. “I’ll live.”
Puking up my sandwich on a train. Not normal. Then again, these are not normal circumstances. I watch through the window as the train crawls past old warehouses and factories and strip malls and apartment buildings and endless housing complexes into the city. I need to sort myself out. In a few minutes, I’m going to have to figure out what we do next.
Tattoos
At Birmingham, the platform’s packed. There’s a low roof above us like we’re underground, so I feel a bit claustrophobic. I hold on to Charlie’s shoulder as we shove through the impatient crowd of people trying to get on our train. I’m not sure where we’re going and I’m still confused and jittery, so I attempt to stand still for a moment. But then we’re being jostled by people heading for the exit, so we have to push our way through to a bench by the side of the platform.
“What’s the plan, boss?” says Charlie as we sit down.
I could really do with that piece of paper with the train times on it. Even though I know it’s not in the backpack, I check one more time. If Mum and Dad find it, then they’ll know exactly which trains we’re on and then . . .
Probably best not to worry about that.
“Pretty sure we get a train to Plymouth next,” I say, looking at my watch. “And I think we’ve got a while to wait, but I can’t remember.”
I peer around, but I can’t see a screen anywhere. While I’m doing that, Charlie reaches over and closes the notebook so he can see the cover. “Hang on! I didn’t notice the dolphin picture before,” he says. “It’s one of mine! Where did you get it?”
I shrug, a bit embarrassed. “I cut it out of your pad and stuck it on, then I covered it with plastic. I thought it was pretty cool.”
The notebook was just a plain, green school exercise book that Mr. Hendrix gave me for jotting down my poems. I wanted to jazz it up a bit. Charlie was always drawing pictures of dolphins when we were in St. Bernards last year, so they remind me of the vacation.
“That’s amazing! I feel like a real artist.” Charlie grins. Sometimes when he smiles he can’t control himself, like the smile’s taken over his whole face. Suddenly he clicks his fingers. “You know what? We should get matching dolphin tattoos in St. Bernards.”
I laugh. There’s no way anyone would give Charlie a tattoo. He looks about six years old. Then again, I’m fairly tall. I might pass for eighteen I suppose. On a good day. If the tattooist was shortsighted. “Actually that’s not a bad idea. . . .” I say. A dolphin tattoo. Perfect. I wonder how much it would cost. Maybe I’d get a discount if the tattooist was shortsighted.
“Where will you get yours?” he asks. “I think I’ll get mine on my face.”
“Bit of an improvement. . . .”
“Actually, no. I’ll shave my head, then get my whole body tattooed gray so I look like a dolphin.”
“Your whole body?” I ask.
He seems to genuinely think about this. “Hmm. Good point. Why wreck something beautiful?”
I snort.
“Maybe I’ll leave the rest of my body as it is and just have my willy done to look like a dolphin,” he says.
“Ha! A dolphin?” I laugh. “More like a minnow! Or a shrimp.”
At that moment, the football fans walk right past us along the platform, escorted by the police. I stop laughing immediately. We’re North End till we die echoes passionately against the ceiling.
The fat one who grabbed me earlier is at the front, red-faced, neck veins bulging and hands clapping. He’s looking straight ahead, so he doesn’t see us. But that policewoman from Preston studies me carefully as she passes. There’s a moment when I’m frozen on the bench as our eyes meet. Then she sweeps her gaze forward and she’s gone.
“Let’s go,” I grunt after she’s disappeared up the steps. Sitting still is not a good idea.
Dolphinwatch
By the harbor railings, Charlie had become totally hyped up. “A dolphin. Oh wow! Can you believe it?”
Dad waved his arm out toward the harbor. “That’s why you work hard for your vacation, right?”
He was saying it half to us and half to anyone else who’d listen.
“Spot on, sir. Well said.” An old man next to us grinned. He had bright-white hair, an open-neck shirt, and skin the color of walnuts. He pulled a cell phone out of his shorts pocket and began tapping away, muttering to himself in his rich, deep voice. “Seven twenty-five a.m.—bottlenose dolphin. In the harbor. Ten minutes, then left for open sea. Done.”
When he looked up he smiled, noticing us watching him.
“What are you doing, old-timer?” asked Charlie.
Old-timer. Seriously?
“Sorry,” said Mum. “So rude, Charlie.”
The old man threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Not at all. Old-timer. Better than old git, I suppose. And, since you ask so pleasantly, I’m updating Dolphinwatch, my curious little fellow.”
“Dolphinwatch?” said Charlie. “What’s that?”
“Just a local website. It records whale and dolphin sightings along the coast here. A few of us post on it. Keep people informed, you know?”
“Let us look!”
Charlie pulled the old man’s wrist down and began scrolling through the screen. The man didn’t seem bothered, though. In fact, he shielded it from the glare of the sunlight with his free hand so Charlie could see it better.
“This ’un’s been here pretty much twice a day for the last month or so,” the old man said. “Really friendly, old girl she is. Big show-off. Last year we had four in the harbor at once.”
�
�No way!” said Charlie.
“Way,” said the old-timer, opening his eyes wide to show the white bits.
“So if we come back tomorrow we’ll see her again?” asked Charlie.
The old-timer shrugged. “You might. If she’s gonna come, she’s usually here at high tide. Remember though—it ain’t an aquarium, so you can never tell. Have a look on the tide charts to help you. All the best now.”
With a casual wave, he strolled off in his flip-flops.
Charlie rested his chin on the railings and gazed out at the empty sea. “See you soon,” he said. I wasn’t sure exactly who he was speaking to.
Crime
The departure screen tells us there’s almost an hour until our next train. Charlie needs a drink because his “mouth’s as dry as a lizard’s flip-flop,” so we go up the escalators and along a wide passageway toward the main part of the station.
“Problem,” I say.
There’s a turnstile in front of us. You’ve got to feed your ticket into a machine before it’ll let you out, but we’ve only got one ticket. I consider trying to make it through while holding on to Charlie, but there are guards everywhere keeping an eye out.
“You wait here and don’t move,” I say to Charlie. I don’t want to leave him on his own, but I don’t have a choice.
“Cool. I’ll look after the backpack.” He grins. “Wouldn’t mind cracking open those cookies.”
I clutch the backpack to my chest. Since we’ve been off the train, I’ve had it on my front so no one could take it. “Definitely not!” I snap.
Charlie takes a step backward. “Wow! What’s bitten you on the bum?”
“I told you. We’re saving them till we get to St. Bernards.”
“All right, all right,” he says, his voice high-pitched. “I heard you the thousandth time. Keep your knickers on.”
I take a deep breath. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m still a bit . . .” I begin but I don’t want to finish. “I’ll get you something nice.”
I squeeze his shoulder and lead him over to the wall. He sits down on the floor; then I head through the turnstile.
You can tell Birmingham’s a big city as soon as you step out into the main part of the station; it’s massive and jazzy and completely awesome. Light pours through the high glass arches of the ceiling. There are screens, shops, restaurants, and Charlillions of people scurrying everywhere and bustling past me. It’s a bit scary if I’m honest but I’ve got a job to do, so I take a deep breath and step forward. Gripping the backpack even more tightly, I stride toward a store where the snacks and drinks are in a fridge right by the open doorway.
Some of the drinks aren’t too expensive, but when I check my wallet, I’ve only got eight pounds and eighty-three pence left. I’ve no idea how that’s going to last overnight, especially since now I’m going to see if I can afford a tattoo in St. Bernards as well. How much do hotels and tattoos even cost?
An idea crosses my mind. A stupid one, I know. There’s a security guard at the door, looking brainlessly out across the station. I gulp. This is so wrong. I can’t. I don’t do stuff like this. But, then again . . .
In the end, the decision is a surprisingly quick one. Just do it and do it now, I tell myself. Do it for Charlie. I casually walk along the fridge aisle, pretending to inspect the sandwiches and salads while slowly unzipping my backpack.
A quick peek around the fridge toward the entrance. Security guard yawning. Behind me a lifeless shop assistant is rearranging a basket of bananas.
Now!
As nonchalantly as possible, I stroll back along the aisle, my face saying, Nope, there’s nothing here for me. When I get back to the drinks at the end, I look over to the security guard one more time. He’s checking his watch and stretching his neck left and right before lazily waving at someone across the forecourt. It has to be now. I bite my lip. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.
But I do it anyway.
I reach forward, grab a massive bottle of orange juice, then slip it into my bag and zip it up in one motion. Shouldering the bag, I march out as quickly as possible, around the corner of the shop. I take one last look behind me, then—
Whack!
I stumble backward. The backpack hits the ground.
Oh nuts.
I’ve walked straight into a bright-yellow jacket.
And even worse, it’s that stinking policewoman again.
I gulp. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“Oh hello,” she says, picking up the backpack, which sloshes guiltily at her. “You again?”
I try to say hello back, but my voice sticks in my throat. She’s not too much taller than me, and she’s got a warm smile that I didn’t notice before. Behind her, the football fans are being escorted toward the station exit.
“Rail replacement buses,” she says, nodding her head backward and weighing the backpack up and down in her hand. “Engineering works. Pain in the neck. Where are you off to, then?”
I want to lie, but I can’t think of anything. “St. Bernards, Cornwall,” I whisper, staring anxiously at my backpack as it dangles from her hand. Don’t open it, please.
Her eyes widen. “Wow. Long way. Why are you going there?”
Questions. Questions.
For what feels like ages, I stand there spluttering, trying to think of something to say. Why am I going to St. Bernards? What am I doing? What’s the point of any of this?
I’m worried I’m starting to look like a suspicious character, so eventually, I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. “I want to get a tattoo.”
Oh shut up, you complete idiot.
She looks at me for a moment, like she’s trying to figure me out.
I have to fill the silence. “Best place to get them, St. Bernards. It’s a fishing village, see, and everyone knows that fishermen have tattoos and loads of artists live there too, so it’s bound to look good and . . .”
This is awful. She narrows her eyes at me. Suspicious character? More like a total freak.
Then she sniff-laughs through her nose and shakes her head. “Okay, then. Well, gotta go. All the best with the tat. Don’t do anything you might regret. Oh. And I hope you’re old enough.”
My head nods up and down like a bobblehead.
After handing me the backpack, she pauses for a moment, as though she’s about to ask me one more thing. My throat tightens. Then she seems to think better of it and turns around before striding toward the exit.
Does this mean I’ve gotten away with it?
I’m not going to hang around to find out. My belly is going nuts, like a washing machine full of milkshake. Quickly, I hurry back to the turnstile.
Happiness
Standing on a beach
Sand beneath your feet.
Swashing orange juice
Through your teeth.
Dancing alone
In a crowded room.
Free music playing–
Boom chinga boom.
Happiness is easy to find.
But you can lose it in a moment.
By Martin Tompkins
Age 13
Stage 4a
Birmingham New Street Station
to Just Past Bristol Temple Meads
Distance–About 90 miles
Train
Reggae
I slip back through the turnstile and find Charlie sitting cross-legged on the floor where I left him. His lazy eye is closed, his palms are pressed together like he’s praying, and he’s making an ommmmmm sound.
“Is your belly button laser getting flat again?” I ask.
Charlie opens his eye. “Nope. Just trying to figure out the meaning of life and . . . hang on . . .” He shuts his eye again. “Yep. Got it.”
“So what is it, then?” I snort as Charlie leaps to his feet and dusts off his hands.
“What’s what?”
“The meaning of life.”
“Ah. Well, actually, it turns out it’s . . .” he says, leanin
g in toward me, “. . . cheese.”
I run my hand through my hair. Is he serious? “The meaning of life is cheese?”
“Yep. I was surprised too.” He shrugs. “Makes sense, though, I suppose. Anyway, did you get us a drink?”
I shake my head and hand him the juice. He glugs it, rinses it through his teeth, then gargles before swallowing. I take a nervous sip and shove the bottle into the backpack before anyone sees.
The relief of not being caught has been replaced with a suffocating mega-guilty feeling. Honestly, I have never stolen anything before, so this is a really big deal for me. Then I remember the special-leftover-from-Christmas tin that I stole from the house. And when you add that to not buying Charlie a ticket for the train, that makes three crimes committed in one day. And maybe kidnapping as well. So that’s four. Actually, is it illegal to run away from home? Or to pretend to be an adult when you’re not?
Yikes.
I’m a serial offender.
Right away I make a decision. As soon as we get home, I’m going to send a card to the shop to say sorry for taking the juice. I’ll get ahold of some money and seal it inside. Maybe I’ll put in a couple of pounds extra and tell them to donate the change to charity. This makes me feel better.
We check the screen, find out where the Plymouth train is leaving from, and walk along the passageway toward our platform without speaking. A street performer is playing slow reggae on a battered acoustic guitar. He’s shaking his dreads and singing about lazy days at the beach with the sand beneath his feet. He’s pretty good, his thumb and long fingers gracefully slapping the string—boom-ching, boom-ching—eyes closed and his voice all mellow and distant.
