by Ruth Thomas
‘What have I got to say?’ The sound was muffled against his arm, the words ending in one last sob.
‘Say, “Thank you, Nicky, for my surprise. What is it?”’
‘Thank you, Nicky, for my surprise. What is it?’
‘Don’t strain yourself saying it like you’re the least bit interested!’ said Nicky. ‘All right, it’s on the table! It was on the table all the time only you were so busy hollering you didn’t see it! Wait a minute, though, wait a minute, keep your eyes covered! And your ears. Just a minute. . . . Now! De-dah!’
Roy turned round slowly and saw what she had bought—a large cream gateau, with HAPPY BIRTHDAY on a red and gold band round the edge. Nicky had just lit the ten candles on the top. It was the best birthday cake he had ever had; Mum usually bought a small chocolate sponge and stuck candles in that. ‘Well?’ said Nicky.
Roy struggled to cope with having opposite feelings both at the same time. ‘Happy birthday to you-u-u, Happy birthday to you-u-u!’ sang Nicky in her strident voice. ‘Well?’
He swallowed. He didn’t know what to say, because the thoughts and feelings were too jumbled up, inside him.
‘Say you like it then! Just say you like it!’ Her face was so eager, and he did like it, he did! He tried to say ‘Yes,’ but the sound wouldn’t come. ‘Blow the candles out anyway,’ said Nicky, disappointed. He blew them and then, unexpectedly, threw an arm round Nicky’s neck. ‘We’ll have Rough Games after tea,’ said Nicky with a radiant face.
Once again they wreaked havoc in the house, everywhere except the Front Room, which was always treated with respect, thumping and banging and shrieking with boisterous laughter. Exhausted finally, they rolled on the threadbare carpet in the Back Room, panting for breath. ‘It’s the best birthday I had up to yet,’ said Roy.
‘See?’ said Nicky, triumphantly. ‘I told you!’
‘And Polly Pry didn’t even bang on the wall,’ he marvelled.
‘That’s because I told her where to go.’
‘Like you told Aunty Four-Eyes.’
‘Yeah! I told her an ’all, didn’t I?’
‘Nicky . . .
‘What?’
‘Do you think Aunty Four-Eyes might go up to the school after all now? Now you said Mum wants to go on with the quarrel?’
‘Oh cripes, I forgot about that!’ Nicky admitted. She had been rude to Mrs Morris to stop her coming into the house; but she needed to be polite to Mrs Morris to stop her going to Mr Nelson. How complicated things were getting to be! It was like trying to juggle a lot of little balls, and keep them all in the air at the same time.
‘Nicky,’ said Roy. ‘About Mum.’
‘Let’s not talk about Mum tonight.’
‘I won’t cry!’
‘All right then.’
‘I’m not going to cry about that any more. . . . Only I had a idea.’
‘What?’
‘Do you think Mum quarrelled with Tony?’
‘So they split up, you mean?’
‘Perhaps he come back in his car without her. Perhaps he just left her there.’
‘She would come by the train.’
‘Oh yeah!’
‘I wish we knew where Tony lives in London though,’ said Nicky. ‘Then we could go and see if he’s there. I know, she put the caravan address behind the clock. Perhaps she put Tony’s address behind there too. She must have writ it down somewhere.’
‘Perhaps he’s got a telephone as well,’ said Roy.
‘Oh yeah, that’s a good idea.’
They searched behind the clock, and behind the bills and so on. There were several addresses on bits of paper, because Mum wasn’t organized enough to have a proper address book; there was nothing about Tony, though. The children looked at the caravan address again. ‘I wonder what we supposed to do with this,’ said Nicky.
‘I wish it had a telephone.’
‘I don’t think caravans have telephones.’
‘So what’s the use of the address?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nicky. ‘She didn’t explain it.’
‘Perhaps we supposed to tell somebody.’
‘NO! Don’t let me hear you say that again. . . . Perhaps we supposed to go there!’
‘To Southbourne?’
‘Yeah. Perhaps.’
‘All by ourselves?’ said Roy, alarmed. ‘It’s too far! It’s too far, Nicky.’
‘There’s a train.’
‘What about the money for the ticket?’
‘Yeah, that is the problem.’
‘We can’t go then, can we? We can’t go because we haven’t got enough money.’
‘I wish I had a hundred pounds,’ said Nicky.
‘I rather have my goldfish,’ said Roy. ‘Much rather!’
Pamela and Pandora were in their playhouse, in their garden by the seaside. It was past their bed-time really, and they were rather hoping Mummy had forgotten them, because they were having an interesting game of going to the bank with their ‘cheque book’. They were going to get a hundred pounds and buy a pony, who would live in the playhouse, and eat the grass on their lawn. Pamela tried to tear out the page, but had trouble with the perforations.
‘You poor weak twit-nit, give it here!’ said Pandora impatiently. She wrenched at the page, and it wouldn’t tear for her either. She slapped the ‘cheque book’, and shook it, to punish it for being so awkward – and a piece of paper fell out. The piece of paper said TONY on it, in printed letters, and underneath there was an address. The address said 12 BRUTON AVE, LONDON NW10
‘There’s a telephone number as well,’ said Pamela.
‘It might be the lady who owns the handbag’s friend,’ said Pandora. ‘Shall we ring him up?’
‘It’s in London,’ said Pamela.
‘I bet you don’t know how to telephone to London,’ said Pandora.
‘I bet I do,’ said Pamela. ‘Why do you always think you are the only one who knows things? Anyway, what will we say to him?’
‘We’ll ask him to give us a reward, for finding the bag.’
‘You stupid egg-brain! They didn’t want the bag, they threw it away!’
‘They might have changed their mind.’
‘Then we could really buy our pony. With the reward. . . . All right then, we’ll ring him up.’
‘We more or less finished with the silly old bag anyway.’
‘Yeah, we don’t want their stupid bag any more, do we? They can have it back now, and we’ll have the reward.’
Pamela regarded the torn ‘cheque book’, and the depleted make-up. ‘We tore the cheque book though,’ she said, thoughtfully.
‘And used the lipstick.’
‘We might get into trouble.’
‘Let’s not phone up Tony.’
‘All right, let’s not.’
6
A watery grave
ROY FED HIS goldfish, sprinkling the delicate flakes over the surface of the water. He watched with delight as Fishy and Goldy rose so gracefully to receive their meal. They were beautiful, and they were his. He was not going to think about Mum any more; thinking about Mum hurt too much, like thinking about how he was going to be all alone next term, when Nicky went to her new school. From now on he was going to think only about Goldy and Fishy.
He said goodbye, then changed his mind and picked up the bowl instead. It was heavy, and the water sloshed about as he moved. He held the bowl against his chest, and went to the head of the stairs. ‘You go on to school without me,’ he called to Nicky. ‘I’ll come on in a minute.’
‘You hurry up and come now!’ said Nicky. ‘You’re going to be late, else.’
‘Only a minute. I’ll come in a minute.’
‘You’ve got something there,’ said Nicky. ‘I can see! What is that thing you are covering up?’ She came up the stairs a few steps and Roy turned, hiding the bowl with his body. ‘You’re not taking your fish to school!’ she scolded.
‘I can if I want to. I want to sho
w them to Mrs Blake.’
‘Mrs Blake seen goldfish before.’
‘She hasn’t seen mine.’
‘You’re silly!’ said Nicky.
Roy flinched from her scorn, but held his ground. ‘I don’t care if you say I’m silly. I’m taking my goldfish to school, so there!’
‘All right then, be silly. Do that silly thing and have everybody laugh at you, I don’t care. But don’t blame me if you drop the bowl and break it. And don’t expect me to carry it for you when it gets too heavy. Because I’m going to school like a sensible person, and I’m not going to help you at all.’
Nicky pranced ahead, and Roy lagged farther and farther behind. His arms ached intolerably, and the front of his shirt was all wet, from where the water had sloshed on it. He sat on someone’s garden wall, and rested the goldfish bowl on his knees. Gary passed, scuffling an old tin along the pavement. He turned back to jeer. ‘Is that what you keep your goldfish in? That old cracked bowl?’
‘You’re just jealous,’ said Roy, bravely.
He felt worth something, today. Not a mistake, not an insect; ten years old and the owner of two goldfish! Almost as good as anybody else.
‘Jealous? Ha, ha, ha! Jealous about goldfish? What is there to be jealous about goldfish?’
But Mrs Blake was in a good mood that morning, and made quite a fuss of Fishy and Goldy. She put them on her table where everyone could see and the class had an impromptu lesson about goldfish. Mrs Blake said the fish ought to be in a tank, really. And Roy said he was going to start saving his pocket money to buy one. Roy was sent to the library to see if he could find any books about tanks and goldfish. He was allowed to choose one person to go with him, and he chose Claudette. Gary found himself very resentful that the person who put his plimsolls down the toilet only on Tuesday was getting so much attention and privilege now.
When they were supposed to be writing about goldfish, Gary began to whisper with Sanjay, behind his hand. Little bursts of sniggery laughter began to explode from their shielded mouths. ‘Gary and Sanjay, you’re annoying me,’ said Mrs Blake. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope you’ve done a stroke of work between you. . . . I thought as much! What’s this rubbish? What is it, Gary? When you can write something other people can actually read, then you may be forgiven for wasting your time occasionally!’
Gary’s face went a sullen red, and his eyes bulged like gobstoppers. People were supposed to laugh at Roy, not him. Angry at being held up to ridicule, he plotted with Sanjay when Mrs Blake wasn’t looking. And when the children came back from play, the goldfish bowl was empty.
Roy stared in stricken horror, unable to speak or cry. ‘Mrs Blake, Mrs Blake, look!’ Everyone else was very excited. ‘Look, Mrs Blake, Roy’s goldfish has gone!’ There was much indignation, some of it pleasurable.
Mrs Blake was very angry indeed. ‘Who knows anything about this?’ she said, her gaze sweeping the room. There was nudging, and names were being whispered. ‘Sanjay and Gary come into school, playtime,’ said one voice out loud.
The two culprits were giggling a bit, but nervously now they saw they weren’t going to get away with it. ‘It was only a joke,’ said Sanjay.
‘We didn’t hurt them,’ said Gary. ‘They can still swim.’
‘Swim where?’ said Mrs Blake, her voice going so high it cracked on the top note.
‘In the toilet,’ said Gary, faintly.
But when Mrs Blake went striding on her long thin legs to look, followed by half the class, Fishy and Goldy were, alas, no longer swimming in the toilet bowl. ‘You wicked boys!’ said Mrs Blake.
‘Somebody must have pulled the flush,’ said Sanjay. It had seemed a good way of getting back at Nicky for yesterday but he was frightened now, and wishing he hadn’t done it.
‘That is the cruellest trick I’ve ever come across in all my years of teaching,’ said Mrs Blake.
‘Nicky Mitchell’s going to kill Gary,’ said someone, in an audible whisper.
‘We didn’t think nobody would pull the flush,’ said Gary, who had actually rather hoped that somebody would, and said as much to Sanjay who had hoped the same.
‘Didn’t think was made to think!’ said Mrs Blake.
They had to go to Mr Nelson, and Mr Nelson was very angry as well, and not at all convinced that Gary and Sanjay hadn’t really meant harm to Fishy and Goldy. Mr Nelson was so angry and upset that for the moment he forgot all about his arthritis and his ulcer. ‘You took something from Roy that was very precious to him,’ he told the boys. ‘Probably the most precious thing in the world at this moment. And to make you understand just a little bit what that feels like, I am going to take away something precious to you. You won’t be coming with us to Easthaven, either of you. You can come to school; one of the teachers will be staying behind, probably Miss Powell. She will make sure you don’t waste your time! You can tell your parents that you will be having extra tuition on Wednesday . . . all day.’
Mr Nelson sent for Nicky. ‘I’m sorry to say that Roy is just a little bit upset,’ he told her carefully. ‘And I don’t want you to get any silly ideas.’
‘Me? I don’t get silly ideas!’
‘No, of course not. My mistake.’
‘What is Roy upset about?’
‘Well – I’m afraid his goldfish have gone down the drain. Literally. I understand you gave them to him.’
‘Who done it?’
‘The school will replace the fish. Roy can have two from the tank in the hall. I’ve told him already, he can choose.’
‘Who done it, though?’
‘Those concerned are being punished, Nicky. I promise you I’m punishing them in the way I’m sure will hurt them most. There will be no need for any revenge in the playground! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Nicky. ‘You make yourself as clear as anything.’
Roy sat in his seat, and it was as though there was only him, real and solid, in the whole world. Everything else – the desks, the books, the pictures on the wall, Mrs Blake, the other children – all were shadowy, misty shapes, existing in a different sort of time and space, not joined up with his. He was all alone in his shock and grief. Even Claudette, with her soft brown arm round his neck, whispering words of comfort into his ear – even Claudette was outside in that other space, and not really close to him at all.
Stony-faced, Roy stared blankly ahead, twisting his fingers, trying to adjust his mind to the enormity of what had happened. He shrugged Claudette’s arm away and her eyes, still full of sympathy, showed hurt.
‘Come along, Roy,’ said Mrs Blake, trying to jolly him out of it. ‘Life goes on, you know.’
What did she mean, life goes on? Not Fishy and Goldy’s life, that wasn’t going on. Their life was ended, down the toilet. Or at any rate he would never see them again. And he wished he was dead as well, because now there was nothing left.
‘Come on now, Roy! You know you’re going to have two of the school’s instead,’ Mrs Blake blundered on, making it worse. ‘And goldfish are all very much the same, aren’t they? Pretty soon you won’t know the difference.’
But he would, he would! How could two fish without any names, out of the school tank, take the place of his beautiful Goldy and Fishy? Mrs Blake didn’t understand. Nobody understood. Even Nicky, who had given them to him, could not possibly understand how special they were to him. He couldn’t even cry for them, the sorrow went too deep.
In the dinner hall, Nicky observed Roy’s stricken face. He was ashen white and empty-eyed, not even twisting his fingers now. A terrible pain began in Nicky’s chest.
‘Stay with your class, Nicky,’ said Mr Hunt, who was on duty, and hadn’t heard about the fish yet. He knew Nicky had been to Mr Nelson, of course, and he knew she was in a mood when she came back, but he didn’t know why. So he was not particularly concerned when Nicky ignored him, and pushed her way through the jostling crowds of children, to put her hands each side of Roy’s face, turning his head to
look at her. ‘Who done it?’
He turned his head without answering.
‘Come on! I want to know,’ said Nicky, giving his shoulder a push.
‘Gary,’ Roy whispered. ‘And Sanjay.’
‘Right!’ said Nicky.
Her eyes were blue gimlets, marking them down. All of 3B watched with interest, anticipating fun to come. The third year table was dismissed from dinner first. That was a pity – now Gary and Sanjay would bolt into the toilets and there would be no interesting fight to watch, But no, no, Nicky was not waiting to be dismissed! Nicky was getting up from her seat anyway, and pushing past everyone to grab Gary before he could hide. She caught him by the hair, and they both stumbled into the playground. ‘What did you do to my brother’s fish? Tell me what you done to my brother’s fish!’
‘Nothing. . . . Ow!’ the bulging eyes bulged some more, as Nicky yanked at Gary’s hair roots.
‘Slob! Creep! Tell me what you done!’
‘Nothing. It was Sanjay’s idea. Ow-w-w!’
‘You drownded my brother’s fish, didn’t you!’
‘You can’t drown fish.’
‘Don’t be clever. There’s another one for being clever. And another. And another! You want me to push those ugly sticky-out teeth down your mouth, like you put my brother’s goldfish down the toilet? Do you?’
‘No-o-o! Leave me! Witch!’
‘I’ll leave you when I’ve finished!’ She had dragged him to the wall now, and was quite deliberately grinding his face against the bricks. The watching crowd closed in, admiring the way Nicky neatly dodged Gary’s flailing arms and legs, uneasy at the sight of Gary’s bloody nose.
‘Sanjay done it too, it wasn’t only me.’ He had given up trying to fight back. He was using his hands to protect his face, and one foot to brace himself clear of the wall.
‘Yeah? I’ll have to do him as well then, won’t I! When I finished with you!’
‘Sanjay’s in the toilets,’ someone called. ‘Hiding.’
‘He’s scared!’ said someone else.
‘Ha, ha, ha!’
‘Cool it, Nicky. You’re kicking Gary too hard!’
‘Yeah – cool it now!’
