Poodles – 12 to 14 years
Pugs – 12 to 14 years
Rottweilers – 8 to 10 years
Yorkshire terriers – 12 to 15 years
If our dog was a Labrador it could live for fourteen years or maybe even longer if it’s well looked after.
But our dog doesn’t look like any of the dogs in the book. It’s got big ears and a long nose and little eyes and it’s hairy and it’s hard to tell but it might have thin legs. Hortense said she thought it was a mongrel, which is two sorts of dogs mixed together, and Zac said that was OK because the book says mongrels make wonderful companions and are just as lovable as pedigree dogs.
Then he said, “That’s a puppy in the photo. It’s a puppy.”
I said, “It’s not a puppy, it’s grown up. Mum wouldn’t get a puppy after we were born. You don’t get a dog when you’ve got babies. It’s too much work.”
“She would,” Zac said. “To help look after us.”
“You don’t get a dog to look after children,” I said.
“You can,” said Zac. “If you can’t look after them yourself.”
Then he went quiet and his face was like a sandcastle, all sliding out of place, and I couldn’t tell if he was crying because my eyes went all blurred and my face was like a sandcastle too. I had to take a deep breath and wait for the moment to end and in that moment I thought maybe our mum kept the dog but got rid of us.
Then Zac said, “That’s why I like dogs. Because a dog looked after us.”
He said it like suddenly everything made sense but he didn’t look like everything made sense. He looked like nothing made sense and he hated everything.
I wish wish wish wish we knew why our mum left us and who she was and where she is. Because not knowing anything means anything could have happened and whatever me and Zac imagine might be true.
Sometimes I think the dog ran on to the road and Mum ran too and they both got run over, or maybe she married someone who liked dogs and not children. Zac thinks she was a spy and the dog had a microphone hidden under its ear and then she had to go back to her own country and we’re really foreign. When he was little he thought she was a prisoner and he would rescue her but then he had nightmares and I told him she definitely wasn’t a prisoner. He made me cross my heart and hope to die so I hope I wasn’t wrong.
What I really think is that she’s probably ordinary like us and has bobbly old cushions on her chairs and dust in her hall like most people do. And then I feel angry with her for being mysterious when probably she’s no different from anyone else. Except most people don’t leave their children. So that makes her different, I suppose.
Anyway, we couldn’t decide what the dog was and Hortense said we should think of it as an average dog with an average lifespan and that’s about ten years. So if it was a puppy in the photo it might still be alive and if it was an old dog it probably died of old age. That is if it didn’t get run over.
Pip spoke to me today. It’s the first time ever. She was leaning against the tree talking to herself and I thought she might be talking to a ghost so I went and sat beside her. I was going to tell her about Glenda.
At first I didn’t say anything and then I said, “Who were you talking to?”
And she said – really quietly in a tiny little voice so I almost couldn’t hear – “My sister.”
I said, “Is she staying somewhere else?”
And she shook her head and said, “No. She’s dead,” and her face was really flat like it was all so horrible inside her head she had to switch everything off and then I understood why she has a wall in front of her face.
I wanted to cry but I didn’t because it’s her that should be crying not me so I took a deep breath like if I was about to have an injection. My throat hurt because there was such a big lump in it.
“What’s her name?” I said.
She said, “Alice. She’s twelve.”
After that all the words went out of my head so I just sat there. I don’t think Pip minded. We sat like that for ages and didn’t say anything and Pip chewed her sleeve.
Then I said, “Is that her jumper?”
And she nodded and got up and walked away.
Pip’s sister dying is the saddest thing in the world. If Zac died I’d die too. My heart would stop beating and I wouldn’t live a moment longer. I wouldn’t even know how to breathe. It makes me afraid to think about it in case it happens. I know it won’t make a difference but I feel like it might. It’s called being superstitious.
Usually Zac is superstitious, not me. If I tell him about Pip’s sister he’ll think I’m going to die so I won’t tell him. He already thinks something bad will happen if someone puts up an umbrella in the house or walks under a ladder and if he’s worried about something at school he tries not to stand on the cracks. We can be walking along as if everything’s normal and suddenly he shouts, “Don’t stand on the crack,” and I have to jump to make sure I miss it. Or if I did stand on it I have to go back and walk along that bit of pavement again, but this time not stand on it.
I tried to explain that superstitions are made up by people and they’re not real but he said even if people made them up they’re still real.
I said, “Yes, but they’re not magic; they won’t come true.”
He said, “How do you know?”
And when someone says, “How do you know?” and you can’t prove it you can’t really say anything.
Me and Zac made up our own superstitions. This is some of them:
Changing your parting.
Eating green and red food on the same plate (e.g. lettuce and tomatoes). This means we can’t eat salad.
A hedgehog getting run over (that was Zac’s idea but I don’t think it’s a superstition – I think it’s just bad luck for the hedgehog).
Wearing socks that don’t match.
Falling out of bed.
Looking at your reflection in a window.
Putting your pants on back to front.
Miss MacDonald told us about a city called Berlin that’s got a wall going right through the middle so people can’t go from one side to the other. It’s called the Berlin Wall. It’s been there for nearly thirty years, which is almost forever. Some people have been stuck on the wrong side their whole lives. If they were out shopping when the wall was built they’d be stuck without their families forever. They can’t even climb over because soldiers would shoot them.
I think it’s like being a care kid. There’s a great big wall and your family’s behind it but you can never climb over. The only thing you can do is not look at the wall too much because if you do you can’t think about anything else. Like Pip. You just have to pretend it’s not there and get on with everything else.
But Miss MacDonald told us now people are breaking the wall down. It’s amazing. She showed us some film. She said it’s a historic moment, like when the tree blew down. People were smashing the wall with hammers and putting bits in their pockets and climbing on to it and waving from the top and jumping on to the other side. They were crying and smiling and laughing all at the same time and looking for the people they’d lost and some of them recognised them even though they’re really old now.
And the soldiers weren’t even shooting because there were too many people to shoot and they probably wanted to go over the wall too. They probably have aunties or grandmas on the other side.
It was so amazing!
I’ve seen a photo of Glenda! Hortense found a box of photos of Skilly kids and tipped them out on to the kitchen table. It was like looking at hundreds of ghosts. We knew they were Skilly kids because they’re sitting in front of Skilly House or under the tree before it was blown down. One picture is so old it’s brown and white and the girls are wearing long dresses and they all look miserable but Hortense said in the olden days people had to sit really still for a long time when they had a photo taken and it’s hard to smile for a long time so they might not be sad at all. They might just look that way becau
se of all the waiting. Me and Zac tried smiling for a long time and after a while it didn’t look like a smile at all. It looked like a scream.
The photo with Glenda isn’t as old as the brown and white one but it’s in black and white because they still didn’t use colours then. There are seven children in the photo, standing in a row. All the girls are wearing skirts and all the boys are wearing shorts and all the kids have their socks falling down. On the back of the photo it says 1948, which is the year after she wrote her letter. The names of the children are written in order and the last person in the row is Glenda Hyacinth! She’s standing next to a boy called Bill Glover. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I stared and stared at her.
She doesn’t look exactly how I thought she would. She’s got long hair and a fringe and she has a ribbon in her hair. I expect it’s the ribbon she found on the bombsite. The ribbon’s slipped a bit and it looks like it’s going to fall off at any moment. She’s not smiling, though she could have done because it was 1948 and cameras were better then, but she’s looking at the camera and her face is all flat. She’s probably fed up waiting for Bill to stop talking or for everyone to get in a line or maybe she’s fed up of waiting for life to get better. Or maybe she doesn’t want to move in case the ribbon falls off.
Mrs Clanks stood behind me when I was looking at the photo. I felt a bit awkward so I said, “What happened to them?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. She just looked at the picture.
Then she said, “They grew up,” and walked away.
She made me feel stupid. Hortense patted my arm.
“It’s lovely you’re interested, Ira,” she said. “These children were here before you. It’s lovely you can see their photos.”
Now I can imagine Glenda properly. I’ve seen her running through Skilly and I saw her in the garden at Martha’s house but I never got a good look at her. Now I can really imagine her. I wanted to put a ribbon in my hair too because we’re friends and friends do that sort of thing. But I haven’t got a ribbon so I put a hairband on instead.
Zac said, “What you wearing that for?”
But I didn’t tell him. I just shrugged.
At school today Miss MacDonald told us about Scotland. She said there’s lots of countryside and mountains and lots of rain so things grow really fast like enormous carrots and there’s lots of potatoes called tatties.
She showed us tartans, which people make kilts out of. Each family has its own tartan so people know if they are a Campbell or a MacDonald just by looking at their clothes. It made me wonder if anyone in our family is Scottish and if so what their tartan is. Maybe they’re Campbells. If they’re Scottish I hope their tartan’s got lots of green in it. Green’s my favourite colour.
While Miss MacDonald was talking, some people climbed up the lampposts outside the school and hung a sheet between them with NO POLL TAX written on. It was amazing how they did it so quickly. They just slid right up the poles and down again and Miss MacDonald didn’t even notice. I expect they’ve done it lots of times before.
Afterwards Miss MacDonald got us to write stories. She said to use our imagination and write about something from the past. She says a good imagination can make something ordinary extraordinary.
I wrote about a ghost called Glenda who never grows up but is always dreaming about what she might become. It’s based on my Glenda but it’s not really her. Miss MacDonald liked it so much she wrote on the bottom of my page Ira has been working hard and has written a beautiful story. She has a wonderful imagination.
At the end of school when everyone had gone she said, “You’ve quite a talent, Ira,” and she told me to show it to Mrs Clanks. I didn’t want to but because I nodded I had to so when I got back to Skilly I went to see Mrs Clanks.
After she read Miss MacDonald’s note she said, “Well done, Ira. Shall I read your story?”
I wanted to say no because she’s not the sort of person who believes in ghosts but she wasn’t asking me as a question. Her face went funny when she was reading it. She didn’t like it at all, even though it’s not very long. When she finished she put it on her desk.
“Who is Glenda?” she said.
“She’s a girl in the Skilly photo that’s got nineteen forty-eight on the back,” I said. “She used to live here.”
Mrs Clanks said, “I see.”
Then she said, “Perhaps you should write about people you know, real people not imaginary ones.”
“She is real,” I said.
“What I mean, Ira, is it would be better if you lived in the real world. Keep your feet on the ground. Don’t dream your life away.”
I felt horrible when she said that.
“The real world’s no fun,” I said.
“You had fun with Martha, didn’t you?”
I said, “Yes, but I’m at Skilly now and it’s no fun here at all.”
Then I picked up my story and walked out. Just like that. It wasn’t even true what I said but I wanted to hurt her feelings like she hurt mine. When I came upstairs I tore my story into lots of pieces and threw them in the bin. They looked like confetti that you throw at a wedding only they were sad confetti not happy confetti, like you might throw at a funeral.
I hate writing, I hate drawing, I hate everything. I don’t ever want to grow up and be like Mrs Clanks but I don’t want to be a child either.
I couldn’t sleep last night. I was too upset about my story. Even imagining an owl on the roof didn’t make me feel better. I got out of bed and looked out of the window. There was a big moon in the sky and I was just thinking how lovely it was and then I saw Glenda. She was running through the garden and she looked really happy and free and I wished I could be outside with her.
And then I thought, “Why can’t I? I can if I want to.”
So I decided to go out too.
Zac was asleep. His foot was sticking out from the blanket and it kept twitching. He was probably dreaming about playing football. I opened the door really quietly and crept down the stairs. I didn’t make a single sound because me and Zac have learnt where the creaks are. We did it by pretending we’d get blown up if we stood on a creak. You learn really quickly if you think you might be blown up.
When I got downstairs I unlocked the back door and crept outside. It was quite light because of the moon but it felt really scary. The grass was cold and wet on my feet.
Then I saw the bushes move so I whispered, “Glenda! Glenda!” but she didn’t come out. I was just thinking I’d go back in but then I saw her running through the garden. She looked like a little wisp of smoke.
And then I noticed lots of leaves were shaking as if children were running their fingers over them and I realised the garden was full of ghosts all running around and touching the leaves. So I began to run too. I ran along the trunk and jumped off the end and then I ran round the pond and peered into the water and saw the reflection of the moon and insects jumping across the top. And all the time I was running my fingers were touching the bushes. It was so nice.
But then suddenly the garden felt scary again and I ran back inside and locked the door and even though I was scared I raced all the way up the stairs without making a single creak.
I felt better after that because now I know that while we’re asleep Glenda’s playing in the garden with the other kids who used to live here. And that makes me feel less lonely.
Zac hadn’t moved when I got back to our room. Even his foot was still twitching. He looked so warm I climbed into bed with him and when he felt my cold feet he curled up and rolled over.
I had to go to Mrs Clanks’s office again today. I didn’t look at her when I went in and I wasn’t going to listen either. I just hoped she hadn’t seen me in the garden.
She told me to sit down and then she said, “It was very rude of you to walk out when we were talking.”
I said, “I’m sorry,” even though I didn’t mean it.
“Actually,” she said, “I wanted to apologise to you. I’
m sorry if you thought I didn’t like your story. I liked it very much.”
She looked strange. Her face didn’t look stony any more. It looked like it was bubbling out of shape.
“What I was trying to say was,” she said, “what I’ve learned in life is that the only way to make things happen is to live in the real world, to make the best of it. Do you know what I mean?”
“To grow up?” I said.
“Yes. That’s one way of putting it. Not to live in a dream. If you live too much in your dreams you will always be disappointed.”
I shrugged.
“But I was very impressed with your story, Ira. You must show Silas. You know how he loves a good story.”
“I tore it up,” I said. “I tore it into a hundred pieces and threw it away.”
Mrs Clanks looked away. It was like she’d cry if she spoke. She made her face even harder than usual and kept swallowing, like she was trying to stop the tears coming.
She said, “I’m sorry if I made you destroy your story. I’m sorry if I was too harsh. Will you write another?”
I was going to say, “No I won’t, never again,” but then she said, “One thing you’ll learn as you get older is adults are often wrong – maybe you will be one of those people who is able to live in their dreams.”
I felt like crying too but I wasn’t sure why.
I just said, “OK,” and she said, “Very well.”
Then she said, “You have a talent. It’s quite special. Not everyone is so lucky.”
I nodded.
Everything feels funny now. Like it’s upside down. I like it better the right way up. Then I know what’s happening.
I wonder if Mrs Clanks did bring the Easter eggs.
Martha’s invited us to stay for New Year! She didn’t even arrange it through Country Kids, City Kids. She just did it because she felt like it and that means she wants us to come. Even though we made lots of mess she wants to see us again. Me and Zac can’t stop smiling and Zac’s jumping around all over the place. He’d better calm down before we get there.
Little Bits of Sky Page 8
