My Life As an Alphabet

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘Did you enjoy your trip?’ he asked.

  I tore my attention away from the logistical problems involved in my plan and gave his question some consideration. I knew it would be insensitive to tell the truth. A simple ‘Yes’ – a white lie – was the required response, and I opened my mouth to do just that.

  ‘It was disgusting, Rich Uncle Brian,’ I said.

  His mouth turned downwards and I instantly felt bad.

  ‘But I did enjoy our talk,’ I added. Sometimes it is good to throw in two truths if one can compensate for the other.

  ‘Tell me, Pumpkin,’ he said a minute later. ‘Does your dad ever mention me? You asked if I still loved him. Do you think there’s a chance he still loves me?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Whenever your name is mentioned his mouth twists up and he mutters darkly.’

  I couldn’t think of another truth to make up for that one.

  J

  IS FOR JOKE-SHOP JUNK

  Rich Uncle Brian dropped me home at five o’clock. There was no sign of Mum. Her bedroom curtains were closed and the door was shut. I went around the side of the house and stood in the doorway of Dad’s shed. He had his headphones on and his computer lights were flashing. He didn’t notice me, but that’s not exactly news. I was able to see part of the screen as his fingers flashed over the keys. The screen was mainly dark, apart from a series of symbols that scrolled down the page. His foot tapped relentlessly.

  It was a mystery.

  Dad was a mystery.

  I wheeled my tricycle to the front yard and through the gate. RUB had left a bike helmet draped over the handlebars. I put it on and tightened the chinstrap. Then I sat on the saddle, which was long, pointed and designed to wedge itself firmly up my bottom.

  I fell off on the first bend.

  I believe this is actually a matter for considerable pride. The tricycle was VERY stable. The back wheels were wide and, according to Douglas Benson From Another Dimension [whom I told the story to later], the trike should have remained upright in a cyclone. Douglas said it was contrary to the laws of physics to fall off that tricycle and I believe him. Douglas knows his physics. Nonetheless, no matter how offensive to science, I fell off and scraped my leg bloody on the asphalt. It was still more pleasant than being on Rich Uncle Brian’s yacht.

  Apart from that, I made it to my destination with no further mishaps. I hid the bike under a tree, although it was unlikely that anyone would happen to pass by and steal it. Then again, I reminded myself, it was exceptionally unlikely that anyone would fall off a tricycle, so I wasn’t prepared to take chances. I walked the rest of the way.

  Douglas’s ravine was as pretty as ever. Well, I imagined it was as pretty as ever because I kept a healthy distance from the edge. It was six-fifteen, so I sat under a gum tree and kept a lookout. I was a coiled spring, ready to bounce into action should the situation require. But fifteen minutes passed. And then twenty [which wasn’t surprising, considering the nature of time] and Douglas didn’t show. I became an uncoiled spring at six-forty-five and walked back to my bike. I didn’t fall off once on my way home, which was a relief to both me and the laws of physics.

  I ruminated and cogitated throughout school on Monday. Probably more ruminating than cogitating, but certainly a considerable amount of both. One of the advantages of no one talking to me is that there is plenty of time for uninterrupted r and c.

  This is the way my thoughts went:

  Mum and Dad were miserable together, but were they miserable because they were together or would they be miserable in isolation? Dad might be miserable because Mum was always locked in her room being miserable, but he might also be miserable because of the rift between himself and Rich Uncle Brian, which has nothing to do with Mum per se [though she would be more prone to being miserable with the miserable rift between her husband and her brother-in-law, and therefore more likely to be less miserable if that miserable rift was healed]. But maybe Dad was miserable not because of the rift, but because Rich Uncle Brian was the sole author of the patent, in which case he [Dad] would remain miserable regardless of rifts, healed or otherwise. And maybe Mum was miserable because of her breast cancer and the death of her daughter, in which case there would be nothing I could do, since I cannot raise the dead nor restore breasts once they have been removed, though maybe I could do something about giving her a reason to feel optimistic, so healing the rift might be a step in the right direction after all. And maybe Rich Uncle Brian was miserable about something other than the rift, so healing it might not restore him to the heights of happiness. And Douglas. He was miserable because he can’t get back to his world, which [to be honest] I’m not convinced exists anyway, so getting him back there might prove to be an impossibility, and even if it is all true then how could I do that when I don’t even know what a tesseract is, let alone pea brains and all the other things necessary to make the journey a success [assuming it’s possible]?

  I was confused. It was no wonder no one talked to me. I wouldn’t talk to me if I had a choice.

  I decided I would start with a more straightforward task. Miss Bamford’s eye. As far as I could determine, this was a simple problem with a simple solution.

  I stopped at the joke shop on my way home from school [actually, it calls itself a party-hire shop, but I’m not sure I would go to a party with a whoopee cushion and a resin model of dog poo. Then again, I don’t go to parties, so I’m not an expert]. I invested twenty-four dollars of pocket money. When I got home I rang Douglas Benson From Another Dimension and asked him to do some internet research for me and to bring the information to school the following day. I could have asked Dad, but I didn’t want to interrupt his strange-symbol scrolling. Mum was in bed again, so I heated leftovers in the microwave and ate by myself.

  By the time I had finished it was close to six o’clock, so I hopped on my bike [actually, I edged onto my bike – that saddle was like a razor blade] and headed off to the ravine again. There was more traffic, it being Monday, but I avoided getting killed, which would have put a dampener on my day. Douglas didn’t put in an appearance for the second day running and I was pleased. Although it was likely I’d be riding to that ravine for the foreseeable future, I was happy if the only thing I experienced was a sore bottom rather than the sight of a friend plummeting to certain death [or an alternative universe, whichever came first]. It was a tired Candice Phee who crawled into bed at nine-thirty, having fed Earth-Pig Fish who was not in the mood for constructive conversation. But it was also a contented Candice Phee, because she had plans to improve the general state of happiness in the world. True, it would make only a few people happy, but it was a start.

  The rest of the world would have to wait.

  The staff room was a hive of activity on Tuesday morning. There was laughter coming from within and no one heard me knocking. I had to hammer three times before someone opened the door. I wondered what was going on. Nearly all the teachers I know are sombre people in the classroom, discouraging jokes and generally appearing to have ruled laughter entirely out of their lives.

  Mr Gemmola, my Maths teacher, opened the door. His broad smile vanished when he saw me. Maybe there was something about the close proximity of students that altered a teacher’s behaviour, like iron filings close to a magnet.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Phee,’ he said in sepulchral tones [I have reached S in the dictionary]. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You could smile, Mr Gemmola,’ I replied. ‘It suits you.’

  My honesty puzzles many people, teachers included. He didn’t reply, but cocked his head to one side.

  ‘Alternatively,’ I continued, ‘you could ask Miss Bamford if she would be willing to see me.’

  She was and she did. We went to a classroom and she sat behind her desk. She laced her fingers together and peered at me over half-moon specs. Well, one eye peered at me; the other had its own agenda. She would have been better off with a monocle. I organised my thoughts. This was going to be a deli
cate conversation in which tact and diplomacy was required. Luckily, I had considered this as I lay in bed the previous night. I had rehearsed not just my tactics, but also the exact words I would use. I took a deep breath.

  ‘You know your weird eye, Miss Bamford?’ I started. ‘How it spins out of control like a punctured balloon?’

  She didn’t say anything, which I took as confirmation I’d made a positive start.

  ‘Douglas Benson From Another Dimension says it’s so hyperactive it should be on Ritalin,’ I added. ‘But that is not the issue. I suspect, Miss Bamford, that you are aware of the cruel remarks made about your peripatetic eyeball.’

  Miss Bamford raised a hand in the stop position. I stopped because that was only polite.

  ‘Candice?’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Bamford,’ I replied. ‘Ask two, if the urge is irresistible.’

  ‘I’m curious. You rarely say anything in class – or out of it, if the rumours are to be believed – yet, when you do talk, your vocabulary is remarkable for a twelve-year-old. “Peripatetic” for example. Can you explain?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Certainly.’

  There was a long pause. I felt the urge to hum, but kept control. Miss Bamford fixed me with a quizzical eye. The other examined a pinboard at the back of the classroom.

  ‘Well?’ she said finally.

  ‘Oh. I see. Well, peripatetic means something that wanders or travels a lot. It . . .’

  ‘No, no, Candice.’ Miss Bamford sighed. She sounded like Rich Uncle Brian. ‘I know what the word means. I want to know how you know what it means.’

  Things were becoming clearer. ‘I read the dictionary, Miss Bamford,’ I replied. ‘Every night. It is my favourite book. At the moment I am up to the letter S, which is stupendous. It sets a very high standard which frankly I suspect T will not be able to match. But one should not pre-judge.’

  Miss Bamford rubbed at her forehead.

  ‘I imagine, Candice,’ she said, ‘that reading the dictionary would increase your raw vocabulary, but it doesn’t explain how you use the words you pick up. Surely you must read other things?’

  ‘You are sagacious, Miss Bamford,’ I replied, partly to confirm the rich treasure trove that is the letter S. ‘I also read Dickens.’

  ‘Charles Dickens?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Any other writers?’

  ‘No. Dickens is sufficient. I have his complete works and read them in alphabetical order. I am currently up to Dombey and Sons. It is my second cycle through his lifework.’

  Miss Bamford made a little resting place for her chin with interlaced fingers. Then she cleared her throat.

  ‘Dickens is a wonderful writer, Candice,’ she said. ‘But don’t you think you should read other writers occasionally?’

  It was clear that Miss Bamford was not limiting herself to the one question she had requested. Or, indeed, the two I had counter-offered. But I felt it would be churlish to point this out.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Isn’t he a little out of date?’ she continued. ‘Perhaps, for modern tastes, rather too . . . old?’

  ‘He would be two hundred years of age,’ I replied. ‘Which would certainly be too old for modern tastes. But he is dead. And that makes a huge difference. Particularly, I imagine, to him.’

  Miss Bamford’s mouth twitched and I felt confident she was about to ask yet another question about my reading habits. But then she gave a little wave of her hand as if giving up the whole conversation as a bad job.

  ‘You were saying about my eye,’ she whispered.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I replied. ‘It seems to me, Miss Bamford, that there is a simple solution to your ocular problem. What is more, I have this solution in my school bag and would ask that you consider it seriously.’ I rummaged around in my backpack, found the large paper bag and pushed it across the desk. She opened the top and peered inside. I waited for her reaction and didn’t have to wait long.

  ‘A hook, a plastic sword and a rubber parrot,’ she said. ‘This is very kind of you, Candice, but it raises more questions, I think, than it answers.’

  ‘I catch your drift,’ I replied. ‘The point is, Miss Bamford, that I bought these items as a pirate’s job lot. I am not suggesting you attach the hook or pin the parrot to your shoulder, though that would be a personal choice and I wouldn’t stand in your way. It is the eye patch that I want to bring to your attention. You see, if you put it on, then no one could see your wandering eye. This would, at a stroke, reduce the teasing you currently endure. Plus, it would lend you a certain air. Sinister perhaps, or even romantic. It would establish an aura of mystery. And who would dare tease a sinister, romantic, mysterious one-eyed teacher sporting a black eye patch? Count me out, for one.’

  I said earlier that teachers leave their senses of humour in the staff room. Well, it only goes to show one should never make generalisations [which is in itself a generalisation I should not have made] because Miss Bamford did a curious thing. She removed her specs and placed them on the desk. Then she lowered her head so it rested next to them. Her shoulders shook, almost imperceptibly at first, but then with increasing vigour. It was as if she were impersonating an earthquake. For a moment I thought she was crying, possibly out of gratitude that I had solved her problem. I believe that happens. But then I heard the distinct peals of what was obviously laughter. She lifted her head and her eyes were red and streaming with tears. Miss Bamford howled. Then she howled some more. I waited patiently. There is little point, in my experience, attempting to converse with someone who is howling like a hyena. So I folded my arms and weathered the storm.

  It took time for Miss Bamford to calm down. When she did, she fixed me with her one good eye.

  ‘Thank you, Candice,’ she said, though her voice was weak. ‘You have made my day.’

  ‘You could dye it a different colour if black does not suit,’ I said, ‘though I believe black would lend gravitas.’

  Her mouth twitched and I thought she was going to start laughing again. But she maintained control. My job here was done and I rose to go.

  ‘Enjoy,’ I said at the door, and she gave a small gurgle followed by a muffled snigger. I was almost through when she stopped me.

  ‘Candice?’ she said. I turned. ‘Where is your assignment? The alphabet recount? It is not like you to be late.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss,’ I replied. ‘I’m up to J, but it’s taking longer than I thought.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to reading it.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to finishing it.’

  Jambalaya is a Louisiana Creole dish of Spanish and French influence, popular in the French Quarter of New Orleans. So said the internet page printouts that Douglas Benson From Another Dimension gave me at recess, and I have no reason to doubt them.

  Some explanation is called for.

  I have already mentioned that Mum was not always depressed. Before Sky died she was active, optimistic and full of plans. I remember one conversation, though I cannot remember when or where it happened. The only image I can bring to mind is sitting in a restaurant. Dad wasn’t there and nor was Sky, though I’m sure this was after her birth and certainly before her death. Mum was leaning over the table and her face was bright, alive with emotion.

  ‘One day, Pumpkin,’ she said. ‘One day we will all go to the United States and visit New Orleans. It is a place I must see before I die.’

  ‘What’s there, Mummy?’

  She leaned back and a dreamy expression spread across her face.

  ‘All kinds of things, Pumpkin. You walk through the French Quarter and see amazing railings, beautiful, scrolled ironwork everywhere. And the streets . . . they are full of people, most talking French, and the music, Pumpkin, the music . . . from every shopfront, from every balcony, jazz musicians play. On each street corner someone plays a saxophone or a guitar or a trumpet. We’ll eat jambalaya and gumbo and listen to jazz and wat
ch people dance in the streets, surrounded by French accents, surrounded by music . . .’

  Nothing else remains of that memory except her expression. Transported into another place, she was happy. New Orleans was never mentioned after that. Like everything else, it shrivelled and died. But at least I remember.

  During lunchtime I sat in my special chair in the library and made a shopping list. Douglas was scouring the bookshelves for information on gravity, so I had time and space. I would need chicken, smoked sausage, onions, capsicums, tomatoes, prawns, chicken stock and rice [though I thought we already had rice].

  What with shopping, tricycling to the ravine and cooking, it promised to be a busy and, hopefully, productive evening. I was worried though. Apart from an egg [which turned out disastrously] I had never cooked anything in my life. I scanned the recipe. Unfortunately, microwave ovens did not feature anywhere.

  K

  IS FOR KITCHENS

  There are people, I am told, who enjoy cooking, who do it every night. They slice and dice, they top and tail, they braise and stew, they poach and steam, all the time laughing like idiots in a delirium of happiness.

  I didn’t laugh, I couldn’t say I was entirely happy, but I was certainly an idiot.

  The recipe called for me to slice the capsicums, but I took no chances and sliced my fingers as well. This slowed me down as every ten seconds I had to get a new bandaid and try to stem the flow of blood. Even so, by the time I had the ingredients ready [‘prepped’ according to the recipe Douglas had given me] the kitchen was the scene of a nasty traffic accident involving multiple amputations. I mopped the floor and wiped down surfaces, which was difficult with fingers like bandaid-covered sausages. Finally, though, the big pot was simmering on the stove. I threw in the rice and covered it, turning the flame low. The jambalaya had to cook for over an hour, which gave me time to get to Douglas’s ravine and back again.