The Land of Neverendings

by Kate Saunders

  ‘I miss that glorious smile of hers,’ Ruth said cheerfully. ‘And I miss holding up Podge so she could stroke him.’

  ‘Holly loved Podge,’ Emily said. ‘She loved it when we sat outside on hot days and he jumped into our garden – Dad said he was so fat he made a dent in the flowerbed.’ There was a swelling inside her chest, and she didn’t know if it would explode in laughter or tears.

  Ruth blew her nose again. ‘And, Lord, remember that terrible cat fart he let off? I thought we were all being gassed!’

  Just at that moment the fat cat hiccupped in his sleep, and Ruth and Emily burst out laughing. They couldn’t stop laughing; they shrieked with laughter until Podge woke up and stomped off in an offended way that made them laugh harder.

  Emily’s mind went back to the day of the terrible cat fart. She’d made up a story for Holly, one of her best ones – how could she have forgotten? Podge had visited Smockeroon to be fitted with a fart warning system, a clever device that gave bystanders five minutes to clear the area before he let one off.

  While Ruth – still giggling – made them more tea, Emily quickly pulled the pink notebook towards her and wrote: ‘Fart Siren.’

  Holly had loved the story; so had Dad, who was fond of comedy farting. When Holly was there, and they had something like beans for supper, he would make siren noises and say, ‘Take cover, girls – it’s the five-minute fart warning!’

  He didn’t do it nowadays.

  There was another loud peal of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning.

  ‘Ghastly weather!’ Ruth came back to the table with their mugs of tea. Emily’s mug was the one with the photo of Holly on it – her last Christmas present to Ruth. ‘I hope you got some of the biscuits – I seem to have finished them.’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  Ruth said, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this – I’ve never told anyone. After my son died, I did have one dream. But it wasn’t a good dream, and it wasn’t about Danny.’

  ‘You mean, it was a nightmare?’ Emily’s heart gave a little nervous jump.

  ‘Well, yes. It was more of an atmosphere than anything else. A horrible atmosphere of sadness – and it came from Danny’s bedroom. That’s all, really.’ Her voice was kind and she was looking at Emily very thoughtfully. ‘When I woke up I dared to go into the room, and the sadness had gone. It was only empty – with a sort of loud, roaring emptiness that was the centre of all the emptiness in the house. But that was all.’

  Emily knew about the emptiness; it was what made her afraid of Holly’s bedroom. ‘And … did the nightmare ever come back?’

  ‘Oh, no. Never.’

  ‘I had a nightmare when Holly died.’ Emily hadn’t told anyone about this, and it was hard to keep her voice from wobbling. ‘I dreamt that she was calling to me. And when I went into her room, there was – well, it sounds silly, but I can’t explain how horrible it was – there was a big black toad sitting in the middle of the bed. An evil toad.’

  ‘You poor thing,’ Ruth said softly. ‘That doesn’t sound at all silly to me.’

  ‘I didn’t tell Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t either.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Pooh to my diet – let’s open another packet of biscuits.’ Ruth stood up. ‘I’ve just remembered some custard creams.’

  They ate biscuits, drank tea and watched Love Your Garden on the tiny, elderly television at one end of the dresser.

  Telling Ruth about the black toad had been surprisingly easy. Maybe nightmares were normal when a person died, and didn’t mean anything bad.

  *

  The worst of the storm came in the dead of night. Emily suddenly snapped awake when it was almost over and the bangs and crashes were already heading off towards the next town, like a very noisy circus parade. She sat up in bed and switched on her lamp. Her phone said it was a quarter to three in the morning. There was no sound outside except a deluge of rain falling, and a frog’s chorus of gurgling gutters and drains.

  She was just about to turn off the lamp and go back to sleep when she heard noises through the wall in Holly’s bedroom.

  For one confused second, before she remembered properly, she thought that Holly was ill – there had been so many emergencies in the middle of the night, when she had woken up to voices and footsteps, an ambulance flashing outside the window, and her mother saying everything was all right but she wouldn’t be there in the morning.

  But Holly was gone.

  And these noises were different – soft thuds and scuttlings, that made Emily think of the time a squirrel had got into the ceiling above her parents’ bedroom.

  Mice? No, it was something bigger. Emily shuddered. Perhaps a rat, or a fox. She was completely awake now, very nervous but prickling with curiosity.

  I’ll take a quick look, she decided, and if I can’t chase the thing out, I’ll wake Dad.

  On the landing the noises were louder. The door to Holly’s bedroom stood half open and she dared to look inside.

  OK, so this is a dream.

  She felt wide awake – but this had to be a dream. What she was seeing couldn’t possibly be real.

  A soft light glowed from the middle of Holly’s empty bed. It came from a little tent – striped red and white, not more than knee-height, and with shadows moving about inside it.

  Never in all her life would Emily forget the strangeness of what she saw next.

  The tent flap opened and out strolled two rather battered soft toys – a short, round penguin, and a taller bear with bobbled light brown fur. The penguin was holding a newspaper, and the bear was carrying a picnic basket. Both toys were wearing false moustaches, fastened round their small, furry heads with elastic bands.

  Emily watched, in a trance of astonishment, as the bear opened the picnic basket, took out a tartan rug and spread it on Holly’s bed.

  And then the penguin spoke.

  Actually spoke.

  ‘What’s going on? This isn’t Pointed End!’

  The bear said, ‘It looks like a human bedroom. We must’ve come through the wrong door.’

  ‘But there aren’t any doors to the hard world in Deep Smockeroon! And we don’t have a human bedroom any more. We’re in a box in the attic.’

  They came from Smockeroon, the land Emily had made up for her Bluey stories. But how could these toys know about Smockeroon, which only existed in her imagination, when she had never seen them before? Her heart was beating wildly; it was absolutely mesmerising to watch the soft yellow beak of the penguin opening and shutting as it talked. When she was little she had often wished her toys could come to life but the reality was decidedly creepy.

  She moved closer to the bed. The toys took no notice of her.

  ‘Well, this is a nice bedroom,’ the bear said. ‘Let’s have our picnic, anyway.’

  ‘Good idea, Smiffy,’ said the penguin. ‘I’m sure that human girl-person-thing won’t mind.’

  Emily said, ‘I won’t mind at all.’

  The two toys gasped and stared up at her – the astonishment on their stitched-in faces was very strange to see, and looked so funny that Emily found herself smiling.

  ‘Hugo!’ whispered the bear. ‘She can see us!’

  ‘Yes, I can see you – and hear you. Who are you?’ Emily bent down over the bed. ‘Where did you come from?’

  The toys quickly got over their surprise; their soft faces folded into friendly smiles, which looked even funnier.

  ‘Hello,’ the Penguin said. ‘I’m Hugo and this is my best friend, Smiffy.’

  ‘I’m Emily.’

  She shook Smiffy’s paw and Hugo’s flipper; it was like shaking hands with two moving cushions.

  ‘Is this your bedroom?’ asked Smiffy.

  ‘No. It used to belong to my sister Holly. And she died.’ It was easy to say this to a smiling cushion.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Hugo said, nodding wisely. ‘That’s why she’
s not here.’

  ‘That would explain it,’ said Smiffy. ‘But it doesn’t explain how we got here from Deep Smockeroon.’

  Emily asked, ‘What’s Deep Smockeroon?’

  ‘Oh, it’s the nicest part,’ said Hugo. ‘It’s for toys who live in Smockeroon all the time because their owners have left the hard world.’

  ‘Hard world – does that mean real life?’

  ‘Yes, we used to live in this world,’ said Smiffy. ‘We had a nice wide shelf in our owner’s bedroom. But nowadays he comes to play with us in Smockeroon. It’s much more convenient.’

  ‘I see.’ Emily was starting to feel dreamy and weightless, as if she was listening to a really fantastic story. ‘Would you mind telling me why you’re wearing those moustaches?’

  Both toys looked surprised.

  Smiffy said, ‘It’s the latest fashion in Pointed End – everybody’s got a false moustache.’

  ‘What’s Pointed End?’

  ‘That’s our village in Smockeroon,’ said Hugo. ‘We built ourselves a lovely house there out of tinfoil and egg boxes.’

  ‘But what if it rains – or maybe it doesn’t rain there?’

  ‘We get rain sometimes,’ said Smiffy, ‘but there’s always plenty of warning, so we have time to cover our house with a plastic bag. And it’s held down with a brick to stop it blowing away.’

  ‘Some people don’t bother and just build themselves new houses,’ the penguin said, puffing himself out importantly. ‘Smiffy and I, however, are very proud of The Sycamores – I named our place The Sycamores to sound classy and posh, because we’ve decided to turn it into a boarding house for toys like us who don’t have owners Hardside.’ He held out the newspaper. ‘You can read our advertisement.’

  Emily wasn’t scared now; talking to these strange toys felt comfortable and oddly familiar, as if she had slipped inside one of her own stories. She took the newspaper. It was small, about the size of a crisp packet, and printed in a mad mixture of different-sized letters. The big letters at the top of the newspaper said, THE STUFFED GAZETTE, and in slightly smaller letters, The InTeRestinG BiTs of the TrUth.

  The headline on the front page said, DOoRBELL MONsteR STRiKes AgAIn!

  There was no time to read the story – Hugo reached out a flipper to turn the paper over to the back page, which was filled with advertisements.

  REFinEd BOarding HouSe fOr IndePEndent Toys!

  PriVIT jeLLy POnd!

  DaNcinG and PArtiES!

  LOTs of TeLEVisionS!

  ThE SYCaMores

  POintEd END

  DEep SMoCKERooN.

  Emily saw that the two strange toys looked proud, and kindly said, ‘That’s very good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hugo. ‘The “refined” part was my idea. We don’t want any old riff-raff.’

  Emily hardly heard him. She was staring, with a hammering pulse, at the advertisement underneath:

  LOSt! ELEganT BLUe MouStachE!

  PLeaSE return to BLUEY –

  18 STIgGs COTTageS, PoinTEd EnD.

  So it was Bluey’s voice that she’d heard in her dream.

  But Bluey had been burned inside Holly’s coffin when she was cremated. All that remained of them both was a jar of ashes that Mum kept in her room.

  ‘Don’t cry!’ Smiffy patted her hand with his soft brown paw. ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘Sorry … It’s just that … I’m sad because Bluey’s gone.’

  ‘But Bluey hasn’t gone anywhere,’ Hugo said. ‘I saw him this morning.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He waved to me from the other side of the jelly pond.’

  ‘You mean … Bluey’s in Smockeroon?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Smiffy. ‘We often run into him. But he spends most of his time playing with his owner.’

  ‘Holly! Oh, please – have you seen Holly?’

  The world did a somersault. Emily was back in her bed, with no idea how she’d got there, crying with longing for her sister.

  Three

  CHOIR PRACTICE

  ‘I DIDN’T WAKE UP UNTIL the fire engine came,’ Maze said, ‘but I saw the tree burning in the Staples’s garden. The flames were YAY high before they could put it out and the guy next door was really scared that his shed would catch – the sparks were flying everywhere.’

  They were in the classroom before the first lesson, and Maze was describing the drama of last night’s storm to Summer Watson and her cool friends. Emily had missed the amazing sight of the old oak tree in flames; this morning she had opened her bedroom curtains to the shocking spectacle of its blackened branches rising from a sea of mud.

  ‘And the tree looks completely weird now,’ Maze went on. ‘All charred and sort of leaning over.’

  ‘Scary,’ said Summer, tossing back her long blonde hair (Maze had started to imitate the hair tossing). ‘I’ve never seen anything that’s been struck by lightning.’

  Emily was invisible again, but it meant she had more time for her report. She was writing all the details of last night’s mad experience in the Bluey book and it was taking ages – the lines of tiny writing made her hand hurt.

  The bear and the penguin saw Bluey.

  Bluey is still alive in Smockeroon.

  He lives in Pointed End and plays with the owner he never stopped loving.

  Maze ignored her all day. Summer was in the car with them on the way home. She was having tea at Maze’s house. Emily was not going. She had not been invited. It was embarrassing to sit there feeling like a big unwanted lump. Maze showed off intensely. There was a lot of hair tossing.

  It was a relief to get into the dusty warmth and quiet of the antique shop.

  ‘Hi, Emily!’ Ruth suddenly bounced up from behind the armchair. ‘I’m just putting down some mouse pellets – I’m sure I heard mice in the loft last night, and it’s no use expecting Podge to do anything about it.’ She was wearing the owlish brown cardigan again, and did not seem to have noticed that one sleeve was grey with dust. ‘I went up there with a torch and didn’t see anything – but the little beasts are good at hiding.’

  So Ruth had also heard weird noises last night. This was interesting enough to take Emily’s mind off Maze and Summer Watson.

  ‘Were you woken up by the storm?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you managed to sleep through it – I’ve never heard such a racket!’ Ruth put the ‘Please ring’ sign in the window and briskly shut up the shop. ‘Nobody’s going to be buying antiques on such a dismal afternoon – let’s go into the kitchen.’

  The weather was dark and windy, with cold spatters of rain that hit the windows like fistfuls of gravel. Ruth’s kitchen was warm, messy and welcoming and there was a large treacle tart in the middle of the table. Emily sat down, relaxing for the first time that day. Podge ambled over to lie down on her feet.

  Ruth made tea and asked polite questions about Mum’s new job. Once she had cut them both handsome slices of the treacle tart, however, she was back on the subject of the storm.

  ‘I think I must’ve been having some sort of dream – I woke up because I had to write something down – something of huge, global importance. That’s when I heard the noises in the loft, and a second later we were in the thick of a raging thunderstorm. I came downstairs to make a cup of tea, and I actually saw the Staples tree being struck by lightning!’

  ‘I was shocked when I saw it this morning,’ Emily said, wincing over the super-sweetness of the treacle tart. ‘I suppose they’ll have to cut it down now.’

  ‘That might be a problem, because it’s a slightly famous tree and the Staples fans will make a fuss. There’s an old photo of Staples and his brother and sister sitting under that tree as children. The local paper’s doing a story about it.’ Ruth brushed pastry crumbs off her dress and cut herself another large slice of tart. ‘Do you like his novels?’

  ‘Yes, and so does my Dad. And I love the films.’

  Ruth chuckled. ‘My son said the Staples books were “bo
ring” and “nothing but elves making speeches”, and when I tried to read one to him, he hurled it out of the window.’

  Emily wanted to hear more about Ruth’s dream. ‘What was it that you had to write down?’

  ‘Oh Lord, it’s so silly!’ Ruth snorted with laughter. ‘When I finally went back to bed I saw that momentous message, and it was just two words – “label glue”.’

  ‘Label glue – does that mean anything?’

  ‘It’s from the stories I used to tell Danny when he was little. “Label” was a rude word to his toys, the equivalent of “bum”. You know how some soft toys have labels stitched to them, with washing instructions and so on?’

  ‘Yes!’ Bluey’s label had said ‘Wipe with a damp cloth’.

  ‘I’d completely forgotten,’ said Ruth. ‘I can’t imagine what jogged it out of my memory.’

  ‘Maybe it was because we were talking about dreams yesterday,’ Emily suggested.

  ‘Yes – or it could’ve been something to do with the storm, and the electricity in the atmosphere.’

  Emily wondered if the electricity had caused her mad vision last night. She couldn’t shake off a feeling that something else had happened during the storm; something much bigger.

  *

  In her dream that night there was singing – a happy, rather tuneless chorus of sweet, woolly, socky voices, singing what sounded like the Christmas carol ‘I Saw Three Ships’, but with different words.

  I saw an egg box sailing by

  With my FRIEND in Pointed END,

  And it was filled with cake and PIE,

  In Pointed End in the MORNING!

  Emily woke up very slowly, with a feeling that something soft was moving on top of the duvet around her feet. She half opened her eyes, and her heart gave a jump of joy. The strange toys had come back, just as she’d hoped. The funny little red-and-white tent, glowing with soft, mysterious light, stood on the rug beside her bed.