by John Newman
Of course during the break Sally arrives. She stuffs a candy bar into her mouth and says, “I suppose you’re watching that rubbish Southsiders.”
Then Aunt M. wants to show her her wedding dress before Nicholas arrives.
“I suppose it’s white,” Sally grunts, but Aunt M. just laughs.
So I am left watching the rest of the show on my own, and it’s just not the same. I could kill Sally . . . if she doesn’t kill me first for being a nosy-parker spy.
At last Aunt M. remembers me, but no sooner has she sat down again than Nicholas and Conor arrive at the same time, and suddenly Aunt M.’s cozy little apartment seems crowded with noisy people. Everybody has forgotten about Southsiders, and William will just have to bleed to death on his own because Nicholas has decided that I have watched enough TV.
“I wonder, will this round helmet fit on Mimi’s square head?” Nicholas shouts, and pushes his motorbike helmet onto my head back to front. He says I have a square head from watching too much TV but it’s not true — I check my head regularly in the bathroom mirror and it is as round as it always was.
I can’t see a thing with the helmet backward on my head, and then he starts to tickle me. Nicholas has the longest fingers that dig right into you and tickle you to death, and I’m nearly feeling sick with giggling when at last he stops because he has to talk seriously about motorbikes with Conor.
“Give me back my helmet, Squarehead,” he says, and pulls the helmet off my head.
But before he goes he has to give his “fiancée” (that’s what he calls Aunt M.) a big sloppery kiss, and Sally groans, “Oh, give me a bucket!” and Conor just goes red and looks down at his shoes until they’re finished.
I wish every day was Tuesday. So does Conor because Nicholas takes him on a ride on the back of his motorbike. Sally loves Tuesdays too because she thinks Aunt M. is cool (I know that because I read it in her diary). So I am always sad when we have to go home to our sad house at six o’clock.
Today Dad is at least awake. He’s just staring at the telly, although it is not even switched on. “Help yourself to pizza,” he says, but even from the hall I can smell it burning.
Anyway, I’m still stuffed from Aunt M.’s and I still have my Spiff bar left, so I toss my pizza out to Sparkler, and so does Sally. Conor takes his black pizza up to his room and the drums start, and Sally’s music starts blaring and I have to turn the TV up all the way to hear anything.
My teacher is named Ms. Addle. Orla says that is because she is always addled. Orla says addled means “scatterbrained” but I don’t care because she is the nicest teacher in the school, probably in the world. But she is very addled, and now that she is pregnant she is more addled than ever. She is sitting in her chair with her legs stretched out and her hands under her big, round tummy when I walk into class. Most teachers don’t like you to come in late every day, but Ms. Addle doesn’t mind. In fact, she doesn’t even seem to notice. So I come in late every day, sometimes very late.
I sit down beside Orla in the last row. Ms. Addle is talking about her baby again, so Orla tells me a joke.
“This baby feels like it is going to pop out any day now, children — you know I haven’t seen my feet for months!” Ms. Addle tells the class.
“This blond girl accidentally sets her house on fire,” whispers Orla. Orla has lots of jokes, and lots of them are about stupid blond girls, which is a bit odd because Orla has long blond hair herself and she is the cleverest girl in the class.
“So take out your homework, everyone,” says Ms. Addle.
Orla stops telling her joke for a minute while she takes out her homework. I wait because I have no homework to take out. “So anyway,” she goes on, “the blond phones the fire brigade and tells them to come quick and put out the fire in her house. . . .”
I don’t do my homework except on Wednesdays — Aunt B. makes me do it on that day, but otherwise I never do it. Ms. Addle doesn’t mind. She is very understanding. She says she knows how hard it must be for me without my mammy. You see, she is the nicest teacher in the world. I love Ms. Addle.
“‘How do we get there?’ asks the fireman,” continues Orla in a loud whisper. “‘HELLOOOO,’ says the blonde, ‘IN THE BIG RED TRUCK, OF COURSE!’”
I wait for the next line. But that’s all.
“Do you get it?” asks Orla, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“No,” I tell her, scratching my head. I don’t get lots of Orla’s jokes, and she’s about to explain it to me when the teacher asks her to read out her answer, so I’m saved. Because I never understand Orla’s explanations either.
Recess is as horrible as ever. Sarah and her gang pick on me and Orla as usual. “Teacher’s pet Crybaby didn’t get her homework done again,” Sarah says in her nasty squeaky voice, her face right up in mine. “Too sad, were we?” — and her two lapdogs (that’s what Orla calls Sarah’s two friends) laugh like crazy. “Maybe Specs will tell you a funny little joke to cheer you up,” she jeers, punching Orla on the arm. Then they run off, laughing loudly in their ugly way.
I hate that girl. She wasn’t always like that. When my mammy died I had lots of friends. Everyone would give me hugs and sweets in the yard and feel sad with me. But then Sarah started calling me Crybaby and hit the girls who came near me. So they didn’t anymore — except for Orla, no matter how much she was teased. Orla says that she is a tough cookie and won’t be intimibaited by a two-bit scumbag like Sarah Sinclair. No, sireee! And the way she says that always makes me laugh.
“Let’s make a voodoo doll of her and stick pins in it,” says Orla. But I don’t know what she is talking about and I don’t really care. I just stare at the ground, and everyone in the school yard stares at me and Orla, but they keep away because they don’t want Sarah to pick on them. Maybe she’s right — maybe I am a Crybaby.
After school I go into Mrs. Lemon’s shop to buy a candy bar with the rest of my lunch money, and Mrs. Lemon says, “Well, what can I do for you today, Miss Mimi?” I ask her for a Spiff bar, and after I have paid she takes some sweets out of the Pick ‘n’ Mix and puts them in my hand and closes my fist over them. Then she shows me her new CCTV camera, which she had to get installed because some children are not as honest as me and Sally and they steal stuff, and she hopes that the camera will help her catch them.
Then I have to go, because Wednesday is Aunt B.’s day and you don’t keep Aunt B. waiting!
Aunt B. runs a tight ship, Mammy always used to say. No messing, no dawdling, no wasting time. I never knew what she meant, but now that I go to Aunt B.’s every Wednesday half-day, I am beginning to understand.
When I arrive, my favorite cousin in the world, Emma, opens the door. “Well, hello, Dig!” she greets me, and we do our silly handshake and I say, “Well, hello, Dag!” and then it’s straight into the kitchen chop-chop for lunch before homework.
We have to make our own lunch at Aunt B.’s house, but she supervises. Today we are having pancakes, and Aunt B. is giving orders. “Sally, sieve six ounces of white flour into the big white bowl. Chop-chop!”
(Sally has a half day on Wednesday too — and she always manages to get to Aunt B.’s before me so she can chat to cousin Emmett — and Conor will come along straight after school as well.)
“Emma and Mimi, beat up four eggs and don’t get shell in the bowl. Chop-chop! Emmett, heat up the frying pan!”
Nobody argues with Aunt B., and soon we are all eating the most delicious pancakes — properly, with knives and forks. Aunt B. believes good table manners are very important. It’s just as well she never eats at our house.
When we have finished, Emmett and Sally wash up and Emma and I dry the dishes.
“Come on, Sally! Chop-chop!” says Emma as she waits for Sally to finish washing the pan.
“Chop-chop yourself,” says Sally, and splashes some soap in Emma’s face.
Emma doesn’t care — she just sticks out her tongue at Sally when Aunt B. is not looking. Aunt B. is not one
for messing about.
Wednesday is the only day of the week when I do my homework, because Aunt B. makes sure I do. Nobody talks during homework. When Conor arrives, Aunt B. gives him three pancakes that she has kept for him and then he gets straight down to homework as well. I know it sounds a bit strange, but I quite like it when the five of us sit around the table, all doing our work quietly. It feels like an office, and Aunt B. is the boss. Aunt B. never gets cross, yet we all do what she says without arguing.
Emma and I are always finished first because we are the youngest (Emma is six days older than me), so we can go and play. Nobody watches television before six o’clock in Aunt B.’s house, and if the weather is OK we have to play outside, but today it has begun to rain, so we play Dig and Dag in Emma’s bedroom.
Dig and Dag are very old and they live in bed (just like the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory). Dig, that’s me, is the old man, and Dag, that’s Emma, is the old woman. Dig lives at the top of the bed and Dag lives at the bottom. Today they are not feeling their best.
“You’re looking a bit off-color today, lovey,” says Dig.
“I’m not so good today, dear,” answers Dag. “Me head is not so good.”
“Aw, lovey dovey,” says Dig, “are you feeling a bit soft in the head?”
“I am a bit soft in the head all right.”
“You should put vinegar in your ears, lovey,” suggests Dig. “I’m told that’s great.”
“I’d love a cup of tea, dear,” says Dag.
“You drink too much tea, Dag. That’s the reason why you have such a big yellow nose.”
“I do not have a yellow nose, Dig!”
“You do so — it’s big and yellow and snotty like a baboon’s bottom!”
“Well it’s better than having a big windy backside like you have, Dig,” replies Dag angrily, “blowing out big smellies like the west wind all day!”
“How dare you say that I’m a stinker, you big hairy monkey!” shouts Dig — and then, quite by accident, I let out a big loud cracker-bum and Emma falls out of the bed laughing and we both have to run out of the room, holding our noses and giggling.
Sally and Conor and Emmett play on the PlayStation after their homework is done, but not very seriously because mostly they seem to be chatting and laughing.
At six o’clock Uncle Horace arrives home and his big loud voice booms throughout the house. Uncle Horace is a big hairy man, and wherever he is he seems to fill up the whole room. Aunt B. is always giving it to him, but he just laughs at her. He is the only one I know who is not a little bit afraid of Aunt B.
Uncle Horace always shakes your hand. His great big paw closes right over my hand and he squeezes.
“Ow!” I cry.
“Go easy, Horace,” snaps Aunt B. “You’re hurting the child!”
“Not at all,” laughs Uncle Horace. “Am I hurting you, Mimi?”
“Just a little, Uncle Horace,” I say, because I know he doesn’t mean to. When he lets my hand go, my fingers are like squashed sausages. Uncle Horace is a doctor — I feel sorry for his patients.
We all have dinner at Aunt B.’s. Everybody sits around the table and eats their food with a knife and fork and nobody leaves the table until Aunt B. says so. All through the meal Uncle Horace talks about money, and you never know when he will throw a question at you so you have to stay awake.
“Conor, you are the great mathematician in the family, I believe, so answer this one if you can!” he booms at Conor. “Let’s say Mimi has ninety-six cents in her pocket.” And he winks at me.
“I don’t have any money, Uncle Horace,” I say.
“I know that, Mimi,” he laughs. “Just bear with me! Now she has only one-cent, five-cent, and ten-cent coins, but she has the same number of each. The question is: how many coins has Mimi got in her pocket?”
“None!” I say, and everyone laughs at me.
But Conor is puzzling it out, his forehead all wrinkled up. I’m afraid I can’t help him.
“Let the boy eat his dinner,” says Aunt B.
Then Emmett says he has the answer, but Conor shouts, “Don’t say it — I want to work it out myself!”
And he does, too. Conor is very clever.
“Bravo!” shouts Uncle Horace, and slaps the table.
After dinner Uncle Horace drives us home in his big Citroën car.
At home it is still bright and Dad is staring out of the front window. I stand with him, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Do you think she will try and pick it up?” he asks.
At first I don’t know what he is talking about; then I see a lady walking toward our house and I understand. Before Mammy died, Dad stuck a euro coin onto the pavement with superglue to catch out Uncle Horace.
“Do you remember Mammy nearly splitting her sides when Uncle Horace tried to pick up the coin?” Dad asks sadly.
I remember very well. Uncle Horace’s eyes lit up when he saw the coin and then he spent about five minutes trying to pick it up and getting all red in the face. In the end he looked up and saw us all in the front window laughing our heads off.
The coin is still stuck to the path, and it’s still funny to see people who pass the house bending down to try and pick it up, but today the lady walks right past it without noticing.
“Ah, they were the good days,” mutters Dad, and he wanders out of the darkening room, leaving me on my own.
Orla texts me a joke before I go to bed, which makes me feel less lonely even though I don’t really get it:
How do u no that owls r cleverer than chickens? Ever heard of Kentucky Fried Owl?
Nite. C u 2moro. Luv O.
This morning I didn’t want to go to school. I just wanted to stay in bed and make up chats with Socky. And I wanted to read Sally’s diary again when she had gone. Dad wouldn’t have minded if I’d stayed at home — he probably wouldn’t even have noticed. But Aunt B. would not have been pleased when she came by after ten to clean the house and wash our clothes. If I’d told her I felt sick, she’d probably just have given me one of her I-don’t-believe-a-word-of-it looks and packed me off to school chop-chop no more nonsense young lady. So I dragged myself out of bed and off to school. I probably wouldn’t have been so tired if Conor hadn’t decided to bash away at his drums until two in the morning.
However, am I glad that I went to school today — it was the most exciting day for ages. We had all just sat down and taken out our homework (yes, even me — it was Thursday, after all), when Ms. Addle suddenly clutched her huge tummy and went, “OOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!” And then she sat down very heavily with her legs sticking out like straws and breathing in and blowing out like a bagpipe — her eyes all wide and her cheeks all blown up. And then, “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!” again. And then she told her tummy in a panicky kind of voice, “You’re not supposed to come for another three weeks!”
“Are you having the baby now, Ms. Addle?” said Dylan.
“I hope not!” said Ms. Addle, and then, “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!”
“She’s having contraptions,” whispered Orla. Orla’s cat had kittens last week, so she’s a bit of an expert on having babies.
Nobody knew what to do — everyone just sat and stared. Then Ms. Addle said, “Dylan, go and get Archibald, quick!”
Of course Dylan didn’t know who Archibald was, so he didn’t move — but I knew who Archibald was, because I had heard Ms. Addle call him that once. “She means Mr. Masters, Dylan,” I said. And Dylan said “Oh” and hurried out of the room to get him.
“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW!” roared Ms. Addle. “They’re getting closer!”
Mr. Masters is the principal of our school and even though they have different last names, he is Ms. Addle’s husband, which is very strange because she’s so nice and kind and, well . . . addled, and he is so horrible and efficient and everything goes right on time in his school.
But today Mr. Archibald Masters was completely addled too! He came running in
to the room with fat little Ms. Print, the secretary, puffing behind him. “Aggie, what’s happening?” he shouted at Ms. Addle as he came tearing through the door. I don’t think he noticed us at all. We were all out of our seats now and the classroom was in chaos.
“The baby is coming, that’s what’s happening!” Ms. Addle spoke quite sharply, but Mr. Masters didn’t seem to notice.
“How far apart are the contractions? Are you doing the breathing? Somebody call a taxi! You will be all right, love. I’ve got everything under control!”
“For heaven’s sake, calm down and go and get the car, Archie!” shouted Ms. Addle. But before he could say a word she let out another great roar: “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWW!”
“Oh, my God!” shouted Archie.
“You’d think it was Mr. Masters who was going to have the baby!” whispered Orla, and I nearly started giggling.
Then Ms. Print took over. “Mr. Masters, calm down — this isn’t the first, nor will it be the last, baby to decide to come a little early. Now go and get the car and bring it around to the side door. And now, Aggie, hold my hand, and when the next pain comes, breathe through it nice and calm like they showed you in the prenatal classes.”
Well, this was a whole new side of Ms. Print that we had never seen before; she should be running the school. Mr. Masters straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and then sprinted out of the room to get his car. Ms. Addle took Ms. Print’s hand and started doing deep breaths with her, which seemed to help because Ms. Addle stopped screaming.
Then Ms. Print turned to us children who were crowding around in amazement. “Now, children,” she said, smiling, “all of you go back to your seats and read your books; everything is just fine. Mr. Masters is going to drive Ms. Addle to the hospital so that she can have her baby, and I am going to go with them. Mr. Rogers will look after you.”
Everybody did just as Ms. Print said, and Sarah the big bully was sent to get Mr. Rogers. Ms. Addle smiled weakly at us and said, “Isn’t this exciting?” She was much calmer now, but I bet she was glad that Ms. Print was going to the hospital with her — especially when we heard Mr. Masters’s car squealing to a stop outside our window.
