by Judi Curtin
The next few weeks were very, very bad. Mum and Dad spent most of the time fighting, and Elma and the boys spent most of their time in their bedroom pretending not to notice the screams and shouts and banging doors from downstairs.
Mrs Clifford called twice, and each time everyone pretended to be happy, just so she’d go away.
Twice Elma went to Tara’s house after school. It was really fun to be in a house where people seemed to be happy, but when she was leaving the second time, Tara’s mum stopped her in the hallway.
‘It was lovely to see you, Elma,’ she said. ‘Maybe you’d like Tara to visit your house next time?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Elma said, ‘My house is kind of boring.’
Tara’s mum just shook her head, and said nothing, but after that Tara kept on saying she’d love to visit Elma’s house, and Elma couldn’t think of any more lies or excuses, so now she mostly avoided Tara, and walked around the playground on her own.
One morning, Mrs Lawrence came into the classroom holding a big bundle of penfriend letters. She handed them out, saying, ‘Don’t open these until this afternoon; you are in year five now so I know I can trust you. Now, take out your maths books.’
But Mrs Lawrence was wrong to trust Elma, even though she was in year five. Elma just had to know what Luke Mitchell had written in his letter. Of course she didn’t care about his stupid granny and her cakes, or about his imaginary dead horse or how many months old he was or any of that stuff. All she wanted to know was his answer to her question about her dad.
Maybe Luke Mitchell had come up with a super-fantastic idea to get Dad out of the house; if he hadn’t, she just didn’t know what she was going to do.
And so, while everyone else was puzzling over stupid maths problems, like how many buckets you’d need to carry a hundred and seven and a half litres of water, Elma spent some time puzzling over her problem family.
She tucked Luke’s letter into her cardigan pocket, and asked to go to the toilet. Mrs Lawrence nodded, and Elma practically ran out of the room. She locked herself into a cubicle and ripped open the envelope. She didn’t bother to admire the notelet with its picture of a stormy sea. She opened it, and skimmed through all the boring stuff. Then she got to the important bit. She read it, and then she read it once more. She couldn’t help feeling disappointed.
Dad write geography books? Fat chance. Dad never even wrote as much as a letter. He couldn’t write a geography book to save his life.
And a quiz? What good was a quiz? And what were the chances of there being a geography quiz conveniently running that her dad could just enter and win. As far as she knew, her dad had never entered a quiz in his life. So, even if there was a quiz, surely he’d just say no. Like he said no to everything else she suggested.
Elma crumpled up the notelet and crammed it into her pocket. She’d been right all along – Luke Mitchell was nothing but a stupid, boastful liar.
That afternoon was free activity time. It was her turn to use the computer, and she was allowed to pick someone to work with her. She went up to Tara.
‘Do you want to do computer with me?’
Tara gave her a funny look. ‘What do you want me for? I’ve noticed how you’ve been avoiding me, you know.’
Elma looked guilty. She was asking Tara because she had no one else to ask. So she smiled her best smile and said, ‘Sorry, Tara. I’ve just been a bit worried about something, that’s all.’
And Tara smiled back, and they both went to log on to the computer.
Tara wanted to go on to a site where you could design your own sports shoes, but Elma hesitated.
‘Do you mind if I try something quick first?’
Tara shrugged, so taking that as permission, Elma opened a search engine, and quickly typed in two words: Geography Quiz. She made a face when the search result showed there were 240,000 pages about geography quizzes. Then she tried Geography Quiz and UK. This brought it down to 30,000 – still not much good.
Tara was starting to look impatient so Elma tried one more time: Geography Quiz and UK and radio. Then she closed her eyes and crossed her fingers and hit enter one more time. This time, there were only a few hundred hits, and the first one almost jumped off the screen and smacked her in the face. She quickly clicked on it and was directed into the BBC website. There, in the middle of a big red flashing circle, were the magic words: The Great BBC Geography Quiz. Only six more days to enter.
Elma quickly clicked on the words, and was directed to the competition page. Luckily, there was a phone number. She wrote it on the back of her hand, and then read the rest of the instructions: Just telephone us before April 10th, and answer eight or more of the ten qualifying questions to be eligible for your regional final.
Tara was puzzled. ‘What’s all this about?’ she asked. ‘Are you planning to enter that quiz? I didn’t know you liked geography that much.’
Elma shook her head. ‘It’s not for me. I’m looking it up for my dad. He loves quizzes, and he really, really wants to enter this one.’ This, of course, wasn’t true, but Elma had made up her mind that her dad was going to enter this quiz whether he wanted to or not. She simply wasn’t going to give him a choice in the matter.
Tara shrugged. ‘Whatever. Now can we do something interesting?’
At lunchtime, Elma was so excited that she didn’t even notice the huge pile of soggy carrots and lumpy gravy that her mum served her. And when school was over, she practically skipped all the way home. And when Mum and Dad argued over what to have for tea, Elma didn’t even listen.
Then, at about four o’clock, her opportunity arrived. Mum decided to go to the shops, and she took Zac and Dylan with her. As soon as they were gone, Elma took the portable phone into the kitchen, and dialled the competition number. A bored-sounding woman answered.
‘BBC Geography Quiz. Name, please.”
Elma hesitated. ‘Er … em … Elma. Elma Davey.’
The woman suddenly seemed to pay attention. ‘How old are you, Elma?’
‘Eleven – well, nearly twelve.’
‘I’m sorry. You need to be eighteen to enter the quiz. Thank you for calling.’
‘No, wait,’ Elma said before the woman could hang up. ‘It’s not me. It’s my dad who wants to enter.’
‘So why didn’t he make the call?
Because he doesn’t want to do anything except lie on the couch and watch TV, and I’m hoping that if I hand him the phone there’s just a teensy weensy chance he won’t argue, and he might answer a few geography questions without thinking too much about it.
She couldn’t say that, though, so she thought quickly and said, ‘Well, he did call. But while he was waiting for an answer, my baby sister started to cry, so he asked me to hold the phone. I think she’s stopped crying now, I’ll go and get him.’
She ran into the TV room, and bravely turned off the television.
Dad glared at her. ‘What the–’
Elma pointed to the phone in her hand, and whispered, ‘It’s a quiz. A geography quiz. You only have to answer ten questions. And they’ll be easy for you, ’cause you’re so good at geography.’
Dad said something under his breath about ‘stupid quizzes’, but Elma smiled to herself as he reached for the phone.
He gave his name, and said yes and no a few times, and then Elma could see by the concentrated look on his face that he was being asked the first question. He wrinkled up his forehead as he thought. ‘Papua, New Guinea,’ he said.
Elma crossed her fingers, and tried to cross her toes, probably impossible for anyone, and certainly impossible for someone wearing too-small trainers.
Then something very strange happened. A smile, something she hadn’t seen on her dad’s face in a very long time, began to lurk at the corners of his mouth. Before she could say anything, he spoke into the phone again. And again. And again.
‘Green.’
‘Seven.’
‘White with pink spots.’
‘The
Sumatran hare.’
‘The Brazilian rainforest.’
‘Once a year.’
With each answer, Dad’s smile became broader and broader. Elma hardly dared to breathe. She’d lost count of how many questions he’d answered.
Then he answered three in a row, very quickly.
‘Autumn.’
‘The Zambezi.’
‘The giant armadillo.’
And then Dad jumped up and actually punched the air. Next he made a shaky gesture with his hand that either meant he had completely lost his marbles, or else he wanted Elma to get a pen.
Elma raced into the kitchen, grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper, and ran back to the TV room. Dad took the pen and quickly wrote down a date, a time and an address. Then he clicked off the phone and dropped down heavily on to the couch, where he sat with a huge grin on his face. He didn’t even reach for the remote. He spoke, half to himself, and half to Elma.
‘Ten out of ten I got. She said that’s very rare. She sounded like she was really impressed. And now I’m in the regional final. It’s the BBC. Imagine me, Michael Davey, on BBC radio. Whoever would have thought?’
Then he stopped and thought for a minute, and the smile vanished from his face. He put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘How could I be so stupid? What was I thinking of? That can’t have been a real quiz. It must have been some prankster. Why on earth would the BBC phone me?’
Elma jumped up, desperate to get her dad smiling again. ‘Actually, Dad, they didn’t phone you.’
Dad shook his head sadly. ‘I knew it. A stupid wind-up. I just knew it. I–’
Elma rushed to correct him. ‘No, Dad, it’s not a wind-up. It’s real. But they didn’t phone you. I phoned them.’
Dad looked at her with a puzzled expression on her face. ‘But why would you do that?’
She spoke in a rush. ‘Because I saw it on the Internet. And there were only six days left. And I wanted you to enter. And I knew you’d say no. And I knew you’d win. And …’ Her voice trailed off, and then she spoke softly. ‘I just wanted you to do it, that’s all.’
And Dad smiled at her, and rubbed her cheek, and for the first time in a very long time it looked like, maybe, just maybe, things were going to get better.
When Mum came home and heard the news, she and Dad hugged, and that was such an unusual sight that Zac and Dylan got all giddy, and danced around, and Elma thought that if things went on like this it would be sooo embarrassing, but at least it would be an improvement, and so she joined in the dancing too, and all the Daveys were happy at the same time.
There were only a few rows that night, and they were small ones. And things weren’t perfect over the next week or two, but they were a whole lot better than before.
A week later, when Mrs Lawrence said there was only one day left to send off the next penfriend letter, Elma remembered that she’d been so busy not being unhappy that she’d forgotten to thank Luke Mitchell. So that night she sat down and tried to decide what she should say. She thought of telling Luke the truth at last, but she couldn’t really figure out a good way to do it.
How could she say – thanks for giving me such a great idea that might well change my life, and by the way, I spend most of my time thinking you are stupid? Oh, and by the way again, I’ve told you nothing but lies since September?
And so she began to write.
Dear Fantastic Super-clever Luke Mitchell,
That was such a good idea (the one about the quiz). Can you believe there was a quiz on the BBC, and I phoned and entered my dad without telling him, and he got ten out of ten in the qualifying round, and now he’s going to be in the regional final? Maybe you can’t believe it, because I can’t really believe it either, and I was there. He was sooooo brilliant. We are all much happier already.
Jessica doesn’t understand what’s going on, but she’s happy because Dad’s happy. Mum made a special celebration dinner with all her best recipes. It was totally yummy and I had two helpings of everything and lots of extra gravy.
You’re lucky you’re going to be an uncle. I only have one uncle. He lives in Australia and he sends me money for my birthday and at Christmas. If you want to be a good uncle, maybe you should be like that. (Not living in Australia, of course, but giving the baby lots of money.) (But only when the baby is big enough, or it might choke.)
What happened to your dad? I suppose he’s better now since he’s able to take you climbing in the Pyrenees.
Goodbye and a big big big Thank You,
Elma
LUKE
‘I’m going to be an uncle,’ Luke told Jenny when he went to make his second payment on the washing machine.
Jenny looked up from the receipt she was writing out and beamed. ‘Why that’s wonderful news,’ she said. ‘You must all be delighted.’
‘I’m going to be an uncle,’ Luke told the man in the newsagents when he went to wash the two cars.
The man in the newsagents, whose name was Pat, gave Luke a slap on the back. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Well done.’ Which sounded a bit strange to Luke, as he hadn’t done anything.
‘I’m going to be an uncle,’ Luke told Mrs Hutchinson at break.
Mrs Hutchinson’s eyes widened. ‘Are you now?’ she said. ‘Helen, is it?’ Mrs Hutchinson had taught Helen in sixth class too.
Luke nodded. ‘She’s going to have a baby in June.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs Hutchinson. She didn’t look happy, like Jenny or Pat the newsagent.
‘I’m going to be an uncle,’ Luke told his uncle Jack, when Jack came to collect him as usual on Saturday morning.
Jack nodded. ‘Your mam rang us,’ he said. ‘That’s a bit of a surprise, isn’t it?’
‘I thought Helen was sick,’ Luke told Jack. ‘I thought she was going to die.’
Jack smiled. ‘You’re a funny one,’ he said. ‘Your mam told us about the washing machine too – that was a nice thing you did.’
Luke wondered if he could tell Jack about the boy who had taken his money. He wondered if he could tell him about seeing the boy in town the other day. Luke wasn’t absolutely certain it was the same boy, but he was wearing a grey hoodie and a black scarf, and he looked about the right height. He was standing on the path with two other boys, and they were all smoking, holding their cigarettes cupped in their hands to keep the wind off them.
But Luke said nothing to Jack. There was no point in saying anything now. The money was probably all spent anyway, on cigarettes, or beer or something.
‘Helen’s having a baby,’ he said to his father. ‘In June.’
His father looked back at him. ‘Helen,’ he said.
‘She’s having a baby,’ Luke said again. ‘You’re going to be a granddad.’
And then something amazing, and a little frightening, happened. His father’s face seemed to soften around the edges, and a tear trickled from the corner of one eye and rolled down his cheek. ‘Granddad,’ he repeated softly. He lifted his arm and rubbed the sleeve of his jumper across his face.
Luke watched two more tears trickling slowly down his father’s face. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, feeling a bit scared. He’d never seen his father cry, ever. ‘It’s just a baby, don’t be sad.’ He took his father’s hand and held it between his own two. ‘It’s OK, Dad, really.’
His father wiped his face with his jumper sleeve again. Then he smiled shakily at Luke. ‘Baby,’ he whispered.
And Luke understood that he wasn’t crying because he was sad.
Granny was knitting tiny clothes. Every night when she settled in front of the telly she clicked her needles and grew a little yellow jumper, or a pair of teeny white socks, or a pale green hat that just about covered Luke’s fist.
Anne was making mobiles for the baby. She drew stars and flowers and smiley faces, and cut them out. Then she poked a hole in them with a needle and hung them with thread from coat hangers.
On her day off, Mam took down all the posters in Helen’s bedroom and painted
over the shabby wallpaper. When Helen came home from school she walked into a wonderful buttery yellow room, full of light. She flew downstairs and hugged Mam, nearly knocking over the pan full of sausages.
Helen and Mam were friends again. Luke wasn’t sure how it had happened, or when, but there were no more rows, or slamming doors, or phone calls from the pub to check if Helen was at home. And the sad, worried look began to fade slowly from Mam’s face. One morning Luke heard her humming along to the radio in the kitchen.
And Helen was talking to everyone again, not just Mam. Every day she was becoming more and more like the Helen Luke remembered. She even helped him revise for his spelling test last week.
And in the past ten days, Anne hadn’t wet the bed once.
The car washing was going well. Luke had five regular customers now, as well as Pat the newsagent and his wife. And he still went out to Jack’s farm every Saturday. Even with the fifty euro a month he was paying for the washing machine, he was still managing to save a fair bit.
He was thinking about a cot, when he had enough. He might just make it by June.
His penfriend’s last letter had taken him by surprise. He’d forgotten about suggesting some kind of quiz for her father, hadn’t really thought any more about it after he’d sent off the letter. Imagine that Elma had actually thought his idea was good, and entered her father in a quiz, and now he was through to some finals.
He liked being called Fantastic Super-clever Luke Mitchell. It made him feel like some kind of hero, even if he hadn’t really done anything to deserve it. But it was good that his idea had helped Elma’s dad.
Pity he’d made up all that stuff about his own dad, though. Climbing in the Pyrenees indeed. Luckily, Elma seemed to have forgotten all that stuff about his dad being an astronaut. But now she wanted to know what happened him – served Luke right for saying anything about that.
Should he come clean now, and tell her the whole truth? Would she be shocked at all the stories he’d made up? Maybe she’d stop writing to him altogether. Mrs Hutchinson said she hoped the class would keep in contact with their penfriends even after they’d left primary school. She said it could be the start of a lifelong friendship. A couple of the girls in the class said they were planning to visit Manchester in the summer and meet up with their penfriends.
