by Dyan Sheldon
“Because of Mr Bamber,” I reminded her. “Because he wants to build the development.”
“But that has nothing to do with—” She took her eyes off the road to give me a questioning look.
“Kuba,” I filled in for her.
“It has nothing to do with Kuba,” said my mother. “She’s just a child.”
I wouldn’t be so sure about that, I thought.
This time she not only took her eyes off the road, she took her hands off the wheel. It was probably just as well that we were only doing five miles an hour.
“Oh, Elmo!” cried my mother. She frowned at me as though she was wondering what I used instead of a brain. “Did you think you weren’t allowed to make friends with Kuba? Is that what you thought?”
At the moment, it was what I was praying for.
“Well…”
“I just don’t want you hanging round the Bambers,” explained my mother. “I wouldn’t put it past Old Building Breath to try and worm information about the Greeners out of you. But as for Kuba” – she didn’t quite laugh – “I should think the poor girl’s already bored out of her brain over there. All Build-it-high Bamber ever does is yammer on the phone, and all poor Arabella does is whatever he says. It must be about as much fun as scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush.”
Or standing in the rain for hours with a carrier bag full of petitions.
“She seems fine to me.”
I don’t think my mother heard me.
“I want you to tell Kuba that she’s welcome in our house at any time,” she was saying. “Any time, morning, noon or night. You understand that, Elmo? We all want to make her feel at home. Even Gertie.”
Then maybe they should start teaching Gertie how to play a harp.
I tried to look relieved. “Thanks,” I mumbled. “That’s great.”
I couldn’t wait to tell Kuba.
It was my grandfather’s turn to cook that night. It is true that I don’t like seaweed as much as he does (nobody who isn’t a fish likes seaweed as much as my grandfather), but that wasn’t why I decided that I couldn’t face a meal with my family. I was too wound up about Kuba. If I didn’t do something soon, my mother was bound to bump into her one day and invite her to dinner. Then I’d never get rid of her.
I told my mother I was exhausted from our triumphant afternoon.
“I just want to curl up in bed,” I said. I held up the library’s copy of The Complete Sherlock Holmes. “And read.”
My mother patted my shoulder. “Of course. You must be wiped out. All that talking…” She patted my head. “I want you to know that I’m very proud of you, Elmo. You really were brilliant today.”
When I won the Junior Computer Whiz competition all Grace Blue said was, “Well, isn’t that nice?” I wasn’t used to being praised. It made me nervous.
“So it’s all right if I go to my room?”
“Of course.” She smiled. She patted my shoulder again. “Just wait one minute, I’m not letting you go to bed hungry.”
Lucky me.
Carrying a bowl of seaweed soup, a hunk of seaweed bread spread with something and seaweed, and Sherlock Holmes, I cautiously approached my room on tiptoe.
I couldn’t see any light coming from under the door, but I put my ear against it to make sure. There was nothing inside making any sound. The coast was clear.
Once I was safely inside, I put on the bedside light and made myself comfortable. I didn’t bother with my supper, I knew what to expect. The Greeners once took me with them to picket the sea and I fell in. That’s what Monrose Blue’s soup and bread tasted like: the polluted North Sea.
I found the page I was on and started to read. I thought it would help me to relax.
I really was exhausted, though, because pretty soon the words were sort of swimming together. I rubbed my eyes and wiped my glasses and started again. Not only were the words all melting, but the black and white print had turned into blobs of colour.
Because of my scientific nature, I was really interested in this. I’d never experienced an optical illusion before. I forgot about being exhausted and sat very still, waiting to see what would happen next.
Something started to whine. I’d never heard of an optical illusion with sound. I glanced over in case my computer had suddenly turned itself on, but the screen was dark.
I looked back at the open pages of Sherlock Holmes.
The colours were forming patterns. And then the patterns made images.
I was staring down at A Study in Scarlet, but I was seeing the Bambers’ dining-room.
Mr and Mrs Bamber and Kuba were sitting around the enormous table. The Bambers’ table was wooden, but it shone so much that it almost looked like it was made of dark brown glass. When I used to go into the Bambers’ house on a Saturday, there was always a vase of flowers on the dining-room table (as opposed to the bits of fountain and Greeners’ leaflets that were always on ours), but now there were candles instead. And not only did all the dishes match, they even had little plates for their bread. In our house you were lucky to get a plate for your meal, never mind a separate one for the bread.
The Kuba sitting in the Bambers’ dining-room was not the Kuba who’d been in my room the night before or the one who described the ecosystem to the woman from Australia. The Kuba in the dining-room was wearing a dress and had shiny clips in her hair. She smiled sweetly and spoke softly. She seemed almost demure. Demure was not a word I’d ever used before (who did, except for my grandmother?), but it was the only one I could think of that fitted.
Kuba was pushing bits of food around on her plate and Mrs Bamber was watching her and asking her questions. “Do you like the meat, Kuba?”, “Have you had potatoes like that before?”, “Would you like a little more gravy?” After each question, Kuba smiled and answered in stiff, flat words, as if she’d learned her English from a computer program. Mr Bamber was talking on his mobile. Gregory was squashed under Mrs Bamber’s chair with his eyes shut. It was Gregory who was whining. Rather pitifully, if you ask me.
“I’ll ring you back!” shouted Mr Bamber. He slammed his phone down next to his plate and turned to Mrs Bamber accusingly. “What in heaven’s name is wrong with that dog?” he demanded. “He hasn’t shut up since we sat down. I can barely hear myself think.”
Mrs Bamber stopped smiling at Kuba and got really involved in cutting up her meat.
“I really don’t know,” she said pleasantly. “Although I do believe it is a full moon tonight.”
Funnily enough, Grace Blue would have understood exactly what she meant. My mother has a lot of time for the moon. But Mr Bamber didn’t.
“Full moon?” He glared at Mrs Bamber as though she’d informed him it was raining in Buenos Aires. “What does the moon have to do with it?”
Mrs Bamber started cutting her carrots into tiny bits.
“I’m sure I read that dogs are affected by the phases of the moon,” she mumbled. “Unlike the stock market.”
Mr Bamber missed the crack about the stock market.
“Well that dog’s going to be affected by being put outdoors if he doesn’t stop carrying on like that,” said Mr Bamber. “How am I supposed to conduct my business with him wailing like that?”
Without raising her head from her plate, Mrs Bamber shot him a quick glance. I couldn’t hear her very clearly because of Gregory, and because she spoke really softly, but it sounded like she said, “We are meant to be having dinner.”
That was when Kuba stopped shoving pieces of meat under her mashed potatoes and suddenly looked up at Mr Bamber.
“It isn’t the moon,” said Kuba very slowly. “It is I.”
Mr Bamber looked at her for the first time.
“What?”
You could tell from the expression on his face that Mr Bamber had completely forgotten that Kuba was there. I almost thought he was going to ask her who she was.
“It isn’t the moon,” she repeated. “It is I.”
Confusion se
ttled on Mr Bamber’s face. “You?”
Kuba nodded solemnly. “Yes, exactly. I am the why.”
Mrs Bamber picked up the meat platter and started waving it over the table.
“Wouldn’t someone like a little more roast beef?” she asked in a chirpy voice. She smiled hopefully at her adopted daughter. “Kuba? You can’t be used to meat like this where you come from.”
“No.” Kuba shook her head. “No, I am not. I understand that this meat is not very good for you.” She smiled. “Because of the mad cows.”
Mrs Bamber put the platter back down.
“Just what do you mean, you’re the why?” demanded Mr Bamber. “What have you done to the dog?”
Mrs Bamber’s smile was starting to wobble.
“David, please…”
Kuba, however, was as calm as a stone.
“I have done nothing,” said Kuba. “The dog, he doesn’t like me.” To tell you the truth, she did look a little like an angel when she smiled the way she was smiling at Mr Bamber right then. “I think he is afraid of me.”
I don’t think I’d ever heard Mr Bamber really laugh before. It sounded like something was breaking. I nearly dropped my book.
“Gregory? Afraid of you?” Mr Bamber stabbed a big chunk of beef with his fork and shook it in Kuba’s direction. “I’ll have you know that dog is a trained killer, young lady. He wouldn’t be afraid of an armed burglar, and he certainly isn’t afraid of you.”
Kuba was still smiling. “How strange is the world. In my country we eat the dogs, and in your country the dogs eat the people.”
“Good grief!” gasped Mrs Bamber. “Do you really eat dogs?”
“Arabella!” Mr Bamber snapped, but now he was smiling at Kuba. It looked like he’d finally remembered who she was. “So, speaking of what a strange world it is, how are you finding it here in Campton, Kuba?”
“Very different,” Kuba answered politely. “I am finding it very different.”
“And a little lonely,” put in Mrs Bamber. “But that’ll all change once school starts on Monday.” She smiled encouragingly. “Then you’ll have plenty of friends.”
Mr Bamber leaned back in his chair.
“You know, I ran into that Blue boy on my way back from my meeting today…”
Until then I’d sort of been watching as if they were on a video, but now I sat up a little straighter.
“What’s his name?” Mr Bamber was saying. “Alamo?”
“Elmo,” said Mrs Bamber and me at the same time.
“Right. Elmo.” Mr Bamber nodded. “Seems like a nice young man.”
I couldn’t help frowning at that. He certainly hadn’t acted like he thought I was a nice young man that afternoon.
Mr Bamber gave Kuba an encouraging wink. “And he only lives across the road, you know. I was thinking, it doesn’t matter that much that you’re a girl. You could still be friends with him.”
I hadn’t seen Mr Bamber take out his wallet, but it was suddenly in his hand. My father’s wallet is this cloth thing from Guatemala, but Mr Bamber’s was leather. He slowly removed a twenty pound note and held it in the air.
“You know, Kuba, you’d be doing me a big favour if you made friends with the Blue boy. Get to know him … get invited to his house…”
Kuba looked from the money to Mr Bamber. “Excuse me? There is a blue boy here?”
Mr Bamber rumbled, which I took to be another of his laughs.
“No, no. He’s not blue. Blue’s his name. Alamo Blue.”
“Elmo,” said me and Mrs Bamber.
This very patient expression came on Kuba’s face.
“The Alamo was a fort in the American West,” Kuba said very sweetly to Mr Bamber. “I believe the Texans were badly defeated there.” She pushed her plate away even though I hadn’t actually seen her eat anything. “Davy Crockett.”
“Davy Crockett!” exclaimed Mr Bamber. “That’s right! What an amazing coincidence. Davy Crockett.” Mr Bamber beamed at Mrs Bamber. “She’s a bright little thing, isn’t she?” But he didn’t give his wife a chance to actually reply. “Crosswood Cove is going to be Grace Blue’s Alamo!”
“Davy Crockett was shot at the Alamo,” explained Kuba. “Are you planning to shoot Grace Blue?”
“Oh, no!” gasped Mrs Bamber. “Of course he doesn’t mean that. Your father would never … you don’t mean that, do you David?”
Mr Bamber was huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf.
“Of course I don’t mean that. All I mean is that the Goofy Greeners are going to lose.” The note waved back and forth between his fingers. “With a little help from our young friend from South America here.”
Mr Bamber’s young friend from South America wasn’t even looking at him. She was politely asking Mrs Bamber if she wanted any help to clear the table.
Mr Bamber cleared his throat. “I said, ‘With a little help from our young friend from South America!’” The crisp note rattled.
“No thank you, dear,” Mrs Bamber said to Kuba. “Why don’t you go and watch TV?”
“Just hang on a minute,” said Mr Bamber. “I haven’t finished talking to her yet.”
Mrs Bamber got up and started clearing the table herself.
“David, please… I don’t really think this is either the time or the place. I thought we could have a nice family evening.” Knives and forks clattered. “And for heaven’s sake, put away that money.”
Mr Bamber gave her this disgusted look and turned back to Kuba. “Did you hear me?” he said. “I haven’t finished talking to you yet.”
And then he just sort of sat there with his mouth open.
I hadn’t seen her go either.
“How the hell did she get out of here so quickly?” Mr Bamber said to himself.
Mrs Bamber too, was staring at the place where Kuba had been about half a nanosecond before, but she didn’t look surprised. She was smiling.
“She’s very graceful, isn’t she?” said Mrs Bamber. She picked up a stack of plates. “And her English is much better than I originally thought.”
I BEGIN TO REALIZE
THAT I HAVE NO
CHOICE
I planned to keep my distance from Kuba at school. A hundred miles would have suited me, but a couple of metres would do.
So on Monday morning I waited until I saw Mrs Bamber and Kuba drive off in Mrs Bamber’s silver Porsche, and then I got my bike from the porch. I didn’t want to get to school early and have to hang around with Kuba in the playground, so I took the scenic route, past the woods that Mr Bamber wanted to tear down.
My mother once rescued a fox cub she found by the side of the road there. I suppose that’s the one advantage of the milk float: you can’t help seeing things on the roadside because you’re going so slowly. A car had hit the cub’s mother.
My mother took it home and fed it till it was able to be on its own. She called it Mohican. But even though she kept it in a run in the back garden, it gave us all fleas. Especially me.
I hadn’t thought about Mohican in ages, but I thought about him as I pedalled through the woods on Monday morning. I even stopped at the place where she found him. I wondered where he was and if he had a family of his own now. I wondered where he’d go when there were tower blocks and golf carts everywhere instead of trees. Despite the fleas, I’d sort of liked Mohican. I even taught him to fetch a ball, only instead of bringing it back to me, he always dropped it in his water bowl. My mother said he was asserting his independence.
The last bell was ringing as I steamed through the school gates. I could see Kuba’s hat disappearing into the building behind the other kids. I sighed with relief. This was going to be easier than I thought.
Not that I’m boasting or anything, but I’m in all the top classes. It was unlikely that they were going to put a girl from the Third World in the top classes, so all I had to hope was that we had different lunch breaks.
I was the last one into my tutor group, but nobody noticed, especial
ly not Mr Palfry.
Mr Palfry was standing at the front of the room beside a tall girl in a long black skirt and a red blouse with mirrors all over it, and an old man’s hat. He looked like he’d never seen anyone quite like her before.
Which he hadn’t.
“This is Kuba Bamber,” he was saying. “Kuba Bamber. She’s new to our country.” He smiled hopefully at Kuba. “Where in South America do you come from?”
Kuba smiled back. She was in her I-learned-my-English-from-robots mode.
“I like it here very much,” she answered. “I eat mad cows and am killed by dogs.”
Half of the boys nearly fell off their seats, they laughed so much.
Mr Palfry gave the class a dark look, and then smiled at Kuba again.
“What country do you come from?” he repeated. He was speaking really slowly and loudly. He sounded as if he’d learned his English from robots, too. “What country? Peru? Colombia? The Dominican Republic?”
That really patient look came over Kuba’s face.
“I believe if you look on a map you will see that the Dominican Republic is not in South America,” Kuba politely informed Mr Palfry. “It is an island. In the Caribbean.”
Mr Palfry blinked. “Right,” he mumbled. “Of course. Not the Dominican Republic.”
That was when Kuba spotted me. She raised a hand in greeting. “Elmo! Good morning!”
I could’ve died.
Everybody turned to stare at me. Eddie Kilgour stuck out his tongue. Eddie Kilgour was sort of like Richard III, or maybe the Joker in Batman – really clever but not exactly someone you’d want to spend too much time with. Eddie Kilgour hated my guts.
I thought Mr Palfry was going to faint with relief.
“Do you two know each other?” He looked from her to me. “Elmo, do you know Kuba?”
I slinked into my seat. “Sort of.”
“Well that’s great!” Mr Palfry slapped the register in his palm. “That’s absolutely brilliant. I’ll tell you what, Elmo, since you and Kuba are in all the same lessons and you already know each other, why don’t you show her around today? Be her guide to Campton Secondary.”
