I take another look at the pots, and then open the fridge. Six more yoghurts that I don’t remember seeing before are lined up at the top. They actually look as if they’ve shoved the butter and lettuce to one side. They’re different from the pots that we ate yesterday – they’re cone-shaped, like Mum’s and Dad’s.
‘Dilan, look,’ I say, standing back from the door.
He springs to his feet, grabs one and examines it.
‘I can’t find a date,’ he says. ‘But they look … older.’
The kitchen door opens, and Granddad shuffles in. He looks a mess, blobs of food down his front and he hasn’t shaved, but he’s singing. ‘Early one mo-or-ning, just as the sun was … Anything to eat?’ he says, peering in the bread bin.
‘I’ll make you some toast,’ I say.
‘Oh – I fancy a yoghurt. Look at that! Haven’t seen one like that since – oooh – ages.’ Granddad grabs one of the yoghurts from the fridge.
‘Oh no, Granddad,’ says Dilan. ‘I think Mum’s keeping those for something.’
Granddad pauses. A droplet forms between his nostrils, stretches and plunges to the ground. For a moment he looks as if he’s going to say something, but he just nods, puts down the yoghurt and turns back to the loaf of bread, gazing at it as if he’s no idea what it is.
‘We should have won the paso doble ,’ he says and shuffles out of the door.
We stare at his back as he drops heavily onto the sofa cushions and presses the buttons on the remote control.
‘We should look for Mum and Dad,’ says Dilan. ‘In time.’ He rummages in the cutlery basket for a teaspoon and finds three more plastic letters. I, U and N. He sticks them on the fridge door.
COTAINU.
‘But we can’t leave Granddad,’ I say, scraping butter onto Granddad’s toast and cutting it into fingers. ‘Look at him! After one day on his own he’s a mess. The only food he can prepare for himself is noodles.’
Dilan wrenches open the cupboard over the kettle where Mum keeps the noodles. It’s distressingly empty. ‘He must have eaten them all today,’ he says, peering in the bin. ‘Yup – he did.’
I take Granddad his toast. He’s watching a black and white film. There’s a man dancing and singing. Granddad’s humming along and his feet are twitching.
‘Great film this, Bugg,’ he says. ‘Top Hat. Ginger Rogers always said she had to do everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards in high heels.’ He waves at the screen, tipping the plate so that the toast barely clings on. ‘Don’t see dancing like that any more. Everyone could dance when I was young.’ He turns to look at me. ‘I was young once. Best in the East, you know.’
‘OK, Granddad,’ I say. ‘Just going to nip out and buy you some noodles.’
Dilan butts in. ‘You haven’t got any money, have you, Granddad?’
Granddad wobbles to his feet. The toast gives up and slides to the floor, joining some banana skins that Granddad dropped earlier. He reaches into the pockets of his dressing gown and plucks out two small handfuls of coins.
He reaches out towards me and I cup my hands underneath. Like the claw machine in the amusement arcade, he drops the coins into my hands. Among them is a ten-pound note. I bundle it all into my pockets.
Chapter 11
We head towards the shop. Dilan bobs along beside me on his skateboard. His jeans hang under his bum and he keeps on having to stop to pull them up.
The third time it happens I stand and wait on the pavement.
‘Sorree,’ he says. ‘It’s just I prefer these trousers.’
The shop’s empty. We stick fifteen packets of instant noodles into a basket and wait for someone to appear at the counter. It’s Lorna. She puts something that strikes me as alive into her cardigan pocket.
‘So, why are you and Dilan named after stupid dances then?’
I’m going to ignore it, but Dilan says, ‘Granddad’s obsessed with dance, and Mum and Dad agreed. I think they hoped one of us would dance.’ He swings a pirouette, knocking a pyramid of tinned beans to the floor. ‘Ooops.’ We scrabble to pick the cans up.
‘Why are you called Lorna?’
‘Dunno.’ Lorna shrugs and starts to scan the noodles into the till.
Her mum appears from the back room. ‘More noodles? Your mum bought the shop out last week. Don’t tell me your Granddad’s already got through them all!’
‘N—’ says Dilan.
‘Hwwa,’ I say, hoping that she won’t ask any more questions.
We bung the noodles mainly into my pockets but some have to go into Dilan’s stupid trousers. About two doors down the road, we have to stop and pick up all the packets that have fallen out of his pockets. When I look up from rearranging the packets, Lorna’s standing there.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Why d’you need all these? And where’s your mum?’
We rustle a little further down the pavement and have to stop again. Lorna fumbles in her pocket and produces a blue carrier bag, which she holds out with one hand. I notice that she keeps her other hand in her cardigan pocket as if something’s trying to get out.
‘We need them for Granddad,’ says Dilan, grabbing her bag and dropping the noodles in.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Granddad.’
‘Can I come back with you?’ she says, picking a last piece of dried blood from her nose. ‘I’ll go when the snake fanciers arrive.’
‘Snake fanciers?’ says Dilan. ‘What snake fanciers?’
‘You know,’ I say quickly. ‘Dad’s friends, with the scorpions.’ I nudge Dilan and he goes quiet, but with a puzzled look on his face.
Lorna follows us right into the kitchen and stands by the fridge as we load the noodles into the cupboard. ‘I’ll have the bag back,’ she says. ‘They’re useful in the shop.’ She twists it into a rope, wrapping it around her fingers like a blue snake. She stares about at the mess. ‘Oh my word! I’ve just worked it out: your mum and dad have gone, haven’t they?’ she says. ‘You’re going to live on noodles, aren’t you? Where’ve they gone? Have they run away? That is sooooo exciting.’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says Dilan.
I look at the floor. Dilan opens the fridge door.
‘You wouldn’t believe us,’ I mutter.
‘What wouldn’t I believe?’ asks Lorna, fiddling with the thing in her pocket again.
‘Huh?’ says Dilan, peering into the fridge. ‘There are seven now.’ He points at the yoghurts.
‘What does that mean?’ says Lorna, stuffing the carrier bag into her pocket, pushing past and grabbing the nearest pot.
‘Don’t,’ I whisper as she runs her fingers over the foil.
‘Don’t what?’ she says, peeling back the lid and peering inside.
‘Don’t eat it,’ I say. ‘Please.’
‘Why not?’
I glance at Dilan. He rearranges the yoghurts in the fridge.
‘What’s that thing in your pocket?’ I ask Lorna, desperate to change the subject.
‘This?’ She reaches into her cardigan. ‘Did you hear that, Coleridge? They want to meet you.’ She pulls out something furry.
‘What,’ asks Dilan, ‘is that?’
‘It’s a gerbil. Haven’t you seen one before?’ Nestled in her palm is a little rat-like thing with a long tail. ‘Gerbils are amazing. They reproduce really fast. You have to be careful with them, make sure you don’t mix males and females. They’re clever, and they’re really tough too, like me.’ She points at the yoghurt. ‘So what happens if I eat it?’
‘Weird things happen,’ I say in the end.
Lorna raises her eyebrows. ‘Like what?’
‘We think … that you sort of … time … thing.’
‘Bugg!’ snaps Dilan. ‘Don’t.’
‘But she won’t go away. We have to, otherwise we’re not going to be able to … you know.’
‘Time what?’ says Lorna, sticking the gerbil back into her cardigan and peering into the yoghurt pot, her finger poised o
ver the goo inside. ‘Tell me, or I’ll eat it.’
Dilan sighs. ‘Time-travel.’
‘You’re right. I don’t believe you,’ she says staring into the pot. ‘Where’s the machine? You can’t time-travel without a machine.’
I tap the door of the fridge. ‘Here,’ I say. ‘It seems to make the yoghurts.’
Lorna’s jaw drops and she stares at the old yellowed door. ‘That is so lame,’ she says. ‘Everyone knows you need a machine. A proper one, made by a mad scientist. You know, a bloke in a white coat.’
Dilan taps the fridge. ‘How do we know this wasn’t made by a mad scientist – either in the future – or the past?’
‘What? That is so … unlikely.’
I shake my head. ‘Whatever. The thing is, these –’ I hold up the empty yoghurt pots – ‘were eaten by our parents, who have disappeared. And, as they haven’t come back, and maybe don’t know how to, we’re off to find them. But – in case it takes longer – we’re leaving Granddad with some instant noodles because that’s the only food he can prepare.’
Chapter 12
Lorna agrees to stay and keep an eye on Granddad. Her gerbil squirms and squeaks in her pocket and I can’t help worrying about it.
‘Couldn’t you take it home first?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bugg.’
‘It’s just that it … ’ I begin. Dilan gives me a look close to despair.
Lorna pops some bubblegum into her mouth and chews. She blows a bubble that pops in front of her face. ‘Get on with it then,’ she says.
I must look anxious because Dilan slaps me between the shoulder blades, as if he’s shifting my thoughts. ‘Cheer up,’ he says. ‘It could be worse.’
I don’t know how.
While she’s waiting for us, Lorna fiddles with the letters on the fridge. TOUCAIN. INCOTUA. U ACTION. ‘Oooh, look, a proper anagram. I love those. I do them in the leftover papers.’
U Action? Is the fridge telling us something?
‘Come on,’ says Dilan, shaking my arm. ‘Ready?’ He hands me a yoghurt identical to the empty ones that Mum and Dad ate, and a spoon. Lorna’s gawping, obviously expecting some kind of film-type CGI moment, involving bright lights, coloured smoke and magic. I peel off the lid of the pot, this time keeping my eyes on hers. I want to know what happens, at what point we move from now … to then.
‘How does it taste?’ she asks.
‘Like good yoghurt,’ I say.
‘How much have you eaten?’
I look down into the pot, half gone. When I look up, Lorna’s not entirely there; it’s as if she’s a ghost. Her lips are moving but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I glance over to Dilan. He and the fridge haven’t gone sketchy, and for a moment I get the impression of someone else sharing the space, a boy, but he fades, and then it takes a second for the kitchen to solidify.
‘Whoa,’ mutters Dilan. He’s looking around.
‘Did you see that?’ I ask. ‘Someone else in the wobbly bit?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Whoa – this is so whoa.’
Whoa indeed. We are standing in the kitchen. But not the kitchen as I’ve ever seen it. The fridge is there, white and shiny, practically brand new. Where the countertop should be is a green-painted set of shelves, next to them a huge deep china sink, and on the far side another green-painted thing that might be a countertop.
On the table behind us is a copy of the Shabbiton Gazette. Dilan grabs it, turns to the front page and squeaks, ‘1969.’
I glance towards the sitting room door. This time it’s made of spotted glass, and I can see a shape on the other side that could be a person slumped on a sofa.
I tilt my head towards the back door and we slip out into the garden. There is no apple tree. Absolutely no sign of it. Instead, a boring green bush. The garden is surrounded by hedges, and we run through the gateway, and find nothing but fields.
We stop, both staring at a small footpath winding towards the town, into the mist.
Dilan sighs. ‘We could just go back,’ he says. ‘Wait and see what happens.’
I look back at the house and on towards the town again. ‘Mum and Dad are out here somewhere. We need to find them, we can’t look after Granddad on our own forever.’
The fields are quick to cross. Bees buzz in the hedgerows, and seagulls wheel overhead. It’s almost normal, except that it isn’t. It’s pretty, green, quiet. Like a film.
A child runs past us, flying a kite, her mother behind, pushing an enormous pram with a huge parasol on the top. ‘Evening,’ says the woman, her face falling when she sees Dilan’s under-bum jeans.
I smile at her. I’ve no idea if I’m supposed to say, ‘Evening,’ back, so I mumble something under my breath.
‘This must be where the play park should be,’ says Dilan, stopping at the edge of the last field. ‘That must be Bramble Way, and over there, Cowslip Avenue.’ He points to a group of grazing sheep chomping their way through the daisies.
‘Hey!’ A voice makes me turn and I see Lorna heading towards us, along the path. ‘Wait for me.’
‘I knew we couldn’t trust her,’ mutters Dilan.
‘That was wicked! I saw you go, it was fantastic!’ she calls, trotting through the grass. ‘The weirdest thing ever.’
‘I thought you were going to stay with Granddad,’ I say.
Lorna shrugs. ‘Sorreee. I couldn’t resist it. And, wow! Am I glad! I mean – where are we? When are we?’ She sniffs the air, like some sort of excited rabbit.
‘1969,’ says Dilan wearily.
‘Wow,’ she says again, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the gerbil. ‘Did you hear that, Coleridge? We’ve time-travelled.’
‘How come he time-travelled?’ I ask. ‘Did he eat the yoghurt?’
Lorna blinks. ‘No, silly, he was in my pocket. All of me time-travelled: my socks, my hair, my head. Duh.’
‘Well, you’re not supposed to be with us,’ I say. ‘You promised.’
‘Did I?’ Lorna sniffs.
‘You did,’ says Dilan.
Lorna drags her toe through the dust, drawing a line. ‘But now I’m here … ’
‘Oh, all right,’ says Dilan, glancing at me.
‘So long as you don’t fiddle with anything or touch anything or do anything that might change the past,’ I say. ‘And so long as that gerbil doesn’t either.’
‘’K,’ says Lorna, picking a buttercup.
I look at the buttercup.
‘What? Even this?’ she says. ‘How can a buttercup change history?’
I can’t think how a buttercup could possibly change history, but I keep my face grim. ‘Even a buttercup. Don’t pick one. Don’t even think about picking one.’
We walk into the edge of town. It’s familiar, but not. There are hardly any cars, hardly any people. There seem to be more trees, and all the houses have proper front gardens with painted fences. A man strolls past with a dog on a lead. A shiny white car roars down the road, peeping its horn. It looks like Toytown.
‘Where would your mum and dad go?’ asks Lorna, her voice echoing in the empty streets.
We don’t answer. Personally I’m thinking the pier would be a good place to start. It’s not burned-out, and apart from anything else, I’d like to see inside it when it looked good. We weave through town until we’re standing on the seafront.
‘Whoa!’ squeals Lorna. ‘That is a-maze-ing! It’s like something out of the past – so shiny – so smart! Can we go in?’
I’m vaguely irritated that we both want to do the same thing, but I manage not to say anything.
We look up at the posters: ‘6d Entry Afternoons. 1s Evenings.’
‘If we want to get in, we need 6d. What’s 6d?’ asks Dilan.
‘Six old pennies,’ says Lorna. ‘We’ve got loads back at the shop.’
‘Back in the twenty-first century,’ I say, reaching my hand into the change that Granddad gave us, pulling up a collection of familiar and unfamiliar coins.
‘Those,’ says Lorna, jabbing at the coins. ‘That’s a threepenny piece. Have you got six? That’s what we need.’
We haven’t, we’ve only got one. We look pitifully at the man behind the desk.
‘’Op it. If you can’t pay, you can’t come in.’ We loiter. ‘Go on, skat,’ he barks, and we step back to stand on the deserted street.
‘Mum and Dad wouldn’t have had any money,’ says Dilan. ‘Not the right money, so they’re probably not on the pier. Let’s look somewhere else.’
‘Where else?’ I say. Although there are shops, they’re all closed. Two dark pubs with smoky windows belch beer smells and cigarette smoke; they don’t look like the kinds of places Mum and Dad would go. I walk to the railings overlooking the beach. Seagulls circle overhead, and some children are building a sandcastle. The ballroom music spills along the seafront, jaunty and inviting. ‘They have to be in there,’ I say. ‘We’ll just have to find a way in.’
Chapter 13
It’s Lorna who suggests sneaking up the fire escape. I’m not mad about the barnacles or the green slimy weed that cling to the rusting metal ladder. They look far too much like something from a special-effects department, something alien and toxic.
We climb onto the pier and find ourselves on the sea end of the ballroom. There’s no one here, just seagull poo and the remains of an old carousel.
‘Now what?’ asks Dilan.
‘We go into the ballroom,’ says Lorna.
‘How?’ I ask.
‘Like this,’ she says, marching in through a door painted with the words ‘NO ENTRY’.
I rush in behind her and stand, blinking in the dark. Dilan shuffles in beside me, and we wait for our eyes to adjust. Shapes emerge from the gloom.
Almost the first thing that comes into focus is an enormous glitter ball hanging from the ceiling. As each shard of light bounces from the revolving ball, it catches on the figures flitting across the dance floor. Men in suits steer women in feathery multicoloured dresses back and forth in poses just short of agony. They glide over a gleaming wooden floor encircled by golden chairs with golden cushions. Ornate golden figurines holding harps and horns decorate the walls and ceiling, against a background of pale-green flock wallpaper. I glance back to the dance floor. One particular couple catches my eye. The man looks like Dad, except he doesn’t quite – in the same way he looks like Granddad, but a different Granddad, one that’s inflated and full of energy, and the young woman in his arms is definitely not Mum; she reminds me of someone else but I can’t think who.
The Yoghurt Plot Page 4
