I thought about this.
‘Sounds dull,’ I said.
‘It is,’ said Mr Dawson. ‘It is very, very dull. But it is what I do.’
‘I could probably provide the wig,’ I said. I remembered there was one hanging up in the window at the party-hire shop where I had bought Miss Bamford’s eye patch.
Dear Denille,
I have questions and queries buzzing in my head. Queries and questions, questions and queries. Round and round they go.
I’m sorry to burden you with them, but, frankly, I don’t have anyone else to turn to. Under different circumstances I would talk to Earth-Pig Fish, but, as I have explained before, I worry she will interpret my attempts at communication as divine intervention, thus increasing her religious confusion. All I can do is hurl her fish food into the bowl from a considerable distance and beat a hasty retreat.
This is not ideal for her (it makes big splashes) and not ideal for me (I miss her advice – and sometimes the bowl).
Question 1: Why are lawyers in New York very young, intelligent, exceptionally well-dressed and bursting with enthusiasm?
Is it just that they are American? I ask because I visited a lawyer yesterday in an effort to divorce my parents. I made little progress, in part because the lawyer in question was more interested in Property Conveyancing (whatever that might be). Based upon my television viewing (such as it is), it seems you can’t throw a stone in New York without hitting a lawyer prepared to take on a juicy case like the one I presented. My lawyer might have been intelligent, but he was missing the other characteristics (youth, a stylish suit, enthusiasm and United States citizenship). This is not surprising. If he was all of those things he would certainly be in New York, which never sleeps, rather than in Albright, which does little else.
He showed me the door, Denille.
I don’t mean he pointed out all the interesting characteristics of the door (if there were any), but rather that he asked me to leave. I did, after giving him my home phone number should he change his mind. His body language did not leave me feeling optimistic.
Follow-up Question 2: Why do American television lawyers look like surgically enhanced Year 11 students?
Over here, it takes years and years to become a lawyer. Over there, most seem to get a licence to practice when they hit puberty.
It is possible I am mistaken, so please correct me if that is so. Anyway, none of this is relevant. So, better yet, don’t correct, ignore.
I wanted to divorce my parents because they failed to rally round after I escaped a watery death only through a birthday gift of inflatable breasts. I trust I make myself clear. I felt the threat of divorce would focus their minds. This is no longer an option.
Question 3: If kisses are so wonderful, why are they sloppy and messy, and why do they involve exchanging bodily fluids?
I believe you will be a fount of information on this subject because, being American and called Denille, I assume you spend much time at high school lip-locked with football players (and possibly baseball players).
To place this question in context, I should explain that Douglas Benson From Another Dimension kissed me after I escaped death. This was the first time I had been kissed, but, as it turned out, not the last. Yesterday, I went to his ravine, as always, in case he tried to transport across dimensions by throwing himself off the edge. He turned up, which gave me quite a start. In my worst nightmares I see him blurring across my vision and plummeting to oblivion. Instead, he sat next to me.
‘What are you doing here, Candice?’ he said. This was, under the circumstances, a reasonable question.
‘I’m here to stop you killing yourself,’ I replied.
I am addicted to the truth, Denille, which occasionally causes problems. I explained my reasoning.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t jump off the ravine. I promise.’
I was relieved, but needed further information.
‘Why?’
‘Because if I can’t get back to my own dimension,’ he replied, ‘there will be some compensation.’
My last question had been an overwhelming success, so I tried again.
‘Why?’
‘Because I love you,’ he said. Then he kissed me. For the second time.
Now I know that you are meant to close your eyes when a boy kisses you (or a girl, I imagine. I don’t see why it should be gender-specific), but I was fascinated by the close-up of his face, which the situation afforded. I saw his pores, a couple of which were clogged and on the fast track to zits. This wasn’t romantic, as I understand the word. Apparently, the pressure of lips is also meant to be pleasurable. Tingles are supposed to run down your spine. My spine was tingle-free. I checked. His tongue then pushed through my lips. It was large and the texture of certain meats that my mother used to try to get me to eat when I was younger. I resisted it then and I resisted it with Douglas. I am not altogether comfortable with my own spit. Swallowing someone else’s did not fill me with desire.
And love? Everything I have read suggests the emotion of love is so intense it cannot be mistaken. Stomachs plummet. Blood races. Heartbeats quicken. My stomach stayed stationary. My blood plodded. My heartbeat slowed because it was keeping pace with my blood. Obviously I cannot comment on what was happening to Douglas Benson From Another Dimension’s body.
The point I am making is that kissing is supposed to be nice. This wasn’t. It was messy. And that leads me to:
Question 4: Am I weird?
One positive from all this was that when Douglas Benson From Another Dimension had finished trying to find my tonsils with his tongue, he leaned back and a worried expression swept his face.
‘The thing is, Candice,’ he said, ‘I must get back to my own world. I simply have no option.’ He ran his hands over the knobbly contours of his head. Then he lowered his voice. ‘Even if it breaks your heart.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I said.
‘But I will find you – the alternative you – in my world. Is it too much to expect that we could be soulmates across different dimensions?’
‘Probably,’ I replied, but I don’t think he heard me.
‘Then again, we might be destined to remain star-crossed lovers.’
‘Righty ho.’
Anyway, as you can imagine, all this was exciting in a distasteful way and I felt I had made a dramatic start to my teens (I have just turned thirteen – don’t worry about sending a card). I supposed this made Douglas Benson From Another Dimension my boyfriend, rather than just my friend who is a boy. There is a big difference, it seems, though I cannot explain it.
But then everything became really exciting.
‘I have a solution for the goldfish problem,’ he said. This struck me as an abrupt change of subject, but that was fine by me. I wasn’t getting along very well with the old one.
‘You’ve made an automatic feeder for Earth-Pig Fish?’ I guessed.
‘No. Much better. A simple solution. I’ll come to your house tomorrow and show you.’
Exceptionally exciting. If Douglas Benson From Another Dimension can pull this off, I’d be prepared to let him kiss me again. I just wouldn’t like it.
Best wishes,
Your penpal,
Candice
Douglas Benson From Another Dimension insisted on holding my hand when we entered Miss Bamford’s classroom the following morning. It was better than getting up close and personal with his tongue, though his hand was slightly clammy. Why is romance so wet?
Jen Marshall choked on her chewing gum.
‘Hey,’ she yelled. ‘Get a load of this, guys.’ She shrieked with laughter. ‘The retards have got together. Oh. My. God.’ She fell onto the floor and rolled around, clutching her belly. There is always something dramatic about Jen. You have to admire her.
‘Ignore her, Candice,’ said Douglas Benson From Another Dimension. ‘She’s jealous.’
That stopped Jen Marshall’s rolling.
‘Jealous?’ sh
e screamed. ‘Jealous? Of what, you … you …’ [She’s good on drama. Not so good on vocabulary.] ‘Retard!’ she finished.
I might have pointed out her unnecessary repetition, but I was worried about that chewing gum.
‘Jen?’ I said. ‘If you are going to shout, it might be an idea to dispose of your gum. Accidents have been known to happen, you know …’
‘Shut up, moron,’ she yelled. [If I have a criticism of Jen, it’s that she doesn’t vary her vocal volume.] ‘Shut the hell up.’
‘What is going on here?’
The bellow made Jen’s screams seem like a delicate whisper. Twenty-five heads snapped around to the front of the classroom. Forty-nine ears rang [Alex McLean, missing one ear drum]. We froze in various poses. We were expecting Miss Bamford. We didn’t get her.
The woman at the front of the class was tall and stick-insect-thin, as if she’d been left to dry in the sun for a long time. Her eyes swept the room and might have turned us all to statues, if we weren’t already turned to statues. Now, I have met many forbidding people, teachers in particular, and I have never failed to spot some sign of kindness in them. The glint of an eye. The relaxed cast of an arm. The hint of a smile. This woman gave no sign of friendliness. I felt that in a battle between her and a saltwater crocodile, the smart money would be on her.
I liked her. Immediately.
‘Sit down! This instant!’
We sat. Even Jen Marshall hurried to get to her chair, and Jen Marshall hurries for nothing and no one. The stick-insect [crossed with a saltwater crocodile] waited for a moment and then sat at the teacher’s desk. She treated us to another sweep of steely intent, which we received in silence. She placed her hands, palms down, on the desk.
‘My name is Miss Cowie and I am a relief teacher. This does not mean I have an invisible target between my eyes or that you should confuse me with a human being.’
Judging by the expressions on my classmates’ faces, there was little chance of that.
‘Miss Bamford is unfortunately ill and will be away for a few days. In the meantime, I am in charge. She has left instructions that you are to prepare for the end-of-term exam. I will hand out a practice paper, involving close reading. You have this lesson to finish it. You will work in silence.’
The examination was fairly easy. I opened my pencil case, selected my favourite pens and started to work. Even Jen Marshall worked in silence. Miss Cowie sat at the front of the class, but she didn’t read or open a laptop. This was unusual. In my experience, relief teachers generally read the newspaper or knitted or surfed the internet or [in one memorable instance] built a small fighter jet from tiny plastic parts. Miss Cowie sat as if she had a steel rod inserted in her spine. She watched us. She did not flinch. Her eyes never rested.
I worried about Miss Bamford, though. After all, she is my favourite teacher in the whole world.
When I got home, things were different. Mum was up and bustling around the kitchen. Dad was slicing onions. No computer parts hung from his extremities, which was a surprise. I checked twice. He was, however, sporting a large bruise on his left cheekbone where Rich Uncle Brian’s knee had presumably made contact.
‘Hello,’ I said. The greeting wasn’t exciting, but it rarely failed.
‘Hello, Pumpkin,’ said Mum. She gave me a huge smile. Dad put his knife down and tousled my hair. I was glad he’d remembered to put down the knife. ‘Hi, Candice,’ he said. ‘How was school?’
My head was buzzing with questions, but it was polite to answer questions already asked before posing your own.
‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘We had a relief teacher today. It is not clear if she is human. She confessed to being unsure herself. She ruled the class with an iron fist and steely eyes and possibly other metallic body parts. Jen Marshall wrote something. No one knew she could. I believe she shocked herself.’
‘Lovely,’ said Mum, which struck me as a strange response.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked.
‘I’m making dinner,’ said Mum. Her bright smile was unnerving.
‘And I’m helping,’ added Dad.
‘What’s happening?’ I said.
‘I thought we’d have a family dinner and a nice chat,’ said Mum. She spread her arms in a gesture of appeal. ‘Is that so unusual?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
I felt no one could argue with that statement, and no one did. Dad took up the knife again and continued dicing onions. Mum scrutinised a recipe book. Had I wandered into the wrong family by mistake? I thought about checking the number on the front door, but decided against it.
‘Douglas Benson From Another Dimension is coming round in a few minutes,’ I said. ‘He has a solution to the Earth-Pig Fish problem. Can he stay for dinner?’
Mum glanced at Dad. Dad glanced at Mum. Both of them glanced at me. I’d never experienced so much glancing in the Phee household. Then they glanced at each other again. Dad broke the sequence.
‘Sorry, Candice,’ he said. ‘Nothing against Douglas, you understand, but we need to have … a private chat. In fact, your mum suggested I take you to the park while she finishes dinner. Maybe Douglas could eat with us some other time.’
‘A chat?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘It’s long overdue.’
‘Like a library book?’ I asked.
Mum and Dad did the glancing thing again, but I never found out what they might have said because there was a knock on the front door. I was the obvious choice to answer it, so I did.
‘Hello, Douglas Benson From Another Dimension,’ I said.
‘Hi, Candice.’ He had his hands behind his back and a broad smile on his face. I was anxious to know what was behind that smile and that back. ‘No peeking,’ he added. ‘Close your eyes.’
I did because I like darkness. Some people are afraid of the dark. If anything, I am afraid of the light. Douglas took me by the hand and led me down the hallway to my bedroom. I assumed it was my bedroom, but I couldn’t see because my eyes were closed. He sat me down on my bed [I assumed] and there was general rustling, punctuated by an abrupt splash.
‘Open your eyes, now, Candice,’ he said. I did. His smile was still there but his hands were empty. In the goldfish bowl there were two fish. One was Earth-Pig Fish, obviously. The other was an intruder. They swam round each other – one clockwise, the other anti-clockwise. The chances of crashing appeared high.
I tore my eyes away and turned to Douglas Benson From Another Dimension.
‘Why?’ I asked.
Douglas sat next to me on the bed. He was excited.
‘It’s logical, Candice,’ he said. ‘You worried your fish might think of you as God. That was why you wanted an automatic feeding system. But I got to thinking. If you had one of those, the fish might find that was even more mysterious. Food would appear like magic. And I hypothesised that such a miracle might make things worse. Maybe the fish would worship the feeding machine and that would be more alarming than worshipping you. It would be a false idol.’
Douglas is so smart. He had obviously earned every one of those knobbly bits on his head. I wanted to tell him that, but didn’t want to interrupt his flow.
‘The solution was obvious. Another fish. This way they keep each other company, they will each find things in the other to fascinate. This should prevent religious thoughts. They might even fall in love.’ He turned his eyes to my doona. ‘Like you and me,’ he added.
Was Earth-Pig Fish ready for romance? I had no way of knowing, but I liked the way Douglas Benson From Another Dimension was thinking. I stood and approached the bowl. The new fish was smaller than Earth-Pig Fish and had a tiny black blotch on his head. Was it my imagination or was Earth-Pig Fish moving with more purpose? Was this the dawning of love? It occurred to me that if she kissed the new fish at least she would be well prepared for the wetness, on account of the fact that this was her normal medium.
‘What will you call him?’ asked Douglas.
‘That�
��s easy,’ I said. ‘His name will be Skullcap-Fish.’
‘Because of that black spot?’
‘In part,’ I replied. ‘But mainly because one of the last proper words in the dictionary is “zucchetto”, a small cap worn by members of the clergy. Aardvark and zucchetto. They are alpha and omega. They complete a circle.’
Douglas bent his head close to mine and we watched the fish pirouette around each other. For a moment I thought he was going to broach the subject of kissing, but he didn’t.
‘Thank you, Douglas,’ I said. ‘You are the most brilliant person from another dimension I have ever known. But I’ve thought of a problem.’
‘Yes?’
‘What if Earth-Pig Fish thinks Skullcap-Fish has been created especially for her? What if she thinks they are Eve and Adam and the bowl is a Garden of Eden? That plastic frond on the bottom could be their tree of knowledge.’
‘Oh shut up, Candice,’ said Douglas Benson From Another Dimension. ‘You think too much.’
And he kissed me for the third time.
It was just as messy as the previous two, but it gave me time to think. Douglas was right. It was likely that Earth-Pig and Skullcap would develop a relationship, have arguments, refuse to talk to each other and become miserable. They would be a normal family.
Dad and I walked to the park. It was a beautiful day and the sky was dusted with delicate wisps of cloud. I carried his remote-controlled plane. It was surprisingly light and the wingspan was broad. Up there in the sky it didn’t appear so big, but that was all about perspective, I supposed. I didn’t want to think about perspective. I wanted to know what Dad was going to say. My family had never really gone in for chats, and part of me welcomed the opportunity.
The main part of me worried.
When we got to the park, Dad started the plane’s engine. In moments it was sweeping and swooping through the sky. It looked like a bird. I sat on the grass and watched Dad. His shoulders were relaxed, his eyes fixed on the plane.
‘We had a phone call earlier,’ he said. ‘From a Mr Dawson.’
‘Ah,’ I said.
H is for Happiness Page 10
