Finders Keepers

by Emily Rodda

  Patrick made a decision. This was too big a thing to handle on his own, and Claire seemed to be in a good mood. He’d talk to her about it. He picked up the piece of paper on which he’d written down the message and walked slowly to her door, thinking about what he’d say. He pushed the door open.

  “Patrick, get out of here! I’m changing!” Claire, in her underwear, clutched her school uniform to her chest and frowned at him furiously.

  “I want to tell you something,” mumbled Patrick.

  “Tell me later,” she said impatiently. She turned her back on him and pulled on some shorts and a T-shirt. The music blared. Patrick tried to gather his thoughts.

  “I’ve got to go on a TV show,” he said loudly.

  Claire spun round, her face alive with interest. “TV? What do you mean?”

  Now he had her. Now came the hard part.

  “See, I got this message,” said Patrick gruffly, waving his piece of paper. “On a computer. Up on the screen. It said …”

  Her face fell. “Oh, sure!” she groaned, and rolled her eyes. She sat down on the bed and pulled off her shoes and socks.

  “It’s true!” urged Patrick. “It said I’d been chosen by chance. For Finders Keepers – that’s the show. A million-dollar show. On Channel 8. It said …”

  “Oh, sure, Patrick! There’s no such show. And there’s no such channel here.”

  “There is so!” shouted Patrick desperately, over the pounding music. “There must be. On Saturday. It said …”

  “Look, will you get out of here? You’re not allowed in my room.”

  Patrick stared at her, baffled and angry. “Claire, why don’t you listen to me?” he said. “I’m not lying – I’m telling you …”

  “Claire!” Estelle’s voice floated up the stairs. “Julia on the phone for you.”

  “OK!” Claire bounded up, pushed past Patrick and left the room. He heard her jumping down the stairs two at a time.

  He stamped back to his own room and climbed on to his bed, throwing the message on to the desk. Well, that hadn’t been much help, had it? He should have known she wouldn’t believe him. Well, on Saturday she’d be sorry. She’d get a big shock then, wouldn’t she? Fabulous prizes. She’d get a shock when he got some fabulous prizes from being in Finders Keepers. All he had to do was wait.

  On Tuesday, on the bus, Patrick told Michael about Finders Keepers. Michael was as disbelieving as Claire had been. He got quite angry, in fact. He reminded Patrick of the time Patrick had convinced him that the street trees were powered by batteries.

  “I was just kidding then, Michael,” protested Patrick.

  “Well, I believed you, didn’t I? And I told Dad and he said you were telling me stories and I was a silly dope to believe you. Well, I’m not a silly dope now and I don’t believe you now. So give up.” He hunched his shoulders and turned away to stare out the window.

  On Wednesday, as he ate his breakfast, Patrick asked his mother about Channel 8. He didn’t mention the computer or Finders Keepers. He’d had enough of trying to convince people about that.

  “There’s no such channel in this city, darling,” said Judith, stuffing peanut butter sandwiches and apples into lunch boxes with reckless speed. “Eat up. Danny, don’t do that with your milk. Danny? Danny! Oh, you naughty boy!” She dived for the dishcloth.

  Danny watched fascinated as his milk spread in a glistening white pool on the tabletop, reached the edge and began to stream in a mini waterfall to the floor.

  “Why isn’t there?” asked Patrick.

  “Well, there just isn’t. No one broadcasts on that channel here, that’s all,” said Judith, from under the table. “Patrick, get me some paper towels, will you? Oh, Danny, that was so silly!”

  Danny looked at his empty cup and the still dripping milk. His lip trembled.

  “Maybe a channel might only work on certain days,” said Patrick eagerly. He passed a wad of paper towels to her. “Do you think, Mum?”

  “Do you know I haven’t got a single pair of socks that match?” exclaimed Claire, walking into the room. “Oh, yuk! Who spilt the milk?”

  “Who do you think?” muttered Judith darkly, getting to work with the towels.

  Danny opened his mouth and cried. Tears fell down his cheeks. “My milk fell down!” he wept.

  “Oh dear, poor Danny,” soothed Claire. “Never mind, darling. Claire will get you some more, OK? Stop crying now. It’ll be all cleaned up in a minute.”

  There was a disgusted snort from Judith on the floor.

  Patrick finished his breakfast and walked upstairs. His father, Paul, was shaving in the bathroom. The electric razor buzzed in a comforting, familiar sort of way.

  “Dad?”

  “Mmm?” His father screwed his mouth up and over to one side, and mowed at his cheek.

  “How do people get on TV quiz shows?”

  “They write in and get picked, I suppose.”

  “Do they ever just ask people to go on?”

  “They might, I guess. I really don’t know, Patrick. Are you all ready for school?”

  “Yes. Dad?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Why isn’t there a Channel 8 in our city?”

  “Well, one day there might be.” Paul turned off the razor and smiled at him absentmindedly. “We’ll talk about it later, eh? In fact, I’ve got a book about how TV works, somewhere. You can read all about it. It’s really …”

  “But Dad …”

  “Not now, Patrick. It’s not the time. We’re late.”

  “We’re all late!” shouted Judith from downstairs. “Patrick! Paul! Come on!”

  “Judith, are any of my socks down there? I’ve got eight single ones and no pairs!” bawled Paul.

  “I’ve got twelve single socks, Dad. I beat you!” laughed Claire.

  “You’re both hopeless nincompoops!” roared Judith. “Why don’t you pair them before they go into the wash?”

  “I do!” Claire and Paul both replied indignantly.

  Patrick wandered downstairs and out on to the front porch, to wait. “Nobody listens to me,” he said grimly. He sat on the doorstep and rested his chin on his knees.

  “I listen.” Danny plumped down beside him. He fumbled with the catches on his little schoolbag. “I’m taking my special thing I found at the shops for show and tell, Patrick. Do you want to see?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Not now, Danny,” he said firmly. “We’re late.”

  On Thursday afternoon Patrick sneaked again into the computer shop to play Quest. Nothing happened. No message, no questions appeared on the screen, though this time he found three lots of treasure. He walked home feeling confused and flat. Monday afternoon’s adventure had started to seem very unreal. He sat in his room and read the message through again and again. Was it real, or wasn’t it? He didn’t know what to think any more.

  On Friday it was raining. One day to go. Patrick checked Channel 8 on the TV set before school. Nothing. Just roaring snow. When he went up to check the message, it had been blown off his desk by the squally wind that was blowing through his window. Feeling a bit foolish, he picked it up and put it carefully away in a drawer. In this house things got lost easily, and he didn’t want to lose this – yet.

  4

  At Chestnut Tree Village

  On Saturday Patrick woke up with a little shock, knowing that this was a special day. For a moment he couldn’t think exactly why, and then, with an excited flutter of his stomach, he remembered. At ten o’clock today he was going to find out once and for all about Finders Keepers. He got dressed more carefully than usual, went downstairs and turned on the TV. Quickly he switched channels. Cartoons, cartoons, advertisement, man talking, snow, snow … and still nothing at all on Channel 8.

  “Patrick, tune it in, darling, if you’re going to watch.”

  Judith wandered past with the newspaper under her arm and her eyes half closed. She headed for the kitchen. Patrick turned off the TV and followed.

&nb
sp; “What’s for breakfast, Mum?”

  “We’ll see,” Judith murmured vaguely, plugging in the electric kettle. She blinked sleepily at him and smiled. “You look nice, darling,” she said. “You’re all ready. But we can’t go till eight-thirty at the earliest, you know. Nothing’ll be open till then.”

  Patrick’s stomach lurched. “We aren’t going out, are we?” he asked anxiously.

  She began to make the tea. “Don’t say you’ve forgotten!” she said. “I promised you, last Saturday. Your new sneakers, remember?”

  “Oh – oh, but I can’t go out this morning, Mum. There’s something I’ve got to watch on TV. At ten o’clock. I’ve got to! My sneakers’ll be all right for another week,” gabbled Patrick, panic-stricken.

  Judith faced him, hands on hips. “Patrick,” she said wearily, “it’s all organised. Dad’s going to look after Danny, and we’re going to get your sneakers and some new T-shirts. You remember.”

  “But Mum, I’ve got to watch …”

  “Patrick, your shoes are a disgrace. They’re falling off your feet. There’s no way we’re going to cancel this because of a TV show.”

  “But Mum!”

  “Patrick, I’m sorry, but forget it! We’re going to the shops this morning, and that’s all there is to it!”

  The Chestnut Tree Village shopping centre was crowded and full of sound – people talking, music playing, and now and again an announcement over the loudspeaker system about a lost child or a special sale at one of the hundreds of shops that lined the glossy-tiled plazas on four levels. Patrick trailed gloomily behind Judith as she walked to the escalator. The shoe box in its plastic bag bumped against his leg. He growled to himself. He’d paid dearly for those new sneakers.

  “Cheer up, droopy drawers,” said Judith. “You’re not much fun to go shopping with. And you’re the one who scored new shoes, too. Come on! How important can a TV show be, for goodness’ sake? What was it?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Patrick mumbled.

  “Oh, a laugh a minute, you are,” she sighed. “Oh, listen, Patrick, there it goes.”

  The famous Chestnut Tree Village clock was striking the quarter hour. Patrick looked at his own watch. It was two minutes fast. He adjusted it absently. The Chestnut Tree Village clock was never wrong. A quarter to ten. They’d never be home in time now.

  “I think I’ll have a cup of coffee before we go,” said Judith. “Why not? We’re hardly ever out by ourselves these days, are we, Patrick? We’ll celebrate. We’ll go to Smithy’s and then you can have a drink and watch the clock strike ten. Wouldn’t that be good?”

  “Aw, Mum!” Patrick rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen it thousands of times.”

  She glanced at him quickly, and then looked away. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’ve been spending too much time with Danny, that’s my trouble. He loves it. You used to love it too.” She looked, for a moment, a bit sad.

  He shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. Actually, he did still quite enjoy watching the clock do its stuff on the hour. It was just that he was in a bad mood. Especially when he thought about ten o’clock.

  “Well …” Judith stepped off the escalator and held out her hand to him. “I’m going to have a cuppa. Why don’t you drag yourself along with me and drown your sorrows? Come on, indulge me.”

  “OK.”

  They sat down at one of the wooden tables outside the coffee shop, and gave their orders. Patrick looked at the clock, which stood on a sort of platform, encircled by a little fence, near to where they sat. It was in the shape of a tree (a chestnut tree, of course) and under it stood the carved figure of a blacksmith, holding a huge hammer.

  People were gathering, as usual, to watch the clock strike. In five minutes it would be ten o’clock. The clock would burst into life. The big figure of the blacksmith under the tree would begin pounding at the anvil with his hammer, to make the chimes. He did it for the half and quarter hours, too. Just one strike. But on the hour it was much more exciting. With every strike, birds would pop out of little doors all over the tree’s branches and sing with wide open beaks, a smiling sun would peep from behind the green-painted leaves, and a squirrel would spring out of a hole in the trunk, waving its paws. It was the squirrel that Patrick always looked for.

  Three minutes to go. Patrick sighed, caught his mother’s eye, smiled crookedly, and looked away. The Finders Keepers thing was silly, anyway. Everyone he’d talked to about it had said it couldn’t be true. It must have been part of the Quest game after all.

  “Nearly time,” said Judith happily. She, at least, loved watching the clock, and she was enjoying her coffee.

  Sipping his drink, Patrick looked idly around at the shops that lined the walls around them. He hadn’t been up to this level for a while, and some of them had changed. Book shop, bank, magic shop (he must remember that), antique shop, fancy tea and coffee shop, and all down one side the entrances to the top floor of the department store where they’d bought his T-shirts and shoes. Behind its big windows people wandered around looking at toasters and electric kettles and microwave ovens, at CD players and speakers and radios, at stereos and TV sets …

  TV sets! He sat up so fast that he nearly choked on his straw.

  “Patrick?” Judith looked at him in alarm.

  “I’m … I’ll be back in a minute,” he spluttered. “I want to … watch … from the other side. OK, Mum? OK?” He was already on his feet.

  She shrugged in bewilderment. “OK. But come straight back.”

  He tore away, slipping into the crowd, weaving through the people, making for those flickering screens behind the windows.

  Through the big store’s doorway … hurry, hurry! He could hear the clock beginning to whirr behind him. There were seconds to go. Around the corner … down to the end of the bank of TV screens. He leaped for a dial – turned it – and as the blacksmith made his first strike, Channel 8 appeared on the screen before his eyes. He saw a grinning quizmaster, a giant wheel, a huge sign flashing.

  The quizmaster opened his arms and laughed, straight into Patrick’s eyes. “Patrick!” he shouted. “Are you ready to play … Finders Keepers?”

  Patrick’s eyes bulged. He licked his lips, swallowed. “Yes,” he squeaked.

  “Well, come on over!” bawled the quizmaster.

  And then everything went black.

  5

  Meet Lucky Lamont

  There was a roaring noise in his ears. A velvety blackness pressed heavily against his eyes, pricked by hundreds of dancing points of light. He shook his head from side to side.

  “Oh-oh, we’ve caught a little one this time, folks!” boomed a voice. “Think we should throw him back?”

  Another sound rose up and mingled with the roaring noise. Laughter.

  The voice boomed on. “Seriously, though, ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome Patrick, our lucky Finder for today!”

  There was a burst of applause. Patrick raised his head. Confusedly he realised that his own hands were blinding him, pressing against his eyes. He forced himself to relax – slowly, slowly. He opened his eyes, and peeped through his fingers.

  Bright lights, TV cameras, hundreds of people clapping and stamping and laughing – for him! His mouth dropped open.

  The quizmaster leaned, grinning, towards him. His teeth flashed in the brilliant light. “That’s the way, little pal. Relax! I won’t bite you!”

  Patrick shrank back. He wasn’t so sure.

  “Pat thinks we’re crazy, crazy, crazy on this side of the Barrier!” hooted the quizmaster. “Are we crazy, folks?”

  “Yes!” the audience roared with delight.

  “But are we having fun?”

  “YES!”

  “All right! So let’s tell Pat here all about us. What’s my name?”

  “Lucky Lance Lamont!” chorused the crowd.

  “Right! And what’s the game?”

  “FINDERS KEEPERS!!” The audience howled, whistled and stamped.
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  Patrick stepped quickly backwards on to his own toe, stumbled, recovered and blushed.

  “Oh, he can dance, too! They’re a talented lot over there,” chortled Lucky. The audience roared. “OK, OK, OK … so … ladies and gentlemen, it’s Finders Keepers time, and here she is, that lovely little lady, please welcome … Boopie … Cupid!”

  A young woman in a short, shiny yellow dress with feathers on it tottered from behind the giant wheel to tumultuous applause. She had an enormous mane of blonde curls, huge blue eyes and a wide, white smile. She held out her arms to the delirious audience and shook her curls.

  “Hi there, Boopie!” yelled Lucky. “Ready to spin that wheel?”

  “Sure am, Lucky,” smiled Boopie. She sparkled and glittered under the bright lights. Patrick stared at her, fascinated.

  “Now, for Pat here, and for those people watching who haven’t caught the show before, Boopie, now’s the time to explain our game,” cried Lucky, putting his arm round Patrick’s shrinking shoulders. “Right, Pat?”

  “Er … yeah,” muttered Patrick, looking nervously at the TV cameras moving in on him.

  “Yeah! So here we go!” Lucky led Patrick to one side of the studio. The camera people scrambled backwards, heaving their cameras with them, following his every move.

  Sitting behind a long desk covered with silver question marks sat three very ordinary-looking people – an elderly woman wearing a lot of jewellery, a stern-faced man in a suit, and a plump younger woman with a freckled face and short, curly red hair. Patrick thought they looked at him in a rather disappointed sort of way, and he glanced warily at Lucky.

  But Lucky was facing one of the cameras. A little frown had appeared on his face, and he was speaking earnestly, straight into the lens. From somewhere above his head soft, sad music had begun to play. The lights in the studio dimmed, but he was lit by a bright spotlight.

  “Here are tonight’s Seekers,” crooned Lucky to the camera. “Their letters were chosen from the thousands we receive each and every week. They are here tonight on a very special quest.” He paused. The audience was silent, and the sad music rose a little.