Emily's Penny Dreadful Page 2

  “Older than you?”

  “By far?”

  “How old are you, Uncle Raymond?”

  “That’s a personal matter,” said Uncle Raymond. “I don’t discuss personal matters.”

  “What’s a penny, then?”

  “A very small amount of money. Like a cent.”

  “That’s a very small amount of money,” Emily agreed.

  “The story inside this magazine is exactly as the title describes. Dreadful.”

  “Then why haven’t you put it in the recycling bin?” Emily asked.

  “Because, although the story is dreadful, I find it

  highly entertaining and, furthermore, this magazine is very valuable.”

  Emily chewed her lip, puzzled. “You said it was only worth a penny.”

  “That was nearly a hundred and fifty years ago,

  which is how old this magazine is,” Uncle Raymond

  said. “Today it’s value is considerably more than a single penny.”

  “Enough to buy you a new house?” asked Emily, hopefully.

  “No,” said Uncle Raymond. “Unfortunately not.”

  “That’s a big pity,” said Emily.

  Uncle Raymond nodded. “For once, I think, we are in agreement,” he said.

  And they both pulled faces.

  Chapter Four

  “I lost my favourite dress in a fire,” Emily remembered, “but it was my own fault.”

  Uncle Raymond looked startled. “How was it your fault?” he asked.

  “I lit a match,” said Emily. “It was just a small match,”

  “Matches are nearly always small.”

  “But they make big flames,” said Emily.

  “That’s true,” said Uncle Raymond. “What happened?”

  “It’s a personal matter, said Emily, “but I don’t mind telling you. Mum and Dad said I should never light matches.”

  “Rightly so,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Of course, it happened when I was only seven,” said Emily. “I know how to do it properly now. Not that I want to anymore. But, when I was seven, I did want to light one, so I did and my dress caught on fire.”

  “Good heavens!” said Uncle Raymond. “I don’t remember hearing about that. Were you injured?”

  “Not me,” said Emily. “Just my dress. It was ruined. I

  wasn’t wearing it at the time. It was hanging on the washing line. On the middle wire that sags. Do you know which one I mean?”

  “No,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Emily. “I was outside with the matches. I lit one too close to the saggy wire and accidently set my dress on fire. It was my favourite dress. I know I’ve already said that, but it was.”

  “It’s hard, losing things,” said Uncle Raymond, slowly. “Especially things that are important to you. But what made you want to light a match in the first place?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Emily. “Well, longish, anyway.”

  “Can it wait for another day then?” asked Uncle Raymond.

  “I suppose so,” said Emily. “But you did ask.”

  “Hmm,” said Uncle Raymond. “I don’t know why, but I did. I should sit down, then.”

  “You can sit on my chair,” said Emily.

  Uncle Raymond sat heavily on an Emily-sized chair. “Proceed,” he said.

  “Well,” said Emily, with a very anxious glance at her

  chair, “when I was seven our class went to visit the

  match factory.”

  “I didn’t know there was a match factory in this city,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “There isn’t,” said Emily.

  “Then how . . .”

  “It used to be a match factory,” Emily explained. “A long time ago. Before I was born. It’s a big building made of red bricks. We were taken inside for a look and somebody talked to us about it and showed us photos of what it was like.”

  “That sounds very educational,” sighed Uncle Raymond.

  “It was. We learnt heaps,” said Emily. “Do you know what the red stuff on top of matches is called? I do.”

  “So do I. It’s called phosphorus,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “How did you know?” said Emily.

  “Writers know a lot of things,” said Uncle Raymond. “That’s our job. And if we don’t know them, we find them out. Sometimes we even make them up. All writers are liars and thieves,” he added, “although I prefer to call our stealing ‘creative borrowing’. It’s a

  more accurate term.”

  “You really shouldn’t be talking so much,” said

  Emily. “You’re interrupting my story.”

  “Fair’s fair,” said Uncle Raymond. “You did ask.”

  “Did you know that phosphorus was once called ‘The Devil’s Element’? ” Emily said.

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Neither did I, not until they told us,” said Emily. “It used to be white before they changed it to red. The white phosphorus was very dangerous. In the really old days, kids my age worked in match factories. They had to dip matchsticks into the Devil’s Element and lots of them got sick and died. I had nightmares because of that,” she said. “Real nightmares, not the sort of nightmares you get about things that aren’t real. I don’t mind those. Anyway, we learnt all about matches and when I got home I wanted to try lighting one for myself. No one dared me, or anything.”

  “And what happened was that you burnt your dress.”

  Emily nodded. “My favourite dress,” she said. “I had a real nightmare about that as well. How did your fire start?” she asked.

  Uncle Raymond stood up rather quickly and went to

  the window. Emily was relieved to see her chair was

  still in one piece.

  “That was a nightmare, too, except a wide-awake one.”

  Uncle Raymond paused, remembering. “It, too, was an accident although it had nothing to do with matches or saggy middle wires.”

  “Did you lose your computer?” said Emily. “Where you write your stories on?”

  “It was all toast, computer included. I shall very likely never write another word.”

  That came as a shock to Emily. Never write another word! Never, ever again. She couldn’t imagine a life without words and writing.

  “Why not?”

  “Because everything went up in the flames,” Uncle Raymond replied, “not only the computer. My notes, my drafts, my rough workings, my works-in-progress, my back-up disks. Everything.”

  “Mum saves things online,” Emily said. “In the cloud. I’m not sure what that means. You could ask Mum about the cloud.”

  “It’s too late for that now,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “And burnt data is of no use to man or beast.”

  “Like burnt toast?” said Emily.

  “Like burnt toast,” Uncle Raymond agreed. “Fire’s favourite breakfast.”

  “Don’t you have any ideas left in your head?” Emily asked. “That wasn’t burnt.”

  “It was, metaphorically,” said Uncle Raymond. “My head is bereft of ideas. Empty.”

  “Mine’s always full of them,” said Emily. “You could have some of my ideas.”

  “That would be stealing.”

  “Creative borrowing, that’s what you called it.”

  “Perhaps,” said Uncle Raymond. “It’s very generous of you, but . . .”

  “I’m not just precocious,” said Emily.

  “. . . but of no use,” Uncle Raymond went on. “A writer also has to do something with ideas. The doing something part of writing is, I fear, now beyond me. I toyed with the idea of writing about the fire because it sometimes helps to try and write things better, but it was no use. I couldn’t. I can’t.”

  “Maybe if you got another computer,” said Emily. “If you sold your Penny Dreadful, would you have

  enough for a new one?”

  “I think so,” said Uncle Raymond. “However, our


  insurance will eventually provide us with a new house and a new computer. So I won’t have to part with the Penny Dreadful just yet.”

  “Then you’ll be able to write again,” said Emily. “Soon.”

  “Time will tell,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “How long will your new house take?” Emily asked.

  “How long is a piece of string?” asked Uncle Raymond.

  “I don’t know,” said Emily. “Which piece of string do you mean?”

  “It’s a metaphor,” said Uncle Raymond. “It means, I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “Uncle Raymond?”

  “Yes, Emily.”

  “If you aren’t going to sell your Penny Dreadful to buy a new computer, can I borrow it to read? It might inspire me. I might be able to write my own dreadful story. I know I said that I’ve got lots of ideas but there’s room in my head for lots more.”

  “Hmm,” said Uncle Raymond. “Yes, I suppose so.

  On the strict condition that you take the greatest care of it. And provided you take your leave now.”

  “You mean you want me to go?” said Emily.

  “Yes,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Okay then.”

  “I’ll give you the Penny Dreadful at dinner time,” said Uncle Raymond. “First I’ll put it into something to keep it safe and clean when you’re not reading it. You won’t like the story in the Penny Dreadful, though,” he cautioned. “In fact, it might even give you more nightmares.”

  “It’s a story,” Emily reminded him. “It’s not for real.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” said Uncle Raymond. “But I’ve warned you nonetheless.”

  “If you’re too worried, you can give me a clue what the story’s about,” said Emily. “Just don’t tell me everything. There have to be some surprises.”

  “I suppose I should,” said Uncle Raymond. “But not right now.”

  They both heard the sound of another voice in the kitchen.

  “That’s Dad,” said Emily. “He’s back home. You’d

  better go and say hello to him.”

  “On the other hand,” said Uncle Raymond,

  reconsidering, “perhaps I should give you a quick summary of the story first. After all, forewarned is forearmed.”

  He sat down again. Emily’s chair creaked a little. It had never creaked before, Emily was absolutely certain of that.

  PART TWO

  EMILY’S PENNY DREADFUL

  Chapter Five

  “What are you doing?’ asked Sibbie.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m writing.”

  Sibbie looked over Emily’s shoulder. She read:

  The Devil’s Element

  A dreadful story, written by Emily

  Chapter 1

  It was a dark and story night . . .

  “You can’t write that,” said Sibbie, pressing her finger on top of Emily’s first sentence. “And what does The Devil’s Element mean? It sounds sinister. I don’t like sinister.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether you like it or not,” Emily

  replied. “It’s my story. I can use whatever words I like. And I can call my story whatever I want to call it. And I don’t like you looking over my shoulder.”

  Sibbie lifted her finger off the page. “Two reasons you can’t write what you’ve written,” she said. “First reason, you’ve put ‘story’ when you obviously meant ‘stormy.’ You’ve left out the ‘m’. Second reason, nights are always dark so you don’t need to write ‘dark’. You just write, ‘It was a stormy night.’ I used to have the same teacher as you do now,” she reminded Emily.

  “It’s not that dark when the full moon shines,” Emily pointed out.

  “No, it’s not,” agreed Sibbie, “but it’s still dark. Way darker than day.”

  “I like my sentence much better,” Emily said. “They’ve been here a whole week already,” she added, trying to distract her sister.

  Sibbie nodded. “Time flies.”

  “Until they get money from the insurance, all they have left in the world is a magazine,” Emily told

  Sibbie. “And the clothes on their backs.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I asked,” said Emily, “and Uncle Raymond told me. The day they came. Everything else was burnt to a cinder. He showed me the magazine. It looks like a newspaper, but it isn’t. It’s called a Penny Dreadful but it’s worth a lot of money, not just one penny.”

  “I’ve never heard of one. I’ve never seen one either. What’s in it?”

  “A dreadful story,” said Emily. “He told me about it in advance, in case it gave me nightmares. It’s a horror story about a hairdresser who murders people. The main character is called a Barber Surgeon. Except he’s supposed to be some sort of doctor as well. He has all the doctor tools and at night he uses them to cut up ...”

  “Enough already!” Sibbie interrupted.

  “Anyway, I said I really wanted to read it so I was allowed to borrow the Penny Dreadful,” said Emily. “As long as I was super careful with it. I’ve read the story twice already. It was dreadful, but in a very

  exciting sort of way.”

  “Rather you than me,” said Sibbie. “I’m amazed that Uncle Raymond lent it to you. I didn’t think he’d ever

  lend anybody anything. I bet you pestered and pestered

  him until he handed it over, just to get rid of you.”

  Emily shook her head. “No, I just asked.”

  She reached under her bed and pulled out the Penny Dreadful. Uncle Raymond had put it into a plastic freezer-storage bag to protect it. She opened the bag and handed the Penny Dreadful to Sibbie. “You could ask him if I’m allowed to lend it to you.”

  “I wouldn’t ask him even if I did want to read it, which I don’t,” said Sibbie. “I’m keeping well out of Uncle Raymond’s way. I managed to play my drums in the garage yesterday, just for a few seconds, and he practically screamed at me to stop. You should never have pestered him about his magazine or asked about the fire.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because now he’s even more grumpy than ever. I’m sure he didn’t want to talk about the fire. Who would?”

  “I would,” said Emily.

  “Bet you wouldn’t if you were him,” said Sibbie,

  knowingly.

  Emily shrugged. There was no point arguing with

  Sibbie. Sibbie always won. “They’ve been here a

  whole week already,” she said again.

  “I know,” said Sibbie. “But like I told you, it won’t be forever.”

  But even Sibbie sounded less sure of herself than before.

  “Sibbie . . . ?” began Emily.

  “What?”

  “How long do you think a piece of string should be?”

  Sibbie didn’t understand Emily’s question so she ignored it. She glanced at the Penny Dreadful instead. She read the first sentence.

  “Ha!” she exclaimed.

  “Awesome, isn’t it?” said Emily.

  “That’s not why I said ‘ha!’,” said Sibbie, triumphantly. “Your first sentence isn’t your first sentence at all! You’ve stolen it from Uncle Raymond’s Penny Horrible.”

  “Penny Dreadful,” Emily corrected.

  “You’ve stolen someone else’s words,” said Sibbie. “You’re a thief.”

  “All writers are thieves and liars, that’s what Uncle Raymond says. And like I told you, I don’t want you

  looking over my shoulder.”

  Emily scrunched up her left shoulder, hard, and hunched forward. That way she could better conceal the exercise book she was writing in. She scrunched and hunched until Sibbie moved away. But Sibbie was stubborn. It took her a long time to move. When Emily was finally able to straighten up, her shoulder blade

  hurt.

  “Ouch!”

  “What’s the matter now?”

  Emily shook her head “Nothing.” She’d learnt stubbornness from her old
er sister. As a distraction from the hurt, she went back to Sibbie’s first accusation.

  “I’d only be a proper thief if I’d put a ‘m’ between the ‘r’ and the ‘y’,” she said. “Only if I’d made it ‘stormy’, not ‘story’. Otherwise it isn’t stolen at all. It’s original. Just the way I planned it.”

  “I don’t believe you!” said Sibbie. “You left the ‘m’ out by accident. ‘A story night’ makes no sense, at all.”

  Emily rotated her shoulder. Slowly the pain disappeared. “It could do. Reading a book in bed

  means it’s a story night. So there.”

  “Whatever,” said Sibbie. “I’m right, you’re wrong. So what’s with the sinister, scary title? Where did you steal that from?”

  “That’s not stealing either,” said Emily. “It’s a kind of creative borrowing. I learnt about the Devil’s Element when our class went to the match factory last year, so I’ve creatively borrowed it for my story.”

  “The match factory!” exclaimed Sibbie. “That gave you nightmares. Bad ones. What’s this story going to do to you?”

  “They were different kinds of nightmares,” Emily insisted. “That match factory and the little kids who had to work in it were for real. I don’t mind having nightmares when I know they aren’t real real.”

  “How on earth can you tell the difference when you’re asleep?” said Sibbie.

  “I just can, somehow,” said Emily.

  “It doesn’t stop you waking us both up,” said Sibbie.

  “Well, I’m sorry about that,” said Emily. “I can’t

  help waking up. And I can’t help waking you up, since we’re sharing the same room.”

  “I bet you could,” said Sibbie. “If you really tried. Especially if you wrote something nicer than that.”

  She pointed to Emily’s exercise book. “Something that wouldn’t give you nightmares. Something that I might actually enjoy reading. Like a love story.”

  Emily pulled a face. She wondered if it resembled one of Uncle Raymond’s faces. “It’s my story.”

  “Whatever,” said Sibbie. “Anyway, this is getting boring. I’m going now.”