Emily's Penny Dreadful Page 5

  they’ve done Pork Pie. There aren’t any Ancient Greek

  heroes in match factories either. And even if there was one, he’d have been shot in the heel by a poisonous arrow by now.”

  And in her dream Ned sneezed and his sneeze sounded suspiciously like “Ahhh - chilles!”

  Maybe Ned was right, Miley dreamed. Maybe there was no escape from this place. Maybe they were all trapped here.

  Counting and packing matchsticks.

  Those hateful, loathsome, little Devil’s matchsticks.

  Forever.

  PART THREE

  WRITER’S BLOCK

  Chapter Seven

  Another long week had gone by. Emily had written a lot of her dreadful story, but she hadn’t yet reached the end of it. Problems were looming. Endings, as she had found out in the past, were always the hardest things to write.

  At least Uncle Raymond hadn’t asked for his Penny Dreadful back. That was one good thing. The old magazine was providing Emily with plenty of ideas.

  Right now, Uncle Raymond was sitting at the little desk in Emily’s room, staring at the screen of his big new computer, paid for by the insurance.

  Emily, passing by, noticed and said: “You’re too big for my desk, Uncle Raymond. And for my chair. But I

  don’t mind you using them, as long as you don’t break

  the chair, like Goldilocks did in the Bears’ house.”

  “Hmm,” said Uncle Raymond. “In reply I could say

  that the desk and the chair are both too small for me

  and that they, in the end, might combine to break me.”

  “They aren’t too small for me,” said Emily.

  “Indubitably,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “In what?”

  “Indubitably. It means without a doubt. You’re the right size for both.”

  “I’m big for my age,” said Emily. “That’s what Mum and Dad always say.”

  “So am I,” said Uncle Raymond. “At least, that’s what you say.”

  “Is it a good one?” asked Emily, quickly changing the subject of size. She didn’t want Uncle Raymond to scream at her, like he had at Sibbie when she had bashed away at her drums in the garage.

  “If you mean the desk or the chair, the answer in each case is ‘no’, but I shall just have to make the best of them.”

  “I meant the computer. I wish I had one of my own. Mum and Dad have said I can have a tablet with a separate keyboard when I turn ten,” said Emily.

  “Sibbie could have had one when she turned ten but

  she wanted drums instead. It takes ages writing stories by hand.”

  “Why don’t you use the family computer?”

  “I do use it for homework but not a lot for writing stories. Sibbie always comes and looks over my shoulder and I hate that. She even does it when I write with a pen but then I can hide better what I’m writing. Last time I hurt my shoulder, though.”

  “Hmm,” said Uncle Raymond. “It’s true. Writers prefer to perfect their craft in secret, much like magicians.”

  “Your computer looks really flash,” said Emily. “Dad said it was the latest model, so it must be good.”

  “It’s a machine,” said Uncle Raymond. “It does what I tell it to. Usually.”

  “What’s it doing now?” Emily asked.

  “Nothing,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “I see,” said Emily. “What are you doing then, Uncle

  Raymond?”

  Uncle Raymond didn’t answer straightaway. He closed his eyes. Emily wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

  “Are you writing a new story?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Uncle Raymond shortly.

  “That’s great!” said Emily. “You must have had an idea. What’s it about?”

  Uncle Raymond opened his eyes. He carried on looking at the screen. His fingers didn’t touch the keyboard. He didn’t answer Emily’s question.

  “I once stared and stared at a computer screen until my eyes went funny and then the screen seemed to almost disappear,” said Emily. “It was like a magic trick. Wasn’t that funny?”

  “No,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Do you want me to show you how I did it?” said Emily. “I could stare and stare at your computer screen and you could watch my eyes go funny.”

  “No,” Uncle Raymond said again. “Thank you, all the same.”

  “You said writers are like magicians. Do you know any magic tricks, Uncle Raymond?”

  Uncle Raymond paused. “I know one,” he said. “I

  learnt it when I was very young. It was a very useful trick.”

  “What trick is it?”

  “I can make you disappear.”

  “You can’t!” said Emily.

  She came up closer, stretching to look over Uncle Raymond’s shoulder.

  “There’s nothing on the screen,” she said.

  “Why is it that you don’t like your sister looking over your shoulder but you have no compunction whatsoever about looking over mine?”

  Emily didn’t answer Uncle Raymond’s question. Fair’s fair. He didn’t always answer hers.

  “There should be lots of words,” she said, instead. “They’re what I use when I write stories.”

  “Maybe I write my stories in my head first,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “I do that too, sometimes,” said Emily. “Is that what you’re doing now?”

  “Perhaps it is. Until you interrupted me, of course,” said Uncle Raymond. “What are you doing here, by the way?”

  “I live here,” said Emily. “This used to be my room.

  Remember?”

  “Oh yes, of course. It slipped my mind.”

  “Because you were writing in your head?”

  “Perhaps,” repeated Uncle Raymond.

  “Writers have odd minds,” said Emily.

  “Do they? And how did you reach that conclusion?”

  “It’s what Dad sometimes says,” Emily explained. “He said your mind was very odd.”

  Uncle Raymond pulled one of his faces.

  “A paid-up member of the Grammar Police and odd. When did he say that?” he asked.

  “After he’d finished reading Ghost under the stairs,” said Emily. “He said to Mum, ‘That brother of yours has a very odd mind.’”

  “Hmm,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Do I have an odd mind?” asked Emily.

  “How would I know?”

  “Well, you write stories and I write stories.”

  Uncle Raymond thought about this. “Put that way I would say yes, you probably do have an odd mind.”

  “Good,” said Emily. “Why don’t you try writing a juvenile?”

  Uncle Raymond turned back to the computer. “Because I can’t,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too difficult,” Uncle Raymond said.

  “Why?”

  “Because children ask too many questions,” Uncle Raymond explained, “and I don’t have all the answers.”

  “You said writers know everything,” Emily reminded him. “Or, if they don’t, they find out or make things up.”

  “Do you, or do you not, want me to show you my one and only magic trick?” asked Uncle Raymond

  “You can’t make me disappear,” Emily insisted. “It’s impossible.”

  “To the contrary. I can. Quite easily.”

  “Prove it,” said Emily.

  Uncle Raymond closed his eyes again. “You’ve disappeared,” he said.

  Chapter 14

  “When I’m asleep it’s like I’ve escaped from the

  Devil’s Element,” Miley told Ned.

  “Huh,” said Ned. “Except you haven’t.”

  “And if I close my eyes during the day, the match factory disappears,” Miley added.

  “And then you lose count of your matches,” Ned said.

  “I can still count them, in my head,” Miley insisted.

  But she couldn’t. With her eyes closed,
she kept going off into happy little dreams of Hippo Banks, parapluies and Mama’s story nights and she lost count of her matches, quick smart.

  Dreams are like stories, thought dreamy Miley, and stories are words; words that follow one another in a crocodile file, like children going to soap or sweet factories on school outings.

  Sometimes words are like water, flowing, cool and refreshing. Other times they’re like stepping-stones over a stream, but they can’t always take you across dangerous spaces and get you home safely, no matter how many words there are.

  “Keep counting!” Bacon suddenly yelled, right in Miley’s left ear.

  All the words in Miley’s head were instantly flooded away.

  Chapter Eight

  Emily went into the room she was sharing with Sibbie and found her sister face down on the bed, reading.

  She wasn’t reading Uncle Raymond’s Penny Dreadful. Sibbie wasn’t reading one of her silly girlfriend-boyfriend books, either. She had started reading Emily’s story!

  “You’re a thief!” Emily screamed. “A nasty, nosey, obnoxious, horrible thief.”

  “It takes one to know one,” said Sibbie, “so chill out, sis. If you didn’t want anyone to read your stupid story you shouldn’t have left it lying around in such an obvious place. Beside, all I’ve read is the first chapter which, if you want my opinion, is far too short, even though it’s more than long enough for me. To tell the truth, I was going to stop reading at exactly the same moment as you started raging.”

  Emily’s anger subsided. “Honestly?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Sibbie. “I thought it might have gotten better after the first line, but it didn’t.”

  If Sibbie was telling the truth, Emily was glad. Very

  glad. Because chapter two mentioned the fight between Miley and her older sister and Sibbie was bound to think the older sister was meant to be her. (It was. She was also the bad-tempered, match-flicking Bibsie, too, later on in the story, but Emily wasn’t going to tell Sibbie that. It would only cause a fight, one that Emily was bound to lose.)

  “Did you like Miley?” Emily asked.

  “I’ve hardly got to know her,’ said Sibbie. “And why do you pronounce her name Millie? You mean Miley, don’t you? It’s just Emily, with the letters scrambled.”

  “Maybe,” said Emily. “But it’s said Millie, not Mile-y.”

  “Miley can’t be said Millie. If you put an s in front of her name you’d say Smiley. Not Smillie.”

  “That’s my business,” said Emily.

  “I’m right, you’re wrong,” said Sibbie. “Have you finished the whole thing?” she asked, handing the exercise book back to Emily.

  “No,” said Emily. “Miley’s been kidnapped, sort of. Not like Ned exactly but it come to the same thing.”

  “Who’s Ned?”

  “A boy Miley meets.”

  “Her boyfriend?” Sibbie suddenly looked a lot more interested.

  “No!” said Emily. “Miley doesn’t have time for boyfriends.’

  “Pity,” said Sibbie.

  “She has to escape,” Emily said. “Only I haven’t thought of a way for her to escape yet.”

  “Maybe she could find something like a jet pack and fly away,” suggested Sibbie.

  “They don’t have jet packs in Miley’s time,” said Emily.

  “Oh, right. I didn’t know the story was set in the olden days,” said Sibbie. “That’s going to be a problem then, isn’t it, no jet packs or mobiles or any useful stuff like that? Have you asked Uncle Raymond for ideas?”

  “His computer screen was blank the last time I looked,” said Emily. “I don’t think he’s got a single idea left.”

  Chapter Nine

  With yet another week gone, Emily realized that

  Sibbie had been right. The longer he and Auntie Dot stayed with Emily and her family, the grumpier Uncle Raymond became. The longer they stayed, the grumpier Emily became, too.

  What if the piece of string turned out to be endless?

  Emily badly wanted her room back so she could write her stories in peace, just like she had before, but she wasn’t allowed to have it.

  She was also getting desperate to finish her latest, dreadful, story but she couldn’t figure out how on earth Miley could escape.

  Her mind had gone blank.

  She had run out of ideas.

  She recalled Sibbie’s suggestion and so she took the plunge and went to ask Uncle Raymond for advice.

  *

  “Will you help me finish the story I’m writing? It’s a dreadful one, like yours. I mean, like the one in your Penny Dreadful.”

  Uncle Raymond looked at her over his glasses. Emily

  had never seen Uncle Raymond with glasses before.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m far too busy.”

  “With your own story?” Emily asked doubtfully.

  “Precisely.”

  “Where is it? Your computer isn’t even switched on today.”

  “As we discussed previously, it’s being worked on in my head.”

  Emily looked at him. At Uncle Raymond taking up space in her room. Sitting on her (now very creaky) chair. At her (probably soon to be wobbly) table. Just lounging there, doing nothing. It made her feel grumpier than ever.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  Uncle Raymond sniffed.

  “That’s no skin off my nose,” he said.

  “Do you have an Achilles Heel?” Emily asked abruptly, taking Uncle Raymond by surprise.

  “Where did you hear that phrase?”

  “I love reading stories about Ancient Greek heroes,”

  said Emily. “Achilles is one of my favourites. I felt so

  sorry for him when he got killed.”

  “Well, I’m not an Ancient Greek hero,” said Uncle Raymond. “In fact, I am no sort of hero at all.”

  “So you don’t have one,” said Emily.

  “One what?”

  “An Achilles Heel. A weak spot. The spot where a poisoned arrow might kill you.”

  “We all have our point of weakness,” said Uncle Raymond. “More than one, no doubt. But I’m not telling you what mine is. Why do you want to know? Are you contemplating shooting me in my weak spot with a poisoned arrow?”

  “Maybe,” said Emily. “So will you help me with an idea for my dreadful story?” she asked again. “Or not?”

  Uncle Raymond shook his head.

  “Then that’s probably your Achilles Heel,” Emily decided. “The fact that you’ve run out of ideas.”

  Uncle Raymond nodded. “You and I, it seems, are currently in the same boat. Suffering from writer’s block.”

  “Is that like a blocked drain?” said Emily. “When the

  plughole gets gunk in it and the water can’t get out?”

  “That’s not a bad metaphor,” said Uncle Raymond grudgingly. “Except, with writers’ block, no ideas manage to get in. Now go away, Emily. Leave me in peace. Not in pieces.”

  “If you can have more than one Achilles Heel,” said Emily, standing her ground, “then your glasses are another weak spot.”

  Uncle Raymond raised his eyebrows like question marks. “How so?” he asked.

  “Well, you must need them but you don’t wear them. Not that I’ve ever seen. Not until today. Gran needed glasses but she didn’t like wearing them. Mum said Gran was rather vain. Gran thought glasses spoilt the way she looked.”

  “Did she,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “So you have at least two weak spots,” Emily finished. “You don’t have any ideas anymore and you’re rather vain. Maybe you’re an Ancient Greek hero after all.”

  And then she left Uncle Raymond in peace.

  Or in pieces.

  Chapter 15

  ?

  Chapter Ten

  “How much longer is Uncle Raymond going to be here?” Emily asked her mother. “And Auntie Dot?”


  “If you’ve asked me that question once, you’ve asked me a hundred times,” said Mum. “As long as they want. As long as they need. It takes time to build a new house.”

  “Why can’t they go and stay with someone else? They don’t even normally live in the same town as us.”

  “Well, they’ve pretty much decided to shift up here,” said Mum, “so they can be closer to us all the time. Cheaper to build here, too, apparently.”

  “Why do they want to be closer to us?”

  “Why not?” said Mum. “Isn’t it nice to have family around?”

  “I guess so,” said Emily. “But Uncle Raymond . . . he’s so grumpy most of the time.”

  “You seem to have had lots of conversations with Uncle Raymond since he and Auntie Dot arrived.”

  “Yes, but sometimes that’s because Sibbie gets tired of talking to me,” said Emily. “And Uncle Raymond’s

  a writer as well - well, he used to be - so he could help me if he wanted to, except he doesn’t. He just sits around in my room. He doesn’t mind if I talk to him. Well, he doesn’t always not mind. Sometimes he does mind. A lot. Actually, I think I might be getting tired of talking to him. The other day I asked him to help me with my story because I’m stuck but he wouldn’t. And, one time before that, he made me disappear. I would have laughed if he’d meant it to be funny but he didn’t. He just wanted me to go. Why did he turn out so grumpy,” she said, “when you’re hardly ever grumpy at all?”

  “When he’s thinking about his next book his mind goes off to some other place,” said Mum. “It’s hard to come back to earth after living in your imagination.”

  “Is it like going to another planet?” said Emily.

  “I’ve never been to another planet,” said Mum, “but I suppose it is.”

  “I’ve been to another planet,” said Emily. “In my imagination. So I know what it’s like.”

  “Hard to come back from?”

  “Very hard,” said Emily. “Unless you have a space ship with warp speed. Then it’s faster.”