Emily's Penny Dreadful Page 6

“Raymond’s space ship is more of an old-fashioned

  sort, I think,” said Mum. “It travels slowly.”

  “I think Uncle Raymond’s grumpy because he’s sad as well,” said Emily. “Not just because he’s on another planet.”

  Mum stopped what she was doing. “What makes you think that?”

  “He makes faces,” said Emily. “Mostly they’re grumpy faces, but sometimes they’re sad faces. He doesn’t think I notice, but I do.”

  “Well, he is still sad, of course,” said Mum.

  “Sad about his house burning down?” asked Emily. “Or sad about not writing anymore? Or. . .”

  “Both of those things,” said Mum. “But I thought he was writing again. Now that he’s got his new computer.”

  Emily shook her head. “I looked at it,” she said. “The screen’s always empty. Or it’s turned off. Uncle Raymond said he was writing the story in his head first . . . “

  “That makes sense,” said Mum.

  Emily shook her head again. “ . . . but he still hasn’t written down a single word. And he wouldn’t help me

  at all with my story.”

  “Hmm,” said Mum.

  “You sound like Uncle Raymond,” said Emily. “He hmms. So does Sibbie.”

  “Well, he’s my brother, after all,” said Mum.

  “What was he like, when he was little? You and Dad said I’m not like him, but was he like me when he was my age?”

  “Definitely not,’ said Mum. “He was quiet. He didn’t like sport much, although he was a good walker. I used to feel a bit sorry for him. I thought he was missing out on the fun the rest of us kids were having. But he never seemed to mind. He seemed happy enough doing what he was doing. Reading and walking and watching.”

  “Watching is what writers have to do,’ Emily said. “Watch and listen and make notes.”

  “I guess that’s true,” said Mum. “There’s another thing he’s sad about,” she added. “He’s sad about Gran. Our Mum.”

  “About Gran dying?” Emily asked.

  “Yes,” said Mum.

  “I was sad about that, too,” said Emily. “So was

  Sibbie. We still are sad, but not as sad as before, not all the time. Gran told us not to be too sad when she was dead. She said we had to think about all the nice times we had together. I wonder if she forgot to tell Uncle Raymond that.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t forget,” said Mum. “And Gran was quite right. It’s important to remember the nice times as well as the sad ones. That helps keep everything balanced.”

  “So is Uncle Raymond unbalanced?” Emily asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” said Mum. “He’s just . . . well, I suppose he’s just taking longer to remember the nice bits.”

  “Should I remind him?” said Emily.

  “I guess you could try,” said Mum.

  “He was wearing his glasses today. I didn’t know he wore glasses.”

  “Yes, he does,” said Mum.

  “Like Gran did?”

  “Yes. You could remind him how much he and Gran had in common. Mention the glasses. That might be a nice thing for him to remember.”

  “I’ve already tried that,” said Emily. “But I don’t

  think he liked it when I said that meant he was rather vain.”

  “Oh,” said Mum. “No, I don’t imagine he would.”

  “Even when it’s a weak spot and makes him like an Ancient Greek hero, just like Achilles? He should have been happy about that,” said Emily.

  Chapter 15

  ?

  Miley woke Ned up.

  “Not again!” said Ned. “That’s the second night in a row. I’ll be useless for counting matchsticks in the morning.”

  “You shouldn’t be counting matchsticks,” said Miley in a whisper loud enough to be heard by Ned but not loud enough to wake Athol and Charlie. She didn’t want to frighten them. “None of us should. You should be back home with you father, reading as many books as you want to read, and I should be back home with my Mama and Papa and my dearest sister. Now I wouldn’t even mind if my Uncle was there. Anything would be better than this.”

  “We’ve done our best,” said Ned. “There no way out of here. We’ve been there and done that already, Miley.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It was no good. Emily had to agree with Ned. There was no way out of the match factory. No way at all.

  Well, if she couldn’t write an ending, she might as well go and try to cheer Uncle Raymond up. Maybe she would have more luck with that.

  Maybe.

  *

  “Uncle Raymond?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you writing today?”

  “In my head.”

  “You know what, Uncle Raymond?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You sound just like Mum?”

  “Do I? In what way, precisely?”

  “The way you say hmm.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Uncle Raymond?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you remember the time Gran took Sibbie and me all the way to visit you and Auntie Dot in your house,

  the one that burnt down, and you were really annoyed? You’d forgotten we were coming. Gran told you not to be such an old stick-in-the-mud and we stayed for ages and went to the park together and had ice creams and your ice cream cone broke in two and splattered caramel all over your trousers and everyone laughed, including you. That was a nice time, wasn’t it?”

  That was one of the longest sentences Emily had ever spoken. It left her breathless. Uncle Raymond kept on staring at his blank, switched-off computer screen. “I may have grimaced and you may have mistaken my grimace for a sign of jollity,” he said, eventually - Emily had got her breath back by then - “but I cannot be held responsible for your misapprehensions. The fact is, I did not laugh. Those caramel stains never came out of my trousers. They were one of my best pair. And I had not forgotten that you were coming. Your Gran arrived on our doorstep much earlier than she had indicated she would, and without advance notice of the change in itinerary. Auntie Dot was away doing some shopping in preparation for your visit and I wasn’t ready for your arrival.”

  “But it was a nice time, wasn’t it?” Emily persisted.

  “Based on what I’ve just said, I will leave you to form your own conclusion,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “I miss Gran as well,” Emily said.

  Uncle Raymond stared even harder at his computer screen.

  “As well as what?” he said, quietly.

  “As well as you do,” said Emily.

  Uncle Raymond said nothing. Nothing at all. But he got up from his chair.

  He went to the door.

  The door of Emily’s room.

  He closed it.

  Firmly.

  Right in Emily’s face.

  Chapter Twelve

  “He wasn’t angry this time,” said Emily. “Or annoyed. He didn’t scream or yell or anything. And I didn’t get angry with him. Because he was crying,” she explained an hour or so later to Sibbie.

  “How did you have time to see that?” Sibbie asked. “I thought you said he slammed the door on you.”

  “He didn’t slam it,” said Emily. “He just closed it. One minute it was open wide and I could see him crying, the next minute all I could see was the door handle. He made me disappear. That’s twice, now.”

  “You upset him,” said Sibbie.

  “I didn’t mean to,” said Emily. “I only did what Mum told me to do. I reminded him about a nice time.”

  “Except he didn’t think it was nice,” said Sibbie. “Just because you thought it was nice doesn’t mean he did.”

  “He didn’t remember it properly,” Emily insisted. “He said he didn’t laugh when he splattered the caramel, but I know for sure he did. And he went on the see-saw.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” giggled Sibbie. “I remember that,

  too. We got on one end toge
ther and he got on the other end. We went up into the air and he kept us there for ages and ages. You were scared.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “I’m right, you’re wrong. Then Dad came along and pulled our end down so that Uncle Raymond was up in

  the air instead of us.”

  “And then he was scared, wasn’t he?” said Emily.

  “I think he was, just a little bit,” said Sibbie.

  “That was a nice time,” said Emily. “Should I go and remind him about the see-saw?”

  “No,” said Sibbie. “I don’t think so. Like I said, just because you think it’s nice doesn’t mean he will.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” agreed Emily. “For once.”

  *

  Emily decided to go outside instead. She was planning to climb the fence in case Bertie the fox terrier was playing in next-door’s garden and maybe see if he could teach her some more barking. Emily was trying to decide if the language of barking had much grammar in it and, if it did, what exactly the rules

  were.

  She almost walked into Auntie Dot who was coming in.

  “Whoa! Slow down,” said Auntie Dot.

  Without really thinking about it, Emily changed her

  plan. “Can I ask you something?” she said to Auntie Dot.

  “Fire away,” said Auntie Dot.

  “How did your fire start?” Emily said.

  “The fire?” Auntie Dot looked badly flustered. She hardly ever looked flustered. She was usually smiling, even in the face of disaster, as Dad often said. “Don’t you know?” she asked.

  “No,” said Emily.

  “I see,” said Auntie Dot. “Well . . .” she began.

  “Don’t you know either?” said Emily.

  “No, no, I just mean . . . well, I do . . . but . . . what do I mean?” Auntie Dot asked herself.

  “I don’t know,” said Emily. “Actually, there’s a lot of things we don’t know, aren’t there?”

  “Are there?” said Auntie Dot.

  “I don’t know how old you are,” said Emily.

  “That’s a much easier question to answer,” said

  Auntie Dot, her fluster turning to relief. “I’m forty-six.”

  “How old’s Uncle Raymond?” asked Emily. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “He turns fifty at the end of the year,” said Auntie

  Dot.

  “That means he’s older than you,” said Emily. “Do you mind?”

  “No, why should I?”

  “Well, older people die sooner than younger ones,” said Emily.

  “Not always,” said Auntie Dot.

  “That’s all right then,” said Emily. “Another thing we don’t know is if there are more people somewhere in the universe.”

  “No, we don’t know that,” Auntie Dot agreed.

  “Do you think there are?”

  “I haven’t got a clue?” said Auntie Dot. “What do you think?”

  “I think there may be,” said Emily. “I once wrote a story about people living on another planet. Not people

  like us, you know, but aliens. Do you want to read it?”

  “I’d love to,” said Auntie Dot.

  “Uncle Raymond wouldn’t want to read it,” said Emily. “He didn’t even want to help me unstick the story I’m stuck on right now.”

  “I see,” said Auntie Dot.

  Emily waited.

  “Is that all?” Auntie Dot asked, trying to edge past Emily.

  “Still about the fire,” said Emily. “I wondered how it

  started. I once started a fire. I burnt my favourite dress.”

  “Yes, I heard about that from your mother and father,” said Auntie Dot.

  “Uncle Raymond didn’t remember,” said Emily.

  “He’s forgetful sometimes,” Auntie Dot said. “Especially now.”

  “Because of Gran?”

  “Yes. That, and other things.”

  “Have you ever started a fire, Auntie Dot?”

  “Only in a fireplace,” said Auntie Dot.

  “We don’t have a fireplace,” said Emily. “We have air conditioning.”

  “We don’t have a fireplace either,” said Auntie Dot. “Not anymore.”

  “Did the fire that burnt your house start in your fireplace?” asked Emily.

  The fluster returned. “Why don’t you ask Uncle Raymond about how it started,” Auntie Dot said. “I’d rather he told you.”

  “Why?” asked Emily. “I’ve already asked him but he didn’t give me a proper answer.”

  “Because,” said Auntie Dot.

  “Because why?” Emily said. “Is it a secret?”

  “Not, it’s not a secret,” said Auntie Dot.

  “Then why?”

  “Just because,” Auntie Dot repeated, managing to slip past Emily and escape.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I think Auntie Dot might have burnt their house down,” Emily whispered to her sister, when Sibbie came to bed. “By accident, of course. It’s not a shameful secret or anything. Uncle Raymond already told me it was an accident.”

  Sibbie laughed quietly. “What gave you the idea that poor Auntie Dot had anything to do with it?”

  “Auntie Dot herself.”

  “She told you she burnt their house down?”

  “Don’t shout! No, not exactly. I asked her how it happened but she wouldn’t say. She said I should ask Uncle Raymond. That means she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “It doesn’t mean she did it,” Sibbie scoffed. “Go and ask Uncle Raymond if you’re brave enough. Or mad enough. He’ll put you straight. But you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “If he talks to me at all,” said Emily. “Uncle Raymond might shut the door on me again. I mean, a fire isn’t a nice thing to remember, is it?”

  “Then why go on about it all the time?” asked

  Sibbie.

  “If I got an answer, then I wouldn’t have to,” said Emily. “You know something I don’t, don’t you?”

  “Lots of things,” said Sibbie.

  “I mean about the fire.”

  Sibbie shrugged. “If I do, I’m not saying. It’s not up to me,” she said. “Stick your head into the lion’s den if you want to, but be careful you don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”

  “You mean in the heel, don’t you?” said Emily.

  Sibbie had no answer to that.

  Emily turned over on her mattress, pleased that for once she had managed to have the last word.

  *

  The next day, Uncle Raymond’s door - the door to Emily’s room - was shut again. Ever since Emily had tried to cheer him up with the nice story of Gran and the ice cream, Uncle Raymond had kept the door closed whenever he was supposedly writing, or supposedly thinking about writing. He came out for breakfast, lunch and tea, and sometimes he and Auntie Dot went for a walk, or talked on the phone to lawyers,

  architects and builders. The rest of the time, however,

  he preferred to be by himself.

  Emily listened outside the door of Uncle Raymond’s room. Her room. She didn’t hear the sound of a keyboard being tapped. All she heard was the sound of silence.

  Feeling brave, or daring, or something in between, she tapped on the door.

  She knocked a second time.

  “Uncle Raymond?” she said, not too loudly but not too quietly either.

  She heard Uncle Raymond get up from his chair. Her chair. It’s creaked more loudly than ever.

  The door opened.

  “Yes?” said Uncle Raymond, looking down at Emily.

  “I have another question for you,” Emily said.

  Uncle Raymond sighed. “What have I done to deserve this inquisition?” he asked. “I’m busy.”

  “Are you really writing a new book or are you completely stuck?” said Emily. “I know you said that all writers are liars but, for once, tell me the hon
est truth.”

  Uncle Raymond hesitated. For a moment he looked

  as flustered as Auntie Dot had been the day before. “In

  my head,” he replied at last.

  “Still?”

  “Still. Festina lente.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means hurry slowly. A book written quickly is not always the best book to have written.”

  “Is that English?”

  “Certainly not. It’s another language altogether.”

  “I’m trying to learn barking,” said Emily. “That’s a language. Bertie’s teaching me. What language is yours?”

  “Latin,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “I’ve never heard of Latin,” said Emily.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Uncle Raymond. “Dead languages are not taught to juveniles these days.”

  “Why is it dead?”

  “Because it was spoken by the Ancient Romans, thousands of years ago. And there are no more Ancient Romans left in the world.”

  “Did they come from another planet?” asked Emily. “Or are they like Ancient Greeks?”

  Uncle Raymond shook his head. “Grant me

  patience,” he said. “Like Ancient Greeks but not quite

  so ancient.”

  “What’s your book going to be about?” asked Emily. “When it’s done? Ancient Romans?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “But you said you’re writing it, in your head. Was that just a metaphor?”

  Uncle Raymond sighed again, loudly. “All right,” he snapped. “I’ll come clean, Emily inquisitor. It was a lie. I am not writing a book. I am not even thinking about writing a book. I will never write or think about writing a book, ever again. Now, does that answer your not one but several questions?”

  Emily shook her head. Uncle Raymond was getting close to yelling at her, she thought. “None of those were actually the questions I was going to ask,” she said. “They were just extra ones that came into my head when you said you were busy.”

  “Grant me patience,” said Uncle Raymond a second time. “Ask your main question and be gone.”

  This time it was Emily who sighed. “This was my room, once,” she said. “Why should I be gone? Why

  don’t you go? Especially when you tell me nothing but