Sample chapter from the book The Grown Up Children’s Home.
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1
Pipistrella Clout worked in a nursing home. She wasn’t a very nice person, as her name might well suggest, and was the least favourite of all the staff who worked there. I say, least favourite, but in truth she wasn’t even that, for to be least favourite suggests there was at least a small amount of favouriteness about her. But there wasn’t. Not a bit. Not so much as an atom’s worth. Instead everyone loathed her. She was rude, she was mean and often very cruel.
Her frowning face was like a bag of broken glass and her hair sat atop her head like a blown up nest with blown up birds inside. It was dyed black and sprayed spiky. Her makeup was thick around her eyes and her lips were painted blood red. Even her teeth were sharp, making her look like a vampire.
When she walked into a room, everyone fell quiet.
Old ladies would hide behind their cushions. Old men would sink into their clothes like tortoises hiding in their shells. She even scared the other staff who shivered when she approached; not only because they were scared of her but because the temperature seemed to dip wherever she happened to be. Even when the heating was on full blast, the room she was in would feel like the depths of winter.
It was a Monday afternoon. The sun was shining and the windows were open. One of the other nurses, a nice lady called Mrs King, walked into the day room. A small, elderly lady stood beside her with a big white perm that made her look like a cloud.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said Mrs King. “We have a new resident moving in today. Her name’s Doris…”
“Hello Doris,” said the other residents.
The nurse introduced them one by one then showed Doris her room.
“All your things are here,” said Mrs King, “so I’m sure you’ll soon feel at home.”
Doris looked around the room. There was a bed and a bedside table. A dressing table with some of her things scattered across the top. There was a mirror, a chest of drawers, a television and a small bookcase which was, in the most part, empty.
“We’ll get some books for you,” said Mrs King, at which point the room went cold.
Pipistrella was standing beside her.
“What about my trolls?” Doris asked. She turned and gasped at the imposing figure of Pipistrella Clout.
“Trolls? What Trolls?” asked the jagged woman.
Before Doris could answer, Mrs King introduced ‘Ms Clout’.
“Ms Clout, this is Doris. She’s just moved in.”
“What Trolls?” said Pipistrella again, stepping towards the little old lady.
Doris smiled.
“There were lots of them living in the house. Bath trolls. Kitchen trolls. Shed trolls. Garden trolls…”
“Well,” said Mrs King. “I’ll leave you to settle in Doris. If you need anything, just pull on the red cord. Anything at all.”
With this Mrs King hurried away, leaving Pipistrella towering over Doris like a spider about to wrap a fly.
“Where was this?” asked Pipistrella. “Where did the trolls live?”
“I do hope they’re being looked after?” said Doris. Her hands were twitching. She jiggled around the room as if she were nervous.
“Oh I’m sure they are,” said Pipistrella, her tone of voice suddenly changing. She rested her bony hands on Doris shoulders and guided her towards the dressing table. “Now why don’t you tell me all about them,” she said. “Better still, why don’t you draw them? Make a nice picture for your room. Mm? Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Before Doris could answer, Pipistrella strode out of her room and into the office.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” asked Mrs Peel, the second favourite nurse at the home.
Pipistrella kept her tone of voice calm and pleasant.
“Oh,” she said. “Some felt-tip pens and paper for Doris. She wants to draw me a picture!”
“You got Doris to draw you a picture?” asked Mrs Peel incredulously.
Pipistrella smiled.
“What can I say? She likes me,” she said, fluttering her false eyelashes.
Back in Doris’ room, Pipistrella gave the old lady the paper and pens and straight away Doris began to draw.
“They’re all green,” she said, “but different sizes. You see?”
Pipistrella smiled.
“Yes, I see. And do they have names, these trolls?”
“Of course,” said Doris tersely. “How else would they talk to each other?”
“Of course,” said Pipistrella, laughing at herself. “Silly me.”
As Doris wrote the names, she read them aloud.
“Sigmund. Arp. Banglo. Nap. Perl. Reet. Dopple. Glop. Saddleback. Riverlo. Sal. Pepa. Bodgitt. Crumb. Potlock and Oblob.”
“How sweet!” said Pipistrella, as Mrs King and Mrs Peel stood outside the door, frowning at the fact she was being so kind and attentive. Normally, she told new arrivals it wasn’t worth unpacking as they’d be dead soon.
“And who are these two?” asked Pipistrella, pointing to what she assumed were two girls standing beside the trolls.
“That’s me and my best friend Millicent,” said Doris. “And this…”
Pipistrella’s eyes grew wider and wider as Doris drew the outline of a box.
“This,” said Doris again, as she coloured in the box. “Is our treasure.”
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Mr Fletcher had been looking for a house for ages. The trouble was, he was a bit fussy and didn’t like anything he saw.
“Too small,” he’d say, or, “too modern.”
Everything he looked at was a bit too something.
A bit too high.
A bit too wide.
A bit too long.
And a bit too low.
“A bit too ‘housey’,” he’d once said.
Housey?
“Yes, you know.”
“No,” said his son, Zack.
“We don’t,” said Lucy, his daughter.
Scroggs Lettings and Estate Agents were the last on Mr Fletcher’s list (everyone else had told him to go away) and Mr Scroggs himself – an old man well past the age of retirement – was to have the
pleasure of helping Mr Fletcher find a house.
“So,” said Mr Scroggs, jabbing his glasses back to the top of his nose, from where they would slowly slide as if his nose were melting (his nose did look a bit like an upside down candle, with one black hair sticking out the bottom like a last bit of wick). “Where were we?”
“Er, nowhere,” said Mr Fletcher. “I’ve only just sat down.”
“Have you?” said Mr Scroggs, looking at the pad on his desk. “You’re not Mr Smith?”
The name Mr Smith was written at the top of the page. He’d underlined it twice.
“No. I’m Mr Fletcher.”
“I see,” said Mr Scroggs, jabbing his glasses. He looked very confused. “But you are looking for a house?”
“Er yes. That’s right.”
“Well Mr Smith,” said Mr Scroggs, pulling the lid off his pen. “Tell me about your ideal house. What does it look like?”
Mr Fletcher imagined his perfect home and as he formed a picture in his mind, he started to describe it.
“Old, but not too old.
Big, but not too big.
Quirky, but not too quirky.
In need of some work, but not too much work.
Full of character, but not too full of character.
Old fashioned. But not too old fashioned.”
He opened his eyes and looked at Mr Scroggs who was writing it all down, very slowly.
“Old but, what was it?”
Mr Fletcher tried to remember what he’d said, then said it all again.
“Old. But not too old.
Big. But not too big.
Quirky. But not too quirky…”
Mr Scroggs nodded as he wrote.
“Big, but not too…?”
“Big!” said Mr Fletcher.
“Well, Mr Smith,” said Mr Scroggs half an hour later. “That’s that bit done. Now let’s see what we have.”
Mr Fletcher had expected Mr Scroggs to type the words into a computer. But unlike all the other members of staff, Mr Scroggs didn’t have a computer. His desk was completely bare, except for the pad and pen. Instead, Mr Scroggs leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, nodding then shaking his head, umming and ahhhing before snoring loudly, his one nasal hair crackling like a whip with every exhalation.
Mr Fletcher wondered if this was part of the process. His computer at home sometimes made a noise like that while trying to search the web.
Half an hour later, Mr Scroggs woke up and frowned at Mr Fletcher.
“Oh,” he said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mr Fletcher,” said Mr Fletcher. “You were looking for a house?”
“Was I?” asked Mr Scroggs, looking around the office.
Mr Fletcher looked at the other members of staff who were busy typing and answering phones.
“Well,” said Mr Scroggs. “I’ve come to the right place it seems. What have you got?”
Mr Fletcher frowned and looked again at Mr Scroggs’ colleagues.
“No, I’m the one looking for a house,” he said. “You’re the one who works here.”
“But you said I was looking.”
“You are. For me. You’re looking for a house for me.”
“I’m buying you a house?”
Mr Fletcher sighed at which point three men burst into the office like three bin bags hurled through the door. They shut the door and brushed themselves down before marching purposefully towards Mr Fletcher, who half stood ready to run away. The three men were about the same age as Mr Fletcher and looked – like Mr Scroggs’ nose – like candles in various states of melt.
The first, Bert, was tall and straight with a thick head of hair.
The last, Boris, was short and squat with no hair at all.
And the one in between, Ben, was, well, in between. Neither short nor tall and balding with a wedge of hair growing around his head. He looked a bit like Saturn (if Saturn’s rings were brown and a bit curly).
“Alright Barry,” Boris said, his eyes on Mr Scroggs.
“Oh, hello boys,” said Mr Scroggs nervously. “What can I do for you?”
‘It’s more a case of what you can do for us,” said Ben, at which Mr Fletcher frowned.
“Isn’t that the same thing?” he asked.
“And who might you be clever clogs?” Boris asked, mopping his bald head with a handkerchief.
“This is Mr Smith,” said Mr Scroggs. “I’m buying him a house.”
Boris frowned.
“No,” said Mr Fletcher. “I’m Mr Fletcher and I’m looking for a house to buy myself.”
“Well you’re in the right place for that,” said Bert.
“You think?”
“Of course. Mr Scroggs is very good at finding houses. Aren’t you Mr Scroggs?”
Mr Scroggs nodded nervously whereupon Bert stepped forward and leaned on his desk.
“So, have you found us anything?” he asked. “You know what we’re looking for.”
“I’m sorry boys,” he said. “There’s not been anything new this week. Maybe next week?”
Boris continued staring as if he hadn’t heard what Mr Scroggs had said. Then he nodded.
“Very well Barry. We’ll come back next week when you’ve found something to show us.”
And with that, the three men – Boris, Bert and Ben – left the office.
“Interesting gentlemen,” said Mr Fletcher.
Mr Scroggs said nothing but opened a drawer in his desk.
“I told a lie,” he said with a smile. “There was a new house. Needs a bit of work”
From the drawer he took a sheet of paper which he pushed across the desk to Mr Fletcher. On it was a picture of an old, tumbledown house that was anything but new.
“I think, Mr Smith,” said Mr Scroggs. “It might just be what you’re looking for.”
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“It’s big,” said Lucy, looking up at dad’s ‘new’ house.
“And old,” said Zack.
“Yes, yes,” said Mr Fletcher dismissively, waving his hand. “But look, it’s so full of character!”
Zack and Lucy looked at the wonky windows and the door. It looked a bit like the house was pulling a silly face.
“Maybe a bit too full of character?” the twins said together.
Again, Mr Fletcher waved his hand and picked up their bags.
“Come on!” he said. “Let’s go inside.”
“It has an inside?” whispered Lucy, looking up at what looked like a large hole in the roof.
“Full of character?” muttered Zack. “More like full of holes.”
Mr Fletcher ignored them both as he wrestled with the keys in his pocket, pulling out a large set that looked like those of a jailer.
“Lady and Gentleman,” he said, as he put the biggest key (which looked like something you’d find in a museum) into the rusty lock (which also looked like something you’d find in a museum). “Allow me to present to you…” he said through gritted teeth as he turned the key. “Our new, old house!”
He turned the handle and pushed at the door. He pushed it again, but it didn’t want to open. He smiled, not a little embarrassed.
“Needs a bit of oil,” he said, pushing at the door with his shoulder. Zack and Lucy joined in and pushed, whereupon, BAM! It fell down into the hall.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Lucy.
“I think you better fix the drawbridge dad,” said Zack, stepping across it into the large hall.
Mr Fletcher followed and put the bags down before lifting up the door and wedging it back in place. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, the sound echoing around the empty house like a small flock of birds.
“It’s very… empty” said Lucy, taking a few tentative steps around the empty hall from where, in the day’s fading light, the stairs rose like an old concertina pulled off the ground.
“But full of promise,” said Mr Fletcher, remembering what Mr Scroggs had said on his first visit. “As you can see,” he continued, beginning the tour, “the house is quirky with lots of period details; exposed beams…”
Mr Fletcher pointed up at a part of the ceiling from which the plaster had fallen. It was lying in a pile on the floor. He smiled as he led his children into the kitchen. He kicked a cupboard door – which despite being kicked several times refused to stay shut – and muttered “we can fix that easily enough”. It was a phrase he would use a great deal as they walked around the house and would use time and again for several weeks to come.
When the curtains fell down in the sitting room.
We can fix that easily enough.
When his foot went through a floorboard in the dining room.
We can fix that easily enough.
When a radiator fell off the wall.
We can fix that easily enough.
And in the bathroom when he turned on the taps and all that came out was a strange, honking sound, Zack and Lucy both said together.
“We can fix that easily enough.”
Mr Fletcher nodded.
“That’s the spirit! Now, I expect you would all like to see the bedrooms!”
Without waiting for an answer, he strode out the bathroom, avoiding another hole in the floor and walked through a door into the first bedroom.
“Lucy,” he said, waving his hand like a magician revealing to his audience something truly astonishing. “I thought you’d like this one. What do you think?”
Lucy gasped. The thing that was truly astonishing was the very idea that she would want to sleep there.
She turned on her heels and walked out.
“Zack? Would you like to…?”
Zack smiled and followed his sister out the room.
As a tour, he had to admit, it wasn’t going well. But there were six other bedrooms from which they could choose.
“They’re all terrible,” said Lucy, brushing her hands.
“But they’ll be fine once we’ve bought you a bed,” said Mr Fletcher.
Lucy stared at him, her eyes like daggers.
“Once we’ve decorated…”
Zack too, stared at his dad.
“Once we’ve done the repairs…”
Lucy groaned loudly, her voice ricocheting between the peeling walls.
Oh I know, it’s bit of a heap!”
“A bit?”
“But if feels nice. Don’t you think? When Mr Scroggs showed me around….”
“Scroggs?” said Zack. “What kind of a name is that?”
“When he showed me around, Mr Scroggs kept saying as much himself. ‘Can’t you feel it Mr Smith? Can’t you feel that homeliness?’”
“Mr Smith?”
“Yes. He kept getting my name wrong,”
“It’s not the only thing he got wrong is it?” said Zack, following his sister downstairs. “All I can feel is the cold.”
“There aren’t even any beds,” said Lucy. “Where did you think we were going to sleep? On the floor?”
“Where there is a floor,” said Zack.
Mr Fletcher nodded, acknowledging his children’s annoyance. Then he smiled and waved again, pointing in the direction of the garden.
“Oh no,” said Zack. “What now?”
Walking through the sitting room, they entered the ramshackle conservatory. The outside had started growing inside, with brambles and nettles reaching in through the broken panes of glass. And just as
Lucy was about to complain again, she saw a sight in the garden that really was astonishing.
“Oh dad,” she said, smiling.
“It’s amazing,” said Zack.
Outside in the garden, the lights Mr Fletcher had hung in the trees, cast a warm, orange glow over the brand new tents.
“Those,” said Mr Fletcher smiling, “are new. As are the beds inside.”
The tents were large and above the entrance to each, Mr Fletcher had hung a sign with their names on. Inside were proper beds piled high with thick, feather duvets and blankets. There were rugs and chests of drawers in which they could put their clothes. Lucy and Zack walked around with smiles stretched across their faces.
Comfortable chairs had been arranged around a fire pit which, they could tell, their dad had already been using.
“Why not?” he said, looking up at the darkening sky, in which the first of the night’s stars began to appear. “It’s lovely sitting here, looking up at the heavens.”
“Can we eat out here tonight dad? Zack asked hopefully.
Mr Fletcher nodded.
“We haven’t any choice,” he said. “The oven doesn’t work. But…”
And together they said in unison:
“We can fix that easily enough.”
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“That was delicious!” said Zack as he leaned back in his chair. He stretched out his legs and put his hands behind his head. “This really is the life.”
His sister wasn’t so sure.
“It was nice, thank you dad,” she said. “But if you’re going to find someone new, the old tent and campfire routine isn’t going to do it. We’ll need to sort the house out.”
“Someone new?” asked Mr Fletcher. “Who said I wanted someone new?”
“Of course you do,” said Lucy, almost as a rebuke. “You can’t crash about here on your own.”
“Crash about? Is that what you think I do?”
“We know you do,” said Lucy.
“Have you heard yourself walking up the stairs?”
Mr Fletcher smiled. He knew he was a little clumsy but hadn’t been aware that he was quite that loud. He never really thought of himself as being alone either.
“I shall try and be a little less noisy,” he said.
“Especially with all the echoes,” said Zack. “Makes everything ten times worse.”
Lucy smiled. “We wouldn’t want you to be anything less than what you are,” she said. “But a good haircut won’t do you any harm.”
“Thank you love,” Mr Fletcher said. “I shall bear that in mind.”
For the rest of the night they sat around the fire looking up at the stars. Mr Fletcher even got his guitar out and together they sang some songs.
It was, for him, one of the nicest nights he’d had in a very long time.
The next day, when he climbed out of his tent, bleary eyed and yawning, Mr Fletcher was amazed to find Zack and Lucy already up, cooking breakfast on the fire.
“Full English OK for you dad?” Zack asked.
Mr Fletcher stretched open his eyes, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. On the fire was a frying pan with sausages spitting and sizzling. There was bacon and eggs and a small pan of beans.
“Where did you find all this?” he asked, falling into his seat.
Lucy handed him a mug of coffee.
“I went shopping and Zack looked through your boxes.”
“Brave man,” said Mr Fletcher, sipping his drink.
Zack nodded.
“You are,” he said. “Taking on this place.”
“Well, you know me,” replied Mr Fletcher. “I like a challenge. Talking of which, how’s mum?” he asked, putting down his cup as Lucy handed him his breakfast.
“She’s good,” she said.
A silence sat between them.
“And Bill?”
“He’s alright,” said Zack, passing his dad a slice of toast. “But that’s all he is. Alright.”
Mr Fletcher smiled.
“I don’t suppose he would like this much,” he said, pointing at the tents and the campfire. Bill was someone who liked luxury. Everything he had, had to be new and the best money could buy, because he had a lot of money. Mr Fletcher could see it in the clothes his children had and things like their phones and tablets. He couldn’t afford stuff like that and sometimes felt the lesser for it.
“He’d sooner sit in posh hotel room,” said Lucy. “His loss,” she added with a smile. “As for the house…”
Mr Fletcher smiled. He knew it was a bit of a pile and there had been many a day since he’d bought it that he rather wished he hadn’t. He cast his eyes over its wonky windows, the missing panes of glass and the rotten frames and sills. There was the hole in the roof and grass growing out the gutters.
“Bill would knock it down and build a new one,” said Zack, gulping down a sausage.
“But think of what you’d lose as a result,” his dad replied. “All that history. Parts of the house are almost four hundred years old.”
“Which parts are those?” asked Lucy.
Mr Fletcher smiled.
“The bits that are still standing.”
Once they had finished eating, Mr Fletcher, Zack and Lucy cleared away the breakfast things and took them to the kitchen.
“I’ll wash up,” said Mr Fletcher. “You can wipe,” he added, throwing a tea towel at Zack.
Lucy went upstairs to use the shower.
“There isn’t one,” said her dad.
“You haven’t got a shower?”
“We haven’t got a shower. Not yet.”
“Well I’ll just have to have a bath then. You do have a bath?”
“We do,” he said. Then he whispered to Zack. “Though whether it works or not is anyone’s guess.”
“You don’t know?” asked Zack, wiping a plate.
Dad shook his head. “I’ve not had one yet.”
“Then where do you wash? You do wash?”
Dad looked at the sink.
“Oh that’s gross!” said Zack, throwing the tea towel at his dad’s head, for which he got a dollop of foam in his face.
They laughed then laughed harder still when Lucy turned the taps on in the bathroom.
HONK!!
The sound was like an elephant pulling a car across the floor.
“Is everything alright up there?” Mr Fletcher yelled.
They could hear Lucy running down the stairs.
“At least we know where she gets that from,” said Mr Fletcher as his daughter appeared in the kitchen.
“You won’t believe this Luce,” said Zack. “Dad’s been washing…”
But before he could finish what he was saying, his sister – who looked like she’d seen a ghost – shrieked something they couldn’t understand.
“What was that?” her dad asked.
“I said, what the hell is that noise?! It scared me to death!”
“We thought it was you running down the stairs,” said Zack, earning himself a kick.
“It’s an old house love,” said Mr Fletcher. “Old houses make funny noises sometimes.”
“Oh, is that going to be your excuse from now?” laughed Zack. “It’s the house.”
“I want a bath,” said Lucy. “And there isn’t any water.”
“No water?”
“You sound surprised,” said Zack as they all walked back upstairs to the bathroom.
The bathroom was large with a big window overlooking the garden. The bath too was big. “Like a swimming pool” said Zack, who tugged at the old brass tap and turned it on.
At first there was a hiss and what sounded like a laugh. Then a shushing sound.
Zack looked at Lucy, then at his dad.
“That’s what it did before,” said Lucy. “I thought you were in here whispering.”
“Whispering?”
“Don’t you think it sounds like…”
Before she could finish, there came the sound that had made her jump out of her skin.
HONK!
It was like a flock of geese honking on a riverbank. The taps juddered, pipes clanged and then at last water began pouring from the tap.
Water!” Mr Fletcher exclaimed excitedly.
“You say it like it’s a miracle dad.” Lucy was shouting, her hands still over her ears. “They’re taps! It’s what taps do!”
“Well, we’ll leave you in peace to enjoy your bath. Come on Zack.”
Once they had left the bathroom and once the bath was full, Lucy climbed in and began to relax in the warm water. But as she lay there and closed her eyes – trying her best not to think of geese – she heard what sounded like a giggle coming from somewhere inside the bathroom.
“Zack! Dad! Grow up!” she bellowed.
“What was that?” Zack asked, finishing off the drying in the kitchen.
Mr Fletcher shrugged his shoulders.
“Are you alright love?” he shouted.
Lucy frowned then sat up in the bath. She could still hear giggling and then a shhhhh. She climbed out the bath, put on her bathrobe and crept to the door. She listened for a moment, then grabbing hold of the handle, pulled it open.
“Got you!”
But there was no-one there.
“What was that Luce?” she heard her brother shout from downstairs.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “It’s nothing.”
Zack looked at his dad and reached into the sink to pull out the plug.
“Oh don’t let the water go!” Mr Fletcher said. “I can use that for washing in.”
Zack’s face crumpled with disgust.
“You ARE joking?!” he said, looking at the grey-brown water, turn in a slow burping eddy around the plug hole. “It’s filthy! Look at all the bits…”
“Nonsense!” said Mr Fletcher, taking off his shirt. And no sooner had he done so, than he flicked it at his son and ran upstairs.
Zack ran after him and as they stood on the landing – avoiding the missing floorboards – they heard a sound like nothing they’d heard before; a loud, belching sound that rattled the windows and shook
the floor.
“Lucy!” exclaimed Zack. “Was that you?!”
“Must be the beans,” said Mr Fletcher.
Lucy opened the door with a face like thunder. “Of course it wasn’t me!” she said. “It’s this house!”
She flounced up the landing to one of the bedrooms, walked in and slammed the door. Again the whole house seemed to shake and a sprinkle of dust fell from a hole in the ceiling.
“It’s an old house,” Mr Fletcher said. “It’s what old houses do.”
“Old houses creak,” said Zack. “They don’t burp and fart.”
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But burp and fart the old house did. All through the weekend. Whenever the washing up was done or when anyone had a bath; the water would run down the plug hole and finish with a loud, resounding:
BUUUUUUURRRRRRRRPPPPPPPP!
But there was always that other sound too, a giggling which Mr Fletcher said must also be the pipes.
That night he cooked a stew on the fire, hanging a large pot from three large sticks he’d found in the garden.
“Where on earth did you get that?” asked Zack, nodding at the pot. “It looks like a cauldron.”
“I found it in the basement,” Mr Fletcher replied. “Don’t worry, I gave it a good scrub.”
Zack exchanged glances with his sister who looked up at the stars peppering the sky.
“That one there is Betelgeuse,” she said pointing. “Can you see it’s sort of red?”
Zack squinted and after some direction, found the one she was looking at.
“The light you’re seeing now, left that star seven hundred years ago. Imagine that!”
“I never knew you liked astronomy,” said Mr Fletcher. He was always keen to find something with which he might connect with his children. “I’ll have to get a telescope. Would you like that?”
“I would,” Lucy said, smiling.
“Then that is what we’ll do.”
Lucy shrugged. Zack meanwhile was busy thinking.
“So, if they had a telescope on Betelgeuse, they would see this place as it was 700 years ago?”
“Yep,” said Lucy. “Although, being a Red Giant, it’s hardly likely there’d be any life there.”
“No, but suppose there was. They’d see the house just after it had been built.”
“Hey!” said dad, stirring the stew. “It’s not that old. But you’re right Zack. If there are little green men up there…”
“…and women,” said Lucy.
“And women, quite right,” said Mr Fletcher. “If there are little green people up there, 700 light years away, then should they have a telescope trained on the planet – on this particular spot – they’d have to wait another 700 years before they saw us.”
Zack’s mouth fell open, his eyes wide like saucers.
“And that’s probably what they look like Zack,” said Mr Fletcher, doing an impression of his son.
Zack closed his mouth and sat back in the chair, savouring every moment of this outdoor life. He loved the sound of the fire crackling and spitting, its smell mingling with that of the food bubbling in the cauldron.
“Do you think there is life up there?” he asked, nodding at the sky.
“There must be,” said Lucy. “We can’t be the only ones. There are a hundred billion stars in the galaxy and a hundred billion galaxies. How could there not be life elsewhere?”
“And do you think they’re little and green?”
Lucy smiled.
“If I ever come face to face with one, I’d rather they’d be small and green than anything else.”
“Well,” said Mr Fletcher. “On that note. I think it’s time to eat.”
He picked up a ladle and adopted a strange, stooping kind of pose. He pulled a face and talked like an old witch.
“Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” he said, slopping some strew onto Zack’s plate.
“Am I going to turn into something little and green?” he asked, jabbing at the stew with a piece of pitta bread.
‘You’ll have to wait and see,” said Mr Fletcher, still with his silly voice and face. “And for you my pretty?”
Lucy took the plate and smiled, then raising her glass of cola she said: “Here’s to little green men.”
“To little green men,” they all said together.
Later that night Lucy woke with a start. For a place so quiet it made a lot of noise, what with the owls and foxes. But there was another noise, like someone, or something, walking about outside. She sat up, clutching her duvet and listened. Her heart was pounding and broke into her ears as she tried to hear it again. There it was!
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
“Dad?” she whispered. “Is that you?”
But she could hear him snoring in the tent beside her.
“Zack?”
She moved towards the zip and pulled it up a little, hoping to see her brother walking about outside. But there was nothing. Just the embers of the fire and the cauldron cold above it. She poked out her head and glanced across to Zack’s tent. She could hear him snoring too.
Having found her torch she turned it on and nervously crept outside, pointing the beam this way and that, lighting up the windows, the trees, the flowers and…
What was that?
A shrub moved.
Something was hiding inside.
“Hello?” she said, as much to herself as anything, not wanting to disturb her dad or Zack. “Is anyone there?”
Of course if anyone was there, they wouldn’t be up to any good and were hardly likely to turn around and say, “hello!” back. She crept towards the shrub, but heard something rustling behind her.
Just the wind she thought.
It stirred the embers in the fire, making them glow.
And then she heard a sound like a giggle, followed by a shhhhh – just like in the bathroom.
“Who is that?” she asked, pointing the torch here and there as if to try and catch whoever, whatever it was. She carried on towards the shrub as the wind blew and rustled the leaves. It blew inside her tent and made the canvas flap.
Then suddenly, something darted out from behind the shrub and ran off down the garden.
She screamed and waved her torch, trying to catch whatever it was, and in the shaky beam, saw what looked like a little green bum running into the dark.
She screamed again.
“Lucy? What on earth is it?”
Mr Fletcher climbed out in his dressing gown and slippers and stood next to his daughter.
“A little green man,” she said, pointing down the garden.
Her dad laughed a “what?”
“It’s true!”
“What did she say?” asked Zack, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
“I said I saw a little green man, running down the garden.”
“Are you sure?” asked her brother.
“Yes, I’m sure.” She paused for a minute. “I saw his bum.”
At this both Mr Fletcher and Zack burst out laughing. Lucy furiously pushed her torch at Zack and told him to go and check.
“You want me to go down the garden and look for… what? An alien bum?”
“Yes!”
“Right,” said Zack, raising his eyebrows at Mr Fletcher, who was trying his best not to laugh anymore.
“You don’t suppose you were dreaming love,” he said. “All that talk of Betelgeuse and aliens.”
Lucy shook her head.
“No, I saw it, over there behind the shrub. I could hear it laughing.”
“Laughing?”
“Yes, laughing!”
Mr Fletcher remembered what he’d said to Zack, about the giggling in the house. This time weren’t any pipes to blame it on.
“Could it have been the wind?”
“The wind doesn’t make a laughing sound,” said Lucy.
“You’d be surprised what sounds it makes when you’re half-asleep.”
At this point Zack appeared.
“Well? Did you find it? Our little green man?”
Zack shook his head.
“No beetles, no juice. Nothing,” he said, proud of his rather bad joke.
Lucy rolled her eyes but just as they went back to their tents, Mr Fletcher stopped. He pointed the torch back at the shrub.
“What is it?” Lucy asked.
“Won’t be a minute,” he said, as he crept to the shrub and awkwardly manoeuvred himself behind, squatting down so just his head was showing above the top.
“Oh no!” said Zack. “ He’s not doing a…” He would have been less horrified if he’d actually seen a little green man.
“Oh Dad, that’s gross…”
“Dad?! What are you doing?”
“No! Don’t tell us!” said Lucy, trying to cover both her eyes and ears. “We really don’t need to know!”
After a minute Mr Fletcher stood back up and walked over to his children.
His children backed away.
“What?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”
“What were you doing?” they asked together.
“What did you think I was doing?”
They stared back, eyes wide.
“I was looking for tracks,” he said, frowning as if they were mad. “If there was a little green man, then it might have left some tracks in the soil.”
“And were there any?” Lucy asked, relieved.
“No. Nothing. It must have been a dream love. I’m going back to bed. Night night.”
Lucy nodded and went back to her tent. And as she lay there thinking of the little green bum, she thought she heard it again; the giggle and the shushing sound. But a few minutes later, she was sleeping like a baby.
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