Emily's Penny Dreadful (3 page)

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 older
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