Emily's Penny Dreadful (9 page)

  “
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 together 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 honest 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.”