The Yoghurt Plot (10 page)

Lorna's scream is very good. It sends prickles down my back.

‘Look!' says the man behind me. ‘Look, she's stuck – and the tide's coming in.'

‘The poor little thing!' says his wife. ‘Quick, call the coastguard, Ernest. There's a phone box up by the shops.' She turns and flaps her hands at the air. ‘Help, help, there's a girl stuck on the footings of the pier! Help!'

Ernest runs for the phone box. More people gather to stare and shout at Lorna, who is doing a full-on impersonation of someone stuck, which indeed she might be by now. ‘Help!' says Dilan feebly.

‘Help,' I echo, watching the people, in case any of them are trying to set fire to the pier.

‘The phone box is bust!' yells Ernest. ‘Ruddy kids have broken the phone off.' He holds out a black telephone receiver with a tangle of red wires dangling beneath.

‘Help!' calls Lorna. ‘The sea's rising.' Water laps around the concrete post she's clinging to. It looks as if she might truly be in trouble.

‘I'll run down to the one in Station Road,' says another man.

‘Fat lot of good that'll do,' says a third. ‘It was vandalised last night.'

‘I could go to the doctor's surgery,' says a woman.

‘You need the firemen,' says another. ‘They've got ladders. Hang on there, girly, we'll have you off in a jiffy.'

‘What about Dave?' I mutter to Dilan. ‘His dad's a fireman – he must know how to get hold of them.'

‘Right,' says Dilan. ‘Give me the tickets. I'll run and get him.'

Dilan vanishes into the crowd and I stand back and, with my eyes popping from staring, study every inch of the pier. I can't see anyone, and I can't see any sign of fire. Glancing back over my shoulder I see the town clock. Six forty-five. Within half an hour it should be well and truly ablaze. Surely it couldn't happen that fast.

Dilan and Dave rush out of the pier entrance. Dave jumps on his Chopper, pulling an accidental wheelie all the way along the promenade. ‘He'll bring them,' says Dilan. ‘I just hope it isn't too soon. Anything happened?'

I shake my head. ‘I can't see anything.'

‘What's that?' says Dilan, pointing towards a small orange boat bobbing out at sea.

It's an inflatable dinghy. It's difficult to make out which way it's heading. There's definitely someone on-board, but from this distance they're just a grey blob. ‘I can't make them out,' I say.

Dilan's practically hanging over the railings. ‘Nor me – although I think there's only one person.'

I rush to the sea telescope on the other side of the pier. ‘10p, it says. Have we got 10p?' I pull the last coins out of my pocket, and there, among the pennies, is a shiny old 10p piece. It slips into the slot and the telescope starts to tick.

‘There – left a bit,' says Dilan, swinging the telescope around so that I can see the little orange dinghy. I twiddle with the focus until I identify the person on-board rowing towards us.

‘Eddie Henderson,' I say.

‘Where?' says Dilan.

‘In the boat.'

‘Let's see.' Dilan grabs the telescope and pushes me away. ‘Blimey – he's really young.'

‘Yes – but old enough to know what he's doing.'

‘What?' asks Dilan.

‘He's time-travelling, he shouldn't be here. When they investigate the fire, they'll find out that he's in bed asleep.'

‘How do you know?' asks Dilan, still staring through the telescope.

‘I went – oh – it's too complicated to explain now. What's he doing?'

‘Getting closer.'

‘And?' I say, peering at the figure in the boat.

‘He's got something in his hands. It might be a petrol can  …  I'm not sure.'

I imagine the speed of petrol flames. I've seen it plenty of times in the movies. It only takes a second for everything to go up.

‘What do we do?' asks Dilan.

‘We grab him. Red-handed.'

It doesn't take long to find our way to the door at the back of the pier. Peering over the side, we can see Lorna's still clinging to her rock, although from here I can also see that she could easily wade to shore. ‘Help,' she wails mournfully. If Miss Swanson from drama club saw this she'd give Lorna the lead in the Christmas show. It's a brilliant performance.

The little orange boat is bobbing a few feet from the first of the iron girders that hold the pier up out of the sea, but out of sight of all the people on the shore. From above, Eddie Henderson's intentions are quite clear. Two petrol cans, a load of sheets and some newspapers lie in the bottom of the dinghy. Enough to set practically anything on fire.

Lying on my stomach and peering between the floorboards, I watch Henderson drift under the iron girders until his boat reaches the older wooden posts that are right beneath the pier and reach up into the structure.

Dilan flattens himself against the deck and stares through the gaps. ‘He's tying the boat up,' he says.

I look back towards the shore. The fire engine's there; Lorna's in the arms of an enormous man dressed from head to toe in yellow and the crowd is cheering.

But the man in the boat's not interested. He's ripping the sheets into long strips and tying them around the legs of the pier, right below the ballroom.

‘Why can't they see what he's doing?' asks Dilan.

‘The ballroom's so large that no one can see what happens underneath the pier, just like they can't see us. He can do what he likes. No one'll know until they see the smoke,' I say, looking around for anything that would help us. There's a lifebelt, and a stack of rotting wood, and strapped to a post is something that might be an emergency flare.

‘Any idea how these things work?' I ask.

Dilan grabs it off me and bashes the end against the wooden deck. A shower of sparks springs from the end, belching smoke and stink, and then three little pompoms of orange fire leap high into the evening sky.

I watch them and then look back towards the shore. People are pointing at us.

‘Here,' I shout, jumping into the air and pointing down at my feet. ‘HE'S TRYING TO SET FIRE TO THE PIER!'

Dilan leaps up and down and waves his arms. ‘BELOW US – in a boat!'

I don't suppose for one minute that they can hear us, but two firemen break into a slow run along the promenade and stop up by the telescope.

I wave again, and look down towards the boat below.

He's pouring the petrol onto the sheets he wrapped around the pier, and plenty more of it is falling onto the sea, spreading in a great lethal rainbow across the waves.

‘He's got petrol!' I shout.

‘Yes,' says Dilan. ‘Petrol!'

Over by the promenade railings, I can see Dave Dando pulling at one of the firemen and pointing. Together they run for the little collection of upside-down rowing boats clustered on the beach.

‘Yes!' I shout, just as Eddie Henderson rows away from the pier, hidden by the decking until he reaches the very end and the open sea.

And, just as he throws the match  … 

Dave Dando's dad was a rowing champion when he was younger, which is just as well, because he and Dave and a fire extinguisher reach us at the same time as the first flames lick up over the boards of the pier.

Seconds later we're in the boat and a huge jet of water arrives from the fire engine, which has moved along the promenade and is now drenching the pier.

‘Who was it?' says Dave's dad.

‘Eddie Henderson? I think,' I say.

Dave's dad picks the radio out of his yellow coat and says things like ‘Henderson boy', ‘roger' and ‘tango' and ‘south-easterly direction'.

Dave looks adoringly at his dad, who pats Dave on the head. ‘Good work, son,' he says, turning the boat for the shore.

I look back at the fire. Smoke curls into the sky, but in a slow, tired way. Beyond the pier, I can see Eddie Henderson rowing like crazy, but another boat is catching him up, this time with an outboard motor, three men in yellow and a man in a uniform.

‘Good work,' says Dave's dad. ‘Good work.'

The sand bumps the bottom of the boat and we jump out into the arms of feather-clad women and black-suited men.

‘Bravo!'

‘Sensational!'

‘Magnificent!'

Dragged from the rowing boat, we stumble up to the entrance of the pier, bowled along by the feathers and perfume until we're rammed into the ballroom and seated in the front row.

‘Would you like some lemonade?' asks a woman. ‘Some toffee?'

‘What about a Walnut Whip?' asks another.

Lorna wriggles in next to us, slightly damp, but grinning from ear to ear.

I grin back.

A giant voice booms through the loudspeakers, ‘
Welcome, everyone! Starting a little late, but not to worry. Here in the Castle Ballroom, Shabbiton, I'd like to present our first couple in the Frank Darnell Competition cup, competing for the tango – Verity Cowley and Derek Simmons!!'

The house lights dim and a giant spotlight centres in on the dance floor. From somewhere in the darkness a real orchestra strikes up, and a woman in a magenta backless dress trots onto the floor, her hand held by a tall, suited man with an enormous moustache. They whisk, whirl, tremble, and the audience gasps in appreciation. The woman bends backwards until her tightly pulled bun brushes the floor, her partner tosses her over his head as if she weighed as little as the sequins on her tights.

When they finish the audience erupts into an ecstasy of clapping.

‘Quite good,' says Dave, chomping a toffee. ‘For dancing.'

‘
And now, the Castle Ballroom's very own Arnold Wells – and Doreen Golightly. Take your places, please
.'

They sizzle. There's no other word I can use to describe what's happening in front of my eyes. Granddad and Miss Golightly, the school secretary, sizzle. Every movement is crisp and dynamic. I know, from watching Granddad's videos, that their shoulder lines are perfect, that her leg lifts are spot on, that their faces are showing exactly the right level of superiority and that their eyes are meeting and burning with passion.

For the whole time that they dance, I don't breathe. I don't think anyone here does. This is perfection. What we're seeing is a dance that'll be remembered forever. One that wouldn't have taken place if the fridge hadn't sent us back.

When they finish, she's almost flat on the ground, their fingertips touching. There's a silence before the audience cascades into roaring applause. They stand, they clap, they shout, they slap each other on the back, while Granddad and Miss Golightly bow slightly to the judges and disappear into the darkness.

‘Gordon Bennett,' says Dave.

‘Exactly,' says Dilan, wiping what I know is a tear from his eye.

‘Was that your Granddad?' whispers Lorna. But I can't answer, because I've got a huge lump in my throat.

We leave before the end. It's Dilan's idea. He says, quite rightly, that we can't afford to get caught up in what happens next. We need to get away before we mess up time. I feel sad as we turn our backs on the pier. Watching Granddad dance was like …  well, like a rainbow, or Christmas, or eating baked potatoes round a bonfire.

‘I'd like to have found out who won, what happened,' says Lorna.

‘But you will,' says Dilan. ‘In the present – Granddad'll tell us. At least he'll have something to say when we get back, and we might actually understand some of it.'

‘What are you blathering on about?' says Dave.

Dilan blushes red and clamps his hand over his mouth. ‘Nothing,' he says.

Dave looks at us doubtfully.

I say nothing. Anything I say is bound to make things worse. We've committed a major time-sin. We've made friends with someone from the past and hinted that we're from the future. I'm sure that's not allowed.

Dave pinches his brow. ‘Something odd about you lot.'

‘Is there?' says Lorna.

‘Hmm, can't put my finger on it. Those shorts for a start,' he says, pointing at Dilan's pants sticking out over the top.

We stand quietly. Personally I'm trying to think of a really good excuse for what Dilan just said.

‘Anyway,' says Dave, ‘got to get home for my tea. See you around.'

He pedals off and Dilan sighs with relief. ‘Sorry,' he says.

‘Anyway, we did it,' I say. ‘We followed the instructions from the fridge. We made Arnold dance.'

‘So do you think that's what it's all been about? Just getting Granddad to dance?' says Dilan, hoisting up his waistband.

I shrug. ‘It does seem a lot of fuss for just one dance.'

We walk through a cold stretch of sea mist back home. The piles of bricks for building the estate loom up at us, and we have to follow the path carefully to find the house. We walk in almost silence, the distant music from the pier the only sound. Every now and then it stops and I pause to listen for the applause, turning around to see the faint yellow lights of the pier glowing through the mist.

I'd really like to be back there.

The house smells of dishcloths and boiling meat, and a suffocating warm steam catches my throat as we walk in. There are three yoghurts waiting for us in the fridge. They're modern ones and luckily, although the telly booms through the door from the lounge, no one appears.

‘Ready?' I ask.

The other two nod and we dig into the pots of creamy, rich yoghurt.

I keep my eyes on the floor. It changes from blue and white squares to modern brown tiles, and as it changes I'm aware of a new silence – one that shouldn't be here in the twenty-first century. No telly. No booming dance music. ‘Granddad?' I say, opening the door to the lounge.

But it's Mum sitting on the couch. Reading a book, her feet up on the end, looking happy and relaxed.

‘Mum?'

‘Yes, darling?'

‘Nothing,' I say, retreating back into the kitchen and staring at Dilan and Lorna. ‘Granddad's not on the sofa,' I say.

‘Does that mean we've done something to him?' says Dilan. ‘Surely we haven't  … '

‘Oh dear. Have we lost him somewhere? Is he in time limbo?' says Lorna, her eyes wide with worry.

For a moment I contemplate the possibility. ‘I don't see how we could have done.'

‘Perhaps he ate a yoghurt?' she says. ‘You never know.'

‘Perhaps he's in his room?' says Dilan, pushing past me into the lounge. ‘Hi, Mum,' he says, stomping over to the far side and opening Granddad's bedroom door. But it isn't Granddad's bedroom: it's a study. All neat and tidy and filled with wires and computers, not an old tissue in sight.

Perhaps Lorna's right, perhaps we have lost him. I feel deeply sad. Granddad was a wreck, an old shuffling man with dribble and stained cardigans, but I could still see glimpses of the young man and I wanted to tell him that, to tell him that I understood.

But he's gone.

I turn back towards the fridge. The letters are all mixed up. No words at all any more. Opening the door, I search for any more yoghurts, but all the food is ordinary, almost the same food that Dilan and I put in there, plus two bottles of champagne that we didn't.

Everything's almost the same, but slightly different. Like it is when you've been ill for a week and you wake up and come downstairs and someone's painted the kitchen a different colour.

‘Do you think,' I whisper, ‘that we've ended up in the future?'

‘Is that possible?' asks Lorna.

I look out of the kitchen window, towards the sea. The estate's there, the apple tree's there – and so's the pier. White and shining in the evening sunlight. I look at the clock. Six fifteen. But when?

A car crunches onto the gravel outside and we rush to the kitchen window. It's a sports car. A low, silver thing with a soft roof and huge tyres. The driver's door opens and a tall man in a smart grey mac springs out and opens the passenger door. I can't see his face, but I can see the legs of the passenger. Long elegant legs with slim ankles belonging to a fine woman in her sixties. She's Miss Golightly without the years of peanut brittle. She's wearing a camel-coloured coat and perfectly applied lipstick. She looks a million dollars. The man turns towards us and holds out his elbow.

It's Granddad.

He's still an old man, but he's not. He's not bent and dribbling and sad. He's upright, and sprightly, and has a playful smile. Together they walk towards the front door.