CHAPTER 9

GETTING AN EARFUL

The next two days were brilliant, or as brilliant as anything at school could be, which on a scale of one to dazzling was somewhere around dim. But that was good enough for Brian because Florrie didn’t know what to do with him. She was stumped. So, in a surprisingly wise move for someone without any wisdom, she left him alone.

Which meant he could sit at the back of the class and cheer silently as his favourite ant outran its neighbour down the leg of his desk. He could wink at the notches in the floorboards, imagining they were the eyes of a pine monster that one day would rise up and swallow the teacher. When she came in wearing a bright red jacket, he pictured her as a strawberry flan and drowned her in a mind-jug of custard.

By the third day he felt so invisible that he was tempted to recharge Dulcie for a chat during class. But he stopped himself. Her voice may be tiny but it was piercing too. What if it reached the huge ears of Broadbean at the desk on his left? Or Kevin in front, who was training for the All-Ireland Nose-Picking Championship? And even if it didn’t, what was the point? Brian could hardly chat back. It might expose her or, at the very least, prove to the class that he was bonkers as well as brainless. And that was the last thing he needed, because now they hated him more than ever.

It wasn’t just because of the Geography test, in which even Alec’s top score was only 54 out of 200. Now that Florrie was ignoring him, her cruelty was finding new targets, some of them surprising.

‘Tracy Bricket, take those fingers out of your mouth!’

Everyone looked up. The winner of the Popularity, Pleasantness and Charming the Pants off Everyone prize was always biting her nails, but Florrie had never told her off before. Tracy’s hands dropped to her lap.

Two minutes later they were back at her mouth.

‘I said stop it!’

The PPACTPOE prize-winner was staring out the window. Mrs Florris marched over. Her neck shot forward like a desk lamp.

‘What?’ Tracy’s eyes were as round as paddling pools. ‘Oh. Sorry.’ Then she did the worst thing possible. She yawned.

To Mrs Florris, a yawn wasn’t just a stretch of the mouth. It wasn’t an extra gulp of oxygen or a friendly sort of moo. It was a failure. A failure to listen, a failure to hear. A failure to grovel, a failure to fear. A failure to worship, respect or revere.

‘Tracy Bricket, I will not be yawned at. Go and stand in the corridor.’

The only sound was the screech of Tracy’s chair pushing backwards. Brian smiled as she passed his desk, forgetting all her unkindness in a rush of sympathy. Boy, do I know how you feel, said the smile. But her eyes were fixed on the door.

He tried again at break. Finding her alone, for once, at the edge of the playground, he summoned his courage and said, ‘Don’t worry. Florrie’ll get over it.’

She glared at him. ‘Bog off.’ Tucking a silky strand of hair behind her ear she marched away.

Anger blazed through Brian. Bog off yourself. I was only trying to help.

The anger flickered and died. What did he expect? He should’ve known his pity would be as welcome as a wart. In its place rose triumph, creamy and sharp like sour milk. Now you know how it feels, he thought as she joined Skinny Ginny and Clodna who were whispering together on the lawn.

He had the same feeling next morning when Florrie handed back their essays on ‘The Sweetness of Neatness’. Brian’s page, normally a bloody battlefield of corrections, had no red marks at all, as if she hadn’t even bothered to look at it.

She prowled up to Smart Alec’s desk. ‘Disappointing,’ she slammed his book down, ‘is not the word. Especially in light of the title. Smudges everywhere, and pages two and three were stuck together. No, Alec, the word is dismayed. What were you thinking of?’

There was a long silence while Alec stared straight ahead. It was strange. For once the boy who knew most of the words in the dictionary seemed unable to find a single one.

For the rest of the day, while she barked and bellowed at everyone else, Brian had a busy and fruitful time. By three o’clock he’d:

1. drawn a picture on his desk of a charging beast with white bubbly hair and labelled it ‘The Florribull’;
2. noticed clouds in the shape of a poodle, South America and Broadbean’s right ear;
3. helped two spiders out the window;
4. watched Mr Pottigrew mow the lawn, make three trips into the trees to empty the wheelbarrow, pat the rockery gnome twice and scratch his beard four times.

Walking home, Brian realised it had been his best day for ages. Not a single telling off. And so what if no one had talked to him since Tracy? It was better than being insulted. A smile spread inside. The sun on his face, the tickling breeze, the thrill of his new secret: rebellion had brought nothing but good. It had silenced his enemies and woken a friend. He couldn’t wait to charge her for a chat in the safety of his bedroom.

He unlocked the front door.

‘That you, Brian?’ Dad called from the kitchen.

Duh. Who else has a key? ‘Yep.’

‘Want some tea? I’m just boiling the kettle.’

‘No thanks.’

‘How was your day?’ Since when had Dad cared? All this sudden effort – the timing couldn’t be worse. Sighing, Brian dragged himself to the kitchen. Better stick his head in and say hello to ward off more visits to his bedroom.

Dad’s smile was carefully bright. ‘School OK?’ The kettle shuddered to a boil.

‘Yep.’

‘Got much homework?’

‘A bit.’

‘Sure you don’t want tea?’ Dad lifted the kettle.

‘No, I’m fine.’ Brian raked his fingers impatiently through his hair. ‘I’m just going up to my … Dad!’ Boiling water was pouring onto the floor.

Staring at Brian, Dad righted the kettle and replaced it on the counter.

Oh no. Brian clutched his ear. He’d been so careful to cover it until now.

‘Her ring.’ Dad’s face was all trembly, like its reflection in a pool.

Brian turned and fled upstairs. Sitting on the floor of his bedroom with his back against the bed, he grabbed the mirror from his bedside table. Then he pulled the corner of his duvet and rubbed his ear.

‘Well, what did you expect?’ squeaked Dulcie. ‘Cheering and clapping? Dancing in the dahlias?’

‘Thanks,’ Brian snapped. ‘That really helps.’ He rubbed his temples furiously.

‘Look,’ she peeped more gently. ‘He’s bound to be upset. He’ll get over it. And it serves him right for not standing up for you.’

‘You think so?’ Brian looked in the mirror.

‘Of course.’ Dulcie tutted. ‘Shame on him. But I’m glad he didn’t go in and complain. If he had, you’d never have met me.’

Brian couldn’t help but smile. He knew that this was the proud little bug’s way of saying she was glad she’d met him.

‘Now.’ She wiggled a front leg. ‘Buzz off downstairs. You two need to talk. This is the perfect time.’

She was right. The earring could lead to only one subject. Brian stood up slowly. He straightened the duvet, replaced the mirror on the bedside table and walked to the door. It was time to speak about the Great Unspeakable.

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into his cup.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Brian, standing in the doorway. ‘I was just really mad.’

Dad put up his hand as if stopping traffic. ‘We’ll say no more.’

‘Please, Dad. We need to talk about–’

Dad smacked the table. ‘It’s done, Brian. You can’t undo it.’ From the look in his eyes, Brian knew he didn’t mean the earring. Dad could easily turn that back into a ring. Mum’s death crashed over him again. It was my fault. That’s what he’s saying. Brian felt as if he couldn’t breathe, trapped under a familiar tower block of guilt over what had happened. He found his usual escape route: anger. ‘Fine.’ He spun round. Dad didn’t want to talk, so they wouldn’t – ever again.

At least, not properly. The odd word was unavoidable. But apart from that, Brian did pretty well over the weekend. Their longest conversation was:

‘Chips or spaghetti for dinner?’ (Dad.)

‘Don’t mind.’ (Brian.)

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yep.’

‘OK.’

Thank goodness for Dulcie. In between bossing and fussing, she proved to be a surprisingly good listener. Over the next two days Brian found himself talking about his dreadful mixture of guilt over Mum’s death and anger at Dad for not forgiving him. He told her all sorts of things about Mum that he’d never dared bring up with Dad. And as he did, fading memories returned. Mum pinning flowers to her hat so that butterflies would come to feed. Mum making a ladybird climbing-frame from toothpicks. Playing Frisbee with a pizza. Wearing bubble beards when she did the washing up.

By Sunday evening Brian felt better than he had for months. Talking about Mum had melted the edge of his pain. And now that he’d stood up to Florrie, there was no one to fear.

Walking into school on Monday, he found himself whistling. Sitting at his desk, he found himself sucking a peppermint. Watching Florrie peck to the front like a constipated hen, he found himself sniggering. All of which were normally unimaginable offences.

But today, it turned out, wasn’t normal.

The teacher reached her desk and turned round. ‘Did anyone see Alec over the weekend?’ Heads shook, brows wrinkled.

‘Why?’ asked Kevin.

‘Because,’ she said slowly, placing her palms on the desk, ‘his parents just phoned. They haven’t seen him since Saturday.’