Jessie

The history ends. It just … ends. No big act of mischief. Nothing.

‘Oh, cliffhanger!’ Kay says, trying to make it sound exciting.

‘No, that’s not how it works,’ I say. ‘It can’t end like that.’

‘Well, there it is,’ Kay says, showing me the first page of the next history. It’s in Ethiopia, nine years later.

I don’t understand. Was Lou even a mischief? Why did she hear the book talk but didn’t get its memories? I have so many questions but I don’t ask them. I sit for a moment.

Annoyed. I feel annoyed.

It’s late but Kay makes dinner. We have microwave pasta that takes six minutes and thirty seconds (stirring halfway through) to cook. I poke at my pasta, still grumpy. It tastes like butter and fake cheese.

‘Hey,’ Kay says. She nudges me.

I ignore her.

‘I liked this history, didn’t you?’

‘It’s not a real history,’ I say.

‘Well, it’s in the book. Maybe Lou and Chloe will be in the next history. Maybe they’re in Ethiopia.’

Chloe.

Wait.

‘Give me the History!’

Kay shakes her head. ‘Not till you do your mischief report.’

‘I just want to see the Transcription Note. It mentioned a Chloe, remember?’

‘Did it?’ Kay asks. She gets the History and flips to the note at the beginning. ‘Oh, so it did. Here: “Those that survived were recorded by myself and Chloe McKenna.” Hmmm … McKenna’s not a very French name. Maybe it’s a different Chloe.’

‘Maybe it’s not!’

Kay smiles, all mischievous-like. ‘Guess you’re going to have to wait to find out.’

She closes the History. I don’t need to ask to know that’s that.

I think about the History until it’s time for bed and the lights are out. It’s school tomorrow. Theodore will be there. I remember what he said. I miss Mum and Dad so much. I imagine I’m in a train station full of balloons. I climb aboard one of them, cut the ropes, and fly away. I hover over Paris, gaze down at the buildings and the river, until I fall asleep.

Over the next few days, I research and make cranes with Theodore (but we don’t talk about things). I’ve decided to just pretend he never said anything. I have more important things to figure out. There’s something about Lou’s history, something bad. It breaks the rules. So I’m going to figure out what went wrong.

I request books about the Paris siege and find a book at Guildford that’s about the history of ballooning. It’s got a pretty cover, with many colourful balloons, but inside there’s lots of tiny words. I hate when the words are so small. It takes forever to read just one page.

‘Oh, a nice big hardcover!’ the librarian says as I go to borrow the book.

I nod.

‘You always borrow the most interesting things,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘You must be learning so much.’

I nod again. That night, I try my best to read it properly and not just look at the pictures. I read a chapter about the balloonists in France and find a menu from the Paris siege. They ate anything they could find, just like the History said. Goldfish, elephant soup, roast camel, baked cat!

‘Can we have baked cat for dinner?’ I ask Kay cheekily.

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Go and ask Mrs Moran if we can have Cornelius. I’ll turn the oven on.’

I scowl at her. ‘Cornelius is too clever to bake.’

‘Then fish fingers it is.’

Cornelius is at school the next day. When the bell goes, I come out to find him waiting in the school courtyard with Mrs Moran. Lots of kids rush at him, saying how cute he is in his pink harness. But when they try to pat him, he bats their hand with his paw, just once, like he’s warning them to back off.

‘Better not, kiddly-winks,’ Mrs Moran says. ‘Cornelius is a gentleman but the next bop might be with claws.’

Mrs Moran spots me. She waves me over.

Suddenly, something grips my heart.

Where’s Kay?

Why isn’t Kay here?

My eyes burn instantly with tears.

‘Come here, dear.’

I don’t move.

‘Your sister’s car just broke down,’ Mrs Moran says gently. She smiles, walks over and puts her arm around me. ‘Everything’s alright.’

Broke down. ‘What happened?’

‘Thing’s just old, isn’t it? Not sure if she’s getting it towed or if she can get someone to fix it on the spot. But she might be a while.’

I feel happy then. Good. Her car is stupid. I hope it can never be repaired.

‘Come now, we’ll have fun,’ she says.

Cornelius bumps my leg.

‘Say hello, dear,’ Mrs Moran says.

‘Hello Cornelius,’ I say.

He looks away, like he knows what I said yesterday.

‘I’m sorry, Cornelius. I would never let the Parisians bake you.’

‘What a moving sentiment,’ Mrs Moran says, and we start to walk home.

When we get to Mrs Moran’s house, her daughter Helen is there. She’s dressed smart in a suit but she looks a bit crazy, with messy hair and smudged mascara. She looks like maybe she was crying.

‘Where have you been, Mother?’ she demands. Then she spots me. ‘What is this?’

‘Bessie here is just staying with us for a bit. Sister got waylaid,’ Mrs Moran replies.

‘Jessie, Mrs Moran,’ I say.

‘Oh yes, of course. Jessie. Silly me.’

Helen glares at Mrs Moran. ‘I need to go, Mother. I’m meeting Paul in an hour.’

‘Off you pop then!’

Helen glances at me. ‘This isn’t a good idea, Mother.’

‘It’s a brilliant idea. Let’s have breakfast, Jessie! When unexpected friends visit we have unexpected food, isn’t that right, Cornelius?’

Cornelius meows. Mrs Moran takes my backpack and puts it down by a table with a bowl of keys. Then she takes my hand.

Helen lets out an angry sigh. Mrs Moran takes me to the kitchen.

‘Do you like scrambled eggs, dear? I make wonderful scrambled eggs, don’t I, Cornelius?’

Helen follows us. ‘No, Mother. No stove.’

Mrs Moran rolls her eyes like a teenager.

‘If you insist on this breakfast nonsense, just have some cereal!’

Helen gets Weet-Bix, but Mrs Moran goes into the cupboard and brings out Coco Pops. She shakes the box at me and grins.

‘Coco Pops and eggs?’

Helen sighs and speeds away, shouting, ‘No stove!’ When she comes back again she’s got her keys and a bag full of files. She tells Mrs Moran off like she’s a child. She then hands me a card.

‘My number, just in case. Please don’t let my mother use the stove or oven,’ she says, right in front of Mrs Moran. I just nod. She leaves in a rush, slamming the front door.

Mrs Moran turns the stove on as soon as Helen’s car is gone.

I like Mrs Moran.

‘You can still have Coco Pops if you want, dear, but I’m having eggs.’

‘Can I have both like you said before?’ I ask.

‘Together or separately?’

‘Separately, please.’

Mrs Moran nods. ‘Unoriginal, perhaps, but sensible.’

We sit at a table made from shiny wood and eat our Coco Pops and scrambled eggs. Cornelius sits on a chair at the head of the table with his own plate of eggs and tuna. His head just pokes up above the table. Mrs Moran pushes the plate close so he can still eat. He turns to look at us whenever we speak.

‘Just keeping it warm,’ Mrs Moran says.

I don’t understand.

‘Cornelius. He’s keeping my husband’s chair warm for him,’ Mrs Moran explains.

‘Oh,’ I say. I’ve never seen an old man at Number 61 before. ‘Where is he?’

‘Away, dear. You know men, away for work. Taking care of his family, my George. He’ll be back soon. You’ll love him, he’s a character, isn’t he, Cornelius?’

Cornelius meows his agreement.

After our afternoon-breakfast, Mrs Moran says, ‘Just need to do a spot of cleaning. Then we can have fun.’

She puts on an old movie, then cleans the house around me, getting out her vacuum cleaner again. I don’t know why. Everything’s perfect. She dusts and mops and polishes things until they squeak.

‘Mrs Moran, I think you polished that already,’ I say when I see her polishing a table for the third time.

‘Best to make sure, dear,’ she says. ‘That’s what Aunty June always said. Men don’t like to come home to a dirty house.’

‘Your house is super clean,’ I say. ‘I bet Mr Moran would love it.’

‘Oh, George doesn’t mind a messy house. It’s just … best to clean up. Aunty June always said.’

I wonder how old Mrs Moran is and if her aunty is still alive.

‘Can we go to the park?’ I ask.

‘Oh, yes, good idea! Let me finish up. Are you bored, dear? Just give me a few minutes. I don’t have any good movies, I know. I prefer to read.’

‘Me too.’

‘Oh, how marvellous! I thought kids only watched TV these days. There’s a study down the hall, next to the toilet. Lots of books in there. George bought me Sherlock Holmes for my birthday last month. Maybe you can read that.’

I don’t know who Sherlock Holmes is, or what kinds of books he writes, but I nod and go down the hall. To my surprise, the study is FULL of the origami I left on her veranda. Paper cranes and flowers lie on top of bookshelves, books, and a little desk. She’s even blu-tacked cranes to the wooden desk chair, with their wings poking up so you can see the ‘From A. Mischief’ on them. I wonder if she kept them all. I count them to check.

Three hundred and sixty three.

She still has every one.

I look through the shelves, trying to find books on people in the History. Then I spot a book with a green spine and gold letters that reads, ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE: COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED SHERLOCK HOLMES. It even has gold edges. I sit at the desk and flick through it. There are pictures of men with moustaches, pipes and top hats.

A card falls out of the book. It must have been Mrs Moran’s bookmark. I try to keep her place while picking up the card. It has writing on it.

Page 774. He says life is full of whimsical happenings. My sweet lady is surely one of them, though perhaps he doesn’t mean it as fondly as I.

Yours whimsically,

A. Mischief

2009

A. Mischief.

2009.

I read it over and over again. I can’t believe it. The Transcription Note in the History was from 1966. That’s forty-three years before this note. What does it mean? What are whimsical happenings? Is the sweet lady Mrs Moran? Is Mr Moran A. Mischief?

I turn to page 774 in the Sherlock Holmes book. It has really small words in two columns. It’s difficult to read but I find the spot where he talks about whimsical happenings. I still don’t understand.

Didn’t Mrs Moran say that her husband gave this to her for her birthday last month?

Wait.

Maybe the real History is here. The one that makes you A. Mischief. The one Lou was hunting.

I flip through the book again to see if there are any other notes.

Nothing.

Mrs Moran’s vacuum cleaner is going again. Maybe she’ll be a while.

I search the bookshelf, looking for anything that might be the History. I pull out fat leather books that smell like the State Library. They all have words; no signatures or magic or anything interesting. If I find a book with blank pages, it might be the History hiding its magic.

I search the desk next. I open the drawers and find a notebook full of scribbles. I spot A. Mischief again! I flip back and try to find it. I don’t know what this notebook is. There are people’s names with entries.

Helen Louise Moran. Born 21 July 1978. Only living child. She was a bossy thing. Loved Enid Blyton, especially The Wishing Chair.

It goes on. Towards the end of the page, it says: She used to love mischief. She’s angry and tired of us now. Her divorce hurt her deeply. Don’t perform mischief on her. Don’t tease her. Be kind. When you’re kind, she becomes soft. She needs love. Remember that.

Mischief again. I wonder if there’s something about Mr Moran here. I find an entry towards the start.

George Frank Moran. Born 2 February 1949. Husband. Married 4 March 1972. Father to daughter Helen and son Anthony (stillborn). Softness and light, kindness and patience. Make him smile and you’ll remember everything.

The vacuum goes off in the other room.

‘Finished, dear! You ready?’

I need to read more. Maybe I can take it. I look around for my bag. Maybe she won’t know. But I don’t have my bag.

Footsteps down the hall. I shove the notebook back in the desk.

Mrs Moran comes into the study. ‘Sorry for the wait. Did you find Sherlock Holmes?’

I try not to look guilty. ‘Yes, Mrs Moran. It’s very good.’

‘Isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Come, dear. Let’s go for a walk.’

Mrs Moran puts Cornelius back in his pink harness. She gives me the lead but Cornelius flops on the ground and won’t move. I drag him through the dirt and he still won’t get up. Mrs Moran takes over and he springs up. He walks proudly like he beat me.

We go to the park and I count out the graves. I try to count properly and say I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about the card and the notebook, and that maybe the real History is somewhere in Mrs Moran’s house. I wonder if Mr Moran was confused when he saw A. Mischief on the origami I left on the veranda. Maybe he thinks there’s another mischief out there.

I really hope he comes home soon.

When we finish our walk, Mrs Moran makes me play Scrabble. I don’t want to play. I want to read the notebook and hunt the History.

‘I’m bored, Mrs Moran. Can I read?’

‘You are reading, dear, look!’

She lays out the word NOTORIOUS with all her Scrabble tiles and some of mine.

‘I want to read a book, Mrs Moran. Can I read Sherlock Holmes again?’

The doorbell rings.

Kay.

Not yet!

‘Sorry, I had a flat battery. It took the RAC a while to come out,’ Kay says as she comes in the door.

I want to scream. I try to think of a way to get back to the study and take the notebook. I ask Mrs Moran if I can borrow Sherlock Holmes, but when I try to go to the study with my bag, she insists on getting it herself. She takes out the card from A. Mischief and hands the book to me. She smiles.

I’ve been tricked, I’m sure of it. Mrs Moran knows I’m looking for the History.