Keith pressed the button on the slide projector.
Click.
Grandpa appeared on the wall, asleep in a deck chair on a pebble beach under a grey sky.
‘Didn’t rain the whole week we were away,’ said Nan to Mum, who was sitting next to her on the settee.
Keith shone his torch onto the projector. Only four slides left.
I’ll have to do it soon, he thought. His tummy gave a quiver.
‘It was windy, mind,’ Nan continued, ‘but it didn’t rain once.’
‘Yes it did,’ growled Grandpa. ‘Rained the Thursday night. Twice.’
‘No it didn’t,’ said Nan. ‘That was wind.’
Keith heard Dad give a long sort of sigh from the back of the room.
Nan turned to Mum again. ‘You lot should think about getting away, Marge. You haven’t been away for years.’
‘I know we haven’t,’ said Mum wearily. ‘Trouble is, holidays aren’t easy, what with the shop and everything. Still . . .’
‘Next slide Keith,’ said Dad.
Keith took a deep breath.
OK, he thought, this is it. Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one.
Click.
On the wall appeared a gleaming stretch of white sand. An expanse of sparkling turquoise sea. Palm trees against a clear blue sky.
Nice one, thought Keith. Worth every penny of the return trip to Australia House and the ninety potatoes for the slide.
‘Blimey,’ said Nan. ‘That’s not Worthing.’
‘Bognor,’ said Grandpa. ‘That’s Bognor, that is.’
‘Chemist must have mixed them up,’ said Nan. She peered at the screen. ‘Doesn’t look like Bognor.’
Keith fumbled in the dark for his cassette player. He pressed the play button. The sound of a gentle surf filled the room.
At least that’s what Keith hoped the others would think it was. Rather than the sound of an RV 106 steam locomotive climbing a hill just outside Swansea which had been the closest thing to a gentle surf on Rami Smith’s dad’s sound effects record.
‘What’s that noise?’ said Grandpa. ‘Is there a gas leak?’
‘Keith’ said Mum, ‘what’s going on?’
Keith switched on the torch and shone it on the brochure in his other hand. He started reading in a loud and what he hoped was a persuasive voice.
‘Tropical Australia, idyllic paradise where your troubles and cares are as far away as yesterday . . .’
‘Keith,’ said Dad. He didn’t sound as though his troubles and cares were as far away as yesterday.
Keith pressed on. ‘. . . where warm, fragrant breezes murmur songs of happiness . . .’
He pulled a can of air freshener from his pocket and sprayed some in the general direction of the others.
‘. . . and where rainbow choirs of exotic birds proclaim the joys tomorrow holds in store.’
He put down the torch, the brochure and the air freshener, cupped his hands to his mouth and made what he hoped was the happy sound of an exotic tropical bird. Mr Smith’s record had only had ducks.
In the darkness Keith could just make out Mum and Dad and Nan and Grandpa staring at him, open-mouthed.
It’s working, he thought, they’re stunned by the beauty of the place.
He saw they were all frowning.
They’re thinking, he told himself, thinking why didn’t they go there years ago.
Dad snapped the light on.
‘Keith,’ he said quietly, ‘I said I didn’t want to hear another thing about Australia.’
‘Australia?’ said Nan.
‘It’s alright Mum,’ said Mum.
Keith decided to swing his emergency plan into operation. He thrust his hand down behind the armchair cushion and pulled out the soft pink and gold fruit that had cost him a hundred and sixty potatoes at Selfridges.
He put it on the coffee table in front of them all.
‘The mango,’ he said, just part of nature’s bounty in Australia’s tropical wonderland . . .’
‘Keith . . .’ said Dad.
‘Keith . . .’ said Mum.
‘We’ll be able to have fresh ones for breakfast every day,’ said Keith.
Nan gripped Mum’s arm in alarm. ‘Marge, what’s all this about Australia? You’re not . . .?’
‘Australia?’ said Grandpa, ‘nobody said anything to me about Australia.’
‘There’s no way you’d get us going to a place like that,’ said Nan. ‘Mrs Bridge’s daughter went. They don’t even have corned beef in tins.’
‘Mum . . . ‘ said Mum.
‘Typical,’ said Grandpa, ‘nobody ever tells me anything.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Dad.
‘Mangoes grow on trees out there,’ said Keith. ‘They just fall onto the streets. Knee-deep sometimes . . .’
‘KEITH,’ roared Dad, ‘BE QUIET.’
The whole room went quiet.
‘We are not,’ said Dad, almost whispering, ‘going to Australia.’
Keith lay in bed with his eyes closed, trying to remember.
It was his favourite memory, the one of him when he was a little kid, three or something. He was in a park, watching an ant with wings climb up a dandelion. Next to him on the grass Mum and Dad were talking and laughing softly to each other. Then they went quiet. He looked up at them. They were both gazing at him, smiling gently, eyes shining.
Keith squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to see the memory more clearly.
Lately, each time he’d tried, the memory had been getting blurrier and blurrier.
Now, as Keith pushed his fists into his eyelids, he couldn’t even see the kid’s face.
Perhaps it wasn’t even him.
Keith dusted the pieces of mango with flour and slid them through the bowl of creamy batter and dropped them into the bubbling fat.
Then he opened a tin and did the same with some pineapple rings.
When they’d all turned golden brown he scooped them out with the spatula and put them onto a plate.
He blew hard onto a piece of mango for a couple of minutes, then put it into his mouth.
Mmmm. Nice one. A bit fishy, but otherwise delicious.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and Mum came into the shop.
‘I thought I could smell frying,’ she said sleepily. ‘Keith, what are you doing? It’s Sunday.’
‘Making breakfast,’ said Keith. ‘A typical Australian breakfast.’
Mum’s shoulders sagged. Then she stared at Keith.
‘What have you done to your shirt?’
‘It’s tropical,’ said Keith.
Mum closed her eyes.
Alright, thought Keith, it’s not the most perfect tropical shirt in London but it’s not bad for a first effort.
Next time he’d have to use a tape measure when he cut the sleeves short so they ended up the same length. And he’d have to learn to paint tropical birds a bit better too.
Mum opened her eyes.
‘Why’s it got socks on it?’
‘They’re parrots.’
Mum took a deep breath.
‘Don’t let Dad see it, Keith. After last night he’s liable to do something drastic.’
‘I just want us all to be happy,’ said Keith. ‘We’d be happy in Australia, I know we would.’
Mum looked at him for a long time.
Finally she spoke. ‘I want us to be happy too love, and I’d go to Timbuktu if I thought it’d make any difference.’
She looked around the empty shop and out into the overcast street.
‘But this is our life and we’ve just got to make the best of it. Now get that shirt off before Dad gets up.’
‘What shirt?’ said Dad, coming into the shop in his dressing gown.
He stopped and stared at Keith’s shirt.
Keith saw his forehead clench into angry ripples. Even more than Mum could get on hers.
Dad opened his mouth to speak.
Keith opened his mouth to speak.
Mum beat them both to it.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘let’s have a day at the seaside. We haven’t been to the seaside for years. Let’s have a day at Worthing.’
Keith sat on a deck chair, freezing.
He looked at Mum, sitting on her deck chair, coat buttoned up and scarf wrapped round her throat, doing some knitting. He could tell she was purposely not looking at him.
He looked at Dad, sitting in his deck chair, coat buttoned up, reading the paper. Dad was purposely not looking at him too.
Keith shivered and wished he’d left the sleeves on his tropical shirt. He pulled his jacket tighter round him and wondered if the numbness in his arms was nervous tension or frostbite.
He looked at Mum again.
She smiled at him. He knew it wasn’t a real smile. It was the half-hearted lip-stretch people do on windy beaches on overcast days when they want to pretend they’re having fun.
Keith looked out across the pebbles. This is ridiculous, he thought. Two hours we’ve been here and neither of them have asked me why I’ve got a white nose.
He touched his nose to make sure the white coating was still on it.
Yep.
Ask me, thought Keith, ask me.
Because then he could tell them.
‘It’s the zinc cream people wear in Australia to protect their noses from the sun that shines all day, every day, 365 days of the year.’
And then they’d have to ask themselves why they were freezing to death on Worthing beach when they could be lying under palm trees in North Queensland.
Keith hoped they couldn’t tell it was really toothpaste.
He sent a double-strength telepathic message to Mum.
Ask me.
Mum closed her eyes and looked as though she was dropping off to sleep.
Keith sighed and decided to get the 50p back he’d paid Dennis Baldwin to teach him the secret of telepathy. Then Dad suddenly screwed up his newspaper and jumped to his feet.
Blimey, thought Keith, my aim must have been crooked.
But Dad didn’t mention white noses or white sandy beaches.
‘OK, that’s it,’ he shouted into the wind. ‘Enough. Finish. We’re going home.’
He started stuffing the thermos and blankets into the picnic bag. Mum opened her eyes, went to say something, then changed her mind.
‘We can’t go yet,’ said Keith. ‘I’ve only just put my zinc cream on.’
Dad came over to Keith and grabbed him by the arm. It hurt.
At least I haven’t got frostbite, thought Keith.
‘I’m only going to say this once more,’ said Dad, ‘so listen very carefully. We are not ever, under any circumstances, going to Australia.’
Nobody spoke on the drive back to London.
Keith sat in the back of the van and stared out into the dusk and tried not to feel sad about going to Australia by himself and leaving Mum and Dad behind and probably never seeing them again.
Why should I feel sad, he thought.
It’s their fault.
I tried.
He felt his eyes getting hot and prickly.
See, he thought, it’s happening already. I’m turning into a misery guts.
He took his mind off things by working out how many potatoes it would take for him to save up the plane fare.
Twenty-five thousand.
He’d better start tomorrow.
Then he closed his eyes and thought about warm white sand and warm turquoise lagoons and glorious pink tropical sunsets.
He opened his eyes just as the van was turning into his street and for a moment he thought he could see one.
A glorious pink tropical sunset.
Then he realised what it was.
A fire.
Blimey, he thought, one of the buildings in our street’s on fire.
Suddenly the van was surrounded by red flashing lights and screaming sirens and men running with hoses.
‘Whose place is it?’ said Mum.
‘Can’t see,’ said Dad.
The van moved slowly forward and Keith tried to see whose place it was.
Then he remembered.
The fryer.
The one he’d cooked breakfast in.
He’d forgotten to switch it off.