Sometimes Those Days happen for no reason, but sometimes something makes them happen. For example, seeing your dad do something you have never seen your dad do before. Something so strange that it is disturbing (which is the name of the feeling you get when you see a cat play with a moth for twenty minutes before pulling its wings off and then not even eating it). So strange that you have to go home straightaway and get into bed and stare at the ceiling and try to understand what it means.

When I woke up this morning I still didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to get out of bed. And that was when I knew Tuesday was one of Those Days.

When Mum came in to find out why I wasn’t in the shower yet I lied and told her that I had thrown up so she wouldn’t make me go to school. She put her hand on my head and then she made me some toast with Vegemite (no butter) and some flat lemonade. I couldn’t tell Mum that I couldn’t go to school because I didn’t feel like it. If you say that to mums they just say: ‘Too bad, everyone does things they don’t want to do sometimes.’ But there is a difference between not wanting to do some things and Those Days. On a normal day I don’t want to do things like eat Brussels sprouts or do maths or walk to school, but then I do them and it’s not really that bad, just kind of annoying. But when you have to do things on one of Those Days, even things you normally love, it really, really hurts. But it doesn’t hurt in a place you can show to your mum or a doctor, like Diana’s arm did when she broke it two years ago falling off the monkey bars. It just hurts everywhere inside you and makes you want to cry, but you don’t because you can’t point to the pain and no one can help you.

This morning while I was lying on my bed I tried breathing and not-thinking, but my brain kept going back to Monday afternoon. First it thought about chasing William Shakespeare and falling in the river, which was easy. Then it thought about having a rest and eating zucchini cake with Simon, which was pretty easy, too. Then it thought about seeing Dad get out of the car, which was a bit harder. And finally it thought about seeing Dad go into The Clinic, which was very hard. I closed my eyes really tight to try and help my brain understand, but all I could think about was the car door slamming and Dad walking when he was supposed to be marking essays. My brain was stuck. It felt like writing a story and not being able to figure out the ending.

By the time it was afternoon I was sick of being stuck and I was also thirsty, so I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Mum was having a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson.

‘I don’t know how else to explain it,’ Mum said while I was stopped in the hallway. ‘It’s like something’s frozen, inside me, and no matter what I do I can’t get it to thaw out again.’

‘These things happen,’ Mrs Hudson said. ‘Especially given the circumstances.’

‘He won’t talk about it. He hardly talks to me at all anymore. I just don’t know what else to do.’

‘It’s okay.’ Mrs Hudson put her hand on my mum’s. ‘You can’t blame yourself.’

‘I’m worried about the girls,’ Mum said. ‘Cassie, in particular. I don’t think she’ll understand.’

‘She understands a lot more than you think,’ said Mrs Hudson (who I always knew was not just nice but also smart). ‘She’ll be all right.’

‘Be honest,’ Mum said. ‘Do you think I’m being selfish?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Hudson.

Mum sighed. ‘I just need to do something different,’ she said. ‘I think it’ll be best for everyone.’

Mrs Hudson noticed me standing in the doorway. ‘Hello there, Peacock Detective.’

Mum turned around. Her cheeks went red when she saw me. ‘Are you feeling any better?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, and then I turned around and walked back down the hallway to my room. I had forgotten all about my glass of water. I was thinking about what Mum had said: I just need to do something different.

Dad told me once that when you are writing and you get stuck the best thing to do is to think about your story in a different way. For example, last year for school I was writing a story about jungle explorers. I had written the beginning and the middle and I was getting close to the end where the jungle explorers were about to be eaten by a tiger. I didn’t want them to be eaten, but I had written them into the situation and I didn’t know how to get them out of it. So I thought about the story in a different way. The most different thing that I could think of from a jungle explorer was a city dweller (which is a fancy way of saying someone who lives in a city). And then I remembered that at the start of the story the jungle explorers had met some tourists from the city, and the jungle explorers didn’t like the tourists because they were noisy and messy and were driving through the jungle in a big bus. And then I had an idea that the tourists would come back into the story in their big bus and scare away the tiger and save the jungle explorers. So I stopped being stuck and the jungle explorers didn’t get eaten and it was all because I thought in a different way.

Back in my room I sat down and closed my eyes and thought about Dad again, but differently. I thought about the red station wagon, and the car park, and The Clinic. I thought about his clothes, and his face, and his walk. I thought about all the times he locked himself in his study, and how he was always staying up late, and I thought about the cardboard boxes in the laundry cupboard. After I had thought differently for a long time I started to get an idea. And as my idea grew all the little details stuck together and made sense, and I got the same kind of warm, glowing feeling that comes from writing a really good story.

By teatime I wasn’t having one of Those Days anymore. I understood what seeing Dad getting out of the red station wagon and going into The Clinic meant. And what it meant was this:

My dad is a spy.

For three weeks I didn’t do much peacock detecting. Partly because the weather was getting colder but mostly because I was busy confirming my suspicions about Dad. First I wrote down details in my Notebook for Noticing:

Friday 22 March

—Dad seemed tired this morning.

Wednesday 27 March

—Dad took two sick days this week.

Thursday 4 April

—Dad didn’t finish his pork cutlets.

Then I did a lot of imagining and dot-connecting to straighten everything out. I don’t know about Themes in books, but I do know about spies in books, and I know that spies sometimes have to work late (which makes them tired) and at inconvenient times (like during school hours or at te time). I also know that spies can’t tell anyone that they are spies, not even their families. This means that they have to live double lives: one life where they are a spy and one life where they are something else (like an English literature teacher). Based on this information I was able to deduce (which means figure out) that my dad is a spy. I was also able to deduce that he is working on a very important case, which explains why he spends so much time in his study, and why I had seen him in a place he shouldn’t have been in, and why he is filling the laundry cupboard with cardboard boxes.

In those three weeks a few other interesting things happened. The first was that I found two more of William Shakespeare’s feathers on the way to school. The second was that Jonas sent me a postcard that said Did you know Greece is one of the biggest producers of sponges? And the third was that the school holidays started and it was Easter.

On Easter Sunday morning we always have an egg hunt. Dad hides eggs through the house—in vases and behind the couch and on windowsills. But this morning when I woke up there were four Creme Eggs sitting on the bench.

‘Two for you and two for your sister,’ Mum said while she was making coffee. ‘Happy Easter.’

I picked up one of my Creme Eggs and examined it. ‘What about the egg hunt?’

Mum sipped her coffee. ‘Mark.’

Dad was sitting on the couch watching TV. He cleared his throat. ‘We thought you might be getting a bit old for egg hunting,’ he said. He was talking to me but he was looking at Mum.

Mum just drank more coffee and said, ‘Get dressed, Cassie. We’re going to be late for church.’

So I went to church on Easter Sunday without Diana and without an egg hunt. The good news was that Grandpa was there and I got to sit next to him and share his hymn book. He didn’t sing as loud as usual and he was tired so he didn’t stand up for the standing-up bits. But it was nice to hear his singing voice, and he told me an Easter joke that went: ‘Why did the Easter egg hide? Because he was a little chicken’, which I thought was funny. After church Grandpa came to our house for Easter Sunday lunch.

While we were eating sundried tomatoes and olives for entree I sat on Grandpa’s good side, so he would hear me, and said, ‘I only got two chocolate eggs this year.’ I was talking to Grandpa but I was looking at Dad.

Grandpa ate an olive and then wiped his mouth with a serviette. ‘Some people won’t get any eggs, Cassie. Did you see Mrs Grimm at church? Her kids’ll be lucky to get two eggs between them.’

‘Such a nice lady,’ Mum said while she was taking away our small plates and giving us big ones. ‘Mark teaches her daughter, the eldest one.’

Dad was studying his placemat and probably planning his next spy mission. ‘Hmm?’

Mum sighed. ‘Angela Grimm’s girl. What’s her name?’

‘Rhea,’ Dad said. ‘What a nightmare.’

‘That’s understandable,’ Grandpa said. ‘Given the circumstances.’

‘What circumstances?’ I asked.

Mum changed the subject to main course. ‘Who wants chicken, who wants ham?’

I turned to Diana and said, ‘What circumstances?’

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Diana said. I made a face at her, but she just closed her eyes and breathed in and out and ignored me. Diana was being more annoying than usual. She didn’t even seem to care that we had only got two Easter eggs each, and she even gave one of hers to Grandpa.

‘Chicken or ham?’ Mum was standing in front of me with a platter and a pair of tongs.

‘Ham,’ I said, and she plonked two pieces on my plate.

‘Diana?’

‘No thanks,’ Diana said.

‘No thanks, what?’ Mum said.

‘I don’t want chicken or ham,’ Diana said. ‘I’m vegetarian.’

Mum perched the tongs on the platter. ‘Since when?’

‘Since I don’t want to eat meat anymore.’

Mum sighed. ‘Get yourself some roast veggies then,’ she said, and moved on to Grandpa. ‘Chicken or ham?’

Grandpa was about to choose chicken (because chicken is his favourite) when Dad said, ‘What do you mean, you’re vegetarian?’

The whole Easter Sunday lunch went quiet then, because it was the longest sentence Dad had said all day.

‘Your mother’s been cooking for hours and you’re not going to eat?’ Dad’s voice was getting louder, the way it does when he talks about The Liberals.

Diana’s voice was quiet and still, like a pond. ‘Yes. Sorry, Mum.’

‘It’s fine,’ Mum said.

‘No, it isn’t,’ Dad said. ‘You’ll eat all your lunch, Diana, or you won’t eat anything.’

Diana pushed her chair back and stood up. She looked at Dad from her side of the table, and Dad looked at Diana from his. It was like they were having a staring contest, except it wasn’t fun and no one was going to laugh when it was over. After what felt like ages Dad looked down at his big plate, and Diana left the table and went to her room.

‘For God’s sake—what was all that about?’ Mum said.

‘She’s just trying to be difficult,’ Dad said, except the way he said it sounded like he really meant ‘I’m tired and I don’t want to talk anymore.’

Mum shook her head. ‘I seem to remember a time when you were a vegetarian.’

Dad didn’t say anything. He didn’t eat anything, either. He just sat and stared at his plate of chicken and roast potatoes like it was a very deep, very dark hole. Mum and Grandpa and I ate the rest of our Easter Sunday lunch in silence, and later—when I was helping Mum clear the table and wash the dishes—Dad went into his study and shut the door.