Catcall (5 page)

9

S
TRANGER

J
amie was asleep, but I’d never been wider awake.

I couldn’t settle. I was in my own bed, in my own room, same as usual. But Jamie wasn’t the same as usual, and it felt all wrong.

For as long as I can remember, we’ve shared a bedroom. I’m used to his snuffles and half-asleep moans, and his annoying way of mumbling when he’s reading in bed–not so that I can understand what he’s reading, just odd words, that stop me concentrating on
my
book or magazine. And he complains that I snore–yeah, I believe that!–and keep him awake, fidgeting and kicking at my duvet during the night and making my mattress creak.

Now, I’d have
liked
it if he’d complained or read his book aloud. I’d have been really pleased.

It had been an odd kind of evening. In some ways, Jamie was just the same as usual. He ate up all his tea–fish-fingers and mashed potato and peas–and even had an extra helping of ice-cream. Mum had chosen his favourite things, hoping to get some spark of interest out of him. He was keen on eating, all right, but that didn’t mean he had anything to say about it.

After tea, Mike got out his pack of cards–we’d all got into card-playing, over Christmas. We started with Sevens, because Jamie likes that best. Then Mike taught us a new game, and Jamie beat us both first go. He smirked, but didn’t say a word. Mum made his milk drink and took him up to bed, and spent a while settling him down and reading to him and checking on Jennie. All just the same as any other day.

‘Finished your homework, Josh?’ Mum said when she came down. I hadn’t given it a thought. I took out my book and pens, and sprawled on the front-room floor while Mum and Mike cleared up in the kitchen. They had the radio on and they must have thought I couldn’t hear, but I could–Mum’s voice was worried, Mike’s low and ordinary.

‘Wait till tomorrow,’ Mike was saying. ‘He’ll be back to normal, I bet.’

‘But what if he isn’t?’ said Mum. ‘What if there’s something seriously wrong with him? Like–his vocal cords are paralysed, or something?’

‘If he’s still not talking, then take him to the doctor,’ Mike told her. ‘We’ve agreed that. But I think he’s
choosing
not to talk. I don’t think there’s anything stopping him.’

Mum wasn’t having that. ‘How can you possibly tell?’

‘He’s doing it to get attention,’ Mike said.

He’d done that all right, I thought, colouring in my picture of a Roman centurion. He’d had
everyone’s
attention, all afternoon and all evening.

‘Oh, surely not!’ went Mum’s voice. ‘If it were just for a half an hour or so–but for a child of eight, to say nothing all day long–he’d never be able to keep it up! Not if there wasn’t some other reason.’

The next bit was drowned out by the clatter of knives and forks, but then Mike said, ‘Kids react in funny ways to having a new baby in the family.’

‘Yes, I know! But we’ve been so careful to make sure Jamie understands–and Josh. We’ve read the books, we’ve thought about it, we’ve done everything we could…but none of the books said anything about
this.
Do you think that’s what it is? He feels pushed aside by Jennie?’

‘Could be.’ Mike’s voice was muffled, as if his head was in the saucepan cupboard.

‘I’ll go up and read him an extra bedtime story,’ Mum said, ‘if he’s still awake. And give him another cuddle.’

‘OK. I’ll get the coffee on. Cappuccino, mocha, espresso, double espresso or latte?’

‘Instant, thanks,’ Mum said.

I decided to try saying nothing, to see what it felt like. I clamped my mouth shut in case any words got out by accident. I didn’t say a word when Mum came down from seeing Jamie, or when Mike came in with the coffee. I concentrated on drawing round my centurion in fine black pen. He’d turned out quite well. I’d done the plumes of his helmet in bright red, and his breastplate in silver, with my felt pens.

‘Any luck?’ Mike asked Mum.

She shook her head miserably. ‘He was already asleep. Well, at least he’s
sleeping.
But this is all my fault–it must be!’

‘Oh, Liz, come here!’ Mike gave her a big hug and a sloppy kiss, while I made a
yuk
face and bent over my centurion. ‘Don’t be silly, love! Of course it’s not your fault!’

‘If only I knew what was going on in his head.’ Mum sank wearily on to the sofa.

‘He’ll be all right tomorrow, you see if he isn’t.’ Mike had brought in the coffee, and the Belgian chocolates Nan had given us at Christmas. Mum said, ‘So much for my New Year diet,’ but took one anyway.

‘New Year diet! What nonsense. You’re feeding Jennie, you need to look after yourself.’

‘I need to look after
Jamie,
’ Mum said wretchedly.

‘You
do
look after him. We both do. And so does Josh. Us Bowmen–sorry, Bowpersons–we look after each other. That’s what we’re
for.’
Mike passed me the chocolates, and bent down to look over my shoulder. ‘Hey! That looks stupendous. You doing a project on the Romans, then?’

‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘He’s a centurion. You can tell because he wears his sword on his left side, not his right, and his armour’s silver. The ordinary soldiers are called legionaries. See, he’s got this special spear, called a pilum–that’s for throwing. The sword is for stabbing. His leg-things are called greaves, they protect his legs. And his special sandals are called caligae. This shield’s called a scutum. The soldiers had to stay in the army for twenty-five years.’

‘Right, Josh. Thanks,’ Mike said, looking a bit dazed. ‘If I’ve got any questions, I’ll know who to ask.’

I’d completely forgotten about trying not to talk. The words had come straight out of my mouth, as if Mike had pressed a button. It was hard to stay silent at home, never mind at school, with everyone chatting and asking questions. The only way I’d manage to stay quiet all day would be if I gagged myself.

And now here I was, lying in the dark next to my silent brother.

I was thinking: what if Jamie’s not there? What if that body in the next bed isn’t Jamie at all? What if he’s gone–gone for ever?

Little J. Little Josh. Like a little version of me.

Are you there, Jamie? Anyone at home?

Where’s my Jamie, the Jamie I’m used to? He’s an irritating little pest at times, but he’s good fun.

Not much fun as a silent lump, though.

What’s got into him?

I thought again about that big O, the only explanation he’d given. Well, clue, at least. He wasn’t doing any explaining.

O, I puzzled, O. What could it mean?

A doughnut, a rubber ring, a hula hoop, a football, a plate, a pizza, the Roman Colosseum?

A mouth. An open mouth, with nothing coming out of it.

B
ut in the middle of the night, Jamie shouted out. His loud yell of fright grabbed me out of sleep and made my heart pound.

I groped for the light switch and blinked in the sudden brightness.

‘Jamie? Hey, what’s up?’

Jamie looked at me, his eyes big and startled. There was no way he was going to tell me. He half sat up, leaning against his pillow, clutching the duvet to his chin.

‘Wait there!’ I said. ‘I’ll fetch Mum.’

She was already on her way, stumbling across the landing and pulling her dressing-gown round her, with Mike behind, bleary-eyed.

‘Was that Jamie?’

‘Yes! He shouted–really shouted!’

We all gathered round. In that second when he’d gazed at me, I’d seen Jamie looking out–the Jamie I know. Now his shut-in look had taken over. He sat plucking at the edge of the duvet with his finger and thumb. A tuft of hair curled on top of his head, like Tintin’s.

‘Hey, Jamie, you gave me a fright!’ I said, trying to be normal and friendly.

Mum sat on the bed and smoothed his hair down with her fingers. ‘What was it, love? What did you dream?’

Nothing. Jamie gave no sign of having heard. Mum and Mike tried hard. They coaxed him, they fetched a pen and paper, Mike went down and made hot chocolate. Jamie wouldn’t respond at all–not even with a nod or a shake of his head.

Eventually Mum said, ‘Mike, could you stay here? I’m taking Jamie to sleep in our bed. I want to be with him if he has another bad dream.’

Obediently, Jamie got out of bed, and Mike got in, yawning. I heard Mum talking and talking to Jamie as she led him across the landing to the big bedroom. Next thing, I bet myself, Jennie would wake up and need feeding.

‘You all right, Josh?’ Mike was a big man for Jamie’s narrow bed, and the mattress creaked as he settled himself. ‘Must have made you jump.’

‘Yeh, it did.’

‘Turn the light out, then, there’s a good chap. You’ve got school tomorrow, and it’s another broken night.’

At least, I thought, there couldn’t be much wrong with Jamie’s vocal cords. Then, across the landing, I heard Jennie starting to cry. Nothing wrong with hers, either.

10

F
LOSS

J
amie stayed at home next morning. As early as she could, Mum phoned for an appointment with Dr Awan. When I left for school, Jamie was sitting at the table eating porridge. He gave me a smug look that said, clearly as anything,
You’re going to school and I’m not.
I stared back. That was a Jamie look, and it meant Jamie was definitely in there.

First lesson was Drama. For a warm-up, we had to work in pairs and pretend one of us was the mirror reflection of the other. Noori, Brody and I stood together, because some teachers let you stay in a three even when they’ve said pairs, but Ms Otandu made us swap around. ‘Let’s mix up the girls and the boys. Brody, you go with Freya. Noori with Sophie. Josh with Floss.’

Brody made a face at me, and Freya moaned, ‘Oh, do I
have
to?’ She did that thing girls do, rolling her eyes and huffing air at her fringe. She and Brody moved together but stood apart. Floss bounced over to me, smiling.

Floss was new. She’d only started at Langtree two weeks before we broke up for Christmas. Not only was she new at
our
school, she’d never been to
any
school before. Her parents had been teaching her at home, but now she’d decided for herself that she ought to try school out, and see how she liked it. Mrs Sharman, our form tutor, told us all this before Floss came. Course, everyone had a lot to say about that.

‘Never been to school before? Can she read and write?’

‘What, you mean we don’t
have
to come to school? Why am I here, then?’

‘She
wants
to? What, she thinks she’s missing something?’

‘So if she doesn’t like it, she can just clear off back home? Can we all do that if we want?’

‘Parents can choose to educate their children at home,’ Mrs Sharman explained. ‘They have to do it properly, though, covering all the different subjects. They even get inspected, the way schools are. It’s not an easy option,’ she told us. ‘No sitting round watching TV all day–I bet that’s what you’re imagining, Toby.’

‘First time in a school? She hasn’t got a flea’s chance,’ Toby said, when we left our form room for Maths.

I could have told him that the flea is one of the most adaptable creatures around, being a parasite that can jump from one carrier to another, but of course that wasn’t what he meant, and I didn’t think it was worth sounding like a prize boffin. He must have been imagining, like I was, this quiet, shy thing with pigtails, gazing around in astonishment, getting lost between lessons, being pushed and shoved and teased.

Floss, though, wasn’t quiet and shy. Not loud, either. She was just herself. What I mean is, she didn’t put on any kind of act. She just seemed to say, ‘Well, here I am, folks. This is me.’ She was tall and skinny with very blonde hair, and a tanned face even in the middle of winter, and an accent that I thought at first was American, but it turned out to be South African.
Sarth Effrican,
the way Toby and Bex took the mick.

It was her confidence that got those two, and the way she was a bit different, but didn’t
mind
being different. One of the things that made her stand out, apart from her height and her accent, was that she didn’t immediately pal up with one or two other girls, and stick with them. She’d talk to anyone, girls or boys–just wander over to a conversation or a game, and butt straight in. She didn’t know what you do and what you don’t do.

That’s why Toby set her up with Rick.

Mr O’Shea’s the Deputy Head. He’s one of the oldest teachers, and the strictest, and always wears a suit. He doesn’t have to tell you he means business. He teaches Maths, and although he didn’t take our class he’d stood in once when Mr Phillips was away on a course. No one messes about in Mr O’Shea’s class, ever. Even Bex, who’s got an instinct for winding up teachers, behaves like Goody-Two-Shoes when Mr O’Shea’s around.

It was Noori who nicknamed him Rick–Noori’s clever like that. (Rick O’Shea–ricochet–
har har!)
So that’s what we all call him now. Not to his face, obviously. You’d have to be a bit kamikaze to do that.

About Floss’s third day, Toby came into our form room and handed her a small brown envelope. ‘From Mr O’Shea,’ he told her. ‘Just passed him on my way in. He said to give you this.’

Floss took the note and read it. ‘What’s all that about?’

Toby looked innocent. ‘No idea.’

Later, he told Brody what he’d done–printed out a little note on his computer. It said, ‘I need to speak to you about your timetable. Please come to my office at morning break. Ask for Rick.’ And he’d signed it with an unreadable signature.

Not surprisingly, Floss does what it says and turns up at his office, in the Admin Area, with her timetable in her hand. ‘Hi! I guess you must be Rick,’ she says to Mr O’Shea, when he opens his door. He peers at her over the top of his glasses, but he’s not stupid, and he knows about Floss being new. ‘Round these parts, they tend to call me Mr O’Shea,’ he goes. ‘It’s Florence Darrow, isn’t it?’

‘Floss, actually,’ says Floss, and Rick goes, ‘Well, Floss. Actually, what can I do for you?’ So she says, ‘Well, you sent for me,’ and he’s baffled till she shows him the note. ‘I think someone’s having a joke at your expense, my dear,’ he says. ‘Or maybe at mine.’

I got this from Noori, because he saw Toby and Bex setting off behind Floss to hide by the photocopier. Noori had a form about Science Team to hand in to the secretary, so he tagged along behind.

The thing was, when Floss came back to the class for French, she didn’t say a single word to Toby about setting her up. All that came out of it was Toby started calling out ‘Florence! Flo!’ whenever he saw her. She got her own back by calling him Toby Jug. As he had big ears that stuck out like handles, that was soon a class joke, and Floss got a bit of respect.

So, anyway–there we were in Drama, doing this mirror-miming. Floss was good to work with, because she took it seriously and put in all these weird moves, doing a slow glide, then surprising me with a sudden twist or jerk. All the time, she had this perfectly serious look on her face that gave nothing away. When it was my turn to lead, she gazed straight at me the whole time, and followed my moves only a nano-second behind. She was good. After that, when we had to make up an improvisation about a misunderstanding, she had smart ideas for that, too.

The problem with Floss was she didn’t know the rules. I don’t mean the rules about putting your litter in the bin and not running in corridors. I mean the unwritten rules. For example, everyone knows that if you’re a boy, you don’t go and sit next to a girl, and if you’re a girl, you don’t willingly sit next to a boy–unless you’re Toby and Bex, that is. Some of the teachers mix us up, but left to ourselves you’d think we were two separate species. Boys, when girls are around, are like iron filings repelled from the wrong end of a magnet.

Next lesson after Drama, the heating had broken in the mobile where we usually have French, so we were moved to one of the Maths rooms. Noori and Brody sat together with me in the row in front, and a spare place next to me. That was OK, I liked having room to spread out, and I could turn round to them when we had the conversation practice. Mr Dawkins checked our names and was handing out books when Floss strolled in, smiling vaguely.

‘Yes?’ said Mr Dawkins, a bit snappish. He was already irritated, because of the room change.

Floss looked at him, and said, ‘I’m here for French.’

‘What I
meant,’
Mr D explained patiently, ‘is that when you’re late for a lesson, you’re expected to offer an apology.’

‘Oh. Well, see, I got talking to Wilbur, and then I didn’t know what room to come to.’

There’s only one Wilbur at school, and that’s Wilbur Evans, the Site Manager. Two weeks in school, and Floss had made friends with him. She chatted to everyone.

‘
Mr Evans
has work to do, and so do you,’ said Mr Dawkins. ‘Take a seat.’

I knew what would happen then. Floss gazed around the room looking for a place, saw me, and came straight over. We had to spend the rest of the lesson
parlez-vous
ing about shopping in the
boulangerie
and the
supermarché.
Floss knew French quite well, only she spoke it with a South African accent.

Of course, that was it. Two lessons in one day! According to Bex, that made us an
item.
‘Josh and Floss!’ she chanted. Others joined in, and by lunchtime it had become
JoshnFloss.
‘Hey, there’s JoshnFloss! How
sweet
!’

Noori nudged me. ‘Bowandarrow? Josh Bowman and Florence Darrow?’

He’d said it quietly, but Brody started going, ‘Bowandarrow! Bowandarrow!’ and jigged round pretending to aim arrows at me.

‘Thanks a lot.’ I glared at both of them.

Course, Bex overheard. From then on it was
JoshnFloss! Bowandarrow!
even when Floss and I weren’t within twenty metres of each other, which I made sure was most of the time.