Moon Pie

‘C
ome down at once!’ Martha called. ‘You’ll fall and hurt yourself.’

Dad took no notice. He went further up the drainpipe, grunting noisily, and grabbed the guttering of the bay window roof. With a sudden, wild effort he hoicked a leg over, and hung there like a gibbon, grinning fiercely down at them over his shoulder.

He panted something.

‘What did he say, Martha?’ Tug said.

‘Pardon?’ Martha called up.

‘Piece of,’ Dad said. ‘Cake.’

He spoke like that, in short gasps. ‘Done this. Before. No need. To worry.’

He took his hand off the guttering and began to wave, and quickly put it back again.

‘Dad’s strange, isn’t he, Martha?’ Tug said.

‘He’s very badly behaved. Dad, I want you to come down now. I’m going to go and get the spare key from Mrs Wilkinson.’

But Dad was already crouching on the steeply sloping bay window roof.

‘Be careful!’ Martha called.

He rose slowly to his feet, skittered suddenly on the tiles, waved his arms wildly once, and clung to the brickwork in front of him, laughing.

‘Easy does it,’ he said.

He shuffled sideways, face squashed against the brick, and blindly reached up an arm until he could feel the window sill of Martha’s bedroom above him.

‘Watch this, Tug,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Any second now you’re going to see me give a little jump. And grab hold of that sill. Pull myself up. Jimmy the sash. Ease open the window. And hey presto.’

Tug let go of Martha’s hand. ‘Do it, Dad!’ he shouted. He began to dance with excitement.

Martha took back Tug’s hand. ‘Dad! You’re to come down now. This minute!’ She used her strictest voice.

‘First, a little jump,’ Dad said. He gave a little jump and missed the sill.

‘Oh!’ he said, as he fell.

He fell, crumpling onto the bay window roof, slithered crossways, scrabbling at the tiles, and skidded over the edge. He fell with a crunch into the
hawthorn, which he had been promising to prune for months, and fell out of the hawthorn onto the wheelie bin which at once tipped over and flung him sideways along the gravel to where Martha and Tug stood holding hands and shouting.

Dad groaned, and there was a sudden silence, as if all the noise had been sucked out of the air. He lay there quietly on his back, eyes shut, bleeding from the nose. ‘Well,’ he said without opening his eyes. ‘I think my cat-burglar days are over.’

Tug fell on him with a sob.

Lights came on in the windows of neighbours’ houses and Martha took charge.

‘Yes, a slight accident,’ she was saying. ‘No thank you, Mrs Wilkinson, I think he’s OK. But may we use our spare key for a minute?’

Dad sat in the kitchen in his boxer shorts, with his left hand in a bowl of warm water and a large sticking plaster on his forehead. Martha was putting an ice pack round his right knee. The kitchen was small and square, with terracotta floor tiles, cracked here and there, and pine cupboards, a little shabby, and a much-repaired wooden table. There wasn’t quite enough room for things, but it didn’t matter because
they could always be left on the counter or piled up in the corners or pushed behind the door.

‘You’ll need to see the doctor in the morning,’ Martha said.

‘I’m OK. Surface wounds. Nothing compared to the damage done to my pride. What do you think, Tug? Am I OK?’

‘You bashed the tree,’ Tug said. ‘You broke the bin. The bin won’t work now. Why did you break the bin?’

‘I’ve been meaning to break that bin for weeks. I don’t like that bin.’

‘Why don’t you like that bin?’

‘It’s rude and unhelpful. Ow!’

‘Hold still,’ Martha said. ‘Don’t listen to him, Tug. He knows he’s been silly.’

‘She’s right, Tug. I’ve been very silly. And now look at me.’

They looked at him, where he sat, looking back at them glassily. There were cuts down his cheek where the hawthorn had scratched him and grazes on the backs of his hands and knees. Dust and dirt in his hair made him look suddenly older. But he was still Dad. Limping to the sink, he poured himself a glass of water, gingerly sipped it and pulled a funny face.

‘What time is it?’ he said.

‘Midnight.’

‘Come on then, or you’ll be tired tomorrow. I’m going up now. Tug?’

‘Yes, Dad?’

‘You weren’t frightened, were you? When I fell.’

‘No.’

‘Good boy.’

‘I didn’t like the noise.’

‘No. I must remember to be silent when I fall off roofs.’

‘But I wasn’t frightened.’

‘Good.’

Tug began to sniff.

‘Come on, Tug,’ Martha said. ‘Upstairs.’

They all went up together, into the darkness of the unlit landing, and Dad said good night and limped into his room. In the bathroom Martha made sure Tug cleaned his teeth. He was so floppy with sleepiness she had to hold him upright at the wash basin on his plastic step. Then she helped him to his room, the smallest bedroom, tucked away at the end of the landing, and read him one page of a story, and settled him down.

‘Good night, Tug.’

‘Good night, Martha. Is the light on?’

She switched on the nightlight. ‘Yes, the light’s on.’

‘Martha?’

‘Yes, Tug?’

‘Why’s Dad strange?’

Before she answered she drew her eyebrows together into a little frown, which was something she did when she was puzzled or upset. Then she said, ‘He’s not really strange, Tug. He’s just a bit excitable tonight. Go to sleep now.’

Going along the hall to her own room, she got into bed and lay there in the dark. A little while later she heard Dad get up and limp slowly back downstairs to the kitchen. She turned over and tried to get to sleep.

I
t was a warm summer’s night, and it was hard to sleep. Throwing off the duvet, Martha got out of bed and went to stand at the window. She was a slender girl, not very tall for her age, with long straight hair the colour of copper, grey eyes and a small pointed nose that she seemed to be pointing at people when she looked at them. Standing there in her pyjamas, her chin level with the window sill, she lifted her head and pointed her nose at the moon, and its light fell over her in a silvery veil and made her pale face paler.

The roundish moon was bruised with shadow.
Like an old piece of china
, she thought.
Like a cracked bowl
.

After a while she went to see if Tug was OK, but even before she reached his room she heard him growling softly in his sleep. He was lying on his back with his fists up by the side of his head like a baby, smiling to himself. She wiped his hot hair off his face. He was only five, and he liked sleeping.

But I’m eleven
, Martha thought.
So that’s OK
.

On the way back to her room, she listened at the top of the stairs to check if Dad was still in the kitchen, and heard him, and went back to bed and lay there again, looking at the old bowl of the moon, thinking.

Tug was right. Dad
was
behaving strangely – clowning around, making fun of everything, having accidents. And it was odd, because he hadn’t always been like that. He used to be calmer and quieter. Safer.

She lay there remembering what Dad had been like before he was strange.

She remembered him teaching her to play tennis when she was small. He wrapped his arm round her, and his big, sensible hand held her little hand holding the racket and swung it for her, and when she turned she felt his face against hers, warm and raspy, smelling of the pear drops he was always sucking. She remembered how safe it made her feel. In the past Dad had always been quietly
there
– in the house or the garden where they could find him. Now he was nowhere in particular, and at the same time, unexpectedly, all over the place. He wasn’t very quiet or sensible either. He sang songs at the top of his voice, and played boisterous games, and climbed up the front of the house
when he locked himself out. Sometimes he got angry for no reason. Over the last few months he had become loud and risky and forgetful. Just that evening he had forgotten to talk to Tug’s teacher after school, and had forgotten to make tea, and had forgotten to pick Martha up from Costumes Club, and when, in the end, she called to remind him, he had been in such a mad rush to leave the house he had forgotten his key.

Sometimes he seemed to be rushing everywhere, yet at other times he had no energy at all. Although he was full of great plans for things to do, he generally stayed in his dressing gown until lunch time. It was very odd.

Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t have a job any more
, Martha thought.
And it makes him strange
.

She frowned. She was going to have to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. After all, you can’t have everyone acting strange. Someone has to keep their head, and if it wasn’t going to be Dad, it would have to be her.