Emily's Penny Dreadful (2 page)

 
Uncle Raymond’s face
relaxed. “I seem to recall that you have ambitions to be a writer,”
he said. “Is that correct?”

 
Emily nodded a third
time.

“
Well, then. Writers need
to get things right. Especially grammar. Agreed?”

  “
How do you spell
that word?” Emily asked. “Not ‘agreed,’ I know how to spell that.
I’m a good speller. The best in my class. Did you know
that?”

  “
No,” said Uncle Raymond. “I didn’t.
Preposition
, you mean? It’s P R E P
O S I T I O N, meaning that it takes precedence. In other words, it
comes first.”

  “
Because it’s more
important?” asked Emily.

  “
You could say
that,” said Uncle Raymond.

“
Just like you’re more
important than me,” said Emily. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be
taking-over my room. Preposition has to be close to precocious in
the dictionary,” she added, more to herself than to Uncle Raymond.
“They both start with the same three letters.”

 
But Uncle Raymond had stopped listening to Emily. He was
staring into the room. Then stared down at Emily. “This is also
a
very
small
room,” he said. “Miniscule, in fact.”

  “
No, it isn’t,” said
Emily.

  “
It is.”

  “
It
isn’t
.”

  “
Hmm. Then you, too,
have delusions of grandeur,” said Uncle Raymond. “Perhaps, in this
case, with a little justification. Compared with your sister’s
room, this room might seem big to you. And of course, you’re small.
But because Auntie Dot and I are big, to us this room seems small.
Miniscule.”

“
Auntie Dot might not think
so. And, besides, she’s not big. Well, she’s bigger than me, of
course, but

she’s not nearly as big as you.”

Uncle Raymond looked down
at Emily again. He didn’t just look down at her. He didn’t just
pull a face. He looked down at her and, this time, he
glared
. “Precocious
child,” he said.

  “
I know what that
means,” said Emily. “I read it in my dictionary. It means clever.
But you make it sound the opposite,” she added.

  “
How old are you?”
asked Uncle Raymond. “Eight or nine? I’ve lost track.”

  “
I’ve just turned
nine,” said Emily. “And Sibbie is twelve. Nearly. That’s why she
wanted the sunroom made into a bedroom for her. Even though it’s
min . . . min . .  .”

  “
Miniscule.”

  “
Miniscule. Yes. The
sunroom’s away from everyone else and Sibbie sometimes likes to
make a lot of noise.”

  “
It must run in the
family,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “
She plays the drums
and has her own drum kit, including the cymbals,” said Emily.
“Except now she can’t play them very often because they’ve had to
be

stored in the garage until you and Auntie
Dot leave.”

  “
Thank heavens for
small mercies,” said Uncle

Raymond. “So, you’re nine?”

Emily nodded.

  “
Well then,” said
Uncle Raymond. “In your case, precocious means clever, but too
clever by far.”

*

Uncle Raymond stopped glaring at Emily and
glared into the room instead. “Perhaps it’s a good thing your aunt
and I have nothing left, other than the clothes on our backs,” he
said. “Nothing else would fit in here.”

  “
I had to leave most
of my stuff,” said Emily.

  “
Just to prove it
really is your room, you mean?”

  “
No, because there was nowhere else to put it. Now, listen.
You’re not allowed to move anything except the books. They’re not
my
favourite
books. My most favourite book of all is my dictionary, and
I
have
taken that
with me, along with my other best books. But these second-best ones
you can borrow to read, if you like.”

 
Uncle Raymond
scanned Emily’s bookshelf. “Thank you, but no thank you,” he said.
“They’re all children’s books. Juveniles, as the library of my
childhood used to call them.”

  “
I’m a
child.”

  “
Precisely,” said
Uncle Raymond. “I, on the other hand, am not.”

  “
But you were, once
upon a time,” Emily said. “That’s why I thought you might enjoy
reading them.”

  “
I put childish
things behind me a long time ago,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “
That’s a pity,”
said Emily. “I haven’t read any of your books,” she
added.

  “
I’m not surprised,”
said Uncle Raymond. “They’re for adults. The polar opposite of
juveniles.”

  “
Last year I almost read
Ghost under
the stairs
,” said Emily.
 

  “
And?”

  “
I didn’t finish
it,” Emily said.

  “
I’m not surprised,”
said Uncle Raymond again.

  “
It didn’t have an
actual ghost in it,” said Emily. “That’s why.”

  “
Hmm.”

  “
Why did you say
ghost
in the title when there wasn’t
one?”

  “
It was a
metaphorical ghost. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “
I might,” said
Emily. “Try me. I love remembering new words. I remembered
‘precocious’. And I’m going to remember ‘miniscule’ and
‘preposition.’”

  “
Well then. A
metaphor is a turn of phrase in which we describe something in
terms of something else. That something else is most unlike the
first something even though, when we compare the two somethings,
they do seem to bear an uncanny resemblance to one
another.”

  “
You said all that
way
too fast,” said Emily.

 
Uncle Raymond
sighed. “The ghost under the stairs was, in reality, not a ghost at
all but a shameful secret. Something hidden. Something secret. It
was like a ghost.”

  “
I
understand
like
,”
said Emily, happily. “That’s what’s called a ‘smile’.
Your face is like a lumpy potato
is a smile because it has the work ‘like’ in it.
I learned that at school.”

  “
Indeed,” said Uncle Raymond, touching his face. “I think you
mean a
simile
,
not a
smile
.”

  “
I’m sure it’s
‘smile’,” said Emily. “Because that’s what happens when you say it.
It makes you smile.”

  “
Please yourself,”
said Uncle Raymond.

  “
We haven’t got up
to metaphor yet,” said Emily.

“
Try
leaving out the work
like
,” Uncle Raymond
suggested.

 
Emily tried. “
Your face is a lumpy
potato
. It doesn’t make much difference,”
she said. “They both make me smile.”

 
Uncle Raymond didn’t
smile.

*

“
When you said that you and
Auntie Dot don’t have anything left, except for the clothes on your
backs, what did you mean?” asked Emily.

  “
Exactly that,” said
Uncle Raymond. “Everything we had was consumed in the all-consuming
fire.”

 
Emily pointed at
Uncle Raymond. “So what’s that?”

  “
Oh, this.” Uncle
Raymond pulled a folded paper from under his armpit. “I’d forgotten
it was there,” he said.

  “
Is it a newspaper?”
Emily asked.

  “
No, it’s an
old-fashioned sort of magazine. Inside is a story. Not the sort of
story you would have the slightest interest in.”

  “
Is it one of
yours?” Emily asked.

 
Uncle Raymond pulled
a face, one that was almost

another glare.

  “
This magazine is
called a Penny Dreadful,” he said. “It’s so old that when it was
printed it cost only a penny . . .”

  “
Older than
you?”

  “
By far?”

  “
How old are you,
Uncle Raymond?”

“
That’s a personal matter,”
said Uncle Raymond. “I don’t discuss personal matters.”

  “
What’s a penny,
then?”

  “
A very small amount
of money. Like a cent.”

“
That’s
a
very
small
amount of money,” Emily agreed.

  “
The story inside
this magazine is exactly as the title describes.
Dreadful.”

  “
Then why haven’t
you put it in the recycling bin?” Emily asked.

  “
Because, although
the story is dreadful, I find it

highly entertaining and, furthermore, this
magazine is very valuable.”

 
Emily chewed her
lip, puzzled. “You said it was only worth a penny.”

  “
That was nearly a
hundred and fifty years ago,

which is how old this magazine is,” Uncle
Raymond

said. “Today it’s value is considerably more
than a single penny.”

  “
Enough to buy you a
new house?” asked Emily, hopefully.

“
No,” said Uncle Raymond.
“Unfortunately not.”

  “
That’s a
big
pity,” said Emily.

Uncle Raymond nodded. “For
once, I think, we are in agreement,” he said.

 
And they both pulled
faces.

Chapter Four

“
I lost my favourite dress
in a fire,” Emily remembered, “but it was my own fault.”

 
Uncle Raymond looked
startled. “How was it your fault?” he asked.

  “
I lit a match,”
said Emily. “It was just a small match,”

  “
Matches are nearly
always small.”

  “
But they make big
flames,” said Emily.

“
That’s true,” said Uncle
Raymond. “What happened?”

  “
It’s a personal
matter, said Emily, “but I don’t mind telling you. Mum and Dad said
I should never light matches.”

  “
Rightly so,” said
Uncle Raymond.

  “
Of course, it
happened when I was only seven,” said Emily. “I know how to do it
properly now. Not that I want to anymore. But, when I was seven, I
did want to light one, so I did and my dress caught on
fire.”

  “
Good heavens!” said
Uncle Raymond. “I don’t remember hearing about that. Were you
injured?”

  “
Not me,” said
Emily. “Just my dress. It was ruined. I

wasn’t wearing it at the time. It was
hanging on the washing line. On the middle wire that sags. Do you
know which one I mean?”

“
No,” said Uncle
Raymond.

  “
It doesn’t matter,”
said Emily. “I was outside with the matches. I lit one too close to
the saggy wire and accidently set my dress on fire. It was my
favourite dress. I know I’ve already said that, but it
was.”

“
It’s
hard, losing things,” said Uncle Raymond,
slowly
.
“Especially things that are
important to you. But what made you want to light a match in the
first place?”

“
It’s a long story,” said
Emily. “Well, longish, anyway.”

“
Can it wait for another
day then?” asked Uncle Raymond.

“
I suppose so,” said Emily.
“But you did ask.”

  “
Hmm,” said Uncle
Raymond. “I don’t know why, but I did. I should sit down,
then.”

“
You can sit on my chair,”
said Emily.

 
Uncle Raymond sat
heavily on an Emily-sized chair. “Proceed,” he said.

“
Well,” said Emily, with a
very anxious glance at her

chair, “when I was seven our class went to
visit the

match factory.”

  “
I didn’t know there
was a match factory in this city,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “
There isn’t,” said
Emily.

  “
Then how . .
.”

  “
It
used
to
be a match factory,” Emily explained. “A long time ago. Before I
was born. It’s a big building made of red bricks. We were taken
inside for a look and somebody talked to us about it and showed us
photos of what it was like.”

“
That sounds very
educational,” sighed Uncle Raymond.

  “
It was. We learnt
heaps,” said Emily. “Do you know what the red stuff on top of
matches is called? I do.”

“
So do I. It’s called
phosphorus,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “
How did you know?”
said Emily.

“
Writers know a lot of
things,” said Uncle Raymond. “That’s our job. And if we don’t know
them, we find them out. Sometimes we even make them up. All writers
are liars and thieves,” he added, “although I prefer to call our
stealing ‘creative borrowing’. It’s a