Louis Beside Himself (11 page)

She chattered on, filling the silence with her aunties and uncles and chickens. Hassan began to breathe again and I tried to look enthusiastic about the possibility of an endless supply of free eggs.

But just when it seemed the subject of Cordelia had been dropped, Elena suddenly stared right at her and said, ‘Do you live around here? You look familiar . . .'

Cordelia choked on her toast. She coughed and spluttered until Singo handed her some water. While she gulped, Elena suggested that Singo thump her on the back, as last night this is what Elena's father had done to Aunty Maria who had breathed in a whole olive . . . ‘It was awful,' Elena went on. ‘Maria had been telling us about a burglary at her house only yesterday morning – imagine, she'd come home to find the front door wide open and her gold earrings gone – and when my dad thumped her, the olive flew out across the room and landed plop in Mum's wine glass!' Elena gave a snorting laugh.

At the word
burglary
, Cordelia got up and went to the sink. It seemed no one was going to answer Elena's question. She laugh-snorted again in a bewildered way. I remembered how she used to do that years ago in primary school when she had to speak in front of the class. It was a nervous habit – a sharp, blurting noise like a wrong note from a trumpet. It must have only made her feel more embarrassed. Funny how people do things to get over their shyness, and those very things often make the situation worse, but they can't stop doing them. Have you noticed that?

The silence deepened. We heard Cordelia run the tap, fill the glass, swallow. My head was like the bottom of a dead lake. Obviously this was going to happen to me forever now, every time a burglary – or Cordelia – was mentioned. I peeped at Hassan. He was staring at me, his eyes widening, urging me to explain to Elena . . . And then, suddenly, he looked away.

He'd made a decision, I knew it. You could always tell when Hassan made his mind up. His jaw hardened and he took a deep slow breath. Relief, and a kind of sadness that was becoming familiar, spread out in my chest.

‘Elena, can you keep a secret?' he said softly, as if he was sure she could.

‘Of course I can,' she said equally softly, her chin jutting out a little.

‘Well, this is Cordelia, and she stayed here last night because she had to escape from home.'

‘Oh! How awful! What happened?'

Cordelia made a face and picked at her knife.

‘She'll tell you later, maybe,' said Hassan. ‘No one else besides us knows she is here. And right now, we don't want anyone else to know. It is just . . . a difficult situation. So, let us eat while everything is hot. Okay?'

We all agreed, even Elena, who'd probably had heaps of eggs for breakfast already.

HASAN
had cooked the eggs perfectly –
exquisitely
. Did he put a smidge of curry powder in them? His uncle had taught him well. The bacon was crisp and still moist, and he'd done something special, too, with the tomatoes. But as I sat chewing, watching Singo get up to fetch himself more of everything, I decided that what I admired most about Hassan was the way he'd mastered both his Elena-terror and the social situation with Cordelia at the same time. How did he do that? How did he overcome his embarrassed, barely-able-to-breathe feelings in just the beat of a second, and change the atmosphere for everyone? And he must have known that all the while he was talking, his face was glowing red like the tomatoes on his plate. How did he cope with blushing and being looked at by a person – a person who made his heart turn over – and still find the
right
words to say?

I was grateful to him, but at the same time I felt hollow, empty, worthless and without hope. I thought of all the imaginary scenarios that had helped me through life. The courageous speeches I'd given in my head to people who'd bullied, teased or laughed at me (or at Susan Sackworth, who I'd had a crush on all through primary school). My inner wordy victories had kept me
B
UOYANT
. There'd always been the hope that one day, when a crisis hit, I would deliver. Well, it had happened, and I'd failed.

This was it, I realised. The end of Louis as we knew him. His precious words – the secret army that came to his rescue in times of trouble – had vanished. In its place was just this silent ghost of a person sitting on a chair in a family kitchen. No one around him knew that a changeling was occupying the seat of Louis Montgomery. Nobody knew what had happened. Maybe that was the loneliest feeling of all.

I tried to stop listening to these unhappy thoughts and concentrate on the conversation around me. And there were certainly a lot of interesting words bubbling around the table. Elena was describing her Aunty Maria's stolen earrings, made of both gold and
O
NYX
– a peculiar word I'd never heard before. Was it Italian? But before I could ask about it, the talk moved on. There was much general
M
IRTH
, meaning
laughter
,
fun
and
hilarity
. Especially when Singo put pieces of toast up his nostrils and blew them out, aiming in the general direction of his glass, just like Aunty Maria with her olive.

9
TENTLAND

Dad came home at five o'clock, only to shower, change, and go out again.

‘How was The End?' I asked as he peeled off his clothes.

‘Fine,' said Dad, striding to the bathroom.

‘Are you going to just leave that shirt in the middle of the hallway?'

But Dad had stepped into the shower.

‘Did you advise him about his investments?' I shouted over the gush of water. ‘Does he live in a mansion? Did he show you his Discus Leg Drop?' Dad was scrubbing under his arms and singing ‘Dancing in the Dark', so he didn't hear me.

I sat down on the bath. This was Dad's second shower today. I tried to remember the last time he'd done that. Maybe it had been the night of Rosie's Year 10 graduation dinner. And that was only because he'd been working in the garden all day and smelled like a wrestler's socks, and Rosie had threatened to go without him and pretend to be an orphan if he didn't wash.

After the shower I followed Dad into his bedroom. He put on a brand-new forget-me-not blue shirt that I hadn't seen before, and checked himself out carefully in Rosie's new mirror.

‘Dad, what are you
doing
?' It was a pretty silly question, as it was actually quite obvious, of course. But everything felt so strange – already I was not myself, and now here was my father not being
himself
, either. I sat down heavily on Rosie's bed and put my head on my knees. All the blood rushed into my cheeks and my head throbbed. When I lifted it up, everything went starry and blurred, like the Milky Way.

But Dad didn't even notice. ‘Do you think the blue shirt looks good with my eyes?'

‘Enhances,' I said automatically.

‘What?'

‘
Looks good
is okay, but a better choice would be
enhances
.'

‘Okay, Monsieur Roget,' said Dad. ‘So does the blue shirt enhance my eyes?'

‘Yes,' I said wonderingly. ‘Your eyes look bluer.'

Dad smiled. There was that foreign flavour to his face again. An expression I'd only seen once before. It was happy and proud and shy at the same time.

‘What?' I said.

‘What do you mean, what?'

‘Well, you're acting weird.'

Dad grinned, then looked at his watch. ‘Jericho, I have to go.'

‘Where? And what will I have for dinner?' I felt faint again, hollow, like a drawing instead of a person.

‘Oh!' Dad finally focussed on me. ‘Mm, leftovers in the fridge, maybe? I just imagined your friends would still be here . . . aren't they?'

‘No, Dad.' I gestured at the silent empty hallway where his shirt and trousers still lay, like a crime scene.

‘Well, why don't you come with me then? I'm going to Doreen's – I mean Miles's house – to talk with the family about . . .Agnes. Rosie is there.'

‘No thanks,' I sniffed. ‘I'll ring up Singo— ' ‘Okay then.'

‘Or I'll nip out into the garden and have a word with the burglar,' I whispered.

But Dad was choosing shoes. ‘The black or the brown?'

‘Why is it so important?' I said. ‘It's only Miles and stuff.' ‘Yes, yes,' said Dad. ‘Brown is more casual. More appropriate.'

And then, before I'd had time to ask ‘appropriate for what?', he'd sailed out the door and driven off with a squeal of the tyres that in
other
drivers usually makes him wring his hands and deliver a lecture.

I wandered back into the kitchen and stood staring out the window. I thought about what it had been like to watch a stranger perch on that very ledge and jump to the floor, right where my feet were now. My mind relived it all, but my feelings just lay there at the foot of a cliff, asleep. Soon I'd go and tell Cordelia that she could come inside if she liked. It would only be the polite thing to do. But somehow, my eyes didn't want to move from their position. I wasn't looking at anything in particular, it was just that my mind had got stuck in the quicksand of one moment.

The afternoon passed in front of me like a film. My friends were the star actors. After breakfast we'd sat around and talked – or at least the others had – and Elena had shown great enthusiasm for Cordelia becoming a Permanent Resident of the Tent. ‘I can bring over heaps of food,' she said, spreading her arms out wide as if to cover the length of the table, ‘particularly if you like dishes with eggs in them.'

That got Hassan talking about Mady's restaurant, and he and Elena began to swap recipes and exquisite
C
ULINARY
experiences until Singo rolled his eyes and yawned, suggesting they go up to the park to play basketball because there were try-outs for the big end-of-year match next week. Elena, who plays basketball too, quickly agreed. Hassan was excited to do anything Elena wanted to do, plus he said he'd bring his skateboard and show her a few moves.

‘I'm still learning,' he said humbly. ‘But, you know, I could teach you some of the basic tricks. If you wanted . . .' When he said that, I recognised the expression on his face. Wasn't that the shy proud look my father had put on with his shirt? While they were away, I looked up the meaning of onyx, and then I washed up all the breakfast things while Cordelia returned to her mowing. After a couple of hours they trooped back in, flushed and happy and loud, bursting with mysterious talk about activities I just couldn't see the point of. I could only nod my head and smile meaninglessly and wish myself away.

OUTSIDE
, the sun was sinking behind the mango tree, outlining the tips of leaves, a bird's wing, the tent. With a gold pen it traced these familiar things, and then the things wouldn't return to their normal selves. I saw a circle of torchlight spring up from inside the tent and wondered if Cordelia was settling down to read. Probably she was quite comfortable there . . . and anyway, she was better off with the words of Mark Twain than anything I could offer, which was pretty well zilch, zero, nought,
nada
(which is Spanish for all those nothings).

I trudged into my room, lay on my bed and closed my eyes. Dark. I opened my eyes. Dark. Depressing. I switched on the light and hunted through the notebooks in my bedside drawer. At the bottom was the red leather one that Rosie had given me for my ninth birthday. Riffling through the stories, I saw this was the year of the giant rat with the fluorescent-green saliva that burned right through your skin like hydrochloric acid. Nice. The word lists that went with it were quite colourful, I thought. My favourite word of that year was
A
GOG
. Apparently, everyone who saw the giant rat with fluorescent-green saliva became
agog
, meaning
amazed
,
astonished
and
consumed by curiosity
.