Read Online Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman - Free Book Online

understand what Dad was saying and Dad couldn’t understand what the bloke was saying.
    Dad said the name of Mum’s town all the different ways he could think of, but the ticket bloke just kept frowning.
    â€˜Sorry, Tonto,’ muttered Dad. ‘It’s been twelve years since I’ve said it.’
    I handed him the phrase book.
    The phrase book didn’t have towns.
    â€˜Tell you what,’ said Dad to the ticket bloke. ‘Show me a list of all your towns and I’ll see if I can spot it.’
    The ticket bloke looked at him blankly.
    Dad started thumbing through the phrase book.
    I started feeling pretty anxious in case the ticket bloke decided to run a check on us. Train ticket-office computers are almost as powerful as customs ones.
    Then I had an idea.
    I rummaged in my rucksack until I found the old French press cuttings about Mum. Without letting anyone see them, which wasn’t easy because there were about fifty angry people behind us in the queue, I copied down all the words in them that started with capital letters.
    I showed my notebook to the ticket bloke, praying that one of the words was the name of the town.
    The ticket bloke rolled his eyes and put two tickets on the counter. He said something in a loud voice. It was in French but I got the gist from his hand-movements. He was saying I was smarter than Dad, which I thought was pretty unkind in front of all those other people.
    Then he said something else.
    I watched his hands closely.
    â€˜We’ve got to change trains in the city,’ I said to Dad.
    â€˜I knew that,’ said Dad grumpily. ‘I’m not an idiot. I only did this trip twelve years ago.’
    The station we changed at in Paris was the biggest station I’ve ever seen.
    I gaped, even though I’ve promised myself I won’t get distracted from my mission of revenge by tourist sights. There was a roof over the whole station, and the noise of pigeons and trains and French people echoed like something in a dream. And the air smelled fantastic, like apple fritters made with garlic.
    Dad brought me down to earth quicker than a sprayed codling moth.
    â€˜After we’ve had a squiz at Mum’s grave,’ he said, ‘we’ll go to Euro Disney.’
    He pointed to a huge poster of Mickey and Goofy riding on a roller coaster with French writing coming out of their mouths.
    I stared at him in panic.
    Why would a bloke who’s just travelled round the world to his dead wife’s grave want to go to Disneyland?
    Must be jet-lag.
    â€˜Um . . .’ I said, trying desperately to make my hands look natural, ‘I’m feeling pretty jet-lagged too so I wouldn’t mind resting-up in Mum’s town for a bit first. Just for a couple of weeks.’
    Dad gave me a strange look. I don’t know why, I was telling the truth. I hardly slept at all on the plane. Every time I nodded off, I clunked my head on the woman next to me’s crossword book. It’s OK for Dad, he can sleep anywhere, even on a tractor.
    We’re on the train now, and I’m staring out the window at the French paddocks. They’re even flatter than ours at home. And really dark green, except for the ploughed ones, which are dark brown.
    A few minutes ago a thought suddenly hit me.
    I’m only a few miles away from Mum.
    Maybe the colours just seem darker because of that.
    They can do, when you’ve got tears in your eyes.
    Then I had another thought. As far as I can see, the French paddocks are bare of trees. There are a few trees around the houses and villages, but they don’t look very friendly.
    â€˜Is Mum buried near apple trees?’ I asked Dad anxiously a moment ago. I really hoped she was. At least they’d remind her of home.
    â€˜No,’ said Dad. ‘Too wet round here for apple trees. All they can grow round here is turnips.’
    That’s really crook.
    My own dear mum, buried near turnips.
    That