Read Online The Moon King by Siobhan Parkinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Siobhan Parkinson
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in the moon-chair room, and he was flying.
This was where the junk was put, cast aside, the things other people didn’t want. Ricky was king of the junk, king of all the abandoned things, and he was flying. Here he ruled. Nobody could bully him here, nobody could beat him or tell him he was good for nothing, and he was flying.
The room started to slow down now and gradually came to a standstill. Ricky himself came slowly to land in the moon chair. The wild tinkling of the chandelier slowed to a ripple and finally stopped, the flying glitters settling into a still but scattered rainbow pattern cast here and there over the walls and floors and objects in the room.
As Ricky touched down, balancing the old typewriter on his knees, the lampshade-headed dummy bent towards him again, bowing towards her king. King Ricky raised his hand graciously to show her he was listening, ready to consider her request, but she was too shy to speak. Never mind, said Ricky to her. You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to. Some other time perhaps, and the lampshade nodded its fringes, coyly hiding the shy dummy-lady’s face. Not at all, waved Ricky. Think nothing of it.
The crystal chandelier gave a final wavering clink from its box on the floor and settled its sugar-stick tresses. Everything was calming down, getting ready to rest at Ricky’s royal feet.
Ricky! Ri-ii-icky! Ricky! Ricky!
The voice came to him from very far away, but it wasgetting nearer. A clear, bell-like voice. He didn’t answer. He wanted to hear the voice again.
Ricky! Are you up there? Come on down. Ri-ii-icky!
The voice was getting nearer. Ricky shook himself and sighed. What was that weight on his knees? He looked down at the typewriter. It was battered and bashed-looking, and a funny smell came off it, like mildew. His finger was on the letter G. Gingerly he removed the finger, but the key stayed down. Ricky heaved the typewriter back onto the desk, and as it hit the desk, the G key bounced back up. A little puff of dust rose up from the keyboard as it did so, and Ricky sneezed. He gathered Froggo off the arm of the chair, where he had managed to maintain his balance all this time, and stood up, as a shadow appeared in the doorway.
‘Ricky!’ said Rosheen now in an ordinary voice, no longer having to shout because she was almost beside him. ‘Was it you who left that mess on the kitchen table? Did you know you’d spilt the water? It was all brown, like mud, only more liquidy, and there’s a pool of it on the kitchen floor. And the paintbox is open and some of the paints have the lids left off and there isn’t even a picture! What have you been doing? It’s lucky it was you. If any of the rest of us did that, Mammy Kelly would have our lives. Come on down now and help me to clean it up before teatime. Didn’t you paint a picture after all? How could you have made such a mess without painting anything?’
Rosheen prattled on, not pausing for Ricky to answerher, even if he had wanted to. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t want to. He just wanted her to go on and on, chattering and warbling, like the pigeons. He wasn’t listening to what she was saying any more, just following her down the stairs and listening to the sound her voice made, like chiming in the wind.
‘And then when we get it all cleared up,’ Rosheen was saying, ‘we’ll just have time to feed the pigeons. Would you like that? We can do it together if you like, but we’ll have to hurry because we must get that mess out of the way first, or there’ll be blue murder, I’m telling you, absolutely blue blooming murder!’
CHAPTER 16
Ricky Goes into Hiding
‘I told you I’d tell your social worker about how you have been bullying me,’ Helen hissed.
It was some time after the destroyed picture episode. Helen and Ricky and Rosheen and Fergal were in the front room, the one full of hatstands, where Ricky had slept on his first night in the Kellys’ house. Fergal was having
This was where the junk was put, cast aside, the things other people didn’t want. Ricky was king of the junk, king of all the abandoned things, and he was flying. Here he ruled. Nobody could bully him here, nobody could beat him or tell him he was good for nothing, and he was flying.
The room started to slow down now and gradually came to a standstill. Ricky himself came slowly to land in the moon chair. The wild tinkling of the chandelier slowed to a ripple and finally stopped, the flying glitters settling into a still but scattered rainbow pattern cast here and there over the walls and floors and objects in the room.
As Ricky touched down, balancing the old typewriter on his knees, the lampshade-headed dummy bent towards him again, bowing towards her king. King Ricky raised his hand graciously to show her he was listening, ready to consider her request, but she was too shy to speak. Never mind, said Ricky to her. You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to. Some other time perhaps, and the lampshade nodded its fringes, coyly hiding the shy dummy-lady’s face. Not at all, waved Ricky. Think nothing of it.
The crystal chandelier gave a final wavering clink from its box on the floor and settled its sugar-stick tresses. Everything was calming down, getting ready to rest at Ricky’s royal feet.
Ricky! Ri-ii-icky! Ricky! Ricky!
The voice came to him from very far away, but it wasgetting nearer. A clear, bell-like voice. He didn’t answer. He wanted to hear the voice again.
Ricky! Are you up there? Come on down. Ri-ii-icky!
The voice was getting nearer. Ricky shook himself and sighed. What was that weight on his knees? He looked down at the typewriter. It was battered and bashed-looking, and a funny smell came off it, like mildew. His finger was on the letter G. Gingerly he removed the finger, but the key stayed down. Ricky heaved the typewriter back onto the desk, and as it hit the desk, the G key bounced back up. A little puff of dust rose up from the keyboard as it did so, and Ricky sneezed. He gathered Froggo off the arm of the chair, where he had managed to maintain his balance all this time, and stood up, as a shadow appeared in the doorway.
‘Ricky!’ said Rosheen now in an ordinary voice, no longer having to shout because she was almost beside him. ‘Was it you who left that mess on the kitchen table? Did you know you’d spilt the water? It was all brown, like mud, only more liquidy, and there’s a pool of it on the kitchen floor. And the paintbox is open and some of the paints have the lids left off and there isn’t even a picture! What have you been doing? It’s lucky it was you. If any of the rest of us did that, Mammy Kelly would have our lives. Come on down now and help me to clean it up before teatime. Didn’t you paint a picture after all? How could you have made such a mess without painting anything?’
Rosheen prattled on, not pausing for Ricky to answerher, even if he had wanted to. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t want to. He just wanted her to go on and on, chattering and warbling, like the pigeons. He wasn’t listening to what she was saying any more, just following her down the stairs and listening to the sound her voice made, like chiming in the wind.
‘And then when we get it all cleared up,’ Rosheen was saying, ‘we’ll just have time to feed the pigeons. Would you like that? We can do it together if you like, but we’ll have to hurry because we must get that mess out of the way first, or there’ll be blue murder, I’m telling you, absolutely blue blooming murder!’
CHAPTER 16
Ricky Goes into Hiding
‘I told you I’d tell your social worker about how you have been bullying me,’ Helen hissed.
It was some time after the destroyed picture episode. Helen and Ricky and Rosheen and Fergal were in the front room, the one full of hatstands, where Ricky had slept on his first night in the Kellys’ house. Fergal was having
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