guilty. One of the most annoying things about being brought up by grandparents is their old-fashioned ideas. Sometimes it feels like living in the Dark Ages. For instance, the idea that you can make yourself ill just by getting angry. The idea that you can catch a chill from having wet hair. And the idea that eating the disgusting cold jelly off a roast chicken is ‘excellent for invalids’. I love Gramps and Hannah but they drive me up the wall sometimes.
Hannah began picking up the pieces from the floor. Her mouth was as straight as a ruler. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll see him off. Don’t tell the boys, will you, Scarlet? There’s absolutely no need to be frightening them. This may come to nothing.’
All through dinner the three of us tried to behave as though everything was normal. Theo had some good news about becoming class prefect at school. Ben was being a little twerp, winding Theo up by calling him Ferret Face.
‘C’mon, Ben—you too, Theo,’ said Gramps, after we’d eaten. ‘The girls have homework to do. Let’s us lads do the washing-up, then get yourselves ready for bed and I’ll tell you a story. What shall it be about?’
The bribe worked. He soon had Theo and Ben lined up with tea towels, and I laid out my homework on the kitchen table while Hannah disappeared off to her computer. Gramps’ stories are legendary in our family. You can give him any subject, anything at all.
‘A great big, um . . . a big hairy caveman,’ suggested Ben.
‘A spoon,’ said Theo, who was drying one.
‘A wee!’ screeched Ben, sniggering with his hand over his mouth. He thinks anything to do with toilets is hilarious.
‘Hmm . . .’ Gramps thought for a while, swishing the water around with his yellow rubber gloves. ‘Yes, well, I think this evening we’ll hear the story of three Neanderthal children, and how they invented the very first spoon. Of course, wee is an important part of the plot.’
‘What are they called?’ asked Theo.
‘Wo, Wa and Wee. You see? Two boys and a girl with flaming red hair.’
‘Strawberry blonde, actually,’ I piped up.
‘Flaming strawberry blonde. Sorry. These three children are your ancestors, and you each have a little bit of them in you. Did you know that we all have Neanderthal DNA in us? Especially Ben. I suspect he has more than most.’
Theo started doing his sabre-toothed tiger impersonation with two kitchen knives. I tried to get on with my science homework, but drawing a diagram of an amoeba really didn’t interest me that evening. I suppose we share DNA with an amoeba. I started doodling on the cover of my book. I drew lots of vertical lines, darker and darker and then extremely dark, until my biro went right through the paper. Then I sketched a person behind them. He had scribbly hair, and round glasses, and mad staring eyes.
•
I couldn’t get to sleep that night. I hate those lonely hours.
My bedroom used to be Mum’s when she was a child. Her costume dolls still sit along the windowsill and some of her books are on the shelves. You’d think this would make her feel closer, but it doesn’t. The singing man seems much closer than she does. He visits all the time. I’ll hear his song, and know that death is coming. I’ll gather all my breath and try to force out a scream, but all I can ever manage is a tweeting sound, like a trapped bird. Then I wake up crying.
I used to beg Mum to give me a sign that she was there. Anything at all—even a whiff of her special scent. She never answered. Eventually I faced facts: she was well and truly gone. I didn’t tell Ben or Theo, though. It would have broken their hearts. They believe she’s watching over them, like Mufasa in The Lion King .
On this particular night I’d been lying awake for hours when I heard a floorboard creak. I was pleased to think someone else was up, so I got out of bed and crept to my door. Theo was just leaving the bathroom, carrying a big towel. He saw me
Hannah began picking up the pieces from the floor. Her mouth was as straight as a ruler. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll see him off. Don’t tell the boys, will you, Scarlet? There’s absolutely no need to be frightening them. This may come to nothing.’
All through dinner the three of us tried to behave as though everything was normal. Theo had some good news about becoming class prefect at school. Ben was being a little twerp, winding Theo up by calling him Ferret Face.
‘C’mon, Ben—you too, Theo,’ said Gramps, after we’d eaten. ‘The girls have homework to do. Let’s us lads do the washing-up, then get yourselves ready for bed and I’ll tell you a story. What shall it be about?’
The bribe worked. He soon had Theo and Ben lined up with tea towels, and I laid out my homework on the kitchen table while Hannah disappeared off to her computer. Gramps’ stories are legendary in our family. You can give him any subject, anything at all.
‘A great big, um . . . a big hairy caveman,’ suggested Ben.
‘A spoon,’ said Theo, who was drying one.
‘A wee!’ screeched Ben, sniggering with his hand over his mouth. He thinks anything to do with toilets is hilarious.
‘Hmm . . .’ Gramps thought for a while, swishing the water around with his yellow rubber gloves. ‘Yes, well, I think this evening we’ll hear the story of three Neanderthal children, and how they invented the very first spoon. Of course, wee is an important part of the plot.’
‘What are they called?’ asked Theo.
‘Wo, Wa and Wee. You see? Two boys and a girl with flaming red hair.’
‘Strawberry blonde, actually,’ I piped up.
‘Flaming strawberry blonde. Sorry. These three children are your ancestors, and you each have a little bit of them in you. Did you know that we all have Neanderthal DNA in us? Especially Ben. I suspect he has more than most.’
Theo started doing his sabre-toothed tiger impersonation with two kitchen knives. I tried to get on with my science homework, but drawing a diagram of an amoeba really didn’t interest me that evening. I suppose we share DNA with an amoeba. I started doodling on the cover of my book. I drew lots of vertical lines, darker and darker and then extremely dark, until my biro went right through the paper. Then I sketched a person behind them. He had scribbly hair, and round glasses, and mad staring eyes.
•
I couldn’t get to sleep that night. I hate those lonely hours.
My bedroom used to be Mum’s when she was a child. Her costume dolls still sit along the windowsill and some of her books are on the shelves. You’d think this would make her feel closer, but it doesn’t. The singing man seems much closer than she does. He visits all the time. I’ll hear his song, and know that death is coming. I’ll gather all my breath and try to force out a scream, but all I can ever manage is a tweeting sound, like a trapped bird. Then I wake up crying.
I used to beg Mum to give me a sign that she was there. Anything at all—even a whiff of her special scent. She never answered. Eventually I faced facts: she was well and truly gone. I didn’t tell Ben or Theo, though. It would have broken their hearts. They believe she’s watching over them, like Mufasa in The Lion King .
On this particular night I’d been lying awake for hours when I heard a floorboard creak. I was pleased to think someone else was up, so I got out of bed and crept to my door. Theo was just leaving the bathroom, carrying a big towel. He saw me
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