The Amazing Mind of Alice Makin (5 page)

‘Got any suggestions?'

‘W-we could t-tell the shopkeeper.'

‘And get thumped.'

‘Or w-we could draw attention to them.'

‘How?'

‘Simple.'

He cups his hands to his mouth. Shouts. Loudly. ‘W-what you two d-doing?'

Denis spins around. Furious.

I glare at Reggie. ‘Oh, great, we're gonna die trying to save a bubble gum machine.'

Denis looks over at us. Draws a finger across his throat. Looks up and down the street. Sticks his hands in his pockets and whistles with what he thinks is an innocent look. Couldn't look more suspicious if he tried. Gary kind of sidles off, as if he's nothing to do with Denis. Which, considering they're twins, is a bit stupid. Gary looks over. Makes a rude sign. I make one back.

‘What gets me is that they always get away with things.'

‘Kn-know what you mean.'

‘If we do the slightest thing wrong we get into trouble. They seem to get away with everything.'

‘It's n-not fair. Come on, best leave them to it.'

I stare at them, thinking all kinds of nasty thoughts. Wishing something would happen. Imagining how good it would be if they got caught, or ended up with more gum than they knew what to do with.

A big lorry roars by; blocks our view for a second, shakes the pavement. When I next look, something
amazing happens. The bubble gum machine starts to sway slowly backwards and forwards. Then it tips right over and hits the floor, shooting out bubble gum in a torrent of colours.

The Spicers look amazed. I wouldn't have believed it could have held so many. Scattering out. Pouring out. A sea of bubble gum balls. The twins check no one's watching, then start scooping it up. Handfuls of it. Stuffing it into their mouths, and, when their mouths are stuffed, stuffing their pockets. Seems the more they stuff, the more it comes. They've got enough gum to last them until they get their pensions!

Still it comes. Building up in waves around their feet. They start to tread on it – I can hear the thin sugar shells cracking. Gum meets shoes. Gum sticks to shoes. Spicers stick to pavement. It's hilarious. Looks like someone has poured glue all over the floor. The look in their eyes changes from glee to confusion. Bubble gum pulls out in long tacky strands as the Spicers try to lift their shoes. They're both well and truly stuck now. Denis reaches down and tries to take off his shoe, but his fingers stick to it. He's tied up in bubble gum. The more the twins struggle, the more they get caught. It's the funniest thing I've seen in ages.

Me and Reggie get the giggles. They both look across at us. Don't look very happy. The Spicers don't like being laughed at. If they knew what the word ‘revenge' meant, it would be burning in their heads, branding their brains.
Instead, the words ‘Knock their blocks off' are probably doing the burning. Whatever, we need to get going quick before they get unstuck.

‘Better leave the fireworks for today. We'll get them tomorrow.'

‘G-good idea.'

I can't resist another look. The gum is still pouring out. How much can one of those machines hold?

‘That was great. Wonder what made that gum machine fall over like that?'

‘Yes, I w-wonder.' Reggie's voice sounds strange. Almost like he's teasing me.

I glance across at the Spicers. Denis gives me a filthy look. It's time we were gone.

‘T-tactical withdrawal?'

‘What?'

‘That's what N-Norman would say.'

‘No, he'd say leg it.'

We head out of the street as fast as we can, and around the corner.

‘Know what?'

‘What?'

‘Those Spicers are d-dangerous.'

‘Dodgy.'

‘Dastardly.'

‘Dastardly?'

‘It's a real w-word.'

‘Desperate.'

‘Desperate?'

‘Fancy seeing that film?'

‘Stop cheating.'

And so on. Down the road we go.

I
t's bonfire night. The sky drizzles. Overhead, dumpling clouds dish themselves up in a school-dinner-gravy sky. And I've got indigestion in my heart. Me and Reggie have had a row. Well, not really a row. It was more me being horrible to him. I'm like that sometimes. ‘Cut your own throat one day with that tongue of yours,' my mum says.

I'm standing under an oak tree in Victoria Park. Vicky Park, we call it. I've decided to get Reggie a peace offering. He told me he'd seen a really good dead branch hanging from this tree the other day. Thought it would be perfect for our bonfire. Thing is, he can't stand heights. So I thought I'd go and get it for him. Peace offerings are supposed to be olive branches, I think, but we don't get many of those around here. He'll have to make do with a bit off an old oak tree.

I like climbing. Being at the top of the world. Hanging in the air. On my own. I look up at the tree; should be easy enough. I grab hold of a small branch, wrap my legs around the trunk and start to climb. There are plenty of hand-holds, so I soon zoom up.

Out of the corner of my eye I see something. I look
down. It's Norman. He's creeping up in the cover of some bushes. He's got some twigs stuck in his hair. I can't make out if it's supposed to be camouflage or he's just forgotten to comb it. He wriggles on his belly to the foot of the tree like some giant, knitted caterpillar. Stands up and cups both hands around his eyes like he's got a pair of binoculars. Army issue, of course. He looks up at me.

‘Oi, Al, wotcha doing?'

‘Escaping from Colditz, Norm.'

He adjusts the binoculars. ‘Good on ya. Can't see no Germans.' He swivels his hands. ‘I could see up your skirt though, if I wanted to.'

‘Not if you had a black eye, you couldn't.'

He turns away. ‘Right. Get your point.'

Trevor Taplin's mum comes into the park with her dog. Norman focuses his binocular hands on her.

‘Here, Al, d'you reckon Mrs Taplin is really Adolf Hitler in disguise?'

Wish he'd shut up. I'm nearly there. Trying to concentrate.

‘No, I think Mrs Taplin is really Mrs Taplin, Norm.'

‘How d'you know?'

‘Well, I think if she wasn't, Mr Taplin would have noticed by now, don't you?'

‘Suppose so. Mind you . . .'

He pauses. Thinks. I'm at a tricky bit. Got to reach out to grab the dead branch.

‘. . . she has got a funny moustache like Hitler.'

I try to reach and talk at the same time.

‘Yeah, and your dad's horse has got a funny walk, but that don't make her Charlie Chaplin.'

‘Right, get your point.'

‘Watch out, Norm!' I let the branch fall. He moves. It misses him – just.

‘Mind you, that's because she's gotta pull a milk cart. You'd walk like Charlie Chaplin too if you had to pull a milk cart round behind you all day.'

‘Expect I would.'

Now I've got to get down. Have to make sure I've got a good hold on the branch above with my hands before I let go with my legs.

‘You know if you fall you're gonna break your neck?'

‘Not if I fall on you, I won't.'

He carefully puts the binoculars he doesn't have in a case he hasn't got.

‘Hey, you seen the Spicers lately?'

For a second I look down. Nearly miss my footing.

‘No, why?'

‘They've been feeding our goats the
News of the World
.' Norman's dad keeps goats and chickens in the little garden at the back of their bungalow.

‘My dad said they'd get food poisoning.'

‘Who, the Spicers?'

‘No, the goats. Anyway, what d'you want with an old dead branch?'

‘It's a peace offering.'

‘You're a fruitcake, Al.'

‘Takes one to know one, Norm.'

‘Your mum'd kill you if she knew what you was doing.'

He's right. One slip up here and . . .

I start to climb back down. That's really easy. Just like sliding down a pole. I get to the bottom branch, jump off.

‘Thanks, Norm.'

‘What for?'

‘Oh, nothing.'

‘That's all right. That's what I'm good at. Nothing. That's what my dad says. “Know what you're good for, boy? Bloody nothing, that's what.”'

I leave Norman laying mines and looking for German snipers near the swings. I drag the dead branch out of the park and down Burdett Road. Get some funny looks. There's two blokes standing at a bus stop. One looks at his mate like he's going to say something really witty. Then he says, ‘See you're branching out on your own then, love.' And falls about laughing. I stick my tongue out. Walk past.

It's getting dark already when I get back to the bomb site. Rain falls heavily from the foggy autumn sky. This is where our secret camp is. Well, not so secret really – just the old air-raid shelter. I stack the branch next to the rest of the wood. Duck inside the shelter.

I come here a lot to think, or sometimes just to get away. It's falling down in places. The old, rusty corrugated tin roof's fallen off and some of the bricks have crumbled.
The floor is just earth. But me and Reggie have made it all right. We've stuck up some old canvas as a roof to keep the rain out, and we found some milk crates to sit on.

I keep my stuff in here now, out of Bert's way. My writing books, pencils and my Sherlock Holmes books are all in an old biscuit tin. I've had it for ever, ever since I can remember. I asked Mum once where it came from. She said it was a special present and she'd tell me why one day. On the lid is a picture of a girl with red hair, bit like me really. The picture is difficult to see now, because the lid's pitted with red rust spots and a bit faded. The girl is sitting on a swing, looking out across a field. There's something on the ground near to her but I can't make out what it is. There's the maker's name on it but it's all been scratched so I can't read it, and next to it is written ‘Best Biscuits' in this lovely curly writing. I wonder if they do one with ‘Worst Biscuits' written on it too. One end of the tin is crumpled so it doesn't fit any more. It looks like someone trod on it. Someone did. My stepdad.

I'd been trying to write a story. I was lying on the floor, had my stuff spread out around me. He bent over and nudged my elbow so that my pen left a streak of ink across the book. Then he laughed and slowly trod on the tin lid. One end just folded in. Squashed. I didn't know why he did it. Still don't. Maybe he guessed how much I loved it. For some reason, it always makes me think of my dad.

Mum never talks about my real dad. I used to ask her about him but she always got funny. Like she had to be on
her guard. She'd always put me off.

‘Another time, Alice, I'm too busy at the minute.'

or

‘Tomorrow, love. I'll tell you about him tomorrow.'

And guess what? Tomorrow never comes. Seems strange that she doesn't want to talk about the man she loved, the man who was the other part of our family. That makes me sad, especially when I look at my stepdad and see the kind of things he does. Like he's trying to show me something, to let me see that he's bigger and stronger than me, that he's the boss. Thing is, if he really loved me he wouldn't want to boss me around.

I
settle myself on one of our old milk crates. Rain hurries down as if it can't wait to leave the sky. Drums its fingers on the canvas roof. I was hoping Reggie would be here. Hoping we could make it up.

I look out at the branch from the tree and think about our row. It started because I had to go and do an errand for my mum, so I gave Reggie my money to get the fireworks. He bought them at Giovanni's sweet shop. Put them on his cart, then went next door to get something for Granddad. He saw the Spicers hanging around, but didn't think anything of it. If it had been me I'd have thought a lot about it. For a start I'd have thought the Spicers and unattended fireworks don't go together. In fact, the Spicers and anything unattended don't go together – even your unattended granny. If it's not nailed down, they'll pinch it. If it is, they'll just pinch the nails first.