I shrugged my shoulders as if I didn’t really care one way or the other what happened with Sir Tiffy. But the thing is, even though I didn’t want to, I did. I did care.
‘I don’t mind. I mean, he’s here now, isn’t he? If you move him to a new place, it just means that someone else will have to put up with him. And besides, if he was leaving, I’d have to start packing up and cleaning all his stuff … and that would be … a pain.’
‘Okay then, fine. If you truly don’t mind, then that’s great – perfect in fact. To be honest, I was a bit worried myself about unsettling him again. And like you say, if it also saves you the trouble of packing up all his gear, then it’s a win-win, isn’t it? Okay. That’s decided. The Tiffster stays put!’
The Pain reached into the boot then and pulled out a beaten-up old shoebox with a faded blue ribbon tied around it.
‘In that case I guess I should leave this with you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Mrs Montieth’s daughter passed it on to me after they cleared out the house. Just bits and pieces to do with Sir Tiffy – mainly vet bills and receipts, that sort of stuff as far as I can tell. I haven’t had a chance to really look through it. Although Sir Tiffy’s official registration form is in there, which makes for very interesting reading.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it has his official registered pedigree name recorded on it.’
‘Sir Tiffy?’
‘Nope. Alvira Silverstar … the Third.’
‘What? That’s even worse. So where did the “Sir Tiffy” come from, then?’
‘Noooooo idea. Mrs Montieth insisted she got it off the form, but I’ve read every word on it and there’s no “Sir Tiffy” anywhere. Maybe she was just confused. We’ll probably never know the real story behind the name. Unless you can figure it out, Maggie May. You’re the last hope for the side.’
The Pain handed over the shoebox. Sir Tiffy’s name was handwritten in big swirling letters on the lid.
‘There you go. Just throw out anything you don’t want.’
I went to head back inside.
‘Hey, before you leave. Speaking of things either staying or going, I was picking the brains of a couple of the guys from my car club the other day. They run a landscaping business. I was asking them about stump removal. Anyway, they said they had a grinding machine and some other equipment for removing stumps and that they’d give me a hand taking out that big stump in the backyard if I wanted.’
‘And you’re telling me this because …’
‘Because I was wondering if I should take up their offer or not. Your mum said she was happy enough for it to stay. That’s fine by me, but I thought I should check with you. After all, it is your backyard, and as I recall you had some fairly strong views about that stump back on our first clean-up day … and also about other people making decisions for you.’
I inspected The Pain’s face closely. I could tell he was battling to keep that sneaky smile off his face. Well, two can play at the metaphor game.
‘So you want my thoughts on … the stump? The one in the backyard? The one I seem to recall you saying, was … just like you?’
‘U-huh,’ The Pain said a little cautiously.
I gave The Pain the Maggie Butt version of the sneaky smile.
‘Well, thank you for asking, because I do find it extremely annoying and painful most of the time. The stump, I mean. I find it also tends to get in the way and interferes with what you want to do, you know, in the backyard. And it is a bit of an eyesore and an embarrassment, don’t you think, sticking out like it doesn’t belong? And it is quite large, isn’t it? Thick even, some might say. And what purpose does it serve? It’s pretty useless when you think about it.’
Now The Pain was giving me his version of the corpse face. But there was a bit of a smirk there as well.
‘Then you’d like to see the back of it? You’d rather it was gone completely? Is that what you’re saying?’
I scratched my chin and frowned as if I was deep in thought.
‘Naaaaaaah,’ I said. ‘Poor old thing. I feel sorry for it. Who else would want it? Let’s keep it around, hey. For the time being.’
I twirled on my heels and headed off back towards the house. I ran into Mum just as she was coming out the back door. She was dressed in her Big Butt Backyard Rebuild work clothes. I tilted the shoebox to show her the name on the lid.
‘Guess who’s coming to dinner – and never leaving?’
‘Really? That’s lovely. You are a treasure! I knew there was some reason I went through all those excruciating labour pains for you.’
For my good deed in saving Sir Tiffy from a life being harassed by cows and chickens, I got a big noisy, sloppy kiss planted right on my forehead. Then Mum’s eyes darted from me down to The Pain and back.
‘Haven’t you two become as thick as thieves all of a sudden? Been spying on you both from the kitchen. What were you chatting away about all that time?’
‘Just stuff.’
‘Stuff? Really? You wouldn’t care to be more specific?’
‘Private stuff,’ I said, and ducked inside.
Back in my room, I sat at my desk and started going through the papers in Mrs Monteith’s shoebox. It didn’t take long for Sir Tiffy to find me. It never did. He wandered in, looked up and let out a long sorrowful wail. I knew I couldn’t avoid the inevitable so I picked him up and put him on my lap.
‘Is this a daggy cat I see before me?’ I asked in my best Macbeth imitation.
He replied by nuzzling his head in against my stomach. I scratched him under the chin and behind his ears until I felt his gurgling, rattly purr starting up.
Outside Mum was laughing. I pulled the cord and opened the blinds above my desk just slightly. She was trying to push an overloaded wheelbarrow by herself. It was swaying and wobbling all over the place. The Pain was following close behind, shouting encouragement and instructions and grabbing the handles every now and then just in time to avert disaster. In the end Mum laughed so much that the wheelbarrow flipped right over and spilled all the carefully stacked chip-bark bags on to the lawn.
The Pain held his head in his hands in mock horror. Mum went to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. She was still laughing. So was The Pain. Laughing and shaking his head and holding my mother tight. And kissing her forehead.
I reached across my desk and closed the blinds. On my lap Sir Tiffy growled and stretched a bit. I stroked his side, cupped his flat, one-eyed face in my hands and scratched his stubby nose.
‘Well, Pain’s daemon, it looks like I might be stuck with you after all,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope you’re not quite as painful as I thought you were.’
33
Avec moi
I somehow survived my two days as a voluntary slave in The Big Butt Backyard Rebuild. Actually it wasn’t that bad. The Pain, of course, couldn’t help being a pain every now and then, but most of the time he was too busy working to get the chance. By Sunday afternoon, the jungle that once was our backyard was looking pretty amazing.
But back at school there was a week of afternoon detentions to get through.
The good thing was that Mrs Chalmers let me serve my sentence in the library – as long as I used the time strictly for homework and assignments and not, I repeat not, for ‘socialising with friends’. Fat chance of that, I thought. But as it happened, on my first day of detention I actually did get a visitor.
I was struggling with a long French passage that I had to translate for homework when someone pulled out a chair on the opposite side of my study table and sat down.
That someone was Jeremy Tyler-Roy.
He placed his ever-present laptop to one side and opened some superhero graphic novel and began reading it. Except I noticed that his eyes weren’t spending all their time on the page, because every so often they kept flicking up to me. I waited till they did it again.
‘Bonjour,’ I said, holding up my Fr
ench text. ‘Comment allez-vous?’
Jeremy appeared a little thrown for a second but then he pushed his long fringe slowly from his eyes and said in better French than me, ‘Très bien, merci. Et toi, ça va?’
I held out my hand and wobbled it from side to side.
‘Comme ci, comme ça.’
Having hit the outer limits of my conversational French, I thought I’d better retreat to more familiar territory.
‘Hey, you’d better not let Mrs Lee see you sitting there. I’m not meant to be socialising.’
Jeremy didn’t seem fazed.
‘She said it was okay. I asked.’
I turned round. Mrs Lee was at the checkout desk covering books. She looked up and gave me a smile and a wave. I turned back.
‘Well, I know who someone’s favourite is then.’
Jeremy blushed. Time to move the conversation on.
‘So, tell me. How’s the tongue-stapling thing been working out for you?’
Jeremy Tyler-Roy studied me like I was a detailed page of data he had to analyse before he could answer.
‘I’m actually trying to give that up.’
‘Good for you! I’ve always suspected that it was overrated.’
Cue awkward silence while Jeremy looked everywhere but at me. Until …
‘Someone said you poured chocolate milk all over Jazzmin Mellors.’
‘What? Me? No way! Who is this someone that’s been spreading lies? That is completely false. It was iced coffee, not chocolate milk. And I’ll have you know that I didn’t pour it all over her like this someone says. I concentrated my efforts mainly on her head.’
Jeremy considered this.
‘Much more civilised.’
‘Exactly.’
Not quite so awkward silence.
‘And you threw apple pie in her face?’
I gasp in shock.
‘Wrong again! You need to check your facts, buster, before you come in here accusing me of all these outlandish crimes. This is exactly how ugly, unfounded rumours get started in the first place.’
‘Sorry.’
‘So you should be. At no time did that pie leave my hand, so there was absolutely no throwing involved whatsoever. Throwing requires a clear separation of pie and hand. Everybody knows that.’
Jeremy nodded thoughtfully.
‘So you rubbed apple pie in her face, then?’
‘Hmmmm. Personally I prefer pushed, but let’s not split hairs.’
Jeremy was looking at me now like I was some bug under a microscope. An interesting one at least, I was hoping. His next question was as predictable as Mrs Chalmers’ had been.
‘But … why?’
I took a deep breath.
‘Because I found out that Jazzmin had played a stupid, hurtful trick on … someone I know … and I thought it sucked. And also because I’m an idiot who is prone to overreaction on a Godzilla-like scale.’ I leant forward. ‘And you of all people would know how big Godzilla’s scales are, right?’
Well that didn’t get a laugh. Instead Jeremy frowned. Hard. It was as if I had changed from an interesting bug under a microscope to a complex maths problem he hadn’t quite yet solved.
‘So … you mean … in the library that day … when you … asked about … you weren’t just …’
‘Nope.’
‘Then … you were … serious … when you said you wanted …’
‘Yep.’
Jeremy’s dark eyes drifted away from me while he thought it through. I waited for them to return. Eventually they did. And they were worth waiting for.
‘So … the graduation dance … Would you … do you … still want …’
‘That would be an affirmative from me. Yes.’
Jeremy looked down and nodded. Then looked up at me. Then looked down and nodded some more.
Maybe some subtle prompting was needed here.
‘Soooo, I guess that clears up the me wanting to go to the graduation dance with you side of the equation, so the only question that remains – and it’s a BIGGIE – is, do you want to go to the graduation dance … avec moi?’
Jeremy sat still for a moment, then that crooked smile crept to his lips. It straightened up as he stretched it out even more.
‘Is the Large Hadron Collider the highest energy particle collider ever made?’ he said.
I frowned. Hard. I pointed at the laptop on the desk beside him.
‘Does that have Internet connection?’
Jeremy seemed slightly offended. ‘Of course.’
‘Do you mind?’ I said, holding out a hand.
He passed the laptop over to me. I flipped it open, quickly typed in a Google search and clicked on the Wikipedia link that popped up immediately. (I suspected Jeremy’s laptop was nuclear powered!) I didn’t need to read more than a few sentences to find what I was looking for. I clicked the laptop shut and flashed a smile at Jeremy.
‘Cool,’ I said. ‘It’s a date!’
And Jeremy laughed – in a geekily dorky, but nonetheless, ever so slightly gorgeous sort of a way.
Unbelieveable! I’d finally achieved one of my THREE SPECIFIC AND REALISTIC GOALS. But now there was something else I also wanted to achieve. Something that wasn’t on my original list.
‘Jeremy,’ I said, ‘seeing how I’ve granted you the huge favour of allowing you to be my graduation dance partner, do you think you could do me a huge favour and help me with something I want to do?’
He looked slightly apprehensive.
‘Sure. What?’
I explained my plan.
‘So, what do you think? Is it do-able?’
Jeremy Tyler-Roy raised an eyebrow and smiled.
‘We have the technology,’ he said.
34
Truly groan-worthy
Best detention ever! That’s how I would sum up my week in the library.
Not only was Mrs Lee fine with Jeremy visiting every day and helping me with my revision for the following week’s exams (and with my secret side project) but when the week was over, she brought in a delicious homemade chocolate cake for us to celebrate.
And the fun didn’t end there.
On Saturday morning, after a special trip together to Evensong to see Bert Duggan and the other residents, Jeremy and I caught a bus into town to buy him a shirt and tie to go with my brand new graduation dance outfit. (Yes, amazingly, Mum thought that I’d been reasonably pleasant and pleasantly reasonable enough to claim my shopping reward!) In the end, we found some real bargains and managed to colour coordinate ourselves brilliantly. When the shopping was done we celebrated by pigging out at a hamburger joint before catching our separate buses home.
It was late in the afternoon by the time I eventually staggered into my room and collapsed in a heap on my bed. BIG DAY! I didn’t have the energy to do much else except lie there, so I reached out and dragged Sir Tiffy’s shoebox off my bedside table and started lazily picking my way through it. Of course, it wasn’t long before Sir Tiffy himself joined me to lend a paw.
The Pain was right about the contents of the box. It turned out to be mostly old vet bills and receipts for things like cat food and flea powder, all of which ended up in the bin. The only things worth keeping were Sir Tiffy’s official Pedigree Registration Certificate (the one with Alvira Silverstar the Third printed on it), a couple of faded first and third place ribbons and an old photo.
The photo was what most caught my interest.
It was one of those old square, bordered photographs. I guessed that it was taken the day Mrs Monteith received Sir Tiffy as a birthday present from her husband. (Unless Mrs M always wore a kid’s party hat with Birthday Girl written on it.) And since there was no Mr Monteith in the photo, I assumed that he was the photographer. In the photo Mrs Montieth was sitting on the edge of a bed with the adorable ball of feline fluff that was once Sir Tiffy on her lap. She was holding up his registration form, the one from the shoebox, and pointing at it and laughing.
I was
studying the photo with Sir Tiffy snuggled in beside me when I realised something. AN IMPORTANT SOMETHING. Mrs Monteith wasn’t just pointing to the registration form. She seemed to be carefully pointing at something on it. Something right at the top of the document. In the photo it was a little blurred and washed out, so I picked up the original form for a closer look.
It made no sense. She just appeared to be pointing at the heading at the top.
‘So what’s the joke, Mrs Monteith? What’s she getting at, Tiff?’ I said aloud. ‘She just seems to be pointing at the word …’
If I had been in a cartoon, a big light bulb would have appeared magically above my head right then.
I closed my eyes and groaned my way slowly into a laugh.
‘Good one, Mrs Monteith. Truly groan-worthy, but good.’
I tapped Sir Tiffy softly on the nose. He opened up his one good eye and looked at me sleepily, wondering why on earth he’d been disturbed.
‘You may well be The Pain’s daemon, Tiff, but I know something about you that even he doesn’t know, and I just can’t wait to tell him. Eeeee-vennnnnnnnnnnnnnnnntually.’ (Insert evil laugh.)
What a day I’d had! A great morning with Bert, a fun and successful shopping expedition with Jeremy, and now I’d solved the mystery behind Sir Tiffy’s name. It was like the perfect end to a perfect day. No failures. No disasters. No muck-ups.
What the hell was going on? This didn’t sound like my life at all. The question I kept asking myself was ‘How long is this going to last?’
Quick. SPOT QUIZ everyone! Pens ready? And your time starts … NOW!
Circle what you consider to be the most appropriate response.
1. Will Maggie Butt’s ‘perfect’ life last longer than a day?
(a) No.
(b) Uh-uh.
(c) Non.
(d) Definitely not.
(e) Negatory on that one, good buddy.
(f) Get real!
(g) You CANNOT be serious!
(h) AS IF!
(i) Is the Large Hadron Collider a sumo wrestler?