A yellow post-it note with two words scrawled on it.
Tricqued You.
Macques waited until dinner time to have another go at Mum and Dad.
‘Please let me change my name,’ he begged. ‘Please let me spell it M-A-X.’
Mum and Dad looked at each other.
They both sighed, but they didn’t say anything until they’d finished chewing their mouthfuls of pan-seared swordfish with balsamic vinegar and pink peppercorns.
‘Darling,’ said Mum. ‘We’ve explained this to you so often. Macques is a lovely name. It’s special and distinctive and unique. Like you.’
‘Forget those pea-brains at school,’ said Dad. ‘Once you’re out in the big wide world, you’ll be glad you’ve got a name that people notice. In those hospitals or TV stations or nuclear research facilities or wherever you end up working, there’ll be all the ordinary Maxes, but only one Macques.’
Mum and Dad both glowed.
Macques wasn’t sure if it was from pride or pink peppercorns.
‘I want to be an ordinary Max,’ he said.
This time Mum and Dad didn’t wait till they’d finished chewing.
‘That is crazy talk,’ said Mum. ‘You are not ordinary.’
‘I am,’ said Macques.
‘Rubbish,’ said Dad. ‘When you were born we decided we weren’t going to let you be ordinary. That’s why we didn’t give you a boring ordinary name like our parents gave us.’
‘Eric and Joan are nice names,’ said Macques.
Mum and Dad both sighed crossly.
‘When will you get it into your head?’ said Dad. ‘You won’t stand out in the crowd if people think you’re ordinary and boring.’
‘Why do you think me and Dad go to so much trouble?’ said Mum.
Macques knew what was coming next.
Mum swung her feet out from under the table, pulled up the legs of her black tracksuit and pointed to her socks. One was pink, one was orange.
‘I’m the only person at the gym with odd socks,’ she said. ‘Nobody there thinks I’m ordinary.’
Dad twanged his braces. They had green sheep on them.
‘One look at my braces,’ said Dad, ‘and everyone in my office knows I’m not ordinary.’
‘Do you see, Macques?’ said Mum. ‘Do you see what we’re saying?’
Macques replied through gritted teeth.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re saying that the reason you drive the same foreign cars as everyone else and wear the same designer clothes as everyone else and eat the same swordfish with balsamic vinegar and pink peppercorns as everyone else is so everyone will think you’re not ordinary.’
‘Macques,’ said Mum.
‘Careful, young man,’ said Dad.
‘But you are ordinary,’ said Macques. ‘I am too.’
Macques realised he was standing up and shouting and several of his pink peppercorns were on the handwoven Icelandic tablecloth.
He didn’t care.
‘I just want us to be an ordinary family,’ he pleaded.
‘Macques,’ yelled Mum. ‘Stop yelling. We do not yell in this house.’
‘Go to your room,’ said Dad with icy calm. ‘Have a long hard think. I don’t want to see you or hear a peep from you until you come to your senses.’ ‘Nor do I,’ said Mum.
Macques threw himself onto his bed and buried his face in his Scandinavian-style organic goose-down pillow.
I can’t take it any more, he thought desperately.
He used to think he could.
He used to think that if he got through life one day at a time, he could make it to his eighteenth birthday and then leave home and change his name.
Not any more.
‘Help,’ he whispered into his pillow. ‘I need help.’
Then he stopped. One thing he’d learned in life was that pillows couldn’t help with the really big problems. Small ones, like being tired or having a stiff neck, yes. Big ones, like war and disease and having a stupid name, no.
The other reason Macques stopped was that somebody was tapping at his window.
He jumped up.
Even before he opened the curtain, Macques felt anger burning through him.
Sam Webster and his gang. Still loitering in the front yard. Still hoping to get a bit more taunting and mocking in before bedtime.
Thank you Sam, thought Macques grimly. You don’t know it, but I’m very glad you’re still here. When I haul you in through that window and drag you down to Mum and Dad, then maybe they’ll understand.
Macques flung the curtains open.
And stared.
It wasn’t Sam and his mates.
Four other kids were standing outside looking at Macques through the glass. It was dark out there, but the light from the room shone on their faces. Two boys and two girls, all wearing white overalls. Macques had never seen any of them before.
One of the boys signalled to Macques to open the window.
Macques hesitated. Then he saw that the boy had a name tag on his overalls. It said Nickless.
Max opened the window.
‘G’day,’ said the boy. ‘Unfair Name Rescue Squad. Are you Macques spelled M-A-C-Q-U-E-S?’
Dazed, Macques nodded.
‘We’re here to rescue you,’ said the boy.
Macques didn’t understand.
He saw that the others had name tags too. The other boy’s said Shorn. The girls’ were Jeen and Kaitye.
‘Sorry we’ve taken a while to get to you,’ said Jeen. ‘Big backlog.’
‘Unfair Name Rescue Squad?’ said Macques.
Then he realised what was going on. It was another trick. The most complicated piece of bullying and mockery yet. These kids weren’t even from his school. Somebody must have paid them.
‘Do you want to be rescued?’ said Kaitye.
Macques nodded.
He could see they’d even got a taxi waiting out in the street. It was perfect. He’d pretend to go along with them, and when they all got to the taxi he’d yell for Mum and Dad. Then Mum and Dad would see the sort of thing an unfair name did for you and they really would understand.
Macques opened the window wider.
‘No need to bring anything,’ said Shorn.
This lot are very good, thought Macques as they helped him down from the window. Perhaps they’re a high school drama group.
As he hurried across the front yard with them, Macques had a thought. A quick flash of a thought that was stupid but he had it anyway because it felt so good even just for a fleeting moment.
How incredible and amazing and wonderful it would be if the Unfair Name Rescue Squad was real.
No.
Impossible.
Don’t even hope.
Then Macques saw the lit-up sign on the roof of the taxi.
TACQUESI.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Nickless, who was sitting next to Macques in the back of the taxi. ‘This won’t take long.’
‘Only round the block,’ said Jeen.
‘Just as well these rescues are quick,’ said Shorn from the front. ‘We’ve got three more jobs tonight.’
Macques felt a stab of panic as they sped away down the dark street, partly because he’d always promised Mum and Dad he’d never get into a taxi with people he didn’t know, and partly because Kaitye was driving and he was pretty sure she was too young to have a licence or third-party insurance.
At the top end of Macques’s street they turned the corner.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Macques.
He wanted them to be real, he did so much, but part of his brain kept saying TV show and I wonder where the camera’s hidden.
‘The UNRS operates all over the world,’ said Nickless. ‘Thousands of us. And we’re all flat out.’
‘Dunno who kicked off this craze for dodgy names,’ said Jeen. ‘They should be locked up.’
The taxi turned another corner.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Macqu
es.
‘Home,’ said Shorn.
‘Your home,’ said Kaitye.
Macques didn’t understand.
‘Your real home,’ said Nickless.
Macques still didn’t understand.
He was still trying to work out what they meant, and wondering if the TV show host was in the boot, when the taxi made the final turn of the block into the bottom end of Macques’s street.
Macques knew it was his street because through the taxi window he could see the street sign, clear as anything in the light from a street lamp.
Knox Avenue.
Macques stared.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘The spelling’s changed. It’s Knox, K-N-O-X.’
‘That’s right,’ said Jeen.
Macques felt dizzy. Not in a horrible I’m-going-to-throw-up way. In a nice this-is-very-weird-but-I-don’t-want-it-to-end way.
The taxi stopped outside Macques’s house.
‘That’s it,’ said Nickless. ‘We’re done. You’re rescued.’
Nickless got out.
Macques realised he was meant to get out too, but he was finding it hard to actually move.
‘Go,’ said Shorn. ‘We’re on a schedule.’
Macques got out.
‘How do I know this isn’t all a dream?’ he heard himself say to Nickless.
Nickless smiled and Macques had the feeling Nickless got asked that question a lot.
‘How do you know all that stuff before we arrived wasn’t a dream?’ said Nickless.
Macques wished his thoughts weren’t so scrambled. He felt like one of those characters in a science fiction movie who gets taken at warp-speed into another dimension and arrives with bulging eyes and sticking-out hair and a smoking brain.
He put his hand to his head. His hair felt fine. But then he had only been round the block.
‘Hope you like your parents,’ said Nickless, getting back into the taxi and pulling the door shut.
Macques wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. But it was too late to check. The taxi was driving away.
He gave the Unfair Name Rescue Squad a wave and watched the lit-up sign on the top of the taxi disappear into the darkness.
TAXI, it said.
Inside the house, everything looked exactly the same.
Well, almost. The wallpaper was a bit different, and the carpet, and there was a pine dresser in the hallway Macques didn’t completely remember.
Macques stared at his reflection in the hall mirror.
His face looked the same and he felt wide awake.
There was nothing stuck to his back.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ sang out Mum’s voice.
Macques went into the living room. Mum and Dad were sitting at the table. They looked exactly the same too.
Well, almost.
They both looked slightly plumper and Mum’s hair was curly instead of straight.
Macques started to feel a little bit panicked.
Then he saw something that made the panic go away. The big loving smiles on Mum and Dad’s faces.
‘Tuck in,’ said Mum.
On the table were three plates of fish and chips. Mum was already stuffing quite a few chips into her mouth at once.
‘Come on,’ said Dad, winking at Macques. ‘Make the most of it. You’ll probably only be living at home for another ten years or so. Get Mum’s cooking into you while you have the chance.’
Macques did just that. It was the best fish and chips he’d ever tasted. The more chips he put into his mouth, the happier he felt.
There were lots of questions buzzing around in his head, but they could wait till later.
Except one.
After a few more mouthfuls, Macques decided to get it over with.
‘Mum and Dad,’ he said. ‘Can you test my spelling?’
Mum and Dad looked a bit nervous.
‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘But we’re pretty ordinary spellers.’
Macques couldn’t help smiling to himself. Last time he’d asked Mum and Dad for a spelling test, they’d given him words like vicissitude and extracurricular and had gone on for hours about how important a big and impressive vocabulary was.
‘You give me the word,’ said Macques, ‘and I’ll spell it.’
‘OK,’ said Mum.
‘Start with my name,’ said Macques.
‘You kind thing,’ said Mum. ‘Letting us all kick off with an easy one.’
‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘Here goes.’
‘Max,’ said Mum.
‘M-A-X,’ said Macques.
He held his breath.
‘Correct,’ said Mum and Dad, grinning at him. ‘Very good.’
Max grinned back. They were right, it was very good.
As Mum leaned over and gave him a hug, Max took a peek at her socks.
Both grey.
They were ordinary and they matched.
Ashes To Ashes
It’s the last half-hour of the fifth cricket test. I can hardly breathe.
I feel almost as woozy as poor Grandad must have felt a month ago when his insides packed up and his innings finally came to an end.
The whole Ashes test series is hanging in the balance. We’ve won two matches and England have won two.
This is the decider.
It’ll all be over soon. England need twelve more runs and they’re batting well. Australia need one more wicket and they’re bowling like year threes. And I’m sitting here in the northern stand holding something that could help Australia win this match, and the whole series, and the Ashes.
I’m holding some other ashes.
Grandad’s ashes.
‘Whoo,’ says Pino, ‘Look at her.’
My friend Pino isn’t interested in cricket. He’s only interested in girls. He’s been that way for most of year seven. He only agreed to come to the cricket today because he reckons it’s a top place to meet girls who aren’t your sisters or aunties.
‘Nice,’ says Pino, leaning forward in his seat. His eyes are so wide the green and yellow stripes on his face are going bendy.
I asked Pino to come today because he’s brave and reckless. You’d have to be to talk to girls who are complete strangers. When I try and do it, my mouth stops working and my fingers go all twisted like a spin bowler’s.
But I’m not here for girls today, I’m here for something much more important. That’s why I asked Pino. I need his help to do something even more dangerous than talk to girls.
‘That one,’ says Pino, nudging me so hard I almost drop the urn. ‘The one with her dad.’
I try to see who he’s pointing at. I can’t. There are sixty thousand people in this stadium and about six thousand of them are girls with their dads.
‘If I’m not back in five minutes,’ says Pino, ‘tell my mum I’m getting married.’
I try to stop him. I try to remind him that his parents don’t even think he’s mature enough to use the slicing machine in their deli, so it’s unlikely they’ll agree to a wedding.
‘Come with me,’ says Pino. ‘She might have a friend.’
I shake my head.
Even the thought of it makes my hands go all googly.
‘Tragic,’ says Pino, looking at me not very sympathetically.
Then he’s gone.
And time’s running out.
Relax, I tell myself. He’ll be back soon. He’s left his lollies.
England score two more runs.
I check the breeze. And nearly have a serious Grandad-sized heart failure. The wind has changed direction. It’s blowing towards us now. We’ll have to go all the way over to the other side of the stadium to do what we have to do.
‘Don’t worry, Grandad,’ I whisper to the urn. ‘We’ll make it.’
I try to sound more confident than I feel.
Pino comes back, frowning.
‘I was wrong,’ he says. ‘She’s not very nice. Neither’s her dad.’
I can see them both now. They’re looking across at Pino
and laughing at him in an unkind sort of way.
I should be a good friend and tell Pino that the face paint probably isn’t helping, or the hanky he’s got tied round his head with England sucks scrawled on it.
But there isn’t time.
‘Change of plan,’ I say. ‘We have to go over to the other side and scatter my grandad’s ashes there.’
Pino stares at me.
‘Why?’ he says. ‘Your grandad just wants to be laid to rest on hollowed turf. Why does it matter which side?’
‘Hallowed,’ I say. ‘Test cricket turf is called hallowed.’
‘Whatever,’ says Pino. ‘In his will your grandad just asked to be scattered on a test cricket pitch, that’s what you said. He didn’t mention anything about which side.’
‘Actually,’ I confess, ‘he didn’t mention anything about a test cricket pitch either. But I know it’s where he’d want to be. He loved cricket even more than beer.’
I shudder as I think what Mum and Dad will do when they find that Grandad’s urn isn’t on the kitchen shelf any more. That’s if they notice. They’re probably still too busy arguing about where to scatter him.
‘Look at it this way,’ says Pino. ‘People don’t care which side of the glass they drink beer from and they don’t care which side of a test cricket pitch they’re scattered on. It’s gunna be hard enough fighting our way onto the pitch with everyone else at the end of the match. At least over this side we’re close to the fence.’
I start to explain to Pino that the plan has changed from the one I told him this morning. That we’re going to do more than just lay Grandad to rest on hallowed turf. Much more. And we don’t need to be near the fence to do it. The most important thing now is wind direction.
Then I stop.
We’re running out of time.
‘The girls over the other side might be nicer,’ I say.
Pino follows me without another word.
In the tunnel that leads to the other side of the stadium, I explain the new plan.
‘Scatter the ashes in the air?’ says Pino. ‘Why?’
‘So Australia can win,’ I say.
Pino looks puzzled.
We can’t see the pitch, but I can hear the England supporters cheering. England must have scored more runs.
I explain the new plan in detail.