‘We don’t want rubbish,’ said Bee.
‘Yes we do,’ said Fifty. ‘Anything that doesn’t get swapped can go on a massive bonfire afterwards.’ (Told you: Fifty and fires!)
‘No way, we’ll take it to the charity shop. We need to recycle, not add a great cloud of smoke to the air we breathe.’
‘But I do love a fire. Couldn’t we have a tiny, hardly-even-hot one?’
‘Someone sit on him,’ said Bee. Copper Pie did. Fifty squealed like a piglet. Jonno took no notice – he was really keen on Bee’s idea.
‘We’ll have to make sure all the kids at school know to bring things on the day to swap,’ he said. ‘If not they’ll only bring money.’
‘Posters,’ said Bee. ‘We’ll ask the Head. And maybe an announcement in assembly. She’s bound to agree if I explain what a good use of resources it is. I’ve just thought – if it works, the school could do a swap stall for Earth Day.’ (Bee’s meant to be suggesting something for next year’s Earth Day, when we’ve all gone to senior school.)
So the summer fair was all agreed. We handed in our Tribe subs, had a chat about what to buy for the hut (not a lot because we only had £3.78) and then it was time for Fifty to have his tea so we all dived through the cat flap and went home. I walked with Copper Pie for a bit. His plan was to buy all the water bombs himself and co-ordinate an attack on a series of key targets, including his little brother, Charlie.
If only he’d stuck to his plan.
nine days to go and no definite plans yet
The next day I was running across the playground to catch up with the other Tribers when I was ambushed by Flo – the little sister with the not-so-little voice.
‘Keener, what are you going to do at the fair?’
‘It’s a secret.’
‘That’s not nice, I’m your sister.’
‘You’re not nice,’ I said.
‘I’ll tell Mum,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to,’ I said. ‘She already knows you’re not nice.’
I should have been ready for it, but I was busy thinking about all the things we needed to do before the big day. She got me on the left shin with her sparkly purple trainers.
‘I’ll find out what it is. And I’ll tell everyone not to have a go on your stall because you’re mean.’
And then the right shin. Ow!
‘All right, all right,’ I said. I didn’t want anyone to catch me being pulped by a Year 3. ‘I’ll tell you.’ I leant down to whisper in her ear. ‘We’re selling home-made chocolate babies.’ Flo loves babies. She smiled, a rare and frightening sight.
‘I want one for free.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Just don’t tell anyone. We don’t want loads of stalls selling home-made chocolate babies.’
When I made it to our patch under the trees – the home we share with stag beetles, longhorn beetles and other weevils all identified by our resident entomologist, Jonno – I found Bee in tears.
‘What’s up?’
‘Shall I tell the terrible tale?’ said Fifty.
Bee nodded.
‘Bee’s dad has left home.’
Crikey. I searched my stupid head for something to say but all the words were hiding in the creases of my brain. I don’t know anyone who’s divorced, except Fifty’s Uncle Terry.
THE NOT-SO-SAD TALE OF FIFTY’S UNCLE TERRY
Fifty’s Uncle Terry left his wife and ran off with a lady he met at church, to work with poor people somewhere in Africa. One day he cut off all the fingers on one hand with a chainsaw and drove himself to the hospital because he didn’t want to upset his new lady. Soon after that they came back to England to visit a plastic surgeon and we all went round for tea to see the hand with only a thumb.
After tea Bee said, ‘We hope you get better,’ and Fifty’s mum said, ‘There’s no need to worry about Terry. He’s “found himself” in Africa.’ (She meant he was happy.) And Copper Pie said, ‘Pity he couldn’t find some fingers’. There was complete silence and red faces from everyone until Uncle Terry slapped his hand of four stumps and a thumb down on his leg and laughed till his tears rolled down his face and along his moustache.
‘But he’ll be back,’ said Copper Pie.
‘It’s just a question of when,’ said Jonno.
So, not divorce, I thought. Something more complicated.
‘He says he’s not coming back until the twins find somewhere else to squat.’ Bee sniffed between every word.
Now I understood. The twins have jobs and a car and are really old. Bee’s mum likes having ‘her boys’ at home but Bee’s dad keeps trying to chuck them out. He’d obviously given up and moved out instead.
‘Do you know where he is?’ said Jonno.
Bee shook her head. ‘They had a row and then he went to football and didn’t come back.’
Copper Pie made a strange noise and wriggled.
‘What it is?’ said Fifty. ‘Are you trying to burp?’
‘He’s at mine. I think. Bee’s dad. Maybe. At mine. Maybe.’ It came out of C.P. like a volley of bullets.
‘What?!’ shouted Bee. ‘Why didn’t you tell me right away?’
Copper Pie looked worried. More worried than when he was sent to the Head for throttling Jonno (before Jonno was a mate).
‘Don’t kill me.’
Bee didn’t – she was too busy crying.
‘Is he at yours or not, Copper Pie?’ I asked. It seemed as though someone should. There were too many ‘maybes’.
‘Yes, but I didn’t know it until Bee said she didn’t know where he was.’
‘You aren’t making any sense, Copper Pie,’ said Jonno. ‘Have you seen Bee’s dad?’
‘No.’
‘So why did you say you had?’ I asked.
‘Because I saw his trainers.’
‘But no body,’ said Fifty.
‘No. If there was a body I’d have known it was Bee’s dad.’
It wasn’t the most straightforward of conversations.
‘We’re not following you,’ said Jonno.
‘There were two big trainers at the top of the stairs when I left for school. And when I was in bed last night I heard Mum and Dad laughing so I reckoned there was someone —’
‘Laughing?’ Bee hunched her shoulders and stared down at the floor.
Jonno nudged Copper Pie who caught on pretty quickly . . . for him anyway.
‘Maybe not laughing. No. More like crying.’
I winked at him. You could tell he felt uncomfortable about harbouring the criminal at his house, even if he’d only just realised.
‘Why