‘We could get the guns out. Aim from my window and —’
‘Yet me out!’ It was Charlie’s voice, coming through the baby monitor. He’s three, not really a baby. He can talk quite well, except he can’t say Ls, Rs or THs. They’re either Ys, Ws or Vs.
‘Yet me out!’
‘We’d better go,’ I said.
‘No way. Leave him.’
‘Yet me out, Mum!’
‘We can’t leave him, he’ll —’
‘He’ll what?’ said Copper Pie.
‘He’ll be upset.’
‘All right, Softy. You can get him if you like.’
‘Mum! Yet me out!’
I didn’t really want to, but I didn’t want C.P.’s mum to come home and find him screaming either.
‘Back in a minute,’ I said. The hall of their house is spotless. No shoes, no brollies, not even anything on the bottom step waiting to be taken upstairs. It’s because they run a nursery and there are rules about being tidy and clean. We’re not allowed in any of the rooms on the ground floor, except the kitchen. Even at the weekend when there aren’t any little kids there, we still can’t go in. Everything, apart from cooking and eating, goes on upstairs in their house. The staircase goes round a corner to get to the first floor and that’s when it all changes. I stepped over dirty washing, two books, the sucky bit from the hoover, a fluffy scarf, a toothbrush, a yoyo, a shin pad and a bowl with the remains of an apple in it (or possibly banana), and that was only what was on the first lot of stairs. The second set was just as bad.
At the top I turned first right into Charlie’s bedroom. He was lying under his duvet cuddling a square of grey blanket. As soon as I stepped on his carpet he put it under his pillow and got up. Charlie never gets out of bed unless someone comes to get him, because his mum says he mustn’t. It’s not normal to be so obedient. He’s the opposite of his brother!
‘Hi Charlie,’ I said.
‘Heyyo Keener.’ It’s hard not to laugh about the ‘l’ thing. (Copper Pie makes him say lollipop - yoyyipop.) I think his nappy was full but I wasn’t going to mention it. He waddled off, through all the debris. I followed him back down the stairs all the way to the kitchen.
‘Heyyo.’
‘Hello Snot,’ said Copper Pie.
Charlie smiled. I don’t think he knows it’s an insult.
‘Can we make a marble wun?’
‘Make it yourself, Snot.’
‘I’ll do it with you,’ I said. We got the box out from the kitchen cupboard. I’m a whizz at marble runs. I heard feet on the stairs and then the noise of the telly coming on in the room above. Copper Pie had deserted me. Charlie chose a clear marble with a green swirl.
‘Weady.’
‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘I haven’t made it yet.’ Charlie watched me construct a few towers and link them together.
The back door banged open and in walked Copper Pie’s dad and another man – a stranger who definitely wasn’t Bee’s dad. I looked at his feet. Big white trainers.
‘There’s my Charlie-boy.’
‘I’m pwaying wiv Keener.’
‘Where’s your big brother?’
‘He’s in the telly room,’ I said.
‘Get down here and turn the googlebox off,’ shouted Copper Pie’s dad. (Everyone shouts in their house.) More feet-on-the-stairs noise.
‘This is my son.’ He pointed to Copper Pie who had appeared in the doorway. ‘And this is my old friend Simon.’ He put his arm round the stranger. I didn’t care who he was. I was more interested in the mystery of where Bee’s dad had been since Wednesday if he hadn’t been at C.P.’s. Maybe he’d fallen over and knocked himself out and was wandering around the streets with no idea what his name was . . . like that piano man. Maybe he’d be in the newspaper, Bee’s dad found with no memory except every Man United football score ever.
THE TRUE STORY OF PIANO MAN BY KEENER
A man was found wandering with no identification on him. He couldn’t speak. He was handed over to the police because no one knew what to do with him. They gave him some paper so he could write his name and address but all he did was draw a picture of a grand piano. They found him one and he sat down and played like a professional.
No one knew where he lived or what had happened to him to make him not be able to speak. All they ever knew was that he was a fantastic pianist.
‘Pleased to meet you. I hear you’re football crazy,’ said the stranger.
Copper Pie grunted. He’s rubbish at talking to adults.
‘Simon and me used to play football together when we were kids. How many windows d’you think we broke?’ said C.P.’s dad.
‘Too many to count,’ said Simon the stranger, and they both laughed. I don’t get that about grown-ups. If Copper Pie broke a window he’d be for it, but they broke loads, and for some reason it’s funny.
Copper Pie’s dad smiled a big smile and said, ‘Simon is a scout. A real scout.’
Big deal! I pictured him dressed in a green scout shirt with a red necker, wearing his huge trainers, and tying silly knots with his fat fingers.
‘Keener! A scout!’
Copper Pie started bouncing, like a puppy. I couldn’t imagine why. Charlie clapped but there was no way he understood either.
‘Great,’ I said. I didn’t want to burst his bubble. Maybe he fancied joining.
‘He’s working for one of the big clubs. He can’t say who.’ Copper Pie’s dad winked at Simon. ‘It’s all hush-hush. They’re interested in a player from round here.’
I’d caught up. We were talking football. A football scout, not the sort you find at a jamboree. No wonder Copper Pie was excited.
‘I’m going back up north later on today but I’m coming back to watch a game next Saturday. Your dad says you’re a handy player, and a left-footer, I understand. A good left-footer is gold dust. Might see you in action one day?’
I thought my redheaded friend was going to collapse.
‘Breathe, Copper Pie.’ It was the first time I’d had to tell someone else to breathe. It was always me who forgot to inhale and ended up on the floor.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Copper Pie’s dad. ‘Get lost, you lot. We’ve got things to talk about.’
‘This could be my big break, Keener,’ whispered Copper Pie, as we walked out. I was pleased for him, of course, but football’s not my thing so I muttered a bit and nodded and eventually we went out the back and catapulted stones at a can on the bird table. Charlie came too. He collected up the stones and brought them back to us.
‘Shall we go to the park then?’ I said. It was boring in the garden.
‘No way. I’m staying here. He’s a scout, Keener! He could discover me. Make me the youngest ever player in the Premiership. He could be scouting for Man United! I could end up playing in the black strip for real.’
six days till D-day
Sundays are ‘family day’ in our house. We have Sunday lunch. The kids peel all the vegetables, lay the table and get the drinks to help