Dead Hairy Read online

  MERCIER PRESS

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  Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

  www.mercierpress.ie

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  © Text: Debbie Thomas, 2011

  © Images: Stella MacDonald, 2011

  Epub ISBN: 978 1 85635 828 6

  Mobi ISBN: 978 1 85635 829 3

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  1 - Stuck

  Squashy Grandma lunged for her knickers. They slid with a sigh down the back of the radiator. ‘Blast!’ she tried to say. But it came out as ‘Vast!’ That was because, as she reached over, her false teeth fell out.

  Abbie looked up. Everyone knew Squashy’s knickers were vast. Why bother announcing it? ‘What’s the matter, Grandma?’ she said, putting her book down.

  ‘My feef!’

  Abbie went over and peered behind the radiator. The teeth grinned up from their flowery knicker nest. ‘Dad,’ she said, ‘Grandma’s lost her teeth. And her marbles,’ she muttered.

  ‘Marbles,’ echoed Dad from behind the paper, ‘a truly ancient game …’

  Abbie rolled her eyes. Here we go, she thought.

  ‘… played two thousand years ago by Julius Caesar …’

  Hello? Earth calling History Nerd.

  ‘… who also – interesting fact –’

  I doubt that.

  ‘… used to pluck out his body hair with tweezers.’

  ‘Dad –’

  At last he put the paper down. ‘What?’

  ‘Grandma’s teeth are stuck.’ Not that there was any point explaining. When it came to practical problems Dad was less use than earwax.

  He came over to the radiator. He peered down the back. He rubbed his bald patch. He did his pretend-to-scratch-your-lip-while-picking-your-nose trick.

  ‘Abbie,’ he said, ‘get the Hoover.’

  ‘You what?’

  He did his don’t-argue-with-me word jiggle. ‘The Hoover, Abbie. Get.’

  Shaking her head, Abbie went into the hall and wheeled out the Hoover from the cupboard under the stairs. She dragged it by the neck into the sitting-room like a dog on a lead. Dad pointed the tube down the back of the radiator. He switched it on. Nothing.

  ‘Try plugging it in, Dad.’

  The Hoover growled into life. The teeth chatted to the wall.

  ‘Oofeff!’ Squashy Grandma got as close to snapping as anyone without teeth can get.

  ‘Not useless, Mother,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sure it’ll loosen them.’

  It did. The teeth flew up from their flowery folds. They lodged in the mouth of the vacuum tube.

  Dad turned the Hoover off. He shook the tube. The teeth were stuck. He tugged his beard. ‘Get the phone book, Abbie.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Abbie. The phone book. Get.’

  Abbie went back into the hall. She knew the numbers of the plumber, electrician and carpenter off by heart. But the Yellow Pages had no Vacuum Cleaner False Teeth Removal man. Between Vehicle Testing and Video Repairs, however, she saw a small advert.

  Abbie had no idea what widgets were, or how drains could droop, but it sounded promising. She dialled the number.

  ‘Hello. This is Matt Platt,’ said a recorded message. ‘Please leave your number and I’ll c-call you back.’

  ‘This is Abigail Hartley at 25 Mill Street. There’s a problem with our Hoover. I’ll try again later.’ Better keep it vague. She didn’t want to put him off.

  Back in the sitting-room Grandma was kicking the Hoover. ‘Foopid foow,’ she spluttered at Dad.

  Stupid fool yourself, thought Abbie, gazing at Squashy. Fancy putting your knickers out to dry in the sitting-room – in full view! What she said, though, was, ‘Poor Grandma.’

  Dad grabbed the nozzle and tried to jiggle the teeth out, swearing quietly. Abbie had seen enough. She headed for the kitchen.

  It was empty. Perfect. She crept over to the biscuit barrel and stuffed two Bourbons up each sleeve. Then she ran upstairs. She slipped into her bedroom and shut the door. Well, she called it shutting.

  ‘Abigail, don’t slam!’ shouted Mum from her room across the landing. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

  Abbie sat down on her bed and eased a biscuit out of a sleeve. She stuffed it into her mouth. Then she took a pocket tape recorder from her bedside table and switched it on.

  ‘GRUMPY GRAN IN HOOVER HELL,’ she said into the microphone. ‘Squashy Hartley had it coming when she leaned over the radiator to rescue her gigantic pants. The seventy-two-year-old’s false tee–’

  ‘Why are you talking to yourself?’ Abbie’s little brother slid his caramel curls round the bedroom door.

  Abbie shoved the tape recorder under her duvet. ‘I’ll talk to you if you like. Bog off, Ollie.’

  ‘Will you play with me?’ he said.

  ‘OK. Grrraaaggh!’ Abbie dived for him. Ollie burst into tears and ran into Mum’s room. Abbie counted under her breath, ‘One, two, three and – wait for it –’

  ‘Abigail! Here. Now,’ came Mum’s weary voice.

  Abbie slunk across the landing. Mum was in bed propped up by pillows. Headache or no, she still looked freshly ironed. Her nightie was smooth. Her lipstick gleamed. Her hair, sleek as custard, hugged her face in a bob. Bob – the perfect name for a perfect style. Abbie liked to think of it as a separate person, smart and fussy.

  ‘Hi Mum,’ she said brightly. ‘You’ll never guess. Grandma’s teeth are stuck in the Hoover.’

  Mum did her don’t-try-to-distract-me sigh. ‘What is it with you, Abigail? Why do you have to make your brother cry?’

  Abbie shrugged. She didn’t have to, she wanted to. Try explaining that to Mum. Try telling her that sometimes it felt good to see his cutie wutie five-year-old face crumple like a crisp bag. And sometimes it felt good to hear his lispy wispy voice wail like a wolf. Abbie didn’t feel good that it felt good – but it still felt good.

  ‘I only wanted you to play,’ Ollie sobbed.

  ‘I did,’ said Abbie. ‘I was a being a monster.’

  Ollie howled. His curls burrowed into Mum’s shoulder like worms into earth.

  ‘Darling,’ said Mum, stroking his head.

  Dung beetle, thought Abbie. What she said, though, was, ‘Sorry Ollie.’

  ‘That’s better,’ said Mum. Abbie got up. A Bourbon dropped onto the bed.

  ‘Abigail. Who said you could – ?’ The doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll get it.’ Abbie hurtled gratefully downstairs.

  ***

  Outside the front door, Matt Platt stepped back. ‘You do the talking, Perdita,’ he whispered to his daughter. He nudged her forward. Chitchat wasn’t his thing. He’d just fix the Hoover. It shouldn’t take long. Just as well. He’d already spent half the morning rescuing a lizard from a liquidiser and he had to get home before lunch. Back to his experiment. Because, unless it worked, his darling wife, his precious Coriander, might never come back.

  Matt rubbed a dirty finger over his teeth. Ten weeks and three days since Coriander had left – and not so much as a phone call! OK, he’d argued horribly with her. But surely she’d forgiven him by now. It was so unlike his wife to sulk. What if she was … No! Don’t even think that. He clutched his right plait. He had to hold on to hope.


  But if she wasn’t … then where on earth was she?

  ***

  Coriander leaned on her broom. It felt like a dream, sweeping the floor of this stuffy little room. For the millionth time she prayed she was dreaming. But when she pinched her arm it felt horribly real. ‘Ow!’

  A tear trickled down her cheek. What would Matt and Perdita be doing now? Matt might be inventing some gadget to rescue snails from lawn mowers. Perdita might be trimming the bushes in her gardening trousers. The ones from Tibet made of yak hair. With the hole in the right knee that Coriander had meant to fix … that she might never fix now. Another tear wriggled out.

  No! Don’t even think that. She clutched her left plait. She had to hold on to hope.

  2 - Rescue

  The first thing Abbie noticed when she opened the door was teeth. Big friendly ones, grinning out from big friendly gums.

  The second thing was the girl wrapped round them. She had two black plaits that reached her elbows and eyes that glowed like Marmite.

  The third thing was the man behind her. He had two black plaits that reached his shoulders and thick glasses. He was clutching a tatty rucksack and rubbing a finger over his own tremendous teeth.

  The girl strode forward. ‘Perdita Platt.’ She grabbed Abbie’s hand and pumped it like a piston. ‘This –’ she flung her arm back, whacking the man in the stomach, ‘is my dad, Matt. And this –’ she nodded at the number on the front door, ‘is 25 Mill Street. So you –’ she jabbed Abbie’s shoulder, ‘must be Abigail Hartley. I like your curls Abigail Hartley. They make your head dance. And your freckles. I’ve always wanted freckles.’ Abbie opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

  Dad came up behind Abbie and stuck his head around the door. ‘Can I help you?’

  Perdita frowned. ‘I thought we’d come to help you.’

  Dad frowned back.

  ‘The Hoover,’ said Perdita.

  ‘The Hoo …’ he echoed in a stupid way. Then he slapped his head. ‘Oh right! Do come in.’

  Perdita seized her father’s hand and marched into the hall. She stopped and cocked her head. A furious huffing sound was coming from the sitting-room.

  Very slowly Dad opened the door. Perdita followed, then Mr Platt. Abbie came last. She gasped. Both Perdita and her father had a third plait dangling from the back of their heads.

  Perdita waved across the room. ‘Morning,’ she called to Squashy Grandma.

  ‘Nnnggh!’ Squashy replied, kicking the radiator. Mr Platt edged backwards. But when he saw the Hoover, and the teeth grinning up from it, he couldn’t help smiling back.

  ‘That’s my Grandma,’ said Abbie, ‘and those are her teeth.’

  ‘Lovely,’ breathed Mr Platt. Abbie could see he didn’t mean Squashy. Kneeling down, he stroked the vacuum cleaner like a pet. Then he opened his bag and took out two metal poles. He screwed them together. At one end were claws, like skeleton hands. At the other end was a handle with buttons. Mr Platt pressed one. The claws wiggled.

  ‘The Crookhook,’ said Perdita. ‘Invented by Dad.’

  Mr Platt aimed the Crookhook at the Hoover tube. The claws slipped inside round Grandma’s teeth. After more pressing and wiggling the teeth came loose. The claws dropped them onto the carpet, where they beamed up at the world.

  ‘Magic,’ said Dad.

  Without a word – or sound – of thanks, Squashy swept the filthy dentures off the floor into her mouth. ‘Now then young man,’ she said to Mr Platt, sucking her teeth into place, ‘you’ll be so kind as to rescue me undies with that contraption of yours. They’re be’ind that radiator.’

  Mr Platt followed her gaze. ‘Oh my,’ he breathed, seeing a cobweb on the corner of the wall beside the radiator. He took off his glasses and peered closer. His eyebrows looked as if they’d slipped down each side of his face, making him look even sadder. ‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured, apparently to the spider in the web, ‘we’ll soon get you out of there.’

  ‘Young man,’ boomed Grandma, ‘while you’re chattin’ up cobwebs, my personals are gatherin’ dust.’

  Matt wheeled round. ‘Shhh,’ he whispered, ‘you’ll frighten the poor thing. Perdita, c-could you get –’

  ‘Sure.’ Perdita thumped Abbie’s arm. ‘Want to come?’ It was impossible not to smile back at that goofy grin. Abbie followed her out the front door. An old green van was parked at the kerb. Perdita opened its dented back doors.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ Abbie said nervously, ‘but why have you got three plaits?’

  Perdita looked at her as if she’d asked what colour oranges were. ‘Because we are three Platts. Dad, me and –’ she stopped. Her teeth scraped white lines over her chin. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why are there two biscuits sticking out of your sleeve?’

  Abbie blushed. ‘Oh. It’s, um, a game I play with my brother – Hunt the Snack. Here.’ She gave one Bourbon to Perdita and ate the other.

  ‘Thanks.’ Perdita munched her biscuit and jumped into the back of the van. ‘Now, where is that thing?’ She rummaged among the spanners and screwdrivers, boxes and bags. ‘Ah, there we go.’ She pulled out what looked like a red gun and waved it in Abbie’s face. ‘The Gobbleweb.’

  Abbie jumped back. And before she could say, ‘The what?’ Perdita was rushing back to the house.

  In the sitting-room Mr Platt was crouched by the radiator, whispering to the spider. Perdita stood in the doorway. She aimed the gun thing at the cobweb and pulled the trigger. There was a sucking sound, like Grandma drinking tea. The cobweb shot off the radiator, flew across the room and disappeared up the gun barrel.

  Abbie shrieked. Dad squeaked. And Squashy straightened her wig, which had slipped over her eyes in the suction stream.

  Perdita turned to Abbie. ‘Where’s your garden?’

  Goggling like a goldfish, Abbie led her through the kitchen and outside. Staring like a sturgeon she stood back as Perdita aimed the machine at a bush. And gaping like a guppy she gulped as Perdita pulled the trigger again. The cobweb shot out, complete with spider, and attached itself to the bush.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Perdita said, as if the spider had thanked her. ‘Have a good day.’ She handed the gun thing to Abbie.

  ‘Wha … whi … whe …?’ said Abbie, trying to work out what to ask first.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Perdita, and cartwheeled across the lawn.

  Abbie found her voice. ‘What is this thing?’

  ‘I told you. The Gobbleweb. Rescues spiders with mini-mum stress.’

  ‘Did your dad invent it?’

  Perdita looked at Abbie as if she’d just asked how many toes a three-toed sloth has. ‘Of course. Very Odd Jobs need Very Odd Tools. You can’t buy them.’

  ‘That is so cool,’ said Abbie. ‘Do you think I’d be able to interview him?’

  Perdita cartwheeled back over the lawn. ‘I doubt it. He’s very shy. Why do you want to?’

  Abbie sighed and sat down on the grass. ‘It’s just – well, I want to be a journalist you see. And I’m looking for –’

  ‘Journalist?’ Perdita sat down next to her. ‘Does that mean you’re a digging about, snooping around sort of person?’ Her oil-dark eyes bored into Abbie’s.

  ‘I – I s’pose so,’ said Abbie doubtfully.

  ‘Perfect!’ Perdita jumped up. ‘I’ve got just the job for you. When can you come over?’

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘We need to get going straight away.’ Perdita did a little skip. Then she knelt down and grasped Abbie’s shoulders. ‘Thank you, Abigail Hartley,’ she said solemnly. ‘You have no idea what this means to me.’ She unzipped her gigantic grin.

  It was a grin you couldn’t refuse. Not that Abbie wanted to, when she thought about it. The summer holidays forked in her mind. To the left, six weeks of boredom and biscuit burglary with the Rotten Lot. To the right, fun, sniffery and sneakage with this exclamation mark of a girl.

  They went back to the sitting-room. Squashy was stuffing
her knickers into her handbag. Ollie had come in and Mr Platt was showing him how to work the Crookhook.

  Dad watched it claw the air. ‘So versatile,’ he marvelled, ‘reaching books from shelves, painting the ceiling …’

  ‘… Picking your sister’s nose,’ said Ollie, trying to.

  ‘Get off!’ squealed Abbie. ‘This is my brother,’ she said, rubbing her nose, ‘Stink Bug.’ She glared at him. Ollie burst into tears and howled off upstairs.

  ‘Abigail!’ came Mum’s voice. ‘Here. Now.’

  Abbie ignored it. ‘Dad’s useless,’ she explained to Mr Platt. ‘He can tell you how the Romans unblocked their drains but he can’t unblock ours.’

  ‘Good job I teach history not plumbing, then.’ Dad’s laugh sounded like a drain was unblocking. Mr Platt smiled politely and unscrewed the Crookhook.

  ‘Could Abigail come over to our house tomorrow, Mr Hartley?’ asked Perdita.

  ‘Well …’ Dad pulled his beard.

  ‘Please Dad,’ said Abbie. ‘I haven’t been anywhere this hols.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Dad did the thumbs up at Mr Platt. ‘Hunky dory by me, if it’s hunky dory by you.’

  Abbie winced. If being a plonker was an art, then Dad was Picasso.

  ‘Of c-course.’ Mr Platt rubbed a tooth with his finger. ‘Though I’m not sure house is q-quite the word.’ He finished packing while Perdita wrote out directions.

  Abbie waved the green van off. Inventors, investigations and a not-quite house? The summer was looking up.

  ***

  Back at the Platts’ home, Matt unlocked the door of his workshop.

  ‘What are you working on, Dad?’ asked Perdita, trying to follow him in.

  He pushed the door against her. ‘Oh – oh nothing much. Why don’t you go and get some lunch, darling?’

  She frowned. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. Yes of c-course.’ Matt kissed her forehead. ‘See you later.’

  He locked the door behind her. Then he picked his way through a mess of boxes and books, tools and test tubes. He sat down at his desk and stared at the clump of white hair in front of him. How many strands should he mix in this time?