Puppy Fat (7 page)

Then he saw she wasn't looking cross, just a bit exasperated.

He watched, puzzled, as Aunty Bev held her arm out in front of Tracy and pinched the underneath of it several times.

She did the same with the other arm.

Then she lifted one leg and tweaked underneath her thigh.

Blimey, thought Keith, she must be teaching Tracy aerobics.

Aunty Bev gave the underneath of her other thigh a couple of big tweaks, sighed long-sufferingly at Tracy and went into the living room.

Tracy rolled her eyes and scowled.

Grown-ups, thought Keith. When they decide to teach you something they never let up. It was the same with Dad and washing up.

He rolled his eyes at Tracy in sympathy.

He decided not to say anything to her about the aerobics. No point in upsetting her more. Plus it might turn out to be yoga and he'd look like a wally.

Besides, he had more urgent things to talk to her about.

‘Jeez.'

Tracy gazed up at the mural, her mouth open wide enough for a cane toad to hop in.

Two cane toads, thought Keith, if they didn't have much luggage.

‘This leaves the mural at the new Orchid Cove baby health centre for dead,' said Tracy. ‘Keith, you're a genius.'

Keith grinned and decided he'd done the right thing bringing Tracy here for their chat. Now she could see Mum and Dad's real selves and compare them to the poor broken-down creatures at home, she'd understand when he explained how urgently they needed perking up.

Tracy gripped his arm and looked at him sympathetically.

Great, thought Keith, she's on the ball already.

‘Hope the folks round here appreciate how much effort you put into cheering up their street,' said Tracy.

‘Eh?' said Keith. ‘Oh, yes, probably.'

He decided now was the time.

‘Though actually,' he continued, ‘I mostly did it for two folks in particular.'

‘And we know who they are,' said a gloomy voice behind Keith, ‘don't we?'

Keith spun round.

It was Mr Dodd, gazing up at the mural with a mournful expression.

‘Gwen and Harvey Nottage in the travel agents, that's who,' he said. ‘Sold more holidays in Spain since that thing went up than they have in the last five years. Just a pity it hasn't sold more of my paint.'

Keith sighed.

Bet the great painters of history didn't have to worry about sales figures, he thought.

He opened his mouth to remind Mr Dodd that most people who go on exotic colourful holidays paint their houses when they get back, but Tracy spoke first.

‘Course it won't sell paint,' she said to Mr Dodd, pointing up at the patches of bare brickwork in the top corners. ‘It's not finished. To sell paint you need a full and even coverage.'

Mr Dodd stared up at the bare patches and scratched his head with his biro.

‘You could be right,' he said, ‘I hadn't thought of that.'

Good old Tracy, thought Keith. She tries to make everything OK even when she hasn't quite caught the drift.

‘Thanks,' he whispered to Tracy, ‘but I didn't do it just to sell paint. I did it to save . . .'

He realised Tracy couldn't hear him because she was too busy asking Mr Dodd if he had any rope.

‘Blimey.'

Keith gazed up at Tracy as she lowered herself over the edge of Mr Dodd's roof on the end of a nylon washing line.

Mr Dodd gripped Keith's shoulder in alarm.

‘I thought she just wanted to tie the ladder to make it more secure,' croaked Mr Dodd.

Keith felt a bit croaky himself.

He stared up in amazement as Tracy hung off the rope by one hand, locked off the pulley above her head, took a brush from her back pocket, dipped it into the paint tin tied to her belt and dabbed Sky Blue onto a bare patch.

‘Be careful,' he yelled.

‘No worries,' shouted Tracy, ‘I've been abseiling down Uncle Leo's grain silo since I was seven.'

Keith and Mr Dodd both gasped as Tracy swung across the mural, wrapped her legs round a downpipe and started brushing paint onto the other bare patch.

‘Her uncle Leo must have nerves of steel,' croaked Mr Dodd.

‘Plastic,' said Keith. ‘He fell into a combine harvester and quite a lot of his body's been plastic since then.'

‘So will quite a lot of your friend if she falls off that rope,' muttered Mr Dodd.

‘She'll be OK,' said Keith.

If it was anyone else up there, he thought, I'd be sending them an urgent message not to fall off and get concussion and possibly brain damage.

But not Tracy.

She'll always be OK.

Suddenly he wanted to hug her for being the only person in his life he could rely on to be OK.

He still felt like hugging her when she'd hauled herself back onto the roof and climbed down into the shop and handed the ropes and pulleys back to Mr Dodd and come outside to inspect the mural.

So he did.

She was startled at first, then hugged him back.

‘Paint sales,' she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Bet Picasso didn't have people whingeing at him about paint sales. Bet if he'd painted this, people'd be raving to him about the ripper colours on the houses and the way those weightlifters are so lifelike. How did you do that, it's great.'

Keith glowed.

‘Actually,' he said, ‘they're not weightlifters, they're Mum and Dad.'

Tracy stared at him.

‘Your mum and dad?' she said.

‘Yeah,' said Keith. ‘Not the way they are now, the way they could be if someone perked them up and someone else helped them with fashion and personal grooming advice and they started going out on dates and rediscovered their real selves.'

Tracy stared up at Mum and Dad for a long time.

Then she turned to Keith.

‘That's sick,' she said angrily.

Keith felt as if the mural, with the wall attached, had just fallen on him.

He tried to speak, but his brain felt like it was under 14 ton of bricks.

He watched as Tracy walked away down the street.

He sent an urgent message to any part of his central nervous system that was listening.

Help.

Tracy stopped and walked back to him, her face tight with anger.

‘I don't know the way back,' she said.

Suddenly Keith knew what to do.

‘This way,' he said.

He set off in the direction that would take them past Mr Mellish's.

‘Bull.'

Tracy scowled at the gash on Mr Mellish's gatepost.

‘It's true,' shouted Keith desperately. ‘He died of loneliness and that's where they bashed into the gatepost with his body.'

‘I don't mean that's bull,' said Tracy. ‘What's bull is you trying to turn your mum and dad into Madonna and Mel Gibson just cause some poor old bloke died.'

Keith turned away so she wouldn't see his tears of frustration.

No point telling her I've stopped growing, he thought miserably. She'll say that's bull too.

Why was she carrying on like this?

Keith stared into the grey and murky distance.

Tragic, he thought. A wonderful person like Tracy suffering from a mental condition brought on by her plane landing too quickly.

‘I'm not trying to turn them into Madonna and Mel Gibson,' he said quietly, ‘I'm just trying to save them and I need your help.'

‘Perhaps they don't want to be saved,' said Tracy. ‘Anyway, how do you know this old bloke died of loneliness?'

Keith took a deep breath.

‘His ghost told me,' he said.

Before Tracy had a chance to laugh, Keith marched up to Mr Mellish's front door and pressed his ear to it.

In the distance, faint but unmistakable, he could hear the wailing.

‘Listen for yourself,' he said to Tracy.

She hesitated, then came over and put her ear to the door.

‘That's the neighbour's vacuum cleaner,' she said.

Keith closed his eyes.

He didn't care what she thought any more.

He concentrated on the mournful wailing.

‘Don't give up,' it seemed to be saying. ‘You've still got Aunty Bev.'

That's right, Keith thought, I have.

Keith looked at Dad standing at the stove in a cloud of smoke, bottom wobbling as he jiggled the frying pan.

He noted the damp strands of hair plastered across Dad's bald patch.

He took in the grease-stained Simpsons T-shirt that only just covered Dad's tummy bulge.

He stared at the baked bean sitting on Dad's left shoe.

He sighed with disappointment.

Come on Aunty Bev, thought Keith, you're meant to be Dad's personal grooming and fashion adviser. What have you been doing all day? You could at least have made a start on the ear hairs.

‘Hello Keith,' said Dad. ‘Where are the others?'

Keith explained that Aunty Bev and Tracy were coming over from Mum's shortly.

‘You alright Keith?' asked Dad, concerned. ‘You seem a bit in the dumps.'

‘I'm OK,' said Keith, trying hard not to look like someone who'd spent part of the day being let down by his best friend and the other part lying on his bed staring at the stack of tinned pineapple and trying to imagine what it'd be like going through life only four boxes high.

Being the only motorist in South London who couldn't reach the pedals of the car.

Being sent to bed early at business conferences.

Being pushed around by big pensioners at the senior citizens club.

No point depressing Dad with all that.

Keith managed to give Dad half a smile.

Dad ruffled Keith's hair.

Suddenly Keith wanted to give himself a boot up the bum for being so self-centred.

What was being vertically challenged compared to being lonely and depressed and headed for an early grave?

Mum and Dad were the ones he should be worrying about.

‘Righty-ho,' said Dad with a wink, ‘well if you're feeling tip-top, perhaps you wouldn't mind whizzing Mr K's dinner over to him.'

He handed Keith a plate of liver and onions.

On his way over to Mr Kristos's table, Keith wondered why Dad sounded so cheerful.

For a fleeting moment he thought Tracy might have changed her mind and been round and perked Dad up.

Then he remembered Mum had said on the phone that Tracy and Aunty Bev had been at her place all afternoon.

Oh well, thought Keith, Len Tufnell must have been on time with the pork chops.

At least someone was trying to help.

Just as he reached Mr Kristos's table, Keith heard the door behind him swing open.

‘G'day,' said Aunty Bev's voice. ‘Sorry we're late.'

‘Aha,' said Dad's voice, ‘the guests of honour.'

Keith decided not to turn round.

He decided instead to have a long chat with Mr Kristos, and a long chat with each of the other customers, and with a bit of luck he wouldn't have to talk to Tracy all evening.

He might never have to talk to her again.

‘G'day Keith,' said Tracy's voice softly.

Keith stopped in the middle of handing the plate to Mr Kristos.

He'd never heard Tracy so sad.

He turned round.

He'd never seen her so sad.

She stared at him, biting her lip.

He stared back helplessly, concern tugging at his insides.

‘Do you want a piece of liver,' he said, holding out the plate.

‘No thanks,' said Tracy quietly.

‘'Ere,' said Mr Kristos from his table, ‘that's mine.'

While Keith handed over the liver to Mr Kristos, and Dad struggled to help Aunty Bev out of her skintight leather jacket, Keith's mind raced.

What had happened?

Had someone died?

Had Tracy's travel brochure collection been lost in a cyclone?

Why wasn't she saying anything?

Then he realised from her expression she needed to talk to him in private.

On the way up the stairs Keith tried desperately to think what to say.

‘Has your Dad's ligament gone septic and killed him?' seemed a bit blunt, specially if it had.

‘If your travel brochures have been blown away in a cyclone I can get you some more from Mrs Nottage in the travel agents' sounded better.

But what if the cyclone had also blown away something that couldn't be replaced? Like her parents or Buster the dog?

Keith still hadn't decided what to say by the time they got to his room.

Then he looked at Tracy's sad face again and the words just came out.

‘What's up?' he said anxiously.

Tracy sighed.

‘Aunty Bev's giving me a bit of a hard time, that's all,' she said. ‘Carries on like a cracked record.'

Keith opened his mouth to say something about grown-ups who thought they were born aerobics or yoga or washing-up teachers, but before he could Tracy reached out and touched his arm.

‘Keith,' she said, ‘sorry I acted like a prawn this morning.'

Keith felt relief rush through him.

‘That's OK,' he said, ‘you were probably just a bit jet-lagged.'

Tracy thought about this and nodded.

‘I can see you're really worried about your mum and dad,' she continued, ‘and I'm gunna try and cheer them up.'

Keith felt like four boxes of tinned pineapple had been lifted from his shoulders.

He resisted the temptation to stick his head out of the window and yodel.

He didn't even give in to the urge to do cartwheels round the room.

He just touched Tracy on the arm.

‘Thanks,' he said.

He realised she wasn't listening.

She was gawking at the stacks of boxes.

‘Jeez,' she said, ‘do you get a bit hungry at night?'

Keith and Tracy walked back into the cafe.

They stopped and stared.

A tall, sophisticated figure was standing at the stove in a cloud of smoke jiggling a frying pan.