Stargazing for Beginners Page 3

  First I take off Elsa’s leggings. This makes her cry even more, so Pongo comes over and licks her face. Her screams get louder.

  ‘Not helping, Pongo. Go away.’ I push him off, but now he thinks it’s a game and starts licking Elsa all over – in her ears and eyes … everywhere. I’ve managed to undo one side of the nappy when Pongo switches his attention to me, assaulting me with his hot tongue and revolting smell of dog food. ‘Stay there,’ I say to Elsa, then I drag Pongo into the kitchen and shut him in.

  When I get back, Elsa’s gone.

  ‘Da!’ comes a voice from the doorway.

  She’s clinging on to the door frame, smiling and wobbling, her loaded nappy only done up on one side. Any sudden movements and it will fall.

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Elsa,’ I say in my best baby voice. (It’s not very good; I rarely use it.) ‘Stay. There.’ Slowly, I walk towards her.

  She takes a step back and sways.

  ‘Elsa!’ I switch to my best angry voice. ‘Don’t you dare move!’

  Mistake. Elsa slams herself down, clutches her face and starts to cry. As I move closer, she throws herself on to her back and starts squirming. In poo.

  I literally don’t know what to do. No way can baby wipes sort this out. I need a hose! I grab Mum’s phone off the floor. Maybe I should Google ‘How to change a very bad nappy’ … There’s bound to be a film on YouTube.

  ‘Mama,’ says Elsa. She’s stopped crying and is reaching for the phone. ‘Ma!’ Elsa can do lots of animal sounds, but she can only say three words: ‘mama’ or ‘ma’ which means Mum, ‘na’ which means no, and ‘da’ which means everything else. ‘Da!’ she says crossly.

  ‘You want Mum’s phone?’

  ‘Da! Da!’

  ‘OK. But you hold on tight. No dropping it “down there”.’ I pass her the phone and she starts to suck it. Then she waves it up and down. Then she sucks it again.

  The phone distraction gives me enough time to come up with a plan.

  I run a bath then carefully release Elsa from the last bit of nappy. ‘Time for a bath!’ I say, lifting her up and carrying her to the bathroom.

  I hold her over the water. When she sees where she’s going, her legs go crazy, pumping up and down, and then her arms join in too. Not only is this going to work, it’s made Elsa really happy! Then I remember what Elsa is holding. ‘Elsa,’ I say, ‘don’t drop Mum’s –’ Splash! ‘– phone!’

  With a sigh, I lower her in the water, then pick out Mum’s phone. It’s totally dead. I watch Elsa wriggling around and splashing, my chin resting on the side of the bath, too tired to move out of the way. ‘You broke Mum’s phone,’ I say.

  ‘Da!’ says Elsa, then she laughs and slams her hands down in the water.

  EIGHT

  For the next few hours, I try to read through my speech while Elsa trashes the flat. She pulls crystals off shelves, scatters Pongo’s biscuits across the kitchen and throws dirty washing into the empty paddling pool. Pongo follows her around, joining in wherever he can. Basically, they’re partners in crime and although I try to tidy up after them and whip things out of their way, they both move so fast.

  Now and then, they turn their attention to me, which is how I end up with a piece of cold toast mashed in between my speech cards. I peel off the toast, and decide to make a start on my geography homework. I’m describing the impact of erosion on glaciers when Pongo snatches the book out of my hands and runs away with it, hiding behind the sofa. When I try to take it back, he thinks I’m playing tug of war and the book ends up with toothy puncture holes all the way through it.

  I run my hands over the ruined cover. I covered it perfectly in sticky plastic – there wasn’t a single air bubble or crease – and now it’s ruined. Mum said this would be fun! This isn’t fun. It’s noisy and messy and chaotic.

  ‘Who wants to watch Peppa Pig?’ I say. I know I do.

  After watching eight back–to–back episodes of Peppa Pig, I look up and notice that it’s gone seven. That’s when I switch from feeling annoyed to worried. Mum’s never left me with Elsa for this long before. Usually it’s just half an hour while she pops to the shops. I tell myself she must be held up in traffic and that she’ll be back at any moment, but when it gets to seven thirty and I see Elsa trying to eat a plastic carrot, I realise I’m going to have to feed her. The only problem is, I’ve never fed Elsa before and I’m not that sure what she likes to eat …

  Beans, I decide. Everyone likes baked beans.

  ‘Dinner time!’ I say, putting a bowl of beans down on the tray of the high chair.

  Elsa’s excited. So excited that her hands slam down and the bowl flips over. Beans splatter across the high chair and the floor – a few even hit the fridge – then Elsa grabs a handful and starts stuffing them in her mouth.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, holding out a spoon. ‘Ever thought of using this?’

  She takes the spoon off me and tosses it over her shoulder. Then she rubs her beany hands into her wispy hair.

  I’m starting to get why Mum gives Elsa her bath after she’s eaten. I’ve never really paid much attention to what they do in the evening because I’m usually in my room, but I know the order: food, bath, bed.

  Elsa starts rubbing bean juice into her eyes.

  ‘Tired?’ I say. ‘Do you want to go to bed?’

  ‘Na!’ she says, shaking her head.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ I say, unclipping her from the high chair. I’ve always wondered why Mum doesn’t put Elsa to bed earlier. She’d have loads more free time if she did. All I have to do is change her nappy, get her in her Babygro and pop her in her cot, then the rest of the evening is mine!

  ‘Na!’ Elsa screams, as I pick her up. ‘Na, na!’

  ‘Can’t hear you!’ I say. I’m way behind on my homework, but if I go to bed late, I should be able to catch up.

  NINE

  Why won’t she stop crying? I’m sitting with my forehead resting on Mum’s bedroom door with my speech cards arranged around me. I swear Elsa’s screams are making the door vibrate. It’s lucky that Elizabeth downstairs is deaf because Elsa’s been crying on and off for three hours. When I go in and see her she stops crying, but the moment I shut the door, the screaming starts again.

  I can’t take much more of this. It’s nearly nine and if Mum doesn’t turn up soon, I’m going to have to ring Grandad. The more Elsa screams the more illogical my thoughts become and I start to worry that something bad must have happened to Mum. I imagine car crashes, ambulance sirens, police officers knocking at the door. I even wonder if Mum’s been arrested for creating a security risk at Gatwick. This worry isn’t entirely illogical. Mum once stormed the runway at Heathrow dressed as a polar bear. She only got out of going to prison because she was eight months’ pregnant with me.

  Scream … Scream … Scream …

  I shut my eyes and try to remember what silence sounds like. And then, amazingly, after one long massive wail, Elsa stops crying! I hold my breath and press my ear against the door. Could she have fallen asleep mid-cry? I try to breathe as quietly as possible, listening for any snuffle or movement. My heart thuds in my chest.

  Now I’m worried that she’s too quiet.

  Then I hear a cough, a whimper, and the screaming starts again, only now it’s louder than ever. She was just resting her lungs for the next set of screams!

  And that’s when I hear something else cutting through her cries: the phone.

  I scramble to my feet and run into the front room, grabbing the phone. ‘Hello?’ I say.

  There’s no reply, but I can hear muffled voices, laughter, and then a banging sound.

  ‘Mum? Is that you?’

  ‘Meg!’

  ‘Mum!’ I sink to the ground, pressing the phone tight against my ear. I burst out laughing. ‘When are you coming home? Elsa’s nearly puked from crying and I don’t know how to get her to stop …’ I trail off. On the other end of the line I can hear a rumbling sound and it’s getting louder.
An icy feeling runs through me. ‘Mum, what’s going on?’

  ‘You’ll never guess where I am.’ Her voice is breathless, excited. With a sinking feeling, I realise I recognise that voice: it’s the one she uses when she’s about to embark on a mercy mission. She’s used it before to say things like, ‘I’m thinking of adopting a blind cat,’ or, ‘I’ve volunteered to come in to your school to talk about teenage pregnancy.’

  ‘Just tell me where you are,’ I say.

  ‘On a plane!’

  ‘What?’ I grip the phone.

  ‘I’m going to Myanmar!’

  For a moment, the words don’t make sense to me and I wonder if Myanmar is some music festival. But, then my GCSE geography skills kick in and I remember that Myanmar is a country near Thailand, a country that’s thousands of miles away. She must be joking. ‘Mum,’ I say, ‘did you say you’re going to Myanmar?’

  ‘Yes! Look, I’m sorry to dump Elsa on you, but when I was picking up Sara she started telling me about how the aid agency she’s working for desperately need volunteers and then she showed me these pictures of beautiful children. Meg, fifty per cent of child deaths in Myanmar are preventable and I’ve got nursing training! When I found that out, I knew I had to drop everything and –’

  I interrupt her. ‘Mum, please get off the plane.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s moving. I’ve already sorted it out with work. Just take Elsa back to Grandad’s and ask him to look after her. You go too. I’ll be back in two weeks, that’s all.’

  With rising panic, I try to imagine us going to live at Grandad’s. He’s got experiments going in every room, hamsters, chickens, junk piled up in every corner … ‘We can’t go to Grandad’s,’ I say. ‘There’s no room for us.’

  But it’s like I haven’t spoken. ‘Meg, promise me something. Except for Grandad, don’t tell anyone that I’ve gone. Elsa will be fine, but the nursery might not like it. They could tell social services or something.’

  ‘No, Mum, wait …’ I try to find the words that will make her change her mind. ‘Grandad can’t look after Elsa. He can hardly look after himself and I’ve got so much schoolwork to do –’

  ‘You worry too much, Meg. Just take some stuff to Grandad’s and hang out round there. He’ll understand why I’ve gone.’ There’s this little hint of criticism in her voice, as if I’m selfish to even say these things to her. ‘Tell him I’ll be in touch, but that I probably won’t be able to ring because we’re going to a remote area. Oh … I’ve got to give Sara her phone back. We’re taking off. I love you, Meg. Thank you for doing this, wonderful girl!’

  After she’s blown me a series of kisses, the line goes dead.

  I take a deep breath, then another, the phone still pushed against my ear. Did Mum really just ring me from a plane? Did she actually say Myanmar? My heart pounds as Elsa’s screams drill into my head. Maybe I could ring the airport and get them to stop the plane? I desperately want to speak to Mum and explain why she can’t go, that it’s nothing to do with being selfish, just that we need her here. I start to dial directory enquires, but then I let the phone fall in my lap. Mum said the plane was taking off. By the time I get through, they won’t be able to do anything – the plane will be in the air … And even if it isn’t, they’d never stop a plane just because some girl’s rung up. I’m being illogical. I’m not thinking straight.

  Now Elsa’s started coughing as well as screaming. All I want to do is go into my room, curl up on my bed and pretend this isn’t happening. But I can’t do that. Pongo whines and pushes his nose against my hand. ‘I know … I can hear her.’ I get up, walk down the corridor and open Mum’s bedroom door.

  Elsa’s standing up in her cot, arms stretched out, her face red and slippery with tears. Pongo trots over and sticks his nose through the bars, but this just makes her cry even louder. I go and pick her up and after a moment of resistance, she flops against me, all hot and heavy. She doesn’t stop crying, but she does say, ‘Mamama’, in between sobs.

  ‘Mum’s gone away,’ I say. ‘She’s gone to Myanmar.’

  Elsa clings on to me and her yells become little hiccups, and then they stop altogether. She feels so heavy in my arms.

  I carry her into the front room, find the phone and ring Grandad. He answers on the fifth ring.

  ‘Hello!’ he says, all jolly like he’s been drinking his home brew.

  ‘Grandad, it’s me.’

  ‘Meg! Are you all right?’

  Then, even though I know it’s stupid, I say what I always say to Grandad when I need his help with something.

  ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

  TEN

  At first Grandad doesn’t believe me, at least not the bit about the plane and Myanmar. He makes me tell him exactly what Mum said, and I even have to describe the sounds I heard in the background.

  Then he laughs. ‘Blimey. Alice is a free spirit.’

  There are a few words going round my head at the moment to describe Mum, but ‘free spirit’ isn’t one of them.

  ‘Well, you’d better pack up your stuff and come round here.’

  ‘Where would we sleep?’ I say. ‘Your house is tiny.’

  ‘I could squeeze you in. If I shift the hamsters over, you can both go into the spare room. It’ll be just like the old days!’

  Is he mad? Me, Elsa and twenty-three hamsters?

  How will I sleep with all their wheels going round? How will I ever get any work done?

  And just like that, I see my chance of going to Houston drifting away from me.

  When I was little and Mum went off to rallies or festivals, Grandad’s spare room was my second bedroom. Then the hamsters appeared. Grandad wanted to see if he could generate electricity by connecting their wheels to a generator. Turns out he could, but his hamster farm didn’t just generate electricity, it also generated loads more hamsters. You’d think that a man with a physics PhD would understand the basics of reproduction.

  ‘Do you know what, Grandad? I don’t think there’ll be room for us in the spare room, not with all Elsa’s stuff.’

  ‘The hamsters could go into the lounge.’

  ‘What about your home brewery?’ Grandad’s also got quite an elaborate micro-brewery set up in the lounge.

  Grandad laughs. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Look, I can find room for you somewhere.’

  Suddenly, I see that there’s an obvious solution to the problem. I’m not sure Mum would like it, but right now I don’t really care about that. ‘How about Elsa and I stay here, Grandad?’

  The line goes quiet for a moment. ‘I suppose that could work. I could come and stay with you and just pop home sometimes to check the animals and my beer.’

  That’s not what I meant. I get why Grandad wants to come round here, but if he does, I’ll just end up looking after him and Elsa. The flat would just become an extension of his house: taps will be left running, plates will pile up in the sink ‘for later’, books and newspapers will be scattered all over the floor … It will be like living with Mum, but with added nicotine!

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I think it would be better if we stay here on our own.’

  ‘Really?’ He sounds bemused.

  The more I think about it, the more certain I become. With Mum gone, I’ve got the chance to get things sorted out a bit. Obviously I’ll have to keep Elsa here too, but she goes to bed at seven. Once she’s asleep, the flat will be mine. No Ibiza anthems, no community allotment meetings, no hot yoga (Mum really whacks the heating up for that), just peace and quiet … at a moderate temperature. I’d be able to work – I could practise my speech for hours. All of a sudden, Houston is back on the cards.

  ‘I can look after Elsa,’ I say firmly. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well … I suppose it will make life easier with the chickens.’ He doesn’t sound that convinced, but I can tell he’s going to let me have my own way. Grandad hates arguments.

  Elsa tugs at the phone, trying to get it out of my hands. ‘It’ll
work out,’ I say firmly. ‘You’ll see. Before I go to school, I’ll drop Pongo round at yours and then I’ll take Elsa to nursery.’

  ‘Well … we’ll give it a go for a couple of days,’ says Grandad. Then his voice perks up. ‘Hey, I could make you both dinner when you come back from school!’

  ‘That would be great, Grandad,’ I say, trying not to think about the state of his fridge. ‘I’d better go. Elsa’s nodding off.’ She’s not. She’s very carefully trying to put her finger in my nose. ‘Goodnight!’

  ‘Goodnight, love. You girls get a good night’s sleep.’

  I hang up the phone and look at Elsa. She stares right back at me with her round, blue eyes. A bit of confidence slips away from me. Elsa and I might live together, but essentially we’re strangers. Mum’s always trying to get me to hold Elsa and ‘bond’, but I haven’t got a clue what to do with her and it’s obvious she prefers being with Mum.

  As if Elsa can sense my uncertainty, her face crumples and she starts to cry again. A ripple of panic sweeps through me and I wonder if I’ve just made a very stupid decision. I’m still holding the phone and as Elsa’s cries turn to screams, I’m tempted to ring Grandad back and say, ‘Move the hamster cages to one side. We’re coming round!’

  I push the thought away. If I do that, I’ll never be able to enter the NASA competition. I’ve taken a computer apart and put it back together again; surely I can work out how to get Elsa to stop crying and go to sleep.

  I decide to try shushing and patting. I’ve seen Mum do that loads of times.

  ‘Shhh,’ I say, and I give Elsa a pat on the shoulder. But this just makes her go rigid and arch away from me. Next, I try stroking her head, but she shakes it wildly from side to side. OK. I’ll try swaying. I start to sway my way around the flat, but if anything, this makes Elsa’s cries go up a notch. My heart beats faster and I decide to try it all at the same time: I sway, stroke her head, shush like mad and pat her back like it’s a drum.