All Fall Down (24 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks go to Phil Hoggart, for telling me about the Black Death in such a way that made me want to write about it (and for all those other strange and fascinating things that I'm going to write books about one day.) Thanks also to the good people at Cosmeston Medieval Village for knowing the answers to the important questions that history books never address, such as “Would medieval brothers and sisters sleep in the same bed?” and “Did medieval peasants have hen houses?”

Much gratitude to all the many hard-working and creative people who sat in coffee shops and attics and police stations, writing novels and comic strips and PhDs beside me while I worked on this book – Tara Button, Tom Nicholls, Susie Day, Pita Harris, Victoria Still, Carrie Comfort, Emily Hunka, Sarah McIntyre and everyone at the Fleece Station. Thanks for the authorly understanding, and for reminding me that Spider Solitaire really doesn't count as writing.

Thanks to the wonderfully-named Jessica Metheringham-Owlett, for her generous donation to the Firefly Project
(
http://fireflybosnia.org/
), as part of a silent auction to win the dedication space in this book.

Thanks as ever to my editor, Marion Lloyd, for making me happy with editorial suggestions such as “Can we have some more gore?” and my agents – the much-missed Rosemary Canter and the wonderfully efficient Jodie Marsh. And to my dear boyfriend – now husband – Tom Nicholls, world-class provider of hugs, internet, screwdrivers, financial advice, and plausible reasons why the book I'm halfway through writing probably isn't nearly as bad as I think it is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today was our first day back at school after the Christmas holidays.

We have school three days a week - on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, in the living room. There are only two pupils - me and Felix. Felix doesn't care about learning anything.

“What's the point of being ill if you have to do maths?” he said, the first time he came to school at my house. Mrs Willis, who's our teacher, didn't argue. She doesn't fuss if Felix doesn't do any work. She just lets him sit there, leaning back in his chair and telling me what's wrong with whatever I'm doing.

“That's not how you spell ammonium! We never spelt ammonium like that at my school!”

“There's a planet called Hercules - isn't there, Mrs Willis?”

“What're you doing
that
for?”

Felix only comes to school to see me and to give his mum a break.

Nowadays, Mrs Willis thinks up ploys to interest him. You know the sort of thing; making volcanoes that really erupt, cooking Roman food, making fire with a magnifying glass.

Only my mum didn't like that one, because we accidentally burnt a hole in the dining table.

Sort of accidentally-on-purpose.

Today, though, Mrs Willis said, “How about you do some writing?” and we both groaned, because we'd been hoping for more fire, or possibly an explosion. Mrs Willis said, “Oh, come on, now. I thought you might like to write something about yourselves. I know you both like reading.”

Felix looked up. He was playing with two of my Warhammer ores, advancing them on each other and going “Grrrrah!” under his breath.

“Only 'cause there's nothing else to do in hospital,” he said.

Me and Felix are both experts at being in hospital. That's where we met, last year.

I didn't see what reading had to do with writing about me and I said, “Books are just about kids saving the world or getting beaten up at school. You wouldn't write about us.”

“Maybe not you,” said Felix. He pressed his hand to his forehead and flopped back in his chair. “The tragic story of Sam McQueen. A poor, frail child! Struggling bravely through
terrible
suffering and hospitals with no televisions!”

I made vomiting noises. Felix stretched his hand -the one that wasn't pressed to his forehead - out to me.

“Goodbye - goodbye - dear friends—” he said, and collapsed against his chair making choking sounds.

Mrs Willis said, “No dying at the table, Felix.” But you could tell she wasn't really angry. She said, “I'd like you both to have a go now, please. Tell me something about yourself. You don't have to write a whole book by lunchtime.”

So that's what we're doing. Well, I am. Felix isn't doing it properly. He's written: “My name is Felix Stranger and”, and then he stopped. Mrs Willis didn't make him write any more. But I'm on page three already.

School's nearly over now, anyway. It's very quiet. Mrs Willis is pretending to do her marking and really reading
70 Things To Do With Fire
under the table. Felix is leading my orcs in a stealth attack on the pot plant. Columbus, the cat, is watching with yellow eyes.

Next door, in the kitchen, Mum is stirring the soup, which is lunch. Dad is in Middlesbrough, being a solicitor. My sister Ella is at school. Real school. Thomas Street Primary.

Any minute now-there it is! There's the doorbell. Felix's mum is here. School is over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHY I LIKE FACTS

 

 

I like facts. I like
knowing
things. Grown-ups never understand this. You ask them something like, “Can I have a new bike for Christmas?” and they give you a waffly answer, like, “Why don't you see how you feel nearer Christmas?” Or you might ask your doctor, “How long do I have to stay in hospital?” and he'll say something like, “Let's wait and see how you get on”, which is doctor-speak for “I don't know”.

I don't have to go into hospital ever again. Dr Bill promised. I have to go to clinic - that's it. If I get really sick, I can stay at home.

That's because I'm going to die.

Probably.

Going to die is the biggest waffly thing of all. No one will tell you anything. You ask them questions and they cough and change the subject.

If I grow up, I'm going to be a scientist. Not the sort that mixes chemicals together, but the sort that investigates UFOs and ghosts and things like that. I'm going to go to haunted houses and do tests and prove whether or not poltergeists and aliens and Loch Ness monsters really exist. I'm very good at finding things out. I'm going to find out the answers to all the questions that nobody answers.

All of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My sister Ella went back to school today too. She and Mum had a huge fight this morning about it. She doesn't get why I stay at home all day and she doesn't.

“Sam doesn't go to school!” she said to Mum. “You don't go to work!”

“I have to look after Sam,” Mum said.

“You do not,” said Ella. “You just do ironing and plant things and talk to Granny.”

Which is true.

My mum named me Sam, after Samson in the Bible, and my dad named Ella after his aunt. If they'd talked to each other a bit more while they were doing it, they might not have ended up with kids called Sam ‘n' Ella, but it's too late to change that now. I think Dad thinks it's funny, anyway.

Ella's eight. She has dark hair and bright, greeny-brown eyes, like those healing stones you buy in hippie shops. No one else in my family cares what they look like. Granny goes round in trousers with patches and padded waistcoats with pockets for pencils and seed packets and train tickets. And Mum's clothes are all about a hundred years old. But Ella always fusses about what she wears. She has a big box of nail varnish and all of Mum's make-up because Mum hardly ever wears it.

“Why don't you wear it?” says Ella.
“Why?”

Ella always asks questions. Granny said she was born asking a question and it hasn't been answered yet.

“Was I?” said Ella, when she heard this. “What was it?”

We all laughed.

“Where am I?” said Mum.

“Who're these funny-looking people?” said Granny.

“What am I
doing
here?” said Dad. “I was supposed to be a princess!”

“Who'd make
you
a princess?” I said.

 

It's afternoon now and I'm still writing. I bet I could write a book. Easy. I was going to do some more after Felix went, but Maureen from Mum's church came round, so I had to be visited. She only left when Mum went to fetch Ella from school. I was thinking up “Questions Nobody Answers” at the dining table when they came back. Ella ran straight over to me.

“What are you doing?”

“School stuff,” I said. I curled my arm around the page. Ella came right up behind me and peered over my shoulder.

“Ella. I'm busy,” I said. It was the wrong thing to say. She tugged on my arm.

“Let me see!”

“Mum!” I wailed. “Ella won't let me work!”

“Sam won't let me see!”

Mum was on the phone. She came through with it pressed against her chest.

“Kids! Behave! Ella, leave your brother alone.”

I pulled a face at Ella. She flung herself on to the sofa.

“It's not fair! You always let him win!”

Ella and Mum
always
fight. And Ella always says it's not fair. I bet that's the only reason I win, because I don't throw baby tantrums like she does.

Mum put down the phone and went over to Ella. Ella shouted, “Go away!” and ran upstairs. Mum gave this big sigh. She came over to me. I closed my pad so she wouldn't see the writing.

“Secret, is it?” she said.

“It's for school.” I held my pen over the closed pad. Mum sighed. She kissed the top of my head and went upstairs after Ella.

I waited until I was quite sure she was gone, then I picked up my pen and started writing again.

 

 

 

First published in the UK in 2012 by Marion Lloyd Books

This electronic edition published in 2012 by Marion Lloyd Books

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Copyright © Sally Nicholls, 2012

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eISBN 978 1407 13277 8

 

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