My Nasty Neighbours (9 page)

I
took refuge in Joe’s house, even though it was a three-mile walk across the city.

It was dark by the time his mum hinted that I should be on my way. I set off gloomily for home. Back through the entire city centre, over O’Connell Bridge, across towards Highfield Road, I didn’t pass one human being who looked as miserable as I felt.

I shivered. I tried imagining myself idling comfortably in front of a fire. But I couldn’t picture where that fire was.

And then I saw it, straight ahead, glowing red against the darkening skyline – a bigger fire than the one I had imagined. Realising that it was in Highfield Road, I began to run up the hill.

The jangling of fire engines sounded behind me. It’s no 6, I thought. Obviously batty, the old
lady must have made a bonfire of her Christmas cards and torched the whole house.

The sirens of two fire engines were deafening as they passed me.

Abbas, I thought, panting now as I tried to quicken my pace. Thick, dark smoke was clouding around the flames as I imagined Abbas’s little brother setting fire to no 82 with a forbidden match.

Only when I caught up with the fire engines in Highfield Road did the most obvious explanation occur to me – Helen and Ian! Either Helen had tried to cook for some new bloke and flambéed no 8, or Ian’s dodgy amplifier had been left plugged in and finally blown the electrics!

As the two fire engines joined the police patrol car outside the terrace, one thing was clear: it was nos 8 and 10 that were ablaze. An ambulance sped away, blue light flashing.

‘Stand back!’ shouted a fire officer, holding his arms wide to push us back from the heat of the fire.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘He’s here!’ It was Abbas’s voice.

Then I saw Mum. ‘Davy, Davy,’ she cried, hurtling towards me. And Dad – just a bit more controlled. ‘David, thank heaven you’re safe!’

‘Me? Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘We thought you were in no 8,’ Mum explained.

Dad was shouting across to the fire officer over the crackling and spitting of the fire, ‘He’s here! We’ve got him!’

The officer ran towards us. ‘That’s everyone accounted for?’

‘Everyone,’ confirmed Mum, holding Silver in her arms.

‘Helen and Ian! Where are they?’ I asked.

‘Helen’s gone with Ian.’

‘Where?’

‘To the hospital.’

‘Further back, please,’ yelled the same fire officer at the growing crowd. We hurried across the street, turning back quickly as the roof of no 10 crumpled and fell.

In the confusion of sparks and falling roof-tiles, I was separated from Mum, Dad and Abbas. Frantically I searched for them, desperate to know about Ian.

I glimpsed Dad in the crowd. ‘Dad!’ I shouted. ‘What happened to Ian?’ The houses, the furniture, none of it mattered now. I just wanted to know my brother was okay.

I pushed through the crowd. ‘Dad!’

He was staring at the fire as the burning staircase of no 10 finally collapsed. I shook him. ‘Dad, is Ian burnt?’

He turned towards me, his face lit up by the flames. ‘Ian’s fine, David. Ian’s a hero.’

S
leep’s the last thing you want after a fire. Sleep would be like death, and when your home’s burnt down, that’s what you’re happy to have escaped.

So I stayed with Abbas and we talked through the night, and Mum and Dad went off to Gran’s.

First Abbas told me about Ian. ‘The whole street knew there was a fire. Everyone shouted across the garden fences or hammered on doors, but no one remembered the old lady in no 6.’

The deaf old lady in no 6. I remembered how, before we moved in, Ian had regarded her deafness as a personal favour.

‘Did Ian go in and rescue her?’

‘Yeah. He was out when the fire started. He just drove up as we were leaving the house. And he ran straight into the house to get her.’

‘Hang on. No 6 wasn’t on fire!’

‘She wasn’t in no 6. She was in no 8. She was delivering something.’

A threatening note, of course.

‘The front door was open and she’d gone in because she saw flames, then got frightened and confused by the smoke.’

‘Obviously she didn’t phone the fire brigade. So who did?’

‘Helen, I think …’

Ian was fine. He was taken to hospital for observation, because he inhaled a lot of smoke, but he wasn’t hurt or burnt.

What impressed me was the way he chose to save the old lady rather than his violin. If he was lucky she’d recycle a ‘Thank You’ card to him for his courage.

Mum and Dad called round in the morning with the good news, Ian had been discharged.

Abbas’s mum made Ceylon tea for us all while Abbas’s little brother stood in the corner of the sitting-room watching us, his eyes wide. He’d been asking Abbas and myself hundreds of
questions about the fire, but he was shy in front of Mum and Dad.

Mum tried to put him as his ease. ‘Look at this,’ she said, holding up a faded blue ribbon. At first I thought it was just something to get his attention, then I realised it was more important.

‘Uncle Albert’s medal,’ I exclaimed.

‘Yes,’ Dad said.

I took it from Mum.

‘It was hidden inside the tall boy. We found it yesterday when it … er … got broken,’ Dad continued. So Mum hadn’t stopped at throwing cream cakes.

I examined the medal. ‘The George Cross,’ I said admiringly. He must have risked his own life to get it. ‘One day I’ll find out just how he won it.’

‘Actually, we know,’ Dad said. ‘He was in the Civil Defence Unit during the War. The munitions factory in Enfield was bombed and Uncle Albert pulled people from the collapsing building. He saved at least ten lives.’

‘How did you find that out?’

‘As soon as we found the medal, I made a few
phone calls. You can check these things.’

‘But I planned to write to that neighbour. I thought it would take ages!’

‘David, has it ever occurred to you that someone who’s worked in Data Protection for twenty years might know where to enquire?’

It hadn’t actually. ‘So you managed to do all this and burn down two houses,’ I said admiringly.

Mum and Dad looked shame-faced.

‘Yesterday evening we drove around trying to find you,’ explained Dad, ‘but we couldn’t.’

‘Unfortunately …’ Mum began. Now she did look really ashamed. ‘Unfortunately I’d rushed my chores that morning and set the fire with embers still hot from the day before.’

‘While we were out the fire must have started up, set light to the wooden fire screens in front of it, and the whole lot went up,’ Dad explained.

I shook my head, what irresponsibility. ‘You two make Psycho Phil seem normal.’

‘Who?’

‘Psycho, he’s been haunting next door for months. You know, “dear little Philip”. Six foot three, taking a year off. Slowing down from a
dead stop.’

‘Psy-chic Phil, you mean,’ said Ian, coming in with Helen. ‘Psychic, we nicknamed him that after he predicted the winner of the Grand National.’

Abbas’s mum had let Ian and Helen in. ‘So this is the brave young man,’ she said. ‘You did a brave thing.’ It was a long speech for her.

Ian blushed. He looked as shy as Abbas’s little brother. ‘Anyone would’ve done the same,’ he muttered.

Both Mum and Dad looked at him in the way I remembered from when he used to win prizes and scholarships every week.

I felt proud of him too, but I knew he hated being the centre of attention. ‘Pity Psychic Phil couldn’t predict fires,’ I said. It was the first distracting thing I could think of.

Dad smiled. ‘The worst thing is that when we came back and discovered both houses on fire, we blamed Ian and Helen,’ admitted Dad.

‘If the fire started in no 10, and you were out, who called the fire brigade?’

‘I did,’ said Helen.

‘Thought so,’ nodded Abbas.

‘I had to run to a neighbour’s though,’ complained Helen, shaking as she remembered her panic. ‘No 10 was locked. I couldn’t make no 6 hear. I was frantic! I had to try four houses before I could dial 999.’

‘Why didn’t you phone from no 8?’ I asked.

‘Because Harry wouldn’t get off the phone. He’d phoned me to say he was prepared to give me a second chance. The nerve of the man! As he was talking, I saw smoke billowing out of Mum and Dad’s kitchen window. I put down the phone and tried to dial 999, but Harry hadn’t put his receiver back. The line was engaged!’

‘You did fine,’ Dad said, hugging her. ‘We’re very proud of you.’

‘Quick thinking for a beautician,’ I said admiringly.

Mum sighed. ‘We’ve learnt that our children are in some ways more responsible than we are.’

I felt genuinely sorry for her then. She looked so small and crumpled. She was crumpled because she didn’t have a change of clothes, just like the rest of us, but from now on, to me, the smallness was permanent.

‘Mum …’ I began. I wanted to explain that I appreciated her owning up. She’d made a mess of things, but at least she’d admitted it. That’s not easy. But I couldn’t find the words.

‘You know the glass ship,’ I began, irrelevantly.

‘Uncle Albert’s? Yes, I remember it.’

‘I’ve found one just like it. I’m buying it.’

Dad stared. ‘David, you really are a remarkable boy.’

Me – remarkable! The younger brother of a genius – remarkable!

Mum smiled in agreement. ‘Thank goodness we’ve got you to keep the family together,’ she said.

N
o 82 Highfield Road became the Stirling headquarters after the fire. ‘This is a little house,’ Abbas’s mother said, ‘but home for all our friends.’

So Mum and Dad arrived early on the day of the Cup Final just to drink Ceylon tea. ‘So hospitable,’ Mum said. ‘They must be wonderful neighbours.’

My mind was on the weather. A bitter wind blew. When rain began to lash against the windows of Abbas’s house just an hour before the game was to start, Mum said, ‘I expect that nice Mr Sullivan will postpone the Final until the weather is better.’

‘What?’ I gave a hollow laugh and carried on packing my gear. ‘That “nice Mr Sullivan”
would have us playing in a hurricane.’

I’d expected Mum and Dad to come and support St Joe’s but when Helen got into the car, I was surprised. And when Ian got in too, I was staggered. ‘This is a rugby match, not a concert,’ I said.

‘This is your big day. I’m coming to cheer,’ he replied, without a trace of irony.

Then another figure squeezed into the back of the car. ‘Psycho Phil,’ I exclaimed.

‘Kick, Psy-kick,’ corrected Ian.

‘Are we adopting him or what?’ I asked.

‘Leave the poor lad alone,’ ordered Mum, Helen, Ian and I smiled – that’s exactly what she would have said when she was driving a bunch of seven-year-olds to school.

Helen edged over and allowed Psy-kick Phil some space. We drove on towards school. But then we drove past the school.

‘Shan’t be a moment,’ Dad reassured me. ‘I just want to pick something up.’

That’s not how it turned out though. Dad shot out of the car, having parked it on a double yellow line and given Mum instructions about driving off if a traffic warden appeared. But
when he came back he was empty-handed.

‘He won’t give it to me,’ he said to Mum. He added, ‘David, come with me.’

He led me through the streets, past McDonald’s and, as we headed down a side alley, I began to guess where we might be going. When he pushed open the door of Flanigan’s antiques, I knew.

‘Well, here he is,’ Dad said triumphantly to the antique dealer.

‘Is it the same boy?’ asked the dealer. ‘The other one was …’ He raised his arms in despair as an accurate description eluded him. I don’t suppose he has many customers who turn up in hob-nail rugby boots.

‘It’s me,’ I acknowledged.

‘I expect he was more normal when you last saw him,’ said Dad, adding unnecessarily, ‘This is more his usual state.’ He was counting out five-pound notes as he spoke.

The antique dealer took the wad of money and went into the back. He returned carrying the ship.

‘Ah yes, I remember it now,’ said Dad. ‘I couldn’t quite picture it. It’s a work of art.’

The antique dealer handed the domed ship to me. ‘I had to be sure it was the lad who’d paid
the deposit,’ he said, somewhat defensively.

‘Of course, of course.’ Dad had remembered the car on the double yellow line. He was keen to be away but, as before, money had loosened the antique dealer’s tongue.

‘Your uncle also had a George Cross, I remember.’

I was clutching the glass ship. It was quite a weight. I could only just see over the top of the dome. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘But you lost it.’

I nodded, but the nod was lost behind the dome. Fortunately Dad chipped in, ‘Yes, but we’ve found it now.’ He was heading towards the door, trying to avoid seeing or hearing the dealer’s obvious enthusiasm.

Back in the car Mum turned to look at the ship on the seat beside me. ‘You know. It really is beautiful,’ she said with admiration.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve always known.’

‘I remember the other one, Uncle Albert’s. I used to take it for granted. Something that was just there, taking up space.’ She sighed heavily, and turned to look at Dad.

‘Sometimes you have to look with fresh eyes
to see beauty,’ said Dad. He paused for a moment. ‘You know, I think he wanted to buy Albert’s medal.’

I had only ten minutes before my game started, but some decisions are easily made.

‘Ian can sell the medal if he wants to,’ I said.

There was silence. We were all thinking about how brave he’d been in the fire. The medal rightfully belonged to him. His violin had been destroyed in the fire and, if he was to get into the Royal Academy of Music as he now wanted to do, he’d have to replace both his piano and the violin.

‘David, are you sure?’ Mum asked.

It’s difficult to made a dignified, noble gesture when you’re wearing rugby shorts and you’ve got an antique ship resting on your knees, but I did my best. ‘Yeah, I’m sure. He–’ I began.

But Helen interrupted. ‘Who’s that cute guy over there?’ She shook her blond hair and smoothed it down. It was a gesture we knew and dreaded. She was wearing no make-up. That had been consumed in the fire, but she looked beautiful.

‘Sullivan, my coach.’

‘Introduce me.’

Families! I had a battle ahead of me and my sister expected introductions. I got out of the car, leaving Psychic holding the ship. I gave Ian a grin, then told Helen. ‘Afterwards. Haven’t got time now.’

The time for words had gone, Now my game had to do the talking.