Moon Pie Read online

  ‘We’re not going to get a boat.’

  ‘But Dad said.’

  ‘Dad didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Why didn’t Dad mean it?’

  Martha didn’t reply. She didn’t know the answer. In any case, she was already getting out the dustpan and brush. Over the last few months – ever since Dad started to be strange – she had taken charge of the housework.

  ‘You have to help me now, Tug,’ she said. ‘First tidying, then cleaning, then lunch. What do you want for lunch?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘Lots of what?’

  ‘Lots of lunch.’ Tug was always hungry.

  ‘OK. Think about it while you sweep.’

  As usual, Martha made a timetable in her head:

  Do housework.

  Make lunch.

  Sew.

  Go to Marcus’s.

  Help Dad with tea.

  Bath Tug.

  Read to Tug.

  Go to bed.

  ‘Come on,’ she said to Tug. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

  Together they swept the kitchen floor, and emptied the bin, and cleaned the sink, and afterwards they tidied the front room. They drew back the curtains and opened windows, and sunlight came in and glittered in the dust of the air. The street outside was quiet, and as they worked they heard birdsong from the gardens around, high-pitched sparrows and broken-voiced pigeons. It was a small house, with a front room, a back room and a kitchen downstairs, two and a half bedrooms upstairs, and a strip of garden at the back divided equally into broken patio, rank undergrowth and collapsing shed. They had only lived there a few months, and it didn’t feel like home yet. There was ‘work to be done’, mainly to the plumbing, which squeaked and roared, and to the kitchen, which was damp. Dad hadn’t got round to doing the work yet.

  ‘Pie,’ Tug said at last.

  ‘We haven’t got pie. How about fish fingers?’

  ‘All right. How many?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘All right. Is there ketchup?’

  ‘Lots of ketchup. Go and wake Dad, and I’ll start cooking.’

  Martha liked cooking. For Tug she cooked simple food like fish fingers, but she preferred to do more complicated things, like macaroni cheese or shepherd’s pie or hotpot. She was very good at Spaghetti alla Carbonara, which was one of Dad’s favourites. At Cookery Club she was learning to make quite sophisticated dishes. For her, cooking was a sort of game – a slow, patient game you played on your own. And the nicest thing about it was that while you played it you didn’t have to think about anything else.

  Sometimes – she thought – it was a relief not to have to think about things.

  Tug came back down with the news that Dad would not be woken.

  ‘I bashed his foot a bit,’ he said. ‘But he didn’t stop sleeping.’

  So Martha and Tug had lunch on their own, and Tug ate seven fish fingers with a quarter of a pint of ketchup. Afterwards he played in the garden, keeping away from the undergrowth where the broken glass was, while Martha sewed up the hole in Dad’s trousers.

  At three o’clock she put away the sewing box and said briskly, ‘Now it’s time to play with Marcus. You have to come with me, Tug.’

  ‘Why?’ Tug was suspicious of Marcus.

  ‘Because Dad’s still asleep, and I can’t leave you here because you’ll get into mischief.’

  Tug looked interested. ‘What mischief?’

  Martha sighed. ‘If you come to Marcus’s with me I’ll buy you a lolly at the shop on the way.’

  ‘Do they sell pies?’

  ‘No. Lollies. You like lollies.’

  ‘All right.’

  They left a note for Dad written by both of them. It said: Hope you had a NIS SLEEEEEP. Gone to MarKISS KISS KISS. Back for tea. Love Martha AND TUG XXXX. Then they set off down the street.

  For a while they walked quietly, holding hands. Martha was carrying a large bag and Tug was carrying his JCB, which he talked to from time to time.

  ‘Why didn’t Dad wake up?’ he asked again.

  ‘He’s very tired after falling off the roof last night.’

  Tug yawned.

  They walked down the street into the park and across the grass, avoiding the geese.

  ‘He is strange, isn’t he, Martha?’

  She admitted it.

  ‘But he’s not as strange as Marcus. Is he, Martha?’

  ‘No one is as strange as Marcus, Tug.’

  4

  Marcus’s house was small and ordinary, which was odd because Marcus was neither.

  He opened the door, and stood there looking down at them. He was a large, solid boy with dark hair, and he was dressed in a pair of tights and a lime-green beret. He seemed to be wearing make-up.

  ‘Have you got them?’ he asked Martha. He spoke in a breathless, theatrical voice.

  She held up the bag, and he took it and smiled. Then he noticed Tug.

  ‘Is your brother on his way somewhere?’

  Martha explained.

  For a moment Marcus looked disappointed. But he recovered. ‘There are some parts for small, grubby children,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten. We can use him. We can use you,’ he added, loudly, to Tug. He always spoke to Tug as if he was deaf.

  ‘Come up to the studio,’ he said.

  ‘He is stranger than Dad, isn’t he?’ Tug whispered to Martha. He sounded impressed.

  ‘Much stranger,’ Martha whispered back.

  On the way they passed Marcus’s mum and dad, and said hello. Marcus’s mum worked at Tesco and his dad was a postman, and they were both quiet, nervous people. They seemed especially nervous of Marcus.

  ‘You know Martha already,’ he told them, waving a hand. ‘The costume designer. Her brother, an urchin. By the way,’ he went on, ‘we’ll be recording, so keep the noise down please. And can we have tea and biscuits at four?’

  They left his parents nodding silently and smiling in a bewildered way at the bottom of the stairs, and went up after Marcus to the studio, which was his bedroom.

  It did not look like a bedroom. The curtains were drawn very tightly to exclude all light and in a space cleared round the bed were a large white screen, several spotlights on tripods and a camcorder on an aluminium cradle. Everywhere else there were clothes and stage props and theatrical make-up.

  ‘Martha?’ Tug said quietly.

  ‘Yes, Tug.’

  ‘Why does he move his arms round like that?’

  ‘He only does it when he talks. Don’t stand too close.’

  Martha sat on the edge of the bed. Tug found the camcorder.

  Marcus said loudly, ‘Back away from the equipment please.’

  From the bed Tug watched Marcus try on the clothes that Martha had brought in front of a full-length mirror on the back of the door. He put on a pair of grey trousers, then a brown velvet-look jacket and then a cravat. He smiled at himself.

  ‘This is very good, Martha,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Very nice, very Henry Higgins. I only wish …’

  ‘Wish what?’ Martha said.

  ‘I only wish you could have used something a bit more colourful. Just a bit more adventurous. This brown.’

  ‘What about the brown?’

  ‘It’s a good brown. But it doesn’t hit you. Doesn’t knock your eye out.’

  ‘You wanted it to look old,’ Martha said, a little crossly.

  ‘And I like it,’ Marcus said. ‘I like it very much. I particularly like the stitching,’ he said soothingly. ‘But I wonder if we could make it a teensy bit livelier. What about some fur round the collar? You can get some good artificial fur in electric blue, I’ve seen it.’

  While Marcus and Martha talked, Tug sidled over to the camcorder again. It was very shiny, with lots of inviting buttons, and although it was quite big it didn’t look very heavy, and Tug was just testing how heavy it really was when he felt himself being picked up and put back on the bed.

  ‘Now I know why you’re called Tug,’ Mar
cus said. ‘I’m afraid I cannot allow the urchins to handle the equipment,’ he said to Martha.

  ‘But I like equipment,’ Tug said.

  ‘I have another use for him,’ Marcus said. ‘I have another use for you,’ he said loudly to Tug, who was watching his hands and managed to dodge them. ‘Have you heard of a thing called My Fair Lady?’

  Tug shook his head.

  Marcus spoke loudly and slowly. ‘My Fair Lady is a film. A movie from days long ago. A great classic. Nod if you understand me.’

  Tug nodded doubtfully.

  ‘Your sister and I are remaking it. Here, in my studio. A speed version. If you listen carefully I will tell you the story. Then you will help us remake it. Do you have any questions?’

  ‘When will the biscuits get here?’ Tug said.

  Marcus told the story of My Fair Lady. It involved a bad-tempered gentleman teaching a poor girl how to talk in a posh voice. There were songs, apparently funny, and some dancing.

  ‘I will play the posh old gentleman,’ Marcus said. ‘His name is Henry Higgins, and he wears a jacket of brown velvet which may or may not be trimmed with blue fur. I will also play the poor girl, who is called Eliza Doolittle. She wears a variety of dresses.’

  He looked at Martha.

  ‘In the bag,’ she said. ‘I haven’t made the petticoat yet.’

  Marcus turned back to Tug. ‘I am going to let you appear in the very first scene. You will play the part of a street urchin. You will be dirty and badly-behaved. There is no need to act. You will sing a song. The song is called “Wouldn’t it be Loverly”.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be what?’

  Stepping backwards into the area enclosed by the white screen, Marcus began to sing. As he sang, he pranced to and fro. The song was full of words like ‘abso-bloomin’-lutely’, which made no sense, and noises like the sound of someone having his nose tweaked, and the whole thing was terrible.

  Marcus came to an end. ‘Do you think you can sing that?’

  Tug shook his head firmly.

  ‘Well, what can you sing?’

  Tug thought for a moment. ‘ “The Bear Went Over the Mountain”.’

  ‘How does that go?’

  Tug sang in a shy, gruff monotone: ‘The bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain, the bear went over the mountain.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘All right, that’ll do. Shall we start?’

  ‘Martha?’ Tug said.

  ‘Yes, Tug.’

  ‘Why aren’t you playing?’

  ‘I don’t much like playing, Tug.’

  Then they started.

  When tea and biscuits arrived, Marcus told them to ‘take five’, and Tug took five biscuits, and they sat on the bed listening to Marcus talk about becoming a celebrity.

  ‘But I will remember you,’ he said. ‘I will write about you in my memoirs.’

  His memoirs were already in their third volume. He wrote them mainly in Maths on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and sometimes passed the pages to Martha – who sat next to him – for safekeeping.

  After a while he told Tug to move away from the camcorder again.

  ‘But I like cameras,’ Tug said. ‘My dad used to work in a television studio, and they had lots of cameras there. And a canteen,’ he said.

  Marcus nodded. ‘I know. I was hoping your dad might be able to help me get on in the movie industry. Has he got himself a new job yet?’

  Martha shook her head.

  ‘Why? Aren’t there any?’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to want one at the moment.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  For a moment Martha didn’t know how to answer. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. She frowned.

  ‘We’re going to live on a boat,’ Tug put in. ‘In the fields.’

  ‘Your brother’s quite a fantasist, isn’t he? Quite a little dreamer of dreams, aren’t you?’

  ‘I like to sleep,’ Tug said.

  ‘I was impressed with the way he handled himself in scene one,’ Marcus said to Martha. ‘Despite the risk to the equipment.’

  ‘I like equipment,’ Tug said stubbornly.

  ‘I know you do, little Tug. But does it like you?’

  ‘You’re strange,’ Tug said.

  ‘Of course I am. Do you think you can be a celebrity without making a spectacle of yourself? Now I must change for the next scene. Martha, tell me honestly: do you think the tea gown will work without the petticoat?’

  5

  Martha and Tug walked past their schools, first Martha’s, then Tug’s, both empty now at the weekend. Martha’s school was large and grey, and she liked it. She was in Year Seven. She wore a blue uniform, and was good at Maths and famous for red hair and neatness. Marcus was her best friend, but she got on well with everyone. Tug’s school was small and grey, and he was bored of it. He was in Year One and looking forward to finishing schooling as soon as possible. He was famous for eating and a trick he did with spit.

  Beyond their schools was the park again. It was still busy. Some families were having picnics on the grass between the flowerbeds.

  They went by the doctors’ surgery and along the outer path until they came to the library. Every Saturday they came here to exchange their books.

  ‘What are you going to get out, Tug?’

  He took a book out of the book-bin.

  ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar? Again?’

  ‘It makes me feel happy.’

  ‘All right. Choose some others too. I’m going to choose mine over here.’

  After half an hour they left the library and went back into the park on their way home.

  ‘Will we have a picnic today?’ Tug asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Dad’s making tea.’

  ‘I like picnics.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘I like sausages for my picnics. And pies. And crisps. And scotch eggs. And sausage rolls. And chicken.’ He thought hard for a while. ‘Oh, and pies,’ he added.

  ‘We’ll have to see what Dad has got ready for us.’

  ‘What do you like for your picnics, Martha?’

  ‘I don’t really mind.’

  ‘Do you like pies?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘What sort of pies?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tug. Let’s talk about something else.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They walked round the edge of the lake, avoiding the geese.

  ‘Do you like our new house, Tug?’ she said at last.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He stared at her in surprise. ‘It’s small, Martha, and it’s always broken. I liked our old house,’ he added in a low voice.

  Martha was cross. ‘You’re not to say that. I’ve told you before. It doesn’t do any good.’

  ‘All right. But I did,’ he added. Tug could be very stubborn. ‘I liked my old room,’ he said quietly.

  Martha ignored him.

  ‘I liked the play den,’ he said. ‘I liked the tennis court.’

  ‘Shh, Tug.’

  They walked on in silence. But Martha couldn’t help thinking about their old house too. It was a big stone house up on a hill above the city, with its own orchard and an acre of woodland, and they had been very happy there. Dad hadn’t been strange then. In fact – now she thought about it – Dad wasn’t a bit strange until they moved into their new house – as if he had somehow left himself behind at the old house with the old carpets and curtains, and become someone else. But that didn’t make sense.

  She frowned.

  They reached the park gates and went out into the streets.

  ‘I liked the TV room,’ Tug was whispering to himself. ‘I liked the orchard.’

  When they got home, they found the front door wide open and Dad gone. There was a note on the kitchen table. It said: Had to go out. Sorry! Back soon – with a surprise! Love Dad.

  ‘What surprise, Martha? Will it be pies?�
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  ‘We’ll have to see.’ She looked at her watch, and thought about her timetable. ‘I think we’d better have bath time while we wait.’

  Tug gave her a dangerous look. ‘But we haven’t had tea. We never have baths before tea.’ He was tired and cross and hungry. He looked as if he might be getting into one of his moods.

  Martha felt the beginning of a headache coming on. ‘Tonight it’s bath first, then tea. When Dad gets back with his surprise.’

  ‘I don’t like it when there’s no Dad,’ Tug said.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m here to look after you.’

  ‘I don’t like it when there’s no tea.’

  ‘There will be tea, Tug. You don’t understand.’

  ‘No, Martha. You don’t understand. I’m hungry.’

  ‘I know you are. You just have to wait a little while.’

  Tug sat down on the floor. It was a bad sign.

  ‘Tug!’

  He sat cross-legged with his arms folded, his head bent and his shoulders hunched, scowling violently. He began to grumble to himself. This was another bad sign. Martha’s headache got worse, and she put her hand on her forehead and counted to ten.

  ‘Please, Tug.’

  He scowled and grumbled and didn’t move.

  Martha lost her temper. ‘You look like a block of old wood,’ she said angrily. ‘You’re almost square. I’ve never noticed before how square you are. You ought to be careful someone doesn’t come along and put you in a skip.’

  He didn’t stop scowling, but he began to sniff, and Martha felt sorry for him, he was so small and square, and his hair was so hot and messy. So she sat down next to him, and crossed her own legs and hunched her own shoulders and scowled to herself, and found that it felt quite nice. Then she sighed. ‘What’s your favourite sort of pie, Tug?’

  After a while of not answering, he sniffed and muttered, ‘Steak and kidney.’

  Martha made a shocked noise. ‘But I thought it was mince and onion.’

  He turned to her at once. ‘No, Martha, that’s wrong. I like mince and onion. But I like steak and kidney better.’

  ‘OK. I’m sorry, I made a mistake. If Dad’s surprise isn’t a steak and kidney pie, I’ll make you one next week. How about that?’

  Tug considered this. ‘All right.’

  ‘But you have to have a bath now. Is it a deal?’