42 LONDON
We’re in the home of Miss Bernadette.
Miss Bernie, Gurney, bern-is-dead.
RIP.
Such a shame, I think we would have been besties. She had spectacular taste.
Even in the dim gloom of the storm, her double-wide trailer shines like the fanciest prize at the funfair.
You know what I’m talking about?
The things you win when you hook a little duck: a framed mirror which is etched with a puppy, or gold-key chains with sparkly dice attached. Dreamy.
Not that I ever got to strut my stuff at a midway, but really, Miss Bernadette missed her calling. She could have had a carnival stall to end all carnival stalls, filled with crocheted dollies, porcelain poodles, and figures made out of acorn-shells—the punters would have flocked.
Flocked, I tell you!
“Put that down, London,” old Shivery commands, like he’s the commander of this house-of-wonders. I ignore him and continue trying to fit the elephant foot over my hoof. I tossed out all the umbrellas first, I’m not a complete heathen.
Dear Burt is solving the chilly-factor. He’s got his handyman-burly-thing going full tilt. After clicking a button a billion times, the flame and gas finally whoosh in unison. “Lovely job,” I tell him, hobbling in the elephant’s foot to the tiny straw hat display.
“It’ll take the edge off,” Burt grunts. “Is anyone else hungry?”
“Yep.” Basil pushes his goggles on and off his face several times.
He and Skylight are trying to finish up the jigsaw puzzle that was half-done on the little table. All the sheep have been put together already, so they’re having to fit together five hundred pieces of green grass field.
The largest jigsaw puzzle ever had over half a million pieces, but Miss Bernadette’s has only one thousand.
Kitten is standing next to the large sack of spuds that Mum-Bevan gave us. “You’re English,” she says to me. “What’s your best thought for all these potatoes?”
My heart swells. Not only is she asking my advice, she’s aware of the famous British potato-pride.
There are so many choices. “Chips or mash? Or we could do jackets?”
Kitten looks at the sack of brown beauties, seeming a little intimidated. No need. “Allow me. I shall whip up a batch of the finest jackets this little oven can supply.”
That really is the tastiest way forward in my humble opinion.
Old Bernie has some veggie oil in a sticky bottle, so I get to coating the spuds, sticking them with a fork, then tossing them in the oven that our handy-wolf already got preheating.
Now…fillings. Personally I’m partial to cheese and onion, but the pantry pickings are a little on the slimbo-side.
Ooh, tuna!
Chicken of the Sea.
Hmm, so does that mean tuna is the fish of the land?
What a topsy turvy world we live in, and it’s not even opposite day.
Spectacular—there is even a tin of sweetcorn. Tuna and sweetcorn ranks at number three in the ‘London’s best ever jacket potato fillings’ list.
“We should call him again,” Kitty-cat says, while opening a tin for me.
“Who, light of my life?” I ask her.
She blinks. “My brother.”
Shane hovers around the kitchen, but I don’t teach him any of my cooking tricks. Something tells me Shane would not be a good student. I’ve got an instinct for things like that.
“Let’s try one of the others,” he says in his French snake voice. “Surely, one of that bande de potes must have their ringer on.”
“What about Donovan or Wes? I know them,” my Kitty asks.
“They’re both idiots. I’d rather try the professor or…Theo.” Shane sighs, saying her name in a wobbly way.
That’s when the knowledge this Theo-girl is Shane’s surprise-sister sinks in again. Sometimes new information doesn’t stick well in my brain-box.
“Ooh, call her. You need to start bonding,” I tell him in my most earnest voice.
Seriously, if I need a second career on top of fugitive, I should be a family therapist.
Kitten looks confused. “Bonding? What are you talking about, London?”
Ooh, I get to be the information sharer.
“Shane just learned that he and Burt share a sister.” I frown then put the pieces together. “And she’s your brother's girlfriend, so, like, your sister-in-law? What a sister-bonanza for you all. Hey, Skylight?”
The girl looks up from the puzzle. “Me?”
“Do you think you’re my sister?”
I bet she is. It can’t be possible for three of our gang to have new sisters, and not me. “Do you like sissy, or sis?” I ask Sky. Personally, I think neither have the gravitas that a new lady-sibling should have. Hmm, I’ll work on that.
“I’ll call Feniks,” shrugs ol’ Shivery.
“Voicemail,” he grunts after a few seconds. Turning around, he bangs his head on the little box shelf. The books topple and one lands plop on the counter. “The Great Glass Disaster: The Rise and Fall of Ashgrave.”
Sounds like a fun read.
Tatties in, a wave of sleepiness nearly wipes me out. The food won’t be ready for another forty minutes and my eyes can’t stop looking at the squishy L-shaped sofa. “Is that one of those settees that turn into a bed?” I ask the ghost of old Bernie.
I’m pretty sure she tells me it is, so I go and investigate.
Nice. The coffee table flips over, then I pull out some extra cushions.
Voila!
“Look, friends!” The end of the trailer now has a bed fit for at least two kings, a queen and a labrador.
Kitten smiles, looking her sleepiest self too. “How many other beds are there?”
“Allow me to find out, my love.”
The report is boringly quick and easy to make. “Double trouble. Double bed in bedroom one, and same again in the other bedroom, though that one has a collection of stuffed zebras which would also make an excellent floor bed.” I look around and count on my fingers.
Basil, Sky, Shane, Burt, Kitten and me. Six sleepy sausages. “Bags-I bunk with Kitten!” I declare immediately, then quickly whisper in her ear. “We’ll take the zebras.”
Shane throws the cellphone onto the new sofa-bed. “All the numbers are going straight to voice mail. Where the fuck are they?”
“Sleeping?” I suggest, then look over to the oven. Bernie has a cooking timer shaped like a plump plastic tomato. It lets me know that it’s still far too long until supper.
Counting beds, and counting mississippi’s is not enough of a distraction. Throwing myself down onto the springy mattress, I finally let my woes out to the whole room. “I hate breaking promises. What if Mr. Burly Senior can’t rescue my tree-girl?”
Shane groans. “You have to let it go. That girl is someone else’s problem now.”
His tone turns all the vibes sour in my belly so sour.
“I wish you was someone else's problem.”
A classic Nan line.
It never made me feel the best.
Burt puts a hand on my shoulder. “London, hey, look at me.” He gives me the kind of eyes that pull down at the edges and up in the middle, like a pleading puppy.
“You did the best you could for that girl, and you achieved the mission to get Sky. Dad will find the right people to take care of those other kids, you can trust him.”
I’ve never had a dad, so I’ll just have to trust my big wolf-friend that dads can be reliable.
But still.
I’ve been left in cold, dark storms before.
It’s never nice.
I hope Papa Bevan’s friends work fast.
Not keeping my word makes my belly worms nearly out of control.