Following Flora Read online

  Flora asked if he had heard from Zach’s mother yet, and Zoran said that she had been in touch with her father, but there was still no news of when she was coming home.

  “You should tell her about the concert,” I told him. “She’d probably come for that.”

  Flora said, “Do you really think she’d come for Zoran’s concert when she’s not even been to see her father?”

  “She might,” I said.

  Zoran said he and Zach had both written to her about the concert.

  “Does he think she’ll come?” I asked.

  “That’s not really for me to say,” he replied.

  Flora said Zach’s mother sounded like a total witch.

  Mum made pizza this evening for the first time in ages, which meant the kitchen was even more of a mess than usual. She was humming to herself as she cooked, with her hair full of flour. I went straight up to her when she called us down for supper and gave her the biggest hug.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  “Just for being you,” I said. Behind me, Twig made a puking noise, but Mum looked really happy. Then Dad came in and she went back to being cross again.

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 17

  Twig had a football match this afternoon. Mum and Dad had one of their “you go, no you go, why me, you go” arguments about it, until Flora got involved and informed them that they were both going, because today was his first time playing for a real team against another school.

  “This is a very important day for him,” she said. “So whatever is going on between the two of you, you have to get over it.”

  There was this moment of shocked silence, and then Mum said, “I’ll get my bag,” and Dad mumbled, “I’ll get the car keys,” and they both shuffled out behind Twig, who looked a bit startled. Twig isn’t actually very good at football and I think he would have liked it better if neither of the parents had been there, but Flora says that doesn’t matter.

  “It’s a question of principle,” Flora said.

  Jas, Flora, and I all went to the concert. Me to film, Flora and Jas to cheer for Zach like we had promised, and all three of us because, even though none of us will admit it, we were all dying to see what Zachary Smith looked like. The concert took place at Alina’s retirement home in Richmond, where Zoran goes once a week to play the piano, and where he now also has a lot of pupils. We all piled into the drawing room, and I began to film.

  THE FILM DIARIES OF BLUEBELL GADSBY

  SCENE TWO (TRANSCRIPT)

  THE CONCERT

  INTERIOR. AFTERNOON.

  The drawing room at Richmond Hill Retirement Home. Resident students (all old) sit in armchairs arranged in a semicircle around chairs taken from the dining room, where nonresident students (mostly children) squirm in the front rows with their parents behind them. JAS and FLORA sit at the back, next to CAMERAMAN, who is standing.

  NOTE: To keep things moving along and in order to get to the really interesting part of the afternoon, this transcript is skipping detailed descriptions of all the acts, which included renditions of “Summertime,” “Frère Jacques,” Chopin’s Nocturne, assorted pieces from the Music Examination Board’s books for Grades One to Five, and a number of current rock songs. And then, right at the end . . .

  ZORAN:

  Zachary Smith on guitar, singing “Broken Birds,” a song of his own creation.

  ZACHARY SMITH stands up. Flora, Jas, and even Cameraman crane forward. He is not at all how they imagined him. Medium height, slight and pale, with dark eyes and hair falling over his face. He wears black jeans, black high-tops, and a green-and-black checked shirt open over an old rock band T-shirt, and his wrists are covered in bands and bracelets. He takes his place at the front and scans the audience, but it’s clear he doesn’t find who he’s looking for. His face drops and he bends over his guitar, taking his time to tune it. His hands are shaking. The moment seems to go on and on. Somebody in the audience giggles. Zoran plays a few notes on the piano and Zach rallies. He strikes a few slow chords and begins to sing.

  Broken bird in my hollowed hand

  Beating heart like you want to shout

  Beating hard to fight your way out

  Broken bird trying to fly

  Where are you going? What do you want?

  Be careful the wind don’t blow you about.

  And the waves draw lines along the sand, the sand,

  The waves draw lines along the sand,

  And when they’ve drawn them they take them away,

  I hope they take me too someday,

  I hope they take me too.

  Broken bird when I let you go

  You mustn’t look back, you mustn’t, no.

  Head for the sun and fly right to it,

  Look for the light and go straight through it.

  Don’t look down or you’ll fall and break,

  ’cause the wind ain’t gonna carry you forever.

  And the waves draw pictures on the sand, the sand, . . .

  The lyrics (in Cameraman’s humble opinion) are a bit sentimental, but the melody is simple and haunting and the voice—throaty, rasping but somehow also, when it hits the high notes, pure—holds the audience captive. Zachary Smith finishes. He is still for a moment, holding the silence at the end of the piece. When he looks up, it’s like he’s come back from a long way away and is a little bit lost.

  Camera takes in Great-aunt Alina and her husband, Peter, clutching hands, rapt. Several adult members of the audience are crying. A lot of the younger kids stare with their mouths dropped open in amazement because they never thought one of their own could ever sing like that. Two older boys, whose performance of “Wonderwall” was unintentionally hilarious, look annoyed. Camera finally pans to Flora. Flora’s mouth is also open, but she does not look annoyed or even amazed. Flora’s eyes shine. She leans forward in her chair and she does not move, even when Zachary Smith stops singing, but keeps on looking at him like she cannot believe what she is seeing. He turns his head toward her. He catches her eye. Suddenly he doesn’t look lost anymore.

  He looks—amazed.

  Suddenly there is nobody in the room but him and Flora.

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 17 (CONT.)

  Jas made me replay the whole concert on the train on the way home, though we skipped over most of the acts, lingering only on the kid singing “Summertime” and the old lady playing jazz tunes, until we got to Zach, and then she made me play his bit over and over again. Flora said nothing, just stared out of the train window. It was dark outside and there was nothing to see, but I don’t think she’d have noticed if a herd of elephants had cantered past playing “Wonderwall” on the trumpet.

  “He’s not at all like I expected,” Jas said. Then a little bit later she said, “I’m glad Zoran’s looking after him.”

  Flora still said nothing.

  Flora, who normally can’t shut up for an instant. Completely silent.

  It was very unnerving.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18

  Dad found the kittens this morning or, more precisely, they found him. Somehow they got out of the shed in the night, and they were stalking up and down outside the kitchen doors when he saw them, mewing for their breakfast.

  “AGGGHHHH!” Dad screamed, like they were full-grown tigers instead of thirteen-week-old kittens.

  “MEEEOWWWWW!” the kittens yowled back.

  “Oh my God, they’re adorable!” cried Flora, clapping her hands.

  “They’re mine,” Jas announced. “I found them starving in the graveyard, and I’m keeping them forever.”

  “We didn’t lose the rats to make room for disease-ridden strays,” Dad declared. “They will have to go.”

  “We didn’t lose the rats, full stop,” Flora reminded him.

  “I could sell them,” offered Twig.

  “Y
ou could not,” snarled Jas.

  “This is a very bad time to have new pets,” said Dad. “Your mother . . .”

  “What about me?” Mum wandered down into the kitchen, and I have to say that her behavior at the moment is almost as troubling as Dad’s. Normally on a Monday morning she would be tearing around in a suit, ready for work and nagging at us about being late for school, but today she was still in her robe at eight o’clock, eating peanut butter straight from the jar with her fingers.

  Jas said, “It is either the kittens or me.” Dad replied that there were far too many children in the house anyway. Mum walked out, slamming the door.

  “That,” Flora said to Dad, “is probably the nastiest thing you have ever said to any of us.”

  “I didn’t mean it!” cried Dad. He stared from Jas to the door Mum had just stormed out of, then back at Jas again, like he couldn’t decide what he should do next. Upstairs we heard another door slam. Dad yelled, “Just get rid of them!” then sprang into action and tore out after Mum.

  “I did mean it!” Jas yelled after him. “I’ll run away again and this time I won’t come back!”

  “No,” Zoran said when Jas and I trudged around with the kittens this afternoon.

  “Just until Daddy calms down,” Jas begged.

  “They peed on my duvet!” Zoran cried.

  “If you don’t take them,” Jas said, “they will probably die.”

  “When are you going to e-mail me your recording?” Zoran asked. “Loads of people are asking to see it.”

  Jas started to scuff the carpet with her foot.

  “I would love to e-mail you my recording,” I said, “but the problem is I can’t find my camera.”

  Zoran said, “What do you mean, you can’t find it?” and I said, “I don’t know, I’ve looked everywhere; it’s really upsetting,” and then Jas burst into tears and sobbed, “Oh, who cares about your stupid camera, what about the kittens?” Zoran hugged her but was very firm and said that he would have a word with Mum about them. He went into his bedroom to call her, but we listened at the door. It was hard to hear everything, but basically he told her how good it would be for Jas to look after two needy little animals, especially when things were a bit traumatic.

  “What does traumatic mean?” Jas whispered.

  “I think he means you’re upset because of the rats,” I whispered.

  Dad is sulking but Jas is over the moon because, after talking to Zoran, Mum said of course the kittens can stay. I think possibly she only said it to annoy Dad, but this makes no difference at all to Jas.

  And I’ve found my camera. It was under Flora’s pillow.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19

  My sister is in love again, I wrote to Jake this evening. She stole my camera after I filmed this boy in a concert he was in, and she ran the battery down watching my recording. I found it under her pillow. Then she went bright red at dinner when Mum asked how the concert went. I’m attaching the clip here so you can see it. Please don’t show it to your family.

  I stopped to think while the clip was uploading, and then I wrote, On second thoughts, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not going to send this e-mail. I do hope you understand, and then instead of pressing send I pressed delete, making today the first day since he went away that I haven’t e-mailed Jake. Sometimes I have really racked my brain to think of something to write and sometimes I have written much too much, but the point is I have written every single day, just like he asked, but he hardly ever writes back and when he does it’s always the same thing, about the awesome beach and how funny I am and how amazing it is that it’s summer in Australia but winter over here. I told Dodi about it today during break, and she said I should write back and say it’s not amazing at all, it’s just that Australia is in the Southern Hemisphere and we are in the Northern Hemisphere.

  It was actually Dodi who said I shouldn’t write back. She says that writing back when Jake’s answers are so lame makes me look like a pushover. “Like he’s being rude, but you’re saying it doesn’t matter,” were her exact words. I’ve never thought of it like that before, because I never expected Jake to be much good at writing, but today I did start to think that maybe she was a little bit right.

  THE FILM DIARIES OF BLUEBELL GADSBY

  SCENE THREE (TRANSCRIPT)

  THE TROUBLE WITH CATS

  EXTERIOR. MORNING.

  On the lawn of the Gadsby family garden. TWIG in full football gear, preparing to give a demonstration of his keepy-uppy skills.

  DODI

  (in pajamas, having slept over the night before)

  Remind me again why you are doing this.

  CAMERAMAN (BLUE)

  Because I haven’t done a sports video before.

  TWIG

  And to prove I can do more than Justin Murphy.

  DODI

  Who is Justin Murphy?

  JAS

  (also in pajamas, curled up in a deck chair draped in kittens)

  He has the highest record of keepy-uppies in Twig’s class, and he is also in love with Maisie Carter.

  DODI

  Is Twig in love with Maisie Carter?

  JAS

  He tried baking cookies for her but apparently she is allergic to hazelnuts.

  TWIG

  (glaring at Jas)

  Can we just get on with it?

  JAS

  (smiles sweetly)

  Be my guest. I’m just here to count and make sure you don’t cheat.

  Twig places ball at his feet, flicks it up to his knees. Bounces it off his right knee. Bounces it off his left knee. He has obviously been practicing. A lot. Right, left, right, left. Right ankle. Left knee. Chest. Head. Left knee. Right knee. Jas counts each keepy-uppy. Dodi yawns loudly. Jas giggles and announces she’s lost count and they have to start again. Twig tells her the whole thing is filmed anyway and they don’t need her. Jas tells him one day he’ll be sorry he ever said that. Twig almost drops the ball but recovers manfully with a skillful sideways flick of the left ankle. He looks triumphant but drops the ball when from the open bathroom window two stories above comes the sound of someone shouting AAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

  FATHER

  (his disembodied voice floating down from the window)

  Jas! JAS!! Where is that child?

  Jas vaults out of her deck chair and tries to hide behind it, kittens and all.

  TWIG

  She’s out here!

  DODI

  You’re a rat, Twig Gadsby. I hope you know that.

  CAMERAMAN

  It’s best not to mention rats in this family.

  Sound of footsteps on the stairs, culminating in Father erupting into the garden, clad in nothing but a miniature towel which he holds around his waist with one hand. He marches toward Jas with his other hand extended before him, thumb and forefinger curiously pinched together, and opens them when he reaches her.

  FATHER

  Well?

  JAS

  (understandably looking like Father is deranged)

  It’s a black dot. Oh! It’s a black dot that moves!

  FATHER

  It’s a flea! It’s a flea!! Your cats have given me fleas!!!

  Dodi gasps, and almost immediately begins to scratch her head. Father yells, “You see? We’ve all got them!” He slaps at something on his arm, accidentally letting go of his towel. Dodi gasps again.

  FATHER

  TURN THAT ****** CAMERA OFF, BLUE!!

  Cameraman complies, but before she does, another sound floats down from above. Picture pans up to the bathroom window, where MOTHER and FLORA stand, clutching each other, tears of laughter pouring down their faces at the sight of Father’s naked bottom.

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23

  Dad tried to order us al
l to clean the house after finding the fleas, but I escaped by telling him I had promised to go around to Zoran’s to talk about making edits to my recording (which was true). Dodi came with me. She said she had nothing better to do, but I know that ever since she has seen him on film, she has been dying to meet Zach.

  “He works on Saturday mornings,” I told her. “He has a job at the old record shop on the avenue.”

  Dodi, who is an eternal optimist, said she was coming anyway.

  Zoran said he was very pleased with my recording, and could I just cut down all the bits in between pieces, the applause, and the tuning up, and so forth, to make it a little bit shorter.

  “Oh, and take out that bit with Flora and Zach,” he added. “There’s far too much footage of them looking at each other.”

  Dodi protested that was the best bit. Zoran said it was inappropriate.

  “You can’t get rid of that footage,” Dodi said as we ran downstairs. “It would be criminal. It would be a waste. It would be a criminal waste.”

  And then we both stopped talking, because he was coming up the stairs toward us.

  Zachary Smith.

  Who Flora’s in love with.

  He stopped in front of us. “Oh,” he said. Then, “You’re the one with the camera.”

  “She is indeed,” Dodi drawled when I couldn’t think of an answer.

  “With the kittens,” said Zach.

  “They’re my little sister’s.”

  “Cool,” he stammered. And then he looked embarrassed and mumbled about having forgotten something and being late for work, and ran off up the stairs.

  “Very, very odd,” commented Dodi.

  “Most peculiar,” I agreed.