Bad Dreams (7 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
had a hundred more questions, but the bell had rung, and when we got back to the classroom, Mr Hooper was in one of his ‘Time-to-start-something-new' moods.

‘
Compare and Contrast
,' he announced. And through the long afternoon we tried it with fifty different things: light and dark, noise and silence, misery and happiness, on and on and on.

‘And that's your homework,' he told us afterwards. ‘One and a half pages of Compare and Contrast.'

‘Can we do anything?' I asked him.

‘Anything.'

‘And can it be private?'

‘I suppose so.'

(For ‘Private', you put a large red P up in the top corner. Then, even if it's the best piece of work in the class, he won't read it out to everyone.)

I had a plan. As we left class, I said to Imogen, ‘Shall I walk home with you? I'll come as far as your house, and then cut back through Stannard's car park.'

She seemed so pleased, I felt a little guilty. And I felt worse when Mr Hooper, who'd been listening, whispered in my ear, ‘See? Wasn't I right? Once you get used to it, it's nice to have company.'

But even knowing I was using her to do my homework didn't stop me asking her questions all the way back to her house.

‘Was your mum pleased when she realized you could see into books and photos? Or was she horrified?'

‘She was excited,' Imogen admitted. ‘I think people always teased her when she said she knew things were going to happen. So I think she was pleased I took after her a little bit.'

‘Does she encourage it?'

‘Encourage it?'

I tried to explain. ‘When my mum realized I was good at swimming, she signed me up at swim club right away. But when she found out I could crack my fingers, she couldn't stop me fast enough. “Don't do that!” she kept saying. “It's a horrible habit!”'

Imogen considered. ‘But this isn't like either of those things. It just happens, or it doesn't.'

‘Is that what your mum thinks?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘So she doesn't go round shoving books at you, just out of curiosity, to see what happens?'

‘Of course she doesn't.'

‘But she hasn't done anything to put a stop to it, either?'

Imogen stared. ‘Like
what
?'

I couldn't think of anything, anyhow. Somehow, when it came down to it, it hardly seemed polite to mention going to doctors, or hypnotists, or psychiatrists, or anything like that. And anyhow, maybe Imogen and her mother were right, and being able to see into books and photos was one of those things, like blue eyes or freckles, that you couldn't do anything about if you wanted.

So I just kept on with the questions, ticking the answers off in my head, ready for later.

‘Well, does it worry her that it's so hard for you to concentrate on your schoolwork?'

‘I try not to say too much about that,' Imogen admitted.

‘But she must know you're having problems. What about when you had to change schools because people thought you were—' I would have said ‘creepy', but it seemed nicer to finish up ‘– a little
strange
?'

‘She was surprised it all got so difficult so quickly.'

‘Did it?'

‘Oh, yes. Before last year, it only ever happened those two times – with Aunty Dora's photo, and that book about the pony. I still had plenty of friends. And my work wasn't bad, either.'

That made sense. After all, she'd written out that story from Tyke Sam pretty fast, covering three whole pages in less than half an hour. And Mr Hooper could read it.

‘So this whole business just got worse suddenly?'

‘Yes,' Imogen said. ‘And maybe one day it'll go away again just as quickly.'

‘Would you like that?'

She didn't answer. She just stared ahead.

‘How about your mum?' I asked. ‘Would
she
like it?'

‘Why are you asking all these questions?' Imogen burst out.

I shut up, fast, in case she guessed. But anyway, we were already turning the corner into her road. Imogen led me past three or four plain, boring old houses, then up the path beside another, just the same.

‘Mum's probably round the back,' she said, pushing open the side gate. I followed her through, and stopped in my tracks, astonished. The back of the house was amazing. I just
stared
.

How to describe it? It looked as if fairies and goblins had decorated the whole place for a joke. The bricks were yellow, the door red, the window frames green and their shutters blue. All over the lawn were tiny pretend windmills, and gnomes fishing in ponds, and plaster tortoises and rabbits. There was even a wizard sitting cross-legged on a stone mushroom, waving his wand. If you were five, you would have thought you'd fallen through a hole in the real world, and ended up in a Toytown picture book.

‘That is incredible!'

Behind me, there was an excited voice. ‘Do you really like it?
Really?
'

I spun round.

‘Melly,' said Imogen. ‘This is my mum.'

She didn't look like anybody's mum to me. She was so
young
, and tall and bright-eyed, with blazing red hair tumbling over her shoulders like lava spilling out of a volcano. She wore a bright shawl, embroidered with sparkling butterflies, and when she reached out to fold her arms tightly round Imogen, to hug her, Imogen practically vanished beneath the butterflies and the waterfall of hair.

‘Good day, my precious?'

I don't know what I was expecting Imogen to say. Maybe if I had someone from school standing there listening, I wouldn't start by launching into a great long wail about what Tyke Sam made me write being so horrid I had to leave the classroom.

But still I wouldn't have answered, like she did, ‘It was lovely, Mum. Really good.' And sounded as if she meant it. I didn't know if it was because of me that she said nothing, or if she was putting a brave face on her horrible day to hide from her mother the fact that she'd cracked, and told her secret to someone outside the family.

But, whichever it was, her mother believed her. Her bright eyes twinkled happily. She tossed her hair back, and, releasing poor Imogen from her grasp, held her at arm's length like a toddler, peered in her eyes, and asked hopefully,

‘And did anything “special” happen?'

I stared. My mum asks, ‘Anything special happen?' But she's not really paying attention. If I answered, ‘Yes, Mr Hooper fell off the roof and broke his neck,' she'd stop clattering pans around long enough to listen. And if I said, ‘Yes, everyone teased me till I cried,' she'd be on the phone to Mrs Trent in a flash. But mostly, she asks casually. She's only checking. If something really interesting or funny happened, she wants to hear about it. But that's all.

But this was different. Imogen's mother's ‘Anything “special” happen?' was clearly code for their little shared secret. I waited for Imogen to tell her. But she just shook her head.

And Mrs Tate looked really disappointed.

‘Well, never mind,' she said, in that exact same tone Miss Rorty uses when I don't make my best time in the pool. ‘Never mind.' She turned to me, and her face brightened. ‘A visitor! How lovely!' She clapped her hands like someone in a pantomime. ‘We must have iced cakes and home-made lemonade!'

‘I really ought to be pushing off home now,' I told her. ‘My mum will be—'

But she'd danced off. I mean it. She was literally dancing up the garden path, flapping her shawl like a giant great butterfly. I glanced across at Imogen, but she clearly hadn't even noticed I thought her mother was a little odd. And I can understand that. After all, if she came round to our house unexpectedly, and caught my mum all ratty and irritable because she's worried about money, or about Granny going back into hospital, she'd probably think our house was strange, and I wouldn't notice.

But there was certainly nothing ratty about Mrs Tate. Having tea with her and Imogen was like stepping into one of those old books you sometimes find in charity shops, with thick spongy paper and coloured illustrations hidden under tissue. Everything was ‘thrilling', or ‘perfectly wonderful', or ‘absolutely scrumptious', or ‘such, such fun!'

I couldn't wait to get away, back to my own mum.

She wasn't too pleased with me. ‘Next time you're going to be an hour late, don't just leave a message to
tell
me. Ask me the day
before
.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said, and rushed into some story about Imogen really needing someone to walk her home. But it was still a good half-hour before she'd calmed down enough for me to get on with this homework I was planning.

‘What would you do if you found I could see into books?'

‘See into books?'

‘And photos.'

Mum's used to weird questions from me, depending on what I'm reading. But you could tell that this one baffled her.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well,' I explained. ‘Suppose each time I touched a book, I knew exactly what was in it.'

She gave a little snort of amusement. ‘Now wouldn't your teachers all be pleased with that!'

‘But it felt real. And sometimes it upset me.'

‘Like when you read that ghastly book about that badger?'

‘Much worse than that.'

Mum gave me a look. We both remembered what I was like, reading that badger book. She kept on trying to tug it away, but I kept snatching it back because, once I'd got started, I had to know what happened. But I couldn't stop crying, right through to the horrible end. And the minute I'd finished, Mum stuffed it in the dustbin.