Novel - children's.

ROCKET SAM EXPLODES...ONCE AGAIN.(cHAPTER ONE) Dad tells me there are
no ghosts in this world, even though we make our living from their
name. We live on a fairground you see - run a ghost train in fact - and
we can laugh when we see people's white faces as they step out of a
carriage, and be amused when they stumble on to the platform with their
knees knocking together in a peculiar fashion. But it's all very good
to laugh, especially when we might be wrong after all, and there might
just be ghosts all around us, living amongst the living, breathing the
same air as us mere humans. You can laugh. I can hear you all
twittering away to yourself, thinking this must be a right loony to
believe such things. Loony, perhaps. Unfounded beliefs, now that's
wrong. I spend a lot of time with Robert Smith, who at thirteen is only
a year younger than myself. His father runs the dodgems, which he does
in an altogether foolish way. Actually, his whole life is foolish
because he appears not to be n this world, but in some far away place
where you can suck as many lollipops as you want and stare into space
most of the time. He has a thing about strawberry lollipops and I
honestly think he likes them better than his own son. I shouldn't say
this, but there was no wonder his wife left him one cold winter's
evening as he was minding the dodgems and staring into space once
again. That's the reason Robert never has enough money and is always
going hungry; his dad is so out of it that people just help themselves
to a ride without paying. Dad says it's a wonder the man is still
standing. Anyway, I always call round for Robert after tea when the
fairground is creeping into action, and there are a few customers
around, idly going from one stall to another, and working out what
they're going to spend their money on. Dad eats his tea in the ticket
booth as mum stands on waiting for his empty plate. If you ever go into
our ticket booth you might find some left over bacon on the floor, or a
stray fork or knife congealed food clustered on it like bees might
cluster around pollen. On this evening I waved to dad as I always did
as I passed our ghost train. Dad waved back mouthing the word cheerio
and take care as he always did. I can tell you he worries about me when
I go out on a night, but I tell him I can't stay cooped up in that
horrid caravan all day and all night as well. We never do much anyway,
Robert and I, except make nuisances of ourselves. It's true; we do make
nuisances of ourselves, but it's all in a good cause. I have to egg
Robert on so much that in the end I wonder whether it's all worth it.
But looking at Rocket Sam's angered face tells me it is. He's a sneaky
one that Rocket Sam. Do you want to know why we call him Rocket Sam?
Because he has a tendency to blow up at every little thing and when he
does he resembles a rocket shooting into space. First there's the
rumbling of the engines as they start to prepare for flight, then
there's the red hot fire emanating from its behind (the rocket I mean,
not from Rocket Sam's behind; this is only figuratively speaking of
course), and before you know it, before you've taken another breath,
the rocket launches into the sky at breathtaking speed and you stare
with glee and delight at the sight. That's the reason we like winding
him up so much. Actually, it's me who likes winding him up; more so
than Robert, who is set for a very simple and boring life, if he had
his way. I walk through the middle of the fairground, as I did every
night, passed Jimmy Tims who runs the hook-a-duck giving him a cheeky
wave and getting it returned, passed Eva Gold's the fortune teller's
tent, who sat outside like an old relic on a bric and brac stall.
"Paige hello," she waved, lifting her arm which was draped with
glittery gold material from her shawl. I always thought she saw herself
as the fairground's queen, waving like a royal might wave as they
passed you on their horses carriage. "Hiya Eva," I said. "Come and join
me for a few minutes," she drawled. "I'll read your palm." "No thanks,
Eva, " I said with a smile. "Thanks for offering though. I have to run
to Robert's. I'm late as it is." She dismissed me by wrapping her gold
shawl over her face. "Oh need's must," her muffled voice mumbled.
"Young ones are all the same these days. No respect or time for their
elders." "I-" I started to say. It was no use to say I did have respect
and time for my elders, but when it comes to those who, according to
dad, are hacks and should be treated differently and with less ease, I
wanted to take his advice seriously. That's why I was reluctant for her
to read my palm; I could not stand it when people told me lies that I
knew to be lies, and that I knew it would surely tell on my face. I
have a face that gives away all my emotions and thoughts and I wished
it wasn't so, but it was. "Oh run along child," Eva said. "After all
you are a very important person are you not?" "Fine then," I whispered
under my breath. Around the corner from Eva's was the dodgems,lit by a
dozen or so stobe lights, and shrieking its way through ride after
ride. Carriages rocked and shook as they twisted and turned, sounding
altogether quite ricketty and unstable. I spotted Robert's dad as soon
as I rounded the corner, standing with his back to the dodgems, his
left hand raised to his mouth. I knew he was sucking another lollipop
and staring into space, thinking who only knew what. Surely he should
be thinking about money and how much food they had in their cupboards,
and how was Robert and had he had enough to eat that day or in the past
week or even in the past month. I could see the people edged around the
ride were laughing at him, as they took turn after turn without him
knowing. Robert's dad just waited for the signal that they were waiting
for the ride to start which was usually an indignant shout from one of
the boys, and he lifted the lever without realising he hadn't taken any
money all night. "Hi Mr Smith," I shouted, as one has to do when there
are lots of shouting and shrieking around besides the usual incessant
beating drone from the music. "What?" Mr Smith said, startled. He
jumped from side to side, the lollipop almost dropping from his mouth.
"Who goes there? What do you want? Can't you leave me be?" "It's only
me, Paige Pearson," I said. I walked round so I faced him head on.
"See. Is Robert in the caravan?" "Oh you're the ghost train girl. Seen
any ghosts lately?" "You always say that, Mr Smith. There are no ghosts
in our ghost train. Ghosts are only make believe. Nobody believe in
ghosts, not really." "Is that so?" He took out the lollipop and glared
at me. "I could tell you some stories, oh yes I could. About people
living with poltergeists and the like. Being scared out of their wits,
getting thrown out of their own houses. You mark my words, there'll be
real ghosts in your ghost train all right. You just don't know how to
see them." "Probably. You're right, of course. Is Robert in?" "Who
knows?" He said briskly before popping his lollipop back in his mouth.
"Who cares?" Robert would be in, waiting for me to come round and tell
him what I had in mind for that evening. Last week I had him taking the
plug out of the ferris wheel, and it took Rocket Sam two and a half
hours to find out why it wasn't working. In that time he had got
himself so worked up his face had turned into a dodgy shade of crimson.
We've put manequins on the ferris wheel when Rocket Sam's back was
turned and watched him becoming enraged when they wouldn't get off
despite him shouting until the veins in his neck and forehead stood to
attention. We've done things to make the most patient man in the world
rise to the bait, never mind Rocket Sam who has a short fuse and could
blow even if you blew your nose the wrong way. I crept up to the
caravan until I reached the lounge windows. I lifted myself up slowly,
mindful of not scraping my body against the caravan as sometimes my zip
catches and all you can hear is a lovely scratchy noise which, to say
the least, warns Robert I am in the vicinity. I mean, I creep up on him
every single night and you would assume he'd got used to it by now. But
that's the good thing about being friends with Robert Smith. He is so
predictable it's laughable, and very enjoyable. He was sitting on the
lounge seats eating an apple and staring at the black and white fuzzy
TV that his dad had installed a month ago after Robert had whinged for
four and a half years about getting one. I watched his mouth go up and
down, silently crunching the apple in a lazy, robotic way. when he'd
finished he put the knawed remains on the table and began to pick his
nose, doing so in the same lazy, robotic way as he ate the apple. I put
my hand to my mouth to giggle. When he'd finished this he put his feet
on the seat and gazed at them for such a long time I began to worry.
Then he began to pick his toes nails, adopting a very funny and off
putting expression, the likes of which I can hardly describe. His eyes
were screwed up like an old witch's, his chin tucked into his neck.
Whatever it was it made me laugh out loud. As soon as I'd done it, I
realised he wasn't pulling that face anymore and that he was cocking
his head towards the window like a dog does when it hears a noise.
"Who's there?" The feint words he said reached my ears through the pane
of glass. "Who goes there?" Robert once told me that he is petrified
Rocket Sam will come for him when his dad's not around (which is most
of the time anyway) for playing too many pranks on him. He said he sees
him storming his way to their caravan,face literally hissing with
steam, chuntering under his breath that this time he really is going to
get that Robert Smith, come what may. Oh don't be stupid, I told him at
the time, shaking my head at his cowardice. Rocket Sam might be missing
a few screws, but he's a grown up and he's not going to be as stupid as
to get you in front of the whole fairground. Robert appeared to be
satisfied at this explanation, but now and then I see his eyes light
with fear and I know that fear belongs to only one person in this whole
fairground and that person is Rocket Sam. Okay, Robert is a little
scared of Eva Gold the fortune teller only because she has a kooky
sense of dress, is an eccentric old woman, and hates children. "Well if
she hates children then I hate her as well," Robert had responded when
I told him this fact awhile ago. "She smells anyway of musty old
material and I bet it's that gold shawl. I reckon it's got to be over a
thousand years old. What do you think?" "Oh no," I shook my head. "That
shawl is a million years old and was once in the tomb of an anicent
mummy in Egypt. That's why it smells so bad. Have you ever touched it?
If you touch it it's supposed to give you everlasting life. That's why
Eva Gold is a thousand years old herself. Have you seen her skin up
close? There are a billion lines on her face." "Give over. Is that
true? You're lying..." "If you think so, but that's only what I heard.
Believe what you want..." And Robert screwed his face up, just as he
did right then when he picked his toenails although not quite so bad,
and I could almost see his brain whirling around inside his skull as he
thought about Eva Gold's shawl being wrapped around some dead mummy's
skin. Sometimes I have to stop myself from getting too elaborate with
my stories, as I know that one day I will go too far, and Robert will
know that I have been lying all along. But they're not bad lies; it's
just a chance to have some fun because believe me life on a fairground
is absolutely boring. So sneaking up on Robert while he is sitting in
his caravan minding his own business does appear to be a bit cruel,
especially since he has a huge problem with Rocket Sam coming to get
him. But that's the thing about me; I know it's cruel but I just can't
stop myself having fun. I began to wail outside the caravan, but I
didn't know if it was having an effect because it was windy anyway and
the gales might blend into my own wail until you could hardly tell what
was the breath of mother nature and what was of a human being. I wailed
louder. I peered into the caravan and saw Robert twisting nervously in
his seat, his posture as alert as an animal on the look out for
predators. That's when it hit me. Robert was the defenceless animal and
he was on the alert for the predator which he believed to be Rocket
Sam. "Oh I'm sorry," I said suddenly. I went over to the door and
knocked, as if I'd just arrived. There was a crashing of furniture
inside the caravan and then Robert's feeble anxious voice. "Who's
there?" "It's Paige." He opened up. His thin raggled face looked down
at me making his chin look like a sharp point of a dangerous cliff.
"Have you been winding me up Paige?" "No, I've just got here." "Oh." We
talked for awhile inside the caravan which smelt of raw carrots (Robert
had had them for his tea). We discussed other children we'd seen at the
fairground, deciding that they were all snobby and aloof just because
they went to school and we didn't. Some of them shouted out at us,
called us names like gypsies, or rag-a-muffins (dad said no one uses
the word rag-a-muffin anymore; it was in the Dickens era, whatever that
is). Some of the grown ups muttered under their breath and called us
latchkey kids but again we didn't know what this meant exactly. Robert
thinks I don't help myself by dressing all in black and putting white
make up on my face, but I told him I have to have the right image if I
own a ghost train. Then Robert made me mad by saying that I didn't own
the ghost train, but my parents did and I hadn't done one iota of work
in there since they opened it five years ago. I said that was an
inaccurate remark since I had swept up on numerous occasions and put
the obligatory cobwebs over the doors and archways when my mum was
poorly once. ... To Be Continued.