Stories

   
The Story of Tracy Beaker      
Once upon a time there was a little girl called Tracy Beaker. That sounds a bit stupid, like the start of a soppy fairy story. I can't stand fairy stories. They're all the same. If you're very good and very beautiful with long golden curls then, after sweeping up a few cinders or having a long kip in a cobwebby palace, this prince comes along and you live happily ever after. Which is fine if you happen to be a goodie-goodie and look gorgeous. But if you're bad and ugly then you've got no chance whatsoever. You get given a silly name like Rumplestiltskin and nobody invites you to their party and no-one's ever grateful even when you do them a whopping great favor. So of course you get a bit cheesed off with this sort of treatment. You stamp your feet in a rage and fall right through the floorboards or you scream yourself into frenzy and you get locked up in a tower and they throw away the key.
  I've done a bit of stamping and screaming in my time.
  And I've been locked up heaps of times. Once they locked me up all day long. And all night. That was at the first Home, when I wouldn't settle because I wanted my mum so much. I was just little then but they still locked me up. I'm not fibbing. Although I do have a tendency to tell a few fibs now and again. Its funny, Aunty Peggy used to call it Telling Fairy Stories.
  I'd say something like - 'Guess what, Aunty Peggy, I just met my mum in the back garden and she gave me a ride in her flash new sports car and we went down the shopping arcade and she bought me my very own huge bottle of scent, that posh. Poison one, just like the bottle Uncle Sid gave you for your birthday, and I was messing about with it, playing Murderers, and the bottle sort of tipped and it's gone all over me as I expect you've noticed, but it's my scent not yours. I don't know what's happened to yours. I think one of the other kids took it.'
  You know the sort of thing. I'd make it dead convincing but Aunty Peggy wouldn't even listen properly. She'd just shake her head at me and get all cross and red and say, 'Oh Tracy, you naughty girl, you're Telling Fairy Stories again.' Then she'd give me a smack.
  Foster mothers aren't supposed to smack you at all. I told Elaine that Aunty Peggy used to smack me and Elaine sighed and said, 'Well sometimes, Tracy, you really do ask for it.' Which is a lie in itself? I have never in my life said 'Aunty Peggy, please will you give me a great big smack.' And her smacks really hurt too, right on the back of your leg where it stings the most. I didn't like that Aunty Peggy at all. If I was in a real fairy story I'd put a curse on her. A huge wart right on the end of her nose? Frogs and toads coming wriggling out of her mouth every time she tries to speak? No, I can make up better than that. She can have permanent huge great bogeys hanging out of her nose that won't go away no matter how many times she blows it, and whenever she tried to speak, she'll make this terribly loud Rude Noise. Great!
  Oh dear. You can't win. Elaine, my stupid old social worker, was sitting beside me when I started writing THE STORY OF TRACY BEAKER and I got the giggles making up my brilliant curses for Aunty Peggy and Elaine looked surprised and said, 'What are you laughing at, Tracy?'
  I said, 'Mind your own business' and she said, 'Now Tracy' and then she looked at what I'd written which I a bit of a cheek seeing as it's supposed to be very private. She sighed when she got to the Aunty Peggy part and said, 'Really Tracy!' and I said, 'Yes, really, Elaine.' And she sighed again and her lips moved for a moment or two. That's her taking a deep break and counting up to ten. Social workers are supposed to do that when a child is being difficult. Elaine ends up doing an awful lot of counting when she's with me.   

 

VOICE IN A BOTTLE

  

The sun was warm on Ryan’s neck, as he lay upon the grass on grandpa’s property.

He stared across Northumberland Strait along New Brunswick’s shore, the water smooth as an NHL rink. 

Cape Islander boats were dropping lobster traps, also called ‘pots.’ Ryan was fascinated the first time he saw a model of one.  It looked like a small barrel cut in half.

One had been placed on grandpa’s front lawn to attract tourists to his variety store. 

Fish netting covered the open end, with an open space in the center called a 'Head.' Lobsters were trapped easily after crawling through to the herring bait. 

Ryan drew a monster-sized one in the sand.  Prince Edward Island was like a straight line in the distance.  Behind it splashed the Atlantic Ocean.

Last week Ryan and grandpa launched a jar.  It once contained relish.  But on that windy day it held a note. 

Grandpa understood this village could be lonely for an energetic boy.  And he had a plan to find a friend for his grandson. 

Ryan had placed a note in the bottle that read-- 

“Hi.  My name is Ryan Lapointe.  I'm 8 years old.

I like to fish and swim.  Mom and me live with

grandpa at Lapointe's Variety Store.  Want to be

my friend? I live at General Delivery, Cap Lumiere.

New Brunswick.  Canada.”

That day the jar floated away on an ocean swell.  And Ryan hoped it would bring back a friend, soon.

Waiting for an answer took a lot of patience.  Minutes and hours tumbled into days.  It left Ryan time to think of other things.  Like, did mom enjoy working at grandpa's variety store, since Grandpa’s health was not so good. 

What if Ryan couldn’t return to Nova Scotia for school in September? What about Christmas holidays with his friends?

He wished grandpa would hurry up and get well.  If mom didn’t have to help in the store every day, Ryan would have someone to play with.

But, it was nice living here by the ocean shore.  Living in grandpa’s guest cabin was neat.

It had large windows on four sides.  Each morning the sunrise was bright as an egg yolk.  On the western side of the cabin evening sunsets completed the day.

This morning Ryan felt rays pour into his bedroom.  “An early dip in the cool ocean might be neat,” he said to his mom.

A natural rock stairway led to the salt water.  In some places it was very deep, so he remained in the tiny cove with a sandy beach. 

As he waited for lunch Ryan watched the whitecaps.  He hoped someone would answer his message soon. 

Perhaps a new friend from far away as England might find his bottle.  Or, it could be someone from France where his great, great grandfather was born.

His eyes followed the sun climb upwards in the sky.  His tummy was thankful the ground began to warm up.  Sea gulls continued to fly around the lobster boats.

“Time for lunch,” his mother finally called.

She convinced Ryan to go with her for a drive after they ate.  “Maybe you can pick out a little gift for yourself, ” she added.

Ryan had a worried look on his face.  “Do you think I should?” he asked.

"Yes," his mother said quickly.  "If someone finds your bottle, grandpa will be here."   

Ryan wished it would happen soon.  What if it already smashed up on rocks on Prince Edward Island’s shore? He quickly pushed the thought from his mind. 

Buctouche was a half hour drive away, and the scenery quite enjoyable along the seashore.

“Wow!” Ryan said as they drove beside a beautiful beach in the Acadian fishing village.  It wasn’t anything like the rocky shore near grandpa's store.

"This is the ‘oyster-bed’ capital of New Brunswick," said his mother.

After visiting souvenir shops and a bakery Ryan became restless.  “Can we go soon, mom?” he asked.  He needed to return to his lookout by the ocean.

What if his bottle simply traveled in circles in the middle of the ocean? Or, some boy already found the bottle and didn’t want to be his friend? His mind battled thoughts pesky as mosquitoes. 

Just then, mom’s cell phone rang.

Ryan watched her smile as she hung up.  “Hurry, in the car!” she yelled.  Pounding wheels matched his heartbeat as they headed home. 

Ryan knew it had to be something good.  But, his mother wasn’t saying anything. 

Grandpa was waiting in front of his variety store.  "Ryan! Here’s his telephone number!" Shouting turned to a whisper as he leaned closer.  "Someone found your bottle."

Ryan's mouth opened wide and his eyes almost leaped from his head.  "My bottle? Someone found it?" He turned to his mother.  “That’s why you didn’t tell me.”

"Yes.  He's waiting for your call," she said.

"Who?" Ryan asked.  It was confusing coming all at once.

"Your message was found near here this morning," Grandpa said.

"Here?" Ryan asked, disappointment in his voice.  “Not even as far as Prince Edward Island?”

"Just phone," grandpa said.  Ryan did.

His new friend Jacques Forget lived only two miles away.  Both boys spent much time talking on the phone.  After all, new friends had to get to know each other.

Jacques said how excited he was to find the bottle, and the note.  He was French but also spoke English.  And he wanted Ryan for a friend.

After both boys’ parents had a chat, plans were made. 

Jacques was to visit first. 

The next day couldn’t come quickly enough for an excited Ryan.

Finally his new friend Jacques arrived.  Ryan wiped his face once more checking for any left over ketchup from a bacon and egg breakfast. 

Both boys noticed they each had light colored hair.

“Allo.” You are taller than me,” Jacques said in his French accent. 

At first Ryan was shy, but what the heck.  He gave the other boy a solid high five. 

Soon they were sitting on the beach at grandpa's shore.

Ryan shook his head in amazement.  Imagine his new friend lived just a few miles away in Richibucto Village. 

Plans were made for Ryan to attend school in September.  He was even going to be in Jacques’ class. 

Grandpa was very pleased his daughter and grandson would be staying through the winter.  His health hadn’t improved enough to be alone at the store.

Ryan didn’t mind living here either.  Having a new friend changed everything.

“Jacques, time for a swim,” he said.  Then Ryan raced his new friend to the water. 

 
 

NIGHT DREAM

“If you’re that worn out, then go to bed,” mom said. And I did, even if darkness didn’t come creeping yet outside my window. My arms were so weak I couldn’t get my socks off. They kept sticking to my feet. So I crawled under the covers. When I’m very tired, I dream…

…I have to go to the bank to get some money. Dad’s birthday is tomorrow. And I want to buy him something super-dooper special.

“Hurry up,” mom said, “before the bank closes.” She always reminds me I have my own money. Sometimes I forget my bankbook says I still have $36 dollars left. The bus driver is very nice when I tell him I have no money. “But, I’ll pay you back when I get some from the bank,” I say.

We travel down busy streets, past tall buildings and I jump off the three steps from the bus. There is a long line of people at the bank. And the Teller’s wicket looks like it is a mile away. So I count bushels of butterflies while waiting. Finally it’s my turn. And I look up at this man behind the counter. He must be ten feet tall. At first I thought he was very nice.

“There’s no money here for you,” he said. “You must have spent it all.”

“But…but, my mother said there’s some left,” I answered. “I saved it all myself, from my paper route.”

“Then you should check with her again,” said the man sternly. “Or, you must have come to the wrong bank,” he said, showing off his teeth.

I looked into his eyes. And watched his smile. Was he pretending to be a sly coyote? Last summer, I saw one in a field near my house. The animal looked sneaky with his bushy tail.

On the way home I met a nice lady. When I told her my sad story, she felt sorry for me. She must have been rich because she gave me a whole suitcase full of money. I couldn’t carry it all. So I gave her back one stack of paper money. In case she needed to buy a bag of chips, or go to a movie.

Now I don’t have to go home. I have enough money to get an awesome gift for my dad. “Something really special,” I say to a white rabbit, sitting on the seat beside me. I think he is following me home.

“You be careful, the coyote doesn’t try to eat you,” I say. I show him my teeth. But it doesn’t scare him. 

Around the corner, there is a little girl standing on the sidewalk. I get off the bus to see why she is crying. “My hands are cold,” she said. So I bought her a pair of red mittens. She is so surprised she forgets to thank me.

Now I am hungry, and tired. So I sit down on the sidewalk and open my birthday gift knapsack. There is half an apple, a mustard sandwich, and two chocolate chip cookies. Soon my knapsack is empty, except for one crust of bread. It tries to hide in the corner.

“If only I had some blueberry jam,” I told the bus driver waiting for me. “It would be delicious on this crust of bread.”

“I’ll take you to where blueberries are large. And juicy,” he said.

The bus brought me far from the city, and across a busy highway. Even past fishing boats in the harbor. Then the bus drove up a gravel road. I watched a pheasant hurry across the road. We went past fields of hay and a high hill, and we finally stopped. The bus had a flat tire.

I got off and looked across a valley filled with blueberries. And waiting beside the first bush was that white rabbit. “How did he find me?” I wondered.

I quickly filled up my knapsack with juicy berries. My hands look like they are painted blue. And my back is sore from bending over so much. So I sat on a log and took off my right shoe and sock. Then I began to cry. I was afraid the coyote would come and bite my toe.

What was I doing here? I thought. There are no gifts for dad here. Besides, that sly coyote might find me. After running like thunder across a field I tripped over a log. Then fell into a little creek, with squishy mud. Was something chasing me? Maybe it was that white rabbit. I shook myself dry, the way my friend’s dog does. Spotty is his name. I mean that’s the dog’s name. I heard more crying. But it sounded far away. My eyes were closed tightly. Just like the front door when I slam it.

…Then I open my eyes, one at a time. Mom and dad are staring at me. The cat is on my bed. And I am too. When I look out the window, the coyote’s face is there. And he is laughing. I hug my mother. She begins to laugh too. Oh…Oh. I forgot to get Dad’s present. Closing my eyes, I hurry back to my dreaming.

UP, UP AND AWAY

A long time ago, when I was eight, dad took me fishing. It was in April, the first day of fishing season in northern Quebec. And I didn’t care if it was cold, or if there was still snow on the ground. 

“Help me find my warm boots?” I asked. And he did. Then I helped dad make peanut butter sandwiches, my favorite. “Where’s my packsack?” I asked. Smiling patiently, he found it for me.

“This is how I’m going to get a fish,” I said. Holding my new fishing rod birthday gift full stretch, I saw its neat lines, tightly wound threads and shiny eyelets. Then swinging it around, smacked the water glass from the kitchen table. Good thing he helped me clean up all the bits and pieces.

Mom just stood and shook her head. I don’t think she was upset. Just glad her boys were going fishing together, anywhere out of the house.

We loaded up our pickup truck. First my fishing rod was too long in the front. So I placed it in the back. Then I put our packsacks with sandwiches and water right beside it. Almost forgot our fishing box with some neat lures, but dad didn’t. He handed the green tin box to me.

The gravel road was full of loose stones. And they flew behind us as if fired from slingshots. But I couldn’t see much because of the dust. Then we hit a huge bump. “My fishing rod!” I yelled, as I watched it bounce from the truck. Dad put the brakes on so hard I flew across the seat and almost choked on the road dust that soon covered us.

“I saw it fly across that ditch,” I said.  Dad climbed down the side of the road. And stepped on some ice. “Don’t get wet!” I yelled. But, he did.

Soon dad came back with my neat gift, scratched and covered in mud. The broken cork handle made it shorter than before. After starting on our way, I could now keep my fishing rod in my lap. And my tears had stopped.

It’s hard to try and be a man when your birthday present tries to take off like a crow then gets broken. At least it fit inside the front of the truck. “Does that mean I can’t go fishing? I ask.

“No,” dad answered. “I’m going to show you another way to fish,” he said. “Just like my own dad showed me.”

“At least we’re still going fishing!” I shouted. After a while, my hat blew off. Dad stopped the truck and this time I went along to help him find it. I tried not to notice him talking to himself.

“Keep it in your lap, under the tackle box,” he suggested. “This is where our hiking begins,” dad said when we finally stopped. The trail was full of icy ditches. He said, “Try not to get wet.” But I did.

It was fun jumping on the ice. Except when I broke through. It was like a freezing /waterfall splashing all over. Good thing he brought an extra pair of pants for me. He must know me really well by now.

Finally we reach the lake. It seems like we walked half way around the world. Most of the ice is gone. And some ducks are swimming. The water’s too cold for me though. I just want to fish.

I watch carefully as dad shows me my grandfather’s way to fish, without a fishing pole.

He finds a heavy rock, wraps some line around it then ties a knot. After that he makes a little circle with the rest of the line, in a pile beside his foot. And ties a neat silver spinner on the very end. Then he makes another knot keeping it fast to the strong black line. 

Holding about three feet of line in front of him, he begins to twirl. He does that a couple of times and sends it flying over the water. It sure took off, making a heavy splash some distance away. I can’t wait for my turn.

“Do you want some help?” Dad asked.

“No, I want to do it all by myself.”

“Did you watch everything I did?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answer. “And I’m going to throw it farther than you!” I bragged loudly. I take my line and wrap it around another rock. Then I make a circle with the rest beside my feet. And knot my special gold spoon on the end I am going to throw.                                

After winding up like a baseball player, my first throw goes backwards and catches on a tree limb. But dad gets it down for me. I think he ripped his pants. Now I’m ready to begin twirling again. First, I do one big circle, then two, then three. And finally let go. My spoon, like a rocket, goes up and up. The sun makes it shine.

A lucky crow gets out of the way. The floppy bird might think it’s a truck…no, maybe a plane that flies. My line flies through the air, past a floating log. And over some ducks on the water.

It goes and goes and…Oh, oh. “Dad, I forgot to make a knot when I wrapped the line around my rock!”

I remember long ago how he shook his head. And smiled. Now I do too. I think he’s still out there on the lake. And he’s looking for a lost gold spoon for his little boy.