The mystery of the missi.., p.1
The Mystery of the Missing Tea Drinker, page 1
The Mystery of the Missing Tea Drinker
Bryl Davidson
Hilton Press
Copyright © 2023 by Bryl Davidson
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For Eli, Sophie, Ben and Finn
1
I’m sitting on a branch high up in the big Moreton Bay fig tree at the corner of the lane when Grams leaves. I haven’t said goodbye to her. I’m not going to because I don’t want her to leave me here with just Dad and Ollie.
Grams has looked after Ollie and me for years—ever since the night Mum dropped us outside her house in Fig Tree Lane. Ollie was only little. He probably doesn’t even remember Mum, but I was six and I remember her. Sometimes I wish I didn’t.
Grams tries to stuff a bulging plastic bag into the boot of the taxi. There are already two suitcases in there and her wheelie walker still has to fit somewhere. The rest of her stuff went yesterday in a removal truck, so her retirement unit will be all set up when she arrives at Gentle Shores. It will be nice for her to walk into her new unit and see her special things. She’ll feel at home. At least that’s what she says.
I think she’ll miss me. I’m not so sure she’ll miss Ollie. He can be a real pain. I don’t think she’ll miss Dad, either. He was gone a long time and only came home a couple of months ago. He’s still adjusting to life with us here in Linwood after being in Brisbane for years. Having him back feels weird. He’s like a stranger.
Dad struggles to fit the walker into the back of the taxi and slams the door shut before it falls out. Grams hugs him. She looks around. Ollie comes onto the verandah and stands looking at her. She doesn’t hug him because he doesn’t like hugging or any sort of touching. I hear her tell him to be good, then she blows him a kiss.
She looks around again then bows her head and gets into the taxi. Dad says something to her through the window and steps back. Her hand gives a fluttery wave as the taxi drives away. It disappears down Fig Tree Lane, getting smaller until it turns onto the main road and disappears.
It reminds me of the night me and Ollie first came to live with Grams, after they took Dad away. Even though it’s a long time ago, I remember some of it. Some bits I don’t remember, and some bits I try not to because they’re sad or scary.
The night Dad left us we were asleep in our campervan—Dad, Mum, me and Ollie. Someone banged on the side of the van. Dad sat up and hit his head on the roof. A torch shone in through the window.
‘Police. Open up.’
Mum grabbed me and Ollie and Dad opened the door. It stuck like it always did and Dad squeezed out. The police told all of us get out. They pulled everything from the camper and threw it on the ground. One of them held up a bag.
‘Got it.’
The police put handcuffs on Dad and took him away.
Then it was just the three of us until Mum dumped me and Ollie in front of Grams’ house and disappeared from our lives.
We got used to Grams and she got used to us. Now Grams has gone, and it feels like a pattern. People leave us and don’t come back. Okay, so Dad has come back but how long will he stay? And what will happen to Ollie and me when he leaves? There’s nowhere else for us to go.
Dad probably will leave because Ollie is hard to manage. He’s different. He lives in his own world. And what about our home schooling, and the cooking and shopping and cleaning and washing—all the stuff that Grams did? How will Dad cope with that?
I sit in the fig tree till the sun sets in a blaze of pink, red and orange. I can’t stay here forever. It’s time to make the best of what me and Ollie have. I slide down the tree, scraping my thighs on the bark, and run down the side of our house giving the line of palms and tangled vines on the boundary a wide berth. I go up the back steps and into the kitchen. Before she left, Grams cooked enough food for a few days. I look in the freezer and find fish fingers for Ollie and a chicken casserole for Dad and me. Ollie is a fussy eater. Fish fingers are his favourite food.
I hear the click of the keyboard as Dad works on his laptop. He’s a freelance journalist. Freelance doesn’t mean he writes for free, although he might as well do, because he doesn’t make much money.
Ollie is in the TV room, splayed out on the couch watching his favourite DVD—Finding Nemo. He watches it over and over. I know the soundtrack by heart now from hearing it so many times. Sometimes Ollie speaks like Nemo, or Marlin or Dory or one of the other characters. It’s annoying, but it’s an improvement on Thomas the Tank Engine. I know all those episodes by heart.
I put the fish fingers under the grill and the casserole and some frozen vegetables in the microwave. Dad comes out of his room. ‘Thanks, Alex. I didn’t notice the time.’
‘That’s okay,’ I mumble, dishing up the food. We sit down at the kitchen table and eat.
‘Your grandmother was disappointed you didn’t see her off,’ Dad says.
I shrug. He doesn’t push it.
‘How about going to the markets tomorrow?’ he says.
‘Okay.’
Ollie eats his fish fingers and plays with his vegetables. Dad watches him. I wait for him to say, ‘Eat your dinner. Don’t play with it,’ but he says nothing. Is he annoyed? He has one of those faces that makes it hard to tell what he’s thinking. We finish dinner in silence.
I like the markets. There are heaps of stalls with everything from food to art, jewellery to woodwork, junk to handcrafts. The bookstalls are my favourite. Grams knew all the stallholders and chatted with them when she shopped for eggs and cheap fruit and used clothes. With Dad it’s different. It seems like people know who he is, but they aren’t friendly. They look away when he stops at a stall and their eyes follow him when he leaves. It doesn’t seem to bother him, but it makes me uncomfortable.
We buy what we need, then I check out the second-hand books and keep an eye on Ollie. He’s sitting in the shade eating a banana. Dad is close by talking to a man. He isn’t a local, but there’s something familiar about him. He’s strange looking with pallid skin and dirty brown dreadlocks hanging past to his shoulders. I move closer so I can hear what they’re saying.
‘When did ya get outa the joint, Vince?’
‘A while ago.’
‘How’s the missus?’
‘She took off. I’ve been looking for her. You haven’t seen her, have you?’
‘Nah, mate. Not for yonks. Bit of a drag for you being lumped with the kids.’
‘It has its advantages. I get a carer’s allowance and a few perks.’
‘Meal tickets, are they?’
‘Yeah, right. Meal tickets.’ Dad laughs a mean sort of laugh. I haven’t heard him laugh like that before. I don’t like it. ‘What about you, mate? Are you up here for the surf?’
‘Yeah, catching a few waves at the coast. Camping out in the National Park in me van and doin’ a bit of business with the tourists. I got a few other things on the go. You after some action?’
‘Maybe,’ says Dad. ‘I could use the extra cash.’
‘I’ll make some phone calls and get back to you. Be like old times.’
He and Dad get out their phones then the man fist bumps Dad. ‘Be in touch,’ and he disappears into the crowd. Dad stands looking after him, his eyes narrow and his face sort of tight.
‘Who was that man?’ I say as we pile into the Toyota.
‘Just someone I used to know. Why?’
‘He looks creepy.’
‘Creepy,’ says Ollie. ‘Creepy crawly. Like a spider.’
Dad looks at Ollie. ‘Spot on, kiddo,’ he says.
2
Today is Sunday, and it’s raining. Not heavy rain like we get in summer when a storm rolls in from the sea, dumps a couple of centimetres and moves on, leaving the air sparkly and fresh; but miserable, drizzly rain that makes everything feel damp and smell of mildew.
I’m in the TV room, rolled in a blanket on the floor, trying to read Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Ollie is wrapped up like a cocoon in his quilt on the couch, watching Finding Nemo for about the hundredth time. I blot out the soundtrack and hardly notice the constant scene replays, but now and then something penetrates.
‘Fish are friends, not food.’
Then it goes quiet. I look up. Ollie has muted the TV and is staring towards the door.
‘What is it, Ollie?’
The door’s shut and at first I don’t see what’s caught his attention. Then I see it. On the floor. A small white square of paper.
‘It wasn’t there before,’ he says.
‘Mmm?’ Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll forget about it.
‘How did it get there?’
‘Dunno,’ I say. ‘Maybe the wind blew it.’
‘It isn’t windy.’
It’s useless trying to continue reading. I kick aside the blanket and crawl across the floor. My skin goes goose-bumpy from the chilly air. I grab the paper and scurry back to my warm spot under the blanket.
‘Is it a clue?’ says Ollie.
He means a treasure hunt clue. Dad likes treasure hunts, and he’s good at making up clues. He likes trivia and crosswords and anagrams too, but I think treasure hunts are the most fun. Ollie loves them, although he doesn’t spend much time trying to solve the clues. He just runs around looking everywhere, and generally being a pest. Dad seems to be okay with Ollie—at least so far. He says we have to make allowances for him because he’s only ten and has a ‘condition’.
I open the paper and smooth it flat.
‘What’s it say?’ Ollie is on the edge of the couch now, still wrapped in his quilt. His black hair sticks up in spikes like an untidy mohawk.
I read out the words printed on the paper in capital letters.
TALKING TEAPOT
It isn’t like the clues Dad has made up before. He likes rhymes and riddles, maps and codes. Stuff you can figure out if you try. He usually has a theme too—something educational, like the names of explorers or native animals or capital cities. I think it’s part of our home-schooling.
‘Teapots don’t talk,’ Ollie says. His feet are on the floor now, his bare toes scrunching the carpet.
’Maybe it’s not a clue,’ I say. ‘Maybe it’s just something Dad wrote—like a reminder or something.’ But how did it get on the floor of the TV room? Ollie is right. It wasn’t there when we came in after lunch.
Ollie gets up from the couch and shuffles towards the door, his quilt trailing behind him.
‘I’m going to ask Dad,’
‘No, Ollie. Not now. He’s busy. It could be a clue, like… the name of a shop that sells teapots.’
‘There aren’t any shops in Linwood that sell teapots. Except Guthrie’s Store. They sell aluminium ones.’
Ollie notices what things are made of. He has a habit of feeling things, rubbing them against his face and even sniffing them. Mr Guthrie doesn’t like Ollie. ‘If you break that you’ll have to pay for it,’ he says whenever Ollie touches anything in the shop, so we try not to take him in there. I don’t think Dad would send us to Guthrie’s looking for a clue.
‘Well, how about the name of a café—The Talking Teapot? A place where people go to talk and drink tea.’
Ollie is by the door now. I tense up. Dad’s been pretty good with Ollie. He’s been with us for a few months now and we’ve got into a routine. Sunday afternoons are special. That’s when he does most of his writing. The weekdays are taken up with our home schooling, and the housework and shopping and weeding the garden, but Sundays are just for writing. It’s my job to keep Ollie entertained and out of Dad’s way so he can have some quiet time to finish his articles. ‘
The Bakery’s the only place that has tea,’ says Ollie.
Dad thinks the Bakery makes terrible tea. They use tea bags. Their custard slices are good though. I’m getting desperate trying to keep Ollie out of Dad’s way so I wrack my brain trying to think of any other places that might have teapots.
‘The CWA Hall?’
Not likely. We went to a meeting there once and there was a lot of talking. They served tea in thick white cups, but they made it with tea bags and the hot water was in a big urn. No teapots.
Ollie opens the door and his feet get tangled in his quilt. He falls and hits the wooden floor with a crash. I leap up and rush to him, thinking he might go into a meltdown. He stands up and gathers his quilt. I grab the trailing end to prevent any more accidents.
‘What about Grams’ teapot?’ I say.
Grams’ teapot is brown enamel. It’s old, like most things in our house. It belonged to her when she lived here. She only drank proper tea, which means tea made in a pot with loose tea leaves. Dad uses the teapot now. He hates tea bags. He says they’re made with the leaves that fall on the floor in the tea drying sheds. They get swept up along with dust and mouse poo and the whole lot goes into the tea bag mix.
We traipse into the kitchen. I expect Dad to come out of his room and ask what all the noise is about, but his bedroom door stays shut.
The teapot is on the table. I touch the outside. It’s cold. Ollie lifts the lid and stares through the clear brown liquid to the leaves at the bottom of the pot.
Nothing.
He pokes his finger down the spout.
Nothing.
He lifts the pot and looks underneath.
Still nothing.
He sits down on a chair with a thump.
‘It’s a stupid clue.’
I check the clock on the wall. It’s just after four. I need to keep Ollie occupied for at least another hour, so I think hard.
‘There might be a teapot in the shed.’
Ollie shudders. He doesn’t like the shed. It’s even older than our house. A bougainvillea vine clings to the roof and walls, holding the whole thing together and stopping it from toppling over. I don’t like the shed either. It’s full of spiders.
‘Come on. It’s worth a try,’ I say. ‘Grams left a lot of stuff behind when she went to the retirement village. There’s bound to be a teapot.’ I jump up and open the kitchen door. ‘It’s hardly raining at all now.’
Ollie lets his quilt slide to the floor and follows me down the outside steps and along the cracked concrete path to the shed. The corrugated iron door scrapes across the floor as I pull it open. Inside it’s almost dark, but a light bulb hangs on a cord from the ceiling. I grope for the switch to turn it on. Weak yellow light throws shadows on the walls.
‘It smells funny,’ Ollie says, wrinkling his nose.
It smells of dust and old things left too long in boxes. It’s stacked with crates and cartons and suitcases. I glance up at the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, checking for spiders. The webs look old and there are no spiders in sight.
‘Don’t be a wuss,’ I say. ‘Let’s start here.’
I rip open the top of the closest box and pull out a red scarf. Something runs over my hand. I drop the scarf and start to hyperventilate, but it isn’t a spider. It’s only a cockroach. It falls on the floor and scuttles under the box.
‘I’m going back,’ says Ollie, hovering near the door.
‘Not yet, Ollie. If there’s a teapot here it’ll will be in a box with kitchen stuff. Just open a few boxes and look inside. You don’t have to touch anything.’
He hangs back and watches while I investigate more boxes, keeping a sharp lookout for spiders. One at a time, they reveal their contents. Videos and CDs in cracked cases, ornaments and vases, stained sheets and towels.
‘Oh, there are toys in this one. Look!’
That works. Ollie comes closer and looks over my shoulder. I leave him rummaging amongst miniature cars, tennis balls and yo-yos and keep opening boxes. Mostly the contents are uninteresting, but I find one that has a lot of framed photos. Some are of Grams and Gramps when they were young. There’s one of their wedding and another one of them with a little dark-haired boy. It must be Dad. He’s an only child. I look closer. It doesn’t look much like him. His cheeks are round and he’s smiling. He doesn’t smile much now.
Under the frames there’s a shoebox tied with string. Inside are more photos—of Dad, Dad with Mum, Mum with me and Ollie. One has all four of us in front of our campervan. I remember the camper—green with patches of rust and a noisy engine. I take the photo and put it under my T-shirt.
The ones of Mum make me feel empty inside. I look at the ones of Dad instead.
I’m stuffing everything back in the box when a photo drops onto the floor. It’s of Dad with another man. They’re both young and holding long surfboards and wearing board shorts. The man’s arm is around Dad’s shoulder. I think I recognise him. He looks like the man at the markets, but he doesn’t have dreadlocks. Is it the same man? Looking at him gives me the same creepy feeling. There’s something about him. What did Ollie say? Creepy crawly, like a spider. I shudder and shove the photo back in the box.
There are teetering piles of packing cases against the back wall of the shed, but I don’t touch them for fear they’ll fall. I’m fast losing interest in looking for clues in the shed.
‘Did you find any teapots, Ollie?’
‘No. Can I take these back to the house?’
I help him gather up the toy cars. It must be almost five o’clock. Dad will be ready for a break. He says his neck cramps up when he types for too long because he doesn’t have a desk, only a little table and a kitchen chair to write from. He writes articles for the local paper—The Informer—and rural magazines and, if he wants to make his deadline, he has to lodge his articles first thing Monday morning.
We run back through the drizzle and Ollie spreads toys all over the floor in the TV room. I go onto the side veranda where Ollie and I have our bedroom. I take the photo of the four of us from under my tee-shirt and hide it beneath my pillow. Dad never talks about the time before he went away—when we all lived in the campervan. I think we were happy then.
