Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman Read Free Book Online

hadn’t solved the problem of how to get to France so I got up for a dig. I have some of my best ideas while I’m digging.
    Except this time I didn’t get to do any.
    I’d just collected the spade off the verandah when Dad appeared wide-eyed at the back door.
    â€˜Rowena,’ he said. ‘No.’
    He lunged towards me and grabbed the spade.
    â€˜You don’t have to do that,’ he said. ‘I admit it. Mum isn’t buried in the town cemetery, she’s buried in France.’
    I stared at him in horror.
    His body sagged inside his Carla Tamworth pyjamas.
    â€˜Mum’s grave here is just a pretend one,’ he said miserably. ‘A kind of memorial. I’m sorry, love.’
    I felt sick.
    All these years I’ve been visiting the wrong grave.
    Then I stared at the spade in Dad’s hands and felt even sicker.
    He thought I was going to dig up Mum’s grave to see if it was real.
    â€˜Dad,’ I said weakly, ‘I was only going to dig a sandpit.’
    I took him down the garden and showed him.
    There was an awkward silence. I could tell Dad was embarrassed he’d thought I could do such a thing. But grown-ups never really know what kids are capable of. Specially when it comes to catching hit-and-run drivers who’ve killed their mums.
    â€˜Dad,’ I said, ‘I want to go to France to visit Mum’s real grave.’
    I was telling the truth. I do want to visit it. I want to cut the grass on it and put fresh flowers on it and kneel down on it and tell her I’ve dealt with the mongrel who killed her.
    Dad crouched down in the moonlight and studied the hole.
    â€˜Good-sized sandpit,’ he said.
    â€˜Dad,’ I said, sticking my hands in front of his face. ‘Please. Take me to France.’
    â€˜It’ll need a fair whack of sand,’ said Dad.
    I grabbed him and shook him. He grasped my hands and held them tight.
    â€˜Not now,’ he said. ‘One day, but not now.’
    I tore my hands free.
    â€˜Why not now?’ I demanded.
    Dad hugged himself even though it wasn’t the slightest bit cold. Maybe polyester satin pyjamas aren’t as warm as they look.
    â€˜I can’t afford it,’ he said, ‘and you’ve got school and I’ve got to deal with these TV clowns and Erin’s too young to travel and . . .’
    I interrupted him.
    â€˜You took me to France when I was as young as Erin,’ I said.
    Sometimes parents dig holes for themselves that are even bigger than sandpits.
    Dad sighed.
    â€˜That was different,’ he said. ‘Mum’s mum was living in Canada. You were her first grandchild. She sent us plane tickets so we could take you over there to show her. Mum arranged for us to stop off in France on the way back cause I’d never seen my grandfather’s war grave.’
    â€˜So,’ I said, ‘you know how it feels to really want to see a grave.’
    â€˜I didn’t want to see it,’ he said. ‘Mum made me.’
    I was very close to hitting him with the spade.
    â€˜Tonto,’ he said, ‘I do know how you feel, but it’s just not possible now. We’ll go in a year or two, cross my heart and hope to get blue mould.’
    â€˜It’s not fair,’ I said bitterly.
    But actually I wasn’t that bitter because Dad had just given me another idea.
    I know how I can get to France.
    It won’t be easy and I’ll have to wag school tomorrow, but if I can pull it off I’ll be on the plane in a week.

Grandad was killing ants when I arrived.
    â€˜Mongrels,’ he was yelling at them.
    He stood on his front step whacking them with a broom that was almost taller than he was.
    Then he saw me and glared, panting. His skin was bright red under the white bristles on his face and head.
    I felt like a little kid again. It used to really scare me when I was younger and Grandad’s face would suddenly go red, usually from