Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman Read Free Book Online Page A

yelling at Dad or ants.
    Grandad took a step back. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
    I stood there, dumb.
    I hadn’t expected that.
    It wasn’t much of a welcome from my only living grandparent. Specially after I’d travelled three towns down the highway and walked forty-five minutes from the bus-stop.
    â€˜What’s the matter?’ demanded Grandad. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
    He didn’t recognise me. I was confused. He couldn’t have lost his marbles, he’s only eighty- one. Mr Wetherby’s ninety-eight and he knows the names of all his great-grandchildren and their Teletubbies.
    Then it hit me. I hadn’t seen Grandad for three years. People can change a lot in three years. He hadn’t, but I had. My hair was much lighter three years ago.
    I hunted in my bag for a piece of cardboard and my texta. I could have booted myself up the bum. On the bus I’d written the things I needed to say to Grandad on bits of cardboard and I’d completely forgotten to do one introducing
my
self.
    I did a quick one now and held it up to him.
    â€˜I’m Ro,’ it said. ‘Your granddaughter.’
    He stared at it for a long time. I wondered if I should write another one saying ‘Your son Kenny’s girl’.
    Then he grinned. ‘Rowena,’ he said. ‘Jeez, you’ve grown. Still dumb, but.’
    I nodded and gave him a rueful shrug to show him it’s no big deal.
    He thought of something and glared again.
    â€˜Did that no-hoper son of mine send you?’ he growled.
    I shook my head. I didn’t bother going into more detail on a piece of cardboard. Grandad knows Dad hates him and doesn’t want to see him. From the scowl on Grandad’s face I could tell he felt the same.
    Instead I found the first message I wrote on the bus and held it up.
    â€˜G’day, Grandad,’ it said. ‘I’ve come to ask you a very big favour.’
    Grandad read it and scowled again.
    â€˜I’m not seeing that bludger son of mine,’ he said. ‘Not till he apologises.’
    I sighed. This was what I’d feared. I was hoping we wouldn’t get sidetracked into Dad and Grandad’s war, but Grandad obviously still feels as strongly about it as Dad does. The last time they saw each other, Christmas three years ago, Grandad had too much homemade alcoholic cider and yelled at Dad and Dad called him a booze bucket and a viper-mouthed old troll and a pathetic excuse for a father.
    It’s tragic. I’ve even heard Dad talking about Grandad in the past tense, i.e. ‘my dad’s name
was
Clarrie’, as if he’d carked it.
    I decided to write another card explaining to Grandad that my visit had nothing to do with Dad.
    Before I could, Grandad grabbed my hand.
    â€˜Hungry?’ he asked.
    I shook my head. I’d had an apple fritter walking from the bus-stop.
    â€˜Bulldust,’ said Grandad. ‘Kids are always hungry.’
    He dragged me into the house. It was gloomy inside and smelt of old blankets and bacon. As I followed him down the passage I tried not to think about what might be waiting for me in the kitchen. It’s not Grandad’s fault. When people live alone and have to get through whole loaves of bread by themselves, life must be a continual race against blue mould.
    In fact the slices he cut me looked pretty fresh. And the butter was from the fridge. I started to relax.
    â€˜Do you like jam?’ said Grandad.
    I hesitated, wondering how long the average solo pensioner takes to get through a jar of jam. Particularly one who prefers homemade cider to spreads.
    â€˜Course you do,’ said Grandad. ‘All kids like jam.’
    He opened a new jar of apricot and spread it on the bread really thickly. I realised I was pretty hungry after all.
    Then Grandad went over to the stove, picked some pieces of cold bacon out of a fat-congealed pan, laid them carefully on the