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

bread and jam, shook tomato sauce onto the bacon, put the top of the sandwich on and slid it towards me.
    â€˜My favourite,’ he said.
    My stomach tried to hide under my liver.
    Don’t get ill and offend him, I told myself. Remember why you’re here.
    I took a deep breath, silently asked Mum to wish me luck and held up the next piece of cardboard.
    â€˜Can you take me to France,’ it said, ‘to see my mum’s real grave?’
    Even before Grandad had finished reading it, his face twisted into a snarl.
    â€˜France?’ he spat. ‘I wouldn’t go to that dung heap if you paid me a million dollars.’
    I hoped he was just grumpy because I wasn’t eating the sandwich.
    I pressed on with the next card.
    â€˜I’ll pay you back for the plane ticket when I’m older,’ it said.
    â€˜If you go to that death-trap of a country you won’t get to be older,’ snapped Grandad. ‘My father went there and was killed. Your mother went there and was k . . .’
    His voice petered out. He obviously wasn’t sure if Dad had told me the secret about Mum. Then his voice came back.
    â€˜If you think I’m setting foot in France,’ yelled Grandad, ‘your brain’s as dud as your throat.’
    It wasn’t looking good, but I wasn’t despairing. I still had one more card.
    I held it up.
    â€˜You could visit your dad’s war grave,’ it said.
    â€˜Why would I want to do that?’ growled Grandad.
    I stared at him, shocked.
    Poor bloke. His dad was killed before he was born. It’s tragic when a kid doesn’t even get to meet a parent. If only his dad had left a tape of himself singing a country and western song.
    Then I remembered the mouth-organ.
    I took it out of my bag.
    â€˜This was your dad’s,’ I wrote on a piece of cardboard. ‘Would you like it?’
    Grandad stared at the mouth-organ, face going bright red again. Then he grabbed it and threw it into my bag.
    â€˜Get out,’ he said. ‘How dare you come here upsetting an old bloke. You’re worse than your ratbag father. Out!’
    He grabbed me and pushed me down the passage and out of the house and slammed the door behind me.
    I stood in the front yard, shaking and indignant.
    He could have just said no thanks.
    For a sec I wanted to yell at him that he was a viper-mouthed old troll, but the cardboard was probably too thick to push under his door so I didn’t.
    I turned sadly and headed back to the bus­-stop.
    About fifty metres down the road I heard his voice.
    â€˜Rowena,’ he was shouting, ‘wait on.’
    I turned, my heart doing a skip, and saw him hurrying towards me.
    Yes, I thought, he’s changed his mind. He’s remembered the life-insurance money he got when grandma died and he’s decided to spend it on getting closer to the father he never knew.
    I held out my hands to give Grandad a hug.
    He held out his hands too.
    In them was a soggy paper bag.
    â€˜You forgot your sandwich,’ he said.
    This bus ride home is taking forever. If it doesn’t reach town soon I might have to eat the sandwich.
    At least it’s giving me time to think.
    Poor Grandad, not being able to get revenge for his dad’s death. That’s the crook thing about wars. You can’t bring people to justice because they’re allowed to kill each other.
    Poor Dad, growing up with such an angry father. I reckon Dad’s done a pretty good job, turning out so different. I’d rather have a dad with a bright-red shirt than a bright-red face any day.
    I just wish he’d told me the truth about Mum.
    I sort of understand why he didn’t, but. He knew the most important thing was for me to feel close to Mum. He knew how far away France would seem to a kid.
    He was right, it does seem far away.
    Every time I try and think of a way of getting there, it seems further.
    But I’ve got to get there.
    If I