John Marsden - While I live

Then Mr Sayle caught my attention. He was pushing some papers at me. ‘The company’s called Kelsey Pty Ltd, but don’t take any notice of that. It’s just a private company who’ll take it off your hands and let you live in town with your debts paid and enough left over to rent a place.’

My mind still racing furiously, I took the papers and tried to read them.

‘What is this?’ I asked stupidly.

‘Well, as I said, it’s a contract of sale. Just a copy for your records. You’ll have the money in ninety days.’

‘What money?’

He frowned and sat back in his big swivelling leather armchair. ‘Ellie, I’m very busy. I can’t keep repeating myself. All you need to know is that the property has been sold, not for the kind of money that we would have liked, but beggars can’t be choosers.’

I stood and hurled the papers back at him.

‘I’m not a fucking beggar,’ I said.

I started walking out, then decided that I really needed the contract after all. Without looking at him I went back and picked up the pages from his desk. He stayed sitting there, rigid. From the corners of my eyes I saw his white knuckles. I thought, ‘At least I can get out and try to grab the stuff from the photocopier.’ But just as I got to his door he jumped up and came after me.

‘Look, Ellie,’ he said, ‘this is ridiculous. There’s simply no need for this kind of unpleasantness. I’m sorry I used the word “beggar”. It’s just an expression.’

By now we were out in the reception area. Mrs Samuels stared at us like her eyes were ping-pong balls. She had such a guilty expression that I thought, ‘If Mr Sayle takes one look at her he’ll know she’s been up to something.’ I probably looked pretty guilty myself. I just had to get to the photocopier. I couldn’t leave that office with the papers sitting in the out tray. It’d cost Mrs Samuels her job. And I needed whatever information was in the documents to try to stop this stunt Mr Sayle was pulling on me.

All I could think of was a completely outrageous bluff. I got myself close to the copier then rounded on Mr Sayle. In as angry a voice as I could manage I yelled, ‘I’ve got one thing to say to you and I’m going to put it in writing!’

I grabbed a sheet of blank paper from the feed tray for the copier, took a pen out of my pocket and, using the copier as a desk, started writing as fast as I could. I had no idea what I was going to say and I knew it didn’t matter much. I scrawled something like ‘You are never to sell my property, never, never, never’. I signed it Ellie Linton, then screamed at him, ‘And I’m going to take a copy home with me, to prove it.’

I don’t know what I was supposed to be proving, but using my body as a shield between Mr Sayle and the out tray I ran the note through the photocopier. Then I opened the top again, threw the original at Mr Sayle to distract him, grabbed the whole pile of papers from the out tray, trying to make it look like it was just one sheet, and stormed out through the door so fast that I was just a blur of movement.

I have never in my life been so totally embarrassed, but I also knew I’d got away with it.

Gavin was in tantrum territory, and looked likely to be there for quite some time. What is it with guys and tantrums? I mean, not counting me with Mr Sayle, most girls have grown out of them by the age of four. I think for boys it’s around twenty, maybe: best case scenario.

The problem was that Homer had officially invited me to join Liberation, but he’d done it in front of Gavin. Gavin hadn’t quite figured out who or what Liberation was — neither had I for that matter — but he knew they were to do with fighting the enemy, and they were to do with Homer and Lee, and it was a secret society where either you were in or you were out.

That was enough for him. But to make matters worse, when he asked if he could join, Homer said, ‘No, you’re too young.’

This was not helpful, and not really fair, as Gavin had proved time and time again how brave and useful he was. But other people wouldn’t understand that, and I could see how Gavin might lower the average age of the Liberation members by a year or so.

Homer had delivered the invitation as we sat around the kitchen table after lunch Saturday afternoon. ‘They’ll understand if you don’t want to,’ he said, ‘but they’d love it if you did. Face it, you’ve been involved in exactly half the stuff they’ve done in the last couple of months.’

‘Would I get to find out who the Scarlet Pimple himself is?’ I asked.

‘Hmm, maybe. You might be that lucky,’ he said, smiling like there was a secret joke going on. I wondered, not for the first time, if Homer himself was the Pimpernel.

That’s when Gavin announced that he wanted to join, and Homer brushed him off with the ‘you’re too young’ bit.

The kitchen table was the place for so many of our — wait for it, another of my favourite words coming up — confabulations. Gavin stood up, shoved the chair back, looked for a moment like he was going to cry, then kicked the chair over, swept everything within reach onto the floor and headed for the door, pausing only to chuck a half-empty jar of SPC raspberry jam at Homer, who caught it one-handed without blinking.

‘That was tactful of you,’ I said.

From the other end of the house I heard a door slam as Gavin sealed himself off from the world.

Homer shrugged. ‘It’s the truth. Anyway, he just proved he’s not old enough. Anyone who acts like that isn’t ready for what we do.’

‘Oh, cut him some slack,’ I said, getting up. ‘He’s done more in his short life than most people do in a hundred years.’

I went down the corridor and tried to open his door. It’s difficult when someone’s deaf: it’s a waste of time knocking, so you keep violating his privacy by charging in. Only a week before I’d violated Gavin’s privacy big-time, and caused him great embarrassment. I backed out thinking, ‘God, he’s starting young.’ I thought it was pretty funny but Gavin was red-faced all morning and I didn’t dare mention it or make jokes about it.

I thought that maybe it was time I bought him a book and left it lying around, because I couldn’t see myself actually giving him the big talk, but someone had to do something, and who else was there? I could have asked Homer, except Homer would have taught him that ‘Get over here’, ‘Sit’, ‘Heel’ and ‘Beg’ were not just for cattle dogs but for girls as well. If Gavin grew up with the same attitude to girls as Homer had, I’d be seriously worried.

Anyway, this time Gavin had used a wedge or something to stop me getting in. I rattled the door a few times, hoping it would let him know I was there, then wrote him a note and slipped it underneath. There wasn’t any more I could do, short of shooting the door down. There were times when Gavin made me feel like doing stuff like that, proving again that I was perfectly capable of having my own tantrums.

Back in the kitchen I asked Homer some more questions about Liberation but I didn’t get very far.

‘You know me,’ he said, holding his big hands out, palms up, and making a face. ‘I keep secrets. I’m not like you girls. If someone asks me not to repeat something, I don’t repeat it.’

‘Stop doing all the Greek body language,’ I said, flicking his nearest hand with the flyswat. It was true though, he didn’t repeat stuff. You could trust him that way. You could trust him most ways actually. ‘So what happens if I join? Do I have to practise the secret handshake? Learn the passwords? Dress up in uniform and go to a weekly meeting?’

‘Yeah, all of the above. You wear a mask and go as your favourite superhero, so no-one knows your true identity.’