Читать книгу Radio Boy and the Revenge of Grandad - Christian O’Connell - Страница 11

‘Grandad is here,’ I shouted, after I spotted him coming down our front path after school. It was a cold March day and Grandad was about to brighten it up.

‘What? Why? Oh no,’ cried Dad in a horrified way. Dad is never very excited about seeing Grandad Ray, which I’ve always thought is odd. I mean, it’s his own dad.

I opened the door excitedly and hugged Grandad.

‘Spike!’ he said in his typically booming voice. He was wearing even more aftershave than Artie, as well as the big shiny gold necklace he always wore below his high, open lapels. I noticed he had two suitcases with him.

‘Dad. What’s going on?’ came my dad’s irritated voice from behind me.

‘Well, I thought I’d come and stay for a few days. See my grandkids, help out around the house. That OK, son?’ Grandad asked.

‘Um … of course. Is Mum all right?’ asked Dad suspiciously.

‘Yeah, yeah, fine,’ muttered Grandad Ray, pushing past him into the house.

Grandad Ray isn’t like a normal grandad. Let me explain.

Firstly, the hair. It’s not grey or white, like most men his age. It’s white with a black stripe down the middle. It’s also big. High and swept back. Never a hair out of place. It doesn’t even look like human hair any more, after all the years of hair-spraying. It’s actually a hair-based work of art. He always wears black cowboy boots too. No matter what the occasion. I think he even has cowboy-boot slippers. All of this would’ve looked perfectly normal if he was a part-time cabaret singer and ranch owner in Texas. Which he wasn’t. Except he was a singer, of sorts – or had been – and in his mind he still is.

Grandad Ray used to be a cabaret singer on cruise ships, which is where he met Nan. His stage name was Toni Fandango. He quit dramatically after he was downgraded to performing on car ferries to France.

‘I’m wasted trying to sing Frank Sinatra classics next to the fruit machines, Spike.’

Grandad blamed the end of his career on another, younger singer, Kriss Kristie. We all secretly knew, however, that it was due to his age and panda hair.

He opened his mouth and started to sing, right there in the front hall, at the top of his voice. He often broke into song without any warning.

‘Youuuuuuuuuu ain’t nothin’ but a—’

Sherlock, my other best friend and full-time dog, immediately started barking.

‘Bleedin’ dog, shut it!’ yelled Grandad.

‘Ray, Ray, you sweet old man!’ said Mum as she came rushing into the hallway.

‘Here she is, greatest woman on Earth, what you saw in my son I’ll never know,’ Grandad said.

‘How lovely of you to come and see us for a few days. Spike, take your grandad’s bags,’ ordered Mum.

I gladly obliged, but had a quick question.

‘Um, where shall I take them?’

‘To your room, of course, Spike. He can have your bed. You’ll have to sleep on the inflatable mattress.’ Awesome! Grandad Ray and I would be room-mates. Sure, it meant me having to sleep on the world’s most uncomfortable bed, the dreaded inflatable mattress – like sleeping on a bouncy castle – but that was a small price to pay.

It took me two trips to lug Grandad Ray’s suitcases upstairs. I passed Dad at one point and said, ‘Look, snakeskin suitcases, proper showbiz.’

‘Snakeskin! Fakeskin more like! The label on them says Poundland. Not sure a pound gets you a pair of authentic snakeskin suitcases.’ They still looked very cool to me. At least no snakes had been harmed in the making of them. I’d love my boring school bag to be snakeskin like his suitcases. That’d soon catch Katherine Hamilton’s eye.

‘Oh, I love your bag, Spike; what’s it made of?’ she would coo.

‘Python,’ I’d say casually and saunter off.

‘Here, you’ll need this,’ said Dad, snapping me out of my daydream as he threw me the foot pump for the blow-up bed.