Читать книгу Return of the Indian - Lynne Banks Reid - Страница 6
ОглавлениеOmri entered the house by the side door, which opened into the kitchen. His black-and-white cat, Kitsa, was sitting on the draining-board. She watched him out of her knowing green eyes as he came to get a drink of water.
“You’re not supposed to be up there, Kits,” he said. “You know that.” She continued to stare at him. He flicked some water on her but she ignored it. He laughed and stroked her head. He was crazy about her. He loved her independence and disobedience.
He helped himself to a hunk of bread, butter and Primula, and walked through into the breakfast room. It was their every-meal room actually. Omri sat down and opened the paper to the cartoon. Kitsa came in, and jumped, not on to his knee but on to the table, where she lay down on the newspaper right over the bit he was looking at. She was always doing this – she couldn’t bear to see people reading.
It had been a long day. Omri laid his head on his arm, bringing it level with Kitsa’s face, and communed with her, eyeball to eyeball. He felt sleepy and cat-like. When his mother came bursting in, it gave him a fright.
“Oh, Mum… I wish you wouldn’t bash about like that!”
“Omri!”
He looked at her. She had a strange look on her face. Her eyes and mouth were wide open and she was staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.
He sat up straight, his heart beating. “What’s up?”
“A letter came for you,” she said in an odd voice to match her goggle-eyed expression.
“A letter? For me? Who from?”
“I – I’m afraid I opened it.”
She came over to him and gave him a long envelope, torn open at the top. It had printing on it as well as his name and address in typing. Omri stared at it. It said, ‘Telecom – Your Communications Service’. He felt numb inside. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. He didn’t touch the letter, which lay on the table beside Kitsa. (For once his mother didn’t even seem to notice that she was there – normally she chased her off.)
“Why did you open it?” Omri asked at last in a croaky voice.
“Darling, because I didn’t look at the name. You boys don’t get many letters.” She gave a short, rather hysterical laugh. Omri quite saw how it could happen. He just wished… he wished he could have been the first to know.
“Well, go on – read it!”
He picked up the envelope and took out the letter.
Dear Omri,
We are delighted to inform you that your story, The Plastic Indian, has won first prize for your age group in our Telecom Creative Writing Competition.
We think it is a superb story showing extraordinary powers of imagination and invention. Our judges consider it worthy of publication.
Your prize, £300.00, will be presented to you at a party we are giving for all prize-winners on November 25th in the Savoy Hotel.
A special invitation card will be sent to you. May we congratulate you on your success.
Yours sincerely,
Squiggle Squiggle, Competition Director for Telecom.
Omri kept his eyes on this letter long after he had finished reading it. Inside, he was jumping up from his chair, running round and round the room, hugging his mother, shouting with triumph. But in reality he just sat there staring at the letter, a deep glow like hot coals in his chest, too happy and astonished to move or speak. He didn’t even notice that his free hand was stroking Kitsa from nose tip to tail tip again and again while she lay on the newspaper, purring with bliss.
His mother woke him from his trance.
“Darling? Do you realize? Isn’t it fantastic? And you never said a single word!”
At this moment his father came in from outdoors. He’d been working in the garden, as he often did, until it was actually too dark to see. Now he stamped the mud off his shoes in the open doorway, but for once his mother didn’t care about the mud, and almost dragged him into the room.
“Oh, do come and hear the news! I’ve been bursting to tell you all day. Omri – tell him. Tell him!”
Wordlessly, Omri handed his father the letter. There was a silence, then his father whispered reverently, “God in Heaven. Three hundred pounds!”
“It’s not the money!” cried his mother. “Look, look what they say about his story! He must be brilliant, and we never even knew he had writing talent.” She came to Omri and smothered him with hugs. “When can we read it? Oh, just wait till the boys hear about this…”
His brothers! Yes. That would be almost the sweetest thing of all. They always behaved as if he were too thick to do anything. And telling them at school. His English teacher simply wouldn’t believe her senses. Perhaps Mr Johnson, the headmaster, would get him up at Assembly and announce the news, and they would all applaud, and he would be asked to read the story aloud… Omri’s head began to spin with the incredible excitement of it. He jumped up.
“I’ll go and get my copy and you can read it,” he said.
“Oh, did you keep a copy?”
“Yes, that was in the rules.” He stopped in the doorway and turned. “I typed it on your typewriter when you were out,” he confessed.
“Did you, indeed! That must have been the time I found all the keys jumbled together.” But she wasn’t really annoyed.
“And I borrowed paper and carbon paper from Dad’s desk. And a big envelope to send it in.”
His mother and father looked at each other. They were both absolutely beaming with pride, as they had when Gillon had come home and announced he’d broken a swimming record at school, and when Adiel had got ten O-levels. Omri, looking at them, knew suddenly that he had never expected them to have that look because of him.
“Well,” said his father, very solemnly, “now you can pay me back. You owe me the price of the stamp.” His face broke into a great, soppy grin.
Omri raced upstairs. His heart was pounding. He’d won. He’d actually won! He’d never dared to hope he would. Of course, he’d dreamt a little. After all, he had tried his very best, and it was a great story to begin with. Imagination and invention, eh? That was all they knew. The real work was in the way he’d written it, and re-written it, and checked the spelling until just for once he could be confident that every word was right. He’d persuaded Adiel to help with that part – without telling him, of course, what it was actually for.
“Stirrup? Maize? Iroquois?”
“Iroquois!” Adiel had exclaimed.
“It’s the name of an Indian tribe,” said Omri. Fancy not knowing that! Omri had now read so many books about American Indians that he’d forgotten that not everyone was as knowledgeable on the subject as himself.
“Well, I haven’t a clue how to spell it. I-R-O-K-W-”
“No it’s not, it’s like French. Never mind, I know that one, I just wanted to see if you did. Whisky?”
Adiel spelt it, and then asked, “What on earth is this you’re writing? What a weird bunch of words!”
“It’s a story. I’ve got to make it as perfect as I can.”
“But what’s it about? Let me see it,” said Adiel, making a grab at the notebook.
Omri dodged. “Leave off! I’ll show you when it’s finished. Now. Bandage?” Adiel spelt this (actually Omri had spelled it correctly) and then Omri hesitated before saying, “Cupboard?”
Adiel’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re not telling about the time I hid your so-called secret cupboard after you’d nicked my football shorts?”
“I didn’t…”
“The time the key got lost and you made such an idiotic uproar? You’re not going to put me into any stupid school story.”
“I’m changing the names,” said Omri.
“You’d better. Any more words?”
Omri read on silently to the next longish word. “Magnanimous.”
“Cor,” said Adiel with heavy sarcasm. “Bet you don’t even know what it means.”
“Yes I do. Generous.”
“Where’d you get it from?”
“‘The Iroquois were a tribe ferocious in war, stalwart in alliance, magnanimous in victory’,” quoted Omri.
“You sound like Winston Churchill,” said Adiel, but there was a trace of admiration in his voice this time. “Don’t make it too show-offy, will you? You’ll only lose marks if your teacher thinks you’ve copied it.”
“I haven’t written that, you berk,” said Omri. “I’m just remembering what I’ve read in a book.” He was beginning to relish long words, though. Later he went through his story yet again to make sure he hadn’t used too many. His teacher was forever saying, “Keep it simple. Stick to what you know.” Little would anyone guess how closely he had stuck to the truth this time!
And now… Imagination and invention…
He paused on the stairs. Had he cheated? It was supposed to be a made-up story. It said so in the rules. Or had it? ‘Creative writing’ meant that, didn’t it? You couldn’t create something that had really happened… All you could do was find the best way of writing it down. Of course he had had to make up bits of it. Vivid as his memories of Little Bull and Boone were, he couldn’t remember every word they ever spoke. Omri frowned and went on up the stairs. He didn’t feel entirely easy in his mind, but on the other hand… Nobody had helped him. The way he’d written the story was all his own. Maybe it was okay. There wasn’t much he could do about it, anyhow.
He continued more slowly up the stairs to his room, at the very top of the house.
