Читать книгу Vivian Untangled - Sarah Hartt-Snowbell - Страница 8

Grandpa says that girls are usually cheated out of learning important stuff. He says that everybody should learn how to splice electric wires, refinish furniture and solder pipes. So on my Wednesday visits to Grandpa’s, we usually fix things . . . or make things. Grandpa always says, “If y’ have only one hour to do a task, you’d be wise to spend the first forty-five minutes planning and measuring. If y’ do that, then the rest of the job will be as easy as pie.”

We’ve built birdhouses and knick-knack shelves. We wired up a lamp and installed two light switches. I even helped him change a few worn-out washers to stop the taps from dripping. Grandpa promised that he’d even let me help him do some plastering and painting in the spring. “You’re ready for life,” Grandpa says. Whenever we finish a job, he hugs me and says that. “You’re ready for life.” I love when he says that.

Of course, my visits to Grandpa’s are not only work-work-work. We always set aside time for a few games of chess. When I was a little kid, maybe five or six, he taught me the names of all the pieces, how each one moves, and how to plan my strategy. Now I even beat him sometimes.

The worst thing about Grandpa is that his place is one gigantic mess. It’s even worse than our place. He keeps boxes of things everywhere. Broken watches, cameras, radio parts and all kinds of electrical stuff. He has stacks and stacks of newspapers and magazines. He says there’s a few articles in them that he’ll get around to reading one day. (Ha!) Grandpa has two or three vacuum cleaners, all in pieces, in a corner of the dining room. “I hate to throw ’em out,” he says. “The minute I throw ’em out . . . that’s when I’ll need the parts for somethin’ else.”

I kicked off my boots and slung my jacket over the nearest doorknob. “I’ll drop by around ten thirty to pick you up,” said Dad. He tweaked my nose, gave Grandpa’s shoulder one of those gentle love-pokes, and left.

“Okay, Vivi. The board’s all set up,” said Grandpa. “But first, we’ve got some important fixin’ to do. Ready to tear into some tile work?”

I followed him into the kitchen. “Tile work?”

“Y’ bet yer boots! A few tiles popped up beside the bathtub. Just loosened up, they did, and I can sure use your help. I’ll just guzzle down another cup of tea and then we can get straight to work. Need somethin’ to wet yer whistle, Vivi? How about a hot chocolate?”

“No thanks, Grandpa. Maybe later on.”

He reached for the little brown teapot and filled the granny-cup. That’s what I always call it. The delicate china teacup had been Grandma’s favourite, but after she passed away, Grandpa stashed his own chipped mug way up on the highest shelf. He’d decided to keep Grandma’s cup and saucer for himself.

Grandpa dropped three sugar cubes into the strong, dark tea. I watched him chase the cubes around with a little silver spoon to make them dissolve faster than they’d planned. Then he sipped his tea. Slurped it, that’s what he did. Grandpa’s really a gentleman, but he does slurp his tea, and when I’m with him, I slurp too. Mostly hot chocolate. He never hassles me for slurping, and I never hassle him. It’s just something we do.

Grandpa tapped each tile lightly with the back of a putty knife. “See, Vivi. This is how we’ll figure out which ones are the troublemakers. It’s good to learn about working with tiles, ’cause y’ never know when it’ll come in handy.”

We worked side by side, pulling out the wobbly tiles, clearing away the damp grout and scraping off the old cement.

“Grandpa, I’ve . . . I’ve run into a problem,” I said.

“What is it?”

“It’s . . . it’s . . . I can’t get the grout out of this corner.”

“Here. Try using the small chisel,” he said.

I tapped the small chisel straight down with the hammer. The grout came away perfectly, without loosening up any of the nearby tiles.

“Seems like the floor’s still a bit damp,” said Grandpa. “We’ll have to dry it all out before we start to set the tiles back in. But first, take this brush and try to sweep out all those loose particles.”

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, Chipmunk. What is it?”

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“I . . . I sure like doing fix-it stuff with you.”

He put his arm around me and said, “You’re my favourite fix-it buddy. Did you know that?”

I wanted with all my heart to tell Grandpa about my problem, but every time I tried to tell him, the words got stuck way at the back of my throat. For one thing, I didn’t want him to find out that I know zippola about saving money.

Grandpa carefully leaned the tiles against the side of the tub. “You’ll find one of those new-fangled clip-on lamps in the dining room. Probably on the shelf beside the window. We can use the lamp’s heat to dry all this out before goin’ on to the next step. Get the picture, Miss Fix-It?”

“Sure do,” I said. “I’ll go get it.”

The shelf was jammed with stuff. A stack of old phone books with curly pages, April’s Collier’s magazine—all about life on Mars—a seashell collection, and plenty of dust. But no clip-on lamp. “It’s not here,” I shouted.

He called back. “Go ahead then. Try the china cabinet.”

“Okay, Grandpa.” I opened the glass door of the china cabinet. What a jumble of stuff! There was an ashtray full of fishing lures, with dust clinging to their once brightly coloured feathers. Off to the side, I saw a sad-looking old radio with all its knobs missing, a sprinkling of dominos that had tumbled from a broken box and a few old prayer books. Ha, I thought. This ain’t no regular mess. This is a holy mess! On top of one of the prayer books, I saw a gold fountain pen and a silver bookmark that had gone all black from sitting around too long.

Grandpa shouted, “Hey! What’s takin’ so long? Y’ buildin’ the lamp from scratch?”

“I can’t find it,” I called.

“Dang! I’ll go check the front parlour,” he said. That’s what Grandpa calls his living room. I’ll bet his mom and dad must have called it that too.

While Grandpa was in the front parlour, looking for the lamp, I went back to the china cabinet to take a better look at the gold pen. I picked it up and took off the cap. Then I replaced the cap and set the pen back on the shelf. I began to walk away . . . but slowly turned back. What the heck am I doing? I picked up Grandpa’s gold pen once more, hesitated a bit, and then slipped it into the pocket of my dungarees. He won’t miss it. He probably didn’t even know that it was sitting there in his holy-mess-cabinet.