Читать книгу Bad Dad - David Walliams, Quentin Blake, Tony Ross - Страница 13

Auntie Flip wasn’t Frank’s aunt. She was Dad’s aunt. “Flip” was short for Philippa, and she prided herself on being from the posh side of the family, even though there wasn’t one. The lady had the smell of old books about her. That was probably because she was a librarian. Auntie Flip wore glasses with glass thicker than in a shark’s tank. Her idea of an evening’s entertainment was to bring a stack of her own unpublished poetry books over, and read them out loud to the boy.

Auntie Flip had written many volumes of poetry:

Frank hated poetry. Flip would read him her poems about clouds and gooseberries and rainy days and birdsong and talcum powder. For Frank, listening to them was torture.

That night the boy was annoyed that he was left alone with the woman while his dad went out for his really exciting top-secret, couldn’t-even-tell-his-own-son meeting. Doing what he was told, Frank put his pyjamas on, and then popped his head round the door of the living room.

“Goodnight, Auntie Flip!” he said quickly, before turning to go.

“Not yet it isn’t!” chirped the lady.

“Sorry?”

“As a very special treat, young man, I’m going to let you stay up late.”

“COOL!” exclaimed the boy.

“Yes! You can stay up late so I can read you some of my poetry.”

This was definitely not cool.

“I know how much you like it,” she said.

“I’m really tired,” lied Frank, pretending to yawn, and he stretched his arms out for good measure.

“You won’t be in a moment, young man, because I have a surprise for you! Do you like surprises?”

“It depends. What is it?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise!” replied Auntie Flip.

The boy thought for a moment. “Is it a poetry-based surprise?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

“It was just a wild guess,” sighed Frank.

The lady clicked open her handbag, and took out her leather-bound notebook. She held it in her hands as if it was a holy relic. Carefully she turned the first page.

“The first one this evening is a poem I wrote about you, Frank.”

Somehow the thought of a poem about himself made Frank squirm. It was a similar feeling of unease as the time when Frank ate some sausages in the school canteen that hadn’t been cooked properly and he had to run to the toilet as he could feel his bottom was about to explode.

Auntie Flip started making strange sounds with her mouth. It was like the noise of a braying horse.

Next she began making humming noises in an ear-achingly high-pitched tone. It was like someone running their fingers along the rim of a glass.

Frank put his fingers in his ears. “Is this the poem?” he shouted over the din.

Flip looked at the boy as if he was bonkers.

“No! I am just warming up the voice! Right. I am ready. This one is entitled simply ‘Frank’, and it is by me.

The lady’s eyes were glistening with tears at the sheer beauty of her own poem.

“Well?” she asked, through sniffs. Her eyes searched Frank’s face for approval.

“Well, what?” asked the boy.

“Well, what did you think of your special poem?”

“Mmm. I thought the poem was very…”

“Yes?”

Frank was old enough to know sometimes you have to tell a little lie to save other people’s feelings.

“Poetic! It was a very poetic poem.”

The lady was overjoyed. “Thank you so much! That is high praise. Any poet wants their poems to be poetic. So one down, ninety-nine to go.”

“I need to go to bed!”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I need to go to bed right now!”

“How about I read to you ‘A Love of Mauve’?”

“I would love to hear it, but…”

“Or ‘Some Lines on My Foot Cheese’?”

“I really couldn’t…”

“You are going to adore ‘Ode to a Puddle’! Plop, plop, plop, the rain goes plop…”

“NO! I mean… no.”

The lady looked hurt. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I mean thank you, but no. I just feel so emotional after listening to that beautiful one you wrote about me.”

Auntie Flip nodded her head. “Of course! Of course. I forget the raw power of my verse. I bid you goodnight.” The lady opened her arms to give the boy a hug. Reluctantly the boy paced towards her. She always squeezed him too tight.

“URGH!” said Frank, as he could feel the air being squashed out of him.

“Sorry,” said Auntie Flip. “I am not good with hugs.”

The lady had never been married, nor to Frank’s knowledge ever had a romance. He guessed she hadn’t had many hugs in her life.

“Goodnight,” said the boy. “I am off to sleep now.”

That was another lie.

A big lie.