Free Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman Page A

to ask Dad what was going on when something else happened. An elderly couple standing at another grave with a poodle looked over and saw us and gave a shout. They hurried over and started shaking Dad’s hand and beaming. Dad looked a bit alarmed, probably because the poodle was trying to have sex with his leg. Even though I couldn’t understand a word the French people were saying, I could see they were delighted.
    Why?
    Was Dad being mistaken for a local footy star? Surely not with his crook knees.
    Then it hit me.
    The reason everyone here is so friendly to Dad.
    The reason nobody’s bothered to catch the hit-and-run driver.
    The thing Dad wanted to tell me himself.
    The full story Claire reckoned I should know.
    It’s this.
    Dad must have been offered a deal when Mum was killed.
    The local council must have offered Dad a top grave for Mum, serviced regularly, if he agreed not to make them hunt down the hit-and-run driver.
    And he accepted.
    That’s why all the locals are so grateful to him. He’s saved them the shame and embarrassment of admitting they’ve got a ruthless killer in their municipality.
    Of course. That’s why Dad wanted to sneak into town without anyone knowing we were here.
    He was scared a local would blab to me.
    He was scared I’d lose all respect for him.
    Which is exactly what I’m doing.
    Dad, how could you?
    How could you let a killer get away with it for a bit of lawn and a few flowers?
    That’s what I asked myself at the cemetery as I laid my flowers on Mum’s grave and it’s what I’m still asking back here in Mrs Bernard’s attic bedroom.
    I haven’t asked Dad in person.
    I don’t want him to know I’ve twigged.
    He might guess what I’m planning to do and try to stop me.
    Not that I’d let him.
    I’m going to avenge Mum even if it means the local council won’t look after her grave any more and I’ll have to live here for the rest of my life and mow it myself.

It was morning and Mum was stroking my forehead and talking to me softly in her warm gentle voice with its warm gentle French accent.
    French accent?
    I opened my eyes.
    It wasn’t morning, it was night and it wasn’t Mum smiling down at me, it was Mrs Bernard.
    â€˜Sweet little Rowena,’ she whispered.
    I wish she wouldn’t keep saying that. I’m not little and when I get my hands on a certain local driver I don’t plan to be sweet.
    â€˜You slept for five hours,’ said Mrs Bernard. ‘Now you need food.’
    It was a kind thought but she was only partly right.
    I also needed clues.
    â€˜We go to the cafe,’ said Mrs Bernard.
    My heart gave a skip of excitement.
    I jumped out of bed and splashed water on my face from the bowl so Mrs Bernard wouldn’t see my mind racing.
    Cafes are good for clues, I was thinking. People gossip in cafes. It’s the milkshakes. Sugar loosens tongues as well as teeth, that’s what Dad always reckons. In cafes down our way people are always mentioning the names of other people who’ve been mean to pets or overdressed at the bowling club or driving carelessly.
    Hope it’s the same here, I thought as I brushed my hair. Hope French cafes are good for clues.
    This one was.
    Sort of.
    Mr Bernard drove us there in about ninety seconds, which was pretty scary because it was round at least twelve corners.
    The trip was nowhere near as scary as the cafe itself.
    Inside there wasn’t a single milkshake.
    Just smoke and noise and music.
    And people.
    About a hundred people, all raising their glasses of wine and beer to us and cheering as we walked in.
    I glanced at Dad. He looked as stunned as I felt. But he soon started to relax as people shook his hand and slapped him on the back and yelled at him in excited and happy French.
    Probably thanking him for sticking to the deal.
    Boy, I thought bitterly as people shook my hand too, and patted my head, and gave me