Free Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman Page B

glasses of mint cordial. Do French people a favour and they never forget it.
    Dad hasn’t been in this town for twelve years and people were falling over themselves to buy him a drink. We were only away from our town for five years while I was at the special school and when we got back people didn’t even remember us.
    I wished Sergeant Cleary was in the cafe tonight. He’d soon change his opinion of Dad if he saw how popular Dad is in France. I even thought of ringing him and telling him. Then I remembered I’ve lost respect for Dad, so I didn’t.
    Mr and Mrs Bernard steered us through the crowd to a table at the back. We sat down and almost immediately someone put big plates of meat stew in front of us.
    I was starving and even though it’s not easy eating a meal while about fifty people are staring at you and grinning and your guts are knotted with lack of respect for your father, I gobbled it down.
    Right up until I had a thought.
    I looked around at the faces and suddenly I wasn’t hungry any more.
    Any one of those men, I realised, could be the hit-and-run driver.
    The men carried on grinning and saying friendly-sounding things.
    The meat stuck in my throat.
    Mrs Bernard slapped me on the back and anxiously lifted my glass of mint cordial to my lips.
    She’s a very kind woman, but if she really wanted to help my digestion she would have given me a name, not cordial.
    Then, as soon as Dad finished eating, everybody started shouting at him.
    Mrs Bernard whispered something to him and he stood up and cleared his throat and did his neck exercises.
    That could only mean one thing.
    They wanted him to sing.
    I was speechless.
    Dad’s sung to big groups of people heaps of times but tonight was the first time I’d ever seen a group ask him to.
    He climbed onto a table in the middle of the cafe and sang the Carla Tamworth song about the bloke with ninety-seven cousins who loves them all dearly even though he can’t remember any of their names.
    The crowd went wild, even though Dad didn’t get many of the notes right.
    Then he sang Mum’s song.
    I realised I was probably in the actual place where Dad had taped Mum singing it all those years ago.
    Suddenly my eyes were full of tears.
    Which is how I came to turn away, so people wouldn’t see.
    Which is how I came to spot the man with the black curly hair.
    I noticed him at first because he was the only person not standing gazing up at Dad. He was putting his coat on and heading for the door.
    Either he’s late for something else, I thought, or he’s got musical taste.
    Then I recognised him.
    I’d seen him before, in Australia.
    He was the bloke driving down our driveway when I got back home from being locked up at the police station.
    What’s he doing here?
    I yelled at him to wait, but he wasn’t looking in my direction so he couldn’t see my hands.
    As he opened the door several of the people in the cafe waved goodbye.
    I struggled through the crowd, but by the time I got to the door and peered up and down the street, he’d gone.
    My head spun in the cold night air.
    If he’s a local, what was he doing at our place in Australia?
    I asked Dad on the way back to Mr and Mrs Bernard’s.
    Dad reckoned I was mistaken.
    He reckoned it must have been someone else.
    It wasn’t, but.
    I’ve been lying here in bed for ages testing my memory and I know I wasn’t mistaken.
    He’s the same bloke I saw in our driveway.
    He even had the same suit on tonight.
    What’s going on?

When I woke up and realised it was really early, I had a listen to Mum’s tape. Just a few times so I didn’t wear it out.
    I’m glad I did. I reckon Mum’s voice inspired me. In less than twenty minutes I’d thought up a complete two-part investigation plan.
    Part One. Start at the beginning and find the exact spot in town where Mum was knocked down.
    Part Two. Try and find a passer-by with