Free Dunger by Joy Cowley

stop long enough for me to explain.
    â€œYou realise you could have bloody well killed yourself? Do you? Young jackanapes! You’re as much use as tits on a bull. Didn’t I tell you to leave it?” He stabs his finger at the air with each word.
    Enough is enough. I yell at him, “ Vieux imb é cile ! ”
    He is so angry he doesn’t hear me, just goes on letting off steam like one of those whistling kettles. I walk back to the house, pretending I’m as deaf as he is.
    I see him go into the bedroom and guess he and Grandma are changing after their swim. He’s not mad now. He’s laughing. His voice comes through the wall. “You know what? He called me a silly old fool, in French.”
    She laughs too, very loudly.
    I’ve had enough of their craziness. I go back to the beach to talk to Lissy.
    Â 

Day three. Seven days to go. Grandpa and Will have got over being mad with each other about the tree, but I haven’t stopped feeling sorry for Will. He was only trying to do a good job. It’s amazing that a little kid of eleven can cut down a branch nearly as big as a whole tree. “You did well, poo-face,” I told him, and he said, “Thanks, slime-brain.”
    We should be used to odd things happening in this place, but day three starts with a different kind of strange. Yesterday, it was the bellbird chorus that woke us, this morning it’s folk music somewhere outside the house, and at first I don’t know who’s making it.
    You get to know people’s voices by the way they talk. When they sing, it’s a different sound. So it’s a while before I work out that our grandparents are having a duet in the backyard. When I open the door I see them over by the stream. They’re in their pyjamas, sitting in those funny old metal deck chairs, playing their guitars and singing a song about a Spanish captain who had a lady in every port. And you know something? It’s awesome. They can really play, like proper musicians. Grandpa flicks his fingers through the strings and rattles them on the wood. Grandma picks the melody. Their voices are a bit whispery but the song still carries right into the house. Will joins me in the doorway. It’s very early, the sky is that grey colour before the sun hits it, and there are pillows of mist on the hill. Grandma’s got a blanket around her shoulders. Her walking stick lies across her feet. She sings, “Put your shoes under the bed, the noble lady said, and we’ll dance the night away.”
    I’m not sure if Grandma understands what that means, because if she did, I’m sure she wouldn’t sing it, but her voice is amazing for an old lady. I glance at Will. His mouth is hanging open, like, is this crazy or is it crazy?
    Grandpa sees us and raises his hand.
    Will is in his shorts. I’m still wearing my sweetheart pyjamas with their pattern of flying pigs, and my hair is a mess. We push our feet into sandals and walk over while Grandma does some fancy flamenco chords to announce our arrival. Then they stop playing to talk to us. The bellbirds take over, chiming across the bay.
    â€œWe didn’t mean to wake you up,” says Grandma. “We came away from the house.”
    â€œOh,” says Will. “I thought you always played out here.”
    â€œDidn’t want to disturb you kids,” Grandpa says. “We couldn’t sleep and the gee-tars were all tuned up ready to go-yo-ho.”
    A sandfly lands on my ankle and I slap it. “Sing something else. Please!”
    Grandpa strums a chord. “Name it!”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. “Anything. Whatever.”
    Will says, “Sing something Dad liked when he was little.”
    So that’s when they start “There was an Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly.” Of course I recognise it because Dad used to sing it to me and Will, but I’ve never heard it with guitar accompaniment, lovely