ISBN 9781856356787
Dead Hairy
Debbie Thomas
Illustrated by Stella Macdonald
Mercier Press, Cork

1: Stuck
Squashy Grandma lunged for her knickers. They slid with a sigh down the back of the radiator. ‘Blast!’ she tried to say. But it came out as ‘Vast!’ That was because, as she reached over, her false teeth fell out.
Abbie looked up. Everyone knew Squashy’s knickers were vast. Why bother announcing it? ‘What’s the matter, Grandma?’ she said, putting her book down.
‘My feef!’
Abbie went over and peered behind the radiator. The teeth grinned up from their flowery knicker nest. ‘Dad,’ she said, ‘Grandma’s lost her teeth. And her marbles,’ she muttered.
‘Marbles,’ echoed Dad from behind the paper, ‘a truly ancient game …’
Abbie rolled her eyes. Here we go, she thought.
‘… played two thousand years ago by Julius Caesar …’
Hello? Earth calling History Nerd.
‘… who also – interesting fact –’
I doubt that.
‘… used to pluck out his body hair with tweezers.’
‘Dad –’
At last he put the paper down. ‘What?’
‘Grandma’s teeth are stuck.’ Not that there was any point explaining. When it came to practical problems Dad was less use than earwax.
He came over to the radiator. He peered down the back. He rubbed his bald patch. He did his pretend-to-scratch-your-lip-while-picking-your-nose trick.
‘Abbie,’ he said, ‘get the Hoover.’
‘You what?’
He did his don’t-argue-with-me word jiggle. ‘The Hoover, Abbie. Get.’
Shaking her head, Abbie went into the hall and wheeled out the Hoover from the cupboard under the stairs. She dragged it by the neck into the sitting-room like a dog on a lead. Dad pointed the tube down the back of the radiator. He switched it on. Nothing.
‘Try plugging it in, Dad.’
The Hoover growled into life. The teeth chatted to the wall.
‘Oofeff!’ Squashy Grandma got as close to snapping as anyone without teeth can get.
‘Not useless, Mother,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sure it’ll loosen them.’
It did. The teeth flew up from their flowery folds. They lodged in the mouth of the vacuum tube.
Dad turned the Hoover off. He shook the tube. The teeth were stuck. He tugged his beard. ‘Get the phone book, Abbie.’
‘But –’
‘Abbie. The phone book. Get.’
Abbie went back into the hall. She knew the numbers of the plumber, electrician and carpenter off by heart. But the Yellow Pages had no Vacuum Cleaner False Teeth Removal man. Between Vehicle Testing and Video Repairs, however, she saw a small advert.
Wobbly widgets? Drooping drains?
Dad less use than earwax?
Call the VERY ODD JOB Man.
075–1345593
Abbie had no idea what widgets were, or how drains could droop, but it sounded promising. She dialled the number.
‘Hello. This is Matt Platt,’ said a recorded message. ‘Please leave your number and I’ll c-call you back.’
‘This is Abigail Hartley at 25 Mill Street. There’s a problem with our Hoover. I’ll try again later.’ Better keep it vague. She didn’t want to put him off.
Back in the sitting-room Grandma was kicking the Hoover. ‘Foopid foow,’ she spluttered at Dad.
Stupid fool yourself, thought Abbie, gazing at Squashy. Fancy putting your knickers out to dry in the sitting-room – in full view! What she said, though, was, ‘Poor Grandma.’
Dad grabbed the nozzle and tried to jiggle the teeth out, swearing quietly. Abbie had seen enough. She headed for the kitchen.
It was empty. Perfect. She crept over to the biscuit barrel and stuffed two Bourbons up each sleeve. Then she ran upstairs. She slipped into her bedroom and shut the door. Well, she called it shutting.
‘Abigail, don’t slam!’ shouted Mum from her room across the landing. ‘I’ve got a headache.’
Abbie sat down on her bed and eased a biscuit out of a sleeve. She stuffed it into her mouth. Then she took a pocket tape recorder from her bedside table and switched it on.
‘GRUMPY GRAN IN HOOVER HELL,’ she said into the microphone. ‘Squashy Hartley had it coming when she leaned over the radiator to rescue her gigantic pants. The seventy-two-year-old’s false tee–’
‘Why are you talking to yourself?’ Abbie’s little brother slid his caramel curls round the bedroom door.
Abbie shoved the tape recorder under her duvet. ‘I’ll talk to you if you like. Bog off, Ollie.’
‘Will you play with me?’ he said.
‘OK. Grrraaaggh!’ Abbie dived for him. Ollie burst into tears and ran into Mum’s room. Abbie counted under her breath, ‘One, two, three and – wait for it –’
‘Abigail! Here. Now,’ came Mum’s weary voice.
Abbie slunk across the landing. Mum was in bed propped up by pillows. Headache or no, she still looked freshly ironed. Her nightie was smooth. Her lipstick gleamed. Her hair, sleek as custard, hugged her face in a bob. Bob – the perfect name for a perfect style. Abbie liked to think of it as a separate person, smart and fussy.
‘Hi Mum,’ she said brightly. ‘You’ll never guess. Grandma’s teeth are stuck in the Hoover.’
Mum did her don’t-try-to-distract-me sigh. ‘What is it with you, Abigail? Why do you have to make your brother cry?’
Abbie shrugged. She didn’t have to, she wanted to. Try explaining that to Mum. Try telling her that sometimes it felt good to see his cutie wutie five-year-old face crumple like a crisp bag. And sometimes it felt good to hear his lispy wispy voice wail like a wolf. Abbie didn’t feel good that it felt good – but it still felt good.
‘I only wanted you to play,’ Ollie sobbed.
‘I did,’ said Abbie. ‘I was a being a monster.’
Ollie howled. His curls burrowed into Mum’s shoulder like worms into earth.
‘Darling,’ said Mum, stroking his head.
Dung beetle, thought Abbie. What she said, though, was, ‘Sorry Ollie.’
‘That’s better,’ said Mum. Abbie got up. A Bourbon dropped onto the bed.
‘Abigail. Who said you could – ?’ The doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it.’ Abbie hurtled gratefully downstairs.
***
Outside the front door, Matt Platt stepped back. ‘You do the talking, Perdita,’ he whispered to his daughter. He nudged her forward. Chitchat wasn’t his thing. He’d just fix the Hoover. It shouldn’t take long. Just as well. He’d already spent half the morning rescuing a lizard from a liquidiser and he had to get home before lunch. Back to his experiment. Because, unless it worked, his darling wife, his precious Coriander, might never come back.
Matt rubbed a dirty finger over his teeth. Ten weeks and three days since Coriander had left – and not so much as a phone call! OK, he’d argued horribly with her. But surely she’d forgiven him by now. It was so unlike his wife to sulk. What if she was … No! Don’t even think that. He clutched his right plait. He had to hold on to hope.
But if she wasn’t … then where on earth was she?
***
Coriander leaned on her broom. It felt like a dream, sweeping the floor of this stuffy little room. For the millionth time she prayed she was dreaming. But when she pinched her arm it felt horribly real. ‘Ow!’
A tear trickled down her cheek. What would Matt and Perdita be doing now? Matt might be inventing some gadget to rescue snails from lawn mowers. Perdita might be trimming the bushes in her gardening trousers. The ones from Tibet made of yak hair. With the hole in the right knee that Coriander had meant to fix … that she might never fix now. Another tear wriggled out.
No! Don’t even think that. She clutched her left plait. She had to hold on to hope.

2: Rescue
The first thing Abbie noticed when she opened the door was teeth. Big friendly ones, grinning out from big friendly gums.
The second thing was the girl wrapped round them. She had two black plaits that reached her elbows and eyes that glowed like Marmite.
The third thing was the man behind her. He had two black plaits that reached his shoulders and thick glasses. He was clutching a tatty rucksack and rubbing a finger over his own tremendous teeth.
The girl strode forward. ‘Perdita Platt.’ She grabbed Abbie’s hand and pumped it like a piston. ‘This –’ she flung her arm back, whacking the man in the stomach, ‘is my dad, Matt. And this –’ she nodded at the number on the front door, ‘is 25 Mill Street. So you –’ she jabbed Abbie’s shoulder, ‘must be Abigail Hartley. I like your curls Abigail Hartley. They make your head dance. And your freckles. I’ve always wanted freckles.’ Abbie opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Dad came up behind Abbie and stuck his head around the door. ‘Can I help you?’
Perdita frowned. ‘I thought we’d come to help you.’
Dad frowned back.
‘The Hoover,’ said Perdita.
‘The Hoo …’ he echoed in a stupid way. Then he slapped his head. ‘Oh right! Do come in.’

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