The Great Blue Yonder Read online

  CONTENTS

  1 - The Desk

  2 - The Other Lands

  3 - To The Land of the Living

  4 - Back Down

  5 - School

  6 - The Peg

  7 - In Class

  8 - Jelly

  9 - The Cinema

  10 - Home

  11 - Upstairs

  12 - Eggy

  13 - The Great Blue Yonder

  The Desk

  People seem to think it’s an easy life when you’re dead. But you can take it from me, it’s no such thing.

  For a start, grown-ups keep coming up to you and saying, ‘Oi, you! You’re young to be on your own, aren’t you? Are you looking for your mum?’

  And when you say, ‘No. She’s still alive, I died before she did,’ they say, ‘Tut-tut, that’s not so good then,’ as if there was something you could do about it to change everything, and that it was your fault you weren’t still breathing.

  In fact they seem to think that you’ve even gone and pushed in or something, and pinched someone else’s place in the queue.

  The way people seem to see it here ‘over on the other side’ as Arthur likes to call it (I’ll tell you about Arthur in a minute) is that everything’s done according to age and experience – just like at home.

  I call it ‘home’ anyway. Arthur calls it ‘the side’. He says that being alive must be ‘the side’ or else being dead couldn’t be on ‘the other side’. Well, that’s what he says, though it doesn’t make much sense to me.

  How it seems to work is that you’re supposed to have a good long life, and then when you get to be really old, you just sort of fade away and die of nothing in particular. And Arthur says that the best way to do it is to die in bed with your boots on. But I can’t quite see what you’d be doing in bed with your boots on – unless you were too ill to take them off. But even then, you’d think that someone would take them off for you. And all I know is that if I’d ever gone to bed with my boots on, my mum would have had fifty fits. Sixty fits, maybe. Probably even a hundred fits.

  But that’s only how it’s supposed to work. In practice, it doesn’t really work like that at all. Because the truth is that people can die at all sorts of ages – young like me, old like grandads, or in between, like lots of other people. But if you turn up at the Desk (I’ll tell you about the Desk in a minute) and you look like you’ve gone and died before you were really supposed to, there’s all hell to pay. (Not that there really is a hell. Or if there is, I haven’t found it yet. As far as I can see, being dead is mostly paperwork.)

  So first you die, and then you find yourself in this long queue, and you have to wait your turn to register. And there’s a man behind this big desk and he peers down at you through this thick pair of glasses.

  ‘What do you want?’ he says. ‘What’s a young lad like you doing here? You can’t possibly have had a full life yet. What’s your game then? You’ve got no business coming here. You should be out on your bike or something.’

  And then you say, ‘I was on my bike,’ or however it happened. And he peers at you through his thick spectacles again and says, ‘You should watch where you’re going then and be more careful.’

  And even when you tell him that you were watching where you were going and you were being careful and it wasn’t your fault at all, you still don’t get any sympathy.

  ‘You weren’t due up here,’ he says, ‘for another seventy-two years! You’ll play havoc with the computer, you will, getting here before your time. And I’ve only just got the hang of it. It was all pen and ink and ledgers before, and that was bad enough. I’ve half a mind to send you back.’

  But when you say, ‘OK, fine by me, I wouldn’t mind going back, if you can get that lorry off me,’ because you’ve probably got a lot of unfinished things to do back at home, like homework and stuff, he just looks sad then and says, ‘I’m sorry, son, I can’t do it. I only wish I could, but I can’t. There’s no going back, you see, not once it’s happened. Once it’s done, it’s done, and that’s it. You only get the one go. Sorry.’

  So he fills in the forms then and types your name into the computer. And then he gives you a little information sheet about the place – not that it really tells you much. It just says Other Lands – Way in. It doesn’t mention a way out. Then there’s an arrow with a bubble attached which says You are here. Then there’s another arrow with another bubble which says To the Great Blue Yonder. And that’s about it.

  The Other Lands are a curious place. They’re a bit like the saying that something’s ‘neither here nor there’. And that’s just where they seem to be. They’re not exactly here and they’re not exactly there either. But you know they’re definitely somewhere, only you couldn’t quite put your finger on it or find them on a map. It’s a hard thing to describe, really, a bit like trying to explain to someone what it feels like when your leg’s gone to sleep. Words don’t do it justice somehow. You need to experience it for yourself to know what it really means.

  There’s lots of trees though, and paths and long lanes and corners and faraway fields. And every now and then there’s a signpost like a big finger, saying This way to the Great Blue Yonder and there’s always people heading off in that direction, towards the distant sunset.

  But although the sun is always setting, it never quite does disappear. It just hangs there, almost as if time is suspended, like a canopy in the sky. So it’s always a glorious colour there, all yellows and reds and golds and long shadows. It’s like summer and autumn all rolled into one, with a dash of spring for good measure, and hardly any winter at all.

  So that’s it. There’s no real introduction or anything, not like when you first go to school. You just get your information leaflet with the arrow on it pointing to the Great Blue Yonder, and you’re more or less on your own. But you don’t get lonely because everyone’s really friendly and nice to you. Arthur says that this is because we’re all in the same boat – dead. (Which is the opposite of a lifeboat, I suppose.)

  You get the impression, as you walk about the Other Lands, that most people don’t really know what they’re doing being dead – just the same as a lot of people in the world didn’t know what they were doing being alive. And they go around saying, ‘What’s the meaning of it all? What’s the meaning of being dead?’ Just the same way that they used to go around saying, ‘What’s the meaning of life?’ and writing books on it. Though it’s too late to write books on it now.

  When I used to ask my dad questions like this, back when I was alive, he’d just shrug and say, ‘Don’t worry about it, matey, we’ll find out when we’re dead.’

  But he was wrong. Because you don’t find out when you’re dead. Because here I am, as dead as half a dozen dodos, totally extinct, and I still haven’t got a clue why I’m here or what’s really going on. So take it from me, if you’re expecting to find out what the meaning of life is once you’re dead, you’re in for a big disappointment.

  Nobody here seems to have a clue what’s going on – same as at home. Some people reckon that they’ll get to be alive again after a while. I don’t know if they will or not. Personally, I have my doubts. And they’ve forgotten so much about what it was like that they say, ‘We’ll understand what it’s all about when we’re alive again.’

  But I don’t think they will.

  That’s one thing about it all, I think that when you’ve been dead for a long time, your memory starts to go. I think that must be true because I saw old Mrs Gramley the other morning – who used to live across the street from us – and I went up to say hello to her and to ask her how she was getting on. But she didn’t even remember me.

  ‘It’s Harry,’ I said, ‘from over the street. Don’t you remembe
r? You used to take me out in my pram sometimes when I was a baby. And when I started crying, you’d say it was wind, even when it wasn’t. Then when I got older, you’d give me chocolate buttons for being good and I wasn’t to tell anyone about it. Harry, remember? With the sister. My dad worked for Telecom and my mum did part-time at the council.’

  But she just looked at me for a while and said, ‘I’m sorry, love, I have a vague sort of recollection, but I don’t think I know you. Not for sure.’

  And she went off with her arm stretched out behind her, as if pulling her shopping trolley along, just as she always did. Only there was no trolley there, except in her imagination. I suppose it was a sort of phantom trolley for her really, a ghostly memory of a trolley, all full of imaginary bargains and two for the price of one.

  When she’d gone, I remembered that she’d died over five years ago. Well, someone can change a lot in five years and I probably looked nothing like I did the last time we’d met.

  But all the same, I was a bit disappointed that she hadn’t remembered me. It’s not nice when people forget you. You feel like you’re disappearing.

  I found a few people who remembered me though: Mr Barnes, Mr and Mrs Gooter, Lesley Brigg and Aunty Mabe.

  Aunty Mabe was very surprised to see me.

  ‘What are you doing here, Harry?’ she said. ‘Where’s your mum and dad? Shouldn’t they have got here first? And why haven’t you grown up properly?’

  ‘I was in a bit of trouble,’ I said. ‘I had a spot of bother. This accident on my bike. Me and a lorry.’

  ‘Oh, good gracious!’ she said. ‘I hope it didn’t hurt.’

  And funnily enough you know, it hadn’t. Not a bit. I’d been going along, trying to be careful, not racing or being stupid or mucking about or anything like that, when suddenly this lorry appeared from nowhere.

  And the next thing I knew – I was here. But it didn’t hurt at all. I didn’t know a thing. It was like clicking your fingers or turning off the light. One second you’re there, next second you’ve gone. On and off, just like that.

  Odd, really. Very odd. something of a disappearing trick.

  I’ll tell you something though – as you’re probably wondering – and that’s what happens to the babies here. Because, I mean, here I am, and if you could see me, you’d think to yourself, ‘Well, now how old is he? Somewhere between ten and twelve, I’d say. Maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less. He could either be a very tall nine or a very short thirteen. But it’s plain that he can get around on his own. But what about babies? How do they manage?’

  Well, the fact is there’s always someone here willing to lend a helping hand if you can’t quite cope on your own. Nobody’s just abandoned. There’s always someone who’ll give you a carry and take you along to where you have to go.

  It’s all very difficult to describe, really. You’d have to be dead yourself to fully understand it. And that would be a bit drastic. I wouldn’t go to those lengths. Not if I were you. I mean, there’s no hurry to get here, is there? It’s not as if you’re missing something.

  So anyway. There I am, dead. One moment I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, next minute, I’ve got my whole death ahead of me. And how long was that going to go on? I mean, what was I supposed to do to fill the time? A bit of colouring–in? Or try and get up a game of football? Or what?

  So I go back to the Desk and I ask the man behind the computer terminal there.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Will I be dead long?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ he says. ‘Do you have an urgent appointment? Have you got somewhere else to go?’

  ‘Well,’ I explain, ‘we had booked a trip to Legoland.’

  ‘Tough luck,’ he tells me.

  ‘Are you dead as well then?’ I ask him. ‘Are you the Grim Reaper? Is that you then – Mr Grim?’

  He looks up at me and grunts.

  ‘I’m dead, all right,’ he says. ‘Dead tired of answering stupid questions. Now buzz off and don’t annoy me, I’m busy here.’

  He was too, as there was a long queue of people waiting to sign in. I saw a few dogs and cats among them as well. I suppose they must have passed on with their owners. Maybe other animals, like cows and sheep, had their own Other Lands to go to – the Baa-Moo-Quack-Snort-Grunt Lands or something. I wasn’t very pleased though, at not getting a proper answer.

  ‘Can’t you tell me how long I’ll be dead for?’ I ask. ‘I could be hanging around twiddling my thumbs for ever. What am I supposed to do with myself? It doesn’t seem very well organized here. In fact, this is all a bit of a dead loss.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ the man says, giving a shrug. ‘It’s a dead loss all right. That just about describes it,’ and he went back to his computer terminal, carrying on as if he were really different and important. Though as far as I could tell, he was as dead as the rest of us.

  But I could see he wasn’t going to give me an answer no matter how long I stood there. So I walked off again, wondering what to do, and that was when I heard a voice call out, ‘Hello there, maybe I can help you.’

  And that was how I met Arthur.

  He was from another time, was Arthur. He wasn’t dressed in modern clothes, but in old-fashioned ones. He looked like one of those boys out of those stories like Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens and all that.

  Funnily enough, you seem to get to take your clothes with you when you die. And they never get dirty, either. They’re always brand spanking clean, like you’ve only just put them on. But are they clothes, I used to wonder, or just the memory of clothes? Same as you haven’t really got a body any more, just a memory of a body. And that’s maybe all we really are, all us dead people, just a whole lot of memories, all walking about.

  Arthur’s clothes still managed to look pretty scruffy though, even if they were spotless. And they were certainly pretty ragged and patched all over with odd bits and pieces. And he wore a hat – which is very unusual for a boy. I don’t mean a baseball cap, but a proper big top hat, like undertakers wear in the drawings of old funerals. And that’s what Arthur was – or used to be – or still is – or whatever tense is right. It gets very confusing, being dead. All your ‘wases’ and ‘ises’ and ‘used to bes’ don’t really seem to apply any more, and you don’t know your ‘ares’ from your ‘weres’.

  Anyway, Arthur must have been a good hundred and fifty years old as the crow flies, I reckon, but he didn’t show his age a bit. He was pretty agile and very good at somersaults, and he had this neat trick where he used to stand on his head with his top hat still on. He used to look like some kind of little Santa Claus then, stuck head first down a chimney. Only when I said this to Arthur, he looked at me, a bit blank, and said, ‘Who’s Santa Claus?’ like he’d never heard of him.

  It turned out that Arthur had been exactly the same age as me when he’d died, all those years ago. But he hadn’t aged a day since. Time’s different here in the Other Lands – people don’t get any older. They stay at the age they were when they died. I don’t even know if time passes at all here, not like it did back at home.

  When I asked Arthur if he’d been knocked over by a lorry as well, he said no, he’d died of some kind of fever. He said children his age were always dying of fevers back in the olden times, and that if you kept your eyes peeled you’d see loads of boys and girls about, walking around in old-fashioned costumes, and they were all dead of fevers, just like him.

  I asked him if it hurt a lot, dying of fevers, and he said it did a bit to start with, but once it got really bad, you sort of passed out cold, and the next thing you knew you were dead. And that was it. And you didn’t have the fevers any more.

  So I asked him then how he came to have his top hat with him. Because why would he be wearing his top hat if he was lying in bed with the fevers? But he said that he wasn’t in bed. He was sleeping in the stable with the horse. And I said what horse was that? And he said it was the undertaker’s horse. And so I asked him then why he wasn’t wearing
any pyjamas. And he said that back in those days horses didn’t wear pyjamas. So I said, no, no, I mean why weren’t you wearing pyjamas, when you were ill with the fevers. And Arthur said that just like the horse, he didn’t have any pyjamas either. The only clothes he had were the ones I could see him standing up in, and he had to keep his hat on because of the draughts. The ones in the stable, that was.

  He seemed to get annoyed with me then for asking so many questions and we nearly had a bit of a row about it. But it soon fizzled out, and I must admit that it did seem pretty daft having an argument with a dead person. So me and Arthur made it up and promised not to quarrel.

  I asked him then why he’d been sleeping in the stable, and he said that’s how it was for some children in those days, a stable was the best you got. And I thought that must have been a bit rough. Because when we went on holiday once, I had to share a bed with my sister, and that was bad enough. But sharing a bed with a horse must be even worse. Though then again, if I had to choose between spending the night with my sister and spending the night with a horse, I might well choose the horse, because I couldn’t see it snoring as much as she did, even if it did whinny a bit. And it certainly couldn’t have made worse smells. At least that’s my opinion.

  So I told Arthur this, and asked him what he thought, but he said that not having met my sister, he wouldn’t care to speculate on that matter, and that if you couldn’t say anything good about people, you maybe shouldn’t say anything at all.

  I said to Arthur then that if he waited long enough, he probably would get to meet my sister, because she’d be bound to die eventually, same as everyone else, and then he’d be able to decide for himself. He pointed out though that she might be an old woman by then. And that made me feel very strange, to think of my sister being an old, old lady, and me still a boy, and us meeting again one day, and feeling awkward, and not really knowing what to say.

  Talking about dead people, I asked Arthur where his mum and dad were, but he said he’d never been able to find them, though he’d looked for years. The trouble was that his mum had died in childbirth, and so he’d never really known her. He said a lot of mothers died while having babies back in those days.