But he couldn’t think of anything. His mind was a blank.
Then he noticed the dish full of blue paint.
He dipped his finger into it and started to write on his forehead. It wasn’t easy, because the little mirror on the kitchen table he was using made everything look back to front. But with great difficulty he managed to write a couple of words on his forehead. Gertrud wasn’t watching him. She was staring out of the window.
Eventually, he was ready. He saw that he had spelt one word wrongly, but it wasn’t possible to change it. It would have to do.
Gertrud was still staring out of the window. Joel could tell by the back of her neck that she was still sad.
The back of your neck can look sad, not just your face.
‘Gertrud,’ he said tentatively, as if he was afraid she would become happy too quickly.
She didn’t hear him.
‘Gertrud,’ he said again, a bit louder this time.
She slowly turned round to look at him. It was a few seconds before she could read what he had written on his forehead.
‘GERTRUD HAPPY,’ it should have said.
But he had spelt it wrongly.
What it actually said was: ‘GERRUD HAPPY.’
‘I got it a bit wrong,’ he said. ‘But it’s not easy to write backwards.’
Gertrud was still looking serious. Joel hoped he hadn’t made a mess of it.
He was just going to wipe the words off his forehead with the palm of his hand when that grim, blue face in front of him suddenly lit up and her white teeth shone through all the blue.
‘I was only thinking,’ she said. ‘Now I’m happy again.’
Joel couldn’t help but smile broadly himself. The urge came from deep down inside him. Even though he was keeping his mouth tightly closed, he had started smiling.
Sometimes happiness just welled up inside you. Keeping your mouth tightly closed could do nothing to stop it.
‘I’d better be going home now,’ he said.
Gertrud moistened a towel and wiped his forehead clean.
Joel closed his eyes and thought about Mummy Jenny’s dress hanging at the back of Samuel’s wardrobe.
Sometimes Gertrud had real mummy-hands.
Then he walked back home. It wasn’t quite so hard to cope with the miracle any longer. He knew now what to do. He needed to think up some good deed or other that wouldn’t take too long to do. Then he might be able to forget about that confounded bus. And about Eklund, who was good at shooting bears but wasn’t careful enough when driving his bus.
Joel hurried up to the railway bridge. When he reached the other side, he paused and looked up at the stars.
But he didn’t see a dog.
He wondered why Gertrud had become sad.
There again, it wasn’t really surprising. Who wouldn’t be sad if they didn’t have a nose?
Or perhaps Gertrud was sad because she wasn’t married and didn’t have any children?
Joel put his hands in his pockets and started to trudge home.
He could think more about Gertrud and her blue face tomorrow morning. Right now he needed to think about a good deed he could do.
And also think about what to say if Samuel asked him what he and Eva-Lisa had been doing all evening...
4
After school next day Joel paid a visit to Simon Windstorm. It was raining, and he was in a bad mood because he hadn’t been able to think of a good deed.
Why was it so difficult?
He’d started thinking about it that morning when Samuel had shaken him by the shoulder and urged him to hurry up and get dressed or he’d be late for school. There hadn’t been much time for thinking the night before. When he got back home from Gertrud’s, he found that his father had spread out one of his old sea charts on the kitchen table. He was using his chubby index finger to retrace the voyages he’d made years ago.
Joel felt pleased when he entered the kitchen. When his dad was studying sea charts, he was always in a good mood. That meant he would be keen to tell stories about his life as a seafarer. The pair of them would pore over the chart and relive the voyages.
Besides, Samuel never asked what Joel had been doing at Eva-Lisa’s all evening. That was also good.
‘The ship’s due to sail in a couple of minutes,’ said Samuel as Joel came into the kitchen.
Joel hurried to take off his boots and jacket. Then he settled down on the wooden chair opposite Samuel, who was sitting on the kitchen bench.
‘You were very nearly left behind,’ said Samuel, pretending to be stern.
The game had started. The serious game.
‘Are you Joel Gustafson?’ asked Samuel. ‘The new galley hand?’
‘Yes,’ said Joel.
‘Yes, Captain,’ said Samuel.
‘Yes, Captain!’ said Joel.
Then they set off. The mooring cables were cast off, the propeller started rotating, the sailors and deckhands scurried back and forth, the mates and bosuns barked out orders, and Captain Samuel Gustafson stood on the bridge, keeping an eye on everything.
Samuel had never been more than an able seaman, but when he went on a voyage with Joel he was always the captain.
‘What’s the name of the ship?’ Joel asked.
Samuel peered at him over his glasses.
‘Today we’re sailing on the Celestine,’ he said. ‘The finest ship of them all. But I’ve installed an engine in her, so that we can go faster.’
Joel glanced at the ship in its showcase beside the cooker.
He thought he could hear a creaking sound in the walls of the kitchen. As if the house were the ship that was slowly turning round in the dock and aiming her bows at the open sea.
Samuel placed his index finger on a spot on the sea chart.
‘Scarborough Fair,’ he said. ‘Now we’re leaving this dump.’
‘What’s our cargo?’ Joel wondered.
‘Wild horses,’ said Samuel. ‘And iron ore. And some mysterious crates — only the captain knows what’s inside them.’
This is going to be a good voyage, Joel realised. Mysterious crates were the most exciting cargo you could possibly have. Only when you’d crossed over the ocean and reached the port you were heading for would you discover what was inside the crates.
‘We’ll pass to the north of the Orkneys,’ said Samuel, running his finger over the chart. ‘We’ll have to keep a lookout for icebergs. If we run into a westerly gale we might be forced up as far as Iceland. But what the crew needs right now is a bowl of soup to warm them up.’
Joel saw that Samuel had put a saucepan on the stove. He produced two deep dishes and served up the soup.
Samuel had made the soup from the remains of a leg of beef.
‘Turtle soup,’ he said.
As they ate the house heaved like a ship in a storm. The severe gale forced them as far north as the Icelandic coast: the high cliffs could just be made out through the raging and boiling waves. One member of the crew fell overboard, but they managed to fish him out of the water and haul him back on deck. Silent, majestic icebergs drifted past, the wild horses were neighing and kicking in the cages below deck. And all the time, Samuel was explaining what was happening. The raging of the storm, and the stillness afterwards. The flickering of sea-fire during the nights. Meeting other ships, and the enormous whales spouting in the distance. Eventually, early one morning, they glimpsed the coast of Newfoundland, and were able to change course for Philadelphia. There they were met by a tug, and soon they were moored by the quay.
Samuel leaned back on the kitchen bench and straightened his back.
‘A good voyage,’ he said. ‘But things could have turned out nasty for the deckhand who fell overboard.’