Gift of the Gab Read Online Free Page A

tight.
    How did he know about Dermot’s car?
    Then I saw the empty trailer, still caked with bits of rotten apple, sitting in the corner of the paddock.
    Of course. Mr Lorenzini must have told him.
    I looked anxiously up at Dad.
    â€˜Good one, Tonto,’ he said proudly, grinning down at me.
    I gaped at him. I almost asked him to say it again with his hands in case the blower had damaged my eardrums.
    â€˜That’ll teach Dermot Figgis to mock the memory of a fine woman,’ continued Dad. ‘I’ve rung Mrs Figgis and told her that if Dermot’s got a problem with what you did, he can come out here and I’ll hose his car out myself. Then I’ll do his mouth.’
    I sagged against Dad’s chest, dizzy with relief.
    â€˜And I rang Sergeant Cleary, too,’ Dad went on, ‘and told him that next time he decides to lock you up, I want to know pronto. I asked him why he hadn’t rung me, but he wouldn’t say. Just kept saying it didn’t matter cause he’d already released you. I reckon he’s a ratbag.’
    I grinned into Dad’s shirt.
    â€˜Here,’ said Dad, stepping back and rummaging in his pocket, ‘I want you to have this to help you pass the time if you find yourself in the slammer again.’
    He pulled out his hanky and unwrapped something silver and shiny.
    It was a mouth-organ.
    Dad blew a few notes and handed it over.
    â€˜It was my grandfather’s,’ he said. ‘His mates sent it home after he was killed in the war.’
    Then Dad launched into a Carla Tamworth song about a bloke sitting in jail waiting for his sweetheart to turn up so he can prove he didn’t murder her. She turns up eight years later because it’s taken her that long to finish the tunnel she’s dug to rescue him.
    I tried to play bits of the tune, but I didn’t do a very good job. It’s not easy, playing a harmonica when your throat’s all lumpy with happiness.
    Has any kid in the history of the world had such a completely and totally top dad?
    No way.
    The rest of the day was perfect.
    Well, almost.
    Me and Dad and Claire cooked a fantastic dinner. Claire put chopped onion in the apple fritters and they tasted better than they ever have in my whole life.
    Claire was great the whole evening. It’s only her second anniversary of Mum, and these occasions can be pretty tough for a new wife.
    She handled it brilliantly, even when Dad got a bit carried away and went on about what a great talker Mum was. He told the story about the time he invented an apple-polishing machine and his dad’s pit bull terrier fell in and its face got polished so much it lost most of its fierce looks and Mum persuaded the local RSPCA officers not to prosecute Dad even though Grandad really wanted them to.
    â€˜She won ’em over just with words,’ said Dad, misty-eyed. ‘Didn’t need to use beer or apple pies or anything, the Gab didn’t.’
    Mum’s family name was Gable before she was married, and because she was so good at stringing words together, Dad used to call her ‘the Gab’.
    â€˜That must be where Ro gets being such a great talker from,’ said Claire, smiling at me. ‘The gift of the Gab!’
    That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me with their mouth. I’m making my pillow damp now, just thinking about it.
    I reckon Mum would be glad that Dad’s got a top person like Claire for a new wife. And a top baby like Erin for a new daughter. She’d reckon he deserves to be happy.
    And I agree with her.
    Which is why I’m so worried about the phone call this evening.
    Dad answered it, and when he’d hung up he turned to us, his face alarmed and a bit disbelieving like he’d just heard someone had invented a tractor that could fly.
    â€˜That TV mob that was at the ceremony this morning,’ he said, ‘they want to film me tomorrow for their show.’
    Claire