Fantastic Galactic Construction Kit

Sarah-Lee Hope

Description

Christmas isn't the same without his mum, and no present anyone can buy will make him happy again, or so thinks Philip King, until he receives the strangest of gifts in the strangest of ways; then he begins to think that perhaps his mother is still there, looking after him. And perhaps he's right..For readers aged 9 and over

Sujets

• Christmas

Informations

• Publié par: Hawkwood Books
• Date de parution: 06 octobre 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781908577207
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Fantastic Galactic Construction Kit
Sarah Lee Hope
“Philip, you have been left something very unusual, but you are bound by certain instructions herewith - forgive me - you are bound by certain rules. Are you listening?” Philip was all ears, and so was his father. “Well then, here they are:”
Christmas isn’t the same without his mum, and no present anyone can buy will make him happy again, or so thinks Philip King, until he receives the strangest of gifts in the strangest of ways; then he begins to think that perhaps his mother is still there, looking after him.
And perhaps he’s right...
The Fantastic Galactic Construction Kit
by Sarah Lee Hope for Phyllis Amelia and Leonard Text copyright©2010 Sarah Lee Hope
Cover design©Ian M. Purdy

Epub Revised Edition © 2013 compiled with Jutoh
ISBN: 978-1-908577-20-7
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-9555096-8-1
All rights reserved.

Conditions of Sale
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any means
without the permission of the publisher.
Hawkwood Books 2013
An Extra Christmas Present
“Philip?” Mr. King's call must have been a little too quiet. “Merry Christmas, son.”
A voice, or rather a murmur, slipping sleepily through the keyhole. Philip’s father opened the bedroom door gently and took a few moments to gaze at the quaint little tumble of bedclothes, then added, “Christmas morning, Philip.”
Fighting his own sadness, Mr. King feared that Philip was the only child in the country not up and about and full of beans at that special hour.
Philip leaned on his arm, stared at his father and said, “Happy Christmas dad,” but his sleepy voice lacked any joy or expectation.
How this made Mr. King feel is hard to describe, but it was a seriously measurable amount of unhappiness.
“Prezzies and cards await you,” said Mr. King. “Let’s see what there is and then have breakfast together, yes?”
Philip made a half-hearted attempt at a smile which was more than his father had had for almost a year.
Mr. King left the door ajar and went downstairs, doing his best to keep his own spirits up, more for Philip’s sake than his own.
A few minutes later, Philip navigated his way downstairs, rubbing sleep from eyes that were oh so serious and sad. They’d been that way since his mother died a long, long year ago. This was supposed to be a new house and a new start, but Philip hadn’t left the old home behind, carrying it snail-like on his back, slow and heavy. His father did much the same, but he had filled a pillow case with gifts, trying to show his son that love and hope were both still words worth remembering.
They hadn’t even put up a Christmas Tree. They’d shopped around but with so little enthusiasm that in the end Mr. King said, “Shall we leave it this year, Philip?” Philip had nodded and that was that. There was a forlorn space where the tree should have been.
Mr. King busied himself in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Philip came to watch. He recalled his mum doing the same thing a year before. He was only ten, so he could remember being nine quite clearly and saw his mum there in the kitchen, bright and beautiful and forever. Well, forever had lasted just a few more months. The world could change in a moment; that was one thing Philip had learned in his ten years, and not always for the better.
“It doesn’t feel like Christmas dad,” he said.
“I know Phil, but it is. Mum wouldn’t want us to be unhappy, would she?”
Philip didn’t know what his mum would want. It didn’t really matter now, did it? And he was unhappy, whether she wanted it or not. They were invited out to lunch at his aunt’s house, and his dad said that would cheer them up, but Philip didn’t think it would. He said he’d prefer to stay at home and invite Sam round, but his father said they couldn’t change plans, not without upsetting the entire family, and Sam had his own Christmas Day arrangements.
Sam was Philip’s one new friend. They’d met and liked each other straight away, but it was early days. Moving to a new house in a new area with half a family isn’t easy, and Philip wasn’t in the best shape to make new friends, but Sam seemed to like him and he liked Sam.
They sat down to cereal, scrambled eggs on toast and a piping hot cup of tea. Even Mr. King, who would never make a celebrity chef, couldn’t foul up such a simple meal.
“Awake yet?” he asked. Philip nodded. “Still have bad dreams?” Philip nodded again. “They’ll go, in time,” said Mr. King reassuringly, but Philip wondered if they would ever go. He was so deep down sad that he thought it was stuck to his bones.
Telephone tones cut through the quiet. Philip picked it up.
“Happy Christmas Philip.”
“Hello Sam. Same to you.”
Sam was excited about his presents, desperate to describe each of them to Philip who listened as if he was a million miles away, happy for his friend but feeling that Christmas was for others now, not for him. When Sam asked him what he’d got, Philip mumbled his answers. He would have swapped all his gifts and cards to hear his mum’s voice once more and to have her arms around him. His heart wasn’t on the holiday at all. He really didn’t know where it was.
Sam told him that Nancy had called. She’d sounded half fed up and half irritated. Her parents were just about the stingiest couple on Earth. They never bought her anything, not even a tree, which made Philip a little uncomfortable because they didn’t have one either, but he and his dad didn’t have a tree for different reasons so maybe that was okay. Sam was off to church soon and then to family, just like him, so they’d meet up the next day, Boxing Day.
He helped his father tidy up then got washed and dressed and switched on the television to pass away an hour before they left for their family Christmas Dinner. Normally there were holiday cartoons or wintry films or carol concerts on Christmas morning. What he’d never seen was a message directed at him scrolling up the screen repeatedly:
‘Happy Christmas Philip!
Check the letterbox!’
It rolled around about five times before Philip called out, “Dad!”
His father poked his head around the corner from the kitchen but as he did so the scrolling message stopped and Bing Crosby appeared singing White Christmas.
“What is it, Philip?”
“There was something on the television, dad!”
This was hardly sensational so Mr. King smiled and went back into the kitchen. The message immediately reappeared:
‘Happy Christmas Philip King!
Check the letterbox!’
Philip picked up the remote and changed channels about ten times. The message remained until his father came in, at which point it vanished, almost on purpose.
“I saw something on the television dad!” said Philip.
This wasn’t exciting news either but Mr. King loved his son so much he could never tell him off or criticise him so he smiled and squeezed Philip’s shoulder in affection.
“It was a message dad!” said Philip. “For me! It told me to check the letterbox.”
“Well check it then, but there’s no post on Christmas Day Philip, you know that.”
Philip darted out to the letterbox with a little of his old bouncy self. He came back holding an official looking brown envelope.
Mr. King blinked.
“Must have missed it yesterday,” he said. “Strange. Couldn’t have arrived today Philip. This isn’t a joke, is it son?”
“No dad! The television told me to look!”
“Just as well you did then,” said his father, a little worried at his son’s behaviour. “Better open it, don’t you think?”
Philip broke the seal, studying the envelope intently.
“Well?”
Philip didn’t seem to be able to make sense of what he was reading.
“May I?” asked his father.
Philip gave his father the letter. It was full of impressively long words.
“It’s from a solicitor, Philip.”
“What's that?”
“A lawyer. Someone you shouldn't have anything to do with at ten years of age. Let's see.”
Philip's father read the letter in silence.
“Am I in trouble?” asked Philip.
“No ... for a change.”
“But…”
“I’m joking,” said Mr. King. “You’re the best of boys, Phil. It seems that you've got an extra present.” Philip looked puzzled. “Someone's left you something in their will.” Philip looked even more mystified. “A will is a list of things you leave for people when... well, you know. Rather mysterious. Doesn’t say who or what it is, just that we have to go and see these people as soon as possible. 'Angels, 999 Purley Way'.”
Philip took the letter and read it three times. It was a funny letter to receive, especially on Christmas Day. Any letter on Christmas Day was funny, funny peculiar not funny ha ha.
“We’ll contact them next week,” said Mr. King, “when they’re open again after the holidays.”
Philip held the letter in his hands but he was looking at the television which was still on in the background and displaying another message:
‘Open Christmas Day!’
He stared at the scrolling line for a few seconds then jumped up and pointed at the TV with a sudden outburst of enthusiasm. Mr. King turned to look, but all he saw was Bing Crosby again, still in full flow.
“We can go today!” said Philip. “They’re open. I know they are!”
“How do you know?” asked Mr. King.
“I just do, dad. Try, please!”
Mr. King sighed, picked up the phone and dialled.
“Angels. Can we help?”
Mr. King was so sure he’d get either no answer or a machine that he was completely flummoxed.
“Oh. Right. Oh.”
“Mr. King?”
“Yes. How...?”
“We thought you’d call. Is Philip there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Are you able to come in today?”
“Today? But ...”
“Yes, yes, we know. We shan’t keep you long and we’re closing tomorrow for three weeks, so if you could possibly pop along...?”
Mr. King was totally bamboozled. Nothing was open at Christmas, least of all solicitors, but he still agreed. It was too intriguing to make excuses.
Philip was equally bamboozled, but also excited because an astonishing thought had occurred to him: who of everyone in the whole wide world would have left him something in their will? And why do it by making his tel