Worry Warts Read online

  Morris Gleitzman grew up in England and came to Australia when he was sixteen. He was a frozen chicken thawer, sugar mill rolling stock unhooker, fashion industry trainee, student, department store Santa, TV producer, newspaper columnist and freelance screenwriter. Then in 1985 he wrote a novel for young people. Now he’s one of Australia’s favourite children’s authors.

  Visit Morris at his website:

  www.morrisgleitzman.com

  Other books by Morris Gleitzman

  The Other Facts of Life

  Second Childhood

  Two Weeks with the Queen

  Misery Guts

  Worry Warts

  Puppy Fat

  Blabber Mouth

  Sticky Beak

  Belly Flop

  Water Wings

  Bumface

  Gift of the Gab

  Wicked! (with Paul Jennings)

  Toad Rage

  Self Helpless

  Deadly (with Paul Jennings)

  Adults Only

  Toad Heaven

  Boy Overboard

  Teacher s Pet

  Toad Away

  Girl Underground

  Worm Story

  Once

  Aristotle s Nostril

  Doubting Thomas

  Give Peas a Chance

  Then

  Toad Surprise

  Grace

  MORRIS

  GLEITZMAN

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Piper edition published 1991 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  First Pan edition published 1996 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  This edition published 2001 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Piper edition reprinted 1991, 1992 (twice), 1993 (twice), 1994, 1995 Pan edition reprinted 1997, 1998, 2000 (twice), 2001, 2002, 2004, 2007, 2010

  Copyright © Gleitzman McCaul Pty Ltd 1991

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Gleitzman, Morris, 1953-

  Worry warts.

  ISBN 978 0 330 27246 9.

  1. Title.

  A823.3

  Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Worry Warts

  Morris Gleitzman

  Adobe eReader format

  978-1-74262-008-4

  EPub format

  978-1-74262-009-1

  Mobipocket format

  978-1-74262-010-7

  Online format

  978-1-74262-011-4

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  For Chris, Sophie and Ben

  1

  The trouble with tropical paradises, thought Keith as he sprinted out of the school building, is that everyone’s too relaxed.

  He swerved to avoid a year-four kid strolling along sucking a mango, leaped over a group of year threes sprawled under the palm trees swapping shells, and glanced at his watch.

  Sixteen minutes past three.

  Only two hours and forty-nine minutes left.

  Thanks a lot, Mr Gerlach, thought Keith bitterly. There ought to be a law against teachers being that relaxed. Yakking on for thirteen minutes after the bell. Couldn’t he see when a person’s guts were in knots because a person was running out of time?

  Keith hurtled out of the school gate, skidded to avoid a year-five kid trying to crack a coconut with a recorder, and sprinted along the dusty street towards the shops. He glanced at his watch again.

  Two hours and forty-eight minutes left.

  Would it be enough?

  He felt the knot tightening in his guts.

  Calm down, he thought. I’ll be OK as long as Mrs Newman in the post office doesn’t start yakking on about her grandson.

  Mrs Newman in the post office started yakking on about her grandson.

  ‘Only seventeen months old,’ she said to Keith, ‘and he can say prawn.’

  Pick up the savings book, thought Keith. Pick it up.

  Mrs Newman picked up Keith’s savings book from the counter.

  ‘Gee,’ she said, looking at the withdrawal slip, ‘thirty-eight dollars. Are you sure you want to take all that out in one go?’

  No, thought Keith, I want a one-cent coin every Friday for the next fourteen thousand years.

  ‘Yes,’ said Keith. ‘And I’m in a bit of a hurry, thanks.’

  He glanced up at the post office clock.

  Two hours and forty-one minutes left.

  ‘That only leaves one dollar and twenty-seven cents in your account,’ said Mrs Newman.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Keith.

  ‘Must be for something important, thirty-eight dollars,’ said Mrs Newman.

  ‘It is,’ said Keith.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said, ‘cause it’d be a shame to take out thirty-eight dollars and just fritter it away.’

  ‘Mrs Newman,’ said Keith, ‘I had to peel seven hundred and sixty potatoes to earn that money. I’m not going to fritter away seven hundred and sixty potatoes.’

  Mrs Newman smiled and started writing slowly in his savings book.

  Keith looked up at the clock again. Two hours and forty minutes left.

  Mrs Newman stopped writing.

  Oh no, thought Keith. Please don’t ask me how I’m liking Australia. Not again. I haven’t got time.

  ‘How are you liking Australia?’ asked Mrs Newman.

  ‘Fine thanks,’ said Keith, making a mental note to write to the council and ask when Orchid Cove would be getting an automatic teller machine.

  Mrs Newman wrote a couple more numbers, then stopped and looked up again. ‘Tell your mum and dad I’m sorry I couldn’t get in for my fish and chips yesterday, but Gail had to get her feet done and I had Shaun and Alex so we had baked beans. How are your mum’s feet?’

  ‘Fine thanks,’ said Keith, sighing.

  ‘The trouble with North Queensland,’ said Mrs Newman, ‘is that your feet swell up.’

  The trouble with North Queensland, thought Keith, is that everyone’s too friendly.

  He glanced at his watch.

  Two hours and thirty-nine minutes left.

  No need to panic, he thought. I’ll be OK as long as there’s
not a queue in the hardware store.

  Keith stood in the queue in the hardware store and started to panic.

  Two hours and thirty-two minutes left.

  He was running out of time.

  Relax, he told himself. It’s only a short queue, just Gary Murdoch and his dad. They can’t need that much hardware cause they only moved into their new house three weeks ago.

  ‘Tap washers,’ said Mr Murdoch to the assistant. ‘You wouldn’t credit it. Brand new place, all the taps are dripping.’

  Keith’s heart sank. Gary had been boasting all week in class about how his new house had twenty-seven taps. This could take ages.

  ‘How many?’ asked the assistant.

  Mr Murdoch started counting in his head.

  ‘Twenty-seven,’ said Keith.

  Gary and Mr Murdoch both turned round.

  ‘G’day Keith,’ said Gary. ‘Dad, this is Keith Shipley, the kid I was telling you about.’

  ‘G’day,’ said Mr Murdoch, looking down at Keith with a grin. ‘You’re the bloke dragged his parents out here from Pommyland to cheer ’em up, right?’

  ‘I didn’t drag them,’ said Keith, ‘they agreed to come.’

  ‘Only after you burnt half the street down but, eh?’ said Gary.

  ‘It was just one fish-and-chip shop and it was an accident,’ said Keith, hoping the dripping tap in Gary Murdoch’s ensuite bathroom flooded his bedroom and made his Walkman go rusty.

  ‘Has it worked?’ asked Mr Murdoch. ‘Have they cheered up?’

  ‘Actually,’ said Keith, ‘if you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘There,’ said the assistant, scooping a pile of washers into a bag, ‘twenty-seven.’

  Mr Murdoch ignored him. He looked hard at Keith. ‘Bowls,’ he said. ‘Get ’em to join the bowls club, that’ll cheer ’em up. And if they’re having a house built, tell ’em to watch the taps.’

  The trouble with tropical paradises, thought Keith, glancing at his watch, is that everyone’s too helpful.

  Keith sprinted out of the hardware store, paint cans thumping together in his school bag.

  The clock on the war memorial across the street said eight minutes past eleven. Keith stared. Then he remembered it had been wrong ever since a coconut had hit it in the cyclone.

  He looked at his watch. Nineteen minutes to four. Two hours and twenty-four minutes left.

  He should just make it.

  As long as Mum and Dad didn’t see him.

  Keith decided he’d better not risk going too close to the shop so he ran across the road, through the fringe of palm trees and onto the beach. He ran along the soft sand, trying to look like a tourist out for a jog with a couple of tins of paint in a school bag.

  He glanced through the palm trees at the shop.

  Mum and Dad were both behind the counter but neither of them was looking in his direction. They were looking at each other. Dad was saying something to Mum, pointing at her with a piece of fish, and Mum was saying something back, waving the chip scoop at him.

  Even at that distance, Keith could see that Dad’s mouth was droopier than a palm frond and that Mum’s forehead had more furrows in it than wet sand when the sea was a bit choppy.

  Keith’s stomach knotted even tighter.

  Another argument.

  Poor things. Stuck in a fish-and-chip shop all day in this heat. Anyone’d get a bit irritable standing over a fryer all day with this poxy sun pounding down nonstop.

  The trouble with tropical paradises, thought Keith as he ran on along the beach, is that there’s too much good weather.

  He went back up to the road and crossed it at the spot where the bus from the airport had dropped them four months earlier.

  He remembered Mum and Dad’s faces, aglow with huge smiles as they saw Orchid Cove for the first time.

  All they need is a bit of cheering up again, thought Keith as he sprinted towards the house. Which is exactly what they’ll get when they arrive home in two hours and twenty-one minutes.

  2

  Keith looked at his watch. Forty-seven minutes left and he’d almost finished.

  Not bad going, he thought, considering it’s the first time I’ve ever painted a car.

  He crouched down to do a bit he’d missed at the bottom of a wheel arch, and noticed that one of the back tyres was a bit flat.

  Stands to reason, he thought. Sitting out here in front of the house for weeks without being driven.

  While he did around the numberplate he tried to remember the last Sunday they’d gone for a drive. Was it the time they went down to Mission Beach and Dad dropped his ice cream and they all had a good laugh and then Mum got a migraine? Or was it the day they went to the crocodile farm and Mum insisted on having lunch in the cafe there and Dad spent two hours in the public dunny with the trots?

  Keith couldn’t remember.

  Anyway, he thought as he finished off the exhaust pipe, it was before Mum took up Sunday bushwalking and Dad took up Sunday crosswords. Which hadn’t fooled Keith for a moment. He knew exactly why Mum and Dad didn’t want to go out for Sunday drives anymore.

  They were embarrassed.

  Embarrassed to be seen driving around in an off-white 1979 Toyota Corolla with rust spots when Gary Murdoch’s dad had a bright red 1990 Mercedes with speed stripes and chrome wheels.

  Well you won’t have to be embarrassed anymore, thought Keith.

  He put a second coat on the dent Mum had made in the passenger door the day she flung it open and hit a steel girder.

  Keith shuddered as he remembered that day.

  They’d been parked in the drive-in bottle department. Mum and Dad had been arguing about which beer to buy.

  The trouble with tropical paradises, thought Keith as he put a third coat on the dent, is that there are too many brands of beer.

  ‘Jeez.’

  Keith turned at the sound of the familiar voice.

  Tracy stood there looking at the car.

  ‘It’s a bit bright but,’ she said.

  That’s a good one, thought Keith, coming from a girl with a luminous orange and purple skateboard. And pink patches on her face where the brown was peeling off.

  ‘It’s a wedding anniversary present for my mum and dad,’ he said.

  ‘Hope you got them sunglasses as well,’ said Tracy.

  A twinge of panic hit Keith under the ribs. Perhaps it was a bit bright. The Tropical Mango Gloss he’d painted the shop in England with had been a bit bright and they hadn’t liked that at first.

  Relax, he told himself, this is different. Mum and Dad were misery guts then. Now they’re cheerful adventurous globetrotters who are just feeling the heat a bit. Don’t be a worry wart.

  The panic went as he remembered how Dad had stared enviously the first time Mr Murdoch had driven past in his bright red Mercedes.

  ‘Do they know about it?’ asked Tracy.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ he said.

  ‘It’ll be a surprise alright,’ said Tracy, ‘when they find they’ve got the only green car with yellow stripes in the whole of Far North Queensland.’

  ‘It’s not green and yellow,’ said Keith, ‘it’s Tropical Parrot and Hot Sunflower. And they’re speed stripes.’

  ‘Gary Murdoch’s dad’ll chuck his guts with envy when he sees that,’ said Tracy, grinning at him.

  Keith grinned back. Good old Tracy. You could trust a mate to say the right thing.

  ‘What made you choose green and yellow?’ asked Tracy.

  ‘I wanted it to be Mum and Dad’s favourite colours,’ said Keith, ‘so I checked out their wardrobe. Mum’s got three separate things that are green-and-yellow stripes, and Dad’s got a yellow shirt and green socks.’

  ‘Jeez, you’re a clever bugger,’ said Tracy.

  Keith glowed. When some kids said that they were sending you up, but when Tracy said it you knew she meant it.

  ‘Is this why you nicked off after school without hanging around for softball?’ s
he asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Keith. ‘I was on a tight deadline. I only had the idea in art. Had to make sure I got it finished before Mum and Dad got home from the shop.’

  ‘They don’t get home for another forty minutes,’ said Tracy.

  ‘Thirty-nine,’ said Keith, ‘thirty-eight if they walk fast.’

  ‘Jeez, you’re a worry wart,’ said Tracy, grinning at him again.

  He asked her whether she thought he should do the bumper bars to disguise the dent where Dad had backed into a concrete post in the Cairns car park the day Mum had bought her green-and-yellow striped swimmers.

  Tracy said she reckoned he should leave them in case his mum bought some more expensive clothes and his dad backed into something else, which would only chip the paint.

  Keith agreed.

  ‘Gotta go now,’ said Tracy, ‘gotta help clean out the chooks. See you down the beach later?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Keith.

  He didn’t want to be more definite because there was always the chance that when Mum and Dad saw the paint job they’d want Keith to leap straight into the car with them and drive up to Port Douglas and have a pizza in the outdoor restaurant under the fairy lights where they’d all clink their glasses together, or their metal containers if they were having milkshakes, and toast their happiness together for ever and ever.

  One minute to go.

  Keith did a final check. Camera. Anniversary card. Ribbon.

  He hoped Mum and Dad wouldn’t mind about the ribbon. He hadn’t been able to find one long enough to go round a car. The clothes line looked OK anyway, even if the bow was a bit floppy.

  The anniversary card looked great, standing on the bonnet. Now it was painted you couldn’t see it was made from bits of Chiko Roll boxes. The Hot Sunflower Happy Wedding Anniversary stood out really well against the Tropical Parrot.

  He checked round the car for drips.

  Hardly any.

  It had really paid off, using quick-drying plastic paint. Much better than the gloss stuff he’d used on the shop in England, which had taken a week to dry just cause there’d been a bit of rain.