Damien Exton – Fiction

“Last night Dad, I dreamt I was a robot.”

Well, this is a new one, I thought. “Is that right, Sprout? And how did that go?” I asked him, amused. Sprout was the name my wife and I had given him pretty much from day one. It was rare we called him anything else.

“Well, I was twelve feet tall and made of titanium. And I had two heads,” he added as if in afterthought. 

“Normal people were scared when I first walked down the street,” he continued, “but when I helped an old man cross a busy road, they could see I meant them no harm,” he said as he played with tonight’s tea – mashed potatoes, beans and chicken nuggets. 

“Well that was a nice thing you did. You sounded like a nice robot,” I encouraged, looking at him, amazed as usual at how golden his hair was. I hoped it wouldn’t darken as he grew older like mine had. 

“Yep. I tried to be,” he said, sounding nonchalant and matter of fact while sculpting a face in his mashed potatoes. 

“Then what?” I asked, relishing a chance at a peak into his fertile mind. 

“Well then Dad, aliens flew down and viaducted the old man,” he said, before shovelling two chicken nuggets dipped in baked bean juice into his mouth. 

That confused me for a second or two, and then I caught up. “Ab-ducted, Sprout. Aliens Abducted him,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant and matter of fact myself. But the big old dollop of affection in my sternum made it a bit difficult. 

“Ahhh, OK,” he said, nodding, looking happy the puzzle pieces had fallen into place. “Do you think they do, Dad? Aliens… Do you think they do, abduct us?” he said, trying on the strange word like a new pair of trainers. 

“Honestly Sprout, I’m not sure,” I answered him honestly, pondering the question, “but if they do, they sure do seem to pick the oddballs,” I said, making my eyes cross and sticking my tongue out and to the side as if I’d gone loopy, which made him giggle. “And what happened next?” I was genuinely intrigued. 

“I flew up into the air with the booster engines I had in my feet, and I chased them to their planet. I rescued the old man, but I didn’t hurt the aliens Dad, I promise,” he pleaded, making his case. 

“That’s good Sprout, that’s really good.” I was proud that he wanted to reassure me that he’d been a friendly robot. 

“Yes, and I made friends with the aliens and the galaxy lived happily ever after.” He sounded pleased he’d brought the universe to a satisfactory, peaceful conclusion. 

“Finish your potatoes,” I said with a grin. “It’s Apple crumble for dessert.”

****

“Close your eyes Dad,” he said, after a minute’s deep thought spent pushing his food round on the plate. 

“What’s that, Sprout?” 

“Close your eyes!” He was brimming with excited energy. 

“Why, what you up to?” I asked, looking at him with hooded eyes, feigning suspicion.

“Dad! Just do it, pleeeeease!” he begged. Oh boy. This was shaping up to be a biggie.

“Okay.” I did as instructed but grabbed a chip to eat too. Tonight’s tea was chips, sausage and egg. 

“But Dad, keep them closed til I say!” he ordered with even more excitement. 

“Got it,” I confirmed back, playing along. 

“Right. Last night Dad, I dreamt I waaaassssss… Okay, you can open them now!” he said eagerly, sounding fit to burst. 

I opened my eyes, quite excited to see what he’d been building up to, and not knowing at all what to expect. It really could have been anything. 

“A VAMPIRE!” he yelled. He had his two sausages inserted beneath his upper lip like fangs, his arms held high with hands and fingers clawed as if ready to pounce. “I vont to bite your your neck, MWA-HA-HAAAAA!” he boomed, in his effort at a Dracula-esque, Transylvanian accent, which made me chuckle. At the end of his vampire laugh his sausage-fangs dropped from his mouth and onto the table with a Flub-Bub sound. “Ahhhh no!” he said, sounding genuinely wounded.

“That’s ok mate, five second rule.”

“Yes!” he said triumphantly before gobbling up a sausage. His heartbreak instantly a thing of the past. I envied him that more than I could ever express.

“If I was a vampire Dad, I wouldn’t really bite you.”

“No?” I was relieved that I’d be safe in my bed tonight.

“Definitely not,” he said conclusively, “who wants to bite their dad’s neck? Ewwwwww!” He wrinkled his nose up, as if he’d just tasted something sour.

“Dad,” he said, after a short time.

“Yes mate?”

“Why are vampires so naive?” 

“No idea, Sprout. Why are vampires so naive?” I asked, teeing it up for him.

“Because they’re born suckers. Yes!” he said, raising a triumphant fist in the air like he’d scored a goal.

“Haha, good one.” Yep, not a bad one at all.

“Cheers Pops,” he said, sounding about fifty years old. “What’s for afters tonight anyway?” He loved calling desserts ‘afters’ for some reason, though I thought he’d probably grow out of it. But it was another thing I hoped he wouldn’t.

“Well tonight, we’re having a vampire’s favourite dessert,” I answered back, setting one up for myself.

“A vampire’s favourite dessert?” He sounded genuinely confused.

“Mmm-hmmm. Neck-tarines! Oh yes!” I yelled with glee. Happy to have scored a late equaliser.

“Daaaaad!” he groaned. But he laughed all the same.

*****

“You know last night Dad, I sneezed in my sleep, and I blew our house to bits,” he said casually while twirling his spaghetti around his fork. I’d made my favourite for tea – spag bol minus the mushrooms; he thinks they’re like dead slugs. I love them, but I do know where he’s coming from. He loves the spaghetti though; he thinks it’s like eating a plateful of wriggly worms, and that’s acceptable, apparently. But slugs, not so much. 

“Oh no Sprout. We’re homeless then!” I replied, doing my best to sound wounded at our turn of bad fortune. 

“Well course not, silly! I got a goblin to help me rebuild the house before you woke up,” he said, just a second before slurping up a long worm of spaghetti. I noticed it was longer than he expected, and he needed to pause and take a breath in the middle of the procedure. The spaghetti eventually whipped away into his mouth and left bloody sauce evidence of its devouring on his cheek. I didn’t tell him it was there. It looked appropriate for the meal, and also kind of funny. 

“Oh good. Phew!” I wanted him to know I was glad our housing crisis was resolved, and I mock-wiped imaginary sweat from my brow to emphasise my relief. 

“Yep, it was a good result. And it was the least the goblin could do. He’d tickled my nose while I slept and he made me do the sneeze in the first place, you see. So he owed me.”

“Ah, right,” I replied, appreciating the full disclosure of our near-on destruction of the family homestead. 

“So, he said – Mr Bobby Goblin, that is – he said that he tickled my nose because he thought I was a sleeping kitten.”

I almost choked a little on my spaghetti worms at that point. I’d never heard of a goblin called Bobby. How sheltered a life I’d led. 

“So, the goblin was called Bobby, was he?”

“He was, yes. Well, Robert. But he insisted I call him Bobby. He said his goblin friends all call him that. And I was now his friend, because he’d tickled my nose and made me sneeze. So I should call him Bobby too,” he expanded for me, bringing me up to speed. Which I appreciated. 

“Ah, excellent!”

“Very.”

“But, Sprout,” I had concerns and had to ask now, before the information was lost forever – “why did Bobby Goblin think you were a kitten?”

“Well Dad,” here we go, I thought, hearing him use my favourite tone of voice of his; the one that makes me feel like the inquisitive child in the proceedings, needing the obvious explained to me.

“Bobby Goblin wasn’t wearing his glasses last night. He’d put them down after watching the football on television. And then he couldn’t find them again. Daft or what?” He scoffed at the silliness of his new goblin friend. I’ve always been grateful he’s got that knack of easily making friends, even goblin folk. Another golden gift he’s gotten from his mum. 

“Tsk. Silly goblin,” I tutted. 

“Very. He’s good at building houses though. So I let him off.”

“That was very fair of you Sprout. Very fair indeed.”

“I think so. Dad?”

“Yes son?”

“Do we sneeze when we sleep? Only, I can’t remember if I ever have or not.” He got me with that one. Another simple yet compounding interrogation that I didn’t have a conclusive answer for. 

“I’m honestly not sure Sprout. What do you think?”

“I don’t think we do. ‘Cos it would make my pillow all snotty. And I wouldn’t want that.”

“Eww, no. Me neither. Seeing as I have to wash your bedding,” I said back with a wink before tackling a long spaghetti trial of my own. 

“Anyway,” I said after conquering the spaghetti-worm fight, “finish your worms. It’s snotty toffee pudding for afters,” I teased. I knew he liked to be grossed out. 

“Snotty toffee pudding; with pus-tard?” he was quick-minded tonight. 

“Well of course with pustard. How else would we have our snotty toffee pudding?”

“Brilliant,” he replied back while rubbing his tummy, indicating he was stuffed. But I was certain he’d have room in there for our gross dessert. 

*****

“No dreams last night then Sprout?” I asked, realising while we ate our Lasagne and salad with garlic bread that he’d not mentioned. And I really did enjoy hearing about his adventures.

“No Dad. Last night I slept like a log, all night.” There was no indication as to whether that was a disappointment for him or not.

“Ah well, that’s good too Sprout. You need a good night’s sleep sometimes.”.

“Yeah, I guess… Dad, do logs actually sleep? Is that what they’re all doing? Sleeping?”

“Well, I’m sure most people would answer no, they’re not. But I try not to be too cynical and keep an open mind. So, yeah, maybe they are,” I replied, genuinely not wanting to impede his fervent imagination.

“Cool!” For a second, I could see the cogs turn as if he were creating a world in his head where the logs were indeed all asleep and ready to wake up any moment.

“Dad, what’s cynical?” I had to tread delicately here I thought, not wanting to influence him with my grown-up way of looking at things. He didn’t need that at the magical age he was.

“Well Sprout, I’d say it’s someone who needs proof that something is what it’s claimed to be before they can believe it,” was my best effort at summing it up. Really it was a concept I’d never actually looked into the definition of.

“Soooo, a grumpy person then?” he answered back, razor-sharp.

“Errrrm… Yeah. They’re big old grumpy grumps,” I said to him conspiratorially, making us both laugh. 

“Am I cynical Dad?”

“You are definitely not cynical Sprout,” I said back, hoping I’d have lots more years like this before he lost this golden sheen that comes with a young wide-open mind.

“So then, grumpy old Dad,” he said cheekily with his rapscallion grin, “what’s for afters tonight?”

“Tonight Sprout it’s—” I teased, drumming my hands on the table like a snare roll building up to the big announcement, “ICE CREAM!”

“Ice cream? No, I SCREAM!,” he yelled back.

“No, I SCREEEAAAM!” I shouted back slightly louder in our customary ice cream call and response.

“Nooooo,” he yelled back, even louder than I had, ready to bring it to a crescendo, “I SCREAM LOOOOUUUDEST!” He made his face turn red with the effort of his scream and we both fell about laughing, rounding things off with a high five.

“I hope I dream I’m a log tonight, Dad,” he said later, while we were putting away the dishes.

“Me too Sprout. Me too.”

*****

“Last night, Dad, I dreamt I was a scientist,” he said through a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.

“You could be a scientist Sprout.” I always tried to be encouraging.

“I could?” he asked in wonderment.

“Course you could. But you’d have to study hard at school and get good exams. But yep, you could be a scientist.”

“Maybe I will then Dad. Maybe I will…” He considered the prospect for a few moments, as if he could do it just like that, if only he chose to.

“And what happened in your dream as a scientist?” I asked, ready to hear where this one went.

“Oh yeah, so, I invented a time machine!” he said, obviously impressed with his scientific prowess, and looking, at that moment, so much like his mother.

“Nice!” I complemented.

“I know! Anyway, I used my new time machine to travel back to the age of the dinosaurs!” he said ‘dinosaurs’ in a slightly primordial voice that was his way of conveying the age of dinosaurs. It was as good as any, I thought.

“And what did you do in the age of the dinosaurs?” I needed to know more.

“Well, I knew the dinosaurs were going to get wiped out by a big naughty asteroid, but they didn’t know that. So, I had to convince them. But really, I only had to convince the T-Rex. He was in charge of all the dinosaurs, ‘cos he was the biggest and scariest.”

“Of course he was.”

“Of course. But big Mr T-Rex wouldn’t believe me. He just wanted to eat me! ‘Please don’t eat me Mr T-Rex,’ I said, ‘I’m just trying to help you!’ It wasn’t until I pulled out a newspaper and showed him the news headlines from the future– ‘DI-NO-Where To Run!’ it said, above a big picture of the flaming asteroid as it was about to hit the earth and the dinosaurs on their heads! And then he believed me.” I witnessed him go through a tour of scared, amazed and ultimately, content.

“I was worried they might eat me, but I had to save them, Dad!” he implored.

“Of course you did Sprout, that’s what a good scientist would do,” I replied, wanting to encourage his thoughts of an academic life, which I was sure he had the brains for.

“Dad”

“Yes mate?”

“Is that what scientists do? Save people?” I noticed he asked that with a touch of trepidation in his voice.

“Yeah, I think so. Among other things. But yes, I think they do. They invent things. New ways of helping people,” I replied, trying to sound even and factual.

“Well…” he started talking and then stopped, looking apprehensive and unsure if he should say what he was thinking of saying.

“What’s up, Sprout? You can tell me,” I said, worried now that he did have something on his mind that he was scared to say or ask me. I wanted him to know he could tell me anything.

“If I was a scientist Dad…” he paused again, as if standing on a cliff edge statement.

“Okay?” I prompted him delicately, letting him know I was ready to hear what was on his mind if he wanted to say it.

“Could I have invented a way to save Mum?” he asked, with the biggest, most vulnerable eyes I could ever imagine seeing. And they pierced my heart when he looked at me then.

“Hm-hm; Well Sprout,” I said, trying to clear my ever-tightening throat; pausing and giving myself a little room to breathe, “I’m not too sure. But if anyone could have, I think it would’ve been you. And I bet your mum knew that too,” I said, wrestling out the words with an aching jaw and fat heavy tears in my eyes.

“Anyway,” I said, sniffing and trying to sound composed, “finish your pizza, it’s trifle for afters.”

“Wicked! Trifle! My favourite!” he said, buzzing again with the prospect of his favourite dessert. 

He really did look like his mum when he smiled like that. And I hoped he would never grow out of it.