Emily's Penny Dreadful Read Free Page A

called
phosphorus,” said Uncle Raymond.
      “ How did you know?”
said Emily.
    “ Writers know a lot of
things,” said Uncle Raymond. “That’s our job. And if we don’t know
them, we find them out. Sometimes we even make them up. All writers
are liars and thieves,” he added, “although I prefer to call our
stealing ‘creative borrowing’. It’s a
    more accurate term.”
      “ You really
shouldn’t be talking so much,” said
    Emily. “You’re interrupting my story.”
      “ Fair’s fair,” said
Uncle Raymond. “You did ask.”
      “ Did you know that
phosphorus was once called ‘The Devil’s Element’? ” Emily
said.
      “ No, I didn’t know
that.”
      “ Neither did I, not
until they told us,” said Emily. “It used to be white before they
changed it to red. The white phosphorus was very dangerous. In the
really old days, kids my age worked in match factories. They had to
dip matchsticks into the Devil’s Element and lots of them got sick
and died. I had nightmares because of that,” she said. “Real
nightmares, not the sort of nightmares you get about things that
aren’t real. I don’t mind those. Anyway, we learnt all about
matches and when I got home I wanted to try lighting one for
myself. No one dared me, or anything.”
      “ And what happened
was that you burnt your dress.”
      Emily nodded. “My favourite dress,” she said. “I had a real
nightmare about that as well. How did your fire start?” she
asked.
    Uncle Raymond stood up
rather quickly and went to
    the window. Emily was relieved to see her
chair was
    still in one piece.
      “ That was a
nightmare, too, except a wide-awake one.”
    Uncle Raymond paused,
remembering. “It, too, was an accident although it had nothing to
do with matches or saggy middle wires.”
      “ Did you lose your
computer?” said Emily. “Where you write your stories
on?”
    “ It was all toast, computer
included. I shall very likely never write another word.”
      That came as a shock
to Emily. Never write another word! Never, ever again. She couldn’t
imagine a life without words and writing.
      “ Why
not?”
      “ Because everything
went up in the flames,” Uncle Raymond replied, “not only the
computer. My notes, my drafts, my rough workings, my
works-in-progress, my back-up disks. Everything.” 
    “ Mum saves things online,”
Emily said. “In the cloud. I’m not sure what that means. You could
ask Mum about the cloud.”
      “ It’s too late for
that now,” said Uncle Raymond.
    “ And burnt data is of no
use to man or beast.”
      “ Like burnt toast?”
said Emily.
      “ Like burnt toast,”
Uncle Raymond agreed. “Fire’s favourite breakfast.”
      “ Don’t you have any ideas left in your head ?” Emily asked. “That wasn’t
burnt.”
      “ It was,
metaphorically,” said Uncle Raymond. “My head is bereft of ideas.
Empty.”
      “ Mine’s always full
of them,” said Emily. “You could have some of my ideas.”
      “ That would be
stealing.”
      “ Creative borrowing,
that’s what you called it.”
      “ Perhaps,” said
Uncle Raymond. “It’s very generous of you, but . . .”
      “ I’m not just
precocious,” said Emily.
      “ .
. . but of no use,” Uncle Raymond went on. “A writer also has
to do something
with ideas. The doing something part of writing is, I fear, now beyond me. I
toyed with the idea of writing about the fire because it sometimes
helps to try and write things better, but it was no use. I
couldn’t. I can’t.”
    “ Maybe if you got another
computer,” said Emily. “If you sold your Penny Dreadful, would you
have
    enough for a new one?”
      “ I think so,” said
Uncle Raymond. “However, our
    insurance will eventually provide us with a
new house and a new computer. So I won’t have to part with the
Penny Dreadful just yet.”
      “ Then you’ll be able
to write again,” said Emily. “Soon.”
      “ Time will tell,”
said Uncle