Forgetting Foster - Dianne Touchell (Extract)

7/25/2019 Forgetting Foster - Dianne Touchell (Extract)

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dianne

touchell

F I C T I O N

Cover design:Ruth Grner

ISBN: 978-1-76011-079-6

9 7 8 1 7 6 0 1 1 0 7 9 6

Praise for Dianne Touchells A SMALL MADNESS :

An incredibly intense and powerful book,

the sort to be devoured in a single sitting.

Books + Publ i sh ing

A pin-sharp and triumphant portrait

of a family in adversity.

SCOT GARDNER

Foster suddenlyrecognisedthe thing that rolled over him

and made him feel sick. It wasthis:Dad was going away somewhere allon his own.

And Foster was already missing him.

Foster Sumner is seven years old. He likes

toy soldiers, tadpole hunting, going to school and thebeach. Best of all, he likes listening to his dads stories.

But then Fosters dad starts forgetting things.No one is too worried at first. Foster and Dad

giggle about it. But the forgetting gets worse.And suddenly no one is laughing

anymore.

A heartbreaking story aboutwhat it meansto forget and to beforgotten.


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The paper in this book is FSC certified.FSC promotes environmentally responsible,

socially beneficial and economically viable

management of the worlds forests.

First published by Allen & Unwin in 2016

Copyright Dianne Touchell 2016

The moral right of Dianne Touchell to be identified as theauthor of this work has been asserted by her in accordance withthe United Kingdoms Copyright, Designs and Patents Act1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproducedor transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording or by any information storageand retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from

the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968(the Act) allows

a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whicheveris the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution

for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution(or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice

to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin Australia83Alexander Street, Crows Nest NSW 2065, Australia

Phone: (612) 84250100Email: [email protected]: www.allenandunwin.com

Allen & Unwin UKOrmond House, 2627Boswell Street,

London WC1N 3JZ, UKPhone: + 44(0) 20 87855995

Email: [email protected]: www.murdochbooks.co.uk

A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is availablefrom the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (AUS) 9781760110796ISBN (UK) 9781743368992

Teachers notes available from www.allenandunwin.com

Cover and text design by Ruth GrnerSet in 11.5pt Granjon by Ruth Grner

Printed in Australia by McPhersons Printing Group

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2


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1

spontaneous bacon

combust ion

Foster smelled it first. A bitter-hot smell like micro-

wave popcorn popped too long. Except Dad wasnt

making popcorn. Dad was making bacon sandwiches.Foster walked into the kitchen. He could see blue

flames licking the sides of the pan, the shiny white

enamel blackening, long sooty fingers crawling

towards the lip. A soupy gloom of darkening smoke

rolled up and up until it hit the range hood like a solid

mass and spilled into the space above Fosters head. It

formed clouds he could taste.

Dad?

Dad wasnt in the kitchen. You werent supposed to

leave pans on the stove unattended. Thats what Mum

always said.

Dad!


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2

Foster wasnt allowed to touch the stove. He knew

how to turn it off but he didnt want to get told

off. He took a couple of steps forward, arced himself

up onto tippy-toes, and was suddenly and shock-

ingly backhanded by the whooshing heat of the oil in

the pan catching fire. Foster ran from the room as the

smoke morphed into a pillar of bright orange.

Dad!

Foster ran down the hall instinctively slapping

doors ajar until he got to the last room on the left. Dad

was standing at the side of his and Mums bed sorting

socks from the clean laundry pile. He wasnt doing a

very good job.Dad! Bacon! Foster pulled at his dads arm, the

smell of smoke indistinguishable from the stinging

choke of his own panic. It was the smoke alarm

that yanked Dad out of his sock-coma. He ran to

the kitchen, Foster immediately behind him. Foster

pressed himself against the pantry door, the relentless

squawk of the smoke alarm pulling his breath tighter

and faster. Dad clamped the lid on the pan and threw

it in the sink. He grabbed a tea towel and started

flapping it about wildly, throwing open the kitchen

window with such force it skidded out of the track

and cracked as it landed against the frame. Foster


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slid down the pantry door onto the kitchen floor and

squished his ears with his fists. The smoke alarm

kept going and going, Dad finally silencing it by

harpooning it with a broom handle. Then Dad slid

down onto the floor next to Foster.

The wall was black. There were some little blisters

in the paint and mucky grease skid marks down the

front of the stove and cupboards. The smoke alarm

dangled from the ceiling, splinters of plastic littered

around the discarded broom like flower petals. Foster

held Dads hand and their breathing gradually slowed

together.

Mums going to be mad, Foster said.


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4

hole in the head

He could no longer remember the first thing his father

forgot. It came on slowly, his dads forgetting. Like

a spider building its web in a doorway. For a whileFoster could walk straight through it. He felt it cling

to him each time he broke it down, each time he picked

the broken bits of it from his face. But then it would

reappear in the same place, so fine it was impossible to

see unless his eyes were trained on its exact position.

Eventually it was like a veil, this forgetting. He could

no longer break it, only part it to gain a quick peek of

his dad on the other side of his lost stories.

His name was Foster Hirum Wylie Sumner and

he was seven years old. His dad told stories. Lots of

them. At night before bed, while Foster was brushing

his teeth, at the kitchen table, in the car. His dad told


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stories as if they were real, and long after Foster grew

to realise they were just stories, he still craved them.

He often asked for his favourite ones to be repeated.

There are stories in everything, his dad told him.

They are all around you, waiting to be discovered.

You just have to look for them.

On story day at school, when mums and dads

were invited to come to class to read aloud, it was

always his dad who came, even though he had a suit

job. Hardly any dads came. It was mostly mums in

jeans. But his dad would come from work in the

middle of the day carrying a briefcase with a lock

that popped like a dodgy knuckle, and inside wouldbe Fosters favourite books from home. Sometimes

his dad would just make a story up on the spot and

even with no pictures everyone was still and quiet,

his dads voice dusting the room like bow resin, rising

and falling to the rhythm of battle cries, dragons and

triumphant heroes. He would walk the room while

he spoke, using his hands and eyes as punctuation,

circumnavigating the clusters of desks, boys faces

following like awe-struck marionettes. Dad would

always kiss him goodbye afterwards. Foster wasnt

embarrassed. His dad held more authority in that

classroom than the teacher, Mr Ballantyne, for


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His dads laugh was always astonishing, especially

when unexpected. He could crack a hole in the air

with the bigness of it. It trailed off into snorty giggles

before he said, What?

Heard her on the phone, Foster said. Shes on

another diet.

Excuse me, Mum said. Im right here.

Maybe you should play cricket, Mum.

Knowing thy-self, Dad continued, chuckling, is

about being happy inside your own head. It means

not letting other people tell you what stories are right

and what stories are wrong. And its an aphorism that

extends to dieting. Dad leaned across and curled awisp of Mums hair behind her ear.

Foster was pretty sure he knew himself pretty well.

He liked books and toy soldiers and tadpole hunting

and the beach. He liked going to school. He liked the

routine, the unremarkable sameness of school days

with lessons and bells and his best friend Blinky to

eat lunch with. There were things he didnt like.

He didnt like asparagus or the smell of dog food

or prickly grass under his bare feet. He knew these

things as surely as he knew the day his mum had put

fresh sheets on his bed and the moment his dad had a

new story to tell: just by feel. He was unprepared for


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how much a change in someone else could wilt the

pieces of himself he thought he knew best.

Foster sometimes forgot things. Mostly at school

when he was supposed to be remembering. When

remembering mattered most. But he forgot things

other times too. Sometimes he forgot to flush the

toilet or to hang his towel up after a bath. Twice hed

forgotten to return a library book on time. It never

bothered him when he forgot things because the things

eventually came back. Or someone would remind

him. His dad called it having a hole in his head.

Got a hole in your head today, Fossie? Better go

find those library books.Everyone had a hole in their head at some time.

Foster had thought it stayed the same size though. Not

becoming bigger and bigger until even a reminder

could no longer nudge the forgotten thing back into

place.

So it began as only a little worry when his dad

started to forget things. Foster wanted to ask him

about it but he wasnt sure what to say. And once in a

while there would be a small return of the storyteller,

just for a moment in the car or in the bath, and Foster

would think he was being silly and the forgetting had

gone away for good.


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9

spon taneous human

combust ion

Rumour had it that his grandma was the victim of

spontaneous human combustion. Apparently a little

fire started somewhere inside her while she was sittingalone, crocheting squares to be stitched together to

make a blanket. It must have been a little fire initially

because if shed gone up like a torch she would have

taken the whole house with her. She didnt, which his

dad said was just as well because it was the only asset

she had. So this little fire started and ate away at her

with a gentle fierceness, melting her into her mattress,

and leaving behind one foot still immaculately tied

into a brown lace-up brogue. Foster watched his own

limbs carefully after that, and even sniffed himself

occasionally to make sure there were no tendrils of

invisible smoke curling out from his pores. He asked


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his dad why she didnt have time to beat herself

out. His dad speculated that the fire was somehow

magical and impermeable to the quenching effect of

smothering like a normal fire. Grandma had, after all,

kept dragons at the bottom of the garden, and fairies

lived in their scale-creviced hides like pretty fleas. His

dad said the fireflies he sometimes saw weaving about

the apple blossom were actually fairies plaiting the

eyelashes of the dragons so that when they yawned

the ribbon of flame that escaped them wouldnt set

their lashes on fire. So perhaps, his dad said, one of

the dragons that sat at the end of Grandmas bed at

night, protecting her from thieves and bad dreams,had sneezed and accidentally set her alight. It would

have been very quick, like one of those pinwheel

fireworks he loved so much. Grandma would have

spun and spun and spun, faster and faster, and all the

colours of her soul would have flown to the magical

place where dragons rest and fairies weave.

Why was there a foot left behind? Foster asked.

She was spinning so fast it just flew off, his dad

replied. You dont need two feet hen youve earned

wings.

Stop it, Malcolm, his mum said. You know she

was smoking in bed.


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12

people looked at it that he began to feel self-conscious.

Can you take me to school instead of Mum? Foster

asked his dad.

Why?

Kids at school say Mum looks weird, Foster

confessed quietly. They make fun of her.

Do they make fun of her, or do they make fun of

you? Dad asked.

Umm . . .

Mums got a different face because she had an

accident.

I know, Foster said. Tell me the story again, Dad.

His dad put down the book they were sharing, tooka breath that raised his shoulders high and said, Once

upon a time there was a princess imprisoned in a castle

surrounded by a moat filled with giant sea snakes. She

was the most beautiful lady in the kingdom. Knights

came from far and wide and wrote songs about her

and battled the snakes that prevented her escape. But

she was waiting for her prince. She became so sad she

decided to call upon the old magic of her fore fathers.

This was a dangerous thing to do. Old magic was

rarely used because when it gave you power it took

something in return. But she was lonely. A spell was

given to her: the snakes would remain in the moat and


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she could walk from the confines of her prison across

the drawbridge in safety.

Oh yes? his mum said. Foster looked up to see her

standing in the doorway, listening.

Yes! his dad continued. But at the moment she

stepped onto the bank, the moment she gained her

freedom, her face would forever bear the mark of

the snakes she had charmed in order to escape. She

walked slowly across the bridge and hesitated only a

second before placing her toe on free ground. It was

then she felt a great slithering inside her head and all

at once, one side of her face was paralysed. She hid her

face, sure that she would forever be completely alone.Foster could almost feel the cold air shimmying off

the dark water of the moat, clinging to his face.

Then she heard a restless horse approaching

and knew it was her prince. She stood before him,

frightened and ashamed, but he saw in her crooked

face a courage and strength that eclipsed any beauty

he had ever seen. He knelt before her and offered her

his fealty for the rest of her life.

Whats fealty? Foster asked.

Room and board in exchange for laundry and

cooking skills, his mum said. Dad laughed.

What happened to them after that? Foster asked.


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They lived happily ever after, his dad said.

Forever and ever?

Of course.

Oh, for crying out loud, Mum said. But Foster saw

she was smiling.

Foster heard other stories about his mums face.

He overheard conversations that had words in them

he didnt understand. Words like coma and traumatic

injury. He asked his mum what a coma was and she

said it was like being in a prison of sleep, so his dads

story satisfied him and when asked at school about his

mum he repeated it to a wide-eyed audience.

Your mum is not a princess, Blinky said. Youshouldnt tell lies.

Its not a lie, Foster said. Its a story.

Its a stupid story!

Foster wasnt worried when the stories first began

to dwindle because it happened in a creeping-up sort

of way. Dad seemed too distracted to concentrate.

The quiet dinner tables became more and more fre-

quent. Then his mum seemed to catch whatever bug

it was that shushed his dad up. Foster knew that could

happen. Whenever one of them got a cold his mum

would always say, Now itll go through all of us!

with a sort of good-humoured resignation, and she


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was usually right. So when Mum too grew quiet, and

a bit sad, Foster thought, he began to worry about this

thing, whatever it was, going through him too. He

began telling stories to himself, and his toys just a

preventative thing, much like the vitamin C tablets

Mum gave him to prevent colds. They never worked.

Foster had faith in stories though. Whatever changes

were happening in his house and at the dinner table

would surely, eventually, give way to another rollick-

ing tale from his dad that would make his mum laugh

again. So Foster became the dinnertime storyteller

and carefully swallowed the gritty taste of not getting

much response. Not much response at all.


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sui ts and s ympathy

Dad had a job that required a suit and Foster liked

suits. Hed decided that he would wear one when he

grew up. It would be dark coloured and have a crisppleat down the front of each leg. It would feel shiny

to the touch and fit gallantly over a white shirt that

smelled of ironing spray and Dads cologne. At the

kitchen table before work Dad would tuck a serviette

into his collar to make sure no runny egg or milk got

on his tie. Foster liked the way the bright white shirt

cuffs poked out and then retreated from the sleeves

of Dads jacket whenever he reached for the salt or a

piece of toast. Sometimes Dad set his laptop up on the

table next to his bowl or plate and scrolled through

emails while he ate. He looked very important.

Sometimes he worked at night after he got home


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too. After baths and dinner the laptop would appear

again and Dad would tap tap tap away, tiny taps

with the pads of his fingers. Not like the click click

of Mum typing with fingernails that sounded like her

high heels on a wood floor. Foster liked to sit at the

table with Dad and work on a puzzle or read a book,

occasionally glancing at Dads merry fingers or hard-

thinking face. Sometimes he would ask, What are

you doing now, Dad? and Dad would say, Making

money for other people, without looking up.

Foster knew his dad was important without having

to be told how or why. It wasnt just the suits or the

making money for other people. It was the sense thathis dad was relied upon. Not just by him and Mum, but

by lots of people. There were work phone calls at night

and sometimes early in the morning, and Dads voice

was always different during these calls. It was slightly

deeper, his words were fast and hooked together in

such a way that they sounded like the car GPS when

Mum accidentally set it to a foreign language. It was

different to Dads storytelling voice. This work voice

had fewer colours and less movement. Foster found

it a little bit scary. It was straight-edged, a voice that

didnt waste time, a voice with no stories.

Where does the suit voice come from, Dad?


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The what?

That voice thats like a strangers. The one you use

on the phone.

I have a strangers voice on the phone? Is it this

one?More coffee, woman!

Foster jumped, but Mum laughed, standing at the

kitchen sink, her back to them.

I suppose you could call it part of my armour, his

dad continued. Like the suit. No knight sounds the

same with his helmet on.

Hot and echo-y, Foster said.

Very good! Dad said.

When Dads storytelling voice first started makingan appearance during work calls Foster thought it

was funny. He thought Dad was doing it on purpose

to make him laugh. First there would be a silence that

seemed out of place. Foster knew when it was Dads

turn to talk because the tinny chirrup of the person on

the other end of the phone would stop. Where Dad

would normally begin speaking immediately, or even

get in early and cut the tinny chirrup off, he started to

fumble with his words. He seemed distracted, like he

was searching for the next part of a story. It was as if

hed lost his train of thought, or, more likely, boarded

another one.


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And what things are they?

Secret things. Arent they, Dad?

Oh, yes, Dad said without looking up as he

shifted papers this way and that. Were mid-ritual

here. Foster shuffled his books and drawings about,

mirroring each of his dads actions with the same

attentiveness, brows drawn in, mouth puckered and

occasionally whistling on the hard exhale. It made

him feel like he was helping.

When Dads phone rang he passed Foster a sheet

of paper covered in small indecipherable words and

symbols and said, Have a look over that for me,

Fossie, before answering. Mum gave Dad a kiss onthe top of the head and headed to the lounge. Foster

stared at the document in front of him and tapped a

pencil thoughtfully.

Foster listened to Dads armour voice for a while. It

seemed in charge tonight. Foster began copying words

from Dads report onto his drawing paper, colouring

in the holes in the letters. Foster was so absorbed in

creating pockmarks in every word he copied that he

didnt realise immediately that his dad had stopped

talking. It was his pen not moving that alerted him.

When he looked up he saw Dads face was red and wet

and Foster had to look hard to make himself believe


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his dad wasnt just sweating. But people dont sweat

from their eyes. Foster let his fingers hover slightly

above Dads wrist before letting them land because he

was embarrassed for both of them. When his fingers

finally touched down Dad winced and recoiled his

arm until it was curled up against his chest, his fingers

in a knot under his chin. Foster slid quietly from his

chair and went to the lounge.

Dads crying, he said.

Crying? I dont think so, Fossie. Mum didnt look

up from her book.

I think so, Foster said.

Mum looked at Foster then, pressed her lipstogether, and stood. She left her book facedown on the

lounge, clearly expecting to be straight back. Foster

followed her into the kitchen where she stood behind

Dads chair and leaned to the side to look at Dads

face. Her hands were resting on his shoulders. Foster

stayed where he was, watching the back of them both.

Mum took the phone that was still pressed to Dads

ear from his hand, and put it to her own. She said,

Hello, and clearly someone answered because she

listened then, making a few thoughtful noises like

mmm and saying I see twice. Then, Hell have to call

you back, and the smallpipof ending the call.


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Malcolm? She said it cautiously, as if to a sleep-

walker she didnt want to shock into wakefulness.

When Dads phone, still in Mums hand, suddenly

rang, all three of them yelped in such a way that Foster

started to giggle. It was the yelp that was needed,

the sudden blare of spiky noise into an increasingly

uncomfortable silence. It snapped them all into a

kind of action, small action, but Foster was grateful

for it nonetheless. Mum took Dads hand and led

him down the hall towards their bedroom. She shut

the door behind them, leaving Foster standing in the

kitchen alone with a giggle still pressing on his lungs.

He walked forward and closed Dads laptop. Thenhe went to the lounge and put Mums bookmark in,

placing her book on the coffee table.


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about the author

D I A N N E T O U C H E L L was born and raised in

Fremantle, Western Australia. Her debut novel Creepy &

Maud(Fremantle Press) was shortlisted for the Childrens

Book Council of Australias Book of the Year Award in

2013 in the Older Readers category. Her second novel,A Small Madness, was published by Allen & Unwin in

2015. She has worked as a fry cook, a nightclub singer, a

housekeeper, a bookseller and manager of a construction

company. Sometimes she has time to write books for

young adults, who she thinks are far more interesting

than grown-ups. She lives with animals.


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Forgetting Foster - Dianne Touchell (Extract)

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