Arthur Doys, The Half-wits And Joffy

• Sierra Turay, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2016

1983, LONDON
Life was ruled by a turbulent force he couldn’t control, from one home to the next he was shipped like defective goods, never once knowing the solidity of an unchanging postcode. With a small duffle bag in his tremulous grip, six-year-old Arthur Doys scuttled into the back seat of his new foster parent’s Ford Mustang. After a long journey, they pulled into the steep and narrow driveway of 23 Wickbar lane. Amidst a pit of pebbles in a shrub slept a tiny Emerald lizard, in one swift motion Arthur scooped the critter into his palm and then into his pocket. The prospect of a friend left him battling to contain HIS excitement, human or not.
“This is where you sleep” Announced French he swung open the door to reveal a stark cubicle, inside was deflated airbed and dim bulb that swung mid-air, adding to the disdainful quality of the room.
“Behave yourself boy, I make the dogs sleep outside.” His words sent Arthur's heart plunging to the abrasive tiles beneath him. Another bad home.
There was no one to mend the cavity in his heart, there were no comely lullaby’s to be sung, no one would hug the pain away tonight.
He huddled beneath the crisp plastic sheets, as he inspected his new pet. The lizard was an opulent shade of pearly green, glinting under the dim light.
“You must be cold,” whispered Arthur pulling the creature in closer. “I’m cold too, you can pretend that we’re sleeping next to a big camp-fire. That’s what I do.” He said just as a yawn escaped his mouth.
“I think I’ll name you joffy.”
“’Night Joffy.”
Arthur woke to a shattering sequel of terror in the morning.
“Ahhhhhhhhh” rang the voice of Irene Wartvlath, all through the hallway and all down the street her shrieks could be heard with clarity.
“It’s a snaaaake! A snake!” she cried while stomping atop the dining room table.
“Oh for Christ’s sake would you calm down Irene!” Plead French. In his potent Irish accent.
“It’s not a snake, it’s a lizard. A Joffy.” Giggled Arthur as he lifted his friends from the ground.
Irene had choked on shock, she marched down from the table, anger filled her cheeks with crimson as she scowled down at Arthur.
“You blithering ba-“
“Irene!” How many times have I got to say you can’t swear at the kids, if people find out we won’t, Get, paid!”


“I want him out.” She announced.
ONE MONTH LATER
A month had passed and Arthur wasn’t missing his short stay at Wickbar Lane, not in the slightest. He sat at the dining room table of his new home sugary smells of breakfast floating in the air. Mrs Krhab wasn’t perfect, well for starters she made him keep Joffy in a mason jar, but she was kind and sweet; and in that moment Arthur felt he had something he’d never had before, a home.