Читать книгу The Incredible Journey of Pete McGee - Adam Wallace - Страница 9

ete McGee cleaned the house first and then he cooked breakfast. His mother couldn’t do much around the house, for barely six years after Pete had been born she had been stricken with an illness. As the McGees were poor, the illness had remained undiagnosed. The pain through her body, the dizzy spells and the coughing attacks confined Mrs McGee to bed, apart from the short walks to the front yard she would take on her good days. Such days became rarer as time went by. She had arrived at a stage where eating was difficult, and the pain was a constant sharpness that reminded her of her fate. Mrs McGee knew that she was dying, and Pete knew it too. Neither of them spoke of it though, as if by keeping it secret would put off the inevitable.

Pete’s father had left not long after the sickness struck. A disabled boy and a dying wife? The place must be cursed. The whole town spoke of the McGees in whispers behind their backs.

‘The poor boy, with his problems and having to look after his mother as well.’

‘How they get by is anyone’s guess. They’re both pretty much useless.’

And so on …

Occasionally the McGees would hear such talk. Rather than get them down, it raised their determination to be as normal as they possibly could.

The smell of a cooked breakfast reached Mrs McGee before the actual food did, wafting in and teasing her nose before darting away on the breeze from the open window. Pete raced in, the tray of food balanced precariously on his open palm.

‘Sir Pete, good Sir, why the rush?’

In his excitement Pete basically threw down the tray, then jumped onto the edge of the bed next to his mother.

‘You know exactly why, Mum. You know today is the greatest day of the whole year. The rides. The games. The Tellings.’

Putting on her confused face, Mrs McGee shrugged.

‘Good Sir, this means naught to me. Methinks thou art a young man of twelve years who merely wishes to see that of which he speaks.’

‘Oh cut the fancy talk, Mum. You know.’

‘Sir Pete, thy tongue is vicious. Surely thou can talk like a knight to get thy message across to a poor, sick maiden.’

Pete knew that the only way he could please his mother was to play along. Usually he loved this game, but today was different. He groaned and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

‘Do I have to?’

Mrs McGee nodded. Pete jumped off the bed, placed his hand over his heart and began to speak.

‘Hear ye. Hear ye. It doth please me to announce that this day marks the fifth anniversary of our King’s inauguration. That snot-faced shoe-licker, whose taxes mean you cannot get any pain relief, has ruled us harshly for five years now. Verily, though I do believe him to be an evil and wicked swine fit to wallow in mud and eat slops, he doth put on one humdinger of a soiree.’

‘Very well then, Sir Pete McGee, be gone. Be sure to have many great tales to relate as we sup tonight.’

Pete grinned a broad grin that did reach his eyes. He kissed his mother’s forehead and bolted out the door. Mrs McGee smiled. She knew that she would struggle to keep down the breakfast her son had cooked, but she couldn’t let Pete know that. He lived to help her, so she wanted more than anything for this to be a perfect day for him.

Pete raced into his room and grabbed his pack. He slung it over his shoulder and flew down the corridor. The Green Book on the shelf caught his eye, as always, but he ignored it and burst out the front door. The note his mother had written all those years ago was tucked safely in his inside jacket pocket. Pete skidded to a stop in the dirt in the front yard, turned around, and closed the door. A sudden itch attacked his back. He tried to reach it, twisting and squirming. Unfortunately, the combination of holding a pack and no right arm meant the itch remained unscratched. Pete edged up to the house and relieved his discomfort by rubbing his back against the rough wooden surface. His look of relief turned into a smile as he saw one of the pigs in the yard in exactly the same pose, with a look of relief on its face, rubbing against the wooden post. Pete laughed and ran off again, chickens clucking and scurrying out of his way. He headed for the town centre, which was where all the action would be. He rounded a corner and the royal castle came into view. As always, Pete was struck by how huge it was. Also as always, he stopped and stared, wondering why it was he was stuck in a little peasant’s shack when someone like the King got to live in luxury. Pete knew that King Cyril the Crooked wouldn’t have got his money through honest means. Rather, it would have been at others’ expense, through unfair taxes or imaginary fines. He shook his head clear, knowing he would much rather be with his mother in their house anyway. He was about to move on again when he heard a voice calling to him.

‘McGee! What are you staring at? You’re not still dreaming about being a knight are you?’

The voice was whiny and smart-alecy, and Pete knew instantly who it was. Larson Smithers. Larson was training to become a knight, and now that he was fourteen had just started in the service of Sir Joustalot. By the time he was twenty-one Larson Smithers would be a knight of the realm, something Pete could only dream about. Pete turned and saw Larson walking towards him, a wicked grin on his face.

‘It’ll never happen McGee. Never. You can’t even hold a shield and a sword at the same time. And you would never be able to joust, unless you held the lance with your mouth or something.’

Pete glanced over Larson’s shoulder and saw a group of trainee knights. They were all watching and laughing. Larson continued, right next to Pete now.

‘No knight would take you on McGee, so even when you turn fourteen you won’t be able to do anything. Just keep dreaming, Stumpy.’

Pete felt anger welling up, the heat rising to his cheeks. He knew that Larson was basically mean for the sake of being mean, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Pete felt so angry he wanted to knock Larson flat, but he knew that Larson was bigger and stronger and better trained than he was. Then he tried to think of something smart to say, but all that came into his mind was, ‘Yeah, well shut up ‘cos you are too,’ and that didn’t even make sense. So instead he just stared at the ground and didn’t say anything. Larson suddenly reached out and grabbed Pete’s chin, raising it so they were staring at each other. He didn’t need to, but he spoke loud enough for his mates to hear.

‘One-armed knights don’t exist. You’re a fairytale, like Cinderella or something. Rumplestumpskin. You don’t even exist McGee, just like your right arm.’

Larson let go with a push and danced off to his group, pretending to be a fairytale princess to roars of laughter from his friends. Pete watched him for a bit. One day he would stand up to Larson Smithers. He breathed out slowly before following the crowd towards the town centre. The day hadn’t got off to quite the start he had hoped for.

As Pete got closer to town his spirits picked up. He jogged down the dusty road, passing people as he went. Those in groups were laughing and chatting, ready for the big day ahead. Some were leading animals, which Pete assumed they would try to sell in town. By the time he got to the town centre it was absolutely packed. Pete was a skinny boy, and he was barely noticed as he slid though the crowd. Every now and then someone would stare at the one sleeve hanging loosely by his side, but Pete had learned to ignore the stares. The people who focussed on his missing arm would never take the time to find out who he was. The ale flowed and the crowd was already rowdy, even at this early hour. Pete couldn’t be distracted though. He loved all the rides, the food and the games, but nothing stirred him more than the Tellings. All day, on the Main Stage, people would stand in front of a massive audience and tell their stories. Always in rhyme, the Tellings were magical tales of lands far away, of adventures, of confronting wondrous creatures in fierce battles. Were they true? Only the Teller knew, but Pete didn’t care because in his mind they were all true. Every Telling was played out in his head, full of colour, his own vision of what was being told. One day he knew that he would have a great Telling. He would be up on the Main Stage and the whole town would be listening. One day for sure.

Before the Tellings could begin however, the King would address his people from the balcony. He always read from a speech prepared for him. Every year the speechwriter had been ordered to write a speech that made the King out to be the greatest ruler there ever was, the likes of which had never been seen before or would ever be seen again. And the order would be carried out. This year however, the speechwriter, who couldn’t stand his job, had written a not-so-flattering speech for his king. He hoped that no-one would dare stop the King or even let him know that he was making a fool of himself. He had been made to show the speech to Faydon, the King’s Chief Advisor, and had expected to be fired on the spot, or jailed for treason, or beheaded, or maybe something even worse. But for some reason, Faydon had fired him and banished him from the kingdom, and that was it. Not too bad at all. He did stay to hear the speech though, and it was with great surprise that when he heard the King start talking it was the original speech, word for word.

‘Loyal subjects, it is I, King Cyril the 23rd, here to open this celebration of my reign.’

The crowd cheered, mainly because guards had threatened the townsfolk that they must cheer or they’d be poked by the pikes that were pointed menacingly at them. Pete giggled at King Cyril the Dorky’s name and found himself a spot where he wouldn’t be seen, or poked, and refused to cheer one word. King Cyril the Attention-Lover, taken aback by the wild response to his opening statement, read on, totally unaware of what he was saying.

‘Although without me you would be nothing, it is because of you that I am the greatest (threatened poke, cheer), most incredibly fabulous (poke, ROAR!), unbelievably large pea-brain there ever was (thunderous applause, no poke required).’

The King beamed with pride, the cheers blocking out the tiny voice in his head that suggested stopping talking may be a good idea. So he continued on, while in another room the ex-speechwriter fell to the floor laughing.

‘Yes people, my brain is a pea. Do you know that sometimes I like to dance around the Throne Room wearing nothing but the royal slippers? Which are in the form of little moo cows? And I sing “Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle”?’

The crowd erupted into roars of laughter, and even Pete McGee was cheering.

‘Royal subjects, I truly believe that if my butt was a balloon I would fly to the moon with a hairy baboon.’

The crowd were yelling themselves hoarse. The King, wanting more and more adoration, raised his voice, building to the mighty finish of his speech.

‘Just the other day, after drinking my bottle of warm milk, I took a bubble bath. My, I sank under the water and my cares floated away in bubbles of love. I realised right then that if my spew was blue I’d make a stew, so without further ado, and before my head turns back into a pumpkin, LET THE FESTIVITIES BEGIN!’

The pokers may as well have gone home, for the crowd cheered long and loud. King Cyril the Blind-to-the-Truth raised his arms in triumph and the crowd cheered even louder. Believing this to be the greatest moment of his reign, the King returned inside as the crowd began a Mexican wave. Along with the rest, Pete leapt in the air when the wave reached him.