Читать книгу Dogtective William in Space - Elizabeth Wasserman - Страница 5

The Art of Spelling

I was sitting at the dining room table, trying to figure out how many c’s should be in the word “broccoli”. I found the exercise as dull as the vegetable itself. But I had been selected to compete in the national spelling olympiad and I had to do some crash learning, or be doomed.

Spelling sucks. In a world where every computer program comes with automatic spell check, why bother?

As usual on a weekday evening, my dad was watching the seven o’clock news on television. From the corner of my eye I could see my mother doing dishes in the scullery, whistling a happy tune while scrubbing the bottom of one her favourite saucepans.

My dog William was snoring at my feet.

“In southern Sudan, the worst drought in centuries is continuing. International aid will be needed to …” the voice of the TV newsreader was droning on in the background.

Really. I could never understand why the adults in my life insisted on following the news even if there was absolutely nothing they could do about it! All those disasters and despair only made them gloomy. I suspected that my dad was more interested in the economy than the weather in far-off places. Not as if economics was any more fun: there was always some crisis or credit crunch sending everyone reaching for a bottle of antacid.

Heartburn and ulcers. That was what they got for their efforts.

“… and that the three crew members of the International Space Station managed to make a successful landing in Kazakhstan. Our space correspondent in Russia reports that emergency evacuation procedures had to be followed after failure of essential equipment. The fate of the Space Station now rests in the hands – or rather, the paws – of Boris, a highly trained Russian space dog that the astronauts had to leave behind because there was not enough room in the returning Soyuz capsule …”

William gave a sudden yelp as if a lady in stilettos had stepped on his tail. He stood upright, his whiskers bristling. “What’s the matter, boy?” I asked. I also didn’t like the idea of the poor Russian dog left all alone in space, but William was very upset. In fact, I couldn’t remember ever seeing him in such a state of shock. It looked as if he had bumped nose-first into an electrified fence!

Just then the phone started to ring in my dad’s study. My mother stopped rattling her dishes. She knew all too well that neither my dad nor I was going to answer that phone. We could be completely deaf when it suited us. I heard her sigh as she dried her hands on a dishcloth, walking towards the study. She doesn’t like to be interrupted when she is busy with her pots.

“Simpson residence,” she said as she picked up the phone.

I heard a few lines of muted conversation, and then her voice rose with excitement.

“Who? … Really? … Our son? … Alex!” she called in my direction. I got up and ambled off towards the study. The only person who ever phoned me was my friend James, and why would my mother be speaking to him with such excitement?

She was holding her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, so that the caller couldn’t hear what she was saying to me. Her eyes were shining. “Congratulations! You won!”

“Won what, Mom?” I asked.

“The spelling olympiad, of course!” She smiled happily and passed the phone to me.

I was perplexed. The spelling olympiad was only tomorrow. But when I heard the voice of Chief Superintendent Spears greeting me warmly, I immediately understood that I had to play along with whatever tale he was spinning.

“Alex, my chap, put on a happy face. I have told your mother that you’ve won the local round of that spelling thing and now we’re sending you to Johannesburg for the final competition. Utter nonsense, of course. But we have a bit of a … situation, and we need Dogtective William to come and help. You too, of course!” he added as an afterthought.

I listened carefully to his instructions, and then handed the phone back to my mom.

“Of course, Mr Paterson!” she promised. “We shall have him ready at nine o’clock sharp.”

The International Detective Agency (better known as the IDA) often had to resort to tricks to get their work done. Superintendent Spears was impersonating the formidable head of our school in a ruse to get me away from home. Fortunately I seldom got into trouble, and Mr Paterson had no reason to speak to my mom frequently enough for her to recognise his voice. She had no idea to whom she was truly speaking.

She replaced the receiver and gave me a kiss. Even if you do win some silly competition, why do mothers always feel the need to smother you with kisses?

“Let’s go and tell your dad!” she said. “He will be so proud! And then we have to start your packing. Apparently they are also taking the finalists to a couple of museums and other interesting places. Mr Paterson said you’ll be away for about a week, maybe a few days more. The school arranged everything!”

Chief Superintendent Spears had got someone to phone the school to tell them that I’d been admitted to hospital for an emergency appendix operation.

The IDA always takes care of everything.