Читать книгу The Mystery of Holly Lane - Enid blyton - Страница 7

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Pip got on his bicycle and rode off. Buster ran beside him, keeping a good look-out for Mr. Goon. He would have very much liked another pounce at his ankles—but Goon was out of sight, on his way home. Visions of a nice hot cup of coffee, well-sugared, and a slice of home-made cake floated in his mind.

Pip rode to Fatty’s house, but he wasn’t there. “Blow!” said Pip. “I suppose he’s gone off to sell his ticket to Goon. I wish I’d seen him. I bet he looks exactly like some old woman shopping in the town!”

Fatty had had a most enjoyable time in his shed choosing a disguise to wear when he went to sell the ticket to Mr. Goon. He had chosen a rather long black skirt, a black jumper, a shapeless dark-red coat and a hat he had bought at the last jumble sale.

It was black straw, and had a few dark-red roses in the front. Fatty put on a wig of dark hair, and made up his face, putting in a few artful wrinkles here and there.

He looked at himself in the mirror and grinned. Then he frowned—and immediately the face of a cross old woman looked back at him out of the mirror!

“I wish the others could see me,” thought Fatty. “They’d hoot with laughter. Now, where’s my hand-bag?”

The hand-bag was a very old one of his mother’s. In it was a powder-compact, a handkerchief and a few hairpins, all of which Fatty kept there for use when he disguised himself as a woman. He delighted in taking out the powder case and dabbing powder on his nose, as he had so often seen women do! His mother would have been most astonished to see him.

He unlocked the door of his shed, and opened it a little, listening. Was any one about? Or could he slip safely out into the road?

He could hear nothing, so he slipped out of the shed, locked the door and made his way up the side-path through the shrubbery.

As he went through the bushes, a voice hailed him. “Hey, you! What you doing there!”

It was the gardener, looking with interest at the shabby old woman.

Fatty immediately went all foreign. He flapped about with his hands, moved his shoulders up and down and said “Ackle-eeta-oomi-poggy-wo?”

“Can’t you speak English?” said the gardener. “See—there’s the kitchen door if you want anything.”

“Tipply-opply-erica-coo,” said Fatty in a most grateful voice, and slid out of the gardener’s sight. He grinned to himself. His disguise must be pretty good if the gardener didn’t see through it!

He decided that it would be quite a good idea to go on being rather foreign. It was so easy to talk gibberish! Fatty could go on and on for a very long time, apparently speaking in a foreign language, shrugging his shoulders like his French master at school, and waggling his hands about.

He made his way down the road. Nobody took the least notice of him, which was very good. Fatty decided that he looked rather like one of the faded old women who sometimes sat on committees with his mother.

He came to the road where Goon lived and went up to his house. Was Goon in? Fatty knocked at the door.

It opened, and a skinny little boy stood there, the same skinny little fellow who had followed Goon to the door when Pip had been waiting for him.

The boy looked at him with sharp eyes. “Mr. Goon’s out,” he said. “There’s only my Mum in. She’s cleaning. If you want to leave a message I’ll call her.”

“Ah—zat would be kind,” said Fatty, giving the boy a sudden beaming smile. “I vill come in.”

He pushed past the boy and went into Goon’s office. He sat down, spreading out his skirts and patting the back of his hair with his hand.

“I’ll fetch me Mum,” said the boy, who didn’t quite know what to make of this visitor. Was she a friend of Mr. Goon?

“ ’Ere, Mum—there’s a funny old foreign lady come to see Mr. Goon,” Fatty heard the boy say. “She’s set herself down in the office.”

“All right. I’ll see what she wants,” said Mum’s voice. Mum then appeared at the office-door, wiping her hands on an apron.

Fatty gave her a gracious smile and nodded her head. “I come to see dear Mr. Goon,” he announced. “He is expecting me—yes?”

“I don’t rightly know,” said Mum. “He’s out just now. Will you wait? I’m just cleaning out for him—I come every morning. I have to bring Bert with me because it’s holidays, but he’s useful.”

Fatty beamed at the skinny little woman, who really looked very like Bert. “Ikkle-dokka-runi-pie,” he said, in a very earnest voice.

“Pardon?” said Mum, startled. “You’re foreign, aren’t you? I had a foreigner once who lodged with me. She was right down clever—read my hand like a book!”

“Ah—so!” said Fatty. “I too read the hand. Like a book.”

“Do you really?” said Mum, and came a little farther into the room. Fatty racked his brains to remember who she was. He knew he had seen her before. Then he remembered. Of course—she was a friend of Jane, the house parlour-maid, and sometimes came to help Cook when they had a party—he had heard them talking about her—what was her name now? Ah, yes—Mickle.

Mum wiped her hands again on her apron and held one out to Fatty. “What’s my hand tell you?” she asked, eagerly.

Fatty took it in his and frowned over it. “Ah—your name it is Mickle! Mrs. Mickle. You live at—at—Shepherd’s Crescent——”

“Coo!” said Mum, most impressed. “Is that all written in my hand? Go on.”

“You have five sisters,” said Fatty, remembering the gossip he had heard. “And er—er—you have brothers—how many? It is difficult to see in your hand.”

“I’ve got six,” said Mum, helpfully. “Perhaps they’re hidden under that bit of dirt there. I’d have washed me hands if I’d known you were coming.”

“I see illnesses here,” went on Fatty, “and children—and cups and cups of tea—and ...”

“That’s right!” broke in Mum, quite excited. “I’ve bin ill many a time—and I’ve got five children—Bert there is the youngest—and the cups of tea I’ve had—well, I must have had thousands in me life!”

“Millions,” said Fatty, still bent over her hand.

“Fancy you even seeing them cups of tea there,” said Mum. She raised her voice. “Bert! This lady’s a real wonder at reading hands. You come and listen.”

Bert was already listening just outside the door. He came right in when his mother called. He looked at Fatty disbelievingly.

“Where do you see them cups of tea?” he asked. “How do you know they’re not cups of coffee?”

Fatty decided that he didn’t much like Bert. He thought it would be very nice indeed to read Bert’s hand and see a great many spankings there. But Bert didn’t ask to have his hand read. He kept them both firmly behind his back as if afraid that Fatty would start reading them at once. Young Bert already had quite a lot of things in his life that he didn’t want any one to know about!

Someone rode up to the front gate and got off a bicycle. “Coo—here’s Mr. Goon back already and I haven’t got the kettle on for his coffee!” said Mum, and disappeared at once. Mr. Goon opened the front door and came heavily into the hall. Mum called out to him.

“Mr. Goon, sir! There’s a lady wanting to see you. I’ve put her in the office.”

Mr. Goon went into the kitchen. “Who is she?” Fatty heard him say. “What’s she come for?”

“I didn’t make so bold as to ask her that,” said Mum, putting a kettle on the stove. “She’s a foreigner by the sound of her—funny-looking, you know, and speaks queer.”

“She read Mum’s hand,” said Bert, slyly.

“You hold your tongue, young Bert,” said Mum, sharply. “She read it like a book, sir—knew me name and everything. One of these clever ones. You ready for your cup of coffee, sir?”

“Yes. I could do with one,” said Goon. “I’ve been attacked by a dog this morning.”

“You don’t say!” said Mum. “Did he bite you?”

Mr. Goon liked sympathy. He enlarged quite a bit on Buster’s light-hearted game with him.

“It’s a wonder my trousers aren’t torn to bits,” he said. “The dog came at me time and again. If I wasn’t pretty nippy, I’d have been bitten more than I was. Good thing I had my thickest trousers on.”

“Well, there now! What a thing to happen to you, Mr. Goon!” said Mum. Bert stared down at Mr. Goon’s trousers to see if they were torn. They didn’t appear to be.

“You going to report the dog?” asked Bert.

“I caught it chasing sheep,” said Goon, taking off his helmet. “Very serious crime, that, for a dog. I tried to catch it, but I couldn’t. I’d give anything to have that dog here under lock and key. I’d teach it a few things!”

“What would you give me if I got it for you?” asked Bert. Goon stared at him. Mum was taking no notice; she was busy at the cupboard with a cake-tin. Goon nodded his head towards the hall, and Bert followed him there.

Fatty had heard every word. He wondered whose dog this was that Goon was talking about. He knew that the farmer had been worried by sheep-chasing dogs. It never occurred to him that Goon was actually talking about Buster.

A whispered conversation followed. Fatty only caught a few words, but he guessed the rest. Goon was arranging with young Bert to catch the dog and bring it to him. The sum of half a crown was mentioned. Fatty frowned. How wrong of Goon to do a thing like that! He wished he knew whose dog it was—he would certainly warn the owner!

Goon appeared in the office, looking rather pleased with himself, and young Bert went back to the kitchen.

Fatty didn’t get up. He held out a gracious hand and bowed in a very lady-like way. Goon was rather impressed with this behaviour, though not with Fatty’s clothes. Still—foreigners did seem to wear peculiar things sometimes.

“What can I do for you, Madam?” said Goon.

“I am a friend of Mrs. Trotteville,” said Fatty, truthfully. “A vairy GREAT friend.”

“Ah,” said Goon, impressed. He was in awe of Mrs. Trotteville. “You staying with her, then?”

“I shall be wiz her for three wiks,” said Fatty, sticking to the truth. “I sell tickets for the beeg Sale. You will buy one, yes?”

“Er—well—can I offer you a cup of coffee?” said Goon, seeing Mum coming in with a tray. “I hear you can read hands. I suppose you’ll be doing that at the Sale?”

“You would like me to read your beeg, beeg hand now—and you will buy a ticket?” offered Fatty.

Mr. Goon couldn’t resist having his hand read.

Mr. Goon couldn’t resist having his hand read. Mum fetched another cup of coffee—and Mr. Goon held out a large hand, palm upwards, to Fatty. How Fatty wished that Larry and the others could see him!