Читать книгу Teething Trouble - Philip Edwards - Страница 6

Thankfully Barnaby managed to reach the bottom of the slope unscathed. On this occasion there had been a particularly slippery part about half way down but he had managed to skid past that not only without falling but actually looking quite cool; as though he was an accomplished downhill ski champion. It was quite a shame really that there had been nobody around to stare in wonder and applaud his breakneck do or die style - but hey ho. On the other hand, if he had slipped in front of a large critical audience, no doubt there would have many very willing to judge his performance or lack of technique.

As he continued on his familiar journey, he was just walking past the glove factory entrance when his sharp eye suddenly spotted it. A rare treasure indeed, just lying there glistening with morning dew - speckled here and there with flecks of dust. He looked around to make sure nobody could see him. No, to his knowledge, there was nobody around. Thankfully, this particular morning there would be no unseen witnesses. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small, black plastic bag. Moving efficiently in a rehearsed manner he knew the routine he was about to follow well after several years of practice.

Down.

Scoop it.

Turn it.

Twist it.

Knot it.

Pocket it.

All efficiently done, in one well rehearsed routine Anyone watching his movements would have been reminded of a fine tuned machine or of a graceful Russian ballerina – as he swiftly scooped into action. It was indeed a well planned routine built upon the experience of rehearsal in trying to make an unpleasant task into something that would even have impressed gymnastic judges. Ma Spruddge would be so proud of unexpected find. A bag of white. Maybe he’d now get an egg on Sunday? Nobody, not even vets, actually knew why it happened but occasionally a dog would produce white poo. This was a pretty rare commodity and highly sought after and prized by the H.G.G.L. factory. Barnaby remembered his dad telling him in graphic detail that there was a special, small vat kept just for making white leather gloves. These particular gloves were highly prized and sought after by very rich ladies – due to the gloves being so exclusive and rare. His dad had called them ‘the more money than sense ladies.’ As a direct result of his luck, Ma Spruddge would be able sell it and fetch a tidy sum for Barnaby’s treasure. This lucky event left him with a broad smile. He just needed to remember to to avoid the coat pocket when his right hand grew cold.

Barnaby turned the last corner along his eventful journey. He could see the wrought iron school gate just slightly ajar ahead of him– enough of a gap for a single child to pass through safely. It appeared as if the gap had been created by someone on purpose as the gate was routinely wide open at this time of day. He also recognised Beth just heading towards the same school gate. She appeared to be checking her watch and doing some adding with her fingers. Barnaby gave her a welcoming smile and a knowing nod and she in turn smiled back. Suddenly, a thoroughly threatening figure stepped into view. A tall and quite alarming figure with hair combed into a mock Mohican hairstyle. Nigel Rivett. AND, he didn’t look happy.

Rivett had clearly been responsible for the partly closed the gate. He had been hiding and waiting behind it but he now stepped right in front of Barnaby, completely filling the space between the gate and the gate post.

“Well hello Spruddgey, Happy New Year. Have you got it?”

At school everybody affectionately called Barnaby Spruddgey. It was a ‘sweet’ little pet name brought about when all of the other children had one day discovered that Barnaby was quite a tricky name to pronounce. The name stuck like glue. Complaining just added to the frequent use of the name. Strange that they didn’t call him Porridge after all, he ate enough of it. Privately, Barnaby hated the name but at the same time he decided to grin and bear it; after all, they could have dreamed up something far worse.

“Have I got what?” asked Barnaby.

“The sling of course. The sling for my arm.” Rivett squealed impatiently.

“No I haven’t. My arm’s better now so Ma took it away. Anyway, the deal was for six weeks. Six weeks have passed now, haven’t they?” explained Barnaby in a matter of fact manner.

“Yes, that’s right. Six weeks ” replied Rivett abruptly, then added as if in self explanation, “But the last two weeks were Christmas holiday weeks. You can’t count them. We made a deal. I should now get another two weeks use of the sling.”

Beth, having just entered the school grounds immediately before Barnaby, had heard the conversation and being a somewhat nosey sort of character couldn’t help but ask, “What kind of deal have you made? If you’ve made a deal with HIM, you know it will bring nothing but trouble.”

Barnaby whispered, “Do you remember that for the last few weeks at school Rivett had his arm in a sling?”

Beth gently nodded recollecting the event clearly. She was aware of the fact that there were certain words that were ‘lisp safe’. ‘Yes,’ wasn’t one of them.

“Well that wasn’t his sling. It was my sling. Remember I slipped on the Clay Pit on the way home. I sprained my arm. Ma put it in a sling so it wouldn’t hurt so much. When I wore it to school, Rivett saw it and offered me a deal.”

“A deal? What sort of deal?” puzzled Beth.

“He wanted to use my sling so he could get out of doing any writing of course. Fooled Sir completely - didn’t he. He had four weeks off, playing with the clay at the back of the classroom. The deal was I’d get £2 for 6 weeks, £1 at the start and £1 at the end of the six weeks.”

“You really are cunning aren’t you. Thn…. shifty even,” answered Beth, quickly sidestepping a lisp.

“Deal is over now,” mumbled Barnaby turning sideways, forming a hidden fist with his right hand. “I haven’t got it. Ma needed it for something important.”

“You owe me 2 weeks sling time. Where is it Spruddge? Can’t back down on a deal. Everybody knows that.” screamed Rivett, also turning sideways to hide a fist.

“Well, you can’t have what I haven’t got, but you can have this instead,” shouted Barnaby as his punch flew forward in a championship wining right hook. Sadly, it soared straight past Rivett’s left ear and any element of surprise disappeared with it.

“Missed me,” screamed Rivett as his fist appeared from behind his coat, tracing the path of a beautifully formed upper-cut.

“Thwack!” It was the sound of very solid knuckles connecting with Barnaby’s chin, causing him to stumble backwards towards the floor.

A tooth flew out and arched skywards.

“Oh no,” yelled Barnaby, quickly gaining his balance. “I need that!”