Читать книгу The Night Flyer's Handbook 2-Book Bundle - Philippa Dowding - Страница 11

I walk to school. Mom drives the twins, but I really feel like walking by myself, so she lets me. It’s Friday morning and a beautiful spring day. All the rain from yesterday makes everything smell great, and the trees are starting to turn green. The grass is greener too, and flowers are coming up fast, those first ones, the little ones that look like bells, and the tall yellow ones.

I feel like skipping, I really do, just like a little kid. But I don’t skip. I make myself walk along in the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other regular way. It’s a struggle not to skip, but I’m kind of worried that skipping might lead to bouncing, which might give my body ideas about being weightless. And floaty.

That I don’t need. I walk, but I keep a close eye on nearby trees and fences in case I have to grab on to anything to keep me earthbound.

But nothing remotely floaty happens.

So I walk. And as I walk, I bump into old Mr. McGillies, wearing his filthy long coat over his raggedy clothes. I’ve never seen him wear anything else, and I’ve known him my whole life. He’s pushing a cart along, which is rattling because it’s filled with empty bottles. Mr. McGillies grew up when milkmen dropped full bottles of milk off at your front door every morning, then collected the empty bottles every night. Now that he’s old, people think he’s pretending to be a milkman with all those empty bottles. But I think he just likes bottles. Some bottles he collects, and some he returns to the recycling depot for nickels. People think he’s crazy, but Mom says he’s just old, not crazy. I’ve always kind of liked him.

“Hi, Mr. McGillies. How are you today?”

He stops and looks up at me (he’s really short). He pushes his thick glasses up his nose.

“Well, young Gwen. How’s flyin’?” he says. I blink. Flyin’?

“Er. Flying?” I say, not altogether very intelligently. What does he mean? He can’t possibly mean … flying, can he?

He cackles. He has a really funny laugh that always makes me laugh, too. He sounds a little like Grover from Sesame Street when he laughs. I smile. I can’t help it. I’ve watched Mr. McGillies push his empty bottle cart around our neighbourhood since I was a little girl. He did always make me smile. But this is a bit odd — he’s never mentioned flying before.

“Flying, Mr. McGillies? What do you mean?” I repeat.

He winks at me then and says, “Flying, missy. You heard me! You know exactly what I mean!” He cackles again, but this time I don’t smile. I think my face must do a downturn, and I go from looking like I am being nice to Mr. McGillies to being horrified by him.

He starts to hum a little tune. “Scrub and wash, scrub and wash, scrub and wash the bottles,” as he turns away. He’s not getting off that easily.

I run up to him and stand in front of his bottle cart. I put my hand on the cart and ask him again, sterner this time, “What do you mean? Flying? What do you mean?” It’s starting to dawn on me that Mr. McGillies knows something I don’t. But he isn’t owning up to anything. He cackles again.

“Oh no, Miss Gwennie. All in good time! All in good time! Don’t fly away now!”

His old brown face splits into a wide smile, one of the widest smiles I’ve ever seen. How did I not notice that Mr. McGillies has a gold back tooth? I guess I’ve never seen him smile that wide before.

Then he trundles his cart away, and no matter how much I pester and yell and downright whine at him, he pretends he can’t hear me and goes on humming his crazy man scrub-and-wash-the-bottles song. He shuffles off down the sidewalk.

Okay, this is just very odd. I shake my head and decide that despite what my mother thinks, maybe he is just a crazy old guy. A crazy old guy who somehow knows exactly what is happening to me.

I am going to have another chat with Mr. McGillies, really soon, but right now I have to get to school.