Читать книгу Help! It’s Harriet! - Jean Ure, Stephen Lee, Jean Ure - Страница 5

Harriet Johnson was a most unfortunate child. She could never do anything right. If she offered to help with the washing up, she would be sure to smash a glass or drop one of her mother’s best dinner plates, while if you sent her down the road to buy a loaf of bread she would more than likely come back with three yellow dusters and a dishcloth because she had “seen a man selling them and felt sorry for him.”

As for asking her to do a bit of vacuuming – well! Nobody who had had experience of Harriet’s vacuuming would be foolish enough. Harriet was the sort of girl who only had to walk through a door for every ornament in the room to go crashing floorwards. Give her a vacuum and she broke everything in sight.

She was just as unfortunate at school. Nobody but Harriet could manage to lose the class register on the short journey between her classroom and Mrs Atkins’ office. Only Harriet could bring the curtain down right on top of the baby Jesus in the middle of the Christmas nativity play. Harriet should never have been allowed anywhere near the curtain, of course, but that was when Mrs Middleton, her class teacher, had been new and hadn’t realised what sort of child Harriet was.

Mrs Middleton had learnt, since then. She knew that whenever possible it was wise to keep Harriet out of things. The trouble was, Harriet was always so eager. When it came to Do A Good Turn Week she was especially eager.

Do a good turn week happened once a year, during the summer term. The top juniors were the only ones who were allowed to take part because they were the only ones considered responsible enough. Harriet was a top junior…

“So!” said Mrs Middleton, one morning at the beginning of June. (She tried not to look at Harriet as she spoke.) “I think we all know what Do A Good Turn Week means?”

Class 6 sat up straight on their chairs and did their best to look intelligent. Harriet sat up straighter and looked more intelligent than anyone. Harriet loved doing good turns.

“Who would like to tell us what it means?”

A forest of hands shot up, Harriet’s in the lead. Mrs Middleton pretended not to see Harriet’s.

“Alison?” she said. (Alison Leary was every teacher’s favourite.)

“It means we get our-friends-and-families-to-sponsor-us-for-doing-a-good-turn-and-all-the-money-we-collect-goes-to-charity,” gabbled Alison.

“Quite right, Alison! Thank you. And now I’m going to hand out the sponsor forms. One for Alison. One for Jonathan. One for Prahtiba…”

Mrs Middleton went round the class until she reached Harriet. When she reached Harriet, she came to a stop. Mrs Middleton was never quite sure about Harriet. The child meant well – at least, Mrs Middleton supposed that she did. It was just that everything she touched seemed to go catastrophically wrong. Mrs Middleton could still recall with a shudder the time she had locked Mr Marsh-Jones in the gardening shed. Mr Marsh-Jones was the head teacher. He had been in the gardening shed for over an hour, and might have been there all night if the school caretaker hadn’t heard his cries for help.

“I thought he was a burglar,” explained Harriet afterwards. “I was going to tell somebody, but then I went up the park and I forgot.”

For one wild moment Mrs Middleton wondered if there was any way of persuading Harriet that it might be better if she didn’t take part in Do A Good Turn Week; but then she looked at Harriet’s face, all round and freckled and trusting, and she knew that there wasn’t. With a sigh, she handed over the last sponsor form.

“And one for Harriet. Now please remember, everybody-” she placed a hand firmly on the back of Harriet’s chair “-only offer to do tasks which you know you are capable of. We don’t want any disasters, do we?”

Harriet shook her head. No! They didn’t want any disasters.

“Just do your best,” said Mrs Middleton. “And good luck!”

Harriet made a start that same afternoon. To begin with, she tried her mum.

“Sponsor you?” said her mum. “After last time?”

Last time Harriet had done her mum a good turn, which had been on her mum’s birthday, she had left the garden hose running for almost four hours and washed away an entire flower bed.

“It’s for charity,” said Harriet.

“In that case I’d sooner sponsor you for not doing me a good turn.”

“But that would be cheating!” said Harriet.

“I can’t help that,” said her mum. “There’s no way I could survive having another good turn done for me. I’m sorry, Harriet, but there it is.”

Harriet gave up on her mum and tried her sister instead.

“Sponsor you?” said her sister. “You must be joking! What am I supposed to sponsor you for? Ruining a pair of my best tights?”

“That was an accident,” said Harriet. “You could sponsor me for cleaning up your bedroom.”

“No way!”

“What about if I ironed some of your clothes for you?”

“I wouldn’t let you within a thousand metres of my clothes! ’Specially not with an iron in your hand.”

Harriet with an iron in her hand was lethal. The drawers were full of table cloths and handkerchiefs which bore the marks of Harriet’s ironing.

“So, don’t you want to sponsor me?” said Harriet.

“No,” said her sister. “I do not!”

“I see,” said Harriet.

It was really very puzzling. Her sister did nothing but moan and carry on about all the work she was expected to do – all the cleaning, all the tidying, all the homework. You’d think she’d be only too glad to let Harriet take some of it off her hands. People were extremely odd.

“Go and ask Dad.” Her sister sniggered. “Ask him if he’ll sponsor you!”

Harriet had a feeling that it might be better not to bother approaching her dad. Dad wasn’t very pleased with Harriet just at the moment. He said that anyone who could try cleaning a car with paint stripper had to be congenital idiot. (Harriet had only been trying to help.)

“I think I’ll ring Gran,” she said.

“Don’t you dare!” said Mum. “You leave Gran alone. We don’t want you giving her a heart attack.”

“I wouldn’t!” said Harriet. “I just want to do her a good turn.”

“Where’s the difference?” said her mum.

It was very sad to be so misunderstood by one’s own family.

Next day at school Alison Leary went round boasting that, “My sponsor form is practically filled up.” Everyone had found somebody to sponsor them. Everyone except Harriet.

“Isn’t it about time you got started?” sneered Alison.

Harriet wasn’t too bothered; she was quite used to encountering these little setbacks. Her own family were peculiar: they didn’t seem to want to be helped. But there was all the rest of the world to try! Harriet was not a girl to give up at the first refusal – or even at the twenty-first, if it came to that. “Keep at it!” was Harriet’s motto.

On Saturday morning Harriet did the rounds of the neighbours. Some of them were lucky enough to be out. Others, not so lucky, opened the door before they realised who it was.

She caught Mrs Mason taking in the milk bottles. At the sight of Harriet, Mrs Mason grabbed the milk and made a dash for the front door. She wasn’t quite quick enough.

“Would you like to sponsor me for doing you a good turn?” said Harriet.

Mrs Mason turned pale.

“Oh, no, Harriet!” she said. “Please!”

Harriet had done Mrs Mason a good turn last gear, when Mrs Mason had been ill with flu. She had trimmed her front hedge into an interesting shape. Well, Harriet had thought it was an interesting shape. Mrs Mason had never got over it. (Neither had the hedge.)

“I really don’t think,” said Mrs Mason, faintly, “that I could stand it. I’m sorry, Harriet. You’ll have to try somebody else.”

Harriet marched on up the road. The man from Number 10 was walking his dog. He took to his heels and ran when he saw Harriet.

Unperturbed, Harriet stomped up the path of Number 12 and hammered with the knocker. (Harriet did everything loudly.)

Mum’s friend, Mrs Barnes, opened the door.

“Hallo, Mrs Barnes,” said Harriet. “I wonder if you’d like t…”

“No!” Mrs Barnes almost screamed it in her panic. “Whatever it is, the answer is no!”

“But I only w…”

“I can’t stop,” said Mrs Barnes. “I’m polishing the guinea pig… I mean I’m bathing the car… I mean I’m – I’m busy!”

The door shut in Harriet’s face. Philosophically, grown-ups were often rather unbalanced, in Harriet’s experience. Harriet clambered over the low wall that divided Number 12 from Number 14. The lady at Number 14 must have been watching, for a curtain twitched as Harriet approached, and from somewhere inside the house a terrified voice cried, “Help! It’s Harriet!”

The message spread rapidly – “Harriet is coming! Harriet is coming!”

At Number 16 she heard the sound of doors slamming.

At Number 18 a small boy shouted at her through the letter box: “We’re out!”

Everybody knew Harriet too well.

And then she reached the house on the corner.

A new lady had come to live in the house on the corner. A lady called Miss Fanshawe. A lady who had never heard of Harriet…

“Yes?” said Miss Fanshawe.

Harriet and Miss Fanshawe stood looking at each other. Miss Fanshawe was a tall, thin person wearing a dress of spinach green: Harriet was a short, dumpy person wearing blue dungarees. Miss Fanshawe’s hair was like a badly made bird’s nest: Harriet’s was like a dish mop. Miss Fanshawe had an air of being deeply flustered: Harriet was business-like.

“Would you like to sponsor me for doing you a good turn?” said Harriet.

Miss Fanshawe emitted a little breathless squeak.

“I should love to sponsor you for doing me a good turn!” She clasped her hands together as if in prayer. Harriet blinked.

“One should always trust in the Lord,” said Miss Fanshawe. “He never fails one.”

“It’s for charity,” said Harriet.

“Yes, yes! Indeed so! The church fete, this very day. I am in desperate need of a helper! I have just heard that my mother has been taken poorly and I must go to her.

“But what,” cried Miss Fanshawe, “am I to do about my bran tub? I gave the Vicar my word that I would be there! Do you think, little girl, that you would be capable of taking care of a bran tub?”

“Yes,” said Harriet. She didn’t know what a bran tub was, but Harriet never let little things like that stop her.

She would have said yes if she had been asked to take care of a herd of wild rhinos. There was almost nothing that Harriet didn’t believe herself capable of.

“Such a relief!” said Miss Fanshawe. “You have made me so happy! I will help you and you will help me. What could be better?”

Miss Fanshawe beamed down upon Harriet. Harriet held out her sponsor form.

“Shall we say five pounds?” said Miss Fanshawe. “For the day?”

“That sounds all right,” said Harriet. (She bet it was more than Alison Leary had got.)

“Then let us go right away! It’s only up the road, in the church field. There will be just enough time for me to explain things to you on the way.”

Miss Fanshawe explained quickly but carefully. A bran tub, it seemed, was just another name for a lucky dip.

“Always very popular. The children simply put their hands in and pick something out. This is the bran tub, here …” (full of what looked like sawdust and exciting little packages) “… and there, in the tent, is the back-up.” (The back-up was a big plastic dustbin sack full of more exciting little packages.)

“When you feel the tub is getting empty, just go and help yourself from the sack. It’s 25p a go, and whatever you do don’t let them churn things about and spill the bran. It makes a nasty mess on the grass,” said Miss Fanshawe. “You will have to be stern with them. They are to take the first thing that comes to hand.”

“I’ll be stern,” said Harriet.

“Don’t forget,” said Miss Fanshawe, “the extra presents are in the sack.

Miss Fanshawe went off to her mother: Harriet took up her position behind the bran tub.

“Lucky Dip!” bawled Harriet. “25p a go!”

The lucky dip was every bit as popular as Miss Fanshawe had said, in spite of some of the bigger boys complaining when they picked girls’ things.

(The girls didn’t seem to mind picking boys’ things.)

One child tried to claim a free go, “Cos I picked this book and I’ve already read it,” but Harriet was standing no nonsense.

She took her duties as guardian of the bran tub very seriously.

“You can just go away and read it again,” she said.

“Shan’t!” said the child. “You can have it back!”

“Yeah, and you can have this doll back an’ all!” yelled a little boy.

“And this bag!” cried another. “Bags is girls’ things!”

Suddenly, it seemed that Harriet had a rebellion on her hands. She decided to go and get some more presents. Perhaps the next lot would be a bit better.

Harriet ran into the tent, tore open the nearest black sack, seized an armful of prettily wrapped parcels and ran back with them to the bran tub, where a long queue had already formed.

The second lot of presents, although rather eccentric, went down better than the first. Harriet watched as small hands ripped open packages and pulled out the contents. There were hair nets, sponge bags, bed jackets, teacosies, bath caps, paper knives, bed socks, bubble baths, bath cubes, magnifying glasses, paper handkerchiefs… If the parents seemed slightly puzzled, at least the children were happy. Harriet had no more complaints.

By the end of the afternoon, both the bran tub and the black plastic sack were empty. The field, meanwhile, was full of joyous small children having battles with bath cubes, using hair nets as catapults, shredding paper handkerchiefs into confetti, enlarging startled insects with magnifying glasses, conducting mock sword fights with paper knives, squirting each other with scent sprays…

Some of them were wearing tea cosies on their heads, some had bed jackets tied round their shoulders like capes. All were wildly happy. Never had a bran tub been such a success!

By the time Miss Fanshawe came hurrying back, the field had mostly cleared. The bath cube battles had ceased, the tea-cosied warriors been carted off home. Flushed with the sense of a task well done, Harriet handed over the money pot.

“Oh, that’s very good!” said Miss Fanshawe. “That is excellent! The Vicar will be delighted! I wonder, little girl, now that you’ve done such a magnificent job with the bran tub, whether you would care to do something else for me?”

“Would I get another five pounds?” said Harriet. After all, it was for charity.

“You drive a hard bargain,” said Miss Fanshawe, “but I’m desperate. Yes, all right, another five pounds! It’s very simple. All I want you to do is take the other sack…”

“What other sack?” said Harriet.

“The other sack in the tent – the one marked ‘Old People’. Just take it across to the big marquee and hand out the presents to my old ladies and gentlemen. I have to go and pick up some medicine for my mother, but I shall be back before you’ve finished. Do you think you could manage that?”

“Yes,” said Harriet. She could manage anything.

Miss Fanshawe went off to fetch her mother’s medicine leaving Harriet in charge of the Old People’s sack. Harriet’s heart swelled with pride. Supervisor of the presents! She bet Alison Leary hadn’t been trusted with anything half as responsible.

Taking her second sack by the scruff of its neck, Harriet marched off across the field to the big marquee. Inside there were lots of old people sitting on chairs, awaiting the moment when they would be given their presents. Harriet heard one old man mutter, “I hope it’s better than last year. Bloomin’ awful they were, last year.”

“These are really good