Читать книгу A Thousand Water Bombs - T. M. Alexander - Страница 10

ten days to the summer fair . . . and counting

I’d better start at the beginning.

Ten days before the summer fair we had our first meeting in the new Tribehouse. The Tribers built it in Fifty’s garden over the weekend with lots of help from my dad and Copper Pie’s dad and no help whatsoever from me because I had tonsillitis. Dad and I had planned to go surfing but I woke up on Saturday with the scratchy throat that always means I’m not going to be able to eat anything but ice cream for a few days. Mum gave me my usual banana-coloured medicine, told Dad the road trip was off and went out shopping with my sisters. She’s a doctor so you’d think she’d be sympathetic, but you’d need to be bleeding to death with no pulse for Mum to take any notice.

In a way it was lucky that I was ill because the phone went and we were there to answer it, which we wouldn’t have been if we were halfway to the coast with a couple of boards on top of the car.

‘Keener. It’s me.’ It was Copper Pie. ‘My dad’s mate, the one who said we could have his shed, says it’s now or never. Fifty’s mum says it’s OK to go over. Get your dad too. No one answered at Jonno’s. Bee’s on her way. It’s time to build the —’

I passed the phone to Dad, because talking was like someone sanding my flesh.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right over with my tools.’

Dad spent all weekend over at Fifty’s. I sent notes from the living room sofa with design ideas, which they ignored. Good job too, because when I finally saw the Tribehouse there wasn’t a single thing I’d have changed. (Except I’d have liked a hammock.) Fifty’s dad had even cut a hole in the fence and made a little gate so we can get straight into the garden without going through the house – it’s the Tribe cat flap.

At the meeting, all of us, except Fifty, were sitting on the bench. It’s the only bit of furniture so far. Fifty was sitting on the safe. (I brought it from home.) It holds all our fact files and the tin for Tribe funds (which is empty except for an I.O.U. that says: Tribe owes Fifty’s mum two hours’ hoovering. It’s payment for the see-through plastic she bought for the windows of our hut). There’s loads of other stuff too: Bee’s rolled-up scroll where she wrote our aims, the Save the Stag poster that we used to make the Head give back our bit of the playground rather than bulldoze it, photos that we’re meant to be making into ID cards. Actually . . . it could do with a clear out.

We’d done the fist of friendship so it was time for business.

‘Right, you know what we’ve got to sort out tonight?’ said Bee.

‘Yes, boss.’ Fifty saluted.

‘Thank you for that.’ Bee did a fake smile. ‘It’s one week till —’

‘Ten days,’ I corrected her.

‘Thank you for that, Keener!’ I got the same smile.

‘It’s a week . . . and a bit . . . till the summer fair. We’ve had loads of ideas and done zilch, zero, nothing. So today we need to decide exactly what we’re doing. Agreed?’

‘Yes, Bee,’ I said.

‘Same,’ said Fifty.

‘I thought we’d decided,’ said Copper Pie. ‘Bombs!’ He did an evil I’m-going-to-kill-you-all cackle.

‘Yes, definitely bombs,’ said Jonno. It’s funny – when Jonno first came along he seemed to have all the ideas. I don’t know if you can pass them on, like head lice, but we’re all ideas people now.

‘OK, if that’s what everyone wants. But it won’t take five of us to sell water bombs.’ Bee was in Sergeant-Major mode.

‘Too right, said Copper Pie. ‘They’ll sell themselves.’

‘Drench your favourite teacher for 50p,’ said Fifty.

‘Is that how much we’re charging?’ I asked. I started to calculate how much money our stall was going to make.

‘How much do they cost?’ asked Bee.

I’d already found the best price on the internet. ‘You can get a thousand water bombs for £14.50 including delivery.’

‘Wow! A thousand serious soakings of seriously sad members of staff,’ said Fifty. ‘An excellent afternoon’s fun.’

‘How much does one cost then?’ asked Copper Pie.

‘Work it out, idiot,’ said Bee, which was a bit cruel because Copper Pie doesn’t even do adding, so dividing . . .

‘They’re 1.45p each,’ I said.

I ignored the rolling eyes. What’s the point of calling me Keener if I don’t have all the answers?

‘We can’t charge 50p then, can we?’ said Bee.

I didn’t see why not but I waited to find out.

‘We can. We can charge what we like,’ said Fifty. ‘What matters is how much people will pay for them, not what they cost.’

‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ said Bee. ‘We should charge enough to make some money, but not squillions.’

Jonno nodded. Shame. I wanted to side with Fifty – a thousand balloons at 50p each would be £500! But Bee and Jonno were probably right. It wouldn’t be Tribish to fleece all the other kids we’re at school with. We like to get along with everyone . . . well, almost everyone. It’s part of what we agreed when we formed Tribe.

BEING TRIBISH MEANS:

• Being fair, not fleecing.

• Looking after the world, not throwing rubbish in the street.

• Not being mean, except to seriously nasty people like Callum and Jamie.

• Liking our horrid patch in the playground, even though it smells.

• Liking Copper Pie, even though he smells (it’s his diet, according to Bee).

• Doing the right thing if we can work out what the right thing is.

• Being loyal to each other.

• Only lying if it’s really necessary (or really funny).

• Not lighting random fires (only applies to Fifty).

‘All right, how about 10p each?’ said Fifty.

‘And three for 25p,’ added Bee, in her new role as Financial Director of Tribe Water Bombs Limited.

‘Whatever,’ said Copper Pie. ‘I’m gunning for Miss Walsh. I’ll track her until she’s in a crowd and then chuck one over the top. Smack, straight on her head.’

‘That’ll make you popular,’ said Bee. (Copper Pie’s not what you’d call one of our teacher’s favourites.)

‘I’ll be undercover.’ He thinks he’s some sort of spy, but he’s actually a redheaded football hooligan.

‘So what else are we going to sell? We’ve got a whole table,’ Bee asked. We all looked at each other. Bee looked at us. ‘No ideas? That’s good. Because I’ve come up with something.’

‘What a surprise!’ said Fifty. ‘Bee in charge.’

She swung her head so that her black fringe flew in the air, letting Fifty see the mean look she was giving him.

‘Bring and Buy.’

‘Isn’t that what the W.I. do?’ I said. ‘Bring jam and buy more jam.’

‘What’s the double you eye?’ said Copper Pie.

‘It’s that glasses shop on the telly. Buy one pair get a second free,’ said Fifty, winking.

‘Soooo not funny. It’s the Women’s Institute,’ said Bee. ‘And who cares who else does it? If it’s a good idea, it’s a good idea. Full stop.’

‘Comma,’ said Fifty.

‘Exclamation mark,’ said Jonno.

WHAT’S THE W.I.?

Watch it!

Warm ice

Wicked idea

What if?

West Indies

Way in

Wrought iron

White ink

Welly it

‘Semi-colon,’ I joined in.

‘Can’t we have a proper talk without making up silly lists? We’re not in Reception any more.’

‘Remember the water tray,’ said Fifty. ‘I liked the blue sailing boat.’

‘Cut!’ Bee sliced the air with her hand like one of those karate fighters who leap in the air and shout ‘Nee haa’. ‘It’s only half Bring and Buy really, because instead of people bringing something for the stall and then buying something in exchange, my idea is we forget the money bit and just do swaps. That’s really green. Bring what you don’t want and take something you do want. It’s perfect.’

‘But the summer fair’s all about money,’ said Fifty.

‘Says who?’ said Bee.

‘Well . . . why else have one?’

‘If it was only about money, the Head could send round a collecting tin. The fair’s meant to be fun. And because it’s run by the kids it’s meant to show the parents and the grannies what a brilliant school we are.’

‘I like it,’ said Jonno.

‘What? School?’ said Copper Pie.

‘No, Bring and Buy. I like it.’

‘Good,’ said Bee. ‘So, you lot can do the water bombs and I’ll sort out the swap stall.’

‘I’ll help you, Bee,’ said Jonno.

‘Weirdo,’ said Copper Pie. ‘Water bombs or the W.I. and you choose —’

‘He chooses to save the planet,’ said Bee, with a smug smile.

‘We’ll need loads of stuff to swap,’ said Jonno.

‘Why don’t you get the rest of the school to donate things?’ I said.

Bee groaned. ‘Keep up, Keener. That wouldn’t work. If they give their stuff to us they won’t have anything left to “bring” on the day of the fair to swap for a “buy”.’

Good point. I decided to leave it to them.

Bee’s plan was to go round all the houses on her estate with a wheelbarrow and collect old books and toys and jugs and garden gnomes. Jonno said he’d do the same, but that DVDs might be more popular than creepy miniature men with long white hair, Noddy hats and fishing rods. Fifty thought remote controls that don’t work anymore would be good because his baby sister, Probably Rose, likes to chew them.

‘We don’t want rubbish,’ said Bee.

‘Yes we do,’ said Fifty. ‘Anything that doesn’t get swapped can go on a massive bonfire afterwards.’ (Told you: Fifty and fires!)

‘No way, we’ll take it to the charity shop. We need to recycle, not add a great cloud of smoke to the air we breathe.’

‘But I do love a fire. Couldn’t we have a tiny, hardly-even-hot one?’

‘Someone sit on him,’ said Bee. Copper Pie did. Fifty squealed like a piglet. Jonno took no notice – he was really keen on Bee’s idea.

‘We’ll have to make sure all the kids at school know to bring things on the day to swap,’ he said. ‘If not they’ll only bring money.’

‘Posters,’ said Bee. ‘We’ll ask the Head. And maybe an announcement in assembly. She’s bound to agree if I explain what a good use of resources it is. I’ve just thought – if it works, the school could do a swap stall for Earth Day.’ (Bee’s meant to be suggesting something for next year’s Earth Day, when we’ve all gone to senior school.)

So the summer fair was all agreed. We handed in our Tribe subs, had a chat about what to buy for the hut (not a lot because we only had £3.78) and then it was time for Fifty to have his tea so we all dived through the cat flap and went home. I walked with Copper Pie for a bit. His plan was to buy all the water bombs himself and co-ordinate an attack on a series of key targets, including his little brother, Charlie.

If only he’d stuck to his plan.