Short Stories by Michael Thomas

A slab of kaleidoscopic stone propped against a strip of willow. That was how he looked in the near-distance, among the signs for pubs and butchers, the angle-parked cars, all the casual furniture of a West Clare street on a midweek evening. A hulk of a man, he leaned on his stick one-handed, his riotous shirt and sky-blue trousers defiant against the failing August light. At first, as I approached, I thought he was frozen. Or that he’d passed on and was set to weather eternity in a pose of benign reflection. When I got close, however, I saw that his bald head was gently nodding: in time, I guessed, to the music from the session in the pub behind him.

I was headed there myself. Minutes earlier, agitated, showering myself in silent curses, I’d run out of it. Having stood a round for my group of family and friends, endured the usual exclamations of theatrical shock at my willing separation from my money and watched as the drinks appeared one by one on the counter, I’d remembered that my wallet was back in the car. No doubt someone else would have paid. The cost to me, however, would have been more than financial. I’d imagined--no, all but heard--the hoots of scorn as, turning from the bar, I confessed my plight. Probably I’d made things worse by scarpering without a word. But it wasn’t a moment to pause and meditate on action and consequence.

Now, breezing past the swirly shirt, the nodding head, I caught the words, ‘Lovely music. Lovely.’ Something made me stop dead: not, contrary to the robust belief in some quarters, a reluctance to sponsor the consumption of two Guinnesses, a red wine, two whites, a double-whiskey and a diet something-or-other-with-a-twist. ‘Lovely,’ the man repeated, nodding his head in time to his syllables, gripping his stick with both hands. ‘I’d still be in there if I hadn’t needed this breath of fresh.’ There was a warm joy in his voice. Surprise, too--as though, all his life, he’d been tracking precisely that music in that place, never thinking he’d find them. But something else battled his delight: something in his breath’s dry crackle, in the shiver which suddenly rocked his bulk as though it were no more than a leaf for the blowing. Pain, I guessed.

‘So glad we came,’ he said now, drawing me deeper into his regard. We might have been chatting all day. ‘First time over here, and it nearly didn’t happen. Dr. Crowhurst, he said my ticker wouldn’t be best pleased--the travel, all the in-and-out from the car. I should have done it years ago, he says, if I was that set on it. For good, perhaps. “You’ve been too long round Wolverhampton, Mr. Robbins,” he says. “You’ve got Black Country lung.” Well, I go along next time’--lifting a hand from the stick, he gave a damp snap of the fingers-- ‘and he’s only changed his tune. “On reflection,” he says, “why not do it?” Worth all the National Insurance I ever paid, those six words.’
I pictured my group staring at the drinks on the bar and the drinks staring back. But I couldn’t move off now without seeming ignorant. ‘Well,’ I imagined saying, ‘good on Dr. Crowhurst. Take care, then.’ It sounded crass. Besides, Dr. Crowhurst had now stepped aside for Mr Aynscuff.

‘Best teacher ever, him,’ he said. ‘Got me in on the school plays--doing lighting, sound effects. The sparks and spots, he called them. And he got me onto this’--he tilted his head in the direction of the music. ‘He used to help out at Wolverhampton Grand, weekends and holidays. Both Hippodromes, too, Birmingham and Dudley. He got to know them all--properly, mind--phone calls, Christmas cards. Ruby Murray, Edmund O’Hagan. Put Christy Moore up on his first trip to England. Josef Locke.’

At the last name, the music inside seemed to melt. Odd discords surfaced. A squeezebox sounded as though it was dropping its notes like beads all over the floor. Had my group given up on me, and were they now plying the musicians with my round--and many more--on the assurance that the escapee with the cash would be marched back in to foot the bill? Then I realized that, swaying on his stick, Mr. Robbins was overlaying their current reel with Josef Locke. Girls Were Made To Love and Kiss issued from his lips in a wavery but committed baritone. After a few lines he stopped. ‘Taught me that,’ he said, face flushed with effort and happiness. ‘Mr. Locke.’

I was vaguely conscious of a figure at the pub door. It could have been a banished smoker. It could have been one of my group, perhaps drawing a finger across their throat, signalling the fate of drink defaulters. I took no notice.

‘The last Christmas I was at school,’ said Mr. Robbins. ‘Mr. Aynscuff comes by the house. Do I want extra present money. He’s helping backstage at Wolverhampton Grand and they need another pair of hands. Can’t remember who was on. Tommy Trinder, maybe. Arthur Askey. Afterwards, “I’ll give you a lift home,” says Mr. A. “Car’s just round in Marchant Street. Be with you in a tick.” I get round there--only car in sight’s a Bentley. Bit of a step up from Mr. A’s Standard Ten. But that wasn’t about, nor nothing else. The door was unlocked--well, you could do that in those days. So in I jump. Leather seats, radio. Palace on wheels. “What’s he hired his for?” I wondered. Anyway, after a minute drumming my fingers, I couldn’t resist--slid myself over to the wheel, started turning it--hard left, hard right, you know, like a kid thinks it’s done. All of a sudden there’s this voice at the back of my neck. Nearly sends me through the roof. “I’m having second and third thoughts about you as my cabbie.” I look in the mirror’--his voice dropped reverently-- ‘and it’s only him! Mr. Locke! “So, away to Birmingham, is it? ” he says. “Will I serenade the night-owls in the Bull-Ring?”’

I stared hard at Mr. Robbins. Now he was completely still. His look was almost boyish, as though the Wolverhampton memory had lifted the yoke of years from his back. I half expected him to throw away the stick and turn a cartwheel.

‘Then Mr. Aynscuff gets in, and I shove over again for Mr. Locke’s real driver. Both of them hooting away--kindly, though, like they were telling me it was ok to be confused and chuffed at the same time. Turned out Mr. Locke was playing Birmingham the next night. Came up to catch the show at the Grand. So there’s me, passenger of honour, being chauffered home--Willenhall, quite a way up the road. Home James! In a Bentley, mind you, with--’ He broke off, as though the use of the famous name was a thing to be carefully rationed. ‘Singing away, we were,’ he continued. ‘Moonlight and Roses, I’ll See You In My Dreams, Shrimp Boats, anything. Well, nearly anything. The driver starts on with Heartbreak Hotel. “Hey, not in this car,” says Mr. Locke. “Don’t remind me of that competition.” Like a drain, he was, laughing. He does a solo--The Desert Song. Then, halfway through Bilston, he asks me to sing one of his songs on my own. His, mind! Well, I knew them but I didn’t--see what I mean? I listened to them, loved them, but I was a kid, you know? Head full of all sorts. I had scraps of them, but that was it. I could feel my face boiling. They probably felt the heat of it. “I’ll teach you one, so,” he says, “from the a to the zee.” So we’re going down Mount Pleasant Street and he’s singing Girls Were Made To Love and Kiss, getting me to repeat each line. And they all went in’--he tapped his head-- ‘first time, back of the net. We get to Willenhall, pull up in my road, and he doesn’t let me out till I’ve sung it through for him--from the a to the zee, like he said.’

A moment later, the music stopped in the pub. The musicians were on a break--or perhaps doing as I was: listening to Girls Were Made To Love and Kiss--the full job now, a to zee. His voice didn’t waver this time. He was back there, in that long-lost December, among the long-gone factories and shunt-yards of the Black Country. I imagined the sodium-lit arterial roads vibrating occasionally to the sparse night-traffic. Snow about, or at least a hard frost. The last buses going from one smoky town to another--or were they still trolleys? And in the middle of it, the plush box bowling along, in which there was song, geniality, laughter, in which a dream was coming true. I even imagined myself there, mischievous as the driver, trying a bit of Buddy Holly. ‘Ah, lad, lad,’ I imagined Josef Locke saying. ‘Spare us the twang-twang.’ In my mind, he laughed like a drain.

The rendition closed to applause and whistles from the pub, curious faces at the window. It also brought a figure to the edge of my vision. It could have been the one I saw earlier, in the doorway. Without properly looking, I assumed it was one of my impatient crew and dug out my wallet. But then it spoke: ‘So, you kiss them when you can, eh?’ A smallish, roundish woman stood beside us, her upper body all but hidden by a cavernous shoulder-bag. Her eyes twinkled at Mr. Robbins, who grinned back broadly, still the fourteen- or fifteen-year-old sliding into the Bentley in Marchant Street. ‘As long as they’re you,’ he chuckled.

‘Private booking, is it?’ she asked, twinkling at me.

‘Something like that.’ It was the first time I’d said anything. But Mrs. Robbins was now attending to her husband: ‘Come on, love,’ she said affectionately, ‘you’ll be overdoing it. It’s getting packed out in there. Here’s your jacket.’ She arranged it round his shoulders; a sober grey muzzled the riot of his shirt. ‘We can have a nightcap at the hotel. And there’s the session in Ennistymon tomorrow--more music for you.’

Mr. Robbins winked at me: ‘What can I do but obey?’ He held out a hand. Once again it was shivering: ‘Thank you for your company,’

‘Thank you for the song.’

‘Did all right, didn’t I?’

‘From the a to the zee,’ I said, bidding them goodnight. As they slowly disappeared along the street, I heard a voice at the back of my neck. Not, alas, Josef Locke’s.

‘Next round’s definitely yours,’ it announced. ‘Even if we have to sell you for it.’

Without thinking, I opened my wallet, peeled off some notes and passed them over my shoulder. ‘Just a half for me.’

‘There’s seventy here!’ The voice, so cheerily emphatic a moment before, was faint with disbelief.

‘Set them up for the session folk. And ask if they’d do The Desert Song.’

‘Jig, is that?’

Briefly, my songster and his wife were illuminated by a newsagents’ night-light.

‘Just ask them.’

Footsteps retreated behind me. After a minute or two, the squeezebox cantered into that song of brave farewells, foes anticipated--and girls again. Fiddle, guitar and mandolin swung in behind it. Deftly, a whistle began embroidering the tune. I stayed put, watching the Bentley’s passenger of honour and his twinkling wife till they were just beyond the last lamp of the street. The waiting darkness played tricks with her bag. It seemed to swell, and I fancied that duo had become trio: that Josef Locke was squiring them home, testing his ill but ardent acolyte on his whole repertoire, from the a to the zee.

Short Stories
Halfway through Bilston with Joseph Locke My Mother's Major The Tales of Spudlichek
Halfway through Bilston with Josef Locke Back to top Back to top Back to top Back	A slab of kaleidoscopic stone propped against a strip of willow. That was how he looked in the near-distance, among the signs for pubs and butchers, the angle-parked cars, all the casual furniture of a West Clare street on a midweek evening. A hulk of a man, he leaned on his stick one-handed, his riotous shirt and sky-blue trousers defiant against the failing August light. At first, as I approached, I thought he was frozen. Or that he’d passed on and was set to weather eternity in a pose of benign reflection. When I got close, however, I saw that his bald head was gently nodding: in time, I guessed, to the music from the session in the pub behind him. I was headed there myself. Minutes earlier, agitated, showering myself in silent curses, I’d run out of it. Having stood a round for my group of family and friends, endured the usual exclamations of theatrical shock at my willing separation from my money and watched as the drinks appeared one by one on the counter, I’d remembered that my wallet was back in the car. No doubt someone else would have paid. The cost to me, however, would have been more than financial. I’d imagined--no, all but heard--the hoots of scorn as, turning from the bar, I confessed my plight. Probably I’d made things worse by scarpering without a word. But it wasn’t a moment to pause and meditate on action and consequence. Now, breezing past the swirly shirt, the nodding head, I caught the words, ‘Lovely music. Lovely.’ Something made me stop dead: not, contrary to the robust belief in some quarters, a reluctance to sponsor the consumption of two Guinnesses, a red wine, two whites, a double-whiskey and a diet something-or-other-with-a-twist. ‘Lovely,’ the man repeated, nodding his head in time to his syllables, gripping his stick with both hands. ‘I’d still be in there if I hadn’t needed this breath of fresh.’ There was a warm joy in his voice. Surprise, too--as though, all his life, he’d been tracking precisely that music in that place, never thinking he’d find them. But something else battled his delight: something in his breath’s dry crackle, in the shiver which suddenly rocked his bulk as though it were no more than a leaf for the blowing. Pain, I guessed. ‘So glad we came,’ he said now, drawing me deeper into his regard. We might have been chatting all day. ‘First time over here, and it nearly didn’t happen. Dr. Crowhurst, he said my ticker wouldn’t be best pleased--the travel, all the in-and-out from the car. I should have done it years ago, he says, if I was that set on it. For good, perhaps. “You’ve been too long round Wolverhampton, Mr. Robbins,” he says. “You’ve got Black Country lung.” Well, I go along next time’--lifting a hand from the stick, he gave a damp snap of the fingers-- ‘and he’s only changed his tune. “On reflection,” he says, “why not do it?” Worth all the National Insurance I ever paid, those six words.’ I pictured my group staring at the drinks on the bar and the drinks staring back. But I couldn’t move off now without seeming ignorant. ‘Well,’ I imagined saying, ‘good on Dr. Crowhurst. Take care, then.’ It sounded crass. Besides, Dr. Crowhurst had now stepped aside for Mr Aynscuff. ‘Best teacher ever, him,’ he said. ‘Got me in on the school plays--doing lighting, sound effects. The sparks and spots, he called them. And he got me onto this’--he tilted his head in the direction of the music. ‘He used to help out at Wolverhampton Grand, weekends and holidays. Both Hippodromes, too, Birmingham and Dudley. He got to know them all--properly, mind--phone calls, Christmas cards. Ruby Murray, Edmund O’Hagan. Put Christy Moore up on his first trip to England. Josef Locke.’ At the last name, the music inside seemed to melt. Odd discords surfaced. A squeezebox sounded as though it was dropping its notes like beads all over the floor. Had my group given up on me, and were they now plying the musicians with my round--and many more--on the assurance that the escapee with the cash would be marched back in to foot the bill? Then I realized that, swaying on his stick, Mr. Robbins was overlaying their current reel with Josef Locke. Girls Were Made To Love and Kiss issued from his lips in a wavery but committed baritone. After a few lines he stopped. ‘Taught me that,’ he said, face flushed with effort and happiness. ‘Mr. Locke.’ I was vaguely conscious of a figure at the pub door. It could have been a banished smoker. It could have been one of my group, perhaps drawing a finger across their throat, signalling the fate of drink defaulters. I took no notice. ‘The last Christmas I was at school,’ said Mr. Robbins. ‘Mr. Aynscuff comes by the house. Do I want extra present money. He’s helping backstage at Wolverhampton Grand and they need another pair of hands. Can’t remember who was on. Tommy Trinder, maybe. Arthur Askey. Afterwards, “I’ll give you a lift home,” says Mr. A. “Car’s just round in Marchant Street. Be with you in a tick.” I get round there--only car in sight’s a Bentley. Bit of a step up from Mr. A’s Standard Ten. But that wasn’t about, nor nothing else. The door was unlocked--well, you could do that in those days. So in I jump. Leather seats, radio. Palace on wheels. “What’s he hired his for?” I wondered. Anyway, after a minute drumming my fingers, I couldn’t resist--slid myself over to the wheel, started turning it--hard left, hard right, you know, like a kid thinks it’s done. All of a sudden there’s this voice at the back of my neck. Nearly sends me through the roof. “I’m having second and third thoughts about you as my cabbie.” I look in the mirror’--his voice dropped reverently-- ‘and it’s only him! Mr. Locke! “So, away to Birmingham, is it? ” he says. “Will I serenade the night-owls in the Bull-Ring?”’ I stared hard at Mr. Robbins. Now he was completely still. His look was almost boyish, as though the Wolverhampton memory had lifted the yoke of years from his back. I half expected him to throw away the stick and turn a cartwheel. ‘Then Mr. Aynscuff gets in, and I shove over again for Mr. Locke’s real driver. Both of them hooting away--kindly, though, like they were telling me it was ok to be confused and chuffed at the same time. Turned out Mr. Locke was playing Birmingham the next night. Came up to catch the show at the Grand. So there’s me, passenger of honour, being chauffered home--Willenhall, quite a way up the road. Home James! In a Bentley, mind you, with--’ He broke off, as though the use of the famous name was a thing to be carefully rationed. ‘Singing away, we were,’ he continued. ‘Moonlight and Roses, I’ll See You In My Dreams, Shrimp Boats, anything. Well, nearly anything. The driver starts on with Heartbreak Hotel. “Hey, not in this car,” says Mr. Locke. “Don’t remind me of that competition.” Like a drain, he was, laughing. He does a solo--The Desert Song. Then, halfway through Bilston, he asks me to sing one of his songs on my own. His, mind! Well, I knew them but I didn’t--see what I mean? I listened to them, loved them, but I was a kid, you know? Head full of all sorts. I had scraps of them, but that was it. I could feel my face boiling. They probably felt the heat of it. “I’ll teach you one, so,” he says, “from the a to the zee.” So we’re going down Mount Pleasant Street and he’s singing Girls Were Made To Love and Kiss, getting me to repeat each line. And they all went in’--he tapped his head-- ‘first time, back of the net. We get to Willenhall, pull up in my road, and he doesn’t let me out till I’ve sung it through for him--from the a to the zee, like he said.’ A moment later, the music stopped in the pub. The musicians were on a break--or perhaps doing as I was: listening to Girls Were Made To Love and Kiss--the full job now, a to zee. His voice didn’t waver this time. He was back there, in that long-lost December, among the long-gone factories and shunt-yards of the Black Country. I imagined the sodium-lit arterial roads vibrating occasionally to the sparse night-traffic. Snow about, or at least a hard frost. The last buses going from one smoky town to another--or were they still trolleys? And in the middle of it, the plush box bowling along, in which there was song, geniality, laughter, in which a dream was coming true. I even imagined myself there, mischievous as the driver, trying a bit of Buddy Holly. ‘Ah, lad, lad,’ I imagined Josef Locke saying. ‘Spare us the twang-twang.’ In my mind, he laughed like a drain. The rendition closed to applause and whistles from the pub, curious faces at the window. It also brought a figure to the edge of my vision. It could have been the one I saw earlier, in the doorway. Without properly looking, I assumed it was one of my impatient crew and dug out my wallet. But then it spoke: ‘So, you kiss them when you can, eh?’ A smallish, roundish woman stood beside us, her upper body all but hidden by a cavernous shoulder-bag. Her eyes twinkled at Mr. Robbins, who grinned back broadly, still the fourteen- or fifteen-year-old sliding into the Bentley in Marchant Street. ‘As long as they’re you,’ he chuckled. ‘Private booking, is it?’ she asked, twinkling at me. ‘Something like that.’ It was the first time I’d said anything. But Mrs. Robbins was now attending to her husband: ‘Come on, love,’ she said affectionately, ‘you’ll be overdoing it. It’s getting packed out in there. Here’s your jacket.’ She arranged it round his shoulders; a sober grey muzzled the riot of his shirt. ‘We can have a nightcap at the hotel. And there’s the session in Ennistymon tomorrow--more music for you.’ Mr. Robbins winked at me: ‘What can I do but obey?’ He held out a hand. Once again it was shivering: ‘Thank you for your company,’ ‘Thank you for the song.’ ‘Did all right, didn’t I?’ ‘From the a to the zee,’ I said, bidding them goodnight. As they slowly disappeared along the street, I heard a voice at the back of my neck. Not, alas, Josef Locke’s. ‘Next round’s definitely yours,’ it announced. ‘Even if we have to sell you for it.’ Without thinking, I opened my wallet, peeled off some notes and passed them over my shoulder. ‘Just a half for me.’ ‘There’s seventy here!’ The voice, so cheerily emphatic a moment before, was faint with disbelief. ‘Set them up for the session folk. And ask if they’d do The Desert Song.’ ‘Jig, is that?’ Briefly, my songster and his wife were illuminated by a newsagents’ night-light. ‘Just ask them.’ Footsteps retreated behind me. After a minute or two, the squeezebox cantered into that song of brave farewells, foes anticipated--and girls again. Fiddle, guitar and mandolin swung in behind it. Deftly, a whistle began embroidering the tune. I stayed put, watching the Bentley’s passenger of honour and his twinkling wife till they were just beyond the last lamp of the street. The waiting darkness played tricks with her bag. It seemed to swell, and I fancied that duo had become trio: that Josef Locke was squiring them home, testing his ill but ardent acolyte on his whole repertoire, from the a to the zee.
My Mother’s Major Back to top Back to top Back to top	The sun makes hazy channels across the tablecloth. Restless, it flares and fades in the room. On the mantelpiece, postcards flash back the light: a miniature Ullswater turns ocean-blue. The sun trickles down a pocket matador, perched on a Mallorcan ashtray; gives a lick of unearthly paint to the serving-hatch. But soon all will darken, and it will be time to draw the curtains on the autumn day. Left edge over right, mother always insists: the other way creates ruckles--chaos, in fact. I remember when dad sealed the serving-hatch up. She remembers, too: wanted it kept open. They had words about it, drizzling over several days. Memories of dad are much with her, especially after the trip we’ve just made--clearing, replacing the water, lamenting the dilatory attitude of the cemetery groundsmen. The sun banks over the rooftops opposite. The roads will be choked now. I’ll give it another hour. Besides, mother is disposed to talk. ‘He knew that Major, your father. Right article he was. Never forget the way she looked at me. “What day is it, nurse? He’ll ask.” Poor creature.’ I’ve heard this one many times; I’ve heard them all. No matter. Time is ticking. It will vanish over the roofs with another sun on another day, taking with it this room, the postcards, the poised matador, the husky voice that speaks now. I relax in my chair. Mother’s words turn the room into how it was nearly forty years ago. I imagine my satchel, scored with the names of mid-fielders, dumped under the serving-hatch; and my school shoes, squashed at the heels, lying alongside it, when they should be in the hall cupboard, there being a place for everything. Mother’s cream cardigan and brown slacks disappear; again she is in her ocean-blue--the colour of the Ullswater postcard--round white collar, watch over breast pocket, black felt hat with the badge on the side, a gentle indentation at the crown. An air-stewardess’s, really: odd for a district nurse. ‘I said to Miss Rennison, “I can’t bear to go in any more.” Not that I meant it. Who’d have looked after the old lady? Home-helps just appeared once in a blue moon. None of the others would have them on their books. Just muggins here.’ The Crowleys. Mother and son. ‘The Swinging Gate’ in Belville High Street. Free House. Flaking paint and plaster. Inside, a bar and a snug, brown as chestnuts from years of smoke and dust. Only the sign above the door was shiny: ‘Major Alfred Crowley, licensed to sell intoxicating liquor ....’ ‘That was a joke,’ says mother. ‘Most of it went down his own throat. Slewed at ten in the morning, I saw him, more than once. Him and his cronies, drinking the old lady’s roof off her head after closing-time. I told your father not to go in there. Took no notice, of course.’ Major Crowley: first name, not achieved rank. Never anywhere near a gun, except if a fair pitched up between Wolverhampton and Dudley. But an uncle had done sterling work at Ypres, and his promotion was proudly enshrined through his nephew’s christening. Stumpy man, Major: voice full of gravel, belt slung under his belly. Teddy Boy quiff, grey-black. Rumours clung to him, principally that he ran cock-fights up on the Welsh border till the dad died and he took over the pub. Better at that than the publican’s trade: abusive to customers, many of whom shifted ground to the newer pubs on nearby estates; abusive to dad, who he knew was married to ‘that nuss’--but dad would buy a round and ignore him. Abusive most of all to Rene, his mother, whom he would clout regularly, thereby (it was said) hastening the various conditions which required mother’s attention. Sometimes he would stun his patrons: stand at the foot of the oak stairs by the bar, holler way up to the top of the house. Sooner she was gone the better, he’d call. A leech on his profits. What kind of bloody name was Major? Why hadn’t she given him a proper name? Teased beyond endurance he’d been, all his life, and she knew it. Once the last punter was out and he’d slid the bolts on the night, the game went further. He’d creep up on her, tell her that next day, or the day after, he’d ask her a question. If she didn’t answer straight off--and here, like a ten-pin bowler, he would swing his hand past her bowed head. ‘She told me everything,’ says mother, adjusting a leg of her slacks. ‘Not as gone in the head as he thought. Daft questions. Can’t remember half of them.’ I can. What was the first car Old Crowley drove? Who was the youngest of Salter Bros, Scrap Dealers, Darkhouse Lane? Did Auntie Beverley’s Alec emigrate to South Africa and then New Zealand, or the other way round? How do you spell Ypres? Sometimes, as the old woman declined, Major would change tack. The questions became simpler. He’d ask the same one twice running. What colour had her hair been? What was her maiden name? Her misting eyes would follow him when he came upstairs. She would try to guess the next question from his face, his movements. ‘So this one day I was in there. Last call on the list. His majesty lets me in, then goes off down the cellar. And there she is, just a nightie on in that freezing, poky bedroom. Gripped my arm like a navvy, mind, frail as she was. “What day is it, nurse? He’ll ask. He’s made a big thing of looking at the calendar. He’ll belt me if I don’t know.” Then I turn round and there he is. Gives us a royal mouthful, says he can do what he likes. Those as don’t know the day of the week have no place under his roof. Orders me out, if you please, and her dressings half-done.’ The last straw: ‘So off I trot to Rennison. She knew the score damn fine. Couldn’t care less, though--with her smarmy smile, all that guff about old age, about romancing.’ Well, she wouldn’t. Poacher turned gamekeeper. Indifferent nurse at best, but supervisor now, shoving the rest about, swanning around in a Ford Consul. ‘Romancing my eye,’ says mother. ‘I studied Rene Crowley’s hairline. I saw what I saw. Sly bugger, him.’ Sharp, my mother’s eyes, even now. Able to pick out discolouration under healthy heads of hair: welts, bruises. As were Dr McGhee’s. Inverness man; army doctor till long after the war. Miss Rennison’s hero: well, he’d come bearing a petrol-can once when she’d let her Consul run dry in Lower Gornal. He’d been rushing out of the Health Office when he heard mother ‘and ladyship,’ says mother with a sneer. ‘”That Crowley you’re talking about?” says he. Rennison purrs, naturally, starts talking about the delusions of the elderly. “I’ve heard enough about him,” he says. “Locals give you the word, if nobody else does.” And he stares at Rennison, who goes red as a cherry. “Right,” says Dr., “both of you with me at Crowley’s, ten o’clock tomorrow.” Rennison starts blustering about some meeting. “Cancelled,” says Dr. “Ten o’clock.”’ Santiago is the capital of Chile. Mother learned that in school. She remembered it again next morning, when Dr. McGhee hammered on the door of ‘The Swinging Gate’ and Miss Rennison wondered aloud about doctor-patient relations, and a gravelly voice upstairs kept up its demand, so that people halted on the street and called ‘shame.’ ‘I’ll give him the capital of Chile,’ yelled Dr. McGhee, hurling himself at the door. It gave: ‘One bolt still on, mind,’ says mother. ‘But he bent it all to bits. McGhee for you. My champion.’ Halfway up the stairs, they heard the thud, then a rush of breath, long and slow, as of a voice gathering itself for execration. ‘”You’re a disgrace to humanity Crowley,”’ says mother, quoting her champion. But a woman’s voice then, rising like a banshee’s as they crowd into the poky room: ‘Santiago! Santiago!’ And Rene Crowley sinking to her knees over her son, and Dr. McGhee cursing as he kneels on the other side, parts her hair, sees the purple, the mottling. ‘Santiago,’ she repeated, as though the word was a gun still smoking. ‘That stroke was coming like Christmas,’ says mother. ‘All his drinking, guts like the side of a house. He went convalescent out Chapel Ash way. Never recovered. Waste of taxpayers’ money. Even your father said that.’ And Rene, a new, somehow younger woman, sold up and moved to Much Wenlock, to be with Auntie Beverley. Her son, Alec, moved to New Zealand first, then South Africa. Rene realised she’d known that all along: told mother so, when she phoned to thank her for all her kindness. It’s all but dark. I tell mother to stay put, switch on the lamp by the tv and make for the curtains: ‘Left edge over right,’ she instructs, as though a world in which such neatness is honoured is also, inevitably, a world in which vile sons hit the floorboards in a poky room, and savaged mothers shake off nightmares and bruises in Shropshire. I pick up my car-keys. ‘Next Thursday, then,’ I say. Mother gets stiffly to her feet: ‘I’ll sort out another vase,’ she says. ‘Narrow neck. Don’t want all the slugs in Christendom sloshing about over your father.’ Or Major’s ghost, drawn by the chill, thrashing antics of its kind. Michael W. Thomas, November 2000. (published in The Interpreter's House, issue 17, 2001)
The Tales of Spudlichek (This is the first section of a children's book in progress - based on an original concept by David Schindler) Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top Back to top	Spudlichek. There’s a name for you. Not Smith, Brown or Jackson. There’s nothing wrong with those names, of course. Perhaps you’re a Smith, Brown or Jackson yourself. If you are, you have a big, big family, bigger than your own. Think of all the other people with those names. Look in the newspapers or the telephone book. You’re bound to find dozens of Smiths and Browns--maybe not so many Jacksons, but they’ll still be there. And you can close the paper or the telephone book and think, ‘There are dozens and dozens of us--more than just my mum and dad, my uncles and aunts or my cousins.’ And you might think how nice it is that so many people share your name. No-one shares Spudlichek’s name. He is more than one in a million. He is one in billions and trillions, one in all the people who have ever been or who will ever be on this planet. That might sound rather sad, but it isn’t. Spudlichek has many friends, and the number keeps on growing all the time. He probably has more friends than there are Smiths, Browns and Jacksons in this world. Do you like soccer? Spudlichek has more friends than you’d fit into ten football stadiums. Do you like ballet? Spudlichek’s friends would fill all the ballet stages in the world--and even then you’d have to build more. Spudlichek’s friends would easily take up all of London, and Birmingham four times over--and as for the Isle of Man, well, they’d have to pull up another one from the sea-bed, and then another, and another, to fit all his friends on. Why is this? Who are all of Spudlichek’s friends, and where are they from? Well, they are ordinary people, children and grown-ups, from all over the world. And they are his friends because he has helped them when they’ve been in a pickle, or very frightened, or done things without thinking, without caring whether they were good or bad. He makes people see that it is better to help rather than hurt, to be kind rather than cruel. If you know that already, well, good for you. But whether you do or not, it is worth just a little of your time to read about Spudlichek right now. You never know--you may just need his help one day. Hugo Bloggins did--and, because of what Hugo was like, so did all the animals in London Zoo. Who? you are thinking. Hugo Bloggins. Hugo Bloggins? I’ll wait for a moment while you go and look in a newspaper or a telephone book, to see if there are any other Blogginses about. I know the answer, but I shan’t spoil it for you. Take your time. Patience is a virtue. That’s one thing Spudlichek knows about, one thing he teaches all of this friends. Ah, you’re back. See many Blogginses in your search? Two, three? A handful? Yes, not a very common name. And Hugo Bloggins, you see, was an uncommon person--though not, of course, as uncommon as Spudlichek. And he was hardly as good as Spudlichek--not to begin with, anyway, which is why, although he didn’t know it, he needed Spudlichek’s help. Hugo Bloggins had parents who weren’t nice and an uncle who was. Things might have turned out differently if it had been the other way round. But it wasn’t, so there we are. Mr and Mrs Bloggins didn’t bother much about telling Hugo what was right and what was wrong. They were quite happy if he pulled the wings off a dozing fly, or trapped a moth in a jam-jar full of oil, or hurled stones at a darting squirrel. As long as he kept his room fairly tidy and brushed his hair properly, they were happy to feed him, clothe him and give him enough pocket-money for cakes and ice-cream and chocolate-bars. His favourite chocolate, as you might guess, was the kind shaped into animals. That way, he could bite the head off a bear without having to hunt one, or bite the tail of a dog without having to chase one. Some people like animals and others don’t. But even the ones who don’t just think to themselves, ‘Well, if they leave me alone, I’ll leave them alone.’ Except for Hugo. He thought animals were a waste of time. But his uncle, David Bloggins, was another matter altogether. He loved animals--which was just as well, really, since he was the head keeper at London Zoo. Even though Hugo’s parents thought he was mad, he was forever trying to interest young Hugo in them. He took Hugo bird-watching--but Hugo complained about the noise the birds made, and laughed at the way they flew about: ‘They’re stupid,’ he said. ‘If they want to get from A to B, why don’t they just fly there? Why do they bother to circle about and dive? And look at that one, just hovering in the air? Has he forgotten how to fly?’ And his uncle had to stop him picking up a stone to throw at the bird. Uncle David took him to a horse-show, but he spent the whole time mocking the way the horses looked: ‘What do they need blankets for? I’m not cold. And look at all those stupid bells round their heads. What are they for? To wake them up if they drop off? Are they bored? I know they’re boring me.’ So you may think it rather strange that Uncle David spoke to his boss at the Zoo and asked if there was any work for his nephew. If you’d been Uncle David, you might have just given up on him. But Uncle David knew that it was wrong, Hugo’s dislike of animals. He was losing out, too. Animals live and talk and behave just like we do--except that they have their own ways of doing it. People, Uncle David thought, could learn a lot from animals. Certainly someone like Hugo could. As far as Uncle David could see, the boy wasn’t exactly doing much else with his time except sulking about and getting big and spotty from all those cakes and ice-creams and all that chocolate that was disappearing under his belt. So he asked his boss, who said yes. After all, he had a lot of respect for his head-keeper. Besides, the summer was coming on, and a very hot summer it was, too. There would be lots of tourists at the Zoo, and the animals would need all the care they could get, so that they would feel happy and safe. The boss didn’t interview Hugo. If he had done, perhaps he would have decided that--despite his respect for Uncle David--here was a boy who couldn’t be trusted to keep a tadpole safe, never mind a tapir or an okapi. It was about this time that, in a little thatched house in northern Czechoslovakia, by the River Labe, a particular person felt a particular itch in his palm. Ah, you’ve dropped the book! I can see you’re surprised! You’re thinking, ‘Hang on a minute--I thought we were in London, hearing about this Bloggins chap and his zoo-keeping uncle!’ Well, yes, we are. ‘No we’re not!’ I can hear you say. ‘How did we get to that river Whatever-it-is in northern Czech--, Czechos--that place?’ Well, all right, fair enough--we’re not in London at the moment. We’re in northern Czechoslovakia because we’ve been sent for. ‘Who sent for us?’ you cry. Spudlichek did, because that’s where he lives and because it’s time for him to enter his own story. ‘And what’s wrong with his palm,’ you ask. ‘Has he burned it? Has he been throwing snowballs without his gloves on? Did something bite him?’ No--nothing like that. Spudlichek lives in northern Czechoslovakia, and his best friend lives in his hand. It’s not like your best friend. Your best friend might live near you: the next town, the next street, even next door. But not in your hand. And I’ll bet that your best friend doesn’t beep and purr and whistle, either, unless they’re larking about, pretending to be a car alarm or a cat or a train. But Spudlichek’s best friend isn’t larking about when he beeps or purrs or whistles. Very serious, is Spudlichek’s friend. He’s a planetary phone. And he knows when Spudlichek is needed, anywhere in the world. And he was certainly needed now, at London Zoo, where all the animals were about to meet Hugo Bloggins--and wish that he, or they, had never been born. Spudlichek had just finished his favourite breakfast, yoghurt and button mushrooms (but not together) when his palm started itching and then beeped and whistled. He rubbed his eyes, then held it open. It turned into a kindly but serious face: ‘Morning, Spudlichek,’ said his phone, whose name was Telepathio. (His circuits were of Italian descent, a fact of which he was very proud). ‘What do you think of London in the summer?’ ‘Very noisy,’ said Spudlichek, who, in fact, was still dozy from a good night’s sleep. ‘Well, stock up on your ear-plugs. You may well be wanted there. It’s the Zoo, mind you. Animals and all that. A better class of noise, if you ask me--not like cars or planes.’ ‘If you ask me’ was a favourite expression of Telepathio’s. Sometimes Spudlichek thought that he was playing a little game with himself, trying to see how many times he could fit it, or something like it, into a sentence. ‘Let me see,’ said Spudlichek. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he opened his other hand wide. What he saw was the London Zoo Reptile House at eight-thirty on a summer’s morning. David Bloggins was standing in the entrance, facing his unpromising nephew. ‘Now, lad--you’ve got their food, you’ve got the brushes and the watering gear. I’ve told you what’s to be done. Any questions?’ Hugo muttered a sort of ‘no.’ ‘Right, then, I’m off to the small mammals. I’ll come and see how you’re doing. If you have a problem, give me a call.’ And Uncle David was gone. Spudlichek’s eyes narrowed: ‘So is this the one I might be visiting?’ ‘The very same,’ said Telepathio. ‘A bit of a monster, if you ask me. I was watching him before I dialled myself up to you. In my opinion, those poor reptiles don’t know what’s about to hit them.’ But they soon did. All manner of things hit them. Hugo treated them as though they were living coconuts on a fairground stall. He aimed food at the middle of snakes, so that they would instantly curl tight like a catherine-wheel. He maddened the little turtles, dropping loops of wire round them so that he could yank them up, as though they were fluffy toys in a glass booth and he was working a crane to try and win them. As for the lizards, they must have wished that they were back home in Greece or Morocco or wherever they had come from. Lizards don’t mind a splash of water now and then; but they certainly don’t like being hosed into the air, bouncing about on a bed of water as though they were part of an odd statue outside a town hall. To make matters worse, there were hardly any visitors to the Reptile House on that day. Now and again, one or two would drift in, glance about and drift out again, in search of cuter, more cuddly-looking animals. Even the turtles didn’t hold their attention. So Hugo seemed as free as free to pursue his nasty games. And there was yet another problem for the hapless reptiles: Hugo could sense when his uncle was about. So, whenever David Bloggins came to see how he was doing, he’d make sure that the food and the water were neatly in place for the reptiles, and then he’d smile and say, ‘This is great.’ His uncle, thinking that the boy had made a fine start, would go back to his own work. ‘I’m winning him round,’ he said to himself. Of course, the moment he was out of sight, the turtles and lizards were being dangled and drowned again. ‘There you are, you see,’ said Telepathio, his face reappearing on Spudlichek’s palm. ‘Shall I tell your suitcase to pack itself? London in summer, eh? Lots to do and see. Buckingham Palace. The Tower. Madame Tussaud’s is a bit over-rated, though, if you want my opinion.’ Telepathio started twitching his head at Spudlichek, as if to ask, wasn’t it time he was getting out of the door and across western Europe? ‘We must wait,’ said Spudlichek. ‘We must let things unfold.’ ‘Unfold?’ Telepathio’s eyes goggled out of Spudlichek’s hand. ‘Unfold? Look at what he’s doing! If we don’t do something, there’ll be lizards and gekkos and cobras unfolding by the dozen, and it’ll take some effort to fold them back together. Really, Spudlichek!’ But Spudlichek wasn’t paying Telepathio any attention. He was thinking, so Telepathio had to grump to himself: ‘Unfold, if you please. I could have slept in this morning, instead of listening in to all the unkindness in the world and tracking down this cruel boy a thousand miles away.’ And the planetary phone beeped his annoyance. ‘That man,’ said Spudlichek at last. ‘Hugo’s uncle. He’s good. He’ll see if anything is amiss. Leave it to him for now.’ ‘Suit yourself,’ said Telepathio, giving a long, low purr--his signal that he was shutting down. Spudlichek gazed at his blank palm. He was very fond of Telepathio, but the phone did get very cross and bothered at times. That was understandable, of course. But Spudlichek liked to give wrong-doers the benefit of the doubt at first. He wanted to see if they would come to their senses on their own, or act on good advice from others. Uncle David, he saw, was a wise man--a proper respecter of animals, too. Back in London, however, it wasn’t looking as though Hugo would learn any lesson. By the end of his first day, the snakes had decided that enough was enough. They’d had a conference under a large, dark slab at the far end of their tank and agreed that they would go on hunger strike. This nincompoop of a new keeper either didn’t know or didn’t care about reptiles. They wouldn’t come out, they decided, while it was daytime. That meant no food, of course: anything they didn’t eat was cleared out at the end of each day, otherwise it would go bad and give them twists and shakes in their stomachs. But that was how it had to be. Sooner rather than later, that nice Mr. David would notice that they hadn’t been slithering about and he’d rescue them from his dolt of a nephew. At the same time as the snakes were talking, a group of monitor lizards was trying to comfort one of their number. Pelter was a quiet, sensitive sort, not at all like his name. While the others darted about, he would barely break into a shuffle. He was very well liked, but he had his own pace of life--and that pace had nothing to do with being hurled to the sky on a jet of water. The lizards, too, were pinning their hopes on Mr. David. Rather than going on hunger strike, however, they had decided to shoot about in a pack, keeping tight together, even locking legs with each other, so that if this Hugo tried to hoist one with his water, he’d have to take them all on. ‘It’s a good plan,’ said Pelter in a trembling voice. ‘But I think I’ll tuck myself away under a piece of granite. I can warn you, though, if the crazy waterboy is around.’ All of the reptiles were right, of course, to expect kindness from Mr. David. But Hugo had managed to fool his uncle on his first day. Even so, it might have only been for one day, except that a pair of excitable flamingoes arrived at the Zoo the next morning, and the boss specifically asked that David Bloggins should take charge of them. So it looked as though Hugo would have a second day of cruel merriment--especially as, once again, all the visitors seemed to be elsewhere in the Zoo. As they had planned, the snakes were well out of sight. At first this annoyed Hugo, but he then turned his attention to the lizards. They were behaving very strangely (even for animals, thought Hugo--a strange bunch at the best of times). They seemed to be moving around their tanks as though they were one big lizard, sticking very close together. They looked like a group of circus acrobats who hadn’t worked out that they were meant to perform their stunts in the air, on one another’s shoulders, and not sprawled out along the ground. ‘You haven’t quite got the hang of your tricks, lads,’ said Hugo. ‘I’ll teach you.’ And he turned the water-hose full-on, hoping to blow them in all directions like the shell of a coconut. But the lizards were cunning. They knew that if they stuck together, he probably wouldn’t be able to spin them into the air. Still, they’d decided not to take that risk, so Pelter had come up with another plan. Hidden behind his granite, he watched for Hugo and called to them each time he figured out the direction of the water-jet. Then the lizards would separate in threes and fours, like parts of a jigsaw coming away from each other, and the water would burrow harmlessly into the sand. Hugo became very annoyed indeed: ‘They’re just not playing the game,’ he told himself. So he hunted out the one type of reptile which was too big to hide and too slow to escape his tomfoolery . . . . ‘This is bringing back my arthritis,’ said one turtle to another, as they both hit the floor of their tanks after being lifted and shaken about by Hugo’s nasty piece of wire. ‘I wish he’d lift me clean out,’ said the other. ‘It’d be worth it to snap his spotty little nose off.’ ‘He’d drop you. You’d smash like an egg,’ said the first. ‘Do you think I care?’ replied the second. And they both sighed at the terrible place the Reptile House had become. But even if Uncle David didn’t see what Hugo was about, someone else did. Alf, the deputy head-keeper, had volunteered to keep an eye on the lad while David Bloggins was busy with the flamingoes. But Uncle David hadn’t had time to tell Hugo this, so the boy didn’t know that he was being observed. But Alf observed him all right. At lunch-break on Hugo’s second day, Alf found him in the Zoo’s cafe. Hugo had come in and found a group of other keepers having their lunch. For a moment, he thought he might join them. But then--horrors!--he saw that they were actually sharing their food! One man picked up another man’s sandwich, with lovely huge doorsteps of bread--and the other man encouraged him and told him to tuck in! Hugo had clutched his own lunch tightly to his chest. No way was anyone having his food, especially not the two toffee muffins, the jumbo-sized crisps and the maple and pecan slice. (Well, slices, actually--he’d slipped a second one into his bag when his mother wasn’t looking.) So he’d gone off by himself to the far end of the cafe, which was where Alf found him. ‘What d’you think you’re doing, young Hugo?’ asked Alf. ‘Eating,’ came the chewy, sticky answer. ‘I mean in the Reptile House. I’ve seen you, messing the poor creatures about.’ ‘They’re enjoying it,’ said Hugo. ‘It’s the best time they’ve ever had.’ ‘I’ll bet they wouldn’t say that,’ said Alf, now becoming angry. ‘They wouldn’t say anything. Animals can’t talk.’ Alf gave him a meaningful look: ‘Think you know it all, eh, young Hugo?’ ‘I know you’re stopping me from eating. I’ll tell my Uncle you’re trying to get me into trouble.’ Alf said nothing and just walked away. If he hadn’t been David Bloggins’s nephew, he’d have given the boy a piece of his mind. As it was, he decided to have a quiet word with the head-keeper--not to get Hugo into trouble, but just to give him one more chance. They were short-handed with the camels and dromedaries. He’d suggest to David that they move the boy there for more experience. That way he’d be out in the open and it would be easier to keep an eye on him. Hugo finished his lunch in a sulk. He hardly tasted all his scrumptious food. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done to the reptiles. He was annoyed that he’d been caught out. That meant no fun for the whole afternoon. He’d have to look as though he was taking care of the stupid beasts. Boring, boring, boring!!! Hugo finished his lunch--or, to put it another way, it finished him, which was unheard of for someone with his greedy appetite. In fact, he nearly threw away one of the maple and pecan slices, but he just couldn’t bring himself to let go of it over the bin. His hand pressed into as though he were clinging for dear life to a high ledge. ‘Eat it later,’ whispered his greed, ‘whether you want it or not.’ ‘Better still,’ added his cruelty, ‘try feeding some of it to those nasty, scaly reptiles you’ve been stuck with. Who knows? It might make them cough and hiccup so much they turn inside out. That would be wondrous, eh?’ ‘All right,’ said his greed. ‘I’ll let you have fun with that lovely food--but don’t make a habit of it. And watch out for that idiot, Alf.’ Armed with his maple and pecan slice, Hugo lumbered back to the Reptile House. He’d got tired of tormenting the turtles, and the lizards were getting on his nerves. But he just couldn’t act the kindly keeper all afternoon--no way! Then he saw that there were a couple of visitors in front of the snake tank, squinting around the rocks and foliage. But it was no use: the snakes weren’t coming out for anyone, not even the kindliest-looking visitor. For all they knew, anyone gawping into their tank might turn out to be another Hugo--and one was far more than enough. After a minute or two, the visitors turned to each other, shrugged their disappointment and shuffled away. Hugo watched them go, a grin forming on his unhealthy face. Of course! The snakes! Yes, he’d tease them out of hiding, him and his slice. They’d go, ‘Ooh, look what that kindly, thoughtful Hugo has brought us. He’s not so bad after all’--and next minute they’d be so gummed up with goo that they couldn’t slither. In their holes and crevices, the snakes were watching and listening for Hugo. Well, they were listening as best they could, but it’s hard to listen when your stomach is rumbling like thunder. They saw his spotty, pasty face looming up at the front of their tank. And then--wonder of wonders! He was sprinkling sugary, golden pastry around the rocks and sand as though it was his own personal snowfall! It looked so inviting! But they’d resolved not to eat! But it looked so inviting!! Far better than the usual run of rodents and stuff that they had to put up with. ‘No,’ they said to each other, ‘we said "no food" and that’s final!’ But it looked so inviting!!! Once he’d sprinkled enough pastry, he started squeezing driblets of maple here and there on the sand. (He didn’t want to use all of it. It was his to eat, after all.) Then he stepped back and waited. Alf appeared in the distance, at the door of the Reptile House. Drat it! Hugo didn’t want him interfering. He waved to the man and called, ‘Just refreshing the food!’ Then he held his breath. Was that enough to keep the busybody at bay? Luckily, Alf just stood for a moment, head tilted to one side. ‘Well . . . if that’s all you’re doing,’ he said, although he didn’t sound completely convinced. Then he ambled off. When Hugo looked down, his heart leaped for joy. The snakes had given in to their craving and they were now slithering around the rocks and sand, darting forward and springing back as they savoured the pastry and maple syrup. Then, one by one, they stretched out straight and looked up at Hugo with pain and confusion in their eyes. It was a trick! What fools they had been! They were gumming up: they couldn’t curve, their rattles wouldn’t rattle, their hisses wouldn’t hiss. What kind of a monster was this Hugo? What had they done to deserve this? Stiff and bloated, they turned their heads slowly to each other. What else did he have in mind? they wondered. And how would they avoid it? Their muscles were all but frozen--it would take an age to move an inch. One snake had been facing away from the tank when he started tucking in. Now, he looked back at their crevices and hidey-holes at the rear of the tank. They seemed as though they were a hundred miles away. Getting to them would be worse than sliding across the Sahara. Tears filled his eyes. This was worse than being trampled by a score of panicked elephants. Why didn’t this Hugo just kill them and have done? Hugo relished the sight before his eyes: all those lovely, fine snakes, looking now like multi-coloured, overlong, overcooked kebabs. The thought made his own stomach rumble: ‘Right, you’ve had your prank,’ said his greed. ‘Now give me, give me, give me what’s left!’ Immediately, he stuffed the rest of the slice into his mouth. As he did so, he heard voices and turned to the door of the Reptile House. It was that blasted Alf again--and his uncle!!! Hugo nearly spat out the last mouthful of maple and pecan, but his greed made sure that his lips clampled shut, and he almost choked as he swallowed. Glancing about, he saw a long pole lying against the wall, the one the keepers used to rearrange or replace the greenery in the snake and lizard tanks. Quick as a flash, he pushed it into the tank and rolled the snakes, still stiff and petrified, out of sight. Luckily for him, they’d eaten just about everything. Only one strip of pastry remained on the sand. Just in time, he managed to bury it with the end of the pole. As he withdrew it, Alf and David Bloggins appeared by his side. ‘Just freshening their sand,’ he said. Alf’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. David Bloggins opened his mouth, and Hugo tensed--had Alf said anything to him? Was he about to cop it, good and proper? But David’s tone was cheery when he spoke. ‘Well, young Hugo, Alf here has been saying--’ ‘What?’ said Hugo, staring menacingly at Alf. But Alf, eyes still narrowed, said nothing. ‘--that we should broaden your horizons. A grand idea, I must say. Can’t keep you closeted in here all the time.’ ‘Oh, right,’ said Hugo, with some relief. In truth, he wasn’t the most inventive of tormentors. It was doubtful whether he could have dreamt up any more miseries for his reptilian prey. ‘So tomorrow,’ continued David Bloggins, we’re putting you with--’ ‘Yes?’ interrupted Hugo. Suddenly, he was all excitement again. With what? Dolphins? He’d wipe the Disney grins off their faces. Pandas? They’d get more black eyes than they were born with. He began to drift into a dream. He was in charge of the lemurs and sloths. When no-one was about, he eased himself into their cages with a bottle of specially-concocted glue. He glued the lemurs’ tails into circles and the sloths’ paws into clamps while they were blissfully asleep in their branches. Then he woke them up and chortled his head off as the lemurs swung like pendulums without clocks and the sloths rocked like barmy-looking cradles, unable to shift for love or money. The glue was special because it would wear off whenever Alf came into sight. Surely it was possible to make glue like that? Perhaps maple and pecan-- But his dream was shattered by his uncle’s voice. ‘--with the camels, Hugo. Camels and dromedaries.’ ‘Big beasts,’ said Alf with a grin. ‘Big, big beasts. Out in the open. And very, very popular. Crowds and crowds.’ I’ll get you, thought Hugo, staring hard at him. I’ll get you, all right. You wait. End of part l Part 2 That night, Spudlichek was settling lying in bed, the soft whooshing of the River Labe in his ears. It had been a tiring day for him. He’d thought a lot about Hugo Bloggins. That is, he’d sat under his favourite tree out in his little garden, with its leaves making a bottle-green umbrella over his head, and let his plans take shape before his eyes. He knew that the reptiles at London Zoo were in peril, but he also knew that nothing really, really bad would happen to them. Hugo was a spiteful, foolish boy, but he wasn’t a dastardly villain, whatever he might think of himself. Spudlichek had met far worse--and saved them from themselves. Suddenly, there was a slight itch on his left palm. Spudlichek lay quite still and waited, a smile on his face. He knew what was coming. It was his best friend, his buttons and microchips fit to melt. Telepathio, you see, could appear in either of Spudlichek’s palms, but he always went for the left one when he was really agitated. Now Spudlichek held up his left hand in the twilight, and the planetary phone exploded into life. It lit the cosy little bedroom like a Chinese rocket. ‘Look!’ said Telepathio. ‘Look, look, look, look, look!’ And he replayed everything that had happened in the Reptile House that day. ‘You can skip the part at lunchtime, in the canteen,’ said Spudlichek. ‘But it’s important!’ Telepathio was beside himself. ‘It’s all important! How can you act properly when you don’t have all the information?’ ‘That keeper, Alf, talks to Hugo,’ said Spudlichek, ‘and warns that he’s keeping an eye on him.’ ‘How do you know that?’ ‘The picture came to me while I was out under my tree.’ ‘Oh, did it, now?’ Telepathio was most put out. ‘Well, if my opinion’s worth having, and I’d say it is, you need to see it all again. You might have missed something out under your tree!’ (In truth, Telepathio was a little jealous of Spudlichek’s tree. Sometimes the leaves dropped pictures into Spudlichek’s mind--the same pictures that Telepathio was busily storing away to show him.) ‘All right,’ said Spudlichek, smiling. ‘Show me Hugo and Alf in the canteen.’ He waited while Telepathio had another of his grumps. The phone muttered to himself about working his digits off for no thanks whatsoever. Then he said, loudly enough for Spudlichek to hear, that he’d like to see any tree trying to fly into London Zoo without being noticed: ‘Imagine some leafy, barky, twiggy thing landing by the door of the Reptile House. Hardly the last word in secrecy, is it? Or am I wrong? Do they employ trees as spies these days? Do privets and pot-plants run round the streets while folk just smile and say, "Oh, look, there’s another of those special agents we don’t know about"? I suppose forests are bunches of spies who got lonely--’ ‘Show me the canteen, Telepathio,’ said Spudlichek, trying not to laugh. ‘You’re sure, now?’ said the phone. ‘You wouldn’t rather run out into the garden and throttle it out of a branch?’ Spudlichek said nothing. After a minute, with a final comment that a certain tree should know its place--or, better still, become half-a-dozen bird-tables--Telepathio replayed the talk between Hugo and Alf, and then all that happened afterwards in the Reptile House. ‘Hmmm,’ said Spudlichek, when Telepathio’s face reappeared on his palm. ‘Hmmm?’ repeated Telepathio, amazed. ‘Is that it? Am I missing something here, Spudlichek? Have you retired? Are you no longer concerned about unkindness, about the nasty things people do without thinking--without caring?’ ‘Alf knows about Hugo,’ said Spudlichek. ‘He’ll sort him out.’ He knew he shouldn’t tease the phone, but he couldn’t help it. ‘Alf’s a busy man! He can’t be watching the boy all the time! And he’s in danger, too--you heard what the boy thought! David Bloggins is a busy man! I’m a busy phone! Your idea of busyness seems to be lounging around under that green-leaved thing in the garden, staring at nothing and then saying "Hmmm"! What is "Hmmm," Spudlichek? A magic word? Have you hmmm’d the snakes back into their proper shape? Are the lizards all hmmming with happiness again? I think, not, Spudlichek. In fact, my view of the whole business--which you clearly don’t want but are getting anyway--is that . . . what’s that noise?’ From the attic came the sound of something thumping across the floor. Then the trap-door opened. ‘Suitcase,’ said Spudlichek. As he spoke, the suitcase came gliding silently into the room and opened itself before the wardrobe. ‘We leave for London tomorrow.’ Next morning, Spudlichek went for an early dip in the River Labe. The current was gentle where he lived, so he swam as he liked, without fear. He sculled on his back from one bank to the other and back again. He did the butterfly in and out of the clumps of reeds. Finally, he clasped his legs tight with his hands and did one, two, three forward rolls in midstream. All of this helped him to focus his thoughts on the task ahead. Also (though he would never let Telepathio know this), the river current had a way of acting like the leaves of the special tree in his garden. As he swam, the water broke over his head and pictures of early morning London dropped into his mind: Hugo wolfing down a huge, greasy meal; Hugo’s father storming about the house because he couldn’t find his best tie; Hugo’s mother in the garden, shooing away blackbirds who were looking for something to eat. But these were only like slides you’d see on a screen. If Spudlichek needed to see everything that had happened, from start to finish--well, that was Telepathio’s job. After his swim, he had an extra-big breakfast of yoghurt and button mushrooms. He always liked a good meal before he flew anywhere--in fact, the longer his journey, the bigger his meal. Unlike Hugo, he didn’t simply eat for the sake of it. His food was fuel--for his journey and also for the wondrous things he would have to do when he got to London. After he ate his last mouthful of mushrooms, he snapped his fingers. Suitcase, who had been waiting obediently by the breakfast table, shrank to the size of a playing-card and jumped into his shirt pocket. Then Spudlichek’s right palm began to itch and he heard a shrill whistle, followed by coughing, as though someone was getting a little impatient. Someone was. Telepathio appeared and stared hard at Spudlichek. ‘Are we off?’ he asked. Spudlichek nodded. ‘Only I thought you might decide to splash about in that river all day.’ ‘We’re off,’ said Spudlichek. ‘Just one thing.’ Telepathio lowered his voice and beckoned with his finger. Spudlichek raised his right palm to his face. ‘That special tree of yours,’ said Telepathio. ‘Not coming with us, is it?’ ‘Coming with us? How could it?’ asked Spudlichek. Telepathio gave a little electronic shrug: ‘I’m asking you. I mean, here I am, snug in your palm. Suitcase is nice and small and flat in your pocket. Who’s to say that tree wouldn’t turn itself into a twig behind your ear?’ ‘Trees can’t do that,’ said Spudlichek. ‘Besides, who’d guard my house and keep the river company?’ ‘Well, as long as I know,’ said Telepathio. ‘I just didn’t want to find that I was playing second fiddle to a bunch of floppy leaves. Actually’--his face brightened--’there’s a thought! Think of all the fiddles you could make out of that tree! Easily enough for an orchestra there. Now, if your tree wanted to be useful--I mean, really useful, instead of taking my job away from me--’ ‘Could I have my flight path, please, Telepathio?’ asked Spudlichek. But the planetary phone was off on one of his little rambles: ‘Imagine--two dozen fiddles playing folk songs of our homeland. As sweet as lullabies. Music. That’s what that tree was made for--not for pretending it’s a planetary phone and pinching all my duties.’ Spudlichek shook his right hand, which made Telepathio yelp: ‘Watch it, you’ll jumble up my microchips! You don’t want your flight path to come out back-to-front or sideways, do you? I’ll be sending you to London via New Zealand if you’re not careful.’ ‘Flight path, please,’ repeated Spudlichek, pretending to be annoyed. ‘Well, now, give me a second,’ said Telepathio. ‘All my connections are shaking.’ He muttered to himself, at which Spudlichek smiled. Telepathio liked to make a big event out of each flight plan. He beeped, whirred, purred and jangled. Then: ‘Ta-daaaaa! Dresden, Erfurt, Bonn, Liege, Bruges, English Channel, Clacton-on-Sea, Thaxted, London!’ Telepathio began talking in the smooth voice of an airline pilot: ‘And the weather in London is presently a little overcast but the clouds should lift to give a fine morning. Estimated time of arrival--well, that’s up to you, of course.’ ‘Are you sure this is the most direct route?’ asked Spudlichek. ‘Mmmmwell,’ said Telepathio. ‘It’s direct in a pretty sort of way.’ ‘And where on earth is Thaxted?’ ‘Essex. What I thought, Spudlichek, is that you could hover over Thaxted for a moment, get all revved up, you see, and then go roaring down on London.’ ‘I thought you wanted me to get there instantly. In fact, you wanted me there yesterday, as I recall. What’s with all this revving and roaring? And why are we coming in over Clacton?’ ‘Ah, now, as to that’--Telepathio tapped his nose with a tiny finger. ‘It’s a seaside resort.’ ‘But we’re not going on holiday.’ ‘I know that and you know that. But I thought you might want to--get a little bit more ready for Hugo Bloggins.’ ‘More ready?’ Spudlichek was confused. ‘Listen, Spudlichek.’ Telepathio put on his special, ‘I’ve-seen-the-whole-world’ voice. ‘Clacton is full of ice-cream stalls, hot-dog stands, fish-and-chip shops. Hugo Bloggins is usually full of ice-cream, hot-dogs and fish-and-chips. In my opinion, you could swoop down on Clacton, stock up on all those eatables and then arrive at the Zoo like Hugo’s old buddy.’ ‘And why would he think I was his old buddy?’ ‘He eats a mountain of food every day. If you land in front of him with another mountain of food, he wouldn’t suspect why you were there.’ Spudlichek shook his head: ‘Let me get this straight. I drop out of the sky covered in runny ice-cream, stinking of onions and fish with bits of old chip paper dropping off me--and he wouldn’t suspect anything?’ Telepathio folded his tiny little arms: ‘Your problem, Spudlichek, is that you don’t do your job imaginatively.’ ‘Last night, Telepathio, you said I wasn’t doing it at all. Now excuse me while I say goodbye to the tree and the river.’ ‘Don’t give that tree any ideas,’ said the phone. ‘We don’t want it tying its roots round its middle and gallumphing across Europe after us.’ ‘I’ll summon you when I’m ready, Telepathio,’ said Spudlichek. ‘Oooh, summon, is it? Some folk have no manners.’ And, with a grumpy purr, he vanished into Spudlichek’s palm. Minutes later, Spudlichek stood outside his front door, watching his house lock itself up from the roof to the ground. He had said goodbye to the tree and the river. The tree had waved its leaves branch by branch; the river had swirled and flapped a watery hand in the air. Now he turned and went down his garden path. In his shirt pocket, Suitcase settled itself comfortably for the journey. Outside his gate, Spudlichek held up his right palm and said, ‘Ready, Telepathio.’ The phone popped up in his left hand: ‘There, fooled you,’ he said, giving a shiny little grin. ‘Have you thought any more about Clacton?’ But Spudlichek simply said: ‘Flight!’ Within minutes they were flying over the mountains and forests of Germany. Spudlichek looked down at Dresden, then Erfurt, then Bonn. He felt like he was looking at each city down the wrong end of a telescope. The buildings were tiny, the people, tinier. As he passed over them, he swooped downwards a little, so that he could watch all the cars and the buses, the trains and the trams, and all the people hurrying about here and there. They all looked like models being run on clockwork or batteries. Now and then he flew over a river or canal, glittering like a silver snake in the morning sun. Every ten minutes, he opened his left palm and gazed at it. Instead of Telepathio’s face, he saw a miniature map of Europe. Telepathio had turned himself into a little dotted line, which crept to the west, millimetre by millimetre, so that Spudlichek could keep to his proper path. Now and again, Telepathio’s voice would point out interesting things below them, like a guide on a tour bus. When they reached Belgium, he said, ‘Shortly approaching the ancient city of Liege--a river port, famous for--.’ Then he stopped. ‘Half a mo, Spudlichek,’ he said. ‘There’s a wind coming down from the north. Strong. Almost a gale. Up, up, up.’ ‘I’ll have to look at Liege another time,’ said Spudlichek to himself, as he flew up into the candy-soft towers and fields of the clouds. When Telepathio brought him down again, he found himself racing over sunny waters: ‘English Channel,’ said Telepathio. ‘Do you know, there are more ships per day on this sea than there’ll ever be on the River Labe back home.’ ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Spudlichek, who wouldn’t have liked the idea of doing the butterfly or forward rolls among yachts and ferries and cruisers. Soon they were flying over lighthouses and beaches. Spudlichek could see what looked like paper boats bobbing against each other. ‘Now!’ announced Telepathio’s voice. ‘Clacton!’ He made it sound like he’d invented the place. Spudlichek expected to hear a drum-roll and then a deafening clash of cymbals. ‘Well, come on, Spudlichek--down, down, down!’ Spudlichek dropped down through the clouds, which were like streamers hundreds of miles long. He always had the same feeling when diving through thin cloud. One minute he was cold, when the cloud was all around him. The next he was hot, hot, hot, when the cloud broke and the sun was on his back. ‘I can show you where all the ice-cream stalls are,’ said Telepathio, ‘and all the chip shops. Half a mo.’ And he bleeped, chirrupped and buzzed as he prepared a map of all the fast-food points along the seafront. Spudlichek had no intention of stocking up on such food. His mission was to show Hugo Bloggins the error of his ways, not to make his bad eating habits worse. But he knew that, once his friend the phone had started bleeping and whirring, there was no stopping him until he had finished his route or his map or his close-up, or whatever else he chose to produce from his magical innards. Now he broke through the lowest clouds and zoomed towards Clacton pier: ‘Shrink, shrink, shrink, shrink, shrink,’ he whispered to himself. This was a very important part of any mission. Spudlichek, you see, could shrink or grow to whatever size he liked, just by saying ‘shrink’ to get smaller or ‘bloom’ to get bigger. How small or large he became depended on the number of times he repeated the word. Five ‘shrinks’ took him to the size of a bee, which was just right for flying in and out of the holiday crowds. ‘Ta-daaaaa!’ announced Telepathio. ‘All the seafront stalls and caffs, right here on my screen! Look, Spudlichek!’ Spudlichek looked and, for a second, wished he hadn’t had such a big breakfast. Bangers and chips weren’t his kind of food at all, though he didn’t mind if other folk ate them--apart from the Hugo Blogginses of the world, who would be better off on a strict diet of yoghurt and mushrooms. He liked ice-cream now and again, as a treat--but he didn’t intend landing in London Zoo like some kind of Mr. Whippy from outer space, whatever Telepathio might think. To keep his phone happy, he swooped along the pier, hovering for a second over each burger van and chip shop. ‘Don’t forget the ice-cream stalls!’ said Telepathio. ‘Telepathio, I’m not arriving at the Zoo dripping from head to foot in rum ‘n’ raisin.’ ‘You won’t have to--fly back up into the clouds. That’ll keep the ice cream freezing cold. Then--bam!’ ‘What do you mean, bam?’ ‘You plonk yourself in front of Hugo, hand him a double-cone sundae, or three, or six. Then, while he’s off his guard, you can sort him out.’ ‘Tell you what,’ said Spudlichek. ‘I’ll treat all of this as my homework.’ ‘Homework?’ Telepathio didn’t understand. ‘Look,’ said Spudlichek, ‘you and I have had to deal with all kinds of people. I’ll bet you that, some day, before too long, you’ll call me and say that there’s a food maniac on the loose, stealing burgers and chips and ice-cream. When you do, I’ll know what places to go to, what they look like, how to blend in when I reach them.’ ‘Only if the food maniac is in Clacton,’ said Telepathio. ‘What about everywhere else in the world?’ ‘I’m sure burger shops and ice-cream parlours are pretty much the same anywhere.’ ‘You’re missing a golden opportunity!’ Telepathio’s voice was like the bell of a tiny alarm-clock. ‘Look, just get two ice-creams and Hugo will be your friend for life! He’ll listen to every word you say. The lizards and snakes will be his bosom buddies by this afternoon. He’ll become the patron saint of camels. Trust me on this, I’m a planetary phone.’ But Spudlichek wasn’t listening. His mind was full of danger. They were just swooping down to the counter of an ice-cream stall when he was spotted by a pair of hornets that had been eating heartily from a cornetto wrapper that someone had thrown on the ground. Telepathio was just about to tell Spudlichek, once again, that he really needed a touch more imagination for his job when he saw them too. ‘Up, up, up, up, up!’ screamed Telepathio. Suddenly the hornets were hard at Spudlichek’s heels. To his shrunken ears, their buzzing sounded like the whistle of a supersonic jet. ‘Bloom, bloom, bloom, bloom, bloom!’ whispered Spudlichek frantically. Just as one hornet was about to sting him in the leg, he shot into the sky and popped back into his proper size. ‘Phew!!!’ said Telepathio. ‘Let’s forget the fast food, shall we?’ said Spudlichek. ‘Now, where’s this Thaxted place?’ A little embarrassed, knowing what Spudlichek would say, the phone showed him the last part of his route.’ ‘But we’re going north!’ said Spudlichek. ‘Well . . . ah . . . in my opinion,’ said Telepathio, ‘we’re going west with a bit of north round the edges.’ Suddenly he had an inspiration. ‘Mind you, after those hornets, you’ll need a little time to calm down, really, won’t you? Get yourself . . . you know . . . nice and ready.’ Spudlichek couldn’t argue with that--though he knew that it was Telepathio’s hare-brained idea that had got them the scrape with the hornets. Now they were flying over fields and hedges. Here and there, on main roads, lines of cars and lorries went this way and that, like bright pearls on a long, long thread. ‘Quite pleasant, Thaxted,’ said Telepathio. ‘Just the place for that special tree of yours. It could do with a change of scenery.’ Sometimes, thought Spudlichek, I could do with a change of phone. And he spun south, ready to for his descent into London. End of part 2 Part 3 At about the time Spudlichek was escaping the hornets over Clacton, David Bloggins was handing a big shovel and an even bigger bucket to Hugo. They were standing by the wire door leading into the camel enclosure, known to all the keepers as the London Desert. Inside, Alf was already serving up the camels’ first feed of the day. Now and again, he looked up at Hugo, as if to say that he would be watching his every step. Nor was he the only one. The Zoo secretary, a tall lady called Violet, had heard all about Hugo and the reptiles from Alf--pretty well everyone at the Zoo had. The main offices of the Zoo were across the path from the camel enclosure, so Violet would have plenty of opportunities to study the boy herself. The only person who hadn’t heard about the tormented reptiles, it seemed, was David Bloggins himself. But it wasn’t as though Alf or Violet were deliberately keeping secrets from him. They respected David--everyone at the Zoo did--and for that reason they thought Hugo should have one more chance. If he hadn’t been David’s nephew, Alf said to himself, he and his pasty face and his greasy, sticky lunch-bag would have been frog-marched like a convict clean out the Zoo by now, never ever to return. The camels, too, were nervous. Oh, yes, they’d heard all about Hugo among the snakes, lizards and turtles. There was a lot of talk among Zoo animals once the last visitor had gone for the day. True, the animals spoke softly: they didn’t want to disturb folk living nearby. Still, it was like a night-time jungle. Braying and hooting, hissing and trumpeting--it all broke the quiet during the wee small hours. Zebras gossiped with pelicans, tigers asked lions how they were, koalas discussed the quality of their food with hippos. So they all knew about Hugo. And now, that morning, the animals nearest to the camel enclosure prowled or swung or darted along their fences, keeping an eye on their camel friends and wondering what this two-legged monster of a boy would dream up today. ‘Now,’ said David Bloggins. ‘One more time, just so I know you’ve got it right. I have two humps. What am I?’ ‘You’re a Bactrian camel,’ said Hugo without enthusiasm. ‘Good! I have one hump. What am I?’ ‘You’re a dromedary,’ replied Hugo, secretly thinking, ‘You’re a complete nutter.’ ‘Or?’ David paused and tilted his head. ‘What’s my other name?’ ‘Loser,’ thought Hugo. Bored to tears and thinking of the soft warm bed he’d been in an hour before, Hugo scratched his head. Then he remembered the pastry horn that his mother had wrapped carefully in foil and grease-proof paper: a special treat for his elevenses. His eyes nearly jumped out of his head for happiness. ‘You’re an Arabian camel,’ he answered brightly. ‘Good lad!’ exclaimed David. ‘We’ll make a head keeper of you yet.’ Hearing this, Alf nearly fell head-first into a pile of leaves. And Violet, who was standing at the office window, dropped her cup of coffee. ‘Over to you, Alf,’ called David. Patting Hugo on the shoulder, he let him in to the enclosure. There were five Bactrian camels in the area where Hugo would be working. The oldest, called Mungar, was their leader. Now, as Hugo slouched towards Alf, they clustered together behind Mungar, watching the boy carefully. Though they were gentle creatures, they would give a good account of themselves if anyone troubled them. But they didn’t like any kind of fight, and they were glad that they were out in the open and that the first visitors were already gathering at their fence. This Hugo couldn’t very well try any tricks, not where everyone--keepers and crowds alike--could see him. Or could he? Mungar turned his head to the others. ‘Act normally,’ he commanded. ‘Just another day at the Zoo. But watch him. Keep your eyes in the back of your humps if you have to.’ ‘Now then, Hugo,’ said Alf. ‘I’m going to leave a couple of their eating patches for you to clean. Best way to get to know them, that is--and for them to get to know you. Once they see you’re helping with their nosh, they’ll relax. I mean, it’s the most important thing in the world, isn’t it--food?’ And he gave a little smile as he stared into Hugo’s round, unhealthy face. I will get you, thought Hugo. You see if I don’t. As he was thinking this, something that looked like a bee flew into the Reptile House--which, as so often, had no visitors again. Then a voice said ‘Bloom, bloom, bloom, bloom, bloom’--and in an instant, the bee had turned into Spudlichek, who was sitting on a bench with his right palm held out towards the tanks. ‘What do you think, Telepathio?’ he asked as he moved his palm from left to right and back again. Normally, Telepathio would be perfectly able to look for himself. But journeys tired him--especially long ones, what with all the different kinds of weather, and the different altitudes and the need to plot the route. So, after they arrived anywhere, he liked to take an hour or so to recover. He saw it as a little luxury, being able to lie back while Spudlichek waved and swooped his hand about. Now, Telepathio looked closely at each tank. The lizards were scampering about again. The turtles were wading contentedly in their little lakes. As for the snakes, they were their old, slithery, curly selves, feeding happily on their usual food, with not a crumb of maple and pecan in sight. ‘They look normal enough,’ he said. ‘Yes, I knew that nothing--’ ‘Most of them, that is, Spudlichek.’ Telepathio sounded like a crochety old judge. ‘Wave me round again to that lizard--see, that one at the very edge of the tank.’ Spudlichek obliged. A minute later, Telepathio was gazing at Pelter, the slow, shuffling lizard who’d kept well out of the way when Hugo was messing about with the water. ‘In my opinion, he’s decidedly unperky.’ ‘Probably he just needs some rest.’ ‘Are you being awkward, Spudlichek? The creature needs perking up.’ ‘But he’s slow anyway,’ said Spudlichek. ‘Time is a great healer, Telepathio. Just let today go by and he’ll be back to his old self.’ ‘Is this some marvellous wisdom from that tree in your garden? Spudlichek, you’re a great healer too. So please, if it’s not too much bother, could you knuckle down to it?’ Now he sounded like half-a-dozen crochety judges, with a crochety uncle or two thrown in for good measure. ‘Oh, very well,’ said Spudlichek. ‘But he’ll be all right anyway.’ In his palm, Telepathio gave a contented sigh and settled down as if he was about to watch a favourite film he’d seen again and again. Spudlichek concentrated hard on Pelter, who was lying down with his tiny legs splayed out, watching the other lizards like some kindly old guardian. Suddenly, there was a line of pure gold around his body, and he seemed to shimmer for a second as if he only existed as a reflection in water. Only Spudlichek and Telepathio could see this. The other lizards carried on with their darting, and a couple of visitors who walked through thought that Pelter was just napping. But Pelter felt something; he raised his head and glanced about, looking as puzzled as you would look if, say, someone had just called your name and you couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. A second later he was on his feet, and found himself running in a circle round an outcrop of stones. Then he stopped, swished his tail, rippled his scales and sank down. ‘What did you make him do that lap of honour for?’ asked Telepathio. ‘Oh, well,’ said Spudlichek, ‘I thought h