by Dave Leys
Rare Pets and Other Oddities
David Leys
Copyright David Leys 2014
Contents
1. Sir Kieran of Blackwood Downs3
2. Camping with the Boys8
3. A New Species of Animal12
4. Hideous Helva18
5. Making a Splash24
6. The Astronomical Refractor28
7. Backyard Cricket Fanatic32
8. Be-Happy Campaign36
9. [email protected]
10. Selling the News49
11. The Bald Golfer54
11. Rare Pets59
Sir Kieran of Blackwood Downs
‘Halt!’ cried Kieran, standing in the doorway brandishing a dagger. ‘None may enter here without the King’s permission!’
The woman facing him folded her arms wearily. She began to step forward, seeming to look past the blade thrust up at her face. Kieran snarled and stamped his foot. He seemed like he was about to erupt. Yet still the woman ignored him and continued into the room.
Was she crazy? Did she wish to suffer a slow, agonising gut wound, right there on the doorstep?
Kieran’s mother put her hands on her hips and surveyed her nine-year-old son who was doing his best to look fierce. The dagger he was waving about with such vigour was made from plastic and painted silver.
Once she had walked past him she laid clean clothes onto his dresser and turned to look at him. Kieran was wearing a tunic he had made from an old potato sack, chain mail he had constructed from rings of aluminium foil and a helmet that looked suspiciously like the saucepan that had gone missing from the kitchen.
‘Kieran,’ she began, but the boy shook his head violently.
‘Sir Kieran,’ he insisted, ‘of Blackwood Downs.’
‘Right,’ she continued. ‘Well, I just got a message from the King, otherwise known as your father, and he suggested you had better go to bed, or he’ll hang, draw and quarter you.’
‘Bah,’ said Kieran, lowering his dagger. ‘I fear not death.’ But he took off his helmet and began to move towards the bed. His mother moved back to the door, waited until he had changed into pyjamas, and turned out the light, pausing only to blow him a kiss. He, in return, grunted and rolled over.
He closed his eyes and had visions of riding a horse, sword in hand, down a dirt road in pursuit of a horde of ruffians dressed in black cloaks and hoods. As sleep overcame him the fantasy changed and he sat on a throne resplendent in a robe of purple as the ruffians grovelled on the floor in front of him, begging for mercy. He put his hand up and sent them to prison. The court ladies smiled, admiring his clemency.
When Kieran woke up everything was clear to him. He was Sir Kieran of Blackwood Downs.
He announced it to his family over breakfast. ‘I am going to turn my bedroom,’ he said grandly, ‘into a castle. From now on I am going to live in Blackwood Castle.’
His mother and father exchanged weary glances. Kieran had been on his ‘Middle Ages kick’ for ages now, and still he showed no sign of getting tired of it all. He’d prance round the house with a bow over his shoulder and a sword in hand scaring the life out of them, he’d insist that they listen to his ‘minstrel’ shows, which consisted of banging on a toy drum and singing about lasses, dragons and saving lasses from dragons. Three times they’d had to pull him off the back of Shell the Labrador who, they reminded him firmly, was a dog, not a horse and was not interested in jousting.
His father paused, his mouth full of toast, and mumbled, ‘Sounds great.’ He finished chewing and pushed his empty plate towards his son. ‘Why don’t you help your mother with the washing up?’
Kieran smiled. ‘Tosh!’ he cried. ‘Washing up is the work of scullery maids, not noblemen!’ With that declaration he leapt up from the table and bounded off to his room, Blackwood Castle.
His mother bit her lip and began to turn to tell him to come back, but his father put his hand up.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
Kieran was busy assembling his castle wall out of styrofoam blocks, which he planned to paint stone grey, when he heard a knock on the door.
‘Enter, knaves,’ he said grandly.
His parents walked in, shoulder to shoulder, and stood before him. ‘We’re here to help,’ they said.
Kieran smiled. Brilliant! With their assistance he’d have the place looking medieval in no time. His mother cut prancing lion shapes out of red felt and sewed them to the curtains. They made stained glass patterns out of cellophane and stuck them to the windows. His father helped him with the castle walls and even got out his jigsaw so they could cut battlements into the tops. They laid a thick white rug down on the floor, made a flag from an old sheet and flew it from his lamp. They painted his door to make it look like it was made from thick slabs of oak. Best of all, his father found an old brass knocker out in the garage, which they screwed into the castle door.
When they were done Kieran looked around. He was so happy he almost felt like crying. He was living in a real castle, Blackwood Castle. He turned to face his parents.
‘Ye have done well this day. Your reward shall be great,’ he said, ‘come harvest time.’
His father smiled. ‘So you really want to live the life of the Middle Ages?’ he asked.
Kieran nodded. ‘In truth I do.’
His father rubbed his hands, looking happy – too happy. ‘Well, Kieran,’ he began, ‘your mother and I have been thinking.’
His mother continued. ‘We think you should experience the medieval life fully. You know, live like a person in the Middle Ages actually did.’
His father put his hand on his shoulder. ‘I mean, if you’re going to do something, you may as well do it properly, right?’
Kieran could only nod again. He swallowed dryly. What did they mean?
‘Excellent,’ said his father. He walked over to the lamp and began to unscrew the bulb. The light went out.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Kieran.
His father turned and frowned. ‘There was no electricity in the Middle Ages, right?’ Pocketing the light bulb he moved over to the computer and began to unplug it.
Kieran turned round to see his mother spreading something over his bed. What was it? Straw? She must have got it from the garden. She looked up at him and smiled. Then, brushing their hands and carrying his lamp, computer, gameboy and TV, they left the room.
Kieran sat down on the floor. This was strange. Still, Blackwood Castle looked fantastic. He stretched his legs out, a little tired from all the work, and grabbed his new favourite book, King Arthur and the Holy Grail, from the bookshelf. Spreading it open to his bookmarked place, he began to read. The light in the room was dim but if he squinted he could just make out the words.
‘One fine morn Arthur took up Excalibur and set out to ride,’ he began. Then he heard another knock on the door. ‘Enter,’ he said, annoyed he had been interrupted.
In walked his father carrying a box. ‘Forgot something,’ he mumbled. Then he reached down, grabbed the book out of Kieran’s hands and put it and every other book in the room into the box. He turned to leave.
‘Hang on,’ said Kieran. ‘I was reading that.’
His father frowned again. ‘Ahh, no you weren’t. Didn’t you know hardly anyone could read in the Middle Ages?’ With that his father swept out of the room.
‘Fine,’ said Kieran to himself. He stood up, stretched and began to practise his sword-fighting skills in peace, spinning round the room beheading enemies, stabbing vagabonds and slaying dragons. Finally his belly began to g
rowl and he wandered out of his room in search of food.
His mother was laying the table and looked up at him brightly. ‘Good, I was about to call you. Sit down.’
‘Thank ye, lassie,’ he said gruffly and took his place at the table. She pursed her lips, walked to the oven, and came back to lay a pizza in the middle of the table. Ham and pineapple, his favourite! His father arrived at the table and began to cut slices, putting them onto his mother’s and his own plate. Kieran frowned and reached out to cut his own slice when his mother arrived back and deposited a bowl in front of him.
‘That’s for you,’ she said.
He looked inside. It was a thick lumpy mass with a trickle of water round the side. He stuck a spoon in and it stood up by itself.
‘Oats,’ said his father in a booming voice. ‘A favourite of the 1300s. We know it as porridge.’
Kieran grimaced. ‘Can’t I have some …’ he said, eyeing his father’s plate.
His mother only laughed. ‘Really, no one had heard of pizza back then. No, no, eat your oats.’
He managed to get about half of it down (they wouldn’t let him put brown sugar on it) before he was fed up. That was when things got worse. His parents started in eating ice cream – they never had ice cream! – and then they headed out to the lounge room and switched on the TV. The Saturday night movie was on. He started to creep out there, lured by their laughter, but his father turned on the couch and only shook his head. Okay, no Saturday night movies in the Middle Ages, he got it.
Grabbing a candle he slunk back sadly to his room. Blackwood Castle