Flying Fergus 10

by Sir Chris Hoy

  As Fergus made his way back to the bedroom to get changed, he tried to push aside his sadness at Daisy’s absence. But the thought of his best friend lingered as he pulled on his Hopefuls jersey.

  And as he pulled up his Hopefuls socks. And even as he pulled tight the strap on his Hopefuls helmet.

  Fergus felt a pat on his back and turned to see Wesley.

  “You can do it without her,” he said.

  Wesley, of all people, knew what Fergus was thinking!

  Surprised, Fergus nodded. “I know,” he said. “But it won’t be the same.”

  “But it’ll still be brilliant, right?”

  Fergus paused. Wesley was right. He had to focus on the good stuff. “Better than brilliant,” he said eventually, finding a smile. “It’ll be –”

  “Brilliotic!”

  This time, both Fergus and Wesley turned, and both found themselves with mouths wide open with shock.

  “Daisy!” they chorused.

  “What? Did you think I’d let you get all the glory for yourself?” Daisy said with a grin.

  “B-b-but –” blustered Fergus.

  “Butts are for sitting on,” said Daisy. “You know that, Fergus Hamilton. Now come on, your mum’s downstairs – she got the train this morning. Sorcha’s with her too – her parents picked me up on the way back from their holiday in the Hebrides, before you ask.”

  Fergus grinned. This was brilliotic! Better than brilliotic, even.

  So with his arms around Wesley and Daisy, and Chimp hopping excitedly at his heels, Fergus made his way towards the biggest race of his life.

  If the race was big, the stadium was bigger. The velodrome was incredible – steep, sloped sides and a track so long it seemed to disappear into the distance. It made Middlebank look tiny in comparison. All around them was the crowd, from the die-hard fans in the front row to the cameras flashing in the press area and journalists sending reports halfway round the world, and all the children high up in the stands, hoping that, one day, it would be them out there on the track.

  Right where Fergus was.

  Sitting there on his saddle on the starting line, Fergus had never felt so … small. So insignificant. Did Spokes Sullivan feel like this? Surely not! He had everyone cheering for him.

  But then Fergus realised something: the crowd might be massive, a sea of unfamiliar faces, thousands of them, but in there, somewhere, were people cheering just for him. People who, alongside his team-mates, mattered more than anything in the world.

  With that he felt a surge of hope, and with it, want. He wanted to do this – for all of them. He gave one last look at the concentration on the faces of his team. They were all ready, looking determined.

  “On your marks!” came the call, echoing around the incredible velodrome.

  Fergus lowered himself over the handlebars, blocking out the sight of the spectators and the other competitors, focusing on the sound of his own heartbeat.

  “Get set!”

  Fergus poised his right foot on the pedal.

  “GO!”

  And with that, Fergus pushed down as hard as he could and sped off to a flying start. As they took the turn into the back straight, only Bruce Hunter from the Brisbane Belters and Ken Cho from the Shanghai Shooting Stars were ahead of him.

  It was hard going. The banked wooden track was very different to the cinder one at Carnoustie Common, and even the tarmac at Middlebank hadn’t prepared him for the Manchester velodrome. Even though he’d had a good night’s sleep and a decent breakfast inside him, Fergus found himself struggling to keep pace. Maybe the Hopefuls have been kidding themselves all along, he thought. Maybe they were the best in Scotland. But in the world? It wasn’t looking likely.

  Glancing behind quickly, Fergus could see that Belinda was level pegging with the French number one in fifth place, but Wesley was way back in the pack, as was Minnie. As they hit the last lap, they were looking to lose those places.

  Fergus’s stomach plummeted. This was terrible. What a fool he’d been thinking he could compete at this level. He wasn’t a winner. He’d not had years of top-level training or the world’s flashiest kit. He was just a kid from a back street in Scotland.

  Hopeful? Hopeless, more like.

  But then …

  “Go on, Fergus!” came the yell, though he couldn’t tell if it was from Mum or Daisy or one of the amazing number of strangers who had come out to support the Scots team.

  “Eyes on the prize!”

  That was definitely Grandpa. Knowing he was riding for such loyal fans and family gave Fergus the boost he needed. As they rounded the corner into the final straight, Fergus dug deep inside, deeper than he had ever done, to find that extra energy. All his thoughts pulled back from the track and into his imagination.

  And that’s when it happened.

  “Keep going, Fergus,” he heard. “You’re flying!”

  He felt his heart pound quicker.

  It couldn’t be, could it? Only, it sounded just like … Lily.

  “Go on, son. You’re really flying!”

  Dad!

  Fergus couldn’t look, couldn’t take his eyes off the race in front of him. But no matter who had said it, Fergus felt it. He was flying – even though his wheels were firmly on the track!

  Fergus raced right past Bruce Hunter, who let out a “No!” as he passed, then there were only inches between him and Ken Cho, and only metres to go.

  “Go on!” yelled the crowd. “You can do it!”

  “I can!” Fergus told himself. “I can do it! I can …”

  And Fergus flew over the finish line, knowing in his heart that he absolutely had done it.

  He’d pushed himself and done his best, and the feeling was out of this world.

  It had been a photo finish in the end, with Ken Cho and the Shanghai Shooting Stars just pipping Fergus and the Hopefuls to gold. But as he stood on the podium with his team-mates, silver medals on their chests, hearts puffed with pride, Fergus couldn’t have been happier.

  Out there in the crowd was Grandpa, holding Chimp up for a wave. There was Mum, her arms around Jambo. There were Daisy and Sorcha, one end of a homemade “Go Hopefuls!” banner each. And there were … Fergus scanned the stands again, in case he’d missed them. But Dad and Lily were nowhere to be seen.

  So he closed his eyes.

  “Nice one, son,” said Dad.

  Lily grinned. “We knew you’d do us proud.”

  Fergus grinned too, and opened his eyes again as the cameras flashed and the national anthem of the People’s Republic of China played.

  So the Hercules’ Hopefuls hadn’t won gold. And Grandpa had lost his bet. But Fergus had won silver in the International Championships, after less than a year in the saddle. He’d done his team, his family and his friends proud.

  He really had pulled it off.

  In this world and in Nevermore.

  Chapter 9

  Two of a Kind

  “Are you sure you need another slice of cake?” signed Sorcha.

  Fergus nodded, cramming the cream and sponge into his mouth.

  “You won’t be able to dance,” signed Sorcha.

  “Good!” Fergus signed back, swallowing as he did so.

  This wedding was a dancer of a day, but having to do the hokey-cokey might just ruin the moment. And Fergus didn’t want anything to mess with this moment.

  Not only had Mum changed her mind about itchy suits, tight ties and sticky-out bridesmaid dresses to let him and all his friends attend in the Hercules’ Hopefuls team strip, but there’d been no daftly expensive cake, no posh photographer and no having to sing hymns he couldn’t remember the words to.

  The “make do and mend” idea had been Grandpa’s. With Fergus’s help (and Chimp’s hindrance, snaffling cocktail sausages as fast as they could plate them up), Jambo had made the buffet tea, Daisy and Sorcha had made the cake and Grandpa had decorated the hall with the help of his friend, Major Margaret Menzies.

  “S
he’s not my fancy lady,” Grandpa insisted to Fergus. “But I didn’t have the cash to honour the bet, so I invited her here for a day out instead. You’ve got to admit, she’s pretty canny with the carnations.”

  Fergus looked around at the regimented flower arrangements, as neat and orderly as the Velociraptors themselves. “Aye,” he agreed.

  “Though I wish she’d stop putting the sausage rolls into rows,” said Daisy. “I like my food precarious.”

  Fergus looked at the teetering pile of pork pie, jam tart and jelly on Daisy’s plate. “No dancing for you either, I reckon,” he said.

  “Maybe a little spin later, though?” she asked, miming pedalling a bicycle.

  “Can I come?” Sorcha signed.

  Fergus looked oddly at Sorcha. Had he understood her right?

  Sorcha saw his look and wrote on her pad:

  Fergus frowned. Sorcha had never seemed that interested in going cycling herself. She’d always watched the races with them, but riding had always been Fergus’s thing with Daisy. He felt a little awkward and looked over at Daisy.

  But Daisy simply grinned. Then, together, Fergus and Daisy did the new sign they’d made up especially: “Brilliotic!”

  Sorcha signed it back: “Brilliotic!”

  “We’ll be needing a new member, after all,” added Grandpa. “Unless you’re planning on becoming a stowaway, Daisy?”

  Daisy shook her head. “I’ve a trial next Friday for the Inverness Arrows. My friends Jack and Ryan are on the squad, and they reckon I’m in with a good chance of a place. So maybe I’ll see you on the track at next year’s Nationals.”

  “You’ll see my dust, more like,” said Fergus with a smile.

  “You wish,” said Daisy. But she was smiling too, and so was Sorcha, and so, in fact, was everyone.

  Everyone, that is, except Mum.

  Fergus looked over at the bride as she talked to Mrs MacCafferty. Mum was happy, sure. In fact, Fergus had never seen her happier than when Jambo said, “I do!” and the whole room had erupted into whoops of joy.

  But something was up, and Fergus was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  “Here,” he said, handing Mum a piece of Daisy’s cake as she sat down at the top table.

  “Och, no, love.” His mum pushed it away, and put a hand on her belly.

  “Have you eaten too much?” Fergus asked, concerned. “Or maybe it’s just the excitement? Or are you worried about the icing dropping on your white dress? I know you’d rather have your jeans on.”

  “Maybe I should have come in my nurse’s uniform,” Mum joked then. But she still wasn’t laughing. “It’s not that anyway,” she said.

  “Jeanie?” Jambo said, sitting down beside his wife. “Have you told him?”

  “Not yet,” Mum said. “I was waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?” Fergus demanded, feeling suddenly worried again. “Tell me what? What’s going on?”

  “Hey, hey,” Jambo said, putting his arm on Fergus to calm him down.

  But Fergus was far from calm. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” he said. “Are we moving? Is that it? Or is one of you ill? Or … or … is there an alien invasion?” Fergus’s big imagination began to take hold. “Or is a secret super-villain sidekick about to brainwash Scotland into believing Evil McWeevil should be First Minister?”

  At that, Mum’s mouth cracked a smile. “Och, Fergie,” she said. “You really are one of a kind, you know that?”

  “You too,” he said. “So please don’t be ill.” He stared at his mum with worry that wouldn’t go away written on his face.

  “Fergie, no one’s ill. There are no aliens, either,” added Jambo. “Or … what was the other one? That’s right, super-villains. But we do have some news.”

  He nodded at Jeanie, who looked at Fergus.

  “I meant what I said,” she told him. “You’re one of a kind, Fergus. Only … well, you might have to get used to sharing a bit.”

  “Sharing what?” asked Fergus. “I already share everything with Chimp. I don’t think we can afford enough sausages for another dog.”

  “It’s not a dog,” said Mum. “I meant that you’ll have to get used to sharing me.”

  “With Jambo?” asked Fergus, relief flooding him with warmth. “No problem.”

  “Well, not just with me, son,” said Jambo. “You see, the thing is …”

  The cake in Fergus’s tummy began to churn.

  “Yes,” continued Mum. “The thing is …”

  “What is the thing?” cried Fergus impatiently.

  Mum took a deep breath, and pulled a black and white photo from her white handbag. “Fergus Horatio Hamilton,” she said, “meet your brother.”

  Fergus stared at the photo. What was this? A brother he’d never heard of? It looked more like a baked bean. Or an alien, after all.

  Then he got it. This was a hospital scan! Which meant this wasn’t an alien. Or a baked bean.

  This was a baby!

  Mum was pregnant! That explained why she’d been tired and feeling sick and worried about money. No one was moving anywhere. But everything was changing. And fast.

  “Fergie?” asked Mum. “Are you feeling okay?”

  Fergus wasn’t sure. He was certainly feeling something. A sort of strange tingling all over.

  Maybe he’d eaten too much cake.

  Or maybe this baby was going to be the end of the world. I mean, who’d have time for him once a brother arrived?

  But no sooner than he’d said that word – brother – to himself, Fergus knew exactly what he was feeling.

  “Brilliotic!” he said. “A baby brother! This is absolutely the best thing ever!”

  “Well, maybe not better than silver at the Internationals,” Mum pointed out, laughing.

  “Maybe not,” admitted Fergus. “But it’s a photo finish, for sure!”

  As Fergus lay in bed that night, in his right hand a wedding photo of him, Mum and Jambo grinning at the camera, and in his left hand the scan photo of his brand new baby brother, Fergus really did feel brilliotic.

  Things were about to change, but he could handle it. He had Sorcha to talk to. And Daisy was only at the end of the telephone line too. And then there were his team-mates, here and in Nevermore: Lily and Belinda, both feisty and fun; Wesley and Waldorf who could wind him up until the cows came home; Minnie and Mikey the bickering brother and sister; Unlucky Luke and Calamity, who’d had more than their fair share of accidents between them; Scary Mary who had yet to say a word to him; and finally Dermot, who was difficult at best, and dimwitted at worst, but utterly indispensible.

  Fergus wondered what Dad would have to say about the news when he told him. But then again, maybe Dad already knew. And besides, that was a conversation for another day.

  No, Fergus thought, as he put down the pictures and switched off the light, things really couldn’t get any better.

  Although he wouldn’t say no to gold next year …

  Sir Chris Hoy MBE, won his first Olympic gold medal in Athens 2004. Four years later in Beijing he became the first Briton since 1908 to win three gold medals in a single Olympic Games. In 2012, Chris won two gold medals at his home Olympics in London, becoming Britain’s most successful Olympian with six gold medals and one silver. Sir Chris also won eleven World titles and two Commonwealth Games gold medals. In December 2008, Chris was voted BBC Sports Personality of the Year, and he received a Knighthood in the 2009 New Year Honours List. Sir Chris retired as a professional competitive cyclist in early 2013; he still rides almost daily. He lives in Manchester with his family.

  www.chrishoy.com

  Joanna Nadin is an award-winning author of more than seventy books for children, including the bestselling Rachel Riley diaries, the Penny Dreadful series, and Joe All Alone, now a BAFTA award-winning TV series. She studied drama and politics at university in Hull and London, and has worked as a lifeguard, a newsreader and even a special adviser to the Prime Minister. She now teaches writing and
lives in Bath, where she rides her rickety bicycle, but she never, ever back-pedals …

  www.joannanadin.com

  Clare Elsom is an illustrator of lots of lovely children’s books, including Maisie Mae and the Spies in Disguise series. She is also the author-illustrator of Horace and Harriet. She studied Illustration at Falmouth University (lots of drawing) and Children’s Literature at Roehampton University (lots of writing). Clare lives in Devon, where she can be found doodling, tap dancing and drinking cinnamon lattes.

  www.elsomillustration.co.uk

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  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

  Piccadilly Press

  80-81 Wimpole Street, London, W1G 9RE

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text and illustrations copyright © Sir Chris Hoy, 2019

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication should be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  The right of Sir Chris Hoy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-84812-677-0

  Piccadilly Press is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK