The Amazing Brain of O C Longbotham

by Barbara Spencer

  Copyright © 2014 Barbara Spencer

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

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  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Philip James Longbotham lived with his mother and two sisters, Anna and Kitty, in a semi-detached house with three-and-a-half bedrooms. Being the youngest Philip had to make do with the half. His bed had been built against its longest wall, which measured one metre seventy-four centimetres; his wardrobe stood on top of the stairwell which ran into his room and his shoes, which he always arranged in a neat line, were level with his knees.

  The only thing different were his two sisters, Kitty and Anna, and his love of tidying and measuring. When they first moved into their new house, Philip insisted on measuring his room every day in case it had grown in the night.

  ‘It’s not likely to do that, Phil,’ Mum tried explaining to the (almost) five-year old.

  ‘Mushrooms grow in the night,’ he protested stubbornly, holding one end of the tape measure. ‘I watched a programme on television about it, and Mrs Peters next door said her bedroom was so damp, she had mushrooms growing on the wall.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that, dear. I think she was probably exaggerating.’

  ‘What does exaggerating mean, Mum?’

  Mrs Longbotham carefully jotted down the dimensions of the room on her notepad. ‘It’s when you say something that is not quite … er … um … true.’

  ‘Like when Anna tells you, she’s going to die and she doesn’t.’

  Mum laughed. ‘Exactly,’ she agreed.

  After the third time of measuring, Mrs Longbotham sensibly printed the dimensions on a card and blue-tacked them to the wall. She also hung two lengths of white tape from a hook; one the exact length of the room, one the exact width of the room.

  Apart from that, Philip was a pretty unremarkable kid until two days before he started school, he was stung by a wasp.*

  It was Sunday and all across Britain families were doing what they always did on a Sunday. Mrs Longbotham was in the kitchen tidying away the lunch things, Anna was sprawled on the sofa, idly flicking through a magazine, and Kitty was curled up on the floor scribbling madly.

  Anna, the eldest, was tallish and had been born with blond hair that had turned mousy by age five. To celebrate her last year at primary school, she had dyed it bright red.

  Mrs Longbotham had been furious and Kitty dead jealous.

  Kitty, eighteen months younger, was a tad less than tall. She had also been fair at birth and that too had turned mousy. Determined not to be upstaged by her sister, her hair also began changing colour, becoming a teensy-weensy bit darker each time she washed it, as if she was using mud instead of shampoo.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Philip asked, kneeling beside her, his neatly brushed hair very different from his sister’s, which looked as if a witch, a broomstick, and her cat had taken up residence.

  ‘None of your business.’ Kitty glowered.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No!’

  Having completed eight lines of writing, Kitty picked up a pair of scissors and began cutting the paper into strips.

  ‘So, what are you doing now?’

  Kitty glared. ‘Climbing Everest.’

  ‘Oh!’ The small boy looked puzzled. ‘What’s Everest?’

  ‘A mountain and small boys aren’t allowed

  – GO AWAY!’

  ‘What are you up to, Kitty?’ Anna called.

  ‘I’m trying to put a hex on my teacher before the new term starts. I’ve only gone and got Mrs Edwards,’ Kitty moaned. ‘She hated you so what chance have I got.’

  ‘How do you intend to do that?’ Anna leaned up on one elbow, staring across the room at her sister.

  ‘Found this book of spells in the school library. It’s got great tips … like this killing potion.’ Kitty scribbled the words:

  I hate Mrs Edwards, burn in hell across the top of a clean sheet of paper.

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘It had better. I’ll never survive a year of Mrs Edwards telling me off. It should work, it’s Goth – and that’s the most powerful spell on Earth. Between you and me, though, I’m not all that bothered if it doesn’t kill her as long as it sends her off long term sick, like Miss Brown. She was off the whole summer with stress, lucky thing.’

  ‘That was ’cos a you.’

  ‘Not true,’ Kitty retorted indignantly. ‘I never even touched her.’

  ‘So how does it work?’

  ‘I gotta write loads of strips and then burn them at midnight.’

  ‘Are we going to have a fire?’ Philip shouted excitedly.

  ‘Shush!’ Kitty hissed and Anna threw a cushion at him.

  ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and measure your bedroom,’ Kitty said. ‘I’ll lend you my ruler. It’s been raining all week; it’s bound to have shrunk.’

  ‘Okay,’ Philip said, and trotted upstairs, the plastic ruler waving up and down in his fist like a floppy banana.

  Placing Kitty’s ruler neatly on the bed, Philip checked the wall with the tapes and was relieved to find they hadn’t shrunk in the night. Carefully replacing the tapes on a hook, he ran downstairs instantly forgetting about the ruler.

  Ann climbed off the couch and crouched on the floor next to her sister. ‘Are you really going to try it?’

  Kitty picked up the scissors again. ‘Totally! It’s full moon tonight. I’ve got matches and I already dug a hole to bury the ashes. Actually,’ she admitted, ‘Phil dug the hole ’cos I just painted my nails. Told him I wanted to visit a friend in Australia. You know Phil. He’ll believe anything. But I need twenty-seven strips; three times three times three. If you give me a hand with the writing, I’ll add your teacher’s name.’

  Just at that moment, Mrs Longbotham called from the kitchen, ‘I could do with some help washing up. Anna?’

  Anna convulsed into motion. ‘I’m just going to the shop to get the TV Times and the newspaper, Mum,’ she called. ‘I know you like one on a Sunday.’

  Mrs Longbotham’s head appeared round the kitchen door. ‘That’s so thoughtful, Anna. Take some money from my purse. Kitty, come and …’

  ‘Can’t. I’m doing homework.’

  ‘You mean, you’ve still got homework,’ Mum spluttered. ‘It’s the end of the holidays … whatever …’

  ‘Kitty’s going to climb Everest,’ Philip put in helpfully. ‘She was telling me.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mum stopped dead, shooting a doubtful glance at her middle daughter. ‘Well, in that case …’

  ‘I’ll help,’ he said. ‘I like washing up.’

  ‘Yes, well … er … thank you, Philip. Um … but haven’t you got some tidying in your bedroom you can do
.’

  ‘No!’ The little boy shook his head firmly. ‘It’s tidy. And I already measured it, Kitty told me to.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mum sighed. ‘Well, in that case, thank you, Philip.’

  ‘Mum!’ Kitty laughed. ‘You know perfectly well, he’ll make you wash them at least twice. I keep telling you to buy a washing-up machine.’

  ‘And I keep telling you, we can’t afford one. Oh dear!’

  ‘All right! I give in. The things I do for this family …’ Kitty gave a dramatic sigh. ‘You do the washing up, Mum, and Phil can watch me cut paper.’

  ‘Thank you, Kitty. You are such a sweet child.’

  A little while later, unaware that Anna had filched a pound from her purse to buy two chocolate bars, which she and Kitty were secretly scoffing behind the sofa, Mum sat down to read the Sunday Echo.

  The front page was dominated by an account of a daring robbery. ‘Girls, listen to this,’ she read aloud.

  Can you believe it?

  ‘Girls?’ she rattled the newspaper. ‘Look! There’s a picture. Apparently, he was on duty outside and, when he went to investigate, got a very nasty bump on the head. It says here, there were no clues but he did get a look at the number plate. YA BOO something or other.’

  ‘I don’t know, what is this world coming to?’ Mrs Longbotham was in the middle of saying, when the doorbell chimed.

  Philip jumped to his feet and, running over to the window, pulled back the net curtains and peered through.

  ‘It’s Grandmother,’ he announced.

  A choking sound erupted from behind the sofa, followed by the rustle of silver paper as Anna and Kitty tried to hide all evidence of their guilt.

  ‘Can’t we pretend we’re not in?’ Kitty wailed, arriving upright first, unaware she had smears of chocolate round her mouth.

  ‘Uh … uh…’ Mum stared wildly round the room, wishing she had the courage to say: hide quick. ‘Anna, get a duster and run it along the mantelshelf while I check the kitchen. Kitty, wash your face and Phil, you stay put… Phil! Phil!’ she hissed. ‘Come back.’

  Too late! Philip ran to the front door, opened it, and Grandmother sailed in.

  She was a fierce old lady, very tall with a large chest and several chins that made her look rather like a pouter pigeon. She always carried a walking stick in the street, which she mostly used to shoo away boisterous dogs, whip the heads off her neighbours’ flowers (when they weren’t looking), and bash the ankles of any one that got in her way.

  ‘As you never visit me, I thought I’d visit you for a change.’ She glanced gimlet-eyed at Kitty and Anna. ‘Haven’t your daughters changed, I hardly recognised them.’

  ‘Really, Mother. You’ve just forgotten how quickly children grow,’ Mrs Longbotham said, her smile a little patronising. ‘Remember, it’s quite a while since you’ve seen them.’

  ‘Nonsense, and I’m not senile,’ snapped her mother. ‘I know perfectly well that children make a habit of growing. However, these two resemble the flag of Albania. Both my granddaughters were fair.’

  ‘That was when they were born, Mother. Since then, I admit, their hair has gone a little …’ Mrs Longbotham trailed off into silence, noticing that Kitty’s hair was several shades darker than it had been the day before*

  while Anna’s still resembled the burning bush from the bible.

  ‘Oh dear! Er … yes. Well … er,’ she murmured. ‘Anna. We had a bit of an accident there. It’ll grow out in a few months.’

  ‘It was an alien, I saw him. He ate Anna,’ Philip shouted joyfully.

  ‘No, Phil, dear,’ Mrs Longbotham patted his hand. ‘He didn’t. Don’t you remember I explained – it was still Anna, only her hair had gone green by mistake.’

  ‘Hm!’ Grandmother pointed with her walking stick. ‘And just look at their nails – purple and green. Disgraceful.’

  Mrs Longbotham stared wildly. ‘They like dressing-up, Mother,’ she mumbled. ‘And it is the weekend.’

  Grandmother ignored her. ‘Why aren’t they outside playing in the garden, it’s a nice day?’

  ‘What a good idea,’ Mrs Longbotham said, breathing heavily. ‘Go and play tennis, you two. I’ll get tea.’ She fled into the kitchen, pursued by her mother.

  ‘Did you read about that robbery?’ Mrs Longbotham said, her fair hair drooping lifelessly.

  ‘I’d bring back the stocks,’ retorted the old lady. ‘That would sort it. Your girls,’ she said, returning to her favourite subject, like a homing pigeon to its roost. ‘I trust you will keep Anna in sensible shoes until, at least, sixteen.’ She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘The damage bad shoes does to feet doesn’t bear thinking about. Speak to my chiropodist, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I do believe you, Mother.’ Mrs Longbotham grabbed the kettle as it started to whistle and hastily poured boiling water into the teapot. ‘Come and have some tea. You’ll feel better afterwards.’

  ‘And this craze for short skirts and skimpy tops. Disgraceful. In my day …’

  Mrs Longbotham groaned silently. ‘Girls – tea,’ she called through the open garden doors, too busy pouring tea to notice that a nosy wasp had drifted into the room.

  Fed-up with a diet of windfalls, from the apple tree in the garden, the wasp had smelled strawberry jam and decided to investigate.

  Philip had been quietly playing with his train set behind the sofa. He hadn’t bothered to go into the garden, there really was no point since neither of his sisters would have given him a turn with the tennis racket. Now, remembering he was thirsty, he stood up to ask for a glass of milk.

  ‘Philip!’ Grandmother shouted triumphantly, as if she was watching a football match and he had just scored the winning goal. ‘Just the person. I want a word with you.’*

  She crooked her finger, beckoning. ‘I hear you are starting school tomorrow. Stand up straight now.’

  Philip carefully replaced his glass on the tray. ‘Yes, Grandmother. I am going to learn how to read.’

  ‘Precisely. Now, there are a few things you need to know. I remember telling Anna and Kitty ...’

  ‘Yes, Mother, so you did.’ Mrs Longbotham gave a long, despairing sigh as she watched her mother take a deep – deep – breath.

  ‘At school … always remember to be polite, say please and thank you. No talking in class. And remember to wash your hands when you go to the toilet – and don’t use too much toilet paper, it blocks the drains.’

  ‘Now, school dinners. Before you start eating, blow your nose. Food always tastes better if you blow your nose first ...’

  Philip didn’t bother to listen, he didn’t understand the long words anyway. Instead, he watched the wasp descend in ever decreasing circles, heading for the jam in the sponge cake, rather like a plane circling Heathrow airport.

  Suddenly spotting the hovering object in front of her grandson’s face, Grandmother wafted it vigorously with her hat.*

  The wasp, hit with a force-10 gale, with a loud shrieking

  crashed into Philip’s face and really angry now plunged its stinger into his forehead.

  ‘OMG!’ Kitty yelled. ‘I just heard Phil’s brain go ping.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Kitty,’ Anna shouted. ‘Isn’t that just like you, always trying to hog the limelight. That was me killing the wasp with my tennis racket.’

  Noticing her grandson’s face about to burst into flames, his mouth open and flapping like a fish, Grandmother uttered a piercing scream and fainted.

  Mrs Longbotham stared helplessly at the crumpled figure on the floor. ‘Oh dear, whatever can we do?’ she moaned, dithering from one foot to the other, rather like someone dancing the cha-cha-cha.

  ‘Anna, dear, pour a cup of tea for your grandmother, it will help revive her. Philip, Phil, speak to me.’ She patted his hand gently.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Mum, that’s so useless.’ Kitty thumped her brother on the back. ‘Come on, Phil,’ she screeched. ‘Breathe, breathe – breathe.
’

  ‘Does Grandmother take sugar?’ Anna yelled into the confusion. Not getting a response, she hastily picked up the cup, and tossed its contents over the comatose figure.

  ‘Anna! What did you do that for? I didn’t mean over your grandmother,’ Mrs Longbotham shrieked, watching the brown liquid roll down her mother’s face.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Anna smiled sweetly. ‘But, hey, look, it’s done the trick,’ she added as Grandmother opened her eyes. ‘She’s revived.’

  As Kitty gave Philip’s back another thump, he hiccupped loudly and took a breath. Even his face returned to its normal colour. ‘What were you telling me, Grandmother?’ he said sounding his usual cheery self, exactly as if he had stepped out of the room for a minute and had just returned.

  ‘Ooh!’ Grandmother moaned, clutching her heart. ‘I’m all wet. I think I’d better go home.’

  If Mrs Longbotham hadn’t been so worried about her son, she might well have danced a highland-fling or limbo-ed under the table. ‘What a good idea, Mother,’ she said, ‘I’ll phone for a taxi.’

  Next morning, leaving Anna in bed, Mrs Longbotham telephoned the surgery and rushed off for an appointment, taking both Philip and Kitty with her.

  Dr Benson, who was new to the practice and had never met Mrs Longbotham or her children before, pulled out a form filling in the first three lines:

  Steepling his fingers, he leaned over the desk. ‘Now, what seems to be the trouble?’

  ‘He had a bit of a do yesterday afternoon, Doctor,’ Mum whispered, pointing with her index finger at the back of Philip’s head.

  ‘Ah, did he now? So what happened? Philip is it or do you prefer Phil?’

  Philip wasn’t listening, his attention fastened on the picture of a skeleton hanging from the wall.

  ‘He got stung by a wasp; his brain went ping and then he stopped breathing,’ Kitty said, answering for her brother. ‘Anna says it didn’t go ping but it really did. She was so busy chasing the wasp, she didn’t hear. And you can call him Phil if you like, or pest.’