“BUSKING?” said Darren. “You must be joking!”
“Why not?” said Bertie. “All you do is put down a hat and people give you money. It’s easy!”
“Yes, if you’re a busker,” said Eugene.
“We don’t even play instruments,” Darren pointed out.
“We do,” argued Bertie. “Eugene plays the violin.”
“I’m learning the violin,” Eugene corrected him. “I’ve only had a few lessons.”
“And who’s going to pay to listen to us?” asked Darren.
“Loads of people,” said Bertie. “You could play the drums and I can sing and play my kazoo.”
Bertie had got a plastic kazoo in his Christmas stocking. It was easy to play – you just had to blow and hum at the same time. For a few weeks he’d driven his family up the wall.
“Anyway, we don’t know any songs,” said Eugene.
“That’s why we’re going to practise,” said Bertie. “You fetch your violin and I’ll find a drum for Darren.”
A little later a deafening noise came from Bertie’s room. Eugene screeched on his violin while Darren bashed a biscuit tin with two wooden spoons. Bertie yelled out the words, sometimes breaking off to play a solo on his kazoo.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells…
Doo doo doo doo-doo
Oh what fun it is to…”
The door flew open. Bertie’s dad stood there glaring.
“What’s all the noise?” he demanded.
“We’re practising,” said Bertie. “Did you like it?”
“Like it? It sounds like someone’s being murdered!” said Dad. “You’ve even driven Whiffer out of the house.”
Bertie waved his kazoo. “We’ve got to practise,” he said.
“What for?” asked Dad.
“So we can go busking,” Bertie replied.
“You need a licence to go busking,” said Dad. “Now please, pack it in. I’m trying to work.”
He slammed the door.
Bertie’s kazoo dribbled spit down his jumper. Typical, he thought. His parents went on and on at him to learn an instrument and when he did, they just complained!
Darren and Eugene stayed for lunch.
“Mum, can we go busking this afternoon?” Bertie asked, sitting down at the table.
“Certainly not,” said Mum. “We’ve been over this already.”
“Pleeeease!” begged Bertie. “Not in town, just at the shops down the road.”
“No, you’re too young!” said Mum.
Darren reached for some crisps. “Bertie reckons we could make a fortune,” he said.
“Does he now?” said Mum. “Well, he can dream on because you’re not going.”
Bertie threw back his head in despair. It was so unfair! All that practising for nothing! If they couldn’t go busking, they might as well give up and go to the park. Wait a minute, thought Bertie. The park was on the way to the shops – and if they happened to take their instruments, who was going to know?
After lunch, they crept downstairs and tiptoed to the door.
“BERTIE!” called Mum. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Uh-oh.
“Just to the park!” Bertie shouted.
Mum came into the hall.
“Why are you all wearing your coats?” she asked.
“It’s cold!” said Bertie.
“It’s the middle of June!” said Mum.
“Yes, but we need them for goalposts,” said Darren, thinking quickly.
The others nodded in agreement.
Mum narrowed her eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “But make sure you’re back by four.”
The three of them hurried out of the front door. Once they were down the road, they unzipped their coats. Eugene brought out his violin, and a biscuit tin and some spoons fell out of Darren’s jacket. Bertie took his kazoo from his pocket.
“We made it,” he said. “Let’s get down the shops before anyone sees us.”
It was a bright summer’s day and the local high street was busy. At the coffee shop customers sat outside, enjoying the sunshine. All was calm and peaceful.
Eugene fiddled nervously with his violin bow. He’d never played in public before.
“Can’t we go somewhere a bit less busy?” he asked.
“No, this is perfect,” said Bertie.
“If we see anyone we know, I’m not doing it,” warned Darren.
“Stop worrying, it’ll be fine!” said Bertie. “Who’s got the hat?”
Eugene pulled a woolly hat from his pocket.
“We’ll start over there,” said Bertie, pointing to the café.
They chose a spot close by and placed the hat on the ground. The buskers could only play three songs and Bertie didn’t know all the words, but he doubted that anyone would notice.
“Ready?” he said. “One, two, three…”
“Twinkle twinkle, little star,
How I … doo-doo doo-doo dooo!”
Outside the café people looked up, startled. One minute they were enjoying the peace and quiet, the next it was shattered by three scruffy children making a terrible din. Some of the customers covered their ears. A baby in a buggy started to howl.
“What a row!” moaned the mother, rocking the buggy back and forth. “Please, somebody make them stop!”
A door banged open and the café manager stormed out.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“Busking,” said Bertie. “It’s like music on the street.”
“I know what it is, but you can’t do it here,” snapped the manager. “Clear off!”
He waved an arm at them and went back inside.
Bertie frowned. He had expected a bit more enthusiasm.
“Come on, let’s go to the park,” suggested Eugene, relieved.
“At least we gave it a try,” said Darren.
“But we haven’t earned any money yet!” protested Bertie.
“You heard him. The manager told us to clear off!” said Darren.
Bertie looked at their audience. Maybe they’d started with the wrong song?
“Let’s play ‘Jingle Bells’,” he suggested. “Everyone likes that. It makes you think of Christmas.”
“But it’s summer,” said Eugene. The trouble with Bertie was he never knew when to give up.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells!
Doo doo, doo doo-doo!”
People at the café finished their drinks and left in a hurry.
“Oh what fun it is to ride…”
“STOP!” yelled the manager.
The music stumbled to a halt.
“What did I tell you?” cried the manager. “You’re driving all my customers away!”
Bertie looked around. The café did seem a little emptier than when they’d first arrived.
“Shall we play something else?” he asked.
“NO!” said the manager. “Just go! Find someone else to annoy!”
Bertie sighed and picked up the woolly hat. He held it out.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any spare change?”
Further down the street, the three of them sat down on a bench.
“It’s not fair!” grumbled Bertie. “We haven’t earned a single penny.”
“I told you we were wasting our time,” said Eugene. “We might as well give up and go to the park.”
But Bertie didn’t admit defeat so easily. They were just starting to get the hang of busking.
On the square in front of them, children were running around while people sat on benches in the sun. It looked like an ideal spot for busking.
“Let’s set up here,” said Bertie.
The other two groaned.
“Face it, Bertie, this is never going to work!” said Darren.
“Just one last try, then we’ll call it a day,” promised Bertie.
They picked up their instruments again.
Bertie wiped the dribble off his kazoo and counted
them in.
“One, two, three…”
BOOM, CHIKKA, BOOM!
Bertie looked up. Across the square was the busker he’d seen in town earlier. His drum machine blared out as he began playing the saxophone.
“He can’t do that!” complained Bertie. “This is our spot.”
“But he can actually play,” said Eugene.
“Maybe,” said Bertie. “But there’s three of us. I bet we can play louder!”
They launched into the last song on their playlist:
“The wheels on the bus go…”
BASH, BASH, BASH!
Darren thumped his drum.
“HEY!”
The busker had turned off his drum machine. He marched across the square towards them.
“You again!” he said to Bertie. “What do you think you’re playing at?”
“‘The Wheels on the Bus’,” replied Bertie.
“Well, cut it out! This is my pitch, find your own,” snapped the busker.
He stomped back to his place, switched on the drum machine and began again.
Bertie stared. “What a cheek! We were here first!” he grumbled.
“We can’t compete with that,” said Darren. “It’s proper music!”
“Please, let’s just go to the park!” begged Eugene.
But Bertie certainly wasn’t giving up without a fight. Why should they be the ones to leave? If anyone should go, it was the busker – he was trying to pinch their audience!
“Start again and play louder,” said Bertie.
They began playing. The busker glared and turned up his drum machine to full volume. Bertie yelled even louder to try and drown him out.
“THE HORN ON THE BUS GOES
BEEP BEEP BEEP!”
Eugene’s violin screeched. Darren bashed the biscuit tin so hard he put a dent in it. People around the square grabbed their children and fled to get away from the noise.
“OKAY, STOP! STOP!”
The busker was back, waving his arms in front of them.
“I thought I told you to beat it!” he said.
“We were here first,” replied Bertie.
“You were not!”
“We were so!”
“Look, you’re just kids,” said the busker. “I do this for a living. Why don’t you just run along home, eh?”
Bertie folded his arms stubbornly.
The busker looked around. He was losing his audience fast.
“I’ll give you a pound,” he said, in desperation.
Bertie raised his eyebrows. “You mean a pound each?” he asked.
“No! Oh, all right, if you promise to clear off and never come back,” said the busker.
Three pounds! It wasn’t a fortune, but it was better than nothing.
“Come on, let’s go to the sweet shop,” said Darren.
They set off back along the street, but just as they reached the sweet shop, Bertie heard a voice he knew.
“BERTIE!”
Oh no – his mum and Suzy! Hadn’t they done enough shopping for one day?
Mum spotted their instruments before they could hide them. She glared. “I thought you were going to the park?”
“We were…” said Bertie weakly.
“And what have you got there?” demanded Mum.
Bertie opened his hand to reveal the three pound coins.
“So despite everything I said, you went busking,” said Mum. “I’ll take the money, thank you. We’ll give it to someone who deserves it.”
They watched as she marched off down the street and stopped at the busker playing the saxophone. She dropped the coins into his hat.
Bertie put his head in his hands.
“Now can we go to the park?” groaned Eugene.
“Come on, everybody up! The sun’s shining!” cried Dad, throwing open the curtains.
Mum groaned. Suzy hid under her duvet. Bertie sat up and blinked. Where am I? he thought. This isn’t my bedroom! Then he remembered – they were staying in a youth hostel. Dad had dragged them away for a weekend in the middle of nowhere.
“It’s a beautiful day and we’re surrounded by nature,” said Dad. “Look out there – hills, trees, sheep!”
Bertie yawned. He’d seen sheep before and they had trees in the local park.
“We’re not going on a walk, are we?” groaned Suzy.
“Better than that,” said Dad. “We’re going on an adventure!”
Bertie’s eyes lit up. “You mean you’re taking us to GO WILD!” he said.
He’d seen a poster for Go Wild! in the entrance hall. They had walkways and rope bridges, and you could swoop through the treetops on a zip wire like Tarzan. It looked amazing!
“Who needs theme parks?” said Dad. “We’ve got all the thrills we need right here. We’re going to climb Craggy Peak!”
“Craggy what?” asked Suzy.
“Craggy Peak – it’s a mountain,” Dad explained.
“You’re not serious!” said Mum. “Surely we should stick to climbing hills?”
“Bertie can’t even climb a tree!” hooted Suzy.
“I can!” cried Bertie. He was brilliant at climbing trees, although getting down again was another matter.
“Don’t worry,” said Dad. “Anyone can climb Craggy Peak. There’s an easy path that takes you right to the top.”
“It’s still a mountain,” argued Mum. “What about the children?”
“It’ll be good for them,” said Dad.
“But we don’t have the right gear,” grumbled Suzy.
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Dad. He pulled out a large orange rucksack from under the bed. “I’ve brought everything we need. I’ve been planning this as a surprise!”
Bertie rolled his eyes. If his dad really wanted to surprise them, why didn’t he take them to Disneyland?
“What’s the point of climbing a mountain?” he moaned.
“To get to the top, of course!” replied Dad. “Think of it as an adventure. We’ll be like Scott of the Antarctic!”
“Isn’t he the one that never came back?” said Mum grimly.
Dad pulled into the car park and everyone climbed out.
“There it is!” cried Dad. “Craggy Peak!”
Bertie stared. Beyond the fields was a huge grey mountain. It was so high the peak was hidden in mist.
“We’re not climbing that!” he groaned.
“It’ll be fun,” said Dad. “Just think, you’ll be able to tell your friends that you’ve actually climbed a mountain!”
Bertie thought he’d rather tell his friends that he’d actually been to Go Wild!
Dad opened the boot and hauled out the rucksack, staggering under its weight.
“What have you got in there?” asked Mum.
“Like I said, everything we need,” replied Dad. “Maps, compass, hats, gloves, waterproofs, first-aid kit and plenty of water.”
“No biscuits?” asked Bertie.
Dad shook his head. “We’ve got a packed lunch from the youth hostel. Sandwiches, apples and energy bars.”
Bertie plunged his hands in his pockets. They’d probably starve to death! Who in their right mind climbed a mountain without a packet of biscuits?
Mum was gazing up at Craggy Peak. “Are you sure about this?” she asked Dad. “What if the weather changes? And besides, should you be going up a mountain?”
“Me? I’m fine!” said Dad. “I can’t wait to get going!”
He heaved the rucksack on to his back and got out the map.
“Okay, troops, forward march!” he cried.
They climbed over a stile to reach a muddy track winding uphill.
“Race you to the top!” cried Suzy.
“Last one’s a smelly slug,” said Bertie.
“DON’T RUN! Save your energy!” warned Dad. But Bertie and Suzy were already racing on ahead.
An hour later they stopped by a stone wall. Dad took off the rucksack and dumped it on the ground.
“I need a rest!” he groaned, sitting on a tree stump.
“Already?” said Bertie. “I’m not even tired!”
Mountain climbing was turning out to be more fun than he’d expected. He’d already jumped in some sheep poo and sunk up to his ankles in a muddy bog. He’d even found a good poking stick that was great for annoying Suzy. All in all, things were looking up!
Mum and Dad, on the other hand, looked worn out. They were both sweating and red in the face. Dad kept grumbling that his new boots hurt and the rucksack weighed a ton.
“Are we nearly there?” asked Bertie. He’d lost sight of the mountain top.
“Not yet,” said Dad.
He studied the map for a moment, frowning. He tried turning it the other way up.
“Hmm. Uh-huh. Mmm,” he mumbled.
“We’re not lost, are we?” asked Mum anxiously.
“Lost? Of course not!” snorted Dad. “It’s just a case of finding the right path.”
“Where is the right path?” asked Suzy.
They had been following a path, but a while back it had divided into two. Dad had decided the left path was right (which sounded wrong). Now there was no sign of any path at all.
“It must be straight on,” Dad said, folding the map.
“Up there?” asked Mum. The rocks and boulders above looked gigantic.
“The path must be overgrown. I’m sure we’ll find it,” said Dad.
Mum glanced at the sky. “It looks like rain,” she muttered. “That’s all we need.”
“Can I run on ahead and climb the rocks?” pleaded Bertie.
“No, stay with us,” said Dad. “I don’t want you getting into trouble.”
Bertie sighed. He didn’t see how he could get into any trouble. They were on a mountain in the middle of nowhere – what could possibly happen?
Monster! Page 2