Werepuppy and the Werepuppy on Holiday

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Mum glanced round at Micky’s four sisters. For a moment it looked as if she knew all. But then she turned back to Micky.

  ‘There aren’t any real werewolves anywhere. They just use big dogs in those silly films. Alsatians. Like Sandy, Mr Bryan’s Alsatian up the road. And you’re not scared of him, are you?’

  ‘No,’ said Micky doubtfully.

  He’d never been exactly fond of Sandy the Alsatian. He had a habit of crouching right down behind his fence and then growling suddenly at your ankles. It always made Micky jump a bit on his way past, going to school.

  When Micky went to school that morning he crossed right over the road so he didn’t have to go near Sandy the Alsatian. But even from right across the road Sandy looked much larger and fiercer than usual, and there seemed to be far more teeth springing from his jaw. He really did look remarkably like a werewolf.

  ‘Micky’s scared of a silly old dog,’ Marigold chanted mockingly. She put her hand right through the fence and patted Sandy’s head to show she wasn’t scared a bit.

  ‘Micky’s sensible to keep his distance,’ said Mandy, snatching Marigold’s hand back. ‘You should be careful with all big dogs. You never know when they can snap.’

  Micky discovered that he wasn’t just scared of big dogs. He was scared of quite little dogs, too.

  On Saturday afternoon Mum and Dad and Mona and Micky and Marigold went for a walk in the park. (Meryl was down at the shopping precinct with her friends, and Mandy had gone skateboarding.) There were lots of other families in the park. And lots of dogs. Micky managed to steer clear of most of them, suddenly rushing off round the duck-pond away from a lollopy spaniel and running like crazy when a Golden Retriever appeared on the horizon.

  ‘You’re quite a nippy little runner, Micky,’ said Dad, ruffling his hair. ‘It’s nice to see you dashing about a bit and having fun.’

  Micky glowed. He walked along beside Dad, skipping and hopping a bit to match Dad’s long loping stride. He suddenly didn’t feel like a baby any more. He didn’t even feel like a boy. He felt like a man.

  Then a werewolf sprang right out of the wooded garden and Micky shrieked.

  ‘What the…? For goodness’ sake, Micky, it’s only a corgi!’ Dad declared in disgust as Micky cowered away.

  All right, it was only an old lady’s corgi, although it was a belligerent one, barking its head off at poor Micky. It looked like a pint-sized werewolf on mini legs.

  ‘Help,’ wailed Micky.

  ‘It’s all right, dear, he won’t hurt you,’ said die old lady.

  ‘Pull yourself together, Micky,’ said Dad, giving him a shake. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Leave him, love,’ said Mum, slipping her arm round Micky. ‘He’s just a bit scared of dogs at the moment, that’s all.’

  ‘I could understand it if it was a socking great Rottweiler, but a corgi!’ said Dad.

  He didn’t say any more, but Micky felt he was in disgrace.

  He tried to soothe himself after tea by doing another drawing of his magic land. Marigold came bustling up, but Mum found her some old white net curtains so she could play weddings with all her Little Ponies, and that kept her well out of Micky’s way. She made a wedding frock for each Little Pony and married them all off to each other.

  Dad pointed out that she’d got it wrong but Marigold didn’t care.

  ‘My ponies don’t want to marry boy ponies. They don’t like boys. They can’t be bothered with them,’ said Marigold.

  Dad looked as if he might agree.

  Micky drew and coloured carefully but the magic land wouldn’t come right this time. He used the wrong purple for the mountains by mistake and so they looked dark and frightening. The lake looked cold and bleak. The meadows were bare and the woods were the worst. He tried to make them look real by crayoning in all the brown trunks under the wavy green leaf part. It didn’t work. It just looked as if there were a lot of brown things in the wood. Brown creatures. Werewolves.

  The werewolves even spoilt going to tea with Granny Boot on Sunday. Granny Boot was Micky’s favourite person in all the world. Her name wasn’t really Boot, it was just a nickname.

  Micky had made it up for her. Granny Boot had a second-hand clothes shop and every Saturday and Sunday she got up very early and went to Car Boot Sales to get stock for her shop. She sometimes took Micky with her for a great treat. She said he had an eye for a bargain. The older girls weren’t interested and Mona moaned and Marigold picked things up and dropped them, but Micky and Granny always had a very good time at the Boot Sales.

  ‘You’re my Granny Boot,’ said Micky, giving her a hug.

  Dad laughed and laughed when he heard Granny’s new name.

  ‘Yes, she’s an Old Boot all right,’ Dad chuckled, and Mum got cross.

  After they’d all had a lovely tea at Granny’s (ham salad sandwiches and jam sponge and chocolate finger biscuits and raspberry jelly and ice-cream) she took Micky upstairs to show him the bargains she’d found at that morning’s Boot Sale.

  ‘Look at this lovely little Fifties number with its sweetheart neckline,’ said Granny, holding up a faded blue dance frock. ‘You could do a lovely quickstep in this, all right.’

  She danced round her bedroom in her fluffy slippers holding the frock in front of her, while Micky sat on her bed and laughed.

  Then Granny Boot delved into her pile of newly-bought clothes on the floor and found a shrivelled swimming costume with funny padded bits at the front.

  ‘I don’t think I’d even get one leg into this skimpy little thing,’ said Granny Boot. She tied it onto her head instead, with the padded bits sticking straight up as decoration.

  Micky laughed so much he nearly fell off the bed.

  ‘Don’t you laugh at my lovely new hat, you cheeky monkey,’ said Granny Boot. ‘Now, where’s that old fox-fur cape, that’ll set it off a treat.’

  She stirred the pile of old clothes – and a ginger werewolf leapt out of their midst, eyes beady, teeth bared.

  Micky screamed.

  ‘What’s up, my little lovie?’ said Granny Boot, rushing to him – but she had hold of the fox-fur cape, so the werewolf rushed too, and Micky went on screaming until Mum came and worked out what was worrying him.

  Poor Granny Boot was very upset and shut the fox fur cape right away in her wardrobe.

  ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you, my pet. Silly old Granny Boot,’ she kept saying. ‘It’s all my fault.’

  ‘It’s Micky’s fault for being such a milk pudding,’ said Dad. ‘You’ve got to stop this nonsense, Micky, do you hear me? Acting scared of a tatty bit of fur!’

  ‘Micky’s a milk pudding!’ Marigold yelled delightedly.

  ‘You shouldn’ t call the poor kiddie nasty names,’ said Granny Boot, glaring at Dad.

  ‘He shouldn’t be such a coward.’

  ‘Cowardy cowardy custard!’ sang Marigold.

  ‘He’s not a coward, he’s a brave little lad! He puts up with a lot, the way you keep picking on him,’ said Granny Boot.

  ‘I think it’s time to go home,’ Mum said quickly. ‘Come on, you lot. Get your things.’

  ‘You give your Granny Boot a big kiss,’ said Granny Boot to Micky.

  ‘I’m sorry I was silly,’ said Micky in a small sniffly voice.

  He took even longer to go to sleep that night. The bedroom was so dark he pulled the curtains open so that he could see a little in the moonlight. That was a mistake. Micky saw the round white globe in the sky. It was a full moon. Everyone knows werewolves are at their very worst on the night of a full moon.

  3…

  Mum looked at the dark circles under Micky’s eyes in the morning.

  ‘We’ve got to sort this out, old Mick,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ said Micky. He looked at her. ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ said Mum.

  Micky hoped Mum might think of something pretty rapidly. He found it very hard to get past Sandy the
Alsatian, even right on the other side of the road. He had to run like mad, gasping for breath. Marigold ran after him, yelling taunts.

  ‘Micky’s scared of a silly old dog. Micky’s scared of Alsatians. Micky’s scared of corgis. Micky’s scared of a hearth-rug. Micky’s scared of a silly bit of fur. Micky’s scared, scared, scared.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Micky, but Marigold wouldn’t shut up. She put up her hands like paws and went woof-woof-woof right in Micky’s face.

  Micky managed to escape her for lessons but she was there in the playground at break, with a whole hen-party of her horrible little friends. Marigold put up her paws and did the woof-woof- woof trick. And then all the friends put up their paws and went woof-woof-woof too.

  Micky went scarlet. She’d told them. He couldn’t believe that even Marigold would be so hateful.

  ‘Silly little idiots,’ he said, trying to sound scornful, but then one of them crept up behind him and went woof right in his ear. Micky jumped and they all cackled with laughter.

  He tried to give them the slip at lunch-time, sloping off by himself behind the bike-sheds. But Darren Smith and all his gang were behind the bike-sheds too, sharing the stub of a cigarette and telling dirty jokes. ‘What do you want, Micky Mouse?’ said Darren.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Micky quickly.

  ‘You spying on us?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Micky gabbled. You didn’t ever argue with Darren or any of his gang or you ended up embedded in the playground.

  ‘Then clear off, Micky Mouse. Go on. Go and play with the girls, where you belong.’

  ‘I can’t stick girls,’ said Micky, though he had started to back away respectfully.

  ‘Micky! Micky! Woofy-woofy-woof!’ Marigold and her cackling cronies had spotted him and had him cornered.

  ‘Oooh I say, Micky Mouse plays with the baby girls,’ said Darren.

  ‘I don’t play with them,’ said Micky, but they were determined to play with him.

  They danced round him in a circle, barking fit to bust.

  ‘What they on about?’ said Darren. ‘Why are they barking?’

  ‘Because they’re barking mad, that’s why,’ Micky joked desperately.

  If Marigold told Darren and his mates that Micky was scared of werewolves, dogs, and indeed anything vaguely furry with teeth, then Micky’s life wouldn ‘t be worth living. As Marigold very well knew. Her blue eyes shone triumphantly. She didn’t tell Darren. She just shook her head and giggled. But Micky knew she might tell.

  Micky worried about it all afternoon. He didn’t pay any attention to his teacher, Miss Monk. This was most unusual, because he was secretly passionately in love with Miss Monk. She had long black hair that shone almost blue in the sunlight and she had a dimple in each cheek when she smiled. She generally smiled a lot and the children smiled back. Everyone liked Miss Monk – even Darren Smith and his gang, though they played her up a lot and called her Old Monkey Face behind her back.

  Darren and Co were silly in maths, flicking ink bombs at each other and making rude noises. Miss Monk got cross. She also got cross with Micky because he was in such a dream he copied down all the wrong sums.

  ‘That was a silly waste of time, wasn’t it?’ said Miss Monk.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Micky agreed, miserable that he’d irritated his Beloved.

  The last lesson was Art, Micky’s favourite. Miss Monk started giving out big pieces of sugar paper and boxes of coloured chalks. Micky leapt to help her, to make amends, but when he handed Darren his box, Darren deliberately dropped it on the floor.

  ‘Oh, Micky, you are clumsy!’ said Darren.

  ‘Do be careful with those chalks, they break so easily,’ said Miss Monk. ‘Watch what you’re doing, Micky.’

  Micky slunk back to his seat. He was too upset to listen properly while Miss Monk told die children to draw a picture of the moon. She talked a lot about the moon and what it might look like and she told them about the men who had landed there in their spaceship. All the children but Micky listened hard and drew little spacemen and the weird rocky surface of the moon, using the silver and grey and dark blue chalks.

  Micky picked up his silver chalk too and drew a round moon at the top of his paper. A full moon. He picked up the brown chalk, his hand shaking. He drew a huge werewolf with an evil face and enormous bared fangs. Then he got the red chalk and drew a little pinman person sticking out of the werewolf s mouth, dripping a great deal of blood. His hand was shaking so badly that he couldn’t draw properly at all, and his wet palm made horrible smears in the chalk.

  ‘What on earth are you drawing, Micky?’ said Miss Monk.

  Micky clenched his damp smudgy fists and said nothing.

  ‘I thought I told you to draw the moon?’

  Micky pointed shakily at the silver ball at the top of the paper.

  ‘So what’s this horrible big brown creature?’

  Micky swallowed. He couldn’t say. They’d all laugh at him.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Darren, craning his neck. ‘I thought you were supposed to be good at drawing, Micky Mouse. It looks like a great big monkey being sick. Hey! I know who it is. Micky’s drawn Old Monkey Face!’

  All the children but Micky giggled and spluttered and nudged each other.

  ‘Be quiet, Darren. Calm down all of you,’ said Miss Monk, her dimpled cheeks very pink. ‘And as for you, Micky, you’d better stay behind after school and do me a proper picture of the moon. I don’t know why you’re being so silly today.’

  Micky knew why but he couldn’t explain. He stayed sitting at his desk when the bell went and all the other children ran out of the classroom.

  ‘Now, Micky, I’m really cross with you,’ said Miss Monk, starting to gather up the drawings from the desks.

  Micky sniffed and bent his head.

  ‘You’re not usually so naughty.’

  ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ Micky mumbled.

  ‘Well. I suppose we all have our off days. You don’t have to stay after school. You can do me a picture at home tonight instead. Run along now.’

  Micky didn’t run. He hovered, biting his lip.

  ‘What is it, Micky?’ said Miss Monk, sighing.

  ‘Miss, do you believe in werewolves?’

  ‘Do I believe in…? No,’ said Miss Monk firmly, gathering more drawings.

  Micky gathered too, helping her.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure there’s no such thing? Not ever, not anywhere?’

  Miss Monk gathered his own messy picture. She looked at it carefully.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I see. A werewolf. And a full moon. I’m with you. You mustn’t worry about werewolves, Micky. They really don’t exist. I promise they don’t.’ But then she bent down beside him and whispered in his ear. ‘Only I’ll tell you a secret, Micky. I got this film from the video shop the other day. Savage Snarl And it was so creepy that I almost started believing in werewolves myself.’

  ‘Oh, miss! I’ve seen that film too,’ Micky breathed.

  ‘I thought so. Well, we’re a silly pair, aren’t we? No more horror videos for either of us, OK?’

  ‘OK, Miss Monk.’

  Micky skipped out into the playground feeling much happier. But then he saw Mum in the Mini parked outside the school gate, with Marigold in the back.

  ‘Come on, Micky, all the rest of your class came out ages ago,’ Mum called.

  ‘Woof-woof-woof,’ said Marigold, scrabbling at him as he got in the car.

  ‘You shut up,’ Micky hissed. He frowned at his mother. ‘Why have you got the car, Mum? Oh no, we’re not going shopping, are we?’

  ‘We’re sort of shopping,’ said Mum, driving off. ‘We’re going to get a pet.’

  ‘A pet?’ said Micky warily. He wasn’t very keen on pet animals. Meryl had two grey rabbits called Rachel and Roberta. Roberta had originally been christened Robert and Meryl had hoped Rachel and Robert would produce lots of Little Grey Rabbits. But Rachel and Roberta lived in happy sisterly spinst
erhood instead.

  Micky much preferred Rachel and Roberta to Wilbur, Mandy’s white rat. He had very beady red eyes and a long pink tail like a worm and Micky didn’t ever go near his cage beside Mandy’s bed. She once tried wearing him draped over her shoulder when she walked down die street, but she sent several old ladies into screaming hysterics and Mum was furious.

  Mona used to own a very fat guinea-pig called Dandelion, but he keeled over in his cage one day and Mona found him lying paws in the air. She was very upset and wanted to give him a proper burial in a purple Cadbury’s chocolate box coffin, but Dandelion was too fat to fit. They had to use a shoebox instead. Micky painted it with yellow and green dandelions to try to make it look decorative, but Mona wasn’t particularly grateful.

  ‘Are we getting another guinea-pig for Mona?’ Micky asked.

  ‘No. I think it’s time we got a pet for you, Micky,’ said Mum.

  ‘And for me,’ said Marigold. ‘I want a pony, Mum. A real live pony, a white one with a long mane and tail so I can groom it and plait it and tie it with ribbons.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Marigold. Where on earth could we keep a pony?’ said Mum. ‘No, it’s Micky’s turn just now.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want it to be my turn,’ said Micky. ‘What’s it going to be if it’s not a guinea-pig? I definitely don’t want a rat’

  ‘I could keep my pony in Dad’s garden shed, easy-peasy,’ said Marigold. ‘A white pony, and I’ll call him Sugar Lump. And I’ll ride him bare back and teach him tricks and then we can perform together in a circus.’

  ‘Yes, you could perform in a circus, all right,’ Micky muttered. ‘The performing chimpanzee. Ouch!’

  ‘Marigold! Stop hitting your brother,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, he said…’

  ‘Look, I don’t care. Behave yourselves, both of you. Now, I think the dogs’ home is down this next road.’

  ‘The dogs’ home?’ said Micky, going white.

  ‘The dogs’ home?’ said Marigold, and her blue eyes started to shine.

  ‘I’m not having a dog,’ said Micky.