The children filed silently out of the study and climbed back up to the lantern room.
‘Tom Henderson!’ Charlie said reverently. ‘In Rothiemuir! I don’t believe it!’
‘He’s just the greatest,’ said Amir. ‘Did you see that goal in the last minute of overtime against Celtic? It sealed the match!’
‘Shut up!’ burst out Finn. ‘What are you talking about football for? Don’t you get how awful this is? I’ve got friends out there in the sea. They’re probably going to die!’
‘Sorry, Finn,’ mumbled Charlie and Amir.
‘I’m going to make a poster with a picture of a dolphin on it,’ said Kyla, ‘and put it up in our shop window.’
‘That’s a good idea, Kyla,’ said Jas. ‘Actually, it’s a great idea. We can make loads of posters and stick them up all over Stromhead and Rothiemuir.’
‘Yes, with a picture of a dolphin, and “Don’t release balloons” written underneath.’
‘No, it should say “Balloons kill dolphins”,’ said Finn passionately.
‘It’s not just dolphins, is it?’ said Jas. ‘It’s birds. And seals. And everything.’
‘How about “Balloons kill wildlife. Stop the balloon release!” ’ said Amir.
The others nodded.
‘We’ll need lots of sheets of paper and felt tips,’ said Jas.
Charlie was looking uncomfortable.
‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘I’m rubbish at drawing and writing.’
‘We only need one really good one,’ said Jas. ‘Kyla’s best at drawing. She can do it, and I’ll make copies. Dad’s got a really good printer. Then we can get the bus into Rothiemuir and put them up everywhere.’
‘Mum’ll never let us go to Rothiemuir without her,’ said Dougie.
‘You can leave that bit to Amir and Finn and me, then,’ said Charlie grandly.
‘What’s the time?’ Dougie said suddenly. ‘Mum said I’ve got to be home by twelve. What are we going to tell her about the rock-pool project, and the . . . the data and everything?’
‘We’d better drop that story,’ said Amir. ‘Just tell her we’ve changed our minds and we’re setting up a – a . . .’
‘A protest group,’ said Jas.
Kyla nodded.
‘She won’t mind that. She’ll be pleased. It’s about trying to save the village shop too.’
‘But tell her we’re going to save the dolphins as well,’ said Finn, ‘because somehow or other, we’ve just got to do it!’
Chapter Eleven
Finn ran all the way home, filled with rage and anxiety at the thought of the disaster that was only two days away. He was out of breath long before he got to the cottage on the cliff top.
I wish I was as strong on land as I am in the sea, he thought. If I can’t stop the balloon release, I’ll have to go out to sea and find as many balloons as I can and gather them in by myself. But five thousand of them – they’ll be blown for miles and miles! I’d never find them all.
As he neared the cottage, he thought about his father.
I bet he hasn’t really changed, he told himself. He’ll be doing nothing, as usual, just staring at the wall. He won’t help me this time, either. He’s never been any use.
But when the cottage came into view, he stopped short. That morning when he’d left home, the brambles and weeds in the garden had been the same as usual, growing up in a tangled jungle. Now they were lying in wilting heaps, and the windows, uncovered and washed, were glinting in the sunlight.
He really has changed! thought Finn jubilantly, bursting in through the door.
His father turned and smiled at him ruefully, holding up his left hand, from which blood was dripping on to the floor. ‘Those stupid shears slipped, didn’t they, while I was hacking away at all they weeds,’ he said ruefully. ‘I’d let my tools go all blunt and rusty. Going to have to sort myself out, eh, Finn?’
‘Dad! It looks awful! Will you have to go to hospital?’
‘Hospital!’ scoffed Mr McFee. ‘No need for that. Worse things happen at sea every day. There’s an old first-aid kit somewhere, if I’ve had the sense to keep it. Top shelf in the kitchen. I’ll sort myself out, no problem.’
It took Finn a while to clean his dad’s hand, disinfect it and find a dressing, and while he ran about, looking for the first-aid kit and mopping his father’s blood off the floor, Finn explained in breathless snatches about the balloon release.
To his dismay, the old defeated look came into his father’s eyes.
‘Oh son, that’s terrible, that is,’ he said. ‘Those poor, innocent creatures, out there in the sea, helpless, and all for big supermarket bosses scrambling after money and . . .’
His eyes were watering, and now they strayed towards his greasy old chair, as if he was ready to sink back into it and shut out the world again.
‘We’re going to stop them, Dad. Me and the others,’ said Finn hastily, trying to pull him back.
Mr McFee shook his head.
‘There’s no standing in the way of business, Finn. There’s no fighting the big boys. Little people like us—’
‘We’re going to fight them!’ Finn said passionately. ‘I am, and my – my friends. We’re making posters, and we’re going to stick them up all over Rothiemuir and Stromhead.’
‘Good for you, son,’ said Mr McFee vaguely. ‘Do you know what – all that gardening, it’s worn me out. I’ll just have a little sit down now, see what’s on TV.’
‘I’ll get you a cup of tea then,’ said Finn automatically, and he went into the kitchen, put the kettle on and set about making his father a sandwich.
We’ll just have to do it ourselves, he thought as he spread margarine on slices of bread. Me and the Lighthouse Crew.
Finn wasn’t the only one who had been held up by events at home. Charlie, Amir, Kyla and Dougie were all pounced on by their parents as soon as they got through their front doors. Charlie had to clean out his dad’s van, Amir had to tidy his bedroom, and Dougie had to help his mum water the roses while Kyla made a card for their gran’s birthday. Even Jas was detained by Professor Jamieson. He had been mulling things over, and he now embarked on a rather (for him) detailed interrogation on why exactly she had gone out for a sail with Charlie when a squall was on its way, which led to a long lesson on the art and science of weather-forecasting.
‘I’ve allowed you a great deal of freedom, my dear,’ he said at last, his forehead wrinkling with anxiety. ‘Stromhead is a safe place, with a good community, but I must be sure that I can trust you to make sensible decisions.’
It wasn’t until three o’clock in the afternoon that all of them had managed to escape. Jas had got out first. She’d gone round to the Lambs’ cottage to see how Kyla was getting on with the poster. Kyla heard her feet crunch on the pebble path that led up the cottage’s front door and came running out to meet her, waving a drawing in her hand. She handed it to Jas.
Jas stared in amazement at Kyla’s picture of a leaping dolphin, with bright drops of water showering off it.
‘Kyla, it’s brilliant! It’s beautiful!’ she said.
‘I did the drops with a silver pen,’ Kyla said shyly. ‘Do you really like it, Jas?’
Mrs Lamb appeared behind Kyla and put protective hands on her daughter’s shoulders.
‘You know, dear,’ she said to Jas. ‘I don’t think you children have ever appreciated Kyla as much as you should. She’s a very special—’
Kyla shook her off and rolled her eyes at Jas, who hid a sympathetic smile.
‘Of course she’s special,’ said Jas, handing the poster back to Kyla. ‘We do appreciate her, honestly. She’s – well – she’s one of the gang.’
‘You see, Mum?’ said Kyla. ‘I keep telling you. They’re my friends.’
Dougie squirmed past his mother, who was blocking the front door.
‘I’m friends too, aren’t I, Jas? I’m in the Lighthouse Crew. You said so.’
‘Course you are, Dougie,’ sa
id Jas kindly. ‘Can Kyla and Dougie come out now, Mrs Lamb? We’re going to meet the others and get my dad to photocopy this poster. We want to put it up everywhere we can.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs Lamb. ‘Kyla’s told me all about your campaign. Good luck is all I can say. I don’t think it’ll do any good, mind you. Those big business sharks don’t listen to anyone. And I’m coming with you this time. You children have been running about without adult supervision for quite long enough today.’
Charlie and Amir were already down at the harbour when Jas and Kyla arrived, with Dougie trotting after them as fast as he could, towing Mrs Lamb.
‘You see, Mum?’ he said crossly. ‘I told you the others were waiting for us. We’ve got important stuff to do.’
‘It’s a campaign,’ panted a voice behind them. Finn was out of breath after sprinting all the way from the cliff-top cottage. He held out his hand to Kyla. ‘Have you done it? Can I see?’
He studied the poster for a moment, his head on one side.
‘It’s good, Kyla. No, I mean it’s amazing! I just hope – I mean, it’s got to work.’
‘We’re going up to the lighthouse to use my dad’s photocopier,’ Jas said. ‘And . . . and make some plans.’
Mrs Lamb nodded reluctantly.
‘I’ll come and fetch both you little lambs at five o’clock,’ she said to Kyla. ‘And, Kyla, mind you look after Dougie.’
‘Race you to the lighthouse!’ shouted Amir, and all six children took off up the hill.
‘See you later, Mrs Lamb,’ Jas called out over her shoulder, then turned back just in time to grab Dougie’s shoulder to stop him tripping over his shoe laces.
By four o’clock a neat pile of brightly coloured photocopies was on Professor Jamieson’s desk.
‘This is a very nice piece of work, Kyla,’ Professor Jamieson said, picking up a copy and looking at it. ‘Have you thought of a career in marine art? I’m sure . . . Oh! Is that the time? Excuse me, all of you. I’ve got an urgent phone call to make.’
Silently the children followed Jas up to the lantern room.
‘We’re running out of time!’ burst out Finn as soon as they were all there. ‘It’s too late to get to Rothiemuir today.’
‘That’s right,’ said Charlie. ‘The last bus to get back to Stromhead leaves at six o’clock. We’d only just get there, and we’d have to come straight back.’
‘I could ask my mum to take us in tomorrow,’ said Amir. ‘No point asking her tonight. My dad phones home on Saturday nights. She never goes out.’
‘My dad won’t be up to driving this evening either,’ said Charlie. ‘There’s a social on at the Fisherman’s Arms.’
‘I’ll get my father to take us in his van,’ said Finn, hoping desperately that it was a promise he could fulfil. ‘First thing in the morning.’
Charlie and Amir looked at each other, and Finn’s lips tightened as he read their minds. He could tell that they were thinking of Mr McFee’s old wreck of a van, which was always breaking down, and of Mr McFee himself – the suspected murderer.
‘My dad wouldn’t let me go off with your dad,’ Charlie said with brutal honesty.
Finn flushed.
‘Right. No problem,’ he said bitterly. ‘Suit yourselves. Me and him’ll do the whole job on our own. Give me those posters, Kyla. We care more about dolphins than the rest of you put together anyway.’
He grabbed a stack of posters and disappeared through the trapdoor.
There was an uncomfortable silence after he’d gone.
‘I’ll see if my dad will give me a lift in too,’ said Jas.
‘If you go, Jas, Mum might let me come,’ said Kyla.
‘There’s no way, no way at all, she’d let me . . .’ began Dougie, then a smile spread across his face. ‘But I could tell her your dad’s taking us to the museum in Rothiemuir. She’d like that.’
‘It wouldn’t be a lie, anyway,’ said Jas. ‘They’ve got a noticeboard there. I’m sure they’d let us put up a poster.’
When Finn got home, he found his dad absorbed in the football on TV.
‘Will you look at that, now?’ he said admiringly as Finn came in through the door. ‘That Tom Henderson, he’s a wee marvel. Come here, son, and see the replay of this goal.’
Finn waited impatiently until the match was over, and then he showed him Kyla’s poster.
Mr McFee held it out at arm’s length and gazed at it admiringly.
‘Beautiful!’ he said. ‘She must be a clever lassie. Where shall we put it, Finn? You can clear a space on the mantelpiece.’
‘No, Dad. The Professor photocopied it. I’ve got a stack of them. I told you. I’m going to stick them up all over Rothiemuir and Stromhead first thing tomorrow morning. Can you take me in, Dad? In the van?’
Mr McFee scratched his head.
‘Rothiemuir, eh? Haven’t been there for years. I’ve avoided the place, if you must know. I wouldn’t want to run into anyone I used to know in Rothiemuir.’
‘Please, Dad,’ begged Finn.
‘Aye, well, I suppose,’ he replied reluctantly. ‘But don’t get your hopes up, Finn. Your poster, it’s very nice, but it won’t make any difference.’
Finn hardly slept that night. His mind was full of horrible visions of dolphins tangled in balloon strings, slowly starving to death with their stomachs full of rubbish. He was out of bed at seven o’clock, and went to wake his father.
Mr McFee was dead asleep, and Finn had to shake him hard before he could get him to wake up.
‘Please, Dad! You promised to take me into Rothiemuir!’ he almost shouted. ‘We need to get going! Now!’
Mr McFee sat up and stared blearily at his son.
‘I couldn’t get off to sleep till the wee small hours,’ he groaned. ‘I was that upset. I was thinking of all those poor creatures eating those balloons—’
‘Coffee,’ said Finn sternly. ‘I’ll get you some coffee. You have to get up, Dad. Now!’
It was an hour before Mr McFee’s battered old van began to rumble down the lane towards Stromhead to pick up the road to Rothiemuir. Finn grabbed his father’s arm as they reached the crossroads.
‘Stop, Dad! There’s Charlie and Amir!’
The van lurched to a halt.
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Charlie, looking defiantly over his shoulder towards the row of cottages where he lived.
‘Me too,’ said Amir.
Finn hopped out of the van and ran round to open the back doors.
‘There’s seats in there, sort of,’ he said. ‘You’d better strap yourselves in.
It was only ten miles to Rothiemuir, but when the van had finally come to a halt in the central car park, and Finn opened the back doors, Charlie and Amir stared at him speechlessly, their faces white.
‘Does he always drive like that?’ whispered Amir.
‘Like what?’ said Finn.
‘Oh never mind,’ said Charlie. ‘Hey, isn’t that the prof’s car? Look – it is! And there are Kyla and Dougie. We’re all here!’
Chapter Twelve
It was still quite early, and being a Sunday morning, Rothiemuir hadn’t yet woken up. The six children stood in the car park staring round at the streets that radiated from the little town’s central square, while Professor Jamieson and Mr McFee stood talking by the van.
‘Well,’ said Charlie, ‘I suppose we should fan out and . . .’ His voice trailed off uncertainly.
Finn had seen something.
‘Look!’ he said furiously, pointing to a big, brightly coloured poster in a shop window. It showed Tom Henderson in his football strip leaping up to kick a ball – only, instead of the ball, there was a balloon, and hundreds more were floating round his head.
Grand Opening of our Fabulous New Superstore! the huge black letters spelled out. Mass balloon release by Tom Henderson, Monday 3 p.m.!
Finn was already halfway to the shop.
‘We’ll start right here,’ he called back to th
e others. ‘We’ll stick our poster over . . .’
A horrible thought struck him, and he stopped so abruptly in his tracks that Jas, who had been following close behind, nearly ran into him. She smiled knowingly.
‘You forgot to bring any sticky tape, didn’t you? Don’t worry. I’ve got lots of it. And scissors too.’
She couldn’t help looking smug.
A few minutes later, Kyla’s poster was taped to the outside of the window, covering up the middle of the supermarket’s much bigger one, which was stuck on the inside. The children stepped back to admire it.
‘I don’t know,’ began Kyla. ‘It looks – well – not very good somehow.’
‘Stop talking rubbish – it’s brilliant!’ said Jas encouragingly.
The others were running on down Rothiemuir’s empty high street, looking from side to side to see where they could stick their posters on the grey granite walls and dusty shop windows.
‘There’s another one!’ shouted Amir, pointing along the street to the post office.
The others hared after him.
They were sticking a poster to the window of a cafe when the owner came boiling out of it.
‘Oi!’ he was shouting. ‘What do you kids think you’re doing? This is vandalism, this is. Get out of here!’
Professor Jamieson and Mr McFee had had difficulty keeping up with the children. They came puffing along just as the cafe owner reached for Kyla’s poster to tear it down.
‘May I explain?’ the professor said politely.
‘No!’ exploded the cafe owner. ‘Are you in charge of these wee hooligans? You can clear out too.’
Professor Jamieson lifted his head and sniffed.
‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘And fresh bread.’ He took Mr McFee’s arm. ‘Perhaps my friend and I could come in and have some breakfast? I think, when you’ve heard our story, you might just change your mind.’
The cafe owner hesitated, but the prospect of two customers on a slack Sunday morning was too good to pass up. He stepped aside and let them in.
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