The Legend of the Loch Ness Lilo

by Karen McCombie

  You, Me and Thing:

  The Curse of the Jelly Babies

  The Dreaded Noodle-Doodles

  The Legend of the Loch Ness Lilo

  For Weezy (woo!)

  and Tom (Tom)

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 A thing called Thing

  2 Happy birdie?

  3 Strange eeks and squeaks

  4 Surprise, small surprise!

  5 Beware the bubble fog

  6 Zip it!

  7 UN-fun with my UN-friend

  8 Dazzles and disappearing acts

  9 Magic (and trouble) x 2

  10 Bye-bye, you-know-what!

  Copyright

  Think of a thing.

  Quite a small sort of thing.

  A thing that’s covered in ginger fur, like a red squirrel.

  Now stop thinking about red squirrels, because it’s not one of those.

  Think of paws that are a little bit like hands.

  Think of wings that are stubby and don’t work.

  Think of two HUGE eyes that blink up at you, all shy and wondering and worried.

  ‘Hmm. What sort of thing is this funny little thing?’ you might ask.

  Well, it’s my thing. Mine and Jackson’s.

  Our thing lives—

  ‘Hold on … wait a minute,’ you might interrupt. ‘Who is Jackson?’

  Well, he is:

  When I first met Jackson Miller, I liked him about as much as I like stepping on slugs in bare feet.

  But then we accidentally discovered the strange small something hiding in the scraggle of trees between our back gardens and the sprawling new housing estate beyond it.

  That strange small something changed everything.

  Suddenly, out-sneering each other wasn’t top of our list of things to do – not when we had a secret all to ourselves.

  That’s right; it’s a secret not even our mums and dads know about.

  Though the way me and Jackson see it, it’s not as if we tell them any lies exactly.

  Most days after school, I’ll say, ‘I’m going to hang out with Jackson.’ At the same time, Jackson will say, ‘I’m going to hang out with Ruby.’

  I guess our parents think we’re scampering off to climb the trees and make dens in the roots and chat about this and that and all sorts.

  Well, that’s one hundred per cent true, of course.

  We just leave out the bit about the weird sort of squirrel/troll/fairy which is hanging out with us …

  ‘Ooh! Can you tell us more about your strange, um, thing?’ I hear you ask.

  Sure.

  Here goes.

  Our thing …

  That last bit sounds exciting, doesn’t it?

  The trouble is, Thing doesn’t seem to be able to do good or useful magic, like turning Brussels sprouts into cupcakes or whatever.

  Thing’s magic tends to get muddled and troublesome.

  I mean, you should have seen what it did at the leisure centre pool last week.

  One little kid saw, for sure.

  I bet he’ll remember it his whole life.

  I bet he’ll be telling his grandchildren all about the Legend of the Loch Ness Lilo in sixty years’ time.

  Me? Well, I just want to forget all about it.

  And I will, right after I tell you what happened …

  ‘Wheeeee!’

  Thing seemed to be as happy as a Thing can be on a sunny Monday afternoon.

  ‘Wahhhh!’ it squeaked, as it boinged on the mini trampoline we’d made.

  It’s amazing what you can do with a cake tin and a stretched red rubber swimming cap.

  But ever since we found Thing, me and Jackson have tried hard to make it feel at home here in this little patch of trees, which is all that’s left of the forest.

  In fact, while Thing was boinging, I was busy making a daisy chain to hang around the entrance of its cosy home.

  (Thing’s cosy home is an old Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine van, kindly donated by Jackson, and hidden under twigs and ferns.)

  And Jackson had just sneaked a plastic tub from his kitchen, so Thing had somewhere to store its two favourite foods.

  (Mushrooms and jelly babies, if you were wondering.)

  As I draped the daisy chain over the open back doors, Thing bounced, boinged and called out ‘I loves trampling!!’ in its funny, purry voice.

  Oh.

  Didn’t I mention it can talk?

  No? Well, it can.

  Thing speaks our language, and other languages. (It taught me and Jackson a rude word in pigeon the other day.)

  ‘Have fun trampling now,’ said Jackson, tossing an orange jelly baby in the air and catching it expertly in his mouth, ‘’cause Ruby’s going to need her swimming cap back at the weekend!’

  The wheeing and the boinging immediately stopped.

  ‘Rubby?’ Thing said questioningly.

  (It has never learned to say my name properly.)

  ‘Yes?’ I replied, noticing that Thing was anxiously rubbing its little paws/hands together and rocking from side to side.

  ‘What Boy meaninging?’

  (It’s never learned Jackson’s name at all.)

  ‘Don’t listen to him – I won’t spoil your trampoline,’ I said quickly, not wanting Thing to worry. ‘I told Mum I ripped that cap and she bought me a new one.’ Worrying isn’t good for Thing, or for us. It’s often what sets off the rubbish magic.

  ‘Nice one!’ said Jackson, admiring my fib as he tossed a second jelly baby into the air. ‘Can’t wait for Saturday. Can you?’

  ‘Where is you and Boy doing on Sat-urrrr-day?’ Thing asked.

  ‘Well,’ I began, ‘we’ve been invited to—’

  ‘—a pool party!’ Jackson barged in and answered for me.

  ‘What is poo party?’ asked Thing, all curiosity and puppy-dog eyes.

  ‘FTTT-NUHH-GIHUHH!’ Jackson snorted, sniggering and choking on his jelly baby.

  ‘He means it’s a birthday party. At the local swimming pool,’ I said quickly, whacking Jackson nice and hard on the back.

  I hoped the whack might stop him choking, AND let him know he should SHUT UP.

  ’Cause Thing does not like to be teased.

  It makes it nervous.

  And quite possibly cross.

  Even just a little bit ARRGHH!

  And if Thing feels ARRGHH!, rubbish magic is definitely only a crackle, spit and fizzzzzzzzzzz away …

  Luckily, Thing hadn’t noticed Jackson acting like a dumb donut.

  ‘Birdie party sound nice!’ it purred, looking up into the springy branches above us.

  Sigh.

  Sometimes, trying to explain the world to Thing can twist your thoughts up in knots.

  ‘Er, no … there won’t be any birds,’ I said, imagining the Dolphin Leisure Centre all a-flutter with starlings and sparrows in tiny party hats and with tooters.

  ‘This boy Ali in our class – it’s his party, and the whole class is invited!’ Jackson jumped in, now that he’d got his breath back. ‘First we go swimming, and then we eat crisps and ice-cream!’

  ‘What is zwimmin, Rubby?’ Thing blinked at me.

  ‘Look! It’s when you jump into water and do this,’ said Jackson miming a front crawl.

  Bad idea – it made the last of the jelly babies spill out of the packet he was clutching.

  Puzzled or not, Thing wasn’t about to pass up the chance of a stray sweet or two. It hopped off its homemade trampoline and picked the nearest one up off the scrubby ground.

  ‘Why?’ it asked, biting the head off a yellow jelly baby.

  ‘Why what?’ Jackson asked back.

  ‘Why
waving in wet? Why?’ Thing blinked, just as confused.

  OK, so swimming and pools might be hard to describe to a small weird something that’s lived in a deep dark wood for the whole of its odd little life.

  ‘Well …’ I began uncertainly, scrabbling in my mind for words that might work.

  ‘I know!’ said Jackson, suddenly smiling one of his big baboon grins (uh-oh). ‘We could always take Thing along with us on Saturday! I’ll wrap it in a really big towel and—’

  ‘Nope!’ I cut him off quickly.

  I knew Jackson had a large, roomy space in his head where his brain should be, but had he already forgotten what happened the time we sneaked Thing into school?

  We NEARLY got into a truckload of trouble.

  Thanks to a wonky spell of Thing’s, the soggy noodles for lunch came alive and doodled around the dinner hall!

  If we (and the noodle-doodles) had been caught …

  ‘Aw, go on, Ruby!’ Jackson began pleading. ‘We’d be careful this time, and …’

  While Jackson babbled, I spotted something.

  A furry something called Christine, who happens to be my extremely ancient cat.

  Christine cat was sitting under the old stone birdbath, watching blue tits splish-sploshing above her.

  As she twitched stray drips and droplets from her whiskers, I had an idea.

  An idea of a way that I could explain ‘zwimmin’ and pools to Thing. (Which was going to be a whole lot easier and safer than sneaking Thing into the leisure centre, that’s for sure.)

  ‘Come here,’ I said, ignoring Jackson and scooping up Thing.

  I peeked over the top of the low stone wall to check for any random parents.

  Nope – all clear.

  ‘OK. See that little blue tit? The one splashing around?’ I whispered, and pointed towards the birdbath.

  Thing scuttled out of my arms and up on to my shoulder for a better view.

  ‘Yes, please, Rubby,’ it whis-purred.

  ‘It looks like it’s having fun, doesn’t it?’ I said, as the bird dipped its beak down, tilted its head back and shook a shower of water all over itself.

  ‘Yes, please, Rubby,’ Thing repeated.

  ‘Well, imagine a big, big room, with the floor all filled with water –’

  Thing was too close to the side of my head for me to see the expression on its face.

  But I could feel it wobbling from side to side on my shoulder, which I decided meant it was imagining that room as hard as it could.

  ‘– and now try to picture lots of kids like me and Jackson in the water, splashing around and having a good time!’

  There.

  I was pretty sure I’d done an excellent job of explaining the Dolphin Leisure Centre and Ali’s party in a short and easy-to-understand way.

  Till I felt a wet nose nuzzling right inside my ear.

  ‘Ooh! This place nice and warm, Rubby!’ Thing mumbled at alarmingly close range.

  Yuck!

  As I made a grab for Thing, I spun around and saw Jackson crumpled up on the ground, half-laughing and half-choking on yet another jelly baby.

  Sigh.

  I am friends with a boy who is a donut and a creature who sniffs ears for fun.

  Am I the only sensible one around here …?

  YES!

  That’s the answer to the question on the last page.

  I know I’m sensible because my teacher Miss Wilson says so. I’m always getting merits for having my homework in on time, remembering my PE kit and offering to sharpen the class pencils when they’re not pointy.

  My mum and dad tell me I’m sensible too. Even as a tiny kid I’d fasten my seatbelt straightaway and eat all my vegetables – even the disgusting ones – without whining.

  And I was sensible (again) after tea that evening.

  Mum was washing the dishes and I was drying them, when I spotted an accident about to happen.

  ‘Look out!’ I yelped.

  Mum had been gazing out of the window, and hadn’t noticed a wet plate about to slither off the edge of the draining board.

  ‘Ooh, good catch, Ruby!’ gasped Mum. ‘You really are so sensible, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I mumbled, picking up the checked tea towel and carrying on with my drying.

  I realised that Mum might not say that if she knew I was hiding a mystery Thing at the bottom of the garden.

  Just as well she had no idea what was lurking in the trees …

  ‘Have you and Jackson made yourselves a nice den out there?’ Mum asked, gazing out of the open window again.

  ‘Sort of,’ I said with a casual shrug.

  ‘Your dad was just saying earlier that we should sneak a peek at your secret world!’

  Eek!

  Suddenly, I felt as quivery as lemon jelly with squirty cream on top.

  I was frantically thinking what to say when Mum spoke again.

  ‘Hey, listen. Can you hear a noise, Ruby?’ she said, tilting her head.

  Um, I could hear Dad clattering about in the distance, putting the rubbish and the recycling out by the front door.

  But Mum didn’t mean that, I was pretty sure. Her eyes were scanning the garden, and the trees, and even the new houses you could glimpse beyond all the leafiness.

  ‘There’s a funny sort of flapping or splashing sound coming from out there,’ Mum continued. ‘Oh, dear … I hope Christine hasn’t caught anything!’

  Ha! Christine cat is so old and lazy that she couldn’t even catch her spider-on-a-string toy if I dangled it right in front of her whiskers. (Not even if I balanced it right on her nose.)

  Nope, I was pretty sure the local wildlife was totally safe from our moggy.

  But I did think I MIGHT know what was out there, flit-flapping and splish-sploshing.

  ‘I’ll go and check,’ I said, stuffing the tea towel into the back pocket of my jeans and heading out of the back door.

  Certain Mum was watching, I dillied and dallied, pretending to look here and there for signs of the strange eeks and squeaks.

  All the while, I was deliberately meandering my way through our tangled garden, towards the overgrown rhododendron bush.

  ’Cause tucked out of sight behind its big, green bushiness was the stone birdbath.

  Splish!

  Splash!

  Flit!

  Flap!

  ‘Wheeeee!’

  ‘Thing!!’ I hissed, spotting a familiar furry lump. ‘What are you doing?!’

  ‘I zwimmin, Rubby!’ Thing purred happily, jumping up and down in the water. ‘It nice!’

  ‘It might be nice, Thing!’ I hissed some more. ‘But do you have to be so noisy? What if my mum or dad had come to see what was going on?’

  ‘Oh. Maybe I stay very, very still, Rubby? Very, very, very, very, very still, so they not see me?’

  Thing froze, like a small, extremely freaky statue. One that no one could miss in a million years.

  Then I noticed that the statue was shivering.

  ‘C’mere,’ I said more gently, and scooped a soggy Thing out of the birdbath.

  ‘Brrrrrr. This water not like rain, Rubby,’ Thing muttered, cuddling up to my chest and soaking my T-shirt clean through. ‘Rain run off me. This water too wet. It go inside my furs!’

  I suddenly remembered the tea towel stuck in my back pocket and pulled it out.

  In a blur, I began to frantically rub Thing dry. I couldn’t risk it coming down with a serious case of the sneezles. I mean, it’s not as if I could take it to the vet if it got ill, is it?

  ‘OO-oo-OO-oo-OO!’

  Yikes! I was so busy stressing that I was practically rubbing the damp fur clean off Thing.

  ‘Sorry! But shhh!’ I muttered, worried that Mum might hear.

  ‘RUBY!!’

  Yikes! (Again!) That was Mum! Had she heard?!

  ‘EVERYTHING OK OUT THERE?’

  I stuck my head around the side of the rhododendron bush.

  ‘UH-HUH!’ I calle
d back, anxious that she stayed right where she was in the kitchen doorway. ‘EVERYTHING’S FINE! IT WAS JUST A LITTLE …’

  My brain scrabbled about for a suitable lie.

  ‘… SQUIRREL!’ I finally blurted out.

  Now, my answer might have sounded sensible to Mum, but it didn’t exactly impress Thing.

  After all, Thing couldn’t stand …

  ‘I is NOT—’ Thing began to protest, but stopped dead when I pinched its snout shut.

  ‘Shhh!’ I whispered into its squirrelly little ears. ‘I’m trying to get you back home, safe and sound!’

  ‘OK, SWEETIE!’ Mum’s voice drifted towards me. ‘BUT HURRY BACK – YOU’RE STILL ON DRYING DUTY, REMEMBER!!’

  ‘ER … I’LL BE THERE IN A SEC!’ I answered her, hurrying over to the stone garden wall and gently placing Thing down on the other side of it.

  ‘What is drying jootie, Rubby?’ it asked me, snug as a furry bug in its tea towel bundle.

  ‘What I’ve just been doing to you,’ I mumbled, giving Thing one last rub all over.

  Hmm. I couldn’t exactly take the towel back into the kitchen, I realised. Not now it was covered in fluffy red hairs.

  ‘You can keep that for tonight,’ I whispered. ‘Now curl up in your bed and get cosy.’

  With its big saucer eyes blinking up at me, Thing looked incredibly sweet and snuggle-able.

  I blew it a kiss (which confused it) and hurried away, before I did something silly, like pick it up and try to smuggle it to my room.

  ‘See you soon!’ I whispered softly behind me as I went.

  But you know something?

  I had NO idea just how soon ‘soon’ was going to be …

  Spread out on my bed was a river, a waterfall, a swimming pool, a fountain and a sea.

  (Christine cat was also spread out on my bed, with her snoring head lolling in the fountain and her tail lazily flicking in the Mediterranean.)