Smash!

by Alan MacDonald

  For Isabelle, who I met at the Bath Literary

  Festival – here’s another book for your collection ~ D R

  For Riley, a dedicated Bertie fan ~ A M

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 SMASH!

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  2 BINGO!

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  3 HOLES!

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  Copyright

  Bertie and his friends were playing football in the back garden. As usual, Bertie was providing the commentary. “And it’s Bertie on the ball,” he yelled. “He goes past Darren – this is brilliant – he cuts inside … he must score!”

  THUMP!

  The ball whizzed over Eugene and the fence…

  SMASH!

  Bertie held his head.

  “You nutter!” groaned Darren. “What did you do that for?”

  They went to the fence and peeped through a crack. At the end of the lawn stood the Nicelys’ greenhouse. One of the windows had a gaping hole.

  “Yikes! Now look what you’ve done!” said Eugene.

  “Why didn’t you stop it?” moaned Bertie.

  “It was a mile over the bar – I’m not Superman!” said Eugene.

  “Anyway, it wasn’t a goal,” said Darren. “It’s still 2–1 to me.”

  “Never mind that!” said Bertie. “What are we going to DO? Mrs Nicely will go raving mad when she sees that window.”

  Eugene shook his head. “I told you we should have gone to the park.”

  Bertie didn’t think his friends grasped the seriousness of the situation. It wasn’t any old window they’d broken. The greenhouse was practically new and it was Mrs Nicely’s pride and joy. She was always in there planting or potting or whatever people did in greenhouses.

  And to make matters worse, Bertie wasn’t exactly in Mrs Nicely’s good books. Only last week Whiffer had left a smelly present on next-door’s lawn. Bertie didn’t like to think what would happen when she saw the broken window. Her scream would be heard halfway to Timbuktu. She would be round in no time to see his parents. Football in the garden would be banned, and he’d probably be paying for the damage for the next six years.

  He glanced at the house. No one seemed to have heard the crash. No one can actually prove it was me, thought Bertie. Then he remembered – the football. The moment Mrs Nicely saw it she’d know who was responsible. The only other neighbour was grumpy Mr Monk, and Bertie was pretty sure he’d never kicked a ball in his life!

  “We’re dead!” groaned Bertie.

  “You’re dead you mean,” said Darren.

  “What’s the difference?” said Bertie. “Our only hope’s to get the ball back.”

  “Good idea,” said Eugene. “Off you go then.”

  “ME?” said Bertie.

  “You kicked it over!” said Eugene.

  “Yes, but we were all playing,” argued Bertie. “It could have been any of us.”

  “It wasn’t, it was you,” said Darren.

  Bertie didn’t see why he should be the one to risk his life. Mrs Nicely knew where he lived. If anything, it made far more sense for Darren or Eugene to go.

  “I know, why don’t we toss a coin?” he suggested.

  “No way! I’m not going,” said Darren. “I’ve heard Mrs Nicely when she shouts.”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Eugene. “I wanted to play in the park.”

  Bertie sighed. He thought friends were meant to help each other out. But it seemed that as soon as you smashed a window with a football, you were on your own.

  He peeped through the fence at next-door’s garden. Mr Nicely didn’t come home till late, but that still left Angela and her mum. To reach the greenhouse Bertie would have to cross the lawn – and he knew for a fact that the Nicelys had a burglar alarm. What if it went off as soon as he set foot on the grass?

  While they were thinking what to do, Whiffer appeared. He trotted over to Bertie and licked his hand.

  “Not now, Whiffer, I’m busy,” sighed Bertie. Then an idea came to him. He was saved! “We’ll send Whiffer!”

  The other two looked at him blankly.

  “Send him where?” said Darren.

  “Next door, dumbo! Whiffer can get the ball!”

  Darren and Eugene exchanged looks. Some dogs could perform amazing tricks, but this was Whiffer they were talking about.

  “You’re not serious?” said Darren. “You can’t even get him to lie down!”

  Bertie had to admit that this was true. Last September his mum had forced him to take Whiffer to training classes. After six weeks of yelling at Whiffer to stay, sit and roll over, Bertie had given up. Whiffer was about as obedient as a Brussels sprout. All the same, Bertie only wanted him to fetch a ball – surely any dog could manage that?

  Bertie led Whiffer down the garden to where there was a gap in the fence.

  “Ball,” said Bertie. “Go on, Whiffer, fetch the ball!”

  He pointed to the Nicelys’ garden. Whiffer jumped up at his hand, thinking it was a game.

  Darren sighed. “You’re wasting your time! Just get it yourself.”

  “Yes, and get a move on before anyone comes,” said Eugene anxiously.

  “He can do it,” Bertie insisted. “Watch this.”

  He looked around and found a stick. “Fetch, Whiffer! Fetch!” he cried, throwing it with all his might. Whiffer gave a bark and raced off after it. A moment later he was back with the stick in his mouth. He dropped it at Bertie’s feet and barked excitedly.

  “See, I told you!” said Bertie.

  “Yeah,” said Darren. “If we need any sticks we know who to ask.”

  “Darren’s right,” said Eugene. “It’s a football. He can’t even pick it up.”

  “Want to bet?” asked Bertie. He led Whiffer back to the fence and helped him squeeze through the hole. “Good boy, bring the ball,” he whispered.

  Whiffer ran off and vanished into next-door’s bushes.

  “It’ll never work,” said Darren.

  “Not a hope,” said Eugene.

  “You wait,” said Bertie. “He’s smarter than you think.”

  There was a rustle in the bushes and a patter of feet. Whiffer came flying through the hole in the fence. He dropped something at Bertie’s feet and wagged his tail.

  “Fantastic,” groaned Darren.

  It was another stick.

  Bertie was left with no choice – he’d have to sneak next door himself. They’d wasted precious minutes already. At any moment someone might come out and then it would be too late.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Filthy,” said Eugene.

  Bertie had mud smeared over his face so he’d be less easy to spot. It always worked in spy films.

  “Keep a look out,” he said. “If anyone comes, give the signal.”

  The other two nodded.

  Bertie wriggled through the gap in the fence. Once next door, he crouched in the bushes, his heart beating loudly. There was no sign of the enemy. He could see the greenhouse – but now he had to make it across the lawn.

  He crawled forward on his belly, passing a statue of a small fat angel. Halfway across the lawn he froze – someone was coming! A moment later Mrs Nicely appeared with a magazine and a steaming mug of coffee. Bertie looked round in panic. He rolled over and crouched behind the statue – it was the only hiding place. With any luck Mrs Nicely would go back inside.

  But instead she came down the steps and settled on a bench. Bertie rested his head against the statue’
s bottom. Now what? He was trapped! And if Mrs Nicely looked up from her magazine she’d spot the broken window.

  Bertie looked back at Darren and Eugene peeping through the fence.

  “DO SOMETHING!” he mouthed.

  Darren frowned.

  “DO SOMETHING! ANYTHING!” Bertie mouthed again.

  He tried to think. What would distract Mrs Nicely’s attention so he could escape? An earthquake? An alien invasion? What were the chances! Wait – Whiffer! Mrs Nicely flew into a rage whenever he got into her garden.

  Bertie tried to signal to his friends. He stuck out his tongue, panting like a dog. The other two stared back.

  “What’s he doing?” whispered Eugene.

  “No idea,” said Darren. “Maybe he feels sick.”

  Bertie scratched his ear and pretended to wag his tail.

  “Is he all right?” asked Eugene.

  “If you ask me, he’s gone bonkers,” said Darren.

  Bertie might have been stuck there forever but just then Angela appeared. “Mum! Where are the chocolate biscuits?” she called.

  Mrs Nicely groaned. “Can’t I have five minutes’ peace and quiet? Look in the cupboard.”

  “I did. There aren’t any!” grumbled Angela.

  Mrs Nicely got to her feet with a sigh and headed for the house. The back door slammed. Bertie didn’t wait a second longer. He tore through the bushes and shot back through the hole in the fence.

  “Well?” said Darren. “Did you get the football?”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” panted Bertie. “I am NEVER doing that again!”

  They were dead meat, doomed, done for. Sooner or later Mrs Nicely would notice the broken window and find the football.

  “Doo-dee doo-dee doo…!”

  A shrill voice floated over the fence. Angela! She was back outside. Perhaps she would be able to help. Angela was in love with Bertie and told everyone that he was her boyfriend. Normally Bertie avoided her like a cold bath, but not today – she was their last hope. He walked over to the fence.

  “Psst! Angela!” he hissed.

  “Is that you, Bertie?” asked Angela.

  “Of course it’s me. Listen, I need your help. It’s very important,” said Bertie.

  Angela nodded seriously. “Are we looking for dinosaur footprints?”

  “Not this time,” said Bertie. “You see the greenhouse?”

  Angela turned and gasped. “Umm! Someone broke the window!”

  “Yes… Never mind that,” said Bertie. “There’s a football in there and I need you to get it, okay?”

  Angela frowned. “Is it your football?”

  “Yes,” said Bertie.

  “Actually it’s mine,” said Darren. “But Bertie booted it over.”

  “Is that how you broke the window?” asked Angela, wide-eyed.

  “Look, never mind about the window,” said Bertie. “Just go and find the football. It’s really important we get it back.”

  Angela was silent for a while, thinking. “What do I get?” she said at last.

  “You?”

  “Yes, if I get the ball for you, what do I get?”

  Bertie rolled his eyes at his friends. By now they should have known that nothing with Angela was ever simple. Luckily they’d been to the sweet shop that morning.

  “I’ll give you a jelly snake,” he said. “It’s my last one.”

  “Where is it?” said Angela. Bertie poked the snake through the crack in the fence. Angela grabbed it and bit off the head.

  “What else?” she said, chewing.

  “What do you mean, what else? That’s my last jelly snake!” grumbled Bertie.

  “I know, but now I’ve eaten it,” said Angela.

  Bertie ground his teeth. This was robbery. But if they wanted the ball they didn’t have any choice. He held out his hand to Darren and Eugene, and reluctantly they parted with their goodies. Angela accepted two fizzy bootlaces and a half-sucked lollipop.

  “Now will you get the ball?” said Bertie.

  “Okay!” sang Angela, dancing away from them.

  A minute later they heard a ball bouncing on the lawn.

  “Great,” called Bertie. “Hurry up!”

  THUD, THUD, THUD! The ball went on bouncing.

  “Throw it over!” cried Bertie impatiently. “You promised!”

  Angela shook her head. “I promised I’d get it, I didn’t say I’d give it back.”

  She went on bouncing – she’d always wanted her own ball.

  Bertie couldn’t believe it. They’d been tricked. Cheated out of their sweets – and all for nothing.

  “ANGELA!”

  The bouncing suddenly stopped. Mrs Nicely had returned. Bertie and his friends ducked down behind the fence to avoid her.

  “Angela, where did you get that ball?” she demanded.

  Angela said nothing. If she admitted it wasn’t hers she’d have to give it back.

  Mrs Nicely marched down the lawn. “You know what I think about footballs,” she scolded. “Things always get broken. If you don’t—” She stopped, catching sight of the smashed window.

  “ANGELA!” she screeched.

  “But it wasn’t me…” said Angela.

  “Don’t tell lies!” snapped Mrs Nicely. “Give me that ball – and go to your room, right now!”

  Angela’s lip wobbled. She dropped the ball and fled indoors, wailing all the way. “WAAAAAAH!”

  Mrs Nicely picked up the muddy football. Nasty horrible thing! She hurled it over her shoulder and stormed inside.

  THUD!

  The ball landed over the fence, bouncing twice. Bertie blinked at it, astonished.

  “Crumbs! It came back!” he said.

  “And we’re not in trouble,” said Eugene. “She thinks Angela did it!”

  Bertie picked up the football and spun it round. “Come on then, let’s finish the game,” he said. “Next goal’s the winner!”

  Bertie had just got back from school. As usual on a Friday, Gran had dropped in for tea.

  “What’s this, Bertie? It was in your pocket,” asked Mum.

  “Oh yes,” said Bertie. “It’s a letter from school. I was going to give it to you.”

  Mum read it out.

  “Goodie!” said Gran. “I love bingo! Can we go?”

  Mum shook her head. “Not on Saturday, we’re taking Suzy to her dance show. But you can go.”

  “What? By myself?” said Gran.

  “Take Bertie, he might like it,” suggested Mum.

  “ME? Why me?” asked Bertie.

  “I’m sure other children will be there,” said Mum. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Not if it’s at school,” said Bertie. It was bad enough having to go all week, without being dragged there on a Saturday night! Anyway, bingo was for grannies. Why didn’t school put on something he’d enjoy – like mud wrestling? “It’ll be boring!” he moaned.

  “No it won’t,” said Gran. “Bingo’s dead exciting.”

  “Only if you’re over a hundred,” said Bertie gloomily.

  “Anyone can play,” said Gran. “Everyone has a bingo card and the idea’s to collect all the numbers as they’re called out. The first one to do it wins!”

  Bertie pulled a face. It sounded as exciting as laying the table.

  “Can’t I just stay at home and watch TV?” he begged.

  “Suit yourself,” said Gran. “But I won’t be sharing my prizes.”

  Bertie blinked. “Prizes?”

  “Of course,” said Gran. “You can’t have bingo without prizes.”

  “What sort of prizes?”

  Gran shrugged. “I don’t know – toys, chocolates, TV sets maybe…”

  “TV SETS?” yelled Bertie. They desperately needed a new super-widescreen TV. Their TV was so small you practically needed a magnifying glass to watch it!

  “I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” said Mum. “It’s only a school bingo night.”

  “There’s free pizza as well,” sai
d Gran. “It says so in the letter.”

  Free pizza? That settled it. There was no way Bertie was going to miss a night like that!

  They were late arriving on Saturday, mainly because it took Gran about six hours to get ready. The school hall was crowded with people by the time they got there. Tables and chairs were set out to face a platform at the front. To Bertie’s dismay all of the seats seemed to be taken. He spotted Darren and Eugene but they were with their families.

  “What about that table? They’ve got seats,” said Gran, pointing.

  Bertie groaned. “No way! I’m not sitting next to Know-All Nick!”

  “You don’t have to talk to him,” said Gran. “Anyway, there’s nowhere else.”

  Bertie trailed after her and flopped into the seat beside his old enemy. It looked like Nick had brought his gran too. She was wearing a sparkly gold dress and her hair was piled on her head like whipped cream. Bertie thought she looked as if she was having dinner with the Queen.

  “Not sitting with your friends?” sneered Nick.

  “No, I’m stuck with you, worst luck,” sighed Bertie.

  Nick held his nose. “Pooh! You could have had a bath,” he sniffed.

  “You could have stayed at home,” answered Bertie, turning his back.

  Across the table the two grannies were getting to know each other.

  “So nice to meet you,” said Nick’s grandma. “I’m Julia.”

  “I’m Dotty,” said Gran. “Have you played bingo before?”

  “Oh, I hardly think so,” sniffed Julia.

  “Me and Sherry go every Wednesday,” said Gran.

  “That must be nice for you,” said Julia snootily.

  Bertie rolled his eyes. He could tell they were in for a long evening.

  Miss Boot, their Bingo Caller for the night, sat down on the stage. Her job was to call out the numbers. In front of her was a round cage filled with numbered balls in different colours. To one side stood a table piled with prizes. Bertie ran his eye over them eagerly. There was a picnic set (boring), a toaster (boring), a hairdryer (very boring) and … Bertie almost leaped out of his seat – a silver stunt scooter!