Do You Dare? Tough Times

by Simon Mitchell

  Tom climbed back into bed, too exhausted to even try and dream up a new way to get the three shillings. But as he was about to doze off, something Mum had said popped into his mind: ‘At the price Mr Moltisano is charging for oranges this week, I’d swear he was trying to buy his own mansion.’ Tom’s eyes sprung open and he sat up so fast he nearly somersaulted off the end of the bed.

  He had a plan.

  9

  The next night, Tom waited in the dark until he guessed it was half past eleven, then climbed out of bed and slipped his clothes on. Petey’s fever had come down, but he was still coughing, and Tom kept glancing towards the bedroom door in case his mother decided to make one of her regular check-ups.

  Moving as silently as he could in the cramped room, Tom arranged his pillow, spare blanket and the rest of his clothes into a person-shaped lump on his bed, then pulled a sheet over the top. He tiptoed to the window and unlatched it, pausing for a moment to make sure Dot and Petey’s breathing was still regular. Feeling very proud of himself for thinking to smear some dripping on the sides of the window earlier, Tom slid it upwards without so much as a squeak. He hoisted one leg through the window and was halfway out of it when the bedroom door creaked open.

  Tom froze. There was no way he was going to be able to explain this to Mum. He wasn’t even supposed to leave the house after school, let alone sneak out in the middle of the night.

  But instead of his mother, Tom saw Fungus’s eyes shine around the edge of the door. He let out a quiet sigh of relief. Fungus trotted happily towards the window and put his paws up on Tom’s leg.

  ‘Not this time, mate,’ whispered Tom. ‘It’s a really dangerous mission, and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.’

  Fungus gave a little whine.

  ‘Shh!’ hissed Tom. ‘Go back to bed!’

  But Fungus plastered his ears back against his head and whined again, louder this time. Dot stirred slightly in her bed. Thinking fast, Tom grabbed Fungus and clambered quickly out of the window, sliding it shut behind him. ‘Happy now?’ he whispered to Fungus, and the dog’s stumpy tail waggled back and forth through the night air to show that yes, he was.

  It was a warm night, but there was a strong wind blowing from the north. Tom’s street was completely deserted. There was a silvery toenail clipping of a moon in the sky, and the dangling arms of the street lamps cast soft circles of yellow light along the footpath. With Fungus at his heels, Tom jogged towards the laneway that led to the back of Mr Codling’s house and waited in the shadows for the rest of the Daredevils, just like they’d planned at school that day.

  Samson was the first to show up. ‘Mum caught me sneaking out the back door,’ he whispered. ‘I told her I was going to the dunny. She’ll think I’ve got a nasty case of the runs when I don’t come straight back!’

  Suddenly, a strong hand clamped onto Tom’s shoulder from behind. He whirled around, but it was only Frank, with Joan right behind him.

  ‘You scared the life out of me!’ said Tom, his pulse racing like Phar Lap.

  Frank chuckled. Joan smiled broadly at Tom. ‘Well, this is more like it!’ she said, brandishing a couple of empty flour sacks. ‘Finally, the Daredevils are having a real adventure!’

  ‘Here’s hoping it’s not our last,’ said Samson drily.

  ‘Right,’ said Frank, rubbing his hands together. ‘How exactly are we going to do this?’

  ‘It’s easy,’ said Tom, knowing full well that it wasn’t. ‘I’ll climb into Mr Codling’s yard with Joan. She’s our best climber, so she’ll go up the tree, pick as many oranges as she can and drop them down to me. I’ll chuck them over the fence to you, Frank.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Frank. ‘Caught Moody, bowled Parker.’

  ‘We can sell the oranges outside Moltisano’s fruit shop tomorrow. We’ll charge half the price he does and make a fortune.’

  Frank nodded. ‘Good plan,’ he said.

  ‘No it’s not!’ said Samson. ‘Codling is a murderer, remember? And that goat of his’ll eat your leg off as soon as look at you!’

  Frank and Joan looked expectantly at Tom. ‘We’ll just have to hope Mr Codling is a sound sleeper,’ he said.

  ‘What about the goat?’ asked Joan.

  Tom reached into his front pocket and pulled out the small, wizened turnip he had swiped from the kitchen that evening. ‘I’ll distract him with this.’

  Samson shook his head. ‘That goat’s already got a taste for human flesh,’ he said. ‘D’you really think he’s going to be happy with an old turnip?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘I’m not saying this isn’t dangerous. But it’s our best shot of getting the money for the dog show. And if I do get eaten by a billy goat, at least you can tell Dot and Petey I tried.’

  The Daredevils looked at each other and nodded solemnly.

  ‘Everybody ready?’ said Tom.

  The Daredevils nodded again.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  As they stole along the dark alleyway, Tom wondered whether this was his best or worst plan ever. They stopped beside Mr Codling’s corrugated-iron back fence and Tom hauled himself up to look over it. Squinting in the near-darkness, he could see that the garden was completely overgrown with weeds, some of them almost as tall as him. He couldn’t see the killer goat anywhere, and hoped desperately that it slept inside at night. The darkened windows of the sagging weatherboard house filled him with a deep feeling of dread.

  Tom hung onto the fence for a few minutes, listening carefully. The yard stayed silent, and there was no sign of any crazed screams from inside the house. Tom gazed up at the plump, ripe fruit lining the branches of the orange tree and felt a bit guilty for what they were about to do. Then he reminded himself that Mr Codling never picked the fruit, and they would only end up rotting on the ground if the Daredevils didn’t help themselves.

  Tom dropped back to ground level.

  ‘The coast is clear,’ he said. ‘Joan, you’re with me.’

  ‘What about me?’ said Samson. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘You can keep watch,’ said Tom. ‘And let Frank stand on your shoulders.’

  ‘Great,’ said Samson. ‘I avoid the lunatic and the flesh-eating billy goat only to be squashed to death by this great big lug.’

  That reminded Tom of what was going to happen if he survived this mission – Razor would probably kill him anyway. He shook his head to get the thought out of his mind. ‘Come on, let’s get started.’

  Frank kneeled down to boost Tom and Joan over the fence. They landed with a quiet thud and Tom forged a path through the thick weeds to the base of the orange tree, looking anxiously round for the goat the whole time. Behind him he heard Samson give a low groan of protest as Frank climbed on his shoulders to pop up over the fence line.

  Joan scrambled up the tree and wasted no time in plucking the oranges off the heavily laden branches, which were swaying in the wind. She dropped each one down to Tom, who quickly turned and pelted it to Frank to put in the sack. Frank rarely missed a catch on the cricket pitch and, true to form, he didn’t let a single orange slip through his fingers.

  Tom was glad that Joan was the one with him on the most dangerous part of the mission. Frank would probably want to be a hero and chop down the whole tree, while Samson would be too scared to even climb into the yard. But Tom knew he could rely on Joan to do exactly what needed to be done, and to help out if anything went wrong.

  Nothing did go wrong for a good fifteen minutes. But then, just as Joan was reaching up to pick the last few oranges from the top of the tree, they were interrupted by the most terrifying sound in the world.

  ‘MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!’

  Joan went rigid and clung to the branch like a skink. Tom turned around, the blood draining to his toes.

  The huge billy goat stood directly between them and the fence, cutting off their only escape route. ‘MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA,’ it said again, opening its mouth to reveal a set of ferocious teeth that looked like they could make short wo
rk of Tom’s leg.

  The goat took a step closer to Tom and its razor-sharp horns glinted evilly. Maybe it was just a trick of the dim light, but to Tom the goat seemed to be the size of a draft horse. It raised itself up on two legs and then pawed at the ground, throwing its head back, tossing its matted beard around and unleashing another vicious bleat. Behind the goat Tom could see that Frank’s face had turned a deathly white.

  ‘Quick!’ Joan whispered desperately from above him. ‘The turnip!’

  Tom reached into his pocket, but it was completely empty.

  ‘It’s gone!’ he hissed. ‘It must have fallen out when we jumped the fence.’

  ‘Then do something else!’

  ‘Like what?’ said Tom, not taking his eyes off the ravenous animal in front of him.

  ‘I dunno! Here, try an orange.’

  Joan dropped one of the few oranges left on the tree to Tom. He tossed it in front of the goat, hoping it might distract the beast long enough for them to escape. But the fruit just seemed to enrage the animal further, and it gave a mighty roar that must have woken the entire neighbourhood. There was no way the madman inside the house wouldn’t have heard it.

  Tom swore he could see a thick layer of froth foaming around the goat’s mouth. It roared again and aimed its head at Tom, preparing for a charge. I’m done for, Tom thought.

  Then he heard a rustle in the thick weeds to his left. The goat looked up, and Tom turned, expecting to see Mr Codling appear with an axe or a bottle of poison. Instead he found himself staring at Fungus – the cheeky thing must have found a gap in the fence and wriggled through.

  Fungus scurried straight towards the goat, wagging his tail.

  ‘Fungus, no!’ hissed Tom. If the goat had eaten people before, it would have no problems finishing off a little dog like Fungus.

  Fungus stopped in front of the goat and gazed up at it. The goat lowered its head to sniff Fungus suspiciously and Fungus licked the goat’s nose with his sloppy tongue. The goat gave a small bleat of surprise and took a step back. The two animals stared at each other for a moment, and then the goat lowered its head so Fungus could lick it again. Then, to Tom’s astonishment, the goat stuck its own tongue out and began lapping the dirty tufts of fur behind Fungus’s ear.

  ‘Cripes,’ said Joan. ‘I think they like each other.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Tom. ‘Quick, let’s make a run for it before that monster changes his mind.’

  Tom and Joan sprinted for the fence and scrambled over. Frank still looked pale as they landed on the cobblestones next to him. ‘Blimey,’ he said, ‘that was close.’

  ‘Too close,’ said Tom, breathing heavily.

  ‘But worth it,’ said Samson, wrestling with the two sacks, which were overflowing with oranges. ‘Now let’s clear off before Codling breaks out the carving knife.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll grab Fungus and catch up to you.’

  The Daredevils vanished down the laneway and Tom heaved himself back onto the fence. The goat was lying curled up on a patch of weeds, making soft bleating sounds as it nuzzled Fungus behind the ears.

  Tom whistled and Fungus reluctantly trudged towards the hole in the fence, turning to give the billy goat one last look before squeezing through.

  Tom was about to drop off the fence when a faint glow on the back steps of the house caught his eye. He squinted across the darkened backyard and saw the outline of a man sitting on the top step, his haggard face and long, unkempt hair illuminated by a smouldering pipe.

  It was Mr Codling.

  Tom’s fingertips turned to ice. Had Codling been watching them the whole time? Why hadn’t he said anything? Was he just going to bide his time before coming into the Daredevils’ houses to murder them in their sleep as revenge?

  But there was something strange about Mr Codling’s expression. He wasn’t looking at Tom. In fact, he didn’t seem to be looking at anything. He was gazing straight ahead into the darkness, his eyes wide with terror. But he wasn’t scared of the Daredevils or Fungus, Tom was sure of that. It looked like whatever terror Mr Codling was facing was inside his own mind.

  Tom shivered. It was getting cold. He dropped down from the fence and slipped off into the night.

  10

  The next day was Friday, the day before the dog show. Petey was still sick in bed, but the worst of his fever had passed, and Tom was delighted to see his little brother smile for the first time in days as he presented him with two beautiful oranges.

  Just before nine o’clock, Tom was strolling under the peppercorn trees that lined the footpath near school. The sun was streaming through the branches, and the air smelt just like summer (with a hint of manure – clearly the milkman and his horse had been past the school that morning). Groups of boys and girls were streaming up the school steps and through the front doors, chatting excitedly. Some of them had clean clothes and neatly brushed hair, others were stuck with torn shorts or stockings and shoes that were practically just scraps of leather.

  Tom was just about to head into the building when someone grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. It was Razor, of course, grinning darkly as he held Tom against the red bricks by his shirt collar. Archie, Merv and Porky were right beside him, and a few other students had stopped to watch what looked like being another Razor McGee beating.

  ‘You’re gonna die,’ said Razor, leaning in so close that Tom could smell the marmalade on his breath. ‘And your dog, too. Pretty soon I’m going to get you both.’ Razor twisted Tom’s collar tight around his neck, which caused Porky to snuffle like a prize hog in search of dinner scraps.

  Tom could hardly breathe, but he knew that even Razor wasn’t stupid enough to start a fight right out the front of school. ‘Is that right?’ he gasped. ‘If I were you, I’d worry about getting yourself a brain first.’

  The school bell rang, signalling the start of class. Razor grunted and gave Tom an extra-hard shove against the bricks. ‘Soon, Parker,’ he said, letting go of Tom’s shirt and nodding at Merv, who sent a globule of spit right at Tom’s face. Tom ducked to avoid it and lost his balance, collapsing to the ground on hands and knees. The Spiders howled with laughter as they trotted triumphantly into the building, and plenty of Tom’s other classmates sniggered as well. Tom’s face burned as he got to his feet, but he was pleased to see that Razor’s pants were now sporting a large patch over the spot where Fungus had ripped the bum out.

  The Daredevils managed to avoid Razor and his gang all morning. When the lunch bell rang, they hung back in their classroom for a few minutes until Tom was sure the Spiders would be lining up for bread and soup with the rest of the susso kids. Then, despite the fact that his own stomach was growling, he rushed through the school doors alongside his friends, eager to start part two of the Great Orange Caper. Mrs Bright was taking in the sunshine on the front steps, and beamed at the Daredevils on their way out.

  ‘Going home for lunch today, are we?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Bright,’ said Tom, leaping down the steps two at a time. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘How nice. Watch yourself on those stairs, won’t you? You can’t fly like Kingsford Smith just yet!’

  After collecting their sacks of oranges and a few old newspapers from the shed in Frank’s backyard, the Daredevils set up shop on a corner of Gertrude Street, close enough to Mr Moltisano’s fruit shop to tempt his customers away, but not so close that the old greengrocer would notice what they were up to.

  Joan had painted a sign on the bottom of a cardboard box:

  Daredevils Greengrocers Pty Ltd

  Sweet oranges 1d each

  They propped the box in front of the orange sacks and sat on the pavement behind them, each slurping on a juicy orange. Tom swore he hadn’t tasted anything that good in years.

  ‘Shall we have another one?’ asked Joan, as she sucked the last bits of sweet pulp out of the peel and threw it into the gutter.

  ‘Better not,’ said Frank. �
�We don’t want to eat all our profits.’

  ‘Right,’ said Joan.

  They stared longingly at the bags of fruit as a cable tram lumbered past.

  Frank licked his lips. ‘Ah, why not?’ he said. ‘One more.’

  Of course, one more orange led to another, and the Daredevils’ hands were sticky with juice by the time they got their first customer. A middle-aged woman in a blue hat was walking by when she noticed the Daredevils’ sign and stopped in her tracks. ‘That’s very cheap,’ she said, sniffing. ‘What’s wrong with ’em?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Frank. ‘Here, have a taste.’ He held out a segment from the orange he was eating.

  The woman popped it into her mouth and chewed it slowly. Her expression changed instantly. ‘I’ll take half a dozen,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Tom, counting out six oranges and wrapping them in a sheet of newspaper. He grinned to himself as he took the lady’s sixpence – they were already well on the way to the three shillings they needed.

  ‘’Allo Beryl!’ the woman called out to a plump lady on the other side of the street. ‘Are you going to Moltisano’s? Kids here are selling beautiful oranges for less than half his price!’

  ‘Is that right?’ said the other woman, crossing the street so fast she nearly collided with a man on a bicycle. ‘In that case, I’ll have four penny worth.’

  Word spread quickly, and soon there was a small queue of shoppers lined up in front of the Daredevils’ makeshift stall. Tom worked fast, counting out oranges and handing them to Joan and Frank to wrap while Samson looked after the money and the change. Business was booming until Mr Moltisano made an appearance, his face the same colour as one of his beetroots. The customers scattered – Mr Moltisano was notorious for his temper, and nobody wanted to find mealy apples and spotty plums in their shopping bag every week.

  ‘You kids!’ Mr Moltisano yelled. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’