by Anna Dale
Over his shoulder, Arthur expressed his view that that plan might not work. ‘Dexter’s very strong-willed. It’s unlikely he’ll take any notice!’
‘Pig-headed blighter, is he?’ said Mr Hardbattle, his fury increasing. ‘How do you propose that we should stop this madman, then?’
‘Don’t know,’ Arthur replied. ‘That’s why I legged it to fetch help!’
They slowed to a walk as they drew nearer to the bookshop, each of them thinking hard about how they could prevent the pest control man from emptying the shop of magic. Parked next to Mr Hardbattle’s bottle green van was a much larger vehicle, which was dayglo orange in colour and had PEST PULVERIZERS painted boldly on its side.
Mr Hardbattle eyed Dexter’s van with distaste. ‘What a vulgar automobile,’ he said.
Arthur cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the bookshop’s window to see what was going on. ‘There’s Dexter!’ said Arthur. ‘He seems to be crouching beside his machine. I can see his white overalls.’
‘Overalls, eh?’ Mr Hardbattle scratched his head. ‘That’s the sort of uniform they wear, is it? Hmm . . . Well, if this Dexter chappie won’t heed the words of a lay person, perhaps he’ll take notice of a pest control expert like himself.’
Arthur watched curiously as Mr Hardbattle knelt down on the pavement and rummaged around in his suitcase. The old man withdrew a pair of blue paint-spattered overalls.
‘Here they are!’ Mr Hardbattle said, shaking them out and unbuttoning them. ‘I took them with me on my trip to protect my clothes. Thought that some of the places I looked at might be a little grimy.’ Before he closed the lid of his suitcase, Mr Hardbattle folded his raincoat and put it on top of the rest of his things. Then, once he had fastened the clasps on his case, he got up from the ground.
‘What’s the plan?’ Arthur asked him eagerly.
‘I’m ruminating on it,’ Mr Hardbattle said as he stepped into the overalls and buttoned them over his shirt and trousers. ‘I’ll need an alter ego. What about Alan the Insect Man?’
Arthur regarded the old man in his scruffy new garb. ‘I think you look like a Bert,’ he said after a moment’s consideration. ‘What do you reckon to Bert the Bug Blaster?’
Mr Hardbattle frowned. ‘Er . . . it’s . . . well, it’s . . .’
‘Question is,’ said Arthur, ignoring the fact that his suggestion had not been seized upon, ‘how do you blast the bugs? Where’s your equipment? That bloke Dexter’s got a ginormous machine.’
‘Our approach? Yes, that’s our stumbling block,’ admitted Mr Hardbattle. ‘We’ll have to put on our thinking caps, and come up with something PDQ.’
After thirty seconds of unbroken silence, Arthur scowled and let out a sigh. ‘It’s those drawing pins’ fault,’ he complained. ‘If they hadn’t hopped all over that lady’s book and made holes in it, we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in now.’
‘It’s not the name Bert I object to,’ mused Mr Hardbattle, who had seated himself on the doorstep of the shop. ‘It’s the method of dealing with the bugs . . . I mean, insects. I don’t think I’d be capable of blasting them to pieces. Coaxing or cajoling is more my sort of thing.’
Arthur’s heart sank. He glanced anxiously through the window, and saw Dexter roaming the floor on his hands and knees. Mr Hardbattle’s idea of impersonating someone from the pest control industry had been a good one, but if the old man was going to insist upon some namby-pamby method to get rid of the cockroaches, Arthur could not see how their plan would work. There was no way that Dexter was going to take a kind-hearted pest control expert seriously. Unless . . .
‘If we’d had time, I could’ve popped home to borrow my sister’s recorder,’ said Arthur jokingly. ‘You could’ve been like the Pied Piper of Hamelin from the fairytale.’
Arthur was taken aback when Mr Hardbattle slapped his hands on his knees and got up from the doorstep. He walked towards Arthur with shining eyes.
‘Who needs a recorder?’ said Mr Hardbattle, smiling. ‘A penny whistle would do just as well.’
‘Huh?’ said Arthur. ‘What are you staring at me for?’
‘Your whistle,’ Mr Hardbattle said, holding out his hand. ‘I’d like to borrow it, if you don’t mind.’
Arthur looked at him blankly. ‘A whistle? I don’t have one.’
‘You don’t?’ Mr Hardbattle said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. ‘Good heavens! What is the world coming to? When I was a boy, I was never without my penny whistle or my whittling knife or my catapult!’
‘Sorry,’ said Arthur. ‘I guess times have changed.’ He emptied his trouser pockets to prove that there was no whistle inside them, and Mr Hardbattle’s eyes took in the collection of oddments on Arthur’s palms.
‘What’s this?’ Mr Hardbattle asked, pointing at a flat plastic toy with holes at either end.
Arthur squinted at the object, which was snarled in a rubber band. He had traded a bar of chocolate for it several days before and had completely forgotten about it until that moment.
‘Um . . . it’s a kazoo,’ he said. ‘It makes a noise if you blow through it.’
‘May I?’ asked Mr Hardbattle, taking the kazoo. ‘It will serve very well. Now, here’s what we’re going to do . . .’
One minute later, Mr Hardbattle burst through the door of the bookshop in the manner of a cowboy walking into a saloon. His sudden entrance made the bell’s clapper swing so sharply that its jingle-jangle sounded like a shriek. Dexter Bland’s attention was seized immediately. He looked up from the floor of the shop where he was crawling about. In one hand he held a plug that was attached to a long length of cable. He appeared to be searching for an electric socket in which to fit his plug.
‘Go, Arthur . . . now!’ Mr Hardbattle hissed.
As swiftly as he could, Arthur slipped behind the old man and ran to Mr Hardbattle’s desk, almost tripping over the coils of the suction device in his haste. Once he had reached the desk, he snatched up the carton of drawing pins and went to join Scallywag, who was sitting beside the table, still tied to its leg, and grumbling like a kettle that was coming to the boil.
‘Have you seen a pest hereabouts?’ was Mr Hardbattle’s opening gambit.
Dexter Bland set his jaw. He narrowed his eyes and pinched his shark-fin quiff between his finger and thumb. ‘Who’s asking?’ he said.
Mr Hardbattle grasped the knot of his tie and moved it a smidgen to the right. ‘People in the trade know me as Marmaduke the Cockroach Charmer.’
‘I’ve never heard that name,’ said Dexter suspiciously. He got up from the floor and stood in a defensive pose in front of his cockroach-eating contraption. ‘Your help isn’t wanted, thanks. I’ve got this cockroach job all sewn up.’
‘I beg to differ,’ Mr Hardbattle said, venturing deeper into the shop. ‘By the looks of it, you haven’t even made a start!’
‘Hey! This is my patch, old-timer,’ said Dexter, shaking his plug at him threateningly. ‘Go and do your cockroach charming somewhere else!’
‘What’s the matter, sonny? Afraid I’d do a better job?’
Mr Hardbattle’s daring talk made Arthur hold his breath, but Dexter Bland did not seem fazed, and showed his contempt by snorting with laughter. ‘There’s nothing more efficient than my machine,’ he said, setting aside the plug and grasping the telescopic tube with both hands. ‘I put this nozzle in the cracks and crevices and suck out the roaches like milk through a straw.’
‘Showy,’ sneered Mr Hardbattle bravely, ‘not to mention cumbersome. I find that the old traditional methods are the best.’
‘How d’you do it, then?’ asked Dexter, sounding a little less sure of himself.
‘You must’ve heard of the Pied Piper of Hamelin?’ said Mr Hardbattle. He squared up to Dexter and looked him in the eye.
‘Sure!’ said Dexter brazenly. ‘Everyone in our line of work knows about the Piper dude. He’s the most famous controller of pests that there has ever been. He lured a load of rats out of a town by playing on his pipe and led them to a river, where they drowned.’
‘Go to the top of the class!’ Mr Hardbattle said to Dexter. Then he wiggled his finger in his right ear, which was the signal for Arthur to begin the next stage of their plan.
Obediently, Arthur unfolded the flaps on the carton, which he had balanced on his knees, and began to whisper instructions to the drawing pins. This was made far easier because Scallywag had stopped growling as soon as she had recognised her master’s voice, and the only sound that Arthur was obliged to compete with was the swish-swish-swish of her tail sweeping the floor.
‘You’re telling me you serenade the roaches?’ Dexter said to Mr Hardbattle. He smirked. ‘Boy, I’d love to see that! Where’s your pipe, then? Let’s have a tune! Put your money where your mouth is, Grandad!’
‘Very well,’ Mr Hardbattle said. ‘Stand back and enjoy the show.’
The sound that the kazoo made when Mr Hardbattle put it to his lips and hummed through the narrowest end could not be described as melodic. It made the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up. Dexter grimaced and placed his hands over his ears and Scallywag raised her muzzle to the ceiling and started to howl. No cockroaches appeared, which was to be expected, but as Mr Hardbattle continued to belt out his unrecognisable tune, there was movement in the corner of the shop where Arthur was sitting. The carton on his knees gave a wobble and then, like a snake emerging from a hole, the drawing pins jumped out of their carton and, in a long, wavering line, hopped on their little pin legs towards Mr Hardbattle.
‘There are the cockroaches!’ cried Arthur, running up and down beside them so that Dexter could not get a clear look at them. ‘See, there they go!’ he said, as they followed Mr Hardbattle’s beckoning hand and hopped two by two, in a crocodile, out of the shop.
Dexter stood and gawped. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’ he said.
‘Made it look like child’s play, didn’t he?’ Arthur commented gleefully. ‘That’s experience for you, I suppose. Well, I expect you’ve got to dash off to your next appointment, Mr Bland . . .’
With a defeated sigh and a dispirited slope to his shoulders, Dexter began to coil his electrical lead and wind it around the top of his cockroach-eating machine.
Arthur was thrilled that he and Mr Hardbattle had pulled off their scam with such ease, but he did feel a twinge of guilt for tricking Dexter so slyly. ‘You win some, you lose some!’ he said to the pest control man as he helped him to carry his machine to his van. When Dexter had driven away, Mr Hardbattle emerged from behind a lamp post and gave Arthur the thumbs up.
‘Worked like a dream,’ said Mr Hardbattle, walking rather gingerly because his pockets were filled with drawing pins.
Arthur nodded and grinned. ‘Marmaduke was a cool name to choose. Better than Bert by miles.’
‘It’s the name I was christened with,’ said Mr Hardbattle, chuckling. ‘I’m glad that it meets with your approval, Arthur!’
.
Chapter Eighteen
Miss Quint Is Dishonest
Once inside the shop again, Arthur took the drawing pins and tipped them into their carton, while Mr Hardbattle enjoyed a reunion with his dog. Not waiting to be untethered, Scallywag slipped out of her collar and streaked across the floor. When Mr Hardbattle bent down to greet her, she lathered his face with licks.
After a few minutes, Scallywag contented herself with lying at her master’s feet, and Mr Hardbattle straightened up and dried his face with his handkerchief. ‘What’s become of my large-eared friend?’ he asked, glancing at a shelf above his desk, which was Trunk’s usual stamping ground.
‘He’s hiding,’ said Arthur. ‘He got scared.’
‘Trunk, my boy!’ Mr Hardbattle called, waving his handkerchief in the air. ‘There’s nothing to fear. That loathsome fellow has gone. Come out and say hello!’
It was unclear whether it was Mr Hardbattle’s plea or the jingle-jangle of the shop bell that persuaded Trunk to come out from behind his flowerpot. His trunk made an appearance first, followed by his tusks and his anxious, velvety face. Trunk’s ears gave a twitch of delight when he saw that Susan and Miss Quint had returned from their shopping trip, but it was the sight of Mr Hardbattle that gave the elephant the most joy. He lifted his trunk to deliver a trumpet blast to welcome his old friend home, but unfortunately, by that time, the new arrivals in the shop had seized everybody’s attention, and because he could not make any sound, Trunk’s fanfare went unnoticed.
It had been Susan who had caused the bell to ring. She had skipped through the door ahead of Miss Quint, a blissful smile on her face. In one hand she clutched a carrier bag, and in the other a piece of pink paper. Her appearance made Arthur do a double take. Rather than wearing her drab gingham dress, Susan was attired in a T-shirt and shorts. Behind Susan lurked Miss Quint, who had stopped dead on the doormat, a look of panic in her eyes.
‘You seem surprised to see me,’ Mr Hardbattle said, raising his hat in a respectful greeting to Miss Quint.
‘No!’ Miss Quint said hurriedly. ‘It’s just . . . you’re early . . . and I didn’t realise it was you at first. That old get-up threw me. I thought you were an odd-job man!’
Mr Hardbattle looked down at his overalls, which he had neglected to remove. ‘I’m supposed to be in pest control,’ he told her, and, with several interruptions from Arthur, he divulged the details of their recent adventure. While they chattered away Susan hovered by Mr Hardbattle’s side, bursting with eagerness to introduce herself.
Eventually, Mr Hardbattle turned to speak to her. He pushed his horn-rimmed spectacles up his nose, and asked, ‘Who might you be?’
‘She’s my niece,’ Miss Quint said, getting in her explanation before Arthur could admit the truth. She put an arm around Susan’s shoulders and ignored Arthur’s reproving stare. ‘Susan needed somewhere to spend her half-term holiday,’ said Miss Quint. ‘Her parents are too ill to look after her. They’ve got . . . Pollywolly Disease . . . quite badly. I didn’t think you’d draw the line at Susan moving in.’
It was a struggle for Mr Hardbattle to look as if he did not mind that his home had been invaded by a second female. He was too flustered to speak at first. All he could do was smile unhappily.
‘I don’t eat much, and I’m helpful, aren’t I, Aunt Beatrice?’ Susan said.
Arthur glowered at Miss Quint even more intensely. It was plain that she had taken Susan into her confidence and persuaded the girl to go along with her deceitful ruse. Perhaps Susan’s new clothes had served as bribery. Turning Susan into a liar was not something that Arthur approved of; neither was trying to pull the wool over Mr Hardbattle’s eyes.
‘Pollywolly Disease . . .’ murmured Mr Hardbattle, frowning. ‘I haven’t come across that. It doesn’t sound nice.’ He gazed at Susan pityingly, and his voice became gentler. ‘Poor little girl! Of course it’s all right if you remain here.’
After blowing out her cheeks with relief, Miss Quint clapped her hands. ‘That’s settled, then. Arthur, have you told Mr Hardbattle our good news?’
Arthur stopped lolling against a bookshelf and took his hands out of his trouser pockets. ‘No, there hasn’t been time,’ he said. Aware that he sounded sullen, Arthur tried to shake off his sulky mood, and made an effort to sound glad. ‘We’ve found a brilliant place for your magic, Mr Hardbattle! It’s an old cottage in a wood, and it’s got loads of cobwebs!’
Mr Hardbattle’s cheeks turned a rosy shade of pink, and he clapped Arthur on the shoulder with immense pride. ‘That is a load off my mind! How splendid! Clever you! The places that I looked at weren’t really up to scratch. The best of the bunch was a hayloft in Devizes, but
horseshoe bats and barn owls had already set up home there, and bats, owls and magic wouldn’t make good bedfellows.’
‘The cottage is at Down-the-Ages Farm,’ said Miss Quint. ‘Pam Carruthers suggested that we might move the magic in this weekend.’
‘But not Saturday,’ said Susan, her eyes widening with worry.
Arthur hesitated. ‘What’s happening on Saturday?’
‘This!’ said Susan, holding up a pink flyer. ‘A man was handing these out in the street. He was taller than a tree!’
Arthur was baffled by Susan’s description of the flyer man until Miss Quint explained that he had been wearing stilts.
Arthur took the flyer from Susan and read it. Almost immediately his face broke into a smile. ‘Oh yeah!’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten that it’s the carnival this weekend.’
‘The high spot in Plumford’s cultural calendar,’ Mr Hardbattle said. ‘Naturally, you children mustn’t miss it. I’d be more than willing to move the magic on Sunday.’ His eyes grew round and bright as a thought occurred to him. ‘That’s the one day the shop isn’t open so I shan’t lose any trade!’
Mr Hardbattle took off his trilby hat and threw it with enough precision for it to alight on the hatstand. ‘My bookshop is saved! This calls for a celebration!’ he cried. Then he picked up his suitcase and walked spryly towards the stairs.
With a squawk of alarm, Miss Quint moved like lightning to head him off. ‘Stop!’ she shrieked. ‘You mustn’t!’
‘What do you mean, I mustn’t?’ Mr Hardbattle asked. He tried to pass Miss Quint, but she prevented him from doing so. ‘I’m only going upstairs to put the kettle on!’ he said, frustrated by her awkwardness.
‘I can do that for you!’ said Miss Quint soothingly. ‘You’ve been travelling all day. You must be exhausted!’ She placed her fingers around the handle of his case. ‘Let me take your bag!’ she said, trying to tug it from his grip. ‘I’ll make the tea while you sit down and put your feet up!’