Wilf the Mighty Worrier--Battles a Pirate

by Georgia Pritchett

  “Because the ship hit the island,” continued Alan.

  “Land ahargh!” said Nigel, more loudly.

  “Stop!” shouted Alan.

  “Shop!” said Nigel.

  “Ooh I like a nice shop,” said Mr. Heartie.

  “Does it have knickknacks?” said Mrs. Heartie.

  “Shut up!” said Alan. “I, Long John Alan—”

  “Shut up!” said Nigel.

  “I, Long John Alan, am going to claim this island—” persevered Alan.

  “Shut up!” said Nigel.

  “And all the treasure on it,” said Alan, doing his best to ignore Nigel. “Because I am the fiercest pirate in the whole world and everyone—”

  “Did you call?” said Dave Everyone from the back of the ship.

  “No I didn’t. I’m in the middle of a speech if you don’t mind—”

  “Shut up!” said Nigel.

  “And everyone fears and respects me.”

  “Shut up!” repeated Nigel.

  “I don’t fear and respect you,” said Dave Everyone, coming over, “but I don’t really know you. Maybe I will when I get to know you.”

  Alan closed his eyes and massaged his temples for a few moments.

  “Right, come on, stowaways, let’s lower the gangplank.”

  Wilf helped Alan lower the gangplank and watched while Alan marched onto the beach of the remote undiscovered island.

  “And I shall name this land . . .” said Alan grandly, “Alan Land.” And he stuck a flag in the beach. Then he thought for a second and pulled the flag out again. “Or is Aland better?” he asked.

  “I prefer the Isle of Wight. Which is where you are,” said an old lady who was walking her dog.

  “Nonsense,” said Alan crossly. “This is an undiscovered island that I have just discovered. And I shall call it the United States of Alan.”

  He planted his flag back in the beach again.

  The old lady’s dog immediately did a wee on Alan’s flagpole.

  “Treason!” shouted Alan. “Lock him up for treason.”

  “Come on, Trevor, don’t wee on the flagpole,” said the old lady to her dog.

  Trevor trotted over to Kevin Phillips and sniffed his bottom and then Kevin Phillips sniffed Trevor’s bottom.

  “Why has your dog got a cone around its neck?” asked the old lady.

  “He is not a dog,” explained Alan. “His name is Kevin Phillips and he is my right-hand man.”

  “And why has he got a cone around his neck?” repeated the old lady.

  “Because he keeps biting his bottom,” said Alan reluctantly.

  “Yes, mine does that. Stupid animals,” said the old lady cheerily.

  “I can’t hear you because you’re not here and you don’t exist,” said Alan. “I am the first person to set foot on these shores, and I am now going to salute my flag and sing my national anthem to myself.” And then he started singing, in a very high voice:

  “God save my gracious Alan,

  Long live my noble Alan,

  God save the Alan . . .”

  “That is a dreadful racket,” complained the old lady. “May I suggest that you remove your flag and yourself from this beach or I will have to call the police.”

  “Listen,” said Alan, “there is a long tradition of brave explorers like me discovering new countries and then finding there are very annoying people already living there who have beaten them to it.”

  “Yes,” said the old lady. “So the best thing for you to do is take your flag and go home.”

  “No,” said Alan, “the best thing for me to do is claim the land as my own and then pretend you weren’t here. You are nothing more than savages.”

  Alan marched back to his ship. “Come on, stowaways. And welcome to the United States of Great Alan Land,” he said.

  “It’s the Isle of Wight,” said the old lady in the background.

  “Ignore the savages,” said Alan to Wilf and Dot. “Now, looking at this map, the treasure must be in that cave over there. And your job is to go and get it.”

  “The thing is,” said Wilf, “I’m scared of caves because I worry there might be bears living in them. And I’m scared of bears.”

  “Oh, there won’t be a bear,” said Alan.

  “Really?” said Wilf.

  “No,” said Alan. “Much more likely to be a giant crab. Or a gazillion bats. Or a huge snake. Or some kind of weird species of blind rats with very long tails and very sharp teeth. Or maybe a nest of scorpions.”

  Suddenly Wilf felt much, much worse.

  “Come on then, off you go,” said Alan impatiently.

  “OK,” said Wilf, “I just need to do something.”

  And he delved in his backpack for his “How to Stop Worrying” leaflet.

  Number four said “Distract yourself by doing something else, like dancing.” Wilf hated dancing, but anything was worth a try.

  He started doing a slow sort of shy sort of shuffly dance. Dot and Alan and Mr. and Mrs. Heartie and Dave Everyone and the old lady from the beach (and her dog) all stared at him.

  Wilf could feel himself blushing. This wasn’t helping at all. Maybe he needed to do a faster, sproingier kind of dance.

  He tried lifting his knees and throwing his arms out and he did a few jumps.

  Dot and Alan and Mr. and Mrs. Heartie and Dave Everyone and the old lady from the beach (and her dog) continued to stare, looking utterly bemused.

  Maybe the leaflet meant a more traditional sort of dance. Wilf started doing a more marchy swoopy spinny sort of dance with a very serious expression on his face.

  Dot and Alan and Mr. and Mrs. Heartie and Dave Everyone and the old lady from the beach (and her dog) all took a step backward, looking extremely perplexed. Mr. and Mrs. Heartie told Alan that if this was the entertainment they wanted their money back. Again.

  Wilf was mortified. He would much rather be in a dark cave with bears and crabs than have to dance while people stared at him, so he picked up his backpack and ran into the cave. It was as cold and damp in there as an old teabag.

  Wilf got a flashlight from his backpack so that he could see if there was a bear or a big crab or anything else scuttly or nibbly or stingy. And he had some packed lunch that he could throw if the bear or the crab or the nibbly scuttly thing looked hungry. And he also had his slippers because he took his slippers everywhere because they were comfy and comforting, but also he could run super-fast in his slippers—faster than a bear or a crab or a nibbly scuttly thing.

  Wilf tiptoed slowly to the back of the cave, in his slippers. Suddenly, he heard a sort of raspy sound.

  What was that?

  Shh!

  There it was again!

  He tried to think what animal might make a raspy sound. A bear with a cough? A crab with an allergy? No, it was just Wilf doing panicky breathing. He tried to panic more quietly and continued on his way.

  Suddenly, he heard a sort of squelchy sound.

  What was that?

  Shh!

  There it was again!

  He tried to think what might squelch. A scorpion with a cold? A bat chewing on chewing gum?

  No, it was just his slippers squeaking as he walked.

  He tried to walk more quietly and continued on his way.

  Suddenly he heard a sort of whimpering sound.

  What was that?

  Shh!

  There it was again!

  It sounded like a small boy whimpering with fear. Maybe Wilf was whimpering with fear. But no, it wasn’t him. He whimpered and his whimper was a different kind of whimper altogether.

  He peered through the darkness. At the back of the cave he could see something. Look—there! No, not there—over there! Left a bit, down a bit, right a bit—the treasure chest!

  And something else, next to the treasure chest—a dark shadow. Wilf shone his flashlight at it. It was a small whimpering boy.

  “Please don’t hurt me!” said the boy.

  “Who a
re you?” said Wilf.

  “I’m Jack and I’m scared there might be a bear in this cave.”

  “There are no bears,” said Wilf. “And no crabs, bats, rats, snakes, or scorpions either.”

  Jack gulped loudly.

  “But I heard a sort of raspy sound and then a squelchy sound,” said Jack anxiously.

  “Yes, that was me,” said Wilf.

  “And then a sort of farting sound,” added Jack.

  “Yes, we don’t need to mention that. Anyway, what are you doing here?” Wilf asked, changing the subject.

  “I found this treasure,” said Jack. “And I’m keeping it.”

  “Oh dear,” said Wilf. “I was rather hoping to have it.”

  “No, it’s mine and I’m keeping it forever and ever,” said Jack. “Unless . . .” he added, looking Wilf up and down, “you want to do swapsies?”

  “Yes!” said Wilf. “What would you like?”

  “Is that a picnic you’re holding?” asked Jack hungrily.

  “Yes, yes it is,” said Wilf.

  “I’ll have the biscuits and the flashlight and your slippers,” said Jack.

  “Yes, all right, deal!”

  The two boys shook hands and Wilf picked up the treasure chest and made his way out of the cave again.

  “Yes! Yes! You did it!” crowed Alan when he saw Wilf holding the treasure chest. “Now I’m going to be the richest pirate in the whole world and I’m going to buy a new Big Gun Thingy and then people will fear and respect me and I will be the baddest, the baddest, the biddly boddly baddest man in the whole wide—Oh poo.”

  Alan stopped mid-boast when he opened the treasure chest and saw what was inside.

  It wasn’t diamonds and pearls and emeralds and rubies and other glinty gleamy shiny things. It was some old copies of a pirate comic book, some interestingly shaped pebbles, a goldfish bowl with a plastic fish in it, some (moldy) sweets, a rubber ring, a fishing rod, and a cricket bat.

  “That’s not treasure!” shouted Alan crossly.

  “Well, it is if you like pebbles and comics,” said Wilf. “Which I do!”

  “It’s worthless!” said Alan.

  “Now hang on,” said Wilf. “I spent two slippers on this. And a flashlight and some biscuits. So you see, it’s not worthless.”

  “Well, you can have it then,” said Alan. “I’m going to get myself some proper treasure by robbing other ships like a proper pirate.”

  And that’s when the started. NO, BUT IT REALLY, REALLY, REALLY IS THIS TIME!

  Alan marched his stowaways back to his pirate ship. Wilf felt as sad as a single sock. He was homesick, he had lost his best slippers, and he was as sorry as a peanut that he had ever come on board Alan’s ship. At least Dot was happy, still chewing on her spade and hitting her bucket against her head cheerily.

  But Wilf wasn’t happy. He was pining for Stuart. Stuart would have known how to make him feel better. Stuart would have cheered him up.

  Wilf could feel that he was about to cry so he tried to whistle. But it’s very difficult to make your mouth go in an “O” shape when it wants to go in a “waaaaaaaah” shape.

  He managed a few notes but they were rather wobbly and forlorn. He hated being a stowaway. He wished he were at home.

  Then out of the corner of his eye he noticed something. Someone waving. Something waving. With all fourteen arms. Could it be? It couldn’t be! It was!

  Stuart had crawled out of Wilf’s top pocket! Stuart had stowed away on Wilf!

  “Oh, Stuart! I’m so pleased to see you!” gasped Wilf. “But you are a very naughty woodlouse,” he added, trying to look frowny and stern. “But I’m so glad you’re a naughty woodlouse, because if you weren’t you wouldn’t be here!”

  Wilf kissed Stuart.

  Stuart nuzzled into Wilf. They did their secret handshake (fourteen times) and Wilf showed Stuart his treasure. He began to feel much, much better. Until . . .

  “Ahoy, me hearties, brace the main sail, hoist the Jolly Roger, avast the something or others, fire the cannons!” shouted Alan.

  “Sorry,” said Mr. and Mrs. Heartie. “We’re too busy watching The Phantom of the Opera in the theater. Scurvy Steve has organized a special showing.”

  “What about everyone else?” asked Alan.

  “It’s not a good time right now,” said Dave Everyone, “cuz we’re playing bingo and Cut-throat Cuthbert says you can win a picnic basket.”

  “What about the stowaways?” asked Alan.

  “It’s just that Tommy the Toothless said he’d teach us how to fold napkins into the shape of a swan,” said Wilf.

  “But we’re pirates,” said Alan, “and I’ve spotted another ship in the distance—we’ve got to get those landlubbers, pillage their grog and booty, put it on the poop deck, and shiver me timbers.”

  Some of the pirates danced past, doing the conga.

  Alan turned to Nigel. “Say something.”

  “Hmm?” said Nigel. “Like what?”

  Alan sighed. “You know, you know—brace the main sail, grog, booty, shiver me timbers—all that stuff,” said Alan impatiently.

  “Lace the chain mail?” asked Nigel.

  “Brace the main sail.”

  “Chase the main whale?” asked Nigel.

  “Brace the main sail,” repeated Alan.

  “Race the plane tail?” asked Nigel.

  Before Alan could say a very naughty swear word, they caught up with the ship because it turned out that Alan had been looking through his telescope the wrong way, so in fact it wasn’t

  a tiny ship, far away,

  it was an

  “Yikes,” said Alan. “Fire the cannons!”

  “Hire the salmons?” said Nigel.

  “Sink the ship!” commanded Alan.

  “Shrink the chip?” said Nigel.

  “Shoot the parrot!” said Alan, jumping up and down with rage.

  “Toot the carrot?” said Nigel, perplexed. “It would be easier to repeat everything you said if you ever said anything that made any sense,” he complained.

  “Drat!” shouted Alan indignantly.

  “Sprat?” said Nigel. “Don’t mind if I do. I’m a bit partial to fish. Although I can’t do shellfish,” he added. “I have an intolerance.”

  Alan sighed and went over to one of the cannons and lit it.

  There was a fizzing. And then a pause. And then an enormous . . .

  And then a plink as the cannonball hit the huge aircraft carrier and plopped into the water.

  Alan fired all the cannons.

  Plink plink plink plink plink.

  They hit the aircraft carrier and plopped one by one into the water.

  Alan turned and looked at Wilf.

  “Did you just laugh?” said Alan.

  “No,” said Wilf.

  “You smiled though,” said Alan.

  “No,” said Wilf truthfully.

  “Your eyes are smiling,” said Alan.

  “I think I just have smiley eyes. They do it on their own,” explained Wilf.

  “Right. That’s it. You are walking the plank!” said Alan.

  WHAT?? Walking the plank??

  Wilf’s eyeballs went all hot and swively, he gulped a big gulp, and his knees tried to go the wrong way.

  If he walked the plank he would fall in the water and he hated falling in water and getting his face wet. And he was scared a big squashy squid would eat him up in a very squishy way.

  What was he going to do? He wanted to knit the word HELP and hang it from the mast.

  But he didn’t have time for knitting. And he didn’t have needles for knitting. And he didn’t have wool for knitting. Knitting was out of the question. So instead he had a great big old worry and then a great big think and he thought so hard his brain got a stitch. And then he had an idea.

  He got out his “How to Stop Worrying” leaflet.

  said “Break down the thing you are worried about into little steps.”

  Right. So. He ha
d to take one step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank, then another step along the plank—this wasn’t really helping much—then he had to faaaaaallllll, and faaaaaalllll some more, keep faaaaaaaallllling, keep faaaaaaallllling, keep faaaaaaaallllling—it was not helping at all—down into the water right into the flobberdy slobberdy jaws of a squishy squid who would suck him up, squelch squeeeelchhhhhhhhh . . .

  STOP! Thinking about it was making him feel much worse. Best to just get on with it.

  Wilf kissed Stuart good-bye and popped him into Dot’s bucket. Then he took the goldfish bowl from the treasure chest, which he popped onto his head (so he wouldn’t get his face wet). He also got from his backpack a can of sardines (from the picnic) to offer to the squishy squid to eat instead of himself and a can opener to help the squishy squid open the sardines.

  And with that, Wilf plunged into the water and floated . . .

  until . . .

  He landed on something hard. Not a squashy squid. Maybe a squid wearing a hard hat?

  Wilf listened out for any squelchy squiddy noises.

  He heard a muffled shout.

  “Oi, get off my submarine!” the muffled shout said.

  Then suddenly Wilf felt himself going . . .

  until . . .

  splash-cough-phatooee.

  He had plunged into the air. In an upward plungy sort of way. There’s probably a word for that.

  Wilf sat up. He appeared to be sitting on a submarine. There were some squeaky creaky sounds coming from inside followed by some sweary sounds.

  “Dash it all to hell. The damned hatch has stuck closed. Damn and blast it,” said the voice. “Do you think you could help open it up?” it asked.

  “Well, I’ll have a go,” said Wilf. He got out his can opener and very carefully went around the whole of the top of the round hatch of the submarine and flipped it open.