My Brother's Hot Cross Bottom

by Jeremy Strong

  Excuse Number One: ‘She's just a bit clumsy.’ When Cilla appeared to trip in the kitchen and spilled half her drink down my trousers so it looked like I'd wet myself.

  Excuse Number Two: ‘She's not used to small children.’ When she took Cheese and Tomato upstairs to the bathroom to help them get clean and managed to totally soak them (and the bathroom) with water.

  Excuse Number Three: ‘She's not used to animals.’ When she tied up Rubbish right beside Mum's washing line and the goat ate five pairs of pants, three socks, and munched a gigantic hole in my best football shirt.

  Excuse Number Four: ‘She's not used to vegetables.’ When Cilla pulled up half of Dad's potato plants because she said the leaves were for making salad. She wondered why the leaves had little bobbles on the end.

  ‘They're not bobbles,’ complained Dad. ‘They're teeny tiny potatoes that won't be able to grow now because you've ripped them out of the ground.’

  ‘You sound just like Mr Tugg,’ Cilla answered with a sweet smile and wide eyes, leaving Dad spluttering with rage and even more like Mr Volcano next door.

  ‘She's only nine,’ said Mum. ‘Leave the poor girl alone.’

  Am I the only one who can see that Trouble follows Cilla wherever she goes? I can't understand why Mum is so keen on the little brat. I think Dad is beginning to agree with me though.

  We haven't only had disasters either. There's a mystery too – a chicken and egg mystery.

  Dad reckons he had at least twenty eggs in the incubator but now there are only fourteen. Mum said he must have counted wrong.

  ‘I didn't,’ Dad protested. ‘There were twenty, at least. I remember because I had to use all the fingers on both hands, twice.’

  ‘Eggs don't simply vanish, Ron,’ Mum said. ‘Unless of course the little baby chicks stick their legs out of the bottom and run off.’ She started giggling.

  ‘Not funny,’ Dad muttered. Mum lifted her arm and made two fingers run up it, like an escaping egg.

  ‘Oh that is hilarious, I don't think,’ Dad snapped. Cheese and Tomato started to tug at Dad's leg and he looked down at them crossly. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Poop has gone,’ said Cheese.

  ‘What do you mean, she's gone? Gone where?’

  Tomato heaved her shoulders in a big shrug and let them drop. ‘We can't find her.’

  ‘Where have you looked?’ asked Dad.

  Tomato spread out the fingers on one hand and began counting them off. ‘In the garden, in the shed, in the rabbit hutch, in the kitchen, in the toilet –’

  ‘The toilet?’ interrupted Dad. ‘Why on earth would she be in there?’

  Cheese gave him a pale smile. ‘Don't be silly, Daddy – to do a poop, of course.’

  ‘Oh. Why didn't I think of that?’ said Dad, shaking his head. ‘Well, we'd better all go on a Poop search, hadn't we? I expect we'll find her in the garden with the other hens, safe and sound.’

  Dad took Tomato's hand, Cheese held on to me and we all set off on a hen hunt, starting with the chicken run. There was Captain Birdseye, strutting his stuff in front of Mavis Moppet, Beaky and Leaky, Big Betty and Fusspot. We found Duvet asleep in the hen house, but there was no sign of the twins' favourite, Poop. We searched everywhere. We checked the rabbits, but they were safe in the new hutch. Meanwhile

  Tomato followed us round murmuring, ‘I've already looked there,’ every time we peered into, over or under anything.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Cilla called from next door.

  ‘Poop is missing,’ Mum told her.

  ‘Maybe she ran away,’ Cilla answered.

  ‘Hens don't run away,’ I told her. ‘So maybe she didn't.’

  ‘I know a cat that ran away,’ Cilla said. ‘It didn't like its owner,’ she continued, fixing me with one of her glares. ‘So it ran away to find someone nice and kind who would look after it properly and guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘IT NEVER CAME BACK.’ Cilla grinned at me triumphantly. I'd fallen right into her little trap. Rats!

  ‘DON'T WANT POOP TO RUN AWAY!’ squeaked Cheese, clutching Mum's leg in his panic.

  ‘It's all right, darling. Cilla was joking, weren't you?’ Mum added, looking at little angel face from next door.

  I was trying to think of something sharp and clever to say to Cillia when several tons of molten lava came spilling out of next door in the shape of Mr Tugg. He was holding something brown, scruffy and flappy at arm's length. It was, of course, Poop.

  ‘I'm fed up with your blasted animals invading my home!’ he yelled, and his face got redder and redder, until it looked like a gigantic tomato. ‘Last month it was that wretched goat of yours, and now it's this nasty flappy thing.’

  ‘It's only a hen,’ Dad began.

  ‘Only a hen!’ repeated Mr Tugg in amazement. ‘ONLY A HEN? I'm not running a farm! I have a nice, clean, normal house and now we've got bits of straw all over the place and chicken poo from here to kingdom come. Do you allow hens to wander about your house?’

  ‘Poop often comes indoors, Mr Tugg,’ Mum told him. ‘She's the twins' special favourite hen and likes to follow them everywhere.’

  Mr Tugg's eyes were bulging with disbelief and he started to boil. ‘You-you-you ALLOW a HEN into your HOUSE?!’ he spluttered.

  A twinkle came into Dad's eyes. ‘Indeed we do, Mr Tugg. It makes our egg deliveries so much easier. We train all our hens to come into the kitchen and lay their eggs straight into a saucepan or a frying pan, ready for cooking.’

  ‘I've had enough of your nonsense,’ steadropping Poop over the fence and into our garden. The hen scrabbled quickly across to Tomato and into her arms.

  In the meantime Mr Tugg started up again about preventing hens from coming anywhere near his garden, let alone his house.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ said Mum, ‘but I have no idea how one of our hens got into your house in the first place, Mr Tugg. Their wings are clipped so they can't fly over the fence.’

  ‘Exactly,’ added Dad. ‘You didn't lend them your front-door key, did you?’

  ‘Of course I didn't!’ bellowed Mr Tugg as he rapidly reached tomato colour once more.

  ‘Maybe they dug a tunnel,’ Dad suggested. ‘I couldn't find my spade this morning. I bet they pinched it. Those chickens are always nicking my tools.’

  Mum hastily brought things back to a more sensible level. ‘As you can see, the hens are also shut in their run and can't get out unless someone takes them out.’

  ‘Your twins,’ hinted Mr Tugg.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I murmured, staring across at Mr Tugg's house. There was a face at a bedroom window. It was Cilla. Everyone turned to see what I was looking at.

  ‘Cilla's been indoors all morning,’ said Mr Tugg loftily and he turned his back on us and headed back inside.

  I was about to point out that Cilla had been in the garden earlier but Dad spoke first.

  ‘In that case it's a mystery we shall never solve, isn't it?’ Dad called after the disappearing figure, and we went indoors. I bet I know who took Poop into the Tuggs' house, and I bet Dad does too. (Can't trust Mum to see the truth of anything that goes on with Cilla at the moment. Huh.)

  As for the missing eggs, we still don't know what's going on there. Dad says he reckons Mr Tugg is creeping into our house when nobody is looking and secretly stealing our eggs.

  ‘Why would he do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Because he's not of this planet, that's why,’ hissed Dad. ‘He comes from Mars. I've been telling you that since you were born. And everyone knows that Martians are stark staring stonking bonkers!’

  7. The Curse of the Phantom Scarecrow

  Mum's been moaning about finding bits of straw all over the house. ‘It gets everywhere. You lot must walk it in from the garden on the bottom of your shoes.’

  ‘We've never had a straw problem before,’ Dad pointed out.

  Mum examined her shoes. ‘It's up the stairs. It's in the bathroom. It's in the front room, the
kitchen, the bedrooms – wisps of straw all over the place.’

  Dad pulled at his beard thoughtfully and narrowed his eyes. ‘Hmmm. That sounds like the Curse of the Phantom Scarecrow to me. Have you considered that possibility?’

  Mum did the same narrowing of the eyes

  and gazed straight back at him. ‘And have you considered the possibility that you are as daft as a haystack?’ she asked.

  That must be where all the straw comes from!’ I grinned. ‘It's not the Curse of the Phantom Scarecrow – it's Dad being a haystack!'

  ‘Boom-boom!’ cried Dad and he saluted me.

  Mum folded her arms. ‘Nevertheless,’ she began, ‘you two are going to clean the house of every wisp of straw because I am fed up with doing it myself. I shall go outside now and have a chat with the hens. At least they talk sense.’

  I smiled at them both. I love it when we argue like that. My dad is always coming up with crazy ideas and suggestions, and it doesn't take much to wind up my mum.

  Anyhow, it was true about the straw. It was getting annoying, and I helped Dad clean it up. He was still pretty puzzled about the missing eggs though, and we talked about it during the big straw clean-up. Apparently several more eggs had vanished. I said that Mum may have taken some for cooking but Dad shook his head.

  ‘It's more mysterious than that,’ he said and started muttering about aliens in UFOs and a possible egg shortage on Planet Zogg. However, his mind was soon taken off that little problem by something equally strange: my little brother Cheese's bottom.

  What you may not know is that my brother has got one of the most famous bottoms in the country. It's true. It's been on television! I mean his actual bottom has been seen on TV!

  When the twins were about eighteen months old, Cheese got involved in a TV advert for disposable nappies called Dumpers. You may have seen the ad yourself, with Cheese crawling around wearing one of the nappies. When they were making the ad Cheese escaped and managed to crawl his way on to the Six o'Clock News by mistake. The thing was, he wasn't wearing his nappy. In fact he was hardly wearing anything at all, so millions of viewers got a bit of a shock and Cheese became an overnight sensation!

  Cheese's bum has been famous ever since, and now he had a problem with it. It was itchy, sore and uncomfortable.

  ‘It's very red,’ said Mum. ‘I'll put some cream on it.’

  ‘Double or single?’ joked Dad.

  ‘Don't mock. It's obviously very uncomfortable for the poor chap. I don't know what all those little red dots are. It's as if his bottom's been pricked with something.’

  ‘Perhaps he sat on a hedgehog,’ Dad suggested. Mum ignored him.

  ‘If it doesn't improve quickly I shall take him to the doctor. There, does that feel any better?’ she asked Cheese. My brother looked a bit unsure but he toddled off to find his sister.

  ‘Strange,’ murmured Mum, watching him go. ‘I wonder if he's allergic to the new rabbits?’

  ‘RABBITS PUT SPOTS ON BOTTS,’ Dad said brightly. ‘That'd make a good headline.’

  ‘FUNNY BUNNY MAKES BOTTY

  SPOTTY,’ I suggested and we both rolled about.

  Then, this afternoon, guess what? Tomato had exactly the same thing! Dad was in the middle of toasting some hot cross buns for everyone when we heard wailing from upstairs. Dad looked at me and rolled his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Your mother's probably broken a fingernail,’ he grunted. ‘Quick, call an ambulance!’

  ‘Dad! That's Cheese, or Tomato,’ I said.

  ‘Boo! I'm here!’ cried Cheese from beneath the table, popping his head out.

  ‘Definitely Tomato,’ I nodded. ‘I wonder what's up.’

  We found out a minute later when Mum came in, carrying Tomato, bare from the waist down and sporting a rather red bottom. Mum stroked Tomato's hair.

  ‘It's the same as Cheese's,’ she said. ‘I can't think what's causing it. It's such an angry-looking rash.’

  Dad put a plate load of buns on the table and

  smiled. ‘I think I'd call that a hot cross bottom.’

  I shook my head and grinned. ‘It's not a hot cross bottom, Dad. It's a hot cross bum!’

  ‘Boom-boom!’ shouted Dad. ‘Give the boy a coconut!’ He began singing loudly, and it was such a brilliant song that we instantly joined in, even the twins. Dad grabbed a saucepan from the kitchen counter and started banging it with a wooden spoon, like a drum.

  We went prancing round the kitchen, and out into the garden, with Dad leading the way, banging on the pot. Mum was jiggling Tomato

  up and down in her arms and I put Cheese in the little barrow and wheeled him along. Even Nibblewibble, Saucepan and Poop joined in. Down the garden we went, singing at the tops of our voices.

  ‘Hot cross BUMS! Hot cross BUMS! One a penny, two a penny, hot cross BUMS!’

  Mr Tugg came out of his house and stared at us, his jaw hanging from the bottom of his face in disbelief. Cilla came rushing out too and leaned over the fence. She couldn't take her eyes off us. She couldn't help smiling either. In fact I thought she was going to burst out laughing, which would have made a change. I think she was actually dying to join in. She's weird.

  ‘Come on, Cilla,’ shouted Dad. ‘Why don't you come over and join in the fun?’

  Before she could answer, Mr Tugg went rather red and said that he wasn't going to put up with our nonsense. He took Cilla by the hand and marched back indoors, with Cilla looking over her shoulder at us and smirking. For once it looked like a real smile!

  If I didn't know better I'd think Cilla the Spiller secretly wanted to prance round the garden with us and sing along. But she doesn't know how to join in – she only knows how to start mayhem. I just can't make her out.

  8. Spotty Botties

  What is it with all this straw? Dad and I only went round the house yesterday doing a thorough clean and now it's back. There's more straw in our house than there is in the chicken coop! I discovered some floating in the toilet this morning. How did it get there? Dad said maybe the Phantom Scarecrow has been using our loo!

  We even had Rubbish in the house. She was following the trail, chewing on little wisps, and had wandered in as far as the bottom of the stairs. I found her with her front legs on the second step and a mouth stuffed full of stalks. Thankfully I spotted her and took her outside, otherwise I think we would have had a hot cross mum!

  The twins' bottoms aren't getting any better either. Mum asked Mrs Tugg to come round this morning and take a look. I think Mum was hoping she might have some magic cream that would solve the problem, but she simply shook her head when she saw the pair of spotty botties.

  ‘I've never seen anything quite like that,’ declared Mrs Tugg.

  ‘What do you think has made those little red prick marks?’ asked Mum.

  ‘I've no idea. I can give you some camomile cream but I expect you've tried that already?’ asked Mrs Tugg, and Mum nodded.

  ‘I shall ring Nicholas's gran and see if she has any suggestions. If it doesn't improve soon I'll have to take them to the doctor and let her have a look,’ Mum decided.

  So after school, Granny and Lancelot came zooming round on one of their motorbikes. Poor Cheese and Tomato. They had to lie there and have their bottoms inspected by the whole family. We all stood there, looking at the uncomfortable rash, with Dad and Lancelot pretending to be VERY IMPORTANT AND CLEVER doctors. They stroked their chins and spoke to each other in silly voices.

  ‘Hmmm. Very strange. What do you think, Doctor Finkletinkle?’ asked Lancelot.

  ‘I think when botts have spots and there are lots of spots, we have no idea, Doctor Potts,’ replied Dad, and they both chuckled to themselves.

  Anyhow, Granny had no idea what was causing the rash and they went roaring back home on their bike while I went to help Dad turn the eggs in the incubator. He was gazing at the little machine and scratching his head.

  ‘All the eggs are there,’ he murmured. ‘I don't understand it.’

 
; ‘Maybe you counted them wrongly yesterday?’ I suggested.

  ‘I'm not an idiot, Nick. I know I look like an idiot and talk and behave like an idiot but I'm not one really. I do know how to count eggs.’ He sighed. ‘Oh well, at least all the eggs are back. That's the important thing. They should start hatching any day now.’

  Dad and I bent our heads over the incubator but there was still no sound of cheeping.

  I went out to the garden and found Cilla staring over our fence, bored out of her mind as usual. She didn't even answer when I called ‘hello' to her. I almost feel sorry for her. (I said ‘almost' – I didn't say I did.) It wouldn't be much fun living with Mr Tugg. She kicked something with her foot, picked it up and looked at me to see if I was watching. It was a large rock, which she carried across Mr Tugg's wonderfully green lawn and put down, right in the middle. She scowled at me and came back to the fence.

  I should tell you that Mr Tugg spends HOURS AND HOURS working on his lawn. I have seen him go down on his knees, measure the length of grass blades with a ruler and trim them with little scissors until the lawn is perfect.

  ‘I don't think Mr Tugg will be very happy when his lawnmower goes over that stone,’ I told Cilla. She threw me a faint smile.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she answered flatly. It was as if she was deliberately looking for trouble, which meant I didn't want to be anywhere near her!

  Anyhow, I had to milk Rubbish, which is a job and a half, I can tell you. I set the milk pail between her legs but the daft goat likes to shuffle about while she's being milked. If you're not careful, before you know it, she's stuck one foot in

  the bucket, or kicked it over and spilled the lot.