by Kaye Umansky
‘The kidnapping, you mean.’
‘No, tea with the fairy queen. Of course the kidnapping, keep up.’
‘OK, OK, just want to get things clear.’
Flora stuck the princess on her hand, waggled it about and said, in her high, princess voice:
‘Well, here I am, playing in the woods on this lovely, sunny day. Tra la la la la, I think I’ll do a little dance.’
As always, I got sucked in. Car washing forgotten, I started to pull on the jawless clown. I had an idea he might make the perfect evil kidnapper. I was just about to burst into evil kidnapper speech, when a voice came floating up the stairs.
‘Shouldn’t you two be off? It’s twenty-past nine!’
Mrs Ferguson was right. We should be off. Now wasn’t the time to be messing around with puppets. We had a business to run.
‘So where are we going first?’ asked Flora. She was carrying the bucket – a nice red plastic one, considerably better than Josh’s.
‘We’ll have to go a few roads away. I’ve done the close ones. We must away to strange lands, fair lady. Fear not, I will protect you with my sponge.’
‘What about Grafton Street?’
Grafton Street was on our way to school. We walked along it every day. Well, most days. Not on holidays or weekends, obviously.
‘Who do we know on Grafton Street?’ I pondered. That morning, Mum had given me another huge lecture about only going to the houses of people we knew.
‘Mr Smallman. We could see if he wants his bike cleaning.’
‘Good idea!’ I said.
Mr Smallman lives half-way along. He’s got a flashy motorbike and a Rottweiler called Duke, who always barks at us through the gate. He’s all right, Mr Smallman. He let me try revving his bike when I was six. So is Duke, actually. He just barks a lot, especially if he hasn’t seen you in a while. He’s got a short memory. But when he remembers he likes you, he gets all friendly and licky. It would be nice to clean Mr Smallman’s bike, if he let us. It would make a change from cars.
We walked along the road in silence for a bit. Then, at exactly the same time, we began to speak.
‘So No-Jaw the kidnapper leaps out at Princess No-Nose. . .’
‘I can see where PC No-Eyes might fit in, but where does the croc. . .?’
We both stopped, and burst out laughing. Then we walked on. By the time we reached Grafton Street, we had the basics of a rough plot thrashed out. It was a bit bonkers, I have to say. But it made us both laugh.
Chapter Four
Three cheers for Mr Smallman! He said we could clean his bike! Flora did most of the talking, which made a nice change after Josh’s silent ways. I concentrated on making friends with Duke, who did his usual manic guard-dog act when we first arrived, but then decided he remembered us and went all loving.
The bike is kept in the front garden, along with Duke, who guards it. It only took ten minutes to clean, because it wasn’t very dirty in the first place. Duke was really excited to have visitors in his garden. He kept pouncing on the sponge in a puppyish way. He knocked the bucket over once, and rolled in the water, then playfully jumped all over us with his muddy paws. But he kept going ‘wuff!’ and, on the whole, was quite endearing.
We carried on talking about the puppet show while we worked. We giggled quite a lot. We tried getting Duke to sit! And in the end, much to our triumph, he did. He even gave us a paw.
Mr Smallman was really generous. He gave us a fiver and a glass of orange juice each. He was impressed about Duke sitting on command. He said Duke didn’t do that for everybody. Then he suggested we try knocking on his neighbour’s door. He said she was ‘a very nice young lady’ and winked. He said we were to tell her Bob recommended us.
Bob. Bob Smallman. Nice name, nice guy.
We said goodbye to Duke, finished the juice and trudged up the next-door lady’s path. We didn’t strictly know her, of course, but Mr Smallman said she was all right, so she must be.
A smiley lady with messy yellow hair opened the door. I think she’d just got up. She was wearing a pink dressing gown and had a bowl of yogurt in her hand. She said we could do her car, though, when we said Bob had recommended us. She said it was the black BMW parked along the road, and pointed out the tap in the front garden. Then she went in to finish her breakfast.
It was a really nice car – big, black and gleaming, by far the best in the road. There wasn’t a mark on it. It was showroom shiny, a glorious vision of silver chrome and polished metal. We peered in through the window. The dashboard looked like something you’d find in a spaceship.
‘A three-stroke GI two four,’ I said, giving a knowledgeable little whistle. ‘What a beauty.’ I was hoping to impress Flora with manly, technical words, although I don’t have a clue about cars and was just making it up.
‘No it isn’t,’ said Flora. ‘It’s a Series 5 sports saloon with six-speed manual transmission.’
Oh. She did have a clue.
‘How d’you know that?’ I asked, mortified.
‘Read about it in What Car?’ said Flora. ‘I’m a subscriber.’
All this time I’ve known her and she can still surprise me.
‘You have much knowledge of these matters, fair maiden,’ I said, feebly. I felt a bit of a twit, pretending I knew about cars.
‘Too right I do, goodly knight. I’d stick to skateboards, if I were you. Anyway, it doesn’t need washing. It’s clean.’
‘Still,’ I said. ‘She wants it doing. Who are we to argue?’
So we got stuck in.
Twenty minutes later, it was all done. It looked exactly the same as when we’d started. Perfectly clean. Not a smear or a blemish on it. We went back and knocked on the door. Out came the smiley lady, wearing clothes and lipstick this time and carrying a handbag.
‘All finished,’ we chorused, smugly.
‘Really? That was quick,’ said the smiley lady. ‘I’ll come and have a look.’ And she came down the path, opened the gate, turned right and began walking down the road.
Right? The car was to the left. Flora and I looked at each other, puzzled.
‘Um – excuse me?’ I called.
‘Yes?’
‘Where are you going?’ I asked, politely.
‘To look at my car.’
‘But it’s not that way,’ said Flora.
‘Yes, it is.’ The smiley lady pointed to a decrepit, rusty heap, parked some way along under a tree that dripped sap and was home to a million pigeons. It was indeed a BMW, but a really, really old one. ‘There. See? Oh. . .’
Her voice trailed off, along with her smile. Even from a distance, you could see the pigeon droppings. It hadn’t seen soap since the dark ages.
Flora looked at me. I looked at Flora. Then we both turned around and looked at the smart, new, gleaming vision of beauty back along the road.
We had washed the wrong car!
The lady was very nice about it. She laughed, actually. We offered to do hers, of course, but she said she had to go out, so it would have to be another day. She suggested we try knocking on the door of the owner of the superior black BMW, explain our mistake and hope he would take pity and pay us for our efforts. She said she didn’t know him personally, but she thought he lived over the road at number 13. Then she got into her inferior, unwashed wreck and drove away in a cloud of exhaust fumes, still smiling.
‘We’re not supposed to knock on strangers’ doors,’ said Flora.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But four pounds is a lot to lose. And we did a good job. Flash car like that, he’s got to be rich. We might get a tip. No harm in trying.’
‘All right, then. Let’s do it.’And she walked off down the road.
‘So who’s doing the talking?’ I said, catching her up.
‘I will, if you like,’ said Flora. She could see I was fed up. The car-washing business was taking its toll. This was my second day at it, after all. My hands were wrecked and I was all out of charm.
‘Come
on. I expect he’ll be all right.’
So we walked along to number 13, passing Duke on the way. He started barking ferociously and hurling himself at the gate as though he’d never seen us in his life.
‘Calm down, Duke,’ ordered Flora. ‘Sit!’
He gave an amazed yelp of recognition. Then, to our great delight, he sat.
We stood on the doorstep of number 13 and rang the bell. After a moment, there came the sound of wheezy coughing and approaching footsteps. The door opened and we found ourselves staring at a small, wiry man in shirtsleeves. He had short, bristly hair with a bald patch on top and fishy blue eyes. His chin was stubbly and there was hair growing out of his ears. A cigarette dangled from his mouth and he had a mug of tea in his hand. He didn’t look too friendly.
‘Yes?’ he wheezed, through a cloud of smoke. ‘What?’
‘We’ve come to confess,’ said Flora, briskly but pleasantly. She flashed her braces at him in a rueful little smile. ‘I’m afraid we’ve made a mistake.’
‘Mistake? What mistake?’ The man’s fishy eyes narrowed suspiciously.
‘I’m afraid we’ve washed your car by accident.’
Nothing could have prepared us for the reaction. It was as though we’d told him we’d attacked it with sledgehammers, slashed the tyres, then set fire to it and cooked chestnuts in the flames while singing campfire songs.
His jaw dropped open, the cigarette fell from his mouth and his eyes bulged like a frog in shock. The mug in his hand wobbled, spilling tea down his trousers. He didn’t speak. Just made a strangled noise, deep in his throat.
‘We’re terribly sorry,’ continued Flora, nervously. ‘Um – we normally charge four pounds, but of course, you didn’t actually ask to have it done, so we’re happy to reduce it to. . .’
But she didn’t have time to finish.
The man smashed the mug down on the hall table and surged forward, elbowing us out of his way. I stumbled over the bucket and Flora bumped into the wall and hit her chin – but if he noticed, he certainly didn’t care. He leaped down the steps, raced down the path, burst out through the gate and hared along to where his immaculate car sat in the road, chrome sparkling and bodywork glinting in the sun. Flora and I glanced at each other, and reluctantly followed.
‘I don’t believe it!’ he ground out. He sounded like the man who does that catch phrase on television. ‘I simply-do-not believe it! Are you mad?’
Actually, he said some other words, too, but I’ve left them out.
‘No,’ said Flora, rubbing her chin. ‘Just mistaken. We thought it belonged to the lady down the road. Sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ spluttered the man. ‘Sorry? Have you any idea what you’ve done?’
He sank into a sudden, gnome-like crouch and laid his cheek on a door panel, squinting sideways at the shiny expanse.
Flora and I stared at each other in alarm. What had we done? Apart from wash it?
‘What did you use?’ he demanded, leaping up again. ‘Come on, come on. Don’t tell me washing-up liquid! Just don’t tell me that!’
Now he was fussily running his nicotine-stained fingers over the bodywork, feeling for invisible bumps or scratches.
‘We didn’t,’ I said. Well, I had to speak up. I couldn’t let Flora take all the stick. ‘It’s proper car shampoo. My dad uses it. Look, here’s the bottle.’
He didn’t even look. He was walking around now, face a mask of horror, shaking his head and making hissing noises, then dropping down and doing the sideways squint again. You could almost see steam coming from his hairy ears.
‘We haven’t scratched it or anything,’ said Flora. ‘We used a soft sponge.’ She held out our sponge as evidence. It was looking a bit tired, but you couldn’t deny its soft sponginess.
The man stared at it in disgust, then knocked it out of her hand.
‘Have you any idea about the washing requirements of a car like this?’ he bellowed. ‘It needs a special cleaner that leaves no residue, you little tosspots! It’s got a special finish! Use a cheap shampoo on a car like this and you ruin it! Ruin it! Out of my way! Let me get to the hose, try and limit the damage! If I can!’
Puce with rage, he bolted into his garden, snatched up a coiled hose that was tucked behind the dustbin and then came racing out, unfurling it behind him.
Three doors up, disturbed by all the commotion, Duke began barking again.
‘Stupid!’ raged the man, fumbling with the nozzle. ‘Stupid, foolish kids!’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘We’ve said we’re sorry. We rinsed it properly. We honestly haven’t hurt it. . .’
‘What do you know about it? What do you know about anythin’, you mindless little vandals? I’ve a good mind to call the cops. Where do you live? What are your names?’
Three doors up, Duke stood on his hind legs, barking over the gate like a dog possessed.
‘And you can shut up yer racket an’ all!’ roared the man. Then he turned and pointed the hose right at him!
A fierce jet poured out, hitting Duke full in the muzzle. It must have hurt. He gave a surprised yelp, pawed at his eyes and ran away behind the hedge.
Talk about overreaction. Neither of us could believe it. We just stood there like dummies, biting our lips, shuffling our feet and watching him spray water over the bonnet of his precious car. To tell the truth, we were a bit scared. We didn’t know what we were supposed to do. Offer to help? Sign a confession? Slink away quietly? Not ask for money, that was certain.
Then he sprayed us! He did! He turned round and he pointed the hose at us! Freezing cold water blasted out, soaking us from head to feet in seconds.
That was it. We didn’t hang around any longer. Flora picked up the bucket and took off down the street, with me hot on her heels.
‘That’s right!’ bawled the man. ‘That’s right! You get on out of here, you little devils!’
A short time later, panting and shivering, we sat on a bench at a bus stop to catch our breath. We were shaken, to say the least. It’s not often you get screamed at by a stranger, then half drowned in freezing water.
‘That was scary,’ said Flora, wringing out her cardigan. ‘What a horrible man.’
‘A nutter,’ I agreed, emptying the water from my trainers. ‘A complete, out and out nutter.’
‘We didn’t even hurt his stupid car,’ she said.
‘You’d think we’d attacked it with a brush made of nail files,’ I said.
‘Rubbed it down it with a cactus,’ said Flora, giggling a bit.
‘Washed it with paint stripper,’ I said, getting into the swing, adding, ‘then polished it with a hedgehog, for that special finish.’ (That was inspired.)
Flora rocked with laughter and said:
‘Carved our initials with a fork.’
‘Set out bowls of cream on top, to encourage all the sharp-clawed stray cats.’
We were feeling a bit better now.
‘Then painted it shocking pink,’ said Flora after a moment’s consideration. ‘Or possibly orange.’
‘With red spots, like a clown’s car,’ I added, chortling.
‘That’s enough of cars now,’ said Flora.
‘Yes,’ I agreed, sobering up. ‘It is.’
She reached into her pocket.
‘Fancy a sandwich?’ she asked. ‘It’ll settle our nerves.’
She unwrapped the peanut butter sandwiches. I took one, just to be polite. Flora took a huge mouthful of hers. Bird-like, I nibbled at the edge of mine.
‘So what do we do now?’ she asked, spitting a soggy crumb onto my cheek. ‘Sorry.’ She can’t help it. It’s the braces.
‘’S OK,’ I said.
‘You don’t like peanut butter, do you?’
‘Not much.’
‘So do we carry on, or what?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. You decide. You’re the one who needs the money.’
‘We could carry on,’ I said, reluctantly. I looked up at t
he sky, which had a single, tiny, wispy little white cloud in it. ‘We could. Although I think it might be about to rain.’
‘Or we could go back to mine and dry off. And you could have cheese on toast. And we could practise the puppet show.’
I thought about it. I was soaked to the skin, I still ached all over from the day before and the blister on my thumb had burst. Besides, I’m fond of cheese on toast.
We went back to Flora’s and worked on the puppet show. It was a lot more fun than washing cars.
We both agreed we wouldn’t mention the incident to our parents. We would have got a lecture for sure, even though it wasn’t really our fault. Besides. Washing the wrong car. It made us look silly.
Chapter Five
I gave up on the car washing after that. Well, I had to. Flora was going away to stay with her grandad and I couldn’t think of anyone else who would do it with me. Besides, the incident with the horrible hose man had put me off. There might be more child haters out there. I still didn’t have enough money for the skateboard, but that’s life. I would just have to wait for Christmas.
The rest of the holiday whizzed by. A couple of my mates came back from visiting their relations and I hung about with them. Mum took me shopping for new trainers, because my old ones fell apart with all the water they’d soaked up. The new ones were OK, but not as good as Josh Mahoney’s. I saw him in town coming out of the video shop, and I have to admit that his were better. We both pretended not to see each other.
Other stuff happened. My aunty Pamela came to visit, with Dianne, my cousin, and I had to be nice to her. That’s difficult, as Dianne’s stopped speaking to me since she hit twelve. She’s into pop stars and nail varnish and stuff, unlike Flora, who sticks with the jokes.
Dad and I went fishing for a whole day. Well, we spent a whole day driving around the countryside looking for a pond he insisted was there and wasn’t. It was a day wasted, actually, although I got quite good at map reading and can now recite the lyrics of Long John Baldry backwards. (Long John Baldry is a long, tall singer my dad likes. He always plays him in the car when Mum’s not there. She prefers Celine Dion.)