by Ivan Brett
“Well, I thought it was jolly fantastic, and I shan’t hear another word of it!” Lady Gwynette said, concluding with a razor-sharp, “Himph!”
Chapter 14
The Broken Buggy
“Faster!” shouted Casper, as the Bubbel Buggy spluttered shakily round a corner.
“It doesn’t go any faster!” said Lamp.
“It did on the way.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong. We’re slowing down!” Lamp tussled violently with the golf club and the buggy emitted a GRRAUNCH noise, followed by something not unlike an elephant hiccupping. Lamp banged his hand against the toilet seat. “No, no, no, no!”
Casper couldn’t handle the tension. “What is it, what is it?”
“I think all that coriander clogged up the engine.”
“Clogged it up?”
Lamp pointed to a calculator on the dashboard. “What does it say?”
“Four.”
“Four?”
“Yeah. Is that bad?”
“I don’t know. It’s only ever said three before!”
The buggy rattled turbulently and both the boys were shaken from their seats. With an angry spit, the engine emitted its last squeeze of lemon-fresh fuel and died. The buggy rolled idly into a patch of wild strawberries on the roadside and the world went silent.
“I’m sorry,” said Lamp, head bowed.
“It’s all right,” Casper replied with a heavy sigh. “It got us this far.”
Casper turned to look at his best friend. Lamp’s hair was matted and dirty, his boiler suit was covered in oil and soap, and two cheeky toes were poking through the end of his left sponge shoe. He may not have been perfect, but Lamp Flannigan was all that Casper had.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. The moon shone softly down on the wrecked buggy, while the clock ticked itself steadily onwards (at the speed of about one second per second) towards midnight. The boys had no ride home, no way to save Julius, and all they wanted was to curl up in bed and go to sleep.
“What now?” said Casper.
“Ooh, I know!” said Lamp, eyes lighting up. “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with five.”
“Shh, what’s that noise?”
“That doesn’t start with a five.”
“No, no, Lamp, listen.”
Lamp closed his eyes and cocked his head. In the silence Casper could definitely hear a noise: a sort of low rumbling, like Mayor Rattsbulge’s belly before dinner. Gradually the noise grew more defined, louder, more rumbly, until it shook the ground beneath them.
“Oh, no,” said Lamp, face filled with horror. “I’ve seen this in a film. It’s dinosaurs.”
The sound got rumblier. Casper shook his head and laughed. Surely it couldn’t be dinosaurs; they didn’t hang around in the Kobb Valley, did they? Did they? “Oh, golly,” he said, “it’s dinosaurs.”
The rumble was more of a thunder now, a really rumbly thunder. The rumbliest thunder you’ll ever hear, in fact (unless you attended the International Rumbly Thunder Festival in Madrid back in 1963, but you didn’t because I just made it up). The boys jumped down from the buggy and peered over the dusky horizon, but they saw nothing.
“Stay still,” whispered Casper. “They can’t see you if you stay still.”
“I’m scared,” said Lamp, trembling.
The ground shuddered violently, shaking the trees loose of apples, conkers and sleepy owls, which tumbled to the ground and hooted off. (Only the owls hooted off – conkers and apples generally don’t hoot very much). Then, from behind the next hill, Casper saw a dark shape appear, sort of like a top hat. As the hat rose higher, Casper could see that it was attached to a man, and the man was attached to some sort of beast, and the beast was attached to some sort of legs, which were running towards them rather fast.
But the hat/man/beast/legs weren’t alone. More shapes appeared beside it, and then more still, all rumbling in their direction at a blistering speed.
“That’s not dinosaurs,” Lamp clapped his hands and wiggled. “It’s him! It’s The Great Tickertape!”
Casper could make out his face now. Lamp was right! Riding on the back of his majestic white tiger was The Great Tiramisu himself, with his purple cape back on, but still without any trousers, whooping and cheering and waving his arms around. He was flanked by the Shetland pony and the walrus – and also the two swordfish, belly-down on skateboards. The rabbits and beavers gaily bounded in and out of the larger animals’ legs, and swooping about in the air were the doves, cooing with glee. And they all still sported their purple bow ties, top hats and bristling fake moustaches.
Casper rubbed his eyes; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He half expected to see the dinosaurs come trundling over the hill behind them.
The Great Tiramisu reined the white tiger to a halt as he reached the boys. “You bambini need-a the lift?”
“I… uhh…” Casper was struggling to find any words to say, let alone appropriate ones. “What are you doing?”
“I have seen the error of my-a ways,” said The Great Tiramisu, smoothing his moustache with a manicured finger. “I was a bad-a man. Bad-a to you, bad-a to my beasties, bad-a to everybody. But now, we make it all-a better!” He broke into a graceful smile. “Now, we go save-a your papa. Jump on!”
Casper, still in disbelief, clambered on to the back of the Shetland pony, while Lamp leapt on to the walrus. The Great Tiramisu whistled and the flotilla of performing animals rumbled onwards, Casper and Lamp now on board, off to face whatever horrors lay ahead in Corne-on-the-Kobb.
Chapter 15
Do Not Feed the Pigeons
Casper clung on to the Shetland pony’s mane as she jostled him about on her back, little stocky legs galloping away like clumsy sausages. He managed to pump the air with his fist and shout “Woohoo!” before he lost his balance and almost fell off, at which point he grabbed her mane with both hands and wished he’d brought a saddle or some glue.
By the looks of it, Lamp was having an even tougher time on the back of the walrus. He’d gripped on to his tusks, and as he flopped down the road, Lamp was repeatedly thrown upwards and then smacked back down, each time getting a faceful of fishy skin and a catalogue of bruises. The walrus didn’t care – he was barking with delight and bounding as high as his flippers would spring him, which was all the more painful for Lamp. Perhaps a ride on the back of a swordfish would’ve been smoother (if a little more fishy).
And then there was The Great Tiramisu. Casper had never seen him like this. He rode the white tiger joyfully, giggling like Betty Woons in a jelly-bean factory. This wasn’t the same pompous magician that Casper and Lamp had met that fateful night – he had changed, his inner idiot had been released.
“No more-a magic for-a me,” The Great Tiramisu called over the thundering of hooves, flippers, paws and skateboards. “I learnt something today. The bubbles, you bambini… it is better to-a have fun!”
Before long they were just a couple of miles out from Corne-on-the-Kobb, but the poor walrus was struggling to keep up. His flippers sagged and he grunted wearily at every step. (Walruses aren’t very good at running at the best of times. Did you know that not one walrus has ever completed the London marathon? Well, one did, but he took the bus.) The beavers too had given up and hopped on top of the two swordfish and were now riding them like a Viking longboat.
“Come on,” cried Casper, “we haven’t got long!” And, as they neared the village, familiar dark clouds gathered, obscuring the moonlight, and the rain started to patter down.
“The curse, it not-a lift!” The Great Tiramisu swizzled his moustache and frowned (which is what Italian men with moustaches do when they are worried that their curses haven’t lifted).
The further they went, the heavier the rain fell. Soon the animals were sloshing through ankle-deep puddles, making things easier for the swordfish, the walrus and also the rabbits who, luckily, had been learning breaststroke, but much harder for everybody else. Li
ghtning struck a tree a few fields away, the thunder was massive and deafening. The Shetland pony whinnied and reared up, again almost throwing Casper off, but he clung on like a tic on the ankle of a particularly delicious chocolate Labrador. The doves spun and wheeled manically, agitated by the rain, but still they all pushed on.
They passed what used to be Sandy Landscape’s front garden, where the cabbages now resembled seaweed and the moles had installed a diving board. Lightning struck again, closer this time.
“Nearly there!” Casper shouted.
They passed Lamp’s house, garage door still open, its contents completely drowned (apart from the hamster, who had a snorkel).
Casper could make out the sound of people shouting up ahead. “Can you hear that?” he called over the rain.
Lamp stuck his ear out. “What is it?”
“A crowd! We might not be too late!”
As they turned the final corner towards the village square the waters became shallower, which stranded the swordfish (who had long since dumped their skateboards). The Great Tiramisu spurred the white tiger for one last sprint. Casper could hear the crowd more distinctly. They were chanting something, but he couldn’t make it out over the rain.
The villagers were in sight now, a sea of savage idiots in anoraks and duffel coats, lit by the flicker of a hundred flaming torches, driven wild by the thrill of a good old public execution. The Great Tiramisu’s raggedy gang reached the square and the little beavers collapsed with exhaustion.
“Go!” The Great Tiramisu shouted. “Go and-a save your papa!”
Leaping off their sweaty steeds, the boys sprinted towards the vast pigeon cage in the centre where the statue had once stood, surrounded by the pack of frenzied villagers.
Casper glanced up at the village hall clock. “Quarter to eleven!” he shouted to Lamp over the din. “We’ve got loads of time.”
“No you ain’t,” bellowed Sandy Landscape, who was standing near the back of the crowd, pitchfork in hand. “The mayor brung it forward to get ’ome for ’is midnight feast. We’re doin’ it now.”
“What? Now?” The boys shared a look of horror and charged forward through the throng, desperate to save Julius. Inside the cage the pigeons flapped about wildly, provoked by the crowd and the rain, and hungry for flesh. Casper elbowed past Anemonie Blight, perched on her mother’s pointy shoulders. Anemonie’s face, lit only by the licking flames of the torches, was painted with streaks of red and her squinty eyes looked particularly savage. She cackled wildly and flapped her arms like wings, pecking the air. Then, with horror, they saw Julius. Arms and legs in chains, he was being shoved out of the darkness towards the cage by the crowd of bloaty-faced idiots, followed by the fatter-than-ever Mayor Rattsbulge, in full mayoral gowns (made of six pairs of curtains and some string). People were pelting pigeon feed at Julius, and Casper now clearly heard the chanting:
“Peck him! Peck him! Peck him!”
“Stop! Stop! The curse has been lifted!” Casper yelled, reaching the front of the surging crowd, but they weren’t listening any more. Julius didn’t struggle; he let them lug him forward. They reached the cast-iron door and Mayor Rattsbulge fumbled with the padlock in the pelting rain. As Julius looked helplessly to the crowd, Casper met his eyes.
“Dad!” he shouted.
Julius was shocked. “Casper?”
“Dad, I’m sorry!” Casper tried to run forward, but was held back. “I tried so hard! I’m sorry!”
“It’s all right, Casp,” Julius answered calmly. “I know. Look after Amanda and Cuddles. Tell them I love them.” The padlock clicked open. “Be a good boy.”
The cage swung wide; the villagers shoved Julius in.
“No! ” Casper cried.
The crowd fell silent, silent as a mouse that was allergic to its own squeak. Julius watched the pigeons. The pigeons watched Julius. Betty Woons watched the news. (She had forgotten to come.) One of the pigeons made a Coo noise. The crowd gasped. Another pigeon pecked at the ground. The crowd gasped again and Clemmie Answorth fell off her chair (which she’d brought along, just in case she needed to fall off it). A fat pigeon waddled about a bit. Many of the women screamed, the rest of the crowd just gasped again.
“What’s happnin’?” demanded Sandy Landscape, struggling to see from deep within the crowd.
“Nothing!” said Audrey Snugglepuss from right at the front. (She’d camped in the square since lunchtime for a good seat.)
A few murmurs of disappointment spread through the mob.
Anemonie Blight was getting impatient. “Go on, pigeons! Tasty man-meat!” she spat. “Peck him!”
“Peck him! Peck him!” shouted the crowd. But the pigeons obviously weren’t hungry. Either that, or they didn’t understand English because they waddled around, doing pigeonish things and, most importantly, not eating Julius.
Julius looked through the bars at Casper and forced a nervous smile. Casper stuck both thumbs up and grinned back.
“I think it’s working,” Lamp whispered.
Even as Lamp spoke, Casper noticed the monsoon lighten to a mere deluge.
Sandy Landscape looked to the sky and said, “It’s stoppin’ rainin’!”
“And the pigeons aren’t hungry,” said Audrey Snugglepuss. The crowd was stirring. She was right – the pigeons were merrily minding their own business, steering well clear of Julius Candlewacks. The rain had almost completely subsided and the clouds were parting to reveal a shining full moon.
Mrs Snagg felt her face. “My spots… they’ve gone.”
The villagers looked around at one another and agreed that there had been a considerable downturn in pustular ubiquity (although they didn’t use those words). Their murmur had swelled to a feverish chatter. Mayor Rattsbulge looked from the cage to the sky and finally to his villagers. “It can’t be…” he said in disbelief. “The curse… It’s… it’s gone!”
On hearing this announcement, the village erupted with triumphant cheers; men and women alike embraced the closest person to hand; the emotional among them burst into tears of relief, and a hastily prepared brass band played a joyful tune.
Casper put his arm round Lamp’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “We did it, Lamp.”
Mayor Rattsbulge, who had been vigorously shaking hands with anyone who had a hand free, prepared to make an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed. “To the pub!”
The crowd cheered again and three burly men attempted to lift the mayor into the air. They buckled under the weight of his monumental frame and a few more came to help. Eventually, after a few broken spines and the use of a rudimentary winch-and-pulley system, Mayor Rattsbulge was hoisted shakily above the crowd, and another triumphant cheer rang out. They marched off, carrying their rotund hero towards The Horse and Horse, accompanied by the brass band, leaving Julius with the pigeons inside the cage.
Casper walked over to his father. “You OK?”
“Yeah,” Julius replied. “I’m alive. I think.”
They both laughed, and then Julius said, “Can you let me out of here?”
Casper had no problem opening the padlock – Mayor Rattsbulge had left the key in. Julius, hands and feet still in manacles, shuffled out of the cage. Casper hugged his father, reunited at last.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said. “It was my fault.”
“It doesn’t matter, Casp. The pigeons didn’t eat me, and by the looks of it, you had something to do with that.” Julius ruffled his son’s hair.
“You couldn’t have done it without my buggy!” said Lamp.
“Not without you, Lamp,” said Casper. “You and me, we saved the day.”
Lamp straightened his boiler suit and grinned to himself. He’d never saved the day before, but it felt nice; so he made a mental note to do it again sometime, next time the day needed saving.
“Isn’t that…” Julius had spotted The Great Tiramisu and his soggy pets, heaped over at the entrance to the square. “What’s he doing here?”
/> “It’s fine!” said Casper. “He’s had a change of heart.”
The Great Tiramisu waved. “Is OK, I no bad-a man no more.”
“Where are his trousers?” asked Julius.
“Long story, Dad,” said Casper, laughing.
Clambering back on the white tiger, The Great Tiramisu straightened his top hat. “I must go.”
“Where?”
“Who-a knows? We will explore-a de world.”
“And you’ll not go back to how you were?”
“Never. I learn today that life is for-a having fun. I never go back.” The Great Tiramisu gave the white tiger a tickle and she purred. Then he pulled up his Y-fronts and shouted, “Yee-haa!” and rode off into the night, with his gang of merry animals fluttering, scampering, galloping and flopping behind.
“We’ll miss you, Great Tomato!” shouted Lamp, waving them off.
Casper, Lamp and Julius stood in the moonlit square for a long time, just smiling at each other. Back in the cage the pigeons doddered around; a sprig of coriander rode on a gust of wind before flopping into a puddle, and off in the pub a toast was being proposed to the saviour of the day, Mayor Ignatius P. Rattsbulge.
“Come on, boys, let’s go home and see if we can’t get these chains off, eh?” said Julius, holding up his cuffed hands and smiling.
“I made some acid out of sherbet lemons,” said Lamp. “We could try that.”
“Yeah, why not?” said Casper.
The three of them clanked off home, leaving behind all the idiots and the coriander and the pigeons because, in the end, you don’t really need idiots or coriander, or even pigeons. In the end, all you really need in life is a buggy that runs on washing-up liquid and a couple of boys to crash it.
Epilogue
The moonlight shone over Corne-on-the-Kobb. On Cracklin Crescent the old oak tree was far sprightlier than it had looked over the past few days, and the floodwaters were fast subsiding. Casper and Lamp splashed down the street, with Julius jangling about not far back.