Chew Bee or Not Chew Bee

by Martin Chatterton

  Willy Wagg/Edagger

  CHEW BEE OR NOT CHEW BEE

  To the estimable Mr Gregory Rogers:

  thanks for the loan of your quill—MC

  For Matt: my rusty ol’ bucket o’ bolts—GR

  CHEW BEE OR NOT CHEW BEE

  Willy Wagg/Edagger

  Martin Chatterton

  Illustrated by

  Martin Chatterton and Gregory Rogers

  Little Hare Books

  an imprint of

  Hardie Grant Egmont

  85 High Street

  Prahran, Victoria, 3181, Australia

  www.littleharebooks.com

  Text copyright © Martin Chatterton 2011

  Cover illustrations and internal silhouette illustrations

  copyright © Gregory Rogers 2011

  Full-page internal illustrations copyright © Martin Chatterton 2011

  First published 2011

  First published in this edition 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry available upon request

  ISBN 978 1 742736 06 8 (epub)

  Cover design by Luke and Vida Kelly

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Half Title Page

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1 A Lot More Than Kin

  2 Something Rotten in Denmark Lane

  3 To Bee or Not to Bee

  4 A Noble Mind is Overthrown

  5 Willy Sets it Down

  6 O Woe is Willy

  7 A Dog Has His Day

  8 The Undiscovered Warehouse

  9 Willy Shuffles Off

  10 Cruel to be Kind

  11 Alas, Poor Pooch

  12 Willy’s Rising Gorge

  13 Goodnight, Sir Victor, Goodnight

  14 The Play’s the Thing

  15 A Sea of Troubles

  16 Skellington Holds His Tongue

  17 The Serpent That Did Sting

  18 A Thousand Natural Shocks

  19 The Fair Old Feller

  About Martin Chatterton

  Preview

  Praise for Willy Wagg/Edagger

  1

  A Lot More Than Kin

  Willy was a little disappointed to discover that the streets of London were not paved with gold. They were, in fact, filthy.

  It had been dark when the Black Skulls arrived the previous evening in an area of London called Slaughterside. They’d gone straight to their lodgings at Mrs McScottish’s boarding house. And it was still dark when they’d trudged to the Billericay Bowl theatre that morning to begin rehearsals for their popular play, The Sheeted Dead.

  So this was Willy’s first real chance to get a good look at the city in all its bustling, glitzy, Londony glory. The dirty streets didn’t put a dent in Willy’s good mood. In every other way, London was exactly as he’d hoped it would be.

  As he and Yorick started down the theatre steps, a knot of paparazzi buzzed into life, parchment pads and quills at the ready. But they sank back with a groan when they realised it was no one famous. It was just a scrawny-looking eleven-year-old country bumpkin and, behind him, a great hairy lump of a man, who looked as though he’d be more at home wrestling bears.

  The paparazzi, along with a small band of fans known as the ‘Utter Nutters’, were camped outside the theatre for one reason only. They were hoping to catch a glimpse of Olly Thesp, the lead performer with the Black Skulls, England’s most famous theatrical troupe. Yorick, the Skulls all-round Mr Fix-It, and his new dogsbody, Willy, clearly didn’t count as stars.

  Yorick shouldered his way through the Nutters, and onto the crowded street, with Willy close behind. At the foot of the steps, Willy paused and looked down Denmark Lane, to where the River Thames could be glimpsed between the buildings. Willy threw his head back, closed his eyes and flared his nostrils to suck in some London air when…

  SPLAT!

  The contents of a bucket of slops hit Willy full in the face and sent him spluttering to his knees, his head and shoulders covered in revolting goop.

  ‘Wot you doin’ standin’ in the way, you great bletherin’ bumpkin?’ yelled a woman from an overhanging balcony. ‘Can’t you see I’m tryin’ to clean me billet?’

  Willy scraped the worst of the slops from his face and spat into the gutter. A mangy dog barked at him and, in his haste to get away from it, Willy spun around and banged his head against something. That something was a beggar’s knee.

  ‘Do you mind?’ said the beggar, shaking a grimy bandaged hand at Willy. A bit of the beggar—possibly a finger—fell off and bounced into the gutter. ‘Oh, bleedin’ marvellous,’ he said. ‘Fanks fer nuffink, chum.’

  ‘C’mon, Waggledagger,’ said Yorick. ‘There’s no time fer lazin’ about! This is London, old son. We got fings to do, people to see.’

  ‘But…’ spluttered Willy. He scrambled to his feet, blinking furiously.

  ‘No “buts”, matey!’ said Yorick. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Sundial?’ hissed a low voice next to Willy’s ear.

  Willy turned to see a scruffy individual holding open his greasy cloak to reveal a row of small wooden sundials pinned inside.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Willy.

  ‘Sundials, chief. Best you can get this side of the river. Genuine ’andmade timepieces these are, accurate to wivvin five hours! Only ’alf a penny to you, squire. Robbin’ meself blind, I am.’

  Yorick shoved his fist in the man’s face and wiggled it about. The man inspected it carefully.

  ‘That’s right, Marlowe, take a good look at it,’ said Yorick. ‘Now clear orf, afore I give you an even closer look. The lad’s new in town and ’e don’t want no stolen sundials, right?’

  Marlowe backed away, clutching his sundials to his chest. ‘Seein’ as yer in a bad frame o’ mind,’ he said, turning away, ‘I’ll take me bizness elsewhere.’

  Yorick shook his head at Marlowe’s retreating back. ‘You be careful, Waggledagger,’ he said. ‘London’s got more iffy characters than one of Walden’s plays. They’ll take yer money faster than you can say “ching-ching”.’

  ‘I haven’t got any money,’ said Willy.

  ‘Don’t matter,’ said Yorick. ‘They’ll still take it, you mark my words.’

  He turned on his heel, pushed his way through a gaggle of black-clad priests, and set off towards Burgess’s, London’s finest theatrical supply shop. Yorick was on a mission to find some long hoses for his new fog machine. He was very excited about the fog machine and was keen to get it rigged up as soon as possible.

  Willy brushed as much of the filth from his tunic as he could and scampered after the big man.

  ‘Do try an’ keep up, Waggledagger!’ snapped Yorick. ‘This fog machine will be jist the fing to start everyfink off perfick. If we impress the audience wiv a good job, it’ll make it easier fer you to stay in the Skulls!’

  Willy picked up the pace. He wanted to stay in the Black Skulls more than anything else in the world, even though he was just a lowly gofer. He didn’t mind running errands or doing dirty jobs because he felt at home in the Skulls. Without their help, Willy would still be in Stratford. He’d still be working for his horrible, red-faced father in the family tannery, and getting spanked at least once a day.

  Willy shuddered and turned his attention back to Yorick, who was still talking.

  ‘We gotta get everyfink jist right if we want to impress
the King!’ Yorick said.

  ‘I thought we had a Queen,’ said Willy. ‘We met up with her last week, remember? You almost married her.’

  ‘Not yer actual King,’ snorted Yorick, swerving between a man carrying three geese in a basket, and a ragged gang of child pickpockets. ‘Although, as far as theatre folk are concerned, ’e might as well be.’

  Yorick broke off to lift a pickpocket’s hand from Willy’s tunic. ‘Lorst summink, ’ave you?’ he said, and cuffed the pickpocket across the back of the head.

  The child went sprawling into a flock of sheep.

  ‘Where woz I?’ said Yorick. ‘Oh, yeah, the King. This bloke is the court-appointed Big Cheese. The Master of the Revels being ’is proper title, although everyone in the game calls ’im the King of Denmark Lane. Got it?’

  Willy nodded doubtfully. ‘Er, I think so. What’s his name, this “King”?’

  Yorick scratched his beard. ‘Good question, Waggledagger. Last time I woz in London it woz summink like ’Arold ’Ardwick. No, wait, it woz a bit more fancy than that. Lots of letter “a”s in it, I remember that. Aaron, that’s right. Aaron Aardvark Ardent.’

  Willy’s mouth fell open. He skidded to a halt in front of a chestnut stall.

  ‘’Ungry?’ said the stallholder, thrusting a handful of shrivelled nuts under Willy’s nose.

  Willy waved the man away impatiently. This was no time for nuts. ‘Did you say Ardent?’ he asked Yorick.

  ‘Aaron Aardvark Ardent. Funny name. Why?’ said Yorick.

  ‘Because,’ said Willy, ‘he’s my uncle!’

  2

  Something Rotten in Denmark Lane

  The trip to Burgess’s supply shop passed in a daze. Normally, Willy would have been spellbound by the costumes, props and specialeffects gadgets that filled the tiny shop. But today he couldn’t stop thinking about the amazing news that he was related to the King of Denmark Lane.

  He picked up a full-size witch’s cauldron, and absent-mindedly flicked a switch at the back, setting off a flashpot concealed inside.

  A flash of light blinded two shoppers behind him. They stumbled into a display of papier-mâché weaponry, which collapsed with the sound of ripping paper and splintering wood. Fake cannonballs rolled all over the shop floor.

  Bertie Burgess went ballistic. ‘’Ere! You watch what yer doin’!’ he yelled.

  Willy hardly noticed. All he knew was his Uncle Aaron was the most important man in London theatre! Now he could stay with his friends in the Skulls forever and never have to worry about his father again.

  Bertie Burgess was arguing with Yorick about who was going to pay for the damage.

  ‘You shouldn’t be leavin’ dangerous equipment around the place, Bertie,’ said Yorick. ‘If young Waggledagger’s injured ’imself, you could be in big trouble, my son! You do know ’is uncle is the King of Denmark Lane?’

  Bertie looked at Willy and closed his mouth.

  Leaving Bertie scratching his head, Yorick trotted towards Willy. ‘C’mon, Waggledagger,’ he said, putting an arm around Willy’s shoulders and steering him towards the door. ‘I got me ’oses for the fog machine. Now let’s ’op it back to the theatre before you blows up the rest of London.’

  An hour or so later, Yorick and Willy gathered the Skulls together to give them the eyepopping news that Willy was related to the King of Denmark Lane. Willy, grinning from ear to ear, sat on the edge of the Billericay Bowl stage. The Black Skulls formed a circle around him.

  ‘What are you looking so pleased about?’ scowled Olly Thesp. He began to buff his already-shining nails. ‘You’re interrupting rehearsals of the new play! Of which I am the star!’

  Yorick ignored Olly. He jabbed an elbow in Willy’s ribs. ‘Go on, son,’ he said. ‘Tell ’em wot you told me. Go on, go on!’

  ‘All right, Yorick, give me a chance,’ said Willy. He rubbed his ribs and looked at the Skulls. ‘My uncle is Aaron Aardvark Ardent. Yorick thinks he might be the same Aaron Aardvark Ardent who’s the King of Denmark Lane.’

  There was a gasp of disbelief from Olly, and a clatter as he dropped his nail-buffer.

  ‘No “might” about it,’ beamed Yorick. ‘The lad’s connected, Charlie!’

  ‘Uncle, eh?’ said Charlie Ginnell, the Black Skulls manager. He put down the accounts books he’d been poring over, and began pacing back and forth in front of Willy. His belly jutted out like the rounded prow of a Thames river barge. ‘Aaron Ardent, the Master of the Revels, the King of Denmark Lane, the most important man in the whole of London theatreland is your uncle?’ he said.

  ‘I refuse to believe it!’ cried Olly. ‘How could this whey-faced infant be related to Ardent? It’s impossible!’

  Willy tried to ignore Olly. ‘I think it’s him, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I remember Uncle Aaron from when I was small. He disappeared when I was about five years old. He was always eating carrots—that’s partly why I remember him so clearly. And after he disappeared, my mother sometimes talked about him. But not often, because of my father. You know what my father’s like about the theatre.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Minty Macvelli, the Skulls warm-up act. He was holding Minimac, his ventriloquist’s dummy, on his lap, and they both rolled their eyes. Willy’s father had once made a memorable entrance at a Skulls show in Stratford.

  Willy shuddered as he remembered being chased around the theatre by Sir Victor Vile, a gang of Royal Codpieces and his father—every one of them keen to give him the spanking of his life, when all he’d done was sneak in to watch the play.

  ‘That must be him!’ said Elbows McNamara, the Irish fiddler. He waved his fiddle bow in the air with delight. ‘What a stroke of luck for the Skulls to be connected to such an important bloke!’

  Willy smiled. This uncle thing was great!

  ‘Very convenient for you, eh, Waggledagger?’ said Minimac slyly. ‘You quite certain there ever was an uncle back there in whichever hick town you come from?’

  Minty clamped a hand over the doll’s mouth.

  ‘Stow it, you ’orrible little jumped-up log,’ hissed Yorick. ‘Before I turns you into firewood.’

  Walden Kemp, the Skulls writer, looked up from his sheet of parchment. ‘Elbows is right,’ he said. His eyes were shining. ‘This is a wonderful stroke of luck. With your uncle as the King of Denmark Lane, we can’t go wrong! Just think: one of the Black Skulls related to the King!’

  Willy beamed.

  ‘Who’d have thought,’ said Minty, ‘that a little country mouse like you would be related to someone important like Ardent?’

  Olly gazed at Willy with new-found appreciation. ‘I’ve always known there was something special about you,’ he said, smiling the famous Thesp smile and ruffling Willy’s hair.

  ‘Thanks, Olly,’ said Willy.

  ‘Uncle Aaron, the King of Denmark Street,’ said Charlie, rubbing his hands together. ‘This’ll help bring home the bacon and no mistake!’

  There was a snort of laughter from near the entrance to the theatre.

  ‘I wouldn’t be countin’ yer chickens quite so fast if I were you,’ wheezed a thin woman, who was pinning a poster to the theatre door. It was Morticia Coil, the Billericay Bowl’s manager.

  Morticia finished with the poster and shuffled forward to the stage. A clay pipe was wedged between her greenish teeth.

  ‘What’s the big joke, Morty?’ said Yorick.

  Morty shrugged. ‘Well, it’s not really a joke at all. Especially not for poor old Ardent, God rest his soul.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘You make it sound like he’s dead,’ said Willy.

  Morty took out her pipe and jabbed the end of it in Willy’s direction. ‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news, old bean, but the fact is that old Ardent is dead. Just last week! Brown bread. Popped his clogs. Pushing up daisies. Six feet under. Extinct. No more. Gone from this——’

  ‘All right, Morty,’ said Yorick. ‘We get the picture. He woz the lad’s uncle
after all. Show a bit o’ respect.’

  Morty Coil looked at Willy. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,’ she said.

  Willy didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His throat seemed to have seized up.

  I should have known it was all too good to be true! he thought to himself. His dreams of sharing his love of theatre life with his kindly uncle had been shattered.

  Yorick shot a furious glance in Morty’s direction. He patted Willy on the back. ‘You all right, Waggledagger?’ he said.

  Willy didn’t reply. He wasn’t all right. Not only had he lost Uncle Aaron, he’d also lost his new-found status in the Black Skulls. Willy had once been butted in the stomach by a goat. That was how he felt now.

  Charlie climbed onto the stage and went over to Willy. ‘Very sad, Waggledagger,’ he said. ‘Our thoughts are with you. Pity, really. We could have used a friendly connection. Still,’ he continued, smiling, ‘the new King might not be such a bad chap.’

  ‘Ahh,’ said Morty, fiddling with her pipe.

  ‘What?’ said Charlie. ‘Who is the new King of Denmark Lane, Morty?’

  Willy wasn’t listening. He didn’t give a flaming fig who the new King was. He only knew Uncle Aaron was dead.

  Morty opened her mouth to reply. But she never got the chance.

  The main doors to the theatre flew open and a chill air blew in from the street. A short, round man with a beetroot-coloured face and piggy eyes buried in folds of fat bustled towards the stage. He wore baggy black velvet pantaloons and a black silk coat. He was followed by two hulking brutes, also dressed from head to toe in black.

  Morticia Coil took one look at the new arrivals and slipped silently through a side door.

  The fat man came to a halt and glared at the Skulls. His chins wobbled like jelly and his pantaloons billowed like the sails of an overladen galleon. He was breathing heavily and dabbing at his forehead with a lace kerchief.