by Helen Brain
Arabella sighed. Ilona was going to tell her anyway, so she may as well get it over with. “Why don’t I ever have enough money?”
“You need to run your practice like Dr Knight. He ran a tight ship. No freebies.” Ilona banged her knitting needle on the table for emphasis. “If people couldn’t pay he’d send them to the SPCA. You’re always charging people half price, OR NOTHING AT ALL!”
Arabella’s shoulders slumped. It was true. She was terrible at running a business. At this rate they were going to be bankrupt soon.
“I’m just going to get a cup of coffee,” she said, biting her lip. “Then I’ll come back and make sure I charge the proper rate.”
“Hmmmmph,” snorted Ilona. “That’ll be the day! Wait till the next old lady with a sick puppy arrives …”
Jamie ran through to the kitchen the moment she heard Arabella come home. She had wonderful news.
“Guess what, Mom! Oreo, you know Oreo, my favourite horse? Well, I’ve finally saved up half the money! I’ve made it, Mom. I’m so happy. So can I tell Mrs Bunhoffer that I’m buying him? You can pay the other half, right?”
Arabella lost her temper. “Jamie I have JUST walked in the door. Do you think you could give me a minute to settle before you launch into a list of demands? Yesterday you wanted new jodhpurs. Today it’s a horse. What will it be tomorrow? The car is falling apart, my X-ray machine is almost on the fritz and the plumbing is barely coping. Those things all come WAY before a horse. And just look at your new jeans. You’ve destroyed them.”
“But I thought you told Tick he had to pay for the plumbing.” Jamie stuttered.
“He’s just a little boy. Where’s he going to get two thousand rand to pay Mr Bogstopper?”
“Bogstripper, Mom.”
“Whatever,” Arabella said, banging the shopping bags onto the floor.
“Fungi, walkies, Boy!” called Dawkins in Jamie’s voice.
Fungi came running into the kitchen, skidded to a halt, stared at Jamie in surprise, and then raced off into the lounge.
“Fungi!” Dawkins shouted again, followed by the whistle Jamie used to call him.
Arabella looked up in surprise. “Good grief, Jamie. Is that Dawkins? He sounds just like you.”
“I think he’s mean,” scowled Jamie. “Poor old Fungi’s getting himself worked up for a walk every five minutes and then it doesn’t happen.”
Suddenly there was a commotion in the lounge. Barking, a crash, glass smashing and then a screeching and squawking that sounded like Dawkins was being murdered.
Arabella and Jamie rushed through to the lounge. Fungi was cowering under a chair. He had knocked Dawkins’s cage off its stand. It had fallen onto the TV, and smashed the glass.
“Oh no!” Arabella shrieked. “You bad dog, Fungi! You’ve ruined the TV.”
“It’s not his fault,” Jamie snapped. “He was provoked.” She crawled under the chair after Fungi. “Come on, Boy,” she called softly. “Don’t be scared.”
“Oh my goodness,” Arabella exclaimed, “poor Dawkins! His beak is bleeding! Fungi you’re a bad dog. You’ve hurt the parrot.”
“It’s NOT HIS FAULT!” Jamie shouted.
Arabella lost it. “Then whose fault is it? He comes charging in here like a mad thing, leaping everywhere, breaking the TV, injuring the parrot. I’ve got a good mind to make you pay for a new TV, Jamie. That will teach you to take some responsibility for your pet and to make sure he’s properly trained.”
“You CAN’T!” Jamie screamed. “It’s so not fair. Tick doesn’t have to pay for the plumbing, but I have to pay because Toby’s stupid parrot upset my dog. It’s not fair.”
“Tick’s just a little boy,” Arabella said.
“FINE!” Jamie shrieked. “I’ll pay for it! But it’s completely unfair. Here’s my money … and my dreams.” And she pulled the four thousand rand from her pocket and threw it onto the floor in front of Arabella.
Arabella gasped. “Jamie! Where did you get that money?”
“I told you. I’ve been saving up for Oreo, and I’ve finally got enough, but not anymore, thanks to you.” And she burst into tears and ran upstairs to her room.
When surgery hours were over Arabella knocked on Jamie’s door. There was no reply. She pushed the door open and went in. Jamie was lying on her bed with the pillow over her head.
“Hi, Mom, have you come to take my left leg?” she muttered. “You may as well. Without Oreo my life is over.”
“Oh, Jamie,” sighed Arabella, “I wish I could help you, I really do, and I’m sorry for shouting at you. But you need to understand, a horse is a luxury not a necessity. You can always ride one of the school ponies.”
Jamie turned over and glared at her mother. “A school pony? A school pony? McTavish is the only pony available and he’s useless. Even Lee says I need my own horse. And I was this close.”
Arabella bit her lip. “Jamie, I know how disappointed you are.” She put an envelope on Jamie’s desk. “Here’s your money. Put it in the bank. The right horse will turn up in time, and …”
“Oreo IS the right horse,” Jamie said, trying not to cry. “He really is, Mom.”
Arabella slumped onto the bed. “I’m sorry, Darling. I know I promised you, but Mr Bogstripper says he’s going to have to dig up the whole sewerage system and replace all the pipes, and it will cost at least ten thousand rand. And the plumbing is a necessity. There’s no way around it.”
Jamie blew her nose on a tissue. Her mother looked so worried. She hadn’t realised how serious her money troubles were. She’d just have to face the fact that she’d lost Oreo, and try and act like a mature twelve year old, not a spoilt kid. But it was so hard.
14
Gingerbeer genius
It was a few days later. Tick and his best friend, Chanza, were busy making a robot in the shed.
“You know how my mom is getting cross with Bieber?” Tick said, as Chanza sawed through a metal rod.
Chanza wiped the sweat off his forehead. “She was very cross with your sister about the TV too.”
“I know, and the TV was the only thing that kept Bieber quiet. He’s being very naughty without Jackass to watch. Anyway, I’ve got a clever idea on how to make money, so I can buy him nappies. Just until he gets the hang of using the toilet.”
“Nappies?” asked Chanza. “For a monkey?”
“Sure. But they’re expensive, so we need a lot of money quickly. Guess what my brilliant idea is? Ginger beer. It’s easy, man. Here’s the recipe – I printed it off a website. It just uses water, ginger, sugar, raisins and yeast.”
“Jaaaa,” said Chanza doubtfully. Tick’s schemes were never as easy as they seemed. And they usually got them into trouble.
“We’re going to need lots and lots of ginger beer so we can make loads of money,” Tick said. “We can sell it at Jamie’s stupid horse show. We’ll make a killing. It’s only a week away, and that’s just the right amount of time to make ginger beer.”
Chanza raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but you better make sure you copy that recipe exactly. We don’t want to get it wrong.”
“I’m not completely doff, you know,” Tick said. “Now let’s go and get all the ingredients.”
The boys went through to the kitchen. They collected the sugar and ginger and filled the biggest pot with water.
“Okay,” said Tick. “We need lots and lots, so we’ll double up the recipe. It says four cups of sugar so we need to put in eight.” He counted out the cups one by one.
“That was nine,” said Chanza.
“I know, but most kids like their drinks quite sweet,” said Tick. “Here, you grate the ginger.”
“Why do I always get the horrible jobs?” Chanza grumbled.
Tick ignored him. “Now we have to let the mixture bubble away until it is nice and syrupy.”
“The recipe says one packet of yeast,” Chanza said reading the page. “So you must add two.”
“I dunno how big a packet is,”
Tick said. “Mom’s only got this yeast in a tin. I’ll just use it all. I hope it’s enough.”
He emptied it all into the pot and stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon.
“Leave in a warm place for 24 hours,” Chanza read. “Where shall we put it?”
“We can’t leave it here or Toby will drink it. Let’s take it to the shed. It really gets hot in there during the day.”
Just then the prof came wandering into the kitchen, beaming.
“Hello, young men,” he said jovially. He was in an exceptionally good mood as he had just found a whole pile of his favourite underpants that he had thought were missing. “What are you making?”
He bent over the pot and sniffed. “Aha! Good old ginger beer. I used to be an expert at making the stuff when I was younger. How about I tell you my secret weapon? If you really want to put hairs on your chest you need to up the yeast. You want a real kick from your brew.”
“There isn’t any more yeast,” Tick said. “But it’s quite alright, Dad, honestly. We’ve got our own recipe. Got it off the Internet.”
“Nonsense,” his father said sternly. “Never trust what you read on the Internet. This is science, Boy. Science. It’s all down to a sugar eating fungus – Saccharomyces cerevisiae. Isn’t that wonderful? Just wonderful! Imagine a fungus! Hold on a second – I have just the thing to make it zing.”
He dashed off up the stairs to his lab.
Chanza looked doubtful. “Do you think it needs more zing? Shouldn’t we rather follow the recipe?”
“My dad’s a top science professor. He knows what he’s doing.”
Soon the prof was back with a container of white powder. He poured it into the pot and the ginger beer began to fizz and sizzle. Little wisps of smoke rose from the surface.
Even Tick was getting nervous now. “Um, Dad, thanks for your help. We’ll call you if we need anything else, okay?”
“Nonsense, young man. Watch and learn. You are in the presence of the ginger beer genius.” The prof was adding and tasting, stirring and mumbling. The more he stirred, the more the brew fizzed and bubbled.
At last he stood back and rubbed his hands together. “There you go, Chaps. A job well done, if I may say so myself. Put it in the bottles and leave it to ferment. In a day or two you are going to have the best ginger beer this side of the Equator. Don’t forget to leave some room in the bottles for the fungus to grow.”
“I dunno what your dad did to this stuff, but I’m sure it shouldn’t be fizzing like this,” said Chanza, peering into the pot.
“Don’t worry,” said Tick. “You heard him, he’s done this before. Now bring the pot down to the shed.”
“Why do I always get the horrible jobs?” Chanza muttered.
Tick ignored him. He pranced down to the shed while Chanza staggered behind him, trying not to trip. He couldn’t see his feet at all under the huge pot.
“Here you go,” Tick said. “I’ve already got the bottles ready.” Twelve old wine bottles were lined up on the floor.
Chanza looked worried as he lifted the pot onto the bench. “Won’t your mother be cross about you taking those bottles?”
“Nah,” said Tick airily. “They’ve been sitting outside the back door for ages. Mom’s supposed to take them to recycling, but she never gets around to it. So now we’re recycling them for her. I’m sure she’ll be proud.”
Chanza still looked concerned. “Ja, but didn’t it say something about not using glass bottles, cause they can explode or something.”
Tick rolled his eyes. “They ALWAYS put warnings on stuff. That’s just to protect them from doff people who do stupid stuff and get hurt and then want to sue them. There’s even a warning about choking on my cereal box. You’re not supposed to take that stuff seriously. It’s for idiots.”
“Mmm,” said Chanza nervously. “Okay, let’s finish this so we can go play.” He fitted a funnel into the first bottle, and Tick ladled the mixture inside and forced in the cork.
“Damn,” Tick grumbled when they reached the last bottle. “We’ve still got some ginger beer left, and we’ve run out of bottles.”
“We could drink it,” Chanza said hopefully.
“Liquid fungus?” Tick said. “No thanks … I know! We’ve left too much space in these bottles. We can fill them to the top. Then we can charge more.”
Chanza uncorked the last five bottles and Tick filled them almost to the top. Then he rammed in the corks.
“Everyone is going to want this ginger beer,” he said, admiring the row of bottles on the work bench. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the big companies buys our recipe for a million rand. This stuff is magic – you heard what my dad said.”
“What if someone steals them?” Chanza said, peering out of the door. “We’d better cover the window so nobody can see inside.”
“Good plan.” Tick found a piece of cardboard and stuck it to the window with a wad of putty. “Now all we have to do is leave them to ferment.”
15
Arabella spots a bargain
The next day the girls were lying on the sofa eating popcorn and watching a DVD on Pan’s laptop. The three kittens were playing on the carpet with a ping pong ball.
“Little Grey is so gorgeous,” Pan said, picking him up and cuddling him. “He’s so fluffy.”
“I feel bad about taking them away from their mother,” said Jamie, “but I think she needs a break from time to time. My mom says her pelvis is healing but still a bit sore.”
Pan looked at them adoringly. “I wonder who owns her. I wish I could have one. Hasn’t anyone claimed her?”
“No,” said Jamie. “I put a notice in and around the mall, and I advertised on Gumtree, but no-one has claimed her. Mom asked Ilona to phone the other vets in the area in case they know who she belongs to. Looks like we’ll have to find her a new home.”
“Jamie, you won’t believe what I bought you at the charity shop today!” Arabella called, coming in the back door.
“Oh no,” Jamie grumbled to Pan. “I hope it’s not jeans. I’m not wearing someone else’s old jeans.”
Arabella came into the lounge, carrying a black bag. She was bursting with excitement. “You’ll never guess what’s in here, Darling. You’re going to be so excited.”
“No, I’m not,” said Jamie firmly. “I’ve told you already, Mom. I don’t wear dead people’s clothes.”
“Don’t be silly,” Arabella said, undoing the knot at the top of the bag. “Only ten percent come from dead people. So guess what I bought you? Ta-daaaa …” she sang, tipping the bag up on the coffee table. “Just what you wanted. And the whole set only cost thirty five rand.”
Jamie poked the bundle of clothes. “What IS it? It smells like mothballs.”
Arabella grabbed a baggy beige garment and held it up. “Jodphurs. How’s that? Jodphurs. AND a riding jacket.”
“MOM,” Jamie moaned. “Look how huge they are. They’re much too big for me. These pants would fit Ilona.”
“You’ll grow,” Arabella said. “And we can take them in if they’re too wide.”
“And the jacket’s huge. Look how long the sleeves are.”
“Jamie, don’t be fussy. You can just roll them up.”
Jamie rolled her eyes.
Arabella sighed, bundled the clothes up and shoved them back in the black bag. “I thought you’d be pleased,” she said, pursing her lips. “I’ll just take them back to the charity shop then. I’m sure SOME girl your age will be thrilled to own them – and to be recycling clothing instead of wasting the planet’s resources.”
“They’re not so bad,” Pan said. “I’m sure once they’re washed and ironed and the hems put up they’ll look much better. Thirty five rand is a real bargain, Arabella.”
Jamie glared at her. Pan was supposed to be on her side.
The fluffy grey kitten rushed up the back of the sofa and then lost its footing and tumbled over onto Pan’s shoulder.
Arabella laughed. “He’
s a little tiger, that one.”
“Please, Arabella, won’t you speak to my mom,” Pan said, picking up the little grey cat and cuddling him. “I’m desperate for a kitten but she won’t let me have one. I’m sure if you talk to her she’ll change her mind.”
Arabella looked at Pan thoughtfully. “We do need to find a home for them. The mother cat is almost better, and she needs to be in a comfy home, instead of a cage in the hospital. I’ll give your mom a ring and see what she says.”
Jamie sighed. “You’re so lucky to have your own horse,” she said to Pan. “Do you think maybe Mrs Bunhoffer would give me a discount?”
“I’ll send her an e-mail and ask her,” Arabella said. “I’ll explain how hard you’ve worked, and tell her the situation. Maybe she’ll be willing to drop her price.”
Jamie jumped up and hugged her mother. “Thank you, Mom, thank you!”
16
Surprise!
Jamie dug through her cupboard, looking for something to wear to riding.
“Ah, here are my jeans,” she said pulling them from the back. She stared at them in horror. Arabella had sewn a Barney the Dinosaur patch over the torn knee.
There was no way she was going riding in Barney-jeans. Shardonnay would probably take a photo and post it on Facebook. She scratched through her cupboard. There was nothing else that fitted her. In desperation she ran down to the laundry to see if she could find the hideous jodhpurs from the charity shop, but they were gone too.
“Tick!” yelled Jamie. “Where’s Mom?”
“Dunno,” he called. “She went out. Said something about a surprise.”
Jamie pulled on the ridiculous Barney-jeans and grabbed her bike. She was out of breath by the time she rode through the gates of Lee’s Riding School. Liberty’s SUV was parked in front of the emergency exit.
Great, she thought. Just what I need – nasty comments from Shardonnay AND her mother about my jeans. Arabella’s station wagon was parked in one of the bays. “I don’t believe it,” Jamie muttered. “I have to ride here on my bike and she’s coming here anyway!”