‘Ooh dear, let me get you a nice glass of tarberry juice,’ said Pandora. ‘Ugenia get your uncle a glass of tarberry juice.’
‘I’m not a slave,’ huffed Ugenia as she strutted to the kitchen to get the drink.
When Ugenia returned to the lounge, where her parents and Uncle Harry were sitting, her uncle had his head in his hands and seemed to be buffing and sighing a lot.
‘Ugenia, we have an excellent idea,’ said her mother. ‘We can tell you’re not exactly thrilled to go to the DIY store with us so you’re going to do something far more exciting!’
‘We would like you to spend some quality time with your Uncle Harry,’ said her dad. ‘He needs a little bit of relaxation and time out today, so we’ve come up with the perfect solution.’
‘Yes, Ugenia, you lucky girl,’ smiled Uncle Harry, who seemed to be calming down a bit. ‘You and I are going to take in some marvellous art at the gallery in Boxmore Town Centre.’
‘Isn’t that great?’ smiled Pandora. ‘You wanted to see a bit of vibrant colour and now that’s exactly what you’ll get!’
Ugenia slung on her luminous yellow rucksack and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Great, I’m ready. Let’s go then. Anything is better than staring at these four beige walls,’ she muttered under her breath.
Ugenia waved goodbye to her parents as she put on a big crash helmet and got in the sidecar of Uncle Harry’s golden Harley-Davidson motorbike.
Uncle Harry zipped up his leather jacket then turned on the engine, which purred like a tiger ready to pounce.
‘Now, have fun!’ said her parents, smiling.
Ugenia and Uncle Harry sped down Boxmore Hill, past the twenty-four-hour, bargain-budget, bulk-buyers’ supersized supermarket and into the town centre. They passed the Dinosaur Museum and started to slow down as they approached a large white symmetrical building with gleaming glass doors and a big shiny sign: THE WHITE BOX – Boxmore Art Gallery. Uncle Harry screeched on his brakes and parked his bike right outside.
‘Is it all right to park here?’ said Ugenia, who was pretty sure you weren’t allowed to park on double yellow lines.
‘Yes, it’s fine. I really can’t be dealing with any hassle. Let’s not worry about those petty things today – we’re here to relax, remember! Besides it’s only MY little bike,’ said Uncle Harry, removing his shiny helmet and black shades.
Ugenia followed Uncle Harry up the white staircase, through the glass doors and into a pristine gigantic white hall.
Uncle Harry went up to the reception desk. ‘We have come to look around,’ he announced.
‘Great, sir . . . you’re just in time,’ said the girl behind the desk. ‘A tour will be starting in three minutes. You can join in!’
‘Join in?’ squirmed Uncle Harry. ‘That sounds very stressful.’
But before Uncle Harry had any time to complain, a very tall man wearing black-framed glasses came into the hall followed by a large crowd of Japanese people with lots of cameras and hats and bags and stuff.
‘Good morning! My name is Mr Poplin. Welcome to my world – The White Box!’ he announced as the Japanese people began snapping away frantically at him. Mr Poplin owned the art gallery and loved art.
‘Now today, ladies and gentlemen,’ continued Mr Poplin, ‘you will be privileged to see the finest collection of art in the world, ranging from ancient treasures to the new and directional pieces from our biggest names in Boxmore. These paintings are worth millions of pounds, so no touching!’ laughed Mr Poplin as he brushed a piece of dust from his purple velvet suit.
Uncle Harry and Ugenia followed Mr Poplin and the crowd of Japanese people through the gallery. Each room was white with tall ceilings and huge, spacious walls with one picture on each of them. Finally they came to a stop.
‘Ah, now this is a masterpiece,’ said Mr Poplin, pointing to a statue of a man with no clothes on and with an arm missing.
‘Aha!’ nodded the Japanese people with delight, snapping away with their cameras.
Mr Poplin led them on again. ‘And this is just wonderful,’ he announced, pointing to a painting. ‘Probably the best piece of modern art created in Boxmore by the artist Damian Burst. It’s absolute perfection!’
Ugenia stared at the large canvas with a small yellow dot in the middle. ‘Anyone could do that in five minutes. It looks easy,’ she said.
‘Ah, but it’s a conceptual directional vision of space and colour,’ said Mr Poplin. ‘Oh, really, how fascinating,’ said Ugenia, who had no idea what this man was talking about. ‘I still reckon I could do it though!’
‘Nonsense, it’s perfection! It took him years,’ said Mr Poplin.
‘Yeah, right,’ smirked Ugenia (who actually thought it was a load of old pap).
‘Oh, don’t mind her,’ Uncle Harry chipped in. ‘She doesn’t understand art, that’s all,’ he said, beginning to get a bit stressed as the Japanese people continued to snap away.
Mr Poplin waved everyone on. ‘Now, I need your attention,’ he announced. ‘Would you all put your cameras down. No pictures allowed for the next masterpiece we are about to see – it’s the most famous painting in the whole world ever . . . it’s called the Dona Plisa . . .’
Mr Poplin led them forward to where a painting was hanging on its own behind a thick piece of glass. It was of a dark-haired woman who was sort of smiling. Ugenia stared at it.
‘Now you may notice she has a very bemused, puzzling smile,’ Mr Poplin went on. ‘Apparently it’s because she was holding a big secret, and the reason why the painting is behind that glass is so that no one can touch it, because its worth at least ten squillion pounds!’
The crowd gasped and gathered around the painting as they all tried to take a look at the squillion-pound bemused, puzzling smile.
‘Oh, I can’t see a thing with all these irritating people,’ snapped Uncle Harry as an old woman elbowed him out of her way for a closer look at the painting.
Ugenia noticed that Uncle Harry was beginning to pull the same stressed-out face he had when he arrived at Ugenia’s home earlier. Ugenia sensed this was getting a bit much for her uncle . . .
‘Look, why don’t we get some fresh air,’ she said. ‘All this art is a lot to take in – we can come back in a bit.’
‘What a good idea,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘You really do take after the Lavender side of the family.’
Ugenia and Uncle Harry retraced their steps back out through The White Box gallery, down the steps and on to the pavement. Ugenia stared at the white van parked outside on the double yellow line.
‘Uncle Harry, where’s your bike?’ she cried. ‘Isn’t that where we left it?’
‘Oh dear . . . no no . . . not my dear precious baby . . . golden goddess . . . it’s been stolen!’ cried Uncle Harry.
At that moment a traffic warden appeared at their side. ‘It hasn’t been stolen,’ he announced as he vigorously wrote out a ticket for the white van. ‘It’s been towed for parking on a double yellow line.’
‘Outrageous!’ said Uncle Harry.
‘Injustice!’ said Ugenia. ‘Don’t worry, Uncle Harry, we’ll get her back!’
A black cloud appeared in the sky, grumbling as if it agreed with them, and then it began to rain.
‘Ooh, I don’t feel well. My stress levels are rising!’ said Uncle Harry as he leaned back on the white van and held his head in despair. Then, suddenly, the back door of the white van swung open . . .
Ugenia grabbed Uncle Harry’s hand and pulled him inside the van. ‘Let’s just take five minutes’ time out so we don’t get wet, sit quietly and think about what to do.’
‘Good idea,’ said Uncle Harry, who was now starting to huff and pant.
So Ugenia and Uncle Harry climbed inside the back of the empty white van, sat down and made themselves comfortable before shutting the van door.
Uncle Harry put his head in his hands.
‘You know, Ugenia, it’s not easy being me . . . it’s so much pressure trying to create
the perfect spaghetti tomato sauce.’
Ugenia and Uncle Harry sat in silence for a few minutes as Uncle Harry began to calm down . . .
Then suddenly there was the sound of a loud alarm followed by raised voices. The back of the van door swung open and a painting was thrown in. Then the van door was quickly slammed shut. It happened so fast Ugenia had no time to see who it was that threw the painting in. Whoever shut the door climbed into the front seat and then the engine spluttered into life and the van quickly sped off. Ugenia and Uncle Harry were flung forward as the van flew through the town.
‘What is going on?’ demanded Uncle Harry to the man sitting in the driver’s seat, who was wearing a black balaclava so his face couldn’t be seen.
The man began talking very quickly in a language that sounded familiar to Ugenia but that she couldn’t understand, then he started speaking English.
‘Shush, be quiet,’ he said in a foreign accent.
‘I demand to know exactly what is going on,’ shouted Uncle Harry. ‘Let us out immediately!’
The man in the balaclava stared back at Uncle Harry in his rear-view mirror with dark ‘don’t mess with me’ eyes.
Uncle Harry gave a worried look to Ugenia, but Ugenia just stared out of the window, listening to the faint sound of police sirens in the distance.
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you out right now,’ said the man in the black balaclava. ‘I’m in a hurry.’
‘I think he’s a robber, Uncle Harry,’ whispered Ugenia, who recognized that the black balaclava was the same sort as the one the yellow golden-spud-thief villain wore in the Hunk Roberts movie, and he too spoke in the same weird language.
‘Now, what makes you think that?’ sighed Uncle Harry. ‘I really can’t deal with robbers . . . it’s not good for my stress levels . . . he’s probably just trying to avoid being towed off by the traffic warden.’
Ugenia stared at the painting that had been thrown in the back. It was of the dark-haired woman, who was now giving Ugenia the bemused, puzzling smile.
‘I definitely think he’s a robber, Uncle Harry . . . unless he has just borrowed the painting of the Dona Plisa,’ said Ugenia.
The man in the balaclava began to talk even faster in his foreign language as the van sped out to the edge of town. They could no longer hear any sirens as they drove through a vast wasteland and into a big warehouse.
‘I think he could be Russian, Uncle Harry,’ whispered Ugenia. ‘Just like the villain in the Hunk Roberts movie.’
‘Well done, very smart,’ said Uncle Harry, who was now sweating.
‘OK, follow me,’ said the Russian man in the balaclava as he opened the back of the van door.
‘I think we’d better do what he says just for now,’ said Uncle Harry. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be safe with me. I’ll protect you.’
‘Wow, this is just like a real Hunk Roberts movie . . . I think he might even keep us captive with bread and water and maybe even torture us. What do you reckon, Uncle Harry?’ said Ugenia.
‘Let’s not get hasty,’ said Uncle Harry, who was now sweating even more.
Uncle Harry and Ugenia followed the man through the warehouse, which was cold and grey and seemed to have no doors or windows.
The man then pressed a button on the wall and a metal slatted shutter began to elevate . . . revealing a door.
Uncle Harry and Ugenia were led into a small room with grey walls and one small window. The room was completely empty except for some old decorating materials, a wallpapering table and some paints and brushes.
Uncle Harry and Ugenia gulped as the door slammed shut behind them and they were locked in . . .
‘Well, I guess you wanted some time out for rest and relaxation,’ said Ugenia, trying to make her uncle feel a bit better.
Ugenia was feeling a bit scared, but she didn’t want to stress out her uncle any more than he already was.
Uncle Harry and Ugenia sat back to back in the middle of the room, as all the walls were a bit dirty and Uncle Harry didn’t want to get his clothes mucky. Ugenia stared at the window and tried to think of ways they could escape.
‘Uncle Harry, do you have your mobile? We could call the police,’ said Ugenia.
‘Bother, I haven’t got it,’ Uncle Harry sighed. ‘The people from my cooking show kept bugging me for the new spaghetti tomato-sauce ingredient and I just couldn’t face them today, so I left my mobile in my motorbike trunk. Oh, stupid me . . . it’s all my fault. If only I wasn’t so obsessed with trying to find the perfect spaghetti tomato sauce we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. I’m so sorry, Ugenia.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ugenia. ‘Spaghetti sauce should be taken seriously! I’m working on being the perfect spaghetti taster and tomato sauce is an important part of spaghetti, so I totally understand, Uncle Harry. I was only going to a DIY store with Mum and Dad, so it looks like I’ve ended up staring at pots and paints in the end anyway.’
Ugenia stared out of the small window and watched the rain fall freely. She felt really glum. What was going to happen to her and Uncle Harry? Would they be locked in this room forever? It was really dull just sitting there doing nothing.
Ugenia stared at the old paint pots and opened her luminous yellow rucksack, taking out a mini screwdriver she had borrowed from her dad. She opened one of the paint pots. ‘Look, Uncle Harry, it’s half full,’ said Ugenia, showing Uncle Harry half a tin of red paint.
‘Half empty, you mean,’ frowned Uncle Harry, still thinking about perfecting spaghetti tomato sauce.
‘Well, it depends how you look at it, doesn’t it?’ said Ugenia as she climbed on the wallpapering table, dipped a large paintbrush in the red paint and painted a humongous red squiggly circle on the wall. She then opened another can of paint and did one big yellow splat in the middle of the circle. Ugenia smiled at the red squiggle with the yellow splat.
‘There you go, Uncle Harry, a visual feast of spaghetti perfection!’ giggled Ugenia.
Uncle Harry stared at the red squiggly circle with the yellow splat in the middle.
‘Very inspirational,’ smiled Uncle Harry, who was slightly cheering up.
Ugenia and Uncle Harry were both feeling rather hot because, although it was quite cool outside, it was quite stuffy in the room as there was no fresh air.
‘I’m so thirsty’ said Uncle Harry.
‘Me too,’ said Ugenia, staring at the one small window, which was now misting up with beads of water caused by the heat in the room. ‘We really need to look after ourselves,’ she added as she tried to open the window. ‘Hunk Roberts always keeps his strength up, especially when he’s in a jam.’ The trickles of water were beginning to look rather appealing to Ugenia.
Then suddenly, like a thunderbolt of lightning, Ugenia had a brainwave. ‘Ingenious! Glass lick!’
Ugenia stretched up to the windowpane, gave it a lick and smiled.
‘Hmm, come on, Uncle Harry,’ she cried, suddenly feeling a bit better. ‘Come and be a glass licker! It tastes all right!’
‘Very well, but has my life really come to this – being a glass licker?’ sighed Uncle Harry, who was looking rather flustered and hot as he slowly walked up to the window. Ugenia’s uncle then gave the window one enormous lick . . .
‘Hmm, not bad!’ he laughed. ‘You’re right, Ugenia, this condensation tastes good!’
Uncle Harry, feeling revitalized, gave the window a shove and it popped open. The two revitalized glass lickers stuck their heads out of the small window and breathed in the fresh air, enjoying the feeling of a refreshing drizzle of rain spitting on their faces.
‘Ah, that’s even better!’ said Ugenia.
The grey clouds gave a final little spit and then a large multicoloured rainbow appeared, gleaming across the blue sky. Ugenia breathed in the hopeful sunlight and, for a brief moment, she almost forgot that she and Uncle Harry were imprisoned in a horrible stuffy room. Then suddenly Ugenia could hear a deep, husky Russian voice .
. . the Dona Plisa thief was coming.
‘Quick, Uncle Harry, we have to do something,’ whispered Ugenia.
Without a moment’s thought, Uncle Harry and Ugenia dragged the wallpapering table to the side of the door and climbed on it, each armed with a half-full tin of red paint. Just as the door swung open, Uncle Harry and Ugenia both threw their tins of red paint and splattered the Dona Plisa thief (who was still wearing a black balaclava).
The Dona Plisa thief was so stunned he fell back on to the floor.
Without a moment to lose, Uncle Harry and Ugenia quickly jumped off the table and ran out of the room, leaving the Russian balaclava-wearing Dona Plisa thief dazed and confused in a heap, splattered in red paint.
Ugenia and Uncle Harry dashed through the warehouse towards the white van. They jumped in the front and Uncle Harry quickly started the engine.
The engine erupted and they sped out of the warehouse, across the wasteland and headed back to the town centre right back to the Boxmore art gallery. Just as they were parking, Ugenia peered over into the back of the van and to her surprise there in the back was the painting of the woman with the dark hair and very bemused, puzzling smile.
‘Incredible!’ gasped Ugenia. ‘It’s safe!’
Ugenia and Uncle Harry walked back into the gallery, proudly returning the squillion-pound bemused, smiling Dona Plisa to Mr Poplin, who welcomed them with a big crowd of excited onlookers.
Mr Poplin was so pleased to have the painting back that he immediately arranged to get Uncle Harry’s Harley-Davidson bike returned as a thank-you, as well as a lifetime’s free membership to The White Box gallery.
Uncle Harry and Ugenia jumped on the bike and roared back up Boxmore Hill to Cromer Road. As they walked up the path to the house, Ugenia’s parents were there to greet them.
Ugenia Lavender Page 4