The Great Expanding Guinea Pig & Beware of the Snowblobs!

by Karen McCombie

  Crouching down, I peered under the tangle of twigs and ferns and saw that the back doors of the Mystery Machine van were closed.

  I could hear the faint sound of rustling and ‘peh!’ing coming from inside.

  ‘Thing?’ I said, with a tippety-tap on the plastic, just to be polite.

  ‘Rubby!’

  The doors were flung open, and there was Thing, holding a large dry leaf in one paw – with more bits of dry leaf stuck to its fur here and there (and everywhere).

  ‘What have you been doing?’ I asked, reaching over and brushing its tummy clean with my hand.

  ‘I try to make nice beddy, but this all too crunchy,’ it purred, tossing the leaf to one side.

  ‘Ah! Well, I brought you this – I thought it might be just what you needed!’

  I pulled the squidgy something out of my skirt pocket and held it out.

  It was a sponge.

  Not the foam sort; this was one of those holey, knobbly-bobbly sponges that once upon a time were living things in the sea.

  I’d spotted it in the supermarket and thought it might make nesting material for Thing. (Mum was surprised that I wanted it, but I said I’d pay for it out of my pocket money.)

  ‘What it?’ asked Thing, poking the sponge with its finger.

  ‘Here,’ I began, tearing a chunk off. ‘Maybe it’s a little bit like your favourite moss? It’s kind of cosy and crunchy …’

  Thing squidged the piece of sponge in its paws.

  Then squidged it some more.

  Then WHOOSH! the whole of the sponge vanished from my hand, as it – and Thing – disappeared inside the van.

  ‘Fnah …’

  Rustle, rustle.

  ‘Tfffff …’

  Scuffle, scuffle.

  ‘Erk!’

  While Thing worked on remodelling its den, I busied myself with building the world’s smallest snowman.

  It was tiddly enough to have an acorn shell as a hat and eyes made from two crumbs from my jacket pocket (there was a half-eaten flapjack in there, kept for emergencies).

  ‘What it, please, Rubby?’ I heard Thing suddenly ask.

  It was hunkered in the doorway of the van, holding a large chunk of sponge in one paw – with more bits of sponge stuck to its fur here and there (and everywhere).

  ‘A snowman,’ I explained, once again reaching over and brushing its tummy clean with my hand. ‘Kids – and sometimes grown-ups too – make them for fun.’

  ‘A snowmum …’ Thing repeated thoughtfully (and wrongly).

  ‘No, it’s not a snowmum. They’re supposed to look like people, so they’re called sn—’

  ‘Snow peoples,’ Thing purred, interrupting me (and getting it wrong again). ‘I like little tiny snow peop—’

  ‘BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!’

  ‘It Dog!’ chirped Thing, recognising Frodo’s woofing. ‘It say “TREES! FRIENDS! PLAY! TREES! FRIENDS! PLAY!”’

  Uh-oh.

  Sometimes Frodo escapes from his house on the estate when his family isn’t looking. Or when the owner’s three-year-old daughter Posy thinks it would be fun to lock her pet out of the house. Had that happened again?

  Er, no.

  ‘Thing? Ruby? You there?’ I heard Jackson call out, as he and Frodo wriggled and scrabbled through shrubbery from the Willow Avenue side of the trees.

  ‘Oh. Did you take Frodo out for a walk after school?’ I asked, surprised.

  Jackson hadn’t mentioned he’d planned on doing that.

  Mind you, we’d been in a huff with each other all day and not really talking.

  Jackson was huffy with me for saying the snowpig was smarter than him.

  And I was huffy with Jackson cos he threw a second snowball at me at break, which went sloshing into my wellie and left me with an all-day soggy sock.

  ‘Well, I went round to ask Mrs Thomson if I could take Frodo along when I go sledging in the park with my cousins this weekend,’ he said, ‘and Frodo got so excited when he saw me that I HAD to take him for a quick walk round the blo—’

  ‘EEEEK! Not do that, Dog!!!’

  At Thing’s panicked squeak I shone the pumpkin on the ground.

  The mini snowman was melting … melting under the stream of wee that Frodo was widdling all over it.

  ‘Stop! No!’ I yelped, trying to shoo the dog away.

  Frodo, thinking this was an excellent game, started barking and bounding about on the spot.

  Help …

  Frodo’s woofs would get Dad’s attention for sure.

  But that wasn’t the main problem. In the beam of the pumpkin I spotted Thing rocking back and forth, obviously upset at seeing the little snowman vanishing. And when Thing gets upset, strange stuff tends to happen.

  Strange stuff.

  (Don’t go thinking that’s good – it’s not, trust me.)

  And we couldn’t risk Dad or anyone else getting a glimpse of random, strange, magical stuff, could we?

  ‘Jackson!’ I said urgently, as I dropped the torch and grabbed Thing with both hands.

  ‘Hello?’

  Hello?!

  wasn’t what I was expecting Jackson to say! I’d thought he’d blurt out ‘What are we going to do, Ruby?’ or ‘How do we get Thing to stop?’.

  I peered in the gloom and saw that he had his mobile wedged to his head.

  ‘Oh, hi, Luke! Yeah! I know! Brilliant!’ Jackson twittered, talking on his phone. Had someone called him, and I hadn’t noticed, what with all the squeaking (Thing), yelping (me) and barking (Frodo)?

  ‘Jackson!’ I hissed urgently, feeling Thing trembling against my chest. We were seconds away from all sorts of crackles, fizzles, magic and muddles.

  ‘Yeah! Definitely! It’s going to be totally ace!!’

  ‘JACKSON!!’ I hissed louder, frantically stroking Thing in the hope that it might calm it down.

  ‘What? No way! Ha ha ha ha ha …!’

  Worry fluttered in my chest like a butterfly gone bonkers.

  ‘RUBYYYY! TEA’S READY!’ Dad’s voice drifted down the garden.

  No!

  What was I going to do?

  Thing was about to turn the snowflakes into baked beans or the bits of sponge into luminous jellyfish or do some other rubbish magic that would get us all found out and—

  ‘Hee hee!’ came a teeny-tiny giggle.

  Oh.

  I felt Thing’s trembling begin to ease.

  Phew – the magic had stopped before it got a chance to start.

  And what had made that happen?

  Not me and my frantic stroking.

  Not anything Jackson had said or done, since he was still babbling on the phone to one of his cousins.

  ‘Hee hee! Stop! Oooh!’

  The magic had fizzled away thanks to Frodo.

  ‘Good boy!’ I whispered, as the dopey dog carried on licking Thing all over – and my fingers too (bleurgh).

  Maybe all the licketty-licking was Frodo’s way of saying sorry to Thing for weeing on the snowman.

  Or maybe he just thought Thing tasted nice.

  Whichever, it had tickled Thing out of its panic, and got us all out of a truckload of trouble.

  All the while, Jackson - the big donut-hadn’t even noticed …

  ‘COMING, DAD!’ I yelled, as I gently popped Thing on to the ground and scooped up my pumpkin.

  Pausing only long enough to blind Jackson with a beam from the torch (‘Ow! What did you do that for?’), I jumped over the wall and SCHLUMF! SCHLUMF! SCHLUMFed my way home for tea …

  I had two plans for Friday …

  But by ten past nine he’d made me laugh so much Miss Wilson gave me one of her Scary Starey Teacher Looks.

  It was cos of Jackson’s goofy-but-great impression of Frodo.

  Whenever Miss Wilson turned away to demonstrate one of the crafts, Jackson pulled on the flappy-eared hat he’d borrowed from his dad, flopped out his tongue and turned into a dog.

  And he carried on making me
laugh all day, by refusing to talk and only bark what he wanted to say.

  (Well, not in class. When he tried it with Miss Wilson, she glowered so hard at him that he whimpered, I swear.)

  ‘Arf! Arf!’ he barked now, lolloping about as we walked out into the playground at the end of the day.

  ‘Jackson, stop it!’ I giggled. ‘Stop trying to lick my face – that’s disgusting!’

  Jackson suddenly stopped.

  Jackson suddenly went bright red.

  Jackson suddenly yanked off his mad, flappy-eared hat.

  Huh?

  After a whole day of puppying about, he seemed awkward, or embarrassed, or something.

  What had changed?

  ‘OI! PEANUT!’ came a roar.

  ‘LUKIE! MATTSTER!’ Jackson roared back, and then hurtled away from me towards the school gate.

  There, waiting for him, was Jackson’s mum. Which was no surprise, as it was her turn to pick us up.

  Beside her was an older lady. (Jackson’s nan, I guessed.)

  And with them were two boys – his cousins, right? – who immediately on Jackson – and started punching him!

  ‘HEY, PEANUT!’ roared one of the boys.

  ‘Peanut’? That was their nickname for Jackson? I’d have to ask him later how it had come about.

  ‘YAY, LUKIE!!’ Jackson answered the smaller of the two boys.

  ‘RAAA! C’MERE!’ yelled the one who had to be Matt, now getting Jackson in a headlock.

  While the three boys wrestled, shouted and hurt each other, Mrs Miller and Jackson’s nan beamed at them, as if they were as adorable as kittens.

  ‘WHAT’RE YOU DOING HERE?’ Jackson asked, bent double. ‘THOUGHT YOU WEREN’T COMING TILL TONIGHT!’

  ‘We wanted to surprise you, sweetheart!’ said his nan, gently tugging at Matt’s arm to let his cousin go.

  ‘C’MON!’ said the one who was Luke, slapping an arm round Jackson’s shoulders. ‘LET’S GO BACK TO YOURS!’

  ‘COOL!’ roared Jackson, beginning to lurch off.

  ‘Er, Jackson … haven’t you forgotten someone?’ Mrs Miller pointed out.

  Jackson looked at one cousin, then another, then looked confused.

  ‘I meant Ruby!’ his mum said with a smile. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce her to everyone?’

  ‘Uh, yeah, sure,’ said Jackson, running a hand through his spike of blond hair. ‘Ruby, this is Nan ’n’ Luke ’n’ Matt.’

  Weird.

  Weird for two reasons.

  ‘WHO’S SHE, PEANUT? YOUR GIRLFRIEND?’ said Luke, who was a smaller, slightly chunkier version of Jackson.

  ‘FNAAH-HA-HA-HA!!!’ said Matt, who was a super-scrawny, taller version of him.

  I felt my cheeks go pink, pink, pink.

  Jackson’s did ditto.

  ‘No way!’ he replied, sounding disgusted. ‘She’s just some neighbour.’

  Huh! What a cheek!!

  ‘AND WHAT’S THAT? WHY’S SHE HOLDING A BLOB OF MUD IN HER HAND?’ shouted the one who was Luke.

  ‘It’s not a blob of mud!’ I mumbled. ‘It’s an art project.’

  This morning in class, we’d made Christmas ‘bells’ out of the dome-shaped bits of egg boxes, and cut up kitchen roll holders to make the row of eight candles for Hannukah.

  This afternoon, we’d shaped clay to make little candleholders called ‘diva lamps’ for Diwali. I hadn’t had time to decorate my diva lamp, so Miss Wilson let me take it home to paint. (I hadn’t had time cos somehow Jackson got clay in his hair and I had to wash it out before it set rock hard.)

  As I clutched my lumpy diva lamp, Luke stared at me, as if he didn’t understand what I’d just said or even what I was.

  Then he turned to Jackson and said, ‘RACE YOU!’ before legging it away from the school gates.

  Jackson and Matt zoomed after him.

  ‘So, Ruby, I’ve heard all about you,’ said Jackson’s nan, as we followed the boys.

  I smiled shyly, only half-listening, since the other half of me was busy being irritated by Jackson and his drongo cousins.

  ‘You two have a den, I hear?’

  ‘Mmm.’ I nodded absent-mindedly, watching as all three boys dashed on to the zebra crossing and disappeared round the corner.

  ‘You’ll have to show Luke and Matt your den – I’m sure they’ll love it!’

  Uh-oh. I heard all right.

  And now I wanted to be the one running.

  I wanted to run all the way home to let Thing know it was in

  Had my pumpkin turned into a carriage and driven off somewhere?

  Probably not.

  But I couldn’t find it anywhere.

  I looked under the bed.

  I looked under the wardrobe.

  I looked under the pile of clothes that I was going to tidy away (last Thursday).

  I even looked under Christine cat, but there was no sign of my pumpkin-shaped Halloween torch.

  It was only dusk outside, but that meant it would be gloomy down by the trees, and I had to search for any signs of Thing that needed to be hidden.

  For a minute or two, my mind stayed in a muddle.

  Then – ping! – an idea appeared as if a lightbulb had been switched on.

  Or a Diwali candle had been lit …

  ‘Mum?’ I said, finding her in the kitchen. ‘Do we have a tealight for my diva lamp?’

  ‘I think we might have one in here …’ she replied, rifling in the cupboard.

  ‘Can I film it?’ I asked, once she’d lit the candle for me and stuck the matches back in the drawer.

  ‘If you like!’ she laughed, passing me her phone.

  Mum obviously thought I was a tiny bit mad.

  She had no idea that I was actually being very sensible.

  Here’s why …

  SCHLUMF! SCHLUMF! SCHLUMF! went my wellies in the snow, just a little while later.

  ‘Thing?’ I called softly, slipping myself over the low wall at the bottom of the garden.

  I could hear faint rustling, and definite ‘peh!’ing.

  ‘Rubby!’ Thing purred.

  I held up Mum’s mobile. In the soft glow of the tealight, I could see that Thing was trying to shove what looked like several empty jelly-baby packets into the back of the Mystery Machine van.

  Yes – the soft glow of the tealight that I’d videoed. How much safer was that than carrying a real – and really dangerous – lit candle round with me?

  ‘Are you using those for your winter bed?’ I asked, crouching down beside Thing. I could now make out tossed-aside bits of sponge near the outside of the van doors.

  ‘Mmm, sponge too sproingy, so I try these,’ muttered Thing, sounding uncertain. ‘But what is little shaky light, please, Rubby?’

  Of course, living its whole life deep in the heart of a forest, Thing wasn’t going know too much about fire.

  ‘It’s a sort of moving photo of something called a flame,’ I explained, trying not to snigger as Thing sniffed at the screen, and gave it a quick lick.

  Then a sudden bellow of boy laughter from the direction of Jackson’s kitchen reminded me why I was there.

  ‘Thing, I have to warn you – Jackson’s cousins have arrived, and I think they might come exploring down here.’

  Thing’s eyes widened in alarm.

  ‘But Boy not let them, Rubby!’ it squeaked. ‘Boy my friend – Boy keep me all safe and secret, yes, please?’

  ‘Well, Jackson would want to keep you safe, Thing, but his cousins seem …’

  Words rattled round my frazzled brain.

  I didn’t really know them properly, so how could I describe Luke and Matt? What was the missing word? Crazy? Wild? Horrible?

  ‘… boisterous,’ I settled on.

  ‘Boy– boys– boys trees …’ Thing tried to repeat, rocking anxiously from side to side. ‘What that is, Rubby?’

  ‘Well, if they wanted to do something, I don’t think Jackson would be able to stop them,’ I said in as calm a voice
as I could manage. ‘But look, it’ll be OK.’

  ‘How it be OK, Rubby?’ Thing squeaked again, rubbing its tiny paws together now.

  ‘Well, first, we hide anything to do with you,’ I replied, scanning the phone about and spotting that the snow was doing a good job of covering up the trampoline we’d made for Thing out of a cake tin and an old swimming cap.

  Any stray jelly-baby packets were gone; stuffed into the back of the Mystery Machine. All I had to tidy up were rejected chunks of sponge.

  And Thing’s one decoration – a small, laminated photo of a tamarind monkey – was easy to pull from the twig it was hanging from.

  ‘Keep that here for now,’ I said, reaching over and sliding it into the van. ‘And MOST importantly, the minute you hear anyone next door coming out into the garden, hurry up a tree and hide there till they’re gone.’

  ‘Yes, please, Rubby,’ said Thing with a solemn nod. ‘I hide up tree till cuzzles all gone.’

  ‘Just … beware.’

  ‘I bees wear,’ repeated Thing, nodding some more.

  I squinted at it for any worrying signs of panic, EEEK-ness or any wobbles of AARGHH!, but Thing seemed reassured by my plan.

  ‘I’m going to have to go in now, Thing. But before I do, is there anything you want to ask?’ I checked, not wanting it to worry about Jackson’s dorky cousins.

  ‘Before you goinging, Rubby,’ it began, looking up at me with its big, trusting moon eyes, ‘can you make me nuther little snow peoples?’

  Well, how could I say no?

  Handing the phone to Thing, I showed it how to angle the ‘flame’ so I could see what I was doing.

  Then just as I began to scoop a body together, a CRASH, BANG, WALLOP and ‘WAAAAAAHHHHH!’ interrupted my snow-sculpting.

  ‘YOU ARE SO GONNA GET IT, PEANUT!’ someone roared, as a bundle of boys tumbled into next-door’s garden.

  ‘AIM FOR HIS FACE, LUKEY!’ came a more muffled roar, like someone was trying to shout with a mouth full of pizza.