Snow!

by Alan MacDonald

  “Cannons?” gasped Bertie. “Brilliant! Please can I come?”

  “No,” said Dad firmly. “And don’t go on because I won’t change my mind.”

  Mum cleared away the plates. “Well, I think you’re being very mean,” she sniffed. “Bertie would make a very good pirate.”

  Dad put his head in his hands. “IT’S NOTHING TO DO WITH PIRATES!”

  CHAPTER 2

  On Wednesday night Dad went to battle practice. When he returned, Bertie was in the lounge watching TV with Mum and Suzy. Whiffer was sprawled out on the floor.

  There was a clanking in the hall and Dad appeared in the doorway.

  “Well, what do you think?” he said.

  “Good grief!” said Mum. “Did you walk home like that?”

  Bertie stared. His dad was wearing a tin helmet that looked like a pudding bowl. Long boots flapped around his knees and he seemed to have lost the bottom half of his trousers. In his hand was an enormous pole tipped with a sharp blade.

  “Wow! Is that your axe?” said Bertie impressed.

  “It’s called a pike,” said Dad. “I’m a pikeman in the royal army.”

  “You look like you’re in the circus,” said Mum. “Be careful with that thing.”

  “Can I have a go?” begged Bertie.

  Dad shook his head. “No, it’s not for children.”

  “Please,” said Bertie. “I just want to see what it’s like.”

  “Oh, let him have a go,” sighed Mum.

  “Well, all right,” said Dad, “but just for a moment, and don’t go poking anyone in the eye.”

  Bertie jumped up eagerly. He’d never held a pike before. It would be brilliant for poking people in the bottom. Know-All Nick for instance.

  “Not like that,” said Dad. “You need both hands. One up here to steady it. Got it?”

  “Yes,” said Bertie.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m fine!” said Bertie. “Let go!”

  Dad let go. The pike was a lot heavier than Bertie had expected. It started to fall.

  “LOOK OUT!” cried Mum, ducking out of the way. Bertie heaved and managed to jerk the pole back upright.

  CLANG! SMASH! TINKLE!

  There was the sound of breaking glass and the light went out. Bertie stumbled over something in the dark, lost his grip on the pike and dropped it with a thump.

  WOOF! WOOF!

  “BERTIE!” yelled Mum.

  “It’s all right,” cried Bertie. “It’s only Whiffer. I trod on his tail.”

  Once they’d cleared up the bits of glass, Dad replaced the broken light.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” repeated Bertie for the tenth time.

  Mum glared at Dad. “It’s you I blame,” she said.

  “ME?” said Dad.

  “It’s your stupid spear!”

  “It’s not a spear,” said Dad. “It’s a pike.”

  “I don’t care what it is, don’t bring it in the house!”

  “I’ve got to practise for Saturday,” argued Dad.

  “And that’s another thing,” said Mum. “I’m taking Suzy shopping on Saturday.”

  Dad’s mouth fell open. “But that’s the day of my first battle. What about Bertie?”

  “I’m not dragging him round the shops with us,” said Mum. “Last time I took him to Dibble’s, he jumped in a lift and ended up on the fifth floor!”

  “Who’s going to look after him, then?” asked Dad.

  “You are!”

  “I can’t! I’ll be fighting the battle.”

  “Well, surely Bertie can go and watch?” said Mum.

  “Yes! Can I, Dad?” begged Bertie.

  Dad looked at him wearily. “If you must,” he sighed.

  Bertie whooped.

  “But you’re only coming to watch,” warned Dad. “You are NOT taking part.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Saturday morning dawned. Bertie chattered excitedly to Dad all the way to the battlefield. When they arrived, he stared … where was the battle? He had expected two great armies with banners and knights in armour. Instead there was a scattering of tents at the foot of a hill. People were strolling around dressed in long boots and floppy hats.

  “Right,” said Dad, locking the car and heading for a white tent. “You wait outside while I go and sign in. And don’t wander off or touch anything.”

  “I won’t,” promised Bertie. He stood outside the tent watching some soldiers who were smoking pipes round a fire. After ten minutes he noticed a queue had formed behind him.

  “Right, who’s next?” asked a big, bearded man, appearing from the tent. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Who me?” said Bertie.

  “Well you’re in the queue. What’s your name?”

  “Bertie. Bertie Burns.”

  The man checked his list. “You’re not down here,” he said. “Never mind, who are you with?”

  “My dad,” said Bertie.

  “No, I mean whose side are you on? Parliament or the King?”

  “Oh, I’m for the King,” said Bertie.

  “Good lad,” said the man. “Well, as it happens, the King’s army is short of a drummer boy – how does that sound?”

  Bertie’s face lit up. “Brilliant. Oh, but I haven’t got a drum.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said the man. “Pop into the tent and see Sarah, she’ll kit you out with a uniform.”

  Bertie hurried inside. He couldn’t believe his luck. He was actually going to take part in the battle. Wait till his dad heard about this!

  A short time later he emerged from the tent wearing a black jacket, a flat hat and baggy velvet bloomers. A large blue drum hung at his side. Bertie banged it a few times to see what kind of noise it made. The soldiers round the fire looked up and glared.

  Just then Dad appeared. “Bertie! Where have you been?” he cried. He stared. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a drum,” said Bertie.

  “Yes, but what are you doing with it?”

  “I’m a drummer boy in the army. Listen to this,” said Bertie.

  He played a deafening drum roll. BRRRRRRRRRRR…

  “STOP!” yelled Dad. “I thought I made it clear you weren’t in the battle?”

  “It wasn’t my fault! They needed a drummer!” said Bertie.

  They were interrupted by a red-faced man trotting over on an enormous horse. He seemed to be having trouble controlling it.

  “Ah, Burns!” he boomed. “All set? Looking forward to the battle, eh?”

  “I was,” sighed Dad. “When do we start?”

  “Not long,” said the man. “We’ll be on the right flank, defending the hill with Prince Percy. Pikemen at the front, of course.”

  Bertie raised his hand. “Where do I go?” he asked.

  “Oh, this is my son, Bertie,” explained Dad. “This is Sir Harry Crackpot, General of the King’s infantry.”

  “I’m the King’s drummer,” said Bertie, thumping his drum.

  “Ha ha! Excellent!” wheezed Sir Harry, as his horse took him round in circles. “Well, you keep with me. We’ll be guarding the King’s flag.”

  “Can I fire the cannon?” asked Bertie.

  “I don’t think so!” chuckled Sir Harry. “Just stick with me. After they charge, I’m afraid we’re out of the game.”

  “What game?” said Bertie.

  “The battle, we’re all killed. Didn’t your dad tell you?”

  “It’s the battle of Bodge Hill,” Dad explained. “The Roundheads win.”

  “Isn’t that us?” said Bertie.

  “No, we’re the Royalists. We lose. Most of us end up dead.”

  Bertie frowned. “But I want to win!”

  “Oh no, we can’t win! Ha ha!” chuckled Sir Harry. “That wouldn’t be history.”

  Bertie looked confused. It made no sense. What was the point of fighting a battle if you weren’t trying to win? In any case, there was no way he was going to lie down and die just because
it was history.

  CHAPTER 4

  BAM BAM! BOOM! BAM BAM!

  The Royalist army set off marching up the hill. Sir Harry rode at the front with the King’s flag bearer marching behind. Next came Bertie, beating his drum. Once, he dropped his drumstick and almost got trampled by a line of pikemen. At the top of the hill, he had a great view of the battlefield. The Roundhead army was drawn up in front of the tents. The King’s army held the hill with the royal flag waving in the wind.

  Sir Harry Crackpot made a long speech. Bertie beat his drum till he felt his arms were going to drop off. Then the two armies yelled insults at each other from a safe distance. Bertie thought it was a funny sort of battle. When were they going to get on with the fighting?

  BOOM!

  A cannon thundered in the distance, sending out a puff of grey smoke. At last, this is more like it, thought Bertie. The Roundhead army charged, waving their swords and cheering. Some of them fell over.

  “This is it, men, hold your line!” yelled Sir Harry, his horse facing the wrong way.

  Bertie beat his drum. He wished he had his pirate cutlass so he could fight the rotten Roundheads. Down the hill he could see Dad struggling with his pike as the enemy came into view. The two sides met in a giant rugby scrum at the foot of the slope. Swords clashed. People cried out. Smoke filled the air. When it cleared Bertie saw a lot of the King’s men were lying down, either dead or having a nap. But the enemy carried on swarming up the hill.

  Bertie looked round. Sir Harry had fallen off his horse and was lying on his back. The King’s flag lay forgotten in the mud. Bertie picked it up.

  “No!” hissed Sir Harry urgently. “Put it down! We’re all DEAD!”

  “I’m not!” said Bertie. “I’m fine.”

  Three big Roundheads came up the hill with their swords drawn.

  “You!” shouted the captain. “Hand over the flag!”

  “No chance!” Bertie yelled back.

  “Surrender!” ordered the captain.

  “Surrender yourself!” said Bertie.

  The Roundheads looked at each other. Their orders were to capture the King’s flag. No one had mentioned anything about a dirty-faced drummer boy.

  Bertie’s dad appeared out of the smoke. He was out of breath and missing his helmet.

  “Bertie, it’s okay,” he panted. “Let them have it! It’s all part of the battle.”

  Bertie shook his head stubbornly. “It’s the King’s flag.”

  “I know. That’s the point. We lost.”

  “I haven’t lost,” said Bertie. “Not yet.”

  The captain drew a long pistol and pointed it at him. “Bang! You’re dead!” he said.

  Bertie laughed. “You missed!” he cried.

  The captain advanced, grimly. “Give me the flag, you little fool!”

  Bertie shook his head. He raised the flagpole and brought it down on his opponent’s helmet.

  BASH!

  “OWWW!” cried the captain, clutching his head. “Right, that’s it. We’re not messing about now, hand it over or else.”

  Bertie backed away. He was outnumbered three to one. Suddenly he had a brainwave.

  “Look!” he shouted, pointing down the hill. “The King!”

  The three Roundheads turned round to look. Bertie seized his chance and set off running like the wind. Down the slope he found more rotten Roundheads blocking his way. He weaved in and out of them, dodging their attempts to wrestle him to the ground.

  “STOP THAT BOY!” yelled the captain. “Don’t let him get away!”

  But Bertie was too quick for them. In an instant he was racing across the battlefield, the royal flag streaming out in the wind. About fifty Roundheads gave chase, puffing and panting as they tried to catch up.

  Dad stood with Sir Harry, watching them from the hill.

  “Good Lord!” said the general. “I’m not sure it’s history.”

  “No,” said Dad, picking up his pike, “but I know someone who’ll be history when I get hold of him.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Miss Boot didn’t often look pleased, but today she was smiling – or at least not scowling.

  There was a reason for this. Last week Swotter House School had got their picture in the paper again. Usually, this made Miss Boot green with envy – they were always winning awards or meeting some important person. But this time it had given her an idea. It was high time Pudsley Junior got their name in the paper, and she knew how.

  “Can anyone tell me what this is?” she asked.

  “A book!” shouted Darren.

  “Don’t call out please, Darren. What kind of book?”

  Know-All Nick shot up his hand. “The Bumper Book of Records, Miss.”

  “I’ve got that book,” cried Bertie. “It’s fantastic!”

  “Thank you, Bertie,” said Miss Boot. “This is a special book all about setting records. A record is something that no one has done before.”

  “Like when Bertie locked Mr Grouch in the shed?” asked Darren.

  “No, not like that,” scowled Miss Boot. “A record is when you run faster or jump higher than anyone else. Now, I’ve talked to Miss Skinner and we think our school should try to set a record.”

  The class gasped. Bertie was so excited he almost fell off his chair. He had always wanted to set a world record – and he bet he could do it, too. Imagine it – his name in The Bumper Book of Records:

  “The loudest burp of all time was recorded by schoolboy Bertie Burns. Bertie’s burp was so loud it cracked his teacher’s glasses and was heard 100 miles away in Manchester.”

  He would be famous. He would be interviewed on radio and TV. People would pay millions of pounds just to hear his record burp.

  “So we need ideas,” said Miss Boot. “What kind of record should we try to set?”

  Hands waved in the air. Bertie’s was the first to go up.

  “Yes, Trevor,” said Miss Boot.

  “The highest bounce on a trampoline,” said Trevor.

  Miss Boot pulled a face. “Too dangerous.”

  “The longest tap dance,” said Donna.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure we’ve got that long,” said Miss Boot.

  Bertie’s arm stretched higher. “Ooh, Miss, I know, Miss!”

  “Yes, all right, Bertie,” sighed Miss Boot.

  “Burping!” cried Bertie.

  “What?”

  “Burping! I can burp really loud, ask anyone!”

  Miss Boot rolled her eyes. “You cannot set a record for burping,” she said.

  “Why not? What about the longest burp ever?” asked Bertie. “With a bit of practice I bet I can burp for a whole minute. All I need is fizzy orange and—”

  “NO, BERTIE!” snapped Miss Boot. “We are not doing anything to do with burping! Now does anyone have a sensible suggestion?”

  Nisha raised her hand. “We could make a penny pyramid,” she said.

  Miss Boot looked interested. “A penny pyramid? Is that possible?”

  Nisha nodded. “I’ve seen a picture. You need lots and lots of pennies.”

  “And where would we get them?”

  “Collect them,” said Nisha.

  Miss Boot fingered her double chin. It might work, and it would fit in with their history work on Ancient Egypt. Better still, they were bound to get their picture in The Pudsley Post. It was so simple it was brilliant.

  “Nisha, I think that’s a splendid idea,” beamed Miss Boot. “Why don’t we start collecting pennies right away? Whoever collects the most will win a prize.”

  Bertie groaned loudly. A penny pyramid? Yawnsville! What was exciting about that? If they had to make a pyramid why not use something interesting – like slugs? Or even teachers? You could stack them on top of each other with Miss Boot at the bottom.

  CHAPTER 2

  That evening, Bertie explained Miss Boot’s idea over supper.

  “A penny pyramid?” said Dad. “What on earth is that?”

  “Don’t ask
me,” grumbled Bertie. “Miss Boot says we need to collect thousands of pennies, and whoever collects the most wins a prize.”

  “Have you looked in your money box?” asked Mum.

  “It’s empty,” said Bertie. “I was sort of hoping you might help.”

  Dad sighed. He dug in his pocket while Mum fetched her purse. They emptied all their pennies on to the table.

  “Eleven!” said Bertie, when he’d counted them. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘thank you’,” said Dad icily.

  “Oh yeah, um thank you,” said Bertie. If he was going to win the prize he’d need a lot more than eleven measly pennies.

  “You won’t break the record anyway,” sneered Suzy. “It’d have to be a huge pyramid. You’d need millions of pennies.”

  Bertie pushed his baked beans around the plate. Suzy was right. It was pointless. How were they ever going to collect enough pennies? It was Miss Boot’s fault. Why couldn’t she have picked something interesting – like the record for eating baked beans. He’d be good at that.

  “How fast do you reckon I can eat these beans?” he asked.

  Mum sighed. “I’ve no idea.”

  “Go on, how fast?”

  “Bertie, just eat your dinner, it’s not a race!”

  “But say it was – say this was the World Baked Bean Eating Championship,” said Bertie. “How fast do you think I could do it?”

  Dad groaned. “We don’t care!”

  “Time me,” said Bertie, setting down his knife and fork. Just see how long it takes. Ready… GO!”

  He grabbed his plate, opened his mouth and tipped down the beans in one go.

  SLURP!

  “Finished!” he said, licking his lips. Tomato sauce dribbled down his chin and plopped on the table.