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Monkie Business

Page 5

by Thomas, Debbie;


  Sitting on the bottom stair, she opened the notebook and wrote her first impression.

  Wading through mud, singing to brambles – and now tinned sick. Can it get worse?

  She sighed. It was more of a grimpression. Putting the notebook in her pocket, she went to help Dad load the car.

  What with all the boxes and two large rucksacks, it took two trips to get everything, and everyone, to the school. Mum and Ollie insisted on coming. But Abbie drew the line at Grandma, who refused to change out of her dressing gown.

  Mr Dabbings was waiting on the pavement by the hired minibus. He wore a woolly green jacket. It had three square buttons down the front that doubled as picture frames. In the top frame was a photo of Wendy’s face. The middle one showed her stomach, bulging slightly under a pink overall. The bottom one framed her legs and feet.

  Dad pointed to the buttons. ‘Hasn’t she come to wave you off?’

  ‘Not on your noodles. Buddleia doesn’t wake till eight.’

  Abbie pulled her Winnie-scarf tighter. Despite blue cracks in the cloud, the air had a mean little nip, as if winter was pinching spring on the bottom before sulking off to bed for the rest of the year.

  The Platts pulled up in their battered green van. Perdita jumped out.

  Abbie went to help her unload. They’d thought of everything of course: three jerrycans for water, each tied to a rucksack, and two canvas bags. ‘Tents? I thought we were staying in cottages.’

  ‘We are. That’s the food tent and this one’s for the loo.’

  Thank goodness they’re different colours, thought Abbie. Wouldn’t want to get those mixed up.

  Matt and Coriander were lifting out two trolleys from the boot. In her fringed orange cape Coriander looked like a lampshade. Skinny Matt, in his grey boiler suit, reminded Abbie of chewing gum. They wheeled the trolleys over to the minibus.

  ‘Those are for carrying the food boxes,’ explained Perdita.

  A Landrover drew up with the number plate ‘BATTY 1.’ Out jumped Terrifica then Ursula.

  Terrifica wore a bright red anorak. ‘In case I get lost in island fog.’

  ‘In case I don’t,’ whispered Ursula whose anorak was raincloud-grey.

  Perdita put a hand on her arm. ‘Haven’t your parents come to see you off?’

  Ursula blinked. ‘They’re too busy packing for their Easter trip.’ Abbie looked at Mum and Ollie, chatting away to Coriander. They’d never be too busy.

  Henry Holler appeared with his parents. Breaking free from his mother’s hand, he ran to the minibus.

  ‘Hennie!’ cried Mrs Holler, a short lady whose neck was made of chins. ‘Huggie for Mummy.’

  Henry was already in the driver’s seat turning the steering wheel and making car crash noises. ‘Loserrrr,’ he yelled at her.

  ‘Henry,’ called Mr Holler, a breadstick of a man. ‘That’s no way to speak to your–’

  ‘Eaarrrhhcccchhhh!’ screeched Henry.

  ‘My bay-bie,’ Mrs Holler sobbed as her husband led her back to their car.

  A blue Jaguar pulled up. Marcus jumped out and grabbed his rucksack from the boot. Mrs Strodboil came over to Mum.

  Abbie glanced through the car window. Marcus’s dad was in the driver’s seat. Dr Terry Strodboil MSD (Massively Successful Dentist) frowned as his wife hugged Mum. Their friendship made him uncomfortable. Like all bullies, he’d been scared of Abbie ever since she’d given him an earful last term. She waved to him. He gripped the steering wheel and stared ahead. Giggling, she went over to the mums.

  Mrs Strodboil was hugging Marcus. ‘Enjoy yourself, darling. And forget what your dad said. This trip’s about teamwork, not competition.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Marcus kissed her cheek. ‘Bye Mum.’ He flicked his fair hair from his forehead and headed for the minibus. Was that a sniff Abbie heard? Hugging Mum and Ollie, she couldn’t help feeling a teeny bit smug. Ten days away from home was a big deal for some of them. But after two weeks in Ecuador last term, she was a hardened traveller. She waved cheerfully as Mum and Ollie returned to the car. Nothing could faze her, nothing could shock.

  ‘Abigail!’ Mum rolled down the car window. ‘Remind Dad to wash his feet. We don’t want his fungus to flare up.’

  Abbie ran for the minibus.

  She found two seats in the middle.

  ‘Nah,’ said Perdita, climbing on behind her with Ursula and Terrifica. ‘Let’s all sit at the back. We can wave at the cars behind.’

  Abbie’s stomach shrank. Aren’t best friends supposed to sit together and laugh at private jokes? She got up grumpily.

  Marcus and Henry sat three rows in front of them.

  ‘Good,’ said Ursula. ‘Now Henry can’t stick gum in my hair.’ A grey blob sailed backwards and landed on her ponytail. Perdita whipped out some scissors from her snack bag. ‘Thanks,’ squeaked Ursula, as she snipped out the gum.

  Two hours, one loo stop and a bag of Perdita’s lice crispies later, they crossed the border into Wales. After another hour, two of Ursula’s unsalted rice cakes and three of Terrifica’s rock buns, they were pulling into the ferry port. The minibus rumbled over the ramp into the hold of the huge boat.

  Climbing off the bus, Abbie’s stomach swirled. The air was thick and oily. The boat engine throbbed through the floor and up her legs. She stumbled through a door and up twisty metal stairs, following the others onto deck four.

  ‘Stay together,’ said Mr Dabbings as they trooped into the lounge area. ‘We don’t want anyone getting lost.’ But Henry had already run off to the slot machines.

  Abbie swallowed as the boat juddered into motion.

  ‘You OK, love?’ Dad put his arm round her. ‘You look a bit green. Can I get you something?’

  Sick or not, this wasn’t a chance to waste. ‘Maybe,’ she said faintly, ‘a hot chocolate.’ His thumb went up. ‘With marshmallows,’ she added weakly. ‘And chocolate sprinkles.’

  He patted his stomach. ‘Might make that two.’ He turned towards the café.

  Coriander tapped his shoulder. ‘Forgotten something, Graham?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Everyone else. I’m sure we’d all love a hot chocolate. There’s plenty of money in the kitty. We all chipped in, remember?’ She winked. ‘And we wouldn’t have any favourites, now, would we?’

  He blushed.

  ‘No worries.’ She winked. ‘I’m sure you just forgot that your family’s grown, didn’t you Father Holybald? Come on, I’ll help you.’

  Abbie joined the other children at a table where Perdita was shuffling a pack of cards.

  ‘We’re playing Cheat,’ she said. ‘You can join us if you’re up to it.’

  ‘Course I am!’ Abbie glared at her.

  ‘Sorree.’ Perdita’s eyes went wide. ‘It’s just you weren’t feeling well.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Thanks.’ Abbie sat down, her cheeks burning. Why had she snapped? Perdita was only being kind. It was just all that stuff with Claire: it had made her nervous, wobbled the rock of their friendship. She picked up her cards.

  ‘I’ll start.’ Perdita put two cards face down. ‘Two tens.’

  ‘Cheat,’ said Marcus.

  As if, thought Abbie. Marcus would cheat, even when he didn’t have to, but Perdita wouldn’t, even when she did. You couldn’t find a more honest friend. Abbie smiled as Marcus picked up the tens. What was I worried about? All that talk about wanting Claire to come – that was just Perdita being her normal, friendly self.

  Abbie felt a stab of shame. She’d been so rude to Claire, when her only crime was being nice. I’ll be extra kind next term, she resolved, leaning back in her seat. In the meantime, why not have the best time ever with the best friend ever?

  Dad and Coriander came back with trays of hot chocolate. As they all reached for their drinks, he winked at Abbie. Sitting down beside her, he slid something into her lap. She glanced down. A Kit Kat! He put a finger to his lips.

  She winked back. The best friend … and, occasionally, the
best dad too.

  ***

  The ancient Incas climbed off the bus. Considering they were in a foreign country – not to mention a foreign century – they looked remarkably unremarkable in their jeans, brown anoraks and … OK, maybe the fluffy white ear muffs were pushing it. But what can you do when your boss has a whopping great hole in each ear? Bacpac had bought the clothes the day before, after noting carefully what the average gent was wearing on the streets of England. To pay for the outfits, and the night they’d spent in a Travelodge, he’d traded the Emp’s last pair of earrings at a cash-for-gold shop. Ear muffs seemed the simplest way to hide the holes in his lobes.

  ‘There it is, your Superduperness.’ Bacpac pointed across the road to a high fence. ‘Bradleigh Prison.’ Behind the fence huddled a complex of buildings with low roofs and high walls.

  Bacpac shuddered, not just from the cold that was nibbling his bones after four and a half centuries in the jungle. It was the colour – or lack of it. In front of him were as many greys as the jungle had greens. The dull concrete of the buildings. The dark bricks of the wall. The greasy pavement, the gritty road.

  The Emp whooped. ‘Wicked!’

  ‘You can say that again, Master.’

  ‘OK, wicked. Now all we have to do is find that stoutest crook, grab his hand and hold on for dear death. Come on.’ Chunca crossed the road.

  Bacpac followed, blinking back tears. How could his Luminosity be so eager to die, after four hundred and fifty crazy, exciting, boring, delightful, stressful and on the whole wonderful years together?

  He bunched his fists. Get a grip. If that’s what the boss wants, that’s what he’ll get. He followed Chunca across the road to a gate in the prison fence.

  A man in uniform approached from the other side. ‘Yes?’ he said, frowning through the fence. He fiddled with his hat.

  ‘We want for meet stoutest crook,’ said Bacpac in the English he’d been practising for two months now.

  The guard snorted. ‘You won’t be meeting anyone till I see your visiting order, mate.’ Bacpac blinked.

  ‘The letter the prison sent you, allowing you to visit.’

  Bacpac had been working hard at jail vocabulary. He got the gist. ‘We have no letter. We are fond uncle of Prisoner Klench, come to surprise little nephew.’

  ‘No surprises here, I’m afraid. Can’t let you in without a visiting order.’

  Bacpac’s voice rose in alarm. ‘But we travel great far. You cannot turn away.’

  The guard adjusted his hat. ‘Sorry Grandpa. I don’t care if you’ve walked from Italy. I don’t care if you’ve hiked from India or – I dunno – flown from the bloomin’ Amazon. Orders is orders.’ He turned to go.

  ‘But we are favourite uncle!’ cried Bacpac. ‘We must visit nephew Klench!’

  An elderly lady shuffling towards the prison exit looked up. ‘’Oo?’ Her curly grey hair seemed to wriggle. ‘Did you say Klench? And nephew?’ She hurried towards them as fast as her slippers would carry her. ‘Leave ’em to me, Mr Guard. I want a word.’ Tilting his hat at the old dear, the guard wandered off.

  A few minutes later Grandma was standing on the pavement, pooh-poohing Bacpac’s story. ‘Uncles? You two, related to Klench? Pull the other one! You look as related as Mars bars to a dumplin’. And you’ve come from South America? Very suspicious – Klench’s only contacts there are dodgier than dodgem cars. The last thing ’e needs is a couple of criminal visitors, now ’e’s on the road to redemption.’

  ‘Criminal?’ Fire raged in Bacpac’s eyes. ‘You call my master criminal?’ He cursed her in ancient Quechua.

  There was a squeak from her handbag. ‘How dare you eswear at the Grandma!’

  ‘Eshame on you,’ squealed another voice.

  Bacpac blinked. Chunca gulped. And Grandma smacked the handbag. ‘Belt up. What did I say about makin’ a scene in public?’

  Looking round to check no one had heard, she grabbed the Incas by the hand. ‘You’re comin’ with me, lads. You’ve got some explainin’ to do.’

  She marched them to the bus stop. Climbing on the Garton bus, she waved her pensioner pass and explained to the driver that her twin cousins had forgotten theirs … memories not what they used to be … old age no picnic … thanks for the ride.

  ***

  ‘You gooseberry fool. You plum duff. You apple pushover.’

  ‘Turnover, Mums,’ whimpered Klench. ‘Apple turnover.’ Sitting on the bed in his prison cell, he chewed the edge of a pillow. ‘I thought ven I gave back hairclip it vould show I am honest. Zen perhaps I vould be freed. But instead she brought zose stinky heads.’ He winced at the memory of the counselling session he’d just endured. Grandma had come into the prison visiting room. Sitting down at the table, she’d explained that the Governor had let her bring some experts along, to encourage Klench on his journey of transformation. Then she’d plonked Fernando and Carmen on the table. They’d lectured him for half an hour on the dangers of greed and gold. He’d hung his head meekly, pretending to listen and admitting that he’d been a vay bad mans.

  He’d never been so humiliated in all his life. And nor had Mummy, in all her death.

  Now she was silent. You’d almost think she was plotting. Finally, in a silky voice, she said, ‘Hubie dubes, I know you vish to turn from crimes.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Zat is grand, vizzout a doubt. But have you really vorked it out?’

  He frowned. ‘Vot you mean?’

  ‘Ven you’re free to roam ze street, how on earth you make ends meet? You have had career in crime. Retrainink vill take cash and time.’

  He knew he shouldn’t ask. ‘Vot you gettink at?’

  ‘Treasure.’ Mummy rubbed her inner hands. ‘If you escaped and found zat isle, you could zen reform in style.’

  Klench licked his lips. One final act, to set him up for life. He could sell the treasure and flee to some distant country where no one knew him. There’d be plenty of time for reform after that.

  No. Grandma would be livid.

  So? He would be loaded.

  The choice was clear: reform poor or reform rich.

  He nibbled more pillow. ‘But Mums,’ he said at last. ‘Just supposink I agree … how on earth vould I escapes?’

  Inner Mummy beamed. ‘How indeed, my sveet soufflé? Listen up – I know a vay.’

  6

  Beard Ahoy

  The boat docked at Dublin Port. The children filed down to the hold and onto the bus, tired after the four-hour crossing but quietly excited to be in a foreign country.

  Or are we? thought Abbie as they drove off the boat. The afternoon light was fading behind the same grey office blocks and skeletal cranes as you’d find in any English city. It wasn’t until they were heading along the river into the centre that she began to spot little differences: elegant bridges, colourful doorways, and statues all over the place. Luckily Dad was too busy messing up Coriander’s directions to give a history lecture.

  ‘I said left at the lights, Graham.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘No, left. Now right.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Right then – you missed it. OK, turn right here.’

  ‘Right here?’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  The setting sun proved more helpful, leading them west out of Dublin. The first stars were tickling the sky when they pulled up in front of a yellow house in a little town.

  They fell off the bus, silent with exhaustion. Abbie just about made it through her cottage pie and apple tart with extra cream before stumbling up to the girls’ bedroom. She got ready for bed and took out her notebook to jot down her first impressions of Ireland. But after one sentence – the cream is epic – the pen drooped in her hand. She fell into bed, where not even Terrifica’s volcanic snores could keep her awake.

  Breakfast next morning was a farmyard on a plate: bacon, egg, sausage, liver, black pudding (‘Dried blood,’ said Henry, flicking his onto Ursula’s lap) and whi
te pudding (‘Don’t ask,’ said Coriander, pushing hers to the side).

  By nine o’clock they were once again heading west. A fine mist blurred the fields and narrow villages of central Ireland. Abbie gazed through the window at fuzzy trees and the smudges of sheep. Leaning her head against the window, she slipped into a doze of land and sky and rushing road. She awoke to gentle hills threaded with low stone walls. The sun flung beams between clouds. A grey line on the horizon thickened into sea as they approached the ferry port of Ballinabeeny.

  The name was bigger than the place. There were three whitewashed cottages with tiled roofs, a shop with a bicycle outside and a stone jetty. A single boat bobbed in the water. On the rust-red bow, beside a flaking mermaid, was the name Fidgety Bridget.

  Coriander went into the shop to buy boat tickets and lunch. The others sat by a stream and decided not to dabble their toes because, never mind April, spring was still in its pyjamas round here. Abbie wrapped her Winnie-scarf closer and thought of sleeping bags and mud and possibly having a good cry. Then Perdita tapped her on the shoulder and shouted, ‘You’re it,’ and the children played tag to warm up while they waited for Coriander to return with sandwiches, crisps and chocolate Hobnobs.

  After lunch Mr Dabbings stood on the harbour wall. ‘Get your bags, folks. Time to go.’ He blew a kiss at the minibus. ‘See you here next week.’

  A sour fishy smell smacked up Abbie’s nose as she hauled her rucksack onto her back. A seagull squawked off the jetty. Fog hung low over the grey-green sea that twitched like living tartan. The door of the nearest whitewashed cottage opened.

  She gripped Perdita’s arm. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A beard. On legs.’

  It was walking towards them. Perched on top of the enormous beard was a yellow rain hat. Sticking down below it was a pair of yellow trousers tucked into black wellies.

  A slit opened near the top of the beard. ‘Ahar!’ it roared. ‘Avast!’ And, stopping to face them, ‘Ahoy!’ An arm shot out from the side. A hand tilted the hat. Beneath the brim two green eyes glittered like flies. ‘Well judder me hawsers! What a runtle o’ land lubbers. What a muckle o’ soil huggers.’

 

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