Monkie Business

by Thomas, Debbie;

  Abbie stooped through the entrance. Hardly the cottage she’d imagined, but she had to admit it was snug. The air was warm, the earthen floor firm. The walls curved over protectively like a giant cupped hand. Could be worse, she thought grudgingly. And it’ll be fun sharing with Perdita. Besides, what was the choice?

  The huts were identical except for the largest one, in which a stone bench jutted from the wall.

  ‘Would this have been Father Kenneth’s hut?’ asked Marcus. ‘Bigger and more luxurious?’

  Abbie winced at the medieval idea of luxury.

  Dad shook his head. ‘As senior monk, he’d have set an example of humility. He’d never take the best accommodation. This was probably used communally – for prayer or storing food.’

  ‘Good job we’ve got a tent for that,’ said Coriander. ‘We’ll need all the hut space for sleeping. Hey girls, why don’t we put it up? The boys can help Matt with the loo tent.’

  That sounded only fair. The girls rushed out before the boys could protest.

  ‘I’ll be construction director,’ said Terrifica, as Coriander unfolded the canvas.

  Perdita laughed. ‘I don’t think so. Mum’s put up tents all over the world. Siberia, the Sahara – you name it.’

  Terrifica sniffed. ‘Well I’ve done it in Guides.’

  Abbie snorted. ‘Who cares about Guides?’

  ‘I do.’ Everyone turned. Ursula was sitting down hugging her knees. ‘I’d love to be a Guide.’

  Perdita crouched next to her. ‘Why aren’t you?’

  ‘My parents.’ Ursula put her chin on her knees. ‘They can’t take me.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Terrifica. ‘It’s only once a week.’

  ‘They’re out every night train–’ Ursula clamped her lips shut.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Coriander was kneeling down, laying out tent poles. ‘That’s a shame, dear.’ She sat back on her heels. ‘If transport’s the problem, I’d be happy to take you. Maybe I could chat to your parents when we get back.’

  ‘No.’ Ursula paled to paper.

  Abbie smiled sympathetically. She was an expert on uncool parents. Ursula’s must be off the scale. What on earth could they be training for? Shouting nicknames in public places? The nose-picking Olympics?

  Following Coriander’s directions, and ignoring Terrifica’s, the food tent was soon standing in the centre of the hut circle. The boys returned from helping Matt set up his latest invention over the ridge on the moor. Inside a little brown tent was the Soilet, a little wooden seat with a hole in the middle that formed the top of a vertical pipe. With lively sound effects from Henry, Matt explained how waste travelled down the organic pipe deep into the earth. After a few weeks the pipe would dissolve, leaving no litter and fertilising the soil.

  ‘Wait till you hear about the loo roll!’ Mr Dabbings’s sideburns danced. ‘Matt’s brought a stack of leaves soaked in a special liquid that makes them soft, strong and biodegradable. Kind to the behind and sound underground.’

  Marcus rolled his eyes at Abbie.

  ‘Aoww!’ came a loud whimper – or was it a quiet scream? Henry was jabbing Ursula’s arm with a tent peg.

  Perdita rushed over. ‘Stop it, you big–’

  She froze. Henry was in the sky. Ursula had grasped his waist and lifted him above her head. For a moment he hung frozen in the air. Then he flew three metres over the grass and landed on his bottom.

  Ursula covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh no.’

  Henry blinked at her in terror.

  ‘How did you do that?’ gasped Abbie as Coriander ran over to comfort him.

  ‘My parents. They’re …’ Ursula chewed the inside of her cheek.

  ‘Well, spit it out,’ barked Terrifica.

  ‘Wrestlers.’ Ursula burst into tears.

  ‘Mummeeee!’ wailed Henry, burying his face in Coriander’s shoulder.

  ‘Sssh.’ She wiped his tears with a plait. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Serves you right,’ said Perdita briskly. She turned to Ursula. ‘Why didn’t you do that months ago?’

  ‘I …’ Ursula was shaking. ‘I hate violence. And showing off. You should see my parents. Wherever we go, they roar and shout and make a scene – in supermarkets, cafés, libraries. It’s all publicity for their stage show.’

  It was the longest, loudest speech she’d ever made. And it explained so much: why she hid behind others, why her clothes were the colour of porridge. Poor thing, thought Abbie. With parents like that, who wouldn’t want to disappear?

  ‘Priceless!’ Terrifica honked like a goose. ‘Ooh, bagsy not share a hut with you. I might wake up on the ceiling.’

  Perdita glared at her. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t. Because I’ll share with Ursula.’ She took the tiny girl’s hand. ‘You can teach me some wrestling moves.’

  ‘Hey!’ Pity went sour in Abbie’s mouth. ‘I thought we were together.’

  Perdita’s eyes went wide. ‘We can’t let Ursula go with …’ she pointed at Terrifica who was still hooting away. ‘She’ll just tease her all night. Come on, it’s only for sleeping.’

  Being offered the biggest hut was no compensation for sharing with Terrifica. That evening, after a meagre meal of potted turnip soup and crackers, Abbie abandoned the singsong round the fire Matt had lit on the beach. Despite Mr Dabbings’s best efforts on his guitar, she wasn’t happy and she didn’t know it, so why on earth should she clap her hands?

  Lighting a candle from the cinders at the edge of the fire, she headed off to bed. She slipped into her sleeping bag, took out her notebook and wrote:

  Lumbered with Battgirl, thanks to Perdita, my BFF–WISH (Best Friend Forever – When It Suits Her).

  Then she slammed the book shut and blew out the candle.

  ***

  Klench sat at the back of the bus, grinning and groaning. The grin was at the ease of his escape. The groan was at the ache in his guts. The prune-bran-liquorice-soap-toothpaste-hairgel-polish mixture had done its job. The warder had taken one look at Klench rolling around the floor of his cell and called an ambulance. The hospital was twenty minutes away and, in the rush, no one had thought to put a potty in the vehicle.

  As the traffic lights turned red, Klench had whimpered, ‘I must go.’

  ‘We-e-ell …’ The prison officer looked at the awesome tum rumbling before him. An accident wouldn’t be pretty. ‘I really shouldn’t do this but …’ Handcuffing Klench’s wrist to his own, he told the driver to stop at a public toilet.

  At the cubicle door, Klench gasped, ‘You comink in or vot?’

  ‘We-e-ell.’ The prison officer looked at the green face trembling before him. It was a poo he’d rather not view. ‘I really shouldn’t do this but …’ Unlocking the handcuffs, he pushed Klench into the cubicle.

  Ten minutes, three wind concertos and four barrels of eau-de-cowpat later, Klench emerged. ‘Zat,’ he sighed, ‘iss better.’ He went to the sink, washed his hands and held them out for the handcuffs.

  Seventeen seconds, two Chinese burns and a kick up the backside later, the prison officer was in the cubicle, stripped of his jacket and handcuffed to the toilet roll holder.

  ‘And zat,’ sang Klench, ‘iss much better.’ Stuffing the officer’s mouth with toilet roll, he squeezed into the jacket and fished out a pair of dark glasses from a pocket. He gave a little wave. ‘Cheerie pip – or perhaps I should say toodle loo!’

  Now Klench gazed out of the bus window, rubbing his stomach.

  ‘No pain no gain, my superbrain,’ Inner Mummy reminded him.

  He winced. It was all very well for her. Swanning about in his head, she could enjoy the plus of freedom without the minus of gut rot. Still, the foul mixture was almost out of his system. ‘And it iss good to be on ze runs again,’ he murmured, clutching his belly. ‘Literally.’

  ***

  Grandma and the Incas were watching TV. Or rather, the two old men were gawping from the sofa while she exp
lained for the umpteenth time that there wasn’t actually a tiny man inside the box. ‘It’s called technology,’ she said vaguely. ‘Cameras and satellites and cables and– WHAT?!’ She leapt out of her armchair. ‘I don’t believe it!’ A mugshot of Klench filled the screen.

  ‘The escape happened this afternoon,’ said the newsreader, ‘on the way to the hospital.’ His grey hair stuck out in alarmed tufts. ‘Police are warning that he’s dangerous and shouldn’t be approached by members of the public.’

  ‘You try and stop me.’ Grandma shook her fist at the telly. ‘Of all the …’ She grabbed the Sunday crossword, scrunched it into a ball and hurled it at the screen. ‘To think I believed ’e was reformin’, when all the while ’e was plannin’ to escape!’ A furious tear rolled down her cheek. Chester slipped down her forehead to mop it up.

  When Bacpac had translated the news, Chunca put his head in his hands. ‘Now my death is over.’

  8

  Nature’s Pick ’n’ Mix

  ‘Knockety knock!’ A voice crashed into Abbie’s dream. She was a raisin cooking in a cake, hot and squashed and smothered in flour.

  ‘I said knock knock.’

  She opened her eyes. The flour turned into her sleeping bag. The squash turned into Terrifica, who’d rolled across the floor of the hut and flung an arm across her chest.

  Pushing her away, Abbie blinked in the sunlight pouring through the entrance. ‘Who’s there?’

  Dad’s outrageously cheerful face appeared. ‘Friar.’

  ‘Friar who?’

  ‘Friar-ing pan! Geddit?’

  Abbie goddit. She goddit that she was lying in a stone pimple, on the nose of sweet nowhere, with an un-best friend, a doofus dad and a bruised bottom.

  ‘Sleep well, girls?’

  Terrifica sat up, her yawn drowning out Abbie’s groan. ‘Superdedoops.’

  ‘Great stuff. Brekkie’s ready.’ That got Abbie out of her sleeping bag faster than you could say ‘toast triangles’. Throwing on jeans and a jersey, she stumbled outside.

  It was surprisingly warm. She breathed in the sweetness of grass still wet with dew. Birdsong glittered on the air. A pale mist draped the lake. Stretching out her arms, she had to admit there were worse ways to start the day.

  Perdita and Ursula were already at the lake, paddling and shrieking at the cold. Swallowing her annoyance, Abbie too headed down to the beach, where the bonfire had been relit from last night.

  Dad, Matt and Mr Dabbings were sitting around eating from wooden bowls.

  Coriander was stirring a pot in the embers. ‘Morning, dear.’ She ladled some grey goo into a bowl.

  Abbie wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ll just have toast, thanks.’

  ‘Toast – what’s that?’ Dad winked at Coriander. ‘Remember the menu’s tenth century this week. None of your Hovis back then, my girl.’ He licked his wooden spoon. ‘Barley grain and milk. Yum. And way healthier than sliced white.’

  Scowling, Abbie took the bowl.

  He leaned over. ‘Apart from the Tesco sugar,’ he whispered. ‘Not exactly Dark Ages but I sneaked it in to liven things up.’ Swallowing the sweet, creamy and not entirely un-delicious porridge, Abbie allowed a little grin.

  Perdita strode over. ‘Sleep well?’ She whacked Abbie on the back.

  ‘Nhhllk.’ Porridge flew everywhere.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Ursula, coming up behind. ‘That was a Whopperslap,’ she told Abbie.

  ‘Urse has been teaching me some wrestling moves,’ said Perdita.

  Urse? Abbie spluttered again.

  ‘Perdita’s a natural,’ said Urse.

  ‘What a surprise,’ Abbie muttered. But they were too busy doing something with elbows and shoulder blades to hear. She screwed up her eyes until the two of them shrank to vague, unimportant blurs.

  ‘Hey, lemon face.’ She hadn’t noticed Marcus coming down from his hut. ‘You OK?’

  She nodded quickly.

  ‘This’ll cheer you up.’ He pulled a blue rag from under his jumper. ‘Can you believe it? Henry was cuddling this all night!’ He dangled it between finger and thumb.

  Abbie’s hand flew to her mouth. Henry Holler – loudmouth, bully and (until yesterday) class toughster – had a blankie?

  Perdita turned to them. ‘Where is Henry?’

  They found him further down the beach, sitting with his arms round his knees. ‘I wanna go ho-wum,’ he sniffed.

  Perdita snatched the blanket from Marcus and dropped it onto his lap. ‘I think you lost this.’

  ‘Mr Binkles.’ Henry snuggled it to his face. Marcus snorted.

  Perdita glared at him. ‘That was mean of you.’ She turned and marched back to the huts. Ursula scuttled behind.

  ‘Miss Goodie three-plaits,’ muttered Marcus.

  Abbie felt a blush creep up her neck. Perdita’s right. It was mean. She blinked at the lake. So why didn’t I say so? Little waves ruffled the water.

  A low note cut the air. They looked back. Mr Dabbings was standing in the middle of the hut circle, blowing a curly horn.

  Marcus grinned. ‘Marching orders.’ They ran back along the beach.

  ‘Welcome,’ said Mr Dabbings as everyone gathered round, ‘to a truly delicious day.’ He smacked his lips as if the air was made of chocolate. ‘This morning we’re going to pick ’n’ mix from Nature’s snackbar.’

  ‘Awebics!’ shouted Henry, who’d cheered up now that Mr Binkles was tucked safely under his T-shirt. ‘Mine’s a Lion Bar.’

  ‘No, Henry. Coriander and I will introduce you to some of the edible plants on the island. We’ll gather them for lunch, just like the monks did.’ Everyone groaned.

  ‘Either that,’ said Dad, ‘or you can stay behind and help me and Matt wash up medieval style – twigs and water plus natural disinfectant.’

  ‘Which is?’ said Abbie suspiciously.

  ‘Saliva.’

  Everyone shrieked with disgust except Henry, who said, ‘Awelicks, I’ll stay.’ In the end Terrifica agreed to stay too and make sure that no one spat on anything so she could earn her No To Nasty Habits badge.

  The others packed water bottles and cagoules in their rucksacks and followed Mr Dabbings up the slope. Abbie ignored Perdita’s request to wait while she emptied a stone from her shoe. That’ll serve her right for ignoring me. But it didn’t, because Ursula waited instead and showed Perdita a special foot flick to get rid of stones without removing your shoe.

  When everyone had climbed over the ridge, Coriander scanned the moor. ‘Let’s head for those woods.’ She pointed to the nearest mountain. A cluster of trees hugged the base. Above them the slope rose steeply, speckled with boulders and scrub. Towards the top the vegetation gave way to bare rock that tapered to the peak.

  Abbie strode across the moor, taking deep gulps of air until it felt as if she was breathing from her toes. Her irritation with Perdita faded. Thin clouds whispered across the sky. The air was warm, the heather still. And suddenly she was full. All her worries and wants, yesterdays and tomorrows, dissolved into the shimmering, brimming here-and-now.

  ‘So.’ Marcus fell into step beside her. ‘The treasure.’

  Abbie blinked.

  ‘Imagine if it was still here.’

  Tomorrow came flooding back. Wants did a U-turn.

  ‘We’d be loaded for life.’

  Abbie pictured his huge house. ‘You already are.’

  Marcus had the sense not to reply.

  ‘It would be amazing to find it, though,’ she murmured, as reporters and cameras jostled across her mind.

  They continued in silence, jumping over the stream they’d followed yesterday and heading for the mountain. Abbie fell into a dream, imagining what she could buy with money from the treasure. Plasma TVs for every wall. Holidays wherever and whenever I like. Bourbons galore … Bourbon factories galore! And think of the articles she could write that would fly round the world … The New York Times, The Sydney Herald, The Mongolian Mail on Sunday. She’d be the ric
hest, most famous young journalist in history.

  ‘Bog!’

  She looked up. In her reverie, she’d fallen behind. Coriander had already reached the woods and was pointing to the left, where a bright green patch lay in front of the trees.

  Abbie shivered. It wasn’t that close, but she’d been in her own little world. What if she’d wandered towards it and … Don’t! She ran to catch up with the others.

  When everyone had gathered by the trees, Mr Dabbings looked round gravely. ‘Now remember kids, these woods aren’t used to humans. I want everyone to tread softly. If we’re kind to Nature, she’ll be kind to us.’ Abbie imagined blackberries queuing patiently to jump into a jam jar.

  She followed the others into the woods. Stooping between the wriggly branches of oaks, she felt like an intruder. Every snap of twig shattered an ancient stillness. Every footstep crushed a world of roots, insects and living earth. She held herself in tight and small and crept through the gloom.

  They came to a clearing where spears of sunlight stabbed through the trees.

  ‘Ha!’ cried Mr Dabbings. ‘Dotty Normans.’ He pointed to a cluster of spotty brown umbrellas on the trunk of a tree. ‘We can make soup.’

  ‘No!’ Coriander grabbed his arm. ‘Those are Grim Zitters. They cause dreadful diarrhoea.’

  Mr Dabbings frowned. ‘I’m sure they’re Dotties. Look at the tilt of their hats.’

  Coriander shook her head. ‘Definitely Zitters.’

  ‘Normans.’ Mr Dabbings’s voice was cold. ‘I know my fungi thank you.’

  ‘OK,’ said Coriander gently, ‘we’ll agree to differ. But better safe than sorry, eh Bran?’

  Mr Dabbings’s face went tight. His eyebrows bunched. His lips pursed. He crossed the glade to a fallen log. Sitting down, he folded his arms. His breathing came in sharp little bursts.

  Coriander went over and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Sorry, Bran, but we can’t risk it. Why don’t you go back to the moor and make up poems about moss while I find some herbs for lunch?’

  The teacher stood up. Without a word he marched out of the woods. The children followed in silence. They’d never seen him lose his cool. And it wasn’t cool.