The old man popped his head up again, sized up the old woman, and ducked back down like he did before. His lips were moving, as though he was speaking to himself. He gripped the shovel tighter. All in all, it was very curious behavior.
“You know what?” Ben said. “I think he’s going to hit that old woman with that shovel.”
I had to agree. It certainly looked like that.
“What are we going to do about it?” Ben asked. “We can’t stand here and watch that happen.”
I’m ashamed to say that a teeny part of me was worried that running down the street dressed as superheroes was hardly keeping a low profile. But the bigger, less awful part of me could not stand by and watch an old lady being pummeled with a shovel. So I pulled down my mask, flipped my cape behind me, and raced off down the path toward her. I have to admit I did feel a little awesome to be charging to help someone with my cape flapping behind me.
As the old lady belted out the final words, “The Lord God made them all,” the old man leaped out from behind the wall and shouted, “Shame on you, Phyllis Griffiths!” and held his shovel above his head.
He didn’t do this for long though, because Charlie, Ben, and I charged in and rugby-tackled him below the knees. He landed on the pavement with an “Oomph!” It was pretty cool.
Phyllis Griffiths shrieked. The old man yelled. We clung onto his legs as hard as we could while he flopped around like a geriatric octopus in a tweed cap.
“Don’t worry, Missus Old Lady,” Ben said. “We’ve got him.”
“B-B-Batman?” the old woman stuttered.
Because the angry man with the shovel was safely pinned under Charlie’s butt, Ben let go and offered a gloved hand. “At your service.”
The old woman slowly shook Ben’s hand. Her forehead had gone extra wrinkly. “Who are you people? Are you . . . ? You can’t be . . . ?”
Before I could respond, Ben said, “We’re here to help, ma’am,” like he was a proper superhero!
The old man who was still squashed underneath Charlie and I groaned. “Will you get off, immediately? He’s not Batman, Phyllis, he’s just a kid.”
“I may be just a kid.” Ben lifted up his mask. “But I’m a kid who fights for good.”
Frankly, he’d got completely carried away with the whole superhero thing by this point.
The old man spat out an angry laugh. “Good? She’s rotten to her core.”
Phyllis rolled her eyes. “Oh, quiet down, Albert. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
This was an interesting turn of events. “You know this man?” I asked.
Phyllis Griffiths looked me up and down. “Yes, Wonder Woman, I do.”
“It’s Supergirl,” I corrected her and then regretted it because Ben smirked and said, “See, I knew you’d find it easy to get into character.”
I ignored him and turned back to Phyllis. “How do you know this man?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Your brother? He was about to hit you with a shovel!”
Albert squirmed beneath us. “I wasn’t going to hit her with a shovel.”
I squashed him down harder. “It looked like you were going to hit her with a shovel. You can’t go around hitting old women with shovels, even if you are related to them.”
“I wasn’t going to hit her, I was going to threaten her with it. Now would you two get off me!”
I thought about this for a moment but decided that threatening someone with a shovel probably still constituted a criminal offense, so I pressed on with my interrogation. “Why were you threatening her?”
“Because it’s all her fault they’ve gone. I told you not to go showing ’em off but you didn’t listen, did you? Mother left them to both of us.”
Phyllis Griffiths rummaged through her purse, pulled out a small potato like it was a totally normal thing to carry around, and threw it at Albert. “This again, Albert?” The potato just missed his head and landed on the pavement.
“It’s because of you that they’ve gone and now you need to pay me for my share! Give me what you owe me,” Albert snarled.
“I’ll give you a good beating.” This time she produced a pear from her bag and threw it in Albert’s direction, but she missed, and it hit a rather muscular but weirdly young-looking policeman who had appeared from around the corner.
“What’s with all the produce grenades? Can someone explain to me what’s occurring here?” He didn’t sound happy.
Charlie puffed his chest up. “Officer, we have reprimanded this man who we believe to be called Albert.”
Ben stepped forward. “Because he was about to hit—”
“Threaten,” Albert interrupted.
Ben continued, “Okay, threaten this lady with a shovel. And we have sworn a promise that whenever you’re in trouble . . . we’ll be there on the double.”
I snorted when he said that. That line was from the Paw Patrol theme song. Ben had got his superhero oaths mixed up.
The policeman folded his thick arms across his chest, looked heavenward, and muttered something about giving him strength. He had a few wisps of hair on his chin that twinkled in the sunlight. They reminded me of Grams, which made me do a long sigh. I missed her whiskery face.
The cop turned his attention back to Phyllis. “Is this true, Phyllis?”
“Yes, he was going to bludgeon me with that there shovel.”
“I already said I wasn’t going to attack you, I was going to threaten you—scare you a little.”
“Pah! Scare me? Never,” Phyllis chuckled, and I believed her. Up close, she had that determined-old-lady look. Grams had it sometimes. Like when she caught me hiding broccoli in my pockets instead of eating it, or when Dad tried to wear a tracksuit to Mr. Burnley’s retirement party. And when I was in third year and she stormed into school because I’d got myself in a state about not having a mother to write a poem about for the Mother’s Day assembly. I’d give anything to see her with that look in her eye again.
The policeman rolled his shoulders back and said, “Right. Let’s get the situation under control.”
That seemed like a good idea. I didn’t have time to be hanging around sitting on old people, I had Alan Froggley to find.
The policeman produced a phone from his pocket. “Can I take a photo?”
“For evidence?” I asked.
“No, for the Gileston newspaper. My other job is being the village journalist. Three kids preventing an attack is the biggest story we’ve had here for . . . well forever really.”
This did not seem very professional to me. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest—to be a policeman and a reporter?”
“It’s never been a problem before. Go on, girlie. One photo, please?”
I did not want people seeing a photo of me in a Supergirl outfit. Even if it was for a local paper with a readership of about twelve. So I said, “No photo.”
“Aw, go on, don’t be shy. You’d be doing me a massive favor.”
“I’m fine with it,” Ben said.
I shot him my You’d better not be fine with it look, but he either didn’t realize or chose to ignore it, because he said, “Where’s the best lighting?”
Charlie had already adopted his insta-pout, so I knew I wouldn’t be getting any backup from him.
“This is hardly keeping a low profile,” I hissed.
Ben snapped the back of my outfit. “Don’t get your leotard in a twist. No one’s going to know it’s us. Go on, it will be a laugh.”
They weren’t going to give in, so I told the policeman-journalist-man, “Fine, but we want to remain anonymous.” I also made Ben and Charlie pull their masks down as a precaution. While they adopted various power poses for the photo, I halfheartedly swished my skirt and told myself it was extremely unlikely that Gileston news would spread far. Still, there was an angry Gaffer out there who might be looking for us and potentially even angrier parents back in Andover. But I pushed all that out of my mind because I needed to fo
cus on my journey to find the parent I thought I was desperate to meet.
16
Hooray! We score some transport! Of sorts
After the photo, PC Mike—that was the policeman-journalist—let Albert off with a stern warning and a reminder that he still had thirty hours of community service outstanding. This was for the time he put a goat in Phyllis’s garden and it ate Gileston’s prize-winning roses. Albert had a reputation as a troublemaker. His war against his sister had begun a few weeks earlier following an argument over some family heirlooms and he could not let the matter drop.
A little more questioning by any one of us at this point would have revealed that we had information about the very heirlooms in question. But we didn’t ask, so we didn’t make the connection until much later, after the seagull had died. (You’ll understand when we get to it.)
Mike confiscated Albert’s shovel and Albert trudged back to his house, muttering angrily to himself about how Mike was a crooked cop. Mike got upset about this, but when Phyllis said, “You’re a big brave policeman now, Michael. Rise above it,” he managed to pull himself together.
As a reward for our heroics, Phyllis invited us back for tea and cake. We had a quick group meeting to decide whether this was a good idea—after all, Phyllis was a stranger. But as we were all hungry and a policeman slash journalist was there, we did not see any sense in turning down free food. Although we might have if she’d told us what was on offer sooner. Pear-and-potato turnovers take some getting used to.
Her house was a little stone cottage less than a minute around the corner. While Phyllis busied herself in the kitchen, Mike sat down at the kitchen table, looking right at home—which we later found out was because he was. He double-clicked his pen, clearly very excited to write his newspaper article.
“Tell me, what brings you to Gileston?”
I immediately felt uncomfortable. I’d crack under the pressure of a police interrogation. I’d spill everything—that we were runaways, trespassers, thieves, and arsonists. We’d be sent away to a facility to be corrected and I’d never get to meet Alan Froggley. No—it would be best to say nothing. I tried my Keep your mouths shut look on Ben and Charlie.
Incredibly, Charlie did not pick up on my look. He frowned at me and then started to speak. “We’re looking—” I elbowed him in the side and a chunk of potato or pear—it was hard to tell which—fell out of his mouth.
Ben must have picked up on my look because he said, “We’re on vacation with Fred’s family.”
“As in Frederica? How are you spelling that?”
“As in Fred. F R E D.”
Mike looked at me, then did a double take. “Sorry, mate. I thought you were a girl. What with your skirt and all.”
I sighed. The whole girl thing was getting a little annoying. Although Charlie and Ben thought it was hilarious. I had finished off an entire pear-and-potato turnover before they stopped laughing at me.
“So, can you give me your full names?” Mike’s pen hovered over his notepad.
“Charlie—Ow!”
I’d kicked Charlie under the table.
I said, “We’d like to remain anonymous.”
Mike nodded but I saw him write down Charlie Ow on his notepad. What a doofus.
He wasn’t looking too inspired. “You’re not giving me much, guys.”
Phyllis set a pot of tea down in the middle of the table and ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, you’ll come up with something folks will want to read. You’ll find your angle.”
Mike puffed out his cheeks. “I hope you’re not suggesting I fabricate a piece of journalism? Absolutely not. I would rather die than compromise my professional integrity.”
It is hard to believe those words came out of his mouth now, considering what he did put in print. PC Mike found an angle all right. And it was a full 180 degrees away from the truth.
Phyllis offered some beet-and-raspberry scones and put one on my plate even though I’d said in my clearest voice, “No thank you very much, beet is not my favorite.” Which is how Grams taught me to politely turn down food I don’t want to eat.
Phyllis spread a thick layer of Marmite across her scone, dipped it in her tea, and then stared at me with her milky blue eyes, which made me think of Grams again. (Her eyes—not the Marmite scone.)
“Where’s your family then?”
It felt like a big question, so I said, “Do you know Marmite is made from brewer’s yeast and was discovered by accident?”
Phyllis raised an eyebrow. “Well, isn’t that a small miracle?”
The discovery of Marmite is not a small miracle, but I let it go because I thought I had distracted her from asking me about my family.
“So why are you boys in Gileston on your own?”
A lump of beet scone got stuck in my throat. I’ve always been a horrible liar. Luckily Ben is excellent at it. He flashed Phyllis a big smile. “As I said, we’re on vacation and we thought we’d check out the local area.”
“I see. Where are you staying?”
My heart was hammering in my chest, but I couldn’t detect any trace of stress on Ben’s face when he said, “Little village not far from here.”
“Llampha?”
“Yeah, that’s the place,” Ben said without missing a beat.
“Shall we call them? Get them to come and pick you up?”
I inhaled sharply, which wasn’t a smart move because Phyllis looked at me and it felt like the chunk of beet might have shot down the wrong pipe.
Phyllis’s crinkly brow got even crinklier. “Everything alright with Supergirl here?”
“She’s fine.” Ben patted me on the back and the beet found its way back into my mouth. I made sure I chewed it and swallowed it properly.
“Would you like me to call your parents?”
I opened my mouth a few times and then said, “Ummm . . . ohhh . . . errrr . . .”
Ben was as cool as the cucumber-and-jam sandwiches that were left untouched in the middle of the table. “That would be great, but they’re out walking for the day. We’re going to get a bus.”
He spoke so convincingly that I almost believed him.
“You won’t get a bus coming through here again now. Not on a Sunday.” Phyllis waved her scone as she spoke. A bit dropped off into her tea—it made a splash and sank. Like my hopes. We were never going to get to St. David’s before somebody at home missed us.
I finally managed to get some actual words out. “So we’re stuck here?”
“No, it’s not far.” Phyllis brushed the crumbs off her hands. “I’ll drive you.”
PC Mike’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Out of the question. You’re banned. That well that you almost destroyed was an historical landmark and three hundred years old.”
“Do you have guacamole in your eyes too?” I asked but I don’t think Phyllis heard me because she made this snorting noise and turned on PC Mike. “He’s got spam patties where he should have brains. I’m an excellent driver.”
PC Mike’s face went purple. He banged both his fists on the table and the cups and plates jumped. “I will not be undermined in public, Aunty Phyllis.”
They stared at each other for a minute. Charlie caught my eye and whispered, “Awkward.”
Phyllis folded her arms across herself tightly. I was getting seriously-angry-old-lady vibes. As much as I already liked her, I was definitely siding with PC Mike—my experience of old lady drivers made me naturally cautious. I was not eager to get in a car driven by her—especially as she had ignored my question about the guacamole.
“If Mike had passed his driving test, he could have given you a police escort.” Phyllis drained her tea and stood up. “But he hasn’t, so he can’t. Come on, boys, look alive. I’ve got something in the garage that might be of use.”
We followed Phyllis back outside while PC Mike disappeared to write his (as it turned out) factually incorrect news article. She pulled open the doors to her garage and shouted, “Ta-da! They’re y
ours if you want them. They’ll get you to Llampha, no trouble.”
In among the spider webs, plant pots, and lawnmower were an old canoe and a rowing machine. It was clear that Phyllis was a few cucumber-and-jam sandwiches short of a picnic. Ben, Charlie, and I all started giving each other these looks, which Phyllis must have seen because she said, “What do you think?”
I wanted to be delicate about it, so I said, “Wonderful, thank you, but we’re not very good with a paddle.”
Phyllis wasn’t so delicate in her response. She said, “No, you dope, the bikes—I thought you could take the bikes.”
That’s when I spotted one very long bike and one very old-looking bike in the corner of the garage.
“The tandem bike takes some getting used to, but I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”
I started to make my way toward them. “You’d let us have these?”
“I don’t use them. Not with my hips.”
They weren’t the coolest bikes in the world. I mean, the single bike had a wicker basket on the front and it was lilac with shiny pink tassels coming out of the handlebars. The tandem bike looked like it could have been around when woolly mammoths stomped the Earth. But they were transport.
“You’d better pump up the tires, but apart from that they’re in pretty good shape.”
That was clearly a matter of opinion, but I was not going to turn down some new wheels because of a patch of rust. I picked up the tandem bike. “It’s very generous of you.”
“You’ll need helmets of course. I’ll go and ask Mike to give you some of his police-issue ones. You practice riding that tandem around the garden.”
She turned to leave but before she did I found myself asking her a question. “How far is it from here to St. David’s?”
“Why would you want to know a thing like that?”
“Curious, that’s all.”
“About a hundred miles,” she said and disappeared into her house.
“A hundred miles.” I slung my leg over the first seat of the tandem bike. A hundred miles wasn’t that far. I just didn’t know if the others would agree.
I opened my mouth but before I could speak Ben said, “You’ve got that look.”
The Super Miraculous Journey of Freddie Yates Page 8