Short Stories For Older, and Not Quite So Old, Children

by Dandi Palmer

  The young woman pulled a whistle from her overall and gave a long blast on it. The other fancy rats immediately swarmed after them as they hurtled towards a car waiting near the gatehouse.

  David was breathless by the time they reached it. "This is too weird," he gasped, and then looked down at the creature he was clutching. It was a large, very intelligent looking rodent the size of a cat.

  "Meet Queenie," said the young woman.

  David's jaw dropped. "Queenie? A talking rat? Who would want a talking rat?"

  "The military. Could you think of a better way to spy on the enemy?"

  No, David couldn't.

  She took Queenie from David. "Sorry, got to go. You'd better make yourself scarce as well." Then she opened the car door. The rats swarmed into it.

  With a brief wave the young woman drove off, Queenie sitting on her lap.

  Army searching the area or not, David was unable to move for some while.

  He was still there when Mr and Mrs Holt returned to the park gatehouse after doing the weekly shopping.

  "Hi David," Mrs Holt called as she unloaded bags from the boot of their car. "You look as though you've been jogging through the brambles."

  "Yeah," groaned David. "Me mum's going to kill me."

  SAMMY'S SANDWICH

  Melissa turned up her pointed nose and sneered as though someone had pushed a spadeful of manure under it. “Acorn and jam sandwiches?”

  “No, marmalade,” corrected Joel. “Acorn and marmalade… in a currant bun.”

  “What person with normal taste buds would eat acorns and jam in a currant bun?”

  “Sammy does, though she much prefers raw mushrooms and honey in Rivita. She used to like vinegar on them as well, but it made them soggy,” explained Joel. “She's got these amazing teeth and likes to bite into things.”

  David was beginning to lose his appetite for the dinner of grilled sausages waiting for him at home. “Yuk! Where did you find this character? Sitting on a toadstool?”

  Joel smiled agreeably. “No, actually she was sitting on the old mayor's tomb - You know, the one with the Victorian angels.” It was no good; he knew the expression his friends wore all too well. “You don't want to come and meet her then?”

  “I'm playing tennis with Angela,” said Melissa hastily.

  David also backed away. “Me Mum will wonder where I am.”

  Joel shrugged and grinned to himself as they scurried off. Melissa was a snob, and David scared of his own shadow.

  Joel pushed his hands into his pockets and sauntered off towards St Minion's, the parish church, and wondered how Sammy would like the sandwich he had in his satchel. This time he had excelled himself. His parents were going to wonder about the amount of mustard he had used, though they surely wouldn't miss that slice of elderly pineapple and crusts from yesterday's loaf.

  Joel picked a few sprigs of hawthorn and half ripe sloes. There were several ancient yew trees in the graveyard and Sammy was crazy enough to try a handful of their berries for dessert instead. As they got on so well, he didn't want their friendship to end abruptly.

  There she was in the late afternoon sun, sitting cross legged on the corn merchant's tomb.

  Joel joined Sammy and pulled out the pungent brown paper bag containing her sandwich. As his friend smelt the fragrant meal her eyebrows arched in approval, and in four gulps it was gone.

  The friends chatted about dragons, food, and boys who wear Bermuda shorts, then Joel pointed to the hardly legible inscription below them. “Tell me about the corn merchant?”

  Sammy chewed a few bitter sloe berries before remembering, “Oh yes, his family built a watermill. The local miller was afraid of losing business so paid some locals to divert the course of the stream one night.” Sammy gave a grin so wide she resembled a frog.

  “What happened?”

  “The stream flooded several orchards and destroyed the trees, so the farmers burnt down his windmill.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Black Death arrived the next day. They all died.” Sammy pointed to several medieval gravestones. “Everyone.”

  The sun was setting and painted everything with its long red rays.

  Joel shuddered. “I'd better go now, Sammy. Will you be here next week?”

  “As long as there's no weddings or funerals. They don't like me being down here when there's weddings and funerals.”

  Joel jumped down from the tomb. “Have you ever tried pitta bread?”

  Sammy scratched her flat nose. “Filled with those nice crunchy corn bits and onion?”

  “Cornflakes and onion?” Joel shrugged. “If you like.” He fastened his satchel and put the smelly brown paper bag which had contained Sammy's sandwich in the graveyard waste bin. “See you next week then.”

  Sammy wistfully watched him go.

  As the sun set, with a crack two granite wings unfurled from her short back. A sharp downbeat propelled her upwards to the corner of the 60 foot high bell tower where she precariously perched, overlooking the small parish. Slivers of quartz glinted in Sammy's eyes as her smile became stony, and a water spout appeared between her lips.

  The pride of St Minion's, the church's last intact gargoyle, glowed as she caught the last rays of the descending sun.

  TIGGER, TREACLE AND COKE

  The dream was back.

  However hard he tried to wake up, Looda was yet again caught up in its nonsensical talons.

  Round and round a strange garden the two children chased Looda until he was exhausted. Then when they caught him, it was his turn to chase them. Why couldn't Treacle and Coke spend their time sitting in front of a screen like most other children? This sort of thing was too exhausting to be good for anyone.

  Next Looda was dragged to the plastic seesaw and bounced up and down until it cracked. It was a reverberating sound and someone must have noticed. Undaunted, Treacle and Coke pulled him away to play on the swings.

  By the time the children stopped for breath, Looda was so tired all he could do was lie down and stare at the goldfish in the pond. He must have been the only person who slept all night, only to wake up exhausted.

  Looda had no idea why the nine-year-old girl was called Treacle, or her five-year-old brother, Coke. They insisted on calling him Tigger - Looda couldn't work that out either. It might have had something to do with the old striped fur coat of their grandmother's they insisted he wear when he had to gallop about the lawn, pulling them on a tricycle.

  Neither Treacle nor Coke were allowed to climb the apple trees so, when he became too exhausted to play any more, Looda hid in their branches and watched the children wonder where he had gone. If he was totally honest with himself, he enjoyed his visits and the hectic play. Back home it was nothing but pay attention, and learn, learn, learn. There wasn't a word for play in his vocabulary; it was all about expanding the mind.

  For some reason the brother and sister didn't have anyone else to play with, and their grandparents' garden was the only place they were allowed to let off steam. Treacle explained how she and Coke went to a special school. That was great fun, but it was for only a few hours a week. The rest of the time was very boring for the two boisterous young people. For someone whose life was filled with non stop, intensive study, Looda had trouble understanding what it was like. If only they could share out their play and study equally between the three of them, life would be so much easier.

  Then Looda had an idea. He persuaded the boisterous Treacle and Coke to sit down while he told them everything he knew about the planets and stars. He wasn't sure if they understood, yet they insisted he told them more. So Looda went on to botany, geology, oceanography, meteorology, and biology - all the subjects he had passed with merit. The more his dream companions listened, the less tired he felt when he woke up.

  Then Looda persuaded Treacle and Coke to try drawing. Not just the splashes and squirls they made at school, but things which could be recognised. The children's sketchpads were soon filled with
beautiful, strange scenes, much to the amazement of their parents. After working all day, they seldom had the energy to be amazed at anything. And then they started to listen to the conversations Treacle and Coke were having. Despite the efforts of their teachers, the children had never shown much interest in any subject before. Now, between them, they were discussing things even the adults couldn't understand. Nor were they as rowdy as they used to be, and could even be trusted to load the dishwasher.

  One morning, a teacher visited Treacle and Coke's grandparents.

  Because they were now so well behaved, their grandmother had taken the children shopping, so their grandfather invited the young woman into the lounge. Her questions seemed endless and often pretty silly, but he was a good natured soul and knew they were being asked for the benefit of his grandchildren.

  At last the teacher put away her clipboard, anxious to discuss the real reason she was there. “So what do you make of the children's rapid progress?”

  Grandfather scratched his head. “They've always been nice kids; but have calmed down no end over these past few weeks.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Reckon it has something to do with that playmate of theirs.”

  “Playmate?”

  “Oh yes; didn't we mention him? Small round feller. Always wears fancy dress for some reason. We always watch, but never interfere unless someone looks as though they're going to get hurt. Must be one of the neighbour's kids. Though, every time I go out to chat to him, he seems to disappear and the kids come over secretive. That's ok though. No one else comes round to play with them... them being the way they are… and they all get on like a house on fire, they do. Reckon he taught them how to draw.”

  The teacher peered over her glasses at the older man. “What sort of fancy dress does this child wear then?”

  “Well, he always has on this glittery tunic, bit like purple baking foil . . . then there's these things on his head..."

  “Things on his head?”

  “Look like short stumpy horns. And, of course, the tail. Long and hairy it is. The way he swishes it about you'd swear it was real.”

  TWILLINGTON'S TIP

  As soon as he saw the TWILLINGTON TOWN COUNCIL coat of arms Colin knew what the envelope contained. He opened the letter and read, feeling a pang of annoyance at the "Dear Master ...” After all, he was almost fourteen and at least warranted Mr. If they had addressed his friend Amy as "Miss" she would have set off stink bombs at every lamppost around the town hall, and she was only eleven. Amy was a "MS" in Doc Martins.

  Perhaps Colin should have told her what he had been up to, but didn't like to admit that pacifism wasn't working.

  The letter went on to condescendingly explain that Twillington created a lot of rubbish and it had to be dumped somewhere. So, where better than on the site of a derelict factory, safely tucked out of view from the gleaming new shopping centre with its smartly paved pedestrianised thoroughfares? The tip couldn't even be seen from the multi-storey car park so, “perhaps Master Colin Arnatt could suggest a better location?" Yes, Colin could. It involved demolishing the town hall while several council officers were still inside it.

  The next time he stood on the hill overlooking the tip with Amy, he told her about his one boy campaign. She only laughed. Colin hardly expected her to do anything else. She always made him feel such a wimp when he tried to do the right thing.

  Through the valley of rubbish below trickled an incongruously bright stream. It flowed on through Twillington, tastefully wending its way about the new shopping centre in a white stone conduit overhung by plants.

  Feeling defeated, Colin moaned on about the vandalism of local government. Amy had stopped listening to him and was trying work out where the stream rose from. The shell of the Victorian factory was still standing and, hanging from an outer wall, were the rotting remains of a water wheel. The stream was now far too shallow to turn it. Further along the valley was a massive wall of brick and crumbling concrete in the hillside which looked as though it was trying to prevent the resident troll from bursting out.

  Amy went down to the edge of the tip to pick up a sharp metal rod, and then strode off along the valley to the wall. Colin could tell by the determination in her stride that she had vandalism in mind. He dutifully bounded after her, wondering how she managed to negotiate the bricks littering the derelict factory site without snapping her ankles.

  It must have been the self defence classes. The stench from the tip was overpowering enough to knock the scavenging gulls out of the sky. Holding a handkerchief over his nose as he went round the mounds of rotting rubbish, he climbed up the wall to reach Amy who was now standing on top of it.

  Colin looked down at the stream as it trickled from an ancient pipe in the hillside. "Didn't know this is where the water came from? This wall must be sealing up an old tunnel. Could've been a railway track."

  "Or to work that." Amy pointed back to the derelict water wheel hanging from the old factory wall.

  "Canal?"

  "Not enough water pressure." Amy prized away some bricks from the wall and they tumbled into the detritus filling the gully below.

  Several rats scurried for cover.

  "Don't do that! It can't be safe as it is."

  Knowing Colin was more worried by rats than a few stray bricks, Amy turned her attention to the hillside. She randomly jabbed her metal probe into the ground. Small gushes of water flowed out.

  "Jacob's Cave must be down there," Colin calculated. "My Dad showed me an entrance to it on the other side of this hill. He said that his great grandparents used to have picnics down there before it flooded. Every year their chapel arranged this outing for the congregation."

  Amy watched the water trickling out of the hillside. "Need to wear flippers now."

  Colin could tell by his friend's expression that she was plotting something he'd rather not know about.

  "Let's go home now," he said firmly.

  Amy continued to think. "You're really upset about this tip aren't you?" It wasn't a question.

  He answered it nevertheless. "Well of course I am. Look what's happened to the wildlife. There used to be voles and frogs and kestrels here only a couple of years ago, now there're only rats and seagulls, and that bad smell."

  "Yeah, shame that," agreed Amy. "Let's go then."

  Colin was too anxious to leave to wonder why she decided to do as he asked. Amy never did anything he asked. It was a point of honour. So he didn't turn back to see what she was doing and went back through the derelict factory and round the tip.

  Sure that Colin was too far away to see what she was doing, Amy drove her metal spike deep into the crumbling bricks of the wall with several blows from a rock. Colin heard, but didn't want to know what she was up to. That way detention, severe reprimands, and nightmares lay.

  "That should do it," Amy muttered to herself. She could calculate as well, albeit more instinctively.

  As water started to push its way through the crack she had made in the wall she bounded after Colin.

  He was relieved that she had decided to follow him after all and felt confident to ask when she caught up, "What did you just do?" without fear of a terrible answer.

  “Just digging this out." Amy held up a piece of flint. "Could put a good edge on that."

  "You know what your dad said he'd do if he caught you with anything sharp again so why bother to dig it out?"

  "That concrete's almost eroded away."

  "Then why make it worse?"

  Amy laughed. "Come on, Mum says you're invited to our barbecue this evening. Bring that letter with you; she'll want to see it."

  "Well, she's worried about green issues as well, isn't she," Colin gave his friend a stern glance, "unlike some people whose only interest in life is fried food."

  Amy tossed the flint away. "Well excuse me for liking chip sandwiches."

  It was almost midnight. Barbecue fumes still scented the air, and the new shopping centre was now empty as t
he last supermarket shutter came down.

  Colin half woke at the sound of clattering, thought it was the washing machine, and went back to sleep, not awake enough to wonder why his father would be doing the laundry in the middle of the night.

  Not so long before, the ancient brick wall on the hillside near the derelict factory had crumbled under the pressure of the water it held back. Those few bricks Amy had loosened became holes, then chasms...

  Soon a torrent of water poured into the valley, slammed through the reeking tip, and swept its contents into the town centre. No longer contained by the polished stone conduit that had guided it on its tasteful way, the river picked up vehicles in the lower levels of the car park and clattered them against each other. The wall of water continued to push the rancid rubbish through the gleaming shopping centre and into the main street where it deposited much of its load on the steps of Twillington Town Hall, as well as flooding the basement from where council tax demands were issued.

  A lone security guard and his dog had to run too hard to call for help. When reinforcements eventually did arrive, all the fire service could do was watch the town's garbage slop against their water tenders and corporation flower tubs and litter bins bob about like corks in the filthy water.

  Then came the rats.

  In sinuous formation, they swarmed from the water and up drainpipes, into gutters, lofts, offices, shops, and even banks. The council's pest control officer couldn't cope and had to call in private experts to help evict them.

  Having found its natural level, the river that once drove a Victorian factory water wheel lay contentedly on its reclaimed flood plain, the detritus on its surface alive with flies. It couldn't seep away because the ground had been concreted over.

  Amongst the letters stored in the town hall's basement, one mockingly floated on the water's surface.

  It began,

  "Dear Sir or Madam,

  I would respectfully like to draw your attention the damage caused to the environment by the new council tip..."