Harriet Strikes Again

by Jean Ure

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Harriet and the Ancient Remain

  Help the Aged

  What the Butler Saw

  Harriet and the Hound from Hell

  Also by Jean Ure

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  HARRIET AND THE ANCIENT REMAIN

  Harriet and Stinky Allport were digging a hole. A deep hole. Not quite as deep as all the way to Australia, but deep enough to stand up in.

  They were digging it at the end of Stinky’s garden, behind the vegetable patch where they couldn’t be seen. In Harriet and Stinky’s experience, it was always wisest to do things where you couldn’t be seen. Grown-ups were full of the most peculiar and unreasonable prejudices. A large, deep hole lurking behind the vegetable patch might seem quite delightful to Harriet and Stinky, but who knew what a grown-up would make of it?

  “They’d be just as likely to go raving mad,” said Stinky. “Start on about how you’ve gone and dug up something valuable.”

  “There isn’t anything valuable,” said Harriet. “It’s just earth.”

  “That’s all you know,” said Stinky.

  “I put it to you,” said Harriet. She stood, trowel in hand, hands on hips. “What’s valuable about earth?”

  “I dunno … could be special sort of earth.”

  “Well, it isn’t. It’s just earth. Get on and dig.”

  Stinky sighed. It was all very well for Harriet. This wasn’t her garden and the grown-ups that were likely to go raving mad weren’t her parents.

  “Dig!” screamed Harriet.

  Harriet dug with her trowel; Stinky dug with a shovel. The trowel was too small and the shovel was too bendy, but it was all they had. Stinky’s dad had meanly put a padlock on the door of the garden shed after Harriet and Stinky had taken the garden hose out and accidentally drenched the next door neighbours, who had complained.

  The trowel and shovel had come from Harriet’s house; they were all she had been able to find. Harriet’s dad, for some strange reason, had locked his garden shed as well. Harriet couldn’t think why. It was hardly her fault if a can of paint had fallen on top of his flower pots and broken them. What had the flower pots been doing there? Right in the middle of the floor. Stupid place to keep flower pots, ’specially if you were going to have great heavy cans of paint balanced just above them.

  She started to say as much to Stinky, but Stinky was just about sick of Harriet and her story of the flower pots. If she hadn’t gone and smashed them her dad wouldn’t have locked his garden shed and they could be digging with a proper spade and fork, instead of a ridiculous hand trowel and a bendy shovel.

  “Never get anywhere at this rate!”

  “Don’t whinge,” said Harriet.

  “Why not?” said Stinky. “You were.”

  “I was not!”

  “Oh yes you were! You were whingeing about your dad.”

  “I wasn’t whingeing about digging.”

  “Well, but I can’t work with this shovel,” grumbled Stinky. “It bends.”

  “Oh, give it here!”

  Harriet threw down her trowel and snatched impatiently at the shovel. For a few minutes, they dug in silence. They had been at it all morning and so far had nothing to show for it but a series of small, deep holes dug by Harriet (she tended to get bored working on the same one all the time) and a bucket-sized pit dug by Stinky, who was more orderly in his methods. The idea, explained Harriet, was that in the end, “We’ll join them up and make one big one.”

  And then they could live in it. Not all the time, of course; just during school holidays or when life at home became more than usually unbearable, such as, for instance, when Stinky’s cousin Giles came to stay and Stinky’s mum kept telling everyone what a dear little boy he was, what wonderful manners he had and how she wished Stinky could be a bit more like him. That was when Stinky was going to go and live in the hole.

  Harriet was going to live in it whenever her mother turned nasty. She had turned nasty just the other day, carrying on like a lunatic about the state of Harriet’s bedroom.

  “Said it was a pigsty!” Harriet set about, indignantly, with her bendy shovel. “Went on and on and on about it.”

  Harriet had been going on and on and on about it, too. Harriet tended to go on about things. If it weren’t cans of paint being left where they could fall on top of flower pots, it was her mum having a go at her about her bedroom. This was at least the fifth time Stinky had heard the tale.

  “I said to her,” said Harriet, “it’s my bedroom. And anyway, I happen to like pigs.”

  “Not indoors,” said Stinky.

  Harriet turned on him. “Who said anything about them being indoors?”

  “You said your mum said your bedroom was like a pigsty.”

  “I didn’t say there was a pig in it! Did I?’

  Stinky squatted with his trowel, jabbing at the earth. “Can’t think what else’d live in a pigsty.”

  “Are you calling me a pig?” shrieked Harriet.

  “I thought you liked pigs.”

  “Oh, shut up!” said Harriet. “Get on digging.”

  When the hole was deep enough they were going to cover the floor with some old lino that Stinky’s mum had thrown out and make a roof with plastic sheeting. They were going to have to buy the plastic sheeting, but they both agreed it would be worth it.

  “It’ll be a refuge for battered children,” said Harriet, “same as they have for battered wives. And we’ll put up a notice saying ‘Private. No Trespassers’.”

  “Yeah, and ‘Knock Before Entering’.”

  “And we’ll keep cans of Coke and stocks of food and things to do.”

  “And something to sit on,” urged Stinky, who liked to be comfortable. “We’ll make it like a real house.”

  Before it could be like a real house it had to be dug deep enough for them to stand up in. There was a long way to go …

  By tea time, when they had dug for four and a half hours, there was still a long way to go. A very long way. Their backs were aching and their hands were sore.

  “It’s going to take weeks at this rate,” said Harriet.

  Stinky was alarmed. He couldn’t wait weeks! Goody-goody Giles was coming next weekend. The hole had to be dug by then.

  “Well, I’m not digging any more today,” said Harriet. “I’m tired. I’m going home to have my tea.”

  “See if you can get into your dad’s garden shed and get a proper spade and fork,” said Stinky.

  “See if you can get into yours!” retorted Harriet.

  It wasn’t any use: Harriet couldn’t get into the garden shed. Dad had put a padlock on it and hidden the key.

  “I’m not having you kids,” he said, “messing about with my tools.”

  Harriet’s sister Lynn said loftily that she never went anywhere near his tools, thank you very much. Harriet said neither did she, and it wasn’t her fault if people went and left cans of paint dangerously balanced on the edges of shelves waiting to fall on top of flower pots.

  Her dad said that was quite enough of Harriet’s smart mouth and that Harriet shouldn’t have been in the garden shed in the first place.

  “And that is that. Flat and final. My last word on the subject.”

  Harriet’s mum then said, “Yes, and what about that bedroom of yours? I thought I told you to tidy it up?”

  Harriet said, “I did tidy it. I can’t put everything away or I won’t know where it is.”

  “Well, if it’s still a pigsty by the weekend,” said Harriet’s mum, “that will be a second week without any pocket money.”

  They had to get that hole finished! But how?

  Next morn
ing, Stinky said gloomily, “So you didn’t manage to get in there, then?”

  “Doesn’t matter! I’ve had an idea. We don’t need spades and forks,” said Harriet. “We can get other people to dig for us!”

  Stinky digested Harriet’s idea in silence. It seemed to him there was a flaw in it.

  “How’d we get ’em to do that?” he said.

  “Easy!”

  Harriet always had the answer to everything. “We just put up a notice. ‘Historical Site. Ancient Remains.’ Then everyone’ll come flocking ’cause they’ll think they might find something valuable.”

  “But there isn’t anything valuable,” said Stinky. “It’s just earth.”

  “How do you know?” said Harriet.

  “’Cause you said so,” said Stinky. “Yesterday. You said it was just earth.”

  “Yes, and you said it might be special earth!”

  “Well, that’s what I thought but it obviously isn’t. All that digging,” said Stinky, “and we didn’t find a thing, hardly. Just an old tin can.”

  “That’s it!” said Harriet. “That’s the remains!”

  “Remains of what?”

  “Ancient remains.”

  “Doesn’t look very ancient to me.” Stinky prodded at the can with his trowel. “Looks like it might have come from Sainsbury’s.”

  “You only think that ’cause you’re ignorant. You don’t know how to tell. Could be from the Stone Age for all you know. That’d make it ancient remains.”

  “Ancient remain,” said Stinky. “Remains is more than one.”

  “One’s enough,” said Harriet. “We could bury it right deep down so’s they won’t discover it till the hole’s practically dug. Or wait till it is practically dug and then discover it ourselves.”

  “Maybe we ought to put in a bit of buried treasure to sort of encourage them,” said Stinky. “I’ve got some old pennies upstairs – we could put them in. They’re not worth anything.”

  “All right,” said Harriet. “Let’s go and get them and write out a notice.”

  They wrote out several notices, all neatly printed in their best hand.

  Historical Sight

  Ancent Remane

  and Berrid Tresure

  Come and dig!!

  (Bring own tools)

  At the foot they stuck one of Stinky’s mum and dad’s address labels and added the words, ‘Come to back gate’.

  “Now we’ll go and fix them on lamp posts and things,” said Harriet. “Get some Sellotape!”

  After they had fixed the notices on lamp posts all up and down the road they went back to their hole to wait. They did a little digging, but not very much. Stinky scattered his old pennies and Harriet rubbed the tin can in the compost heap to try and make it look properly ancient. Then they settled back confidently to await the arrival of the diggers.

  The first one to turn up was Wendy Williams, carrying what looked like a toy spade.

  “Is this it?” she said pointing at the hole.

  “Yes,” said Harriet. “That is it.”

  “And it’s really and truly got ancient remains in it?”

  “Remain,” said Stinky. “And buried treasure.”

  Wendy looked at him, challengingly. “How do you know?”

  Stinky opened his mouth, but Harriet firmly stepped in. She wasn’t having any of that sort of nonsense.

  “It’s a historical site. It’s bound to have things in it. And anything you dig up,” she added, “is yours to keep.”

  “So I should hope,” said Wendy. “Not going to all the trouble of digging things up just for someone else, am I?”

  Salim Khan was the next to arrive. Salim was carrying a proper fork and bucket, and looked as if he meant business.

  “What’s the bucket for?” said Harriet.

  “To take away the treasure and the remains.”

  “Remain.” Stinky said it weakly. He was beginning to foresee that there might be trouble.

  Other people began to arrive – Gerry Mander and Hake-Face Heneghan with garden spades almost bigger than they were, Alison Leary and Snobby Clark with rubber gloves and a dustpan and brush because Alison (who always knew everything) said that when you were on historical digs you didn’t dig, you brushed and swept and, “felt with your fingers. Otherwise you could ruin things. And historical isn’t spelt like you’ve spelt it, and neither is buried and neither is treasure.”

  “Yes, and you mean site spelt s-i-t-e, not sight like you’ve got it,” said Snobby.

  Harriet would have liked to say something rude but she needed them to help with the hole, so she simply stretched her lips into a sickly smile and said, “You might as well be in charge as you know so much about it.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” said Alison. “I’ll direct the digging. If anyone finds anything, they must come to me.”

  “If I find anything,” said a red-haired girl whose name Harriet didn’t know, “I’m keeping it. And I jolly well better had find something,” she added, in threatening tones. “I didn’t come here just for the fun of it.”

  Harriet had met the red-haired girl before. She had turned up at a beautiful baby competition that Harriet had organised and had been nothing but a disagreeable nuisance.

  “Some people,” said Alison, rather loudly, to Snobby, “obviously do not understand the purpose of a historical dig. We are hoping to uncover important artefacts whose rightful place will be in the British Museum.”

  There was a silence.

  “Historical what?” said Hake-face.

  “Artichokes, or something.” The red-head was already down on her knees, tunnelling furiously with a trowel and a hand fork. “Don’t take any notice of her, she’s batty.”

  Alison breathed, deeply. “Objects that we uncover will not belong to us. They’ll belong to the Crown.”

  “Who says?”

  “I do!”

  “And who are you when you’re at home?”

  “I am in charge of this dig,” said Alison.

  “Yeah, and I’m a blue banana!” The red-head was scattering earth in all directions.

  A flying gobbet hit Harriet in the eye. Stinky looked at her, helplessly. The dig had only just begun and already it was out of control!

  Slowly, and with great dignity, Harriet rose to her feet.

  “This garden is Stinky’s garden and whatever anyone finds belongs to Stinky. But–” she said it hastily, before the red-head could start throwing more earth at her – “Stinky has very generously decided that whatever anyone finds he’s going to let them keep.”

  “That’s not the law!” shouted Alison.

  “It is in this garden,” said Harriet.

  By lunch time the hole was really beginning to look like a hole. Several people had dug up old pennies, Hake-face had found an interesting stone which he thought might be a fossil and Wendy had uncovered a house brick.

  There had been great excitement over the house brick. Alison and Snobby had gone rushing over with their dustpan and brush, screaming at Wendy not to touch it in case it might be an ancient remain. They now thought that probably it wasn’t, but it had given them all fresh hope and the determination to carry on.

  “After all, we haven’t really found anything yet,” said the red-haired girl. “I don’t call a few old pennies buried treasure. And I don’t call a mouldy old house brick ancient remains, either.”

  “Remain,” said Stinky, feebly.

  The girl tossed her head. “Yes,” she said, “I’m going to, and I’d just better find something!”

  “You mean you’re not going home for lunch?” said Harriet.

  “I’m going to stay right here,” said Red-head, “and dig till I find something. And if I don’t –”

  If she didn’t, there would be trouble.

  “Now what are we going to do?” whispered Stinky. They could hardly bury the Ancient Tin in full view of Red-head. “I knew this was a rotten idea!”

  “You’re crazy,” s
aid Harriet. “It’s one of the best ideas I’ve ever had.”

  By the end of the afternoon the hole was going to be plenty big enough to stand up in. Tomorrow they could put down their lino and buy their plastic sheeting, and by the weekend they could take up residence. Mum could complain all she liked about Harriet’s bedroom being a pigsty. Stinky’s mum could praise Goody-goody Giles to the skies. Harriet and Stinky would be tucked away in their underground home!

  “She’ll get really ratty,” worried Stinky, “if she doesn’t find anything.”

  “Think I care?” said Harriet.

  “Just better be something,” muttered Red-head.

  Fortunately, there was. Alison found a piece of pottery which she was convinced was Roman, Hake-face dug up another fossil and someone else found an interesting-looking bone which was almost certainly prehistoric.

  “Dinosaur or something, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  At the last minute, while everyone was busy admiring the prehistoric dinosaur bone, Harriet managed to bury the Ancient Tin. Stinky waited anxiously for Red-head to uncover it. Would an Ancient Tin satisfy her? Or would she throw a tantrum and say it came from Sainsbury’s?

  “Hey!” Red-head sat back triumphantly on her heels. “Look what I’ve got!”

  Everyone turned to look. It wasn’t the Ancient Tin, but a small blue bottle with a glass stopper.

  “That has to be ancient,” said Harriet. “That is a really good find.”

  “Mm … it’s all right, I suppose.” Red-head, even now, tended to be grudging. “I don’t expect it’s worth much, but it’s quite pretty.” She held it up to the light. “I could always give it to my mum.”

  “What a nice idea,” gushed Harriet.

  “On the other hand,” said Red-head, “I might decide to sell it. I might get given a fortune for it.”

  As they all trooped off carrying their bits of Roman pottery and prehistoric bones, Stinky said in worried tones, “You don’t think she will, do you?”

  “Will what?”

  “Get given a fortune. I mean,” said Stinky, “this is my garden. Everything in it’s mine by rights. You said so.”