“It’s all organic,” said Mrs Stokes, which seemed unlikely in the case of candyfloss, chips and fizzy chocolate, but then again it was magic candyfloss, chips and fizzy chocolate, thought Alfie, so there might be a special exemption.
When he’d finished his tea, she said: “What’s next?”
“What do you mean?”
“What routine’s next?”
“Oh,” said Alfie. “Clearing-up-after-tea.”
“OK,” said Mrs Stokes, “if you were to go about that just as you liked, how would you do it?”
Alfie thought. His first instinct was to say that he wouldn’t do it at all, but he felt that would be rude or possibly ungrateful. So he said: “Plates are a bit like flying saucers, aren’t they?”
“They are,” said Mrs Stokes.
“How do flying saucers fly, Mrs Stokes? They’re round and all their jets seem to be underneath, so how do they fly anywhere but upwards?”
“Well,” said Mrs Stokes, her face lit by the flashing Zimmer frame, “they may have a propulsion system that creates an anti-gravity effect which curves the jet streams in infinite directions. Or it may just be …” she added, as Alfie’s plate floated into the air, “… magic.”
The plate hovered in front of Alfie’s face, glowing. Then it twirled round.
“Uh-oh …” said Mrs Stokes.
“What?” said Alfie. Mrs Stokes nodded towards the table. The salt-and-pepper shakers were trembling – then they blasted off up towards the plate! Followed closely by a bottle of tomato ketchup, which had also suddenly risen into the air like an enemy rocket ship!
“THE DARK FORCES OF THE CONDIMENT ARE COMING!!” shouted Mrs Stokes.
Alfie picked up his knife and fork and held them up vertically, like a comic-book picture of a boy expecting food. He levered the knife forward and the fork backwards.
“Go Warp Factor 1! Hyperspeed!!”
The plate zoomed away from his face. Alfie manipulated his knife and fork backwards, forwards and sideways, making the plate zigzag its way through the attacking salt-and-pepper shakers, and enemy-rocket-ship ketchup. Expertly, he controlled the path of the plate up towards the lampshade, along the dining-room wall and past the canvas photo of him when he was a baby that he wished his parents would take down. (It did occur to him that he could crash the plate into that and destroy it, but he felt that was going too far with doing just what he liked.)
But the shakers and the ketchup speeded up. The condiments were right behind!
“ALFIE!” shouted Mrs Stokes. THE PLATE’S NOT GOING TO MAKE IT! IT’S GOING TO GET SALT-AND-PEPPERED! AND … KETCHUP’D!!!”
Alfie knew what to do. He threw his knife and fork together towards the plate. They whirled round at high speed, like wheels in the air, overtaking the salt-and-pepper shakers, and arcing past the ketchup bottle. Still rotating incredibly fast, they spun themselves on to the side of the plate, giving it that little bit of extra speed it needed … to get to the dishwasher!
Which Mrs Stokes opened just in time for the plate, knife and fork to separate and drop into the right parts of the rack.
“Fabulous,” she said. “What about your glass?”
“I think I’m OK just to bring that over,” said Alfie.
Alfie looked at the book he was meant to read. It was big, heavy and called Marine Biology: An Introduction.
“Can we just make this one disappear?” said Alfie.
“Yes, why not?” said Mrs Stokes, picking it up. “You’ll probably find out what you need to know about this somewhere or other anyway.”
With that, she put the book down and walked through to the living room.
“Hang on!” said Alfie, following her. “Isn’t the book actually going to disappear?”
“Well, it has, hasn’t it?” said Mrs Stokes, looking around. “I can’t see it. Now what?” she added, looking down at a copy of the routines she was holding. “Ah! My favourite!”
She picked up the remote control and switched on the TV.
The Simpsons was on. It was a funny episode – the one in which Grampa Simpson turns out to have been a professional wrestler – but after all the excitement involved in having and clearing up tea in the way Alfie had just done, just sitting there and watching TV felt a little … well, for want of a better word … routine.
“So,” said Mrs Stokes, “are you doing just what you like?”
“Well, yes …” said Alfie. “But now it feels like I want more.”
“Ah,” said the old lady. “That’s what happens, you see, Alfie, when we get just what we like. Appetite grows. It spirals. The more you’re allowed to do exactly what you want, the more you need – to satisfy the need inside.”
“Oh, I see,” said Alfie, nodding. “So … this whole experience is, like, teaching me that? About always wanting more and more stuff? Will the next magic thing that happens get out of control and I’ll nearly die, but at least I’ll have learnt an important life lesson?”
“Nah,” said Mrs Stokes.
“Oh, OK,” said Alfie. “In that case, I’d like to go into the TV.”
And the next thing he knew he was. A yellow, three-fingered version of himself was at the side of the wrestling ring, shouting at Grampa Simpson. Then the channel changed – because Alfie wanted it to, and also because Mrs Stokes had provided him with a remote control to take into the TV. Alfie was now on Cartoon Network in an episode of his favourite show, The Amazing World of Gumball. He was a kind of half-frog, half-apple jumping around at Elmore Junior High School.
Unlike The Simpsons, this wasn’t an episode that had actually been on TV; it just followed a story that Alfie made up as he went along, where Gumball and Darwin were in competition to be his best friend (it ended up with them fighting each other with jelly-and-custard guns and Alfie deciding it was a draw).
Then Alfie pressed another button on his remote control. Some very dramatic music started playing and he found himself in a dark suit and tie, reading the seven o’clock news.
Oh dear, he thought, wrong button, as a man poked his head round from behind a camera, looking very, very confused. Still, might as well make the most of it.
“Good evening,” said Alfie, “this is the seven o’clock news. All children between the ages of seven and twelve are allowed not to go to school tomorrow. Broccoli Bake has been outlawed. And Freddie Barnes, of 14 Brackenbury Road, is from this moment on to be officially known as Freddie ‘Bum-Bum’ Barnes. Goodnight!”
And the dramatic theme music started again.
Alfie came out of the TV, still wearing the suit and tie.
“You weren’t in there very long,” said Mrs Stokes.
Alfie shrugged. “It’s a limited-amount-of-TV. Always.”
“Of course. Why have you kept the suit on?”
“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “For bathtime.”
“Ah. Looking forward to it,” she replied.
When they reached the bathroom – which was on the second floor, and Mrs Stokes seemed to get up there as quickly as Alfie, two steps at a time – he said: “I’m thinking the suit and tie could change into … a frogman’s outfit!”
“Fabulous!”
“And then the bath …”
“Just dive in, Alfie,” she said.
He did. The suit and tie became a scuba-diving suit and he dived down and down into the bath. Deeper and deeper he went, passing schools of fish and lobsters and whales, before meeting a dolphin, which was standing on its tail underwater, like they sometimes do.
“Hi, Alfie,” said the dolphin. “I’m Dolph.”
“As in Lundgren?” said Alfie.
“How have you heard of him?” said Dolph.
“My dad’s a big fan of his old films.”
“Right. Well, no. Dolph as in dolphin.”
“I see,” said Alfie. “How come you can hear what I’m saying underwater?”
“Well,” said Dolph, “there are a number of things to consider there. Firstly, in normal
scuba-diving, you’re not allowed to take the breathing apparatus out of your mouth, which means you can’t speak at all. Secondly, I’m a talking dolphin. Called Dolph. So, y’know, let’s not worry about it.”
“OK,” said Alfie.
“Who’s the old dear?” said Dolph.
Alfie looked round. Mrs Stokes was floating down towards him. Out of the ends of the legs of her Zimmer frame, which was still lit up, he could see bubbles rushing towards the surface of the water, as if jet-propelled.
“Hello!” she said. “I thought I’d join you for this one. Test out the Zimmer’s amphibious capability.”
“Great,” said Alfie. “But I’m not sure about the new trousers.”
“They’re not trousers,” she said, “they’re scales. And a tail. I’ve gone the full mermaid.”
“I see,” said Alfie, relieved that she hadn’t gone the full, full mermaid – above her waist she was still wearing her green if-the-Queen-shopped-at-Oxfam top and pearls. And carrying her handbag.
“Are you two coming?” said Dolph. “I haven’t got all day.”
So Alfie and Mrs Stokes swam after Dolph along the bath bottom, which wasn’t white and enamel and one-metre long, but covered with coral and infinite. They swam through schools of zigzagging clownfish and crawling lobsters and floating turtles; they hovered above the bright pink and blue coral, speckled by reflected sunlight, out of which long and slinky moray eels peered to look at them; they saw, far beneath them, underwater cities with curly, far-reaching spires and underwater caves where lost treasure sparkled in open ancient, moss-covered chests.
And they also – bit of a bonus – found an old rubber duck bath toy that Alfie thought he’d lost ages ago.
Then, suddenly, they were attacked by a school of sharks, approaching in a terrifying V-formation!
“Oh no!” said Alfie. “Is this the bit where I nearly die, but learn my lesson?”
“Nah,” said Mrs Stokes. She brought her thumbs and forefingers up to her ears and made a couple of small adjustments. The next thing Alfie knew, a huge piercing wail of feedback was powering out of her hearing aids. The sharks’ V-formation fell apart, as they retreated as fast as possible, terrified.
“Thanks, Mrs Stokes,” said Alfie.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Dolph.
“Pardon?” said Mrs Stokes.
“So,” said Alfie, toothbrush in hand, after he and Mrs Stokes had towelled themselves dry and let the bathwater out, “I think the key thing with this one is making it different, for once, from the morning version.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs Stokes. “How are we going to do that?”
“Can I help?”
They turned round. Standing there, in front of the bath, was Dolph.
“Are you OK to be out of the water?” said Alfie.
“Yes. I’m a mammal, not a fish. I don’t have gills. I breathe air just like you, only out of my blowhole.” Dolph bent his head and puffed towards Alfie, who felt the – slightly fishy – breath on his face. “As long as I keep my skin damp, I’m OK.”
“You see,” said Mrs Stokes to Alfie, “you’ve done your marine biology homework after all.”
“Yes, thanks, Dolph,” said Alfie. “But meanwhile: teeth?”
“Well, what I do is open my enormous mouth, let loads of little plankton swim inside and they feed on my teeth, cleaning them at the same time.”
“Right …” said Alfie.
“I’m sensing you don’t fancy that much, Alfie,” said Mrs Stokes.
“Really?” said Dolph. “I love it. They do a great job and it tickles. In a nice way.”
“Maybe this is different enough,” said Alfie, squeezing the toothpaste on to his brush.
“How do you mean?” said Mrs Stokes.
“Well, in the morning, I never have a talking dolphin in here when I’m cleaning my teeth.”
“Good point.”
So he started brushing his teeth. Just for good measure, Mrs Stokes and Dolph joined hands – well, hands and fins – and did a dance, an exact copy of one that Mrs Stokes had just watched on Strictly – the American Smooth – to the rhythm of his brush strokes. Just to make sure this teeth-clean was very different.
“Let’s do this one quickly, Mrs Stokes!” said Alfie, as they went into his bedroom.
“No sooner said than done!”
And the next thing Alfie knew, his clothes had disappeared into the wardrobe and his pyjamas were on.
(There was no nakedness in between, in case you were worried.)
Alfie lay in bed, looking up at Mrs Stokes and Dolph.
“It’s probably time to go to sleep now, Alfie,” said Mrs Stokes.”
Alfie checked his two watches.
“It isn’t actually. It’s still 6.49.”
“Well. Firstly, your watches might be wrong … don’t make that ‘they never are’ face, Alfie, they might be. Secondly, you’ve done all your routines and thirdly, I’m still your babysitter, and the most important job of a babysitter is to make sure you don’t exhaust yourself and be too tired to get up the next morning.”
“Is that right?” said Dolph. “I’d say the most important job of a babysitter is to make sure the child they’re looking after doesn’t die.”
Mrs Stokes gave him a look that Alfie could tell meant: I will not be lectured about babysitting by a dolphin, talking or not. Alfie wasn’t sure whether Dolph would be able to pick up that kind of unspoken message, but he looked away and went clickclickclickclickclickclick in what seemed like a told-off manner.
“But,” said Alfie, “I’ve just remembered one more routine!”
“Really?” said Mrs Stokes, opening her handbag and getting out all the pieces of paper from the walls.
“Have you had those with you the whole time?”
“Yes,” she said, flicking through them one by one. “Got to make sure you stick to them.” She looked up. “But there isn’t another routine. Going-to-bed is the last one.”
“No, it’s not one I normally do. It’s not even one that my dad set up for me. It’s one that Freddie Barnes told me he does every night, secretly, when he goes to bed …”
Mrs Stokes frowned. “I thought we didn’t like Freddie Barnes?”
“Yeah,” said Dolph, “I heard he calls you Boring, Boring—”
“Yes, we’re all aware of that,” said Mrs Stokes.
“Well,” said Alfie, “it’s more of a game, really that he made up than a routine. But he told me he does do it every night, so I guess it does count as one.”
“Right …”
“Well, I always kind of wanted to try it. But I never did.”
Mrs Stokes shrugged. “OK. What does Freddie Barnes’s secret, naughty routine involve, Alfie?”
Alfie smiled, turned his whole body round and dived down under the bedclothes.
Down he went, down and down, even further than he’d gone into the bath. The sheets ballooned around him, as he slid into the depths of the bed. He was joined about halfway down by Mrs Stokes and Dolph.
“Wheeee!” said Mrs Stokes.
“Wheee!” said Dolph.
Alfie took this to mean that they’d forgotten their differences.
“SO WHAT HAPPENS, ALFIE?” shouted Mrs Stokes.
“YOU HAVE TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THE BED, TURN YOUR BODY ROUND AND THEN GET BACK OUT TO THE TOP BEFORE THE ENEMY CAN GET YOU!”
As he shouted this back at her, the three of them dropped out of the enormous tunnel of cotton on to some concrete. They landed on their feet, except for Dolph, who landed on his tummy. Mrs Stokes looked around. They appeared to be in the darkly lit streets of a seaside town, near the water.
“Where are we, Alfie?” she said.
“Well, I think it’s like … the war.”
“Yes, I thought it felt familiar. So …” She rubbed her hands with excitement and looked from side to side. “Who’s the enemy? Germans? Viet Cong? Al-Qaeda?”
“No …”
“What’s
that smell?” said Dolph.
Mrs Stokes looked up and sniffed. “Yes. What is that?”
“That’s the bit I haven’t told you,” said Alfie. “That’s what makes it fun! That’s why it’s called … ESCAPE FROM FARTY HARBOUR!!”
Mrs Stokes and Dolph looked at him.
“Right,” she said eventually. “So, if I understand you correctly, Alfie, what you’re saying is that you let one go just now? Before we all dived into the bed?”
“Yes. That’s what Freddie told me you have to do. I kept it in specially until the right moment.”
Mrs Stokes and Dolph looked at each other.
“Er …” said Dolph. “You know I was explaining just now about how I breathe air just like you, only through my blowhole?”
“Yes?”
He nodded his head towards the town. A huge green gas cloud was billowing over the rooftops, coming straight towards them.
“I wish I didn’t,” said Dolph.
As he said this, many people came staggering down the streets, choking and fainting and crying for help.
“OH MY GOD!” shouted Mrs Stokes. “RUN FOR IT!”
“ESCAPE FROM FARTY HARBOUR!” shouted Alfie enthusiastically.
“Yes!” said Mrs Stokes. “Let’s very much hope we can!”
“It’s been nice knowing you!” said Dolph, and then he dived into the sea.
Mrs Stokes and Alfie ran along the seafront, splashed a little by the water coming off Dolph’s escape dive. But it was windy, as it often is by the sea, even by a sea at the bottom of an eleven-year-old boy’s bed, and the terrifying green cloud was catching up with them.
“COME ON, MRS STOKES!” shouted Alfie.
“I’M GOING AS FAST AS I CAN! I’M AN OLD WOMAN!”
“BUT YOU’RE A MAGIC OLD WOMAN!”
“I’M NOT THAT MAGIC!!” she said in between great panting breaths.
She was slowing down and starting to hobble along. In fact, as Alfie stared back at her, he realised she was looking more like she had done when she’d first arrived at his house.
The Boy Who Could Do What He Liked Page 3