by Emily Rodda
And softly, but urgently, the little beeper-brooch began to call. He jumped violently, clasped his hand over it, and looked over his shoulder in dismay. Surely everyone would hear.
But he was lucky, for at that moment the Chestnut Tree Village clock began to strike. No one was paying any attention to him, or his madly piping little alarm.
He stole forward till his nose was pressed against the glass of the shop window. The shop was dim and empty, and its door was tightly shut. But that didn’t disturb him. He hadn’t really expected to find it open on a Sunday. He’d have to get back sometime during the week, and get the birds. His excitement died down a little. That was going to be tricky. Boopie had told him that there’d be no trouble – that no one from his side would object when one of the missing objects was claimed. Well, that had seemed reasonable when she said it, but it seemed pretty unreasonable now. Why should whoever owned this shop just let him take away something so pretty and valuable looking?
“Aren’t they lovely?” Claire loomed up beside him, giving him the shock of his life. He gaped at her, and backed away.
“What’s up with you?” she demanded. Then she looked around curiously. “Listen to that! Can you hear that alarm?” She put her ear to the shop window. Patrick went on backing away, his hand clamped to his chest in what he hoped was a casual manner.
“Patrick!” she shouted in exasperation. “Come back! Can you hear …? Oh, too late, it’s stopped. You missed it, silly.”
Patrick breathed again.
When Judith came to tuck him into bed that night, she found him counting the coins and notes in his money tin.
“Hello, moneybags,” she said. “Haven’t you got a lot?”
Patrick sighed. “I wish I had some more,” he said. “Could you give me some jobs for money tomorrow?”
“You don’t do most of the jobs you’re supposed to do now,” Judith pointed out. “Why should I pay you to do other ones?”
“I do do my jobs – mostly – often!” protested Patrick. “Please, Mum!”
“Oh, well, I’ll see,” said Judith. “Pop into bed now. It’s late.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you OK, darling? You look a bit …”
“I’m fine,” said Patrick quickly. “I’m fine, Mum.” He got quickly into bed, pulled up the covers, and smiled at her angelically.
She looked at him doubtfully for a moment, then smiled back and bent to kiss him.
“Tell you what,” she said, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “If you can find Danny’s gumboot, which has been missing for at least a fortnight somewhere in this tip of a house, I’ll pay you a reward! How about that?”
“I’ll try,” he said. But he didn’t have much hope. They’d already looked everywhere for that yellow gumboot, and he had a feeling that, like single socks, single yellow gumboots weren’t nearly important enough to waste the energy of a lazy Barrier Guard. He doubted they’d ever see that particular missing object again!
After Judith had turned off the light and tiptoed away, he lay staring into the darkness. He had to get some more money together – that was the first problem – but Dad would probably lend him some, if he asked for it in the right way.
The second problem wasn’t so easily solved. He had to go back to Chestnut Tree Village and get the birds. And he had to return again on Saturday morning, because he had to use the same television set as before to get back to Finders Keepers. Boopie had called that out last thing – obviously it was important. He tossed his head on the pillow. Sometimes it was rotten being a kid. You were so helpless! You had to depend on other people to take you places; you weren’t allowed to go anywhere on your own. Mum probably wouldn’t want to go back to the Village after school this week – or next Saturday, if it came to that. She’d been twice this weekend. Dad certainly wouldn’t.
Claire? She was a possibility, if Mum would let her take him alone, which she never had up to now. Who then? Someone nice. Someone who’d be kind to a poor little boy, and take him where he wanted to go without asking too many questions. Someone who wasn’t too busy to help him. Someone who liked him. Someone who could be talked into things.
And at that, Patrick smiled to himself in the dark, because he’d thought of the perfect person.
“Well, of course I’ll take you, Patrick. I’d be happy to,” said Estelle when Patrick asked her the following afternoon. “If your mum doesn’t have any objections, of course, dear heart,” she added hastily.
“Oh, she won’t mind, Estelle, of course she won’t,” Patrick urged. “When can we go?”
Estelle’s soft, timid face grew thoughtful. “Well – ah – today we can’t go, of course, because today I’m here, aren’t I? And tomorrow … now what do I do tomorrow? Oh yes, on Tuesdays I go to Simpson’s, for the ironing. Wednesday …”
“Wednesday you come here again,” said Patrick.
She smiled at him vaguely. “Yes. And Thursdays I take my next-door neighbour’s dog walkies, in the afternoon.”
“Could you miss out this Thursday?” Patrick asked hopefully. This wasn’t sounding too promising. He’d had no idea Estelle had such a packed program.
“Oh, I really couldn’t do that, dear heart,” said Estelle gently. “Porky needs his walk, living in a flat, you know. He goes all funny if he doesn’t get out every day.”
“What about Friday, then?” Patrick tried desperately.
Estelle paused. Her brow wrinkled in concentration. “Oh, Patrick,” she said at last, “I’m so sorry. I can’t do it on Friday either. I clean at the Vernons’ then.”
Patrick stared at her helplessly. He couldn’t believe his bad luck. He was so close to his prize, and he just couldn’t take the final few steps.
She shook her head sadly, her wispy hair floating away from her face in fine strands. Then she brightened. “But Saturday morning would be all right,” she said. “As early as you like. Saturday morning I always go to Chestnut Tree Village anyway. It’s my little outing.”
“Saturday …” Patrick thought about it. Well, he had to get to Chestnut Tree Village on Saturday morning as well, to get back to Finders Keepers. And if the worst came to the worst, he could go in and buy the hummingbirds from the antique shop just before he left, instead of earlier in the week as he’d planned. It was cutting it pretty fine, but still – it might be the only way.
“Thanks, Estelle,” he said at last. “Saturday morning would be terrific.”
She nodded, looking pleased.
“You won’t forget, will you?” said Patrick anxiously.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’ll write it down in my little book. That’s what I do, you see, because – well, you know, my memory’s not the best. I’ll write it down now, dear heart, and then you can be sure in your mind.” From her handbag she pulled out a little red notebook. She turned the pages.
“Now, I’ll write you down for Saturday, Patrick, at … what time, dear heart?”
“Could you pick me up here at eight-thirty?”
She nodded, and wrote. Patrick looked at her with gratitude. She was so nice, Estelle. And so gentle and sort of lonely. Not like other grown-ups he knew at all. Somehow you felt like looking after her, instead of thinking it should be the other way around. He watched her white fingers writing. The nails were cut short, and she only wore one uninteresting-looking ring – no watch, even. She didn’t seem to have many different clothes, or jewellery, or anything like that. She’d always looked the same, though she’d been coming two afternoons a week for about three months now. And she was so pale and quiet. He wondered why.
Later, when Judith and Paul were home, and Danny was tucked away in bed, he asked them.
“Well–” They looked at each other, as if they were deciding what to say.
“She probably hasn’t got enough money for nice clothes,” said Claire knowingly. “Maybe not even enough to eat properly. She wouldn’t earn much from walking people’s dogs and minding kids and things. She should get a proper job.”
>
“Claire, how would you know?” demanded Judith. “Don’t be so free with your opinions about other people, please. It’s Estelle’s business how she runs her life, not yours!”
“Yeah!” said Patrick, and he looked scornfully at Claire, who flushed, and tossed her head. But in bed that night he thought about what she’d said, and decided that he’d do something really nice for Estelle when this Finders Keepers business was over. He thought for a few minutes about what he could do for Estelle, to make her happy. But soon his mind drifted away – to Lucky Lance Lamont, and Boopie Cupid, and how the audience would clap and cheer next Saturday when he turned up with Clyde O’Brien’s treasure and claimed his prize. Sighing with satisfaction, he turned over and fell happily asleep.
As the week went by and it became clear to Patrick that he wasn’t going to get to Chestnut Tree Village any afternoon after school, his happiness and satisfaction began to ebb away. By Wednesday he was thoughtful. By Thursday he was worried. By Friday he was panic-stricken. What if something happened tomorrow morning to stop him getting the case of hummingbirds? What if the shop was too crowded, and he couldn’t get served by ten o’clock? What if the shop was closed? What if … what if the case of birds had been sold? He stared unseeingly at the TV screen, and bit his knuckles fiercely.
“Why are you biting your own hand, Patrick?” asked Danny curiously from his perch on the couch. He put his own chubby paw into his mouth and chewed at it experimentally. “Ow, it hurts! Patrick? It hurts!”
“Well, don’t do it then,” said Patrick irritably. “And don’t talk. I’m watching.”
Danny stared silently at him for a moment, then slipped off the couch. When Patrick looked again, he’d gone.
10
Feathered Friends
On Saturday morning Patrick was up and dressed by seven o’clock. He put on the same T-shirt he’d worn last week, with the beeper-brooch carefully pinned inside it, and the same jeans, with all the money he’d been able to scrape together in the pocket. He even brushed his hair. He had breakfast while everyone else was still in bed. He tried to watch TV. By eight o’clock he was prowling the hallway, waiting for Estelle, looking at his watch every few minutes. Then he remembered his watch ran a few minutes fast, and went back to the kitchen to irritate the rest of the family by switching the radio dial round till he heard the time and could make it exactly right.
“Patrick, for heaven’s sake, sit down!” Paul ordered at last. “Let us have our breakfast in peace, will you? What’s wrong with you? You’re acting weird.”
“He’s been acting weird all week,” Claire announced with her mouth full. They all looked at him.
By this time Patrick was feeling so anxious and jumpy that he could hardly speak. He widened his eyes and tried to smile un-weirdly. It didn’t help. They went on staring at him, and now they all looked quite startled. He wondered what he looked like. Judith opened her mouth to speak.
He was saved by the doorbell. “Estelle!” he managed to gasp, and ran for it. At last, at last, this terrible week of waiting was over. He was on his way.
It took much longer to get to Chestnut Tree Village by bus. In the car you were there in ten or twelve minutes, but the bus crawled round all sorts of side streets, continually stopping to pick people up or let them off. The blacksmith was striking his anvil to mark nine-thirty by the time Patrick and Estelle arrived beside the clock. Patrick looked frantically over to the antique shop on the other side of the plaza. Its door stood open, and lights shone inside. It was open!
“Could you wait for me, Estelle, while I just go over there?” asked Patrick, pointing to the shop.
“Shouldn’t I go with you, dear heart?” said Estelle anxiously. “I don’t want you to get lost.” She was being particularly slow and fluttering this morning, of all mornings. She’d wanted to go home and check her door was properly locked, because she’d left her ring in the bathroom, and thought a burglar would walk in and steal it. Then she thought she’d left the iron on. Then she found a hole in her stocking. It was all Patrick could do to get her to the bus stop. By the time she’d left her purse on the bus, and had to jump back on to get it, he was a nervous wreck.
“I won’t get lost. I’ll come straight back,” said Patrick, in a fever of impatience. He felt for the money in his pocket. Yes, it was there, safe and sound. “You just wait here, Estelle.” Suddenly, he had a brainwave. “I know! You have a cup of coffee, at Smithy’s, over there, and I’ll meet you there. That’s what Mum always does.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “Oh. Well, I suppose that’s all right, dear heart. If that’s what your mother does. And I would like a cup of coffee. That would be lovely.” She looked around. “I really love this place, you know,” she said. “Especially up here, near the clock. It’s so … full of life, don’t you think so, Patrick?”
He guided her to a seat and saw her safely settled with a waitress taking her order. That had been a good idea, he thought to himself, waving to her as he set off towards the antique shop. Now she was out of the way for as long as it took to drink a cup of coffee, however long that was. Ten minutes at least, he thought. More, if the coffee was very hot. He hoped it would be.
As he approached the shop, he saw that the case of birds was still standing in the window. Thank goodness – it hadn’t been sold. He glanced at his watch. Twenty to ten. He still had twenty minutes to buy the birds, get back to Estelle and then make another excuse to go and look at the TV sets. Plenty of time, really. But his heart was beating hard as he walked, and when the beeper-brooch began to sound, it beat even harder. He covered the spot where it was pinned with his hand to muffle the sound, but you could still hear it quite plainly. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He’d just have to explain it away somehow.
He hesitated a moment at the shop door, suddenly overtaken by a flood of shyness. He’d never actually bought anything more important than an ice-cream or a carton of milk before. But another glance at his watch propelled him across the threshold and on to the soft carpet inside. This was no time to hold back.
A thin-faced young man was stacking things into a carton at the back of the tiny shop. “Yes, can I help you?” he said, smiling, then he looked at Patrick curiously. “Do you know the alarm on your watch is ringing?”
Patrick felt himself blushing, and looked down at his feet. “Um – yeah,” he mumbled. “Um – I wanted to buy – that.” He pointed to the case of hummingbirds in the window, and began fumbling in his pocket for his money.
The young man’s eyebrows rose, and his forehead wrinkled with concern. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, coming forward. “The birds aren’t for sale. They belong to the owner. They’re just for decoration – to make the window pretty, you know?”
Patrick gulped with horror. “I’ve got money,” he said, pulling his coins, carefully wrapped in a few notes he had, from his pocket.
The man’s forehead wrinkled even more. “I really am sorry, but the birds aren’t for sale. And, look, even if they were,” he went on gently, “they’d cost an awful lot more than you’ve got there.”
Patrick stared at him, aghast. The beeper-brooch piping away on his chest seemed to be urging him to do something – quickly. But what could he do? It wasn’t fair. Boopie had said he’d be able to get the missing objects easily, once he had found them. She had said no one on this side would really care about them.
“Could I borrow the birds, then?” he burst out, in desperation.
The man shook his head. “I’m very sorry to disappoint you, but they’re very valuable. I couldn’t let them out of the shop. I really couldn’t.”
“That’s OK.” Defeated, Patrick turned to go. The man went back to his stacking, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “You’re rather keen on birds, are you?” he said sympathetically. Patrick shrugged, biting at his lip to stop it trembling, and moved to the door. The young man came after him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Never mind,” he said, raising his
voice over the sound of the beeper-brooch. It had suddenly begun peeping more loudly than ever. It must know, Patrick thought, that he was giving up. It was urging him to try harder. But there was nothing he could do.
“Take this,” the man said, pushing a dusty old book into his hands. “A little present, eh? No charge. You may as well have it as the church sale, isn’t that right? Why not?”
“Thank you,” Patrick muttered, and tried to smile. The man was being kind because he was sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault that Patrick couldn’t get the birds.
He stumbled from the shop with the bulky book under his arm, stuffing his useless money back into his pocket. The beeper-brooch was going crazy, and now that he was outside, people had started looking at him. He ducked his head and scuttled towards the clock, trying to escape their curious eyes. It wasn’t until he had actually reached the clock and was skulking behind it, getting ready to face Estelle, that he realised something was wrong.
He had left the shop, and the hummingbirds, far behind. But the beeper-brooch was still sounding. It should have gone quiet long ago. Was it broken? Maybe it had blown a fuse or something, when it realised he wasn’t going to get what it was tracking. Anyway, it sounded as though it was about to blow a fuse now. Peep-peep-peep-peep-peep – it was enough to drive anyone mad. “Shut up, will you?” he hissed at it, giving it a little punch. “I can’t do anything about it!”
But the beeper-brooch kept it up. He was getting desperate. He unpinned it and stuffed it into his pocket, but the noise went on. “Stupid thing!” he raged at it. “Stop it! Everyone’s looking. Stop it or I’ll smash you up!”
He knew he was being childish, but he couldn’t help it. He’d so wanted to win at this. He’d worked and planned so carefully, and now it had all gone to waste. In a rage, he pulled the little brooch from his pocket and looked at it through angry tears. “I’ll tread on you!” he threatened. The book that the antique shop man had given him slipped from under his arm and hit the ground with a dusty thud, falling open on the tiles. He bent, furiously, to pick it up, and saw that it was filled with strange, light-coloured pictures of birds. It had fallen open at a page marked with a wide ribbon bookmark, finished with a dull gold fringe.