Stanley and the Football Sock

by Stephanie Dagg

the dog’s bowl. I was cross when I saw what she was up to. Anyway, I put it on the line to dry. But you know how windy it was on Tuesday. I’m afraid it blew off into that field there.” She pointed to a meadow full of cows behind the house. “I was upstairs and I looked out of the window and I saw your sock stuck on the horns of one of the cows. Oh it did look funny!” Mrs Duggan began to chuckle.

  Stanley didn’t feel remotely like chuckling. He looked at Mrs Duggan bleakly.

  “Cheer up, dear,” said Mrs Duggan. “I was worried that the poor cow might get scared or something, so I phoned Farmer Murphy to tell him what had happened and he said he’d get the sock off right away. He asked if I wanted it back and I said no, so you’d better go and ask him what happened to it. Now I must get back to my pruning. Bye dear!”

  Stanley’s ears felt battered by all that talking! He got back on his bike and cycled towards Farmer Murphy’s farmhouse. He came across Farmer Murphy inspecting one of his tractors in the yard.

  “Hello,” said Stanley, climbing of his bike.

  Farmer Murphy stopped staring at his tractor and stared at Stanley instead.

  “How do,” he responded at last.

  “I’m very well, thank you,” gabbled Stanley, trying to be polite. “Um, I think you’ve got my sock.”

  “You what?” grunted the farmer. He looked thoughtful for a moment and wriggled his toes inside his wellie boots. “No, no, these are definitely my socks. I recognise all the holes in them.”

  “No, no,” Stanley explained patiently. “I don’t mean you’re wearing my socks. But one of my socks got stuck on your cow’s horns the other day. Mrs Duggan phoned you up about it.”

  “Oh ah, that sock. Oh ah, I remember. That was Tuesday wasn’t it. Now, whose horns did it get stuck on? It was either Belinda the Tenth or Bella the Nineteenth, I think. Or was it Buttercup the Fourteenth? Now let me see.”

  Farmer Murphy furrowed his brow in thought and rubbed his bristly chin. Oh golly, thought Stanley to himself, we’ll be here all day. But then the farmer’s face brightened. “Silly me, it was Belinda the Tenth, of course. How could I forget that?”

  He smiled proudly. Stanley waited. Farmer Murphy continued to beam jovially at him.

  “So where is it now?” prompted Stanley anxiously, after a long pause.

  “It? It?” thundered the farmer, suddenly angry. Stanley jumped back in alarm. “Don’t you call one of my cows an ‘it’. They’re all ladies, so just you be polite, young man! And she’s in the cowshed. Fancy calling a cow an ‘it’.” Farmer Murphy grumbled angrily to himself.

  Stanley gulped. “When I said ‘it’, I didn’t mean Belinda the … the … Ninety-Second, or whatever her number is, sir. I meant, ‘where is my sock now’. It was the ‘it’.”

  “Huh? Was it? Well, you should have said so, shouldn’t you,” the farmer huffed and puffed. “Now, what did I do with that sock? Let’s see. I got it off Belinda the Tenth’s horns. She was a bit upset, you know. She’s highly strung, same as her mother Belinda the Ninth and her Grandma, Belinda the Eighth. You should be more careful with your socks, my lad.”

  Don’t I know it, thought Stanley.

  “Now, I got that sock, and then what happened? Oh, I remember, my young nephew came over to show me his pet rat. Young people today, I don’t know. I mean, fancy keeping a rat as a pet. ‘It was very expensive, Uncle,’ says my nephew. ‘Oh, was it,’ says I. ‘Then you’ve got more money than sense, haven’t you. I could have let you have a dozen rats for free. There’s plenty creeping around in the cowshed,’ I says. Humph, not the right sort of rat, apparently.”

  Stanley wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

  “But what about my sock?” he cried in desperation.

  “I’m just getting there, aren’t I? ‘Uncle’ he says to me, my nephew that is. ‘Can I have that sock you’ve got there if you don’t want it? I need something to make a nest for Petunia. She’s about to have babies.’ Petunia indeed!” Farmer Murphy spat in disgust. “Fancy giving an animal like that a name like Petunia!”

  Stanley felt like saying fancy giving an animal like a cow a name like Bella the Nineteenth — but luckily he bit his tongue.

  “So I gave him the sock. I dare say he’s still got it. It’ll be full of horrid little baby rats now, most like. Ought to feed them to the cat in my opinion. Humph.” And with that Farmer Murphy turned back to his tractor.

  Stanley turned back to his bike. He knew Farmer Murphy’s nephew. That was Matthew Murphy. Matthew was much older than Stanley. He was at secondary school. Stanley sighed. Matthew lived about two miles away, and it was all uphill. But there was no alternative. Stanley had to get that sock back, even if a rat had had babies in it, or Mum would kill him and then not let him go to football practice. Not that he'd be able to if he was dead, of course.

  Stanley was panting hard when he got to Matthew’s. Matthew was in the garden, looking into a big cage.

  “Hi Matthew!” panted Stanley.

  Matthew looked up. “Oh, hello. You're Stinky Smith, aren't you? Do you want to see my rats?”

  Stanley really wanted to see his sock but it would be rude to say that, so he nodded. He went into the garden and peered reluctantly into the cage. To be honest, he shared Farmer Murphy’s opinion of rats. There was a big black and white rat with red eyes and a pink tail washing itself in a pile of fluff and chewed-up blue wool in a corner. It was surrounded by tiny, bald, grey and pink wiggling blobs. Those were the baby rats.

  But there was no sign of Stanley’s sock! Stanley didn’t know whether to be thankful or not.

  “Um, did your Uncle give you a sock for your rats?” Stanley enquired.

  “Golly, how did you know about that?” gasped Matthew surprised.

  “Well, it’s my sock, you see.”

  “Ah. Yes, he did, but when I got home with it, Morris, my little brother, said he wanted it for a bandanna because it was in Valley Rover's colours. He supports Valley Rovers. So I gave it to him and he gave me an odd blue sock instead for Petunia. It was amazing. Petunia shredded that sock in seconds!”

  Stanley sighed with relief that Petunia hadn’t managed to get her rodenty little teeth into his sock. Then he sighed with misery as he realised the quest for the sock wasn’t ended yet.

  “Has Morris still got my sock?”

  “No idea,” shrugged Matthew. “You’ll have to ask him yourself. Oh no, you can’t, he left for Cubs about ten minutes ago.”

  “I’ve got to catch him!” cried Stanley, leaping up. He startled Petunia, who leapt up too, scattering baby rats in all directions. He was vaguely aware of Matthew shouting at him angrily as he zoomed off on his bike towards the Scout Hut in the village. But he didn’t care. He had to get his sock.

  He gathered speed on his downhill run. Soon he spotted a small figure in a Cub uniform walking along in front of him. As he got closer, he could see it was Morris. Morris was carrying something quite large. It looked like a model dinosaur, maybe a Brachiosaurus. As Stanley drew up beside Morris, he could see that it was in fact a Stanleysockasaurus! Its head and neck were very obviously made from a green and white football sock that had been badly stuffed with newspaper.

  “Hi Morris. Hey, that’s a good dinosaur,” remarked Stanley casually.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’ve been making it since Wednesday. I’ve spent ages and ages on it.” Morris looked very pleased with himself. Stanley, who had been planning to grab the dinosaur and pedal off at top speed, realised he couldn’t do that to Morris. “It’s for a competition we’re having at Cubs tonight,” went on Morris eagerly. “The winner of the competition is going to get a medal and a huge bar of chocolate. And the model will go on display in the museum in the city.”

  Stanley’s heart sank. If Morris won, he’d never get his sock back!

  “Do you think you’ll win?” he asked.

  Morris’s face clouded a little. “I’d like to, but I’ve heard that Wally Williams has made a dead good
pterodactyl.”

  “But your dinosaur is dead good too!” protested Stanley, not entirely honestly.

  “Well, the head and neck aren’t the right colour,” admitted Morris. “They should be brown but I couldn’t get a brown sock. Green and white was the nearest I could get to dinosaur colours. I should have painted it really but I ran out of time.”

  Thank goodness you didn't paint my sock, thought Stanley.

  Then he had an idea. It was the brainwave of the century.

  “Er, Morris, I could help you make your model better,” he offered.

  “Thanks, but it’s a bit late now,” replied Morris. He paused. “Isn’t it?”

  “It’s never too late!” grinned Stanley. He jumped off his bike and hitched up his trouser leg. “Look, I’ve got brown socks on. I’ll swap you my brown sock for your green and white one.”

  “Would you? Wow!” Morris looked delighted. Then he looked suspicious. “Why?”

  “Because that’s my sock you’ve got there and my mum’s mad and I won’t go to football practice without it and everybody KNOWS that dinosaurs didn't have green and white stripy necks!” Stanley fumed.

  Morris glared at Stanley for a moment, then he shrugged.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Give me your brown one then.”

  Morris pulled the head off his dinosaur and emptied the newspaper out of it. Stanley tore off his sock and gave it to Morris.

  “Phew, it stinks!” protested Morris.

  “Well, that will make your dinosaur more authentic won’t it,”