Contents
Title Page
Meet Fergus and his friends …
Meet Princess Lily and her friends …
Chapter 1
The Biscuit Baron is Back
Chapter 2
The Bonkers Banana Ban
Chapter 3
Butts Are for Sitting On
Chapter 4
Silent Bicycles and Sit-Ins
Chapter 5
The Manchester Grand
Chapter 6
Place Your Bets
Chapter 7
Ruler for a Day
Chapter 8
The International Finish Line
Chapter 9
Two of a Kind
About Chris Hoy
About Joanna Nadin
About Clare Elsom
Copyright
Meet Fergus
and his friends …
Fergus
Chimp
Grandpa Herc
Daisy
Jambo Patterson
Mum
Mikey McLeod
Minnie McLeod
Wesley Wallace
Calamity Coogan
Dermot Eggs
Sorcha
Charlie Campbell
Choppy Wallace
Belinda Bruce
… and see where they live
Meet Princess Lily
and her friends …
Princess Lily
Hector Hamilton
Unlucky Luke
Percy the Pretty Useless
Demelza
Douglas
Dimmock
Prince Waldorf
King Woebegot
Queen Woebegot
Prince Derek
Duke Dastardly
Knights of No Nonsense
Scary Mary
… and explore Nevermore
Chapter 1
The Biscuit Baron is Back
Fergus Hamilton was an ordinary nine-year-old boy. He liked monkeys (especially when they sat on Jambo’s van and stole sandwiches in the safari park), bumble bees (except when they got inside Jambo’s van and buzzed too close to him), and woolly mammoths (although they were extinct, which was a relief for Jambo’s van, at least).
He didn’t like big dogs (because they scared his own mongrel, Chimp), or wasps (because they were useless), and he definitely didn’t like dinosaurs (because they scared him, even if they were extinct).
Yes, he was ordinary in almost every way, except one. Because, for a small boy, Fergus Hamilton had an extraordinarily big imagination.
Some days he imagined he lived next door to Captain Gadget, his favourite comic book character, who would spot Fergus’s potential and train him up as a superhero sidekick to share in his adventures.
Some days he imagined he lived round the corner from Steve “Spokes” Sullivan, his favourite sporting hero, who would take him under his wing and coach him to become a cycling world champion one day, just like Spokes had been.
And some days he imagined he lived down the road from his dad, his real hero, so they could spend more time discussing tactics for the Palace Pedallers, the team they both looked after in the parallel universe of Nevermore.
But this morning Fergus was imagining he lived in the same city as his best friend Daisy. He couldn’t believe she’d had to move all the way to Inverness for her dad’s job. And just before the International Championships as well. Sorcha, his second-best friend, was great, and his team-mates cheered him up no end, but Fergus missed Daisy every minute of every day.
And he missed her most right now, what with all the hoo-hah at Hopefuls’ HQ.
“What do you mean, you’re stepping up?” Grandpa asked Mr Bruce. Belinda’s dad, the biggest biscuit baron in five counties, was the official sponsor of the Hercules’ Hopefuls cycle team. “No one asked anyone to step anywhere. Did we, Choppy?”
Choppy shook his head. “I’m as baffled as you are, Herc.”
“Not the point,” boomed Mr Bruce. “It’s my name on the team jerseys and I want in.”
“But you’ve already got in,” said Grandpa. “You said it yourself. Your name is on the jerseys.”
“And the water bottles,” added Fergus, checking out the slogan in bright red on the side of his own: Bruce’s Biscuits, bringing home winners.
“And the helmets,” added Calamity.
“And the minibus,” said Minnie with a sigh. “Which is a worry. What if we don’t win? Then you’ll be bringing home losers.”
“Not if I get my way,” barked Mr Bruce.
“And what is your way exactly?” asked Grandpa.
“Yes, do tell us,” said Choppy. “We’re all ears.”
Fergus and the gang fell silent as they waited. Belinda seemed extremely nervous about what might come out of her dad’s mouth. And when he spoke, it was obvious why.
“I want to be coach,” said Mr Bruce.
Fergus’s jaw dropped open. “You’ve got to be joking!” he said.
“Aye, we’ve two coaches already,” said Grandpa. “And neither of us is going anywhere, are we, Choppy?”
Choppy shook his head. “Not on your Nellie,” he agreed.
“I don’t mean head coach,” Mr Bruce said. “Or even second head,” he added, looking at Grandpa.
Fergus felt himself bristle at the suggestion Grandpa was second-best. Grandpa and Choppy were equal on the team – they all were.
But some, it seemed, were more equal than others.
“I’ll be Executive Coach,” said Mr Bruce.
“Executive Coach?” asked Wesley. “What’s one of those when it’s at home?”
Mr Bruce smiled – a sort of super-villain smile, Fergus thought to himself, wishing again that Captain Gadget lived next door.
“It means,” said Mr Bruce. “That I am top dog.”
Chimp whimpered.
“Of course it does,” muttered Choppy, as he and Grandpa raised their eyebrows at each other.
“I won’t be actually on the track,” continued Mr Bruce, “more in the boardroom. But I’ll be in charge of tactics for these last few days before the Internationals. We need to get ahead of the game, after all.”
“It’s not a game,” Fergus found himself blurting out loud. “It’s a sport.”
“Sport, game, whatever,” said Mr Bruce. “But that’s the deal. Take it or leave it. If you leave it, though, I’ll be having my minibus back. And the car stickers. And the novelty pen toppers.”
Then Mr Bruce crossed his arms, waiting, Fergus assumed, for the answer “yes”. How could Grandpa and Choppy refuse, if it meant they’d lose the sponsorship money?
Instead of saying “yes”, though, Grandpa said, “Give us a minute,” sending Fergus’s hopes soaring. “We need a team talk. I’m sure given your … devotion to the Hopefuls, you understand how important that is.”
“I don’t –” blustered Mr Bruce.
But Belinda interrupted. “Please, Daddy. We’ll only be a moment.” She smiled sweetly – a smile that Fergus just knew was all ploy.
It worked.
“Fine,” said Mr Bruce, clearly unable to refuse his darling daughter anything. “You can have one minute. But one minute only, understand? And I’ll be right outside.”
“You’ve got it, Daddy,” said Belinda, a little too quickly for Fergus’s liking. But maybe she had another trick up her sleeve. Or two?
But as soon as the door was shut, it was clear that no one had any tricks, or even ideas.
“Do we really need novelty pen-toppers?” asked Mikey. “Or even helmets? Well, obviously we need helmets.”
“Especially in my case,” said Calamity.
Mikey nodded with a half-smile. “What I meant was, do we need s
logans on them? We’ve managed without that so far.”
“It’s more the minibus I’m worried about,” admitted Grandpa. “How do we get to the Internationals without it? It’s a long way to Manchester, and we need to take all our bikes and kit.”
“And what about when we get there?” said Choppy. “Mr Bruce is stumping up the cash for the hotel and without that, where are we going to kip?”
“Tents?” suggested Fergus.
“Are you mad?” asked Wesley. “I’m not sleeping in a tent. We can sleep in the minibus.”
“Yeah, minibus,” said Dermot.
“But we won’t have the minibus,” Grandpa reminded them.
“Oh, yeah,” said Wesley, gloomy again.
Fergus had an idea. “Can’t you talk to him?” he asked Belinda. “He’s your dad, he’ll listen to you.”
But Belinda shook her head. “I don’t think he will. I told him I didn’t want a pony for my birthday, or a parakeet. I’d have been happy with a hamster. But now I have Tallulah and Tarquin, and I’m allergic to both of them!”
Grandpa sighed. “There’s nothing for it,” he said. “Choppy?”
Choppy nodded reluctantly. “Fine. Mr Bruce as Executive Coach it is. We’ll just have to cross our fingers and hope he doesn’t actually have any bright ideas.”
Fergus crossed his fingers and his toes, too. But as Grandpa went out to give Mr Bruce the good (or bad) news, Fergus had a funny feeling that this wasn’t going to end well.
No, not well at all.
Chapter 2
The Bonkers Banana Ban
Not for the first time that morning, Fergus wished Daisy was by his side.
It was bad enough that Mr Bruce had been named Executive Coach, but apparently he actually did have some bright ideas – although “bright” was not the word Fergus would use to describe them.
“A banana ban?” Fergus asked incredulously. “But why?”
Mr Bruce puffed out his chest. “Well, I knew you’d ask that, so I’ve made a little presentation for you.”
Fergus glanced at Belinda, who rolled her eyes.
“Lights off,” demanded Mr Bruce, as he unfurled a screen and flicked on a projector. “This is how we do things in big business,” he boomed.
“Aye, all flash and no substance,” muttered Grandpa.
Fergus and Belinda smiled. But only for a second, because as soon as the film started rolling, the whole team had their mouths agape.
“So you see,” said Mr Bruce when it had ended. “Bananas are too simple. They’re perfectly fine for monkeys in the wild, but not for men in the twenty-first century.”
“What about women?” Belinda asked indignantly.
“Of course, my precious little princess.” Mr Bruce smiled. “No bananas for you either.”
“That’s not what I –” Belinda began.
But Mr Bruce shut her up quick. “So, ‘What’s the alternative?’ I hear you asking.”
“I wasn’t asking,” whispered Wesley.
“Nor me,” said Fergus.
But they were going to be told anyway.
“Biscuits!” proclaimed Mr Bruce, producing a packet from his jacket pocket with a flourish.
“Mmm, biscuits,” repeated Dermot.
“Exactly,” said Mr Bruce. “And the thing about these beauties is that they’re packed with special man-made ingredients that are designed to give you energy fast, which, let’s face it, you need at speed.”
“Packed with lots of sugar, you mean,” said Grandpa.
“Mmm, sugar,” repeated Dermot.
“Bananas have sugar but they release their energy slowly, that’s the whole point,” said Fergus, remembering one of Daisy’s top facts. “So we don’t get a dip.”
“Eat enough of these biscuits and you’ll not sleep in weeks,” said Mr Bruce, handing out packets to everyone from a gigantic box. “Bouncing off the walls, you’ll be.”
Fergus looked at Grandpa in disbelief. Mr Bruce surely couldn’t be suggesting that the best diet for the International Cycle Championships was – Fergus squinted at the packet – Bruce’s Butterscotch Bonanzas. Could he?
“That’s right, munch up,” said Mr Bruce as Dermot tore into the packet and stuffed several in his mouth at once.
Grandpa shrugged. It seemed that as Executive Coach and sponsor of the team, Mr Bruce could. And that wasn’t all.
“I’ve another change to announce,” said Mr Bruce, brushing crumbs off his own pin-striped suit. “There’s going to be a switch in who wears the Number One jersey.”
Fergus, who was already feeling queasy from the smell of so many butterscotch biscuits, felt his stomach slide like he was about to be sick. Mr Bruce couldn’t mess with placings, surely? Number One jersey was always him or Wesley, and the final choice should be down to Grandpa and Choppy, not this newcomer who knew nothing about their track record.
But again, Fergus was about to find out just how wrong he was.
“From now on,” continued Mr Bruce, “my baby Belinda will be riding out front. She’s my champion and she should be yours as well.”
Belinda shook her head. “But, Daddy!” she protested. “I don’t –”
“Nonsense,” her father interrupted. “You deserve it, sweetheart.”
“For what?” asked Belinda, baffled.
“For being my beautiful Belinda, of course.” Mr Bruce smiled widely and indulgently.
“Now hang on …” began Fergus.
“But that’s so …” said Wesley at the same time.
But Mr Bruce silenced them both. “I’ll not hear another word on the subject.”
Or rather, he tried to silence them. Because Fergus found his anger had quelled his funny tummy and was bubbling up inside like hot lava instead. Yes, he was a one-boy volcano and he was about to erupt.
“How dare you?” Fergus demanded. “No offence to Belinda, who’s brilliant by the way, but Wesley’s better, and he deserves that place.”
“No, Fergus does,” argued Wesley quickly, quite to Fergus’s (and everyone else’s) surprise.
But Fergus didn’t stop. “You can feed us all the biscuits you want, Mr Bruce, but Wesley’s times are up on mine so he’s our number one. Not Belinda, and not me. And that’s final.” He crossed his arms and stared at Mr Bruce.
Mr Bruce stared hard back at Fergus, his face reddening by the second.
“Are you arguing with me, boy?”
Fergus glanced at Grandpa, hoping for back-up. Grandpa nodded.
Fergus found his voice again. “Well … yes, I suppose I am.”
Mr Bruce paused for a moment, looking so disgusted it was almost as if he thought that Fergus was dog poo on the bottom of his shoe. Then he spoke, slowly and deliberately and damningly.
“In that case, boy, you are off the team entirely.”
Fergus gasped.
Everyone else gulped.
“This boy – what’s his name?” Mr Bruce pointed at Dermot, still stuffing his face with Butterscotch Bonanzas.
“Dermot?” said Wesley, horrified.
“Me?” Dermot spluttered crumbs everywhere.
“Yes, Dermot,” said Mr Bruce, pleased. “He seems to agree with my policies. He can take your place. And if anyone else so much as murmurs, they’ll be replaced as well.”
With that as his final word, Mr Bruce stalked from the room.
Wesley snapped his mouth shut, as did everyone else. Even Chimp.
Fergus felt his legs turn to wet, wobbly jelly. So much for being a fiery boy volcano. It couldn’t be true, could it? Off the team for the Internationals – the most important cycling championships they’d ever qualified for?
But it seemed he really was.
“I’m sorry, sonny,” said Grandpa, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“What can I do?” whispered Fergus, his voice fading as fast as his hopes.
Grandpa shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. We’ll fix it somehow, you can be sure of that. But for now, you
’re going to have to play along.”
“Play along?”
“Aye,” said Grandpa. “For now, at least. Like a big game of ‘Let’s Pretend’. You can manage that, can’t you?”
Fergus nodded. Imagination was his strong point, he knew that.
But this wasn’t just make-believe. This was the future of Hercules’ Hopefuls.
And Fergus wasn’t even in it.
Chapter 3
Butts Are for Sitting On
“Och, Fergie, I cannae believe it,” said Mum, when he trudged in and slumped on the sofa, Chimp at his feet. “Herc told us what happened with Mr Bruce.”
“He’s got no right,” added Jambo. “No right at all. Herc, surely you can sort it?”
Fergus turned to Grandpa again, but he just held up his hands.
“Unless we can come up with another source of sponsorship, there’s nothing any of us can do,” Grandpa said. “We need money to pay for the minibus and the hotel in Manchester. So for now we just have to sit it out and wait for Mr Bruce to come to his senses.”
“It won’t take long if everyone’s burning through biscuits and running out of juice,” said Jambo. “They’ll fall off before they hit the finish line.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Fergus. “Dermot can eat a whole packet of Bruce’s Juicy Lucys on the move.”
“That’s not even legal,” said Jambo. “Hang on. I should run this as a story, Herc! Boy Champion Deposed Over Butterscotch Biscuit Row. What do you say? People power will push Mr Bruce to do the right thing, surely?”
Flying Fergus 10 Page 1
