Mr Whinger’s garden was not like Becky's. Her garden had the remains of a lawn, a large dead tree with a hole in the trunk, overgrown borders full of tall weeds and nettles, and an old garden shed that Becky used as a den. There were no flowers or bushes. It used to be quite neat and tidy until Becky was old enough to start trampling through the flowerbeds and then Dad had stopped bothering with gardening. Anyway, Becky liked it just as it was.
Mr Whinger's garden, separated from hers by a high wooden fence (part of which was broken) and a thick hedge (with holes in it), was very different. There was a long green lawn, borders full of colourful flowers, a neat vegetable plot, a little greenhouse (with a broken window) and a pond full of fat orange fish.
Bumper liked to hop though the hedge into Mr Whinger's garden or burrow under the fence and nibble his way to the vegetable patch. This is exactly what Bumper had been up to yesterday.
Becky had tried to stop him but he was too quick for her and had soon found his way into Mr Whinger's garden. She had pushed through the hole in the hedge after him and that's when the flowers had been trampled on.
Honestly! thought Becky. Why Mr Whinger and her dad couldn't see that Bumper was to blame for all the damage was a mystery to her.
*
The following Sunday, Becky was heading for the rabbit hutch when Mr Whinger's face appeared over the fence.
‘I'm going out,’ he told Becky, ‘and you stay out of my garden, young lady, or else.’
‘Huh,’ mumbled Becky when his head had disappeared, ‘he's as grumpy and bad-tempered as ever. I hope he's gone all day.’
Becky took her rabbit out of his hutch and put him gently on the scrubby lawn.
‘Now, you be good,’ she told him sternly. Bumper hopped about a bit, nibbled a tuft of dry grass, investigated the overgrown borders and then his nose started to twitch. He had got a whiff of the radishes next door and off he hopped in the direction of Mr Whinger's garden.
‘No!’ cried Becky, as the rabbit took a leap towards the hedge. ‘You'll get me into terrible trouble again if you go into Mr Whinger's garden.’
As usual, Bumper took no notice. Rabbits can't understand little girls, but they can smell fat juicy red radishes ripe for nibbling. In a trice he had burrowed through to the next-door neighbour's garden.
It was a good thing, Becky thought to herself as she pushed her way through the hole in the fence, that Mr Whinger had gone out. She tiptoed carefully around the flowers and found Bumper in the middle of a big patch of radishes, munching away.
‘Come here, you naughty rabbit,’ said Becky, gently picking him up and cradling him in her arms.
It was then that she noticed the man on the small balcony outside Mr Whinger's bedroom window. There was a ladder leaning up against the wall. Becky knew she wasn't supposed to talk to strangers but when she saw big footprints in the borders and some plant pots that had been knocked over, she decided there was no way that she going to take the blame.
‘What are you doing?’ shouted Becky. The man was so startled that he nearly fell off the balcony. ‘Oh, you made me jump!’ he cried.
‘What are you doing?’ Becky repeated.
‘I'm cleaning the windows,’ the man told her cheerfully.
‘But Mr Whinger always cleans his own windows,’ said Becky. ‘I've seen him.’
‘Well, I'm doing them!’ snapped the man.
‘Mr Whinger cleaned his windows yesterday,’ said Becky. ‘I saw him.’
‘Well, he's asked me to do it again today,’ growled the man. He stared at Becky menacingly.
She did not like the look of this man at all. With his small eyes, pointed nose, gleaming white teeth and glossy black hair bristling on his head, he looked just like the rat that Becky had seen in the pet shop. She thought it best not to get any closer to his ladder.
‘Why don't you go and play with your dolls? There's a good little girl,’ said the man.
‘I haven't got any dolls,’ Becky told him. She liked this man less and less by the minute. ‘Where's your bucket?’
‘What?’ snapped the man.
‘Window cleaners have buckets and cloths. Where are yours?’
‘They're round the front,’ said the man, looking angry.
‘Why?’
‘What?’
‘Why are they round the front if you're cleaning windows round the back?’ Becky persisted.
‘You ask too many questions, little girl,’ said the man, smiling.
It wasn't a very nice smile, Becky thought.
‘My dad says that if you don't know, you should ask,’ Becky informed him. ‘So, why is your bucket round the front?’
‘Why don't you go home, little girl, and mind your own business?’ said the man, losing his patience.
‘I don't think you're a window cleaner at all,’ said Becky. ‘I think you're a burglar.’
‘No, no,’ said the man, laughing. ‘I'm a friend of Mr Roper.’
‘His name's Mr Whinger,’ said Becky.
The man frowned. ‘I'm coming down,’ he said, moving towards the ladder.
‘Oh no, you're not!’ said Becky and, putting Bumper on the ground, she ran towards the ladder and pushed it with all her strength.
It slid across the wall and clattered noisily on to the path.
‘Why did you do that, you horrible little girl?’ shouted the man. ‘Now I can't get down.’
‘Then you'll have to wait until Mr Whinger comes home,’ said Becky triumphantly.
At that very moment, Mr Whinger came round the corner of the house. When he saw Becky in his garden holding her rabbit, he ballooned with anger. ‘You… you… What did I say about coming into my garden?’ he shouted. He looked as if he were about to explode. ‘You're a very disobedient, naughty girl!’
Becky put Bumper down, folded her arms across her chest and waited patiently until Mr Whinger had stopped shouting and jumping up and down.
‘I saw this man on your balcony,’ said Becky eventually. ‘He said he was cleaning your windows.’
‘What man?’ spluttered Mr Whinger. Becky pointed up to the balcony. ‘That man, up there,’ she said. ‘I think he's a burglar.’ And with that, Becky picked up Bumper and pushed her way back through the hedge and into her own garden.
Later that day there was a sharp rap on the front door.
‘Whoever can that be?’ said Dad. This time it was six o'clock and the family was sitting down having their dinner. Becky had just pushed a big spoonful of pudding into her mouth. She had an idea who it might be.
‘I'll go,’ said Bernard, jumping up and heading for the door.
Ben ran to the window and peered out. ‘It's a policeman!’ he cried. ‘And there's Mr Whinger with him and I think he's holding some broken plants.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Mum.
Becky dug her spoon into the bowlful of pudding and chomped noisily.
Bernard opened the door.
‘Good afternoon, young man,’ said the policeman. ‘I'm Police Constable Catchum. Are your parents in?’
‘Yes,’ said Bernard.
Dad went to the door with a tragic expression on his face. He prepared himself for the worst. ‘You had better come in,’ he sighed.
Police Constable Catchum and Mr Whinger followed Dad into the kitchen.
‘It's about your daughter,’ Constable Catchum informed Becky's parents in a serious tone of voice.
‘I thought it might be,’ murmured Dad. ‘Whatever has she done now?’
Becky continued to eat her pudding and stared innocently at her family. Everyone looked so serious.
‘You should be very proud of that young lady,’ the police constable continued.
‘What?’ exclaimed Becky's mum.
‘Proud?’ gasped Dad.
The twins just sat there looking amazed.
Becky wiped the custard from her mouth and beamed.
‘If it hadn't been for her quick thinking,’ said the policeman, patting Becky on the hea
d, ‘Fred Filcher, the burglar, would have broken in and stolen all of Mr Whinger's valuables. Now, as I always tell children, it is not a sensible thing to approach strangers or to talk to them, but –’
‘He was on the balcony,’ said Becky. ‘He was miles away and if I had gone to fetch Dad he would have got away. Anyway, I had Bumper with me and he's got a really nasty bite.’
‘And speaking of that rabbit,’ said Mr Whinger, holding up a big bunch of bright-red radishes, ‘I thought Bumper might enjoy these.’
‘Thanks,’ said Becky, spitting out bits of custard and pudding, and smiling fit to burst. ‘I think he might.’
Bad Becky in Trouble Page 3
