The Giants and the Joneses

by Julia Donaldson

  Jumbeelia didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the story; she kept interrupting, and Colette heard her say the word ‘spratchkin’ over and over again.

  Later still, when the light was out and Jumbeelia was snoring softly, Colette heard a hooting noise from outside. It sounded horribly like an owl. She remembered how bravely Stephen had fought the wasp and refused to fight the spider. She remembered him shouting, ‘Leave my sister alone!’ and jabbing Zab’s ankle with the pin, and she realised that she was missing him every bit as much as she missed Mum and Dad. In fact, it seemed funny that she often used to think she hated Stephen. If they could all be together again, she felt that she wouldn’t mind being called all the insect names in the world.

  There was the owl again. Colette tried not to imagine how big a giant owl would be, or how sharp its claws or beak would feel.

  But what was this new noise? It sounded like an engine being started, somewhere a long way below her, out in the garden. There it was again: some revving noises, this time followed by a long dull roar.

  Colette felt a bubble of hope swelling inside her. It was the lawn mower! Stephen must have found it under the flowerpot. Everything was going to work out. She drifted off to sleep.

  She woke with a start in the middle of the night.

  Someone or something was tapping at the window.

  Though it was still dark she could just make out the dim square of the doll’s-house window. It had no curtains. There didn’t seem to be anyone outside it, and the tapping had stopped now.

  Colette sat up in bed. She listened. All was silent.

  But she had heard a tapping, she was sure.

  She cast her eyes round the room. They were growing used to the darkness, and she could make out the shapes of Stephen’s empty bed and Poppy’s sardine tin.

  Then she looked back at the window and her heart missed a beat.

  A glinting green eye was staring in at her.

  19

  Spratchkin

  ‘OGGLE, GRISHMIJ, OGGLE!’

  Jumbeelia laughed, pointed, and tugged at her grandmother’s sleeve.

  Obediently, Grishmij watched the spratchkin chasing a leaf. She smiled faintly and then went back to the iggly yellow sock she was knitting for the bobbaleely.

  Jumbeelia picked the spratchkin up, hoping it would stay in her arms, but it wasn’t in a woozly mood; it jumped down and was off after the leaf again, batting it down the path and under the garden shed.

  Jumbeelia laughed again. She hadn’t felt as happy as this for ages. It was a lovely sunny day. Zab was still away at Grishpij’s house, she had Grishmij all to herself, she was soon to have a new brother or sister, and – best of all – she had the beely beely spratchkin. Oh, and the iggly plops too, of course; she had almost forgotten about them.

  The spratchkin was still crouched by the garden shed, and every now and then would shoot a black paw underneath it. Was it trying to get the leaf back, or had it discovered something even more interesting under there?

  Jumbeelia was about to go and look, when she heard a familiar voice.

  Iggly plops! Iggly plops!

  Queesh? Queesh? Queesh?

  Oggle arump! Oggle arump!

  Aheesh! Aheesh! Aheesh!

  It was old Throg on his rounds again. There he was, leaning over the gate and beckoning to Grishmij, who put down her knitting and went to ask what he wanted.

  It was the same old question: ‘Ev oy oggled o iggly plops?’

  Grishmij smiled and shook her head. ‘Nug – yimp.’ She hadn’t seen the iggly plops, and she didn’t believe in them, though she was too kind to tell old Throg that.

  Jumbeelia smiled too. She imagined what Grishmij would say if she found out that Throg wasn’t mad to believe in the iggly plops; that two iggly plops were in her bedroom at this very moment.

  If only she could talk to Throg! She would love to put him right about the iggly plops, to tell him that they weren’t the dangerous creatures he thought they were. But she still felt shy of him, and she certainly didn’t want to give away the hiding place of her two pet iggly plops.

  She was sure that Throg would never discover those two, but she did worry that he might find the boy that Zab had lost. She still felt very cross with Zab about that. Fancy bringing them down into the garden!

  Thinking about the iggly plops, Jumbeelia remembered guiltily that she had forgotten to give them any lunch. She hadn’t played with them much the last few days, either; she’d been too busy playing outside with the spratchkin.

  In any case, the iggly plops weren’t quite as much fun as they used to be. The wild one wasn’t getting any tamer, and even the iggliest one was a bit droopy these days. Maybe they were missing the boy. Maybe Jumbeelia ought to go back down the bimplestonk and look for another one to replace him. That should cheer them up. And maybe – wonderful thought! – she might even find some iggly spratchkins down there.

  Old Throg gave them both a last suspicious look and was on his way.

  Grishmij went back to her knitting. The spratchkin seemed to have forgotten about whatever was under the garden shed and was patting at a snail.

  Jumbeelia picked up the snail. Studying it, she wondered if all snails had exactly the same squirls on their shells or if each one was different …

  20

  The monster on the bed

  ‘I HUNGRY,’ SAID Poppy.

  Colette noticed that she was beginning to talk in a more grown-up way. Only a few days ago she would have said ‘Poppy hungry’.

  Jumbeelia had forgotten to give them any lunch again.

  ‘We’ll have to eat something from the running-away collection,’ said Colette. But there were only a few giant sugar grains left: the two hungry children had eaten all the cornflakes and raisins.

  Colette was trying to decide whether to give in to Poppy’s demands for ‘more sweeties’ when they heard Jumbeelia come into the room.

  ‘I expect she’ll feed us now,’ said Colette.

  But the girl giant’s footsteps thudded towards a different part of the room.

  Poppy’s face fell. ‘I still hungry,’ she said miserably.

  ‘It’s no use telling me that,’ snapped Colette. Then she saw that Poppy was nearly crying. ‘Come on,’ she said, more gently. ‘Let’s go and show Jumbeelia how hungry we are. Practise clutching your tummy.’

  They found their way to where Jumbeelia was lying on the floor by a sheet of polythene.

  ‘Big girl got snails like ’Lette,’ said Poppy.

  And so she had. At one end of the polythene sheet were some giant leaves and blades of grass, and at the other end were three gigantic coiled shells.

  ‘Wunk, twunk, thrink, GLAY!’ shouted Jumbeelia.

  A rubbery head protruded from one of the shells, and two transparent horns with eyes at the end of them quivered. The giant snail slithered a few inches along the polythene. Jumbeelia clapped her hands.

  ‘I think it’s supposed to be a race,’ said Colette.

  Jumbeelia noticed them then. ‘Wahoy, iggly plops,’ she said.

  ‘Now, Poppy!’ ordered Colette.

  She and Poppy clutched their tummies and made what they hoped were hungry faces.

  Jumbeelia laughed. ‘Heehuckerly iggly plops!’ she said. Then she turned back to the snails.

  ‘I know!’ said Colette. ‘Let’s pretend to eat the grass. That should give her the idea.’

  They grabbed two blades of the giant grass and began to nibble.

  Jumbeelia did take more notice then. ‘Roopy iggly plops! Glay jum,’ she said. She picked them up, one in each hand, and took them back to the doll’s house.

  ‘Dinner coming now!’ said Poppy. And it was – but not the sort of dinner they wanted. Instead, Jumbeelia pushed a bundle of grass in through the doll’s-house door.

  ‘Beely strimp!’ she said, and went back to the snails.

  ‘Oh no!’ said Colette. ‘Now she thinks we really like grass.’

  She tri
ed not to cry – she wanted to be as brave for Poppy as Stephen had been for her – but she couldn’t help it. She was hungry and she was missing Stephen, but what made the tears come so fast was the feeling that Jumbeelia didn’t seem to care about them any more. Compared with Zab, Jumbeelia had been almost like a friend: she was a fellow collector, and such a kind and gentle one, or so it had seemed. Why had she let them down like this?

  ‘Cheer up, ’Lette,’ said Poppy, stroking her leg. This just made Colette burst out into louder sobs.

  ‘Jumbeelia’s so heartless!’

  But as she said the words she knew in a flash that they weren’t true, that Jumbeelia didn’t really mean to be cruel or unkind. ‘No, she’s not heartless – she’s just like me.’

  Colette remembered how her mother always accused her of losing interest in her collections. In just the same way, Jumbeelia was losing interest in them. But as she forgave the girl giant, Colette found herself feeling worse instead of better. Supposing Jumbeelia forgot to feed them ever again? What hope was there for them?

  Poppy interrupted her thoughts. ‘I thirsty,’ she said.

  Colette stopped crying then, not because she felt better, but because she suddenly felt cold all over.

  She knew that people could go without food for days, weeks even. But if you don’t have anything to drink, you die.

  ‘Go in garden, find Stephen, get puddle water,’ said Poppy.

  If only it was that simple! Even though Jumbeelia didn’t often play with them now, she was still careful to keep her door closed, especially at night, when the monster kitten slept on her bed.

  Thinking about the kitten gave Colette an idea. Jumbeelia always put down a saucer of milk for it when she went to bed.

  ‘We can’t get into the garden yet, but I will get us a drink. I’ll get it tonight,’ she promised Poppy.

  That night a full moon shone through the gap in Jumbeelia’s curtains. The girl giant was asleep, and the kitten purred on her bed.

  In the doll’s house, Colette whispered to Poppy: ‘Keep very still while I tie this end of the cotton round your wrist.’

  The thread of cotton led out of the doll’s-house window and across the piles of clutter on Jumbeelia’s floor. The other end of it was tied around the feathery robin from the Christmas-tree collection, who now sat in a nest made of tinsel and scraps of paperchain. These would make a good rustle if the thread was pulled.

  ‘Now, remember, Poppy,’ said Colette. ‘you must keep very still – stiller than you’ve ever been in your life, probably – but don’t go to sleep whatever you do. And remember what to do if I call you.’

  ‘Pull string,’ said Poppy.

  Slowly and carefully Colette opened the front door of the doll’s house.

  She stood for a minute or so in the doorway. Pinned to her front and back were two of the giant badges. In her hand was a saucepan from the doll’s-house kitchen.

  Colette listened. The kitten’s purr was still loud and strong. Jumbeelia wasn’t snoring but Colette was pretty sure from the sound of her deep regular breathing that she was fast asleep.

  ‘You can do it,’ she told herself.

  Jumbeelia’s floor was more of an obstacle course than ever. Colette had to go slowly and be careful not to bump into anything. By the moonlight she could just about make out the different objects.

  She came to the plastic cows that she had tried to milk on the first day. They looked quite real in the dim light, and Colette wished they wouldn’t stare at her like that.

  Just then her foot caught in something. She stumbled and fell.

  The kitten stopped purring. Colette kept very still, and it started up again. She counted silently to a hundred, uncoiled the lace from one of Jumbeelia’s trainers which had tripped her up, and set off once more.

  The purring sounded much louder now. She was getting nearer to Jumbeelia’s bed. She rounded a mountain of giant egg boxes. Beyond them she could see the white saucer of milk.

  She crossed the last stretch of mossy carpet.

  Would there be any milk left in the saucer?

  ‘Please let there be some – please!’ she prayed.

  She peered down into the white saucer and saw whiteness. Was it just the bottom of the saucer? In the dim light she couldn’t tell. She blew gently and the white surface dimpled and rippled – it was milk!

  She leaned over and dipped the saucepan into it. Tilting it carefully she filled it almost to the brim.

  The full saucepan was heavy and she had to concentrate on keeping her balance as she lifted it out again.

  Greedily she gulped some of the milk. Then she stood still, listening to the kitten’s purring and to the thumping of her own heart.

  Holding the saucepan steadily, she began the return journey.

  She rounded the egg boxes and followed the same route back until she saw the cows.

  That’s where I tripped over the shoelace, she remembered. I’d better go a different way.

  She edged round some giant dominoes and came to a pile of grass and leaves – more food for the snails, she supposed.

  Was it her imagination, or was one of the leaves moving slightly? Colette stood still and stared at it.

  From behind the leaf a face appeared – a slimy greenish face with two probing glistening horns.

  Colette gasped and took a step backwards, then told herself firmly, ‘It’s only a big snail – it can’t hurt me.’ She leant against an upright domino and took a few deep breaths.

  The domino collapsed.

  Colette staggered and managed not to fall. But what was this terrible noise? This series of deafening clacks that sounded like a wooden house collapsing?

  Frozen with fear, Colette realized she had toppled a line of dominoes.

  ‘Stay asleep!’ she begged the kitten.

  But it didn’t. It woke up and sprang off the bed.

  ‘Poppy, pull!’

  Nothing happened.

  She’s gone to sleep, thought Colette.

  And then, from the Christmas-tree collection came the rustling of the robin in its tinsel and paperchain nest. Poppy had pulled the thread!

  The kitten sped towards the new noise. Colette heard it pounce, and the rustling grew louder as it tussled with the feathery decoration.

  She hardly dared to move, yet she knew she must before the kitten got bored with the robin.

  Still carrying the precious milk, she set off once more towards the doll’s house. She could see it now, and could even make out the cotton, which was jerking about in a tug of war, with Poppy tweaking one end and the kitten mauling the robin at the other end.

  Then it snapped.

  ‘All fall down,’ came a voice from the doll’s house.

  Colette had nearly reached the front door. The rustling of tinsel, feathers and paper grew less frantic and then stopped altogether.

  Ten more steps, Colette thought, willing herself to take them.

  She didn’t hear the kitten run towards her, but she felt the heavy blow as its paw hit the shield on her back. She fell forwards.

  ‘Naughty cat stop!’ Poppy ran out of the doll’s house.

  ‘No, Poppy! Go back!’ yelled Colette.

  But she was too late. The kitten pounced on Poppy. It knocked her over. Poppy screamed as the black furry monster picked her up in its mouth.

  21

  Blood

  GRISHMIJ WAS WOKEN by a scream and a shout of ‘Nug nug NUG!’ Was Jumbeelia having a nightmare?

  Within seconds Grishmij was out of bed and on the landing. She opened Jumbeelia’s bedroom door, and the spratchkin streaked out.

  ‘Pecky, pecky spratchkin!’ yelled Jumbeelia. She was kneeling on the floor, cradling something in her hand, and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  Grishmij knelt down too, and put an arm round her. Jumbeelia had placed one hand on top of the other, hiding whatever it was she was holding.

  Grishmij stroked Jumbeelia’s hair and asked her what the matter was. A
t first her granddaughter just sobbed, but at last the words came.

  ‘Grishmij! Grishmij! O spratchkin kraggled o iggly plop!’

  Then Grishmij noticed the blood stain on the carpet. And as she looked at it, a fresh drop dripped from Jumbeelia’s hands – and another and another.

  Jumbeelia looked down at the blood too, and then up at her grandmother through her tears.

  ‘Grishmij! Grishmij!’ she cried, and she lifted the hand that was hiding her secret.

  In Jumbeelia’s other palm lay a tiny white doll. It was dressed in a lacy nighty and a stripy football jumper.

  ‘Iggly plop! Iggly plop!’ Jumbeelia sobbed, as if the doll was real.

  Grishmij was more concerned about the blood than the doll. How had Jumbeelia hurt herself? Had the spratchkin scratched her?

  Jumbeelia shook her head. ‘Iggly plop,’ she kept repeating, and then, again, ‘O spratchkin kraggled o iggly plop.’

  She held the doll out to her grandmother. ‘Oggle!’ she said. Grishmij took a closer look at it, and noticed something extraordinary. The blood was dripping out of the doll’s arm.

  It wasn’t a doll. It really was an iggly plop. And what’s more, it wasn’t dead. It lay quite still but Grishmij saw it blink.

  Very gently, Grishmij took the creature from Jumbeelia’s hand. She peeled off the football jumper. One sleeve came off easily but the blood from the wound caused the other sleeve to stick to the iggly plop’s arm. Grishmij continued to pull it, and with a little jerk it came away.

  ‘Ow!’ said the iggly plop.

  Jumbeelia gasped. ‘Nug kraggled!’ she whispered.

  Grishmij knew just what to do next. They took the iggly plop into the bathroom and Grishmij washed its arm. The wound was long but not as deep as she had feared. Jumbeelia fetched a handkerchief, and Grishmij cut a strip off it which she made into a bandage.

  The iggly plop was still quite floppy as Grishmij wound the bandage round and round its arm. Although it seemed to be aware of what was happening, it was obviously still suffering from shock.