“Can we please get rid of that stupid ball?” he said, his voice slightly muffled.
“What’s your problem, Big Boy?” Sam asked.
“It’s embarrassing – you make us look like a ….”
“Like a what?” Sarah said, pouncing. “Like a girl’s team?”
Nish was scarlet. “I didn’t say that.”
“No, but that’s what you think,” said Liz.
“I just think it’s time to drop it,” Nish said. “It’s too big. It’s out of control.”
“Like you,” said Jenny.
Nish shrugged. “I hate it,” he said. “You won’t get any of my tape.”
“We don’t want your tape!” Sam snapped, picking up her tape ball and ramming it deep inside her equipment bag. “Besides, we think your stupid golden helmet’s embarrassing. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something like that.”
Nish shrieked. “You don’t have to worry! It’s for the best player on each team – and we all know who that is, don’t we?”
Sam threw some loose shin-pad tape at Nish, who let it bounce harmlessly off his prize helmet.
Travis went back to untying his skates. He could not believe how silly some arguments could get. He remembered his dad once saying that when he had been a young boy they used to say things like “Your mother wears army boots” to upset someone in the schoolyard – and it worked!
Talk changes, Travis thought, but not the stupidity of it.
He wasn’t embarrassed by the tape ball one bit.
He was often embarrassed by his best friend.
10
Travis was almost overwhelmed by the bustle. The Screech Owls had gone for another tour. This time they walked down through Hyde Park in a light drizzle so that Muck could have Data take his picture standing underneath the Wellington Arch, and then the team carried on across Green Park toward Buckingham Palace.
The warm rain let up just as the changing of the guard outside the palace began. Travis found the formal, scheduled procession less interesting than what was going on all around.
Along the length of the wide pinkish-paved avenue called The Mall, the police were erecting barriers. There were seating stands being hammered up near the fountain opposite the palace and even more stands going up in front of Canada Gate to the right of the main palace gates.
Simon pointed out that the structures looked just like hockey stands.
“I thought we were playing at some place called Wembley!” cracked Nish.
But the special seating and the barriers had nothing to do with any peewee hockey team from Canada. It was all for the procession that the Queen and the rest of the royal family would be making along The Mall and down the twisting Horse Guards Road to Westminster Pier, where they would board a yacht that would carry them along the Thames to the Tower of London.
Travis found it hard to imagine such a fuss being made over some jewels. Travis once had a rock collection, and he cried when his mother accidentally threw it out, but this was different. This was an entire city going mad over a few shiny stones.
For days, the television news and the London papers had been talking about little else but the seven hundredth anniversary of the Crown Jewels being in the Tower of London. There were photographs of a sword covered in rubies, several pictures of what the newspapers were calling the largest diamond in the world, and a full-page spread of the crown the Queen would put on, briefly, once she had arrived at the Tower: the Imperial State Crown, which, one television reporter said, glittered with 2,868 diamonds, 273 pearls, seventeen sapphires, eleven emeralds, and five rubies.
Some rock collection, Travis thought.
“It’s not about jewels,” Muck told them when Travis asked why people would get so worked up about a crown. “It’s about symbolism. It’s about longevity. It says that the world can change, an empire can rise and fall, centuries can pass, and yet the Crown carries on. People here would say it stands for British civilization, even if a bunch of people in Canada think it’s rather silly to have a Queen. It isn’t silly over here, believe me.”
Muck seemed almost transformed by this trip, Travis thought. The old coach’s eyes took on a new glow whenever he came across a statue or a war memorial or a museum. There was almost a light step to his walk, even though Muck’s limp was obvious whenever they went on a long walk through the parks.
After they had watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and walked around to see all the preparations for the royal procession, Muck took them to Kensington, where he put Mr. Dillinger in charge of leading the Owls through the Natural History Museum so they could see the dinosaur collection. Muck himself was off to the nearby Victoria and Albert Museum, where, he said, he planned to look at the special exhibition of Renaissance furniture.
“After that,” Nish asked, “do you suppose we could go somewhere and watch paint dry?”
Muck didn’t even bother to acknowledge the wisecrack. He was used to Nish. He was also used to the kids wondering how anyone so caught up in the fast game of hockey could at the same time be obsessed with something so slow it no longer even moved: history.
But none of them had ever figured out Muck, and none of them expected they ever would.
He was just Muck – and they wouldn’t want him any other way.
Back at the hotel, they were given thirty minutes to pack up for the bus that would take them to the Tower of London for the special overnight stay.
Mr. Wolfe, the snaggle-toothed human water-hose was there to organize everyone. He was so wound up, it struck Travis it would be a lot easier if Mr. Wolfe had stayed out of the way.
But Mr. Wolfe had his own good reasons for being there.
“We want you to bring all your stuff along,” he announced, spittle spraying. “There will be storage space made available in one of the other towers for your hockey equipment. You can bring your suitcases to the sleeping quarters in the Garden Tower, where we’ll be.”
“He means Bloody Tower,” whispered Fahd. “He just doesn’t want to say it.”
Maybe, Travis thought, it was just another case of absent-mindedness.
Travis was thinking about something else. He saw what Mr. Wolfe was up to. He wanted them moved completely out of their hotel for the night so that the rooms could be rented out to the tourists who were still flooding into London for the royal procession. They’d be willing to pay top price, and that would add up to a lot of money if the rooms were available. Mr. Wolfe was making certain they would be.
“We’ll be putting the Young Lions on the middle floor,” Mr. Wolfe was saying. “The Grey Owls will be up top -”
“SCREECH!” Sam screeched.
“Sorry, Screech Owls,” Mr. Wolfe apologized.
But Travis wasn’t even listening. He was wondering just how well off Mr. Wolfe’s company was. They were gambling that by getting some public attention, in-line skating and in-line hockey would somehow take off in Great Britain. But if they were already trying to cut corners, what did that say about their future?
Travis decided it wasn’t his concern. He didn’t have to worry about the company’s future. And he couldn’t really blame Mr. Wolfe for trying to regain some of the hotel costs while the team was being put up, free of charge, at the Tower of London. So long as the airline tickets home were valid and the Owls made it back to Tamarack, it really didn’t matter one way or the other to Travis.
Besides, he couldn’t stand Mr. Wolfe. He wouldn’t be bothered in the least to see this pompous, full-of-himself spitter fall flat on his face. In fact, he’d be delighted.
Travis surprised himself with his own animosity toward Mr. Wolfe. After all, he didn’t even really know the man.
“Can I bring my golden helmet?” Nish asked, putting on his best choirboy look for good measure.
Mr. Wolfe smiled widely, bad teeth and all.
“Of course, Mr. Nikabama …”
“NISH-I-KA-WA!” Sam shouted, stomping her feet.
“Nishika
wa,” Mr. Wolfe repeated, still smiling. “We want you to bring it, young man. We might get some good media out of this. I’ve asked young Mr. Rose to bring his along as well. Just imagine the photo op!”
Nish beamed, turning and bowing slightly to his teammates on either side of him as if he’d just been knighted by the Queen. “Can I wear it?”
Mr. Wolfe finally laughed at something that wasn’t his own joke. “Of course you can, lad – wear it as you’re walking into the Tower if you like.”
“Geez,” Nish said, a strong blush working up his face. “Thanks, Mr. Wolfe.”
“My pleasure, sonny. My pleasure.”
Travis thought he may have misjudged Mr. Wolfe. Maybe he really did have his heart in the right place.
11
“YOU LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT!”
Travis didn’t mince his words. He didn’t much like being so sharp with a teammate, but he was, after all, captain of the team, and Nish was making a spectacle of the Owls.
“Mr. Wolfe said I could wear it!” came the muffled response.
The Screech Owls were lined up to enter the Tower of London. Muck and Mr. Dillinger were hanging back – almost, Travis thought, as if they were trying to distance themselves from the team – and the rest of the Owls were careful to stand a couple of paces behind the team captain, Travis, and the very first Screech Owl in line. Wayne Nishikawa, the Kid in the Golden Hockey Helmet.
Travis had his packsack over one shoulder and was carrying Data’s laptop in his other hand. The in-line hockey equipment had already been whisked off by the Tower of London staff and stashed in a supply room for the night. Now the team was lining up to go through security.
How everything had changed in a mere two days. There had been security during their previous tour of the Tower, but apart from the surveillance cameras at the entrance, it had amounted to just a quick check of their bags.
Now it was worse than an airport.
Fahd was the first to notice the men on the rooftops as they got off the bus on Tower Hill. Data identified them as army sharpshooters getting their bearings for tomorrow’s royal procession to the Tower of London.
There seemed to be dark figures moving stealthily over every rooftop within sight, even on the ancient All Hallows by the Tower church that stood on the grounds far to their right.
“There will be cops everywhere tomorrow,” Data said. “The Queen will be driven up from the pier in an open car. Those things are a nightmare for security.”
This was a nightmare, thought Travis. A team of peewee hockey players from Canada – twelve- and thirteen-year-old kids from a small town called Tamarack – and they were being treated like potential hijackers as they worked their way through the new security precautions at the Tower of London.
There were crowd-control barriers all along the roadsides. There were fenced-in stands facing the front gate where the Queen’s car would arrive. There were police milling about everywhere, several of them armed. There were new surveillance cameras installed. And there was a large metal-detector machine that everyone had to file through and then be subjected to more checks with a detector wand as well as physical checks of every bag being carried into the building.
There would also be random strip searches, Mr. Wolfe had warned the Owls.
“Let Nish do it!” Sam had shouted from the back of the bus. “He’ll volunteer!”
“Shut your trap!” Nish had snapped, delighted, from inside his ridiculous helmet.
Now the security staff was ready to process the Owls. Nish would be first. He stood in line, grinning out from under his unusual helmet while a young soldier in fatigues looked at him once, then twice, then a third time with a puzzled look.
“You are, sir?” the soldier asked.
“Wayne Nishikawa!” Nish’s muffled voice announced. “N-I-S-H-I-K -”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said, ticking off the name on his clipboarded list of admissible visitors. “I can spell quite all right, sir.” The soldier looked up, blinking. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “But is that” – he pointed at the helmet with the eraser of his pencil – “because of some medical condition?”
“If you mean insanity,” Sam cracked from back in the line, “you guessed it!”
Nish waved her off with a backward flutter of his hand. “It’s the award for being top player on the team,” said Nish.
Travis couldn’t see if Nish was blushing. He didn’t need to.
“I see,” said the soldier. “Would you take it off, sir?”
“I can’t bring it in?” Nish yelped.
“We just want to put it through the X-ray machine, sir. You can have it right back.”
Reluctantly, Nish removed his treasured helmet and handed it to the soldier, who examined it by hand before laying it down on the conveyer belt moving through the X-ray machine.
“Put his head back in it!” Sam called to the soldier. “We want to see if there’s anything inside!”
Nish’s hair was wet with sweat, and his face even redder than usual. Travis wondered how he could stand wearing that helmet for so long.
Nish moved ahead through the metal detector. Travis handed his bag and Data’s laptop over to the soldier, who placed them on the conveyor belt, and followed Nish. There was no sound, and the soldier holding the detector wand waved him forward.
Another soldier picked up the laptop and opened it. He pushed the on button and waited for the screen to light up. Satisfied, he then handed it to yet another soldier, who took a black plastic pointer with a small white cloth attached to the end and ran the cloth over the keys, the screen, and the outsides of the small computer.
“What’s that for?” Travis asked.
The soldier smiled as she plucked off the white cloth and placed it in a machine and pushed a series of buttons. “We can detect explosives with this,” she said. “We turn on the screen to make sure it’s really a computer and not a false case, then check to ensure no one ever handled gun powder or anything around it.”
“What if you found something?” Travis asked her.
She smiled again. “Then you, young man, would be in big, big trouble.”
“It’s not mine,” he said.
She smiled again. “That’s what they always say.”
The machine beeped once and a green light came on. The soldier handed Travis the computer with a nice smile. “We’ll let you go this time, okay?”
“Thanks,” Travis said, taking the computer and moving on, impressed with the thoroughness of the security check.
If they were this careful with a peewee hockey team, he thought, then imagine how closely they checked everyone else.
12
The Young Lions of Wembley were already in the courtyard. There were name tags for everyone – “Hello,” Travis’s read, “My name is Travis” – and the two teams lined up to shake hands and introduce each other. Sam and Sarah ran back to get in line so they could shake Edward Rose’s hand twice, much to the disgust of Nish, who had his helmet back on.
Edward Rose, to his credit, was not wearing his golden helmet, but Travis noticed that it was hooked onto one of the backpacks that the Young Lions had piled against one of the stone walls. Mr. Wolfe must have suggested to him, too, that he bring it along for the “photo op.”
“Travis Lindsay,” Travis said automatically as he came to the outstretched hand of Edward Rose.
Edward Rose smiled brilliantly, blue eyes dancing with recognition. “Aha,” he said, “the nifty little captain. You’re a good one, mate. I’m Edward Rose.”
Travis felt his resistance melt away. Edward Rose might be full of himself. He might look like the young murdered prince with his long blond hair and blue eyes, but he wasn’t so full of himself that he was unaware of the world about him. He had noticed Travis during the match and remembered his name.
Nifty little captain.
Travis didn’t much care for the “little” part, but he loved being called “nifty.”
The be
efeaters gave the two peewee teams a tour unlike any other. It had nothing to do with the usual tourist stuff like the Crown Jewels and the history of who was imprisoned in which tower when, and everything to do with what twelve- and thirteen-year-old kids wanted to see.
They were shown where the moat and drawbridge once were at the front gate.
They were shown the tower where one of the kings kept his lions and leopard and even an elephant and a white bear.
They were shown where the scaffold once stood on Tower Hill and how tens of thousands of people would assemble there for public executions – “cheering, if you can believe it, just like they would at a football game.”
“Hockey game,” corrected Nish.
“Hockey game,” the good-natured beefeater with the twirled grey moustache agreed. “Only no one ever loses their head at a hockey game now, do they?”
“You’ve never seen Nish play, then!” shot Sam.
“Does anyone here know what tomorrow is?” the beefeater asked.
“The royal procession,” said Fahd.
“Correct,” the beefeater said. “But it’s also something else very special. Any guesses?”
Edward Rose spoke up. “Guy Fawkes Day.”
“Not fair, young fella – you’re an Englishman. But yes, Guy Fawkes Day. Like your Hallowe’en in Canada.”
“That was last week,” said Wilson.
“Yes, but tomorrow night, November the fifth, boys and girls all over England will be getting old clothes and stuffing them with straw to make a life-size man and then taking him door to door asking, ‘A penny for the Guy, please?’”
“You can’t eat pennies!” Nish cracked.
The beefeater paid no attention. “Then,” he said, “later in the evening, there will be bonfires all through the countryside and the kids will throw their Guys on the fire and set off fireworks and chant a little rhyme. Go on now” – he peered at the name tag on Edward Rose – “Mr. Rose, tell our Canadian visitors what it is.”
Edward Rose blushed, but chanted out in a clear voice:
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 5 Page 20
