breeze,
it sounds like this—
Aaaawwwwwoooooooooooooooh!
In a fight, Rosie Glegg could knock spots off any boy in her age group. She never played with other girls, hated frocks, dresses, skirts and ribbons. Rosie used dolls as target practice for her catapult shooting; her skipping rope served well as a lasso. She was always lassoing boys—the pale, studious types fled in terror from her expertly aimed loop.
Rosie Glegg wore jeans and Doc Marten boots. She also kept her hair cut short. She was the proud owner of a Swiss Army knife, which came in handy for cutting up other little girls’ skipping ropes. Rosie harassed the local Boy Scouts and Girl Guide clubs, drove her teachers to distraction and was the scourge of librarians, playing park attendants, shopkeepers, bus drivers, etc., etc.
In the small rural English village of Nether Cum Hopping, Rosie Glegg was infamous during the nineteen sixties. Which was not bad going, considering she was only eight years old and had been grounded more times than a wingless plane.
It was the summer holidays. All sensible villagers had fled on vacation to the European Continent, making sure they were well out of Rosie’s reach. Her poor father seldom ventured his family on such trips, fearing an international incident. He often suffered nightmares from something that occurred on a family jaunt to London. Mr. Glegg was still paying damages to the National Heritage Trust for the depredations his daughter had caused to the Tower of London. As a result, he had to work long overtime hours repaying the bank loan. The plus side of this was that Mr. Glegg did not have to come home until Rosie was safely installed in bed.
Mrs. Edith Glegg, Rosie’s mother, was a wan-looking, long-suffering lady. Several times she had tried changing her name to Whegg, Flegg, Pegg and, even adopting a Scandinavian accent, calling herself Olegg. This did not fool the female populace, who would point her out on the High Street, whispering to one another, “Look, there’s Rosie Glegg’s mother, poor soul!”
One sunny afternoon, when the other children were off on distant holidays, Rosie was in a rare peaceful mood. She sat by the pond in the local woods, skimming flat stones across the water’s surface. She looked so placid that one or two of the bolder frogs plucked up courage to watch her from the reeds on the far bank. That was when the boy appeared on the scene. He was about the same age as her, and equally scruffy. Rosie ignored him for a while, then, on a sudden impulse, selected a flat stone and gave it a super-skilful skim. It bounced off the water seven times. Rosie nodded at the young intruder.
See that? I’m Rosie Glegg, the best stone skim merer inna world. Betcha can’t skim stones s’good as me!”
She tossed him a stone, a round bumpy one, which she knew would be useless to skim with. He tried it. Like all bumpy round stones, it vanished with a single plop. They watched the ripples spread over the pond. Rosie scoffed.
“Yahaa! See, I told ya. What’s y’name?”
Throwing himself on the grassy bank, the boy rolled over and shook himself, like a dog. He had a grin like a slice of red watermelon with a lollopy tongue. “Charlie Lupus.”
Rosie tried to keep her face straight as he grinned at her. Absently he scratched his stomach with a bare foot. She was so taken by his infectious grin that she did not even bother reaching for the skipping rope lasso. “Charlie Lupus, eh, great name. What d’you do, Charlie?”
Giggling hoarsely, he produced a piece of stick and gave it to her. “Just you throw that!”
Rosie tested the stick’s balance. “Where d’you want me to sling it?”
Charlie shrugged. “Anywhere. Go on, chuck it hard!”
Leaping to her feet, Rosie whirled and flung the stick, high and hard. Up and out it went, off into the tangled woodlands. Rosie blinked in surprise as Charlie took off like a bullet. She marvelled at his speed, and how he disregarded for bush and bramble, merely leaping over them or crashing right through.
Before she had time to think, Charlie Lupus was back, with the stick held in his mouth. He dropped it at Rosie’s feet and lay on his back, cheerfully grinning and panting, his tongue lolloping out to one side. She was impressed.
“Triffick, but why d’you carry the stick in y’mouth?”
“Dunno, s’easier, I s’pose.”
“Zoweee! Y’must be the best stick fetcherer inna world, betcha you’re better’n a dog even!”
The odd boy shook matted hair from his eyes. “Yeah, I’m better’n any ole dog!”
“Whereja live?”
“Anywhere, here mostly.”
Rosie shook her head, laughing. “Haha, I think you’re crackers, Charlie Lupus!”
His wild, dark eyes challenged her. “Crackers yourself, Rosie Glegg! Anyhow, what can you do ’sides skimmin’ stones ’cross the water?”
Rosie picked up her skipping rope. “Lasso boys.”
Charlie began dodging and stooping. “Go on then, betcha can’t lasso me!”
She shook out the noose, twirling it lazily, watching him ducking and weaving. Choosing the right moment, Rosie flicked the rope at him. It was not an ideal cast. Instead of pinning his arms to his sides, the noose settled around Charlie’s neck. He stood still, mischief sparkling from his eyes. “Good throw, Rosie, come on, let’s go for a run.”
He took off like lightning, towing her behind as he tore madly around the lake bank. Rosie galloped after him, the rope wrapped around her wrist. She was pulled frantically along, unable to stop the headlong dash. Twice round the lake they sped, then Rosie stumbled and tripped. Charlie flopped down beside her, panting and chuckling. Rosie stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Nuts, that’s what you are, y’could’ve been choked by that rope.”
Charlie pulled the tightened noose from his neck. He laughed scornfully. “Can’t choke me, my neck’s too strong!”
Kneeling on all fours at the lake edge, he began thirstily lapping up water. Rosie laughed uproariously at his antics. “Yaaahahahaha! Toldya you’re bonkers. What’s it taste like?”
Charlie licked his lips. “Smashin’, come’n’try some.”
A gamekeeper watched the scene unfold from his hideout in the bushes. Two lads—no, wait, it was a boy and girl. Children, crouching like animals, lapping up lake water. Disgusting! He strode officiously forward, shotgun tucked beneath his arm, to confront them. “Stop that, you filthy little beasts. Stop this instant!”
Rosie turned to stare at him. Charlie just sniffed and continued slurping up water. The keeper nudged him with the toe of his boot.
“You, boy, are you deaf?”
Charlie wiped the back of his hand across his chin. “Course I’m not deaf. I could hear you comin’ ages before you got here.”
Resting the gun loosely in the crook of his arm, the gamekeeper gave them his officially stern gaze. “You’re both trespassing on private land, you shouldn’t be anywhere near these woods. What’s your name, little girl?”
Rosie smiled innocently. “Little girl.”
He pointed at her warningly. “Don’t be so impudent. I know you, you’re the Glegg kid. Huh, born troublemaker. Now, where d’you live, young man?”
Charlie spread both arms in a carefree gesture. “Here.”
The gamekeeper decided that he had put up with enough insolence. He took hold of their arms, squeezing slightly, to let them know he meant business. “Now clear off, the pair of you. If I catch you ag—Yowch!”
Charlie Lupus’s teeth nipped the man’s hand. In the same movement he grabbed Rosie’s wrist and sped off. She gasped for breath as he whirled her along. Trees and bushes humming past her in a green blur, Rosie’s feet pounded the earth, fifty to the dozen. She was dragged madly onward, with Charlie’s wild laughter ringing in her ears. They charged headlong, crashing through brambles, leaping ditches, bounding through leafy glades. Behind them, the keeper’s angry cries faded into the high sunny afternoon.
Emerging from the woodlands, Rosie steered Charlie over to the bus terminal. She pointed out great horse chestnut trees, boasting th
at only she could climb them. Charlie Lupus shook his head, dappled sunlight playing on his tawny mop.
“Don’t like climbin’, I’m best at runnin’!”
There were big houses with driveways on the opposite side of the lane. A huge German shepherd dog came pelting out of the first one. Snarling viciously, fangs bared and back bristling, it came at them. Rosie Glegg was not afraid of dogs. She cast about for a stone to throw at it. Charlie suddenly dropped on all fours, showing his teeth. He gave voice to a weird, bloodcurdling howl, and ran at the dog.
The transformation was immediate. With a pitiful yelp, the big dog turned. It fled back up the driveway, whining, its tail curled between its back legs. Rosie stared at him in admiration. “Good ole Charlie, how’d you do that?”
Wrinkling his nose, her friend gave a funny little growl. “S’easy, I’ll teach you sometime. Hey, watch this, Rosie!”
A tabby cat with half-closed eyes was squatting on top of an ornamental gatepost, paying scant attention to them. Charlie narrowed his lips and faced the cat. He gave a short, fierce bark. The cat leapt from the gatepost into a nearby beech tree. Clawing its way swiftly into the thin upper branches, it swayed there, meowing pleadingly for help.
Rosie patted her friend’s back. “That’ll be good practice for the firemen, they like rescuin’ cats.”
Charlie lolloped up the lane ahead of her. He knew he needed to get Rosie out of the park. “C’mon, there’s a bus just ready to leave.”
The bus driver looked on despairingly as the ragged moppet boarded his vehicle. He had spent many perilous journeys ferrying Rosie Glegg around the area. Cursing his ill luck silently, he accepted the well-chewed return ticket and started the engine. Rosie was the sole passenger as the bus rumbled off. Charlie ran easily beside the vehicle with a steady lope. He called to Rosie as she clambered over the seats, opening all the windows wide.
“See you tomorrow, I’ll be by the lake!”
Rosie hung halfway out of the last window. “What about tonight? I’ll escape from home, where’ll you be?”
Charlie halted in a cloud of dust as the bus accelerated. “Maybe in the adventure playground. . . . Maybe!”
Rosie Glegg knelt on the backseat, waving, as her strange new pal diminished into the distance. She smiled, a rare and beautiful smile, imagining the fun they could have together. Then she turned and began pulling hideous faces, which the driver could see in his rearview mirror. Cramming a fistful of antistress tablets into his mouth, the object of her attention drove heedlessly through a red light, anxious to reach 152 Trafalgar Crescent, the Glegg residence.
Rosie retired to her bedroom promptly at eight-thirty every evening. Her careworn mother collapsed in an easy chair, knowing that on the dot of eight forty-five, her husband would arrive home. Mr. Glegg would tiptoe in, fervently hoping that his daughter would be asleep. Some hope! At nine o’clock Rosie shimmied nimbly down the back drainpipe, leapt onto the toolshed roof and scrambled over the rear fence to commence her night ramble.
Back at the house, Mrs. Glegg wearily collected a blackened towel from the bathroom. She removed Rosie’s two pet spiders (Ivan and Ignatius) from the bath. After replacing the soap (with the initials R.G. carved into it) to the soap holder, she tiptoed wearily downstairs, passing the bedroom door with the purple felt-tipped warning.
KEEP OWT + BEEWHERR OV
KROKKERDIALS. YOOVBEEN WHORNED
BUY ROWZEE G.
Mrs. Glegg kept out, knowing by some of the noises which emanated from Rosie’s bedroom the presence of crocodiles could not be ruled out. In the living room, she showed Mr. Glegg the latest letter from their eld est son, Dennis. He had gone to work among the headhunters of the Orotwango Basin in darkest Ama zoniga. Her husband sighed wistfully as he scanned his son’s epistle.
“Trust Dennis to choose the soft life and leave us here with Rosie!”
There was no sign of Charlie Lupus at the adventure playground. Rosie sat twirling the high security padlock, which she had opened with her Swiss Army knife. As dusk was starting to fall, she had done what she could with the playground apparatus. All the swing and climbing ropes she had knotted together with secret sailor knots, which were impossible to untie. Rosie had shifted most of the sandpit into the paddling pool, where she constructed a dam. There was not much else to do but wait now.
She chided herself for not making Charlie take the Slimy Green Death Oath that he would turn up.
The night crept on, with a beautiful apricot-hued full moon appearing to illuminate the darkness. Rosie was starting to lose patience. At first she did not see the massive grey dog lurking nearby. It sat watching her from the cover of a heavy-timbered climbing frame, its brown-amber flecked eyes glowing like twin flames.
Then the dog approached. Padding around the back of her, silent as a cloud shadow, it leaned over the nape of her exposed neck. Rosie’s flesh gleamed grimy white in the moonlight. Licking its slavering lips, the dog opened its mouth hungrily, exposing dangerous ivory-hued canine fangs. They drew closer to the girl’s unprotected neck. . . . Closer! Then it gave her a huge, slurping, playful lick.
“Yurrk! Gerroff!”
Rosie was aware of the perils of neck washing, whether by soap, flannel or dog tongue. All could prove fatal in her estimation. As the dog attempted a second lick, she shoved it away. “Gerroff me, y’silly pooch, go ’way an’ play!”
She found a stick and threw it, hoping the beast would leave her in peace. In an instant, the dog was back with the stick. Laying it at her feet, it sat beside Rosie, lolloping and panting. It reminded her of her friend. “I know, I’ll call you Charlie, d’you like that?”
“Woof!”
“D’you know ole Charlie? You look awful like him.”
“Woof woof!”
“Good feller, d’you know where he is?”
The big dog threw back its head and bayed. “Yaaaawwooooohhh!”
Rosie Glegg felt the hair on her head rise up straight, an electric tingle coursing up and down her spine. The howl of the grey dog was more exciting than anything she had ever experienced in her short, but full, life. Visions swirled behind its moonlit eyes, strange sights of snowbound forests, craggy mountains and far-off ruined castles.
Rosie heard the cries of frightened peasants rising above the smoke of flaring torchlights. A wild urgency tugging at her nerve ends, she looped her skipping rope around the huge beast’s thickly furred neck.
“Come on, Charlie, let’s go to the woods!”
Both dog and girl burst from the adventure playground, baying aloud their homage to the watching moon. “Aaaaaaaoooooooowwwwwoooooooh!”
The good villagers of Nether Cum Hopping shuddered as eerie howls echoed about their streets. Children tugged bedsheets over their heads and trembled. Curtains were hastily drawn, doors slammed and tightly bolted. Lights flicked on, setting houses ablaze with illumination for protection against the chilling sounds. Confusion reigned. Telephones jangled, jamming up the switchboards with calls to the police and the Noise Abatement Society (only recorded messages after five P.M.). The R.S.P.C.A. (Royal Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) sent out a two-man patrol, looking for two dogs which somebody had roped together—or was it a child and a dog? The officers were set upon by a large German shepherd dog which lived in the lane alongside the woods. After fending it off, they reported the incident to the police, who took out a warrant against its owner. The police, however, were not convinced that it was any type of animal noise. They closed down a disco, confiscated a boom box from a group of teenagers on a street corner and issued a ticket to a young man driving a sports car (whose horn played four consecutive tunes, starting with “La Cucaracha” and culminating in “Colonel Bogey”). The Noise Abatement Society remained silent throughout the entire operation.
The Directors of Greenacres Investments P.L.C. slept soundly many miles away in London. G.I.P.L.C., as they were known, had recently purchased the woods from the Urban District Council with a view
to developing it as a sporting area for upwardly mobile shooting clubs and rich foreign tourists (on the agreement that the adjacent public fields be converted into a private car park). Of late, Greenacres had been concerned with the dwindling numbers of pheasants, woodgrouse, woodpigeons, woodcock, partridge and quail. They prepared a report for their shareholders, stating that the area would be patrolled, night and day, by two gamekeepers. These men would guard the living assets (gamebirdwise), protecting them until such time as the paid members were ready to blast the birds with their custom-made shotguns. Also, they would discourage any local activities (poachingwise), thereby rendering said woodland tract a viable investment (shootingwise), whilst still complying with parliamentary regulations (environmentwise).
Clouds drifted serenely across the apricot moon, as trees and bushes swayed in the soft breeze, causing shadowy patterns through the nightshaded woodland. Rosie Glegg felt the warm rush of air as she was hauled swiftly along by the big grey dog. Its keen eyes were everywhere at once as it weaved twixt oak and elm, slid around juniper and laurel, and bounded over thistle and gorse, never once stumbling on protruding root or rock. Rosie’s wild young soul was filled to overflowing with exhilaration. She sniffed hungrily at newfound aromas. Pheasant, which smelled better than hamburger, partridge that no hot dog sausage could equal. Oh, why had she been born a mere human, forced to wear clothes and shoes instead of having fur and paws? Why could she not be a dog? Better one night as Rover than a lifetime as Rosie!
Her dog, Charlie, halted, his body quivering with anticipation. Rosie sensed it, too. Danger and adventure combined. Together they crouched in a fern bed, watching the unsuspecting gamekeeper’s back.
Gamekeeper Gordon M. Liggett perched upon his folding campstool, nibbling at a cucumber-and-marmalade sandwich. Nearby, his double-barrelled shotgun lay loaded and close to hand. Approximately six yards from where he sat in hiding, a cock and hen pheasant stood tethered to a slender rowan trunk. Gordon M. sipped Lapsang Oolong tea from his vacuum flask as he watched the live bait he had set up. Hah! Local poachers, he’d show ’em! Those working-class thieves always fell, hook, line and sinker, for the old brace of pheasant trick. He curled his lip scornfully at the unseen culprits as he pictured the scenario. Two village ne’er-do-wells clad in cheap, discount-store fashion. Probably full to the gills with beer and armed with catalogue-purchased Czechoslovakian air pistols. Hunting unlicensed for game birds, which they would doubtless sell to the Manor Restaurant and Carvery, thereby supplementing their generous State Unemployment Benefit. He imagined their conversation.
The Ribbajack: And Other Haunting Tales Page 11
