Strawberry jam started to ooze out around the edge of the footpath. It swept in a little rosy wave towards Mrs Happenstance, and surged right across her brushed-up black boots before sweeping on past the Doctor’s rooms towards the school end of Slip Street.
“Mercy me! I’m in a jam!” shouted Mrs Happenstance. “I really am! I really am!”
“A muddle! A muddle!” shouted Mr Livermore. “I’m troubling in a muddle… I mean I’m bubbling in a puddle.”
Sidney and the blue fox slipped on the edge of the puddle and fell over sideways.
“I’ve boxed a fox!” wailed Sidney, “and I’ve lost my socks!”
They made such an unexpected racket that Doctor Pincer, a thermometer in one hand, came rushing out of his doctor’s rooms.
“What’s wrong? What’s the matter? Have you got an ache?” he called as he came.
“A song? Some batter? Some cake?” thought Merlin, not quite catching on to what the doctor was really calling. “Well, I can arrange that!” And he wagged his tail in magic-mode.
Suddenly three strange people came running down Slip Street towards the little crowd by the puddle… two cooks and a waiter. One cook was carrying a huge plate of delicious cake: the other was holding a big bowl of batter. Close behind the cooks came the waiter, pushing a little barbecue with a frying pan sizzling softly upon it. He had a pack on his back filled with crusty bread sticks. As they ran the cooks and the waiter sang in perfect harmony:
“Feeling dismal dazed and lost?
You need a pancake lightly tossed.
Feeling life’s a bad mistake?
Try a slice of sunshine cake!”
“Gracious me!” muttered the Doctor. “This can’t be Slip Street. What’s happening to me?” And he immediately put the thermometer into his mouth and began to take his own pulse. Meanwhile the first cook began passing slices of cake to Sidney, Mr Livermore and Mrs Happenstance, while the second cook, pouring the batter into the frying pan, began to make pancakes on the barbecue. The waiter broke up the bread sticks and began dipping them into the jam. Up and down Slip Street people came edging out from behind their green doors. There comes a time when even shy people just have to see what is going on.
“Have some cake!” the cake-cook shouted. “There’s plenty for everybody.”
“I’ll be passing pancakes around in just a moment!” the other cook declared.
“Take cake in one hand and bread and jam in the other,” suggested the waiter running from gate to gate.
It was all so unexpected that people actually began to slide out into Slip Street, often forgetting to close their gates after them. Meanwhile the waiter was bending down to Mr Livermore, still floundering in that deep brown puddle.
“May I help you out of that mud puddle, sir?” he asked. “It looks deep – very deep.”
“It is deep! And it’s warm! And it’s wonderful,” shouted Mr Livermore with a beaming smile. “I was screaming, ‘A muddle! A muddle!’ and I accidentally swallowed a mouthful of mud.”
“Oh sir, I am so sorry,” said the waiter. “A piece of cake may take away that terrible taste.”
“But the taste isn’t terrible,” cried Mr Livermore. “It’s terrific. Because this isn’t mud… it’s chocolate. I’m swimming in a puddle of warm chocolate. I haven’t tasted chocolate for years and years. I’ve been too busy being shy to bother with chocolate. But now I remember just how wonderful chocolate can be. Oh, I love it. I love it. This isn’t a bad puddle, it’s a glad puddle and I’m happy to be chocolate-tasting in it.”
“Chocolate?” shouted Sidney. He forgot about his socks and jumped into the puddle with Mr Livermore, leaving the blue fox to dance in circles with the yellow socks still on its ears. Seeing Sidney swimming in that puddle and lapping up chocolate as he swam, other children came running down Slip Street and jumped in, as well. Neighbours clustered around and began dipping fingers into the melted chocolate, then helping themselves to cake and pancake, accepting crusty bread sticks, rich with strawberry jam, all exclaiming and gossiping with one another.
The red gate at the far end of Slip Street burst open. Davy (still in his pyjamas) came running and racing towards the Slip Street party, waving his arms wildly.
“Merlin!” he shouted. “You’ve been wagging! Wagging in magic-mode! And you’ve forgotten to wear your hearing aid.”
Of course Merlin could not quite hear what Davy was saying.
“Lemonade!” thought Merlin. “Did he say something about lemonade? Yes, indeed! They’ll need lemonade to wash down all that cake and chocolate. Well, I can arrange that.” He wagged his wonderful tail.
“Don’t wag your…” Davy cried desperately, but suddenly something leapt up under his feet and tossed him into the air. Davy was being lifted aloft by a jet of lemonade… a fantastic, fizzing fountain filling the air with a sweet and lemony scent. He was tumbled over and over above Slip Street like a balloon-boy being tossed and tumbled by a small tornado.
At the sight of that lemonade fountain some people ran back into their houses, leaving gates and doors open behind them.
“They don’t want anything to do with me,” thought Davy, tumbling around in the forceful flow of the lemonade fountain. “Not after Merlin’s magic-mode tail-wagging!”
But a mere moment later, those same neighbours came running back again holding out mugs and cups and tumblers and champagne glasses.
“At last! At last! What a wonderful party!” they shouted to one another. “It’s what we’ve always wanted, but we didn’t know it until now. Thank you! Thank you,” they shouted up to Davy, who, high above the footpath, was flipping and flopping in a fountain of fizz.
The party lasted all Saturday afternoon and on into the evening. The cooks took it in turns to toss the pancakes and to carry the cake around. There was always another pancake waiting to be eaten. And the cake plate was never empty. Children swam up and down in melted chocolate, then danced under the lemonade fountain to wash away the chocolate they couldn’t lick off themselves. Slip Street people started asking one another questions. (“Where did you get that lovely dress?” “Do you ever think of starting a Slip Street Cricket team?” “We won’t need any dinner after this, but how about calling in for breakfast tomorrow?” “What is the meaning of life?” And so on.) Some of them began shouting up to Davy, telling him their secret thoughts even though he was flipping and flopping in his pyjamas and looking rather unreliable.
“… and congratulations on your dog. And on your red gate,” Mrs Happenstance yelled. “This street has needed a dog and a red gate for a long time. Oh I do wish we all had dogs just like Merlin and I wish there were differently-coloured gates all the way up and down Slip Street.”
Merlin, who was now wearing his hearing aid, heard her quite clearly.
“Dogs like me for everybody? Differently coloured gates up and down Slip Street?” he thought. “What wonderful wishes. And I can arrange that.”
He wagged his tail in magic-mode and, lo and behold… but by now you can probably work out just what happened next for yourself.
The Runaway Reptiles
Sir Hamish Hawthorn, the famous old explorer, was not happy.
“Oh, Marilyn,” he cried to his favourite niece. “I long to go exploring up the Orinoco river once more, but who will look after my pets?”
“The Reverend Crabtree next door will feed the cats, I’m sure,” said Marilyn. “He’s a very kind-hearted man. And I will take care of the alligator for you.”
“But, Marilyn,” Sir Hamish said, “what about your neighbour? He might object to alligators.”
Marilyn lived in Marigold Avenue – a most respectable street. The house next door was exactly the same as hers. It had the same green front door, the same garden and the same marigolds. A man called Archie Lightfoot lived there. He was rather handsome, but being handsome was not everything. Would he enjoy having a six-metre Orinoco alligator next door?
“Don’t worry, Uncle dear,” s
aid Marilyn. “I shall work something out.”
At that exact moment, by a curious coincidence, Archie Lightfoot was opening an important-looking letter.
Dear Mr Lightfoot, he read.
Your great-aunt – who died last week – has left you her stamp album, full of rare and valuable stamps.
“Terrific!” shouted Archie. Though he had never met his great-aunt, he had inherited her great love of stamps. Now, it seemed, he had inherited her stamp album as well. He read on eagerly.
There is one condition. You must give a good home to your aunt’s six-metre Nile crocodile. If you refuse, you don’t get the stamp collection. Those are the terms of the will.
“What will Marilyn Hawthorn say?” muttered Archie Lightfoot. “A beautiful girl like that will not want a six-metre Nile crocodile on the lawn next door. I will have to work something out.”
That night, Marilyn Hawthorn tossed and turned. She could not sleep. In the end she decided to get up and make herself some toast. She could see the light next door shining on the marigolds. Archie Lightfoot was evidently having something to eat as well.
There is something about midnight meals that makes people have clever ideas. Sure enough, on the stroke of twelve, Marilyn Hawthorn suddenly thought of the answer to her problem.
The next day she ran up a large blue sun bonnet and a pretty shawl on her sewing machine, and borrowed the biggest motorized wheelchair she could find. Then she went round to her uncle’s house.
Before leaving for the Orinoco, Uncle Hamish helped his niece settle the alligator comfortably in the wheelchair, packing it in with lots of wet cushions. The big sun bonnet nearly hid its snout, but Marilyn made it wear sunglasses to help the disguise.
“I shan’t forget this,” Sir Hamish said in a deeply grateful voice.
“Neither shall I,” murmured Marilyn, wheeling the alligator out into the street.
As Marilyn pushed the disguised alligator through her front gate, she noticed Archie Lightfoot pushing a large motorized wheelchair through his front gate, too. Sitting in it was someone muffled in a scarf, a floppy hat and sunglasses.
“My old grandfather is coming to live with me for a while,” Archie said with a nervous laugh.
“How funny!” said Marilyn. “My old granny is coming to stay with me!”
The two old grandparents looked at each other through their sunglasses and grinned toothily.
“Unfortunately,” Archie added quickly, “my old grandfather can sometimes be very crabby. He has a big heart, but occasionally he works himself up into a bad temper. Do warn your grandmother not to talk to him.”
“I have the same problem with Granny,” Marilyn replied. “She is basically big-hearted, but at times she can be bad-tempered. If you try to talk to her when she’s hungry, she just snaps your head off!”
At first, things went smoothly. Every day, Marilyn gave the alligator a large breakfast of fish and tomato sauce. Then she tucked the huge reptile into the wheelchair with blankets soaked in home-made mud. Next, she wheeled it into the garden and settled it down with a bottle or cordial, an open tin of sardines and the newspaper. The alligator always looked eagerly over the fence to see what was going on next door.
In his garden, Archie Lightfoot was settling his old grandfather down with tuna-fish sandwiches and a motoring magazine. His grandfather blew a daring kiss to Marilyn Hawthorn’s grandmother. Marilyn saw her alligator blow one back.
“You are not to blow kisses to a respectable old gentleman,” she said sternly. The grandfather blew another kiss and the alligator did the same.
Marilyn smacked its paw. It tried to bite her, but she was much too quick for it.
While Marilyn Hawthorn and Archie Lightfoot were at work, the two old grandparents blew kisses to one another and tossed fishy snacks across the fence.
That evening, when Marilyn Hawthorn got home, she noticed that her alligator seemed rather ill. It sighed a great deal, and merely toyed with its sardines at supper. Marilyn felt its forehead. It was warm and feverish, a bad thing in alligators, which are, of course, cold-blooded. She took it to the vet at once.
“What on earth is this?” cried the vet, listening to the alligator’s heart. “This alligator is in love!”
The alligator sighed so deeply it accidentally swallowed the vet’s thermometer.
“It must be homesick for the Orinoco,” Marilyn thought to herself. So she took a day off work, wrapped cool mud-packs around the alligator, and put it in the marigold garden – with a large photograph of the Orinoco river to look at.
As she was doing this, Archie Lightfoot’s face appeared over the garden fence.
“Oh, I’m so worried about my grandfather,” he cried. “I have had to take him to the vet – I mean, the doctor – and he sighed so deeply that he swallowed a stethoscope.”
“And I’ve had to take the day off work to look after my old granny,” said Marilyn. “She has swallowed a thermometer.”
“Ahem!” coughed Archie Lightfoot, clearing his throat nervously. “Perhaps, since you are taking the day off work, you might like to slip over and see my stamp collection.”
“I’d love to,” replied Marilyn.
Marilyn Hawthorn and Archie Lightfoot spent rather a long time looking at the stamp collection. They forgot their responsibilities. But when they switched on the radio, they were alarmed to hear the following announcement:
“We interrupt this programme to bring you horrifying news. Two six-metre saurians – crocodiles, or perhaps they are alligators – both wearing sunglasses, are driving down the main road in motorized wheelchairs.”
“Oh, no!” cried Archie Lightfoot.
“Oh, no!” cried Marilyn Hawthorn. Together, they ran outside. Their two lawns were quite empty.
“This is serious,” gasped Marilyn. “Oh, Mr Lightfoot, I must confess that my grandmother is really an alligator.”
“And my old grandfather’s a crocodile,” cried Archie. “I didn’t dream that a lovely woman like you could be fond of reptiles.”
“We can discuss that later,” said Marilyn, briskly. “First, we must get our dear pets back.”
Quickly, they climbed into Marilyn’s sports car and took off after the runaway reptiles. They soon saw them whizzing along in their wheelchairs. Overhead a police helicopter hovered, with several policemen and the vet inside it.
“It’s very strange,” said Marilyn, “but they seem to be heading for my uncle’s house. I do wish Uncle Hamish was at home. He would know what to do in a case like this.”
The runaways turned into the street where Marilyn’s uncle lived, but they did not turn in at his gate. Instead, they went through the next-door gateway, straight to the home of the Reverend Crabtree.
Imagine Marilyn’s surprise when she saw her Uncle Hamish sitting on the verandah, showing the Reverend Crabtree his souvenirs of the Orinoco.
“Uncle, I didn’t know you were back!” she exclaimed.
“Well, I have only just returned,” he said, looking in amazement at the two reptiles. “The Orinoco wasn’t as good as I remembered it, so I came home early. But Marilyn, why has my alligator split itself in two?”
“Oh, Uncle, this is not another alligator – it’s a crocodile. And it belongs to Archie Lightfoot,” Marilyn explained. “These two bad reptiles ran away together in their wheelchairs and came here.”
By now the police helicopter had landed on the lawn, and the policemen, followed by the vet, came running over.
“Don’t hurt those saurians,” the vet was shouting. “They are not very well. They are in love!”
“Ah,” said the Reverend Crabtree. “I understand! They have eloped and wish to get married.”
The crocodile and the alligator swished their tails and snapped their jaws as one reptile, to show he was right.
“I’m not sure if I, a minister of the church, should marry an alligator and a crocodile,” said the Reverend Crabtree doubtfully. “It doesn’t seem very respectable.”
“But it seems a pity to miss out on the chance of marrying two creatures so clearly in love,” said Archie. Then, turning to Marilyn he added, “Suppose we get married, too. Will that make it more respectable? After all, we did bring these two reptiles together. It’s only fair that they should do the same for us!”
So Marilyn Hawthorn married Archie Lightfoot, and the crocodile and alligator were married too. Sir Hamish gave both brides away. Then he swapped over and became best man to the two bridegrooms.
Marilyn and Archie turned their two little houses into one large house, and their lawns into a swimming-pool for the two saurians. And they lived happily ever after, even though they had to begin every morning of their lives together feeding sardines to a handsome Nile crocodile and an Orinoco alligator – both with big hearts and even bigger appetites.
More Roaring Good Reads
Roaring Good Reads will fire the imagination of all young
readers – from short stories for children just starting to read
on their own, to first chapter books and short novels for
confident young readers.
Other exciting titles available in the Roaring Good Read series:
Short, lively stories, with illustrations on every page,
for children just starting to read by themselves
The Littlest Dragon series Margaret Ryan
The Morris series Vivian French
For confident readers, with short chapters and
illustrations throughout
The Spider McDrew series Alan Durant
The Lilac Peabody series Annie Dalton
The Witch-in-Training series Maeve Friel
The Gargling Gorilla Page 2
