Magical Mischief

by Anna Dale

  Susan followed behind her as if she were Miss Quint’s second shadow and, when she had got up the nerve, she tugged on the woman’s sleeve.

  ‘Miss Quint,’ she said, ‘might we go shopping for my new outfit now?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Miss Quint. She glanced around the shop to check that it was tidy enough for customers to be able to browse with ease. ‘Will you be all right on your own, Arthur?’ she asked. ‘We won’t be more than an hour.’

  Arthur assured them that he was perfectly capable of managing without them, and Scallywag banged her tail against a table leg to communicate that she would be on hand should her canine skills be required.

  Arthur found that he was quite keen to be left in the bookshop on his own. It gave him a feeling of importance. At home he was the third of six children and he had siblings who were funnier, smarter and cuter than him. At school he felt even more ordinary. In a class of thirty-one, there was nothing about his average grades or his modest sporting talent to make him stand out. However, in Hardbattle Books on this particular afternoon, Arthur was solely in charge. It was possible, in the space of an hour, that a customer might come in and if they had a question, Arthur was the one who they would need to rely on to answer it. He felt calm, confident and ready for anything.

  When the bell jingle-jangled, his reactions were even faster than Trunk’s. He jumped to his feet and waited to see if the customer would ask for assistance. Faintly, through the ceiling, he heard the sound of breaking china, which told him that the others had not yet finished the washing-up.

  ‘I’m looking for a book,’ said the customer, getting straight to the point. ‘The title’s . . . oh, my sainted aunt!’ The man blundered forward and covered his mouth. ‘GOODENOUGH!’ he bellowed. ‘WHAT, IN HEAVEN’S NAME, ARE YOU DOING BEHIND THAT DESK, BOY?’

  Arthur came close to wishing that the ground would swallow him up. The customer that he had been so looking forward to helping out was none other than Mr Beaglehole, his least favourite teacher.

  .

  Chapter Sixteen

  From Bad to Worse

  Scallywag would not stop growling. She did not have to be told that the man who had come into the shop was not a nice fellow at all. She objected to the thumps that his boots made on the floor and the cloying, musky smell that oozed through his clothes. When he leaned over her master’s desk and made loud, angry noises at the kind boy who took her for walks, Scallywag came very close to sinking her teeth into the man’s leg.

  ‘Steady!’ murmured Arthur. He placed his hand on Scallywag’s head and her growl acquired a less threatening tone. Mr Beaglehole was not the sort of man that you wanted to mess with. If Scallywag’s teeth so much as brushed against Mr Beaglehole’s jeans, Arthur had no doubt that he would drag Scallywag down to the police station, where he would insist that he had been savaged by a dangerous dog.

  ‘Come out from behind that desk, Goodenough!’ commanded Mr Beaglehole, wrinkling his clean-shaven face into a sneer.

  Arthur might have obeyed him if Scallywag had not been sitting, firmly and loyally, on his feet, preventing him from taking even the smallest step in any direction. ‘I . . . I’d prefer to stay here,’ said Arthur, which was the truth. It made him feel more secure to have a metre-wide piece of furniture between himself and his overbearing teacher.

  Mr Beaglehole folded his muscular arms and shot Arthur a disconcerting smile. ‘I suppose you think you can do as you please because we’re not at school?’

  Arthur found the courage to nod. As Mr Beaglehole had so helpfully pointed out, teachers had no power over their pupils outside the school gates. Arthur started to feel a bit braver. His teacher was not wearing his usual school attire of slacks, a short-sleeved shirt and a stripy tie. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Mr Beaglehole was slightly less intimidating.

  ‘Where’s the real assistant?’ barked Mr Beaglehole.

  Arthur drew himself up to his full height. ‘I can help you if you have an enquiry,’ he said.

  Mr Beaglehole snorted with laughter. ‘You?’ he said. ‘A spotty little twelve-year-old?’ Abruptly, Mr Beaglehole’s scornful smile disappeared. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said. ‘I demand to see the manager. It’s shameful to keep a customer waiting, and I’d also like a word with him about the smell in here. Rotten eggs, if I’m not mistaken. Very unhygienic.’

  Scallywag continued to growl, her body trembling against Arthur’s shins.

  ‘The manager’s away,’ said Arthur coolly, ‘and I’m minding the shop for Miss Quint because she had to pop out. Oh, and you got my age wrong. I’m thirteen.’

  Mr Beaglehole breathed in sharply. ‘Cheeky little pup!’ he snarled. ‘You won’t be as flippant on Monday when I reveal the results of that last test I set you. In the meantime, I want to know if you have a particular book. It’s called The Future Is Nuclear by Aidan Schmidt.’

  Arthur was not prepared to unseat Scallywag in order to search for a book for a man he despised. ‘We don’t have that,’ said Arthur as confidently as he could.

  ‘I’d like it ordered in that case,’ said Mr Beaglehole. He did not offer to pay up front, but moved towards the door instead. He paused on the doormat and glanced over his shoulder at Arthur. ‘You are aware, aren’t you, Goodenough, that it’s against the law for a person your age to work in a shop?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Arthur stiffly. ‘I’m not being paid.’

  Mr Beaglehole’s arrogant grin made Arthur feel anxious.

  ‘I’ve got my eye on you, Goodenough,’ Mr Beaglehole told him, and left.

  As soon as he had crossed the threshold, Scallywag ran to the door and barked to let the man know that he had not been welcome and would be wise never to come in again. Trunk ambled along his shelf to get closer to Arthur so that he could give him a look of deep sympathy.

  ‘I know,’ Arthur said with a sigh. ‘It’s just my luck to have a moron for a form teacher.’

  Behind Mr Hardbattle’s desk there were dozens of files, which listed most of the books that were still in print in England. Arthur sifted through them. When he found The Future Is Nuclear, he filled in an order form and put the lower half in an envelope ready for someone to post. He wondered if Mr Beaglehole had chosen that title on purpose to annoy him. Arthur did not approve of nuclear power. He thought that there were far better ways of making energy and had worked hard on a presentation, which he had given to his geography class that term. He had gone into great detail about solar panels and wind turbines, and other amazing ideas and had been hopeful of being awarded at least a B. Predictably, however, Mr Beaglehole had failed to be impressed and had given Arthur a D minus minus, which was the lowest grade that he had ever handed out.

  When the bell jingle-jangled for the second time that hour, Arthur stayed sitting down. Harbouring a vain hope that a friendly customer had just arrived, he glanced across to see who had come in and instantly experienced a jolt of panic. A policeman stood in the doorway and, if Arthur was not mistaken, it was the very same member of the force who had confiscated the knight’s sword just a few days before. Arthur thought about hiding, but he was too slow off the mark. The policeman had already spotted him and was marching towards him in the manner of a soldier on a parade ground, swinging his arms stiffly and sticking out his chin. When the stout little officer halted with a stomp-stomp of his feet, Arthur half expected to be honoured with a salute.

  ‘Young sir,’ said the policeman, giving a nod. He took off his helmet and wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief.

  Arthur stood up gingerly. His legs felt as if they had turned to cotton wool. ‘Did Mr Beaglehole send you?’ Arthur asked nervously. ‘I’m not working, honest. I was just sitting in this chair because my legs were tired. I’m not an employee or anything like that.’

  ‘What are you on about, lad?’ the policeman said. ‘Mr Beagle-
who?’ He unbuttoned his collar and scratched his neck. ‘I was sent here by my sergeant. I’ve come to give you a warning.’

  Arthur gulped. He had never been in trouble with the police before. He racked his brains to think what he had done in recent weeks that might have been construed as a crime. It was possible that he had ridden his bike on the pavement, and he remembered throwing an apple core under a hedge. Would he be given an ASBO? He dreaded to think what his mother would say.

  The policeman stared at Arthur with a concerned frown. ‘You’ve gone a peculiar colour, lad. If I were you, I’d open a window and get some fresh air in here. I’ve never seen a place so smothered with dust and there’s a right funny pong an’ all. Smells like tripe. Now where was I? Ah, yes. Shoplifting. There’s been a spate of it in these parts. My sergeant has told me to put you shopkeepers on the alert. Had anything nicked in the last week or so, have you?’

  ‘Er . . . no, I don’t think so,’ said Arthur, not wanting to mention the missing books in case it prompted some awkward questions. He smiled at the policeman, relieved that the purpose of his visit had not been to tell Arthur off.

  ‘Well, keep your eyes peeled, won’t you?’ said the policeman. He put on his helmet and fastened his collar. ‘If you clap eyes on anyone shifty, call the station, and ask for me. My name is Constable Chubb.’

  Arthur assured PC Chubb that he would follow his advice, then he escorted the policeman to the door. The magic had kept a low profile whilst the policeman had been in the shop, but Arthur could not count on it to remain inconspicuous for very much longer. He did not know if magic was against the law, but he had a feeling that PC Chubb and his sergeant would not approve of it.

  ‘Phew!’ said Arthur when the policeman had gone. Arthur closed the door firmly and pressed his back against it, praying that no more customers would come in before Miss Quint returned. He did not think that his nerves could stand another shock in so short a space of time.

  He checked his watch. There were fifteen minutes to go before the hour was up. He moved away from the door and wandered around the shop, looking for a book to browse through whilst he was waiting for the return of Miss Quint and Susan.

  When the bell jingle-jangled two minutes later, Arthur ducked down and hid. From the innermost recesses of the children’s section, he could not see round the corner to the doorway. However, if he stretched his neck and leaned to the left, he could get quite a good view of Trunk. The elephant’s ears had raised themselves up like hoisted flags at the first clink of the bell, and Arthur watched as they fell into folds again as they always did when the newcomer did not prove to be his little girl. The elephant continued to peer in the direction of the doorway and then, instead of staying where he was, he set off at speed along his shelf and dived behind his flowerpot. Arthur knew that this did not bode well, and neither did the low rumbling sound which emanated from Scallywag. A quick glance told Arthur that her hackles were up and that she was baring her teeth. Whoever had just come into the bookshop had been scary enough to alarm a dog and a stuffed elephant. Arthur took off his belt, slipped it through Scallywag’s collar and tied her securely to a table leg. He crouched low beside her and hoped that the person would think that the shop was not staffed and go away. Arthur heard the creak of shoe leather and the rustle of clothing, and then he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard somebody cough.

  It was a dry, artificial sort of cough. Arthur knew that people only coughed like that in order to get somebody’s attention – or to check whether anyone was around. Could the person who had just entered the shop be the shoplifter that PC Chubb had warned him about? While Arthur skulked behind shelves of children’s books, was the mystery person filling carrier bags with Mr Hardbattle’s stock?

  Arthur realised that he could not hide any longer. He had been entrusted to look after the bookshop and it was his responsibility to guard against theft. Stealthily, Arthur stood up and tiptoed out of the alcove. If there was a thief in the bookshop, Arthur wanted to catch him red-handed.

  The man who stood in the doorway did not strike Arthur as being the criminal type. He was young and had an open, friendly face. He wore overalls and workman’s boots, but his sideburns and his quiff of dark hair shaped like a shark’s fin implied that he was more stylish than his clothes would suggest. Arthur could not understand why Scallywag and Trunk had taken such a dislike to the man. He looked harmless enough. He did not have any carrier bags or holdalls in which to stuff stolen goods, and he was not acting in a threatening or suspicious way. All the man was doing was standing on the doormat with his hands in his pockets, sniffing the air.

  Arthur walked up to the man, without a shred of fear. ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘Can I help?’

  The man gave a lopsided smile and stepped forward to shake Arthur by the hand. He seemed to smell strongly of detergent.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘My name’s Dexter Bland and no, mate, I don’t need your help, but I think you could do with mine.’

  Arthur was bemused. ‘Oh, really?’ he said.

  ‘I’m in the extermination business,’ said Dexter.

  Not seeing how this affected him, Arthur said, ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Pest control’s another name for it,’ said Dexter. He reached into a pocket in his overalls and put on a pair of thick padded gloves. ‘I had a report that Hardbattle Books had got an infestation – something making holes in the pages of your books – and by the smell of this place, I’d say you’re knee-deep in cockroaches.’

  Arthur took half a minute to digest what Dexter had said. He remembered that a fussy, middle-aged woman had brought back a book, complaining that its pages were riddled with holes. At the time, Arthur had been sure that the makers of the holes had been the drawing pins.

  Trying to see the humour in the situation, Arthur gave a nervous laugh. ‘You’re mistaken,’ he said. ‘We don’t have cockroaches here. Someone’s been having you on.’

  Dexter took up a determined stance. ‘Don’t give me any aggro, pal. This nose of mine has never been wrong. There’s a mightily powerful stench in here, and I know roaches when I smell them.’

  Arthur tried to explain that, although there was a smell, it was a misleading one and that what Dexter’s nose could detect was actually magic. His rushed explanation made no impression on Dexter.

  ‘Listen, buster,’ Dexter said to Arthur. ‘A shop full of roaches is a health hazard. They’ll have to be got rid of. It’s as simple as that.’ He turned and walked out of the bookshop, but was back again within seconds. In his arms he held what looked like a gigantic vacuum cleaner with a suction hose and a telescopic tube. Arthur realised with a stab of horror that it was large enough to suck up all the magic in the shop.

  ‘NO!’ cried Arthur. He tried to push Dexter out of the door. ‘You can’t use that in here!’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Dexter, standing firm. ‘Just you watch me, mate.’

  .

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Pied Piper of Plumford

  Arthur was not a lily-livered boy by nature, but he knew when he was beaten. One glance at the mammoth, cockroach-eating monster in the pest control man’s grip was enough to tell him that he stood no chance against it on his own. He could have opted to run upstairs to ask one of the guests to intervene. Mr Claggitt was the obvious choice. A hulking, super-fit, barrel-chested mountaineer would undoubtedly cause Dexter to think twice before he switched on his machine. However, Arthur’s instinct told him not to bother the guests upstairs. He felt that, in a crisis, it was probably best to enlist the help of people whom you judged to be the most dependable. It was purely for this reason and not because of any streak of cowardice that Arthur dodged past Dexter Bland and hared off up the street.

  The panic which had built up inside him made Arthur sprint so fast that he reached the end of Meadow Street in one minute flat. He waited at
the junction with Milestone Lane, where the pick of Plumford’s thrift shops were to be found. Surrounded by a forest of much taller bodies, it was difficult for Arthur to see every person as they passed. To give himself a better view, he scrambled on to a postbox (which would have earned him a telling-off if PC Chubb had caught him). From Arthur’s new vantage point, he looked in every direction, searching for the familiar faces of Susan and Miss Quint.

  With each second that ticked by, Arthur grew more anxious. He tried to blot out a vision in his mind of Dexter Bland’s machine consuming all the magic in the shop. Arthur’s vision disintegrated when someone tugged on his trouser leg, and a man’s voice cut through the hubbub on the busy street corner.

  ‘Great Scott, Arthur! Why are you larking about up there?’

  Fighting to keep his balance, Arthur glanced below him and saw a grey felt hat and a mackintosh draped over somebody’s arm. On the pavement, next to a pair of snuff-coloured shoes, was a suitcase. Arthur closed his eyes and felt relief flood through his veins, then he sank to his haunches and grinned at Mr Hardbattle’s upturned face.

  ‘Crikey! Am I glad to see you,’ said Arthur.

  ‘And I you,’ replied Mr Hardbattle, frowning, ‘but the reason escapes me why you’d want to stand on a postbox of all things.’

  ‘I didn’t have a stepladder handy,’ joked Arthur, his broad grin widening. Then, remembering Dexter Bland, his mood turned serious again. ‘There’s an emergency back at the shop,’ he said, jumping down from the postbox. ‘We have to get there right away. The magic is in danger.’

  Seventy-year-old Mr Hardbattle proved in the next few minutes that he was no slouch when it came to taking to his heels. As they ran together along the pavement, dodging shoppers, Arthur revealed what had happened while he had been minding the shop.

  ‘What a vexing chap!’ Mr Hardbattle said of Dexter Bland as he panted and puffed in Arthur’s wake, clutching his suitcase and raincoat. ‘I shall turf him out of my shop. I’m the owner. He’ll have to do what I say!’