‘I need to be able to form a clear image in my mind,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘We’d better build a replica.’
He disappeared under Howard’s desk and started flinging things out into the middle of the room.
‘Uncle Gillian?’ called Purvis, after a while.
‘Enough?’ called Uncle Gillian.
‘I think so,’ called Purvis.
‘Then get building,’ said Uncle Gillian, emerging.
So Purvis and Mickey Thompson picked through the pile of stuff while Uncle Gillian drank his tea and read the paper.
‘The trouble is, none of its very Tree Girly,’ said Mickey Thompson,
‘Mmm, good, good,’ said Uncle Gillian, sipping, and flicking.
‘He’s right, Uncle Gillian,’ said Purvis, prodding a sock. ‘It isn’t.’
‘Mmm, yes, yes,’ said Uncle Gillian.
Purvis and Mickey Thompson exchanged glances.
‘Let’s bung any old thing together,’ whispered Purvis, ‘and then go and help Howard.’
‘Mmm, yes, yes,’ said Mickey Thompson, and after a small scuffle they got bunging.
They glued used tissues and empty crisp packets and old sweet wrappers on to a cardboard tube, added bread-wings made from a leftover sandwich, and glittered it all.
‘I think it’s rather striking,’ said Purvis, once they’d finished.
‘Yes, but what about the face bit?’ asked Mickey Thompson.
‘What about it?’ said Purvis.
‘There isn’t one,’ said Mickey Thompson, ‘and there should be: it was in the description I gave.’
‘I see,’ said Purvis. ‘Ooh, I know! The biscuits.’
‘Where? Where?’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘Where? Where?’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘Here,’ said Purvis, fetching the biscuit tin and rummaging through it. ‘Howard’s got some smiley face ones. I noticed, earlier.’
‘You didn’t say,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘No. You didn’t,’ said Uncle Gillian, narrowing his eyes.
‘I’m saying now,’ said Purvis, selecting one.
‘But she didn’t have a smiley face,’ said Mickey Thompson. ‘It was cross.’
‘We’ll stick it on upside down then,’ said Purvis, sticking it on upside down. ‘How’s that?’
‘Ghastly,’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘It’ll just have to do,’ said Purvis. ‘Here comes Howard.’
The door opened, closed again quickly, and opened again slowly.
‘What. Is. That?’ said Howard.
‘Tree Girl Two!’ announced Mickey Thompson.
‘What girl too?’ asked Howard.
‘It’s the replica fairy,’ explained Purvis.
‘You’re telling me this thing here looks exactly like the missing fairy,’ said Howard.
‘Well, not actually exactly,’ said Purvis.
‘Not actually at all,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘Well, isn’t that just marvellous,’ said Howard.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘I’m delighted to see you’ve been employing yourselves so usefully while I’ve been HUNTING HIGH AND LOW,’ said Howard.
‘Glad you appreciate it,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘I put a lot of work into that.’
‘Oh, did you,’ said Howard, ‘well. . . wait. . . what’s that noise?’
There was a loud, high-pitched wailing
sound coming from outside.
‘Sounds like a siren of some kind,’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘TooooOOO
ooooOOOooot,’ went Ortrud, joining in.
‘Help,’ gulped Howard. ‘He must have called them. They’re coming for me.’
‘Ah, the doctors, is it?’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Probably for the best.’
‘Not doctors,’ squawked Howard. ‘Police.’
‘So you did steal Tree Girl after all,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘I suspected as much.’
Howard lunged at Uncle Gillian and missed. He lunged again, and missed again.
‘You didn’t tell me he was violent,’ called Uncle Gillian, from under the desk.
‘He isn’t,’ called Purvis, back.
‘OH YES I AM,’ shouted Howard.
‘There isn’t time, Howard,’ said Purvis. He grabbed Tree Girl Two, raced into the corridor and gave a loud whistle.
‘Wait for me,’ yelled Mickey Thompson, racing after him just as there was a clacketty rattley noise and the big wooden post trolley arrived.
‘Eep!’ went Mickey Thompson, hiding.
‘WHERE TO, FIFTY TWO?’ said the trolley.
‘Tree, please,’ said Purvis, hopping on.
‘Let’s go,’ said the trolley, hurtling off.
‘WHAT DOES HE THINK HE’S DOING?’ shouted Howard as the trolley disappeared with Purvis on it.
‘HE’S STOLEN MY REPLICA,’ shouted Uncle Gillian.
‘HELP HIM!’ shouted Mickey Thompson. ‘IT ISN’T SAFE!’
So Howard and Mickey Thompson and Ortrud and Uncle Gillian chased up the corridor, around the corner, around the other corner, down the corridor and through the swing doors. In the distance they could see the trolley clattering into the lift, and the lift doors closing.
‘STAIRS,’ shouted Howard and they bundled down and around and down and around and down into the foyer. There was no sign of the trolley.
‘But look,’ said Mickey Thompson, pointing upwards. ‘It’s Purvis, right at the top.’
‘Ouch ouch,’ said Purvis, carefully positioning Tree Girl Two on top of the tree. ‘There.’
‘PURVIS!’ shouted Mickey Thompson.
‘Hello,’ said Purvis, looking down.
‘DON’T LOOK DOWN,’ shouted Howard.
‘Ooh, err,’ gulped Purvis, looking up.
‘STAY THERE,’ shouted Howard. ‘I’LL GO AND FIND THE CHAIR.’
‘HELLLLP,’ yelled Purvis, as the tree started swaying, and Tree Girl arrived.
‘Hoy,’ said Tree Girl.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Purvis.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Tree Girl.
‘We thought you’d been stolen,’ said Purvis.
‘I went for a walk,’ said Tree Girl.
‘Oh!’ said Purvis. ‘Err. . . are you allowed to just go off and leave the tree like that?’
‘No,’ said Tree Girl, ‘but I needed a break. Tree duty was supposed to finish weeks ago and it’s getting embarrassing: most of the needles have dropped off, and. . . Hang on a minute. What’s this pile of rubbish doing on here?’
‘It’s a replica of you,’ said Purvis. ‘We—’
‘Grrr,’ went Tree Girl.
‘No, listen,’ said Purvis, ‘I didn’t mean. . . ouch. . . careful.’
‘You and it: off,’ said Tree Girl, pushing.
‘Wait!’ said Purvis. ‘Ouch! We were trying to help. Mr Bullerton said—’
‘HIM,’ shouted Tree Girl. ‘So he put you up to this, did he?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Purvis, ‘but when he saw you weren’t on the tree he became enraged and thought—’
‘That’s it,’ said Tree Girl. ‘I’ve had enough.’
‘Here he comes now,’ said Purvis, as Mr Bullerton and a policeman came into the foyer.
‘This is the scene of the crime, officer,’ said Mr Bullerton, importantly. ‘The fairy used to be up there.’
‘Wasting police time is a very serious matter, sir,’ said the policeman.
‘What?’ said Mr Bullerton.
‘Look,’ said the policeman, pointing, and Mr Bullerton peered upwards. On top of the tree was Tree Girl, just where she should be.
‘See?’ said the policeman.
‘But—’ said Mr Bullerton.
‘Right,’ said Tree Girl, giving the replica a shove.
‘NOOOOO,’ wailed Mr Bullerton, as the replica hurtled towards him, and,
‘TAKE THAT!’ shouted Tree Girl, as it thwacked him hard on the
head.
The Big Show Part 1
said Howard. ‘No, no, no.’
‘No, no what?’ asked Purvis.
‘I won’t, that’s what,’ said Howard.
‘Won’t what?’ asked Mickey Thompson.
‘Mm?’ said Howard. ‘Exactly. And he can’t make me either. I’m putting my foot down. Ouch.’
‘You’re burbling,’ said Uncle Gillian, whacking at Howard’s shoe. ‘Pull yourself together.’
‘Yes, isn’t it about time you were going home?’ said Howard, through gritted teeth. ‘We wouldn’t want you to outstay your welcome, would we?’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘I can tell when I’m needed.’
‘No,’ said Howard. ‘No, no...’
‘HOWARD,’ said Purvis. ‘Drink this.’ He handed over a cup of tea, and Howard drank it.
‘I needed that,’ said Howard. ‘Look what Mr Bullerton’s just given me.’ He scrumpled the piece of paper into a ball and hurled it, hard.
Purvis chased it, and un-scrumpled it.
‘See what I mean?’ said Howard.
‘YOU have been selected to take part in the BIG SHOW,’ read out Purvis.
‘Oooooh,’ breathed Mickey Thompson.
‘Come’n’Sing. Come’n’Dance. Come’n’Perform,’ continued Purvis.
‘Way-hay!’ cheered Mickey Thompson.
‘Because it’s Never Too Late to Celebrate!!!’ finished Purvis.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Howard. ‘It’s the middle of January.’
‘It’ll be great,’ said Mickey Thompson, doing a little tap dance. ‘What are you going to sing, Howard? What? What?’
‘Nothing,’ said Howard. ‘I won’t sing; I won’t dance; and I will NOT perform. So there.’
‘Won’t? Or can’t?’ said Uncle Gillian, narrowing his eyes at Howard.
‘I simply choose not to,’ said Howard, huffily.
‘I see,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Can’t.’
‘Oh, leave me alone,’ said Howard, slumping.
‘Don’t worry, Howard,’ said Purvis. ‘We’ll help you.’
‘NO!’ said Howard. ‘Please don’t.’
‘But Howard. . . ’ said Purvis.
‘Listen,’ said Howard, ‘it’s very kind of you to offer but I’d really rather prefer it if you didn’t interfere.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Of course we’ll inter— help. Leave it to me: I have a great deal of experience in the field of theatre.’
‘Have you really,’ said Howard, through gritted teeth.
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘I’ve worked with all the greats, you know.’
‘Is that right,’ said Howard.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Bernhardt, Olivier. . . ’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Howard, ‘now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to be getting on with.’
He turned to his computer and started CLATTERING.
‘But Howard,’ said Purvis.
‘Good bye,’ said Howard.
‘But Howard,’ said Mickey Thompson.
‘Go away,’ said Howard.
‘But—’
‘SHOO,’ said Howard, just as everyone disappeared under the desk.
‘DON’T YOU SHOO ME,’ shouted Mr Bullerton, looming in the doorway.
‘Agh!’ said Howard. ‘No I a-SHOOOOOOOO.’
‘Grrr,’ said Mr Bullerton.
‘Sorry,’ said Howard. ‘I’ve got a spot of hay fever.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘It isn’t the season for hay fever.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Howard. ‘I seem to be losing track of the time.’
‘I’ll tell you the time,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘It’s ten past after the time you were supposed to have finished that work I gave you. So where is it?’
‘I’m doing it now,’ said Howard, starting to CLATTER again.
‘Stop that,’ said Mr Bullerton, ‘and pay attention: I’ve written a song for the show.’
‘Oh,’ said Howard.
‘And. . . ?’ said Mr Bullerton, looming closer.
‘Err. . . That’s nice,’ ventured Howard.
‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Mr Bullerton, ‘because you’re the one who’s going to be singing it.’
Howard GOGGLED at Mr Bullerton.
‘Stop GOGGLING,’ said Mr Bullerton.
Howard adjusted his expression.
‘That’s worse,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘Try and look normal: there will be a lot of people at the show and I want them to be impressed.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better if you sang it yourself?’ said Howard.
‘No,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘It wouldn’t.’
‘Why?’ said Howard.
‘Because I want you to sing it,’ said Mr Bullerton, smirking.
‘I can’t,’ said Howard.
‘You will,’ said Mr Bullerton.
‘But Mr Bullerton,’ said Howard, ‘we normally have the office show at Christmas time.’
‘I cancelled Christmas time,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘And if you don’t want me to cancel the next one too you’ll work harder. And faster. And you’ll sing when I tell you to.’
‘No, really,’ said Howard. ‘I can’t sing.’
‘Come now,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘It was only yesterday I heard you SINGING A JOYFUL CAROL.’
‘So you did,’ said Howard.
‘And here’s your opportunity to flex those vocal chords again,’ said Mr Bullerton, handing Howard a folded piece of paper. ‘That’s my song. Learn it carefully. Practise it hard. Perform it well. Because you don’t want to humiliate yourself in front of a vast audience, do you?’
‘Not if I can avoid it,’ said Howard.
Mr Bullerton made a snorting noise and rushed out of the room.
‘CHOP CHOP,’ said Uncle Gillian, bustling out from under the desk. ‘It’s time for rehearsals to begin. Pass me that song so we can. . . ouch.’
‘You asked for it,’ said Howard.
‘I said pass it, not lob it,’ said Uncle Gillian. He un-scrumpled the piece of paper and the Clumsies gathered round to read Mr Bullerton ’s song.
‘Howard!’ said Purvis.
‘What?’ said Howard.
‘Mmm, yes, yes,’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘What? What?’ said Howard.
‘HAR!’ spluttered Mickey Thompson.
‘Give it to me,’ said Howard, snatching it up and reading it.
‘I love pretty buttercups,’ read out Howard.
‘And I love fluffy bunnikins,’ read out Howard.
‘But best of all I love Mr Buller. . . I’M NOT SINGING THIS!’ shouted Howard.
‘Try, Howard,’ said Purvis.
‘If you don’t, he’ll sack you,’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘Oh, all right, ALL RIGHT,’ said Howard.
‘Good man,’ said Uncle Gillian, brandishing a pencil. ‘And a-one and two and. . .’
‘What are you doing?’ said Howard.
‘Conducting,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘We’ll have a quickrun-through before we start working on it properly. And. . . ’
So Uncle Gillian conducted and Howard sang and Ortrud cantered about, trumpeting. Howard stopped singing.
‘Keep her under control, will you?’ he said. ‘I can’t hear myself properly.’
‘Lucky you,’ muttered Uncle Gillian.
‘What?’ said Howard.
‘I’ve got her,’ said Purvis, settling Ortrud down. ‘Carry on, Howard. You’re doing well.’
‘Matter of opinion,’ muttered Uncle Gillian.
‘What?’ said Howard.
‘AND. . . ’ shouted Uncle Gillian, jabbing the pencil.
So Howard sang and Uncle Gillian conducted and the Clumsies listened attentively.
‘There,’ puffed Howard, once he’d finished. ‘What did you think?’
‘Um, it was quite nice really,’ said Purvis.
‘And wh
at’s the matter with him?’ said Howard, pointing at Mickey Thompson.
‘He’s got something stuck in his throat,’ said Purvis.
‘Sorry, Howard,’ choked Mickey Thompson. ‘It was great, really it was.’
‘Ever had any voice coaching?’ asked Uncle Gillian.
‘No,’ said Howard.
‘I thought not,’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘Right,’ said Howard, ‘that’s it. There’s no way I’m taking part in this show.’
‘But it’s the BIG show, Howard,’ said Mickey Thompson. ‘The big one.’
‘Nevertheless, I refuse to be made a laughingstock,’ said Howard.
‘Feeble talk,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘You need to put some effort in. Don’t just sing the song: feel the song. Let it move you.’
‘It moves me all right,’ said Howard. ‘I’m absolutely furious.’
‘GOOD!’ shouted Uncle Gillian, springing about. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. We’ll work with your fury and channel it as a source of creative energy.’
said Howard.
‘You must open your heart to the audience,’ continued Uncle Gillian, warming to his theme. ‘Release your inner voice and then when you step on to that stage and sing, the audience will recognise they ’re getting the real Howard Armitage.’
‘Quite,’ said Howard. ‘That’s what worries me.’
‘Now, what are we going to do about the look of you?’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘What do you mean?’ said Howard.
‘You can’t go on looking like that,’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘It’s the real me,’ said Howard.
‘It won’t do,’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘I thought you said that’s what’s required,’ said Howard.
‘There are limits,’ said Uncle Gillian.
‘We could make him a costume,’ suggested Purvis.
‘I think we’d better,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘It’ll need to be something that reflects the sentiment of the lyric.’
‘The buttercup bit or the bunnikin bit?’ asked Mickey Thompson.
‘Neither,’ said Howard.
‘How about some furry trousers?’ suggested Mickey Thompson.
The Clumsies Make a Mess of the Big Show Page 3
