Armadillo and Hare and the Flamingo Affair

by Jeremy Strong

  Armadillo grunted again. ‘Now then, listen. I have got as far as Dear Flamingo, I hope you are well. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s a bit – dull?’ suggested Hare.

  ‘It is. It makes me want to crawl back to bed just reading it.’

  Hare scratched one ear with the other. ‘Why don’t we make it a proper invitation, with big letters in different colours. You know, something like … We cordially invite you to dine with Armadillo and Hare on Monday evening at their lovely home in the meadow.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ Armadillo nodded. ‘Very grand. Dinner is the most important meal of the day. Flamingo will be impressed. Let’s get to work. I’ll draw the letters. You colour them in.’

  And that is what they did. It took a while. That was because Armadillo wrote his own name with only one ‘L’. Then Hare managed to knock over the jar of red paint with one of his phenomenally long ears. It slopped across the invitation.

  ‘Shall we start again?’ Armadillo suggested.

  So they did.

  It was almost lunch time before they had the invitation ready. Hare rolled it up and Armadillo tied a pink ribbon round it.

  ‘Flamingo likes pink,’ he told Hare, and they set off across the meadow towards the lake. Hare kept glancing around in case Angry Bison suddenly decided to put in an appearance, but he didn’t.

  When the two friends arrived at the lake they found Flamingo in her bath. She peered at them over the top of one lifted wing.

  ‘Darlings! You’ve caught me in my bath! I was just washing my hair. I must look an absolute nightmare!’

  Armadillo turned his back and faced the other way before spluttering apologies.

  Hare simply stared. He had never seen anything quite so wet and bedraggled.

  ‘You just wait there, darlings, while I fluff myself up a bit. There. I feel much better now. Pops, sweetie, do turn round.’

  Flamingo stepped from the bath on her extraordinarily long legs. She lowered her equally long neck until her head was on the same level as Armadillo and Hare. She fluttered her eyelashes at them both.

  ‘Good morning, sweethearts! I am all yours. Now then, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  Armadillo coughed and cleared his throat. ‘It’s like this. Hare and I have been thinking and we would like to—’ Armadillo broke off. He thrust the rolled-up invitation towards Flamingo. ‘It’s all in there,’ he said, blushing.

  ‘Oh, darlings! This is heavenly! All rolled up and tied with some fabulous pink ribbon. It looks very grand. Am I being given an award?’

  Hare stepped forward. ‘It’s an invitation. You’ll see.’

  Flamingo unrolled the invitation and read it through. ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Um, well, um—’

  ‘Would you like to come for dinner tonight?’ Armadillo asked.

  ‘Oh dear. Oh dear. Well, the thing is, darlings, Bear (of the something variety) has already asked me to dinner tonight.’

  ‘Has he?’ growled Armadillo.

  ‘So perhaps you could come tomorrow night, Tuesday?’ suggested Hare brightly.

  ‘I would love to …’ Flamingo began. ‘Normally. But Tuesday, you see, Giraffe has asked for Tuesday.’ She looked at Armadillo and Hare with her bright, bright eyes.

  Armadillo took a deep breath. ‘Wednesday?’

  ‘Elephant,’ Flamingo said quickly.

  ‘Thursday?’

  ‘Tortoise.’

  ‘Tor —!’ Armadillo almost exploded. ‘What about Friday?’

  ‘Invisible Stick Insect. We’re going to discuss hairstyles. She has so many ideas in that clever little head of hers.’

  A long silence followed. Beyond Flamingo, the lake quietly glistened. There was no wind to ruffle its calm surface.

  ‘We’d better get back home,’ Armadillo announced, turning to Hare.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Home,’ Hare answered. They turned and began to head back the way they had come.

  The pair had almost disappeared amongst the trees when Flamingo called after them, ‘Darlings! Just a moment, please. I don’t suppose – have you had breakfast? Would you like to take breakfast with me? Now?’

  ‘It’s lunch time,’ Armadillo pointed out.

  The Big Forest echoed with Flamingo’s laughter. ‘Oh, Pops! You’re such a hoot. Breakfast, lunch, dinner – it’s all food, no matter what time you eat it. Let’s be daring, darlings, and have breakfast at lunch time! What a thrill!’

  Flamingo opened her welcoming wings wide and looked at them rather coyly. She closed both eyes slowly, and when she opened them once more they seemed brighter and more charming than ever.

  ‘Darlings! Please take breakfast with me – at lunch time.’

  So they did.

  And it was so enjoyable Armadillo quite forgot to give Flamingo his history of cheese since dinosaur times.

  On their way home Armadillo pointed out that they had managed to share a meal with Flamingo before Bear (of the polar variety).

  ‘Or any of the others,’ added Hare.

  Armadillo humphed with satisfaction. ‘Breakfast is much more important than dinner, Hare. People are always inviting each other to dinner, but having breakfast with someone is Very Special Indeed.’

  ‘Even when you have it at lunch time?’ Hare asked.

  ‘Especially when you have it at lunch time.’ Armadillo nodded seriously. ‘You see, Hare, the world is made up of those who do the same and those who do differently. And I think the ones who do differently are the interesting ones. They are the ones who will change the world.’

  Hare agreed. ‘You certainly do things differently. But I don’t think putting buttons in the wrong holes on your cardigan is going to change the world much at all.’

  Armadillo gave Hare a sharp look. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I like you.’

  Too Many Cucumbers

  Rain dripped from the leaves of all the trees in the Big Forest. It refreshed the meadow and watered Armadillo’s vegetable plot. His plants were doing well. Armadillo looked at them with satisfaction. In the distance he noticed Angry Bison thundering round the far meadow before crashing back into the trees. It was a normal day in the Big Forest.

  Armadillo returned to his vegetables. The tomatoes were ripening fast. His onions were sprouting. The beans were long and fat and hanging from their bean poles.

  Armadillo looked again. There was something odd about the beans. He looked closer and scratched his snout.

  ‘Hmm. I didn’t expect that to happen.’

  The beans were not beans at all. They were cucumbers. The bean poles were full of cucumbers – and beans, of course.

  ‘I thought cucumbers grew along the ground,’ Armadillo muttered to himself. ‘But this lot are climbing up the bean poles. I’d better untangle them otherwise the beans won’t have any room to grow.’

  He began to pick the ripe cucumbers and untangle their stalks. He pushed amongst the bean sticks as he tried to separate the cucumber plants from the bean plants. It was fiddly, hot work.

  All at once there was a small cry from somewhere near Armadillo’s knees.

  ‘Help! Help!’

  Armadillo knew that his knees weren’t calling for help, so where was the cry coming from? Then he spotted Mouse clinging to his cardigan.

  ‘My home! My pocket home! It’s disappearing!’ Mouse cried.

  That was when Armadillo realised the full horror of the situation. It was not just Mouse’s home that was vanishing. It was his favourite cardigan! While he had been picking cucumbers, the bottom of his cardigan had got snagged on a bean pole. Now the cardigan was unravelling at speed. It had already taken off the bottom of the pocket where Mouse often slept.

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Armadillo panicked. He scooped up Mouse and then simply stood, not knowing what to do next. Should he go back and try and rescue the long thread of wool from all the poles and plants that he had been amongst? He couldn’t go forward because then his cardigan would unravel even more.

  ‘Mouse, we’re trapp
ed!’ Armadillo wailed. He lifted his head and shouted, ‘Hare! Hare!’

  Moments later Hare came rushing from the house. He was waving a large saucepan. Maybe he had been expecting to find a burglar. He certainly did not expect to find a very sorrowful Armadillo. His friend was standing amongst the bean plants, wet from all the leaves after the rain. He was holding an equally wet Mouse in one paw and a large cucumber in the other, and wearing half a cardigan.

  Armadillo gazed at his friend, his eyes overcome with sadness. He didn’t speak. A picture tells a thousand words, and Hare saw it all in seconds.

  ‘Oh my dear, dear friend,’ he said. Hare’s ears were hugging each other. ‘Stand still. I shall get some scissors.’

  ‘You can’t cut the thread!’ Armadillo exclaimed.

  Hare took a deep breath. ‘It’s the only way,’ he said.

  Armadillo’s eyes glistened and he lowered his head in silence. Hare raced back to the kitchen. When he returned he had the scissors. He traced the thread of caught wool as far back as he could and then – snip. It was done.

  The three of them trudged back to the house through the mud. It felt like a funeral procession, with a lifeless cardigan. Armadillo’s favourite.

  Armadillo took himself upstairs to his bedroom. He lay down on his bed. He was so upset he couldn’t even face a big cheese sandwich. Instead he tried to shut out the disaster by closing his eyes and falling asleep.

  Downstairs Hare was thinking hard. How could he rescue the situation? How on earth could he bring back a favourite cardigan that had been destroyed!

  Hare got out his tuba and began to play. Sometimes playing his tuba helped Hare sort out his thoughts. Soon the room began to fill with all the things that floated out of the tuba and slowly melted away. There were socks – but none that matched. There were balls of wool in different colours, knitting needles, several rocking chairs, three small sheep, a toilet roll (of course), and a tiny wombat.

  Hare stared at the miniature wombat as it faded away. His ears suddenly stood up straight and alert. Yes. He knew what to do. He threw a scarf round his neck. It was a new, deep-green scarf which Hare felt matched his rather snazzy deep-green shoes. And so he set off.

  It did not take long to reach Wombat’s burrow and Wombat was pleased to see him.

  ‘Hare! I was just making a cup of tea. Would you like some? I have some lemon drizzle cake too.’

  Hare sat down in a comfortable armchair. He relayed the whole sad story of the cardigan to Wombat.

  ‘Of course I can help,’ said Wombat. ‘I know Armadillo’s old cardigan was blue, and sadly I don’t have any wool that colour. But I do have a rather nice deep-red wool which will match his favourite red slippers.’

  Hare smiled. ‘Perfect,’ he said, stretching out his legs so that Wombat could admire his shoes. ‘Having clothes that match is essential. If my clothes don’t match it makes me feel jumpy all day.’

  ‘Just one problem,’ Wombat went on, ignoring Hare’s shoes. ‘I’m no good at knitting pockets. I’m brilliant at sleeves, but pockets are beyond me.’

  Hare considered this. ‘Hmm. I know someone who might be able to help out there.’

  The two friends drank their tea and Hare had three slices of lemon drizzle cake before he headed back to the log cabin. Every time he crossed the meadow now he watched out for Angry Bison. It was all getting rather annoying.

  The next few days were difficult for Armadillo and Hare. The house was filled with the misery of the lost cardigan. Armadillo went about in his dressing gown. Sometimes it was the right way out. Sometimes it wasn’t. Either way, it was not his beloved cardigan. Meanwhile Hare could not tell Armadillo about his secret plan. Suppose it didn’t work?

  Armadillo spent most of his time wandering around with a wheelbarrow full of spare cucumbers.

  ‘Would anyone like some cucumbers?’ he asked whenever he saw a friend.

  Elephant did. ‘They’re good for the bags under my eyes,’ he told Armadillo.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I’ll have some,’ declared Tortoise. ‘I like cold cucumber soup in the hot weather.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Jaguar was less impressed. ‘It’s a vegetable. No thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Hare began to think that if this went on much longer Armadillo would turn into a speaking robot.

  And then, at last, there was a knock at the door. It was Wombat. In her arms she had a parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a length of deep-red wool.

  ‘It’s for you,’ Hare told Armadillo.

  ‘Really?’ Armadillo was not interested.

  ‘Open it,’ Hare suggested.

  Armadillo sighed. He heaved himself over to the parcel, as if it was the last thing he wanted to do before dying.

  Hare was cross. ‘Stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Just open it.’

  Armadillo looked at his companion in surprise, but he opened the parcel. He pulled out the cardigan. He stared at it and felt its softness. He held it against his red slippers. He examined it and his eyebrows went up a bit. ‘It’s got a Mouse pocket,’ he announced.

  Mouse herself poked out her head. ‘I knitted it myself,’ she laughed.

  Armadillo’s eyebrows went up even more. ‘It’s got three sleeves!’

  ‘Ah!’ said Wombat cheerfully. ‘I like doing sleeves and I realised I’d done one too many. Then I thought maybe it will come in useful sometime?’

  Armadillo could not stop laughing. Eventually he managed to splutter, ‘I can always keep spare cucumbers in it.’ He turned to his friends with a big smile on his face. ‘It’s perfect,’ he told them. ‘Absolutely perfect. Look how it matches my slippers.’

  Wombat grinned. ‘I put in an extra buttonhole too because I know what you’re like. I also put in an extra button – because I really do know what you’re like!’

  Armadillo slipped on the cardigan. ‘Do you know,’ he began proudly, ‘I think I’m probably the only armadillo in the whole world who has a cardigan with three sleeves.’

  And, of course, Armadillo was right.

  Armadillo’s Special Soup

  The Big Forest was unusually quiet. For two days and two nights there had been no singing. Flamingo was silent. Slowly the news spread amongst the animals.

  Bear told Tortoise. Tortoise told Giraffe. Giraffe told Lobster and Lobster told everyone else.

  ‘Flamingo can’t sing,’ Hare repeated to Armadillo. ‘She has a sore throat.’

  ‘Oh dear. That’s a lot of soreness. Flamingo’s throat is so long.’

  They were both concerned about Flamingo and tried to think of something they could do to help.

  Hare played his tuba while he thought. It was the sort of soothing melody you might play to someone who was ill. A few bandages floated out of the top of his tuba. These were followed by several bottles of medicine, a hot-water-bottle, a small hospital bed and an ambulance.

  Meanwhile Armadillo sat in a chair and thought about what he might do to help. He watched the ambulance slowly fade away. All at once he sat up straight.

  ‘I’ve got the answer!’

  Hare sighed. ‘You think it’s a cheese sandwich, don’t you?’

  ‘Not at all, Hare, no – it’s something even better. What Flamingo needs is some of my Special Soup.’

  A loud snort burst from Hare’s tuba and a large, warty, green monster climbed out of the instrument. It flicked its fat spongy tongue at them both, before slowly fading away.

  Hare laid the tuba to one side and looked at Armadillo in horror. ‘Not your ghastly green soup?’

  Armadillo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, Hare. My ghastly green soup, as you like to call it. You may remember that you got better very quickly that time you were ill.’

  ‘Only because I couldn’t bear to drink any more of it!’

  Armadillo smiled. ‘So the soup worked. You got better.’

  ‘But—’ began Hare.


  ‘No buts. I am going to make Flamingo my Special Soup.’ And Armadillo stomped off to the kitchen.

  Hare’s head was spinning. His ears were spinning. That ghastly green soup tasted awful. Flamingo should be warned. What could he do? The soup would take at least an hour. That gave plenty of time for Hare to hurry over to Flamingo.

  Hare grabbed a jacket and scarf, reached the front door and stopped. This was awful. Was he betraying his friend? He took a step forward. He took a step back. His ears pointed in every direction. Finally they both shot forward and Hare followed, hurrying across the meadow.

  He was halfway there before he saw Angry Bison ahead of him, right in his path. Hare stopped immediately. Everyone knew Bison was dangerous. Nobody knew what he would do next. And he had horns.

  Just for once Angry Bison was standing still. He was quietly munching the grasses and flowers of the meadow.

  Hare had never understood why Bison had to charge around telling everyone they were in his way. Nobody liked to be spoken to in that gruff manner. Maybe Bison didn’t realise?

  It seemed to Hare that today was a day for telling people what he really thought. He was going to tell Flamingo about the ghastly green soup, and now he was going to tell Angry Bison something too. Yes. He had made up his mind.

  Hare hurried across the meadow, aiming straight for Angry Bison. He soon reached the creature. Oh my! Up close, Bison was gigantic.

  Luckily Hare’s brave mood was gigantic too.

  ‘You’re in my way!’ Hare shouted. ‘Move!’