by Jo Simmons
The gladiators would fight with wild beasts and then – oh no! – Vesuvius would erupt, sending rocks and hot ash raining down on the Colosseum, with strawberry-laces lava pouring out, forcing the fighters and the animals to flee in terror. (I didn’t quite know yet how I’d pull off the rocks and hot ash, but I’d work something out.) And the result would be awesome, awesome, AWESOME!
Forget Chas Cheeseman and his fireworks and private chef, this birthday was the one that would go down in history!
‘Are you all right, Tom?’ Keith asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a unicorn.’
‘I’ve figured out my birthday,’ I said, grinning. ‘I’ve done it! I’m going to put on a birthday show. You’re all going to be in it. It’s going to be amazing. Don’t ask questions now, I don’t have time, just tell me, where can I get props?’
Keith scratched his head.
‘A DIY store?’ he said. ‘This is a do-it-yourself birthday, so you should probably go to a do-it-yourself store.’
‘Genius!’ I said. It just slipped out. This was the second time in two days I’d called Keith a genius. I had to stop this. It was going to Keith’s head.
As we walked to the nearby DIY store I explained the concept of the show to Keith. He nodded.
‘That sounds pretty cool,’ he said.
Too right it did.
The store was a huge place, full of planks and radiators and entire kitchens and bags of screws.
Keith got trapped behind a forklift truck in the laminate-flooring aisle for a while, but eventually, we found all kinds of essential items – gold spray paint, a piece of netting, some thick string, a long plastic pipe, some plastic plant pots.
It came to £8.39, which gave me 17p change … No hang on, about 20p change … Never mind. The point is, I could afford it.
Back at home, we got to work.
Keith cut a piece out of each plant pot so they were shaped like helmets and I spray-painted them gold.
I also spray-painted the wheelbarrow and wrote CHARIOT down the side in marker pen, just for clarity. We broke the pipe up into spear and sword lengths and gathered up a few things from the house, too:
Some flour from Meg’s baking session.
Some saucepan lids.
We piled the props in the wheelbarrow, ready for my birthday the next day.
I shook Keith’s hand. He said something about ‘strength and honour’, then went home for his lunch.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THANK GOODNESS FOR ME
With the props sorted for my epic gladiator volcano birthday show, the next thing I had to think about was costumes.
Harry the Hulk had done such a good job of his tooth-fairy costume that I decided he was the best person to help with this. I raided Meg’s dressing-up box and then ran over to Harry’s house to drop off what I’d found and brief him on the show.
As I left, Major bounded in from the garden and knocked me over.
‘Sorry,’ said Harry. ‘My uncle doesn’t want him back so we’re looking after him for now. He’s so friendly, but he’s also the size of a horse and twice as strong.’
This gave me an idea, which I quickly discussed with Harry. I popped in at Bruce’s cafe on my way home, to check he knew what time to deliver the birthday sandwiches. I had to squeeze past a queue of people waiting to go in.
‘They all want to have pasta with your dad’s mystery sauce on,’ said Bruce. ‘It’s a sensation. I had the local paper here yesterday. Everyone’s talking about it and taking photos, which they put on the so-so media – Instant Gran, or something. They never did that with my bacon sarnies.’
It was late afternoon by the time I got home. The house smelt of birthday cake, but Meg wouldn’t let me see it.
Nana had popped round and was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book about poultry management. She wanted to see chicken Caesar. I explained that she was living not far from here, safe and happy, in a lovely secret garden.
‘If I see her again, I’m sure I can win her over so she’ll come and live with me,’ said Nana. ‘Can we go and visit her now? Or go first thing tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow is my birthday, Nana! Have you forgotten as well? What is wrong with all the adults in this family?’
I shouted.
I didn’t mean to shout. It just burst out of me. Just because Mum and Dad had cancelled my birthday, did that mean my own nana had to completely forget, too?
Nana looked shocked, probably because I’d shouted at her, but maybe also because she’d clean forgotten about my birthday and was shocked at how un-Nana-ish that was.
‘I’m sorry. I promise I’ll take you to see chicken Caesar,’ I said, ‘but tomorrow I have birthday things to do with my friends. We can go the day after.’
I spent a few hours writing the script for tomorrow’s gladiator-volcano spectacular up in my room, and then rang Keith and Harry to let them know we were meeting outside my house at 7 a.m. sharp. I always wake up early on my birthday, after all.
A little later, Mum came home. She ruffled my hair. She said she was really sorry for cancelling my birthday and promised we would do it all later.
I felt like doing the fingers-in-the-air thing around the word ‘later’. What did ‘later’ even mean? The next day? Three weeks’ time? Never, more like!
Mum also said she had to work tomorrow, even though it was a Saturday. I didn’t say anything, but I could feel my cheeks going hot.
I was imagining the birthday I might have had, the cancelled one, and it wasn’t pretty. Me sitting in my room all day, my mum at work, my dad sulking and not writing his book, and my nana going on about visiting a chicken. There would be Meg’s cake, but that would be it. Thank goodness for Meg. She understood how important this birthday was to me. She was the only person in my family who did.
Then I thought about my epic gladiator-volcano plan and about the fun I’d have with my friends tomorrow and felt better. I might not get many presents, my mum and dad wouldn’t even be there (not invited) but I was determined it would be a day that was awesome, fun, exciting and a party that everyone remembered for ages.
And it was. All those things. And more. Much more.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
I woke up at 6.30 a.m. Saturday, 11th August. Happy birthday to me! I was outside the house with the wheelbarrow-slash-chariot full of essential props by 7 a.m. sharp. Sadly, no one else was.
I had to go back inside and wake up Meg. And I had to remind her to bring my cake. Honestly!
At 7.30 a.m., Keith wandered up the road, yawning. I gave him a strong look. Then I had to remind him to say happy birthday.
Honestly again!
Then Major the dog jumped on Keith from behind and knocked him into a hedge. This at least woke Keith up properly.
‘Sorry, Major seems extra excited this morning,’ said Harry the Hulk.
Major was trying to leap at my birthday cake, which Meg had concealed in a large cardboard box.
‘We have to keep Major away from that cake, Harry,’ I said. ‘It’s an essential prop and foodstuff for today.’
‘Is Jonny coming?’ Keith asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. Then I remembered. Harry had let everyone know that my birthday was cancelled and I had forgotten to tell him it was back on. Curses!
‘We’ll call round for him,’ I said. ‘Then I will brief you all on how the gladiator-volcano show will go. Harry, you carry the cake. You’re the only one tall enough to keep it out of the way of Major.’
We set off, wearing our golden plant pot helmets. Major led the way, with me and Keith being dragged along behind him. Harry the Hulk was carrying my cake in its box on his head, which left Meg to push the wheelbarrow-slash-chariot at the rear.
We were in good spirits, and must have looked impressive, our golden helmets gleaming in the morning sun, Major surging out in front like a powerful charger. Several cars peeped at us as they passed, the drivers waving, pointing and laughi
ng.
Before we reached Jonny’s place, we had to pass Chas Cheeseman’s posh house.
Sadly, this did not go well.
I blame Chas’s cats. They were sitting in the front garden.
Why couldn’t they have been sitting in the back garden? Or indoors? Anyway, just the sight of them sent Major crazy.
He yanked so hard he pulled me and Keith off our feet. We lost control of him and he chased after the cats, all across Chas Cheeseman’s very posh front garden.
Major crashed through the flower beds, splashed through the pond and knocked over a statue of a woman wearing a curtain. Luckily, it had one arm missing so was clearly already damaged.
Then he chased the cats up a tree and barked loudly at them. Mr Cheeseman then shouted out of the window at us.
We had all forgotten to tell Chas that the party was back on, but we were too busy getting Major under control to do that now and, honestly, I realised I didn’t really care if he was there or not, with his fancy bike and his smelly aftershave. I had my real friends, and I was going to have my very own homemade birthday, too.
I did really want Jonny to come, though. By the time we made it round to his, we were a bit stressed, and Harry the Hulk had already lost his golden plant pot helmet.
We knocked on the door a few times and finally Jonny’s brother Ted answered. He burst out laughing when he saw us.
‘Nice pipes,’ he said, pointing at our spears. ‘And what have you done to that wheelbarrow?’
‘It’s a chariot,’ I explained. ‘Is your brother here? It’s my birthday today and I’ve uncancelled it. We’re putting on a gladiator show and having bacon sarnies and cake. He’s invited.’
‘Sorry, Jonny hates birthdays and cake and all that other stuff and doesn’t want to come,’ said Ted, but Jonny elbowed him out of the way and stood grinning in the doorway. He was still wearing his pyjamas. Major licked his toes.
‘Ignore my brother, he’s an idiot,’ Jonny said. ‘Wow, you guys look amazing! Love the hats.’
‘Helmets!’ I said.
‘What are we doing?’ Jonny asked.
‘I’ll explain when we get there,’ I said. ‘Let’s go. You can stay in your PJs – we have costumes.’
We set off again. Jonny wished me happy birthday. Major calmed down a bit, obviously exhausted from his cat rampage in Chas Cheeseman’s front garden, and soon we reached Mr Hector’s secret garden.
He had decorated the front gate with bunting. Greyish-white bunting.
‘I think it’s made of old pants,’ whispered Meg.
The chickens were waiting for us just inside the gate. They clucked and flapped and hopped on and off our heads, obviously incredibly excited about my birthday – quite right, too.
I got them to do a couple of backflips.
Everyone clapped.
Then we walked into Mr Hector’s garden – a few chickens riding on Major’s back – through the thick bushes and up the shady path to the grassy area that would become our Colosseum.
Mr Hector was sitting under his apple tree (which also had pants bunting in it) but, hang on, sitting alongside him was …
‘Nana!’ I shouted, dropping a chicken. ‘What are you doing here?’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GAMES ON ...
I had not expected to find Nana at my birthday celebrations, but it was very nice to see her.
She hugged me, wished me happy birthday and gave me a present wrapped in purple tissue paper. It was a kaftan. She slipped it over my golden plant pot helmet.
‘They’re extremely comfortable,’ she said.
Jonny sniggered.
I reminded him that he was still in his pyjamas, which were decorated with space rockets.
He shut up.
Nana explained that last night, she had gone out looking for the garden where chicken Caesar might be, had heard clucking and seen Mr Hector at the gate, putting up his pants bunting. They got talking and realised they both knew me. Then Mr Hector explained all about my birthday show taking place here and invited Nana along.
‘He’s a very lovely man,’ Nana added. Mr Hector smiled at her. She smiled at him.
‘What about Tiny?’ I whispered to Mr Hector. ‘Did she see the pig? The pig that killed her chihuahua? She would freak out if she did.’
Mr Hector patted his nose with one finger.
‘All fully disguised,’ he said, and winked. ‘She’s in the kitchen.’
We tied Major to the apple tree, unloaded the wheelbarrow-slash-chariot and used the twine to mark out a ring on the grass.
‘This is the Colosseum,’ I said. ‘Nana and Mr Hector, you can be spectators. Harry and Jonny, you are gladiators and need to fight the wild animals in the Colosseum. Keith is narrator and on special effects and I’m the Roman emperor.’
‘What about me?’ asked Meg. ‘I want to be a gladiator. Girls can be gladiators too.’
‘She’s right,’ said Keith. ‘I saw a TV programme about it once.’
I agreed Meg could come on in the beginning as a gladiator, so long as she was ready to unbox the volcano cake at the right moment.
I decided that Nana’s kaftan would be excellent for a Roman emperor’s robes. I just added a belt made of twine and swapped my golden plant pot helmet for some ivy, which was growing up Mr Hector’s apple tree.
Jonny, Harry and Meg dressed in the cardboard armour that Harry had made, then Harry put the pink tutu on that he’d worn when he was the tooth fairy. I pointed out that this was not historically accurate. He said he wanted ‘to put the glad back into gladiator’. I let it go.
Then I briefed the chickens on their role – they had to pretend to attack the gladiators, as if they were wild animals fighting for their life – but only when I said they could.
Then I went to find Tiny. I peeped through the kitchen window. She was asleep on the floor. It wasn’t until I opened the door and the daylight poured in that I saw … Tiny, but not Tiny. A pig … but also a zebra.
‘Wow!’
Mr Hector had done a superb job. Tiny was covered in black-and-white stripes. He had even fixed a mane and tail to Tiny, made out of straw. This was fantastic. Tiny would really give the show extra awesomeness, plus Nana would never recognise her or realise that this zebra was in fact the pig that killed her dog.
Back at the Colosseum, everyone was lined up – even the chickens.
‘You look great. Thank you to everyone for coming today, and for sharing my birthday. And now, let the games—’
‘Hang on,’ said Meg. ‘We’ve got something for you. A present.’
Presents!
I had completely forgotten about presents. I had written on my list of birthday activities ‘Open presents first!’, but since designing the show and organising everything, I’d forgotten all about presents. They didn’t seem that important any more (weird, I know).
Meg handed me a book. A scrapbook, filled with messages and photos and recipes and drawings and poems – and everyone had added something to it. There was even a paw print and some hairs from Major.
I flicked through.
Harry had done an amazing sketch of himself as the tooth fairy. Jonny had written a rude rhyme. There were photos of me and Keith aged four, with ice cream round our faces. Meg had drawn a sketch of the volcano cake. There was a photo of Meg just before I pushed her into a stream on holiday. A photo of Tiny when she was actually tiny and before she had to live on the roof. Photos of Mum and Dad, smiling, back when they used to smile …
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, feeling a bit strange.
‘What do you say?’ Keith said.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘No, you nerd, we don’t care about that. You say – let the games commence!’
‘Oh right, yes!’
I ran to the side of the Colosseum. Meg, Jonny and Harry the Hulk raised their plastic pipe swords and spears and picked up their pan-lid shields. The chickens tensed up again, waiting for the signal.
I spread my arms wide, counted one, two, three – and shouted:
‘Let the games commence!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
AT MY COMMAND, UNLEASH CHAOS ...
One thing I learned from staging my own epic birthday gladiatorial contest is that gladiatorial contests are rough. Even when they’re only for pretend. They’re still rough.
I blame the chickens.
Even though I had told the chickens just to pretend to attack the gladiators, and even though I am an actual chicken whisperer, the chickens went crazy.
There’s no other way to put it.
They piled into Harry, Meg and Jonny, pecking any bit of them they could find, tugging at Harry’s tutu, pulling Meg’s curly hair, knocking Jonny over and pecking his face.
The gladiators hardly had a chance to pretend-spear them; the chickens were a frenzy of feathers and beaks.
Meg hid under her pan lid.
Harry the Hulk was spinning around, trying to shake off four chickens clinging to his outstretched arms.
Jonny had to hide in the apple tree.
I don’t know what they found so funny, but Mr Hector and Nana, watching it all, were chuckling away.
Only Keith was sticking to the brief. He had a megaphone he’d made out of rolled-up cardboard.
‘Back in ancient times, back when there were no TVs or PlayStation, Roman people had fun by watching gladiators in the Colosseum, fighting wild beasts,’ he bellowed, reading from my script.
A chicken had flapped up into the apple tree and got its head inside Jonny’s pyjama trouser leg.
‘Here, under the shadow of the mighty volcano Vesuvius, gladiators fight beasts to the death, with the emperor watching,’ Keith continued.
Meg was lashing out with her plastic pipe sword from under her pan-lid shield, shouting, ‘Take that, you filthy bird!’
