Wilf did a little silent jig of joy. The gnome was gone. That silly bearded ceramic fool was history! Wilf’s kneecaps were safe! And he hadn’t even had to do anything! The robot had done it for him. So now all he had to do was think of a way of stopping Alan building his pirate ship.
Kevin Phillips sighed and gave Alan a look.
“I know, I know,” said Alan, “he’s going through a difficult phase. One day he’ll come out of it. Perhaps I just need to make a few adjustments.”
Kevin Phillips sneezed in a disdainful way.
“Right, just you and me then,” said Alan. “Plank A, plank A—right, we don’t have a plank A but we have two plank Cs so maybe if I stuff one of those into slot B. It doesn’t fit. Right.”
Alan tried to pace up and down to help himself think, but Kevin Phillips was lolloping about and running around and around Alan’s feet and tripping him over.
Suddenly Wilf had another idea. He didn’t need the bag and the magnet for that evil nutcracking gnome anymore. He could use them for something else. He put his knee pads on and, while Alan and Kevin Phillips were distracted, he crawled into the crate. He waited for a moment, as silent as an orange. Then he carefully got his magnet out and he held it up so that all the little bolts and nuts and screws for building the ship went pinging onto the magnet.
Then Wilf scooped them into his plastic bag. He worked as quickly and quietly as he could, listening to the muffled voices of Alan and Kevin Phillips outside.
“Right, Kevin,” said Alan, “here’s the hammer—you hold that for a minute.”
Kevin started busily digging a hole in the ground. Then he plopped the hammer into the hole and began to bury it.
“No, Kevin! No! Don’t do that. Listen, I know I promised you I’d do something about cats . . .”
Kevin Phillips stopped digging and blinked at him from above his large muddy beard.
“And I promise after I’ve made myself a pirate ship, I will. In fact, I had a really evil idea—do you want to hear it?”
Kevin Phillips wagged his tail.
“You know how you want all the cats in the world to be wiped out by a meteor—just like the dinosaurs were? Well, we are going to build ourselves our very own meteor, OK? How about that?”
Kevin Phillips bounded over to Alan and licked his ear excitedly.
“Yes, you like that, don’t you?”
Kevin rolled over and Alan tickled the bit on his leg that made Kevin’s back leg go all pointy.
“Because I’m the baddest, the baddest, the biddly boddly baddest in the whole wide worlderoony,” said Alan. “And you are my werry special wight-hand man, yes ooo are, yes ooo are, yes ooo are.”
And Kevin sat up and nuzzled Alan and Alan tickled the bit behind Kevin’s ear that made his paw stamp.
“Right, dig up the hammer and let’s get building,” said Alan.
Kevin Phillips yawned, circled once to the right, twice to the left, once more to the right, and then lay down and closed his eyes and fell asleep.
“Right. Just me then,” said Alan sadly. “Plank C into slot D and fasten with nut F . . .”
But nut F wasn’t there. And neither was nut A, B, C, D, E, nor any of the bolts and screws because they were all in Wilf’s backpack and Wilf was scrambling back over the fence and into the open arms of Stuart (all fourteen) and the sticky arms of Dot.
Wilf had stopped Alan from making his pirate ship! Yay! So maybe Alan would give up and find something else he wanted to do. Something nice. Like Irish dancing. And maybe this is the end of the book.
Let’s peek over the page . . .
Of course it’s not the end of the book, you blithering idiots! As far as Alan becoming a pirate—this is when the whole kerfuffle started. No, but it really is this time.
Yes, Wilf had put a wrench in the works. Or to be more accurate, he’d taken a wrench out of the works because that had also pinged onto his magnet. But Alan wasn’t going to let a little thing like that stop him. He was determined to become a pirate.
So once he had left some very negative feedback on the website of the seller of the pirate ship, and once he had ordered himself lots of tiny nuts and bolts and screws, he got right back to making his pirate ship. And a mere seventeen days later . . .
It was a beautiful day, pouring with sunshine. Or was it raining? Maybe it was cloudy. Some manner of weather was happening. You choose. I’m all out of adjectives.
Anyway, Wilf, Dot, and Stuart were having breakfast.
Dot was face down in a bowl of crispies, sucking them up. Stuart was nibbling on one of the many crispies that had spilled out of her bowl, and Wilf was dipping a toast soldier in his egg.
“Dot, Mom is working today so she has asked me to take you to the beach,” said Wilf.
“Tractor,” replied Dot.
Stuart did a little excited dance.
“Stuart,” Wilf said, “I’m afraid you can’t come to the beach. Not after what happened last time.” And he gave Stuart a stern sort of look. And Stuart blushed a bit. And tried to look like he was very interested in a crumb that was near him.
Wilf made a packed lunch for him and Dot. He was just packing it away in his favorite Tupperware when he noticed something hiding behind a Hula Hoop. It was Stuart.
“Stuart! I can see you! I told you, you can’t come this time. You can come next time,” said Wilf.
Stuart was not happy. He rolled up into a ball.
“Stuart. Listen to me,” said Wilf.
But Stuart would not listen. Woodlice, as I’m sure you know, are terrible sulkers.
“Stuart!” said Wilf sternly. “Unroll this instant.”
Stuart rolled up tighter.
Wilf sighed.
Stuart was going through a naughty phase at the moment. Wilf blamed himself. He had spoiled him. He would have to have a serious talk with him when he got home.
Wilf and Dot had to take two buses to get to the beach, but Wilf had memorized all the bus routes and all the bus timetables so it was really very easy. Wilf liked maps and timetables because they are neat and orderly and everything is where it is supposed to be and when it is supposed to be, and that is very reassuring.
The bus ride is Wilf’s favorite part of going to the beach. Wilf doesn’t really like the beach because there is sand, and sand is very inconvenient. Dot, on the other hand, loves the beach. She likes to dig and to throw sand around and to dip her ice cream in the sand and then eat it in an alarmingly crunchy way. Today, after only ten minutes, the combination of snot and ice cream and sand meant Dot was like a tiny pebble-dashed person.
Wilf watched all this patiently, a wet wipe in each hand.
As Wilf was watching, someone strode past, picked up Dot’s bucket and spade, and said, “I’ll be needing this for digging up all my treasure,” and then he marched off.
“My bucket and spade!” wailed Dot. Although when you’re wailing, consonants go out of the window so it sounded more like:
“My rurret and raaaaaaaaaade!”
Wilf trotted after the person. But it wasn’t just any old person—it was Alan!
“Excuse me, Mr. Alan . . .” said Wilf. “Could we have our bucket and spade back?”
“My name’s not Alan,” said Alan. “My name’s Bluebeard.”
“But you haven’t got a beard,” said Wilf.
“Fine, then I shall call myself Captain Scarface,” said Alan.
“But you haven’t got a scar,” said Wilf.
“Fine, then I shall call myself Captain Hook,” said Alan.
“You haven’t actually got a hook,” said Wilf quietly.
“Do you mind,” said Alan, “I’m a little bit busy being feared and respected.”
“Yes, of course,” said Wilf, “but you took my sister’s bucket and spade and it’s her very favorite thing because it’s red and it’s good for digging and hammering, and digging and hammering are her main things, so if you could just give it back . . .”
“Does that sou
nd like the kind of thing a pirate would do?” asked Alan.
“Yes,” said Wilf. “A nice pirate.”
“Well, I’m not a nice pirate. I’m the biddly boddly baddest pirate in the whole wide worlderoony.”
“But where is your pirate ship?” asked Wilf, baffled.
“Right there. Tied up to the end of the pier. The Jolly Alan,” said Alan proudly.
Wilf looked over to where Alan was pointing—and there it was, with a big flag on the top with a picture of Alan on it.
“But you didn’t have any nuts or bolts or screws!” stammered Wilf.
“No, I did not. And I will not be purchasing another pirate ship from that particular seller, let me tell you,” said Alan. “But I managed to buy some other nuts and bolts and screws, and now I am going off to be a fierce pirate. So if you’ll excuse me.”
And with that he stomped up the gangplank of his pirate ship, still holding Dot’s bucket and spade.
Wilf tried to explain to Dot but she wouldn’t listen. He promised her sweets and lollies and countless other buckets and spades—but nothing could console her. She cried and cried until there were two clean little paths where the tears had run through the sticky dirt all over her face.
Wilf realized he was going to have to go and get Dot’s bucket and spade back. And that was when the started. (No, but it REALLY was this time.)
Wilf and Dot tiptoed up the gangplank, both holding their breath all the way. When they got to the top, Wilf saw Alan looking out through his telescope. Next to him was Kevin Phillips. Kevin was wearing a cone around his neck because he kept biting his bottom. And now he had a sore little bald patch on his big furry bottom.
Wilf scooped Dot up and went and stood, as silent as a button, behind the mast.
At that moment, a mailman appeared.
“I’m looking for an address,” said the mailman. “Is this—Big Pirate Ship, The Bottom of England, In the Sea?”
“Yes! Yes it is!” said Alan.
“I have a package for you,” said the mailman. “But there aren’t enough stamps on it so you will need to pay 18p.”
“Damn!” said Alan. “I’ve only been a pirate one minute and already I’m 18p down.”
While Alan was distracted, Wilf and Dot sneaked down the ladder and into the ship.
There were lots of cannons and barrels, but no sign of the bucket. There were hammocks and muskets and cutlasses and rats—eeeurgh, rats—but no bucket. There were big pirates and small pirates and pirates with wooden legs and pirates with beards and pirates with wooden beards, but no bucket. There were swords and knives and daggers and spiky ouchy things, but no buckets.
Suddenly Alan came running down the stairs. Wilf and Dot hid behind a barrel.
“Look, my parrot has arrived!” said Alan to Kevin Phillips excitedly. “I ordered it online. I am going to call him Nigel.”
Alan brushed aside the packaging squiggles and was distracted briefly by the urgent need to pop a few bubbles of the bubble wrap.
“Watch this!” Alan said to Kevin Phillips.
“Pretty Polly, pretty Polly,” said Alan to the parrot.
Nigel blinked at Alan.
“Parrots can talk,” explained Alan to Kevin Phillips. And then he worried that Kevin Phillips would feel bad about the fact that he couldn’t talk, so he quickly added, “I mean, that’s not why I got him—I just thought I should have one. If I’m going to be a pirate.”
Kevin scooted along the ground on his bottom.
“Look, watch. He will repeat everything I say,” said Alan proudly. “Pretty Polly, pretty Polly.”
Nigel stared back at him.
“Maybe they sent me a faulty one.”
Alan turned Nigel over and looked to see if there was somewhere he was supposed to put batteries.
“Aaaark,” said Nigel in a discombobulated sort of way.
“Ah! You do talk!” said Alan. “Right. Say pretty Polly.”
“Why would I do that?” asked Nigel.
“Because I said it,” explained Alan.
“So why would I say the same thing?” asked Nigel.
“Because you’re a parrot. You parrot. It’s in the name,” said Alan, a little impatiently.
“If you insist,” said Nigel. “What was it again?”
“Pretty Polly.”
“Ditty Dolly?”
“Pretty Polly.”
“Witty Wally?”
“Pretty Polly.”
“Gitty Golly?”
“No! What is the matter with you?” said Alan, stamping his foot.
“I’m a bit hard of hearing. All those cannons, you know, they’ve played havoc with my ears.”
“You don’t have ears.”
“Well, that doesn’t help either,” agreed Nigel.
“All right. Forget about the parroting. Just stand on my shoulder,” said Alan.
“Oh I can’t do that,” said Nigel. “Health and safety. I might fall.”
“You’re a bird! You can fly!”
“Nevertheless, I will need a harness or it will break several health and safety rules. And then you could lose your license. And be fired.”
“This is ridiculous!” fumed Alan.
“I don’t make the rules,” said Nigel.
Alan turned and kicked a bucket angrily.
Hang on, he kicked a bucket. The bucket! There’s the bucket we’ve been looking for! It was under Alan’s hammock all along.
“Rurret and raaade!” said Dot tearfully. Wilf quickly covered her mouth.
“What?” said Alan to Nigel.
“I didn’t say anything,” said Nigel.
Alan tutted and climbed up the ladder to the deck.
Wilf and Dot crawled across the floor to the hammock. Wilf grabbed the bucket and Dot seized the spade and chewed on it happily.
Then Wilf and Dot tiptoed up the ladder. They peeped out and saw Alan trying to tie his eyepatch on. They edged slowly toward the gangplank, as silent as a smudge.
Suddenly . . .
“Hoist the anchor and set sail!” shouted Captain Alan.
And with a lurch, the pirate ship launched out to sea.
Oh no!
They were stuck!
They were trapped!
They were stowaways!
They scrunched up as small as possible and hid behind a barrel of grog.
“Right, me hearties!” said Alan.
“Yes?” said two voices in unison.
“What?” said Alan, confused.
“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Heartie,” said a couple in matching teddy bear jumpers.
“Not just you, not just you,” said Alan. “I’m talking to everyone.”
“Oh sorry,” said a voice. “I wasn’t listening.”
“What?” said Alan, even more confused.
“I’m Dave Everyone,” said Dave Everyone.
“Not you—I meant everyone. All the pirates!” said Alan.
“They’re not here. They’re all asleep downstairs in their hammocks,” explained Dave Everyone.
“Fine,” said Alan. “Just you three then. I have found this old and ancient map. And X marks the spot where the treasure is buried.”
“That sounds lovely, but we really just came for the napkin-folding lesson,” said Mr. and Mrs. Heartie.
“This is a pirate ship, not a cruise ship!” said Alan angrily.
“Oh dear,” said Mr. Heartie. “So no jazz night?”
“No!” said Alan.
“No songs made famous by Frank Sinatra night?” asked Mrs. Heartie.
“Definitely not!” said Alan.
“No fancy dress night?” asked Mr. Heartie.
“Yes, there’s definitely fancy dress because I’ve seen a lot of people dressed as pirates,” said Mrs. Heartie.
“THAT’S BECAUSE THEY ARE PIRATES!” yelled Alan in a very high-pitched voice. “Now we are going to this remote undiscovered island—and at my command, unleash hell!” he boomed.
“The thing
is,” said Dave Everyone, “I’d love to unleash hell, but I’m feeling a little bit seasick. Can I unleash hell tomorrow?”
“I suppose so,” said Alan. “What about you two?”
“We want our money back,” said Mr. and Mrs. Heartie.
“Fine. I’ll unleash hell on my own,” said Alan sadly. “As usual.”
“You could always take the stowaways,” said Mrs. Heartie.
“Who?” said Alan.
“Those two, crouching behind the barrel there,” said Mrs. Heartie, pointing toward Wilf and Dot.
Wilf felt his hair go all hot. Then his ears went all buzzy and his knees tried to go the wrong way.
“Oh we’ve got stowaways, have we?” roared Alan.
“No, it’s just me and Dot and we’re only here by accident,” said Wilf in a trembly voice, “because Dot wanted her—”
“Rurret and raaaade!” wailed Dot.
“Do you know what pirates do with stowaways?” said Alan.
“No,” said Wilf anxiously.
“Neither do I,” said Alan. “I haven’t gotten that far in the How to Be a Pirate manual—but I expect it’s not very nice.”
“No, you’re probably right,” agreed Wilf.
“In the meantime, you can help me get the buried treasure,” he said. “Follow me!”
And with that he scampered up the rigging.
“Land ahargh!” shouted Alan, because the pirate ship hit a remote undiscovered island and he fell off the rigging and bumped his nose on the deck.
“Land ahargh! Land ahargh!” repeated Nigel.
“No, don’t repeat that!” said Alan. “I said it wrong.”
“Land ahargh!” said Nigel.
“I meant to say land ahoy!” explained Alan. “But then I fell over.”
“Land ahargh!” said Nigel.
Wilf the Mighty Worrier--Battles a Pirate Page 2
