My Brother's Hot Cross Bottom

by Jeremy Strong

‘Rubbish is a stupid name for a goat,’ Cilla called out.

  ‘Yeah? Can you think of a better one?’

  Cilla shrugged and thought, while I pulled away beneath the goat and milk spurted into the pail.

  ‘Dennis,’ she said eventually.

  ‘You can't call a she-goat Dennis!’ I said.

  ‘You can't call her Rubbish either,’ Cilla answered. All right, Harriet. There's a girl at my school called Harriet and she looks like a goat. She's got long floppy ears and she smells. Why did you call her Rubbish anyway?’

  ‘Because she eats rubbish and she's pretty much rubbish at doing anything.’ There was a clatter as the goat stuck one foot in the bucket. I quickly yanked it back out. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘She's funny,’ said Cilla, cheering up a fraction. There was a long silence while I carried on milking and then Cilla spoke up again. ‘I like your house. And your garden.’ She took a quick squint round the Tuggs' neat lawn and flower beds. ‘This garden is B-O-R-R-I-N-G-E.’

  ‘Borringe?’ I repeated. ‘Their garden is borringe?’

  ‘NO, STUPID!’ shouted Cilla. ‘BORING!’

  ‘Oh!’ I smiled and didn't bother to correct her because she was obviously on a short fuse, which was hardly surprising. Anyone who lived with Mr Tugg would be driven bonkers eventually. I guessed that must be what Cilla's problem was. She was just bored and fed up with being on her own with Mr and Mrs Tugg. I don't suppose it was much fun, especially with a crazy family like mine next door.

  Cilla frowned and scratched herself. ‘Can I come round later?’

  I groaned inwardly. ‘I expect so. You'll have to check with my mum when she gets back from the Health Centre.’ I explained about the twins' little problem. Cilla nodded.

  ‘That's why you were singing that song yesterday,’ she said. ‘Anyway, see you later.’ She'd obviously cheered up a bit because she went skipping back indoors and I could hear her singing to herself. ‘Hot cross bums! Hot cross bums!’

  Mr Tugg was probably out, or she wouldn't have dared.

  A bit later on both Cilla and Mrs Tugg came round. Cheese and Tomato pounced on Cilla with delight and quickly vanished upstairs, while Mrs Tugg whispered in Mum's ear and soon the two of them had moved into the kitchen and shut the door. Something secret was being discussed and Dad and I could only guess at what it might be.

  ‘I think Mr Tugg has run away with another woman,’ Dad muttered, waggling his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Dad!’ I was embarrassed. Besides, it was a daft suggestion. Who'd want to go out with Mr Tugg?

  Well, I suppose Mrs Tugg did, once upon a time. But that must have been donkey's years ago, when Mr Tugg was young, and had more hair, and was thinner, and possibly less angry. I turned to Dad.

  ‘I think Mrs Tugg secretly likes our farm animals but she doesn't dare tell Mr Tugg in case he explodes. So she wants to come round here and play with them. Maybe she could train Saucepan and Nibblewibble for the Easter Rabbit Race,’ I suggested.

  Dad shook his head. ‘No, I don't think that's it. Why would she go into the kitchen with your mother and start whispering? It's something more serious.’ Dad suddenly grinned from ear to ear. ‘I know! Mr Tugg has a spotty botty!’

  ‘Dad!’

  He nodded at me happily. ‘I bet you that's what it is.’

  Cilla and the twins came thundering down the stairs, looked at us briefly as if to check we were still there, and hurried into the front room, shutting the door behind them. I was going to peep in to see what they were up to but at that moment the kitchen door opened and Mrs Tugg came out. She gave us a pale smile, murmured ‘goodbye' and went back next door.

  Mum came out of the kitchen and turned to us with a smile. ‘Well,’ she began. ‘Guess what? Cilla's got a hot cross bottom too!’

  Dad gave me a satisfied smile. ‘I was pretty close,’ he declared.

  I gave Dad a weak smile. Secretly I was hoping I wasn't going to be the next victim of the Hot Cross Bum bug.

  9. Going Cheep!

  It's been a banana bonkers day today! I wish you'd been here to see it. First of all there was the straw.

  Yesterday evening, after Cheese and Tomato had had their backsides smeared with anti-itch cream and put to bed, Mum, Dad and I went through the house from top to bottom with the vacuum cleaner, a dustpan and brush and a big

  plastic sack. Then we set off on a straw hunt. We gathered up every single bit of straw we could find, took it all outside and dumped it back in the hen coop.

  So, what was the first thing I saw when I got up this morning? You guessed! Bits of straw all over my bedroom floor. What's going on? There was practically enough straw on my floor to build a thatched roof over my bed!

  Then there were the eggs. Half of them were missing again. Dad was tearing out his hair. If this goes on much longer he'll end up as bald as Mr Tugg.

  ‘I don't understand,’ he wailed, over and over. ‘What's happening to them?’

  Before we could do anything about it a miserable Tomato wandered in, complaining that she was still hot and itchy.

  ‘I've had enough of this,’ muttered Mum, sweeping Tomato into her arms. ‘I'm taking the pair of them back to the Health Centre. It must be those wretched rabbits that Granny and Lancelot brought. I bet they've got rabbit fleas or something. The rabbits are the only new thing that's come to this house in the last few days.’

  ‘Apart from Cilla,’ I added.

  Mum gave me a steady look. ‘I suppose that's a joke, Nicholas. Cilla is hardly likely to bring fleas into the house. Give her a break – she's lonely and miserable and needs a bit of cheering up. You two get rid of this straw while I take the twins to the doctor.’

  While Mum did that, Dad and I had another clean up. I had almost finished in my bedroom when I heard a faint, high-pitched squeaky noise coming from somewhere behind me.

  I looked round but couldn't see anything. Then I heard it again. It seemed to be coming from beneath my bed. I was about to get down on my hands and knees to take a look when a tiny, yellow, wobbly bundle of fluff came staggering out from beneath the bed. The little chick looked at me, opened its beak and said cheep! Just like chicks do.

  I think it was asking for directions, like where am I? Or can you tell me where my mum is, please?

  I hurried to the stairs and yelled down. ‘Dad! You'd better take a look at this.’

  Dad came thundering up, two at a time and then stood there with his eyes popping while the little chick went on adventures round his feet, pecking at his shoelaces as if they were worms.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ Dad squeaked in a voice almost as high as the chick's.

  I shrugged. ‘My guess would be an egg.’

  ‘Very funny,’ grunted Dad in a more normal tone. ‘Of course it does. I mean – what is it doing up here?’

  ‘It was under my bed.’

  ‘What was it doing under there?’ asked Dad in exasperation.

  ‘Looking for a pair of socks? I don't know, Dad. It just came wandering out, as if it had been there for ages, lurking.’

  We were about to look beneath my bed when Dad suddenly grabbed my arm and froze.

  ‘What?’ I asked, but Dad put a finger to his lips. We waited a moment, and then I heard it too. Cheep cheep cheep. We looked at the chick at our feet. He (I've decided it was probably male because it had such big feet) had his head cocked on one side. He was listening too!

  ‘There's another one,’ Dad whispered. ‘In one of the other bedrooms!’

  ‘Why are we whispering?’ I whispered back.

  ‘I don't know,’ answered Dad, in a whisper.

  ‘Are you scared?’ I asked him.

  Dad looked at me scornfully and spoke in a proper voice at last. ‘Of course I'm not scared. I was surprised, that's all. Come on, we'd better find where it is.’

  We went out to the landing and there was the second chick waddling along towards the top of the stairs, as if it was on its way out.

  �
��That's two chicks, Dad. They must have come from the incubator.’

  ‘Impossible. The incubator is downstairs and it's got a lid on it.’

  At that moment another chick came waddling out of Mum and Dad's bedroom. Dad almost exploded with confusion.

  ‘What's going on?’ he yelled.

  And that was when a pair of chicks came running from Cheese and Tomato's room, chirping like mad, closely followed by another one from my room and two from Mum and Dad's.

  ‘Aaaaaargh!’ yelled Dad, as he was quickly

  surrounded by a chirping, cheeping, bouncing, scrabbling, pecking mass of little yellow pom-poms on legs.

  ‘They are so cute!’ I grinned. ‘They are so – MANY!’ yelled Dad. ‘How did they get up here? Where have they come from?’

  I went back to my room, where I found another chick in the process of emerging from beneath my bed. I lay down on the floor and peered underneath. I could see a strange lumpy shape in the darkness, so I reached in and pulled it out. It was a nest.

  ‘Take a look at this, Dad,’ I shouted out. He shuffled in nervously, worried about stepping on more runaway chicks.

  We stared at the nest. Basically it was an old shoe box, stuffed with straw. Inside were several bits of broken eggshell, plus one unhatched egg.

  Dad turned to me.

  ‘Nicholas, why have you got a chicken nest under your bed?’

  ‘No idea,’ I answered truthfully.

  ‘That nest was not made by a chicken,’ Dad pointed out and I agreed.

  ‘No, it wasn't.’

  ‘So who made it?’ asked Dad.

  We heard the front door open as Mum returned with the twins. ‘You'll never guess what the doctor – EEK! RON! NICHOLAS! The house is full of chickens, I mean chicklets, chicks, you know, small ones, baby ones! Quick! Help me! They're all over the place!’

  Dad grabbed my shoulders. ‘OK, son, this is an emergency. We need a plan. You… um, you… um, and I'll… um, you-I'll-your mother… um, we'll –’

  ‘Dad!’ I interrupted. ‘Go and help Mum. I'll sort out things up here.’

  ‘Right!’ said Dad, and he hurtled downstairs, two, three, four at a time. In fact I think he fell the last six, judging by the noise he made. It sounded like ten large wardrobes doing somersaults, and not succeeding.

  To cut a long story short it took us half an hour

  to round up all the chicks. There were eleven altogether, all yellow, all fluffy and all TOTALLY adorable. While that was going on Mum told us what had happened at the Health Centre and slowly the chick puzzle was solved.

  ‘The doctor said the rash was probably caused by something like straw,’ said Mum.

  ‘Straw?’ repeated Dad, stroking his beard and trying to look wise. (Which in Dad's case is VERY DIFFICULT!)

  Mum nodded. ‘I asked the twins if they'd been playing with straw or sitting on straw and they went very quiet. I took that as a yes. I asked a few more questions and discovered that they have been playing a game of pretending to be hens hatching out chicks. They made little nests, hidden away all over the house. They packed them with straw, put eggs inside and then sat on them to hatch them out.’

  Dad stopped stroking his beard and sat up straight. ‘I see. Do you think they both might be as mad as a fish with an umbrella?’

  Mum laughed. ‘No. Not mad. It was a game and they were only doing what they were told to do.’

  My eyes popped. ‘Someone TOLD them to make nests and sit on the eggs?’

  ‘Exactly' Mum answered.

  ‘But who?’ demanded Dad.

  At that moment we heard a massive, ginormous explosion from next door.

  ‘CILLA!’

  Mr Tugg was in full eruption! We hurried out into the back garden to see what was going on.

  10. The Mystery Is Solved

  Mr Tugg came bursting out of his back door like a straw tornado. He appeared to be fighting some kind of monster but all we could actually see was straw whirling around him. He was closely followed by Mrs Tugg, wobbling wildly and giving little shrieks of dismay. Behind Mrs Tugg came a stream of little chicks. And after that lot came Cilla, scratching herself again and looking rather pleased.

  We gathered at the fence to watch Mr Tugg doing his war dance. I've seen this a few times now. He does it about once a month. There's always something that pops up and annoys him so much he has to express himself like this. It goes in stages:

  Stage One: Mr Tugg hurries round the garden

  shouting to himself and waving his fists at the sky.

  Stage Two: Mr Tugg reaches the centre of the garden, where he stops. By this time he has run out of words and can only grunt, snort, stamp his feet, yell, clench his hands, howl and generally pull sixteen different horrible faces in quick succession and then – repeat, several times.

  Stage Three: Mr Tugg is now purple and goes into meltdown. He falls silent, but you know he's just building up for the final eruption. He looks up at the sky. He raises his arms. His body trembles and at last he grits his teeth and ROARS!

  ‘AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHH!!!’

  Poor Mr Tugg. Nobody does a volcano impression quite like him. We all waited until it was over. Mum had slipped into the kitchen while this was going on. Now she reappeared with a tray and two mugs.

  ‘Cup of tea, Mr Tugg? Mrs Tugg?’

  Mrs Tugg took the tray gratefully and handed her husband a mug. Now that he'd let off steam, Mr Tugg was quieter, though still rather fizzy.

  ‘That girl's been making nests under the beds,’ stuttered Mr Tugg. ‘With YOUR eggs,’ he added accusingly, looking straight at my dad.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Dad, sounding a wee bit like Cilla when I'd spoken to her about the stone on the lawn.

  We all turned to Cilla, who frowned back. ‘Eggs need someone to look after them,’ she stated. ‘You shouldn't put them in an incubator. They need a mummy. I was hatching them out myself. Anyway, we put them back afterwards.’

  ‘It's a wonder you didn't break any, sitting on them like that,’ said Mum.

  ‘Huh! I'm not stupid,’ Cilla grunted.

  ‘Hmmm, that's a matter of opinion,’ sighed Dad.

  Mr Tugg waggled a finger at Cilla. ‘She's not from here,’ he declared. ‘She comes from Mars. She's an alien. She can't possibly be human. She put a rock in the middle of my lawn yesterday. A rock! On my lawn! Can you believe that?’

  ‘I was bored.’ Cilla did her arm-folding exercise. ‘Your house is the most boring house in the history of boring houses. You won't let me do anything. There's no one to play with. The only fun I have is when I go next door to their house and look after Cheese and Tomato.’

  I was beginning to understand how Cilla felt. For a few moments there was a stunned silence because nobody could argue with what she had just said, except possibly Mr Tugg. He looked at the rest of us. Maybe he was waiting for us to rush to his defence. He'd have to wait a long time.

  Mr Tugg took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height – which was not very tall. He was obviously going to say something important. ‘My house is full of straw,’ he hissed. (Not that important, then.)

  ‘So is ours,’ Mum pointed out.

  ‘Chickens have pooped on my carpets,’ added Mr Tugg.

  ‘Ours too,’ Mum agreed.

  ‘One of your chicks ate my breakfast!’ snapped Mr Tugg.

  Dad shrugged. ‘Huh! One of my chicks was my breakfast,’ he declared.

  ‘Dad!’ I was aghast. ‘You never!’

  Just joking,’ Dad grinned.

  ‘Your dad's funny,’ giggled Cilla.

  This was exactly the sort of remark to make Mr Tugg even crosser. ‘Do I take it that you're not going to do anything about any of this?’ he stormed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dad, putting on a childlike voice and wringing his hands. ‘Please can I have my chicks back?’

  ‘WHO'S GOING TO CLEAN MY HOUSE?’ Mr Tugg bellowed.

  Mum stepped forward. ‘Mr Tugg, it was Cilla who caused
all this. Cilla lives with you, not us. None of this was our idea, but we're not going to lose sleep over it. Perhaps if you'd

  found something fun for Cilla to do none of this would have happened. As it is, she's come round to our house almost every day and helped the twins build nests everywhere.’

  Phew! My mum's so brave! She was staring straight at an erupting volcano and telling it off! She's amazing, and she hadn't finished either.

  ‘We have a house to clean too and we're going to get on with it. Oh, before you return your dirty mug perhaps you could wash it up for us?’

  And we went back indoors. I don't know how long Mr Tugg stayed out there fuming, but Mrs Tugg came round to see us a short while ago. Apparently Mr Tugg is saying Cilla can't stay there any longer.

  ‘I don't know what to do,’ wailed Mrs Tugg. ‘Cilla's not a bad girl, she's just –’

  ‘Wicked?’ suggested Dad.

  ‘Ron!’ Mum glared at him. ‘Poor girl. I feel very sorry for her. Where will she go?’

  ‘That's the problem,’ Mrs Tugg explained. ‘Her mother doesn't come out of hospital for a week yet, and her father's not home for another month, but I'm afraid my husband won't have her in the house.’

  At that moment I think my brain must have gone on holiday to somewhere very far away, like another planet, or even another universe, because I opened my mouth and I heard myself say something really, REALLY unexpected.

  ‘Maybe she could stay here.’

  ‘WHAT!?’ Dad's eyes were practically popping out of his head, but Mum threw an arm round me and hugged me, hard.

  ‘Nicholas, what a wonderful idea. I'm so proud of you,’ she said happily.

  Dad was shaking his head. ‘I'll never understand this family,’ he grunted. ‘Cilla has just created mayhem in two homes and now you're inviting her to stay?’

  ‘Why not? We have a spare room and it's only for a week. Give the girl a break. She's bored and upset. She's away from her family and everything she knows. All she needs is a bit of attention, someone to play with and some love.’