by Kaye Umansky
I finished Robin Hood and took it back to the library. I went to the pictures, making a nasty hole in my skateboard fund. The film was Pirates of the Caribbean 3, so I talked in seafaring language for days afterwards. And, of course, the dreaded homework had to be fitted in at the last possible moment.
Then it was back to school. I’ll gloss over that bit. Nothing had changed, except that Josh and I weren’t speaking. But, hey. Who cares?
While I was getting into the swing of school, Mum and Dad were making preparations for Kenny’s party, which was the following Saturday. Mum went and bought balloons, squeakers, fancy hats, cardboard plates and enough party food to sink the Titanic. (Celine Dion sings a song in that, about the heart always going on. The song goes on, I do know that.)
Dad spoke on the phone to Mr Happy Chappy the clown, to see if he needed anything in the way of props. Mr Happy Chappy said no, he supplied everything himself, although he would need a bit of space to ride his unicycle. Dad said he sounded very professional, if a bit oily. Apparently, he kept calling Dad ‘sir’ and referring to Kenny as ‘our young birthday gentleman’.
I got roped in, of course. I spent a whole evening stuffing rubbish into 15 goody bags. The guest list had swollen by quite a bit, you will notice.
‘It’s too many,’ said Dad. ‘We haven’t got a big enough table.’
‘They’re small children, Ray. They can squeeze up,’ said Mum, who was looking up cake recipes. Kenny wanted a duck one, but she was too late to order it at the cake shop.
‘We’ll never fit 16 around this table. What d’you think, Tim?’
‘Arrr,’ I agreed, in my best West Country accent. ‘The varmints’ll scuttle the ship. They’ll run amok like ship’s rats, begorrah.’ (Actually, I’m not sure about begorrah. I think that might be another accent.)
‘Don’t be so silly,’ sniffed Mum. ‘And stop talking in that stupid pirate voice, I’ve got enough to think about.’
I don’t think any of us were looking forward to the party. Even Kenny. Mum read out the guest list of all the kids she had invited and he didn’t look too impressed.
Later, we were sitting on the sofa, reading Are You My Duck? for the twenty millionth time. ‘Looking forward to your party, Kenny?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said.
You can’t get clearer than that.
‘Of course he is,’ said Mum, coming in to give him a cuddle. ‘You are, aren’t you, Kenny? You’re going to have a lovely time. Damian’s coming, and Ben, and Rosie. There’ll be lots of nice things to eat, and a funny clown man, and games and things.’
Kenny said nothing. He’d stated his case, and that was that.
Finally, Saturday arrived. The morning was spent collecting chairs, garden benches and piano stools from kindly neighbours, blowing up balloons, and laying out 16 places on the kitchen table, which we’d made longer by adding the wallpaper table from the cellar. We covered both of them with Spiderman paper tablecloths, so it looked quite jolly.
Mum was busy in the kitchen, chopping carrots like her life depended on it. Dad was lining up mini juice cartons and spreading jam on sandwiches, which he’d cut really small, like we were having the seven dwarfs to tea. Kenny wandered around in his best jumper, clutching Jug-Jug and looking a bit anxious. When I hung up a bunch of balloons, one of them popped and he burst into tears. That’s not like him. The tension of this happy day was obviously getting to him.
The guests began arriving at two o’clock, starting with Demon Damian. That was Alf’s cue to flee upstairs and hide under my bed. Damian toddled in clutching a wrapped birthday present, which he refused to hand over. When he found he couldn’t keep it, he dropped it on the floor and stood on it. Then he went off to look for Kenny’s tractor, which Mum had wisely hidden away.
Ben arrived next. He too threw his gift on the floor, then walked up to Kenny and snatched away his giraffe.
Then the rest of them started arriving. Rosie, Gary, Nasim, Chloe, Jasmina, Alex, Ellie – I can’t remember all their names. I didn’t know many of them. I did know Josh Mahoney’s little brother, who’s called Adam. Adam’s a bit clingy. He was refusing to let his mum put him down. He’d got her in a headlock and wouldn’t let go.
‘Hello, Tim,’ said Mrs Mahoney, fighting to disentangle his frenzied fingers from her hair. ‘Haven’t seen you for a bit.’
‘No,’ I mumbled. I didn’t like to say that was because I loathed, detested and despised her eldest son. I made an excuse about dealing with coats, and hurried away.
Dealing with coats wasn’t so bad, actually. It meant I could stay out of the horrors involved in getting a three year old to hand over a present to another three year old. It was a present, it was wrapped up, as far as they were concerned it should be theirs. Then they had to be peeled off their parents and sat down at the table. Oh, the misery of it. They were squeezed too tight together, and didn’t like it. They fell off their chairs. They grabbed at the tablecloth and pulled things over.
Rosie cried because she thought she had to eat a banana. Some kid called Harold had hysterics when his dad tried to tiptoe out. Apparently, he had separation issues. One small girl took one look at the lovely feast, then hurled herself to the floor, where she lay on her back thrashing her legs around, kicking poor little Adam in the stomach with her sparkly pink party shoe. She had eating issues. Ben wouldn’t let go of Jug-Jug. Giraffe issues, I suppose.
No sooner had you got one lot seated, another lot would rise and lurch unsteadily away from the kitchen into the living room, like zombies in a horror film.
I just concentrated on the coats. My bedroom was the cloakroom for the day, which is why I was upstairs when the bad thing happened.
I was on my knees trying to get Alf out from under my bed. As usual, he wouldn’t come. As I stood up again, something caught my eye out of the window. A car was slowly coming up our road. A big, black, purring, sleek car. It looked horribly familiar. As I watched, it pulled in to the side. Then the driver got out, a scrap of paper in his hand.
Aaargh! It was horrible hose man!
He was peering at the gates, obviously looking for our house number. Help! He had finally found out where I lived and was coming to complain to my parents! He must have found a scratch on the bodywork or something and was about to accuse me!
Heart thumping, I ducked behind the curtain in case he looked up and saw me. This was all we needed, with Kenny’s party about to begin. I felt really sick – and not because I’d eaten four sausage rolls, three fairy cakes and half a packet of Jammy Dodgers.
I heard the gate squeak and his footsteps coming up our path. I heard Dad’s voice at the door. Then, just as I knew he would, Dad shouted up the stairs:
‘Tim! Come down here!’
Down I went, in fear and trembling. Hose man stood at the door. Our eyes met. He looked a bit taken aback when he saw me. His fishy eyes bulged, and a look of loathing crossed his face. Then, to my amazement, his brow miraculously cleared and he bared his yellow teeth in a smile.
‘This is Mr Happy Chappy,’ said Dad. ‘He’s got all his gear in his car. Give him a hand bringing it in, would you?’
Whaaaat? Cigarette-smoking, hairy-eared, car-obsessed, water-squirting, dog-bothering, child-hating hose man was Mr Happy Chappy the clown?
‘I suppose you’ll need somewhere to change?’ asked Dad, unaware of our mutual recognition.
‘Well yes, sir, that would be useful,’ said Mr Happy Chappy. ‘The bathroom would be fine. If this strong laddie helps bring the stuff, sir, it won’t take more than a few minutes.’
He spoke in a very different voice to the one he had used on Flora and me. It was a hearty, jovial, everyone’s-favourite-uncle voice. He even patted me on the shoulder. I could hardly believe it was the same man.
‘Ray!’ came Mum’s sharp voice from the kitchen, over a chorus of demonic wailing. ‘Get in here now!’
‘Right,’ said Dad. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. I expect you’d like a cup o
f tea?’
‘That’d be very welcome, sir, very welcome indeed,’ agreed Mr Happy Chappy, oozing smarmy gratitude as though he’d been offered the elixir of life.
Talk about Jekyll and Hyde. The second Dad turned his back, Mr Happy Chappy morphed back into hose man. His ingratiating smile vanished. He looked down at me, sneered and jerked his head towards the gate, not saying a word.
We walked down the path in silence, taking care not to look at each other. There was bad blood between us. We had a dark history. There was nothing to say.
In silence, we walked down the road to the big, black BMW. In silence, Mr Happy Chappy pressed the remote fob. The lights flashed once, and all the little door locks obediently popped up. In silence, he walked around to the back. In silence, he flipped open the boot.
It was full of clown stuff. Something that looked like an oxygen cylinder, except that it contained that special gas used for blowing up balloons. What’s it called again? Helium. There was other stuff, too. A folded unicycle. Juggling clubs. A trombone. A carrier bag full of balloons. A red-and-yellow clown suit in a polythene bag. Two immensely long, bright-blue clown’s shoes, with gold stars on. A big cardboard box containing all kinds of bits and pieces – a ginger wig, a daft hat with a flower on, a big, spotty bow tie, a red false nose, a box of greasepaints.
In silence, Mr Happy Chappy reached in, pulled out the helium cylinder and handed it to me. It weighed a ton. Using more force than was strictly necessary, he wedged three juggling clubs under my left armpit and two more under my right. He hung the carrier full of balloons on my wrist. That was it. I couldn’t take any more.
Then, still in silence, he hauled out the cardboard box and balanced the long, bright-blue shoes on top. That left the clown suit, the trombone and the unicycle. One of us would have to come back for those.
In silence, Mr Happy Chappy slammed the boot shut and pressed the remote fob, locking it. Gripping the key ring between his teeth, because he didn’t have a hand free, he turned on his heel and headed back for our house.
I was just about to follow him when I caught sight of Flora in her front garden. She had her mouth open and was pointing in disbelief at the retreating form of our enemy. I rolled my eyes, shrugged and mouthed ‘I know!’ at her.
And then, as if things weren’t weird enough already, something else unexpected happened.
Chapter Six
Guess who came trotting around the corner, tail wagging and nose sniffing the air? It was Duke.
Now, Duke’s not allowed out unless he’s on the end of a lead. Mr Smallman’s got a high gate and a thick hedge, so he can’t leap over or wriggle through. What was he doing out on his own, all those roads away from home?
He looked like he was enjoying his little outing. He paused to cock his leg against a lamppost, nosed interestedly at half a burger bun lying in the gutter, wisely decided against it and trotted on again. He was the very picture of happiness. Well, he was until he saw Mr Happy Chappy. Then it all changed.
Duke froze to a halt. His ears went flat. Slowly, he sank into a half crouch; back legs tensed and fur bristling. His mouth wrinkled back, showing his teeth.
Mr Happy Chappy had nearly reached our gate. He turned around to see where I was. And that’s when he saw Duke. Mr Happy Chappy turned pale. His mouth fell open with shock. The set of keys dropped from his mouth and fell neatly through the grid of a drain. From where I stood, you couldn’t hear the splash, but I’m sure there was one.
Slowly, very slowly, Mr Happy Chappy backed away, edging towards our gate, which was closed.
Duke growled, deep in his chest, doing a really good impression of the Hound of the Baskervilles.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
Then he charged! He shot forward like a bullet from a gun and went haring up the road. He went straight past me without a glance, eyes fixed on his enemy, kicking up dust with his paws. It all happened really quickly, like one of those old black-and-white movies, minus the tinkling piano music.
Mr Happy Chappy dropped the box, which fell on its side, spilling its contents all over the pavement. One of the clown shoes fell with it. That left him holding the other. He dropped into a crouch, holding it at arm’s length, like a sword. Honestly. The world’s most unlikely weapon of defence. A clown shoe. I have to say it looked pretty funny.
Duke carried on running. Mr Happy Chappy raised the ridiculous shoe over his shoulder, all set to whack him one. Then he changed his mind. He said a rather shocking word, which I won’t repeat, dropped the shoe, turned, and bolted for his life along the pavement and around the corner. I’ll say one thing for him. He had a fair turn of speed.
The shoe bounced once, then rolled into the road, where it was run over by a passing white van. It could have been the one I washed. It was certainly nice and clean.
‘Duke!’ I roared, with all the authority I could muster. ‘Here, boy!’
Flora was shouting his name, too. She came running out from her garden.
At the sound of our voices, Duke did a surprising thing. He slowed down – then stopped. He looked around, a bit confused. Then he looked back up the road. There was no sign of Mr Happy Chappy, dog-hating hose wielder. What there was, though, was a pavement strewn with interesting-looking toys.
Duke began with the red nose. He picked it up with his sharp teeth, crunched, then swallowed. That was for starters. He picked up the bow tie, gave it an experimental chew, then spat it out again. Then he leapt on the ginger wig. He put his front paws on it, lay down, and began tearing at it with his teeth. Great clumps of ginger hair came out, filling his mouth and making him choke a bit.
‘Stop it, Duke!’ shrieked Flora. I put down the helium cylinder and the clubs, tore the carrier bag off my wrist and began running towards him, with Flora just behind me.
Obediently, Duke stopped eating the wig. He spat out a great gob of ginger hair and shook his head to and fro, coughing a bit and pawing at his muzzle with a front paw. Then his eye fell on the silly hat with the flower on. He pounced on it, picked it up in his jaws and began furiously shaking it from side to side.
That’s when I reached him. I snatched at the hat and tried to drag it out from his jaws. Sensing a game, Duke held on.
‘Drop it!’ I commanded.
‘Rrrrrrrrrrrr!’ growled Duke, enjoying himself.
I tugged. He tugged harder. The flower fell off and I trod on it with my foot. The hat was covered in slobber and gouged with tooth holes. It was beginning to tear down the middle.
‘Duke!’ roared Flora. ‘Sit!’
And, incredibly, Duke sat. He tucked his tail in, dropped the ruined hat at our feet and sat, panting, with his big, pink tongue hanging out, obviously hoping one of us would throw it for him.
‘Good boy!’ I said, approvingly.
Flora ruffled his head. Duke rather sweetly offered her his paw.
I started collecting up the spilled items and putting them back in the box. The torn hat. The long, bright-blue shoes, one of which was now in two pieces. The soggy bow tie. The greasepaints, which had fallen out of the tin and lay scattered in the gutter. Not the red nose, obviously. That was gone for ever.
There was still no sign of Mr Happy Chappy.
What I did see, though, was my dad. He came out of the gate holding what looked like a dirty nappy in his hand, clearly on dustbin duty.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, looking at the three of us in the road. ‘Where’s the clown?’
‘Search me,’ I said. ‘Went running off. Scared of the dog.’
The dog in question licked my hand, then lay down on the pavement and rolled over, paddling his paws in the air.
‘I’ll look, shall I?’ said Flora. She went to the end of the road and poked her head around the corner. Then she came back again.
‘Hiding behind a wheelie bin,’ she said.
It was then that we saw Mr Smallman. He came running down the road from the opposite end, holding a lead in his hand. His p
anic-stricken expression turned to one of huge relief when he saw Duke.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ he said, striding up and fastening the lead onto Duke’s collar. ‘Thought I’d lost him. Someone left the gate open, he’s been gone for over an hour. Didn’t give you any trouble, did he?’
‘Not a bit,’ said Flora. ‘We told him to sit, and he sat.’
‘All right, Bob?’ asked my dad. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not so bad, Ray,’ said Mr Smallman. ‘And you?’
Of course. They knew each other from the days when Dad walked me to school. I’d forgotten that.
‘Duke’s grown a bit,’ remarked Dad, ruffling his fur.
‘Yeah,’ said Mr Smallman, fondly. ‘What you been eating, eh, you daft thing?’ he added, picking soggy strands of ginger hair out of Duke’s teeth. Duke licked him affectionately on the nose.
‘A wig, a hat, and a false red nose,’ I volunteered. ‘A sort of clown buffet.’
I caught Flora’s eye, and we both sniggered.
At this point, we heard a shout. Mr Happy Chappy came striding back around the corner, his face like thunder.
‘You want to keep that dog under control!’ he was shouting. ‘Flippin’ brute went for me! Nearly had me hand off!’
Duke went rigid at the sight of him. He showed the whites of his eyes and growled a bit.
‘Easy, boy,’ said Mr Smallman, and placed a soothing hand on his head.
‘Nearly had me hand off,’ said Mr Happy Chappy again. ‘Like a bloomin’ wild thing. Danger to the public!’
‘Really?’ said my dad, sounding a bit chilly. ‘So that’s why you ran off leaving a couple of kids to deal with him, was it?’
‘Don’t you get shirty with me, pal,’ said Mr Happy Chappy. There was no sign of the ‘sirs’ now, I noticed. ‘Look at the damage that’s been caused!’
He seized the cardboard box out of my arms, reached in, held up the remains of the ginger wig and shook it under Mr Smallman’s nose.
