Mr Patel, the town clerk, sat on the edge of the sofa with his bowler hat on his knees. ‘I’m not sure I like this, Mayor,’ he said weakly. ‘It’s dishonest. It’s defrauding the public. You know the monster is only three old rubber tyres and a pair of frogman’s flippers.’
The mayor looked out of the window. He could see the Sluggard, the weedy pond on the recreation ground. There were at least nine people standing around it.
‘Yes, it is dishonest,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s given people something to talk about. And, more important, people are coming to Blackbury.’
And that was true. Ever since the park keeper had first swum round the pond towing the old tyres behind him, people had been arriving in Blackbury. The Temperance Hotel and the town’s four pubs were crowded. Mrs Amrit Ghosh, down at the old tea rooms, had invented a dish called ‘Blackbury Surprise et la Monster Stew’. The mayor’s plan to make Blackbury a tourist centre was working.
Later that day a polite lady from the Daily Read called with a photographer, and two professors from Gritshire University went and poked around the edges of the pond with a shrimping net.
Next morning Blackbury was mentioned in three national newspapers, and for the first time in its history the town had a traffic problem.
The council had never really believed that the motor car was anything but a passing fancy, but soon the High Street was jammed solid with cars and coaches. As for the recreation ground, all the flowers and plants had been trampled down by the crowds.
The mayor ordered the local printers to print lots of monster postcards and posters, and then he did what no mayor had done for ninety years – he sent a man up a ladder to mend the Town Hall clock – and for the first time in nearly a century Blackbury stopped living at ten minutes to three.
Bong! Bong! Bong!
Three o’clock, and everyone stopped, shocked.
The clock struck four, and the streets were full of honking cars.
At five o’clock an angry crowd gathered outside the Town Hall demanding to see the mayor.
At six o’clock somebody threw a banger.
At seven o’clock a plane broke the sound barrier right over the town, and the mayor learned that flights from Gritshire airport had been re-routed over Blackbury.
At eight o’clock a crowd of local people demanded that the monster be shot.
And at nine o’clock the park keeper caught a cold.
‘Things are getting a bit difficult,’ said the mayor. ‘I never thought the monster would cause all this!’ Someone knocked on his door. He opened it cautiously.
The park keeper poked his head round the door and then, sure enough, the rest of his body followed it. He was wearing blue and white striped bathing drawers that covered him from neck to knee, frogman’s flippers, his official hat, a large amount of duckweed, a white moustache covered in mud, and a clothes line tied around his waist with three inflated inner-tubes fastened at intervals along it.
‘I’m surprised you fooled anyone for a moment,’ said the mayor sternly. ‘You look as much like a monster as my Aunt Mabel, and she didn’t look much like a monster.’
‘I’m giving in my notice, if it’s all right by you, sir,’ said the keeper, and sneezed. ‘Monstering isn’t my cup of tea, sir; it’s not what I was born and bred to do. Flowers and lawns, yes, but monstering, no.’ And he squelched off, sneezing.
Oh dear, oh dear, thought the mayor. He was very good at growing sunflowers too. And all the roads are blocked by traffic, and the town’s all noisy and smoky and full of litter, and it’s All My Fault!
For, of course, it was the mayor who had thought of getting the park keeper to pretend to be a monster in the Sluggard. But what now could be done? The damage had been done. Blackbury had become a very popular town.
The mayor put on his coat and hurried out to the recreation ground. It was unrecognizable. Around the Sluggard, the old weedy pond, large tiers of seats had been built. There was also a funfair. All the flowerbeds had been trampled underfoot. A small child rushed past the mayor and left a patch of sticky candyfloss on his coat.
‘All my fault,’ said the mayor sadly.
Just then a cry went up from the crowd of visitors around the Sluggard.
I thought the park keeper had gone away, thought the mayor.
He pushed his way to the front of the crowd and there, in the middle of the pond, were three loops, looking just like the humps of a monster. He rushed to the edge of the pond. ‘Come on out,’ he cried. ‘It’s no good going on with it.’
A large muddy head raised itself out of the water and stared at the mayor through its saucer-shaped eyes. It did have a moustache, like the park keeper, but it was long and green. The monster was covered in pearly scales. It pulled itself out of the water on two large webbed feet and started to hiss like a kettle.
The seats were overturned and everyone ran for their lives! Except the mayor. He stood rooted to the spot, terrified.
The monster yawned, and then two large leathery wings that had lain across its back opened and began to flap in a leisurely way. It flew over the funfair and bit the top off the helter-skelter before turning and flying out to sea.
Blackbury emptied in a few hours.
The mayor rushed off and caught the park keeper and begged him to stay, and then called a special meeting of the council.
‘It must have been in our pond for millions of years,’ he said, ‘but I pity any other councils if it lands in their town. I think Blackbury is best left alone.’
And he sent a man up the clock tower to stop the clock again.
And Blackbury, without the monster, went back to its sleepy way when it was always ten minutes to three in the afternoon.
FATHER CHRISTMAS GOES TO WORK AT THE ZOO
Father Christmas lay fast asleep on the sofa with a newspaper over his face, and occasionally he snored a little. Mrs Christmas was sitting on the other side of the roaring fire, darning his socks and talking.
‘. . . And I’m getting fed up! You only work one evening a year these days, and even if you do get paid overtime there’s the reindeer to feed. It’s about time you got a new job, my lad.’
‘Eh? What?’ said Father Christmas, sitting up.
‘A new job,’ said Mrs Christmas, starting another sock. ‘Something that’ll bring in a little extra cash and keep you out from under my feet all day. You might even enjoy it.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Father Christmas, stroking his beard. ‘A man in my position, you know, has certain responsibilities . . .’
Then he thought: She’s got a point. I always wanted to be an engine driver when I was a little lad. I wonder what else I could do?
So next morning he dusted off his old grey suit (he usually wore a red one with white fur here and there) and Mrs Christmas made sandwiches for him, and then off he went to look for a job.
‘Are you really Father Christmas?’ said the man at the Job Centre in amazement. ‘Well, well! I remember you bought me a train set when I was nine.fn1
‘Ah, yes, I recall it well,’ said Father Christmas, sitting down. The job man started to fill in a form.
‘You say you can fly, but you haven’t got a pilot’s licence. You go into people’s houses by climbing down chimneys, but frankly that sounds a bit burglarous. You give things away. Hmm. Oh dear, I don’t know. Very difficult. I suppose you don’t have much experience in looking after animals?’
Father Christmas, who had been looking very glum, brightened up. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Reindeers and polar bears and so forth.’
‘Ah,’ said the job man. ‘Then there’s just the job for you at the zoo.’
‘What’s a zoo?’
‘They keep animals there, to help to understand them and save animals in danger of dying out. I imagine it’s great fun: just go and say I sent you and they’ll probably even give you a uniform!’
Next day Father Christmas went to start work at Blackbury Zoo.
About
two hours later the man at the job agency got a phone call which went on for a very long time (just as if the person on the other end was very, very angry).
Just as he put the telephone down Father Christmas shuffled in sheepishly, still wearing his zoo uniform.
‘Well,’ said the job man severely, ‘it’s a fine mess you’ve made of that.’
‘I know,’ said Father Christmas in a small voice.
‘You let the monkeys out—’
‘I know.’
‘You gave everyone free elephant rides.’
‘I felt so sorry for them, you see. And the elephants enjoyed it . . .’
‘And you taught the hippos to fly. Very dangerous things, flying hippos.’fn2
‘They didn’t have any reindeers, you see,’ said Father Christmas miserably.
‘I don’t know, I’m sure. Can’t you think of any other job you could do?’ said the job man.
‘I’d like to be an astronaut or a cowboy,’ said Father Christmas.
‘Um,’ said the job man. ‘Not much call for those. How about selling ice cream? There’s a job here for an ice-cream man . . .’
Two hours later Father Christmas gingerly drove out of the Blackbury ice-cream factory in a bright yellow and pink van with ‘MR BRRRR’ written on the side. He stopped at a likely-looking spot and soon lots of children were queuing up for ice cream.
‘A small ice-cream cornet, please,’ said the first one.
Father Christmas filled it and looked at it in dismay. ‘That’s not very much ice cream,’ he said, so he scooped two more big dollops onto the cone, and added a wafer, two chocolate thingummyjigs and half a dozen cherries. ‘There,’ he said, beaming. ‘You can have this for twenty pence.’
The little boy looked at it in amazement – and soon there was a big crowd around the van. Father Christmas was having the time of his life, building huge great creamy cones covered with all sorts of twirls, swirls, cherriesfn3 and wafers. And selling them for next to nothing or even less.
This is just the job for me, he thought happily.
‘Well,’ said the job man, ‘this is another fine mess you’ve got me into.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Father Christmas mournfully.
‘According to the manager of the ice-cream company, you got rid of one hundred pounds’ worth of ice cream for seven pounds. They’re very, very angry,’ said the job man sternly, looking at his notes. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do without making a mess of it?’
Father Christmas, who was really very sorry and quite sad, blew his nose loudly. ‘It seemed such a shame to take the kiddies’ money,’ he explained.
‘Look, the only other job we’ve got that would suit you is one as a gardener,’ said the job man more kindly. ‘A healthy, outdoor life in Blackbury Parks and Gardens Department. That’d suit you, I expect, and I don’t think there’s any trouble you could possibly get into.’
So next day Father Christmas started work in one of the municipal greenhouses, and for a while it looked as though he was doing very well. Being a sort of old-fashioned wizard, you see, he was very good at getting things to grow, and he quite enjoyed pottering about pruning and planting.
‘You’re doing very well, Mr Christmas,’ said the head gardener a few days later. ‘In fact, I think you can plant out the big flower bed down by the Town Hall tomorrow. The ornamental one, you know.’
Father Christmas knew it. Every month or so they used to change the flowers so the colours spelled out names, or made the borough coat of arms, or something interesting like that.
‘We’ll leave the choice of design up to you,’ said the head gardener. ‘Something tasteful in primroses, perhaps?’
Father Christmas had a bit of a think, and later he set off with his gardening tools and a big wheelbarrow. He put a canvas screen round the flower bed and set to work. It was getting on for tea time when he stopped.
A few minutes later the head gardener came along to see how he had got on. When she saw the flower bed she stopped and her mouth dropped open in amazement.
‘Don’t you like it?’ said Father Christmas nervously.
‘You’ve spelled out
in flowers!’ blurted out the head gardener. ‘But Christmas is eleven months away! We can’t have this sort of thing, you know.’
‘I thought it might cheer people up,’ said Father Christmas. ‘I suppose I’m sacked?’
‘I’m afraid the mayor will insist on it after he sees that,’ said the gardener.
So Father Christmas trooped off to see the job man, who looked up from his files and said, ‘What, you again?’
‘There was a bit of a disagreement over a flower bed, you see.’
‘I don’t really see, but anyway, all the jobs that are going now are for steam-roller drivers and bakers, and I dread to think of you doing either of them.’
He gave Father Christmas a form to fill in in case any jobs cropped up, and then the old man went home. Mrs Christmas was washing his red suit ready for December.
‘I don’t seem to be any good at anything,’ said Father Christmas, taking his boots off.
‘I just don’t know how we’re going to manage until next Christmas,’ said Mrs Christmas.
Just then there was a knock at the door. It was the job man, very breathless, holding the form that Father Christmas had filled in.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were six hundred years old?’ he said.
‘Is it important then?’
‘Of course – you ought to be getting the State Pension! Come to think of it, you ought to get a bit for the five hundred and thirty-five years you missed too. That’d be thousands and thousands of pounds!’
‘A State Pension?’ wondered Father Christmas. ‘Fancy that! Come in and have a cup of tea!’
And so they did.
fn1Actually, that year, Father Christmas bought every nine-year-old a train set.
fn2Last seen heading over the English Channel in the direction of Africa. The hippos had got fed up with being studied and saved and fancied saving themselves.
fn3At last! A use for all those glacé cherries.
About the Author
Sir Terry Pratchett (yes, he’s a real-life knight!) is one of the world’s funniest and most popular writers. He started writing the stories in this collection when he was just seventeen, and his first full-length novel, The Carpet People, was published in 1971. Terry Pratchett has written over fifty brilliant books for children and adults, and is perhaps best-known for his Discworld® series – all about a world that happens to be carried on the back of a giant turtle floating through space. He is the winner of multiple prizes, including the Carnegie Medal for his young adult book The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents. His books have been translated into thirty-eight languages, and have sold more than eighty million copies worldwide (but who’s counting?).
For more information about Sir Terry and his books, please visit www.terrypratchett.co.uk
Also by Terry Pratchett, for children:
The Carpet People
The Bromeliad Trilogy:
Truckers
Diggers
Wings
The Johnny Maxwell Trilogy:
Only You Can Save Mankind
Johnny and the Dead
Johnny and the Bomb
For young adults and above:
The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents
(A Discworld® novel)
The Tiffany Aching Sequence (Discworld® novels):
The Wee Free Men
A Hat Full of Sky
Wintersmith
I Shall Wear Midnight
Nation
Dodger
Dodger’s Guide to London
A full list of Terry Pratchett’s books can be found on
www.terrypratchett.co.uk
DRAGONS AT CRUMBLING CASTLE: AND OTHER STORIES
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 19577 0
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
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br /> an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company
This ebook edition published 2014
Text copyright © Terry and Lyn Pratchett, 2014
Illustrations by Mark Beech © RHCP, 2014
Cover design by Mark Beech © RHCP, 2014
First Published in Great Britain
All stories contained in this collection were originally published in the ‘Children’s Circle’ section of the Bucks Free Press in the following publication years. All stories were previously untitled, and so these titles have been attributed for the purposes of this collection.
‘Dragons at Crumbling Castle’ (1966); ‘The Great Speck’ (1969); ‘Hunt the Snorry’ (1966); ‘Tales of the Carpet People’ (1965); ‘Hercules the Tortoise’ (1968); ‘Dok the Caveman’ (1966); ‘The Big Race’ (1968); ‘Another Tale of the Carpet People’ (1967); ‘The Great Egg-Dancing Championship’ (1972); ‘Edwo the Boring Knight’ (1973); ‘The 59A Bus Goes Back in Time’ (1966-7); ‘The Abominable Snowman’ (1969); ‘The Blackbury Monster’ (1968); ‘Father Christmas Goes to Work at the Zoo’ (1973)
RHCP DIGITAL 9780857534378 2014
The right of Terry Pratchett and Mark Beech to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Dragons at Crumbling Castle: And Other Stories Page 11
