Jungle Tangle

by Debbie Thomas

  Fernando wobbled dangerously on Grandma’s lap. ‘Ees my head! My lines!’

  ‘Quiet,’ said Mum. She gazed adoringly at the telly.

  ‘History-teacher Graham,’ gasped Caz, ‘has written a biography of Fernando Feraldo, a sixteenth-century Spanish conquistador who lost his head in Ecuador.’ She hooted with laughter, nearly falling off the TV sofa. ‘Graham, how did you go about your research? Reading the book I was just amazed by …’ she looked at the notes on her lap … ‘the astonishing depth of scholarship, the insight into the conquistador brain, the tireless attention to–’

  ‘She ’asn’t read a word of it,’ said Grandma.

  Dad sank back in his TV chair. ‘Well, Caz, I’d just like to say what a treat it is to be on your show. Free croissants, unlimited coffee … and I never knew Wippy wore lipst–’

  ‘Tell us,’ Wippy said sharply, ‘how can Fernando Feraldo be the co-author? He died more than four hundred years ago.’

  Dad sucked his cheeks in. ‘We-e-ell, I felt I owed it to him. His story was so vivid, so alive – almost as if he were here today, speaking to me.’

  In the sitting room Fernando leapt off Grandma’s lap. ‘I am here! I am espeaking!’ he roared, bouncing on the carpet. ‘I tell whole story! Your father, he lie to take glory. Your father,’ he snarled at Abbie, ‘will pay for greedy deed.’

  * * *

  ‘Dad,’ yelled Marcus, ‘come and see this!’

  Terry Strode-Boylie gulped his morning coffee and went into the lounge. He didn’t let Marcus watch TV in the evening because it ate into homework time. But fifteen minutes after breakfast was OK, as long as Marcus had cleaned his teeth – brushed, flossed and gargled – combed his hair, checked his homework and practised his tuba (not a popular instrument: Terry had chosen it to boost Marcus’s chances of getting into the county youth orchestra).

  Terry stared at the telly. ‘That bloke. I’ve seen him at the school gates.’

  ‘It’s Abigail Hartley’s dad.’

  Terry frowned. ‘What the devil’s he doing on the box?’

  ‘He’s written a book, Dad.’

  ‘What?’ Terry Strode-Boylie’s children’s book, The Adventures of Philip the Filling, had just been rejected by the sixty-fourth publisher. ‘Damn cheek!’

  Marcus’s mum crept in. ‘Don’t worry, dear.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘He probably paid someone to publish it.’

  Terry straightened his tie. ‘That must be it. Now turn off that twaddle, boy, and polish your shoes.’

  * * *

  Hubris Klench chewed the jacket sleeve he’d sprinkled with sugar while Inner Mummy was looking the other way. He waddled sadly along the pavement. ‘But I cannot cut calories,’ he mumbled, pushing an old man into the road.

  ‘Zen you must burn zem,’ ordered Inner Mummy. ‘If eating less brings you stress, zen ride your bike or take a hike.’

  ‘But bike vill break and hike vill ache.’ A car horn tooted as Klench shoved another pensioner off the pavement.

  ‘Look down street,’ said Mummy. ‘You see zat travel agency? Inside you vill buy ticket to Baños. Ziss lovely town in central highlands has natural sprinks and other outdoor thinks.’

  Klench sighed, wishing that Mummy hadn’t got a degree in tourism when she was alive.

  Reaching the travel agency, he squeezed through the revolving door. And with the money he’d just picked from the pockets of those elderly pedestrians, he bought a bus ticket to Baños.

  4 - Fernando’s

  Revenge

  Dad opened the front door. Everyone was waiting for him in the hall.

  ‘One, two, three …’ Mum and Ollie clapped wildly. Abbie clapped mildly. Grandma rolled her eyes and went into the kitchen.

  ‘You were brilliant, Graham.’ Mum hugged him. ‘Did you get their autographs?’ She was a huge fan of Caz Cazoo who, she said, had skin to die for.

  ‘It’s my autograph you should be asking for,’ said Dad, loosening his bow tie. ‘And by the way, Caz’s make-up’s as thick as cement. Here, kids, I nicked these from the canteen.’ He handed Abbie and Ollie a paper cup each with Hiyaa! scrawled between the grinning faces of the presenters.

  ‘Wow.’ Ollie hugged his cup. ‘I’ll take it to school for Show and Tell.’

  Abbie whisked hers behind her back and crumpled Caz and Wippy to a walnut. If Cringeworth was a town, Dad would be mayor.

  ‘Tell us all about it,’ said Mum. She took Dad’s hand. Abbie followed them into the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s me free croissant, then?’ said Grandma as Dad sat down at the table. She shoved a mug of coffee towards him.

  ‘Sorry, Mother. Only for TV stars, I’m afraid. It was delicious.’ Dad raised his mug. Grandma raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I hope the Platts were watching,’ said Dad. ‘You reminded them I was on, didn’t you, darling?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mum rubbed his arm proudly. ‘I phoned them as soon as you left.’

  Dad took a gulp of coffee. ‘Yeuuchh!’ He flung the mug onto the floor. Dangling from his mouth was a tangle of hair. Dangling from the hair was a mangle of face. And dangling from its nose was a clothes peg. Dad spat it all onto the table.

  ‘Ha!’ shrieked Fernando. ‘Serve you right! The Gradba she block by doze. Thed she hide be id coffee.’

  Grandma wagged her finger at Dad. ‘Naughty boy. Pinchin’ the limelight, tellin’ ’is story as if it was your own.’ She unclipped Fernando’s clothes peg. ‘You all right, chuck?’ She felt his forehead. ‘Bit warm after that coffee. Shall I run you under the cold tap?’

  ‘No!’ Fernando snorted. ‘Remember I was shreenked. Remember I was boiled. Remember hot stones, they rolled around my head. For me, hot coffee ees piece of cake.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dad, wiping hair from his lips. ‘I was only trying to protect your privacy. You’ve always said that fame’s the last thing you want.’

  * * *

  It was the last thing Abbie wanted too. Three hours later she was leaning miserably against a wall in the playground. If one more person came up and told her what a plonker her dad had looked in that bow tie, she’d … she’d …

  Barry Poff came up: a short boy with a nose full of radio crackle. ‘Your dad looked a plo–’

  ‘I’ll … I’ll …’ said Abbie, raising her fist.

  But she didn’t. What was the point? Snorty Poff was right. ‘Leave me alone,’ she growled.

  He did. And for the rest of the day so did everyone else. Even Perdita, after Abbie snapped at her. Which was just fine. Because, thanks to her, more poop was about to hit the soup. Tomorrow the class was visiting the zoo.

  * * *

  Marcus saw his dad’s Jaguar pull up by the school gates. He sauntered across the yard. ‘Hi, Dad.’ With a cool half-wave to Greg Fnigg he opened the back door of the car.

  ‘Wait.’ Dr Strode-Boylie got out of the front. Marcus followed him back through the gates. In the yard Mr Dabbings was chatting to Abigail Hartley’s dad.

  ‘… fascinating interview,’ the teacher was saying. ‘I’d love to read your book in class, Mr H, if it wasn’t for all the entrails. Kids are so sensitive to entrails, aren’t they?’

  ‘Not this one.’ Mr Hartley put a matey arm round his daughter. ‘You love a good dose of blood and guts, don’t you, Abbs?’ She scowled.

  Marcus’s dad barged in. ‘Tell me, Hartley,’ he said, jabbing Graham’s chest, ‘what did it cost you to publish?’

  ‘Cost me?’ Abbie’s dad laughed. ‘No no, the publisher’s paying me. A whopping great advance, as it happens.’ Grinning all over his bow tie, he held out his hand. ‘I’m Graham. Don’t think we’ve–’

  ‘In the car, boy!’ barked Terry. He turned round and shoved Marcus out through the gates.

  The Jag growled off. Marcus looked back through the rear window. Abigail was standing at the gate. Catching her eye, he turned round quickly.

  * * *

  Hubris Klench stumbled off the bus. He raised an arm
and sniffed at the damp patch in his armpit. ‘Sveat!’ he gasped. ‘I must vosh.’

  ‘No need,’ said Inner Mummy. ‘Ve are in lovely Baños. Zat is Spanish vord for “bath”. In ziss town are five pools of volcanic vorters. By jumpink in and havink svim, you vill be clean and quite soon lean. Zen you vill be supercrook, fit to hide in any nook.’

  Klench shuddered at the thought of undressing in public. ‘But Mums,’ he tried feebly, ‘I have no svimmink trunks.’

  ‘Then get some,’ she barked. ‘Down ze street is shop of sports. Go inside and steal some shorts.’

  5 - Poop and Paint

  ‘Don’t push, don’t shove. Make way with love,’ sang Mr Dabbings as he waved the class through the zoo barrier.

  Abbie dragged through last. Why hadn’t she painted red spots on her face this morning? Why hadn’t she held her forehead on the radiator to get a temperature or made puking sounds from the bathroom?

  Because she had to come and defend her friends – and not just the human ones. Even if the Platts were immune to the mockery of the class, the animals might not be. What about Gina with her all-hearing ears? Or the tapirs and their snouty shyness?

  Perdita and Coriander were waiting for the class inside the gate, in front of the zoo pond. Behind them ducks ducked and flamingoes flamingoed.

  ‘Welcome, everyone,’ said Coriander, beaming. In her billowy red dress and green poncho she looked like a thrilled tomato. ‘I recognise most of you. And you might’ve seen me at the school gates.’

  ‘How could we miss you?’ muttered Marcus Strode-Boylie. ‘Weirdo.’ A giggle went round.

  How dare he? Abbie shot Marcus with invisible bullets. She recalled his small, pinched face looking through the back window of the Jag yesterday. Bet he never speaks to his dad like that.

  Mr Dabbings ignored the laughter. ‘All righty,’ he said, clapping his hand-knitted gloves, ‘I’m sure we’ll have a great day, as long as we remember to be kind and thoughtful.’ There was a squeal from Ursula Slightly, a tiny, pale girl, as chunky Henry Holler stamped on her foot.

  ‘Now,’ said Coriander, who hadn’t noticed, ‘because you’re missing school today,’ (there were cheers) ‘you must be feeling sad’ (and jeers). ‘So I’ve organised a few lessons,’ (there were moans) ‘starting with English’ (and groans). ‘Nothing too hard,’ (there were phews) ‘just a quick spelling test’ (and boos). She winked at Perdita, who skipped off down a path.

  ‘Thought this was a day off,’ rumbled Terrifica Batts, a large girl with lively nostrils.

  ‘Might as well be at school,’ mumbled Rukia Zukia, whose ponytail was neat and whose pencils were sharp.

  ‘Nerdy Perd’s idea of fun,’ grumbled Greg Fnigg.

  Abbie glared at Coriander. Brilliant start. What on earth was she playing at?

  Perdita returned. Mackenzie the parrot perched on her shoulder. A tartan cap perched on Mackenzie.

  ‘Ready?’ said Perdita. The parrot squawked.

  ‘You mean we test the parrot?’ gasped Mr Dabbings. ‘That’s amazing!’

  ‘A-mazing! A-mazing!’ screeched Mackenzie, flying onto the teacher’s golden head.

  Mr Dabbings froze. He looked up, wrinkling his forehead till his eyebrows had eyebrows. ‘OK,’ he said nervously, ‘how do you spell “nut”?’

  Mackenzie clicked his tongue. ‘N-u-t.’

  Mr Dabbings gulped. ‘How about “Cashew”?’

  ‘Bless you!’ screeched the parrot.

  When the laughter had died down, Marcus sneered. ‘So what? Anyone can teach a parrot to spell. That’s not English, that’s copying. English is making things up, like poems and stories.’

  Mackenzie flew from Mr Dabbings and landed on Marcus’s head. He glared round the class then shrieked:

  ‘A foolish young boy, so I’ve heard,

  Finds it hard to believe that a bird

  Could make up a poem,

  Well watch while I show ’im,

  ’Coz actions speak louder than words.’

  He did a sloppy white action on Marcus’s head and cackled off to a branch.

  ‘Yeeaggh!’ yelled Marcus.

  ‘Deep breath, Marcus,’ said Mr Dabbings. ‘Now, everyone, Marcus is going to share with us how he’s feeling.’

  ‘How d’you think?’ Marcus shouted. ‘Pooped on!’

  Mr Dabbings nodded sympathetically. ‘Marcus has just described his emotions very well, children. And we understand his pain, don’t we? Because being used as a lavatory isn’t fun.’ There were giggles, grunts and a gasp from Ursula Slightly as Henry Holler yanked her ponytail.

  ‘Shall we move on?’ said Coriander hurriedly. She handed Marcus a tissue and headed down a path to the left of the pond.

  The children chattered behind. They stopped at the tapir pen to stroke the two snouts peeping over the fence. Abbie grinned. Matt’s nose-shortening mirrors, hanging from the trees, had done wonders for the tapirs’ confidence.

  Claire Bristles flashed her a smile. ‘This is fun,’ she whispered. Abbie’s heart leapt. Could the class be warming to the zoo?

  Ahead of them on the path, Rukia Zukia squealed. Everyone ran to join her.

  On the left was a sandy area. In the middle stood Gina the elephant, surrounded by paint pots with brushes stuck inside. In front of her was a huge easel and canvas. With a brush held expertly in her trunk, Gina was painting a picture of pink buns.

  The children wowed. The ellie bowed.

  ‘There’s no fence!’ squeaked Ursula, crouching behind Terrifica Batts.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Coriander, ‘Gina wouldn’t hurt a fly. And she’d never leave this area. She’s got plenty of entertainment. Same with all the animals. They’re so happy there’s no need for cages.’

  Mr Dabbings nodded approvingly.

  ‘Except for the ones who might eat the others,’ said Perdita. ‘Like Silvio the tiger. And the crocodile – though Edie won’t hurt you if you treat her with respect.’

  ‘So why do the tapirs have a fence?’ said Greg Fnigg. ‘They look pretty harmless.’

  ‘That’s to keep us out,’ said Perdita, ‘because they’re so shy.’

  Coriander pointed to a tree where aprons were dangling from a branch. ‘Who wants to paint with Gina?’ she said.

  Henry Holler needed no encouragement. He snatched an apron and ran to a pot of yellow paint. Pulling out a brush, he painted a pile of chips next to Gina’s buns. ‘That’s my favourite food,’ he shouted.

  Jeremy Boing, a keen boy with huge feet, painted a cone of mint ice-cream. Rukia Zukia did a chocolate bar with perfect right angles. Snorty Poff slapped on a giant cheeseburger. Terrifica Batts did a leg of lamb and Abbie painted bacon.

  Mr Dabbings did a blob of rainbow sick. ‘Ratatouille!’ he cried happily. Even Ursula Slightly joined in, though her white bread without crusts was hard to see on the white canvas.

  Only Marcus, Greg and a few other boys hung back. Marcus was managing a look of scorn. But the sneering mouths of the others were battling with their envious eyes.

  Abbie looked at Perdita, who was painting a bowl of lice crispies. She’d been right to invite the class. They were loving it.

  ‘Sorry for sulking,’ Abbie whispered. ‘Best friends?’

  ‘Best friends!’ yelled Perdita. ‘Chocolate sprinkles!’ she added, flicking brown paint on the crispies.

  ‘Hey,’ cried Jeremy Boing, ‘you flicked me!’ He flicked her back. And that was it. Perdita flicked Abbie. Abbie flicked Claire. Claire flicked Snorty Poff, who flicked Greg Fnigg.

  Greg couldn’t resist it. He grabbed a brush and flicked cool Robbie Rudge. He flicked moody Jack Doody, who flicked Henry Holler, who flicked Mr Dabbings.

  Everyone froze.

  Mr Dabbings looked at his hand-knitted, paint-spattered jacket.

  Then he took a brush and flicked Coriander. She jumped back, laughing, and stepped in a pot of purple.

  Gina trumpeted and stepped in the orange. Then everyone step
ped in everything and did rainbow footprints in the sand.

  Gina looked at Marcus with her kind wrinkly eyes. She dipped her trunk in a pot.

  ‘Yaww!’ yelled Marcus as the elephant sprayed him with red paint.

  ‘Yeww!’ he howled as everyone stopped and stared.

  ‘Yiww!’ he wailed as Mr Dabbings rushed over.

  ‘Yoww!’ he bellowed, pushing the teacher’s knitted hanky away.

  ‘Yuww,’ he spluttered, running out of vowels.

  ‘Easy lad,’ soothed Mr Dabbings. ‘Tell us how you feel.’

  ‘How d’you think?’ shouted Marcus. ‘Red!’

  Mr Dabbings smiled. ‘Marcus has expressed himself very clearly, kids. And we feel red too, don’t we? Because being squirted by an elephant is pretty embarrassing.’

  Coriander put her arm round Marcus. ‘Sorry, dear. Gina just wanted you to join in the fun.’

  Marcus shoved her away.

  ‘Maybe it’s time for lunch,’ she said. ‘Perdita, would you take the class to the café while I help Marcus clean up?’

  * * *

  Dr Terry Strode-Boylie frowned over his patient’s gaping mouth. ‘There’s a lot of decay, Mrs De Ponge. You’re going to need three fillings.’

  ‘Aah.’

  He scraped her second left molar a little harder than necessary. Whopping great advance, indeed! Who did that Hartley think he was?

  ‘Aaah,’ gasped Mrs De Ponge.

  ‘Whopping great adva– I mean holes, Mrs De P.’ Not that whopping. And actually only one hole. But he was the dentist and she was rich. Besides, her breath smelt. Bet Hartley’s breath smelt under all that beard.

  Terry glanced along the bookshelf on the surgery wall. The Anatomy of Ulcers … The Philosophy of Flossing … Top Ten Dental Disasters … He imagined his book slotting in between. The Adventures of Philip the Filling – such a delightful read for children awaiting dental treatment. Why couldn’t publishers see that? It wasn’t fair. Terry scowled and yanked.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaah!’

  * * *