by Sam Hay
It’s not that bad, I suppose. I just carry the tools and shake my head and sigh along with Dad when he arrives at a job. And he does pay me. (The fact that I’m secretly saving for soccer school is strictly between you and me.)
Anyway – after what felt like three days listening to Dad droning on about each tool in turn: explaining its merits, uses and complete unabridged history, the phone rang… And rang… And rang. Until Dad finally stopped talking long enough to answer it.
I helped myself to a bowl of cornflakes.
Dad was on the phone for ages. I noticed he was sighing and nodding, and tutting and puffing, which no doubt meant it was an emergency plumbing problem. Dad’s favourite. They’re usually the most complicated, and they make the most money.
I stopped listening and instead concentrated on my cornflakes. I was just about to stuff a huge spoonful into my mouth when…
‘No problem, Mr Potts, the lad and I will be round within the hour.’
Potts! Dad said Mr Potts! Surely it could not be Thelma Potts’ dad? I froze. Then I cursed myself. Potts was a common enough name. I chuckled softly, then stuffed the cornflakes in.
I shouldn’t have.
‘Yes, I know exactly where your shop is,’ Dad was chortling: ‘You can’t exactly miss it. Not with that three-foot pie outside.’
Three-foot pie?
POTTS’ PIES!
I gasped. A tunnel of air sucked the cornflakes down my windpipe. And for a second or two I couldn’t breathe. I think I may have turned blue, because Dad suddenly dropped the phone and dived across the kitchen to give me a hearty clatter on the back, which ejected the cornflakes from my mouth like a cork out of a bottle.
‘Don’t eat so fast,’ he scolded, as I collapsed coughing on the floor. ‘Sorry, Mr Potts, my apprentice was acting up. We’ll be there soon. And yes, I’ll ask for your daughter, Thelma.’
I was still collapsed in a coughing fit, with my head spinning.
Thelma Potts?
Thelma Potts!
The face of the hoodie-angel burst into my brain, and I suddenly felt rather peculiar, like someone had just stuck ice cubes under my armpits. Stay calm, I told myself. This is not a sign. It’s a coincidence. I am not an angel!
Dad didn’t seem to notice my inner turmoil. He was grinning his excited plumber grin. The one he wears when a particularly nasty plumbing problem appears…
‘Come on, Billy, grab your bag. You’re going to love this one.’
I was not. If only Dad knew how little I would love this one, perhaps he wouldn’t have been grinning quite so much.
Chapter 4
We left straight away. Both of us armed. One of us dangerous! Watch out, sewage systems, William Box Jr has been unleashed. And he now comes fully equipped with his own set of scary tools.
Dad didn’t seem worried.
‘I love Potts’ pies,’ he was saying. ‘I wonder if they’ll pay us in pies?’
I tried to laugh. But it got stuck in my throat, which was still sore from the cornflakes incident.
Dad prattled on about pies and pipes and double-trap siphonic pans. (That’s a type of toilet, in case you’re interested.)
As usual I switched off at the slightest mention of anything to do with plumbing. Instead, I was mentally preparing for meeting Thelma Potts. You see, I probably should have told you earlier. Thelma Potts and I have a bit of a history… There’d been a rather nasty incident a few months ago at the school play.
It was a production of Peter Pan. And everyone was involved. For some bizarre reason, Thelma had decided she wanted to play Tinkerbell. And as no one ever argues with Thelma Potts, Tinkerbell she became. Anyway, it was opening night and, amazingly, everything was going swimmingly. The actors were on stage doing their opening number, Thelma was charming the pants off the audience as Tinkerbell (the biggest fairy in fairyland), and me and Barry were sitting behind the stage ready for the set change (we’d been roped in as scenery hands). Then all of a sudden, Mr Fothergill the music teacher appeared, all sweating and worried-looking.
‘Quick, laddie,’ he whispered. ‘Captain Hook’s got stage fright and is refusing to go on.’
For one extremely scary moment I thought he wanted me to go on in his place. I found myself edging behind Barry in a ‘No! Please! Take him’ sort of a manoeuvre.
But as usual I’d got the wrong end of the stick.
Mr Fothergill was taking off his glasses and inserting a hook up his sleeve. ‘I’ve got to take his place,’ he gasped, tying a cape around his shoulders. ‘So one of you will have to work the pulley for Tinkerbell.’
We gulped. Being in charge of hoisting Thelma Potts up to the ceiling for her flying fairy scene was a major responsibility. Thelma was the scariest girl in the school. She was widely suspected of having eaten the school gerbil when she was six. But we didn’t have a choice. Mr Fothergill was now a fully fledged pirate. And you don’t argue with a man with a hook for a hand.
He ushered us over to the pulley. ‘You’ve seen it done loads of times, boys,’ he whispered.
I bit my lip. Barry and I never paid attention in rehearsals. They had always just been a good excuse to get out of doing something else.
‘Remember,’ he said. ‘Pull it up for down, and down for up. And be gentle,’ he added, before sweeping on to the stage to a chorus of boos! from the audience.
Barry and I looked at each other. What on earth was he talking about? Up was down, and down was up? It sounded like a dance. And then suddenly we heard Tinkerbell’s music begin. This was it. This was when she was supposed to fly above Captain Hook’s head…
Barry and I froze, then someone stuck their head around the curtain and pointed upwards. And we went for it. Both of us. We lunged at the lever and moved it the only way it would go – downwards. But with two of us doing it, and all our nervousness, we were a bit too enthusiastic.
We heard a shriek and a scream from the stage area. And then Thelma appeared above the top of the stage curtain. Way, way too high. She was looming over the hall like a hairy pterodactyl. There was a clunk as she bumped her head on the ceiling lights.
‘My hair’s on fire!’ she screamed. (A total exaggeration, as it was only slightly singed at the ends.)
‘Down!’ someone yelled. ‘Get her down.’
We were so shocked at what we’d done, that we both let go of the lever and… Crash! Thelma dropped like a stone and landed, with a thud, right on top of Captain Hook. It was lucky she did, seeing as she’d fallen from quite a height. It might have been much worse otherwise. Yours truly may well have been writing this from the clink for first-degree murder. But Mr Fothergill didn’t see it as lucky. He was lying in a crumpled heap, groaning softly.
There was pandemonium. Ambulances were called. The fire brigade arrived. And Thelma had to be restrained from braining Barry and me. We were given a police escort home. For our own protection.
So a hoodie-angel appearing in my room saying that I was supposed to protect Thelma Potts was just ridiculous. Heck! – It was me that needed a guardian angel – for protection from her.
Chapter 5
We’d hardly stepped inside Potts’ Pie Emporium when Thelma clocked me. Eyes blazing, she’d sprung over the counter and come at me, pie slice in hand.
‘You!’ she spat the word like a snake spitting venom at its prey. ‘You’re the one who tried to kill me.’
Even Dad momentarily lost his smug-plumber smile.
Thelma towered over both of us, and I felt myself shrinking beneath her murderous glare.
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slice and dice you,’ she bellowed.
‘Because if you do, you’ll never get your sinks unblocked,’ laughed Dad, who’d obviously decided this was all harmless horseplay from joshing school chums…
With her pie slice still pointing in my direction, Thelma turned on him. ‘Are you the plumber?’
Dad put out his hand. ‘William Box, at your service.’
Slowly, she lowered the pie slice and nodded to a swing door at the back of the shop. ‘Through there! Grant the pie chef is waiting for you.’
Dad nodded cheerfully, swung his bag over his shoulder and followed his nose. Literally. Because coming from that direction was a stink that could have floored a skunk. Even a brainless bloke like me with a totally untrained nose could tell that Potts’ Pie Emporium had a major plumbing problem on its hands. And for once I was extremely glad I was part of the solution. It meant I had a good excuse to put some distance between the scary pie slice and myself.
Dad sniffed manfully, his nose analysing the pong, rolled up his sleeves and headed for the three stainless-steel sinks to the rear of the kitchen.
A small, spotty youth was already there, pouring green gunge down the plugholes. ‘It’s just making it worse,’ he said. ‘I’ve no idea what’s causing it.’
This was obviously Grant the pie chef. ‘I’ve never smelled anything like it,’ he said with a worried expression.
Dad shook his head. ‘Stop the caustic soda, son, and let me take a look.’
There are moments when I am extremely proud of my dad. When everyone is at the end of their tether and he shows up at a job with his big bag of tools and his head full of answers, I feel my chest swell and my chin jut out. Suddenly, you can keep your brain surgeons and astronauts. My dad’s the real hero. But unfortunately these moments never last.
‘Billy! Stop gawping and get me an eight-foot auger and a force cup.’
What? What’s he on about? As usual, I’m clueless, and Dad has to speak in pidgin plumber. ‘You know; the long, metal rope and the black, rubbery plunger thing.’
And then I know, beyond doubt, that I will never, no matter how hard I try, never ever become a plumber.
After five minutes, I stopped noticing the smell. It hadn’t gone anywhere. But I’d sort of acclimatised. Though not everyone had…
‘How long is this going to take?’ Thelma burst through the shop door and stood scowling in the doorway, pie slice in hand. ‘I’m losing customers in droves.’
Dad shook his head. ‘There’s a major blockage in your pipe work. I’ve unscrewed the trap and it’s not local…’
Thelma frowned. She was obviously as rubbish with the technical jargon as I was.
‘I’ll have to clear the main drain,’ said Dad. ‘Which is a big job.’
Thelma rolled her eyes. ‘Then I’m shutting up shop. I can’t sell pies in a place that smells like someone’s died in it.’ (I noticed she glared at me as she said the bit about ‘died’.) She folded her arms. ‘So, how long will it take to sort out?’
‘Depends on where the blockage is,’ said Dad, who was refusing to be intimidated by a 16-year-old schoolgirl.
‘Well, it needs to be fixed by tomorrow,’ snapped Thelma. ‘Or we’re really in the smelly brown stuff.’
Grant smiled sheepishly. ‘It’s the bi-annual Potts’ pie-eating competition tomorrow,’ he explained.
‘The what?’ I asked stupidly.
‘What cave do you live in!’ barked Thelma. ‘We’re famous for our pie-eating contest. We’ve got competitive eaters coming from all over the world, and if this kitchen isn’t back to full working order by then, we’re all going to be in big trouble.’
By the way she was boggling me, I sensed I might be in the biggest trouble of all.
‘We’ll do our best,’ said Dad sternly. ‘But in the world of blocked drains, there are no guarantees.’
With a giant sigh and a toss of her hair, Thelma turned tail and stalked back to the shop.
I looked up to see Grant staring after her with a goofy look on his face.
‘Is she always that unfriendly,’ said Dad as he put away his plunger.
‘Not when you get to know her,’ said Grant softly.
I suddenly realised what was going on.
Grant the pie chef had the hots for Thelma!
It was impossible! How could he? How could anyone? I felt quite queasy at the thought.
‘Thelma’s going through a tough time at the moment,’ said Grant, almost to himself.
I found myself asking, ‘Why?’
‘Because she’s just had her heart broken by a no-good low-life, who deserves a good thumping, if you ask me.’ Grant’s face looked mean.
‘Who broke her heart?’ (What was I doing? Why did I care?)
‘The Pitt!’ growled Grant. ‘You know – Charlie ‘the Pitt’ Pittam – the champion sausage swallower.’
‘The what?’ I was becoming genuinely interested now.
‘He’s one of the competitors in the pie-eating competition. He already holds the world record for swallowing 17 sausages in six minutes, and now he plans on smashing the pie-eating record tomorrow night. Or was, before we had this trouble…’
‘But why did he break Thelma’s heart?’
‘Because he played her along for free pies,’ explained Grant. ‘He’s been in training for this contest for six months. And all that time he’s been dating Thelma and benefiting from free pies to practise with. But a week before the contest, when he’s all ready to win it, he drops her like a stone and takes up with one of the Skinner sisters.’
I didn’t need to ask who, because Grant was obviously on a roll.
‘…you know, Selina Skinner, heir to the Skinner Sausage Empire, and host of the next competitive eating contest after ours.’
I’d heard enough. It was all too silly for words.
‘This Charlie bloke sounds like a bit of a rotter,’ said Dad, taking out an enormous pair of pliers.
‘He is. But don’t worry, Mr Box. He’ll get what he deserves.’ Grant was visibly squaring up, and the whites of his knuckles were showing through clenched fists.
‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘Thelma doesn’t need anyone to fight her battles for her.’ (Certainly not a skinny pie chef and an eleven-year-old trainee plumber!) ‘It’s that Charlie bloke I feel sorry for,’ I added. ‘Because when Thelma gets her hands on him, I don’t rate his chances.’
And then suddenly the hoodie-angel’s face burst into my brain: Your job is to protect Thelma Potts from her dark side: protect her from herself.
I felt a strange nipping sensation around my ears, as though I was being attacked with a clothes peg, and I shuddered. Surely Thelma wasn’t really planning on doing this bloke in?
Chapter 6
There was plenty of stuff Thelma could use. The kitchen was fitted out like a torture chamber with mincers, pincers, pie slices, and a whole wall of sharp knives and choppers. Plus there was the giant, walk-in baking oven at the back. Ten minutes in that thing would sort Charlie Pittam out. For ever!
‘Come on, Billy.’ Dad was packing up. ‘Grant’s going to show us the main drain outside.’
I carried the tool bags, but my brain wasn’t really on the job any more. Instead, I kept picturing poor Charlie Pittam being sliced and diced and baked in a pie by Thelma Potts.
The drain was in the alleyway outside the shop. It was covered in muck and dirt, but no match for my dad. In minutes, he’d heaved it open and was shining his torch down below. The stench was unbelievable.
Dad put on some serious-looking gloves, then reached down into the hole. After wrestling with the big chunk of pipe for a few minutes, he managed to crack it open. Then…
‘Blimey!’ he gasped.
I’d never seen my dad shocked by anything before. When it comes to plumbing, he’s seen it all, done it all and even appeared in several extremely dull information films on the subject. (Seriously: there’s a video available at B&Q entitled ‘Learning to Love Your Gas-fired Central Heating System’, starring my dad.)
Grant and I leant forward.
‘Get me a bucket,’ gasped Dad. ‘And make it a big one.’
As Grant scuttled off, I wondered whether Dad wanted to throw up, as the stench was now unbearable.
‘Fish eyes!’ gasped Dad. ‘There’s a ton of ’em down here.’
Fish eyes?
; ‘There can’t be,’ said Grant, who’d returned carrying a huge metal bin. ‘We don’t use much fish, and what we do comes pre-prepared – gutted and headless.’
‘See for yourself.’
I shivered as Dad slopped a handful of bloody gunge into the pail. I didn’t really want to look. But somehow I couldn’t help myself. And sure enough, there, staring up at me, were hundreds of tiny eyes. Small, startled and blood-covered. They were totally gross. I felt a barf coming and sensibly stepped back.
Chefs are obviously made of stronger stuff, because Grant was peering into the slop as though it was something extremely interesting.
‘This is weird stuff,’ he said shaking his head. ‘I must talk to Thelma…’
‘Thelma?’ I gasped. What had Thelma got to do with fish eyes?
‘Thelma’s been borrowing the kitchen a lot recently to work out new recipes for the shop. But fish-eye pie… mmm, I’m not sure that would be a winner with the customers.’
I grimaced, imagining biting into a pie and finding myself chewing on a mouthful of chunky fish eyes. What on earth was Thelma thinking of?
‘There’s loads of hair, too,’ said Grant. ‘And aren’t those feet?’
‘Feet?’ Dad peered in.
‘Yeah – they look like frogs’ feet, or something…’
It was all too much for me. Eyes! Hair! Feet!
‘I’ll just go and get us some drinks from the café…’
And before Dad could argue, I’d legged it down the alleyway.
See, I told you. I’m not brave in the slightest. There’s no way I could ever be a guardian angel. Nor a plumber. I mean, how can my dad spend his life sticking his hand down other people’s pipes?
I shuddered again at the thought of the fish eyes. My head was reeling, my legs were shaking. My life was suddenly starting to look like some low-budget horror movie. Complete with supernatural ghostie (the hoodie-angel), blood and guts (fish eyes and feet, for goodness’ sake), and a potential murderous pie slasher (Thelma Potts). And somehow right in the middle of it all was me, except no one had bothered to give me the script.
