by Scott Allen
Cairo had just started telling him about a cheese and pickle sandwich he’d found on the top deck of a bus once, when they suddenly arrived at his house. I say ‘suddenly’ because it just appeared at the end of a winding path, like a giant had thrown it there from another country and this was where it had landed.
The house was a long, light-blue bungalow with a number of sheds and outhouses attached to and scattered around it. On the roof was one of the biggest satellite dishes Tim had ever seen. He thought it must have been able to pick up channels from all over the world.
‘It doesn’t work, never has,’ said Cairo, when he saw Tim looking at the satellite. ‘It doesn’t even have a wire you can plug it in with.’
‘Oh,’ said Tim, feeling somewhat disappointed. ‘Why don’t you take it down then?’
Cairo laughed. ‘Because it’s the weight of a thousand hippos! It’s only good for target practice . . . anyway, come over here – I’ve got something really good to show you.’
‘Is it the fizzy drinks?’ Tim’s eyes lit up.
‘Er . . . not exactly – we’ll get to them in a minute, after I’ve shown you this thing.’
Tim stopped thinking about the fizzy drinks as soon as he saw what Cairo had behind the back of the shed. Standing there was a tall, long-necked, hairy animal with a very proud face.
‘This is Ludo,’ said Cairo, patting the animal on the side of neck. ‘He’s a llama. Mum saved him from some farm in Wales.’
Tim approached the snorting llama as slowly and cautiously as he could. Usually he would have just looked at it from a safe distance, but he didn’t want Cairo to think he was scared.
Ludo was a magnificent beast, covered in beautiful thick black hair from the bottom of his legs all the way to the top of his head. But as Tim got closer he noticed something sad about the llama’s appearance. His long neck kept lolling forward and dragging on the ground; not all upright and straight like the necks of llamas he’d seen in books.
‘We think he’s unhappy because he’s not with the rest of his llama mates,’ said Cairo, patting Ludo’s neck again. ‘He’s been on his own for a few weeks now, but luckily Mum is going to collect the rest of them later this week.’
‘The rest of them?’ asked Tim.
‘Yep, there’s another ten. They’ve all been mistreated or something like that.’ Cairo’s happy-go-lucky attitude flicked to anger for a brief second as he talked. ‘They were in a right state when we found them.’
Tim took a steadying breath and reached out to carefully touch Ludo’s hairy neck. It was incredibly soft.
‘C’mon, don’t be scared,’ encouraged Cairo from the other side of the animal.
‘Don’t llamas spit at people?’ asked Tim, bravely touching Ludo’s neck for a second time.
‘Nah, only if you really annoy them. They’re quite friendly animals really, much misunderstood.’
This gave Tim the confidence to give Ludo a proper stroke.
‘That’s it,’ said Cairo softly. ‘He likes the odd tickle as well.’
Ludo seemed to really appreciate the attention and his head slowly started to lift and move towards Tim. His intense brown eyes locked on to Tim’s.
Tim could sense that the llama was measuring him up. He dared not move an inch as the huge llama looked him up and down. Then, after what seemed like an age, Ludo blinked slowly, gave a teeny tiny nod of approval and resumed casually chewing on some grass, as though nothing had happened. A warm glow covered Tim’s body like a thick coat. Meeting Ludo was awesome!
‘He likes you!’ said Cairo cheerfully. ‘You’ve made some new friends today!’
‘I think I have,’ replied Tim with a smirk. ‘Ludo is probably a bit nicer than you though!’
Cairo chuckled.
A woman in blue overalls appeared by the side of the shed. Her clothes and hands were covered in mud; however, her face and hair were immaculate, as though she’d just left the hairdressers. She had very shiny black hair that touched her shoulders, and warm, friendly smiley eyes. On her feet were a pair of mismatched wellington boots, just like Cairo’s.
‘This is my mum . . . Molly,’ said Cairo proudly. He didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed. Molly was clearly one of those rare cool mums you occasionally meet.
Tim smiled, and mumbled a ‘hi’. This is the standard greeting from an eleven-year-old boy, I’m told.
‘I see you’ve met Ludo then,’ she said, smiling at Tim and giving the llama a big pat on his back.
Tim nodded and stroked Ludo on the side of his neck again. ‘Yeah, he’s really cool.’
‘I think so too,’ said Molly. ‘He’s had a rough time recently, but he’s getting back to his best. And I’m going to collect the rest of the llamas in the van tomorrow.’
‘Are we going to keep them?’ asked Cairo.
‘We don’t have room to keep eleven llamas long term,’ said Molly sadly. ‘Our field is already turning into a zoo. Plus the goats . . . well, you know they aren’t keen on visitors.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot about the goats,’ said Cairo, rubbing his chin and staring off into the distance.
Tim was totally baffled. Zoos? Goats? What on earth were Cairo and Molly talking about?
‘So what we need is to find someone foolish enough to give eleven llamas a nice new home,’ said Cairo slowly.
‘Yes, yes we do. Now who could that be?’ added Molly, looking directly at Tim.
It sounds like Cairo and Molly are dropping a massive hint to Tim doesn’t it? Well, you’re right – they are. However, Tim won’t catch up with the rest of us for at least the next three chapters. The nincompoop! Nincompoop was a very rude word when I used to play football.
4
THE WORST FARMER EVER
For the first month in their new farm, the Gravy family watched Frank do absolutely no farming whatsoever. He had spent a lot of time cultivating a big, thick, bushy beard that apparently was an essential piece of equipment for someone new to farming. He’d also looked at a few magazines with tractors in them, but that was about it.
In their second month on the farm, Frank started going outside. Tim would catch him staring blankly at patches of grass or looking at trees with his hands on his hips. This must have been a new version of farming that Tim wasn’t aware of. The beard was longer and thicker, and Frank had taken to wearing thick lumberjack shirts and rolling the bottom of his jeans up to his shins. Occasionally he’d sit in the back yard chomping on a long blade of grass and looking off into the distance. Tim was worried his dad might be going mad.
Then, one Saturday, Frank suddenly sprung into life, as if someone had whacked him over the head with a huge book called Start Farming, Lazy.
First up were crops, you know, like vegetables and wheat and stuff. Tim had watched his dad and his annoying little sister, Fiona, through the kitchen window as they tried to plant them. Well, Fiona was pointing out where the seeds should be planted. She wasn’t actually doing any work. It took Frank ages, and he seemed to get angrier and angrier the longer it went on. Tim was convinced he saw him spend an entire hour arguing with his spade.
The next morning, the whole Gravy family were outside before breakfast, chasing crows away from the seeds. Apart from Fiona of course, who was lounging in a chair with some hot blackcurrant juice and yelling out orders. It was a totally pointless exercise, as every single seed was gobbled up in a matter of minutes.
Frank went and sat quietly in a tree for a few hours after that; Tim was sure he could see his bottom lip quivering. Monica and Beetroot tried to lure him down with some sticky-toffee pudding, but even the prospect of dessert for breakfast couldn’t shift him. Fiona ate the sticky-toffee pudding five minutes later and blamed it on the crows.
Then came the chickens. A large crate of ten scruffy brown hens. As Frank hadn’t read the chapter on chickens in his farming book yet, he left them in the main field to peck at the ground for the night until he decided what to do with them. Big mistake . . .
>
Why? Because of leopards . . . I mean foxes. Those sneaky foxes are everywhere! Look out of any window after dark and I’m sure you’ll see at least seven of them . . . I’m right aren’t I?
Those foxes had a right old night in the Gravys’ unguarded field. The easiest chicken dinner a fox could ever imagine. They even had time to make roast potatoes. The chickens didn’t stand a chance. However, I did hear a rumour that one called Cecil got away. Cecil is a big name in the chicken community.
Frank went and sat in the tree all night after he lost the chickens. Tim lay in bed worrying about him. He was used to seeing his dad return home from work every evening in a suit and then just sit around watching telly with the rest of the family. At weekends he would usually play cards, take them swimming and sometimes have a go on a computer game, which he was rubbish at. Now all he did was fiddle about with the farm. He had no time for Tim, Monica or even Fiona. He didn’t even arm-wrestle with Beetroot anymore, and that was their favourite thing ever. Well, it was Beetroot’s . . . she always won.
What Frank did have was loads of splinters in his bottom from sitting in trees. However, as he was trying to tweezer them out, he had an idea. A brilliant idea . . . sort of.
5
A PIG CALLED TREVOR
The very next day Frank drove somewhere and returned two hours later with a huge pig sitting in the back seat. It was already covered in muck, and had spread a lot more over the inside of the car.
Frank climbed out of the car holding his nose and pulling one of those faces people pull when their nostrils have been filled up with a horrific stench.
‘Have you done something in the car?’ he said to the pig through the window.
The pig looked at him briefly and let out a squeal of delight. Truth be told, he hadn’t done anything in the car; he was just an incredibly happy pig. Imagine how happy you’d be if you won the lottery, every single race at sports day and nailed the top score on a computer game, all in the same afternoon. Well, that’s how happy this pig was. So it was slightly odd that he was called Evil Trevor by his former owners. He wasn’t evil at all, but he was called Trevor.
With one hand clamped firmly over his nose and mouth, Frank opened the car door and let Trevor hop out, which he did with much glee. The pig snorted around the driveway for a few minutes and poked his nose in a few nooks and crannies before rolling on his back a few times. He finished this little song and dance by bowing his head towards Frank as though he wanted to be politely stroked. Frank slowly, but cautiously, patted Trevor on the head, and he let out another squeal of delight. Trevor, not Frank. It would be odd if Frank had squealed. Trevor then ran around in a circle a few times, and did a little piggy jig.
Trevor got even more excited when the three Gravy children appeared outside, letting out happy squeals of their own and jigging about as they approached him. Within seconds, they were all hugging, patting and tickling him.
Then the back door flew open and Beetroot stormed through it. She was wearing a dressing gown and her hair was soaking wet. Obviously the piggish commotion outside had forced her out of her shower or bath. I’m not sure which as I’ve never visited the Gravys’ bathroom so I don’t know what they have – probably both; most people do nowadays. In my day, once a week, my father threw buckets of cold water at us while we stood in our undercrackers in the garden. Now that’s a wash.
‘No. No. No. No! NO!’ screamed Beetroot from the side of the house.
‘It’s just a—’ began Frank, before he was interrupted.
‘No. No. No. NO. NO! NO! NO!’ repeated Beetroot. She was going really purple now.
‘Why can’t we keep the piggy, Mummy?’ pleaded Fiona.
‘No. No. NO. NO. NO! NO! NO!’ screamed Beetroot, this time with an added pointing finger, which we all know means ‘take it back’ in angry mum language.
‘Je n’aime pas . . . le jambon,’ she whispered to Frank, through gritted teeth.
Beetroot always tried to talk French to Frank when she didn’t want the children to find out what she was saying. The only problem was Frank was rubbish at French. He just shrugged at her.
Monica, who was doing French in her exams, did understand the point her mum was trying to get across. She gave Trevor a friendly cheerio pat on the head and ushered him towards the car. Tim and Fiona looked on sadly. But probably not as sadly as they would have looked if Trevor had appeared in a bacon sandwich six months later.
Frank sighed deeply and opened the car door. Another farming failure to add to the list. Even Trevor seemed to sense that living on a working farm probably wouldn’t end well, and hopped back into the vehicle.
As the car drove away Trevor’s piggy face appeared in the back window. He looked sad for the first time ever in his short life, then let out a huge squeal of delight. This time he had pooped in the car and he was mighty happy with himself. Frank, understandably, wasn’t.
So what did happen to Trevor in the end? Rumour has it he is releasing a new hip-hop album next year. Whatever hip-hop is.
6
THE GRIM PHONE CALL
A few days later, Tim was trying to finish up some very boring homework about why mice like cheese. All he’d written in answer to the question was:
Because thye do.
He was yet to spot he’d spelled the word ‘they’ wrong when the phone rang. His bedroom was directly above where the landline lived, so he could sometimes hear parts of the conversation. This sounded like a really bad one. He could hear the muffled sound of his dad doing a lot of apologizing.
Tim crept out of his room and ducked down at the top of the stairs so he could hear the call a little more clearly.
‘I know, I know, it’s been a tough few months settling in,’ said Frank in a serious voice.
There was a pause while he listened to what the person said at the other end of the line.
‘Well, yes, I’m trying to make money, but I’ve had a few hiccups. It’s a very different style of living out here in the countryside. Harder than I thought, to be honest.’
He paused again.
‘I totally understand, and I can only apologize again for the situation. I will try to rectify it as soon as possible and pay back some of the money that I’ve borrowed.’
Another pause.
‘Yes, I understand I am in danger of losing the farm. I’m very aware it’s important.’
Tim noticed his dad scrunch his eyes up tightly and start rubbing his forehead as he listened to the person at the other end of the phone. He looked really upset and worried. Tim had never seen his dad look like this before; he didn’t like it at all.
‘OK, I understand, and thanks again for the call,’ said Frank before he put the phone down.
He puffed out his cheeks and muttered something under his breath, then walked dejectedly back into the lounge, closing the door behind him.
Tim tiptoed down the stairs as softly as he could and positioned himself by the handle of the door. He knew his dad would be telling his mum about the phone call.
The lounge door was made of thick oak and it was really hard to make out what they were saying. He heard the words ‘debt’, ‘bank’, ‘repossess’, ‘big trouble’ and ‘Scotland’, before Monica tapped him on the shoulder, making him jump out of his skin.
‘What you doing, nosy?’ she asked. She had some kind of bright green beauty gloop splattered all over her face, which made Tim do a double jump of terror.
‘Sssh will you,’ he whispered urgently once he had recovered. ‘I think something bad is happening with the farm. They’re talking about it.’
‘What do you mean something bad about the farm?’
Tim could just about make out Monica’s eyebrows forming a sticky green frown.
‘What does repossess mean?’ he asked.
Monica’s mouth dropped open, and some of the face mask plopped on to the floor. ‘It’s not good,’ she replied. The handle of the door turned. Monica and Tim looked at each other and within a spl
it second they had both scampered back to their rooms.
It was another night of worry for Tim. He was trying to work out what it all meant. Was the house being taken away? Did they have no money? Would they have to sell their beds and his games console? Would they be moving up to Scotland? Did that mean living with his weird auntie?
Moving in with his Scottish auntie would probably be the worst thing ever. She wasn’t actually Scottish. She just lived there in a horrible, small, stinky, cat-filled terraced house in one of the big cities.
Cat litter trays filled every room of her house and they only seemed to get emptied once a month. The cats wouldn’t let visitors sit on any of the sofas or seats, so most conversations were held standing up in the kitchen, with the door shut, while an army of cats lurked on the other side, hissing and scratching. Inside the kitchen wasn’t much better, to be honest. Huge stinky bowls of cat food were perched on nearly every surface and across the floor. All the cats were called Florence, which was either very confusing or brilliant; I can’t work out which.
Tim’s brain churned these thoughts over and over for ages. He didn’t want to move to Scotland, so he needed to help his dad get the farm making some money. But how? Then, in a flash of inspiration . . . he finally had the idea that Cairo and Molly had been so clearly hinting at a few chapters ago.
7
THE DEAL
When Tim came downstairs in the morning, he saw his dad sitting at the kitchen table stirring his tea round and round and round and round. This was odd as he didn’t take sugar – what a waste of a spoon! Frank had huge dark circles under his eyes, and his hair and beard were all over the place, not neat and tidy like usual. He was also wearing Beetroot’s yellow dressing gown, which was far too small for him.
