by Scott Allen
Tim and Cairo just stood there smiling, pretending to know who Thomas Polster was, but both were too polite to ask the ‘Who are you?’ question. He was clearly a big deal.
‘Who the purple parrots are you?’ chirped Fiona from beside the fridge. She had been trying to drink as much apple juice as possible before anyone had noticed, so hadn’t been able to talk until now. She began hopping up and down straight away. She really had drunk a lot of juice.
‘I sometimes make clothes,’ replied Thomas.
‘It’s a bit more than that,’ added the fawning Beetroot. ‘He’s the biggest fashion designer in the whole of Britain!’
‘Probably in the whole of the world, Mum,’ interrupted Monica.
Thomas Polster blushed as he tried to shrug off the praise.
‘I don’t like his jacket,’ said Fiona loudly. ‘It’s a horrible colour.’ Then she left for a much needed wee.
‘So why do you need to see me?’ asked Tim. ‘I don’t know anything about fashion.’
‘Well, to be honest, Tim, it’s not really you I want.’
‘Oh, OK,’ said Tim, his shoulders slumping back down.
‘It’s actually your llamas I’m interested in,’ Thomas continued.
‘They’re not for sale,’ replied Tim quickly. ‘We might try again for next year’s Cup.’
Frank coughed. ‘They might be for sale at the right price.’
‘Dad!’ cried Tim. ‘We can’t sell them. I won’t let you!’
‘We don’t have any money, Tim. I thought I’d explained this. We are going to have to sell things.’
Thomas Polster smiled warmly. ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m not here to buy your llamas. It’s their wool I’m after.’
‘The wool?’ replied Tim. ‘But it’s all worn out from all the football they’ve been playing.’
‘Quite the opposite, actually. When I stroked that llama in the corridor at Enfield Hotspurts I couldn’t believe how soft it was. I can’t find a soft fibre like that anywhere, and I’ve looked. I could make all sorts of garments out of it. Plus, you’ve got the added marketing value of the wool coming from Cup finalists. We’ll sell out in no time.’
‘Really?’ said a disbelieving Frank.
‘Really,’ said Thomas Polster. ‘In fact I believe it so much I’m willing to make you my regular wool supplier. How does one hundred thousand pounds a year sound? That should help you keep your farm, shouldn’t it?’
Frank, Cairo, McCloud, Beetroot, Molly and Monica were speechless.
‘But can they still play football?’ asked Tim urgently, his tummy was excitedly flipping over and over.
‘Of course!’ said Thomas with a grin. ‘I think that’s what has been helping make their coats so soft.’
‘Can we set up a football academy and make Llama United a proper team who might compete in a league or even in Europe?’ added Cairo, who had absolutely no interest in fashion whatsoever. ‘Can you make that happen as well? It would be sad to waste their talent on just clothes.’
The fashion designer shrugged and then a big grin spread across his face. ‘I don’t see why we can’t do that. It would be good for the llama clothing brand. Why don’t I sponsor the team as well?’
Tim and Cairo were wide-eyed with excitement at the prospect. Frank gently put one arm around Beetroot’s shoulder and let out a huge sigh of relief. With his other hand he took his little black notepad out of his pocket and threw it out of the window. McCloud sat down at the table, his bottom lip quivering with uncharacteristic tears of joy. Monica, meanwhile, was still clearly trying to come to terms with meeting Thomas Polster; she’d gone all pink and sort of floppy.
‘So then, what do you say everyone?’ pleaded the fashion chief, looking at the dumbstruck bunch of people in front of him.
‘I say: it’s a deal,’ announced Fiona from the doorway of the room. She marched across the kitchen and shook Thomas Polster firmly by the hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. Now, make me a beautiful llama-wool coat . . . right now.’
EPILOGUE
A month later Tim and Cairo stood by a large bonfire melting marshmallows on the end of sticks. It was a Friday night, if you are interested.
The fire crackled and popped as it struggled to burn the pile of junk that had been hurled on to it. Flames licked the sides of some beehives, the vineyard fencing and a terrible-looking princess castle. Perched on the top were Frank’s two little black notepads. The maths didn’t matter anymore.
Behind them a building site had popped up in the corner of the llama field. A huge barn and Polster’s llama wool factory were under construction. To the side was a state-of-the-art training pitch, with some of the tastiest, lushest grass a llama could ever wish for. On the other side of the road an extension was being built on the side of the farm. This would soon become the Llama United offices where Frank, Monica, Molly and Beetroot would help run the club. Even McCloud had a little place he could call his own: a small caravan parked behind the training pitch. He’d never liked living in houses, so this was perfect for him.
‘It’s been an amazing season hasn’t it?’ said Cairo through a mouthful of hot marshmallow.
‘You could say that,’ replied Tim. ‘I don’t think I could ever have dreamed this kind of thing would happen.’
‘Do you know what’s going to happen next?’ asked Cairo, accidentally setting fire to his stick.
‘I think McCloud is talking to a few people about getting us into a league or the European Cup, but I’ve got my sights on something bigger.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Cairo. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, next year is a big year in football. A massive, massive year.’
Cairo sighed. ‘How many times have I told you . . . I still don’t know anything about football.’
‘It’s a World Cup year,’ said Tim, with a grin. ‘And I think our llamas are ready to take on the world.’
‘Ha, ha,’ said Cairo, loading three marshmallows on to his stick. ‘You’re a funny one, Tim. The World Cup . . . funny.’
‘You don’t know what that is, do you?’ asked Tim.
‘Not a clue,’ replied Cairo. ‘But it sounds very far-fetched.’
Tim shook his head and gazed deeply into the fire. ‘It’s no joke, Cairo,’ he said, intently. ‘If Arthur Muckluck won the World Cup, then so can our llamas.’
Suddenly the three marshmallows on Cairo’s stick burst into neon pink flames so bright that the friends had to shield their eyes.
‘Ooh, a spooky sign,’ cooed Cairo, ‘like what they have in films.’
‘Perhaps it is . . . perhaps it is,’ replied Tim with a broad smile.
So there you have it. The story of Llama United. Of course, none of this would ever had happened had it not been for my incredible football skills. Let’s hope the boys remember that. I’d quite like my own statue, even if it is in a field of llamas. After all, football legends have to start somewhere . . .
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Big thanks to:
My superstar agent Gemma Cooper. Her outstanding advice helped me shape the book into what it is today.
Everyone at Macmillan who made me feel so welcome, especially my brilliant editors Rachel Kellehar and Lucy Pearse. Not forgetting Rachel’s son Rory, who no doubt helped with Rachel’s brainwaves before he entered the world.
My wife Gwen. The book would still be aimlessly wandering about my head, making fart noises, without her words of encouragement.
My sons Spike and Zach, mum Rosie, sister Zoe and cat Pablo – who still hasn’t worked out that I don’t need a steady stream of dead rodents to help me write.
Friends Guy, Meg, Mike, Ben and three Simons, who were brilliant at keeping a secret and offering kind words of support.
The football industry, which has shaped my world since the age of five. Despite my cynicism and ridiculous football-related mood swings, I would be a very different person without it (sorry everyone).
Finall
y to my dad, who passed away when I was editing the first draft. Dad was foolish enough to take me to my first match when I was very small. I caught the football bug that day and couldn’t keep away.
C’mon you Irons.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Scott Allen was brought up in the horse-racing town of Epsom. After discovering he was too tall and heavy to be a jockey, he turned his attention to football. At sixteen he started writing for fanzines before becoming a professional sports writer, editor and digital-content specialist. He is a West Ham supporter, but we don’t hold that against him. Scott now lives in Yorkshire with his wife, two children and cat. He likes Twiglet sandwiches, and still has ambitions of becoming a pirate or an outlaw. Llama United is his first novel.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Sarah Horne grew up in snowy Derbyshire, UK, with some goats and a brother.
Alongside working on some very funny children’s titles, Sarah has also worked on commissions for the Guardian, the Sunday Times, Kew Gardens, Sesame Street and for IKEA as their Children’s Illustrator In Residence.
She now draws, paints, writes and giggles from underneath a pile of paper at her studio in London.
First published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-4091-5
Text copyright © Scott Allen 2017
Illustrations copyright © Sarah Horne 2017
The right of Scott Allen and Sarah Horne to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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