‘I’m sorry if you feel that we’ve been pushing you too hard, love,’ Debra was saying, ‘but you’re so talented, and so clever. You’ve always been . . . the special one.’
Trisha turned to them, taken aback. ‘Mam!’
‘Oh. Sorry. I meant – you’re all special!’ clarified Debra. She then leaned closer to Fidelma and whispered, ‘But not as special as you.’
‘We can still hear you!’ snapped Martin.
‘Then turn up the TV!’ suggested his dad.
‘I would if I could! But Trisha’s Power Ties have made me powerless!’
Liam rolled his eyes and turned back to Fidelma. ‘Look, Delma, you’ve been working so hard, and we just don’t want you to have any . . . distractions. I mean, you’re the sort of person who could do anything.’
‘Even date Dessie Dolan?’
‘Anything except that.’
‘But I’m in love with him!’ wailed Fidelma.
‘Ahh – love,’ Martin said sagely. ‘It’s not a hole, but we all fall into it. What a mystery!’
‘Martin!’ snapped his mother.
‘Love is strange all right,’ admitted Liam.
‘Dessie won’t distract me,’ insisted Fidelma. ‘And even if we’re dating, that doesn’t mean I’m going to fail my exams.’
‘We know that,’ Debra assured her. ‘But these exams are just a first step, and we don’t want any dorky boys getting in the way of your career.’
‘Mam, I know you want me to be the first female Taoiseach and all that, and maybe some day I’ll do that. But just . . . not right now. OK?’
Debra looked disappointed, but gave a sigh of acceptance.
‘I’m still the special one though – right?’ asked Fidelma with a smile.
‘Oh, definitely,’ said Liam, nodding.
‘Of course,’ agreed Debra, then glanced at the other young Moones who did not look impressed. ‘Of course you’re all equals!’ she added hastily.
Meanwhile, the third Moone sister had been training hard under the watchful eyes of Fury O’Hare. She had meditated, pruned Bonsai trees*, waxed on and waxed off Fury’s flower van, learned how to jig, and balanced sacks of potatoes on her head, until finally she whispered, ‘I am the potato.’
‘Then you are ready, young Moone, and not a moment too soon,’ rhymed her master, ‘for tonight . . . we fight. Right at midnight.’
Sinead frowned. ‘I thought it started at eight?’
‘Sorry yes – eight. It’s a date!’ cried Mrs O’Hare, and disappeared mysteriously behind some ferns.
Who knows if Sinead had truly ‘become’ a potato or not, since she had no idea what that even meant, but she’d definitely improved at smashing them. And that night, as she took to the stage of the Roscommon Town Hall for Round Two, she was feeling pretty confident.
Her family were all there again in their ringside seats, ready to cheer her on. And even though Liam was feeling a bit resentful for being fired as coach, he still wore a T-shirt that said ‘Mash it, Moone!’
‘Thanks for coming out again, folks, and supporting the second round of the Sack-Punching Championships!’ cried the priest in the red sparkly jacket to the packed crowd. ‘Last time you helped raise enough funds to put a roof on the church toilet. And tonight – we’ve raised enough money for three of the walls!’
A big cheer went up from the crowd, and the priest continued. ‘To be honest, we probably should’ve started with the walls, because that new roof fell down pretty quickly. So let’s keep those donations coming in so we can get a fourth wall, another new roof, and fix the toilet that the last new roof broke!’
There were mutters from the crowd of ‘Who cares?’, ‘Get off the stage’, and ‘I love that jacket’.
‘All right, folks, I can sense your restlessness, so without further ado, LET’S SACK-PUNCH!!!!’
The bell rang and the battle began.
From the first moments, it was clear that Sinead was in much better shape. She was fitter and more focused, working her way around the sack methodically, smashing potato after potato. Soon, she was far in the lead – but that wasn’t too hard since her opponent was doing absolutely nothing!
Fury just stood there with her eyes closed. The crowd howled and hollered, urging her to fight, but the old florist was deep in concentration. Sinead was halfway through her sack before Mrs O’Hare’s arms began to move.
She raised them up slowly, and then lifted one of her legs, forming a kind of ‘crane’ pose as she concentrated.
Then suddenly Fury channelled every ounce of her strength into one extraordinary punch.
‘HIYEEAGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!’ she screamed, as she struck the sack of potatoes. She belted that bag with such force that she obliterated every potato inside it. The whole hall trembled, and everyone stared in stunned silence.
Even Sinead was gobsmacked.
Then the bell rang, the crowd cheered, and Fury was crowned the Sack-Punching Champion of Roscommon.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Sinead bitterly as they walked off the stage. ‘If you knew you could win, why didn’t you just let me forfeit?’
Fury smirked at her. ‘Because, young Moone, I wanted to beat you properly. It’s no fun winning unless someone else gets to really lose.’
Sinead bristled at this. ‘You know what? I lied. I’m not the potato. You’re the potato.’
‘I know I’m the potato – that’s how I beat the potato.’
‘What? No, you’re the potato because you’re nothing but an aul lump! And you’re a cowardly yellow inside. And you’ve got a black heart!’
Fury frowned. ‘A potato doesn’t have a black heart.’
‘Sometimes it has black bits inside it!’ retorted Sinead. ‘And that’s your heart! As black as a potato’s black bits!’
‘Oh come on, Moone, don’t be a sore loser. You can try again next year. I’ve never battled anyone as strong as you. You made it so much more enjoyable.’ Fury smiled at her sweetly. ‘Let’s do this again. I’d really like that.’
‘Well, in that case . . . I’m retiring!’ announced Sinead defiantly. ‘Forever!’ And with that, she walked away.
Fury’s smile vanished.
‘You’re a sack-puncher, Sinead! What else are you going to do with your life?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘Don’t you walk out on me. I’m Fury O’Hare! Get back here!’
But Sinead just grinned to herself and strolled off with her head held high – not quite a winner, not quite a loser, and not quite a potato.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE FINISHER
Martin was relieved that two of his sisters had lost some of their swagger and weren’t poking fun at his puny achievements any more, but he was also aware that his own goals remained as un-scored as ever. And as he stood in the workshop, looking down at their half-finished invention, he was full of regrets.
‘This could’ve been so great,’ he murmured, ‘if I hadn’t messed it all up.’
He picked up a dented Taste Tank from the floor where his wallpaper plans lay abandoned, and shook his head sadly.
‘Another few days and we could’ve finished it,’ he sighed.
‘Well . . . you still can finish it, buddy.’
He turned to see me standing behind him.
‘Sean! What are you doing here?’
I shrugged. ‘You imagined me.’
He smiled, glad to see me again. ‘You’ve got your beard back,’ he noted, admiring my new bristles that were now keeping Gerald nice and warm.
‘Yep, that’s all I’ve been doing ever since you kicked me out of your imagination,’ I grumbled. ‘Just sitting around, growing my beard.’
Martin’s smile faded and he looked rather guilty. ‘I’m sorry, Sean. I never should’ve blamed you for the Wonkey milk mix-up. It wasn’t your fault that I drank it. You were just trying to help me. You went to the ends of your world and risked everything just to find some Notion Potion to
help me invent an invention and get my face on the Winners Wall. You’re a good friend, Sean. A good egg. A good IF.’
My grumpiness evaporated and I grinned back at him. There was no doubt that my Realsie was an idiot, but at least he knew when he was wrong.
‘Ya know, Martin, the funny thing is . . . you didn’t even need any Notion Potion. You came up with that Tub Grub invention all on your own. All you needed was your own silly noggin,’ I told him, tapping him on the forehead.
‘And the best damn science team in the west of Ireland,’ he added.
‘Well yes, that too.’
Martin gazed down sadly at their abandoned tools. ‘Padraic is the only one who knew how to handle that blowtorch properly . . .’
‘Yeah, after losing most of his eyebrows, he finally got the hang of it all right.’
‘. . . And nobody could keep track of the measurements like Trevor,’ continued Martin, picking up a tape-measure. ‘And of course, Declan is the only one who could find the perfect-sized Taste Tanks that offer plenty of storage while also avoiding a sense of the bath being cluttered.’
He hung his head sadly. ‘You know, Sean, I don’t think I ever realized how good they were – until I’d lost them.’
I nodded. ‘Well, buddy, sometimes working in a team can be tricky. Maybe you’re more of a lone wolf.’
He thought about this for a moment. ‘No – if there’s one thing I know, Sean, it’s that two heads are better than one – even when one is imaginary,’ he added with a grin. ‘And with a team of heads, I think we can do almost anything.’
I smiled. ‘Even complete a revolutionary snack’n’suds system, transport it to Dublin by tomorrow at noon, and win the biggest junior science competition in the country?’
‘Why not?’ replied Martin, growing in confidence.
‘Why not indeed?’ I agreed.
‘It’s not time to throw in the towel. It’s time to throw out the towel!’
He picked up a greasy towel and chucked it out the door into the garden. ‘Out with ya, towel!’ he shouted. ‘Martin Moone isn’t beaten yet. I’m not a quitter! I’m a doer! I’m a get-stuff-doner. I’m a finisher!’
His mother peered out the kitchen window. ‘Who ya talking to, love?’
‘Oh, just the towel, Mam!’ he called, and turned back to me. ‘It’s time to get back to work. I need to reform Team Trepdem. But they’re all mad at me, Sean. So how can I get them all back together to apologize?’
I scratched my fresh bristles. ‘Oh, I’m sure I can think of something . . .’
Martin smiled, pleased to have his wingman back at his side. ‘I missed you, beardo.’
‘Right back at ya, shorty,’ I replied, and we high-fived happily.
An hour later, Padraic, Trevor and Declan Mannion rushed into Martin’s back garden from different directions.
‘Where’s my banoffi pie*?’ gasped Padraic.
‘Where’s my remote-controlled speedboat?’ asked Trevor.
‘Where’s my case of Cuban cigars?’ demanded Declan.
Padraic frowned. ‘What are you guys doing here? I got a call saying that I’d won a prize, and that I was to collect it in Martin Moone’s back garden.’
‘Me too!’ exclaimed Trevor. ‘Although . . . it did seem like a slightly odd place to collect a prize.’
Declan’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a set-up! Gentlemen, we’ve been duped,’ he growled.
Padraic still seemed confused. ‘So . . . do you guys have my banoffi pie?’
Declan spun around to see Martin standing behind them. ‘Moone! You tricked us into coming here!’
‘I’m sorry, I just . . . didn’t think you’d show up otherwise. But I wanted to apologize.’ He hung his head. ‘I’ve been an ass. A big donkey’s ass. I thought I was a genius, but I was a fool. A glory-hunting bossy pants. And I’m sorry.’
He looked at his friends. ‘But I think we’ve come too far and tried too hard to give up now. Team Trepdem has got a place in tomorrow’s Invention Convention. No one in our school has ever even been accepted before, so we’re already history makers. And we’ve got the chance to make even more history. There’s a half-built invention sitting right there in that workshop. An invention that can win. If we just give it one last push.’
‘But Martin, there’s not enough time,’ said Trevor. ‘There’s still tons of work to do, and we need to get it to Dublin by noon tomorrow.’
‘That’s the other side of the country!’ exclaimed Padraic, showing off his geography skills.
‘How ya gonna do that, Moone?’ asked Declan.
‘I can’t do it,’ admitted Martin. ‘You can’t do it either. None of us can. But I think WE can do it. If we work together.’
The three lads looked at each other.
Then finally Padraic gave a smile. ‘Well, I would love to give that Tub Grub a test-drive . . .’ He shrugged. ‘What the heck. I’m in.’
‘Me too,’ agreed Trevor, with a grin.
Martin looked at Declan, who nodded. ‘Let’s get that gold.’
‘Team Trepdem is back together!’ cried Martin, punching the air.
‘Yay!’ cheered Padraic. ‘Now where’s that banoffi pie?’
The reunited team picked up right where they’d left off, but this time there was no boss and they figured out all the problems together. Martin realized that Padraic was right about the Taste Tanks – they needed to be spread out evenly or the tub would topple over. Trevor raided his mum’s larder to fill the tanks, and Declan found a sturdier set of wheels to survive the cross-country trek to Dublin (borrowed from his mam’s bicycle and his grandad’s wheelchair).
They gave it everything they had, working all day and all night. They welded, glued, hammered, hummed, hawed, sawed, bashed, kicked, drilled, nailed, screamed, bled, bandaged, broke, cursed, fixed, argued, agreed, thought, consulted with their IFs, ignored their IFs, started a fire, fled, thanked Liam for putting out the fire, kicked Liam out again, got back to work, banged, scraped, cleaned, polished, stood back, marvelled, and at 6.48 in the morning . . . they were finished.
They wheeled it out of the workshop into the grey light of dawn and stared in disbelief at their creation. They had actually managed to build a mobile flavour bath. The Tub Grub 2000 was complete!
Declan brought over his motorbike, and Martin tied the bath to the back of it, using his signature knot – the Moone Mangle. And once it was in place, they were ready to go.
THE MOONE MANGLE
‘Hang on, we can’t leave yet – I’m starving!’ complained Padraic.
‘Me too, but there’s no time!’ said a worried Trevor, looking at his watch. ‘If we don’t leave now, we’ll never make it!’
‘Eh, Martin? Aren’t you forgetting what you’ve just built?’ I asked.
Martin stared at me blankly before his sleepy head caught up. ‘Of course! We can have breakfast on the road!’
Padraic and Trevor whooped with delight and stripped down to their underpants. They hopped into the fancy tub with Martin and turned on the taps for ‘Readybix’ and ‘Milk’ as Declan revved his motorbike and drove them down the driveway.
The engine roared, struggling to haul all the extra weight, and the bath almost toppled over as they turned on to the main road. Milk splashed over the edges, and the boys clung on as they left Boyle behind and headed east towards the distant and dodgiest side of Ireland!
A sleepy Mammy Moone stared after them from her bedroom window. ‘Where’s Martin going in that weird bath?’
‘No idea. But I’m changing the locks on my workshop before Declan gets back,’ replied Liam, and scampered out of bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BIRDMAGEDDON!
The boys were not very familiar with the Capital City. They’d heard rumours that breakfast didn’t even exist there, so they were sure they’d made the right decision to immerse themselves in a giant breakfast bowl on the way. However, with a full bath, and three passengers swishing around in i
ts Readybix stew, the Tub Grub 2000 was now extremely heavy. And Declan’s motorbike was no Harley-Davidson*, so they struggled to reach the meagre speed of ten miles per hour. On stretches of downhill road, this would increase to around eighty miles per hour, making the weighty cargo almost impossible to control.
As they crawled through the countryside, they got hoots and hollers from passers-by. Not always positive. Natives from the towns of Dromod, Mullingar and Rathowen wolf-whistled them. A trio of speed-walking grannies from Kinnegad made obscene hand gestures as they passed. And a labradoodle* from Longford mistook the bath for a porta-potty.
Their progress was horribly slow. Time was against them. And soon, something else was against them too – birds!
For several miles, flocks of the feathered fellas had been gathering overhead, making Padraic anxious.
‘Why is that bunch of crows following us, Martin?’
‘Murder!’ Trevor blurted.
‘What?! Why would they want to kill me?’ Martin squealed.
‘No, it’s called a murder of crows, not a bunch.’
‘Oh. Well, you can’t just shout “murder!” like that. Not when I’m only wearing underpants.’
‘Yeah, Trev,’ Padraic agreed, ‘that’s the last thing we need, a fear of— Duck!’
‘Ducks?’ asked a confused Trevor. But when he saw Padraic and Martin quickly submerge themselves, he realized that ‘Duck’ was a command rather than a bird.
The crows were starting to attack, diving at the bath.
With their heads bobbing in and out of the water, the boys tried shooing them away with all their might.
‘Shoo off! Shoo off, for flip sake, ya mad birds!’ Padraic yelled. ‘What do they flippin’ want?’
‘It’s the Readybix!’ Martin soon realized. ‘They must know how delicious it is!’
‘Eat faster!’ urged Padraic, trying to force more of the sloppy cereal into his gob.
But the number of crows kept growing. There were hundreds of them. It was like a mass murder of crows. They dived at the bath, flapping and squawking, as they nabbed beakfuls of breakfast.
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