“Well, that’s going to be jolly difficult,” says Ariadne.
They all turn to her.
“Why?” asks Miss Mona in a faint voice.
“I knew about it being in the cracker—I saw you put it there when I was being a waitress, you see—and I went back as soon as I could, after everyone had gone, to rescue it, so’s I could give it back to Mrs Cadwallader. But it was no good. Because, you see, the manageress had already told Winnie to put all the crackers back into the boxes. And, as they’re all the same on the outside, by the time I got there you couldn’t tell which was which. So that’s why I came to fetch you. You’d better all come as quickly as you can!”
13
They all run to the dining-room. It is empty of guests. The tables are cleared, and no trace of the Carnival remains. They find Winnie in the kitchen, her feet up on a chair, drinking a cup of tea.
“Oh, yes. The manageress told me to put the crackers back in the boxes and take them to her office. Took a lot of extra time, too, as though we haven’t had enough for one day, indeed, and me run off my feet as it is.”
They hurry back into the hall and knock urgently on the glass door of the office. The manageress appears, rather short-tempered, as though she, too, has had enough for one day.
“The crackers? You’re too late, I’m afraid. I couldn’t see any further use for them, unless we put them away till Christmas, but that’s a long time. So I sent the handyman down with them to St Ethelred’s—the children’s holiday home, you know. I told him to give them to the children with the compliments of the Hydro.”
Miss Mona lets out a wild cry.
“Children? You mean you’ve given them all away?”
“Yes, I’ve just told you. They’re going back tomorrow, I believe, and they’re having a little party, so I thought I’d . . .”
But her words are lost as they stampede past her towards the front door.
“It’s down this way, where the beach-huts are at the end of the prom,” says Auntie Jean, breathlessly taking the lead. They all follow her, dodging the holiday-makers through the narrow streets to where St Ethelred’s stands, down by the shore. A large expanse of coarse sea-grass and sand slopes down before it and merges with the beach itself. There are no children playing on the dangling rope-ladders, motor-tyres, and complicated structures of planks and brightly painted steel. But their voices, and the sound of very loud music, can be heard through the open windows. They race up the front steps, and ring the doorbell. Nobody answers. The doors stand open. Auntie Jean leads the way into a large bare hall, and, for a moment, they all stand there, panting, at a loss to know what to do next.
At last a student helper appears carrying a large tray full of plastic beakers and sodden drinking straws.
“Crackers?” he says doubtfully, as Auntie Jean tries, not very successfully, to explain the situation in a few clear words. “Oh, yes. But I’m afraid it’s going to be difficult to help you. We’ve had the crackers. The kids pulled them all after tea. Some of them are still in there . . .” He jerks his head in the direction of the noise . . . “the others have gone down on to the beach.”
They enter the big room, where a great many children are bobbing, bouncing, and skidding about on the linoleum, to the accompaniment of a record-player, which is turned up to full blast. Everywhere beneath their feet, amongst the bits of squashed sandwich, sweet-papers, and other party wreckage, lie remnants of the crackers. One or two of them, left unpulled, have been torn open down the middle so that the contents could be removed. All the children have paper hats, and they are all wearing sparkling fake jewellery.
“There was a ring in nearly every cracker,” says Auntie Jean faintly. “Rings, necklaces, or brooches, and watches too. Riddles and mottoes. They were my deluxe ones, you see.”
Miss Mona covers her face with her hands again.
“Well, we’d better start searching,” says Mrs Cadwallader grimly.
Dai and Dylan Morgan are sitting behind the beach-huts—a favourite place of theirs, well away from prying eyes. Dai’s cheeks are bulging with sweets, which he is popping into his mouth, two at a time, from a paper bag. Dylan is idling with the contents of a large pocket handkerchief which is spread across his knees.
“We’ve got lots of stuff here—brooches, watches, necklaces, rings, and lots of riddles,” he says, rattling them all about together.
“Well, never mind the riddles—they’re daft,” Dai tells him, dribbling stickily out of the corner of his mouth. “You can throw them out for a start.”
Dylan does so, crumpling them all up into a tight ball and throwing it on to the sand. The wind catches it, and scatters the bits of paper among the sea-grass which grows between the backs of the beach-huts and the sea-wall. They have had a very successful afternoon, so far, lying in wait for the smaller children from St Ethelred’s and bullying them into parting with their sweets and cracker surprises. Dai is particularly fond of sweet things, but he doesn’t care to buy his own as it’s so much more fun getting them off someone else for nothing. The cracker things are not so interesting. They have thrown them all carelessly into Dylan’s handkerchief, to be examined later, at leisure.
“Hey, I’ve nearly finished this lot,” says Dai, looking into the bottom of his bag. “Time we tried to get some more. Should be easy. Like they say ‘easier than taking sweets off a kid’. Heh! Heh!”
Dylan knots up his handkerchief and puts it down on the sand. He eases himself slyly through the gap between the beach-huts. Sure enough, the children from St Ethelred’s are still there, some of them playing quite close at hand.
“Here, you!” calls Dai, whistling softly.
One of the little boys, alone with a sandcastle, stops digging and looks up.
“Yeah, you. Got something for you.”
The little boy puts down his spade, and, holding on to his paper hat to stop it from blowing away, trots obediently across the beach towards them. Once he is within range, Dylan shoots out a hand, grabs the front of his T-shirt, and drags him behind the hut.
“Got some sweets there, have you?” says Dai, now also on his feet. He throws away his empty bag. Then he tweaks the little boy’s paper hat off his head and throws that away, too.
“I’ve eaten mine,” says the little boy, hiding his hands behind his back. “What’ve you got to show me, then?”
“Show you nothing,” grins Dai. “You show us—what you’ve got there.”
“It’s mine. They gave it me. They said we could keep our things out of the crackers and take them home.”
“Show us, I said.”
“Don’t want to.”
Then Dai puts his face very close to the little boy’s, and says in a quiet voice:
“If you don’t show us, d’you know what we’re going to do?”
The little boy doesn’t answer. He purses up his mouth bravely, to stop his lower lip from wobbling.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” murmurs Dai. “We’ve got the key to this beach-hut, see. And we’re going to put you in there and lock the door and go away, so you’ll be in there all night, see. There’s no light in there. And what’s more, if we don’t decide to come and let you out tomorrow morning, you might miss the train home. And then what will your Mam do?”
The little boy starts to screw up his eyes, which are filling with tears. He brings out his hands from behind his back and offers up, on his wrist, a pretend watch, studded with jewels, with a pink plastic face.
“Let’s have it then . . .” says Dai.
But before he can wrench it off, there’s a slithering noise, a soft thud, and Charlie Moon drops down from the sea-wall, landing lightly, just beside them. The Morgan boys look round for an instant in surprise, and the little boy takes his opportunity at once. As quick as a flash, he darts round the hut and is away up the beach, running towards the safety of the others, his twinkling legs kicking up the sand in all directions but his watch still firmly on his wrist.
Balked of their pre
y, the Morgan boys turn menacingly on Charlie.
“What’s this, then?” says Dai. “Spying on us, were you, boy? Creeping on the sea-wall up there without us knowing?”
“Yes, I was,” says Charlie carelessly. “Looking for you, really.”
Dylan’s hand has already closed on his shoulder.
“Looking for us, is it? Want to tell us what for, boy?”
“I’ve got some things to sell. They were given to me, and I don’t really want them, but I don’t like to say so, you see. Wondered if you’d like to do a deal.”
At this last word, Dylan’s hand relaxes slightly.
“What’ve you got, then?” he asks promptly. “Got it here?”
“It’s just up at my Auntie’s. It’s an underwater mask and snorkel, almost new. They’re really good—came from a big London shop. My Mum paid pounds for them.”
“What d’you want for them?”
“Well, how much’ll you give me?”
“Not worth much to us. Don’t do much swimming, do we, Dai?”
“You could sell them, though,” says Charlie casually.
There is a small pause.
“Trouble is, we haven’t got much cash,” says Dai.
“Not more’n a few pence,” says Dylan.
“Spent it all,” says Dai.
“Pity. I’ve got a whole box of stink-bombs, and some itching powder—the sort that really works,” says Charlie. “I might throw them in, too.”
Dylan can’t resist showing a little interest. He picks up his handkerchief and starts to undo the knot.
“We’ve got some valuable stuff here, though,” he says winking at his brother. “Real jewellery, it is. We found it, like. Came by it accidentally, didn’t we, Dai?”
“It doesn’t look real to me,” says Charlie, barely glancing into the handkerchief, which they are holding out for him to see.
“It’s the truth. Good stuff, it is—worth a lot.”
“Well . . .”
“I’ll throw in this 50p then,” says Dai, feeling in his back pocket. “Didn’t know I had it on me . . .”
“Oh, all right,” says Charlie, “I might as well, I suppose. You’ll have to come up to my Auntie’s and wait outside while I get the things.”
Dai and Dylan manage to contain themselves until Charlie has duly fetched all the things he has promised, and they are well out of sight up the prom with them, before doubling up with laughter.
“He swallowed it!” crows Dai. “Fell right into it, didn’t he!”
“The way we conned him!” chuckles Dylan. “Easier than doing those little kids back there. It’s a good mask and snorkel set, too. We can sell it for a good few quid to Gomer Roberts, the sports shop. And we can have some fun with the other stuff ourselves.”
“He must be even dafter than he looks,” gasps Dai, tears of mirth rolling down his cheeks. “Fancy him thinking all that rubbish was real jewellery!”
Back at Auntie Jean’s, Charlie is already carefully emptying out the contents of Dylan’s handkerchief on to the table. Amongst all the glittering hoard, one piece is heavier than the others. The green stone takes the light as he holds it up.
Mrs Cadwallader’s ring is safe at last.
14
It’s Charlie and Ariadne’s last evening at Auntie Jean’s. They are leaving on the first train in the morning, and their suitcases are already packed. Mrs Cadwallader, Mr Cornetto and even Miss Mona have arrived for a special celebration supper, to say good-bye. Mrs Cadwallader is quite tearfully sentimental about everything, especially about Charlie, so much so that he is inwardly anxious in case she decides to sing a song to mark the occasion. Even if she does, however, he’s in no position to complain. The cash reward she has given to him, and to Ariadne, for their part in saving her ring, has been very generous. On top of this, she has promised to replace his underwater mask and snorkel with the very best ones that money can buy, or anything else in the shop that might take his fancy.
“He’s a brave lad—a clever, brave lad,” she keeps saying, putting her arm round his shoulders. “Make a good detective when you grow up, you would, an’ all!”
“It wasn’t all that difficult,” says Charlie modestly. “I just spotted the Morgan boys from the top of the sea-wall while you were all still searching for the ring up at the house. Some of the little kids had told me they were around somewhere, taking their sweets and cracker presents. I wasn’t sure that they’d got your ring, of course. But I just knew I had to get the stuff back from them so I could find out. I couldn’t fight them because they’re both so much bigger than me. So I took a chance on doing a swop. It was pretending not to be too eager that was the hardest part.”
“Wouldn’t they be sick if they knew they’d got hold of a real emerald amongst all that cracker jewellery and never realized it,” says Ariadne.
“Well, I suppose they never will, now, so good riddance to them,” says Auntie Jean. “But I hope you’re not going to leave that ring lying about anywhere else, after all this, Connie.”
Mrs Cadwallader only laughs.
“That’s not my worry any more, Jean,” she says. “As a matter of fact, I’ve given all the family jewellery back to Mona. She’s much better at looking after it, aren’t you, Mona?”
“It’s very good of you, Connie,” says Miss Mona. “I won’t be wearing it in the ordinary way, of course. I intend to keep it carefully in the bank, where I know it’s safe. But I do have to thank this resourceful boy here. I’m very sorry about the . . . er . . . unpleasantness we’ve had in the past, and I do hope that you’ll forgive and forget.”
“Won’t you miss wearing all that jewellery, Connie?” asks Auntie Jean rather wistfully.
Mrs Cadwallader beams girlishly across at Mr Cornetto.
“Oh, no. I’ll still have one ring of my own that I’ll be taking the greatest care of, won’t I, Carlo? You see, I’m settling down in Penwyn Bay for good.”
Here Mr Cornetto, who has been very quiet until now, gets to his feet, smooths back his hair, adjusts his butterfly tie, and stands up to attention like a general on parade.
“I think it’s now time that I told you all our good news. Mrs Cadwallader . . . Connie . . . has done me the great honour of consenting to be my wife!”
The cries of surprise and joy, hugs, embraces and pumping handshakes that follow this announcement go on for a long time. Even Miss Mona, in her newly relaxed mood, seems pleased. She has been thinking for a long time, she says, of settling down herself in some really refined place—in a little flat of her own, perhaps. The conversation falls into an excited discussion of plans—wedding plans, house redecoration plans, plans for the Crazy Castle, hats and dresses, of course . . .
After a while, Charlie and Ariadne slip away unnoticed. It’s nearly dark when they reach their favourite place at the end of the pier. They hang over the rail, looking far out to sea. A little wind is blowing up, and a long ribbon of pale lemon sky marks the place where the sea ends and the huge night sky begins. One or two stars are out already.
“Fancy them getting married,” says Ariadne. “I never thought they’d do a thing like that. Absolutely pathetic! Still, she was pretty good about our rewards.”
“What are you going to do with yours?” asks Charlie.
“I’m putting it into my Escape Fund, of course.”
“Escape from what?”
“Well, everything. Being a grown-up and doing boring things and going on about the good old days. I won’t need it till I’ve left school, of course. I’ve got my wages as well, from being a waitress at the Hydro—the manageress gave me an extra tip for putting out the Grand Surprise Bomb—so it’s getting on quite nicely. What about you?”
“I’m thinking about being a detective when I grow up, like she said,” answers Charlie, “not a famous actor, as I’ve been planning. Perhaps I’ll ask her to get me a detective set instead of a new underwater mask and snorkel. I saw a smashing one in the shop where I went with Mum. It ha
d handcuffs, and a magnifying-glass, and stuff for taking fingerprints, and everything. I think I’ll go and have another look at it first thing on Monday . . .”
The ribbon of lemon sky is gradually getting narrower. At last it disappears altogether.
“Of course, I might find that I need the Escape Fund before I’m grown up,” says Ariadne dreamily.
“It’s got false eyebrows and moustaches and all,” Charlie goes on. “And wigs, all different colours . . .”
“I dare say they’ll come in handy whatever you decide to be,” says Ariadne.
CHARLIE MOON AND THE BIG BONANZA BUST-UP
1 Bonanza Blues
It was pitch dark inside. Charlie couldn’t see anything except a bit of back belonging to his friend, Dodger Best. They were trying hard to walk out of step. It wasn’t easy. Charlie hung on to the belt of Dodger’s jeans and stumbled along as best he could but he kept falling over Dodger’s feet. Dodger’s muffled voice came back to him through the stuffy blackness telling him what to do.
“Come on, Charl. It’s like the opposite of marching, see. I lead with the left foot and you go off on the right. Ready?”
“O.K., but go a bit quicker, will you?”
They started off again, one two, one two. Charlie kept remembering a poem he knew:
“Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail. “There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.”
There wasn’t a porpoise behind them, but an even stranger creature: Charlie’s cousin Ariadne, wearing her home-made robot suit. He could hear her breathing heavily as she clanked along.
“Faster, Dodger,” he urged.
“I can’t.”
“Go on.”
Dodger suddenly quickened his pace alarmingly. Now he was going too fast for Charlie to keep up. They lurched forward, quite out of control. Then, without warning, Dodger stopped dead. Charlie’s left foot tangled with his right one. They swayed about, trying to keep their balance. Ariadne, stepping up briskly behind, cannoned straight into them. There was a great tinny crash, a ripping of cloth, a thudding of wild kicks. Under a rain of heavy objects they all hit the floor.
The Charlie Moon Collection Page 9
