The Charlie Moon Collection

by Shirley Hughes

  “You have no right to use this garden, Mr Bowen. I’ve told you before. No lodgers have a right to use the garden. It’s in the agreement.”

  “Sorry, sorry. Always used to paint in this garden. Ever since I’ve lived here. Very fond of the view, you see.”

  “People will think I’m running some sort of an art school here,” said Mr Dix crossly. “Some sort of hippy colony, with that child lying about all over the grass as though it was her own back yard. And is that the remains of a picnic I can see? Really, Mr Bowen, I must ask you to go, and take her along with you. Right away, if you don’t mind.”

  Uncle Owen did mind. He looked as though he wanted to cry. Mr Dix had really, upset him. It was humiliating. With trembling hands he began to pack up his box of paints. Ariadne closed her book. Her lips moved silently to sound her favourite word: “Nauseating!” She stepped forward to help Uncle Owen. His big wooden palette, with its lovely sticky mess of colours still wet, and a fistful of long brushes were lying balanced on the edge of the river wall. While Uncle Owen was fumbling with his easel a spiteful gust of wind whipped up from the river. It blew the canvas face down on to the ground. The easel toppled over and knocked the palette, and the brushes with it, over the edge. They lay there, stuck down in the river mud between the embankment wall and the barge.

  “My palette! My best brushes!”

  This was the last straw for Uncle Owen. He sat down on the wall and covered his face with his hands.

  “Now look what’s happened!” cried Ariadne angrily. “Please, have you got a ladder or something on your barge?” she asked Mr Dix. “The wall’s too steep and slippery for me to climb down, and we’ve got to get them back before the tide comes in!”

  But Mr Dix was stonily unsympathetic.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you. They’ll just have to stay where they are,” was all he said.

  “But there must be a way of getting down there!” said Ariadne desperately. “I’ll run and fetch Charlie and Dodger.”

  “No. No good,” said Uncle Owen wearily. “We’ll have to do as Mr Dix says. Leave them where they are. There’s no way of reaching them.”

  “But you won’t be able to paint without them!”

  Uncle Owen didn’t reply. Slowly he began to pick up his canvas and easel from the muddy ground.

  At this moment Charlie was swooping like a gull on wheels up at the far end of River Walk, with Dodger running close behind. They were too far away to see what was happening to poor Uncle Owen. But they were not the only roller-skaters out that afternoon. A pair of slithering figures appeared round the corner, at the other end of the walk: two men, one tall and thin with a sly face hunched into his collar, the other tubby and unshaven. They both seemed to be having a lot of difficulty in standing upright. Reeling, clutching one another for support, hanging on to railings and lamp-posts to stop themselves from falling, they edged their way determinedly along.

  “Let go of me, Trevor. You’ll have us both over.”

  “Terrible idea, this was, Ray.”

  “Shut up and try to act naturally. We’ll get noticed.”

  At last they reached the railings outside Uncle Owen’s front door and hung there, sweating and panting.

  “What do we do now then, Trevor?”

  The tall man adjusted his beret, clicking his teeth with irritation.

  “We skate up and down, Ray, as I told you. Keep our eyes on the barge. Look as though we’re enjoying ourselves.”

  “This isn’t doing my weak ankles any good.”

  “Never mind your weak ankles. Keep skating.”

  7 Our Mums Wouldn’t Like It

  Linda had never seen Uncle Owen Bowen so sad as when she returned at teatime. There seemed to be nothing anyone could do to cheer him up. Charlie and Dodger were keen to try and slither down the wall when Mr Dix wasn’t about, but Uncle Owen wouldn’t hear of it. He said he didn’t want them to do anything dangerous. And anyway, how would they ever get up again? There were no steps anywhere near that part of the river. But he had used that palette for years, and brushes were expensive things. Too expensive for an old man to replace easily. He couldn’t hide his distress. All the while, from the balcony outside his room at the top of the house, they could see the river tide rising.

  It was getting dark. Time for the children to be going home. Kind-hearted Linda, though she was tired, said that she would stay a while and see to Uncle Owen’s supper. Ariadne, Charlie and Dodger said goodnight, but they lingered uncertainly outside Uncle Owen’s front door. The River Walk was empty. The mysterious roller-skaters were now nowhere to be seen.

  “What are we going to do?” said Dodger. “That palette thing and the brushes are going to be washed away when the tide gets to them. And painting pictures is what Mr Bowen really likes doing, isn’t it? Just like we like roller-skating. I suppose he’s a bit too old for that,” he added.

  But even Charlie was at a loss for an idea this time.

  “I can’t stay any longer,” Ariadne told them. “Typical of my family to be having guests this evening. They’ll go on and on at me if I’m not back in time. And I’m late already.”

  “You’d better go,” said Charlie. “Dodger’n me’ll think of something.” But he didn’t sound very confident.

  “Pathetic!” muttered Ariadne. And this time she didn’t mean Charlie.

  Dodger and Charlie hung about in the street after Ariadne had hurried away to catch her bus. They were plunged in gloom.

  “Let’s have one more look before we go. See how far the tide’s come up,” Dodger suggested.

  “Better make sure Mr Dix doesn’t catch us,” said Charlie.

  Together they slipped quietly through a gap in the railings into the overgrown garden, and crept through the rank undergrowth of brambles and stinging nettles to a vantage point they knew of behind the old shed. From here they could get a good view of Mr Dix’s barge without being spotted. The deck of the barge was empty. But light shone from the port-holes of the cabin. Mr Dix was still at home.

  Charlie crept silently along in the shadow of the low river wall until he reached the point, just near the gang-plank of the barge, where Uncle Owen’s palette and brushes had fallen.

  He peered over the edge. The light was failing, but he could still see them, lying there in the mud. The river was rising fast. Some other barges further up the river were already gently afloat. Charlie looked about him desperately for inspiration. And just at the end of the gang-plank, on the deck of the barge, there it lay: a coiled-up length of rope.

  Charlie took his roller-skates out of his canvas shoulder-bag and put them down in the grass. He crept back to Dodger.

  “I’ve got an idea. You’ll have to keep watch.”

  They crept back to the gang-plank. Step by step Charlie edged his way silently along it. The lighted port-holes of the cabin were just below, uncomfortably close. He picked up the rope. But with it he managed to dislodge a pot of geraniums, which rolled over on its side and along the deck. Charlie froze. They both fixed their eyes on the cabin door. But there was only the lapping of the water. After a pause, Charlie came softly back, carrying the rope.

  Making it secure was a problem. There didn’t seem to be anything to tie it to. If only he’d attended more carefully to all those things they’d told him about knots at Scouts. But Dodger surprised him by having a good idea too. He took one end of the rope right across the garden to the railings and wound it round and round one of them, securing it with a big knot of his own invention. It seemed safe enough. Then he tied another knot at the other end of the rope, took it across to the river wall and dropped it over. It was a longish rope, luckily. The end dangled just a few feet above the mud.

  “Our Mums wouldn’t like it if they knew we were doing this,” said Charlie.

  “But they won’t ever know, will they?” answered Dodger.

  Charlie slung the empty shoulder-bag over his head, gripped the rope with both hands and scrambled over the edge. He s
wung down, then braced his feet against the embankment wall like a rock-climber. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that the railing and Dodger’s knot were as strong as he thought they were. Then he started to lower himself down, bumping and slithering now and again, trying to make as little noise as possible. He could see Dodger’s white face peering down over the wall, anxious but reassuring. At last he reached the bottom of the rope and dropped the last few feet, landing ankle-deep in black slime.

  Uncle Owen’s palette and brushes lay just near his feet. He picked them up and, messy as they were, quickly stuffed them into his shoulder-bag. Now came the really difficult bit. Summoning all his strength, he leapt for the end of the rope. His arms seemed to be being pulled out of their sockets as he spun round, trying to re-establish his foothold on the wall. Then came the climb up, hand over hand.

  “Come on, Charlie. You’re doing fine!” Dodger whispered to him hoarsely.

  The way back seemed endless. His arms were aching terribly. Three quarters of the way he stopped climbing and dangled in space, too tired to go on. He was exactly level with one of the port-holes of Mr Dix’s barge. Luckily the light which shone out of it just missed him as he hung there against the wall. But he could see inside quite easily. Mr Dix was at a table, bending over something. He was drawing a picture! Charlie couldn’t see his face, or what kind of picture it was. But, propped beside his drawing-board, was something that Charlie recognized at once. It was a small chalk drawing, not in a frame, but unmistakable: The Stunner!

  Charlie was shaking all over when, with a final enormous effort, he managed to reach the top of the rope. Dodger’s hands gripped his arms and helped him to heave himself over the wall. They both flopped on the ground, Charlie still clutching his shoulder-bag, too tired to move.

  “You got them then, Charlie?” whispered Dodger presently.

  “Yes, palette and all the brushes, I think,” panted Charlie, tipping them out on to the grass.

  “Great! Bit messy, aren’t they?”

  “Mr Bowen won’t mind. Hey, Dodger, I saw inside that cabin place. I saw Mr Dix, but he didn’t see me. He was drawing . . .”

  “Perhaps he’s another of these artists,” said Dodger, not much interested in this piece of information. “Lucky he didn’t look out and see you! Let’s go and give these things back to Mr Bowen. He’ll be ever so pleased.”

  “It’s getting dark. There isn’t time tonight,” said Charlie, jumping up and grabbing his roller-skates. “My Mum’ll be really mad if I’m not home soon. We’d better hide these things behind the shed. We can get them tomorrow morning and give him a surprise then.”

  “What about the rope?”

  They’d forgotten about the rope. There followed a terrible struggle to untie it from the railings. Charlie’s weight had pulled it tight. At last they managed to wrestle it undone. They didn’t want to risk creeping along Mr Dix’s gang-plank again, so they left it neatly coiled by the river wall. Then they plunged into the undergrowth to a spot behind the shed, a safe hiding-place for Uncle Owen’s precious things.

  By now it was getting really late. The slick black water reflected the lights from the barges and the young May moon. Charlie and Dodger squeezed back through the railings and scampered away up the street to their waiting suppers. The overgrown garden was full of quiet shadows: two shadows in particular, one long and thin, another squat—Trevor and Ray, no longer pretending to roller-skate, but still watching and waiting. They too had seen what Charlie had seen through the lighted port-hole window.

  8 Fishy

  When Charlie woke up the next morning his Mum was already busy in the shop, vigorously rubbing up ladies’ heads into snowy wigs of white lather. The smell of shampoo came wafting up the stairs. Charlie wondered if she was still cross with him for getting home after dark the night before. She worried about this sort of thing, and worrying always put her in a bad temper. Still, it had been worth it. The first thing Charlie did was to ring up Ariadne and tell her how he and Dodger had got Uncle Owen Bowen’s palette and brushes back for him. He made a lot of the dramatic bits, how he had swung like Tarzan over a dizzy drop, which would have meant certain death if he had slipped. Ariadne was furious that she’d missed it.

  “And to think I had to spend the whole evening being polite to grown-ups and answering all those questions about how I’m getting on with my ‘cello lessons and whether I like my school,” she said bitterly: “I couldn’t even watch television! It’s too nauseatingly pathetic!”

  “Meet you at Mr Bowen’s house this morning,” said Charlie. “We can give him back his things then—give him a nice surprise.”

  When he rang off he remembered he hadn’t mentioned what he had seen through the lighted cabin window. But the thought of it kept buzzing at the back of his mind. It was still bothering him when Norman, who had been working late the night before, emerged for his breakfast. So Charlie told him all about it.

  “That Dix character’s a bit fishy if you ask me,” said Norman, carefully spreading plenty of butter and marmalade on a thick piece of toast. “Linda gets worried about the way he goes on at her uncle all the time. Pretends he’s going off his head, which he isn’t. Although it would suit old Dix if he did. He can’t wait to pack the old man off into a Home so he can move in himself and posh the place up. You can see that a mile off.”

  “He’d taken that drawing out of its frame, the one of The Stunner, you know, that looks just like Linda.”

  Norman did know.

  “But I didn’t know Mr Dix was an artist too. He’s never mentioned that before. Could you see what he was drawing?” he asked.

  “No, he was bending right over it. The Stunner was propped up next to him.”

  “Fishy,” said Norman again, chewing thoughtfully.

  “We’re going to give Mr Bowen back his things this morning,” Charlie told him.

  “Think I’ll look in there myself. I’ve got the morning off,” said Norman. “Will Linda be there, do you think?” he added casually.

  “I don’t know. She’s busy with the Bonanza. It’s tomorrow, you see!”

  When Norman had finished breakfast they went round to River Walk on the motorbike. Ariadne and Dodger met them on Uncle Owen Bowen’s doorstep. Together they managed to persuade the old man downstairs and over to the garden.

  “It’s a surprise,” Charlie explained. “We’ve got your palette and brushes back! Dodger and me rescued them last night before the tide came in.”

  “Wait there while we get them for you!” said Dodger excitedly.

  Uncle Owen Bowen was quite bewildered. He could hardly believe the good news. He stood obediently by the old shed while Charlie and Dodger ferreted about in the nettles.

  “We left it just here, I think,” whispered Dodger, searching frantically.

  “I thought you’d marked the place,” said Charlie.

  “No, I didn’t. It was too dark.”

  They were getting very scratched and stung. The palette and brushes didn’t seem to be where they had left them.

  “Come on, Charlie. We’re waiting for the surprise,” called Ariadne.

  “All right!” shouted Charlie. He was beginning to get agitated. “It must be somewhere here, Dodger,” he hissed.

  “Want any help?” said Norman.

  Uncle Owen waited eagerly while they all searched. They worked their way right along the back of the shed. With a horrible sinking feeling Charlie began to think that the palette and brushes had disappeared.

  “Are you sure you left them here?” Norman asked.

  “Course I am.” Charlie was in agony. The adventure of the night before and Uncle Owen’s surprise seemed to be going all wrong. Already the old man’s face was starting to crumple into disappointment, as though this was some kind of cruel practical joke. Norman was kicking the brambles aside. He looked at the muddy ground.

  “That’s funny,” he said. “There’s a lot of footprints which look too big to be yours or Dodger’s. Somebody
else must have been here.”

  At that moment a whoop of delight came from Dodger.

  “Hey, look! They’re here!” He was holding up the palette and brushes. “They were in quite a different place to where we left them, all scattered about. I just saw the edge of the palette poking out from the grass underneath this bush, as though someone had thrown them down here.”

  Uncle Owen was as pleased to see his precious things as though they had given him a hundred pounds. At once he was wreathed in smiles. Filthy as they were he kept fingering them as though he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “So grateful. So kind of you to take the trouble. So brave,” he kept saying, beaming at Charlie and Dodger. “This must be my lucky day. I thought these were lost for ever, and now I can start another painting. And, do you know, I’ve got my grandmother’s portrait back too! Mr Dix brought her back to me earlier this morning. You must all come up and see her.”

  Still thanking them enthusiastically, Uncle Owen led them all proudly back to the house and upstairs to his room. There, hanging in her frame in the usual place on his wall, was The Stunner.

  9 Very Fishy

  “I was so pleased to see her again. I missed her almost as much as I did my old palette and my brushes. Now I’ve got them all back. I just can’t believe it!”

  “Couldn’t Mr Dix sell her then?” asked Norman.

  “No, no. Showed it to his friend the expert and, what do you think? He found out that it’s a fake! Completely worthless! Not worth more than a few pounds. And all these years I’ve been thinking it was the real thing. Pre-Raphaelite, you know.”

  Charlie didn’t know. He felt very confused altogether. But Uncle Owen went on happily,

  “Of course, my sight isn’t what it was. And somehow, you know, I don’t really mind a bit. It’s a likeness of Lily Bowen, the only one I have, and that’s all I care about. I’m glad she isn’t valuable. If she had been, I might have been tempted to sell her, you know. And I’d much rather have her here on my wall.”