by Alan Skinner
When you wake, you’ll be in the stream.’
Patch nodded his approval. ‘Good spell,’ he said. ‘Them whiskers was a nice touch.’
Slight waved the wand over the handkerchief as he finished the spell, then he tapped the bowl sharply. Instantly, the handkerchief collapsed on the ground. Then, it started to wriggle.
Slight plucked the cloth from the ground. The catfish lay on the grass in a pool of water, glaring accusingly at Slight.
‘Oh,’ said Slight.
‘Oh,’ said Brian.
‘Look!’ shouted Patch. The empty bowl floated in the middle of the stream, drifting slowly with the current towards the bridge.
Patch clapped his hands. ‘That’s a very good trick, Slight! It has the element of surprise, like. The unexpected. Congratulations!’
‘Thank you, Patch, but that isn’t what was supposed to happen.’ Slight sighed. ‘The fish was supposed to go in the water, not the bowl.’ He thought though, that it wasn’t a bad effort and he might get one of his tricks right one day. The fish was still glaring at Slight in clear disapproval.
‘Patch -,’ said Brian.
‘It were a good trick, weren’t it, Brian?’ said Patch. ‘Close! It nearly worked!’
‘Patch -,’ tried Brian again.
‘And he thought o’ the trick all by hisself. And that spell was a cracker. It rhymed, and everythin’!’
Brian tugged on Patch’s jacket this time. ‘Patch,’ he said more firmly, ‘the bowl,’ and he pointed to the bowl which was still bobbing in the water like one of those little round boats from long ago. Patch and Brian leaned over and watched the bowl float closer to the bridge.
‘Slight,’ called Patch, ‘ain’t that one o’ Weevil’s mixin’ bowls?’ Weevil was Muddlemarsh’s professor and he had a passion for cooking. He was very protective of his utensils.
‘Oh dear,’ said Slight. ‘Yes, it is. Weevil will be very angry if I don’t return it. I told him I needed it for an experiment.’ Slight tried to grab the catfish, which had managed to wriggle only a few inches closer to the water. ‘Can you please get it for me? I have to put this poor fish back in the water.’ The fish looked at Patch.
‘By the bells! Weese’d better grab it a-fore it floats down ta the sea! C’mon, me brave companion,’ he yelled to Brian. Brian put his coat on the bridge wall. He and Patch leaned over the wall and stretched their arms towards the water. The bowl came closer and they stretched out to grab it. It floated past their fingers and disappeared under the bridge.
‘It’ll be comin’ out the other side in a second!’ cried Patch and they ran to the other side of the bridge. Brian leaned over the wall as far as he could and waited for the bowl to float past. He stretched his arm and he felt the edge of the wall pressing against his stomach as he stretched even harder. Just as he realised that he wasn’t going to reach the bowl, he felt a sharp push on his bottom and he plunged headlong towards the water.
His hands and arms went into the water. Brian held his breath, expecting his head to follow when he felt a hard jolt and he stopped falling, his face inches above the water. Something gripped his legs. He looked up and saw Patch holding his ankles.
‘You pushed me!’ Brian yelled at him.
‘Ya weren’t goin’ ta reach. I had hold of ya, Brian. There’s the bowl. Grab it, now,’ said Patch casually.
The bowl floated right up to Brian and he caught it easily. He knew Patch was right but he wished the pirate had told him before pushing him.
‘Weren’t no time to discuss it,’ explained Patch. ‘Good, ya ’ave the bowl. I’ll pull yer up.’
It wasn’t really Patch’s fault that he sneezed but that was little consolation to Brian. He heard the loud ‘Ahhh-choo!’ from somewhere above him and then he didn’t feel hands on his ankles any more. For an instant, he didn’t feel anything, and then he felt the chilly water of the stream cover him.
It wasn’t a deep stream but it was no less wet for all that. Brian did a short and not very graceful turn and splashed flat on his back into the water. Just as he hit the water, he could see Patch peering over the wall of the bridge, rubbing his nose.
‘Oh,’ said Patch.
Spluttering and coughing, Brian sat up. The water swirled around his waist. He still clutched the bowl in his hand, though it was now submerged in front of him between his legs. As he looked at the bowl and felt the water drip from his head, he saw the catfish swim lazily up to him. The fish peered at the bowl, peered at Brian, then turned itself around with a flick of its tail and went home for its lunch.
By the time Brian had walked to the bank, Patch and Slight were waiting for him. Brian glared at them both, but especially at Patch.
‘Sorry, Brian,’ said Patch. ‘I sneezed.’
‘Now what’ll I do?’ said Brian miserably. ‘I can’t go on an Important Mission soaking wet!’
And that was how Brian came to be sitting in a field near the side of the road to Home, his clothes draped on branches and bushes, and with only his coat wrapped around him. While they waited for Brian’s clothes to dry, Patch told stories and Slight tried all sorts of marvellous card tricks, none of which worked, of course.
‘Is that your card?’ he’d ask Brian.
‘No, that’s Patch’s card.’
‘Is that your card?’ he’d ask Patch, holding up the seven of diamonds.
‘No, by the bells, but it’s close!’ Patch cried. ‘Mine was the eight of clubs! Yer gettin’ better, Slight.’
Brian noticed the sun was getting lower in the western sky. ‘I wonder what the time is?’ he asked no one in particular.
‘I can tell you that, Brian. It doesn’t require a trick to tell the time.’ Slight reached into the pocket of his tails and drew out a beautiful silver pocket watch. He held it in his palm and flipped open the silver lid with his thumb. Brian was sure he had never seen a more beautiful watch.
‘It’s a quarter past two o’clock,’ he said.
‘A quarter past two!’ Brian exclaimed. ‘I have to go! I’m very late!’ He stood and went to the tree where he had hung his trousers. He stared at the empty branch.
‘They’re gone,’ he whispered in despair. ‘My trousers are gone!’
‘So they is,’ said Patch. He pointed to a branch higher up where Brian’s shirt flapped gently. ‘But yer shirt and yer shoes and socks is still ’ere.’ It was true. The shoes and socks were still on the little sticks on which they had been left to dry.
‘But my trousers! I can’t go into Home without my trousers!’ Brian felt like crying, or yelling, or just lying on the ground and beating his fists in the grass. He had let everyone in Beadledom down. He didn’t know how he was going to face them.
‘They can’t have gone far. Trousers don’t walk without someone’s legs in ’em. No one else has been here. I didn’t hear anyone, did you, Patch?’ said Slight.
‘No, weese’ve heard if someone ’ad come and claimed them,’ said Patch.
‘Claimed them! Stole them, you mean! People in Beadledom don’t steal someone else’s clothes! I should have known not to have anything to do with Muddles! Something always goes wrong when there’s a Muddle around!’ Brian was so very angry that he used up a whole month’s supply of exclamation marks. Patch opened his mouth to speak but Brian turned on him accusingly before Patch could utter a word.
‘This is all your fault! If you had just left me alone!’ He turned to glare at Slight. ‘And yours! You and your stupid trick!’
‘That’s very harsh, Brian,’ said Patch with a sad shake of his head. ‘I thought weese was shipmates.’
‘Shipmates! How can we be shipmates? You’ve never even been on a ship! You’re just a foolish Muddle who doesn’t know anything useful! And you,’ – Brian turned to Slight again ‘- are the worst magician in the world. You can’t even do card tricks. You’re just like all the Muddles. No one is any good at what they’re supposed to be and none of you care! What is the point of not being any good at what
you are? How are people supposed to rely on you if you can’t be what you’re supposed to be! And because of you … No, because of me, because I was stupid enough to have anything to do with Muddles, Beadledom is in great danger!’ Brian remembered that he had come to Muddlemarsh to ask for the Muddles’ help. He stopped yelling and turned his back on the Muddles. He spoke softly to himself. ‘I’ve let everyone down.’
Patch laid a hand on Brian’s arm. The truth was he felt sorry for Brian. It wasn’t easy losing one’s trousers and he felt a little responsible for Brian getting wet. ‘Weese’ll find yer trousers for ya, Brian,’ he said.
‘They must be here somewhere,’ added Slight.
‘Leave me alone,’ said Brian, angrily. He pulled his arm away from Patch’s hand. ‘I don’t want your help. Go away.’
Brian put on his shirt. He was buttoning the last button, muttering angrily to himself, when a noise in a bush behind him made him turn round. He looked just in time to see a white goat with a black face step out from the bush. In its mouth were Brian’s trousers.
‘Look,’ said Slight. ‘It’s Nanny’s goat. What’s she doing way over here?’
‘And she’s a-found the trousers and is bringing ’em back, like,’ said Patch happily.
‘I’ll get them from the goat, Brian,’ offered Slight.
‘No, thank you, Slight,’ said Brian sharply. He didn’t feel quite so angry now that he could see his trousers but he wanted nothing more to do with the two Muddles. Or any Muddles, for that matter. ‘Please leave me,’ he said a bit rudely. He started towards the goat. The goat stood very still, looking straight at Brian.
‘If you say so, Brian,’ said Slight. ‘C’mon, Patch. Let Brian be. He’ll feel better when he’s dressed.’ He watched as Brian approached the goat. ‘Brian,’ he started to say, but Brian ignored him. He tried again. ‘Brian…’ But Brian took no notice. He was walking straight at the goat.
‘Brian… Brian, don’t -’
At that moment, Brian darted forward to Nanny’s goat trying to grab his trousers. Unfortunately for Brian, goats are very nimble and she skipped a few paces away out of his reach.
‘You silly goat!’ shouted Brian and ran at Nanny’s goat.
‘- chase the goat,’ finished Slight. He sighed as he watched Nanny’s goat heading across the field, Brian desperately following her.
‘She loves a good play, does Nanny’s goat,’ said Patch. ‘Nothin’ more guaranteed to make ’er happy than someone runnin’ after ’er. She’ll play fer hours.’
‘Maybe we should help him, Patch,’ said Slight, watching Brian and the goat.. The goat would run a short distance from Brian, wait until he was nearly touching her, then skip away again, Brian’s trousers still clenched firmly in her teeth.
‘No, ’taint courteous ta outstay yer welcome and I thinks he wants ta be by hisself.’
They turned and headed for the road to Home, taking a final look at the goat leading Brian into the next field.
‘What do you think made him so angry, Patch?’ asked Slight.
‘Dunno. Queer, ain’t it?’ He pondered the question for a few seconds. ‘Maybe it was fallin’ in the stream. Maybe …’ he said, struck by inspiration, ‘…Beadles don’t like water! By the bells! That must be it! I don’t like water and I dare say I’d get in a temper if I was ta gets all wet.’
Feeling better, they walked in the pleasant afternoon towards Home, talking of mermaids and sea horses, of the seven of diamonds and catfish.
It took one more field before Nanny’s goat decided that Beadles were just a little too slow to be all that much fun. Whether she felt sorry for Brian, or decided that there were likely to be tastier clothes elsewhere, she finally stopped, dropped the trousers, gave a sharp little bleat, and skipped away. Brian grabbed the trousers where they lay in the grass.
‘Stupid goat!’ he shouted. ‘Go home!’ and he started back to where he had left his coat, shoes and socks. He was in such a bad temper that he didn’t notice that Nanny’s goat had decided not to go home, but to follow Brian instead.
The goat waited until Brian was all dressed, except for one shoe. As he balanced on one foot and leaned forward to slip on the shoe, She took her revenge for the names Brian had called her. Head down, she gained top speed in a few paces, and aimed straight at Brian’s bottom. Goats seldom miss a target that is not moving and Nanny’s goat didn’t miss. Her horns thudded into Brian’s bottom and she had the great satisfaction of watching Brian sail through the air, still clutching one shoe, and land with a painful thud in a thick leafy bush.
‘I hate Muddles!’ Brian shouted.
Chapter 2
A Sad Return Home
The town of Beadleburg, as anyone who has ever been there will tell you, is very neat and clean. All the streets run straight, the shop windows sparkle, the houses are identical and the grass is always the right shade of green. The footpaths are smooth, the cracks exactly the same distance apart and perfectly free of even the smallest speck of dirt.
Beadleburg is the main town in the land of Beadledom. Actually, there is only one other town in Beadledom, but that is not to imply that Beadles are a provincial people. Beadles are sophisticated and educated. They are hard-working, serious, honest and remember the good manners they are taught when they are young. Unfortunately, Beadles are also very boring.
Nothing draws a crowd in Beadleburg like something not being what it should be, and the sight of Brian stepping from the bus, wearing only one shoe, missing one sock, and covered in much more mud than was considered polite, was definitely not how the good Beadles thought he should be.
‘Hello, Brian. Nice afternoon. You’re missing a shoe on your foot, you know,’ Hugo, the town’s grocer, said helpfully. Hugo liked nothing better than to be helpful and his face beamed with pleasure. Next to him, Isidora looked disapprovingly at Brian’s bare foot. Isidora ran the town’s bank and looked disapprovingly at everybody, and Brian decided to ignore her scowl.
‘You’re a bit dirty, Brian.’ Tek pointed at Brian’s clothes with the small screwdriver she always carried. It had a little clip like a pen and she liked to take it out of her shirt pocket just so she could slide it back again. She thought it looked professional. Tek ran the town’s electronics shop and knew that the most important skill required was to look professional.
‘You’ve had a fall, haven’t you?’ Tek pushed her screwdriver back into her shirt pocket, the way she did when she told her customers what was wrong with their toaster.
All the Beadles who had gathered around Brian spoke at once.
‘That’s mud on his coat.’
‘And on his bottom.’
‘What’s he been sitting in mud for, d’yer think?’
‘Why doesn’t he take off the other shoe? Then he’d be straighter.’
‘Oh dear, his toenails need cutting,’ said Trimsy, the beautician.
In order to understand just how difficult all this was for Brian, you have to know not just how Beadles sounded, but how they looked.
Beadles look just like anyone else but rounder. They are not very tall (there are stories of a Beadle who lived many years ago and who was said to be over five foot six inches tall, though sensible Beadles believe no such thing), but what they lack in height, they make up for with the size of their waist. They dress their portly bodies in simple, dull clothes, mostly dark green, black or charcoal grey. In fact, a queue of Beadles very much resembles a cucumber. It is often wished by their neighbours, the Muddles, that the sun would rise in the west instead of the east, for by rising in the east it has to pass over Beadledom first and by the time it gets to Muddlemarsh it is quite worn out from trying to make Beadledom a look a little brighter.
It surprises people who have just met a Beadle how fast they talk. They are able to maintain a good rate of knots when they speak by keeping their sentences short and maintaining strict limits on how many different words they use. Over a hundred years ago, one of Beadledom’s great teachers, Profe
ssor Verity, declared that ‘Synonym is just another word for confusion. Everything only has one meaning and there should be only one word for each thing.’ The following year he published a new dictionary in which every word had just one definition and every thing had just one word to describe it. It is still used in their schools today.
At the best of times, Beadles do not like to stand out. To be the centre of attention and have all the other Beadles pointing and talking to you at the same time is an unpleasant experience. For Brian, who was tired, muddy and wearing only one shoe, it was particularly unpleasant. He just wanted to go home, have a bath, put on his slippers and fall asleep in his favourite armchair.
‘What’s happening here? What’s all the fuss?’ A stern voice at the back of the crowd rose above the chatter. ‘Let me through,’ the voice demanded. The other Beadles made way, and the body that belonged to the voice pushed through to the front. He saw Brian, stopped and glared.
As High Councillor of Beadledom, Bligh was used to glaring. It was what he did best, apart from shaking hands and kissing babies. His eyes went from the top of Brian’s untidy hair right down to his toenails (which, to give Trimsy her due, were in need of attention). He stared at Brian’s shoeless foot, then slowly raised his eyes until they were staring straight into Brian’s.
Brian’s heart sank. He had hoped to be able to get cleaned, rested and changed before he had to explain his failure. Bligh was bound to make him explain right here, in front of all the other townsfolk. He looked back at Bligh.
As glares go, this was one of Bligh’s better ones. His eyebrows came together in two dark arches, like a pair of eagle wings. His eyelids drew closer together, leaving only the pinpoints of his pupils visible. The dark points fixed on Brian.
‘You’re muddy,’ said Bligh. ‘And you are wearing only one shoe.’
Brian nodded.
‘Did you see the Muddles?’
Brian nodded.
‘Did you talk to them?’
Brian nodded.
‘Well, is everything fixed?’
