Hattie squeaked gratefully, but seemed a bit concerned. “I don’t think the people would like that,” she said.
The wind blew, rocking Gruffen back and forth. He snorted a leaf off his nose and thought how Henry Bacon might react if he was the owner of this house and its plastic. Maybe Hattie was right. No burning. Not yet. “What happens if you don’t go in?” he asked.
Hattie rustled her wings the way a person might shrug. There was sadness in her voice when she piped up next. “My batlets might die of cold,” she said.
“Batlets?” said Gruffen.
“My babies,” she replied. “They need to be born inside.”
Gruffen frowned hard. This was worse than he’d thought. Bat babies? They would need serious guarding. “You could come and have your batlets in my roof,” he suggested.
“Can I?” squeaked Hattie.
Gruffen blew a puff of smoke. Without looking at his book of procedures he couldn’t be sure he was doing the right thing. It was that word, “die”, which convinced him that he was. But before he could say yes, Hattie was setting off.
“You live near the street lamp, don’t you?” she peeped.
“Yes,” said Gruffen, feeling giddy as he tried to fly upright again.
Hattie was by it in moments. “Is it this house?” she asked.
Gruffen blinked, dizzied by the glow of the lamp.
“This one’s got a hole!” he heard Hattie say.
He looked up in time to see her fly under Henry Bacon’s eaves.
“No!” he shouted and dashed in after her.
The streetlight faded and the blackness of Mr Bacon’s attic consumed him. And then whumph! he flew into something stringy which caught in his wings and stopped them in an instant. Something wooden clattered down out of the rafters, narrowly missing his head. After that, the harder he flapped, the more trapped he became. Soon his feet and his tail became tangled up as well. He fired out a jet of flame, but it disappeared into the depths of the roof space, lighting it briefly, showing his predicament. He was caught.
Caught in a net in Henry Bacon’s roof.
Chapter Seven
Almost immediately, Gruffen heard a shout from in the room below the attic. He couldn’t hear what words the voice was saying, but he could clearly understand the tone. It was Mr Bacon, sounding surprised. Any moment now, he would be coming up to see what was happening.
“Help!” Gruffen cried out to Hattie.
He heard her come swishing around his head. Amazingly, even in the dark of the roof, she could still fly brilliantly. “I think you need to practise your pinging,” she said. She swooped over him and landed. He could hear her feet scratching on a nearby rafter. At least she was safe. But he wasn’t. What would happen if Mr Bacon saw him in this net, even in his solid state? And Liz was going to be very angry. What could she say that would possibly explain the presence of one of her dragons here?
“You’ve got to get me out,” he panted to Hattie. “The man who lives here doesn’t like dragons.”
“Oh dear,” said Hattie. “I’ll try to bite through the net.” There was a flutter and her feet touched down on his shoulders. Her body felt furry against his scales. “There’s a lot of it,” she said, tugging at the bits around Gruffen’s ears. He heard it ripping and his nerves settled slightly, but not for long.
Suddenly, a column of light appeared as a door flapped back against the joists of the ceiling. Mr Bacon’s head popped up through the hole. “Right, what’s going on here?” he muttered. He shone a torch around the roof. It flashed in Hattie’s eyes and she gave her wings a flap.
“A-ha!” cried Mr Bacon. He was up his ladders like a March hare. “Bacon’s bat catcher! Works a treat!” He fumbled his way across the ceiling, being careful to stand on the firm wooden joists and not the fragile plaster in between. His torch light wobbled around Gruffen’s head. By now the young dragon had worked out a plan. Instead of flaming, if he spread his spark throughout his body scales and simply heated them up, perhaps he could melt the net? He felt sure it would work, but would he have time to do it before Mr Bacon reached this corner?
As it happened, he suddenly found plenty of time. Mr Bacon had stopped in the middle of the ceiling and was doing some kind of dance. This involved balancing on one foot and swinging his torch at an object flapping around his head. As the light sprayed about, Gruffen saw that the object was Hattie. She was dipping and swooping all around Mr Bacon, whose jigging was growing more demented by the moment.
“What the…? Get away! Be gone, you!” he was shouting.
And then his foot came down and he went through the ceiling. Not all the way through. Just one leg, all the way up to his trouser pocket. He let out a yelp that was rather like a puppy dog having its first real sight of a cat. The torch went out and Gruffen broke free of the netting.
Hrrr! he roared to Hattie. And out they went, back the way they’d come.
This time, Gruffen flew straight home. He told Hattie to roost where she could that night, then he fluttered into Lucy’s room.
She was sitting up in bed, shouting out for her mum.
As Gruffen landed on the bedpost, Liz came in. “Gruffen, what on earth is going on?” she asked.
“I heard a crash!” reported Lucy. “From next door’s roof!”
Liz stepped forward and took a piece of netting off Gruffen’s tail. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked.
Gruffen nodded and told her all that had happened at Henry’s.
“Right,” she said, pushing back her sleeves (a sure sign of trouble). “I suppose we’d better go and help him, then.”
“Help him?” said Lucy, looking put out. “He tried to catch Gruffen.”
“Exactly,” said Liz. “We have to help him understand that he doesn’t mess about with my special dragons…”
Chapter Eight
“But Mrs P,” Henry bleated for the second time. “I wasn’t trying to catch the bat. I was only trying to stop it from coming into the roof.”
Elizabeth Pennykettle tightened her lip. “Henry, you know very well that Lucy and I don’t approve of wildlife being harmed.”
“But—?”
“I don’t want to hear any bats – I mean, buts,” said Liz. “Now, roll up your trouser leg and let me treat that gash.”
“Mum, do I have to watch this?” Lucy said. She grimaced as Henry pulled up his trouser. There, in the centre of his hairy shin was a large red cut, trickling blood – his reward for kicking a hole in his ceiling.
“No,” Liz said. “You can bring me the bandage I’ve left in Henry’s kitchen.” She dipped a pad of lint into a bowl beside her and pressed it firmly against the wound.
“Ooh, ooh, ow!” went Henry, shuffling his bottom against his seat as the antiseptic in the water got under his skin.
“Serves you right,” said Liz. “What you did was dangerous, Henry. If that bat had been tangled up in that net it could have easily damaged a wing. You might have killed it.”
“There was more than one of them,” Henry said, trying to establish a line of defence.
“No,” said Lucy, “the other one was—”
“Thank you, I’ll have that bandage now,” said Liz, interrupting Lucy before she could say a word about Gruffen.
Lucy’s face reddened with indignation. “Well, you shouldn’t have caught him, anyway,” she shouted, stamping her foot just so Henry got the message. “You’re lucky that he didn’t set fire to—”
“BANDAGE,” said Liz, with a growl in her voice.
“Hmph!” went Lucy. She stomped into the kitchen.
“What is the child on about?” Henry said. “Bats are incapable of setting fire to anything.”
“Good. That’s just as well,” said Liz.
“But something must be done all the same, Mrs P. What happened to your expert?”
“You nearly broke his tail!” said Lucy, coming back.
“I what?” spluttered Henry.
Liz pressed
his wound again.
“Ow!” he yelped.
“Thank you. Now that I’ve got your attention,” said Liz. “The expert will be visiting tomorrow.” “Will he?” said Lucy, looking rather puzzled.
“Yes,” said Liz, wrapping a bandage round Henry’s leg. “His name is Mr Greening and he knows about bats.”
“Will he catch it?” asked Henry, twitching an eye.
“You’ll catch it,” said Liz, “if you touch that bat again. Ten, tomorrow morning. That’s when he’s coming. That’s when our monster problem will be solved.”
It was exactly ten o’clock when the doorbell rang at number 42. Lucy (holding Gruffen) answered the door. At first, neither could understand how the gentleman on the step could do very much to aid anyone, least of all a bat. He looked like an ancient garden gnome, thin and bearded with a multicoloured bobble hat on his head. There were cycle clips round both his ankles and a large blue rucksack on his back. Lucy thought at first he was a rambler who’d lost his way to Lands End, but when he cupped his hand above his grey, fizzy eyebrows she realised this could be him – the expert.
She and Gruffen exchanged a wary look.
“Mr Greening?” said her mum, coming down the hall.
“Pennykettle. Problem with Chiroptera?” he said.
“No, a bat,” said Lucy.
“I think that’s what he means,” said her mum. “Chiroptera is the Latin name for bats, is it not?”
“Oh yes,” said Mr Greening. “Fascinating creatures.” He closed one eye and goggled at Gruffen. “Some people think they’re related, you know.”
“Bats and dragons?” gasped Lucy.
“Oh yes,” said Mr Greening.
Lucy brought Gruffen up to her face. “Wow, you could have married Hattie!”
“Hattie?” Mr Greening looked a little puzzled.
Gruffen blushed, but of course the visitor didn’t notice.
“Her name for our ‘problem’,” Mrs Pennykettle said. “Ah, here’s Henry, our next-door neighbour. He’s been, erm, trying to solve the problem as well.”
Henry limped up and shook hands with Mr Greening. “So, what’s it to be? Butterfly net? Ultrasonic sound waves? Baited trap?”
“Henry!” Liz stamped her foot down, hard. “I’m sure Mr Greening’s got a perfectly safe and acceptable solution, haven’t you, Mr Greening?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Bat box. Up there, fixed to the sycamore.”
“Box?” snorted Henry. “You’re giving it a home?”
“Oh yes,” said the visitor. He slipped off his rucksack and undid the flaps. Out of it he brought a pinewood box. It was the shape and size of a typical bird box, but had no hole, just an overhanging roof with a slit underneath, perfect for a bat to climb inside.
“Does anyone have a ladder?” Mr Greening asked.
Liz pushed Henry forward. “Mr Bacon has everything. Don’t you, Henry?”
“I suppose so,” he muttered, and went for the pair hanging up in his garage.
Within ten minutes, Mr Greening had nailed the box to the tree. “Of course, there’s no guarantee the bat will use it,” he said.
“What?!” cried Henry.
“It takes time,” said Mr Greening.
Liz ran a finger down Gruffen’s back. “Oh, I think the bat will use it,” she said. “I have every confidence. Don’t you, Lucy?”
That night, the moon was again full and round over the Crescent. This time, it wasn’t just Gruffen looking out for Hattie. Liz and Lucy were at the window, too.
Before long, they saw her flittering round the lamp. Away went Gruffen to speak with her. “I’ve found you a new place to roost,” he said.
“Have you?” she said. “My batlets are ready.”
“Over here,” said Gruffen, landing on the box. It was shadowed by the trees, out of sight of prying eyes. Hattie landed beside him. She leaned over the edge of its roof to take a look.
“You’ll never have to wait to go in,” said Gruffen.
And sure enough, in she went.
“I like it!” she said, with an echoey peep. “Will you stay with me?”
Gruffen looked across the street, to the amber lights of number 42 Wayward Crescent. That was his home, his place to go in. His place to guard. His place to learn. “I can’t,” he said, “but I’ll come and see you – and your batlets!”
“Thank you,” said Hattie. “You’re the best driggon I know.”
“Dragon,” Gruffen reminded her.
“I was just teasing,” she twittered.
Hrrr! went Gruffen, delighted that his mission had been a success. And off he flew into the night again…
Back home, to Lucy and the Dragons’ Den.
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