The Circus of Adventure (3 page)

Kiki went under the bed and explored the slippers and boxes there. She pecked at one of the boxes, trying to get off the lid. She loved taking off lids.

Gustavus heard the noise. What was it? He looked round the room.

Peck-peck-peck! The lid wouldn’t come off. ‘Who’s there? Who iss it?’ said Gustavus, in an anxious voice.

Kiki debated what noise to make. She had a grand store of noises of all kinds. There was the screech of a railway train going through a tunnel. No—that would bring Mrs. Cunningham upstairs, and she would be angry. There was the lawn-mower—a most successful noise, but also not very popular indoors.

And there was quite a variety of coughs—little short hacking coughs—deep hollow ones—and sneezes. What about a sneeze?

Kiki gave one of her most realistic sneezes. ‘A—WOOOOOSH-oo!’ It sounded very peculiar indeed, coming from under the bed.

Gussy was petrified. A sneeze—and such an enormous one—and under the bed! WHO was under the bed? Someone lying in wait for him? He began to tremble, and the lemonade spilt again.

Kiki began to cough—a deep, hollow cough, mournful and slow. Gustavus moaned. Who was it coughing under his bed now? He didn’t dare to get out and see. He was sure that whoever was there would catch hold of his ankles as soon as his feet appeared on the floor.

Kiki next did a very fine growl, and poor Gussy shivered so much in fright that his tray nearly slid off the bed altogether. He just clutched it in time. But a plate fell off, hit one of his shoes standing nearby and rolled slowly under the bed.

Now it was Kiki’s turn to be surprised. She hopped out of the way and glared at the plate, which flattened itself and lay still.

‘Help! Help!’ suddenly yelled Gussy, finding his voice at last. ‘Someone’s under my bed. Help! Help!’

Bill was up in a trice, striding over to Gustavus. ‘What is it? Quick, tell me.’

‘Under the bed,’ said Gussy, weakly, and Bill bent down to look. There was nobody there. Kiki had decided that the joke was over, and was now safely inside the nearby wardrobe, her head on one side, listening.

‘You mustn’t imagine things, old chap,’ Bill was saying kindly. ‘There’s nobody under the bed—and never was. Nobody at all! I’ll take your tray and you can settle down to sleep!’

Chapter 4

OFF TO LITTLE BROCKLETON

Next day was bright and sunny, with big piled-up clouds racing over the April sky.

‘Like puffs of cotton-wool,’ said Dinah. ‘I hope it’s going to be like this all the hols.’

‘I’m going to get the car,’ said Bill. ‘When I hoot I shall expect you all to be ready. Allie, you can sit in front with me, and Lucy-Ann must squeeze there too, somehow. The other four can go at the back. Luggage in the boot. And if anyone wants to be dumped on the road and left to walk, he or she has only got to behave badly, and I’ll dump them with pleasure.’

‘I really believe you would too, Bill,’ said Lucy-Ann.

‘Oh, not a doubt of it,’ said Bill, putting on such a grim face that poor Gussy was really alarmed. He made up his mind that he would behave superlatively well, and he immediately put on his finest manners. He opened doors for everyone. He bowed. He tried to take whatever Mrs. Cunningham was carrying, and carry it for her. When he got into anyone’s way, which he did almost every minute, he sprang aside, bowed, and said:

‘Excuse, plizz. I pollygize.’

‘Polly put the kettle on,’ said Kiki, at once. ‘Polly, Polly—Polly-gize.’ Then she went off into an alarming cackle of laughter.

‘How’s your finger, Gus?’ asked Jack, politely.

‘It has stopped blidding,’ said Gus.

‘Well, I warn you—don’t try and play tricks with old Kiki,’ said Jack, ‘or she’ll go for you—make you blid again—much, much blid!’

‘Ah, wicket,’ said Gus. ‘I think that bird is not nice.’

‘I bet Kiki thinks the same of you!’ said Jack. ‘You’re standing in my way. You’d better move unless you want this suit-case biffing you in the middle.’

‘Excuse, plizz. I pollygize,’ said Gussy, hurriedly, and skipped out of the way.

At last everything was ready. Mrs. Cunningham’s charwoman came to see them off, promising to lock up after them, and come in every day to clean and dust. Bill was hooting loudly. Gussy was so terribly afraid of being left behind that he shot down the front path at top speed.

Bill, Mrs. Cunningham and Lucy-Ann squeezed themselves into the long front seat. The other four got into the back. Gussy shrank back when he saw that Kiki was going with them, apparently on Jack’s shoulder, next to him.

Kiki made a noise like a cork being pulled out of a bottle—POP! Gussy jumped.

Kiki cackled, and then popped another cork. ‘POP! Pop goes the weasel. Gussy. Fussy-Gussy, Gussy-Fussy. POP!’

‘What do you think you’re doing, Gussy?’ said Jack, seeing the boy slipping from the seat down to the floor.

‘Excuse, plizz. I pollygize. The Kiki-bird, he spits in my ear—he goes POP!’ explained Gussy, from his seat on the floor.

Everyone roared. ‘Don’t be an ass, Gussy,’ said Jack. ‘Come on up to the seat. Squeeze in at the other end if you like, next to Dinah. But I warn you—Kiki will wander all over the car when she’s tired of sitting on my shoulder.’

‘Blow your nose,’ said Kiki sternly, looking down at the surprised Gussy.

‘All ready, behind?’ called Bill, putting in the clutch. He pressed down the accelerator, the engine roared a little and the car moved off down the road.

‘Heavy load we’ve got,’ said Bill. ‘What a family! This car is going to grunt and groan up every hill!’

It did, though it was a powerful car, and one that Bill used in his work. It swallowed up the miles easily, and Mrs. Cunningham was pleased to think they would arrive at their destination before dark.

‘What is the name of the place we are going to, Aunt Allie?’ asked Lucy-Ann. ‘Oh yes, I remember—Little Brockleton. Are we having a cottage, or what?’

‘Yes,’ said Aunt Allie. ‘It’s called Quarry Cottage, because an old quarry is nearby. It’s about a mile from the village, and I believe only a farmhouse is near. We can get eggs and butter and milk and bread from there, which is lucky.’

‘I shall ask about badgers as soon as I get there,’ said Philip, from the back. ‘I wish I could get a young badger. I’ve heard they make wonderful pets.’

‘There! I knew you’d start hunting out pets of some kind,’ said Dinah. ‘We never can have a holiday without your bringing in mice or birds or insects or even worse creatures.’

‘I’ve been thinking of studying spiders these hols,’ said Philip, seriously. ‘Amazing creatures, spiders. Those great big ones, with hairy legs, are . . .’

Dinah shivered at once. ‘Let’s change the subject,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why, but whenever anyone even mentions spiders I seem to feel one crawling down my back.’

‘Oh, gosh—don’t say my spider’s escaped!’ said Philip at once, and pretended to look through his pockets. Gussy watched him in alarm. He didn’t like spiders either.

Dinah gave a small shriek. ‘Don’t be mean, Philip—please, please. You haven’t really got a big spider, have you?’

‘Philip!’ called his mother, warningly. ‘You’ll be dumped in the road. Remember what Bill said.’

‘All right. I haven’t got a spider,’ said Philip, regretfully. ‘You can sit in safety, Di. I say, Gus, aren’t you uncomfortable down there, on the floor, among our feet? I keep forgetting you’re there. I hope I haven’t wiped my feet on you yet.’

‘That is not a nice thing to spik,’ said Gussy, with dignity. ‘I will be angry to have your feets wiped on me.’

‘Let’s play a game,’ said Jack, seeing an argument developing. ‘We’ll look out for black dogs—white cats—piebald horses—red bicycles—and ice-cream vans. The one who is last to reach a hundred must stop at the next ice-cream van and buy ices for us all!’

This sounded exciting to Gussy. He scrambled up from the floor at once, and squeezed himself beside Dinah. Bill and Mrs. Cunningham heaved a sigh of relief. Now there would be quite a bit of peace—everyone would be looking out and counting hard.

Gussy was not at all good at this game. He missed any amount of black dogs and white cats, and kept counting ordinary horses instead of piebald ones. He looked very miserable when he was told that he couldn’t put all the brown and white horses he had seen into his score.

‘He’s going to cry!’ said Philip. ‘Wait, Gus, wait. Take my hanky.’

And he pulled out one of the kitchen tablecloths, which he had neatly purloined just before coming away, in spite of his mother’s threats.

Gussy found the table-cloth pushed into his hands. He looked at it in astonishment—and then he began to laugh!

‘Ha ha! Ho ho! This is cloth, not hanky! I will not weep in this. I will laugh!’

‘Good for you, Gussy!’ said Jack, giving him a pat on the back. ‘Laugh away. We like that!’

It was quite a surprise to everyone to find that Gussy could actually laugh at a joke against himself. They began to think he might not be so bad after all. He stopped playing the counting game after that, but displayed even more surprising behaviour at the end of the game.

Lucy-Ann was last to reach a hundred. She felt in her little purse for her money, knowing that she must buy ice-creams for everyone, because she had lost the game.

‘Please, Bill, will you stop at the next ice-cream van?’ she said. So Bill obligingly stopped.

But before Lucy-Ann could get out, Gussy had opened the door at the back, shot out and raced to the ice-cream van. ‘Seven, plizz,’ he said.

‘Wait! I lost, not you!’ shouted Lucy-Ann, half indignant. Then she stared. Gussy had taken a wallet out of his pocket—a wallet, not a purse! And from it he took a wad of pound notes—good gracious, however many had he got? He peeled off the top one and gave it to the ice-cream van, who was as surprised as anyone else.

‘You come into a fortune, mate?’ asked the ice-cream man. ‘Or is your dad a millionaire?’

Gussy didn’t understand. He took his change and put it into his pocket. Then he carried the ice-creams back to the car, and handed round one each, beaming all over his face.

‘Thanks, Gus,’ said Bill, accepting his. ‘But look here, old chap—you can’t carry all that money about with you, you know.’

‘I can,’ said Gussy. ‘All the term I had it here in my pocket. It is my pocket-money, I think. They said I could have pocket-money.’

‘Hm, yes. But a hundred pounds or so in notes is hardly pocket-money,’ began Bill. ‘Yes, yes—I know you kept it in your pocket, but real pocket-money is—is—oh, you explain, boys.’

It proved to be very difficult to explain that all those pound notes were not pocket-money merely because Gussy kept them in his pocket. ‘You ought to have handed them in at your school,’ said Philip.

‘They said I could have pocket-money,’ said Gussy, obstinately. ‘My uncle gave it to me. It is mine.’

‘Your people must be jolly rich,’ said Jack. ‘I bet even Bill doesn’t wander round with as many pound notes as that. Is Gus a millionaire or something, Bill?’

‘Well—his people are well-off,’ said Bill. He slipped in the clutch again and the car slid off. ‘All the same, he’ll have to hand over those notes to me. He’ll be robbed sooner or later.’

‘He’s going to cry,’ reported Dinah. ‘Philip, quick—where’s that table-cloth?’

‘I am not going to weep,’ said Gussy, with dignity. ‘I am going to be sick. Always I am sick in a car. I was yesterday. Plizz, Mr. Cunningham, may I be sick?’

‘Good gracious!’ said Bill, stopping very suddenly indeed. ‘Get out of the car, then, quick! Push him out, Dinah. Why, oh, why did I let him have that ice-cream? He told me yesterday he was always car-sick.’

Mrs. Cunningham got out to comfort poor Gussy, who was now green in the face. ‘He would be car-sick!’ said Dinah. ‘Just the kind of thing he’d have—car-sickness.’

‘He can’t help it,’ said Lucy-Ann. ‘Anyway, it’s all over now. He looks fine.’

‘Plizz, I better am,’ announced Gussy, climbing back in the car.

‘Keep the cloth,’ said Philip, pushing it at him. ‘It might come in useful if you feel ill again.’

‘Everyone ready?’ called Bill. ‘Well, off we go again. We’ll stop for lunch at one o’clock, and then we’ll be at Little Brockleton by tea-time, I hope. Gussy, yell if you feel queer again.’

‘I am only sick one-time,’ said Gussy. ‘Plizz, I have lost my ice-cream. Will you stop for another?’

‘I will not,’ said Bill, firmly. ‘You’re not having any more ice-creams in the car. Doesn’t anyone want a nap? It would be so nice for me to drive in peace and quietness! Well—next stop, lunch!’

Chapter 5

QUARRY COTTAGE

Little Brockleton was a dear little village. The car ran through it, scattering hens and a line of quacking ducks. Bill stopped at a little post-office.

‘Must just send off a message,’ he said. ‘Won’t be a minute. Then we’ll go and call at the farmhouse to ask the way to Quarry Cottage, and to pick up eggs and things, and order milk.’

He reappeared again after a moment. The children knew that Bill had to report where he was each day, because urgent jobs might come his way at any moment—secret tasks that only he could do.

They went off to the farm-house. The farmer’s wife was delighted to see them. ‘Now, you come away in,’ she said. ‘I’ve been expecting you this last half-hour, and I’ve got tea for you. You won’t find anything ready at the cottage, I know, and a good tea will help you along.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Mrs. Cunningham, gratefully. ‘My goodness—what a spread!’

It certainly was. It wasn’t an ordinary afternoon tea, it was a high-tea. A fresh ham, glistening pink. A veal-and-ham pie smothered in green parsley, like the ham. Yellow butter in glass dishes. A blue jug of thick yellow cream. Honey. Home-made strawberry jam. Hot scones. A large fruit-cake as black as a plum pudding inside. Egg sandwiches. Tea, cocoa and creamy milk.

‘I’m absolutely determined to live on a farm when I’m grown up,’ said Jack, looking approvingly at all the food on the big round table. ‘I never saw such food as farm-houses have. I say, isn’t this smashing?’

Gussy felt glad that Mrs. Cunningham had insisted that he should eat very little at lunch-time. He felt sure he had an appetite three times bigger than anyone else’s.