Eating Things on Sticks Page 8

  A REAL OLD FOX STOLE WITH TEETH

  We gazed around the fairground. Between the faded tents there were a few drab-looking trestle tables and battered food stands. Their signs were curling with age and peeling with damp, and made a rather good guessing game:

  IPOLATA ON A STI

  Buy your anan on a ck here.

  That sort of thing.

  The beards were out in force. Mr Appelini’s goatee was being whipped upwards by the wind. George gave me a look of the deepest suspicion through his great mass of I’m-a-mad-prophet beard, and clapped his hands over his trouser pockets as if he thought I might be an excellent pickpocket as well as a skilled arsonist. I thought at first that one of the attractions was a gorilla, but it turned out to be Old Joe, resting on an upturned bucket. Ted Hanley’s yew hedge-style beard must have grown even wider since we last saw him. Certainly everyone seemed to step hastily aside as he walked past them.

  At the far end of the fairground there was a brand-new gleaming sign that sported every word in full.

  GRAND NEW BEST BEARD ON THE ISLAND COMPETITION

  ‘So that’s why they’ve all showed up!’ said Uncle Tristram. ‘What is the prize?’

  ‘I’ll go across and ask.’ Pulling her luminous rainbow poncho closer around her black leather bodice, Morning Glory brushed down her pink tutu skirt and picked her way through the puddles towards the trestle table in her diamanté slippers.

  A ripple of excitement ran through a group of people standing close by. Suddenly one of them rushed over and stopped Morning Glory in her tracks by seizing her hand and pumping it up and down.

  ‘Congratulations! Oh, very well done! Excellent!’

  Morning Glory looked a bit baffled.

  The other people in the group were catching up now. ‘Yes, very well done! Brilliant! You’ve won again, Morning Glory!’

  ‘Won what?’ I asked Uncle Tristram.

  He jerked a thumb towards a sign propped up against another of the tables.

  !BACK BY DEMAND: BEST DRESS-UP COMPETITION!

  In my opinion, Morning Glory was very gracious about it. She didn’t tell them she had won again simply by wearing the clothes she had put on that morning. She accepted her prize – it was a real old fox stole with teeth – with a curtsey that would have done credit to Titania. She didn’t even slip away to the adjoining field to dig a hole and bury the poor fox in harmony with the universe until the judges had all wandered off.

  Uncle Tristram and I drew closer to the Best Beard Competition trestle table. ‘Now, Harry,’ Uncle Tristram warned. ‘We must avert suspicion. So when we speak to people, do try your very, very hardest not to look like a fuzzy grey blob.’

  As we approached, the man sitting behind the table looked up and inspected us gravely.

  ‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I don’t think either of you should bother to enter. I very much doubt if you’ll win.’

  ‘We only wanted to know what you were offering as a prize,’ said Uncle Tristram.

  ‘It is a nit comb,’ the man said proudly.

  ‘A nit comb?’

  ‘They’re very useful,’ said the man. ‘And this one’s made from a rather attractive mock tortoiseshell.’

  ‘Still,’ Uncle Tristram said, ‘it isn’t a prize you’d want to flash around much, is it? A nit comb.’

  And shrugging his shoulders, he took off to get in line for our own competition, the Eating Things on Sticks.

  HONOUR UNRIVALLED!

  The rules were pretty strict. First, we were herded into a tent to have our photos taken.

  ‘Why?’ Uncle Tristram asked.

  The bearded lady at the check-in table explained. ‘To stop you cheating. You have to find a warden to watch you eat your things on sticks. They take your entry card from you, check your face matches the photograph as you are eating, and when you’ve swallowed the last of whatever it is, they tick it off your list and put their signature beside it.’

  ‘All a bit complicated,’ complained Uncle Tristram. ‘I was just fancying eating a few things on sticks.’

  I took a look at the list printed inside my card. There they all were: pork pie, hot dog, salami, ice lolly . . . I counted twenty-four. I couldn’t wait to get started. ‘How do you recognize a warden?’

  ‘They’re in the yellow jackets.’

  I peered out through the tent flap. And sure enough, there did seem to be a good few men and women in yellow jackets milling about the fairground. Just as I turned back, out of the corner of my eye I saw the gable ends of a beard I thought I recognized passing the entrance to the tent.

  I nudged Uncle Tristram’s arm. ‘Hey! Look over there. Isn’t that Morning Glory’s father?’

  He glanced across. But whatever I’d seen had vanished.

  ‘Can’t see him myself.’

  I shrugged. ‘Oh, well. Probably just a shadow.’ A rubber stamp came down on my hand to distract me. ‘Ouch!’ My hand glowed purple. ‘What’s all that about?’

  ‘That’s so you can’t sneak out of the grounds,’ said the official who had branded me. She brought the purple ink stamp down on Uncle Tristram’s hand just as he asked her, mystified, ‘Why would we want to sneak away from the fair if we are busy eating things on sticks?’

  ‘In order to be sick,’ said the official.

  ‘That is disgusting.’ Uncle Tristram shuddered and turned to the other entrants to ask rhetorically, ‘Do they hang cameras in the lavatories as well?’

  I noticed nobody piped up to say they didn’t.

  ‘It’s all a bit formal, don’t you think?’ asked Uncle Tristram. ‘All these rules. Just for a simple good fun blow-out?’

  Everyone gasped.

  ‘It’s not just a simple blow-out!’ the man beside us protested. He spoke so forcefully his silken beard lifted like a net curtain in a draught. ‘There is a lot at stake!’

  ‘What?’ Uncle Tristram challenged. ‘What’s the prize?’

  ‘Didn’t you know? It’s a whole week on the mainland.’ His face went dreamy. ‘Just imagine! Supermarkets! Cinemas! Banks! A choice of restaurants!’

  ‘Trees!’ I suggested.

  ‘We have a tree on the island.’

  We didn’t tell him the bad news.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Uncle Tristram, ‘is that there’s such a splendid prize for winning Eating Things on Sticks. Yet all you get for being the Best Beard on the Island is one measly nit comb.’

  Everyone round us gasped again. Some even shrank back in horror.

  ‘All?’

  ‘All you get?’

  ‘Did he say, “All you get is one measly nit comb”?’

  Uncle Tristram determinedly stood his ground. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘One measly nit comb.’

  Everyone looked to the man with the silken beard to put us right again.

  ‘It isn’t just the nit comb,’ he explained. ‘Enchanting as that is. It is the honour. Honour unrivalled!’ He spread his hands. ‘Think of it! Best Beard on the Island! And not just any old island. Here! Here where there were no razor blades at all during the Fifty Year Skirmish. Here where there was a scissor shortage during the Nine Year Ferry Strike. Here, where the Great Shaving Cream Shortage lasted for almost a decade. Surely you can imagine the sheer undiluted glory of being crowned the Best Beard on this Island? Why it will be more of an honour even than – than . . .’

  He waved a hand, as though scouring the air around us for the perfect example. Again, moving along the back of the tent wall, I saw that shadow of what looked like an exploding haystack.

  ‘Than winning the Olympics?’ I offered tentatively.

  ‘Oh, at least! At least.’

  As the man said these words, the shadow of what looked like an exploding haystack stopped dead behind the tent wall. It was such a strange silhouette that I was tempted to step out of line to track down its source. But we’d been waiting for so long already, I didn’t want to risk losing my place.

  It was another ten minutes b
efore the check-in lady at the trestle table announced that everyone was stamped and photographed, and we were ready. ‘Off you go!’

  We all spilled out of the tent. ‘Where’s Morning Glory now?’ demanded Uncle Tristram. ‘It can’t have taken her all this time to give one little fox stole a decent and harmonious funeral.’

  I looked across the fairground. In the far corner, Morning Glory was about as close as you can get to a police officer who is supposed to be busy doing his duty. They had their backs to us, and they were staring at a cottage that had a FOR SALE sign leaning against its wall.

  I pointed. ‘There they are.’

  Uncle Tristram scowled. ‘I certainly don’t intend to miss that ferry this evening. So if they’re going to borrow my car to go back and barricade that stream, they’d better get on with it.’

  Almost as if she’d heard him all the way across the fairground, Morning Glory turned. She took Officer Watkins’ arm and, pausing only once to blow a kiss back over her shoulder at the pretty little cottage, she led him off towards the car park.

  Uncle Tristram lifted anxious eyes to the helicopters circling above us. ‘I certainly hope he doesn’t take off the tarpaulin.’

  ‘Those helicopters won’t be up there long,’ I said. ‘Mum’s bound to tell them it’s all been a terrible mistake.’

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t spend too long explaining?’

  ‘No, no,’ I told him. ‘Under ten seconds.’

  ‘Good lad. We should be safe then.’ He turned to face me and stuck out his hand. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Though we may stroll together amiably through this great wonderland of things on sticks, we are as though sworn enemies with daggers drawn. In your own time! And may the toughest stomach win!’

  EATING THINGS ON STICKS

  We had a grand time after that. The rain made some things taste a little slimy and turned some others soggy. I must admit my candyfloss was positively pitted. But you can’t ruin pork pie on a stick. Or sausage. Toffee apple on a stick holds up quite well against the occasional downpour. I had a bit of a run-in with one of the wardens when half my fishfinger broke away and fell in a puddle. She thought I ought to start over again with a fresh one. But Uncle Tristram argued my case quite forcefully – not wanting to pay for it – and in the end she did give up and tick my card.

  An hour later, while I was tipping back my head to catch the drippings from the ice lolly on a stick that I’d forgotten to eat earlier, I noticed the helicopters had stopped circling. I swung round to see them heading for the mainland – a little line of beetles across the sky.

  ‘Mum’s told them we’re all right, then.’

  ‘Good,’ Uncle Tristram said. He shivered. ‘You realize you and I are going to get a frightful slice of tongue pie from your mother when we get back.’

  ‘I know.’ I was distracted from my own short ripple of fear by a disturbance around us. Everyone began to whisper.

  ‘It’s Delia! Delia’s coming!’

  ‘Look! Look! She’s walking this way.’

  Excitement was intense. ‘See? Delia’s coming! Everyone make way for Delia!’

  The crowds fell back, to make a sort of avenue of beards. Into sight stepped a police officer. She was tall and slim. She wore her sleek black uniform as proudly as if she were a general on parade. And she was eating chips.

  I nudged Uncle Tristram. ‘There’s one that they’ve forgotten. Chips on a stick!’

  He didn’t answer. I glanced up at him. He wasn’t even listening. Just like the beardies, he was staring straight ahead at Delia as if a shining angel were passing by.

  I poked him hard. ‘No! Don’t even think of it!’

  ‘She’s very beautiful,’ he whispered. A dreamy look spread over his face. ‘And look at what she’s wearing! Isn’t that fantastic? So simple and so smart. So sober and so black.’

  ‘Stop it!’ I shook him. ‘Stop it at once! She lives here, don’t forget. And you are never, ever to fall in love again with anyone who lives on this island!’

  It was as if I’d said the exact right words to break the spell. The dreamy look passed from his face.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, and gazed around us. ‘So what do you reckon? Where shall we go next? Steak on a stick? Or are you still on the desserts?’

  MY LONG-LOST COUSIN

  We were just heading for the frozen banana on a stick stand when Uncle Tristram nudged me.

  I looked up from my chipolata. ‘What?’

  ‘Look over there.’ He jerked a thumb towards the car park. ‘See what I see?’

  I peered across. There, scrambling out of Uncle Tristram’s car, was Morning Glory. Tugging his uniform straight, Officer Watkins climbed out after her.

  ‘He must drive very fast,’ I said, ‘for them to have got back this soon.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ve been anywhere at all!’ said Uncle Tristram. ‘The whole car’s totally steamed up.’ A little bitterly he added, ‘Being in the presence of the old boyfriend has clearly turned out to be a whole lot more exciting than being in the presence of an apple.’

  I tried to cheer him up. ‘I expect she’ll make him sit cross-legged in the mud and thank his lips now.’

  But Uncle Tristram was still a bit put out at being trumped in love. He glowered as Morning Glory and Officer Watkins came over towards us. ‘Been very busy, have you both?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Spent all this time desperately barricading Aunt Audrey’s back door against the torrent?’

  Morning Glory did at least have the grace to blush. But Officer Watkins grinned. ‘We didn’t go. We just sat in your car—’

  ‘So I see,’ Uncle Tristram said, horribly frostily.

  ‘– and agreed to get married!’ He stuck his hand out. ‘And Morning Glory wanted you to be the first to know – since you’re her long-lost second cousin twice removed.’

  That startled Uncle Tristram. ‘Am I?’

  Morning Glory let out a tinkling laugh and shook a warning finger at Uncle Tristram. ‘Don’t be so silly,’ she scolded. ‘You know you are! And Harry here is yet another long-lost cousin. It was so good of dear Aunt Susan to bring us together after all these long-lost years.’

  I was so glad not to have to be Titania, I didn’t mind whose long-lost cousin I became. So I gave Morning Glory a giant hug. ‘Congratulations, cuz!’

  She turned to Uncle Tristram. In a spot, he had to hug her, too. Then, after a moment’s slightly peeved consideration, he turned to Officer Watkins and shook hands with him as well. ‘Oh, all right. Congratulations to you both.’ He stood there for a moment longer, then simply added, ‘Right, then. Now that we’re all successfully in harmony with the universe, I might go back to my pork pie on a stick.’

  Morning Glory ignored him. ‘We’re not just getting married,' she pressed on happily. She pointed to the FOR SALE sign. ‘We’re going buy that house as soon as I’ve managed to sell Aunty Audrey’s.’

  ‘Better get back and have that go at barricading the stream, then,’ said Uncle Tristram.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘So are you ready?’

  We stared. ‘Who, us?’

  She smiled seraphically. ‘Of course. For one thing, I’ll need all the help that I can get. And for another, it’s not as if you’re doing anything important here.’

  ‘We are,’ I said. ‘We’re trying to win the Eating Things on Sticks prize.’

  ‘But why?’ She spread her hands. ‘The only thing you’ll win is what you’ll have tomorrow anyway. A whole week on the mainland. The only thing you’re doing here is putting yourselves totally out of harmony with the universe by stuffing yourselves with quite disgusting foodstuffs that will make you sick.’

  I was already feeling a tiny bit queasy. But when she said that, I felt worse. I held my chipolata on a stick a little further away from me, and turned to Uncle Tristram. ‘She is right, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Uncle Tristram said. ‘I know she’s right. It’s just that I’d prefer to spend my very last aft
ernoon on this island walking round eating things on sticks to being in a cold and miserable house mopping up water.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Morning Glory said. ‘Fair’s fair, Tristram. You owe me one small favour. You’ve had a lovely, lovely week at my house. You’ve even seen an angel!’

  The dreamy smile came back on Uncle Tristram’s face. ‘Well, there is that,’ he found himself conceding. ‘I’ve seen an angel.’

  He set off cheerily through the gathering crowd towards the car park, singing a song in which the words ‘Beautiful Delia, Queen of my Heart’ featured enough to get on my nerves and irritate Morning Glory intensely.

  THE BEST BEARD ON THE ISLAND

  ‘Make way! Excuse me! Could we please get through! We’re in a bit of a hurry here!’

  The crowd weren’t budging, even for Officer Watkins.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Uncle Tristram shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s jugglers. Or a magician or something.’

  Fat chance, I thought. And I was right. When we had shoved our way far enough through the crowd to see what everyone was staring at, it was the beards.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ said Uncle Tristram. ‘Keep pushing through.’

  But Officer Watkins had come to a halt. ‘Hey, Morning Glory. Isn’t that—? Up there on the platform. Look! Surely . . . ?’

  He stared. She stared. We all stared. Morning Glory let out a gasp of astonishment. ‘Dad . . .?’

  And yes, indeed. It was her father standing there, holding a placard that said quite plainly: ENTRANT NO. 17.

  ‘I simply don’t believe it,’ Uncle Tristram said. ‘What is that miserable old body doing here? The man as good as promised he would be spending the whole of today in bed with his face to the wall.’

  I turned to Morning Glory. Her faintest flush of pink was deepening by the moment. Raising her arms, she waved to him frantically above the heads of the crowd. ‘Oh, good luck, Dad! Good luck!’

  I didn’t see how anyone whose head was swathed in such an unruly snap! crackle! pop! of hair could possibly hear well enough to catch this cry of encouragement. So I was not surprised to see him turn the other way. But then I realized that was not because he hadn’t heard the cry from Morning Glory. It was because he was already listening to someone else. There, on the other side of the semi-circle of people admiring the eight grand finalists of the Best Beard competition, there was a woman wearing a sparkly purple shift, lace mittens and pixie boots, waving a brolly which had flashing lights.