Krindlekrax Read online

  ‘Gone back to our bedroom,’ Wendy replied. ‘He hid behind the gas cooker for a while, mumbling “It’s not my fault” over and over again, then sneaked upstairs in case there was any trouble. You know what he’s like.’

  Wendy buttered a slice of toast and gave it to Ruskin.

  ‘Take this up to him,’ she said. ‘He didn’t have a chance to finish his breakfast.’

  ‘I’ll be late for school –’ began Ruskin.

  ‘Oh, I don’t ask you to do much,’ Wendy complained. ‘Just take it up. I’ve got all this mess to clear up. All I can see is toast and broken glass … oh, polly-wolly-doodle-all-the-day!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ruskin’s dad was sitting on the bed, surrounded by model animals. Some of them were made of fluffy material, some plastic. There were all kinds of creatures: penguins, snakes, bats, elephants, lions, tigers, giraffes, bears, seals, dolphins. Every time Winston got fed up, he would sit on his bed and talk to them.

  Ruskin put the slice of toast on the bedside cabinet and sat next to his dad on the bed.

  ‘How are the animals today?’ Ruskin asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Winston replied.

  ‘The fluff’s coming off the penguins,’ Ruskin noticed.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ Winston replied.

  Years ago, before Ruskin was born, Winston had worked in a zoo. He wore a baggy, dark-green uniform with shiny buttons, and a cap that wouldn’t fit over his frizzy hair. Winston had been very happy when he was a zookeeper. He loved all the animals and looked after them carefully. And then, one day, he got the sack and he didn’t have a job any more.

  Winston missed all the animals; their snorts and howls and grunts and barks, their feathers and fur and fins, their distinctive smells, the way they recognized him, nuzzling him with snouts or pecking him with beaks.

  So Winston started to buy little toy animals to look after. He threw imaginary fish to the fluffy penguins, and imaginary steaks to the plastic lions and tigers.

  ‘You didn’t finish your breakfast,’ Ruskin said.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ Winston said.

  Ruskin asked, ‘Dad? Why did you get the sack from the zoo?’

  ‘I’ve told you before.’

  ‘No you haven’t.’

  ‘Yes I have,’ insisted Winston. ‘And I don’t want to talk about it any more. Now go to school and stop bothering me.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Ruskin got downstairs he found his mum kneeling by the front door, her nose pressed to the letterbox.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ruskin asked.

  ‘I can smell the drain,’ Wendy said. ‘First a smashed window, now this. Polly-wolly-doodle-all-the-day.’

  Just outside Ruskin’s house was a huge drain. The cover to the drain was made of metal and it wobbled from side to side. Every time it wobbled it went Ka-clunk!

  In hot weather the smell from the sewer rose up and escaped through the wobbling drain-cover.

  ‘Please get up, Mum,’ Ruskin said. ‘I’ve got to go to school.’

  When Ruskin opened the door he found Dr Flowers outside, standing on the drain and sniffing.

  ‘TISHOO!’ Dr Flowers exploded.

  Dr Flowers’s nose was bright red and his eyes were watering. All summer long he sneezed and coughed and scratched his eyes.

  His pockets were stuffed full of handkerchiefs and he pulled one out now as he stared at Ruskin and Wendy.

  ‘Hay fever,’ Dr Flowers said, blowing his nose. ‘The only flowers on the street belong to … TISHOO!’ He sneezed again. ‘To Mr Lace.’ Dr Flowers looked over at Mr Lace’s window boxes full of marigolds. ‘And I can’t ask him to … TISHOO! To get rid of them. They’re so … TISHOO! Beautiful. TISHOO! TISHOO!’

  Dr Flowers pulled another handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose again.

  ‘I see another one of your windows has been smashed by Elvis,’ Dr Flowers observed, sniffing to ward off yet another sneeze.

  ‘We haven’t got many windows left,’ Wendy told him.

  ‘Mrs Walnut had her … TISHOO! Her shop window … TISHOO! Broken! TISHOO!’

  ‘When?’ Ruskin asked.

  ‘Last night,’ Dr Flowers replied, rubbing his eyes. ‘Elvis was sleepwalking again. I heard the ball … TISHOO! Bouncing! TISHOO! But by the time I got into the street it was too late. The window had already been smashed. Poor … TISHOO! Poor Mrs Walnut.’

  ‘Oh, polly-wolly-doodle-all-the-day,’ Wendy remarked.

  ‘Someone should stop Elvis,’ Ruskin said. ‘He’s a menace.’

  ‘Who would dare stop him?’ Dr Flowers asked. Then, ‘TISHOO!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ruskin replied. ‘Some hero, I suppose.’

  ‘Talking of heroes,’ Dr Flowers said, ‘I hear your school’s choosing the hero for the – TISHOO! – school play today.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ruskin said. ‘And I want to play the part.’

  ‘Well … TISHOO! You’ve got competition.’

  ‘Why?’ Ruskin asked. ‘Who else wants the part?’

  ‘Elvis Cave, of course,’ Dr Flowers answered. ‘TISHOO!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mr Lace – Ruskin’s schoolteacher – stood in front of the class and sucked his pencil.

  Pencil-sucking was Mr Lace’s favourite pastime. Sometimes he had up to five pencils in his mouth at once. Apart from his mouth, he had pencils in all his pockets, behind his ears, and even in his hair.

  Mr Lace was tall and thin and always wore a green scarf (even when it was summer) and a flower in his buttonhole (even when it was winter). His most striking feature, however, was not his pencil-sucking or his green scarf or even his flower, but the way he sang his words when he spoke, as if singing along to music no one else could hear.

  Ruskin sat at the front of the class. Because he didn’t have any friends, no one was sitting next to him.

  The only other person to have a whole desk to himself was Elvis Cave. Elvis, however, sat alone because his padded shoulders left no room for anyone else. He spent all his time talking to Sparkey Walnut (who sat at the desk behind) or bouncing his ball.

  Da-boinggg! went the ball.

  ‘Heroes, heroes, heroes,’ Mr Lace said (or sang). ‘What a problem heroes can be. Don’t you think, class?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lace,’ the class replied.

  Mr Lace ran his fingers through his hair. A few pencils fell to the floor. He picked one up and started to suck it.

  ‘Who is to play our hero?’ Mr Lace said. ‘That is our problem. And that’s why we’ve got this …’

  Mr Lace indicated something that had been at the front of the class since first thing that morning. No one knew what it was – because it was covered with white sheets – but it was very big.

  ‘Can you guess what’s under the sheets?’ asked Mr Lace.

  ‘A taxicab?’ someone suggested.

  ‘No,’ Mr Lace replied.

  ‘A speedboat?’ someone else suggested.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Mr Lace said, waving his hands in the air impatiently. ‘It has something to do with the play.’

  The class thought for a while.

  ‘Is it alive or dead?’ Sparkey asked.

  ‘Well, it’s dead now,’ Mr Lace replied. ‘But our imagination will bring it to glorious life.’

  ‘A tree?’ someone suggested.

  ‘No,’ Mr Lace replied.

  ‘A hill?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A hill alive with ants?’

  Mr Lace was desperate now.

  ‘No!’ he cried in frustration, more pencils falling from his hair. ‘You can’t be as silly as this. Think, class! Think!’

  Ruskin had guessed what was under the sheets ages ago, but only spoke now.

  ‘A dragon,’ Ruskin said in his squeaky whisper of a voice.

  Mr Lace looked at him and smiled triumphantly.

  ‘At last!’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course.’

  And he pulled the sheets awa
y, revealing a large green dragon. It was made of paper and chicken wire, with red milk-bottle tops for its eyes and cardboard egg cartons for the humps on its back. It had claws, sharp teeth, and a tail with a point at the end.

  Ruskin shuffled with excitement.

  ‘Right,’ Mr Lace said. ‘Now you can see what you’ll have to confront in the play. Who wants to do battle with the dragon?’

  For a moment no one moved.

  ‘Come on,’ Mr Lace urged. ‘Who’s our hero?’

  Elvis put his hand up.

  ‘Only Elvis?’ Mr Lace asked, glancing at Ruskin.

  Slowly, Ruskin put his hand up as well.

  ‘Very well,’ Mr Lace said. ‘We have two contenders. Ruskin Splinter and Elvis Cave. Ruskin, you can be first. Come up to the front and stand next to the dragon.’

  Ruskin’s legs were shaking as he walked to the front of the class. The dragon was so big beside him. He felt insignificant in its shadow.

  The class started to laugh.

  ‘Shush now,’ Mr Lace insisted. ‘Give him a chance to say his lines.’

  But the laughing got louder.

  ‘Shush, class,’ Mr Lace pleaded, waving his hands in the air. ‘Give Ruskin a chance.’

  But it was no good. The sight of Ruskin standing beside the dragon and wanting to be a hero was just too much for the class. Their laughter grew louder and louder and louder.

  Some of them pointed at Ruskin and cried, ‘He’s so small!’

  Others cried, ‘He’s so thin!’

  Others cried, ‘His hair’s all red and frizzy!’

  ‘Shush now,’ Mr Lace yelled. Then he looked at Ruskin and said, ‘You’d best sit down, Ruskin. I’m afraid the idea of you playing the hero is making the class laugh so much they might all burst a blood vessel.’

  Sadly and slowly, Ruskin walked back to his seat and sat down.

  The class stopped laughing.

  ‘Elvis,’ Mr Lace said. ‘Come up to the front of the class and stand beside the dragon.’

  Elvis stood up and bounced his football.

  Da-boinggg!

  Da-boinggg!

  He walked up to the dragon and stuck his finger into one of its paper nostrils.

  ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ Elvis said. ‘Silly dragon!’

  The class started to clap and cheer. They clapped and cheered Elvis every bit as loudly as they had laughed and jeered at Ruskin.

  Elvis goaded them on. ‘I’m the hero!’ he yelled. ‘Yeah? YEAH?’

  ‘YEAH!’ roared the class. ‘YEAH! YEAH! YEAH!’

  ‘Very well,’ Mr Lace said. ‘Elvis will be our hero.’

  Da-boinggg!

  Da-boinggg!

  Da-boinggg!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Now then,’ Mr Lace continued, looking at Elvis and sucking his pencil, ‘are you sure you’ll be able to learn all the lines?’

  ‘Sure,’ Elvis said. ‘Easy.’

  Ruskin thought, I know all the words already.

  But he didn’t say anything.

  ‘You know,’ Elvis said, ‘I can’t wait to be in a play. It’ll make me feel like Shakespeare.’

  As soon as Elvis said, ‘Shakespeare’, Mr Lace’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Oh, the wondrous Bard!’ Mr Lace cried. ‘The joyous wordsmith who started it all.’

  ‘Sure,’ Elvis continued. ‘I really like …’ and then he said the name as loudly as he could, ‘… SHAKESPEARE!’

  ‘Oh, the Bard! The Bard!’ Mr Lace cried, clutching his hair. ‘The magnificent master of all our imaginations.’

  Making Mr Lace cry at hearing Shakespeare’s name was Elvis’s favourite game. It had been Ruskin who had discovered Mr Lace’s weakness, years ago, when Ruskin, Sparkey and Elvis had first gone to St George’s School. But now Elvis was the only one who tormented the schoolteacher in this way. He’d even given it a name: ‘Shakespearing Mr Lace’.

  ‘Oh yes,’ persisted Elvis, bouncing the ball, ‘I’ve always admired … SHAKESPEARE!’

  ‘The wizard of all beauty,’ wept Mr Lace.

  The class started to laugh.

  Da-boinggg!

  ‘SHAKESPEARE!’ Elvis said.

  ‘Oh, no, no, no, no!’ Mr Lace cried, falling to his knees.

  ‘SHAKESPEARE!’ Elvis said.

  ‘Oh, the wonderful Bard! The Saint of Stratford! The emotion wells up in me. Down, my heart! Down! Down!’

  Mr Lace was crying so much he could barely catch his breath. But Elvis still continued with the game.

  ‘SHAKESPEARE!’ Elvis said.

  ‘Oh, the wondrous!’ Mr Lace cried.

  ‘SHAKESPEARE!’

  ‘Oh, the Titan of all time.’

  ‘SHAKESPEARE!’

  ‘Oh, the DNA of all drama!’

  Mr Lace was lying on the floor now.

  ‘SHAKESPEARE! SHAKESPEARE! SHAKESPEARE!’ shouted Elvis.

  Every tooth in the class rattled at the sound of Elvis’s thundering voice.

  Then the classroom door opened.

  Corky Pigeon, the caretaker, stood there.

  Corky was sixty-five years old, had white hair, a white moustache and a wrinkled face, and always wore a white overall. He also walked with the aid of a walking stick and wore spectacles.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Corky asked in his gentle voice.

  The class stopped laughing.

  ‘Well?’ Corky asked, walking up to Mr Lace and helping him to his feet.

  ‘Nothing,’ Elvis said.

  Corky glanced at Elvis.

  ‘Have you been Shakespearing Mr Lace again?’ Corky demanded.

  ‘No,’ Elvis replied.

  Mr Lace had stopped crying now. He dried his face with the end of his scarf and smiled at Corky.

  ‘It was nothing,’ Mr Lace said. ‘It’s my own ridiculous fault for being such an emotional silly-billy when it comes to the name of … of … of the Bard.’

  ‘Well,’ Corky said dubiously, ‘if you’re sure, Mr Lace.’

  Corky glanced at the class. He noticed Ruskin and gave him a wink.

  Ruskin winked back.

  Corky left the classroom.

  ‘Thank you, Elvis,’ Mr Lace said. ‘You can sit down now.’

  Elvis walked back to his seat, bouncing the football all the way.

  Da-boinggg!

  Da-boinggg!

  Da-boinggg!

  ‘And tomorrow,’ Mr Lace said, sucking a pencil, ‘we’ll start rehearsals.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘But I wanted to play the hero,’ Ruskin complained.

  ‘I know, my dear boy,’ Corky said.

  ‘I’d make a good hero.’

  ‘I know you would.’

  School was over for the day and Ruskin was helping Corky Pigeon sweep the playground. Ruskin’s broom was so large he could barely lift it.

  The playground was made of gravel that sparkled in the sunlight like crushed diamonds on black velvet.

  Corky knew all about Ruskin wanting to play the hero, as he had been helping him learn the lines.

  ‘I think you’re a hero,’ Corky said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  ‘It’s no good, Corky,’ Ruskin said, sighing. ‘When people look at me all they see are my glasses and frizzy hair and thin arms and how small I am.’

  ‘People are like that, my dear boy,’ Corky said, sweeping some rubbish into a bin bag.

  After they’d cleaned the playground, Ruskin and Corky locked the iron gates and started to walk down Lizard Street.

  Ruskin jumped over cracks in the pavement.

  ‘Tell me,’ Corky said, tapping one of the cracks with his walking stick, ‘do you know what made the cracks?’

  ‘No,’ Ruskin replied. ‘What?’

  ‘Well,’ Corky began, ‘the cracks were caused by –’

  Corky was interrupted by a voice exclaiming, ‘All sparkling and new!’

  The voice belonged to Elvis’s dad, Mr Cave.

  Mr Cave (along with Mr
s Cave) owned The Dragon and the Golden Penny pub. He was a small, bald, fat man who always wore a black tracksuit and always had a cigar in his mouth.

  At the moment of exclaiming ‘All sparkling and new!’ he was up a ladder and had just finished replacing a broken window. As he spoke, ash fell from his cigar and landed on Ruskin’s head.

  ‘Another broken window?’ Corky asked.

  ‘Elvis broke this one this morning,’ Mr Cave said, coming down the ladder. ‘He got Mrs Walnut’s shop last night.’

  ‘I heard,’ Corky said. ‘You should take that ball away from your son.’

  ‘He means no harm,’ Mr Cave said.

  Above them the pub sign swung in the summer breeze.

  Eeeek! went the sign.

  ‘I must oil that sign,’ Mr Cave said, puffing his cigar.

  The sign had a painting of a bright green creature on it. The creature was supposed to be a dragon and it had a golden penny in its mouth.

  Mr Cave looked at the sign and said, ‘It’s so hot the paint is peeling. If we get any rain now, it’ll probably wash the sign away altogether.’

  A window opened above them and Mrs Cave poked her head out.

  ‘Where’s my Elvy-baby?’ she asked.

  Mrs Cave was small and fat and always wore a black tracksuit and always smoked cigars just like her husband. She always called Elvis her ‘Elvy-baby’ and thought he was the best boy in the world. As Mrs Cave spoke, ash fell from her cigar and landed on Ruskin’s head.

  ‘He’s out playing with Sparkey, Mrs Cave,’ Mr Cave said, ash falling from his cigar and landing on Ruskin’s head.

  ‘Elvy-baby!’ Mrs Cave called, ash falling.

  ‘Elvis!’ Mr Cave called, ash falling.

  Ruskin looked at Corky and said, ‘We’ll have to go. My head’s getting too ashy.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  As they walked away from Mr and Mrs Cave, Corky brushed the ash from Ruskin’s hair and Ruskin ran his fingers along the dark brick beside him.

  ‘Tell me, my dear boy,’ Corky said, tapping one of the bricks with his walking stick, ‘do you know what made the bricks so dark?’

  ‘No,’ Ruskin replied. ‘What?’