Eating Things on Sticks (2 page)

‘I could go with them.'

‘I don't think Tristram would agree to that!'

‘He would,' I told her confidently, ‘if I asked.'

Mum laughed. ‘Feel free to give it a try. Because otherwise you'll be off to Aunt Susan's first thing in the morning.'

Challenge accepted!

BLACKMAIL

‘Sorry,' said Uncle Tristram cheerfully. ‘No can do. Off on my own hols tomorrow.'

‘Where?'

‘Not sure,' said Uncle Tristram. ‘Some tiny island, I believe. Only one ferry a day, or something. I admit that I wasn't really listening.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because,' said Uncle Tristram loftily, ‘my mind was set on other things.'

I bet I knew what other things his mind was set on. ‘So who is she, then?'

‘Never you mind.'

I ran through Uncle Tristram's last few girlfriends. Jean with the grating laugh. Moira the bank teller who was forever counting her change. The acrobat called Flip. None of the stories ended happily. ‘Well, do I know her?'

‘No. She's new.'

‘Does she have any . . .' Pausing, I finished darkly, ‘–
cats?
'

That shook him up. He started paying attention. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Well,' I said, ‘we wouldn't want any terrible accidents to happen, would we? And if any terrible accidents were to happen, just like to our poor little Pusskins, it might get harder and harder for me not to let drop to Mum – entirely by accident – that it was not the first time . . .'

‘Harry,' said Uncle Tristram sternly, ‘are you blackmailing me?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘All I want is for you to offer me a roof over my head for one week. One tiny week! It isn't much to ask, and it will save me from being sent to Aunt Susan's.'

‘To Susan's?' Uncle Tristram sounded shocked. ‘Your mother's never really threatening to make you spend a whole week in the same house as that ghastly little cream puff Titania?'

‘She is,' I said.

I could tell Uncle Tristram felt for me. He started cracking.

‘If I did let you come, you'd have to look after yourself,' he warned.

‘No problems there.'

‘No hanging about, cramping my style.'

‘I wouldn't dream of it. I'll bring my holiday homework.'

‘And no more talk of Pusskins.'

‘No.'

‘All right, then,' said Uncle Tristram. ‘Just to save you from Aunt Susan and a week with Titania.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Nothing at all to do with what happened to Pusskins.'

‘Absolutely not.'

‘That's right,' I agreed. ‘In fact, I've practically forgotten all that sad business again already. Who was poor Pusskins anyway? And what did happen to him?'

He'd hung up.

Saturday

‘GLERHUS DILL SOTBLUG'

Dad dropped me off at Uncle Tristram's flat. Before he left, he walked round Tristram's fancy yellow car, inspecting the state of the tyres. ‘I suppose these treads are well within the legal limits?'

‘Tickety boo, thanks.'

‘I take it the brakes are adequate.'

‘
I'm
still here,' Uncle Tristram said a little frostily.

‘Yes,' Dad said. ‘But this time you will be driving my son.'

‘He isn't the
Messiah
,' muttered Uncle Tristram.

Dad has sharp ears. ‘He might not be the Lord's Anointed, no. But he is precious to his mother and myself. So you drive carefully.' He turned to me. ‘Any doubts,' he warned. ‘Any doubts at all, and you are to threaten to be sick on your uncle's upholstery, step out of the car the moment he screeches to a halt, and then phone home.'

‘I'm not a
maniac
,' said Uncle Tristram.

‘That,' said my dad, ‘has always been a matter of opinion.'

And he drove off.

Uncle Tristram turned to me. ‘I'm glad he's gone,' he said. ‘I didn't really care for his attitude, considering I'm doing him and my sister a giant favour by letting you tag along with me and Morning Glory.'

‘
Morning Glory?
'

‘Now don't you start,' said Uncle Tristram, and he got in the car and waited while I climbed in on the other side and fastened my seat belt. Then he took off down the street, Granny-fashion, at about three miles an hour, until we'd passed the junction where Dad was lurking in his own car, hoping to catch us speeding so he could snatch me back and send me off for a week of nature walks with Aunt Susan instead. ‘Fooled him, then,' Uncle Tristram said with satisfaction, speeding up. ‘I hope he gets a ticket for stopping on that yellow line.'

I stared out of the window. Huge supermarkets. Cinemas. Leisure centres. All shooting by. ‘Where are we picking up Morning Glory?'

‘We're not,' said Uncle Tristram. ‘She is up there already.'

‘Goody,' I said, because I like my times alone with Uncle Tristram. He's good fun. He doesn't stop at boring motorway cafes. He takes off 'till we find strange little restaurants in strange little villages selling strange little meals. He stops to moo at cows and oink at pigs. He suddenly decides we can't drive any longer without stopping for a go on the flumes in some big city pool.

It took all day and half the evening to get as far as the ferry. Ours was the last car to board. The man at the ticket office muttered, ‘Glerhus dill sotblug,' before he gave us our tickets.

‘What did he say?'

‘How should I know?' said Uncle Tristram. ‘I simply shoved a twenty-pound note under his little glass grille and hoped for the best.'

I think that hearing him say the word ‘grille' must have reminded me of when I tried to make that toast. And that made me think of the fire. And that made me think of all the workmen who were trying to put the kitchen to rights. And that made me think of Mum and Dad, so I was a little bit homesick.

(Better than seasick, which came next.)

A WONDROUS SIGHT

‘That is
disgusting
,' Uncle Tristram said, hastily moving upwind as I heaved the strange little meal from the strange little village restaurant over the rail of the boat. ‘Here. Take this to clean yourself up.'

He reached in his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. As I unwrapped it, out fell his mobile phone. It bounced on the rail. We both reached out to catch it and hit one another's hands instead. The phone splashed into the water.

Uncle Tristram swore wildly for a minute or two. Then he calmed down. ‘Don't tell your mother you heard any of those words from me.'

‘I promise.'

He gave me a bit of an evil look. ‘Yes, well, we all know what
your
promises are worth. You said you'd never mention that stupid cat again.'

I felt too nauseous to argue Pusskins' case. (Excuse
me
, but Pusskins was only sleeping where he
usually
slept. A pet cat doesn't take his nap in a flower bed and actually
expect
someone to drive a Maverati through the petunias.)

And it had been a brand-new mobile phone.

So, ‘I'm really, really sorry,' I said weakly. Then I threw up my pudding.

Uncle Tristram took pity on me. ‘Perhaps you'd be better downstairs,' he said.

‘Below decks,' I corrected. ‘You don't say “downstairs” on a boat.'

Shrugging, he made for a big heavy door that led to some iron steps. Deep in the bowels of the boat, the other passengers were sitting hunched in gloom. Most of them had beards that you could hide your sandwiches inside – even the women.

‘Why are they all in boots and mackintoshes?' Uncle Tristram whispered.

‘Perhaps they know more about the weather where we're going than we do,' I suggested sourly. (I was still feeling rubbish.)

‘Promph yarp ochellin?' one of the bearded people suddenly suggested to Uncle Tristram.

‘Quite so!' he answered with a somewhat haunted look.

‘Merpliddle fixam nop,' added another.

‘Indeed, indeed.'

‘Blerty ach nerp!'

Uncle Tristram stood up. ‘Well,' he said cheerily, ‘I think perhaps we'll have another small peep at the view from upstairs.'

‘On deck,' I corrected.

‘Whatever!' Uncle Tristram snapped, and led the way back up the iron steps. We were quite near the island now. Apart from one great lump of a hill that rose in the middle, the whole place was dead flat. There didn't seem to be a single tree on it – not even a stump.

‘Perhaps it's been used for bombing practice recently,' I couldn't help suggesting.

‘Nonsense,' said Uncle Tristram. ‘It is a wondrous sight. Wide and uncluttered. Perhaps the winters are quite harsh round here, so trees can't get established.'