Authors: Chris D'Lacey
Gauge (7 page)
“Are they protesters?” Lucy asked her mum.
“No, I think they’re tourists,” Liz said. “Look, they’re all taking photographs of the clock.”
The cameras flashed and clicked again.
Lucy pointed to Mr Bacon, who was making an announcement to some of the people. “Next tour of the tower at noon,” he was saying. “Five pounds for the chance to see the ghost of Sir Rufus Trenchcombe…”
“Well, I never,” Liz said. She chuckled softly. Over to one side of the precinct she could see Councillor Trustable watching the crowd snapping away. He had a thoughtful look on his face. “I think our clock is saved, Lucy. If it becomes a tourist attraction the last thing the Council will want to do is knock it down. It will bring people to the town and make lots of money. It looks like Gauge has succeeded after all.” She reached over and tickled his ears.
Hrrr!
went the dragon. He flapped a paw.
“Careful,” whispered Lucy, “you’re supposed to be solid.”
“Oh, I think we can forgive him this time,” said Liz. And she raised a hand as well and waved at a small arched opening in the tower.
From behind it, Sir Rufus Trenchcombe waved back.
Suddenly, his old clock chimed five times.
Lucy looked at her watch. It was noon, or midday. But from that moment on, lunch time in Scrubbley would always be known as ‘five bongs’ – all thanks to a dragon named Gauge…
“Gosh, it’s chilly today,” Elizabeth Pennykettle said, stamping her feet and blowing on the ends of her fingerless gloves. “Still, these spring weekends are always good for business. How are we doing, Lucy?”
Liz’s daughter looked around the covered market stalls. She’d seen more elephants at a water hole than people shopping today. She looked at the rows of clay dragons on her mother’s stall then glanced at the open cash tin, which was on an upturned fruit crate beside her. There was a ten pound note and some coins in it. “We’ve sold two,” she said glumly.
“Well, that’s two better than none at all,” said Liz.
Lucy sighed and pulled on the braids of her bobble hat. She was about to reply when the clock in the tower of the library building gave out three distinct bongs. Anyone who didn’t live in the market town of Scrubbley would have thought this rather odd, for it was clearly about eleven o’clock in the morning. But to Lucy, who not only knew the whole sequence of bongs but the reason why the clock always chimed incorrectly, it was no surprise at all. It even helped reinforce what she’d been planning to say, “Mum, we’ve been standing here for over an hour. I hate doing the market on freezing cold days. My toes are cold. And I think I’ve got chilblains – on my knees!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I have to earn a living,” Liz said. “We have to eat and pay the bills like anyone else. Making and selling clay dragons is what I do. If you can think of a better job for me, speak up.” With that, she leaned across the stall and rearranged a number of her spiky green creations, moving some that had been at the back much closer to the front and placing others in little clusters, on stands.
Another spill of cold air ran though the market place, flapping the bunting on the roofs of the stalls. Lucy shivered and let her hands drift towards a female dragon in the corner of the table nearest her. It was sitting up on its back legs and tail as most of the Pennykettle dragons did. Nearly all of Liz’s dragons were characterised in some way. They carried cricket bats or wore a chef’s hat, for instance. The dragon nearest Lucy was slightly different. It had a small press of ivy leaves behind one ear. In truth, it was rather an ordinary-looking sculpture. Yet it was the most special of any on the stall. For this pretty little creature was only acting like a piece of solid clay, the way it had been taught to do in human company. But at any given moment it could soften its scales, lift its wings, make fire in the back of its throat and fly. It was real and barely three weeks old. Its name was Glade.
Lucy stretched the cuff of her glove from her wrist and held the gap in front of Glade’s snout. Then she made a strange kind of grunting sound, which to most people would have sounded like she had a bad cold. Actually, it was an ancient language called dragontongue, which Lucy and her mother had been able to speak since birth. To Glade’s ears the grunt translated as
Hrrr
, which could be interpreted in any number of ways, but which Glade understood to mean, “blow, will you?”
With a quick snuffle, Glade snorted a blast of air, warming Lucy’s fingers instantly.
“Hey,” said Liz, catching sight of what was happening. “What have I told you about using the special dragons in public?”
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