Authors: Chris D'Lacey
Gruffen
ORCHARD BOOKS
338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH
Orchard Books Australia
Level 17/207 Kent Street, Sydney, NSW 2000
First published in 2009 by Orchard Books
This ebook edition published in 2011
ISBN 978 1 40831 537 8
Text © Chris d’Lacey 2009
Illustrations © Adam Stower 2009
The rights of Chris d’Lacey to be identified as the author and Adam Stower to be identified as the illustrator of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Orchard Books is a division of Hachette Children’s Books, an Hachette Livre UK company.
“Mu-um!”
For the third night running, Lucy Pennykettle’s startled voice came echoing out of her bedroom. Along the landing, in her workplace known as the Dragons’ Den, Elizabeth Pennykettle put down her paintbrush, wiped her hands on her artist’s smock and went to investigate.
“Lucy, whatever’s the matter?”
Lucy lay quivering under her duvet. She had it pulled up so tight under her nose that only her head, her fingers and two bunches of straw-coloured hair could be seen. “It’s here,” she gulped. Her gaze slanted towards one corner of the room.
“What is?” said her mum.
“The monster,” said Lucy, in a muffled voice.
Mrs Pennykettle gave a quiet sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed. She rested her hands in her lap and looked thoughtfully at her daughter. Lucy was only nine years old. She was a bright and clever child with a strong imagination. She loved stories and was fond of making them up. She could make up a story out of anything, in fact: a missing glove, a pebble on the beach, or even a shadow creeping up the wall…
“Lucy, we talked about this,” her mum said. She pointed to a chink in the billowing curtains. Just beyond the open window, the light from the lamp in Wayward Crescent was glowing brightly through the sycamore trees, throwing criss-crossing lines and patterns into the room.
Lucy shook her head. “It’s not branches, Mum. The monster flies. It jumps about. It’s fast. It turns. It flits!”
“Flits?” Mrs Pennykettle repeated, thinking that was an interesting thing for a “monster” to do. When she was a child, monsters (or shadows) usually plodded through her imagination.
Lucy pulled down the duvet and went on in a fluster, “Sometimes it’s big and sometimes it’s small, on the ceiling and round the wall!”
“Very poetic,” said her mum.
“I mean it,” said Lucy, looking quite serious. “Close the window. Sew up the curtains. It might get in and steal me – or eat me!”
Mrs Pennykettle’s gentle frown suggested she didn’t think either of those things was terribly likely. She didn’t think a monster was very likely, either. But it was unusual for Lucy to be quite so adamant. So, sweeping her red hair behind one ear, Elizabeth went to the window to check.
In the lamplight, the Crescent looked as beautiful as ever. Autumn was almost over and there was barely a leaf left hanging on the trees. A leaf was probably the culprit, she decided. One single piece of copper-coloured sycamore, fluttering madly in the wind, desperate to complete its seasonal cycle and fall into the road along with the others. She suggested this to Lucy, who replied rather sparkily, “Mum, I’m not scared of leaves!”
“Come and look,” said her mum, not about to give up on her theory yet.
Nervously, Lucy came to stand by her side, just in time to see a large old leaf go dancing on the wind past the globe of the lamp.
“Now, quickly, turn and look at the wall,” said her mum.
And sure enough, when they looked, there between the wardrobe and Lucy’s mirror was a large, creepy fast-moving shadow. It could have been a monster – if you were nine, thought Mrs PennyKettle.
Lucy huffed and let her shoulders droop. She squeezed her pillow (which she’d brought out of bed just in case she needed any serious protection) and said, “But, Mum, I thought it had wings.”
“Well, if it did,” said her mum, guiding her back to bed, “it was probably an angel, come to watch over you.”
And that was that. Lucy climbed back in, her mum kissed her goodnight and went back to the den, and the house settled down into silence once more…for all of thirty seconds.
Then there came a yell so loud that Mrs Pennykettle squeezed on her clay too hard and gave the dragon she was making a silly squashed snout. She hurried back to find Lucy hidden under the duvet.
“What happened?” she demanded, glancing at the wall. There was nothing to be seen.
But Lucy insisted the monster had returned. “I saw it, behind the curtains!” she shouted. “It had a tiny head and ears – and teeth!”
Mrs Pennykettle plonked her hands on her hips. “Right, there’s only one way to deal with this,” she said. “Grab your hot water bottle. Tonight, you’ll sleep in my room – and tomorrow…” she paused and played with her hair a moment, “tomorrow, I’ll make you a dragon.”
The duvet rustled. Lucy’s head popped out. “A special dragon?” she asked rather hopefully.
Her mother raised an eyebrow, which always meant “yes”. “A very special dragon. A guard dragon,” she said.
