How Kirsty Jenkins Stole the Elephant (2 page)

Friday

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Chapter 3

A week after Grandad died, Kirsty sat on an upturned bucket at the Jubilee Street allotments. There was no one else there. It was too cold. Wind buffeted the few straggling plants, freezing the tears on her cheeks.

The allotment was hers now. She had made a promise and she was going to keep it.

Kirsty stood up. She looked at the frozen ground. She was going to take care of it, bring it back to life. Grandad had asked her to. Just now it was wintry and bare, but she would wake it up. It was her Narnia. She was like Lucy, bringing hope. She would make it special again! She would be the new queen! She wiped her cheeks – this was no time for a ruler to go to pieces. There were important decisions to make.

She turned around slowly to get a better view of her new kingdom. The shed was behind her. Last summer, she and Grandad had painted it a swirl of bright colours: a pair of dolphins leapt over a yin-yang symbol. The dolphins had been her idea, the yin-yang was Grandad's. He said it helped him concentrate when he did his yoga. In front of the shed, a narrow brick path led down between the beds to the compost bin and water butt at the end. There wasn't much growing in the beds. Somehow, it hadn't seemed right to do very much here with Grandad away. But now it was her allotment and she had hard work to do.

‘In the spring, I'm going to plant you full of bulbs. Thousands of daffodils!' she said to an empty patch of dark soil. ‘And in you,' she said to another, ‘I'm going to grow giant sunflowers and huge daisies and ginormous poppies!'

She might have to grow a few vegetables too. Grandad would want that. His favourite had been marrows. Every now and then, when the marrows ripened, they would have the name of one of the family on the side. The names weren't carved out with a knife or painted on. They were just there, part of the marrow itself. The green skin would have a few yellow streaks, these streaks would grow together, spreading in thin fingers until they touched, and suddenly a name would appear. Grandad would smile and say they had been visited by fairies. Kirsty thought that Grandad did it, but she didn't know how to do it by herself. And anyway, she didn't like the taste of marrows; they were like dinosaur skin wrapped around snot. It would have to be something else. Peas! Huge ones the size of apples!

Her allotment was going to be the best ever. She would keep her promise. She would make it famous. People would come from miles around to see her forest of flowers. And the humongous peas. For a moment, the pain she had been feeling for so many days seemed to ease a little.

‘Oi!'

Kirsty looked up.

‘Oi! You!'

A man was walking towards her. He moved fast, waving a clipboard in the air as if he was trying to land a plane. He hurried across the allotments. He was out of breath when he reached her. His bright red face swelled out of his beige coat as though he were a giant matchstick.

‘What are you doing here?' he asked.

Kirsty paused, then said, ‘I'm planning my plot.'

‘Well don't,' he said. ‘This is private property.'

‘I know it is. It belongs, I mean . . . it belonged to my grandad.'

The man seemed to shrink a little, like a balloon three days after a birthday. He looked down. He shuffled his polished shoes against the uneven brick path.

‘I'm sorry for your loss,' he mumbled.

‘Thank you,' Kirsty said.

‘You're welcome,' the man said. Then his skin flushed even redder. ‘Only, it didn't belong to your grandad. He rented it from the council. Everyone here rents from the council. They don't own their plots. And now, well, the council are going to take it back.'

Kirsty frowned. ‘I'm Kirsty Jenkins. Who are you?'

The man looked surprised.

‘I'm Malcolm Thomas. I mean, Mr Thomas. I work for the council. I'm the Community Environmental Development Officer.' Mr Thomas seemed to swell a little again when he told her his title. He looked at his clipboard. ‘The thing is, you see, there's a waiting list for these allotments. And now that your grandad has . . . passed on, it really has to go to someone else. On the list, I mean.'

‘But it's going to me. I promised my grandad.'

Mr Thomas looked her up and down, then he shook his head.

‘No it isn't.'

‘But I promised.'

‘No,' said Mr Thomas.

Kirsty sat back down on the bucket. She had a hollow space inside, a cold pain in her tummy.

She looked up. Mr Thomas was wandering around the allotment, scribbling tiny notes to himself on the clipboard. He ignored her completely. She might have been just another stalk of sprouts as far as he was concerned. She wanted to plead with him, to beg him to change his mind. But somehow the words wouldn't come. She couldn't think properly. The raised lip on the bottom of the bucket was pressing into her leg, but she found that she couldn't move. She had to keep herself still and small until Mr Thomas went away. At last, Mr Thomas had finished ticking his clipboard. He slipped his pencil into the breast pocket of his coat. He walked past her, stopped and opened his mouth. No words came out. He coughed, then carried on walking. He was gone.

Kirsty stood up. The afternoon sky was beginning to darken. ‘It's not fair,' Kirsty muttered. She scuffed her shoes along the path, kicking against the raised bricks. ‘It's not fair,' she whispered to the leeks.

Kirsty ran home and found Mum in the front garden, filling her bird feeders. The feeders hung down all around the garden, dripping husks on to the grass and the two broken Ford Escorts.

‘It's not fair!' Kirsty shouted.

‘What's not fair?' Mum asked.

‘Mr Thomas from the council says I can't have Grandad's allotment. He says it has to go to the next people on the stupid list.'

‘What stupid list?'

‘A stupid waiting list. Mum, what are we going to do?'

‘Oh,' Mum frowned. ‘Kirsty love, I'm sorry, but we aren't going to do anything. He's right. You can't take over the allotment.'

Kirsty stared at Mum. Her stomach seemed to flip inside her, as though the garden had suddenly plummeted down a lift. ‘Why not?'

‘Well. You just can't. You're too young. Besides, it's dangerous to go down there on your own. There's all those strangers and sharp tools and germs and tetanus in the soil.'

‘But, Mum, Grandad asked me to! I want to!'

‘And the council says no. There are a hundred reasons.'

‘Not real reasons. I made a promise.'

‘Grandad wasn't thinking straight by the end. If he was, he would never have asked you.'

‘There was nothing wrong with Grandad – until he died!' Kirsty shouted.

‘Kirsty, please. Don't yell.'

Kirsty turned away. Dad was standing at an upstairs window, looking down at them. Dad would help! He'd understand! Kirsty lifted her hand and waved. Dad didn't move. It was as though he couldn't see her.

‘Dad?' Kirsty whispered.

‘He's gone to lie down. He's tired,' Mum said, still busy with the feeders.

Kirsty waved again.

Dad turned slowly away from the window. He was gone.

Saturday

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Chapter 4

It almost felt like Ben and Dawn had moved in. They had stayed last weekend, then on Monday night, then again for the funeral and now it was the weekend and they were here
again
. Kirsty stood outside her bedroom door, her palm resting on the wood. Dawn was inside unpacking, which just meant that she was moving all of Kirsty's stuff and spreading her own stuff everywhere instead. Kirsty took a deep breath and then opened the door.

‘Out!' Dawn yelled. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by clothes and her sketchbook. Her mobile phone was clamped to her ear. Kirsty was sure that Dawn only spent so much time on her mobile to show off. Kirsty wasn't allowed one, as her Mum didn't like them.

‘It's my room! I can come in if I want.' Kirsty took a step forward.

Dawn's eyes flashed devil red. She grabbed the nearest thing and threw it at Kirsty. Luckily, the nearest thing was a woolly jumper. Kirsty stepped back as a marker pen followed the jumper. She skipped out of the room and closed the door. This was unbelievable! Just yesterday she had been Queen Kirsty, ruler of her own kingdom. Today she'd been bullied out of her own bedroom. This wasn't supposed to happen to royalty. They could do whatever they wanted to whoever they wanted. Oh for a cauldron of boiling oil over the door to stop Dawn getting in. Or catapults around the house to stop Dawn getting through the front gate. Or a band of loyal knights to stop Dawn ever coming down the street! Kirsty kicked the door with the back of her heel. Then she went to see what Ben was doing.

He was where he usually was, in the front garden, sitting behind the wheel of the red Ford Escort. The car had piles of bricks where its wheels were meant to be and no engine. The other car in the front garden had wheels, but it was painted grey and who'd ever heard of a grey racing car? So Ben always drove the red car. One day Dad was going to make one working car out of the two broken ones, but that hadn't happened yet. Kirsty could hear other people playing in the street, the clatter and fall of boys on skateboards, but Ben was louder than any of them.

‘And he accelerates up past the pack, he overtakes the lead car, taking the turn on the inside – this is the fastest time this course has ever seen,' Ben yelled. He pulled hard on the wheel, braking around the corner. He let out a piercing shriek as the car nearly spun out of control.

Kirsty opened the passenger door and got in.

‘The crowd is going wild. Surely this is the best performance they've seen since Schumacher retired. Jenkins is way ahead of the other drivers and still accelerating.'

‘Ben?'

Ben slammed on the brakes. The car skidded, then shuddered to a halt. The crowd fell silent. ‘What?'

‘What would you do if you wanted something really badly and everyone said you couldn't have it?'

‘Dunno. Moan, whine? Why, what's going on?'

‘Mum and the council say that I can't look after Grandad's allotment. But I can, I know I can. How do I make them change their mind?'

‘I dunno . . . Can you just pester them about it? You're good at that.'

‘That might work on Mum and Dad, but it isn't going to work on the council man, is it?'

‘I suppose not. I don't get it. Why aren't you allowed?'

‘I'm too young. It's dangerous for me to be out by myself. I'll put a spade through my foot and bleed to death with no one around to call an ambulance.'

‘Your Mum said that?'

‘Yes. Almost. And the council have a waiting list. People queuing for allotments! The stupid council man says Grandad's bit has to go to the next person on the stupid waiting list. What Grandad said doesn't matter to them.' Kirsty took a deep breath, then said quietly, ‘Grandad asked me to look after it, see. When he was at the hospital. I promised him I would.'

‘Oh.' Ben popped the gear stick into first gear and growled as he restarted the engine. Kirsty stared at him.

‘Ben? Aren't you going to help me?'

‘I dunno. Don't you think it's weird that Dad hasn't got out of bed today?'

‘You're changing the subject.'

‘Yes, but don't you think it's weird?'

‘Mum said he was tired.'

‘He can't stay in bed all day though.'

‘Perhaps he feels poorly. Ben, listen to me. It can't go to strangers. I promised.'

‘What can't?'

‘The allotment. Concentrate. They'll paint his shed brown and plant boring stuff in neat rows. There won't be marrows with names on, I bet!'

‘You don't even like marrows.'

‘That's not the point! If someone else takes over, they'll make it all ordinary. And soon you won't be able to tell which allotment was Grandad's. He'll be gone for good.'

‘Kirsty, he is gone.'

‘No he isn't, not if we keep the garden alive. Keep it special. He won't be properly gone. And it will be nice for Dad too, won't it? When he feels better he can come and help us look after it.'

Ben was quiet for a minute, his hands resting on the the steering wheel, just like Dad's did when he was driving. Then he looked at Kirsty. ‘OK, I'll help. What do you want me to do?'

Kirsty smiled widely at him. Ben was brilliant! ‘How do grown-ups get what they want?' she asked.

‘Demonstrations, petitions, they write to the prime minister, they picket and they go on telly. Like Grandad did about the war. Some people climb up trees and live there for ages. That might be fun, like being Robin Hood.'

‘That's brilliant! Should we do all of those things?'

‘I wouldn't mind doing the tree one.'

‘There aren't any trees at the allotment, but there's the shed. We could live in that for a bit?'

Ben pulled a face. ‘It's got spiders in it. Anyway, before we try the other stuff perhaps you should go and talk to the council man first? You never know, he might be nice.'

Kirsty thought about Mr Thomas's red face and shiny shoes. ‘I don't think he will be,' she said, ‘but I suppose we should try.'