On George’s Day
Jerry Dunne
Smashwords Edition
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On George’s Day
ISBN: 978-0-9566794-4-4 (eBook)
Visit the author’s blog:
http://www.jerrydunne.wordpress.com
eBooks by Jerry Dunne
Chatter and Squeal Racing Series
ON GEORGE’S DAY
HERE COMES THE ROOSTER!
Samantha Brown Series
COP GIRL UNDER FIRE
Short Story Collections
MY STINKY PARENTS AND OTHER STORIES
Non-Fiction
HOW TO WRITE CHILDREN’S SHORT STORIES (FOR THE MIDDLE READER)
CONTENTS
3. Two Very Different Meetings
5. The English Chatter and Squeal Racing Association
6. The Gallops and Squashed Potato
7. Amy
9. A Whole New World Opens Up for Amy
12. Tempers Rise
13. The Old Healer
14. Berty’s Decision
16. A Brave Lass
17. The Staff
19. The Portrait
21. Preparations
23. The Threat
24. Jack Finds Out What’s Going On
25. Amy Warns Mrs. Puffwhistle
26. Fearful Moments before the Race
28. The John Smith Cabbage Cup
CHAPTER 1
Life at the Puffwhistles
Berty Puffwhistle rushed out of the kitchen and into the hallway, waving a dishcloth about.
“Is she ready, Jack?”
His son, standing at the top of the stairs, gazed along the corridor to his parent’s bedroom. The door remained closed.
“Not yet, Dad.”
Berty dashed back to the kitchen.
Eventually, the bedroom door opened and Lizzie Puffwhistle stepped out into the corridor. She was a tall woman with shoulder-length dark hair and these days a thin, pale face. She wore a white jumper and white skirt and both hung loosely off her frame. Her slender figure moved cautiously toward her son. Despite her tired look, she gave the boy a warm smile.
Jack ran forward and took her hand, and they made their way to the staircase. His mum leant her weight on the banister while keeping a grip on her son’s arm, and then both descended one step at a time. Halfway down, she stopped with a sigh.
“Have the boys arrived?” she asked.
“Any minute now, Mum.”
“George isn’t one to be late.”
Breathless, Berty appeared in the hallway and smiled up at her. “Dinner’s ready.” He began to climb the stairs.
Jack raised his hand. “I can do it, Dad!”
When Lizzie Puffwhistle stepped off the last step she accepted her husband’s hand, and with slow steps they all went through to the dining room.
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it.” Jack dashed out the room.
The three chatterers, or monkey jockeys, stood waiting on the doorstep in evening dress: black jacket and trousers, white shirt and black bow tie. They wore nothing on their feet. In order of seniority, they were George, Billy, and Smithy. Their long thick tails, sticking out the backs of their trousers, curled upwards at Jack’s smiling face.
George was a monkey not even three feet tall, but he always stood with the calm confidence of a creature twice his height. Though his eyes had always been dark mysterious pools touched with a little sadness, Jack thought they’d grown sadder in recent days. George’s light-pink face deepened a little as he asked in Chatlish, the common chatterer language, “How is she tonight, Jack?”
“Not too bad,” Jack replied in Chatlish.
Once they were all inside the front door, George said to the others, “Don’t let me down tonight. Remember your table manners.”
Like his uncle George, Smithy had a light-pink face with white sideburns, and very large intense eyes. “I’m going to be on my best behaviour, Uncle George.”
“Manners never cost a penny,” George added.
The other chatterer, Billy, had black fur, a black face and a flat nose. Much bigger than the average jockey, he stood at three feet three inches tall and had big hands and feet and a long curving tail. He had light-brown mischievous eyes and nearly always a grin on his face. His size, combined with his grin, made him appear wild and menacing and even his evening dress failed to make him look respectable. Now he rolled up his eyes and reckoned, “Nothing to get excited about. We’ve dined here a thousand times before, man.”
“But it won’t be the same without Lizzie’s cooking.” George fiddled excitedly with his bow tie. “Let’s just hope she’ll be well again in no time and running this house as it should be run.”
Jack grinned. “Dad’s never cooked before in his entire life.”
“Let’s not break the man’s spirit on his first go out,” George said with a weary sigh.
In the dining room above the fireplace hung a huge portrait of George in his red-and-white-striped jockey silks seated on The Blind Lightning, the legendary blind racing pig. The artist’s initials, LP, were to be found in the right bottom corner: Lizzie Puffwhistle. In the portrait, George’s right hand held the racing pig’s reins. Instead of having a left sleeve, his silk vest was stitched closed at his left shoulder. George had never had a left arm. The George in the painting had a few less wrinkles on his face than the George who now took Lizzie Puffwhistle’s hand and kissed it. “And how are you this evening, Lizzie?”
“So so, George,” she replied in his Chatlish language. “Sit down everyone! You boys must be hungry after a hard day’s training.”
“I could eat a horse,” Billy cried out.
All the family spoke Chatlish with the chatterers present. Berty now said in that language, “I’ve done my best. Might not be up to Lizzie’s high standards, but what can you expect of a raw beginner.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be more than adequate,” George said.
“Bring it on, man!” Billy whooped.
Everyone at the table was Yorkshire born and bred, except for Billy. He came from Newcastle, which was why he often called everyone ‘man’.
Smithy seated himself beside his uncle, grabbing up a knife and fork and sticking his elbows on the table.
George visibly recoiled, and said quietly to his nephew, “Put down the knife and fork, lad. There’s nothing to eat yet. And get those elbows off the table! How many times do you have to be told?”
“Sorry, Uncle George.”
“I’ll help bring out the food, Dad.”
“I can manage, Jack.”
Lizzie spread some butter on a piece of French bread and Jack followed her example. With a glance at Smithy, Jack crammed a piece of bread into his mouth, swallowing quickly. Smithy opened his eyes wide at Jack’s gluttony. Then, sticking a bit of butter on his own bread, he shoved a big piece into his mouth.
George caught the action from the corner of his eye. “You’re not in the Clubhouse now, lad,” he whispered.
Berty brought out the soup and filled their bowls. Then he sat down opposite his wife and lifted his spoon. Silence settled in as everyone began sipping or blowing on their soup.
After a few sips, Berty glanced round the table. But no one looked up and caught his eye. So he cleared his throat and asked, “How’s the soup?”
All but George answered, “Fine. Good effort, Berty.” And, “Good one, Dad.”
Berty Puffwhistle had soft friendly eyes and a quiet face that made you think of a teacher or a librarian. He even wore old-fashioned brown-framed spectacles that heightened that impression. He dressed in brown or grey colours and certainly wasn’t the sort to draw attention to himself, or seek praise for whatever he did in any way. Yet it was obvious now that he wanted to discuss his cooking skills. He said to George, “I used fresh tomatoes for the soup and picked fresh basil myself from the plant.”
“That’s the way to do it, man,” Billy cried.
“You haven’t said anything so far about the soup, George.”
George put down his spoon and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I’m not sure what to make of it, Berty.”
“Not sure?”
“Oh, I like it right enough.”
“But there’s a problem?”
“Not exactly, Berty. It’s just that... well, the basil’s fine.”
“But?”
“It’s the tomatoes, you see.”
“What’s wrong with the tomatoes, George?”
“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the tomatoes, Berty. The tomatoes are perfectly fine. It’s just that… when you blend the tomatoes you shouldn’t blend them completely to liquid. You should still have the bits.”
“The bits?”
“Bits of tomato. That’s the way Lizzie does it. You don’t use overkill.”
Berty’s jaw fell down.
Lizzie put her hand over her mouth to hide her silent laughter. “But you do like it, George?” she asked.
“I still like it,” George admitted, returning to the soup.
Humbly bowing his head, Berty promised, “I’ll try and do better next time.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will, Berty,” George agreed.
Smithy asked, “Will it be long before you can cook again, Mrs. Puffwhistle?”
“I’ll be getting my new medicine shortly, and fingers crossed, I’ll have more energy to do things again.”
“You’ll be back to your old self in no time, Lizzie,” Berty insisted.
When they’d finished the soup, Berty removed the bowls from the table. Soon a joint of roast beef circled with roast potatoes on a big silver tray appeared on the table. Smaller dishes of cauliflower, carrots, peas, mashed potato and Yorkshire pudding quickly followed. And last but not least, a sauce boat of steaming gravy arrived.
Within a minute, they were all tucking in.
“Very nice beef.”
“How’s the sauce?” Berty asked.
“Excellent.”
Jack, Billy and Smithy, all with their mouths full, nodded in agreement. Jack and Smithy were secretly competing with one another to see who could get though the meal the quickest. But George was picking at his food.
After a while, Berty asked, “What do you think of it, George?”
George frowned. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
Mother and son glanced at one another and their eyes flashed with merriment. Lizzie said to change the subject, “The sooner I’m better the sooner things will get done about the house. Nobody thinks to do any dusting.”
“We can help you about the house, Lizzie,” George insisted. “Apart from dusting, which I don’t understand in the slightest, what sort of things need doing?”
“There’s the picture I want hung up on the staircase wall.”
In no time at all, Jack had finished the last bit of food on his plate, and now was grinning triumphantly at Smithy, who had yet to finish much of his dinner.
Jack reminded his mum, “And you want the piano brought downstairs.”
“I want to spend more time in the living room. Going up and down the stairs tires me too much.”
When the main course was over, father and son collected the plates off the table.
Billy burped gently and said, “I like a good bit of spud and Yorkshire pudding inside me, man. I like it right here in the pit of my stomach.” He put his hands flat on his stomach and pushed in gently. “That food went down a treat.”
George said, “I don’t have my appetite today,” as Jack picked up his half-finished plate off the table.
“I’m sure it’ll return next time,” Lizzie said in sympathy.
But George said, “Perhaps.”
From the kitchen, they heard the sound of a dish smashing.
Lizzie raised her voice. “What happened, dear?”
“Nothing to worry about,” Berty shouted out to them.
George stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “Berty’s got a lot to learn,” he said.
“I’d better see if he needs help.” Lizzie began to rise from the table.
“No need, Lizzie!” George jumped up. “You just stay right in that chair and rest yourself. Berty’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”
She put a hand to her brow and took in a deep breath. “Yes, you’re right, George.”
Returning from the kitchen, Jack asked, “What’s the matter, Mum?”
“I think I got up too quickly. What broke?”
“Only an old baking dish.”
“You’ve got to lie down, Lizzie,” George said gently.
“No need for fussing,” she said. “Just give me a minute.”
Jack noticed her face looked suddenly much paler, which he didn’t think was down to the broken dish.
*
The Puffwhistle house lay in the heart of the Yorkshire countryside between the old spa town of Ilkley and the ruins of Bolton Abbey. Hills with green pasture rising to dark upper moors dominated the landscape. Dry stonewalling had cut the green parts of the hills into various-shaped fields, in which cattle, sheep and horses grazed. Woodland nestled in the valleys and dips of the lower lands and the river Wharfe flowed noisily along at the lowest point.
The stone house had a slate roof. The old wooden window frames and door were painted brown. A gravel driveway curled up to the front door. A small wood of beech, poplar and oak trees surrounded the house. Out back stood an old stone barn, a stable, tack room and an artist’s workshop. Beyond these buildings and the garden lay a quarter-mile meadow known as the gallops. The gallops had developed over several years: stones and sharp objects had been removed and the field sown with a mixture of special grasses to make a soft ground on which the racing pigs – more commonly known as squealers – could exercise safely without likely fear of injury. The gallops had a set of thirty-two-inch high fences on it as the Puffwhistle squealers were jumpers as well as flat racers. The average height of a squealer to the top of his shoulder is thirty-nine inches or three feet three inches.
Though it was only five thirty in the morning, with the sun still not fully clear of the hills, Jack, the jockeys and squealers were out training on the gallops.
Smithy was cantering Elizabeth’s Gem (named after Lizzie Puffwhistle) down the gentle slope of the meadow. The squealers only ever galloped up the meadow, which made it much safer on their tendons than downhill galloping. The woodland at the meadow’s far end rang noisy with birdsong. Smithy turned in front of the beech and oak trees and began his gallop back up the meadow’s gentle slope. Jack watched The Gem’s big powerful rump working those back legs, propelling his jockey with ease up the field. The Gem, an excellent sprinter, was also a stamina animal, and was easy to ride and very predictable, which was ideal for Smithy, who was an apprentice (beginner) jockey.
When Smithy finished his run, Jack waved him over. The Gem bounded across like a big Labrador, licking at Jack’s hands. The boy ran one hand down the squealer’s pink neck, steadying him.
“Gallop him flat out for two hundred metres, and do it three times. Give three minutes rest between each sprint. But don’t let him stand still.”
“Will do, Jack.”
“You’re going to be in some big apprentice races from now on. You’ll need to start quickly so as not to get boxed in by the other beginners. It can be a nightmare if you’re trapped in a crowd approaching the first fence. We must get The Gem’s muscles and brain used to a great start and to be in front at the first fence.”
“Right, Jack.”
Jack glanced over to the house, to his parents’ bedroom window, and saw a light go on inside. His dad had turned that light on. His mum would get up now. Today she had to go to London for an appointment with a medical specialist. Dad would help her dress and get down the stairs and then make her breakfast before driving her to London. Not so long ago she’d done everything for herself. Jack understood that the medicine she now took was only slowing her illness, not stopping it. Eventually, she would get worse if she stayed on the same treatment. He also understood that this new medicine she would soon be on might not actually stop the illness from getting worse.
And what if it didn’t? His stomach tightened. He turned at the sound of Elizabeth Gem bursting into a sudden gallop from a standing start. The squealer’s balance looked perfect as he sprinted past the fifty metre flag. Jack believed he’d be the most talented runner in his next race. The squealer had broken his maiden (first win) on his very first race, beating the rest of the field by ten lengths. Chatter and Squeal magazine had written about him: ‘A squealer to watch out for.’ The Puffwhistle name was famous in racing, and George and The Blind Lightning were track legends, so Jack knew the magazine was always going to watch their squealers closely and say promising things about them. All the same, The Gem had won six out of seven quality beginner races which could only be seen as a great start.
Jack looked at his stopwatch and shook his head: he’d forgotten to time the sprint. He glanced over again at the house.
Giggleswick, white with black patches on his head, back and legs, was a big squealer and Billy a big chatterer, so they nicely matched one another in size. No matter how much Jack groomed the squealer, he still looked a bit scruffy. And no matter how well fed and rested, he still had an ‘out to lunch’ look in his eye. He had that in common with Billy, too.
Billy settled into a three-quarter gallop heading toward the jumps. Giggleswick had an awkward way of running, but it said nothing about his ability. Approaching a high fence, the squealer seemed to hesitate with a slight nod of the head. This was a quirk of his, a habit he had before jumping. He cleared the fence well.
Though he’d retired two years earlier, George never missed a morning out on the gallops with The Blind Lightning. With Billy on Giggleswick, George and The Blinded now put The Gem through his paces. The two more experienced squealers made The Gem start quickly and then hemmed him in as he ran toward the first fence. The Gem forced himself out from between the other two, pulling his head and front legs high and making a clean jump.
After a series of quick starts followed by hard jumps, the Gem stopped to rest. Smithy himself was gasping for breath.
“It’s much harder when I get jostled like that,” he admitted.
“That’s the way it’ll be, lad,” George said. “Apprentice jockeys find it hard to control their squealers.”
Jack heard a neighing from the field below the gallops. He spied the tall, chestnut horse standing beyond the gate separating the two fields. He ran over, taking an apple from his pocket.
“Morning, Oily.” He held the apple out.
He’d tried to get up on Oily’s back many times, but the horse had never stood still long enough for him to succeed. Oily was slippery to the touch; his name well suited him. Oily finished the apple and then swung his body away from Jack.
“That’s not very friendly. You take my apple and then ignore me.”
The boy climbed the gate and waded through the knee-high dewy grass. But before he got within six feet, Oily raised his head, tail and knees sharply, and cantered away. High hedges and trees blocked the view into this field from the gallops. Jack checked that George couldn’t see him, and then ran at Oily. He managed to get a hand on his mane, but Oily bolted forward before the boy was able to swing up onto his back.
A blackbird flew low overhead, dropping a sharp disapproving cry at the boy. George would give him the same if he knew what he’d been up to. Jack was puffing hard in frustration. One day he’d get up on Oily’s back. One day he’d do it every time. Then he’d show his skill off to the others.
As he climbed back over the gate, Oily whinnied at him. To Jack it sounded like a mocking cry. ‘Tired already, Jack?’ the horse seemed to say. Usually, the boy would make several more attempts to get up on Oily‘s back, but today he had other things on his mind.
*
The stable contained three stalls, a squealer resting in each one. As usual at this time of day, classical music was playing in the stable. The squealers loved their music in the morning.
The Blinded always kept his head raised high, except when he had his snout stuck in a fresh cabbage. Now he was twisting it this way and that, ripping the vegetable to pieces.
The squealers’ body hair was the same thickness as a horse’s and needed quite as much grooming, and looked just as shiny when groomed properly. Jack picked up the rubber comb and using a circular motion worked away on The Blinded’s coat, keeping an eye out for anything that might be caught under the hairs. The Blinded was a strong, though elegant squealer, mostly light-brown, but with black patches from his thighs down to his ankles. And those legs were quite long with a look of lightness about them. They had never seemed to tire in a race.
Billy and Smithy were grooming Giggleswick and Elizabeth’s Gem. George sat on a bale of straw, giving instructions to his nephew.
Smithy said, “I know the course on my next race has a fence right on a tight bend. What’ll I do about it?”
Billy grinned, “You jump it.”
“You can practice some tight bend running tomorrow,” George said.
“There seems to be so much to learn so quickly,” Smithy said with a troubled grimace.
After the grooming, Smithy threw a towel across the Gem’s pink back and then rubbed the towel into him to bring out the shine. Next, he used the hoof pick to scrape away any dirt lodged under the hooves. His hard work was rewarded by a nod of satisfaction from his uncle.
“Just keep your head about you,” George said. “You won’t win any races by losing it. But you might win some by keeping it.”
“I’ll wear my best lucky charm for the race.”
“Your best lucky charm is your own brain, lad. I suggest you wear that all the time.”
Jack mucked out the stalls. Once he’d removed all the soiled straw, he scrapped a shovel along the floor to remove any stuck straw or dirt. Then he threw down fresh straw. He threw some over Smithy, too, who picked out a long piece of it and stuck it in his mouth.
“I won’t lose my head,” he said coolly, winking at Jack.
As soon as they lay down on their fresh beds, the squealers fell asleep. Jack turned the music off, wiped the sweat off his brow and checked his watch. He dashed out the barn and round to the front of the house where he stopped breathless on the gravel drive. The car was still here. He closed his eyes and took in a huge lungful of air.
The front door opened. His mum smiled at him, “Finished on the gallops then, Jack?”
He threw his arms round her thin body. She kissed him on top of the head and then took his hand and walked with him to the car.
“It might be very late before we’re back,” his dad reminded him from behind the steering wheel.
“I know.”
The engine started and all too quickly the car disappeared out the drive.
With Mum and Dad Away
The Clubhouse was a six-sided tree house, perched twenty feet above the ground and set in the centre of an odd-shaped oak tree. At each corner of these six sides a stout pole ran down vertically into the earth to help balance and support the tree house. The house had glass windows and a balcony that went all round. The chatterers climbed up by using either a rope or rope ladder, which hung off the edge of the balcony. Their own private house, situated in the middle of the small wood behind the big house, they preferred it here to living on the ground.
Jack and the three chatterers now climbed up by rope. Though George had only one arm, his strong, flexible tail often took over the role of a second arm. Jack climbed well, but lacked the monkeys’ great climbing skills. Yet this morning, he reached the balcony first.
Inside the Clubhouse’s single big room, Billy removed the lid off a silver dish and offered Jack a big juicy worm. Not wanting Billy thinking him scared, the boy picked up a pink one. Its fat body wriggled between his pinching fingers, trying to escape. He bit his bottom lip, forcing himself to concentrate hard on not getting sick, and raised the worm to his mouth.
Billy tilted back his head, his eyes twinkling, and slipped a wriggling orange worm down his own throat. “Uum! Just what the doctor ordered. And just what a growing lad needs. Go on, man!”
Jack sucked in a lungful of air. Don’t chew! he told himself. It’ll be all squashy. Just swallow it straight down, the way Billy always does. He prayed it wouldn’t wriggle about in his belly all day, but die quickly. Trying not to think of worms, but of… a chocolate finger, he tilted back his head with his eyes tightly closed, and held the fat twisting worm above his wide open mouth. Here goes!
“Give me that!” George pulled the worm from the boy’s fingers. “You know it’ll only make you sick. Billy, don’t be encouraging the lad!”
Jack heaved out a sigh of relief.
Billy gave George a big grin and shrugged innocently. Then he whispered in Jack’s ear, “One day, when George is not around to spoil our fun, eh?”
George sliced up some apples and arranged the pieces around the edge of a large plate. He peeled oranges and quartered them and placed them on the inside of the apple slices. He peeled big prawns and arranged them carefully inside the orange segments. Finally, he added mussels, cockles and various types of nuts and herbs. Everyone then helped themselves.
Jack popped some orange into his mouth, gazing round at the six walls of the Clubhouse. The shelves and cabinets in here were piled high with trophies and medals won by George over a lifetime’s racing. He had two ‘World Jockey Champion’ gold trophies, six ‘England Jockey Champion Of The Year’ medals and hundreds of other trophies from top Group 1 championship races. These included the prestigious ‘John Smith Cabbage Cup’ six times, ‘The Gold Turnip Cup’ from ‘Royal Chascot’ three times, ‘The Derby Cup’ seven times, trophies and cups from ‘Goodwood’ where he once won eight out of eight races in a single day. And these were to name just a few.
On one shelf was a framed photo of the young George after winning the ‘John Smith Cabbage Cup’ for the first time. Dressed in the Puffwhistle’s red and white stripes he stood in between a young smiling Berty and Lizzie. The cup for that race was up on the shelf beside the photo. It was a huge silver trophy with a deep and fanciful engraving: George Puffwhistle, winner of the John Smith Cabbage Cup, with an engraved outline of a squealer underneath the writing. One time, George had taken it down off the shelf and said to Jack, “I’ve been offered a fortune for this trophy, Jack. But I wouldn’t part with it for anything. And I mean anything.”
Also up on the shelves were Billy’s trophies and medals. He’d been racing with the Puffwhistles for five years, and had won quite a few prestigious races in that time. To name a few, he’d won ‘The Stonehenge Mud Dash’, ‘The National Sprint’, ‘The Ripon Mile’, ‘The York Golden Turnip Steeplechase’, ‘The Hot Cabbage Mile’ in ‘The Pontefract Classics’ and ‘The Windsor Run’. George and Billy were both winners of ‘The Hot Cabbage Mile’. George had won it twice. The winner receives a hot cabbage for his squealer who eats it in front of a cheering crowd.
Smithy had yet to win a big apprentice race but everyone hoped he’d win one soon.
George was saying to Smithy, “Make sure you eat plenty of nuts, lad. They’re full of protein. They’ll help build up your strength. You’ll need that for your race over in Thirsk end of next week.”
The ageing chatterer gazed at Jack for a while before saying, “It’ll work out all right, Jack. They’ve got a lot of smart doctors in London. And this new medicine will be much better than the old. What your mum needs are good folk like us who’ll help her round the house.” He popped a piece of apple into his mouth and chewed on it slowly. “She’s going to be in for a bit of a surprise when she gets home. We’re going to hang that painting of hers up for a start.” His eyes were sparkling. “We can certainly do that.”
“Have you hung up a painting before, man?”
Wrinkling his brow, George said a touch grumpily, “It doesn’t take a genius to hang up a painting, Billy.”
When his mum came home and saw the painting hanging up on the stairway wall it would put a smile on her face. Jack’s eyes widened as another thought occurred to him. “Why don’t we bring the piano downstairs as well?”
“You are a considerate son,” George said. “But I don’t know.”
“We’d do it easy,” Jack insisted.
“Aye, possibly,” George rubbed his chin a few times. “It’ll be a great surprise for her, all right. Okay, we’ll bring the piano down, too.”
“I’ll go get the painting,” Jack cried.
What had once been a cowshed was now a cosy artist’s studio. Sunlight was spilling in through the big window set in the stone wall, warming Jack’s face. On the shelves, oil and watercolour brushes stood brush down in jars of muddied spirits. An easel stood on the floor holding up an unfinished painting of the river Wharfe. The familiar smell of paints reminded Jack of the times his mum had been happy working on her canvases. But today the room seemed very still and quiet like in a painting. He found what he wanted lying against the far wall: a painting of a bowl of table fruit with a beautiful frame made by his dad. This one had a carved Celtic design finished off with gold spray. Jack grabbed the painting and fled the lonely studio.
*
At the bottom of the stairs, Billy waited with the painting while George, Smithy and Jack hovered halfway up, gazing at a bare wall.
“There’s something I don’t get, man.”
“What’s the matter now, Billy?”
Billy was staring at the painting. “I know I’ve no head for paintings and the like. But I just don’t get the point of the painting. What‘s the point of painting a bowl of fruit? And what’s the point of hanging it on the wall?”
“You’re certainly right, Billy,” George sniffed. “You don’t have a head for paintings.”
The big chatterer shook his head. “I mean, you can’t eat it, can you? Don’t get me wrong or anything, man. I think Mrs. Puffwhistle has painted a bowl of fruit that looks exactly like a bowl of fruit. But so what, man?”
“It’s culture, Billy,” George sighed. “Culture and taste.”
“That’s what I’m getting at, man,” Billy cried. “You can’t taste the fruit! So what’s the point?”
George shook his head. “Not that kind of taste.”
“Well, how many types of taste are there?”
“Look, this is Mrs. Puffwhistle’s passion. So mind what you say!”
“I didn’t say anything against Mrs. Puffwhistle. I happen to think she’s a very nice lady.”
George drew in a sharp breath. “She’s an extraordinary woman,” he reminded Billy. “Now can we please get on with the business at hand?”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“Bring up the painting!”
Billy came up and held it against the wall.
“A little higher! That’s perfect.” George took a pencil from behind his ear and made a mark above the painting’s frame. “Right, put the painting upstairs for now!”
Billy left it against the landing wall.
George put the pencil back behind his ear. “If you’re going to do a job,” he said to Smithy, “do a good job.” George pulled a nail out from behind his other ear and held it up for all to see. “This is the type of nail you want. This nail will enable everyone to admire Mrs. Puffwhistle’s painting for years to come.”
As though by a feat of magic, a hammer appeared in George’s hand.
“Jack, take this nail and hold it in place!”
Jack took the nail off George and held it up to the wall. George drew back his arm, waving the hammer about dangerously. The thought of that hammer hitting his fingers made Jack close his eyes.
“You won’t miss, will you, Uncle George, and hit Jack’s fingers?”
“I never miss, lad.”
The next thing Jack heard was a loud whack. He opened his eyelids to see the nail embedded halfway in the wall. He pulled his fingers away, twiddling them about a bit just to make sure they were still in workable pieces. George hit the nail again, sending it three-quarters way in.
“That should do it. Billy, bring down the painting!”
Billy started down the stairs, but on the way his foot slipped. The painting flew from his hands, hitting Smithy in the chest. Smithy’s arms jumped out to either side as he started to fall backward over the banister. With lightning speed, George’s hand shot out and grabbed him by one of his falling legs. The young chatterer hung upside down right over the banister, facing the prospect of dropping headfirst onto the marble floor below. Only George’s grip of steel prevented it. Single-handedly, George pulled him back over to the safe side of the banister.
Billy had fallen down several stairs and was only just getting to his feet. “I can’t believe what happened, man.”
“Thanks, Uncle George. I owe you my life,” Smithy croaked.
“Your mother would kill me if anything happened to you. See what happens when you’re not paying attention, Billy?”
Jack had stopped the painting from falling right down the stairs after it had hit Smithy in the chest. Now he and Billy raised it and hung it by its cord on the nail.
“It’s not quite level,” George reckoned. “Jack, tilt it up a bit more on your side. That’s it! Enough! Perfect.” He stepped back until his back touched the banisters. “That’s a job well done if ever there was one.”
Suddenly, the painting fell off the wall. It hit one stair, and then bounced off another. It turned upside down and somersaulted all the way down the stairs, where it crash-landed on the floor
Jack raced down the stairs and picked it up.
“It’s fine,” he cried. Then the right side of the frame fell away and hit the floor. “Oh!”
“What’ll we do now, Uncle George?”
George pointed the hammer at the nail still stuck in the wall, his face lacking colour. “That nail held tight. I was right about that nail. It would have held up that painting forever. It’s the cord that broke. Can we glue the frame back on, Jack?”
It was the turn of the left side of the frame to fall off.
Billy said, “Let’s go into the kitchen and sit down and have a good think about things.”
“That’s the only sensible thing you’ve said all morning,” George scolded him.
*
Apples, oranges, bananas and grapes from the kitchen’s fruit bowl fast disappeared into their mouths. Before long only a sour-looking grape remained in the bowl.
Jack said, “Mum has lots of frames in the studio. We need to find one the same design and size as this one and change it.”
George was trying to pull a bit of orange pith out from between his teeth. “Good idea, Jack. But first let’s bring the piano downstairs and put it in the living room. If we put the painting up first we might knock it off accidentally while bringing down the piano.”
“Good point, Uncle George. We don’t want to damage the painting.”
“Not any more than we’ve already done,” Billy mumbled.
In the music room, the grand piano’s whiteness shone brighter than the sunlight pouring over it.
Smithy ran his hand across it, sighing. “It’s very beautiful.”
“We must be very careful lifting it,” George warned.
Jack removed the stool from under the keyboard and placed it to one side. George closed the keyboard cover, and ordered everyone into position around the instrument. Billy, being the strongest, stood at the heaviest side. George put his one hand under the keyboard and gave the order, “Lift!”
They got the piano up off the floor, and George said, “Now slowly down!” Down it went without any mishaps. “Very good. Next time we lift it we bring it to the doorway. Right, lads, ready? One. Two Three!”
The piano rose off the floor, and slowly they moved toward the door, with lots of huffing and puffing and creaking of joints.
“Keep going! You might be moving sideways like a crab, but don’t worry! You won’t turn into one.”
“I’m beginning to feel like a crab,” Billy groaned.
But they made it to the doorway without dropping it.
“Now down slowly! Slower!” One leg, then two legs, and finally the whole piano went back firmly on the floor. “Well done, lads! It’s as good as down the stairs.”
“It’s given me a pain in my back, man.”
“Fancy a big lad like you moaning about a little lifting.”
“I’m moaning about a big pain in a little part of me.”
After a rest, they opened the room’s double doors and carried the piano into the corridor. They shuffled about to their right and managed to get it to the top of the stairs, where they left it down for another well-earned break.
“My arms are falling off.” Jack rubbed them to ease the pain.
Smithy glanced down the stairs. “Now for the hard bit.”
“Nonsense,” George scoffed. “We’re used to carrying it now. And it’s far easier going down than coming up. Billy, you’re the strongest, so get in front and take the weight against you. Smithy can stand beside you. Don’t let the thing go whatever else you do, lad! Jack and I will bring up the rear.”
Once everyone was in position, George gave the order, “One. Two. Three. Lift!”
Slowly, they started downward, the piano well balanced between the four of them. From the increasing grimaces and watery eyes it seemed obvious that this job was getting harder by the moment. But with George pushing them on, they didn’t slacken in their efforts. Over the sounds of grunting and straining and creaking stairs, Jack clearly heard the clock ticking loudly downstairs. He began counting the ticks, hoping they’d be down by the time sixty ticks had come and gone. The muscles in his arms, legs and back were burning.
They got down the first six steps without a hitch. But Jack’s back had a sharp pain and his strength was fast seeping away. He wondered if he should let George know that he badly needed a rest.
A fly appeared from nowhere and circled round Billy’s head.
“I need a rest, Uncle George” Smithy gasped.
“Put it down easy! But Billy and Smithy, you still have to keep your shoulders into it or it’ll slip.”
Gently, they let it down. Jack stretched his back and felt the burning pain slowly leaving. George hadn’t let go the piano for a single moment, though the effort of holding it showed in his creased-up face.
The fly landed on Billy’s flat nose. He twitched his nose this way and that, trying desperately to get the fly off. He even shook his head. But the fly stayed put and even crawled toward his left nostril. Billy turned one shoulder toward the piano, still holding it in place, and raised his right hand to swat the fly away. He slapped his nose, but the fly had leapt clear. Soon as he dropped his hand, the fly jumped back onto his nose. His eyes focussed in on the fly so it made him look boss eyed. He blew hard upward at the fly to try and shift it. The fly crawled up his nostril for refuge like a man might crawl into a cave to escape a strong wind. Billy roared out in frustration and sneezed violently. His shoulders shot forward and back, letting the piano go for just a split second.
But that was all the time the piano needed to start a downward journey. It ripped itself free from George‘s grip and knocked Billy and Smithy out of its way like two skittles. With the same sort of enthusiasm as a skier on a ski slope, the piano raced to the bottom of the stairs, and crashed on the marble floor.
The legs were broken. One separated leg lay on the stairs. Like teeth smashed out of someone’s head, some of the white and black keys of the keyboard were scattered over the floor. The piano’s strings were still vibrating.
The phone started ringing. Not knowing what else to do, Jack ran downstairs and answered it.
“H... hello.”
His mum’s voice said, “Hope I’m not interrupting anything, Jack?”
Jack was staring at the broken piano. “You’re not interrupting anything, Mum. What did the doctor say?”
“The tests haven’t all been done. Some won’t be done until tomorrow. So will it be all right if we stay in London tonight and come back tomorrow evening?”
“Of course that’s okay, Mum.”
“Are the boys all right?”
“They’re fine.”
“I suppose they’ve already eaten the fruit in the kitchen bowl.”
“There’s still a grape left.”
“There’s always one old grape no one wants. There’s more fruit in the cupboard.”
“Okay, Mum.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow evening, Jack.”
“Yes, Mum. Good luck.”
He put down the phone. When he turned round the chatterers were gazing at him with tense, questioning eyes. “They’re not coming back till tomorrow evening.”
Smithy threw up his arms. “What’ll we do now?”
Billy sat down on the stairs, his head in his hands. “That blooming fly!”
“We’ll just have to make the fly pay for a new piano, won’t we,” George said in a cold voice.
Two Very Different Meetings
At the sound of the car pulling up, Jack dashed outside. He hugged his mum and took her bag, and holding her hand, they went in through the front door.
“How did it go? Tell me all about it!”
“First things first.” She began taking off her coat. “I want a glass of… Why, look, Berty! Up there on the stairs! Jack’s hung up my painting.”
“We all did it.”
“Help me up the stairs, Berty, dear.”
She finished taking off her coat, and Berty took her arm. At the foot of the stairs, they began a slow ascent. As they got closer to the painting, Jack’s heart quickened. Halfway up, his mum stopped and stared at it. Her mouth opened and air rushed in. She looked down at Jack as though about to say something, but hesitated at the sight of his blushing face. She returned her gaze to the painting.
His dad said, “The painting looks so right in this spot.”
Quickly, she said, “Absolutely.”
Berty moved his hand over the frame. “I thought I’d made a bigger frame for this painting. I certainly remember the painting being bigger.”
“It’s big enough, isn’t it?” she said.
Berty raised his eyebrows. “Of course. Well done, Jack.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Because he’d not found the right size of the same frame, but a smaller one of the same kind of frame, he’d cut a strip off all four sides of the painting to fit it. The painting’s fruit bowl itself remained whole. Only empty space had been cut off. Jack thought it looked much better this way. George had thought so, too. Jack knew his mum noticed the difference, and was glad she wasn’t making a big deal out of it.
They held a meeting in the living room, which the three chatterers attended.
Lizzie Puffwhistle said, “Firstly, I’d like to thank you all for hanging up the painting and bringing the piano down. It was very kind of you. I don’t know how you managed to bring down the piano, but it’s such a lovely surprise.”
“We surprised ourselves a bit,” Billy said.
“As a matter of fact…” Smithy started to say.
George cut off his nephew, “We got it done, and that’s the main thing.”
Berty was standing by the piano, studying it, when a frown crept over his face. “That’s strange,” he said.
“What’s strange, Berty?” Lizzie asked.
“Well, d’you remember the mark on it right here?” He pointed to the side of the keyboard. “The one they made when they were delivering it all those years ago.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Well, it’s gone.”
Jack’s face turned redder.
Lizzie rose to her feet and came over, George helping her. “Yes, it’s gone all right,” she said after a careful search.
“Well, that’s a mystery.”
The mystery was simply explained. George had his bank account under Berty’s name because no British bank has ever allowed a monkey to have an account. Jack and George had gone online and found a company that sold pianos like his mum’s in nearby Skipton. They made delivery within twenty-four hours to customers in Yorkshire. Jack had placed the order for a new piano, keying in George’s credit card details. They then received a confirmation e-mail that the shop would deliver the next day. This morning the piano had arrived. They’d taken away the broken one for free.
Lizzie Puffwhistle glanced at her son’s red face before saying, “But it’s a good thing the mark’s gone, so let’s not worry about it. Come and sit down, Berty! We‘ve got important things to say to the boys.”
When both were seated, Berty said, “We know how concerned everyone is, and we feel you’re entitled to know what the results of our London trip are.”
They all nodded eagerly.
“You all know it’s quite an unusual illness I suffer from,” Lizzie said, “and it took the doctors quite a while to find that out. So the type of medicine I need is not one used by many people. This means it’s going to be very expensive. The old medicine was quite expensive, but this one is even more so. It won ‘t cure me, but the good news is, and this has been confirmed by tests, the good news is that the new medicine will not only stop the illness from getting worse but will give me much of my old strength back.” She added with a smile, “So hopefully I’ll be my old busybody self in a few months.”
Jack felt a huge weight suddenly lifting off his shoulders. “That’s the best news in the world, Mum.”
A long sigh escaped George’s lips. “The very best.”
“But I have to keep on taking it, so the expenses keep on coming,” she added. “That’s the bad news.”
“We must keep winning at the racing in order to afford the medicine,” Berty told them. “Unfortunately, no one’s going to give us the medicine for free.”
George coughed politely and said in a voice every bit as serious as Berty’s, “I think I can safely say you can rely on Billy to keep winning, Lizzie. And Smithy’s well on his way to becoming a useful jockey. He’s made one or two silly mistakes, but that’s only to be expected of a young inexperienced lad. I’ve no doubt he’ll win his first big race, The Thirsk Apprentice Mile. All he has to do is point The Gem in the right direction and the prize is ours. There isn’t another squealer as good as The Gem in that race. And though I’m retired, I have plenty of savings. I really don’t think there’s anything to worry about on the money side.”
Billy said, “Aye, man, I totally agree. Thanks to Berty’s training, not to mention Jack’s and George’s, I’ve won more good races in the last five years than ever before. And Giggleswick suits me down to the ground. He’s the best squealer I ever rode, man. All right, I didn’t come first in the big one, The John Smith Cabbage Cup, last year, but I did come second, and this year Giggleswick and myself are going to try our best at winning it.”
“Last year you lost the big prize only by a nose,” Lizzie said.
“Let’s hope this year you win by a nose,” Berty said.
“I’d rather win by a whole length, or even two, man, though I’d settle for a nose.”
“Having said all that, we don’t want you boys feeling under too much pressure,” Berty said. “Don’t go feeling you have to win every race. It’s how well we do over the long term that counts. And I’ve no doubt things will go on as they have been over the long term.”
“Which means we’ll continue doing well,” Jack said.
“Well, I’ve no doubt about that,” George agreed.
*
Hundreds of miles away, in a private gentleman’s club, in a rich part of London, two men were sitting and talking in hushed tones. The room they sat in reflected the success of the club’s members. It had a high ceiling with elaborate cornices, finely-threaded carpets, soft leather armchairs, handcrafted mahogany furniture, and quality antique vases and sculptures in the alcoves.
One of the men, Peter Guerre, owner of a worldwide television network, 1PLANET, was leaning back in his armchair, slowly blowing out smoke from his cigar. Dressed in a light-blue, well-cut suit this man had a relaxed and very confident air about him. His ice-blue eyes always fixed intensely on whatever happened to hold his interest at any given moment.
And in that moment, Mr. Scrunge held his interest. Unlike Peter Guerre, Mr. Scrunge appeared ill at ease with his surroundings. Dressed in an old grey suit, he sat so far forward in his seat that it looked like he was falling off; and he kept taking small gulps from a glass of whisky. But it was down by his side that his nerves really showed. His fingers were turning three small steel balls over and over against the palm of his left hand.
Scrunge wondered how many times he’d already said what he was about to say again since this meeting had started. Three? Four times? Yet he must repeat it as he feared the cool man sitting opposite was only half listening.
“Chatter and Squeal Racing can be a massively popular sport.”
“Isn’t it already massively popular?”
Scrunge wondered if Mr. Guerre was joking. But Guerre’s icy stare, empty of any sense of humour, suggested otherwise. “No, but it can be massive. With a little tweaking it can reach a huge worldwide audience – as big as horse racing or football.”
“Football?” Guerre arched his eyebrows. “How can you simply ‘tweak’ the sport, to use your word, and suddenly it’s as popular as football?”
For a moment, Scrunge didn’t dare breathe. Then he explained, “Imagine horse racing mixed with boxing. Imagine a modern form of the great chariot racing of ancient Rome.”
Peter Guerre’s smile looked more of a grin. Is he laughing at me? Scrunge wondered. Yet he badly needed this man and so forced a smile onto his lips.
“Okay. I’m imagining this fantastic scenario,” Guerre said. “But how will you make it happen? And please don’t exaggerate or lie, Mr. Scrunge! I’ll see through you in a second.”
“Mr. Guerre, I came to you in good faith because I believe you have an eye for the future.”
Guerre stuck out his chin and scratched it. “I like to think so.”
“Chatter and squeal racing is going nowhere at present. It’s too quaint, too old-fashioned, too small, too well protected. It has too many silly and unnecessary rules.”
“Aren’t the rules there for a reason?”
“If the rules were loosened up the sport would become much more exciting and have much more appeal to a bigger audience, Mr. Guerre. And your television network, 1PLANET, could have exclusive rights to all this. And if you got exclusive television rights here in England, you could easily go international with it afterwards.” Scrunge’s face felt very hot. “If you get in first before any of the other big names, you can get complete control early on. The top races could even be pay per view. And think of the gambling revenue that would come out of it, too, just like in horse racing.”
Peter Guerre’s mocking grin had vanished. Had he at last got through to this man? For a long while Guerre said nothing, just stared at him. Then he clicked his fingers at a passing waiter, who came running over with two fresh glasses of whisky.
Guerre pointed a finger at Scrunge. “And you say you’re the man who’ll deliver this to me?”
“I’m the man who’ll deliver this to you. I have the means to push this sport into the twenty first century in a way no one would ever have imagined.”
Guerre took a long puff on his cigar. “Let me tell you where I am, Mr. Scrunge. I very much like the idea of controlling the worldwide TV rights to chatter and squeal racing. And I believe you when you tell me you can change the sport if given the necessary help. But I’m a little confused as to how you aim to do this when the people who control it are very old-fashioned and not into change at all. At least that’s what you reckon.”
Scrunge leaned so far forward he seemed to be rising from his seat. “These people are ready for change; they just don’t know it yet.”
“And how will they know it?”
“You invest in me, Mr. Guerre. You put up the money I ask and I’ll put some of that money under their noses and let them get a sniff of it. They’re only human and just like anyone else the powerful smell of money will change their minds.”
Peter Guerre pulled his head back and laughed quietly. “Mr. Scrunge, when I first met you, I must confess, I didn’t think much of you. But I see now there’s more to you than meets the eye. You’re a man after my own heart. You have a good sense of how business is done in this world.”
“Then you’ll back me, Mr. Guerre?”
Mr. Guerre picked up his glass and touched it against Mr. Scrunge’s.
CHAPTER 4
The Thirsk Apprentice Mile
Thirsk racecourse has a small grandstand. Inside are a betting shop and a fish and chip shop. Upstairs, in the restaurant, the view looks over the entire three-quarter-mile track. Daylight was fading, and the floodlights had just gone on.
Here in the restaurant the women wore bright dresses and jewellery, and the men trousers and shirts, some open necked and some with ties, while the children wore what they pleased. Waiters, dressed in black trousers, white shirts and black bow ties, dashed back and forth between hungry and demanding customers, carrying large trays of steak and chips, fish and chips or scampi and chips. Champagne, wine and beer flowed freely. Not a table or single seat stayed unoccupied. Couples held hands, and friends slapped each other on the back while shouting in each others’ ears above the din. Every face was laughing or smiling.
Wide plasma screens hung from the ceiling showing different scenes of the evening’s entertainment. One showed the parade ring, where jockeys running in the first race were leading their squealers slowly in a circle so the fans were able to closely inspect them and decide if they liked them enough to place a bet. One screen flashed up an advert for ‘The English National Championships’, run in August, reminding those listening, “Whatever else you do, don’t miss the biggest day in the English sporting calendar.”
Berty and Lizzie Puffwhistle sat near the observation glass that overlooked the track. Lizzie’s face had regained a little of its weight and colour in the last few weeks. Tonight, for the first time in a very long time, she’d felt capable enough to venture out to the track. The new medicine had improved her strength.
A friend of theirs was saying, “My last jockey, Moff Boy, told me to go to blazes. Yes, off he went to Gloucester to stay with his brother. Said he wouldn’t ride for me any more. Said I didn’t pay him enough. I asked why I should pay him more when he only ever won four races out of ninety.”
They laughed at this little story. Lizzie’s laughter made her cheeks shine with warmth and energy. Many eyes in the restaurant were drawn to her and Berty, the most famous couple on the racing scene.
People kept coming over to say hello and ask after Lizzie’s health, and pay their respects to Berty, the most successful trainer in England. Berty, a man who never raised his voice in boast, accepted compliments from everyone with a modest smile and a firm handshake. After asking after Lizzie’s and Berty’s health, everyone would ask, “And how is George? How is the great chatterer? Is he enjoying his retirement?”