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(If you haven't yet read Chapter One - The Boy Who Escaped Sudden Death - click here. You can also print out these pages using the yellow button on the left.) Our story continues on a bright and sunny Saturday morning, almost ten years after the strange nocturnal happenings in Rosebush Close, and the day the Parsleys found their baby nephew and a letter on the doorstep. Very little in the Close had changed. The lawns were still closely mown, the hedges neatly trimmed and the roses dead-headed. Only the shiny new cars and the clumpy 4x4s outside the houses marked the passing of time. Inside number seven there was little change either. Mr Parsley didn't hold with changes to his surroundings. As he liked to remind Mrs Parsley, whenever she dared bring up the subject of buying a new three piece suite or replacing the yellowing wallpaper throughout the house, 'I know what I like and I like what I know'. If Mr Parsley had been God, life on earth would not have progressed beyond the amoeba. In only one area did Mr Parsley agree with his wife about new things, and that was anything to do with young Perkin. Nothing was too good for their son. He always had the latest toys and games, and was forever getting new clothes. Uncharitable souls might have said this was more out of necessity than love - Perkin was fat and getting more so by the day, so nothing fitted him for more than a few weeks - but in truth the Parsleys doted on their boy and could never find fault with him. Even the trail of chaos which followed Perkin around the house, which would have left Mr Parsley apoplectic had the cause been anything else, was benignly accepted as proof of the boy's 'lively mind'. Photographs of Perkin were everywhere, evidence of his advancing obesity, his knack of producing an angelic smile in place of his usual scowl when needed, and his incurably snotty nose. Even his father joked that he should invest in Kleenex for his retirement. Nowhere on this bright morning was there the slightest hint that their nephew Harry was also living at number seven, until his Aunt Priscilla banged on the door of the airing cupboard and shouted 'You! Out of bed! At once! Harry woke with a fright, sat bolt upright and banged his head hard on a wooden shelf full of blankets. 'Ow! What's wrong?' he called out. 'I want you up, now! You know it's Perky-poo's birthday and he's having breakfast in bed. Put the tea on and make some toast while I do the eggs and bacon. And Heaven help you if you burn the toast, I want everything just so. Do you hear me?' 'Yeah, I'm coming.' Harry lay back, rubbing his head, and listened to his ears ringing. It reminded him of the dream his Aunt had just interrupted. He'd been bumping along somewhere in the dark in what sounded like a very loud, clanking lawnmower and he could hardly move his arms or legs because he was wrapped in something. It was a familiar dream. Harry sat up on his bed, taking care not to crack his head again. The shelf had caught him right on the deep round scar in the middle of his forehead, and as he rubbed it under his fringe he felt the strange little bumps in it, and the indentation like a small snake in the middle. Not knowing how he got the scar, he once asked Aunt Priscilla. 'You hit your head in the car crash. The one that killed your mother and father,' she had replied. 'Now that's quite enough questions.' Aunt Priscilla and Uncle William did not like questions, and although Harry desperately wanted to know more about his parents, he had learned to keep quiet. Getting off the old mattress that served as his bed, his feet touched the cold linoleum as he felt for his slippers in the dark. He pushed open the cupboard door and screwed up his eyes as the sunlight flooded in. He emerged sleepily and shuffled downstairs. It was difficult to walk in his slippers which, like all his other clothes, had been Perkin's and were several sizes too large for him. 'I told you to get a move on,' said his Aunt as he walked into the kitchen. 'Hurry up with that tea and toast and then get dressed. You're off to Mrs Date's for the day.' Harry's heart sank. The Parsley's were going to London for Perkin's birthday treat. Whenever they went out, Harry was dumped with Mrs Date, who was a kindly soul, but only if you were a budgerigar. She had seven of them and they were allowed to fly around the house freely, so whatever you sat on or touched tended to have budgie droppings on it. She also refused to open her windows in case the budgies escaped, so the air in the house was fetid and made Harry, who suspected he had an allergy, sneeze violently. He had mentioned this to Uncle William once, only to be cuffed round the ear and told that he should be thankful Mrs Date would have him. 'Couldn't you get dressed properly to serve Perky his breakfast?', bellowed Uncle William as he entered the kitchen. Harry didn't remember his uncle ever saying 'Good Morning' or 'Hello' to him. 'Aunt Priscilla told me to get down here at once, so I did't have time,' said Harry. 'Don't you answer me back boy,' snapped Uncle William, giving Harry a smack on the head. 'I'll knock some manners into you if I have to beat you from here to Kingdom Come!' Harry ducked another slap and reached for the teapot. He knew Uncle William wouldn't hit him if he was holding something breakable. He put the teapot on a tray, and began liberally buttering Perkin's toast, making sure he spread right into the corners. Perkin liked a little toast with his butter. Harry put a pot of honey, the jar of marmalade and the strawberry jam on the tray. 'I'm ready Aunt Priscilla,' he said. 'Then take it up to Perky, and don't spill anything. And remember to wish Perky a Happy Birthday! And then go and get dressed. Go on, get a move on!' Harry made his way carefully upstairs. Uncle William was coming out of his bedroom with two bulging pillow-cases which he took into Perkin's room, singing 'Happy Birthday to You'. Harry followed him in. 'Can't you sing boy?' Uncle William shouted at him, interrupting his own rendition. Harry began singing as quietly as he could, putting the tray down on Perkin's bedside table as the large, shapeless form in the bed began to move. The top of a head and one beady eye peeked out of the sheets. 'Are those my presents?' he asked his father. 'Yes they are my boy, Happy Birthday,' said Uncle William, tipping the contents of the first pillow-case onto the bed. 'How many are there?' asked Perkin, sitting up in bed, yawning. 'I don't know, let's count them as we open them, shall we Perky?' 'I want to know now. Make Harry count them,' Perkin ordered his father. 'You heard Perkers, start counting boy,' said Uncle William to Harry, clipping him round the head. Harry began counting out loud as Perkin reached over to his breakfast tray. 'Harry's forgotten the Marmite,' he screamed, going red in the face and looking from Harry to his father. 'Idiot boy,' said Uncle William, slapping Harry yet again on the back of the head. 'Go and get it at once. How dare you spoil my son's birthday?' He aimed a kick at Harry's departing figure, but Harry was too quick for him. He rushed out of the room and straight into Aunt Priscilla, who was on the way in with a large plate of eggs and bacon, fried bread, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, all smothered in ketchup. His aunt screamed and Harry's head caught the plate as she tried to lift it out of harm's way. A rasher of bacon stuck to her apron as the rest of Perkin's breakfast flew everywhere, the plate coming to rest upside down on the carpet. Uncle William charged out of the bedroom at the sound of his wife's scream. Seeing her liberally splattered with ketchup and assuming it to be blood, he grabbed Harry, who had been winded by his Aunt's knee as she raised it to try and catch the falling plate, and pulled him towards the main bedroom. 'Attack your Aunt would you, ungrateful swine? You'll get a taste of my belt for that boy, today, and every day for a month!', said Mr Parsley, pulling the belt off the dressing table and forcing Harry to bend double over the end of the bed. Mr Parsley was a powerful man, and Harry braced himself for a bad thrashing. 'He didn't attack me William,' said Aunt Priscilla, coming into the bedroom, wiping ketchup off her glasses. 'He's just a clumsy idiot and ran into me.' 'Well, he deserves a beating for that then,' said Uncle William, raising his belt to deliver the first lash. Harry flinched in anticipation, but before the blow could be landed, Uncle William was distracted by howling screams from Perkin's bedroom. 'Where's my b-breakfast? I want m-my b-b-birthday b-b-breakf-fast!,' screamed Perkin in a fake sobbing rage. 'Damn you boy, you're ruining Perkin's birthday,' said Uncle William. 'Just you wait. Don't think you've got away with it. There'll be plenty of time to thrash you tonight. Now get downstairs and cook Perkin another breakfast.' With that he lifted Harry into an upright position and pushed him towards the door, with a slap on the head that left Harry's ears buzzing. As Harry took another plate of bacon and eggs, with all the trimmings, up to Perkin's room, he heard the telephone ring. He was putting the new plate onto Perkin's breakfast tray when Aunt Priscilla came into the bedroom, looking so distracted that she failed to notice a drop of ketchup oozing out of her hair and down her cheek. 'William, this is terrible, Mrs Date's slipped on some fresh budgie droppings and hurt herself. She can't have him over for the day,' she said, glowering at Harry. Harry stifled a sigh of relief. The thought of breathing that foul air and sneezing all day after everything else that had happened this morning had not been pleasant. 'What do we do now?' said Aunt Priscilla, as much to herself as her husband. 'We'll call Peggy,' suggested Uncle William. 'We can't do that William, not since the last time. She can't stand him, you know what she said.' 'Well I can't stand him either, but I have to put up him,' said Uncle William. 'No dear, that's no use, it'll take too long anyway, we have to get out.' 'What about Alice Bakewell?' 'Got an appointment at eleven o'clock with her feet.' 'Number 9?' 'Not talking to us since you complained about their hedge making the living room dark,' said Aunt Priscilla icily. 'I could just stay here,' said Harry, trying to sound helpful. He thought he might get a chance to watch television, or try out Perkin's new Playstation, which he could see among the pile of presents and torn wrapping paper on the bed. 'Don't be stupid boy, do you think we'd leave you to destroy our home while we're out?' snapped Aunt Priscilla. 'We'll just have to take him with us, William, and sit him in a corner while we shop.' 'Are you mad, Priscilla?' said Uncle William. 'Be seen out with him? I wouldn't be seen dead...' Perkin, no longer the centre of attention, interrupted him by howling again. 'Oh, Perky-pie-poos, don't be upset darling, Mummy won't let him ruin our day, you'll see. It'll all be lovely, Mummy promises her little picky-Perk...', said Aunt Priscilla, hugging him tightly to her. 'T-tie him up, M-mummy, l-leave him in his c-cupboard,' Perkin cried, sneaking an evil glance at Harry over his mother's shoulder. 'Best idea of the day, son, I'll get some garden twine from the shed right now,' said Uncle William, striding out of the room. 'But William! What if...' Aunt Priscilla got no further. The doorbell was ringing. 'Good Heavens! That must be the Poultices,' she said, getting into a flap. Going downstairs, she saw her husband opening the door to Mr and Mrs Poultice and their son Cole, Perkin's best friend. Cole was as skinny as Perkin was fat, but he was fast and wiry, and good at catching people for Perkin to beat up. A broad smile instantly replaced Perkin's whining sobs. If Harry had to go with him for his birthday treat, at least he and Cole could have a full day's Harry-bashing. 'Come along everyone, we're late already,' said Aunt Priscilla, as cheerily as she could manage. 'Everyone dressed and ready to go in half an hour. Chop chop!' * 'Just one word out of you, the slightest little thing boy... and I'm warning you. You'll be locked in that cupboard until Hell freezes over and you'll only come out every day for your thrashing. D'you understand?' 'I won't say a word. Or do anything,' said Harry. 'Really I won't,' although he knew Uncle William wouldn't believe him. The Parsleys never believed anything Harry said. It wasn't his fault, Harry thought, if everything he did seemed to infuriate them. He remembered the time he fancied a nice, juicy orange and asked very politely if he could get one from the bowl. His Aunt had told him they were specially for Perkin to make sure he got plenty of vitamin C, and he should keep his hands off them. Was it his fault if, as he left the room looking longingly at the biggest orange, it fell out of the bowl and rolled off the sideboard and along the floor to his feet? Or the day he had decided, after tripping for the tenth time at school over the turn-ups of an old baggy pair of Perkin's trousers, to tuck the ends into Uncle William's old socks, which reached up just below his knees? Harry thought that, for once, he looked quite smart, and never understood why, when he got home, his Aunt had smacked his bottom harder and longer than ever before, screaming all the time 'Don't you ever dare dress yourself like that again! Never, ever, ever, do you understand?' Perhaps the worst, however, because Harry had only been trying to help, was the time Perkin had been playing marbles with Uncle William. Perkin invariably got bored after five minutes of any game, and on this occasion he had stopped playing and slumped in front of the television, prompting Uncle William to order Harry to put the marbles away. Leaving the little cloth bag open in the middle of the carpet, Harry had gone all round the room and flicked the marbles back to the bag, sometimes from a considerable distance, and never once missed. After watching Harry unerringly roll yet another marble in, Uncle William had suddenly jumped out of his chair, scarlet-faced, and yelled 'Stop that at once!' He had grabbed Harry by the hair and taken him outside to beat him savagely, punctuating each smack with a furious 'Don't - you - ever - do - that - again - do - you - hear - me - never - again - never - never - never - again!' Today though, Harry told himself, nothing would happen. He had escaped a thrashing this morning; he had escaped a day at Mrs Date's, ducking as Beaky, Twitters, Millet, Cuttles, Chirpy, Blue Boy and Mr Claws flew around his head; and now he was going up to London! Driving towards the station, Uncle William complained endlessly about everything. Complaining made him happy. 'Look at this traffic... what a ghastly colour to paint a front door... why can't people learn to drive properly... that garden is a disgrace, haven't they got a lawnmower?... 'I was dreaming about a lawnmower,' said Harry cheerfully, 'at least I think it was a lawnmower, I was lying in the grass-box, all wrapped...' Uncle William stopped the car in a screech of brakes, and the car behind almost ran into them. Hooting broke out, but he ignored it and turned round to Harry, purple and looking fit to burst. 'NOBODY RIDES IN A LAWNMOWER BOY!' Perkin and Cole smirked and redoubled their kicking of Harry's ankles. 'I know that,' said Harry, 'I said it was just a dream.' Harry resolved to keep quiet from now on. With the exception of Perkin, Uncle William always said that small boys should be seen and not heard, although in Harry's case he would have had neither, given the choice. The train ride up to London was uneventful, although to Harry it was very exciting, having never taken a train before. He had to keep resisting the urge to ask questions. As they arrived in London, Perkin announced that he was hungry and demanded to be taken to McDonald's. Uncle William started to say that he was not going to eat junk food for anybody, but was quickly silenced by howls from Perkin, who threw such a tantrum in front of the other passengers that his parents gave in and Aunt Priscilla had to ask a ticket collector where they could find the nearest restaurant. At McDonald's, Perkin quickly demolished two of everything, plus an extra Coca-Cola and large fries, while Uncle William got sauce on his tie and pickle in his lap as he wrestled with the first (and, he swore, last) burger of his life. When the young girl serving them had asked Harry what he wanted, Uncle William said the boy was not hungry, but Harry managed to snatch a couple of almost cold fries from his Uncle's unfinished meal as they were leaving. Heading for the Underground, the Coca-Cola got to Perkin and he started belching loudly. To Harry's surprise, and considerable annoyance, his Uncle and Aunt seemed quite unembarrassed when passengers on the tube looked at them and muttered to each other after yet another sonorous belch from Perkin. Aunt Priscilla merely stroked her son's blonde head and whispered 'Such a healthy appetite' to her husband. They got off the tube at Piccadilly Circus and Uncle William announced the main treat of the day, a shopping trip to Lillyblacks. 'Best sports shop in the world, old chap,' he told Perkin, 'always got all my stuff here.' Harry couldn't understand why Perkin wanted sports gear, as a less energetic person than his cousin would be hard to find, if you ignored his habit of using Harry as a punchbag. 'Everything you'll need for Snivelings is here, Perkers,' said Uncle William, pushing Perkin ahead of him into the store. 'Rugger, soccer, cricket, swimming, tennis... er, basketball, gym... table tennis... water polo... athletics..... oh, and boxing too! You name it, you can do it at Snivelings and they sell the gear in here. So - where shall we start, Perky old chap?' Harry looked at his cousin, who had been turning quite pale until boxing was mentioned. Harry wasn't sure if it was the McDonald's and Coke or the thought of all that physical effort at his new school. Uncle William had been to Snivelings, and had put Perkin's name down at birth. 'Boxing gloves,' said Perkin, looking round at Harry. 'I want some boxing gloves.' 'Splendid, off we go then,' said his father, leading the way. Twenty minutes later Perkin was wearing a brand new pair of boxing gloves, and already trying them out on Harry, who took a blow to the temple that nearly knocked him into a large display of skiing equipment. As Harry staggered to stay upright, Cole tripped him by the ankle and Harry fell on the floor, where Perkin and Cole managed to kick him several times before Uncle William called them to hurry up with a 'Come on boys, we've got lots more to buy yet!' Taking Perkin to one side away from the others, Uncle William gestured to a sales assistant and had a brief whispered conversation with him. Leaving Aunt Priscilla with Cole and Harry, he strode off with Perkin behind the assistant and came back a few minutes later clutching a plastic bag and looking pleased. 'Box,' he muttered, rather importantly, to his wife. Aunt Priscilla looked quite shocked and flushed bright pink. 'Ahem, essential equipment for a growing lad,' said Uncle William in a louder voice, to no-one in particular, before addressing the sales assistant again. 'Now, my good man, boots and shoes I think.' The assistant led them to another department that smelt very shoe-y, and three-quarters of an hour later they emerged, laden with bags containing rugby boots, football boots, cricket boots and the most expensive trainers in the shop. Uncle William looked very proud. 'Excellent! Now, we need a rugby ball, then a cricket bat and ball, some tennis balls, a racket and a football for the playground, if you please young man.' They followed the assistant through the department and down a flight of stairs to a floor that seemed to contain nothing but balls of every shape and kind. Harry was fascinated, until his attention was diverted by a renewed assault from the boxing gloves. 'Does Sir have a particular make in mind?' asked the assistant, standing under a wall of rugby balls. 'That one,' said Perkin, pointing to the most expensive ball he could see after a quick survey of the price tags. 'Little tyke won't settle for less than the best,' said Uncle William proudly, as the assistant reached down a World Cup Special, signed by the England team, and handed it to Perkin, who was already eyeing the price tags on the footballs. 'I want a David Beckham,' said Perkin firmly. 'What old chap?' asked Uncle William, who didn't follow soccer. 'Football,' said Perkin, 'I want a David Beckham.' 'Cricket next, old boy,' said Uncle William firmly, 'cricket is an official sport at Snivelings. Soccer's only for the playground you know Perkers.' Perkin looked very sulky. 'I want a David Beckham,' he repeated ominously. Harry could sense another tantrum coming on. Uncle William picked out the most expensive Super Test cricket bat, and a shiny red ball. He handed the ball to his son, who sullenly threw it at Harry, shouting 'Catch!' Harry, by now holding four large bags of shoes as well as the little one containing Perkin's box, let go of everything in his effort to catch it, but missed. 'Uh-uhhhh, lousy! Butterfingers! Useless!' cried Perkin and Cole together, as the cricket ball disappeared under a large display of basketballs. 'Well? Go and get it you idiot!' barked Uncle William, ushering Perkin towards the tennis equipment as Harry lay down on his stomach to try and recover the cricket ball from under the shelving. When Harry came back with the ball, Perkin had a racket under his arm and two tubes of Wimbledon Ultra tennis balls in his hands, and tossed both at once in Harry's direction. Somehow Harry managed to drop the shopping bags, put the cricket ball in his pocket and catch both tubes. He enjoyed the look of disappointment on his cousin's face. Perkin finally dragged Uncle William over to the footballs, in front of a huge picture of David Beckham. 'That one, I want that one.' Uncle William cast his eyes over the picture. Beckham's hair was sweat-soaked and held back by an Alice band, he had a three day beard and an earring, and he was being hugged by several team mates. Uncle William frowned deeply. He had been hoping to find Perkin a Jimmy Greaves or a Danny Blanchflower ball, something manly, unlike the foppish modern lot that called themselves footballers. 'I don't think so, Perky old chap,' he said, looking desperately round and reaching down another ball of about the same price. 'Why don't you try one of these?' 'I said I want a David Beckham!' shouted Perkin, stamping his feet, visibly only moments away from a spectacular tantrum. Uncle William looked at Aunt Priscilla for support, but she was looking anxious, dreading a scene. She looked pleadingly at her husband. Harry looked at the picture of the sweating Beckham, then glanced up at the rows and rows of shiny footballs on the shelves, beautifully arranged so that all their logos were in a dead straight line. 'I bet the poor kids who made those had to sweat it more than David Beckham,' he thought to himself. Harry had once read an article on child-labour in Asia, which he found in an old newspaper lining the shelves of his airing cupboard. As he recalled the children's miserable life - a condition he felt he understood - he thought he saw a logo on one of the footballs lift itself up out of line and drop back into place, then do it again, as if the football had nodded. Harry stared hard at the shelves. Had he really seen that? The football nodded again. Harry turned round to see what the Parsleys were doing, but they were still arguing with Perkin over his choice of ball. Harry looked back at the shelf. 'Some kid about my age, was it?' Harry muttered under his breath. The football swung from side to side, then tipped its logo in the direction of the tennis balls. 'Not even my age? Smaller?' The football nodded again, and let its logo fall below the straight line of the other balls. Then, one by one, every ball tilted forwards, until their logos were all looking down, but no longer in a nice neat line. 'Oh, you poor things...' muttered Harry. 'Who's the brat?' the football seemed to ask, with a nod of its logo towards Perkin. 'My cousin,' said Harry through gritted teeth, 'I hate him. Sometimes I just wish he'd get what's coming to him.' Behind Harry, Perkin suddenly shrieked 'I'm having this one,' and pulled a David Beckham ball off the shelf. Harry turned to look at his cousin, but as he did so he heard Cole scream 'Perks! Mr Parsley! Look out! The footballs...!' Harry turned back again just in time to see the whole wall of footballs falling out of their shelves and bouncing over him. He jumped back, but lost his footing and found himself rolling around the floor on a sea of footballs. He could see legs and arms flailing helplessly as the Parsleys too were felled by the avalanche, and he heard Aunt Priscilla scream 'William!'. When he finally came to rest by a till, his head was lying on a ball. He could have sworn he heard it say 'That was fun! Thanks for the idea mate.' The shop assistant struggled to his feet and started helping the Parsleys up, apologising and shaking his head in disbelief. Moments later the manager arrived, picking his way through the footballs. He too apologised endlessly, and took the Parsleys to his office for a cup of tea, sending a minion to find their parcels among the chaos. He was worried about a claim for injuries, because Perkin told them he'd cracked his head on the floor and Cole limped around saying he'd sprained his ankle falling. Eventually the manager ordered a taxi to take them all to the station 'at Lillyblacks' expense, of course,' to save the Parsleys having to take the tube after their ordeal. The taxi journey was silent, but Harry knew he was in trouble. On the train home, it got ten times worse when Cole finally found his voice. 'You were talking to the footballs, just before they fell, weren't you Harry?' Uncle William shot a furioius glance at Harry, but said nothing until Cole's parents came to pick him up, although by then he was a deeper shade of puce than Harry had ever seen. But the moment the door closed, he grabbed Harry by the ear and dragged him upstairs, where he made good on his promise to lock Harry away, but not until he had administered the first daily thrashing of many. * Much as Harry often wished that someone would take him away from Rosebush Close, as far as he knew he had no relations other than the Parsleys. And yet he felt sure that, on occasion, people would recognise him on the street. He had seen total strangers nudge each other and whisper when they spotted him. Once, when they were picking up Perkin from school, a small man in checked trousers and a yellow sweater had passed by and raised his cap to Harry. Aunt Priscilla was furious and demanded to know who the man was, but Harry had never seen him before. This did not spare Harry from a spanking when Uncle William heard about the incident that evening. On another occasion, a kindly looking lady with a deep sun tan but one white hand had spotted Harry in a shop with the Parsleys. He heard her say "What a dear little boy, such a shame about his poor parents" to her husband, prompting Uncle William to snap back "There must be some mistake, Madam" while herding his family angrily out of the shop. Harry had been locked in the airing cupboard for a week after that. Nor did Harry have any friends. At school he was laughed at for his ill-fitting clothes and awful haircut (Aunt Priscilla always cut his hair, using a pudding basin and the kitchen scissors), and Perkin's gang of bullies would trip him up or punch him at every opportunity, so nobody befriended him for fear of similar treatment. Outside school he was not allowed to talk to the neighbours or their children. He was all alone, he thought, as he lay in the darkness, trying to imagine how it would be to have his mother and father back. Watch out for Chapter Three of Harry Putter and the Professional's Spoon - The Letters From Knough Eyre - coming shortly on Anyone for Tee! |
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This page © Copyright 2004 by Duffersgolf |
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