OtherbooksbyRoaldDahl

THEBFGBOY:TALESOFCHILDHOODBOYandGOINGSOLOCHARLIEANDTHECHOCOLATEFACTORYCHARLIEANDTHEGREATGLASSELEVATORTHECOMPLETEADVENTURESOFCHARLIEANDMRWILLYWONKADANNYTHECHAMPIONOFTHEWORLDGEORGE’SMARVELLOUSMEDICINEGOINGSOLOJAMESANDTHEGIANTPEACHMATILDATHEWITCHES

Foryoungerreaders

THEENORMOUSCROCODILEESIOTROTFANTASTICMRFOXTHEGIRAFFEANDTHEPELLYANDMETHEMAGICFINGERTHETWITS

Picturebooks

DIRTYBEASTS(withQuentinBlake)THEENORMOUSCROCODILE(withQuentinBlake)THEGIRAFFEANDTHEPELLYANDME(withQuentinBlake)THEMINPINS(withPatrickBenson)REVOLTINGRHYMES(withQuentinBlake)

Plays

THEBFG:PLAYSFORCHILDREN(AdaptedbyDavidWood)CHARLIEANDTHECHOCOLATEFACTORY:APLAY(AdaptedbyRichardGeorge)FANTASTICMRFOX:APLAY(AdaptedbySallyReid)JAMESANDTHEGIANTPEACH:APLAY(AdaptedbyRichardGeorge)THETWITS:PLAYSFORCHILDREN(AdaptedbyDavidWood)THEWITCHES:PLAYSFORCHILDREN(AdaptedbyDavidWood)

Teenagefiction

THEGREATAUTOMATICGRAMMATIZATORANDOTHERSTORIESRHYMESTEWSKINANDOTHERSTORIESTHEVICAROFNIBBLESWICKETHEWONDERFULSTORYOFHENRYSUGARANDSIXMORE

RoaldDahl

DannytheChampionoftheWorld

illustratedbyQuentinBlake

PUFFIN

PUFFINBOOKS

PublishedbythePenguinGroupPenguinBooksLtd,80Strand,LondonWC2R0RL,EnglandPenguinGroup(USA)Inc.,375HudsonStreet,NewYork,NewYork10014,USAPenguinGroup(Canada),90EglintonAvenueEast,Suite700,Toronto,Ontario,CanadaM4P2Y3(adivisionofPearsonPenguinCanadaInc.)PenguinIreland,25StStephen’sGreen,Dublin2,Ireland(adivisionofPenguinBooksLtd)PenguinGroup(Australia),250CamberwellRoad,Camberweii,Victoria3124,Australia(adivisionofPearsonAustraliaGroupPtyLtd)PenguinBooksIndiaPvtLtd,11CommunityCentre,PanchsheelPark,NewDelhi–110017,IndiaPenguinGroup(NZ),67ApolloDrive,Rosedale,NorthShore0632,NewZealand(adivisionofPearsonNewZealandLtd)PenguinBooks(SouthAfrica)(Pty)Ltd,24SturdeeAvenue,Rosebank,Johannesburg2196,SouthAfrica

PenguinBooksLtd,RegisteredOffices:80Strand,LondonWC2R0RL,Englandpuffinbooks.com

FirstpublishedbyJonathanCapeLtd1975PublishedinPuffinBooks1977Reissuedwithnewillustrations1994Thiseditionpublished2007

2Textcopyright©RoaldDahlNomineeLtd,1975Illustrationscopyright©QuentinBlake,1994Allrightsreserved

Themoralrightoftheauthorandillustratorhasbeenasserted

ExceptintheUnitedStatesofAmerica,thisbookissoldsubjecttotheconditionthatitshallnot,bywayoftradeorotherwise,belent,re-sold,hiredout,orotherwisecirculatedwithoutthepublisher’spriorconsentinanyformofbindingorcoverotherthanthatinitispublishedandwithoutasimilarconditionincludingthisconditionbeingwhichimposedonthesubsequentpurchaser

BritishLibraryCataloguinginPublicationDataACIPcataloguerecordforthisbookisavailablefromtheBritishLibrary

ISBN:978-0-14-193021-3

Thisbookisforthewholefamily

PATTESSATHEOOPHELIALUCY

Contents

1TheFilling-station2TheBigFriendlyGiant3CarsandKitesandFire-balloons4MyFather’sDeepDarkSecret5TheSecretMethods6MrVictorHazell7TheBabyAustin8ThePit9DocSpencer10TheGreatShootingParty11TheSleepingBeauty12ThursdayandSchool13Friday14IntotheWood15TheKeeper16TheChampionoftheWorld17TheTaxi18Home19RockabyeBaby20Goodbye,MrHazell21DocSpencer’sSurprise22MyFather

1

TheFilling-station

WhenIwasfourmonthsold,mymotherdiedsuddenlyandmyfatherwaslefttolookaftermeallbyhimself.ThisishowIlookedatthetime.

Ihadnobrothersorsisters.So all throughmy boyhood, from the age of four months onward, there

werejustthetwoofus,myfatherandme.

Welivedinanoldgipsycaravanbehindafilling-station.Myfatherownedthefilling-stationandthecaravanandasmallfieldbehind,butthatwasaboutallheownedintheworld.Itwasaverysmallfilling-stationonasmallcountryroadsurroundedbyfieldsandwoodyhills.

WhileIwasstillababy,myfatherwashedmeandfedmeandchangedmynappiesanddidall themillionsofotherthingsamothernormallydoesforherchild. That is not an easy task for aman, especiallywhen he has to earn hisliving at the same time by repairingmotor-car engines and serving customerswithpetrol.

Butmyfatherdidn’tseemtomind.Ithinkthatallthelovehehadfeltformy mother when she was alive he now lavished upon me. During my earlyyears,Ineverhadamoment’sunhappinessorillnessandhereIamonmyfifthbirthday.

Iwasnowascruffylittleboyasyoucansee,withgreaseandoilalloverme,butthatwasbecauseIspentalldayintheworkshophelpingmyfatherwiththecars.

The filling-station itself had only two pumps. There was a wooden shedbehindthepumpsthatservedasanoffice.Therewasnothingintheofficeexceptanoldtableandacashregistertoputthemoneyinto.Itwasoneofthosewhereyoupressedabuttonandabellrangandthedrawershotoutwithaterrificbang.Iusedtolovethat.

Thesquarebrickbuildingtotherightoftheofficewastheworkshop.My

fatherbuiltthathimselfwithlovingcare,anditwastheonlyreallysolidthinginthe place. ‘We are engineers, you and I,’ he used to say tome. ‘We earn ourlivingbyrepairingenginesandwecan’tdogoodworkinarottenworkshop.’Itwasafineworkshop,bigenoughtotakeonecarcomfortablyandleaveplentyofroom round the sides forworking. It had a telephone so that customers couldarrangetobringtheircarsinforrepair.

Thecaravanwasourhouseandourhome. Itwas a realoldgipsywagonwithbigwheelsandfinepatternspaintedalloveritinyellowandredandblue.Myfathersaiditwasatleastahundredandfiftyyearsold.Manygipsychildren,hesaid,hadbeenborninitandhadgrownupwithinitswoodenwalls.Withahorse to pull it, the old caravan must have wandered for thousands of milesalong the roads and lanesofEngland.But now itswanderingswereover, andbecausethewoodenspokesinthewheelswerebeginningtorot,myfatherhadproppeditupunderneathwithbricks.

Therewasonlyoneroominthecaravananditwasn’tmuchbiggerthanafair-sized modern bathroom. It was a narrow room, the shape of the caravanitself,andagainst thebackwallweretwobunkbeds,oneabovetheother.Thetoponewasmyfather’s,thebottomonemine.

Althoughwehadelectric lights in theworkshop,wewerenot allowed tohavetheminthecaravan.Theelectricitypeoplesaiditwasunsafetoputwiresintosomethingasoldandricketyasthat.Sowegotourheatandlightinmuchthe same way as the gipsies had done years ago. There was a wood-burningstovewithachimney thatwentup through the roof, and thiskeptuswarm inwinter.Therewasaparaffinburneronwhichtoboilakettleorcookastew,andtherewasaparaffinlamphangingfromtheceiling.

WhenIneededabath,myfatherwouldheatakettleofwaterandpour itintoabasin.Thenhewouldstripmenakedandscrubmeallover,standingup.This, I think, got me just as clean as if I were washed in a bath – probablycleanerbecauseIdidn’tfinishupsittinginmyowndirtywater.

Forfurniture,wehadtwochairsandasmalltable,andthose,apartfromatinychestofdrawers,wereall thehomecomfortswepossessed.Theywereallweneeded.

Thelavatorywasafunnylittlewoodenhutstandinginthefieldsomewaybehindthecaravan.Itwasfineinsummertime,butIcantellyouthatsittingoutthereonasnowydayinwinterwaslikesittinginafridge.

Immediatelybehindthecaravanwasanoldappletree.ItborelovelyapplesthatripenedinthemiddleofSeptemberandyoucouldgoonpickingthemforthenextfourorfiveweeks.Someoftheboughsofthetreehungrightoverthecaravanandwhenthewindblewtheapplesdowninthenighttheyoftenlandedonourroof.Iwouldhearthemgoingthump…thump…thump…abovemyheadasIlayinmybunk,butthosenoisesneverfrightenedmebecauseIknewexactlywhatwasmakingthem.

I really loved living in that gipsy caravan. I loved it especially in theeveningswhenIwastuckedupinmybunkandmyfatherwastellingmestories.Theparaffinlampwasturnedlow,andIcouldseelumpsofwoodglowingred-hotintheoldstoveandwonderfulitwastobelyingtheresnugandwarminmybunkinthatlittleroom.MostwonderfulofallwasthefeelingthatwhenIwenttosleep,myfatherwouldstillbethere,veryclosetome,sittinginhischairbythefire,orlyinginthebunkabovemyown.

2

TheBigFriendlyGiant

My father, without the slightest doubt, was the most marvellous and excitingfatheranyboyeverhad.Hereisapictureofhim.

You might think, if you didn’t know him well, that he was a stern andseriousman.Hewasn’t.Hewasactuallyawildlyfunnyperson.Whatmadehimappearsoseriouswasthefactthatheneversmiledwithhismouth.Hediditallwith his eyes. He had brilliant blue eyes and when he thought of somethingfunny,hiseyeswouldflashandifyoulookedcarefully,youcouldactuallyseeatinylittlegoldensparkdancinginthemiddleofeacheye.Butthemouthnevermoved.

Iwasgladmyfatherwasaneye-smiler.Itmeanthenevergavemeafakesmile, because it’s impossible tomake your eyes twinkle if you aren’t feeling

twinklyyourself.Amouth-smile is different.You can fake amouth-smile anytimeyouwant,simplybymovingyourlips.I’vealsolearnedthatarealmouth-smilealwayshasaneye-smiletogowithit,sowatchout,Isay,whensomeonesmilesatyouwithhismouthbuttheeyesstaythesame.It’ssuretobebogus.

MyfatherwasnotwhatyouwouldcallaneducatedmanandIdoubtifhehadreadtwentybooksinhislife.Buthewasamarvellousstory-teller.Heusedtomakeupabedtime story formeevery singlenight, and thebestoneswereturnedintoserialsandwentonformanynightsrunning.

Oneofthem,whichmusthavegoneonforatleastfiftynights,wasaboutanenormousfellowcalledTheBigFriendlyGiant,orTheBFGforshort.TheBFGwas three times as tall as anordinaryman andhis handswere as big aswheelbarrows.He lived in avast undergroundcavernnot far fromour filling-stationandheonlycameoutintotheopenwhenitwasdark.Insidethecavernhehadapowder-factorywherehemademorethanahundreddifferentkindsofmagicpowder.

Occasionally, as he told his stories,my fatherwould stride up and downwavinghisarmsandwagglinghisfingers.Butmostlyhewouldsitclosetomeontheedgeofmybunkandspeakverysoftly.

‘TheBigFriendlyGiantmakeshismagicpowdersoutof thedreams thatchildrendreamwhentheyareasleep,’hesaid.

‘How?’Iasked.‘Tellmehow,Dad.’‘Dreams, my love, are very mysterious things. They float around in the

nightairlikelittleclouds,searchingforsleepingpeople.’‘Canyouseethem?’Iasked.‘Nobodycanseethem.’‘ThenhowdoesTheBigFriendlyGiantcatchthem?’‘Ah,’my father said. ‘That is the interestingpart.Adream,yousee, as it

goesdriftingthroughthenightair,makesatinylittlebuzzing-hummingsound,asound so soft and low it is impossible for ordinary people to hear it.ButTheBFGcanheariteasily.Hissenseofhearingisabsolutelyfantastic’

Ilovedthefarintentlookonmyfather’sfacewhenhewastellingastory.Hisfacewaspaleandstillanddistant,unconsciousofeverythingaroundhim.

‘The BFG’, he said, ‘can hear the tread of a ladybird’s footsteps as shewalksacrossaleaf.Hecanhearthewhisperingsofantsastheyscurryaroundinthesoil talkingtooneanother.Hecanhear thesuddenshrillcryofpaina treegivesoutwhenawoodmancutsintoitwithanaxe.Ahyes,mydarling,thereis

a whole world of sound around us that we cannot hear because our ears aresimplynotsensitiveenough.’

‘Whathappenswhenhecatchesthedreams?’Iasked.‘He imprisons them in glass bottles and screws the tops down tight,’my

fathersaid.‘Hehasthousandsofthesebottlesinhiscave.’‘Doeshecatchbaddreamsaswellasgoodones?’‘Yes,’myfathersaid.‘Hecatchesboth.Butheonlyusesthegoodonesin

hispowders.’‘Whatdoeshedowiththebadones?’‘Heexplodesthem.’

It is impossible to tell you how much I loved my father. When he wassittingclosetomeonmybunkIwouldreachoutandslidemyhandintohis,andthenhewouldfoldhislongfingersaroundmyfist,holdingittight.

‘WhatdoesTheBFGdowithhispowdersafterhehasmadethem?’Iasked.‘In the dead of night,’ my father said, ‘he goes prowling through the

villages searching for houses where children are asleep. Because of his greatheighthecanreachwindowsthatareoneandeventwoflightsup,andwhenhefindsaroomwithasleepingchild,heopenshissuitcase…’

‘Hissuitcase?’Isaid.‘TheBFGalwayscarriesasuitcaseandablowpipe,’myfathersaid. ‘The

blowpipeisaslongasalamp-post.Thesuitcaseisforthepowders.Soheopensthe suitcase and selects exactly the right powder… and he puts it into theblowpipe… and he slides the blowpipe in through the open window… andpoof…heblowsinthepowder…andthepowderfloatsaroundtheroom…andthechildbreathesitin…’

‘Andthenwhat?’Iasked.‘And then, Danny, the child begins to dream a marvellous and fantastic

dream… and when the dream reaches its most marvellous and fantasticmoment…thenthemagicpowderreallytakesover…andsuddenlythedreamisnot a dream any longer but a real happening… and the child is not asleep inbed…heisfullyawakeandisactuallyin theplaceof thedreamandis takingpart…inthewholething…Imeanreallytakingpart…inreallife.Moreaboutthattomorrow.It’sgettinglate.Good-night,Danny.Gotosleep.’

Myfatherkissedmeandthenheturneddownthewickofthelittleparaffinlamp until the flamewent out. He seated himself in front of thewood stove,whichnowmadealovelyredglowinthedarkroom.

‘Dad,’Iwhispered.‘Whatisit?’‘HaveyoueveractuallyseenTheBigFriendlyGiant?’‘Once,’myfathersaid.‘Onlyonce.’‘Youdid!Where?’‘Iwasoutbehindthecaravan,’myfathersaid,‘anditwasaclearmoonlit

night,andIhappenedtolookupandsuddenlyIsawthistremendoustallpersonrunning along the crest of thehill.Hehad aqueer long-striding lollopinggaitandhisblackcloakwasstreamingoutbehindhimlikethewingsofabird.Therewasabigsuitcaseinonehandandablowpipeintheother,andwhenhecametothehighhawthornhedgeattheendofthefield,hejuststrodeoveritasthoughitwasn’tthere.’

‘Wereyoufrightened,Dad?’‘No,’my father said. ‘Itwas thrilling to see him, and a little eerie, but I

wasn’tfrightened.Gotosleepnow.Good-night.’

3

CarsandKitesandFire-balloons

Myfatherwasafinemechanic.Peoplewholivedmilesawayusedtobringtheircars to him for repair rather than take them to their nearest garage.He lovedengines. ‘A petrol engine is sheer magic,’ he said to me once. ‘Just imaginebeing able to take a thousand different bits ofmetal…and if you fit them alltogetherinacertainway…andthenifyoufeedthemalittleoilandpetrol…andifyoupressalittleswitch…suddenlythosebitsofmetalwillallcometolife…andtheywillpurrandhumandroar…theywillmakethewheelsofamotor-cargowhizzingroundatfantasticspeeds…’

ItwasinevitablethatI,too,shouldfallinlovewithenginesandcars.Don’tforgetthatevenbeforeIcouldwalk,theworkshophadbeenmyplay-room,forwhereelsecouldmyfatherhaveputmesothathecouldkeepaneyeonmealldaylong?Mytoyswerethegreasycogsandspringsandpistonsthatlayaroundallovertheplace,andthese,Icanpromiseyou,werefarmorefuntoplaywiththanmostoftheplasticstuffchildrenaregiventhesedays.

Soalmostfrombirth,Ibegantrainingtobeamechanic.ButnowthatIwasfiveyearsold,therewastheproblemofschooltothink

about.Itwasthelawthatparentsmustsendtheirchildrentoschoolattheageoffive,andmyfatherknewaboutthis.

Wewereintheworkshop,Iremember,onmyfifthbirthday,whenthetalkaboutschoolstarted.Iwashelpingmyfathertofitnewbrakeliningstotherearwheel of a big Ford when suddenly he said to me, ‘You know somethinginteresting,Danny?Youmust be easily the best five-year-oldmechanic in theworld.’

Thiswas thegreatestcomplimenthehadeverpaidme.Iwasenormouslypleased.

‘You like this work, don’t you?’ he said. ‘All this messing about withengines.’

‘Iabsolutelyloveit,’Isaid.Heturnedandfacedmeandlaidahandgentlyonmyshoulder.‘Iwantto

teachyoutobeagreatmechanic,’hesaid.‘Andwhenyougrowup,Ihopeyouwill become a famous designing engineer, amanwho designs new and betterenginesforcarsandaeroplanes.Forthat’,headded,‘youwillneedareallygoodeducation.ButIdon’twanttosendyoutoschoolquiteyet.Inanothertwoyearsyouwill have learned enough herewithme to be able to take a small enginecompletelytopiecesandputittogetheragainallbyyourself.Afterthat,youcangotoschool.’

Youprobablythinkmyfatherwascrazytryingtoteachayoungchildtobeanexpertmechanic,butasamatteroffacthewasn’tcrazyatall.IlearnedfastandIadoredeverymomentofit.Andluckilyforus,nobodycameknockingonthedoortoaskwhyIwasn’tattendingschool.

So twomore yearswent by, and at the age of seven, believe it or not, Ireally could take a small engine to pieces and put it together again. I meanproperly to pieces, pistons and crankshaft and all. The time had come to startschool.

Myschoolwasinthenearestvillage,twomilesaway.Wedidn’thaveacarofourown.Wecouldn’taffordone.ButthewalktookonlyhalfanhourandIdidn’tmind that in the least.Myfathercamewithme.He insistedoncoming.Andwhenschoolendedatfourintheafternoon,hewasalwaystherewaitingtowalkmehome.

And so life went on. The world I lived in consisted only of the filling-station, the workshop, the caravan, the school, and of course the woods andfields and streams in the countryside around. But I was never bored. It wasimpossible tobebored inmy father’s company.Hewas too sparky aman forthat. Plots and plans and new ideas came flying off him like sparks from agrindstone.

‘There’sagoodwindtoday,’hesaidoneSaturdaymorning.‘Justrightforflyingakite.Let’smakeakite,Danny.’

Sowemadeakite.Heshowedmehowtosplicefourthinstickstogetherintheshapeofastar,withtwomoresticksacrossthemiddletobraceit.Thenwecutupanoldblueshirtofhisandstretchedthematerialacrosstheframe-workofthekite.Weaddedalongtailmadeofthread,withlittleleftoverpiecesoftheshirttiedatintervalsalongit.Wefoundaballofstringintheworkshopandheshowedmehowtoattachthestringtotheframe-worksothatthekitewouldbeproperlybalancedinflight.

Togetherwewalkedtothetopofthehillbehindthefilling-stationtoreleasethekite.Ifoundithardtobelievethatthisobject,madeonlyfromafewsticksandapieceofoldshirt,wouldactuallyfly.Iheldthestringwhilemyfatherheldthekite,andthemomentheletitgo,itcaughtthewindandsoaredupwardlikeahugebluebird.

‘Letoutsomemore,Danny!’hecried.‘Goon!Asmuchasyoulike!’Higherandhighersoaredthekite.Soonitwasjustasmallbluedotdancing

intheskymilesabovemyhead,anditwasthrillingtostandthereholdingontosomethingthatwassofarawayandsoverymuchalive.Thisfarawaythingwastuggingandstrugglingontheendofthelinelikeabigfish.

‘Let’swalkitbacktothecaravan,’myfathersaid.Sowewalkeddownthehillagainwithmeholdingthestringandthekite

still pulling fiercelyon theother end.Whenwe came to the caravanwewerecarefulnot toget the string tangled in theapple treeandwebrought it all thewayroundtothefrontsteps.

‘Tieittothesteps,’myfathersaid.‘Willitstillstayup?’Iasked.‘Itwillifthewinddoesn’tdrop,’hesaid.The wind didn’t drop. And I will tell you something amazing. That kite

stayed up there all through the night, and at breakfast time nextmorning thesmall blue dot was still dancing and swooping in the sky. After breakfast Ihauleditdownandhungitcarefullyagainstawallintheworkshopforanotherday.

Not longafter that,ona lovelystilleveningwhen therewasnobreathofwindanywhere,myfathersaidtome,‘Thisis just therightweatherforafire-balloon.Let’smakeafire-balloon.’

Hemusthaveplannedthisonebeforehandbecausehehadalreadyboughtthe four big sheets of tissue-paper and the pot of glue from Mr Witton’sbookshop in the village. And now, using only the paper, the glue, a pair ofscissorsandapieceofthinwire,hemademeahugemagnificentfire-ballooninless than fifteen minutes. In the opening at the bottom, he tied a ball ofcottonwool,andwewerereadytogo.

It was getting dark when we carried it outside into the field behind thecaravan.Wehadwithusabottleofmethylatedspiritandsomematches.Iheldtheballoonuprightwhilemyfathercrouchedunderneathitandcarefullypouredalittlemethsontotheballofcottonwool.

‘Heregoes,’hesaid,puttingamatchtothecottonwool.‘Holdthesidesoutasmuchasyoucan,Danny!’

A tallyellowflame leapedup from theballofcottonwoolandwent rightinsidetheballoon.

‘It’llcatchonfire!’Icried.‘Noitwon’t,’hesaid.‘Watch!’Between us,we held the sides of the balloon out asmuch as possible to

keepthemawayfromtheflameintheearlystages.Butsoonthehotairfilledtheballoonandthedangerwasover.

‘She’snearlyready!’myfathersaid.‘Canyoufeelherfloating?’‘Yes!’Isaid.‘Yes!Shallweletgo?’‘Notyet!…Waitabitlonger!…Waituntilshe’stuggingtoflyaway!’‘She’stuggingnow!’Isaid.‘Right!’hecried.‘Lethergo!’Slowly,majestically,andinabsolutesilence,ourwonderfulballoonbegan

toriseupintothenightsky.‘Itflies!’Ishouted,clappingmyhandsandjumpingabout.‘Itflies!Itflies!’MyfatherwasnearlyasexcitedasIwas.‘It’sabeauty,’hesaid.‘Thisone’s

arealbeauty.Youneverknowhowthey’regoingtoturnoutuntilyouflythem.Eachoneisdifferent.’

Upandupitwent,risingveryfastnowinthecoolnightair.Itwaslikeamagicfire-ballinthesky.

‘Willotherpeopleseeit?’Iasked.‘I’msuretheywill,Danny.It’shighenoughnowforthemtoseeitformiles

around.’‘Whatwilltheythinkitis,Dad?’‘Aflyingsaucer,’myfathersaid.‘They’llprobablycallthepolice.’Asmallbreezehad takenholdof theballoonandwascarrying itawayin

thedirectionofthevillage.‘Let’sfollowit,’myfathersaid.‘Andwithluckwe’llfinditwhenitcomes

down.’

Werantotheroad.Weranalongtheroad.Wekeptrunning.‘She’scomingdown!’myfathershouted.‘Theflame’snearlygoneout!’

Welostsightofitwhentheflamewentout,butweguessedroughlywhichfield itwould be landing in, andwe climbed over a gate and ran towards theplace.Forhalf anhourwe searched the field in thedarkness, butwe couldn’tfindourballoon.

The nextmorning Iwent back alone to search again. I searched four bigfieldsbeforeIfoundit.Itwaslyinginthecornerofafieldthatwasfullofblack-and-whitecows.Thecowswereallstandingrounditandstaringatitwiththeirhugeweteyes.Buttheyhadn’tharmeditonebit.SoIcarriedithomeandhungitupalongsidethekite,againstawallintheworkshop,foranotherday.

‘Youcanflythekiteallbyyourselfanytimeyoulike,’myfathersaid.‘Butyou must never fly the fire-balloon unless I’m with you. It’s extremelydangerous.’

‘Allright,’Isaid.‘Promisemeyou’llnevertrytoflyitalone,Danny’‘Ipromise,’Isaid.Thentherewasthetree-housewhichwebuilthighupinthetopofthebig

oakatthebottomofourfield.And the bow and arrow, the bow a four-foot-long ash sapling, and the

arrowsflightedwiththetail-feathersofpartridgeandpheasant.Andstiltsthatmademetenfeettall.Andaboomerang that cameback and fell atmy feet nearly every time I

threwit.And for my last birthday, there had been something that was more fun,

perhaps,thanalltherest.Fortwodaysbeforemybirthday,I’dbeenforbiddentoentertheworkshopbecausemyfatherwasinthereworkingonasecret.Andonthe birthdaymorning, out came an amazingmachinemade from four bicyclewheelsandseverallargesoap-boxes.Butthiswasnoordinarywhizzer.Ithadabrake-pedal, a steering-wheel,acomfortable seatanda strong frontbumper totaketheshockofacrash.IcalleditSoapoandjustabouteverydayIwouldtakeituptothetopofthehillinthefieldbehindthefilling-stationandcomeshootingdownagainatincrediblespeeds,ridingitlikeabroncooverthebumps.

Soyoucanseethatbeingeightyearsoldandlivingwithmyfatherwasalotoffun.ButIwasimpatienttobenine.Ireckonedthatbeingninewouldbeevenmorefunthanbeingeight.

Asitturnedout,Iwasnotaltogetherrightaboutthis.Myninthyearwascertainlymoreexciting thananyof theothers.Butnot

allofitwasexactlywhatyouwouldcallfun.

4

MyFather’sDeepDarkSecret

Here I am at the age of nine. This picture was made just before all theexcitementstartedandIdidn’thaveaworryintheworld.

Youwilllearnasyougetolder,justasIlearnedthatautumn,thatnofatherisperfect.Grown-upsarecomplicatedcreatures,fullofquirksandsecrets.Somehave quirkier quirks and deeper secrets than others, but all of them, includingone’sownparents,havetwoorthreeprivatehabitshiddenuptheirsleevesthatwouldprobablymakeyougaspifyouknewaboutthem.

Therestofthisbookisaboutamostprivateandsecrethabitmyfatherhad,andaboutthestrangeadventuresitledusbothinto.

ItallstartedonaSaturdayevening.ItwasthefirstSaturdayofSeptember.Aroundsixo’clockmyfatherandIhadsuppertogetherinthecaravanasusual.ThenIwenttobed.Myfathertoldmeafinestoryandkissedmegood-night.Ifellasleep.

ForsomereasonIwokeupagainduringthenight.Ilaystill, listeningforthesoundofmyfather’sbreathinginthebunkabovemine.Icouldhearnothing.Hewasn’tthere,Iwascertainofthat.Thismeantthathehadgonebacktotheworkshoptofinishajob.Heoftendidthatafterhehadtuckedmein.

Ilistenedfortheusualworkshopsounds,thelittleclinkingnoisesofmetal

againstmetalorthetapofahammer.Theyalwayscomfortedmetremendously,thosenoisesinthenight,becausetheytoldmemyfatherwascloseathand.

But on this night, no sound came from theworkshop. The filling-stationwassilent.

Igotoutofmybunkandfoundaboxofmatchesbythesink.Istruckoneandheld itup to thefunnyoldclockthathungonthewallabovethekettle. Itsaidtenpasteleven.

Iwenttothedoorofthecaravan.‘Dad,’Isaidsoftly.‘Dad,areyouthere?’Noanswer.Therewas a smallwooden platformoutside the caravan door, about four

feet above theground. I stoodon theplatformandgazed aroundme. ‘Dad!’ Icalledout.‘Whereareyou?’

Stillnoanswer.Inpyjamasandbarefeet,Iwentdownthecaravanstepsandcrossedoverto

the workshop. I switched on the light. The old car we had been working onthroughthedaywasstillthere,butnotmyfather.

Ihavealreadytoldyouhedidnothaveacarofhisown,sotherewasnoquestionofhishavinggoneforadrive.Hewouldn’thavedonethatanyway.I

was sure hewould neverwillingly have leftme alone in the filling-station atnight.

Inwhichcase,I thought,hemusthavefaintedsuddenlyfromsomeawfulillnessorfallendownandbangedhishead.

Iwouldneeda light if Iwasgoing to findhim. I took the torchfromthebenchintheworkshop.

I looked in the office. Iwent around and searched behind the office andbehindtheworkshop.

Irandownthefieldtothelavatory.Itwasempty.‘Dad!’Ishoutedintothedarkness.‘Dad!Whereareyou?’Iranbacktothecaravan.Ishonethelightintohisbunktomakeabsolutely

surehewasn’tthere.Hewasn’tinhisbunk.IstoodinthedarkcaravanandforthefirsttimeinmylifeIfeltatouchof

panic.Thefilling-stationwasalongwayfromthenearestfarmhouse.Itooktheblanket from my bunk and put it round my shoulders. Then I went out thecaravandoorandsatontheplatformwithmyfeetonthetopstepoftheladder.Therewasanewmoonintheskyandacrosstheroadthebigfieldlaypaleanddesertedinthemoonlight.Thesilencewasdeathly.

Idon’tknowhowlongIsatthere.Itmayhavebeenonehour.Itcouldhavebeen two. But I never dozed off. I wanted to keep listening all the time. If IlistenedverycarefullyImighthearsomethingthatwouldtellmewherehewas.

Then, at last, from far away, I heard the faint tap-tap of footsteps on theroad.

Thefootstepswerecomingcloserandcloser.Tap…tap…tap…tap…Wasithim?Orwasitsomebodyelse?Isatstill,watchingtheroad.Icouldn’tseeveryfaralongit.Itfadedaway

intoamistymoonlitdarkness.Tap…tap…tap…tap…camethefootsteps.Thenoutofthemistafigureappeared.Itwashim!Ijumpeddownthestepsandranontotheroadtomeethim.‘Danny!’hecried.‘Whatonearth’sthematter?’

‘Ithoughtsomethingawfulhadhappenedtoyou,’Isaid.Hetookmyhandinhisandwalkedmebacktothecaravaninsilence.Then

hetuckedmeintomybunk.‘I’msosorry,’hesaid.‘Ishouldneverhavedoneit.Butyoudon’tusuallywakeup,doyou?’

‘Wheredidyougo,Dad?’‘Youmustbetiredout,’hesaid.‘I’mnotabittired.Couldn’twelightthelampforalittlewhile?’Myfatherputamatchtothewickofthelamphangingfromtheceilingand

the littleyellowflamesprangupand filled the insideof thecaravanwithpalelight.‘Howaboutahotdrink?’hesaid.

‘Yes,please.’Helittheparaffinburnerandputthekettleontoboil.‘Ihavedecidedsomething,’hesaid.‘Iamgoingtoletyouinonthedeepest

darkestsecretofmywholelife.’Iwassittingupinmybunkwatchingmyfather.‘YouaskedmewhereIhadbeen,’hesaid.‘ThetruthisIwasupinHazell’s

Wood.’‘Hazell’sWood!’Icried.‘That’smilesaway!’‘Sixmilesandahalf,’myfathersaid. ‘IknowIshouldn’thavegoneand

I’mvery,verysorryabout it,but Ihadsuchapowerfulyearning…’Hisvoicetrailedawayintonothingness.

‘ButwhywouldyouwanttogoallthewayuptoHazell’sWood?’Iasked.Hespoonedcocoapowderandsugar into twomugs,doing itveryslowly

andlevellingeachspoonfulasthoughheweremeasuringmedicine.‘Doyouknowwhatismeantbypoaching?’heasked.‘Poaching?Notreally,no.’‘Itmeansgoingup into thewoods in thedeadofnight and comingback

withsomethingforthepot.Poachersinotherplacespoachallsortsofdifferentthings,butaroundhereit’salwayspheasants.’

‘Youmeanstealingthem?’Isaid,aghast.‘Wedon’tlookatit thatway,’myfathersaid.‘Poachingisanart.Agreat

poacherisagreatartist.’‘Is that actually what you were doing in Hazell’sWood, Dad? Poaching

pheasants?’

‘Iwaspractisingtheart,’hesaid.‘Theartofpoaching.’Iwasshocked.Myownfathera thief!Thisgentle lovelyman! Icouldn’t

believe hewould go creeping into thewoods at night to pinch valuable birdsbelongingtosomebodyelse.‘Thekettle’sboiling,’Isaid.

‘Ah,soitis.’Hepouredthewaterintothemugsandbroughtmineovertome.Thenhefetchedhisownandsatwithitattheendofmybunk.

‘Yourgrandad,’hesaid,‘myowndad,wasamagnificentandsplendiferouspoacher.Itwashewhotaughtmeallaboutit.Icaughtthepoachingfeverfromhimwhen Iwas tenyearsold and I’venever lost it since.Mindyou, in thosedaysjustabouteverymaninourvillagewasoutinthewoodsatnightpoachingpheasants.Andtheydiditnotonlybecausetheylovedthesportbutbecausetheyneeded food for their families.When Iwas aboy, timeswerebad for a lotofpeople inEngland. Therewas very littlework to be had anywhere, and somefamilieswere literally starving.Yet a fewmiles away in the richman’swood,thousandsofpheasantswerebeingfedlikekingstwiceaday.Socanyoublamemydadforgoingoutoccasionallyandcominghomewithabirdortwoforthefamilytoeat?’

‘No,’Isaid.‘Ofcoursenot.Butwe’renotstarvinghere,Dad.’‘You’ve missed the point, Danny boy! You’ve missed the whole point!

Poachingissuchafabulousandexcitingsportthatonceyoustartdoingit,itgetsintoyourbloodandyoucan’tgiveitup!Justimagine,’hesaid,leapingoffthebunkandwavinghismugintheair,‘justimagineforaminutethatyouareallaloneupthereinthedarkwood,andthewoodisfullofkeepershidingbehindthetreesandthekeepershaveguns…’

‘Guns!’Igasped.‘Theydon’thaveguns!’‘All keepers have guns,Danny. It’s for the verminmostly, the foxes and

stoatsandweaselswhogoafterthepheasants.Butthey’llalwaystakeapotatapoacher,too,iftheyspothim.’

‘Dad,you’rejoking.’‘Not at all.But theyonly do it frombehind.Onlywhenyou’re trying to

escape.Theyliketopepperyouinthelegsataboutfiftyyards.’‘They can’t do that!’ I cried. ‘They could go to prison for shooting

someone!’‘Youcouldgotoprisonforpoaching,’myfathersaid.Therewasaglintand

asparkleinhiseyesnowthatIhadneverseenbefore.‘Many’sthenightwhenIwas a boy,Danny, I’ve gone into the kitchen and seenmyold dad lying face

downonthetableandMumstandingoverhimdiggingthegunshotpelletsoutofhisbacksidewithapotato-knife.’

‘It’snottrue,’Isaid,startingtolaugh.‘Youdon’tbelieveme?’‘Yes,Ibelieveyou.’‘Towards the end, hewas so covered in tiny littlewhite scars he looked

exactlylikeitwassnowing.’‘Idon’tknowwhyI’mlaughing,’Isaid.‘It’snotfunny,it’shorrible.’‘“Poacher’sbottom”theyusedtocallit,’myfathersaid.‘Andtherewasn’t

amaninthewholevillagewhodidn’thaveabitofitonewayoranother.Butmydadwasthechampion.How’sthecocoa?’

‘Fine,thankyou.’‘Ifyou’rehungrywecouldhaveamidnightfeast?’hesaid.

‘Couldwe,Dad?’‘Ofcourse.’My father got out the bread-tin and the butter and cheese and started

makingsandwiches.‘Let me tell you about this phoney pheasant-shooting business,’ he said.

‘Firstofall,itispractisedonlybytherich.Onlytheveryrichcanaffordtorear

pheasants just for the fun of shooting them downwhen they grow up. Thesewealthy idiots spend huge sums of money every year buying baby pheasantsfrompheasantfarmsandrearingtheminpensuntiltheyarebigenoughtobeputout into thewoods. In thewoods, the young birds hang around like flocks ofchickens.Theyareguardedbykeepersandfedtwiceadayonthebestcornuntilthey’resofattheycanhardlyfly.Thenbeatersarehiredwhowalkthroughthewoodsclappingtheirhandsandmakingasmuchnoiseastheycantodrivethehalf-tamepheasants towards thehalf-bakedmenand theirguns.After that, it’sbangbangbanganddowntheycome.Wouldyoulikestrawberryjamononeofthese?’

‘Yes,please,’Isaid.‘Onejamandonecheese.ButDad…’‘What?’‘Howdoyouactuallycatchthepheasantswhenyou’repoaching?Doyou

haveagunhiddenawayupthere?’‘Agun!’hecried,disgusted.‘Realpoachersdon’tshootpheasants,Danny,

didn’tyouknowthat?You’veonlygottofireacap-pistolupinthosewoodsandthekeepers’llbeonyou.’

‘Thenhowdoyoudoit?’‘Ah,’ my father said, and the eyelids drooped over the eyes, veiled and

secretive.Hespreadstrawberryjamthicklyonapieceofbread,takinghistime.‘These things are big secrets,’ he said. ‘Very big secrets indeed. But I

reckon ifmy father could tell them tome, thenmaybe I can tell them toyou.Wouldyoulikemetodothat?’

‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Tellmenow’

5

TheSecretMethods

‘All thebestwaysofpoachingpheasantswerediscoveredbymyolddad,’myfathersaid.‘Myolddadstudiedpoachingthewayascientiststudiesscience.’

Myfatherputmysandwichesonaplateandbroughtthemovertomybunk.Iputtheplateonmylapandstartedeating.Iwasravenous.

‘Doyouknowmyolddadactuallyusedtokeepaflockofprimeroostersintheback-yardjusttopractiseon,’myfathersaid.‘Aroosterisverymuchlikeapheasant,yousee.Theyareequallystupidandtheylikethesamesortsoffood.Aroosteristamer,that’sall.Sowhenevermydadthoughtupanewmethodofcatchingpheasants,hetrieditoutonaroosterfirsttoseeifitworked.’

‘Whatarethebestways?’Iasked.Myfatherlaidahalf-eatensandwichontheedgeofthesinkandgazedat

meinsilenceforabouttwentyseconds.‘Promiseyouwon’ttellanothersoul?’‘Ipromise.’‘Nowhere’sthething,’hesaid.‘Here’sthefirstbigsecret.Ah,butit’smore

thanasecret,Danny. It’s themost importantdiscovery in thewholehistoryofpoaching.’

Heedgedashadeclosertome.Hisfacewaspaleinthepaleyellowglowfromthelampintheceiling,buthiseyeswereshininglikestars.‘Sohereitis,’hesaid,andnowsuddenlyhisvoicebecamesoftandwhisperyandveryprivate.‘Pheasants’,hewhispered,‘arecrazyaboutraisins.’

‘Isthatthebigsecret?’‘That’sit,’hesaid.‘ItmaynotsoundverymuchwhenIsayitlikethat,but

believemeitis.’‘Raisins?’Isaid.‘Justordinaryraisins.It’slikeamaniawiththem.Youthrowafewraisins

intoabunchofpheasantsandthey’llstartfightingeachothertogetatthem.MydaddiscoveredthatfortyyearsagojustashediscoveredtheseotherthingsIam

abouttodescribetoyou.’

My father paused and glanced over his shoulder as though tomake suretherewasnobodyat thedoorof thecaravan, listening.‘MethodNumberOne’,hesaidsoftly,‘isknownasTheHorse-hairStopper.’

‘TheHorse-hairStopper,’Imurmured.‘That’s it,’my father said. ‘And the reason it’s such a brilliantmethod is

thatit’scompletelysilent.There’snosquawkingorflappingaroundoranythingelse with The Horse-hair Stopper when the pheasant is caught. And that’smightyimportantbecausedon’tforget,Danny,whenyou’reupinthosewoodsatnightandthegreattreesarespreadingtheirbrancheshighaboveyoulikeblackghosts, it issosilentyoucanhearamousemoving.Andsomewhereamong itall, thekeepersarewaitingand listening.They’realways there, thosekeepers,standingstony-stillagainstatreeorbehindabushwiththeirgunsattheready’

‘WhathappenswithTheHorse-hairStopper?’Iasked.‘Howdoesitwork?’‘It’sverysimple,’hesaid.‘First,youtakeafewraisinsandyousoakthem

inwaterovernighttomakethemplumpandsoftandjuicy.Thenyougetabitofgoodstiffhorse-hairandyoucutitupintohalf-inchlengths.’

‘Horse-hair?’Isaid.‘Wheredoyougethorse-hair?’‘Youpull itoutofahorse’s tail,ofcourse.That’snotdifficult as longas

youstandtoonesidewhenyou’redoingitsoyoudon’tgetkicked.’‘Goon,’Isaid.‘Soyoucutthehorse-hairupintohalf-inchlengths.Thenyoupushoneof

theselengthsthroughthemiddleofaraisinsothere’sjustatinybitofhorse-hairsticking out on each side. That’s all you do. You are now ready to catch apheasant. Ifyouwant tocatchmore thanone,youpreparemoreraisins.Then,wheneveningcomes,youcreepup into thewoods,makingsureyouget therebefore thepheasantshavegoneup into the trees to roost.Thenyouscatter the

raisins.Andsoon,alongcomesapheasantandgobblesitup.’‘Whathappensthen?’Iasked.‘Here’swhatmydaddiscovered,’hesaid.‘Firstofallthehorse-hairmakes

theraisinstickinthepheasant’sthroat.Itdoesn’thurthim.Itsimplystaysthereand tickles. It’s rather likehavingacrumbstuck inyourown throat.Butafterthat, believe it or not, the pheasant never moves his feet again! He becomesabsolutelyrootedtothespot,andtherehestandspumpinghissillyneckupanddownjustlikeapiston,andallyou’vegottodoisnipoutquicklyfromtheplacewhereyou’rehidingandpickhimup.’

‘Isthatreallytrue,Dad?’‘Iswearit,’myfathersaid.‘Onceapheasant’shadTheHorse-hairStopper,

you can turn a hosepipe on him and he won’t move. It’s just one of thoseunexplainablelittlethings.Butittakesageniustodiscoverit.’

Myfatherpaused,andtherewasagleamofprideinhiseyesashedweltforamomentuponthememoryofhisowndad,thegreatpoachinginventor.

‘Sothat’sMethodNumberOne,’hesaid.‘What’sNumberTwo?’Iasked.‘Ah,’hesaid.‘NumberTwo’sarealbeauty.It’saflashofpurebrilliance.I

canevenrememberthedayitwasinvented.Iwasjustaboutthesameageasyouare now and it was a Sunday morning and my dad comes into the kitchenholdingahugewhiteroosterinhishands.‘IthinkI’vegotit,’hesays.There’salittlesmileonhisfaceandashineofgloryinhiseyesandhecomesinverysoftandquickandputs thebirddownright in themiddleof thekitchen table. ‘Bygolly,’hesays,‘I’vegotagoodonethistime.’

‘ ‘Agoodwhat?’Mumsays, lookingup fromthesink. ‘Horace, take thatfilthybirdoffmytable.’

‘The rooster has a funny little paper hat over its head, like an ice-creamconeupsidedown,andmydadispointingtoitproudlyandsaying,“Strokehim.Goon,strokehim.Doanythingyouliketohim.Hewon’tmoveaninch.”Therooster starts scratchingawayat thepaperhatwithoneof its feet, but thehatseemstobestuckonanditwon’tcomeoff.“Nobirdintheworldisgoingtorunawayonceyoucoverupitseyes,”mydadsays,andhestartspokingtheroosterwithhisfingerandpushingitaroundonthetable.Theroosterdoesn’ttaketheslightestbitofnotice.“Youcanhavethisone,”hesaystoMum.“YoucanhaveitandwringitsneckanddishitupfordinnerasacelebrationofwhatIhavejustinvented.” And then straight away he takes me by the arm and marches mequicklyoutofthedoorandoffwegooverthefieldsandupintothebigforestthe other side of Little Hampden which used to belong to the Duke ofBuckingham.Andinlessthantwohourswegetfivelovelyfatpheasantswithnomoretroublethanittakestogooutandbuytheminashop.’

My father paused for breath.His eyeswere shining bright as they gazedbackintothewonderfulworldofhisyouth.

‘But Dad,’ I said, ‘how do you get the paper hats over the pheasants’heads?’

‘You’dneverguessit,Danny’‘Tellme.’‘Listen carefully,’ he said, glancing again over his shoulder as though he

expectedtoseeakeeperoreventheDukeofBuckinghamhimselfatthecaravandoor.‘Here’showyoudoit.Firstofallyoudigalittleholeintheground.Thenyoutwistapieceofpaperintotheshapeofaconeandyoufitthisintothehole,hollowendup,likeacup.Thenyousmeartheinsideofthepapercupwithglueanddropinafewraisins.Atthesametime,youlayatrailofraisinsalongthegroundleadinguptoit.Now,theoldpheasantcomespeckingalongthetrail,andwhenhegetstotheholehepopshisheadinsidetogobbleuptheraisinsandthenextthingheknowshe’sgotapaperhatstuckoverhiseyesandhecan’tseeathing.Isn’tthatafantasticidea,Danny?MydadcalleditTheStickyHat:

‘Isthattheoneyouusedthisevening?’Iasked.Myfathernodded.‘Howmanydidyouget,Dad?’‘Well,’hesaid,lookingabitsheepish.‘ActuallyIdidn’tgetany.Iarrived

toolate.BythetimeIgottheretheywerealreadygoinguptoroost.ThatshowsyouhowoutofpracticeIam.’

‘Wasitfunallthesame?’‘Marvellous,’hesaid.‘Absolutelymarvellous.Justliketheolddays.’

Heundressedandputonhispyjamas.Thenheturnedout the lampin theceilingandclimbedupintohisbunk.

‘Dad,’Iwhispered.‘Whatisit?’‘Have you been doing this often after I’ve gone to sleep, without me

knowingit?’‘No,’hesaid.‘Tonightwasthefirsttimefornineyears.Whenyourmother

diedandIhadto lookafteryoubymyself, Imadeavowtogiveuppoachinguntilyouwereoldenoughtobeleftaloneatnights.ButthiseveningIbrokemyvow. I had such a tremendous longing to go up into the woods again, I justcouldn’tstopmyself.I’mverysorryIdidit.’

‘Ifyoueverwanttogoagain,Iwon’tmind,’Isaid.‘Doyoumeanthat?’hesaid,hisvoicerisinginexcitement.‘Doyoureally

meanit?’‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Solongasyoutellmebeforehand.Youwillpromise to tell

mebeforehandifyou’regoing,won’tyou?’‘You’requitesureyouwon’tmind?’‘Quitesure.’‘Goodboy,’he said. ‘Andwe’llhave roastpheasant for supperwhenever

youwantit.It’smilesbetterthanchicken.’

‘Andoneday,Dad,willyoutakemewithyou?’‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I reckon you’re just a bit young to be dodging around up

there in the dark. I wouldn’t want you to get peppered with buckshot in thebacksideatyourage.’

‘Yourdadtookyouatmyage,’Isaid.Therewasashortsilence.‘We’ll see how it goes,’ my father said. ‘But I’d like to get back into

practicebeforeImakeanypromises,youunderstand?’‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Iwouldn’twanttotakeyouwithmeuntilI’mrightbackinmyoldform.’‘No,’Isaid.‘Good-night,Danny.Gotosleepnow.’‘Good-night,Dad.’

6

MrVictorHazell

The followingFriday,whilewewere having supper in the caravan,my fathersaid,‘Ifit’sallrightwithyou,Danny,I’llbegoingoutagaintomorrownight.’

‘Youmeanpoaching?’‘Yes.’‘WillitbeHazell’sWoodagain?’‘It’llalwaysbeHazell’sWood,’hesaid.‘Firstbecausethat’swhereallthe

pheasantsare.AndsecondbecauseIdon’tlikeMrHazellonelittlebitandit’sapleasuretopoachhisbirds.’

ImustpauseheretotellyousomethingaboutMrVictorHazell.Hewasabrewerofbeerandheownedahugebrewery.Hewasrichbeyondwords,andhis property stretched for miles along either side of the valley. All the landaround us belonged to him, everything on both sides of the road, everythingexceptthesmallpatchofgroundonwhichourfilling-stationstood.Thatpatchbelongedtomyfather.ItwasalittleislandinthemiddleofthevastoceanofMrHazell’sestate.

MrVictorHazellwasaroaringsnobandhetrieddesperatelytogetinwithwhathebelievedweretherightkindofpeople.Hehuntedwiththehoundsandgaveshootingpartiesandworefancywaistcoats.Everyweek-dayhedrovehisenormoussilverRolls-Roycepastourfilling-stationonhiswaytothebrewery.Ashe flashedbywewould sometimes catch a glimpseof the great glisteningbeeryfaceabovethewheel,pinkasaham,allsoftandinflamedfromdrinkingtoomuchbeer.

‘No,’myfathersaid,‘IdonotlikeMrVictorHazellonelittlebit.Ihaven’tforgottenthewayhespoketoyoulastyearwhenhecameinforafill-up.’

Ihadn’tforgotteniteither.MrHazellhadpulledupalongsidethepumpsinhisglisteninggleamingRolls-Royceandhadsaid tome, ‘Fillherupand looksharpaboutit.’Iwaseightyearsoldatthetime.Hedidn’tgetoutofthecar,hejusthandedmethekeytothecapofthepetroltankandashedidso,hebarkedout,‘Andkeepyourfilthylittlehandstoyourself,d’youunderstand?’

Ididn’tunderstandatall,soIsaid,‘Whatdoyoumean,sir?’Therewasaleatherriding-cropontheseatbesidehim.Hepickeditupand

pointed it at me like a pistol. ‘If you make any dirty finger-marks on mypaintwork,’hesaid,‘I’llsteprightoutofthiscarandgiveyouagoodhiding.’

Myfatherwasoutof theworkshopalmostbeforeMrHazellhadfinishedspeaking.Hestrodeuptothewindowofthecarandplacedhishandsonthesillandleanedin.‘Idon’tlikeyouspeakingtomysonlikethat,’hesaid.Hisvoicewasdangerouslysoft.

MrHazell didnot look at him.He sat quite still in the seat of hisRolls-Royce, his tiny piggy eyes staring straight ahead. Therewas a smug superiorlittlesmilearoundthecornersofhismouth.

‘You had no reason to threaten him,’ my father went on. ‘He had donenothingwrong’

MrHazellcontinuedtoactasthoughmyfatherwasn’tthere.‘NexttimeyouthreatensomeonewithagoodhidingIsuggestyoupickon

apersonyourownsize,’myfathersaid.‘Likeme,forinstance.’MrHazellstilldidnotmove.‘Nowgoaway,please,’myfathersaid.‘Wedonotwishtoserveyou.’He

tookthekeyfrommyhandandtosseditthroughthewindow.TheRolls-Roycedroveawayfastinacloudofdust.

Theverynextday,aninspectorfromthelocalDepartmentofHealtharrivedandsaidhehadcometoinspectourcaravan.‘Whatdoyouwanttoinspectourcaravanfor?’myfatherasked.

‘To see if it’s a fit place for humans to live in,’ theman said. ‘We don’tallowpeopletoliveindirtybroken-downshacksthesedays.’

Myfathershowedhimtheinsideofthecaravanwhichwasspotlesslycleanasalwaysandascosyascouldbe,andintheendthemanhadtoadmittherewasnothingwrongwithit.

Soon after that, another inspector turned up and took a sample of petrolfromoneofourundergroundstoragetanks.Myfatherexplainedtometheywerecheckinguptoseeifweweremixingsomeofoursecond-gradepetrol inwiththe first-grade stuff,which is anolddodgepractisedbycrooked filling-stationowners.Ofcoursewewerenotdoingthis.

Hardlyaweekwentbywithoutsomelocalofficialdroppingintocheckupononethingoranother,andtherewaslittledoubt,myfathersaid,thatthelongandpowerfularmofMrHazellwasreachingoutbehindthescenesandtryingtorunusoffourland.

So,allinall,youcanseewhyitgavemyfatheracertainpleasuretopoachMrVictorHazell’spheasants.

Thatnightweputtheraisinsintosoak.Thenextdaywaspoachingdayanddon’t thinkmyfatherdidn’tknowit.

Fromthemomenthegotoutofhisbunkinthemorningtheexcitementbegantobuildup insidehim.ThiswasaSaturday so Iwashome fromschool, andwespent most of the day in the workshop decarbonizing the cylinders of MrPratchett’sAustinSeven.Itwasagreatlittlecar,builtin1933,atinymiracleofamachine that still ran as sweetly as ever though itwasnowmore than fortyyearsold.MyfathersaidthattheseAustinSevens,betterknownintheirtimeasBabyAustins,werethefirstsuccessfulmini-carsevermade.MrPratchett,whoownedaturkey-farmnearAylesbury,wasasproudascouldbeofthisone,andhealwaysbroughtittousforrepair.

Working together,we released thevalve springs anddrewout thevalves.We unscrewed the cylinder-head nuts and lifted off the head itself. Then webeganscrapingthecarbonfromtheinsideoftheheadandfromthetopsofthepistons.

‘Iwanttobeawaybysixo’clock,’myfathersaid.‘ThenIwillget tothewoodexactlyattwilight.’

‘Whyattwilight?’Iasked.‘Becauseattwilighteverythinginsidethewoodbecomesveiledandshady.

Youcanseetomovearoundbutit’snoteasyforsomeoneelsetoseeyou.Andwhen danger threatens you can always hide in the shadowswhich are darkerthanawolf’smouth.’

‘Whydon’tyouwaittillitgetsreallydark?’Iasked.‘Thenyouwouldn’tbeseenatall.’

‘Youwouldn’tcatchanythingifyoudidthat,’hesaid.‘Whennightcomeson,all thepheasantsflyupinto the trees toroost.Pheasantsare just likeotherbirds.Theyneversleepontheground.Twilight’,myfatheradded,‘beginsaboutseven-thirtythisweek.Andasit’satleastanhourandahalf’swalktothewood,Imustnotleaveherelaterthansixo’clock.’

‘AreyougoingtouseTheStickyHatorwillitbeTheHorse-hairStopper?’Iasked.

‘StickyHat,’hesaid.‘I’mveryfondofStickyHat.’‘Whenwillyoubeback?’‘Aboutteno’clock,’hesaid.‘Ten-thirtyatthelatest.IpromiseI’llbeback

byten-thirty.You’requitesureyoudon’tmindbeingleftalone?’‘Quitesure,’Isaid.‘Butyouwillbeallright,won’tyou,Dad?’‘Don’tyouworryaboutme,’hesaid,puttinghisarmroundmyshoulders

andgivingmeahug.‘Butyousaidtherewasn’tamaninyourdad’svillagethatdidn’tgetabit

shotupbythekeeperssoonerorlater.’‘Ah,’myfathersaid.‘Yes.Ididsaythat,didn’tI?Butinthosedaysthere

werelotsmorekeepersupinthewoodsthantherearenow.Therewerekeepersbehindalmosteverytree.’

‘HowmanyaretherenowinHazell’sWood?’‘Nottoomany,’hesaid.‘Nottoomanyatall.’Asthedayworeon,Icouldseemyfathergettingmoreandmoreimpatient

and excited. By five o’clock we had finished work on the Baby Austin andtogetherweranherupanddowntheroadtotestherout.

Atfive-thirtywehadanearlysupperofsausagesandbacon,butmyfatherhardlyateanythingatall.

At six o’clock precisely he kissedme goodbye and said, ‘Promise not towaitupforme,Danny.Putyourselftobedateightandgotosleep.Right?’

He set off down the road and I stood on the platform of the caravan,watchinghimgo.Ilovedthewayhemoved.Hehadthatlonglopingstrideallcountrymen have who are used to covering great distances on foot. He waswearinganoldnavy-bluesweaterandanevenoldercaponhishead.Heturnedandwavedtome.Iwavedback.Thenhedisappearedroundabendintheroad.

7

TheBabyAustin

Inside the caravan I stood on a chair and lit the oil lamp in the ceiling. I hadsomeweekendhomeworktodoandthiswasasgoodatimeasanytodoit.Ilaidmybooksoutonthetableandsatdown.ButIfoundit impossibletokeepmymindonmywork.

The clock said half-past seven. Thiswas the twilight time.Hewould betherenow.Ipicturedhiminhisoldnavy-bluesweaterandpeakedcapwalkingsoft-footed up the track towards the wood. He told me he wore the sweaterbecausenavy-bluehardlyshowedupatallinthedark.Blackwasevenbetter,hesaid.Buthedidn’thaveablackoneandnavy-bluewasnextbest.Thepeakedcapwasimportanttoo,heexplained,becausethepeakcastashadowoverone’sface.Justaboutnowhewouldbewrigglingthroughthehedgeandenteringthewood.InsidethewoodIcouldseehimtreadingcarefullyovertheleafyground,stopping,listening,goingonagain,andallthetimesearchingandsearchingforthekeeperwhowould somewherebe standing still as a post beside a big treewithagununderhisarm.Keepershardlymoveatallwhentheyareinawoodwatchingforpoachers,hehadtoldme.Theystanddeadstillrightupagainstthetrunk of a tree and it’s not easy to spot a motionless man in that position attwilightwhentheshadowsareasdarkasawolf’smouth.

Iclosedmybooks. Itwasnogood trying towork. Idecided togo tobedinstead.Iundressedandputonmypyjamasandclimbedintomybunk.Ileftthelampburning.SoonIfellasleep.

WhenIopenedmyeyesagain,theoil-lampwasstillglowingandtheclockonthewallsaidtenminutespasttwo.

Tenminutespasttwo!I jumped out of my bunk and looked into the bunk above mine. It was

empty.Hehadpromisedhewouldbehomebyten-thirtyatthelatest,andhenever

brokepromises.Hewasnearlyfourhoursoverdue!

Atthatmoment,afrightfulsenseofdoomcameoverme.Somethingreallyhadhappenedtohimthistime.Ifeltquitecertainofit.

Holdit,Itoldmyself.Don’tgetpanicky.Lastweekyougotallpanickyandyoumadeabitofafoolofyourself.

Yes, but last week was a different thing altogether. He had made nopromisestomelastweek.Thistimehehadsaid,‘IpromiseI’llbebackbyten-thirty.’ Those were his exact words. And he never, absolutely never, broke apromise.

Ilookedagainattheclock.Hehadleftthecaravanatsix,whichmeanthehadbeengoneovereighthours!

IttookmetwosecondstodecidewhatIshoulddo.VeryquicklyIstrippedoffmypyjamasandputonmyshirtandmyjeans.

Perhaps the keepers had shot him up so badly he couldn’t walk. I pulledmysweaterovermyhead.Itwasneithernavy-bluenorblack.Itwasasortofpalebrown.Itwouldhavetodo.Perhapshewaslyinginthewoodbleedingtodeath.Mysneakerswere thewrongcolour too.Theywerewhite.But theywerealsodirtyandthattookalotofthewhitenessaway.Howlongwouldittakemetogetto thewood?Anhourandahalf.Less if I ranmostof theway,butnotmuchless.AsIbentdowntotiethelaces,Inoticedmyhandswereshaking.Andmystomachhadthatawfulpricklyfeelingasthoughitwerefullofsmallneedles.

Irandownthestepsof thecaravanandacross to theworkshoptoget thetorch.AtorchisagoodcompanionwhenyouarealoneoutdoorsatnightandIwanteditwithme.Igrabbedthetorchandwentoutoftheworkshop.Ipausedforamomentbeside thepumps.Themoonhad longsincedisappearedbut theskywasclearandagreatmassofstarswaswheelingabovemyhead.Therewasnowindatall,nosoundofanykind.Tomyright,goingawayintotheblacknessofthecountryside,laythelonelyroadthatledtothedangerouswood.

Six-and-a-halfmiles.ThankheavensIknewtheway.But itwasgoing tobea longhardslog. Imust try tokeepagoodsteady

paceandnotrunmyselftoastandstillinthefirstmile.Atthatpointawildandmarvellousideacametome.Whyshouldn’tIgointheBabyAustin?Ireallydidknowhowtodrive.My

fatherhadalwaysallowedme tomove thecarsaroundwhen theycame in forrepair. He let me drive them into the workshop and back them out againafterwards.AndsometimesIdroveoneofthemslowlyaroundthepumpsinfirst

gear.Iloveddoingit.AndIwouldgettheremuchmuchquickerifIwentbycar.This was an emergency. If he was wounded and bleeding badly, then everyminutecounted.Ihadneverdrivenontheroad,butIwouldsurelynotmeetanyothercarsatthistimeofnight.Iwouldgoveryslowlyandkeepcloseintothehedgeontheproperside.

Iwentbacktotheworkshopandswitchedonthelight.Iopenedthedoubledoors.Igotintothedriver’sseatoftheBabyAustin.Iturnedontheignitionkey.I pulled out the choke. I found the starter-button and pressed it. The motorcoughedonce,thenstarted.

Now for the lights. Therewas a pointed switch on the dash-board and Iturned it toS for side lightsonly.The sidelights cameon. I felt for theclutchpedalwithmy toe. I was just able to reach it, but I had to pointmy toe if Iwantedtopressitallthewaydown.Ipresseditdown.ThenIslippedthegear-leverintoreverse.SlowlyIbackedthecaroutoftheworkshop.

Ilefthertickingoverandwentbacktoswitchofftheworkshoplight.Itwasbettertokeepeverythinglookingasnormalaspossible.Thefilling-stationwasindarknessnowexceptforadimlightcomingfromthecaravanwherethelittleoil-lampwasstillburning.Idecidedtoleavethaton.

Igotbackintothecar.Iclosedthedoor.ThesidelightsweresodimIhardlyknewtheywerethere.Iswitchedontheheadlamps.Thatwasbetter.Isearchedfor the dipper with my foot. I found it. I tried it and it worked. I put theheadlampsonfull.IfImetanothercar,Imustremembertodipthem,althoughactuallytheyweren’tbrightenoughtodazzleacockroach.Theydidn’tgiveanymorelightthanacoupleofgoodtorches.

Ipresseddowntheclutchpedalagainandpushedthegear-leverintofirst.Thiswasit.MyheartwasthumpingawaysofiercelyIcouldhearitinmythroat.Tenyardsaway lay themain road. Itwasasdarkasdoomsday. I released theclutchveryslowly.Atthesametime,Ipresseddownjustafractionofaninchontheacceleratorwithmyright toe,andstealthily,ohmostwonderfully, the littlecarbegantoleanforwardandstealintomotion.Ipressedashadeharderontheaccelerator.Wecreptoutofthefilling-stationontothedarkdesertedroad.

IwillnotpretendIwasn’tpetrified.Iwas.Butmixedinwiththeawfulfearwasagloriousfeelingofexcitement.Mostofthereallyexcitingthingswedoinour livesscareus todeath.Theywouldn’tbeexcitingif theydidn’t. Isatverystiffandupright inmyseat,gripping thesteering-wheel tightwithbothhands.Myeyeswereaboutlevelwiththetopofthesteering-wheel.Icouldhavedonewithacushiontoraisemeuphigher,butitwastoolateforthat.

The road seemed awfully narrow in the dark. I knew there was roomenoughfortwocarstopasseachother.Ihadseenthemfromthefilling-stationdoingitamilliontimes.Butitdidn’tlookthatwaytomefromwhereIwas.Atanymomentsomethingwithblazingheadlampsmightcomeroaringtowardsmeatsixtymilesanhour,aheavylorryoroneofthosebiglong-distancebusesthattravelthroughthenightfullofpassengers.WasItoomuchinthemiddleoftheroad?Yes,Iwas.ButIdidn’twanttopullincloserforfearofhittingthebank.IfIhitthebankandbustthefrontaxle,thenallwouldbelostandIwouldnevergetmyfatherhome.

Themotorwasbeginningtorattleandshake.Iwasstillinfirstgear.Itwasvital tochangeup intosecondotherwise theenginewouldget toohot. Iknewhow the changewas done but I had never actually tried doing it. Around thefilling-stationIhadalwaysstayedinfirstgear.

Well,heregoes.I easedmy footoff the accelerator. I pressed the clutchdownandheld it

there.Ifoundthegear-leverandpulleditstraightback,fromfirstintosecond.Ireleasedtheclutchandpressedontheaccelerator.Thelittlecarleapedforwardasthoughithadbeenstung.Wewereinsecondgear.

Whatspeedwerewegoing?Iglancedatthespeedometer.Itwaslitupvery

faintly,but Iwasable to read it. It said fifteenmilesanhour.Good.Thatwasquitefastenough.Iwouldstayinsecondgear.Istartedfiguringouthowlongitwouldtakemetodosixmilestravellingatfifteenmilesanhour.

Atsixtymilesanhour,sixmileswouldtakesixminutes.Atthirty,itwouldtaketwiceaslong,twelveminutes.Atfifteen,itwouldtaketwiceaslongagain,twenty-fourminutes.Ikeptgoing.Ikneweverybitoftheroad,everycurveandeverylittlerise

anddip.Onceafoxflashedoutof thehedgeinfrontofmeandranacross theroadwithhislongbushytailstreamingoutbehindhim.Isawhimclearlyintheglowofmyheadlamps.Hisfurwasred-brownandhehadawhitemuzzle.Itwasathrillingsight.Ibegantoworryaboutthemotor.Iknewverywellitwouldbecertain to overheat if I drove for long in either first or second gear. I was insecond.Imustnowchangeup into third. I tookadeepbreathandgrasped thegear-lever again. Foot off the accelerator. Clutch in.Gear-lever up and acrossandupagain.Clutchout.Ihaddoneit!Ipresseddownontheaccelerator.Thespeedometer creptup to thirty. I gripped thewheelvery tightwithbothhandsandstayedinthemiddleoftheroad.AtthisrateIwouldsoonbethere.

Hazell’sWoodwasnoton themain road.To reach ityouhad to turn leftthroughagapinthehedgeandgouphilloverabumpytrackforaboutaquarterofamile.Ifthegroundhadbeenwet,therewouldhavebeennohopeofgettingthereinacar.Buttherehadn’tbeenanyrainforaweekandthegroundwouldsurely be hard and dry. I figured Imust be getting pretty close to the turningplacenow.Imustwatchoutfor itcarefully. Itwouldbeeasytomiss it.Therewasnogateoranythingelsetoindicatewhereitwas.Itwassimplyasmallgapinthehedgejustwideenoughtoallowfarmtractorstogothrough.

Suddenly, far ahead of me, just below the rim of the night sky, I saw asplashofyellow light. Iwatched it, trembling.Thiswassomething Ihadbeen

dreadingall along.Veryquickly the lightgotbrighterandbrighter, andnearerandnearer,andinafewsecondsittookshapeandbecamethelongwhitebeamofheadlampsfromacarrushingtowardsme.

Myturningplacemustbeveryclosenow.Iwasdesperate toreach itandswingofftheroadbeforethatmonsterreachedme.Ipressedmyfootharddownfor more speed. The little engine roared. The speedometer needle went fromthirty to thirty-five and then to forty. But the other car was closing fast. Itsheadlampswereliketwodazzlingwhiteeyes.Theygrewbiggerandbiggerandsuddenlythewholeroadinfrontofmewaslitupasclearasdaylight,andSWISH!thethingwentpastmelikeabullet.ItwassocloseIfeltthewindofitthroughmyopenwindow.Andinthattinyfractionofasecondwhenthetwoofuswerealongsideoneanother,Icaughtaglimpseofitswhite-paintedbodyandIknewitwasthepolice.

Ididn’tdarelookroundtoseeiftheywerestoppingandcomingbackafterme.Iwascertaintheywouldstop.Anypolicemanintheworldwouldstopifhesuddenlypassedasmallboyinatinycarchuggingalongalonelyroadathalf-pasttwointhemorning.Myonlythoughtwastogetaway,toescape,tovanish,thoughheavenknowshowIwasgoingtodothat.Ipressedmyfootharderstillontheaccelerator.ThenallatonceIsawinmyowndimheadlampsthetinygapinthehedgeonmyleft-handside.Therewasn’ttimetobrakeorslowdown,soIjustyankedthewheelhardoverandprayed.Thelittlecarswervedviolentlyofftheroad,leapedthroughthegap,hittherisingground,bouncedhighintheair,thenskiddedroundsidewaysbehindthehedgeandstopped.

ThefirstthingIdidwastoswitchoffallmylights.IamnotquitesurewhatmademedothisexceptthatIknewImusthideandIknewthatifyouarehidingfromsomeoneinthedarkyoudon’tshinelightsallovertheplacetoshowwhereyouare.Isatverystillinmydarkcar.ThehedgewasathickoneandIcouldn’tseethroughit.Thecarhadbouncedandskiddedsidewaysinsuchawaythatitwasnowrightoffthetrack.Itwasbehindthehedgeandinasortoffield.Itwasfacingbacktowardsthefilling-station,tuckedinveryclosetothehedge.Icouldhearthepolicecar.Ithadpulledupaboutfiftyyardsdowntheroad,andnowitwasbackingandturning.Theroadwasfartoonarrowforittoturnroundinonego.Thentheroarfromthemotorgotlouderandhecamebackfastwithenginerevving and headlamps blazing.He flashed past the placewhere Iwas hidingandracedawayintothenight.

Thatmeantthepolicemanhadnotseenmeswingofftheroad.Buthewascertaintocomebackagainlookingforme.Andifhecameback

slowlyenoughhewouldprobablyseethegap.Hewouldstopandgetoutofhiscar.

Hewouldwalkthroughthegapandlookbehindthehedge,andthen…thenhis torchwouldshine inmyfaceandhewouldsay, ‘What’sgoingon, sonny?What’s the big idea? Where do you think you’re going? Whose car is this?Wheredoyoulive?Whereareyourparents?’Hewouldmakemegowithhimtothepolice-station,andintheendtheywouldgetthewholestoryoutofme,andmyfatherwouldberuined.

Isatquietasamouseandwaited.Iwaitedforalongtime.ThenIheardthesoundofthemotorcomingbackagaininmydirection.Itwasmakingaterrificnoise.Hewasgoingflatout.Hewhizzedpastmelikearocket.Thewayhewasgunningthatmotortoldmehewasaveryangryman.Hemusthavebeenaverypuzzledman, too. Perhaps hewas thinking he had seen a ghost.A ghost boydrivingaghostcar.

Iwaitedtoseeifhewouldcomebackagain.Hedidn’tcome.Iswitchedonmylights.Ipressedthestarter.Shestartedatonce.Butwhataboutthewheelsandthechassis?Ifeltsuresomethingmusthave

gotbrokenwhenshejumpedofftheroadontothecart-track.I put her into gear and very gently began to ease her forward. I listened

carefullyforhorridnoises.Therewerenone.Imanagedtogetheroffthegrassandbackontothetrack.

Idroveveryslowlynow.Thetrackwasextremelyroughandrutted,andtheslopewasprettysteep.Thelittlecarbouncedandbumpedallovertheplace,butshekeptgoing.Thenatlast,aheadofmeandovertotheright,lookinglikesomegiganticblackcreaturecrouchingonthecrestofthehill,IsawHazell’sWood.

SoonIwasthere.Immensetreesroseuptowardstheskyallalongtheright-handsideofthetrack.Istoppedthecar.Iswitchedoffthemotorandthelights.Igotout,takingthetorchwithme.

Therewastheusualhedgedividingthewoodfromthetrack.IsqueezedmywaythroughitandsuddenlyIwasrightinsidethewood.WhenIlookedupthetrees had closed in above my head like a prison roof and I couldn’t see thesmallestpatchofskyorasinglestar.Icouldn’tseeanythingatall.ThedarknesswassosolidaroundmeIcouldalmosttouchit.

‘Dad!’Icalledout.‘Dad,areyouthere?’Mysmallhighvoiceechoedthroughtheforestandfadedaway.I listened

forananswer,butnonecame.

8

ThePit

I cannot possibly describe to youwhat it felt like to be standing alone in thepitchyblacknessofthatsilentwoodinthesmallhoursofthenight.Thesenseofloneliness was overwhelming, the silence was as deep as death, and the onlysoundsweretheonesImademyself.ItriedtokeepabsolutelystillforaslongaspossibletoseeifIcouldhearanythingatall.Ilistenedandlistened.Iheldmybreath and listened again. I had a queer feeling that the whole wood waslistening with me, the trees and the bushes, the little animals hiding in theundergrowthandthebirdsroostinginthebranches.Allwerelistening.Eventhesilencewaslistening.Silencewaslisteningtosilence.

Iswitchedonthetorch.Abrilliantbeamoflightreachedoutaheadofmelikealongwhitearm.Thatwasbetter.NowatanyrateIcouldseewhereIwasgoing.

Thekeeperswouldalsosee.ButIdidn’tcareaboutthekeepersanymore.TheonlypersonIcaredaboutwasmyfather.Iwantedhimback.

Ikeptthetorchonandwentdeeperintothewood.‘Dad!’Ishouted.‘Dad!It’sDanny!Areyouthere?’Ididn’tknowwhichdirection Iwasgoing in. I justwentonwalkingand

callingout,walkingandcalling;andeachtimeIcalled,Iwouldstopandlisten.Butnoanswercame.

Afteratime,myvoicebegantogoalltrembly.Istartedtosaysillythingslike, ‘Oh Dad, please tell me where you are! Please answer me! Please, ohplease…’And I knew that if Iwasn’t careful, the sheer hopelessness of it allwouldgetthebetterofmeandIwouldsimplygiveupandliedownunderthetrees.

‘Areyouthere,Dad?Areyouthere?’Ishouted.‘It’sDanny!’Istoodstill,listening,listening,listening,andinthesilencethatfollowed,I

heardorthoughtIheardthefaint,butohsofaint,soundofahumanvoice.Ifrozeandkeptlistening.Yes,thereitwasagain.Irantowardsthesound.‘Dad!’Ishouted.‘It’sDanny!Whereareyou?’Istoppedagainandlistened.Thistimetheanswercamejustloudenoughformetohearthewords.‘I’m

here!’thevoicecalledout.‘Overhere!’Itwashim!Iwassoexcitedmylegsbegantogetallshaky.‘Whereareyou,Danny?’myfathercalledout.‘I’mhere,Dad!I’mcoming.’With thebeamof the torchshiningaheadofme, I ran towards thevoice.

Thetreeswerebiggerhereandspacedfartherapart.Thegroundwasacarpetofbrownleavesfromlastyearandwasgoodtorunon.Ididn’tcalloutanymoreafterthat.Isimplydashedahead.

Andallatonce,hisvoicewasrightinfrontofme.‘Stop,Danny,stop!’heshouted.

Istoppeddead.Ishonethetorchovertheground.Icouldn’tseehim.‘Whereareyou,Dad?’‘I’mdownhere.Comeforwardslowly.Butbecareful.Don’tfallin.’Icreptforward.ThenIsawthepit.Iwenttotheedgeofitandshonethe

lightdownwardandtherewasmyfather.Hewassittingonthefloorof thepitandhelookedupintothelightandsaid,‘Hello,mymarvellousdarling.Thankyouforcoming.’

‘Areyouallright,Dad?’‘Myankleseemstobebroken,’hesaid.‘IthappenedwhenIfellin.’Thepithadbeendugintheshapeofasquare,witheachsideaboutsixfeet

long.Butitwasthedepthofitthatwassoawful.Itwasatleasttwelvefeetdeep.The sides had been cut straight down into the earth, presumably with amechanicalshovel,andnomancouldhaveclimbedoutofitwithouthelp.

‘Doesithurt?’Iasked.‘Yes,’hesaid.‘Ithurtsalot.Butdon’tworryaboutthat.Thepointis,I’ve

got togetoutofherebeforemorning.ThekeepersknowI’mhereand they’recomingbackformeassoonasitgetslight.’

‘Didtheydigtheholetocatchpeople?’Iasked.‘Yes,’hesaid.

I shonemy light around the top of the pit and saw how the keepers hadcovered it overwith sticks and leaves andhow thewhole thinghad collapsedwhenmy father steppedon it. Itwas thekindof traphunters inAfricadig tocatchwildanimals.

‘Dothekeepersknowwhoyouare?’Iasked.‘No,’ he said. ‘Two of them came and shone a light down on me but I

coveredmy facewithmy arms and they couldn’t recognizeme. I heard themtryingtoguess.Theywereguessingallsortsofnamesbut theydidn’tmentionmine.Thenone of them shouted, “We’ll find outwhoyou are all right in themorning,my lad.And guesswho’s comingwith us to fish you out?” I didn’t

answer.Ididn’twantthemtohearmyvoice.“We’lltellyouwho’scoming,”hesaid.“MrVictorHazellhimselfiscomingwithustosayhellotoyou!”Andtheother one said, “Boy, I hate to thinkwhat he’s going to dowhen he gets hishands on you!”They both laughed and then theywent away.Ouch!My poorankle!’

‘Havethekeepersgone,Dad?’‘Yes,’hesaid.‘They’vegoneforthenight.’Iwaskneelingon the edgeof thepit. Iwanted sobadly togodownand

comforthim,butthatwouldhavebeenmadness.‘What timeis it?’hesaid.‘ShinethelightdownsoIcansee.’Ididashe

asked.‘It’stentothree,’hesaid.‘Imustbeoutofherebeforesunrise.’‘Dad,’Isaid.‘Yes?’‘Ibroughtthecar.IcameintheBabyAustin.’‘Youwhat?’hecried.‘Iwanted to get here quickly so I just drove it out of theworkshop and

camestraighthere.’Hesattherestaringatme.Ikeptthetorchpointedtoonesideofhimsoas

nottodazzlehiseyes.‘YoumeanyouactuallydrovehereintheBabyAustin?’‘Yes.’‘You’recrazy,’hesaid.‘You’reabsolutelyplumbcrazy’‘Itwasn’tdifficult,’Isaid.‘Youcouldhavebeenkilled,’hesaid.‘Ifanythinghadhityouinthatlittle

thing,you’dhavebeensmashedtosmithereens.’‘Itwentfine,Dad.’‘Whereisitnow?’‘Justoutsidethewoodonthebumpytrack.’His facewas all puckeredupwith pain and aswhite as a sheet of paper.

‘Areyouallright?’Iasked.‘Yes,’hesaid.‘I’mfine.’Hewasshiveringalloverthoughitwasawarm

night.‘Ifwecouldgetyouout,I’msureIcouldhelpyoutothecar,’Isaid.‘You

couldleanonmeandhopononeleg.’

‘I’llnevergetoutofherewithoutaladder,’hesaid.‘Wouldn’taropedo?’Iasked.‘Arope!’hesaid. ‘Yes,ofcourse!Aropewoulddo it!There’sone in the

BabyAustin!It’sunderthebackseat!MrPratchettalwayscarriesatow-ropeincaseofabreakdown.’

‘I’llgetit,’Isaid.‘Waitthere,Dad.’IlefthimandranbackthewayIhadcome,shiningthetorchaheadofme.I

foundthecar.Iliftedupthebackseat.Thetow-ropewasthere,tangledupwiththe jack and the wheel-brace. I got it out and slung it over my shoulder. Iwriggledthroughthehedgeandranbackintothewood.

‘Whereareyou,Dad?’Icalledout.‘Overhere,’heanswered.Withhisvoicetoguideme,Ihadnotroublefindinghimthistime.‘I’vegot

therope,’Isaid.‘Good.Nowtieoneendofittothenearesttree.’Using the torch all the time, I tied one endof the rope round the nearest

tree. I lowered theother enddown tomy father in thepit.Hegrasped itwithbothhandsandhauledhimselfupintoastandingposition.Hestoodonlyonhisrightleg.Hekepthisleftfootoffthegroundbybendinghisknee.

‘Jeepers,’hesaid.‘Thishurts.’‘Doyouthinkyoucanmakeit,Dad?’‘I’vegottomakeit,’hesaid.‘Istheropetiedproperly?’‘Yes.’Ilayonmystomachwithmyhandsdanglingdownintothepit.Iwantedto

helppullhimupassoonashecamewithinreach.Ikeptthetorchonhimallthetime.

‘I’vegottoclimbthiswithhandsonly,’hesaid.‘Youcandoit,’Itoldhim.Isawhisknucklestightenashegrippedtherope.Thenhecameup,hand

overhand,andassoonashewaswithinreachIgotholdofoneofhisarmsandpulledforall Iwasworth.Hecameover the topedgeof thepitslidingonhischestandstomach,himpullingontheropeandmepullingonhisarm.Helayontheground,breathingfastandloud.

‘You’vedoneit!’Isaid.

‘Letmerestamoment.’Iwaited,kneelingbesidehim.‘Allright,’hesaid.‘Nowfor thenextbit.Givemeahand,Danny.You’ll

havetodomostoftheworkfromnowon.’I helped him to keep his balance as he got up on to his one good foot.

‘Whichsidedoyouwantmeon?’Iasked.‘Onmy right,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’ll keep knocking againstmy bad

ankle.’I moved up close to his right side and he put both his hands on my

shoulders.‘Goon,Dad,’Isaid.‘Youcanleanharderthanthat.’‘Shinethelightforwardsowecanseewherewe’regoing,’hesaid.Ididasheasked.Hetriedacoupleofhopsonhisrightfoot.‘Allright?’Iaskedhim.‘Yes,’hesaid.‘Let’sgo.’Holdinghisleftfootjustclearofthegroundandleaningonmewithboth

hands,hebegantohopforwardononeleg.Ishuffledalongbesidehim,tryingtogoatexactlythespeedhewanted.

‘Saywhenyouwantarest.’‘Now,’hesaid.Westopped.‘I’vegottositdown,’hesaid.Ihelpedhimto

lowerhimselftotheground.Hisleftfootdangledhelplesslyonitsbrokenankle,andeverytimeittouchedthegroundhejumpedwithpain.Isatbesidehimonthe brown leaves that covered the floor of the wood. The sweat was pouringdownhisface.

‘Doesithurtterribly,Dad?’‘ItdoeswhenIhop,’hesaid.‘EachtimeIhop,itjarsit’Hesatonthegroundrestingforseveralminutes.‘Let’stryagain,’hesaid.Ihelpedhimupandoffwewent.ThistimeIputanarmroundhiswaistto

givehimextrasupport.Heputhisrightarmroundmyshouldersandleanedonmehard.Itwentbetterthatway.Butboy,washeheavy.Mylegskeptbendingandbucklingwitheachhop.

Hop…

Hop…Hop…

‘Keepgoing,’hegasped.‘Comeon.Wecanmakeit.’‘There’sthehedge,’Isaid,wavingthetorch.‘We’renearlythere.’Hop…Hop…Hop…Whenwereachedthehedge,mylegsgavewayandwebothcrashedtothe

ground.‘I’msorry,’Isaid.‘It’sO.K.Canyouhelpmegetthroughthehedge?’I’mnotquitesurehowheandIgot through thathedge.Hecrawledabit

andIpulledabit,andlittlebylittlewesqueezedthroughandouttheothersideontothetrack.Thetinycarwasonlytenyardsaway.

Wesatonthegrassybankunderthehedgetogetabreather.Hiswatchsaid

itwasnearlyfouro’clockinthemorning.Thesunwouldnotbeupforanothertwohours,sowehadplentyoftime.

‘ShallIdrive?’Iasked.‘You’llhaveto,’hesaid.‘I’veonlygotonefoot.’Ihelpedhimtohopovertothecar,andafterabitofastrugglehemanaged

to get in.His left legwas doubled up underneath his right leg and thewholethingmusthavebeenagonyforhim.Igotintothedriver’sseatbesidehim.

‘Therope,’Isaid.‘Weleftitbehind.’‘Forgetit,’hesaid.‘Itdoesn’tmatter.’I started themotor and switched on the headlamps. I backed the car and

turneditroundandsoonwewereheadingdownhillonthebumpytrack.‘Goslowly,Danny,’myfathersaid.‘Ithurtslikecrazyoverthebumps.’He

hadonehandonthewheel,helpingtoguidethecar.Wereachedthebottomofthetrackandturnedontotheroad.‘You’redoingfine,’hesaid.‘Keepgoing.’Nowthatwewereonthemainroad,Ichangedintosecondgear.‘Revherupandgointothird,’hesaid.‘Doyouwantmetohelpyou?’‘IthinkIcandoit,’Isaid.Ichangedintothirdgear.Withmy father’shandon thewheel Ihadno fearofhitting thehedgeor

anything else, so I pressed down hard on the accelerator. The speedometerneedlecreptuptoforty.

Somethingbigwithheadlampsblazingcamerushingtowardsus.‘I’lltakethewheel,’myfathersaid.‘Letgoofitcompletely.’Hekeptthelittlecarcloseintothesideoftheroadasahugemilk-lorryrushedpastus.Thatwastheonlythingwemetonthewayhome.

As we approached the filling-station my father said, ‘I’ll have to go tohospitalforthis.Itmustbesetproperlyandthenputintoplaster.’

‘Howlongwillyoubeinhospital?’‘Don’tworry,I’llbehomebeforeevening.’‘Willyoubeabletowalk?’‘Yes. They fix ametal thing into the plaster. It sticks out underneath the

foot.I’llbeabletowalkonthat.’‘Shouldwegotothehospitalnow?’

‘No,’hesaid.‘I’lljustliedownontheflooroftheworkshopandwaittillit’stimetocallDocSpencer.He’llarrangeeverything.’

‘Callhimnow,’Isaid.‘No.Idon’tlikewakingdoctorsupatfour-thirtyinthemorning.We’llcall

himatseven.’‘Whatwillyoutellhim,Dad?Imeanabouthowithappened?’‘I’lltellhimthetruth,’myfathersaid.‘DocSpencerismyfriend.’

Wepulled into the filling-stationandIparked thecar rightupagainst theworkshopdoors.Ihelpedmyfathertogetout.ThenIheldhimroundthewaistashehop-hoppedtheshortdistanceintotheworkshop.

Insidetheworkshop,heleanedagainstthetool-benchforsupportandtoldmewhattodonext.

First,Ispreadsomesheetsofnewspaperoutovertheoilyfloor.ThenIrantothecaravanandfetchedtwoblanketsandapillow.I laidoneblanketontheflooroverthenewspaper.Ihelpedmyfathertoliedownontheblanket.ThenIputthepillowunderhisheadandcoveredhimupwiththesecondblanket.

‘PutthephonedownheresoIcanreachit,’hesaid.Ididasheasked.

‘CanIgetyouanything,Dad?Whataboutahotdrink?’‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘I mustn’t have a thing. I’m going to have an

anaesthetic soon, andyoumustn’t eat or drink anything at all before that.Butyouhavesomething.Goandmakeyourselfsomebreakfast.Thengotobed.’

‘I’dliketowaitheretillthedoctorcomes,’Isaid.‘Youmustbedeadtired,Danny’‘I’mallright,’Isaid.Ifoundanoldwoodenchairandpulleditupnearhimandsatdown.Heclosedhiseyesandseemedtobedozingoff.Myowneyeskeptclosing,too.Icouldn’tkeepthemopen.‘I’msorryaboutthemessImadeofitall,’Iheardhimsaying.ImusthavegonetosleepafterthatbecausethenextthingIheardwasDoc

Spencer’svoicesayingtomyfather,‘Well,mygoodnessme,William,whatonearthhaveyoubeenupto?’

Iopenedmyeyesandsaw thedoctorbendingdownovermyfather,whowasstilllyingontheflooroftheworkshop.

9

DocSpencer

MyfatheroncetoldmethatDocSpencerhadbeenlookingafter thepeopleofourdistrictfornearlyforty-fiveyears.Hewasoverseventynowandcouldhaveretiredlongago,buthedidn’twanttoretireandhispatientsdidn’twanthimtoeither.Hewasa tinymanwith tinyhandsand feetanda tiny round face.Thefacewasasbrownandwrinkledasashrivelledapple.Hewassomesortofanelf,IusedtothinktomyselfeachtimeIsawhim,averyancientsortofanelfwithwispywhitehairandsteel-rimmedspectacles;aquickcleverlittleelfwithaswift eye and a flashing smile and a fastway of talking.Nobody feared him.Manypeoplelovedhim,andhewasespeciallygentlewithchildren.

‘Whichankle?’heasked.‘Theleftone,’myfathersaid.Doc Spencer knelt on the floor and took from his bag a pair of large

scissors.Thentomyastonishmentheproceededtoslittheclothofmyfather’slefttrouserlegrightuptotheknee.Hepartedtheclothandlookedattheanklebut he didn’t touch it. I looked at it too. The foot seemed to be bent roundsidewaysandtherewasahugeswellingbelowtheankle-bone.

‘That’sanastyone,’DocSpencersaid. ‘We’dbettergetyou intohospitalrightaway.MayIuseyourphone?’

He called the hospital and asked for an ambulance. Then he spoke tosomeoneelseabouttakingX-raysanddoinganoperation.

‘How’s the pain?’ Doc Spencer asked. ‘Would you like me to give yousomething?’

‘No,’myfathersaid.‘I’llwaittillIgetthere.’‘Asyouwish,William.Buthowonearthdidyoudoit?Didyoufalldown

thestepsofthatcrazycaravan?’‘Notexactly,’myfathersaid.‘No.’Thedoctorwaitedforhimtogoon.SodidI.‘Asamatteroffact,’hesaidslowly,‘IwasmoochingaroundupinHazell’s

Wood…’ He paused again and looked at the doctor, who was still kneelingbesidehim.

‘Ah,’ thedoctor said. ‘Yes, I see.Andwhat’s it likeup there thesedays?Plentyofpheasants?’

‘Stacksofthem,’myfathersaid.‘It’s a great game,’DocSpencer said, sighing a little. ‘I onlywish Iwas

youngenoughtohaveanothergoatit.’Helookedupandsawmestaringathim.‘Youdidn’tknowIusedtodoabitofpoachingmyself,didyou,Danny?’

‘No,’Isaid,absolutelyflabbergasted.‘Many a night,’DocSpencerwent on, ‘after evening surgerywas over, I

usedtoslipoutthebackdoorandgostridingoverthefieldstooneofmysecret

places.Sometimes itwaspheasantsandother times itwas trout.Plentyofbigbrowntroutinthestreaminthosedays.’

Hewasstillkneelingonthefloorbesidemyfather.‘Trynottomove,’hesaidtohim.‘Liequitestill.’My father closedhis tired eyes, thenopened themagain. ‘Whichmethod

didyouuseforpheasants?’heasked.‘Ginandraisins,’DocSpencersaid.‘Iusedtosoaktheraisinsinginfora

week,thenscattertheminthewoods.’‘Itdoesn’twork,’myfathersaid.‘Iknowitdoesn’t,’thedoctorsaid.‘Butitwasenormousfun.’‘Onesinglepheasant’,my father said, ‘hasgot toeatat least sixteengin-

soakedraisinsbeforehegets tiddlyenoughforyoutocatchhim.Myowndadprovedthatwithroosters.’

‘Ibelieveyou,’thedoctorsaid.‘That’swhyInevercaughtany.ButIwashotstuffwithtrout.Doyouknowhowtocatchatrout,Danny,withoutusingarodandline?’

‘No,’Isaid.‘How?’‘Youticklehim.’‘Ticklehim?’‘Yes,’thedoctorsaid.‘Trout,yousee,liketoliecloseintotheriverbank.

Soyougocreepingalongthebankuntilyouseeabigone…andyoucomeupbehindhim…andyouliedownonyourtummy…andthenslowly,veryslowly,you loweryourhand into thewaterbehindhim…andyou slide it underneathhim… and you begin to stroke his belly up and down with the tip of onefinger…’

‘Willhereallyletyoudothat?’Iasked.‘Helovesit,’thedoctorsaid.‘Helovesitsomuchhesortofdozesoff.And

as soon as he dozes off youquickly grabhold of himand flip himout of thewaterontothebank.’

‘Thatworks,’myfathersaid.‘Butonlyagreatartistcandoit.Itakemyhatofftoyou,sir.’

‘Thankyou,William,’DocSpencer saidgravely.Hegotupoffhiskneesand crossed over to the door of the workshop and looked out to see if theambulancewascoming.‘Bytheway,’hesaidoverhisshoulder,‘whathappenedupthereinthewoods?Didyoustepinarabbithole?’

‘Itwasaslightlybiggerholethanthat,’myfathersaid.‘Whatdoyoumean?’Myfatherbegantodescribehowhehadfallenintotheenormouspit.DocSpencerspunroundandstareddownatmyfather.‘Idon’tbelieveit!’

hecried.‘It’sperfectlytrue.AskDanny’‘Itwasdeep,’Isaid.‘Horriblydeep.’‘Butgreatheavensalive!’ the littledoctor shouted, jumpingupanddown

with fury. ‘He can’t do that! Victor Hazell can’t go digging tiger-traps in hiswoodsforhumanbeings!I’veneverheardsuchadisgustingmonstrousthinginallmylife!’

‘It’srotten,’myfathersaid.‘It’s worse than that, William! It’s diabolical! Do you know what this

means?Itmeansthatdecentfolklikeyouandmecan’tevengooutandhavealittlefunatnightwithoutriskingabrokenlegorarm.Wemightevenbreakournecks!’

Myfathernodded.‘I never did like that Victor Hazell,’ Doc Spencer said. ‘I saw him do a

filthythingonce.’‘What?’myfatherasked.‘Hehadanappointmentwithmeatmysurgery.Heneededaninjectionof

somesort,I’veforgottenwhat.Anyway,justbychanceIwaslookingoutofthewindowashedroveuptomydoorinhiswhackinggreatRolls-Royce.Isawhimgetout,andIalsosawmyolddogBertiedozingonthedoorstep.AnddoyouknowwhatthatloathsomeVictorHazelldid?InsteadofsteppingoveroldBertie,

heactuallykickedhimoutofthewaywithhisridingboot.’‘Hedidn’t!’myfathersaid.‘Ohyeshedid.’‘Whatdidyoudo?’‘Ilefthimsittinginthewaiting-roomwhileIpickedouttheoldest,bluntest

needleIcouldfind.ThenIrubbedthepointofitonanail-filetomakeitblunterstill.BythetimeI’dgotthroughwithit,itwasblunterthanaballpointpen.ThenI called him in and told him to lower his pants and bend over, and when Irammedthatneedleintohisfleshybackside,hescreamedlikeastuckpig’

‘Hooray,’myfathersaid.‘He’s never been back since,’ Doc Spencer said. ‘For which I am truly

thankful.Ah,here’stheambulance.’Theambulancedrewupnear theworkshopdoorand twomen inuniform

gotout.‘Bringmealegsplint,’thedoctorsaid.Oneofthemenfetchedasortofthin wooden plank from the ambulance. Doc Spencer knelt down once morebesidemyfatherandeasedtheplankverygentlyunderneathmyfather’sleftleg.Thenhestrappedthelegfirmlytotheplank.Theambulancemenbroughtinastretcherandplaceditontheground.Myfathergotontoitbyhimself.

Iwasstillsittingonmychair.DocSpencercameovertomeandputahandonmyshoulder.‘Ithinkyouhadbettercomeonhomewithme,youngman,’hesaid.‘Youcanstaywithusuntilyourfather’sbackfromhospital.’

‘Won’thebehometoday?’Iasked.‘Yes,’myfathersaid.‘I’llbebackthisevening.’‘I’dratheryoustayedinforthenight,’DocSpencersaid.‘Ishallcomehomethisevening,’myfathersaid.‘Thankyouforofferingto

takeDanny,butitwon’tbenecessary.He’llbeallrighthereuntilIgetback.Ireckonhe’llsleepmostofthedayanyway,won’tyou,mylove?’

‘Ithinkso,’Isaid.‘Justcloseupthefilling-stationandgotobed,right?’‘Yes,butcomebacksoon,won’tyou,Dad.’Theycarriedhimintotheambulanceonthestretcherandclosedthedoors.I

stoodoutsidetheworkshopwithDocSpencerandwatchedthebigwhitethingdriveoutofthefilling-station.

‘Doyouneedanyhelp?’DocSpencersaid.

‘I’mfine,thankyou.’‘Gotobed,then,andgetagoodsleep.’‘Yes,Iwill.’‘Callmeifyouneedanything’‘Yes.’Themarvellouslittledoctorgotintohiscaranddroveawaydowntheroad

inthesamedirectionastheambulance.

10

TheGreatShootingParty

Assoonas thedoctorhaddrivenawayfromthefilling-station, Iwent into theofficeandgotoutthesignthatsaidSORRYCLOSED.Ihungitononeofthepumps.ThenIheadedstraightforthecaravan.Iwastootiredtoundress.Ididn’teventake offmy dirty old sneakers. I just flopped down on the bunk andwent tosleep.Thetimewasfiveminutespasteightinthemorning.

Morethantenhours later,atsix-thirty in theevening,Iwaswokenupbytheambulancemenbringingmyfatherbackfromthehospital.Theycarriedhimintothecaravanandlaidhimonthelowerbunk.

‘Hello,Dad,’Isaid.‘Hello,Danny’‘Howareyoufeeling?’‘Abitwhoozy,’hesaid,andhedozedoffalmostimmediately.Astheambulancemendroveaway,DocSpencerarrivedandwentintothe

caravan to takea lookat thepatient. ‘He’ll sleepuntil tomorrowmorning,’hesaid.‘Thenhe’llwakeupfeelingfine.’

Ifollowedthedoctorouttohiscar.‘I’mawfullygladhe’shome,’Isaid.Thedoctoropenedthecardoorbuthedidn’tgetin.Helookedatmevery

sternlyandsaid,‘Whendidyoulasthavesomethingtoeat,Danny?’‘Somethingtoeat?’Isaid.‘Oh…well…Ihad…er…’SuddenlyIrealized

how long ithadbeen. Ihadn’teatenanythingsince Ihadhadsupperwithmyfatherthenightbefore.Thatwasnearlytwenty-fourhoursago.

DocSpencer reached into thecarandcameoutwith somethinghugeandroundwrappedupingreaseproofpaper.‘Mywifeaskedmetogiveyouthis,’hesaid.‘Ithinkyou’lllikeit.She’saterrificcook.’

Hepushedthepackagetowardsme,thenhejumpedintothecaranddrovequicklyaway.

Istoodthereclaspingthebigroundthingtightlyinmyhands.Iwatchedthedoctor’scarasitwentdowntheroadanddisappearedroundthecurve,andafter

ithadgoneIstillstoodtherewatchingtheemptyroad.AfterawhileI turnedandwalkedbackupthestepsintothecaravanwith

mypreciousparcel.IplaceditinthecentreofthetablebutIdidn’tunwrapit.My father lay on the bunk in a deep sleep. He was wearing hospital

pyjamas.Theyhadbrownandbluestripes.Iwentoverandgentlypulledbackthe blanket to seewhat they had done to him.Hardwhite plaster covered thelowerpartofhislegandthewholeofhisfoot,exceptforthetoes.Therewasafunny little iron thingstickingoutbelowhis foot,presumably forhim towalkon.Icoveredhimupagainandreturnedtothetable.

Verycarefully,Inowbegantounwrapthegreaseproofpaperfromaroundthe doctor’s present, and when I had finished, I saw before me the mostenormousandbeautifulpieintheworld.Itwascoveredallover,top,sides,andbottom,witharichgoldenpastry.

Itookaknifefrombesidethesinkandcutoutawedge.Istartedtoeatitinmyfingers,standingup.Itwasacoldmeatpie.Themeatwaspinkandtenderwithnofatorgristleinit,andtherewerehard-boiledeggsburiedliketreasuresinseveraldifferentplaces.

Thetastewasabsolutelyfabulous.WhenIhadfinishedthefirstslice,Icutanother and ate that too.GodblessDoctorSpencer, I thought.AndGodblessMrsSpenceraswell.

Thenextmorning,aMonday,myfatherwasupatsixo’clock.‘Ifeelgreat,’hesaid.Hestartedhobblingroundthecaravantotesthisleg.‘Ithardlyhurtsatall!’hecried.‘Icanwalkyoutoschool!’

‘No,’Isaid.‘No.’‘I’venevermissedoneyet,Danny.’‘It’stwomileseachway,’Isaid.‘Don’tdoit,Dad,please.’SothatdayIwenttoschoolalone.Butheinsistedoncomingwithmethe

nextday.Icouldn’tstophim.Hehadputawoollensockoverhisplasterfoottokeephistoeswarm,andtherewasaholeintheunderneathofthesocksothatthemetalthingcouldpokethrough.Hewalkedabitstiff-legged,buthemovedas fast as ever, and themetal thingwentclink on the roadeach timeheput itdown.

And so life at the filling-station returned to normal, or anywaynearly tonormal. I saynearlybecause thingsweredefinitelynotquite the sameas theyhadbeenbefore.Thedifferencelayinmyfather.Achangehadcomeoverhim.Itwasn’tabigchange,butitwasenoughtomakemecertainthatsomethingwasworrying him quite a lot. He would brood a good deal, and there would besilencesbetweenus,especiallyatsupper-time.NowandagainIwouldseehimstandingaloneandverystilloutinfrontofthefilling-station,gazinguptheroadinthedirectionofHazell’sWood.

Many timesIwanted toaskhimwhat the troublewasandhadIdoneso,I’msurehewouldhavetoldmeatonce.Inanyevent,IknewthatsoonerorlaterIwouldhearallaboutit.

Ihadn’tlongtowait.

Abouttendaysafterhisreturnfromhospital,thetwoofusweresittingoutontheplatformofthecaravanwatchingthesungodownbehindthebigtreesonthe top of the hill across the valley.We had had our supper but itwasn’tmybedtimeyet.TheSeptembereveningwaswarmandbeautifulandverystill.

‘Youknowwhatmakesmesohoppingmad,’hesaidtomeallofasudden.‘I get up in themornings feeling pretty good. Then about nine o’clock everysingle day of theweek, that huge silverRolls-Royce comes swishing past thefilling-stationandIseethegreatbigbloatedfaceofMrVictorHazellbehindthewheel.Ialwaysseeit.Ican’thelpit.Andashepassesby,healwaysturnshisheadinmydirectionandlooksatme.Butit’sthewayhelooksatmethatissoinfuriating.There is a sneerunderhisnoseanda smug little smirkaroundhismouthandalthoughIonlyseehimforthreeseconds,itmakesmemadderthanmackerel.What’smore,Istaymadfortherestoftheday’

‘Idon’tblameyou,’Isaid.Asilencefellbetweenus.Iwaitedtoseewhatwascomingnext.‘I’lltellyousomethinginteresting,’hesaidatlast.‘Theshootingseasonfor

pheasantsstartsonSaturday.Didyouknowthat?’‘No,Dad,Ididn’t.’‘ItalwaysstartsonthefirstofOctober,’hesaid.‘AndeveryyearMrHazell

celebratestheoccasionbygivingagrandopening-dayshootingparty’I wondered what this had to do with my father being madder than a

mackerel,butIknewforcertaintherewouldbeaconnectionsomewhere.‘Itisaveryfamousevent,Danny,thatshootingpartyofMrHazell’s.’

‘Dolotsofpeoplecome?’Iasked.‘Hundreds,’ he said. ‘They come from miles around. Dukes and lords,

baronsandbaronets,wealthybusinessmenandall thefancyfolkinthecounty.Theycomewiththeirgunsandtheirdogsandtheirwives,andalldaylongthenoiseofshootingrollsacrossthevalley.Buttheydon’tcomebecausetheylikeMrHazell.Secretlytheyalldespisehim.Theythinkhe’sanastypieceofwork.’

‘Thenwhydotheycome,Dad?’‘Because it’s thebest pheasant shoot in theSouthofEngland, that’swhy

theycome.ButtoMrHazellitisthegreatestdayintheyearandheiswillingtopay almost anything to make it a success. He spends a fortune on thosepheasants. Each summer he buys hundreds of young birds from the pheasant-farmandputs themin thewood,where thekeepersfeed themandguard themandfattenthemupreadyforthegreatdaytoarrive.Doyouknow,Danny,thatthe cost of rearing and keeping one single pheasant up to the time when it’sreadytobeshotisequaltothepriceofonehundredloavesofbread!’

‘It’snottrue.’‘Iswearit,’myfathersaid.‘ButtoMrHazellit’swortheverypennyofit.

Anddoyouknowwhy?Itmakeshimfeelimportant.Foronedayintheyearhe

becomesabigcheeseinalittleworldandeventheDukeofSo-and-soslapshimonthebackandtriestorememberhisfirstnamewhenhesaysgoodbye.’

Myfatherreachedoutahandandscratchedthehardplasterjustbelowhisleftknee.‘Ititches,’hesaid.‘Theskinitchesunderneaththeplaster.SoIscratchtheplasterandpretendI’mscratchingtheskin.’

‘Doesthathelp?’‘No,’hesaid,‘itdoesn’thelp.Butlisten,Danny…’‘Yes,Dad?’‘Iwanttotellyousomething.’Hestartedscratchingawayagainattheplasteronhisleg.Iwaitedforhim

togoon.‘IwanttotellyouwhatIwoulddearlylovetodorightnow.’Hereitcomes,Ithought.Herecomessomethingbigandcrazy.Icouldtell

somethingbigandcrazywascomingsimplyfromwatchinghisface.‘It’sadeadlysecret,Danny’Hepausedandlookedcarefullyallaroundhim.

Andalthoughtherewasprobablynota livingpersonwithintwomilesofusatthatmoment,henowleanedclosetomeandloweredhisvoicetoasoftwhisper.‘Iwouldlike’,hewhispered,‘tofindawayofpoachingsomanypheasantsfromHazell’sWoodthattherewouldn’tbeanyleftforthebigopening-dayshootonOctoberthefirst.’

‘Dad!’Icried.‘No!’‘Ssshh,’hesaid.‘Listen.IfonlyIcouldfindawayofknockingoffacouple

of hundred birds all in one go, thenMr Hazell’s party would be the biggestwash-outinhistory!’

‘Twohundred!’Isaid.‘That’simpossible!’‘Justimagine,Danny,’hewenton,‘whatatriumph,whatagloriousvictory

thatwouldbe!Allthedukesandlordsandfamousmenwouldarriveintheirbigcars… andMr Hazell would strut about like a peacock welcoming them andsaying things like “Plenty of birds out there for you this year, LordThistlethwaite,” and, “Ah, my dear Sir Godfrey, this is a great season forpheasants, a very great season indeed”…and thenout theywould all gowiththeirgunsundertheirarms…andtheywouldtakeuptheirpositionssurroundingthe famouswood…and inside thewoodawholearmyofhiredbeaterswouldstart shouting and yelling and bashing away at the undergrowth to drive thepheasantsoutofthewoodtowardsthewaitingguns…andloandbehold…therewouldn’t be a single pheasant to be found anywhere!AndMrVictorHazell’s

face would be redder than a boiled beetroot! Nowwouldn’t that be themostfantasticmarvellousthingifwecouldpullitoff,Danny?’

Myfatherhadgothimselfsoworkedupthatherosetohisfeetandhobbleddown the caravan steps and started pacing back and forth in front of me.‘Wouldn’tit,though?’heshouted.‘Wouldn’titbeterrific?’

‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Buthow?’hecried.‘Howcoulditbedone?’‘There’snoway,Dad. It’s hard enoughgetting just two birds up in those

woods,letalonetwohundred.’‘Iknowthat,’myfathersaid.‘It’sthekeepersthatmakeitsodifficult.’‘Howmanyarethere?’Iasked.‘Keepers?Three,andthey’realwaysaround.’‘Dotheystayrightthroughthenight?’‘No,notthroughthenight,’myfathersaid.‘Theygooffhomeassoonas

all the pheasants are safely up in the trees, roosting. But nobody’s everdiscoveredawayofpoachingaroostingpheasant,notevenmyowndad,whowasthegreatestexpertintheworld.It’saboutyourbedtime,’headded.‘OffyougoandI’llcomeinandtellyouastory.’

11

TheSleepingBeauty

Fiveminuteslater,Iwaslyingonmybunkinmypyjamas.Myfathercameinand lit the oil-lamp hanging from the ceiling. Itwas getting dark earlier now.‘Allright,’hesaid.‘Whatsortofstoryshallwehavetonight?’

‘Dad,’Isaid.‘Waitaminute.’‘Whatisit?’‘CanIaskyousomething?I’vejusthadabitofanidea.’‘Goon,’hesaid.‘You know that bottle of sleeping pillsDoc Spencer gave youwhen you

camebackfromhospital?’‘Ineverusedthem.Don’tlikethethings.’‘Yes,butisthereanyreasonwhythosewouldn’tworkonapheasant?’Myfathershookhisheadsadlyfromsidetoside.‘Wait,’Isaid.‘It’s no use,Danny.No pheasant in theworld is going to swallow those

lousyredcapsules.Surelyyouknowthat.’‘You’reforgettingtheraisins,Dad.’‘Theraisins?What’sthatgottodowithit?’‘Nowlisten,’Isaid.‘Pleaselisten.Wetakearaisin.Wesoakittillitswells.

Thenwemakeatinyslitinonesideofitwitharazor-blade.Thenwehollowitoutalittle.Thenweopenuponeofyourredcapsulesandpourallthepowderintotheraisin.Thenwegetaneedleandthreadandverycarefullywesewuptheslit…’

Outofthecornerofmyeye,Isawmyfather’smouthslowlybeginningtoopen.

‘Now,’Isaid,‘wehaveaniceclean-lookingraisinchockfullofsleeping-pillpowderandthatoughttobeenoughtoputanypheasanttosleep.Don’tyouthinkso?’

My father was staring at mewith a look of such wonder in his eyes hemighthavebeenseeingavision.

‘Oh, my darling boy,’ he said softly. ‘Oh, my sainted aunt! I do believeyou’vegotit.Yes,Ido.Ido.Ido.’

Hewassuddenlysochokedupwithexcitement that forafewsecondshecouldn’t sayanymore.Hecameandsaton theedgeofmybunkand therehestayed,noddinghisheadveryslowlyupanddown.

‘Youreallythinkitwouldwork?’Iaskedhim.‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘It’ll work all right. With this method we could

prepare twohundred raisins,andallwe’dhave todo is scatter themround thefeedinggroundsatsunset,and thenwalkaway.Halfanhour later,after itwasdarkandthekeepershadallgonehome,wewouldgobackintothewood…andthepheasantswouldbeupinthetreesbythen,roosting…andthepillswouldbebeginningtowork…andthepheasantswouldbestartingtofeelgroggy…they’dbewobblingandtryingtokeeptheirbalance…andsooneverypheasantthathadeatenone single raisinwould topple over unconscious and fall to the ground.

Why,they’dbedroppingoutofthetreeslikeapples!Andallwe’dhavetodoiswalkaroundpickingthemup!’

‘CanIdoitwithyou,Dad?’‘And they’dnevercatchuseither,’myfathersaid,nothearingme. ‘We’d

simply stroll through the woods dropping a few raisins here and there as wewent,andeveniftheywerewatchingustheywouldn’tnoticeanything.’

‘Dad,’Isaid,raisingmyvoice,‘youwillletmecomewithyou?’‘Danny,mylove,’hesaid,layingahandonmykneeandgazingatmewith

eyes large and bright as two stars, ‘if this thing works, it will revolutionizepoaching.’

‘Yes,Dad,butcanIcomewithyou?’‘Comewithme?’ he said, floatingout of his dreamat last. ‘Butmydear

boy,ofcourseyoucancomewithme!It’syouridea!Youmustbetheretoseeithappening! Now then!’ he cried, bouncing up off the bed. ‘Where are thosepills?’

Thesmallbottleofredcapsuleswasstandingbesidethesink.Ithadbeenthereeversincemyfatherreturnedfromhospital.Hefetcheditandunscrewedthetopandpouredthecapsulesontomyblanket.‘Let’scountthem,’hesaid.

Wecountedthemtogether.Therewereexactlyfifty.‘That’snotenough,’hesaid.‘Weneedtwohundredatleast.’Thenhecriedout,‘Wait!Holdit!There’snoproblem!’Hebegancarefullyputtingthecapsulesbackintothebottle,andashedidsohesaid, ‘Allwe’vegot todo,Danny, isdivide thepowder fromonecapsuleamongfourraisins.Inotherwords,quarterthedose.Thatwaywewouldhaveenoughtofilltwohundredraisins.’

‘But would a quarter of one of those pills be strong enough to put apheasanttosleep?’Iasked.

‘Of course it would, my dear boy.Work it out for yourself. How muchsmallerisapheasantthanaman?’

‘Many,manytimessmaller.’‘Thereyouarethen.Ifonepillisenoughtoputafully-grownmantosleep,

you’ll onlyneed a tinybit of that for a pheasant.Whatwe’regivinghimwillknocktheoldpheasantforaloop!Hewon’tknowwhat’shithim!’

‘But Dad, two hundred raisins aren’t going to get you two hundredpheasants.’

‘Whynot?’‘Becausethegreediestbirdsaresurelygoingtogobbleupabouttenraisins

each.’‘You’ve got a point there,’ my father said. ‘You certainly have. But

somehow I don’t think it will happen that way. Not if I’m very careful andspreadthemoutoverawidearea.Don’tworryabout it,Danny.I’msureIcanworkit.’

‘AndyoupromiseIcancomewithyou?’‘Absolutely’hesaid.‘AndweshallcallthismethodTheSleepingBeauty.It

willbealandmarkinthehistoryofpoaching!’Isatverystillinmybunk,watchingmyfatherasheputeachcapsuleback

intothebottle.Icouldhardlybelievewhatwashappening, thatwewerereallygoingtodoit,thatheandIaloneweregoingtotrytoswipepracticallytheentireflock of Mr Victor Hazell’s prize pheasants. Just thinking about it sent littleshiversofelectricityrunningallovermyskin.

‘Exciting,isn’tit?’myfathersaid.‘Idon’tdarethinkaboutit,Dad.Itmakesmeshiverallover.’‘Me too,’ he said. ‘Butwemust keep very calm from now on.Wemust

makeourplansveryverycarefully.TodayisWednesday.TheshootingpartyisnextSaturday’

‘Cripes!’Isaid.‘That’sinthreedays’time!WhendoyouandIgouptothewoodanddothejob?’

‘Thenightbefore,’myfathersaid.‘OntheFriday.Inthatwaytheywon’tdiscoverthatall thepheasantshavedisappeareduntil it’stoolateandthepartyhasbegun.’

‘Friday’sthedayaftertomorrow!Mygoodness,Dad,we’llhavetohurryifwe’regoingtogettwohundredraisinsreadybeforethen!’

Myfatherstoodupandbeganpacingthefloorofthecaravan.‘Here’stheplanofaction,’hesaid.‘Listencarefully…

‘Tomorrow is Thursday. When I walk you to school, I shall go intoCooper’sStoresinthevillageandbuytwopacketsofseedlessraisins.Andintheeveningwewillputtheraisinsintosoakforthenight.’

‘But that only gives us Friday to get ready two hundred raisins,’ I said.‘Eachonewillhavetobecutopenandfilledwithpowderandsewedupagain,andI’llbeatschoolallday…’

‘No,youwon’t,’myfathersaid. ‘YouwillbesufferingfromaverynastycoldonFridayandIshallbeforcedtokeepyouhomefromschool.’

‘Hooray!’Isaid.‘Wewillnotopenthefilling-stationatallonFriday,’hewenton.‘Instead

wewillshutourselvesinhereandpreparetheraisins.We’lleasilygetthemdonebetweenus inoneday.Andthatevening,offwe’llgoup theroad towards thewoodtodothejob.Isthatallclear?’

Hewaslikeageneralannouncingtheplanofbattletohisstaff.‘Allclear,’Isaid.‘AndDanny,notawhisperofthistoanyofyourfriendsatschool.’‘Dad,youknowIwouldn’t!’Hekissedmegood-night and turned theoil-lampdown low,but itwas a

longtimebeforeIwenttosleep.

12

ThursdayandSchool

ThenextdaywasThursday,andbeforewesetoutforthewalktomyschoolthatmorningIwentaroundbehindthecaravanandpickedtwoapplesfromourtree,oneformyfatherandoneforme.

Itisamostmarvellousthingtobeabletogooutandhelpyourselftoyourown appleswhenever you feel like it.You can do this only in the autumn ofcourse,whenthefruitisripe,butallthesame,howmanyfamiliesaresolucky?Not one in a thousand, I would guess. Our apples were called Cox’s OrangePippins,andIlikedthesoundofthenamealmostasmuchasIlikedtheapples.

At eighto’clockwe startedwalkingdown the road towardsmyschool inthepaleautumnsunshine,munchingourapplesaswestrodealong.

Clinkwentmyfather’sironfooteachtimeheputitdownonthehardroad.Clink…clink…clink.

‘Haveyoubroughtmoneytobuytheraisins?’Iasked.Heputahandinhistrouserpocketandmadethecoinsjingle.‘WillCooper’sbeopensoearly?’‘Yes,’hesaid.‘Theyopenateight-thirty’I really loved those morning walks to school with my father.We talked

practicallythewholetime.MostlyitwashewhotalkedandIwholistened,andjust about everythinghe saidwas fascinating.Hewas a true countryman.Thefields, the streams, the woods and all the creatures who lived in these placeswereapartofhislife.Althoughhewasamechanicbytradeandaveryfineone,I believe he could have become a great naturalist if only he had had a goodschooling.

Longagohehadtaughtmethenamesofallthetreesandthewildflowersandthedifferentgrassesthatgrowinthefields.Allthebirds,too,Icouldname,notonlybysightingthembutbylisteningtotheircallsandtheirsongs.

Inspringtimewewouldhuntforbirds’nestsalongtheway,andwhenwefoundonehewouldliftmeupontohisshoulderssoIcouldpeerintoitandseetheeggs.ButIwasneverallowedtotouchthem.

Myfathertoldmeanestwitheggsinitwasoneofthemostbeautifulthingsin the world. I thought so too. The nest of a song-thrush, for instance, linedinside with dry mud as smooth as polished wood, and with five eggs of thepurestbluespeckledwithblackdots.Andtheskylark,whosenestweoncefoundrightinthemiddleofafield,inagrassyclumpontheground.Itwashardlyanestatall, justa littlehollowplace in thegrass,andin itweresixsmalleggs,deepbrownandwhite.

‘Why does the skylarkmake its nest on the groundwhere the cows cantrampleit?’Iasked.

‘Nobodyknowswhy,’myfathersaid.‘Buttheyalwaysdoit.Nightingalesnestonthegroundtoo.Sodopheasantsandpartridgesandgrouse.’

Ononeofourwalksaweaselflashedoutofthehedgeinfrontofus,andinthe next few minutes I learned a lot of things about that marvellous littlecreature.ThebitIlikedbestwaswhenmyfathersaid,‘Theweaselisthebravestofallanimals.Themotherwillfighttothedeathtodefendherownchildren.Shewillneverrunaway,notevenfromafoxwhichisonehundredtimesbiggerthanher.Shewillstaybesidehernestandfightthefoxuntilsheiskilled.’

Another time,when I said, ‘Just listen to that grasshopper,Dad,’ he said,‘No, that’s not a grasshopper,my love. It’s a cricket. And did you know that

cricketshavetheirearsintheirlegs?’‘It’snottrue.’‘It’s absolutely true. And grasshoppers have theirs in the sides of their

tummies. They are lucky to be able to hear at all because nearly all the vasthordes of insects on this earth are deaf as well as dumb and live in a silentworld.’

On thisThursday,on thisparticularwalk toschool, therewasanoldfrogcroakinginthestreambehindthehedgeaswewentby.

‘Canyouhearhim,Danny?’‘Yes,’Isaid.‘Thatisabullfrogcallingtohiswife.Hedoesitbyblowingouthisdewlap

andlettingitgowithaburp.’‘Whatisadewlap?’Iasked.‘It’sthelooseskinonhisthroat.Hecanblowitupjustlikealittleballoon.’‘Whathappenswhenhiswifehearshim?’‘Shegoeshoppingovertohim.Sheisveryhappytohavebeeninvited.But

I’ll tellyousomethingveryfunnyabouttheoldbullfrog.Heoftenbecomessopleasedwiththesoundofhisownvoicethathiswifehastonudgehimseveraltimesbeforehe’llstophisburpingandturnroundtohugher.’

Thatmademelaugh.‘Don’tlaughtooloud,’hesaid,twinklingatmewithhiseyes.‘Wemenare

notsoverydifferentfromthebullfrog.’We parted at the school gates andmy fatherwent off to buy the raisins.

Otherchildrenwerestreaming in through thegatesandheadingup thepath tothefrontdooroftheschool.Ijoinedthembutkeptsilent.Iwasthekeeperofadeep secret and a careless word fromme could blow the lid off the greatestpoachingexpeditiontheworldwouldeversee.

Ourswasjustasmallvillageschool,asquatuglyred-brickbuildingwithnoupstairs rooms at all. Above the front door was a big grey block of stonecementedintothebrickwork,andonthestoneitsaid,THISSCHOOLWASERECTEDIN1902TOCOMMEMORATETHECORONATIONOFHISROYALHIGHNESSKINGEDWARDVII.Imusthavereadthatthingathousandtimes.EverytimeIwentinthedoorithitmeintheeye.Isupposethat’swhatitwastherefor.Butit’sprettyboringtoread the sameoldwordsover andover again, and Ioften thoughthownice itwould be if they put something different up there every day, something really

interesting.My fatherwouldhavedone it for thembeautifully.He couldhavewrittenitwithabitofchalkonthesmoothgreystoneandeachmorningitwouldhavebeensomethingnew.Hewouldhavesaidthingslike,DIDYOUKNOWTHATTHE LITTLE YELLOW CLOVER BUTTERFLY OFTEN CARRIES HIS WIFE AROUND ON HISBACK?Anothertimehemighthavesaid,THEGUPPYHASFUNNYHABITS.WHENHEFALLS IN LOVEWITHANOTHERGUPPY,HEBITESHERONTHEBOTTOM.And anothertime,DIDYOUKNOWTHATTHEDEATH’S-HEADMOTHCANSQUEAK?Andthenagain,BIRDSHAVEALMOSTNOSENSEOFSMELL.BUTTHEYHAVEGOODEYESIGHTANDTHEYLOVEREDCOLOURS.THEFLOWERSTHEYLIKEAREREDANDYELLOW,BUTNEVERBLUE.Andperhapsanothertimehewouldgetouthischalkandwrite,SOMEBEESHAVETONGUESWHICHTHEYCANUNROLLUNTILTHEYARENEARLYTWICEASLONGASTHEBEE ITSELF. THIS IS TOALLOWTHEMTOGATHERNECTAR FROMFLOWERSTHATHAVEVERY LONG NARROW OPENINGS. Or he might have written, I’LL BET YOU DIDN’TKNOWTHATINSOMEBIGENGLISHCOUNTRYHOUSES,THEBUTLERSTILLHASTOIRONTHEMORNINGNEWSPAPERBEFOREPUTTINGITONHISMASTER’SBREAKFAST-TABLE.

Therewere about sixty boys and girls in our school and their ageswentfromfivetoeleven.Wehadfourclassroomsandfourteachers.

MissBirdseyetaughtthekindergarten,thefive-year-oldsandsix-year-olds,andshewasareallyniceperson.Sheusedtokeepabagofaniseedballsinthedrawerofherdesk,andanyonewhodidgoodworkwouldbegivenoneaniseedballtosuckrightthereandthenduringthelesson.Thetrickwithaniseedballsisnevertobitethem.Ifyoukeeprollingthemroundyourmouth,theywilldissolveslowlyoftheirownaccord,andthen,rightintheverycentre,youwillfindatinylittlebrownseed.Thisistheaniseeditself,andwhenyoucrushitbetweenyourteethithasafabuloustaste.Myfathertoldmethatdogsgocrazyaboutit.Whentherearen’tanyfoxesaround,thehuntsmanwilldragabagofaniseedformilesandmilesoverthecountryside,andthefoxhoundswillfollowthescentbecausetheyloveitso.Thisisknownasadraghunt.

Theseven-andeight-year-oldsweretaughtbyMrCorradoandhewasalsoa decent person. He was a very old teacher, probably sixty or more, but thatdidn’tseemtostophimbeinginlovewithMissBirdseye.Weknewhewasinlovewithherbecausehealwaysgaveherthebestbitsofmeatatlunchwhenitwashisturntodotheserving.Andwhenshesmiledathimhewouldsmilebackatherinthesoppiestwayyoucanimagine,showingallhisfrontteeth,topandbottom,andmostoftheothersaswell.

AteachercalledCaptainLancastertookthenine-andten-year-oldsandthisyear that includedme.CaptainLancaster,knownsometimesasLankers,wasahorrid man. He had fiery carrot-coloured hair and a little clipped carrottymoustacheandafierytemper.Carrotty-colouredhairswerealsosproutingoutofhisnostrilsandhisearholes.HehadbeenacaptaininthearmyduringthewaragainstHitlerandthatwaswhyhestillcalledhimselfCaptainLancasterinsteadof just plainMister.My father said it was an idiotic thing to do. Thereweremillionsofpeople still alive,he said,whohad fought in thatwar,butmostofthemwantedtoforgetthewholebeastlything,especiallythosecrummymilitarytitles.CaptainLancasterwasaviolentman,andwewereallterrifiedofhim.Heusedtositathisdeskstrokinghiscarrottymoustacheandwatchinguswithpalewatery-blue eyes, searching for trouble. And as he sat there, he would makequeer snufflinggrunts throughhis nose, like somedog sniffing round a rabbithole.

MrSnoddy, our headmaster, took the top form, the eleven-year-olds, andeverybodylikedhim.Hewasasmallroundmanwithahugescarletnose.Ifeltsorry for himhaving a nose like that. Itwas sobig and inflamed it looked asthoughitmightexplodeatanymomentandblowhimup.

AfunnythingaboutMrSnoddywasthathealwaysbroughtaglassofwaterwithhim intoclass, and thishekept sipping right through the lesson.At leasteveryone thought itwasaglassofwater.Everyone, that is,exceptmeandmybestfriend,SidneyMorgan.Weknewdifferently,andthisishowwefoundout.MyfatherlookedafterMrSnoddy’scarandIalwaystookhisrepairbillswithmetoschooltosavepostage.OnedayduringbreakIwenttoMrSnoddy’sstudytogivehimabillandSidneyMorgancamealongwithme.Hedidn’tcomefor

anyspecialreason.Wejusthappenedtobetogetheratthetime.Andaswewentin,wesawMrSnoddystandingbyhisdeskrefillinghisfamousglassofwaterfromabottlelabelledGordon’sGin.Hejumpedamilewhenhesawus.

‘You should have knocked,’ he said, sliding the bottle behind a pile ofbooks.

‘I’msorry,sir,’Isaid.‘Ibroughtmyfather’sbill.’‘Ah,’hesaid.‘Yes.Verywell.Andwhatdoyouwant,Sidney?’‘Nothing,sir,’SidneyMorgansaid.‘Nothingatall.’‘Offyougo, then,bothofyou,’MrSnoddysaid,keepinghishandonthe

bottlebehindthebooks.‘Runalong.’Outside in the corridor,wemade a pact thatwewouldn’t tell any of the

otherchildrenaboutwhatwehadseen.MrSnoddyhadalwaysbeenkindtousandwewantedtorepayhimbykeepinghisdeepdarksecrettoourselves.

TheonlypersonItoldwasmyfather,andwhenheheardit,hesaid,‘Idon’tblame him one bit. If I was unlucky enough to bemarried toMrs Snoddy, Iwoulddrinksomethingabitstrongerthangin.’

‘Whatwouldyoudrink,Dad?’‘Poison,’hesaid.‘She’safrightfulwoman.’‘Whyisshefrightful?’Iasked.‘She’sasortofwitch,’hesaid.‘Andtoproveit,shehasseventoesoneach

foot.’‘Howdoyouknowthat?’Iasked.‘DocSpencertoldme,’myfatheranswered.Andthentochangethesubject,

hesaid,‘Whydon’tyoueveraskSidneyMorganoverheretoplay?’EversinceIstartedgoingtoschool,myfatherhadtriedtoencouragemeto

bringmy friends back to the filling-station for tea or supper.And every year,about aweekbeforemybirthday, hewould say, ‘Let’s have aparty this time,Danny. We can write out invitations and I’ll go into the village and buychocolateeclairsanddoughnutsandahugebirthdaycakewithcandlesonit.’

But I always said no to these suggestions and I never invited any otherchildrentocometomyhomeafterschooloratweekends.Thatwasn’tbecauseIdidn’thavegoodfriends.Ihadlotsofthem.Someofthemweresuperfriends,especiallySidneyMorgan.PerhapsifIhadlivedinthesamestreetassomeofthem insteadofwayout in the country, thingswouldhavebeendifferent.Butthenagain,perhapstheywouldn’t.Yousee,therealreasonIdidn’twantanyone

elsetocomebackandplaywithmewasbecauseIhadsuchagoodtimebeingalonewithmyfather.

By theway, somethinghorriblehappenedon thatThursdaymorningaftermyfatherhadleftmeattheschoolgateandgoneofftobuytheraisins.Wewerehavingour first lessonof thedaywithCaptainLancaster, andhehad set us awhole bunch ofmultiplication sums towork out in our exercise books. IwassittingnexttoSidneyMorganinthebackrow,andwewerebothsloggingaway.CaptainLancaster satup frontathisdesk,gazing suspiciously round theclasswith his watery-blue eyes. And even from the back row I could hear himsnortingandsnufflingthroughhisnoselikeadogoutsidearabbithole.

SidneyMorgancoveredhismouthwithhishandandwhisperedverysoftlytome,‘Whatareeightnines?’

‘Seventy-two,’Iwhisperedback.CaptainLancaster’sringershotoutlikeabulletandpointedstraightatmy

face.‘You!’heshouted.‘Standup!’‘Me,sir?’Isaid.‘Yes,you,youblitheringlittleidiot!’Istoodup.‘Youweretalking!’hebarked.‘Whatwereyousaying?’Hewasshoutingat

measthoughIwasaplatoonofsoldiersontheparadeground.‘Comeon,boy!Outwithit!’

Istoodstillandsaidnothing.‘Areyourefusingtoanswerme?’heshouted.‘Please,sir,’Sidneysaid.‘Itwasmyfault.Iaskedhimaquestion.’‘Oh,youdid,didyou?Standup!’Sidneystoodupbesideme.‘Andwhatexactlydidyouaskhim?’CaptainLancastersaid,speakingmore

quietlynowandfarmoredangerously.‘Iaskedhimwhatareeightnines,’Sidneysaid.AndIsupposeyouansweredhim?’CaptainLancastersaid,pointingatme

again.Henevercalledanyofusbyournames.Itwasalways‘you’or‘boy’or‘girl’orsomethinglikethat.‘Didyouanswerhimordidn’tyou?Speakup,boy!’

‘Yes,sir,’Isaid.‘Soyouwerecheating!’hesaid.‘Bothofyouwerecheating!’

Wekeptsilent.‘Cheatingisarepulsivehabitpractisedbyguttersnipesanddandiprats!’he

said.Fromwhere Iwas standing I could see thewhole class sitting absolutely

rigid,watchingCaptainLancaster.Nobodydaredmove.‘Youmaybepermittedtocheatandlieandswindleinyourownhomes,’he

wenton,‘butIwillnotputupwithithere!’Atthispoint,asortofblindfurytookholdofmeandIshoutedbackathim,

‘Iamnotacheat!’Therewasafearfulsilencein theroom.CaptainLancasterraisedhischin

and fixed me with his watery eyes. ‘You are not only a cheat but you areinsolent,’hesaidquietly. ‘Youareavery insolentboy.Comeuphere.Bothofyou,comeuphere.’

AsIsteppedoutfrommydeskandbeganwalkinguptowardsthefrontofthe class, I knew exactly what was going to happen. I had seen it happen toothers many times, to both boys and girls. But up until now, it had neverhappenedtome.EachtimeIhadseenit,ithadmademefeelquitesickinside.

CaptainLancasterwas standingupandcrossingover to the tallbookcasethatstoodagainsttheleft-handwalloftheclassroom.Hereacheduptothetop-mostshelfofthebookcaseandbroughtdownthedreadedcane.Itwaswhite,thiscane,aswhiteasbone,andverylongandverythin,withoneendbentoverintoahandle,likeawalking-stick.

‘Youfirst,’hesaid,pointingatmewiththecane.‘Holdoutyourlefthand.’Itwas almost impossible to believe that thismanwas about to injureme

physicallyandincoldblood.AsIliftedmyleft-handpalmupwardsandhelditthere,Ilookedatthepalmitselfandthepinkskinandthefortune-teller’slinesrunningoverit,andIstillcouldnotbringmyselftoimaginethatanythingwasgoingtohappentoit.

The longwhitecanewentuphigh in theairandcamedownonmyhandwithacracklikeariflegoingoff.IheardthecrackfirstandabouttwosecondslaterIfeltthepain.NeverhadIfeltapainsuchasthatinmywholelife.Itwasasthoughsomeonewerepressingared-hotpokeragainstmypalmandholdingitthere. I remember grabbing my injured left hand with my right hand andramming it between my legs and squeezing my legs together against it. Isqueezed and squeezed as hard as I could as if Iwere trying to stop thehandfromfallingtopieces.ImanagednottocryoutloudbutIcouldn’tkeepthetearsfrompouringdownmycheeks.

From somewhere nearby I heard another fearful swish-crack! and IknewthatpoorSidneyhadjustgotitaswell.

But,oh,thatfearfulsearingburningpainacrossmyhand!Whydidn’titgoaway? I glanced at Sidney.Hewas doing just the same asme, squeezing hishandbetweenhislegsandmakingthemostawfulface.

‘Goandsitdown,bothofyou!’CaptainLancasterordered.Westumbledbacktoourdesksandsatdown.‘Nowgetonwithyourwork!’thedreadedvoicesaid.‘Andletushaveno

morecheating!Nomoreinsolence,either!’The class bent their heads over their books like people in church saying

theirprayers.Ilookedatmyhand.Therewasalonguglymarkabouthalfaninchwide

running right across the palm just where the fingers joined the hand. It wasraised up in themiddle and the raised part was purewhite, with red on bothsides. Imoved the fingers. Theymoved all right, but it hurt tomove them. IlookedatSidney.Hegavemeaquickapologeticglanceunderhiseyelids,thenwentbacktohissums.

When I got home from school that afternoon, my father was in theworkshop.‘I’veboughttheraisins,’hesaid.‘Wewillnowputthemintosoak.Fetchmeabowlofwater,Danny.’

Iwent over to the caravan andgot a bowl andhalf-filled itwithwater. Icarriedittotheworkshopandputitonthebench.

‘Openupthepacketsandtipthemallin,’myfathersaid.Thiswasoneofthe really nice things about my father. He didn’t take over and want to doeverythinghimself.Whetheritwasadifficultjoblikeadjustingacarburettorinabigengine,orwhetheritwassimplytippingsomeraisinsintoabasin,healwaysletmegoaheadanddoitmyselfwhilehewatchedandstoodreadytohelp.HewaswatchingmenowasIopenedthefirstpacketofraisins.

‘Hey!’hecried,grabbingmyleftwrist.‘What’shappenedtoyourhand?’‘It’snothing,’Isaid,clenchingthefist.Hemademeopen itup.The longscarletmark layacrossmypalmlikea

burn.‘Whodidit?’heshouted.‘WasitCaptainLancaster?’‘Yes,Dad,butit’snothing.’‘Whathappened?’Hewasgrippingmywrist sohard it almosthurt. ‘Tell

meexactlywhathappened!’I told him everything. He stood there holding my wrist, his face going

whiter andwhiter, and I could see the fury beginning to boil up dangerouslyinsidehim.

‘I’ll kill him! he softly whispered when I had finished. ‘I swear I’ll killhim!”Hiseyeswereblazing,andall thecolourhadgone fromhis face. Ihadneverseenhimlooklikethatbefore.

‘Forgetit,Dad.’‘Iwillnotforgetit!’hesaid.‘Youdidnothingwrongandhehadabsolutely

norighttodothistoyou.Sohecalledyouacheat,didhe?’Inodded.Hehadtakenhisjacketfromthepegonthewallandwasputtingiton.‘Whereareyougoing?’Iasked.‘IamgoingstraighttoCaptainLancaster’shouseandI’mgoingtobeatthe

daylightsoutofhim.’‘No!’Icried,catchingholdofhisarm.‘Don’tdoit,Dad,please!Itwon’t

doanygood!Pleasedon’tdoit!’‘I’vegotto,’hesaid.‘No!’ I cried, tugging at his arm. ‘It’ll ruin everything! It’ll onlymake it

worse!Pleaseforgetit!’Hehesitatedthen.Iheldontohisarm.Hewassilent,andIcouldseethe

rushofangerslowlydrainingoutofhisface.‘It’srevolting,’hesaid.‘I’llbettheydidittoyouwhenyouwereatschool,’Isaid.‘Ofcoursetheydid.’‘AndI’llbetyourdaddidn’tgorushingofftobeatthedaylightsoutofthe

teacherwhodidit.’Helookedatmebutkeptquiet.‘Hedidn’t,didhe,Dad?’‘No,Danny,hedidn’t,’heansweredsoftly.Iletgoofhisarmandhelpedhimoffwithhisjacketandhungitbackon

thepeg.‘I’m going to put the raisins in now,’ I said. ‘And don’t forget that

tomorrowIhaveanastycoldandIwon’tbegoingtoschool.’

‘Yes,’hesaid.‘That’sright.’‘We’vegottwohundredraisinstofill,’Isaid.Ah,’hesaid.‘Sowehave.’‘Ihopewe’llgetthemdoneintime,’Isaid.‘Doesitstillhurt?’heasked.‘Thathand.’‘No,’Isaid.‘Notonebit.’Ithinkthatsatisfiedhim.AndalthoughIsawhimglancingoccasionallyat

mypalmduring the restof theafternoonandevening,henevermentioned thesubjectagain.

Thatnighthedidn’ttellmeastory.HesatontheedgeofmybunkandwetalkedaboutwhatwasgoingtohappenthenextdayupinHazell’sWood.Hegotmesosteamedupandexcitedabout it, Icouldn’tget tosleep.I thinkhemusthavegothimselfsteamedupalmostasmuchbecauseafterhehadundressedandclimbedintohisownbunk,Iheardhimtwistingandturningallovertheplace.Hecouldn’tgettosleepeither.

Ataboutten-thirty,heclimbedoutofhisbunkandputthekettleon.‘What’sthematter,Dad?’‘Nothing,’hesaid.‘Shallwehaveamidnightfeast?’‘Yes,let’sdothat.’Helitthelampintheceilingandopenedatinoftunaandmadeadelicious

sandwichforeachofus.Alsohotchocolate forme,and tea forhim.ThenwestartedtalkingaboutthepheasantsandaboutHazell’sWoodalloveragain.

Itwasprettylatebeforewegottosleep.

13

Friday

Whenmyfatherwokemeatsixo’clocknextmorning,Iknewatoncethatthiswas thedayofdays. Itwas thedayI longedforand thedayIdreaded. Itwasalso the day of butterflies in the stomach except that they were worse thanbutterflies.Theyweresnakes.IhadsnakesinthestomachthemomentIopenedmyeyesonthatFridaymorning.

The first thing I did after I had got dressed was to hang the SORRYCLOSEDnoticeononeofthepumps.Wehadaquickbreakfast,thenthetwoofussatdowntogetheratthetableinthecaravantopreparetheraisins.Theywereplumpandsoftandswollenfrombeingsoakedinwater,andwhenyounickedthemwitharazor-bladetheskinsprangopenandthejellystuffinsidesqueezedoutaseasilyasyoucouldwish.

Islittheraisinswhilemyfatheropenedthecapsules.Heopenedonlyoneata timeandpouredthewhitepowderontoapieceofpaper.Thenhedivideditintofourtinypileswiththebladeofaknife.Eachpilewascarefullyscoopedupand put into a single raisin. A needle and black cotton finished the job. Thesewingupwasthehardestpart,andmyfatherdidmostofthat.Ittookabouttwominutestodooneraisinfromstarttofinish.Ienjoyedit.Itwasfun.

‘Yourmotherwaswonderfulatsewingthings,’myfathersaid.‘She’dhavehadtheseraisinsdoneinnotime.’

Ididn’tsayanything.Ineverknewquitewhattosaywhenhetalkedaboutmymother.

‘Didyouknowsheusedtomakeallmyclothesherself,Danny?EverythingIwore.’

‘Evensocksandsweaters?’Iasked.‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But those were knitted. And so quickly! When she was

knitting,theneedlesflewsofastinherfingersyoucouldn’tseethem.Theywerejust a blur. Iwould sit here in the eveningwatching her and she used to talkaboutthechildrenshewasgoingtohave.“Ishallhavethreechildren,”sheusedtosay.“Aboyforyou,agirlformeandoneforgoodmeasure.”’

Therewas a short silence after that. Then I said, ‘WhenMumwas here,Dad,didyougooutveryoftenatnightorwasitonlynowandthen?’

‘Youmeanpoaching?’‘Yes.’‘Often,’hesaid.‘Atleasttwiceaweek.’‘Didn’tshemind?’‘Mind?Ofcourseshedidn’tmind.Shecamewithme.’‘Shedidn’t!’‘Shecertainlydid.Shecamewithmeeverysingletimeuntiljustbeforeyou

wereborn.Shehadtostopthen.Shesaidshecouldn’trunfastenough.’I thought about this extraordinarypieceofnews for a littlewhile.Then I

said, ‘Was theonly reasonshewentbecause she lovedyou,Dad,andbecause

shewantedtobewithyou?Ordidshegobecauseshelovedpoaching?’‘Both,’myfathersaid.‘Shediditforboththereasonsyoumentioned.’Iwasbeginning to realizewhat an immense sorrow itmust havebeen to

himwhenshedied.‘Weren’tyouafraidshemightgetshotup?’Iasked.‘Yes,Danny, Iwas. But itwasmarvellous to have her along. Shewas a

greatsport,yourmother.’Bymiddaywehadpreparedonehundredand thirty-six raisins. ‘We’re in

goodshape,’myfathersaid.‘Let’sbreakforlunch.’Heopenedatinofbakedbeansandheatedthemupinasaucepanoverthe

paraffin burner. I cut two slices of brown bread and put them on plates.Myfather spooned the hot baked beans over the bread and we carried our platesoutsideandsatdownwithourlegsdanglingovertheplatformofthecaravan.

Usually I love baked beans on bread, but today I couldn’t eat a thing.‘What’sthematter?’myfatherasked.

‘I’mnothungry.’‘Don’tworry,’hesaid.‘ThesamethinghappenedtomethefirsttimeIwent

out.Iwasaboutyouragethen,maybealittleolder,andinthosedayswealwayshadahotteainthekitchenatfiveo’clock.Icanrememberexactlywhatwasonthetablethatevening.Itwasmyfavouritethingofall,toad-in-the-hole,andmymumcouldmaketoad-in-the-holelikenobodyelseintheworld.Shediditinanenormous pan with the Yorkshire pudding very brown and crisp on top andraisedupinhugebubblymountains.Inbetweenthemountainsyoucouldseethesausageshalf-buriedinthebatter.Fantasticitwas.ButonthatdaymystomachwassojumpyIcouldn’teatonemouthful.Iexpectyoursfeelslikethatnow.’

‘Mine’sfullofsnakes,’Isaid.‘Theywon’tstopwigglingabout.’‘Minedoesn’tfeelexactlynormaleither,’myfathersaid.‘Butthenthisisn’t

anormaloperation,isit?’‘No,Dad,it’snot.’‘Do you know what this is, Danny? This is the most colossal and

extraordinarypoachingjobanyonehaseverbeenoninthehistoryoftheworld!’‘Don’tgoonaboutit,Dad.Itonlymakesmemorejumpy.Whattimedowe

leavehere?’‘I’ve worked that out,’ he said. ‘We must enter the wood about fifteen

minutesbeforesunset.Ifwearriveaftersunsetallthepheasantswillhaveflown

uptoroostandit’llbetoolate.’‘Whenissunset?’Iasked.‘Right now it’s about seven-thirty,’ he said. ‘Sowemust arrive at seven-

fifteenexactly.It’sanhourandahalf’swalktothewoodsowemustleavehereataquartertosix.’

‘Thenwe’d better finish those raisins,’ I said. ‘We’ve still gotmore thansixtytodo.’

Wefinishedtheraisinswithabouttwohourstospare.Theylayinapileonawhiteplateinthemiddleofthetable.‘Don’ttheylookmarvellous?’myfathersaid,rubbinghishandstogetherhard.‘Thosepheasantsaregoingtoabsolutelylovethem.’

Afterthat,wemessedroundintheworkshopuntilhalf-pastfive.Thenmyfathersaid,‘That’sit!It’stimetogetready!Weleaveinfifteenminutes!’

Aswewalkedtowardsthecaravan,astation-wagonpulleduptothepumpswithawomanat thewheelandabouteightchildren in thebackalleating ice-creams.

‘Oh,Iknowyou’reclosed,’thewomancalledoutthroughherwindow.‘Butcouldn’tyoupleaseletmehaveafewgallons?I’mjustaboutempty’Shewasagood-lookingwomanwithdarkhair.

‘Giveittoher,’myfathersaid.‘Butbequick.’Ifetchedthekeyfromtheofficeandunlockedoneofthepumps.Ifilledup

hertankandtookthemoneyandgaveherthechange.‘Youdon’tusuallycloseasearlyasthis,’shesaid.

‘Wehavetogoout,’Itoldher,hoppingfromonefoottotheother.‘Ihavetogosomewherewithmyfather.’

‘Youlookjumpyasajack-rabbit,’shesaid.‘Isitthedentist?’‘No,ma’am,’Isaid.‘It’snotthedentist.Butpleaseexcuseme.Ihavetogo

now.’

14

IntotheWood

Myfather cameoutof the caravanwearing theoldnavy-blue sweater and thebrowncloth-capwiththepeakpulleddownlowoverhiseyes.

‘What’sunderthere,Dad?’Iasked,seeingthebulgeathiswaistline.He pulled up his sweater and showed me two thin but very large white

cottonsacks.Theywereboundneatandtidyroundhisbelly.‘Tocarrythestuff,’hesaiddarkly.

‘Ah-ha.’‘Goandputonyoursweater,’hesaid.‘It’sbrown,isn’tit?’‘Yes,’Isaid.‘That’ll do.But take off thosewhite sneakers andwear your black shoes

instead.’I went into the caravan and changed my shoes and put on my sweater.

When I came out again, my father was standing by the pumps squintinganxiouslyupatthesunwhichwasnowonlythewidthofaman’shandabovethelineoftreesalongthecrestoftheridgeonthefarsideofthevalley.

‘I’mready,Dad.’‘Goodboy.Offwego!’‘Haveyougottheraisins?’Iasked.

‘Inhere,’hesaid, tappinghis trouserpocketwhereyetanotherbulgewasshowing.‘I’veputthemallinonebag.’

It was a calm sunny evening with little wisps of brilliant white cloudhangingmotionlessinthesky,andthevalleywascoolandveryquietasthetwoofusbeganwalkingtogetheralongtheroadthatranbetweenthehills towardsWendover. The iron thing underneath my father’s foot made a noise like ahammerstrikinganaileachtimeithittheroad.

‘Thisisit,Danny.We’reonourwaynow,’hesaid.‘Bygolly,Iwishmyolddadwerecomingwithusonthisone.He’dhavegivenhisrightteethtobehereatthismoment.’

‘Mum,too,’Isaid.‘Ah,yes,’hesaid,givingalittlesigh.‘Yourmotherwouldhavelovedthis

one.’Thenhesaid, ‘Yourmotherwasagreatoneforwalking,Danny.Andshe

would always bring something home with her to brighten up the caravan. Insummer itwaswild flowersorgrasses.When thegrasswas in seed shecouldmakeitlookabsolutelybeautifulinajugofwater,especiallywithsomestalksofwheatorbarley inbetween. In theautumnshewouldpickbranchesof leaves,andinthewinteritwasberriesoroldman’sbeard.’

Wekeptgoing.Thenhesaid,‘Howdoyoufeel,Danny?’‘Terrific,’Isaid.AndImeantit.Foralthoughthesnakeswerestillwiggling

inmystomach,Iwouldn’thaveswoppedplaceswiththeKingofArabiaatthatmoment.

‘Do you think theymight have dug anymore of those pits for us to fallinto?’Iasked.

‘Don’tyougoworryingaboutpits,Danny,’myfathersaid,‘I’llbeonthelookout for them this time.We shall go very carefully and very slowly oncewe’reinthewood.’

‘Howdarkwillitbeintherewhenwearrive?’‘Nottoodark,’hesaid.‘Quitelightinfact.’‘Thenhowdowestopthekeepersfromseeingus?’‘Ah,’hesaid.‘That’sthefunofthewholething.That’swhatit’sallabout.

It’shide-and-seek.It’sthegreatestgameofhide-and-seekintheworld.’‘Youmeanbecausethey’vegotguns?’‘Well,’hesaid,‘thatdoesaddabitofaflavourtoit,yes.’Wedidn’ttalkmuchafterthat.Butaswegotcloserandclosertothewood,

Icouldseemyfatherbecomingmoreandmoretwitchyastheexcitementbeganto build up in him.Hewould get hold of some awful old tune and insteadofusingthewords,hewouldgo‘Tum-tiddely-um-tum-tum-tum-tum’overandoveragain.Thenhewouldgetholdof another tuneandgo ‘Pom-piddely-om-pom-pom-pom-pom,pom-piddely-om,pom-piddely-om’.Ashesang,hetriedtokeeptimewiththetap-tapofhisironfootontheroadway.

Whenhegottiredofthat,hesaidtome,‘I’lltellyousomethinginterestingaboutpheasants,Danny.Thelawsaysthey’rewildbirds,sotheyonlybelongtoyouwhenthey’reonyourownland,didyouknowthat?’

‘Ididn’tknowthat,Dad.’‘So ifoneofMrHazell’spheasants flewoverandperchedonour filling-

station’,hesaid,‘itwouldbelongtous.Nooneelsewouldbeallowedtotouchit.’

‘Youmean even ifMr Hazell had bought it himself as a chick?’ I said.‘Evenifhehadboughtitandreareditinhisownwood?’

‘Absolutely,’my father said. ‘Once it flies off his own land, he’s lost it.Unless,ofcourse, it fliesbackagain.It’s thesamewithfish.Oncea troutorasalmonhasswumoutofyourstretchoftheriverintosomebodyelse’s,youcan’tverywellsay,“Hey,that’smine.Iwantitback,”canyou?’

‘Ofcoursenot,’Isaid.‘ButIdidn’tknowitwaslikethatwithpheasants.’‘It’sthesamewithallgame,’myfathersaid.‘Hare,deer,partridge,grouse.

Younameit.’

Wehadbeenwalkingsteadilyforaboutanhourandaquarterandwewerecoming to the gap in the hedgewhere the cart-track led up the hill to the bigwoodwherethepheasantslived.Wecrossedovertheroadandwentthroughthegap.

Wewalkedonup thecart-trackandwhenwereached thecrestof thehillwe could see thewood ahead of us, huge and darkwith the sun going downbehindthetreesandlittlesparksofgoldshiningthrough.

‘Notalking,Danny,oncewe’reinside,’myfathersaid.‘Keepveryclosetome,andtrynottogosnappinganybranches.’

Fiveminuteslaterwewerethere.Thewoodskirtedtheedgeofthetrackontheright-handsidewithonlythehedgebetweenitandus.‘Comeon,’myfathersaid.‘Inwego.’HeslippedthroughthehedgeonallfoursandIfollowed.

It was cool andmurky inside the wood. No sunlight came in at all.Myfathertookmebythehand,andtogetherwestartedwalkingforwardbetweenthetrees.Iwasverygratefultohimforholdingmyhand.Ihadwantedtotakeholdofhisthemomentweenteredthewood,butIthoughthemightdisapprove.

Myfatherwasverytense.Hewaspickinghisfeetuphighandputtingthemdowngentlyonthebrownleaves.Hekepthisheadmovingallthetime,theeyessweepingslowlyfromsidetoside,searchingfordanger.Itrieddoingthesame,butsoonIbegantoseeakeeperbehindeverytree,soIgaveitup.

Wewentonlikethisformaybefourorfiveminutes,goingslowlydeeperanddeeperintothewood.

Thenalargepatchofskyappearedaheadofusintheroofoftheforest,andIknewthatthismustbetheclearing.Myfatherhadtoldmethattheclearingwasthe placewhere the young birdswere introduced into thewood in early July,wheretheywerefedandwateredandguardedbythekeepers,andwheremanyof them stayed from force of habit until the shooting began. ‘There’s alwaysplentyofpheasantsintheclearing,’myfatherhadsaid.

‘Andkeepers,Dad?’‘Yes,’hehadsaid.‘Butthere’sthickbushesallaroundandthathelps.’Theclearingwasaboutahundredyardsaheadofus.Westoppedbehinda

big tree while my father let his eyes travel very slowly all round. He wascheckingeachlittleshadowandeverypartofthewoodwithinsight.

‘We’regoingtohavetocrawlthenextbit,’hewhispered,lettinggoofmyhand.‘Keepclosebehindmeallthetime,Danny,anddoexactlyasIdo.Ifyouseemelieflatonmyface,youdothesame.Right?’

‘Right,’Iwhisperedback.‘Offwegothen.Thisisit!’My father got down on his hands and knees and started crawling. I

followed.HemovedsurprisinglyfastonallfoursandIhadquiteajobtokeepupwithhim.EveryfewsecondshewouldglancebackatmetoseeifIwasallright,andeachtimehedidso,Igavehimanodandasmile.

Wecrawledonandon,and thenat lastwewerekneelingsafelybehindabigclumpofbushesrightontheedgeoftheclearing.Myfatherwasnudgingmewithhiselbowandpointingthroughthebranchesatthepheasants.

Theplacewasabsolutelystiffwiththem.Theremusthavebeenatleasttwohundredhugebirdsstruttingaroundamongthetree-stumps.

‘YouseewhatImean?’hewhispered.

Itwasafantasticsight,apoacher’sdreamcometrue.Andhowclosetheywere!Someof themwere not ten paces fromwhereweknelt.The henswereplumpandcreamy-brown.Theyweresofattheirbreast-feathersalmostbrushedthegroundastheywalked.Thecockswereslimandelegant,withlongtailsandbrilliant red patches round the eyes, like scarlet spectacles. I glanced at myfather.Hisfacewastransfixedinecstasy.Themouthwasslightlyopenandtheeyesweresparklingbrightastheystaredatthepheasants.

‘There’sakeeper,’hesaidsoftly.Ifroze.AtfirstIdidn’tevendaretolook.‘Overthere,’myfatherwhispered.Imustn’tmove,Itoldmyself.Notevenmyhead.‘Look carefully,’ my father whispered. ‘Over the other side, by that big

tree.’Slowly, I swivelledmyeyeballs in thedirectionhe indicated.Then I saw

him.‘Dad!’Iwhispered.‘Don’tmovenow,Danny.Staywelldown.’‘YesbutDad…’‘It’sallright.Hecan’tseeus.’

Wecrouchedclose to theground,watchingthekeeper.Hewasasmallishmanwithacaponhisheadandabigdouble-barrelledshotgununderhisarm.Henevermoved.Hewaslikealittlepoststandingthere.

‘Shouldwego?’Iwhispered.Thekeeper’sfacewasshadowedbythepeakofhiscap,butitseemedtome

hewaslookingstraightatus.‘Shouldwego,Dad?’‘Hush,’myfathersaid.Slowly,never takinghiseyes from thekeeper,he reached intohispocket

andbroughtoutasingleraisin.Heplacedit in thepalmofhisrighthand,andthenquicklywithalittleflickofthewristhethrewtheraisinhighintotheair.IwatcheditasitwentsailingoverthebushesandIsawitlandwithinayardoftwohenbirdsstandingbesideanold tree-stump.Bothbirds turned theirheadssharply at the drop of the raisin. Then one of them hopped over andmade aquickpeckatthegroundandthatmusthavebeenit.

Ilookedatthekeeper.Hehadn’tmoved.Icouldfeelatrickleofcoldsweatrunningdownonesideofmyforehead

andacrossmycheek.Ididn’tdareliftahandtowipeitaway.My father threw a second raisin into the clearing… then a third… and a

fourth…andafifth.It takesguts todo that, I thought.Terrificguts. If I’dbeenalone Iwould

neverhavestayedthereforonesecond.Butmyfatherwasinasortofpoacher’strance.Forhim,thiswasit.Thiswasthemomentofdanger,thebiggestthrillofall.

Hekeptonthrowingtheraisinsintotheclearing,swiftly,silently,oneatatime.Flickwenthiswrist,andupwenttheraisin,highoverthebushes,tolandamongthepheasants.

Thenallatonce,Isawthekeeperturnawayhisheadtoinspectthewoodbehindhim.

Myfathersawittoo.Quickasaflash,hepulledthebagofraisinsoutofhispocketandtippedthewholelotintothepalmofhisrighthand.

‘Dad!’Iwhispered.‘Don’t!’Butwithagreatsweepofthearmheflungtheentirehandfulwayoverthe

bushesintotheclearing.They fellwith a soft little patter, like raindrops on dry leaves, and every

single pheasant in the placemust have heard them fall. Therewas a flurry ofwingsandarushtofindthetreasure.

Thekeeper’s head flicked round as though therewere a spring insidehisneck.Thebirdswereallpeckingawaymadlyattheraisins.Thekeepertooktwoquickpacesforward,andforamomentIthoughthewasgoingintoinvestigate.Butthenhestopped,andhisfacecameupandhiseyesbegantravellingslowlyroundtheedgeoftheclearing.

‘Liedownflat!’myfatherwhispered.‘Staythere!Don’tmoveaninch!’Iflattenedmybodyagainstthegroundandpressedonesideofmyfaceinto

thebrownleaves.Thesoilbelowtheleaveshadaqueerpungentsmell,likebeer.Outofoneeye,Isawmyfatherraisehisheadjustatinybittowatchthekeeper.Hekeptwatchinghim.

‘Don’tyoulovethis?’hewhisperedtome.

Ididn’tdareanswerhim.Welaythereforwhatseemedlikeahundredyears.AtlastIheardmyfatherwhisper,‘Panic’sover.Followme,Danny.Butbe

extracareful,he’sstillthere.Andkeepdownlowallthetime.’Hestartedcrawlingawayquicklyonhishandsandknees.Iwentafterhim.

I kept thinking of the keeper who was somewhere behind us. I was veryconsciousofthatkeeper,andIwasalsoveryconsciousofmyownbackside,andhow it was sticking up in the air for all to see. I could understand nowwhy‘poacher’sbottom’wasafairlycommoncomplaintinthisbusiness.

Wewentalongonourhandsandkneesforaboutahundredyards.‘Nowrun!’myfathersaid.Wegottoourfeetandran,andafewminuteslaterwecameoutthroughthe

hedgeintothelovelyopensafetyofthecart-track.‘It went marvellously!’ my father said, breathing heavily. ‘Didn’t it go

absolutelymarvellously?’Hisfacewasscarletandglowingwithtriumph.‘Didthekeeperseeus?’Iasked.‘Not on your life!’ he said. ‘And in a fewminutes the sunwill be going

downandthebirdswillallbeflyinguptoroostandthatkeeperwillbeslopingoffhome tohis supper.Thenallwe’vegot todo isgoback inagainandhelpourselves.We’llbepickingthemupoffthegroundlikepebbles!’

Hesatdownonthegrassybankbelowthehedge.Isatdownclosetohim.Heputanarmroundmyshouldersandgavemeahug.‘Youdidwell,Danny’hesaid.‘I’mrightproudofyou.’

15

TheKeeper

Wesatonthegrassybankbelowthehedge,waitingfordarknesstofall.Thesunhadsetnowandtheskywasapalesmokeblue,faintlyglazedwithyellow.Inthe wood behind us the shadows and the spaces in between the trees wereturningfromgreytoblack.

‘Youcouldoffermeanywhereintheworldatthismoment,’myfathersaid,‘andIwouldn’tgo.’

Hiswholefacewasglowingwithhappiness.‘Wedidit,Danny,’hesaid,layingahandgentlyonmyknee.‘Wepulledit

off.Doesn’tthatmakeyoufeelgood?’‘Terrific,’Isaid.‘Butitwasabitscarywhileitlasted.’‘Ah,but that’swhatpoaching’sallabout,’hesaid. ‘It scares thepantsoff

us.That’swhyweloveit.Look,there’sahawk!’Ilookedwherehewaspointingandsawakestrelhawkhoveringsuperbly

inthedarkeningskyabovetheploughedfieldacrossthetrack.‘It’shislastchanceforsuppertonight,’myfathersaid.‘He’llbeluckyifhe

seesanythingnow’Except for theswift flutteringof itswings, thehawk remainedabsolutely

motionlessinthesky.Itseemedtobesuspendedbysomeinvisiblethread,likeatoy bird hanging from the ceiling. Then suddenly it folded its wings andplummetedtowardstheearthatanincrediblespeed.Thiswasasightthatalwaysthrilledme.

‘Whatdoyouthinkhesaw,Dad?’‘Ayoungrabbitperhaps,’myfathersaid.‘Oravoleorafield-mouse.None

ofthemhasachancewhenthere’sakestreloverhead.’Wewaitedtoseeifthehawkwouldflyupagain.Hedidn’t,whichmeanthe

hadcaughthispreyandwaseatingitontheground.‘Howlongdoesasleepingpilltaketowork?’Iasked.‘Idon’tknowtheanswertothatone,’myfathersaid.‘Iimagineit’sabout

halfanhour.’‘Itmightbedifferentwithpheasantsthough,Dad.’‘Itmight,’hesaid.‘We’vegottowaitawhileanyway,togivethekeepers

timetogohome.They’llbeoffassoonasitgetsdark.I’vebroughtanappleforeachofus,’headded,fishingintooneofhispockets.

‘ACox’sOrangePippin,’Isaid,smiling.‘Thankyouverymuch.’Wesattheremunchingaway.‘Oneof thenice thingsaboutaCox’sOrangePippin’,my father said, ‘is

thatthepipsrattlewhenit’sripe.Shakeitandyoucanhearthemrattling.’Ishookmyhalf-eatenapple.Thepipsrattled.‘Lookout!’hewhisperedsharply.‘There’ssomeonecoming.’Themanhadappearedsuddenlyandsilentlyoutoftheduskandwasquite

close before my father saw him. ‘It’s another keeper,’ he whispered. ‘Just sittightanddon’tsayaword.’

Webothwatchedthekeeperashecamedownthetracktowardsus.HehadashotgununderhisarmandtherewasablackLabradorwalkingathisheel.Hestoppedwhenhewasafewpacesawayandthedogstoppedwithhimandstayedbehindhim,watchingusthroughthekeeper’slegs.

‘Goodevening,’myfathersaid,niceandfriendly.Thisonewasa tallbonymanwithahardeyeandahardcheekandhard

dangeroushands.‘Iknowyou,’hesaid,comingcloser,‘Iknowthebothofyou.’Myfatherdidn’tanswerthis.‘You’refromthefillin’-station.Right?’Hislipswerethinanddrywithsomesortofabrownishcrustoverthem.‘You’re from the fillin’-station and that’s your boy and you live in that

filthyoldcaravan.Right?’‘Whatareweplaying?’myfathersaid.‘TwentyQuestions?’ThekeeperspatoutabiggobofspitandIsawitgosailingthroughtheair

andlandwithaploponapatchofdrydustsixinchesfrommyfather’splasterfoot.Itlookedlikealittlebabyoysterlyingthere.

‘Beatit,’themansaid.‘Goon.Getout.’Whenhespoke,hisupperlipliftedabovethegumandIcouldseearowof

small discoloured teeth. One of them was black. The others were brownish-

yellow,liketheseedsofapomegranate.

‘This happens to be a public footpath,’ my father said. ‘Kindly do notmolestus.’

Thekeepershiftedthegunfromhisleftarmtohisright.‘You’re loiterin’,’ he said, ‘with intent to commit a nuisance. I could run

youinforthat.’‘Noyoucouldn’t,’myfathersaid.Allthismademerathernervous.‘Iseeyoubrokeyourfoot,’thekeepersaid.‘Youdidn’tbyanychancefall

intoaholeintheground,didyou?’‘It’sbeenanicewalk,Danny,’myfathersaid,puttingahandonmyknee,

‘but it’s time we went home for our supper.’ He stood up and so did I. Wewanderedoffdownthetrackthewaywehadcome,leavingthekeeperstandingthere,andsoonhewasoutofsightinthehalf-darknessbehindus.

‘That’stheheadkeeper,’myfathersaid.‘HisnameisRabbetts.’‘Dowehavetogohome,Dad?’‘Home!’ my father cried. ‘My dear boy, we’re just beginning! Come in

here.’Therewasagateonourright leadingintoafield,andweclimbedoverit

andsatdownbehindthehedge.‘MrRabbettsisalsodueforhissupper,’myfathersaid.‘Youmustn’tworry

abouthim.’Wesatquietlybehindthehedgewaitingforthekeepertowalkpastuson

hiswayhome.Afewstarswereshowing,andabrightthree-quartermoonwascomingupoverthehillsbehindusintheeast.

‘Wehave tobecarefulof thatdog,’myfathersaid. ‘Whentheycomeby,holdyourbreathanddon’tmoveamuscle.’

‘Won’tthedogsmellusoutanyway?’Iasked.‘No,’myfathersaid. ‘There’snowind tocarry thescent.Lookout!Here

theycome!Don’tmove!’Thekeepercamelopingsoftlydownthetrackwiththedogpaddingquick

andsoft-footedathisheel.Itookadeepbreathandhelditastheywentby.Whentheyweresomedistanceaway,myfatherstoodupandsaid,‘It’sall

clear.Hewon’tbecomingbacktonight.’‘Areyousure?’‘I’mpositive,Danny’‘Whatabouttheotherone,theoneintheclearing?’‘He’llbegonetoo.’‘Mightn’toneofthembewaitingforusatthebottomofthetrack?’Iasked.

‘Bythegapinthehedge?’‘Therewouldn’tbeanypointinhimdoingthat,’myfathersaid.‘There’sat

leasttwentydifferentwaysofreachingtheroadwhenyoucomeoutofHazelPsWood.MrRabbettsknowsthat.’

Westayedbehindthehedgeforafewminutesmorejusttobeonthesafeside.

‘Isn’t itamarvellousthought though,Danny,’myfathersaid,‘that there’sabouttwohundredpheasantsatthisverymomentroostingupinthosetreesandalready they’re beginning to feel groggy? Soon they’ll be falling out of thebrancheslikeraindrops!’

Thethree-quartermoonwaswellabovethehillsnow,andtheskywasfilledwith stars as we climbed back over the gate and began walking up the tracktowardsthewood.

16

TheChampionoftheWorld

Itwas not as dark as I had expected it to be inside thewood this time.Littleglints and glimmers from the brilliantmoon outside shone through the leavesandgavetheplaceacoldeerielook.

‘Ibrought a light for eachofus,’my father said. ‘We’regoing toneed itlater on.’ He handed me one of those small pocket torches shaped like afountainpen. I switched mine on. It threw a long narrow beam of surprisingbrightness, andwhen Imoved it around itwas likewaving a very longwhitewandamongthetrees.Iswitcheditoff.

We started walking back towards the clearing where the pheasants hadeatentheraisins.

‘This’,myfathersaid,‘willbethefirsttimeinthehistoryoftheworldthatanyonehaseventriedtopoachroostingpheasants.Isn’titmarvellousthough,tobeabletowalkaroundwithoutworryingaboutkeepers?’

‘Youdon’tthinkMrRabbettsmighthavesneakedbackagainjusttomakesure?’

‘Never,’myfathersaid.‘He’sgonehometohissupper.’I couldn’thelp thinking that if IhadbeenMrRabbetts, and if Ihad seen

two suspicious-looking characters lurking just outside my precious pheasantwood,Icertainlywouldnothavegonehometomysupper.Myfathermusthavesensedmy fears because once again he reached out and tookmy hand in his,foldinghislongwarmfingersaroundmine.

Handinhand,wethreadedourwaythroughthetreestowardstheclearing.Inafewminuteswewerethere.‘Here’swherewethrewtheraisins,’myfathersaid.

I peered through the bushes. The clearing lay pale and milky in themoonlight.

‘Whatdowedonext?’Iasked.‘Westayhereandwait,’myfathersaid.Icouldjustmakeouthisfaceunder

thepeakofhiscap,thelipspale,thecheeksflushed,theeyesshiningbright.

‘Aretheyallroosting,Dad?’‘Yes.They’reallaroundus.Theydon’tgofar.’‘CouldIseethemifIshonemylightupintothebranches?’‘No,’hesaid.‘Theygoupprettyhighandtheyhideinamongtheleaves.’Westoodwaitingforsomethingtohappen.Nothinghappened.Itwasveryquietthereinthewood.‘Danny,’myfathersaid.‘Yes,Dad?’‘I’vebeenwonderinghowabirdmanages tokeep itsbalancesittingona

branchwhenit’sasleep.’‘Idon’tknow,’Isaid.‘Why?’‘It’sverypeculiar,’hesaid.‘What’speculiar?’‘It’s peculiar that a bird doesn’t topple off its perch as soon as it goes to

sleep.Afterall,ifweweresittingonabranchandwewenttosleep,wewouldfalloffatonce,wouldn’twe?’

‘Birdshaveclawsandlongtoes,Dad.Iexpecttheyholdonwiththose.’‘Iknowthat,Danny.ButIstilldon’tunderstandwhythetoeskeepgripping

the perch once the bird is asleep. Surely everything goes limpwhen you fallasleep.’

Iwaitedforhimtogoon.‘Iwasjustthinking’,hesaid,‘thatifabirdcankeepitsbalancewhenit’s

asleep,thensurelythereisn’tanyreasonwhythepillsshouldmakeitfalldown.’‘It’sdoped,’Isaid.‘Surelyitwillfalldownifit’sdoped.’‘But isn’t that simply a deeper sort of sleep?’ he said. ‘Why should we

expectittofalldownjustbecauseit’sinadeepersleep?’Therewasagloomysilence.‘Ishouldhavetesteditwithroosters,’myfatheradded.Suddenlytheblood

seemedtohavedrainedrightoutofhischeeks.HisfacewassopaleIthoughthemightbegoingtofaint.‘Mydadwouldhavetesteditwithroostersbeforehedidanythingelse,’hesaid.

Atthatmomenttherecameasoftthumpfromthewoodbehindus.

‘Whatwasthat?’Iasked.‘Ssshh!’Westoodlistening.Thump!

‘There’sanother!’Isaid.Itwasadeepmuffledsoundasthoughabagofsandhadbeendroppedto

theground.Thump!

‘They’repheasants!’Icried.‘Wait!’‘Theymustbepheasants,Dad!’Thump!Thump!‘Youmayberight,Danny!’Weswitchedonourtorchesandrantowardsthesounds.

‘Wherewerethey?’myfathersaid.‘Overhere,Dad!Twoofthemwereoverhere!’‘Ithoughttheywerethisway.Keeplooking!Theycan’tbefar!’Wesearchedforaboutaminute.‘Here’sone!’myfathercalled.WhenIgot tohimhewasholdingamagnificentcockbirdinbothhands.

Weexamineditcloselywithourtorches.‘It’sdopedtohighheaven,’myfathersaid.‘Itwon’twakeupforaweek.’Thump!‘There’sanother!’Icried.Thump!Thump!

‘Twomore!’myfatheryelled.Thump!Thump!Thump!Thump!‘Jeepers!’myfathersaid.Thump!Thump!Thump!Thump!Thump!Thump!Allaroundusthepheasantswerestartingtoraindownoutofthetrees.We

beganrushingroundmadlyinthedark,sweepingthegroundwithourtorches.Thump!Thump!Thump!Thislotfellalmostontopofme.Iwasrightunder

the treeas theycamedownand I foundall threeof them immediately— twococksandahen.Theywerelimpandwarm,thefeatherswonderfullysoftinthehand.

‘WhereshallIputthem,Dad?’Icalledout.‘Laythemhere,Danny!Justpilethemupherewhereit’slight!’My father was standing on the edge of the clearing with the moonlight

streamingdownalloverhimandagreatbunchofpheasants ineachhand.Hisface was bright, his eyes big and bright and wonderful, and he was staringaroundhimlikeachildwhohasjustdiscoveredthatthewholeworldismadeofchocolate.

Thump!Thump!Thump!‘It’stoomany!’Isaid.‘It’sbeautiful!’hecried.Hedumpedthebirdshewascarryingandranoff

tolookformore.Thump!Thump!Thump!Thump!Thump!Itwaseasytofindthemnow.Therewereoneortwolyingundereverytree.

Iquicklycollectedsixmore,threeineachhand,andranbackanddumpedthemwiththeothers.Thensixmore.Thensixmoreafterthat.

Andstilltheykeptfalling.Myfatherwasinawhirlofexcitementnow,dashingaboutlikeamadghost

underthetrees.Icouldseethebeamofhistorchwavingroundinthedark,andeverytimehefoundabirdhegavealittleyelpoftriumph.

Thump!Thump!Thump!‘HeyDanny!’heshouted.‘Yes,I’moverhere!Whatisit,Dad?’‘Whatdoyou think thegreatMrVictorHazellwouldsay ifhecouldsee

this?’‘Don’ttalkaboutit,’Isaid.Forthreeorfourminutes,thepheasantskeptonfalling.Thensuddenlythey

stopped.‘Keepsearching!’myfathershouted.‘There’splentymoreontheground!’‘Dad,’Isaid,‘don’tyouthinkweoughttogetoutwhilethegoing’sgood?’‘Never!’heshouted.‘Notonyourlife!’Wewent on searching. Between us we looked under every tree within a

hundredyardsoftheclearing,north,south,eastandwest,andIthinkwefoundmostofthemintheend.Atthecollecting-pointtherewasapileofpheasantsasbigasabonfire.

‘It’s amiracle,’my fatherwas saying. ‘It’s an absolutemiracle.’Hewas

staringattheminakindoftrance.‘Shouldn’twejusttakeaboutsixeachandgetoutquick?’Isaid.‘Iwouldliketocountthem,Danny’‘Dad!Notnow!’‘Imustcountthem.’‘Can’twedothatlater?’‘One…‘Two…‘Three…‘Four…’

He began counting themvery carefully, picking up each bird in turn andlaying it carefully to one side. Themoonwas directly overhead now, and thewholeclearingwasbrilliantlylitup.IfeltasthoughIwasstandingintheglareofpowerfulheadlamps.

‘A hundred and seventeen… a hundred and eighteen… a hundred andnineteen… one hundred and twenty!’ he cried. ‘It’s an all-time record!’ HelookedhappierthanIhadeverseenhiminhislife.‘Themostmydadevergotwasfifteenandhewasdrunkforaweekafterwards!’hesaid.‘But this…this,mydearboy,isanall-timeworldrecord!’

‘Iexpectitis,’Isaid.‘Andyoudidit,Danny!Thewholethingwasyourideainthefirstplace!’‘Ididn’tdoit,Dad.’‘Oh yes you did! And you knowwhat thatmakes you,my dear boy? It

makesyouthechampionoftheworld!’Hepulleduphissweaterandunwoundthe twobigcottonsacksfromroundhisbelly. ‘Here’syours,’hesaid,handingoneofthemtome.‘Fillitupquick!’

ThelightofthemoonwassostrongIcouldreadtheprintacrossthefrontofthesack,J.W.CRUMP,itsaid,KESTONFLOURMILLS,LONDONS.W.17.

‘Youdon’tthinkthatkeeperwiththebrownteethiswatchingusthisverymomentfrombehindatree?’Isaid.

‘Nochance,’myfathersaid.‘Ifhe’sanywherehe’llbedownatthefilling-stationwaitingtocatchuscominghomewiththeloot.’

Westartedloadingthepheasantsintothesacks.Theyweresoftandfloppy-neckedandtheskinunderneaththefeatherswasstillwarm.

‘Wecan’tpossiblycarrythislotallthewayhome,’Isaid.‘Of course not. There’ll be a taxiwaiting for us on the track outside the

wood.’‘Ataxi!Isaid.‘Mydadalwaysmadeuseofataxionabigjob,’hesaid.‘Whyataxi,forheaven’ssake?’‘It’s more secret, Danny. Nobody knows who’s inside a taxi except the

driver.’‘Whichdriver?’Iasked.‘CharlieKinch.He’sonlytoogladtooblige.’‘Doesheknowaboutpoaching,too?’‘OldCharlieKinch?Ofcoursehedoes.He’spoachedmorepheasantsinhis

timethanwe’vesoldgallonsofpetrol.’We finished loading the sacks and my father humped his on to his

shoulders.Icouldn’tdothatwithmine.Itwastooheavyforme.‘Dragit,’myfathersaid.‘Justdragitalongtheground.’Mysackhadsixtybirdsinsideitanditweighed a ton.But it slid quite easily over the dry leaveswithmewalkingbackwardsandpullingitwithbothhands.

Wecametotheedgeofthewoodandpeeredthroughthehedgeontothetrack.Myfathersaid‘Charlieboy’verysoftly,andtheoldmanbehindthewheelofthetaxipokedhisheadoutintothemoonlightandgaveusaslytoothlessgrin.Weslidthroughthehedge,draggingthesacksafterusalongtheground.

‘Hello-hello-hello,’CharlieKinchsaid.‘What’sallthisthen?’

17

TheTaxi

Twominuteslaterweweresafelyinsidethetaxiandcruisingslowlydownthebumpytracktowardstheroad.

Myfatherwasburstingwithprideandexcitement.HekeptleaningforwardandtappingCharlieKinchontheshoulderandsaying,‘Howaboutit,Charlie?Howaboutthisforahaul?’AndCharliekeptglancingbackpop-eyedatthehugebulgingsacks.‘Cripes,man!’hekeptsaying.‘Howdidyoudoit?’

‘Dannydidit!’myfathersaidproudly.‘MysonDannyisthechampionoftheworld.’

ThenCharliesaid,‘IreckonpheasantsisgoingtobeabitscarceupatMrVictorHazell’sopening-dayshoottomorrow,eh,Willum?’

‘Iimaginetheyare,Charlie,’myfathersaid.‘Iimaginetheyare.’‘All those fancy folk,’ oldCharlie said, ‘driving in frommiles around in

their big shiny cars and therewon’t be a blinking bird anywhere for them toshoot!’CharlieKinchstartedchucklingandchortlingsomuchhenearlydroveoffthetrack.

‘Dad,’Isaid.‘Whatonearthareyougoingtodowithallthesepheasants?’‘Share them out among our friends,’my father said. ‘There’s a dozen of

themforCharlieheretostartwith.Allright,Charlie?’‘Thatsuitsme,’Charliesaid.‘Then there’llbeadozen forDocSpencer.Andanotherdozen forEnoch

Samways…’‘Youdon’tmeanSergeantSamways?’Igasped.‘Of course,’ my father said. ‘Enoch Samways is one of my very oldest

friends.’‘Enoch’sagoodboy,’CharlieKinchsaid.‘He’salovelylad.’

SergeantEnochSamways,asIknewverywell,wasthevillagepoliceman.Hewasahuge,plumpmanwithabristlyblackmoustache,andhestrodeupanddownourHighStreetwiththeproudandmeasuredtreadofamanwhoknowsheisincharge.ThesilverbuttonsonhisuniformsparkledlikediamondsandthemeresightofhimfrightenedmesomuchIusedtocrossovertotheothersideofthestreetwheneverheapproached.

‘Enoch Samways likes a piece of roasted pheasant as much as the nextman,’myfathersaid.

‘I reckon he knows a thing or two about catching ‘em as well,’ CharlieKinchsaid.

Iwasastounded.ButIwasalsoratherpleasedbecausenowthatIknewthegreatSergeantSamwayswashumanliketherestofus,perhapsIwouldn’tbesoscaredofhiminfuture.

‘Areyougoingtosharethemouttonight,Dad?’Iasked.‘Nottonight,Danny,no.Youmustalwayswalkhomeempty-handedaftera

poaching trip. You can never be sure Mr Rabbetts or one of his gang isn’twaitingforyoubythefrontdoortoseeifyou’recarryinganything.’

‘Ah,buthe’s a craftyone, thatMrRabbetts is,’CharlieKinch said. ‘Thebestthingistopourapoundofsugarinthepetroltankofhiscarwhenheain’tlooking,thenhecan’tevercomesnoopingroundyourhouselateron.Wealwaysmadesuretogivethekeepersalittlesugarintheirtanksbeforewewentoutonapoach.I’msurprisedyoudidn’tbothertodothat,Willum,especiallyonabigjoblikethisone.’

‘Whatdoesthesugardo?’Iasked.‘Blimey, itgumsup thewholeruddyworks,’CharlieKinchsaid. ‘You’ve

gottotaketheentireenginetopiecesbeforeit’llgoagainafterit’shadthesugar.Ain’tthatright,Willum?’

‘That’squiteright,Charlie,’myfathersaid.WecameoffthebumpytrackontothemainroadandCharlieKinchgotthe

oldtaxiintotopgearandheadedforthevillage.‘AreyoudumpingthesebirdsatMrsGlipstone’splacetonight?’heasked.

‘Yes,’myfathertoldhim.‘DrivestraighttoMrsClipstone’s.’‘WhyMrsClipstone’s?’Iasked.‘What’sshegottodowithit?’‘MrsClipstone delivers everyone’s pheasants,’my father said. ‘Haven’t I

toldyouthat?’‘No,Dad,youhaven’t,’Isaid,aghast.Iwasnowmorestunnedthanever.

MrsGraceClipstonewas thewifeof theReverendLionelClipstone, the localvicar.

‘Alwayschoosearespectablewomantodeliveryourpheasants,’myfatherannounced.‘That’scorrect,Charlie,isn’tit?’

‘MrsClipstone’sarightsmartlady,’Charliesaid.Icouldhardlybelievewhat theyweresaying.Itwasbeginningto lookas

thoughjustabouteverybodyintheentiredistrictwasinonthispoachinglark.‘Thevicarisveryfondofroastedpheasantforhisdinner,’myfathersaid.‘Who isn’t?’ Charlie Kinch said, and he started chuckling to himself all

overagain.Weweredrivingthroughthevillagenow,andthestreet-lampswerelitand

themenwerewanderinghomefromthepubs,allfullofbeer.IsawMrSnoddy,my headmaster, a bit wobbly on his feet and trying to let himself in secretlythrough the side door of his house, butwhathe didn’t seewasMrsSnoddy’ssharpfrostyfacestickingoutoftheupstairswindow,watchinghim.

‘Youknowsomething,Danny,’my father said. ‘We’vedone thesebirdsagreatkindnessputtingthemtosleepinthisnicepainlessway.They’dhavehadanastytimeofittomorrowifwehadn’tgotthemfirst.’

‘Rottenshots,mostofthemfellowsare,’CharlieKinchsaid.‘Atleasthalfthebirdsfinishupwingedandwounded.’

Thetaxiturnedleftandswunginthroughthegatesofthevicarage.Therewere no lights in the house and nobodymet us.My father and I got out and

dumped the pheasants in the coal-shed at the rear. Then we said goodbye toCharlieKinchandbegantowalkthetwomilesbacktothefilling-station.

18

Home

Soonwehadleftthevillagebehindusandwereinopencountry.Therewasnooneelseinsight,justthetwoofus,myfatherandI,tiredbuthappy,stridingoutalongthecurvycountryroadinthelightofthemoon.

‘I can’t believe it!’ my father kept saying. ‘I simply cannot believe wepulleditoff!’

‘Myheartisstillthumping,’Isaid.‘So ismine! So ismine!But oh,Danny,’ he cried, laying a hand onmy

shoulder.‘Didn’twehaveaglorioustime!’Wewerewalkingrightinthemiddleoftheroadasthoughitwereaprivate

driveway running through our country estate andwewere the lords of allwesurveyed.

‘Do you realize,Danny,’my father said, ‘that on this very night, on thisFriday the thirtiethofSeptember,youandIhaveactuallybaggedonehundredandtwentyprimepheasantsfromMrVictorHazell’swood?’

Ilookedatmyfather.Hisfacewasalightwithhappinessandhisarmswerewavingallovertheplaceashewentprancingalongthemiddleoftheroadwithhisfunnyironfootgoingclink,clink,clink.

‘Roasted pheasant!’ he cried out, addressing the moon and the entirecountryside. ‘The finest and most succulent dish on earth! I don’t supposeyou’veevereatenroastedpheasant,haveyou,Danny?’

‘Never,’Isaid.‘Youwait!’hecried.‘Youjustwaittillyoutasteit!Ithasanunbelievable

flavour!It’ssheermagic!’‘Doesithavetoberoasted,Dad?’‘Ofcourseithastoberoasted.Youdon’teverboilayoungbird.Whydo

youaskthat?’‘Iwaswonderinghowwewoulddotheroasting,’Isaid.‘Don’tyouhaveto

haveanovenorsomething?’‘Ofcourse,’hesaid.‘Butwedon’thaveanoven,Dad.Allwe’vegotisaparaffinburner.’‘Iknow,’hesaid.‘AndthatiswhyIhavedecidedtobuyanoven.’‘Buyone!’Icried.‘Yes,Danny,’hesaid.‘Withsuchagreatandgloriousstockofpheasantson

ourhands,itisimportantthatwehavetheproperequipment.Thereforeweshallgoback into thevillage tomorrowmorningandweshallbuyanelectricoven.

WecangetoneatWheeler’s.Andwe’llputitintheworkshop.We’vegotplentyofelectricplugsintheworkshop.’

‘Won’titbeveryexpensive?’‘No expense is too great for roasted pheasant,’ my father announced

superbly.Anddon’tforget,Danny,beforeweputthebirdintheoven,wehaveto laystripsoffatbaconacross thebreast tokeepitniceandjuicy.Andbreadsauce, too.We shall have tomake bread sauce.Youmust never have roastedpheasant without lashings of bread sauce. There are three things you mustalwayshavewith roastedpheasant–bread sauce, chippedpotatoesandboiledparsnips.’

Therewashalfaminute’ssilenceaswebothallowedourselvesthepleasureofdreamingaboutthesebeautifulfoods.

AndI’lltellyouwhatelsewe’vegottoget,’myfathersaid.‘We’vegottogetoneofthosedeepfreezerswhereyoucanstorethingsformonthsandmonthsandtheynevergorotten.’

‘Dad!’Isaid.‘No!’‘Butdon’tyourealize,Danny,thatevenafterwe’vegivenbirdsawaytoall

ourfriends,toCharlieKinchandtheReverendClipstoneandDocSpencerandEnochSamwaysandalltherestofthem,there’llstillbeaboutfiftyleftforus.Thatiswhywearegoingtoneedadeepfreezer.’

‘Butit’llcosttheearth!’‘Andwortheverypennyofit!’hecried.‘Justimagine,Danny,myboy,any

timewefancyaniceroastedpheasantforoursupper,allwe’vegottodoisopenup the lid of the freezer and help ourselves!Kings and queens don’t live anybetterthanthat!’

Abarn-owlflewacrosstheroadinfrontofus,itsgreatwhitewingswavingslowlyinthemoonlight.

‘Didyourmumhaveanoveninthekitchen,Dad,’Iasked,‘whenyouwereaboy?’

‘Shehadsomethingbetterthananoven,’hesaid.‘Itwascalledacooker.Itwasagreatbiglongblackthingandweusedtostokeitupwithcoalandkeepitgoingfortwenty-fourhoursaday.Itneverwentout.Andifwedidn’thaveanycoal,weusedbitsofwood.’

‘Couldyouroastpheasantsinit?’‘You could roast anything in it, Danny. It was a lovely thing, that old

cooker.Itusedtokeepthewholehousewarminthewinter.’‘Butyou never had a cooker of your own, did you,Dad, you andMum,

whenyougotmarried?Oranoven?’‘No,’hesaid.‘Wecouldn’taffordthingslikethat.’‘Thenhowdidyouroastyourpheasants?’‘Ah,’he said. ‘Thatwasquitea trick.Weused tobuilda fireoutside the

caravanandroastthemonaspit,thewaythegipsiesdo.’‘What’saspit?’Iasked.‘It’sjustalongmetalspikeandyoustickitthroughthepheasantandputit

over the fire and keep turning it round.What you do is you push two forkedsticksintotheground,oneoneachsideofthefire,andyourestthespitontheforks.’

‘Diditroastthemwell?’‘Fairlywell,’ he said. ‘But an ovenwould do it better.ListenDanny,Mr

Wheelerhasallsortsofmarvellousovensinhisshopnow.He’sgotoneintherewithsomanydialsandknobsonit,itlookslikethecockpitofanairplane.’

‘Isthattheoneyouwanttobuy,Dad?’‘Idon’tknow,’hesaid.‘We’lldecidetomorrow.’We kept walking and soon we saw the filling-station glimmering in the

moonlightaheadofus.‘WillMrRabbettsbewaitingforus,doyouthink,Dad?’Iasked.‘Ifheis,youwon’tseehim,Danny.Theyalwayshideandwatchyoufrom

behindahedgeoratreeandtheyonlycomeoutifyouarecarryingasackoveryour shoulder or if your pocket is bulgingwith something suspicious.We arecarryingnothingatall.Sodon’tworryaboutit.’

Whether or not Mr Rabbetts was watching us as we entered the filling-stationandheadedforthecaravan,Idon’tknow.Wesawnosignofhim.Insidethecaravan,myfatherlittheparaffinlamp,andIlittheburnerandputthekettleontomakeusacupofcocoaeach.

‘That’,myfathersaidaswesatsippingourhotcocoaafewminuteslater,‘wasthegreatesttimeI’veeverhadinmywholelife.’

19

RockabyeBaby

Ateight-thirty thenextmorningmyfatherwent into theworkshopanddialledDocSpencer’snumberonthetelephone.

‘Nowlisten,Doctor,’hesaid.‘Ifyoucouldbehereatthefilling-stationinabout half an hour, I think Imight have a little surprise present for you.’Thedoctorsaidsomethinginreply,andmyfatherreplacedthereceiver.

Atnineo’clock,DocSpencerarrivedinhiscar.Myfatherwentovertohimandthetwoofthemheldawhisperedconversationbesidethepumps.Suddenlythetinydoctorclappedhishandstogetherandspranguphighintheair,hootingwithlaughter.

‘Youdon’tmeanit!’hecried.‘It’snotpossible!’Hethenrushedovertomeand graspedmy hand in his. ‘I do congratulate you, my dear boy!’ he cried,pumpingmyhandupanddownsofiercelyitnearlycameoff.‘Whatatriumph!Whatamiracle!Whatavictory!Nowwhyonearthdidn’tIthinkofthatmethodmyself?Youareagenius,sir!Hailtothee,dearDanny,you’rethechampionoftheworld!’

‘Hereshecomes!’myfathercalledout,pointingdowntheroad.‘Hereshecomes,Doctor!’

‘Herewhocomes?’thedoctorsaid.

‘Mrs Clipstone.’ He spoke the name proudly, as though he were acommanderreferringtohisbravestofficer.

Thethreeofusstoodtogetherbesidethepumps,lookingdowntheroad.‘Can’tyouseeher?’myfatherasked.Far away in the distance I could justmake out a small figure advancing

towardsus.‘What’sshepushing,Dad?’Myfathergavemeslylook.‘There’sonlyonewayofdeliveringpheasantssafely,’hesaid, ‘and that’s

underababy.Isn’tthatright,Doctor?’‘Underababy?’DocSpencersaid.‘Ofcourse.Inapramwiththebabyontop.’‘Fantastic!’thedoctorsaid.‘Myolddadthoughtthatoneupmanyyearsago,’myfathersaid,‘andit’s

neverbeenknowntofailyet.’‘It’s brilliant,’ Doc Spencer said. ‘Only a brilliantmind could think of a

thinglikethat.’‘Hewas a brilliantman,’my father said. ‘Can you see her now,Doctor?

Andthat’llbeyoungChristopherClipstonesittingupinthepram.He’soneandahalf.Alovelychild.’

‘Ibirthedhim,’DocSpencersaid.‘Heweighedeightpoundsthreeounces.’Icould justmakeout thesmalldotofababysittinghighup in thepram,

whichhaditshoodfoldeddown.‘There’s more than one hundred pheasants under that little nipper,’ my

fathersaidhappily.‘Justimagineit.’‘Youcan’tputahundredpheasantsinachild’sperambulator!’DocSpencer

said.‘Don’tberidiculous!’‘Youcanifit’sbeenspeciallymadeforthejob,’myfathersaid.‘Thisoneis

built extra-long and extra-wide and it’s got an extra-deep well underneath.Listen, you could push a cow around in there if you wanted to, let alone ahundredpheasantsandababy!’

‘Didyoumakeityourself,Dad?’Iasked.‘Moreorless,Danny.YourememberwhenIwalkedyoutoschoolandthen

wentofftobuytheraisins?’‘Thedaybeforeyesterday,’Isaid.‘Yes.Andafter that Iwentstraighton to thevicarageandconverted their

pramintothisSpecialExtra-largePoacher’sModel.It’sabeauty,reallyitis.Youwait till you see it. And Mrs Clipstone says it pushes even easier than herordinaryone.Shedidapracticecircuitwith it inherback-yardassoonas I’dfinishedit.’

‘Fantastic,’thedoctorsaidagain.‘Absolutelyfantastic’‘Normally’,myfatherwenton,‘anordinaryboughtpramisallyou’dever

need. But then no one’s ever had over a hundred pheasants to deliver beforenow’

‘Wheredoesthebabysit?’thedoctorasked.‘Ontop,ofcourse,’myfathersaid.Allyouneedisasheet tocover them

andthebabysitsonthesheet.Abunchofpheasantsmakesanicesoftmattressforanychild.’

‘Idon’tdoubtit,’thedoctorsaid.‘He’ll be having a very comfortable ride today, young Christopher,’ my

fathersaid.WestoodbesidethepumpswaitingforMrsClipstonetoarrive.Itwasthe

first of October and one of those warm windless autumn mornings with a

darkeningskyandasmellofthunderintheair.Whatwassomarvellousaboutmyfather,Ithought,wasthewayhealways

surprisedyou.Itwasimpossibletobewithhimforlongwithoutbeingsurprisedandastoundedbyone thingoranother.Hewas likeaconjurorbringing thingsoutofahat.Rightnowitwasthepramandthebaby.Inafewminutesitwouldbesomethingelseagain,Ifeltsureofthat.

‘Rightthroughthevillageboldasbrass,’myfathersaid.‘Goodforher!’‘She seems in an awful hurry, Dad,’ I said. ‘She’s sort of half-running.

Don’tyouthinkshe’ssortofhalf-running,DoctorSpencer?’‘Iimagineshe’sjustabitanxioustounloadhercargo,’thedoctorsaid.My father squinted down the road at the approaching figure. ‘She does

appeartobegoingabitquick,doesn’tshe?’hesaidcarefully.‘She’sgoingveryquick,’Isaid.Therewasapause.Myfatherwasbeginningtostarehardattheladyinthe

distance.‘Perhapsshedoesn’twanttobecaughtintherain,’hesaid.‘I’llbetthat’s

exactlywhatitis.Shethinksit’sgoingtorainandshedoesn’twantthebabytogetwet.’

‘Shecouldputthehoodup,’Isaid.Hedidn’tanswerthis.‘She’srunning!DocSpencercried.‘Look!’Itwastrue.MrsClipstonehadsuddenlybrokenintoafullsprint.Myfatherstoodverystill,staringather.AndinthesilencethatfollowedI

fanciedIcouldhearababyscreaming.‘What’sup,Dad?’Hedidn’treply.‘There’ssomethingwrongwiththatbaby,’DocSpencersaid.‘Listen.’Atthispoint,MrsClipstonewasabouttwohundredyardsawayfromusbut

closingfast.‘Canyouhearhimnow,Dad?’‘Yes,Icanhearhim.’‘He’syellinghisheadoff,’DocSpencersaid.The small, shrill voice in the distancewas growing louder every second,

frantic,piercing,non-stop.‘He’s having a fit,’my father said. ‘It’s a good thingwe’ve got a doctor

handy’DocSpencerdidn’tsayanything.‘That’swhyshe’s running,Doctor,’myfathersaid. ‘He’shavinga fitand

shewantstogethiminherequickandputhimunderacoldtap.’‘Somenoise,’Isaid.

‘Ifitisn’tafit,’myfathersaid,‘youcanbetyourlifeit’ssomethinglikeit.’‘Idoubtit’safit,’thedoctorsaid.Myfathershiftedhisfeetuneasilyonthegravelofthedriveway.‘There’sa

thousandandonedifferentthingskeephappeningeverydaytolittlebabieslikethat,’hesaid.‘That’sright,isn’tit,Doctor?’

‘Ofcourse,’DocSpencersaid.‘Everyday’‘Iknewababyoncewhocaughthisfingersinthespokesofapramwheel,’

myfathersaid.‘Itcutthemcleanoff’Thedoctorsmiled.‘Whateveritis,’myfathersaid,‘Iwishtoheavensshe’dstoprunning.It’ll

givethegameaway’A long lorry loadedwith bricks came up behind the pram and the driver

slowed down and poked his head out of the window to stare. Mrs Clipstoneignoredhimandflewon.ShewassoclosenowIcouldseeherbigredfacewiththemouthwideopen,pantingforbreath.Inoticedshewaswearingwhiteglovesonher hands, very prim anddainty.And therewas a funny littlewhite hat tomatchperchedrightonthetopofherhead,likeamushroom.

Suddenly, out of the pram, straight up into the air, flew an enormouspheasant!

Myfatherletoutacryofhorror.

Thefoolinthelorrybeganroaringwithlaughter.Thepheasantflappedarounddrunkenlyforafewseconds,thenlostheight

andlandedonthegrassbythesideoftheroad.

‘Crikey!’DocSpencersaid.‘Lookatthat!’Agrocer’svancameupbehindthelorryandbeganhootingtogetby.Mrs

Clipstonekeptonrunning.ThenWHOOSH!–asecondpheasantflewupoutofthepram.Thenathirdandafourth.‘GreatScott!’DocSpencersaid.‘Iknowwhat’shappened!It’sthesleeping

pills!They’rewearingoff/’Myfatherdidn’tsayaword.MrsClipstonecoveredthelastfiftyyardsatatremendouspace.Shecame

swinging into the filling-station with birds flying out of the pram in alldirections.

‘Whatonearthishappening?’sheshrieked.Shepulledupsharpagainstthefirstpumpandseizedthescreaminginfantinherarmsanddraggedhimclear.

With the weight of the child suddenly lifted away, a great cloud ofpheasants roseupoutof thegiganticpram.Theremusthavebeenwelloverahundredofthem,andthewholeskyaboveuswasfilledwithhugebrownbirdsclappingtheirwings.

‘Asleepingpilldoesn’t last forever,’DocSpencersaid, shakinghisheadsadly.‘Italwayswearsoffbythenextmorning.’

Thepheasantsweretoodopeytoflyfar.Inafewsecondsdowntheycameagainandsettledthemselveslikeaswarmoflocustsalloverthefilling-station.Theplacewascoveredwiththem.Theysatwingtowingalongtheroofoftheworkshopandaboutadozenwereclingingtothesilloftheofficewindow.Somehadflowndownontotherackthatheldthebottlesoflubricatingoil,andotherswereslidingaboutonthebonnetofDocSpencer’scar.Onecockbirdwithafinetailwasperchedsuperblyontopofapetrolpump,andquiteanumber,thosethatweretoodrunktodoanythingelse,simplysquattedinthedrivewayatourfeet,fluffingtheirfeathersandblinkingtheirsmalleyes.

My father stayed remarkably calm. But not poor Mrs Clipstone. ‘They

nearlypeckedhimtopieces!’shewascrying,claspingthescreamingbabytoherbosom.

‘Takehimintothecaravan,MrsClipstone,’myfathersaid.‘Allthesebirdsaremakinghimnervous.AndDanny,pushthatpramintotheworkshopquick.’

Mrs Clipstone disappeared into our caravan with the baby. I pushed thepramintotheworkshop.

Acrosstheroadalineofcarshadalreadystartedformingbehindthebrick-lorryandthegroceryvan.Peoplewereopeningtheirdoorsandgettingoutandbeginningtocrossovertostareatthepheasants.

‘Watchout,Dad!’Isaid.‘Lookwho’shere!’

20

Goodbye,MrHazell

ThebigshinysilverRolls-Roycehadbrakedsuddenlyandcometoastopright alongside the filling-station. Behind thewheel I could see the enormouspink beery face ofMr Victor Hazell staring at the pheasants. I could see themouth hanging open, the eyes bulging out of his head like toadstools and theskinofhisfaceturningfrompinktobrightscarlet.Thecardooropenedandouthecame,resplendentinfawn-colouredriding-breechesandhighpolishedboots.Therewasayellowsilkscarfwithreddotsonit roundhisneck,andhehadasortofbowlerhatonhishead.Thegreatshootingpartywasabouttobeginandhewasonhiswaytogreettheguests.

HeleftthedooroftheRollsopenandcameatuslikeachargingbull.Myfather,DocSpencerandIstoodclosetogetherinalittlegroup,waitingforhim.He started shouting at us the moment he got out of the car, and he went onshouting fora long timeafter that. Iamsureyouwould like toknowwhathesaid,butIcannotpossiblyrepeatithere.Thelanguageheusedwassofoulandfilthy it scorchedmy earholes.Words cameout of hismouth that I had neverheard before and hope never to hear again. Little flecks ofwhite foam beganformingaroundhislipsandrunningdownhischinontotheyellowsilkscarf.

Iglancedatmyfather.Hewasstandingverystillandverycalm,waitingfortheshoutingtofinish.ThecolourwasbackinhischeeksnowandIcouldseethetinytwinklingwrinklesofasmilearoundthecornersofhiseyes.

DocSpencerstoodbesidehimandhealsowasverycalm.HewaslookingatMrHazellratherasonewouldlookataslugonaleafoflettuceinthesalad.

Imyselfdidnotfeelquitesocalm.‘Buttheyarenotyourpheasants,’myfathersaidatlast.‘They’remine.’‘Don’tlietome,man!’yelledMrHazell.‘I’mtheonlypersonroundhere

whohaspheasants!’‘Theyareonmy land,’myfather saidquietly. ‘They flewon tomy land,

and so long as they stay onmy land they belong tome.Don’t you know therules,youbloatedoldblue-facedbaboon?’

Doc Spencer started to giggle. Mr Hazell’s skin turned from scarlet topurple.His eyes and his cheekswere bulging somuchwith rage it looked asthoughsomeonewasblowinguphisfacewithapump.Heglaredatmyfather.Then he glared at the dopey pheasants swarming all over the filling-station.‘What’sthematterwith‘em?’heshouted.‘What’veyoudoneto‘em?’

Atthispoint,pedallinggrandlytowardsusonhisblackbicycle,camethearmofthelawintheshapeofSergeantEnochSamways,resplendentinhisblueuniformandshinysilverbuttons.ItwasalwaysamysterytomehowSergeantSamways could sniff out trouble wherever it was. Let there be a few boysfightingonthepavementortwomotoristsarguingoveradentedbumperandyoucouldbetyourlifethevillagepolicemanwouldbetherewithinminutes.

Weallsawhimcomingnow,andalittlehushfellupontheentirecompany.I imagine the same sort of thing happenswhen a king or a president enters aroomfulofchatteringpeople.Theyallstoptalkingandstandverystillasamarkofrespectforapowerfulandimportantperson.

Sergeant Samways dismounted from his bicycle and threaded his waycarefully through the mass of pheasants squatting on the ground. The facebehindthebigblackmoustacheshowednosurprise,noanger,noemotionofanykind.Itwascalmandneutral,asthefaceofthelawshouldalwaysbe.

Forafullhalf-minuteheallowedhiseyestotravelslowlyroundthefilling-station,gazingatthemassofpheasantssquattingallovertheplace.Therestofus,includingevenMrHazell,waitedinsilenceforjudgementtobepronounced.

‘Well,well,well,’saidSergeantSamwaysatlast,puffingouthischestandaddressingnobody inparticular. ‘What,may Ihask, is ‘appenin’around ‘ere?’SergeantSamwayshadafunnyhabitofsometimesputtingtheletterhinfrontofwordsthatshouldn’thaveanhthereatall.Andasthoughtobalancethingsout,hewouldtakeawaytheh fromall thewords thatshouldhavebegunwith thatletter.

‘I’ll tellyouwhat’shappeningroundhere!’shoutedMrHazell,advancingupon thepoliceman. ‘Thesearemypheasants, and this rogue’, pointing atmyfather,‘hasenticedthemoutofmywoodsontohisfilthylittlefilling-station!’

‘Hen-ticed?’saidSergeantSamways,lookingfirstatMrHazell,thenatus.‘Hen-ticedthem,didyousay?’

‘Ofcourseheenticedthem!’‘Wellnow,’saidthesergeant,proppinghisbicyclecarefullyagainstoneof

our pumps. ‘This is a very hinterestin’ haccusation, very hinterestin’ indeed,because Iain’tnever ‘eardofnobodyhen-ticin’apheasantacross sixmilesoffieldsandopencountryside.‘Owdoyouthinkthishen-ticin’wasperformed,Mr‘Azell,ifImayhask?’

‘Don’t askme how he did it because I don’t know!’ shoutedMrHazell.‘Buthe’sdoneitallright!Theproofisallaroundyou!Allmyfinestbirdsaresittinghereinthisdirtylittlefilling-stationwhentheyoughttobeupinmyownwoodgettingreadyfortheshoot!’ThewordspouredoutofMrHazell’smouthlikehotlavafromaneruptingvolcano.

‘Am I correct,’ said Sergeant Samways, ‘am I habsolutely haccurate inthinkin’thattodayisthedayofyourgreatshootin’party,Mr‘Azell?’

‘That’s thewholepoint!’criedMrHazell, stabbinghis forefinger into thesergeant’schestasthoughhewerepunchingatypewriteroranaddingmachine.‘AndifIdon’tgetthesebirdsbackonmylandquicksharp,someveryimportantpeoplearegoingtobeextremelyangrythismorning.Andoneofmyguests,I’llhaveyouknow,Sergeant,isnoneotherthanyourownboss,theChiefConstableoftheCounty!Soyouhadbetterdosomethingaboutitfast,hadn’tyou,unlessyouwanttolosethosesergeant’sstripesofyours?’

SergeantSamwaysdidnotlikepeoplepokingtheirfingersinhischest,leastofallMrHazell,andheshoweditbytwitchinghisupperlipsoviolentlythathismoustachecamealiveandjumpedaboutlikesomesmallbristlyanimal.

‘Nowjustoneminute,’hesaidtoMrHazell.‘Justoneminute,please.AmItounderstandthatyouarehaccusin’thisgentleman‘ereofcommittin’thishact?’

‘OfcourseIam!’criedMrHazell.‘Iknowhedidit!’‘Anddoyou‘aveanyhevidencetosupportthishaccusation?’‘The evidence is all around you!’ shoutedMr Hazell. ‘Are you blind or

something?’Nowmy father stepped forward.He tookone smallpace to the frontand

fixedMrHazellwithhismarvellousbrighttwinklyeyes.‘Surelyyouknowhowthesepheasantscamehere?’hesaidsoftly.

‘SurelyIdonotknowhowtheycamehere!’snappedMrHazell.‘Then I shall tell you,’my father said, ‘because it is quite simple, really.

Theyallknewtheyweregoingtobeshottodayiftheystayedinyourwood,sotheyflewinheretowaituntiltheshootingwasover.’

‘Rubbish!’yelledMrHazell.‘It’snotrubbishatall,’myfathersaid.‘Theyareextremelyintelligentbirds,

pheasants.Isn’tthatso,Doctor?’‘They have tremendous brain-power,’ Doc Spencer said. ‘They know

exactlywhat’sgoingon.’‘Itwouldundoubtedlybeagreathonour’,myfathersaid,‘tobeshotbythe

ChiefConstableoftheCounty,andanevengreateronetobeeatenafterwardsbyLordThistlethwaite,butIdonotthinkapheasantwouldseeitthatway.’

‘Youarescoundrels,bothofyou!’shoutedMrHazell.‘Youarerapscallionsoftheworstkind!’

‘Nowthen,nowthen,’saidSergeantSamways.‘Hinsultsain’tgoin’togetus nowhere. They only haggravate things. Therefore, gentlemen, I ‘ave a

suggestion toputbeforeyou. I suggest thatweallofusmakeabigheffort todrivethesebirdsbackovertheroadontoMr‘Azell’sland.‘Owdoesthatstrikeyou,Mr‘Azell?’

‘It’llbeastepintherightdirection,’MrHazellsaid.‘Getonwithit,then.’‘ ‘Ow about you, Willum?’ the sergeant said to my father. ‘Are you

agreeabletothishaction?’‘Ithinkit’sasplendididea,’myfathersaid,givingSergeantSamwaysone

ofhisfunnylooks.‘I’llbeverygladtohelp.SowillDanny’What’s he up to now, I wondered, because whenever my father gave

somebody one of his funny looks, it meant something funny was going tohappen.AndSergeantSamways,Inoticed,alsohadquiteasparkleinhisusuallystern eye. ‘Comeon,my lads!’ he cried. ‘Let’s push these lazy birds over theroad!’Andwiththathebeganstridingaroundthefilling-station,wavinghisarmsatthepheasantsandshouting‘Shoo!Shoo!Offyougo!Beatit!Getoutof‘ere!’

MyfatherandIjoinedhiminthisratherabsurdexercise,andforthesecond

time that morning clouds of pheasants rose up into the air, clapping theirenormouswings. Itwas thenI realized that inorder to flyacross theroad, thebirdswould first have to fly overMrHazell’smighty Rolls-Roycewhich layrightintheirpathwithitsdoorstillopen.Mostofthepheasantsweretoodopeytomanage this,sodowntheycameagainsmackon topof thegreatsilvercar.Theywereallovertheroofandthebonnet,slidingandslitheringandtryingtokeepagripon thatbeautifullypolishedsurface. Icouldhear their sharpclawsscrapingintothepaintworkastheystruggledtohangon,andalreadytheyweredepositingtheirdirtydroppingsallovertheroof.

‘Getthemoff!’screamedMrHazell.‘Getthemaway!’‘Don’tyouworry,Mr‘Azell, sir,’SergeantSamwayscriedout. ‘We’ll fix

‘emforyou.Comeon,boys!Heasydoesit!Shoo‘emrightovertheroad!’‘Not onmy car, you idiot!’Mr Hazell bellowed, jumping up and down.

‘Sendthemtheotherway!’‘Wewill,sir,wewill!’answeredSergeantSamways.In less thanaminute, theRollswas literallyfestoonedwithpheasants,all

scratching and scrabbling andmaking their disgusting runnymesses over theshinysilverpaint.Whatismore,Isawatleastadozenofthemflyrightinsidethe car through the open door by the driver’s seat. Whether or not SergeantSamways had cunningly steered them in there himself, I didn’t know, but ithappenedsoquicklythatMrHazellneverevennoticed.

‘Get thosebirdsoffmycar!’MrHazell bellowed. ‘Can’t you see they’reruiningthepaintwork,youmadman!’

‘Paintwork?’ Sergeant Samways said. ‘What paintwork?’He had stoppedchasingthepheasantsnowandhestoodtherelookingatMrHazellandshakinghisheadsadlyfromsidetoside.‘We’vedoneourverybesttohencouragethesebirdsovertheroad,’hesaid,‘butthey’retoohignoranttohunderstand.’

‘Mycar,man!’shoutedMrHazell.‘Getthemawayfrommycar!’‘Ah,’ the sergeant said. ‘Your car.Yes, I seewhat youmean, sir.Beastly

dirtybirds,pheasantsare.Butwhydon’tyoujust‘opinquickanddrive‘erawayfast?They’ll‘avetogetoffthen,won’tthey?’

Mr Hazell, who seemed only too glad of an excuse to escape from thismadhouse, made a dash for the open door of the Rolls and leaped into thedriver’sseat.Themomenthewasin,SergeantSamwaysslammedthedoor,andsuddenly therewas themost infernaluproar inside thecarasadozenormoreenormouspheasantsstartedsquawkingandflappingallovertheseatsandroundMrHazelPshead.‘Driveon,Mr‘Azell,sir!’shoutedSergeantSamwaysthroughthewindow in hismost commanding policeman’s voice. ‘ ‘Urry up, ‘urry up,‘urryup!Getgoin’quick!There’snotimetolose!Hignorethempheasants,Mr‘Azell,andhacceleratethathengine!’

MrHazelldidn’thavemuchchoice.Hehad tomakearunfor itnow.Hestarted the engine and the great Rolls shot off down the road with clouds ofpheasantsrisingupfromitinalldirections.

Thenanextraordinarythinghappened.Thepheasantsthathadflownupoffthecarstayedup in theair.Theydidn’t come flappingdrunkenlydownaswehadexpectedthemto.Theystayedupandtheykeptonflying.Overthetopofthefilling-stationtheyflew,andoverthecaravan,andoverthefieldatthebackwhereourlittleoutdoorlavatorystood,andoverthenextfield,andoverthecrestofthehilluntiltheydisappearedfromsight.

‘GreatScott!’DocSpencercried.‘Justlookatthat!They’verecovered!Thesleepingpillshavewornoffatlast!’

Now all the other pheasants around the place were beginning to comeawake.Theywerestandingup tallon their legsand ruffling their feathersandturningtheirheadsquicklyfromsidetoside.Oneortwoofthemstartedrunningabout,thenalltheothersstartedrunning;andwhenSergeantSamwaysflappedhis arms at them, thewhole lot tookoff into the air and flewover the filling-stationandweregone.

Suddenly,therewasnotapheasantleft.Anditwasveryinterestingtoseethat none of them had flown across the road, or even down the road in thedirectionofHazell’sWoodandthegreatshootingparty.Everyoneofthemhadflowninexactlytheoppositedirection!

21

DocSpencer’sSurprise

Outonthemainroad,alineofabouttwentycarsandlorrieswasparkedbumpertobumper,andthepeoplewerestandingabout ingroups, laughingandtalkingabouttheastonishingsighttheyhadjustwitnessed.

‘Comealong,now!’SergeantSamwayscalled,stridingtowardsthem.‘Getgoin’!Getmovin’!Wecan’t‘avethis!You’reblockin’the’ighway!’

Nobody ever disobeyed Sergeant Samways, and soon the people weredrifting back to their cars and getting in. In a fewminutes, they toowere allgone.Only the fourofuswere leftnow-DocSpencer,SergeantSamways,myfatherandme.

‘Well,Willum,’SergeantSamwayssaid,comingbackfromtheroadtojoinus beside the pumps. ‘Them pheasantswas themost hastonishin’ sight I everseedinmyhentirelife!’

‘Itwaslovely,’DocSpencersaid.‘Justlovely.Didn’tyouenjoyit,Danny?’‘Marvellous,’Isaid.‘Pitywelostthem,’myfathersaid.‘Itverynearbrokemyheartwhenthey

allstartedflyingoutofthepram.Iknewwe’dlostthemthen.’‘But’owin‘eaven’snamedidyouevercatch‘eminthefirstplace?’asked

SergeantSamways.“Owdidyoudoit,Willum?Comeon,man.Letmeinonthesecret.’

Myfathertoldhim.Hekeptitshort,buteventhenitmadeafinestory.Andall the way through it, the sergeant kept saying, ‘Well I never! Well, I’ll beblowed!Youcouldknockmedownwithafeather!Stonethecrows!’andthingslike that. And when the story was finished, he pointed his long policeman’sfingerstraightatmyfaceandcried,‘Well,I’llbejiggered!Ineverwould‘avethoughtalittlenipperlikeyoucouldcomeupwithsuchafantasticalbrain-waveasthat!Youngman,Icongratulateyou!’

‘He’ll go a long way, young Danny will, you see if he doesn’t,’ DocSpencersaid.‘He’llbeagreatinventoroneday!’

TobespokenaboutlikethatbythetwomenIadmiredmostintheworld,

aftermyfather,mademeblushandstutter.AndasIstoodtherewonderingwhatonearth Iwasexpected tosay in reply,awoman’svoicebehindmecriedout,‘Well,thankgoodnessthat’soveratlast!’

This,ofcourse,wasMrsGraceClipstone,whowasnowpickingherwaycautiouslydownthecaravanstepswithyoungChristopherinherarms.‘Neverinmylife’,shewassaying,‘haveIseensuchashamblesasthat!’

Thelittlewhitehatwasstillperchedonthe topofherhead,andtheprimwhite gloveswere still on her hands. ‘What a gathering!’ she said, advancingtowards us. ‘What a gathering we have here of rogues and varmints! Goodmorning,Enoch.’

‘Goodmorningtoyou,MrsClipstone,’SergeantSamwayssaid.‘How’sthebaby?’myfatheraskedher.‘The baby is better, thank you,William,’ she said. ‘Though I doubt he’ll

everbequitethesameagain.’‘Ofcoursehewill,’DocSpencersaid.‘Babiesaretough.’‘Idon’tcarehowtoughtheyare!’sheanswered.‘Howwouldyoulikeitif

youwere being taken for a nice quietwalk in your pram on a pretty autumnmorning…and youwere sitting on a lovely softmattress… and suddenly the

mattresscomesaliveandstartsbouncingyouupanddownlikeastormysea…andthenextthingyouknow,there’saboutahundredsharpcurvybeakspokingupfromunderneaththemattressandpeckingyoutopieces!’

The doctor cocked his head over to one side, then to the other, and hesmiledatMrsClipstone.

‘Youthinkit’sfunny?’shecried.‘Welljustyouwait,DoctorSpencer,andonenightI’llputafewsnakesorcrocodilesorsomethingunderyourmattressandseehowyoulikeit!’

SergeantSamwayswasfetchinghisbicyclefrombesidethepumps.‘Well,ladiesandgents,’hesaid.‘Imustbeoffandseewhoelseisgettin’intomischiefround‘ere.’

‘I am truly sorryyouwere troubled,Enoch,’my father said. ‘And thanksverymuchindeedforthehelp.’

‘Iwouldn’t‘avemissedthisoneforalltheteainChina,’SergeantSamwayssaid.‘Butitdidsaddenmemostterrible,Willum,toseeallthoselovelybirdsgoslippin’ right through our fingers like that. Because to my mind, there don’thexistamorelusciousdishthanroastedpheasantanywhereonthisearth.’

‘It’s going to sadden the vicar a lotmore than it saddens you!’ saidMrsClipstone. ‘That’s allhe’sbeen talkingabout ever sincehegotoutofbed thismorning,thelovelyroastpheasanthe’sgoingtohaveforhisdinnertonight!’

‘He’llgetoverit,’DocSpencersaid.‘He will not get over it and it’s a rotten shame!’ Mrs Clipstone said.

‘BecausenowallI’vegottogivehimaresomeawfulfrozenfilletsofcod,andheneverdidlikecodanyway.’

‘But,’my father said, ‘surelyyoudidn’t loadall those pheasants into thepram,didyou?Youweremeanttokeepatleastadozenforyouandthevicar!’

‘Oh, I know that,’ she wailed. ‘But I was so tickled at the thought ofstrolling calmly through the villagewithChristopher sitting on a hundred andtwenty birds, I simply forgot to keep any back for ourselves. And now, alas,they’reallgone!Andsoisthevicar’ssupper!’

ThedoctorwentovertoMrsClipstoneandtookherbythearm.‘Youcomewithme,Grace,’hesaid.‘I’vegotsomethingtoshowyou.’Heledheracrosstomyfather’sworkshopwherethebigdoorsstoodwideopen.

Therestofusstayedwherewewereandwaited.‘Goodgrief!Comeandlookatthis!’MrsClipstonecalledfrominsidethe

workshop.‘William!Enoch!Danny!Comeandlook!’

Wehurriedoverandenteredtheworkshop.Itwasagreatsight.Laid out onmy father’s bench amid the spanners andwrenches and oily

ragsweresixmagnificentpheasants,threecocksandthreehens.‘Therewe are, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the doctor, his smallwrinkled

facebeamingwithdelight.‘How’sthat?’Wewerespeechless.‘Twoforyou,Grace,tokeepthevicarinagoodmood,’DocSpencersaid.

‘TwoforEnochforallthefineworkhedidthismorning.AndtwoforWilliamandDannywhodeservethemmostofall.’

‘What about you, Doctor?’ my father asked. ‘That doesn’t leave any foryou.’

‘Mywife has enough to dowithout plucking pheasants all day long,’ hesaid. ‘Andanyway,whogot themoutof thewood in the firstplace?Youand

Danny.’‘Buthowonearthdidyougetthem?’myfatheraskedhim.‘Whendidyou

nabthem?’‘Ididn’tnabthem,’thedoctorsaid.‘Ihadahunch.’‘Whatsortofahunch?’myfatherasked.‘It seemed fairly obvious’, the doctor said, ‘that some of those pheasants

must have gobbled up more than one raisin each. Some, if they were quickenough,mighthaveswallowedhalfadozeneach,orevenmore.Inwhichcasetheywouldhavereceivedaveryheavyoverdoseofsleepingpillsandwouldn’teverwakeup.’

‘Ah-ha!’wecried.‘Ofcourse!Ofcourse!’‘SowhileyouwereallsobusydrivingthebirdsontooldHazell’sRolls-

Royce, I sneaked in here and had a look under the sheet in the bottomof thepram.Andtheretheywere!’

‘Hamazin’!’saidSergeantSamways.‘Habsolutelyhamazin’!’‘Thosewere thegreedyones,’ thedoctor said. ‘It never pays to eatmore

thanyourfairshare.’‘Marvellous!’myfathersaid.‘Welldone,sir!’‘Oh,youlovelyman!’criedMrsClipstone,flinginganarmroundthetiny

doctorandgivinghimakissonthecheek.‘Now come along,’ the doctor said to her. ‘I’ll drive you home.You can

leavethiscrazyperambulatorwhereitis.AndEnoch,we’lltakeyourbirdswithusanddropthemoffatyourhouseontheway.Wecan’thavethearmofthelawcycling through the village with a brace of pheasants slung over the handle-bars.’

‘I am very much hobliged to you, Doctor,’ Sergeant Sam ways said. ‘Ireallyam.’

My father and I loaded four of the pheasants into the doctor’s car. MrsClipstonegotintothefrontseatwiththebabyandthedoctorsathimselfbehindthewheel.‘Don’tbesad,William,’hesaidtomyfatherthroughthewindowashedroveoff.‘Itwasafamousvictory’

ThenSergeantSamwaysmountedhis bicycle andwavedus goodbye andpedalledawaydowntheroadinthedirectionofthevillage.Hepedalledslowly,andtherewasacertainmajestyinthewayheheldhimself,withtheheadhighand thebackverystraight,as thoughhewere ridinga fine thoroughbredmare

insteadofanoldblackbike.

22

MyFather

Itwasallovernow.MyfatherandIstoodalonejustoutsidetheworkshopandsuddenlytheoldplaceseemedtobecomeveryquiet.

‘Well,Danny,’myfathersaid,lookingatmewiththosetwinklyeyesofhis.‘That’sthat.’

‘Itwasfun,Dad.’‘Iknowitwas,’hesaid.‘Ireallylovedit,’Isaid.‘SodidI,Danny’Heplacedonehandonmyshoulderandwebeganwalkingslowlytowards

thecaravan.‘Maybewe should lock the pumps and take a holiday for the rest of the

day,’hesaid.‘Youmeannotopenupatall?’‘Whyshouldwe?’hesaid.‘Afterall,it’sSaturday,isn’tit?’‘ButwealwaysstayopenonSaturdays,Dad.AndSundays.’‘Maybeit’stimewedidn’t,’hesaid.‘Wecoulddosomethingelseinstead.

Somethingmoreinteresting.’Iwaited,wonderingwhatwascomingnext.Whenwereachedthecaravan,myfatherclimbedthestepsandsatdownon

thelittleoutsideplatform.Heallowedbothhislegs,theplasteroneandthegoodone,todangleovertheedge.Iclimbedupandsatdownbesidehimwithmyfeetonthestepsoftheladder.

Itwasa fineplace tosit, theplatformof thecaravan. Itwassuchaquietcomfortableplacetositandtalkanddonothinginpleasantweather.Peoplewithhouseshaveafrontporchoraterraceinstead,withbigchairstoloungein,butIwouldn’thavetradedeitherofthoseforourwoodenplatform.

‘I know a place about three miles away,’ my father was saying, ‘overCobblersHillanddowntheotherside,wherethere’sasmallwoodoflarchtrees.

Itisaveryquietplaceandthestreamrunsrightthroughit.’‘Thestream?’Isaid.Henoddedandgavemeanotherofhistwinklylooks.‘It’sfulloftrout,’he

said.‘Oh,couldwe?’Icried.‘Couldwegothere,Dad?’‘Whynot?’hesaid.‘WecouldtryticklingthemthewayDocSpencertold

us.’‘Willyouteachme?’Isaid.‘Ihaven’thadmuchpracticewithtrout,’hetoldme.‘Pheasantsaremorein

myline.Butwecouldalwayslearn.’‘Canwegonow?’Iasked,gettingexcitedalloveragain.‘Ithoughtwewouldjustpopintothevillagefirstandbuytheelectricoven,’

hesaid.‘Youhaven’tforgottenabouttheelectricoven,haveyou?’‘ButDad,’Isaid.‘Thatwaswhenwethoughtweweregoingtohavelots

andlotsofpheasantstoroast.’‘We’vestillgotthetwotheDocgaveus,’hesaid.

‘Andwithany luckwe’llhave lotsmoreof themas theweeksgoby. It’stime we had an oven anyway, then we can roast things properly instead ofheatingupbakedbeansinasaucepan.Wecouldhaveroastedporkonedayandthen ifwefelt like itwecouldhaveroasted legof lambthenext timeoreven

roastedbeef.Wouldn’tyoulikethat?’‘Yes,’Isaid.‘OfcourseIwould.AndDad,wouldyoubeabletomakeyour

favouritethingofall?’‘What’sthat?’heasked.‘Toad-in-the-hole,’Isaid.‘Bygolly!’hecried.‘That’llbetheveryfirstthingwe’llmakeinournew

oven! Toad-in-the-hole! I’llmake it in an enormous pan, the same asmy oldmum, with the Yorkshire pudding very crisp and raised up in huge bubblymountainsandthesausagesnestlinginbetweenthemountains!’

‘Canwegetittoday,Dad?Willtheydeliveritatonce?’‘Theymight,Danny.We’llhavetosee.’‘Couldn’tweorderitnowonthetelephone?’‘Wemustn’t do that,’my father said. ‘Wemust go personally to seeMr

Wheelerandwemustinspectallthedifferentmodelswithgreatcare.’‘Allright,’Isaid.‘Let’sgo.’Iwasreallysteamedupnowaboutgettingan

oven and being able to have Toad-in-the-hole and roasted pork and stuff likethat.Icouldn’twait.

Myfathergottohisfeet.‘Andwhenwe’vedonethat’,hesaid,‘we’llgoofftothestreamandseeifwecan’tfindussomebigrainbowtrout.Wecouldtakesandwicheswithusforlunchandeatthembesidethestream.Thatwillmakeagooddayofit.’

Afewminuteslater,thetwoofuswerewalkingdownthewell-knownroadtowardsthevillagetobuytheoven.Myfather’sironfootwentclinkclinkonthehardsurfaceandoverheadsomebigblack thunder-cloudsweremovingslowlydownthevalley.

‘Dad,’Isaid.‘Yes,mylove?’‘Whenwe have our roasted pheasant supperwith our new oven, do you

thinkwecouldinviteDoctorSpencerandMrsSpencertoeatitwithus?’‘Great heavens!’ my father cried. ‘What a wonderful thought! What a

beautifulidea!We’llgiveadinnerpartyintheirhonour!’‘Theonly thing is,’ I said, ‘will there be enough room in the caravan for

fourpeople?’‘Ithinkso,’hesaid.‘Just.’‘Butwe’veonlygottwochairs.’‘That’snoproblem,Danny.YouandIcansitonboxes.’Therewasashort

silence,thenhesaid,‘ButI’lltellyouwhatwemusthaveandthat’satablecloth.Wecan’tservedinnertothedoctorandhiswifewithoutatablecloth.’

‘Butwedon’thaveatablecloth,Dad.’‘Don’tyouworryaboutit,’myfathersaid.‘Wecanuseasheetfromoneof

thebunks.That’sallatableclothis,asortofsheet.’‘Whataboutknivesandforks?’Iasked.‘Howmanydowehave?’‘Justtwoknives’,Isaid,‘andtwoforks.Andthoseareallabitdented.’‘Weshallbuytwomoreofeach,’myfathersaid.‘Weshallgiveourguests

thenewonesandusetheoldonesourselves.’‘Good,’Isaid.‘Lovely.’Ireachedoutandslidmyhandintohis.Hefolded

his longfingersroundmyfistandheld it tight,andwewalkedon towards thevillagewheresoonthetwoofuswouldbeinspectingallthedifferentovenswithgreatcareandtalkingtoMrWheelerpersonallyaboutthem.

Andafterthat,wewouldwalkhomeagainandmakeupsomesandwichesforourlunch.

Andafterthatwewouldsetoffwiththesandwichesinourpockets,stridingupoverCobblersHillanddowntheothersidetothesmallwoodoflarchtreeswiththestreamrunningthroughit.

Andafterthat?Perhapsabigrainbowtrout.Andafterthat?Therewouldbesomethingelseafterthat.Andafterthat?Ahyes,andsomethingelseagain.BecausewhatIamtryingtotellyou…What I have been trying so hard to tell you all along is simply that my

father,withouttheslightestdoubt,wasthemostmarvellousandexcitingfatheranyboyeverhad.

TableofContentsCoverTitlePageCopyrightPageDedicationContentsDannytheChampionoftheWorld

1TheFilling-station2TheBigFriendlyGiant3CarsandKitesandFire-balloons4MyFather’sDeepDarkSecret5TheSecretMethods6MrVictorHazell7TheBabyAustin8ThePit9DocSpencer10TheGreatShootingParty11TheSleepingBeauty12ThursdayandSchool13Friday14IntotheWood15TheKeeper16TheChampionoftheWorld17TheTaxi18Home19RockabyeBaby20Goodbye,MrHazell21DocSpencer’sSurprise22MyFather