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  `pa
  Redakcja techniczna
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   Beata Kolasa
   Piotr Kaliñski
  
  Sk³ad, druk i oprawa:
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   ul. Hutnicza 9
   #bj-bah Lublin
   tel. (#j-ha) #gdf-ab-hj
  `st  `gw2
  `tc
  Mary Dickinson
  "Jilly Takes Over"
  `tc
  
  `rp
  Reproduced by permission
  of Scholastic Ltd.
  Text Copyright (c)
  Mary Dickinson,
  first published 1984
  `rp
  
  Jilly's mother was sick in the sink. 
  It sounded bad.
  "Are you all right, Mum?" Jilly asked.
  "No. I feel awful," sniffed her mother.
  "I think it was that chicken pie I ate last night."
  Jully's mother dumped herself on the settee.
  "You're going to have to look after me today, Jilly," she said.
  Jilly knew what to do when someone was ill.
  She got a blanket and tucked her nother up.
  "Stay there and don't get up till I tell you," she said firmly.
  Then she brought her mother some teddies to cuddle. A glass of water to 
drink. And a bucket ... just in case!
  Jilly's mother went to sleep.
  Jilly watched to see if she was really asleep, or just pretenging. She 
was really asleep.
  Jilly looked out of the window. She looked at a book. She wandered 
around. She didn't know what to do with herself. Slowly she became hungrier 
and hungrier.
  In the end she prodded her mother. 
  "What's for lunch?"
  "Don't talk to me about food," groaned her mother. "If you're hungry go 
and find something in the kitchen ... There's a sliced loaf in the tin, and 
some cheese spreads in the fridge. You could make yourself a sandwich."
  Jilly found the cheese spreads. She was so hungry she ate them all 
without any bread. "Oh dear," said Jilly. "Now what can I put in my 
sandwich?"
  She found lots of things.
  It was going to be the best sandwich ever. Honey, yogurt, salami, sauce, 
tomato, cucumber.
  Not lettuce. Jilly didn't like lettuce.
  It was a very fat, drippy, sandwich. Jilly just managed to cut it into 
four pieces.
  Then she made herself a drink to match. a little orange juice, some 
blackcurrant, some fizzy cherry, a splash of water, and a few grapes to bob 
around on the top.
  She put it all on a tray and carried it through so she could eat it near 
her mother. "Phew," said Jilly's mother when she saw Jilly's lunch. "What a 
big sandwich! I feel a little better now, could I try a piece, please?"
  Jilly passed her a quarter.
  Jilly's mother screwed up her eyes as she nibbled the sandwich. "Whatever 
did you put in here, Jilly?"
  "I feel sick," said Jilly when she'd finished her lunch. "I'm not 
surprised," laughed her mother. "Why don't come in with me?
  I read you a story, then we'll have a little snooze, and maybe we'll both 
be better by the time Dad gets home."
  After the story Jilly's mother went to sleep, but Jilly couldn't.
  She watched through the window the outside getting darker.
  Hurry up, Dad, she thought.
  At last she heard his key in the door.
  Jilly scrambled up from the settee, pushing off the blanket and waking up 
her mother.
  She met her father coming in.
  "Dad. Mum's been sick, and I felt sick; but we're both better now."
  "I can see you're better by the way you're leaping about," said her 
father. "But let me see how Mum is."
  Jilly's mother was sitting up.
  "I feel a lot better now, thanks to Jilly," she said. "She looked after 
me. Made me lunch."
  "I'll make you supper as well," offered Jilly.
  "We'll do it together, won't we, Dad?"
  To Jilly's surprise her father seemed quite pleased. He got them out an 
apron each, rolled up his sleeves and hers and said, with a big smile, 
"Gome on, we're going to do this properly."
  It took them quite a long time to prepare the meal.
  Jilly's mother lay on her settee bed wondering what her supper would be 
like.
  Suddenly there was a crashing of saucepan lids.
  "Supper's served," shouted Jilly.
  Jilly's mother went into the kitchen.
  She gasped when she saw the table.
  There were candles and flowers, and napkins folded like birds.
  Her chair had a cushion on it.
  There was a bowl of neatly arranged salad, steaming potatoes, and a 
dessert decorated by Jilly. Beefburgers sizzle on the stove.
  Jilly's mother laughed. "It was almost worth being ill for all this."
  It was a wonderful supper ... nobody felt sick afterwards, thogh Jilly's 
father was just a little tired.  `pa
  `tc+
  Hunter DaviesÑ
  "Come on, Ossie!"
  `tc
  
  `rp
  (c) The Bodley Head Ltd
  London 1985
  `rp
  
  `tc
  1. Introducing Ossie
  `tc
  Ossie was lying on his bedroom floor. He had been awake and out of bed 
for over an hour. Several times he had almost started to get himself 
dressed, but each time something incredible and amazing caught his 
attention. When this happened, he stopped, his mind completely absorbed, 
and he forgot what he was doing, which day it was, even which planet he was 
living on.
  "Oswald," shouted a voice from downstairs. "Will you hurry yourself up!"
  It was his mother. Ossie recognized that voice straight away. After all, 
she had been his mother for eleven years and five months and ten days so 
far. She was the best mother he'd come across during all that time. He 
should be able to recognize that voice by now.
  Sometimes, Ossie wished she would take electrocution lessons, or whatever 
they were called, just to make her voice a bit softer and nicer. She was 
always shouting at him. She would do herself an injury one of these days. 
With a bit of luck. Nothing too serious, thought Ossie, just bad enough to 
have an Elastoplast over her gob for a few days so that none of those 
annoying words could come out, such as, "Oswald Do This, Oswald Do That."
  "Oswald! I am not shouting for you any more!"
  "Good," said Ossie, turning over another page. The incredible and amazing 
thing which had attracted his attention was a comic which he found he had 
not re-read that morning already.
  
  Only Ossie's mother called Ossie Oswald. That was what he had been 
christened, Oswald Osgood. It was the most stupid name Ossie had ever 
heard. Really soppy and babyish. Imagine anyone calling anyone Oswald. If 
he had been at the christening, he would have told his mother how really 
stupid she was.
  Well, he had been at the christening, but he had had other things to do 
that day. Such as screaming his little head off. His mother had told him 
this story hundreds of times - and that he had gone on to scream his head 
off for the first five years of his life. Ossie was fed up with hearing 
these stupid stories. Ossie's favourite word was "stupid". Everyone and 
everything he didn't like was stupid. 
  Ossie would really like to have been called Kevin or Wayne, or Darren or 
Glenn - really good names, the sort of names real people had, not that 
stupid Oswald name. There were two Darrens in his class at school, plus a 
Glenn and a Wayne. In his whole year, which consisted of six classes of 
eleven-year-old boys and girls, he estimated there were dozens and dozens 
of Darrens and Waynes. In fact he knew millions of boys with really good 
names. Yet he had to get lumbered with Oswald.
  According to his mother, there had once been a Saint called Oswald and it 
was a very Old English name. Ossie would have much preferred a New English 
name. But the real reason for the choice had been to please his 
grandfather, whose name it was.
  At primar school his nickname had been Snotty, and if you really wanted 
to upset him you called him Snotty Bum Bum - but that had been ages ago. 
Now he was generally known as Ossie.
  At one time, he denied all knowledge of being called Oswald, in any form, 
but when his favourite football team, Tottenham Hotspur, signed an 
Argentinian player who turned out to be called Ossie, overnight he revealed 
to the world what his true name was. Well, not quite. He still hated 
Oswald. But Ossie was bearable. 
  Eventually, when he was grown up, say around eighteen, he would call 
himself Oz. Much more muscular. There was something a bit weedy about 
Ossie.
  
  With a great struggle, standing on one leg holding his comic in one hand, 
Ossie managed at last to pull on one sock.
  This was a most difficult manoeuvre. Putting on any clothes, when you can 
only use one hand and you are looking in another direction and your mind is 
miles away, is exceedingly complicated. Ossie hoped that one of these days 
there would be a TV competition for getting dressed with your eyes shut. He 
would be sure to win.
  Then he sank to the goor again and continued reading. He was now dressed 
in his underpants and one sock. Not bad going, for just over an hour of 
getting up and getting ready to face the world.
  "Oswald! If you are not down in five minutes ..."
  That woman again. Where did she get her energy from? She should rest her 
voice, thought Ossie. She might need it one day for something really 
urgent. If we were invaded by space men and little green monsters came down 
the chimney and ran all over her new carpet, she might have something to 
shout about. Till then, she should save it. That would be his advice. But 
nobody ever asked Ossie's advice about anything. All of them being 
completely stupid, they never would.
  "Oswald, I am coming up to get you, and if you are not dressed ..."
  "Oh God, woman," shouted Ossie. "Course I'm dressed. What do you think 
I've been doing all morning? I've been dressed for hours."
  With that, Ossie put down his comic, a two-month-old copy of the Beano, 
and quickly pulled on his other sock. But not quite. The toe was left 
hanging off by about four inches. Ossie had noticed in the pile of comics 
beside him last week's Eagle. He had not re-read that for - well, it must 
be at least half an hour. Better give it another quick bash.
  
  "Ouch, gerroff. Stop it, woman. That hurts!" Mrs Osgood had come into 
Ossie's bedroom, taken one look at him lying half naked on his bedroom 
floor completely surrounded by a sea of comics, and was dragging him up by 
his bare arm.
  Ossie had very thin arms. He also had very thin legs. In fact he was very 
thin and weedy all over. This was a great worry to Ossie, and a great 
puzzle to his mother. He ate like a horse, even if not always the right 
sort of food, but he never seemed to grow any bigger or any fatter.
  His grandfather told Ossie not to worry. He hadn't grown till he was 
sixteen. It was perfectly normal. Not to worry. He had worn short trousers 
till he was fifteen, so he said, which was very useful for getting into 
everything at half price. Ossie was not at all impressed. He wanted to be 
big now. He wouldn't mind paying full price, if it meant getting into pubs 
and adult films and riding motorbikes.
  "I knew you weren't dressed yet," said Mrs Osgood.
  "How can I get dressed, with you torturing me? Look at the bruises. My 
arm is all blue. I'm reporting you. Murderer. Vivisectionist. Arsonist ..."
  Ossie sat on his bed, calling her nearly all the worst names he could 
think of. He did know far worse things to call people, and sometimes 
shouted them in the playground, as the other boys did, though most of them 
he did not quite understand. But if he used them at home to his mother, he 
knew there would be big trouble.
  "Hurry up!" she said. "I am not leaving this room till you are completely 
dressed."
  "I think you've broke it. Look, I can't move this arm. All your stupid 
fault. I am reporting you, the RSPCA prosecute people like you."
  "That's for animals," said his mother.
  "That's what you are. A ferocious animal, attacking me like that."
  "No, the RSPCA protects animals. You're getting mixed up."
  "You are the one mixed up, if you ask me. A mixed-up old woman. You rush 
in here, attack me like an animal, stop me just when I'm getting dressed 
..."
  "Look, I haven't come up here to argue."
  "You started the stupid argument. Typical, just typical."
  Very slowly, Ossie got dressed, taking care to move his right arm very 
gently, the one he claimed had been broken.
  "What's all the hurry anyway?" said Ossie. "You know it's Saturday. 
Remember? No school today. You always get into such a panic. There's no 
hurry at all, yet you rush into my bedroom, attacking me like a loony."
  "Yes, I know it's Saturday, smarty boots. Which is why your grandad will 
be waiting for you."
  "Oh," started Ossie. He had indeed completely forgotten about his 
grandad. It was his weekly job, to help his grandad on Saturday morning, 
but every Saturday morning he forgot all about it.
  "Oh, yes, I know," said Ossie. "But he told me last week there was no 
hurry. Just come round when I'm ready. That's what he told me. Honest. He 
hates people like you, who rush rush rush all the time. He told me. And I 
agree with him. The trouble with you, Mum, is that you are just a P-A-I-N 
..."
  "Very good. Now what about the rest of your spelling homework," said Mrs 
Osgood. "Have you done that yet?"
  "It's for Monday morning, stupid," said Ossie. "This is only Saturday, 
woman. Give me a break. Please."
  
  Ossie's younger sister Lucy was in the kitchen, sitting at the kitchen 
table, doing a lovely drawing for her grandfather. She of course had been 
up for hours, and had already dressed and re-dressed several times. Later 
that morning she was going to her acting class, and she always went through 
several changes of clothing before deciding on the right outfit to stun her 
friends with.
  "Morning, Luce," said Ossie. He was always very kind and pleasant to his 
little sister, always protective and considerate. Well, most of the time.
  "Shush," said Lucy, throwing back her long golden hair with a twist of 
her neck, a trick she had worked on for weeks to perfect. "Can't you see 
I'm working, Ossie?"
  "Oh God, can't even talk in this house," said Ossie. "I don't complain if 
people talk or shout or scream or anything. Personally, I like lots and 
lots of noise when I'm working."
  "When you're working," said Mrs Osgood.
  "People have to be very quick to catch you working."
  "Look, are you going to moan at me all day? Supposed to have a day of 
rest. Supposed to have a break after a hard week at that stupid school, but 
you go on and on all the time."
  "Sorry I spoke, your majesty."
  Ossie climbed up to the breakfast bar to have his breakfast. It was in a 
corner of the kitchen, all done in white plastic, which Ossie was very fond 
of. He started to whistle, pretending he was at a real bar, sipping pints 
of real beer.
  "Mum, tell him to stop," said Lucy.
  "What have I done now? Should I stop breathing? Is that what you want? 
You just want me to stop breathing. OK, I will. Then you'll be sorry. 
You'll rush to give me the kiss oflife, but it will be too late. I'll have 
been asphyxiointed."
  "I don't think anyone will rush to give you kisses, Ossie," said Lucy, 
very carefully writing Grandad's name at the top of the card with her best 
felt pen.
  "Creep," said Ossie. "Double creep. It's not his birthday for yonks."
  That was one of Ossie's latest words, yonks. He had used it continuously 
for a whole week. This was the normal length of time Ossie manhandled any 
word or phrase. After about a week, he dropped them, by which time they 
were so battered and bruised they were not much use to anyone else. Ossie 
had knocked all sense out of them.
  
  "I'll have two fried eggs, and three rashers of bacon," shouted Ossie. 
"Some fried bread and tomatoes. Come on. Chop, chop, woman."
  Mrs Osgood was in the kitchen part of the kitchen. Lucy was still very 
busy with her drawing, putting a border round it with a glitter pen.
  "Mum, are you listening? I've been sitting here for yonks. Oh yes, you 
were the one said hurry up. You were the one said I'd be late. Now it's you 
keeping me back."
  Mrs Osgood came across to the breakfast bar and handed Ossie a small bowl 
of muesli and one small slice of wholemeal toast. During the week, Ossie 
and Lucy had to get their own breakfasts because Mrs Osgood went out to 
work, but on Saturdays, if she was in a good mood, she usually served them.
  "I can't eat this muck," said Ossie, starting on it at once.
  "What are you going to do with it, then?" said Lucy, looking up. "Stick 
it up your bum bum, Snotty Bum Bum."
  "Mum, did you hear that?" shouted Ossie. "Did you hear what Lucy said? Oh 
yes, you tell me off, but you never tell her off."
  "Two minutes, Oswald," shouted his mother from the living room.
  There was then silence. Lucy had returned to her drawing and Ossie, 
having polished off his meagre breakfast in two seconds, had pulled up his 
jumper to reveal two old Beanos. He had shoved them there, emergency 
supplies, for when he might need them. He spread both of them out on the 
white plastic surface of the bar, pushing the dirty bowl and plate aside, 
and started to read. 
  He didn't hear his mother come back into the kitchen, but suddenly he 
felt his arm violently grabbed, the sore arm which had already been 
maltreated that morning.
  "Oswald Osgood, you are a selfish pig," shouted his mother, pulling him 
down from the breakfast bar and sweeping both his comics on to the floor. 
Then she gave an even louder yell.
  "And look at that! Those filthy comics have left ink all over the place. 
Look at the marks. I've just wiped it. They'll never come off. I have 
warned you enough times not to read at meals."
  "Not my fault," said Ossie. "I don't print them. Don't blame me. Blame 
the stupid printers."
  "Get out of the kitchen," said his mother.
  "It was your fault anyway," said Ossie. "You must of left the surface 
wet, that's what. That's why it's picked up the ink. See, it's still all 
wet. Your fault. You must of left it wet ..."
  "Must "have"," corrected his mother. "How many times have I got to tell 
you."
  "I dunno. You can count. You went to school."
  "One of these days, my lad, you will go too far. Your poor grandfather 
has been waiting for you for hours. You have no thought for anyone but 
yourself."
  She frog-marched Ossie to the back door, opened it with one hand, then 
pushed him out, closing the door firmly behind him.
  "When I'm grown up," thought Ossie, "and I'm in charge of everything, 
I'll have comics delivered every day. And I'll read them with my bacon and 
eggs. Every morning ..."
  Ossie was riding his BMX Raleigh Burner GX. It had been his Christmas 
present last year, which of course was yonks ago, and Ossie considered it 
was now really too small for him.
  "It's not fair, having to put up with this old thing. If only I was older 
and had a proper bike, like a Suzuki. This hasn't even got any decent 
accessories. I know some kids with so many extras you can hardly see their 
bikes at all."
  He was riding on the pavement, something he was not supposed to do. All 
the neighbours had complained about BMXs being ridden up and down the 
pavements, upsetting old people and frightening the little kids.
  Ossie was riding no hands and whistling, showing off. Then he tried a few 
wheelies, though not very good ones.
  "How can I do proper wheelies on this wreck? If I had a proper machine, 
I'd be the best biker in the whole world. Then they'd all see."
  He turned the corner rather too quickly and fell slap into the arms of 
Flossie Teacake.
  She was a large girl, though she was the same age as Ossie and was in his 
class. He didn't really care for her. She had moved recently from London 
and she was always boasting about it. Ossie often walked to school with 
her, if by chance they met on the way, but he made sure he wasn't seen 
actually going through the gates with her.
  "You stupid fool," said Ossie, picking himself off the ground. "Couldn't 
you see me coming?"
  "Couldn't you look where you're going?" said Flossie.
  "That's the second arm I've had broken this morning."
  "Shall I get my bike out and play?" asked Flossie.
  "No," said Ossie. "I am going to work."
  "You don't go to work," said Flossie. "You haven't got a job. What a 
liar, Ossie Osgood."
  
  Ossie's grandfather's home was only two streets away, on the same new 
estate. He lived in what was called Sheltered Housing.
  When Ossie had first heard about this, he thought it would be some sort 
of encampment, with a big open fire, horses tied up against trees, and his 
grandad living in his own wigwam, the biggest and best wigwam of course, 
with full colour telly, only the best being good enough for Ossie's 
grandfather.
  Ossie had been somewhat disappointed to find that it was a rather boring 
concrete block, full of old people. Ossie's grandfather had one living 
room, with a bathroom and a little bedroom. But inside his tiny flat 
Ossie's grandfather looked after himself, doing his own cooking and 
cleaning. There was a bell he could ring, if he ever wanted help, but he 
never did. Ossie's grandfather was very independent.
  He had trouble walking: that was his only real problem so far as Ossie 
could see - something to do with arthritis in his ankles. Some days he 
could walk all the way to the pub and back. Sometimes he couldn't. It 
wasn't very far. The pub was next door. 
  His memory was also not so good as it used to be, though that, too, came 
and went. His old memory was excellent. It was his new memory which was not 
so good. Things which had happened to him yesterday often went straight out 
of his mind, but things which had happened forty or fifty or even sixty 
years ago were absolutely clear. Ossie liked to hear these memories, 
especially the stories about wartime. Those were the best. As Ossie came to 
the pub beside his grandad's home, he heard someone shouting at him.
  "Snoopy One Two. Are you receiving me? Snoopy One Two. Are you receiving 
me?"
  It sounded a bit like Snotty Bum Bum. Could someone know his old 
nickname? Ossie stopped and looked around. Who on earth could be calling 
him?
  He got off his BMX and looked up and down the street. The pub was full. 
It was Saturday and the pub had just opened for the lunch-time trade, but 
there was no one around outside.
  Ossie suddenly realized there was a huge motorbike parked nearby. It was 
a Suzuki GS 1000. Ossie had a photograph of it at home above his bed, torn 
out of a comic, so he knew it well. It was red, white and blue, the colours 
he planned to have if he ever got a bike, if he ever lived to be eighteen.
  "Snoopy One Two. Are you receiving me?" Ossie realized the words were 
coming from the motorbike. He knew that the Japanese made amazing 
motorbikes, but he didn't know that these days they could make them talk. 
"Brilliant, these Japanese."
  Ossie went nearer, felt the throttle, admired the wheels, moved his hand 
down the body. He almost jumped in the air when the voice spoke again.
  "Look, stop messing around, Snoopy One Two. What the hell are you playing 
at? Roger and out."
  Ossie now saw that it was the motorbike's radio which was blaring away. 
Ossie looked around, but could see no signs of a rider, or of anyone else. 
Very slowly, he picked up the mouthpiece from its little cradle on the 
front of the bike.
  As he did so, a very large and spotty youth dressed all in leather, 
wearing enormous heavy boots, stuck his head out of the pub door.
  "You touch that bike, you little swine," he shouted, "and I'll have you."
  Ossie jumped on his own bike, his BMX, so small that it looked like a toy 
bike by comparison, and rode as fast as he could straight into his 
grandfather's block.
  
  Ossie let himself into his grandfather's flat. For his eleventh birthday, 
he had been given a key ring with three keys on it - for his own front 
door, his grandad's gat and his locker at school. He kept the keys on a 
string round his neck. If he lost them, his mother had warned, it would be 
a hanging offence. 
  "Sorry I'm late, Grandad," said Ossie. "It was. Mum's fault. She made me 
do so many jobs." 
  "I'd given you up for lost," said his grandad. He was sitting in front of 
the gas fire, which he kept on all the year round, watching television. It 
was horse-racing. Grandad was watching with the sound off, as he always 
did. He hated all commentators and experts of any sort.
  "What do you want, anyway?" he grunted. "I've got nothing for you, so 
don't ask."
  "I've come to help you," said Ossie.
  "Help, it's not help I want. A new pair of legs, that's all I need, then 
I'll be off out of this dump."
  Ossie stood waiting, looking round the room. Every Saturday morning he 
was late, sometimes very late, and every Saturday morning he had to put up 
with his grandad's moans.
  Ossie knew it was the old man's way of paying him back for being late. 
Grandad hated unpunctuality, among many other things.
  "Do you want me to go to the shops, Grandad?" 
  "Why?" asked Grandad, changing channels to wrestling, then back again to 
the horse-racing.
  "So you can have food. So you can eat."
  "Oh, bit late to think of that. No point in me eating. I'll be dying 
soon. What's the point of eating? Waste of good food. I hate to see good 
food being wasted. Would you like a bacon sandwich?"
  Ossie had not been listening properly, but at the mention of a bacon 
sandwich he was all attention.
  "Yes, please, Grandad. If you have any."
  "I did have plenty," said his grandad, getting up from his chair and 
going to his little stove. "But I thought you were never coming. I ate most 
of it myself. Oh, you're in luck. Enough for one sandwich only. Sauce?"
  That was another thing Ossie was not allowed at home. HP sauce. In fact 
he was not allowed sauce of any kind.
  Grandad watched with pleasure as Ossie wolfed it all down.
  "That's the stuff. No wonder you're a little skinny-ma-link, with all 
that rabbit food she gives you. Lots of eggs and bacon, that's the stuff to 
put hairs on your chest."
  "I haven't even got a chest," said Ossie. "That's what ..."
  Before he could finish his sentence, Grandad had burst into such 
laughter, spluttering and slapping himself, coughing and choking, that 
Ossie thought he was going to have a heart attack.
  "Not even got ..." spluttered Grandad, "a ... chest ..."
  There were tears rolling down his cheeks. He took out his false teeth (a 
sight which Ossie hated) to help himself breathe, then he put them back in 
again.
  "Right, that's enough from you, boyo," said Grandad, suddenly becoming 
serious. "Here, cop old of this."
  From his pocket, he produced a neatly written list of shopping, a 
five-pound note and a plastic carrier bag.
  "Now off you go. Can't you see I'm trying to watch the racing?"
  
  When Ossie went shopping with his mother, the big shopping which she did 
every two weeks, they went to Tesco and needed a whole trolley to carry all 
their stuff. For his grandad's weekend shopping, all Ossie needed was a 
small wire basket. Even then, the food hardly covered the bottom of the 
basket.
  The supermarket was very near, right next to the pub, and as usual there 
was a huge queue for the one till at the end of the shop. It was all so 
stupid, so Ossie thought, going out shopping. When he was older and could 
afford a proper computer, he would do his own program and order all the 
shopping, just by sitting at home.
  Ossie quickly picked up his grandad's packet of streaky bacon, half a 
dozen eggs, half a pound of butter, half a pound of Cheddar cheese and a 
white loaf, thick-sliced. The order was the same every week.
  Every day of his life, Grandad cooked himself bacon and eggs for 
breakfast. He often ate the same for lunch as well, if the Meals-on-Wheels 
people brought something he thought was revolting, which he did most of the 
time. Sometimes he had bacon and eggs again for his tea. Then, just before 
bed, he had toasted cheese.
  Toasted cheese before bed, Ossie's mother always told him, gave you bad 
dreams. And as for bacon and eggs, every newspaper and magazine agreed that 
they were very bad for you indeed.
  Sometimes, Ossie thought, it would be really good to be old right now.
  "When you're old, you can eat anything you like and no one tells you 
off."
  It seemed to take ages to get to the till. People pushed ahead of him in 
the queue, then kept leaving it for things they had forgotten, each time 
coming back into the queue ahead of Ossie, not going to the end, where he 
thought they should be.
  "That's the worst of being small. People think you don't exist."
  When he did get to the top of the queue, a big fat blonde woman behind 
him got served first. The grumpy shopkeeper behind the till, who was an 
enemy of Ossie's anyway, smiled and said he hadn't seen Ossie hiding below 
the counter.
  "Why don't you grow up a bit quicker?" he said, with a leer on his face.
  "Why don't you drop dead?" replied Ossie, grabbing his change and running 
out of the shop.
  
  "Here you are, Grandad. Got your stuff."
  His grandad was still watching the television. It was now the football 
previews, so Ossie sat down with him.
  "What a load of rubbish," said Ossie. "Gerroff. You don't want to watch 
that rubbish."
  On the screen some Arsenal players were being interviewed. Ossie 
pretended to put his hands over his eyes.
  "I can't watch. Tell me when they've been put down, Grandad."
  Then there was a preview of that afternoon's Spurs' match, so Ossie 
naturally jumped up and cheered everything any Spurs said or did.
  As he and his grandad watched the programme together, they each kept up a 
running commentary, but neither was really talking to the other.
  Grandad suspected and disliked all modern footballers, regardless of 
their team or country. All the way through he shouted out "Big head". Then 
he would click his tongue and shake his head.
  "Publicity. That's all he's doing it for. And the money. Big heads. The 
lot of them."
  Ossie was equally clear-cut in his views. He approved of everything his 
favourite players said or did, which meant everyone who played for Spurs 
and everyone who played for England, unless they happened to come from 
Arsenal. In that case, all he did was boo and jeer.
  After it was over, Grandad pulled out a bag of sweets from the side of 
his chair and gave one to Ossie.
  When he wasn't eating fried bacon and eggs, Grandad was stuffing himself 
with boiled sweets, really hard ones, the sort that almost break your 
teeth. Ossie's mother did not allow these in her house either. Lethal, she 
called them.
  "My mum," said Ossie, "she says that all the good things in life are bad 
for you."
  Grandad appeared to choke on a sweet, but just managed to recover.
  
  "I'll put your stuff away, Grandad," said Ossie, getting up.
  "Don't bother," said Grandad. "I'll manage."
  "No, no, Mum said I should do more to help."
  Ossie went to his grandad's little fridge, which was on a shelf beside 
his draining board, and put away the shopping.
  Grandad was most surprised. Usually Ossie just dumped things down 
anywhere and left them.
  The reason Ossie was so helpful today was that he feared he had broken 
the eggs, running out of the shop in such a hurry. He wanted them put away 
in the fridge before his grandad found out.
  "Anything else then? I'll have to be off. Mum wants me to do some more 
jobs. It's all I ever do. Work, work, work."
  "Here," said his grandad rather gruffly. "I've got something to show you. 
Close your eyes."
  Ossie was suspicious. His grandad often did play nasty tricks on him, 
shoving horrible-tasting things in his mouth when Ossie thought he was 
getting a sweet. He had once bitten through a whole piece of coal, thinking 
it was barley sugar. Grandad had nearly died of laughing.
  "Come with me," said his grandad. "No looking, now."
  Ossie closed his eyes and felt his hand being taken. He was led into the 
hall where Grandad fumbled with the door of his bedroom.
  Grandad allowed nobody near his bedroom, in case the Germans found out 
about it. That was what he told Ossie. Ossie rather liked Germans. After 
England, they were his best football team, though France was also pretty 
good these days. He would quite like to see the German football team 
arriving and going into Grandad's bedroom. That would be something to tell 
all those stupid kids in his class at school.
  "Shush now," said Grandad. "Not a word to anyone."
  
  The sight which met Ossie's eyes was unbelievable. It looked to him like 
a museum: but a mad museum, because things were piled so high on every 
surface that at first there seemed no space even to stand and look.
  He took a while to work out where the bed was. It was pushed into a 
corner and was almost completely covered in bundles of old newspapers, tied 
up with string. There were cases and boxes everywhere, all crammed with 
things, and clothes and objects hung from every wall.
  Grandad had only agreed to come to this Sheltered Housing on condition 
that he could bring his own things. As he had never thrown out a newspaper 
for thirty years, this had proved very difficult. He and Ossie's mother had 
had endless rows about it, but in the end Grandad had managed to bring with 
him the best part of his treasures. 
  "Now don't touch," said Grandad. "I know where everything is."
  "Is it all yours, Grandad? It's amazing."
  "It is," said Grandad. "And when you're eighteen, I might let you have a 
few things. But I'm not promising."
  On some dusty shelves, Ossie could see bundles of old envelopes marked 
"Active Service - Army Privileged Envelope". Some of them were stamped 
"Passed by Censor". There were also some ration books and faded photographs 
of groups of soldiers.
  At the back of a shelf, Ossie was sure he could see a dagger. There was 
even what seemed to be the handle of a pistol, sticking out from a holster. 
They all looked German, perhaps kept from the War. That might be why he 
didn't want the Germans to know.
  "Don't you ever tell anyone about this lot, my lad," said Grandad.
  "No, I won't, Grandad," said Ossie. "Honest." 
  "Right, if you want to have a look around, I'll give you ten minutes. I'm 
going to have some tea. But don't take anything. It's all been counted."
  
  Ossie stood for a long time on his own. The bedroom was very dark and it 
had taken him some time to get properly adjusted to the gloom. The reason 
for the darkness, he now discovered, was that the biggest wardrobe he had 
ever seen had been shoved up against the window.
  "A whole platoon could get inside that," thought Ossie. "Perhaps a whole 
regiment."
  It was made ofvery dark mahogany wood, gleaming and shiny, so that he 
could see his own reflection in it. It was obviously the only piece of 
furniture in the bedroom which his grandfather kept clean and dusted.
  Very carefully, Ossie worked his way across the room, climbing over the 
bed, pushing aside some of the cases, crawling round the boxes. When he got 
beside it, he felt dwarfed. It was like an enormous brown giant towering 
over him.
  "Shall I open it?" thought Ossie. "All he said was not to take anything. 
I won't break anything, just look."
  Ossie slowly opened the wardrobe, then gently he stepped inside. The door 
swung behind him with a creak. He took fright at first, but he waited, 
listened, and then grew braver.
  Through some cracks in the thinner sheets of wood at the back of the 
wardrobe shone strange shafts of light, just enough to make the inside not 
totally black.
  Ossie felt around him. With his hands, he could make out what might be 
uniforms, with badges and decorations on them. Stretching further, he felt 
something very solid and cold, smooth enough to be flesh. He gave a little 
scream.
  "Perhaps it's a body! A dead body. Inside one of the uniforms ..."
  He pressed harder with both hands, then realized he was touching a pair 
of well-polished leather boots, the sort cavalry officers used to wear.
  "Wish I was old enough to be a soldier," thought Ossie. "I could put on 
those boots, right now."
  He began to feel slightly dizzy, overcome by the eerie darkness and by 
the mysterious atmosphere. There was a moisty smell of mothballs mixed with 
old clothes, of leather and polish, and perhaps even (or was he imagining 
it?) of guns and gunpowder.
  "Oh, if only I was eighteen this minute," said Ossie. "Why have I got to 
wait till I'm grown up. I want to be Grown now. And Up there. Big and 
strong. Not small and weedy. Oh, it's not fair." 
  His left hand suddenly touched something smooth and hard, some sort of 
metal. He felt the shape ofit. It seemed like a cross; perhaps it was an 
Iron Cross? Then he felt something jagged and sharp. A bit of shrapnel 
perhaps? And that round thing, it couldn't be a hand-grenade, could it?
  "I'd better get out quick. The police will be after all this lot, not 
just the Germans."
  But Ossie didn't move. After all these years, he decided that nothing 
would start exploding now, or so he hoped.
  He found himself unable to move anyway. It was as if he had been 
hypnotized, standing there in the dark for so long, breathing in all the 
strange smells, excited by the darkness and dankness of the wardrobe, half 
scared by all the dangerous objects, and all the time wishing he was 
eighteen and grown-up, able to try on all the uniforms.
  As he stood there he closed his eyes, holding the Iron Cross with both 
hands. He then began to feel his body trembling. He thought at first it was 
fright, but he no longer felt afraid. It felt more as if his body was 
moving, as if it was expanding, changing of its own accord.
  He opened the door of the wardrobe a few inches, enough to let some light 
in, and quickly looked at himself in the mirror inside the door. He was 
shocked by what he saw. A miraculous transformation had taken place. 
Looking back at him from the mirror was a boy six foot tall, very 
strong-looking and very well built.
  Inside his body, and inside his mind, he still felt like an 
eleven-year-old. He knew where he was, and who he was. But, on the outside, 
he had suddenly moved forward in time and had taken on the form and the 
figure of himself, seven years ahead. Or was he imagining it?
  "Grandad," he shouted. "I think I'll go now." 
  His voice was very deep. He looked around for a moment, wondering where 
it had come from, but he was the only person in the room.
  There was no reply from his grandad. He must be watching television 
again.
  "I'm off," he said, but not too loudly.
  He let himself out of the bedroom, went into the hall, then ran out of 
the block, just as fast as his eighteen-year-old legs could carry him.
    `tc
  2. Ossie andÑ
  the Super Bike
  `tc
  It was still there. Oz stood on the pavement admiring it. It was still as 
gleaming and powerful as it had seemed when he first looked at it. Now that 
he was eighteen, he was at least looking down on it, rather than gazing up 
at it.
  "Very handy, being six foot. It gives you a whole different view on 
life," thought Oz.
  Now, of course, that he was grown-up, he would be called Oz. By everyone. 
He would soon thump anyone who dared to use any silly, childish names or 
nicknames, when he was around.
  "Snoopy One Two, Snoopy One Two. This is an Emergency. Urgent. This is an 
Emergency. Snoopy One Two. "
  Oz looked towards the pub door. He could just faintly see the outline of 
the motorbike rider, who was now slumped against the bar. He was obviously 
not able to ride his bike, not if he had been drinking beer all this time, 
or shorts, or Black and Tans, or Black Ladies. Oz was not quite sure what 
you did drink, once you got to eighteen, but perhaps he would soon find 
out.
  "Snoopy One Two. This is an Emergency."
  Oz picked up the radio receiver and put it to his mouth.
  "One, two, three, testing," said Oz. "Hello, hello. One, two, three, 
testing ..."
  Oz had once heard his scout-master at a scout concert testing the 
microphone. Or was it "Mary Had a Little Lamb" that you recited? He wasn't 
sure.
  "One, two, three, testing ..." began Oz again, but a tremendous buzzing 
noise made him jump.
  "Who the hell's that?" said a very angry voice. 
  "It's Snoopy One Two," said Oz. "Sorry about that. I am receiving you. 
Roger and In ..."
  "About time," said the very angry voice. "Where have you been?"
  "Sorry, I had to help me grandad, I mean this old feller. He had a heart 
attack. I gave him the kiss of life, he's all right now, the police have 
got him, I'll probably get a medal."
  "What the hell are you talking about?"
  "I am receiving you," said Oz. "Ready for Action. Over and out."
  
  Oz stood for a while, looking at the giant motorbike, trying to remember 
all the instruments and controls. Very slowly he put on the enormous crash 
helmet which the rider had left slung over the radio aerial at the back of 
the bike. Then he took it off again.
  The angry voice was still giving messages, but Oz couldn't hear a thing 
with the helmet on. Especially as he had put it on back to front, which 
meant he couldn't see either.
  He replaced it the right way round; now he could hear much better. Then 
he picked up the microphone again.
  "Please repeat message," said Oz. "I missed that. Sorry. Police came back 
to give me my medal. Ready and Out, Roger ..."
  "Look stop messing about, Snoopy One Two. You have to go at once to 149 
Park Road and pick up an urgent package. Is that clear?"
  "Message received," said Oz, putting the receiver back on its holder. He 
quickly tied up his helmet and looked for the key. Luckily, it had been 
left in the ignition.
  Oz wished he had spent longer studying the photograph in his bedroom. He 
knew the right hand was the throttle and the left was the clutch. At his 
right foot was the brake and at his left foot the gears. But could he work 
them all together? 
  He stood for some time revving up the engine, to get the feel of the 
controls. The engine grew noisier and noisier, though Oz could not hear the 
worst of it through his helmet. He had never realized helmets were so large 
and effective. He felt like a space man. And with the enormous, powerful, 
urgent monster between his legs, he felt as if he was sitting on a space 
rocket.
  At last, with an enormous roar, Oz managed to slip into gear, turn up the 
throttle, and then whoosh, he was off.
  Broom, broom, broom!
  
  Oz had set off so quickly that he did not have time to think about 
steering.
  The monster motorbike roared straight ahead and before Oz could stop it, 
it had mounted the pavement and was through the front door of the 
supermarket, the one where Oz had gone to do his grandfather's shopping.
  "Clear the way!" shouted Oz, going down the main aisle. "Urgent business! 
Clear the way."
  The queue, as ever, was very long, but all the customers made a dash for 
the wall, throwing themselves against it for protection.
  The grumpy man on the till looked terrified and crouched on the floor. As 
Oz roared past him, he put out his hand and pressed all the buttons on his 
till at once, ringing up several hundred pounds.
  Oz used his foot to slow himself down, looking for the other door of the 
shop, which he knew was somewhere at the back, and as he did so his foot 
caught the bottom row of some large-size packets of Automatic Persil. The 
whole pile immediately started crashing down.
  The grumpy shopkeeper lifted his head above the till, groaned, then 
disappeared again.
  "Serves him right," thought Oz to himself. "If he was kinder to 
eleven-year-olds, eighteen-year-olds might be kinder to him."
  Oz managed to turn the front wheel and just missed plunging straight into 
the largest deep freeze, which could have been uncomfortable. Even with his 
crash helmet on.
  "What are you looking for?" said a little girl of about ten, one of 
Lucy's friends, as Oz came to a stop.
  "Streaky bacon," said Oz. "I always go like a blue streak, when I'm 
looking for streaky bacon."
  "Is this some sort of promotional stunt?" said an old man, coming up.
  "This week's Special Offer," said Oz. "Buy me and ride one."
  Oz got the Suzuki started again, roared round the counters, slowed down 
at the cakes to put a rum baba in his mouth, then he found the side door 
and zoomed into the shop's back yard, scattering piles of empty boxes and 
crates. He speeded round the yard a few times, then crashed through an old 
wooden back door into the main road again.
  
  Oz roared along a dual carriage-way at about fifty miles an hour. He was 
at last getting the hang of the controls. At roundabouts, he was enjoying 
creeping up beside cars on the inside, then sneakily getting ahead, leaving 
them behind.
  "Here comes Oz! Watch out everybody!"
  At traffic lights he hardly ever had to stop, roaring down the outside of 
the long lines of waiting cars, getting away first just as the lights 
changed, sometimes without even having to change gear.
  "Here comes Oz! The Wizard on the Bike!"
  There was an equally fast-looking motorbike ahead of him, painted white, 
by the look of it, though Oz's helmet was now slipping a bit and his vision 
was not as good as it should have been. Oz accelerated to catch up.
  "Here he comes! The Wizard of Oz!"
  Oz had done quite a few miles by now, some of them very quickly, and he 
felt confident enough to give this other bike a bit of a race.
  "Zoom, zoom!" said Oz, as he opened the throttle. "Broom, broom!"
  As he came alongside the other motorbike, he noticed that it too had a 
long aerial. It must be a motorbike messenger as well, thought Oz.
  Oz gave the rider a wave.
  "I'm Snoopy One Two," he shouted. "But you can call me Oz."
  Oz looked back at the side of the bike to see what firm it belonged to. 
The name seemed to begin with the letter P. He had whizzed past so quickly 
that he hadn't looked properly, so he slowed down to let it catch up with 
him. 
  He then noticed that on the side of the white motorbike was written the 
word Police.
  "Snoopy One Two. Where the hell are you?"
  Oz had forgotten he was supposed to be on an urgent call. He stopped and 
picked up the receiver.
  "Don't mess around with me, my lad," said the policeman. He had got off 
his white motorbike and was standing beside Oz, getting out his notebook.
  "Sorry, Officer," said Oz, "Your Worship. But it's an emergency, honest. 
Had to go as fast as possible. The boss told me."
  "How old are you?" said the policeman. "And where's your licence?"
  "Snoopy One Two," crackled the voice on the receiver. "Downing Street is 
waiting for you. They're going mad. Over and out."
  The policeman stopped, looking rather puzzled. So was Oz, but he tried 
not to show it.
  "Snoopy One Two reporting," said Oz, picking up the microphone, looking 
as important and as professional as he could.
  "That wretched parcel is for the Prime Minister," shouted the voice. "She 
left it yesterday at Brookfield School. You've got to get it on the #12#/45 
London train, so get a bloody move on, Snoopy One Two. Roger and out."
  Oz smiled, putting the receiver back on its holder. The policeman's 
expression had changed completely.
  "Sorry about the bad language, Officer," said Oz. "They do get a bit 
over-excited at times, at headquarters. But as you heard, it is for the PM. 
So if you don't mind, I'd better ..."
  "That's right," said the officer. "She was at Brookfield School 
yesterday. She must have left something. Oh well then, you'd better get 
along, son. But don't go too fast."
  "Thank you, Officer," said Oz, jumping on his bike again, roaring away, 
but sticking to the speed limit this time. Just in case.
  "I should have realized," thought Oz as he roared along the main road. 
"Number One Four Nine Park Road. That's next door to Brookfield. My old 
school. It must be the number of Miss Henn's house."
  Now that he knew exactly where he was going, Oz took a few short cuts and 
rode into the playground by a back entrance. It was playtime and he was 
immediately surrounded by a crowd of kids. He recognized most of them.
  "Give us a ride," said one of them. 
  "Can you do any tricks?" said another.
  "Come on, mister, let's talk into your machine."
  Oz was busy showing off, explaining a few of the instruments, when across 
the playground he could see Miss Henn, dashing out of her private gate and 
rushing towards him.
  "Where on earth have you been?" she screamed at him. "I've been waiting 
ages. This is rather vital, you know."
  Oz got off his bike and stood up properly. Miss Henn had always been a 
very bossy headmistress and he had been rather scared of her not so very 
long ago. He was worried now she might tell him off for something, just as 
in the old days.
  "Sorry, Miss," said Oz. "I know I should have brought a note from my mum 
to say why I was late ..."
  "What on earth are you talking about?"
  She looked into Oz's face. He was sure she was going to recognize him, 
but with his helmet on he did look rather different. And of course he was 
now six feet tall.
  "Look here, the Prime Minister forgot this yesterday when she was opening 
the new wing. I think it's her handbag. Take great care of it."
  "Is that all?" said Oz. "All that fuss for a titchy parcel."
  "It is frightfully important," said Miss Henn. "It has to be on the 
twelve forty-five London train. You do know where the station is, don't 
you?" 
  "Course I do," said Oz. "Been there lots of times train-spotting."
  "At your age!" said Miss Henn.
  "No, I mean when I was eleven. Yonks ago."
  Oz took the parcel and roared off in the direction of the station. It was 
by now #12#/35. He had only ten minutes to get there, so he opened the 
throttle as far as it would go and was very soon touching seventy miles an 
hour as he roared down the main road.
  He had to slow down a bit when he got near the station, to about fifty, 
but he was still going very fast and people turned to stare at him, shaking 
their heads and waving their fists at him. Oz waved back.
  He thought they were congratulating him on his riding.
  "Hold on, train," he shouted. "Here comes Oz! Broom, broom, broom."
  
  Oz rode straight into the station entrance and right through the barrier. 
The London train was already on the far platform.
  "Here, where's your ticket?" shouted the ticket collector, so surprised 
he had let Oz go straight through.
  "You can't ride a bike in here," shouted a porter.
  Life and death, mate," said Oz, dodging through the trolleys and zooming 
over a bridge.
  "Parcel for the PM. They're waiting for it at Euston. Secret Service. MI 
5. KGB. BBC. RSPCA."
  The whistle went, the doors were being closed, and it was obvious that 
the train was about to start.
  "This is the London train?" Oz asked a rather startled woman, waving 
farewell from a window.
  "Just you stay there, my lad," said a railway inspector, shouting at him 
from across the track. "We've had enough of hooligans like you."
  Oz rewed up the engine and roared along the platform, knocking over piles 
of luggage and setting free several trolleys which began to roll along the 
platform.
  The train set off slowly, but Oz quickly caught it up, thanks to his 
super Suzuki GS 1000.
  At the back of the train a guard was leaning out of the window. As Oz 
roared alongside, he shoved the parcel into the guard's hand.
  "Here you are, mate," said the Oz. "For the PM, personal. To be picked up 
at Euston. Keep it safe. Cheers."
  As Oz handed over the parcel, he found he had come to the end of the 
platform. Oz nearly fell off, but he managed to brake just in time. Then he 
and the giant bike slithered down a ramp and skidded into some cinders 
beside the track. There was a lot of crackling and screeching from the 
radio at the back of his bike but Oz ignored it.
  "That was lucky," he said, putting the bike straight and dusting the 
cinders from his clothes. "I don't think I would have liked to ride all the 
way to London on the railway track. Would have been a bit bumpy. And a bit 
hairy ..."
  Over his shoulder, he could see and hear various railway officials 
yelling at him to come back.
  To his left were some coal heaps in a sort of coal marshalling yard. Oz 
turned the bike and roared into the yard, then out of a gate at the other 
side.
  "Another job well done," said Oz. "I bet I'm the best messenger boy they 
ever had."
  
  On the way back to his estate, Oz slowed down slightly, as he was of 
course in a built-up area, with a 30 mph speed limit. He was now so 
confident that he was trying a few extra tricks, such as standing up as he 
rode the bike.
  He noticed a familiar figure walking along the pavement, a rather fat, 
tubby, serious-looking girl with spectacles.
  "Wanna lift?" he said to her.
  It was Flossie Teacake.
  "I don't take lifts from strangers."
  "How can I be a stranger," said Oz, "when I know you're called Flossie 
Teacake and you're in Miss Turkey's class at school and you've a brother 
and sister and you live near a very clever, very strong, very intelligent 
boy called Ossie Osgood."
  Flossie stopped in amazement. "How do you know all that?"
  "Jump on," said Oz. "I'll drop you off at your house. I know a short cut 
down this lane. I won't go too fast."
  So Flossie got on. Oz deliberately made as much noise as he could, 
revving up the engine. Flossie held on tightly, her arms round Oz.
  The ride to her home only took a few minutes and then she was in no hurry 
to get off.
  "God, it's an amazing bike," she said, climbing down. "And you ride it so 
well."
  "Easy, when you know how," said Oz.
  Her father had been digging in the front garden as they roared up. "What 
are you doing on that bike, Flossie? You haven't even got a crash helmet 
on. Whose is it anyway ..."
  "Got to rush," said Oz. "More emergency parcels to deliver. I dunno. Some 
of these dads are so stupid ..."
  
  Oz left the motorbike outside the pub, just where he had found it. The 
real rider still seemed to be inside. Oz thought about telling him what he 
had done.
  "I've probably saved his job, doing that emergency delivery for him."
  But he decided against it. It was now almost one o'clock. Oz would have 
to get home in time for lunch, or his mother would wonder where he was. But 
first he had to change back to Ossie again. If he could. He only hoped that 
going back into the wardrobe would do the trick.
  He took off the helmet, hooked it over the radio aerial, then went into 
his grandfather's block, letting himself in with his own key ...
  Very quietly and carefully, walking on tiptoe, he listened for his 
grandfather. He could hear the television still blaring away. He slipped 
into the bedroom, went over to the wardrobe and stepped inside, letting the 
door close gently behind him. He felt for the Iron Cross and the other 
objects, wondering if it would work, if the magic would operate in reverse.
  He now wanted to be eleven years old once again, so he stood there, his 
eyes closed, his hands clenched, wishing and wishing, till he felt his body 
beginning to tremble.
  When he stepped out, he was Ossie again.
  "What have you got up your jumper?" said his mother as Ossie came into 
the house, leaving his BMX in the hall.
  "Nothing; Mum."
  "Don't be silly, I saw the bulge."
  "Just comics. That's all. Grandad gave me some, money for doing his 
shopping, so I bought some new ones."
  "As if you haven't got enough."
  "I can never get enough comics," said Ossie.
  "I hope you haven't been riding your bike carrying all those comics like 
that."
  "Course not," said Ossie. "I never do dangerous things on bikes. What's 
for lunch? I'm starving ..."
    `tc
  3. Ossie the Strong Man
  `tc
  Miss Turkey, Ossie's form teacher, told the class that she would have to 
leave them five minutes early. There was something she had to do in the 
staff room. She wanted them to be quiet; then when the bell rang, they had 
to go out to play in an orderly fashion. Was that clear?
  "Right," said Flossie, the moment the classroom door was closed. "You are 
the last one left."
  Ossie was sitting at his table, which he shared with six other boys and 
girls, trying to do some Maths, at least thinking about doing some Maths, 
looking at his smile work card but unable to understand what he was 
supposed to do.
  "Ouch, gerroff," shouted Ossie.
  His arm had been grabbed by Flossie. She was sitting on his left while 
Desmond was on his right.
  "Come on," said Flossie. "It's your turn."
  "I don't need your rotten help," said Ossie. "I can do these stupid cards 
on my own."
  "Put your arm straight," said Flossie. "Don't cheat."
  Flossie had rolled up her ample sleeve, to reveal her ample arm. There 
were no actual muscles, but masses of solid fat.
  "All I've got is masses of solid thin," thought Ossie, resigned to the 
inevitable, slowly rolling up his jumper to expose his matchstick arm.
  He had not realized at first that it was arm wrestling. All that week, 
Flossie had taken on and beaten every boy and girl in their class. So far, 
Ossie had escaped her notice.
  It had been the same at primary school. At least six girls in Ossie's 
class had been bigger and stronger, as well as cleverer, than Ossie. He had 
thought at secondary school things would change. His mother had promised 
him a spurt, whatever that was. Perhaps she would get him a spurt for 
Christmas.
  "Right," said Dez, being bossy. "I'll time you." 
  Dez took off his watch and said he would give them ten seconds using 
their right arms, then ten seconds using their left arms.
  "I've got a broken arm," said Ossie. "This one 'ere. Oh, it's agony. And 
me left arm has got a virus and the doctor said I hadn't to use it till 
they do an X-ray at the hospital ..."
  "They'd need a microscope, not an X-ray on your arm," said Flossie. "Just 
to find it."
  In five seconds, she had forced his right arm flat. They changed to left 
arms, and that took only two seconds.
  "There, I told you," said Ossie. "That's my virus arm. I just let you 
win, Flossie Teacake. I just let you win both."
  Ossie trailed off his sentence, rather mournfully. Flossie by this time 
had gone back to her smile card, finishing another problem with absolute 
ease.
  Then the bell went, and Miss Turkey's class quietly went out to play.
  
  "Fight! Fight! Fight!"
  The chant soon went up right round the playground. Children miles away, 
getting on with their own little games, or standing talking to each other, 
or in some cases just standing, they stopped whatever they had been doing 
and they all started rushing across the playground, drawn by those exciting 
words.
  "Fight! Fight! Fight!"
  Boys as well as girls were pushing and shoving, trying to get the best 
view, all laughing and cheering, though not quite sure who or what or why 
they were laughing and cheering. It was being part of the crowd that was 
good fun. In a playground fight the onlookers have a part to play, all 
actors in the same show.
  Ossie was in the bike sheds, swapping some Beanos with Dez. They were 
making so much noise, squabbling over prices, arguing over who owned which, 
that at first they didn't realize a fight had started at the far end of the 
playground.
  "Just ignore it," said Ossie. "Come on, I'll swap you two new Eagles for 
that old Dandy."
  "Yeah," said Dez. "'Member last week it was all over by the time we got 
there."
  "That wasn't a fight anyway," said Ossie. "Just some stupid second-year 
girls pretending there was a fight, just to get us running."
  "No, it wasn't," said Dez. "It was a real bundle. It was that third-year 
kid Hawkins. I saw him in the afternoon wif a bleeding nose. It was a 
really good fight."
  A group of sixth formers, all of them enormous, some even with 
moustaches, raced past, leaving their football game in the Big Playground.
  Younger kids were never allowed near this stretch, or they got thumped. 
Usually, sixth formers carried on playing whenever there was a fight. They 
had seen it all. Just another silly fight. Who cares. Pass the ball.
  "Come on, let's go," said Ossie. "It must be a mass fight."
  He and Dez grabbed their comics from the ground, shoving them inside 
their parkers.
  It looked to Ossie as though Dez had picked up some of Ossie's comics, 
but perhaps he had just imagined it. They were both in such a rush.
  "Fight! Fight! Fight!" they both shouted as they ran across the 
playground, pushing each other and making angry faces, holding up their 
clenched fists, as if they themselves were in a fight.
  That's what you did, even if you were just watching. You pretended to be 
lashing out at all your friends, just as a giggle, grabbing arms as if you 
were going to break them, squaring up jaw to jaw, then you burst out 
laughing and stopped.
  Ossie and Dez wormed their way through the legs and under the bodies. 
That was about the only advantage of being small and weedy, thought Ossie. 
In a big crowd, you could always edge in, though you stood a chance of 
someone accidentally standing on you, or deliberately kicking you, or 
either accidentally or deliberately bashing you on the head with their 
plastic carrier bags. 
  Ossie had arrived at school on his first day with a brand new leather 
briefcase which his mother had bought him.
  Now, he was trying as hard as possible to ruin it, to make it as scruffy 
and worn as possible. His mother insisted each day he had to take it, much 
to his fury. The older forms usually carried their things in sports bags. 
But the sixth form, the giants at the top of the school, they all carried 
plastic carrier bags, the sort you get at supermarkets. Ossie could not 
quite work this out, but he had already felt a few of the bags round his 
ear and knew they could be quite dangerous, if you happened to get in the 
way.
  "Wish I was bigger," thought Ossie. "When you're big, then other kids 
have to get out of your way. Or you make them. Must be really good, being 
eighteen and in the sixth form."
  
  Ossie and Dez were working their way so quickly through the crowd, 
crawling on their hands and knees, that they must have lost their sense of 
direction, or been pushed the wrong way. They suddenly found themselves 
catapulted into fresh air again. That at least was some small relief.
  "What a pong in there," said Ossie. "Did you smell all those trainers?"
  "I thought it was you," said Dez.
  Ossie gave him a punch, then they both turned round and pushed back into 
the throng, hoping this time to find a way to the epicentre of the little 
earthquake known as a playground fight.
  "Hope it's fourth years," said Ossie.
  "Yeh," said Dez. "They're the hard men, the fourth years."
  "Must be," said Ossie. "Be over by now, if it was just first years. I 
hope it's that punky one, with the orange hair."
  "Or that headbanger in the leather, the one who stands at the front 
gate."
  Ossie was rather frightened by both of these boys and made a point of 
never going through the front gate if he saw them around. They usually did 
stand there, all the hard men, waiting for the girls.
  "Boo! Boo! Boo!"
  The shouts of "Fight! Fight! Fight!" had suddenly turned to booing, just 
as Ossie and Dez had finally worked their way to the middle of the circle 
and were within touching distance of the actual combatants.
  Ossie was sure he could see real blood on the ground, but at that moment 
the crowd began to collapse, people backed away, the two fighters were 
picking up their things, wiping their clothes, feeling their bruises.
  "Boo! Boo! Boo!"
  Three teachers had arrived and were quickly breaking up the crowds, 
grabbing several kids by the scruff of their collars and hauling them 
forcibly out of the way.
  Ossie recognized one of them as Mr Bott, a PE teacher he didn't like. He 
also noticed that it was the smaller kids they were pulling out of the way, 
not any of the hard men from the fourth years.
  "Boo! Boo! Boo! " shouted Ossie and Dez at the teachers, though from a 
distance, careful not to be seen.
  It was quite fun, after a fight was over, when everyone joined in 
shouting "Boo! Boo! Boo!"
  Not quite as good, though, as shouting "Fight! Fight! Fight!"
  
  "That was your fault, Ossie," said Dez.
  They were back in the bike sheds, getting out their comics again.
  "Rubbish," said Ossie.
  "If you had gone when I said, we would of seen that fight."
  "Get lost," said Ossie.
  "You was scared anyway. You was scared of the fight. I seen you."
  Dez was only an inch taller than Ossie, but he was rather better built. 
Almost anyone in the whole world, Ossie thought, was better built than he 
was.
  "Anyways," said Ossie, "that's my comic. You pinched it. I saw you."
  "No, I didn't," said Dez. "It's mine."
  "Liar."
  Ossie grabbed it and pointed to the pencil mark in the top right-hand 
corner.
  "Look, number sixty-nine. That's my number. See. Proves it."
  "So what," said Dez. "I live at sixty-nine as well."
  "No, you don't."
  "Yes, I do."
  "No, you don't."
  "Prove it. "
  Ossie had never been to Dez's house. Dez lived in a big block of flats, 
but Ossie wasn't sure where. He had been to nobody's house so far, nor had 
anyone from his new school come to his house.
  There was silence for a while, as Ossie angrily picked up the comics that 
were his, the ones Dez agreed belonged to him, but he was still convinced 
Dez had taken three which were really his property.
  "You get on my bleeding nerves," said Ossie.
  "Get lost," said Dez.
  Ossie was standing up slowly, as if going away, then he suddenly bent 
down and tried to grab the three comics. Dez was just as quick and held 
Ossie by the arm.
  "Wanna fight, eh," said Dez.
  "I just want my comics," said Ossie. "Thief."
  "Right, that's it," said Dez. "You asked for it."
  "Oh, get lost," said Ossie.
  Ossie didn't want a fight. He had never had one in all his primary school 
years, and hoped he never would.
  With his physique, there was really no point.
  
  "Fight! Fight! Fight!"
  Once again, the shout went round the playground, though this time the 
roars and noise were not quite so deep or intense. Most people realized the 
fight was in the bike sheds. That was where the little kids, the first 
years, usually congregated, out of the way of the big lads. All the same, 
there were soon enough people shouting. A fight, after all, was a fight.
  Ossie and Dez had taken their parkers off. Ossie wasn't sure why, but as 
Dez had done so, he was forced to do the same.
  Several bigger kids had appeared on the scene, as if from nowhere, and 
had quickly taken over Ossie's and Dez's coats and were urging them on, 
pushing them against each other.
  Ossie could already feel his asthma coming on. It usually did if he got 
over-excited, but as he held up his fists and tightened his muscles, which 
made no difference to their size but did make the muscles feel tighter, his 
spirit at least felt slightly stronger, even if his body was not.
  He could sense Dez backing off. Perhaps he looked quite fearsome, now 
that there was no retreat. He was willing himself to be strong, even if 
physically he could never manage it. He knew from experience, when he had 
rows with Lucy, that if you looked fierce, as if you meant it, that was the 
battle half won.
  They moved round in circles for a while, each keeping their distance. The 
crowd was yelling them on, though a lot were laughing and jeering, making 
fun of little Ossie.
  "I'd rather watch girls fighting," said two fourth years, moving away 
again.
  Dez gave a quick punch. It was not a particularly hard one, almost a 
shadow punch, but it caught Ossie in the pit of his stomach. He thought he 
was going to stop breathing and his body seemed to double up.
  He could sense Dez coming in ago, so he grabbed hold of him like a 
frightened cat and held on, digging his nails into Dez's neck, yelling and 
shouting, pinning him with his arms so that Dez couldn't hit him any more.
  "Boo! Boo! Boo!"
  The teachers arrived very quickly as there had been no time to return to 
the staff room. The fight had only lasted thirty seconds, though to Ossie 
it had seemed like hours.
  "I won," said Ossie, staggering away, blood coming from his nose.
  "I won," said Dez, holding his neck as if it had been broken.
  
  Ossie felt rotten for the rest of the morning at school, but not rotten 
enough to go home. He knew his mother would be at work all morning. Not 
much fun coming home with tales of woe if there was nobody to tell them to.
  But after school dinner he went to see the school nurse, displayed his 
bruises, managed a few asthmatic wheezes, and was sent home.
  
  "Right," said his mother, drawing the curtains. "I want you to have a 
nice sleep this afternoon."
  "Can I have a drink?" said Ossie. "Any Coke?"
  "Certainly not," said his mother. "Someone too ill for school is too ill 
to drink Coke."
  "My comics," said Ossie, giving another wheeze.
  "Put them near, just in case I don't sleep."
  "Just you try to sleep first," said his mother. "I'll make sure Lucy 
doesn't disturb you when she comes home, then we'll all have a nice supper 
together. If you're feeling better."
  It was lucky having his mother doing only a part-time job, though now and 
again she was called in to do afternoons as well, if there were 
emergencies. She taught at the primary school Ossie used to go to. She was 
a Point Five teacher. Ossie used to think it meant that only half of her 
went to school each day. That was when he was little. Even littler than he 
was now.
  "I'll pop round to the shop and get you some new comics," she said. "But 
I won't give you them till this evening. If you feel up to it."
  "Thanks, Mum," said Ossie.
  He might scream at her, call her a stupid old woman, but now and again 
mothers did have their uses, when you felt rotten.
  
  Ossie woke up. He looked at his digital watch, pressing the button to 
light it, but it didn't work. Stupid watch.
  He felt as if he had been asleep for hours, though his head was a bit 
sore, and so were his arms. He pulled his arms out of the blankets 
carefully. They looked even smaller and more fragile than ever.
  "If only I could trade them in for a better pair," he thought.
  With computers and videos, bikes and training shoes, there were new and 
improved models coming out every year, sometimes every month, or so it 
seemed.
  "They should do that with arms," thought Ossie. "And legs. Fact, I could 
do with a completely new body. Fed up with this old skinny one. That would 
be a really good special offer for the soap packets. Who wants those stupid 
old rail ackets."
  Ossie loved all special offers, free trials and competitions. He had 
beside his bed a little pile of rail vouchers, which he had carefully sent 
for and collected. But never used. Ossie never went anywhere.
  One of these days he would be ready, with his free rail tickets, to go 
right round the world.
  "But I know what'll happen. They'll have changed the rules by then. Or 
given up using trains."
  His eyes had become more used to the semi-dark and he picked up his watch 
again. It was ten past two. He had slept for only ten minutes.
  "When I was on that motorbike," he thought to himself, "I had huge arms 
then. And a huge body. And huge legs. But you do, when you're grown up. 
That was really excellent."
  Ossie lay back, thinking hard. Had he just imagined it? Could it really 
have happened? What sort of magic had been in the wardrobe that day to make 
the strange transformation?
  "I bet it'll never happen again. Just my bad luck. Not much point trying 
anyway. Not with this rotten wheezy chest."
  Ossie tried a few of his special breathing exercises, ones he had made up 
for himself, when he tried to talk himself into thinking he was better, and 
it did seem as if his asthma was beginning to disappear.
  "Afternoon school will just be starting," thought Ossie. "What am I going 
to do here? It's so boring lying in bed."
  His asthma had now gone. At least for a while. When he really was 
eighteen, so his mother had promised him, then it would go completely. He 
would grow out of it, so she said.
  "At eighteen, it seems to me I'll grow out of everything. This rotten 
body, this wheezy chest. I'll grow into somebody new. So they all say. I 
don't really believe it will ever happen."
  He looked at his watch. It was now twelve minutes past two.
  "I know, I'll go and see Grandad ..."
  
  Ossie could hear his grandad snoring in the next room, sitting in his 
armchair, having his afternoon rest. The television was still on, but very 
low.
  He gently went into the bedroom, climbed over all Grandad's treasures and 
opened the wardrobe.
  Very slowly Ossie stepped inside, letting the door swing back behind him. 
At once, he was in a strange world where there seemed to be no time and 
only infinite space.
  Ossie closed his eyes and wished and wished that he could be grown up 
now, an eighteen-year-old, big enough and old enough to be in the sixth 
form. 
  He stepped out of the wardrobe, wondering if it would still work. His 
body had seemed to shake and shiver, but he wasn't sure if he had just 
imagined it. Something mysterious had happened the first time, but would it 
always be the same?
  He looked at himself in the mirror. There was Oz. So tall and strong, so 
different in so many ways, but in his eyes he could see his real self, 
smiling knowingly.
  In the mirror, he noticed a sort of darkness on his upper lip. He felt it 
carefully. It was rather feathery, almost hairy. What on earth could it be?
  "Don't say I'll have to start shaving, just 'cos I've become eighteen. 
Oh, what a drag ..."
  
  Oz ran all the way to school. He could see sights which were normally 
hidden from him. Now that he was six foot, he could look over walls and 
over hedges, straight into people's lives.
  He saw dads who worked night shifts, or who had no work at all, sitting 
slumped in armchairs, green shadows flickering on the walls behind them, 
showing they were lost in afternoon television. He saw fourth-year boys he 
knew should be at school, playing snooker and smoking with their friends. 
He heard fourth-year girls, who should also have been at school, sitting in 
upstairs bedrooms, the windows wide open, playing very loud pop music and 
shouting rude remarks at each other.
  He saw silhouettes of silent mothers, sitting at polished dining tables. 
Beside them, in their high chairs, were fat babies, having their afternoon 
feeds. Even without stretching, Oz could almost taste the spoonfuls of 
sticky, gooey food going off in the direction of each high chair.
  "I'm glad I'm not eating that baby muck," thought Oz. "Or even any 
eleven-year-old muck. I wonder what muck eighteen-year-olds eat?"
  Oz ran faster and faster, which was quite easy, without at all getting 
out of breath. He had on very tight but faded Levi jeans, expensive Nike 
training shoes and a grey Benetton top, just like any normal sixth former.
  When you become eighteen, however suddenly, you must always dress the 
part.
  "Hi," said Oz very cheerfully to several sixth-form boys and girls as he 
passed them in the corridor.
  Only one said "Hi" back. The rest grunted. Oz made a mental note to grunt 
from now on.
  He was looking for the sixth-form common room, the room especially 
reserved for sixth-form boys and girls. He had never been in it before.
  Normally, he would be frightened just to meet them in the corridors. It 
was impossible to tell which were sixth formers and which were staff. The 
staff, on the whole, wore scruffier and older clothes. That was about the 
only difference.
  He hesitated at the door. Two girls came up behind him, pushed ahead and 
went in. He had noticed this about sixth-form girls. They never waited for 
anyone or anything. They just went right ahead. And if you gave them cheek, 
as he and Dez sometimes did, they would often run after you and belt you.
  "Just what we want," said one girl with pink hair as soon as Oz entered 
the room.
  "What?" said Oz.
  He was looking around, wondering who she was talking to.
  "We've got to move this stuff for the disco. Give us a hand, will you? 
We're knackered."
  Oz was about to walk out again. Two girls were struggling with three or 
four battered couches and chairs which they were trying to move to the side 
of the room.
  With one hand, he gave the smallest armchair a gentle push, and at once 
it slid right across the floor. He could hardly believe his eyes. Perhaps 
it had wheels. He then bodily picked up a couch, just like that, and 
carried it all the way to the wall.
  In just a few minutes he had moved every piece of furniture so that the 
middle of the room was completely clear. He then moved a heavy table from 
the end of the room to the doorway. The girls said they wanted it there so 
they could collect the tickets.
  "My hero," they all said. "Which tutor group are you in?"
  "Miss Turkey's," said Oz, without thinking.
  "I thought she only took first years," said one of the girls.
  "Actually, I take them," said Oz. "But don't tell everyone."
  "Are you in my Maths set?" said another girl, looking at him carefully. 
"You do look familiar."
  "Gotta go now," said Oz, moving to the door.
  "You will come to the disco, won't you?" said a girl.
  "Yes," said another. "We need some hunky men tonight."
  As he left the common room, Oz could still hear them laughing.
  "I didn't know eighteen-year-old boys could cause such amusement," 
thought Oz, rather pleased with himself.
  
  There were sounds of angry shouting as Oz walked past the school swimming 
pool. He looked in and saw that Mr Bott, head ofPE, was taking a class. As 
usual, he was being horrid to all the little first years, banging them on 
the head with a huge pole which he used whenever they did anything wrong.
  "I wish I could swim properly," thought Oz. "Must be really good."
  As an eleven-year-old, he had been excused swimming. His mother gave him 
a note every week, saying he had asthma. His breathing was not up to it. 
But this was partly because he was scared of being hit over the head with 
Mr Bott's pole.
  Mr Bott was screaming at some girl who was resting at the far end, 
telling her to hurry up and do another length. He was shouting so much that 
he slipped and only just managed to stop himself falling into the water. Oz 
burst out laughing.
  "What are you grinning at, boy?" shouted Mr Bott.
  "Nothing, sir," said Oz, beginning to quake like a little first year. 
Then he realized that as a huge six footer, a massive sixth former, now 
taller than old Botty, he had no need to be scared.
  "If you're so clever," shouted Mr Bott, "get undressed and show these 
ignoramuses how to swim."
  "Fine," said Oz, surprised at his own voice, not just its depth but his 
confidence. "No problem."
  Botty threw him a spare costume and Oz quickly went into a cubicle and 
got undressed.
  A few moments later, Oz stood at the far end, ready to dive. But would he 
be able to swim? Oz suddenly had a few doubts.
  "Come on, laddie," shouted Botty. "I thought you were going to let this 
shower see how it's done."
  Oz paused for a few moments, then he closed his eyes and dived.
  All the first years stopped practising in order to watch. So did Mr Bott, 
leaning right over the pool, ready to criticize.
  There was no sign of Oz. He seemed to have disappeared. Mr Bott stared 
harder into the deep end, wondering if this sixth former, whom he hadn't 
quite recognized anyway, had hit his head by doing such a flash racing dive 
at the shallow end.
  Suddenly Oz emerged, having swum the whole length of the bath under 
water, an amazing feat, which few people in the whole school could ever 
hope to match. He threw his arms up in the air, catching Mr Bott by 
surprise, and completely soaked him. This time, Mr Bott did slip, falling 
straight into the pool. His track suit immediately filled with water and he 
sank.
  "Now children," said Oz. This is a very good example of life-saving. 
Jolly kind of Mr Bott to help us in this demonstration. Watch carefully and 
I'm sure you will all get your bronze medals."
  Oz took the long pole from the side of the pool and hooked Mr Bott with 
it, grabbing him by the back of his track-suit top. Then lying on his back, 
holding the pole, Oz did a magnificent back crawl right up the pool, 
dragging Mr Bott behind him.
  The whole class cheered. Oz felt so strong and powerful. He felt he could 
have done twenty lengths, and very quickly, but he didn't want to go too 
fast. Mr Bott did seem to be struggling a lot.
  At the deep end, Oz unhooked him and then helped him out ofthe water. Mr 
Bott lay on the side, choking and spluttering.
  "No, don't thank me," said Oz, as he went to get changed. "No problem. By 
the way, Mr Bott, have you ever thought of taking up synchronized 
swimming?"
  
  Oz thought he would just have a quick look in his own class room, form 
IM, to see what was happening, though he wondered what he might say to Miss 
Turkey. Would she recognize him, he wondered?
  He opened the door slowly, but she wasn't there. At once all the class 
started yelling at him.
  "You a prefect?" said Desmond.
  "You come to take us, sir?" said Flossie.
  "You a teacher?" said another girl.
  "No, he ain't," said Desmond. "He's just a stupid sixth former. I know 
him."
  "Please sit down, everyone," said Oz, going to Miss Turkey's desk.
  "We always stand up," said Desmond. "Miss says we can stand up if we 
like."
  "I said sit down," said Oz.
  "I know your face," said Desmond.
  "I always wear it," said Oz. "That's why you know it. Now sit down. I 
think we'll do Maths this afternoon, really hard stuff."
  "Oh, no," said Desmond. "Not boring old Maths."
  Desmond and another boy were still standing at the front, very cheeky and 
defiant.
  Oz looked at them carefully. Then in one movement he pounced and grabbed 
each one by the back of his jumper before they realized what had happened. 
Oz hoisted them clean off the ground and held them up in the air. He 
carried them across the classroom and then, from quite, a height, he 
dropped each of them in his place.
  They had both been yelling and moaning while being carried, but the 
breath was knocked out of them as they landed. They slumped in their 
chairs, holding their bottoms. This time, they were very quiet indeed.
  "Thank you very much," said Miss Turkey coming into the room. "I got 
detained in the staff room. Very kind of you."
  "A pleasure," said Oz. "They were playing up a bit when I passed, but I 
soon settled them."
  "Yes, one or two of them are rather unruly. Are you Upper Sixth or Lower 
Sixth?"
  "Eh, sort of Middling Sixth," said Oz.
  "Have you got a younger brother in the first year?" she asked. "You do 
look familiar."
  "Yeh, but he's very small," said Oz, going out of the door. "You probably 
have never noticed him. Small and quiet ..."
  
  Oz was going down the library corridor when a sixth-form girl stepped out 
of the library and took him by the hand.
  "Come on, you can be the judge," she said, dragging him in.
  Two girls were sitting at a table in a far corner, almost hidden by the 
bookshelves, silently locked in an arm wrestle.
  "Big girls like them," said Oz, "playing first-year games ? I gave that 
up in primary school. Kids' stuff."
  The girl motioned to him to keep quiet, putting her finger to her lips. 
In the library, as Oz well knew, it was supposed to be quiet study.
  He followed her to the table and just as he got there, the smaller of the 
two girls stood up in triumph, holding her hands above her head in a 
victorious salute. She had obviously won the contest, even before Oz could 
judge it. The other girl had conceded defeat.
  "What about him, Fanny," said the girl who had brought Oz into the 
library. "I bet you can't beat him."
  "How much do you bet?" said Fanny.
  "Bet you a pound you can't," said the girl.
  Oz started to mutter excuses. He didn't really want to wrestle with a 
girl. He was a huge, eighteen year-old boy. It wouldn't seem fair.
  "Eh, I haven't time, really," began Oz. "My mum expects me home and 
anyway I should really be in bed and ..."
  "Scared, are you," said Fanny, pulling him into the chair opposite her. 
"Left or right arm?" 
  She took Oz's right hand in her right hand and then straightened their 
arms, measuring with her eye to make sure they were each at right angles to 
the desk.
  "That's a nasty spot you've got on your neck," she said, staring into 
Oz's face.
  Oz felt his neck with his left hand. He must have picked up a little 
scratch, perhaps in the gym, when he had been fooling around, or with 
carrying Desmond. As he carefully moved his hand along his neck, he felt a 
definite spot, and then another, a row of three little spots he had not 
seen before.
  "Considering your age," said Fanny, "you haven't got many spots."
  "What?" said Oz.
  "Oh, do stop fussing," said Fanny.
  She suddenly pressed down with all her might and Oz, to his amazement, 
felt his arm giving way. He had only been half concentrating on the 
contest, but even so, she had proved to be remarkably strong.
  "Even at eighteen," he said, getting up, "I get beaten by a girl."
  "Nothing wrong with that," said Fanny.
  "I didn't mean it like that," he said smiling. He was surprised to find 
he wasn't at all upset.
  "Pure technique," said Fanny, taking a pound coin from her friend. 
"That's all it is."
  The bell went and everyone in the library got up and started to pack 
their books in their bags.
  "That was quite good fun," thought Oz. "When you're big and strong, 
eighteen and grown-up, it obviously doesn't matter so much being beaten. 
Well, now and again. You can take it, when you're eighteen."
  Oz looked at his watch and realized he would have to run to get to his 
grandad's, and then home before Lucy got back.
  "Funny about the spots, though. That's something I hadn't expected about 
being eighteen. Perhaps it isn't all fun ..."
  
  "Have some more noodles," said Mrs Osgood, going to the stove. "You have 
made a miracle recovery."
  "Well, I'm not quite perfect yet," said Ossie. "So you can all be kind to 
me a bit longer. And that means you, Lucy."
  "Yes, your majesty," said Lucy.
  "And I've made some apple crumble for afters," said Mrs Osgood. "If you 
think you are really better now."
  "Sort of," said Ossie. "But keep your voices low. People shouting gets on 
my nerves."
  Lucy and Mrs Osgood smiled at each other, but without letting Ossie see.
  "You look OK to me now, Ossie," said Lucy.
  "Well, I had a very quiet afternoon, all on my own."
  "Do you want me to go up to that school?" said his mother. "I could speak 
to the Head Master."
  "Don't worry, Mum," said Ossie. "It was just a bit of pushing, not a 
proper fight. Anyway, I bet Desmond feels worse than me now. I did drop him 
a long way."
  "Drop him?" said his mother.
  "Yeh, technical term, in boxing," said Ossie.
  "You sort of drop a punch on him."
  "What's happened to your face, Ossie?" said "Nothing," said Ossie. 
"What's wrong with it?"
  "You've got spots," she said, leaning forward and staring at his neck.
  "Don't be silly," said his mother. "He's only eleven. Boys don't get 
spots till, well, they're much older. Now get on with your tea, Lucy."
  When they were all busy eating again, Ossie carefully felt his face, just 
to make sure. There were some marks there, very tender as well.
  Could they be real spots? Starting already? Or just some small bruises 
from the playground fight with Desmond?
  "Perhaps I will have some of that apple crumble, Mum. I need to keep up 
my strength ..."
    `tc
  4. Ossie Goes to Spurs
  `tc
  Ossie was standing in the corridor watching the notice board. He had been 
hanging around for some time because he knew that the first-year football 
team was due to be put up.
  When Miss Headache emerged from her little office Ossie rushed forward, 
only to be knocked over by about ten other first years, all of whom, purely 
by chance, had just been hanging around.
  "She's made a mistake," said Ossie. "I've been missed off."
  "You're useless," said Desmond, "that's why you've been missed off."
  "It's victimization," said Ossie. "She's never liked me, that stupid 
woman. I'm complaining to the School Council. She should never have been 
the referee in the trial. Stands to reason. Having a stupid woman 
refereeing a football match, what do you expect." 
  "Well she chose me," said Desmond, "so she must be good."
  "I was ill that day," said Ossie. "That was the problem. Otherwise she 
would have seen how good I am."
  Ossie considered himself a very good player, skilful, full of little 
tricks, marvellous at dribbling. It was only his lack of height and 
strength which stopped the rest of the world from knowing this. That and 
his asthma. Very often, he could hardly run because of being so quickly out 
of breath. And even when he kicked with all his might, the ball hardly went 
any distance at all.
  "If she'd seen me on form," said Ossie, "I would probably have been made 
captain by now."
  As it was, Craig had been made captain. He was quite a good player. Ossie 
admitted that. Dez was vice captain. That was ridiculous. Ossie considered 
he was just as good as Dez.
  He took another look at the board. Still no sign of his name. Not even as 
a reserve.
  "Diabolical," said Ossie. "Who wants to play in their rotten team anyway? 
I've got better things to do on Saturdays."
  "Stand aside fans," said Craig. He had just seen the notice board and his 
head, so Ossie thought, was already twice as big.
  "Autographs later," said Craig. "No time now, folks. Out of the way, 
peasants."
  Ossie was furious. He didn't mind people being good at things, but he 
hated them showing off. He agreed with his grandfather.
  "What a big head," shouted Ossie, going off quickly down the corridor.
  Craig ran after him, but Ossie was already into the playground where he 
had caught up with Flossie. Craig might be captain of the first-year team, 
but he too was quite small and weedy. One glare from Flossie was enough to 
put Craig, or any other boy, in his place.
  
  "Any shopping wanted, Grandad?" said Ossie.
  "Where have you been, my lad?" shouted Grandad from his living room. 
"Been hours waiting for you."
  Ossie dropped his school bag in the hall. The bag was becoming quite 
beat-up by now, looking decidedly old and worn. Throwing it around the 
playground at Dez had done it a lot of good. 
  Ossie went into the living room and was amazed to find his grandad 
standing on a chair fixing a coat hanger to the picture rail.
  "Decorating, Grandad? I thought you'd just painted this room."
  "It's for you, boyo. Here, stand on this chair and hold on to this."
  Ossie did as he was told, and immediately the wire coat hanger began to 
bend. Grandad then got two other wire hangers, and fixed all three 
together.
  Ossie held on, his feet just a few centimetres off the ground. This time, 
the coat hanger held his weight.
  "Right, every day after school I want you to spend ten minutes doing 
these exercises. We'll soon get you up to six feet. We'll soon have you 
with big arm muscles. No problems."
  "I'm tired, Grandad," said Ossie, hanging on grimly.
  "Don't you dare move. You'll get the back of my hand."
  "I want the lavatory."
  "You'll have to want."
  "Can I have a drink?"
  "Not till you've done ten minutes. When I was your age, I used to hang 
from the banisters every evening. That's how I got to be big and strong."
  "But you're not big and strong, Grandad."
  "Less of your cheek, my lad."
  "Oh, Grandad. I'm going to faint. I can't hang on. My hands are killing 
me. I'm going to let go ..."
  And with that, Ossie fell off the coat hanger. As he was only just 
slightly off the ground, he didn't have far to go.
  "Look at my hands," said Ossie. "Look at the marks. I won't be able to do 
my homework now. I'm telling Mum. All your fault."
  "Tomorrow night," said Grandad, "I'll try it with a bit of padding. 
Perhaps some rubber will give you a better hold."
  "Oh, no, Grandad, it won't work. I'll never be tall."
  "Stand still a minute. Look at me. Head up, boyo. Yes, I really do think 
you've put on half an inch. It's working already. See, I told you."
  Grandad had switched on children's TV, which he never missed, so Ossie 
went into the bedroom to have a quick look around. Just to cheer himselfup. 
There was nothing really specific he wanted, no one special wish he wanted 
granted, apart from the usual things, all ten million of them.
  "Just looking at your treasures, Grandad," shouted Ossie, putting the 
light on so he could see properly.
  Underneath Grandad's bed, Ossie noticed an open box of postcards, which 
Grandad had been given for his birthday, specially printed with his name 
and address.
  "I knew it was stupid," thought Oz. "I told Mum he would never use them. 
Who does he write to, at his age? Daft."
  Ossie was just about to leave the bedroom, because he knew his mother was 
expecting him home, when it struck him that perhaps he could use one of his 
grandad's postcards. They did look very impressive, with his name and 
address all nicely printed. Very official.
  Ossie took his best school felt pen out of his school bag, and started 
writing.
  
  Dear Spurs. You must of herd about Ossie Osgood cos he is a veree good 
plare and I rely fink he shood be playing for Spurs so plase will you give 
him a trile. Tak no notis of that stoopid Miss Headache cos she nose 
nuffink about footbal. Yours sinserly.
  Oswald Osgood.
  
  Ossie sat and admired his handiwork. The handwriting was quite good, neat 
and well formed, for a fairly average sort of eleven-year-old. But Ossie 
realized the spelling was perhaps not as good as it might be. Very 
eleven-year-old in fact.
  He looked on his grandad's shelves and found a dictionary. Then, by a 
great stroke of luck, he found an old typewriter. "If only I knew how to 
use it."
  At Ossie's school they did Commercial Studies in the fourth year, both 
boys and girls, but that was years ahead. If only he was eighteen now.
  Ossie listened carefully. His grandfather was still occupied with the 
television: he could hear him shouting out comments. He turned the bedroom 
light off, to help the atmosphere, then he opened the big wardrobe and 
stepped inside.
  The wardrobe smelled even more of mothballs than it had the last time he 
had been there. And it felt even darker and creepier. Had he perhaps 
stepped inside too quickly? It had all been a bit sudden. Ossie closed his 
eyes, and wished very hard, but quite quickly this time; he only wished for 
a little wish.
  When he opened the door, it had happened again. He was now Oz. Aged 
eighteen.
  
  It was an old typewriter, a Remington, but the ribbon was almost new and 
once he had dusted and cleaned it, Oz quickly typed out a neat message on 
one of Grandad's postcards. His typing was quite good, but of course at 
eighteen, after two years of Commercial Studies, it should be.
  This time he kept the wording simple and stuck to the facts.
  
  Ossie Osgood is the star of his school team. He is eighteen, over six 
feet high. He is a very good player.
  
  "Well," thought Oz, "that's true. I have always been a very good player. 
At eighteen, I am bound to be the star of that stupid school team."
  
  I would like you to give him a trial.
  P. S. Arsenal are sending someone to see him tomorrow. But he wants to 
play for Spurs.
  
  Oz thought that PS was a master stroke. That would really get them 
excited.
  He was still not sure how to spell "sincerely", despite being eighteen. 
That page had been torn out of the dictionary. In the end he got round the 
problem and signed the postcard with a flourish.
  
  Yours in Sport, Oswald Osgood, Senior.
  
  Then he went back into the wardrobe, quickly touched in turn the cavalry 
boots and the shrapnel, finishing with the Iron Cross. He opened his eyes 
and came out again. Then he went home, taking the card with him.
  He found a first-class stamp in the box on the hall shelf, where his 
mother always kept the stamps, and posted the card next day on the way to 
school. Then he forgot all about it.
  
  It was Saturday morning, two weeks later, and Ossie was getting his 
breakfast. This was the new rule. His mother had decided that from now on 
Ossie and Lucy should look after themselves at weekends. They were both old 
enough by now.
  Ossie was furious with Lucy, who as usual had been first up. She had 
finished all the Cocoa Pops. These were Ossie's favourite for this week. It 
meant he had to have Weetabix instead.
  "Mum," shouted Lucy, "he's taking all the milk."
  "Well, she's taken all the Cocoa Pops."
  "If you got up earlier in the morning," said Lucy, "you could have had 
them. There was only enough for one."
  Ossie had fallen silent. There was a new competition on the back of the 
cereal packet. For just one pound you could join a club and get something 
or other. He might earn that pound today, after he had done his grandad's 
shopping.
  
  "Mum, I hope you've done them," Ossie shouted suddenly. "Oh God, woman, 
sometimes you are just so stupid."
  "You two are not still arguing over the cereal packets, are you?" said 
Mother, coming into the room. "You are a pain, Ossie Osgood."
  "No," moaned Ossie. "It's my jeans. I put them out for you in the dirty 
laundry basket. I told you days ago. I want to wear them today. I'm going 
to watch the school team."
  "Oh," said Lucy, smirking. "Little Ossie wants to wear his best jeans. 
Are you going to the match with Flossie?"
  Ossie gave her a push.
  "What have you been doing all week anyway?" said Ossie. "One pair of 
jeans. Not much work in that. You've got a washing machine, haven't you? 
That's what they're for, washing things."
  "Is Flossie your girlfriend then, Ossie?" said Lucy.
  "I'm going with Desmond, so that's got you."
  This time he pushed her so hard she fell off her chair. She pretended to 
cry, but when she realized her mother had gone upstairs, she soon stopped.
  "Why are you going to watch the team?" said Lucy. "I thought you would be 
in the team. Always telling us how good you are."
  "Get lost," said Ossie.
  Mrs Osgood came back into the kitchen, holding up a pair of Ossie's 
jeans.
  "I found these under your bed," she said. "What a lazy boy you are. I 
knew I had emptied the laundry basket. Right, for that, you can wash them 
yourself. It's about time you learned how to."
  She threw them at Ossie and they fell over his head as he sat reading at 
the breakfast bar. Lucy and his mother both burst out laughing. One leg was 
dangling over Ossie's face, with the end of it dipping into his bowl of 
Weetabix, slowly soaking up the milk.
  Ossie got down from his stool, very bad-tempered.
  "I hate all of you in this house. You'll regret it. When I'm famous, I'll 
disassociate all of you."
  Ossie slammed the door as he went out. There was milk still dripping from 
his hair.
  
  Ossie let himself into his grandad's, hoping there would not be much 
shopping to do this morning. He didn't want to be late, when he was going 
to the match. He couldn't decide whether the agony of watching Desmond 
play, when he knew he should be playing, was really worth being taken for a 
hamburger afterwards by Desmond's dad. According to Desmond, his dad was 
going to treat any of his friends who turned up to watch.
  "You'd need to be treated," thought Ossie, "just to watch that cruddy 
player. No skill. Not like me."
  "Crud" was the word of the week. It meant anything at all bad, or 
anything which Ossie did not approve of, which was the same thing.
  Ossie jumped up as high as he could, which wasn't very far, and headed an 
imaginary ball into an imaginary goal.
  "Goal! And Ossie Osgood has scored his hat trick with another unstoppable 
goal! That must be Goal of the Month, don't you think, Jimmy. Spurs are now 
beating Arsenal nine nil. Back to the studio." ... Oh sorry, Grandad."
  Ossie had not seen his grandad coming out of the living room. They banged 
into each other, as Ossie was still nulking the cheers of the imaginary 
crowd behind the imaginary goal.
  "What's all this, then?" said Grandad. 
  "Oh, I was just pretending to score a goal ..."
  "I don't mean that, " said Grandad, taking something from behind his 
back. "I mean this!"
  It was a typewritten envelope addressed to Ossie Osgood - at his 
grandfather's address.
  "Oh," said Ossie, thinking quickly. "It'll probably be from the Dandy. I 
sent off to join their Desperate Dan Pie-Eating Club."
  "What?"
  "Mum says I haven't to waste my money on any more of these clubs, so I 
used your address so she shouldn't find out. But it's a really good club. 
You get this sticker ... "
  "I'll let you off this time," said Grandad, giving him the envelope.
  Ossie took the envelope into his grandad's bedroom, putting the light on.
  "I like reading things on my own," said Ossie.
  "I don't mind. I don't want to watch you reading anyway," said Grandad. 
"Your lips move all the time."
  `nv
  Ossie could hear his grandad laughing at his own wit, but Ossie was more 
intent on tearing open the letter.
  It was from Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. Ossie Osgood was being 
invited to a trial at the Spurs training ground, Cheshunt. And it was that 
very morning.
  "Grandad's probably had this letter for days and days," groaned Ossie. "I 
bet he's been trying to steam it open. Rotten cheat. I know his cruddy 
tricks.
  "Oh, I wish I was eighteen, then I would be able to go."
  Ossie stared at the dark, mysterious wardrobe. It was tightly closed 
today. He hoped Grandad had not locked it. He looked again at the letter.
  Please bring boots with you.
  Ossie jumped up, listened at the bedroom door, then turned the light off, 
opened the wardrobe and stepped in. He touched all the medals, uniforms and 
badges, then the cavalry boots, the shrapnel and the Iron Cross. He closed 
his eyes, wishing and wishing that he could be eighteen.
  When he stepped out, it had miraculously happened again.
  He was now in very smart casual clothes, rather than jeans, and wearing a 
leather jacket. In his hand was a large sports bag marked Spurs. Inside was 
a pair of boots. Size 9.
  Just the size for a well-built eighteen-year-old, the star of his school 
team ...
  
  Oz ran home, worried at first that people might recognize him, but he was 
so smartly dressed as a man of the world, nobody did.
  He let himself into his house, ran upstairs and got the most recent 
coupon from his pile of free train tickets. Then he ran all the way to the 
station.
  "When you are eighteen, in perfect physical condition," thought Oz, "you 
can run anywhere. And it's good training."
  Oz had been to White Hart Lane twice to see Spurs play, taken there by 
car by Desmond's father, but he had never been to the Spurs training ground 
at Cheshunt. He knew about it, having been a Spurs supporter all his life. 
He knew that it was about fifteen miles north of London in Hertfordshire, 
which meant he did not have to go into London itself. He was not sure if he 
could have made that journey all on his own.
  "What am I saying? At eighteen, I can go anywhere!"
  He managed to catch a London train, one which stopped at Cheshunt, just 
as it was leaving the station, and threw himself into the first 
compartment.
  Flossie and her father were sitting opposite. 
  Oz tried to hide his head, bending down and pretending to tie his 
shoe-laces.
  "Oh no," he thought, "I can't sit like this all the way to Cheshunt. I'll 
be too stiff to play football." 
  Very slowly, he straightened up. Flossie's father was reading something 
called Stamp News. Flossie was looking out of the window, admiring the 
countryside, so Oz thought at first, till he realized she was admiring her 
own reflection.
  "Typical," said Oz.
   "Sorry," said Flossie, peering over her spectacles, giving him her best 
film-star smlle. "Did you say something?"
  "Eh," stumbled Oz. "Topical. I said it's rather topical. Your dad reading 
about stamps, 'cos stamps are sort of topical, aren't they? I got one only 
today. On a letter from, I mean, just a letter ..."
  "How did you know I am her father?" said Flossie's father. Flossie sighed 
at this.
  "When you collect on one topic," explained her father, "such as stamps 
with trains on, or stamps about birds, then you're called a "Topical 
collector", so it's interesting you mentioned the word ..."
  "We're going to London for the day," said Flossie, breaking in, trying to 
change the subject.
  "That's lucky," said Oz. "That's where this train's going."
  Flossie burst out laughing. This was just her sort of humour.
  "Where are you going, then?" she asked.
  "Oh, just a spot of training," said Oz, modestly, patting his gleaming 
Spurs bag.
  "Should I ask him?" said Flossie, turning to her father.
  Her father looked rather mystified.
  "You know, dum dum," said Flossie. "For my new collection?"
  "Oh, yes, why not. Might as well get it started." Flossie leaned across 
to Oz and gave him her very best smile. From her pocket she produced a 
little red book.
  "Can I have your autograph?"
  Oz was startled. He had not quite expected this, but naturally he agreed. 
He didn't have a pen, but Flossie's father produced one, and Oz signed with 
a flourish.
  The train stopped for only a moment or two at Cheshunt, as it is a very 
small station. Oz jumped out, beaming with pleasure.
  "Imagine that," he said. "Signing autographs, and I haven't even played 
for Spurs yet. What will it be like when I score a hat trick ..."
  
  Oz stood outside the station wondering which way to go. He was suddenly 
feeling rather lost, and very young. On the train, he had felt quite 
confident and excited. Now he was alone, a long way from home, with no one 
to help him.
  "Perhaps I should have brought my mum. She might be pretty stupid - well, 
sometimes. Well, that's what I say. But she is good at directions." 
  Oz thought about hitch-hiking, but he wasn't sure how you did it. Did you 
put your thumbs down or up? Or did you give a V sign? "If only Mum was 
here. She knows things like that."
  He was beginning to think it was all a bit silly. Perhaps he should get 
the next train back home.
  At that very moment an old bashed-up estate car stopped right beside him. 
It was one of those cars with wooden bits on the sides, but it was so old 
that plants and moss were growing out of the wood. An old woman leaned from 
the window. She, too, seemed to be covered in moss and bits of plants.
  "You look lost," she boomed.
  "Er," hesitated Oz. "Well, that's because I am lost. I never got my 
tenderfoot badge in the Boy Scouts. My mum usually comes with me when I go 
away from home, but this time I just, you know, I thought I'd try."
  The old woman looked him up and down, as if fitting him for a new suit. 
He looked very tall and well built to her, but he was acting like a nervous 
eleven-year-old.
  "Where are you heading for, chummy?"
  "Eh, Spurs," said Oz. "Have you heard of them? Their training ground is 
supposed to be very near here."
  "That's just where I'm going," she said. "Jump in."
  "Eh, you're not having a trial, are you?" said Oz.
   He knew that these days girls played football as well as boys, and had 
proper leagues, but if old women also played, that was going to make 
competition for places even worse.
  "No, no," she said. "I just go to watch them training. I do like watching 
athletes at the top of their powers. Bimbo likes to watch them, too."
  "Bimbo?" asked Oz.
  Perhaps she had a son. More competition.
  "My dog," she said.
  There was a growl from behind him. Oz had not noticed that there was a 
dog in the back of the estate car. He was covered in bits of straw and moss 
as well. Perhaps they all lived in a barn.
  "I have to keep him on a lead. The beastly groundsman throws you out 
otherwise."
  She drove up a little lane and let Oz out near a large pavilion; then she 
parked beside several people who were standing about, watching the players 
practise.
  "Jolly good luck," she shouted towards Oz. "We'll be watching."
  
  There seemed to be dozens of pitches, as far as Oz could see, and also 
dozens of players, all in different groups, most of them being shouted at 
by red-faced men in track suits.
  Oz went into the pavilion, clutching his letter. A man in a track suit 
took him into a dressing room and told him to strip off.
  "You're a bit late," he said, "but you'll soon catch up. We're all doing 
doggies first."
  "No, no, I've come to play," said Oz. "You've made a mistake. I haven't 
got a dog ... I'm a proper player ..."
  But the trainer had gone. Oz quickly took off his clothes and hung them 
neatly on a peg above his head.
  On the bench, where the trainer had put him, was a sparkling white Spurs 
shirt, plus shorts and socks, all the real football clothes, neatly laid 
out, specially for Oz.
  Oz could hardly believe it. He put them all on, then found a little 
mirror in the corner and took a quick glance at himself.
  In the mirror, he caught sight of other players in an adjoining dressing 
room, also getting ready. One of them looked like Steve Perryman, the Spurs 
captain. He was injured that week, as Oz well knew. 
  "Perhaps he's come to see me?" thought Oz. "He might have heard about me. 
I might just be the player they want for the first team ..."
  
  Doggies turned out to be special exercises. About twenty very fit-looking 
youths, aged between six-teen and eighteen, were running up and down in 
rows, touching hands, then running back.
  Oz was given a blue top, a piece of material like a shirt without arms, 
which he had to strap over his chest, and was told to join the youths doing 
the doggie exercises.
  Oz was rather disappointed. He wanted the whole world, even if it was 
just that funny old woman and Bimbo, to see him play football in a real 
Spurs shirt.
  He did notice what looked like a photographer on a far pitch, busy taking 
photographs of someone.
  "Probably Steve Perryman," thought Oz. "Oh well, that photographer will 
soon be taking me, once they all see what I can do."
  After the physical exercises the trainer, who was small and stocky with 
close cropped hair, sent one of the young players to the pavilion. He came 
back dragging a huge rope bag containing about twenty white footballs. Oz 
had never seen so many at one time.
  "My mum's promised me one of them for Christmas," said Oz. "In real 
leather. My plastic one has got burst."
  The trainer gave him an odd look.
  "Did one of our scouts find you?" he asked.
  "Oh, yes," said Oz. "But it wasn't hard. I was in the Cubs already. And I 
was Sixer."
  "Come over here. Let's have you. You can show us what you're really like 
..."
  
  The players had made a large circle round the trainer. As Oz walked into 
the middle, the trainer kicked one of the balls at him, very hard. Oz just 
managed to trap it in time.
  The trainer explained that he wanted them to take a ball each, then kick 
it up in the air ten times without letting it ever touch the ground. Then 
they had to head it in the air ten times.
  "Our friend here is going to demonstrate."
  All the other young players watched to see what Oz would do. He had spent 
years in his back garden trying to keep a plastic football in the air, but 
doing it with a full-size football might prove a bit harder. It did seem 
very heavy.
  Oz kicked it gently in the air with his right foot, but it fell on the 
ground before he could get his left foot to it.
  "Sorry about that," he said. "These boots. They're new. Never worn size 
nines before. Usually I'm a four."
  On his second attempt, Oz did it. He managed it twenty times in all, then 
he did twenty headers, without dropping the ball once.
  "OK, clever beggar," said the trainer. "I want everyone to try now."
  After that, he gave them other ball exercises to do: passing the ball in 
pairs, then in circles with one in the middle, then dribbling round a 
series of white posts, then taking free kicks and corners.
  Oz found it all rather easy, but then he was a star player with his 
school team.
  When it was his turn to take a free kick, he became rather too confident 
and decided to give Bimbo a wave, just as he was running up to kick the 
ball. He slid slightly on the ground as he approached it, and a few of the 
boys started to laugh.
  The ball was going very wide at first, then in mid air it seemed to turn 
and swerve round a group of defenders who had been positioned near the 
goal-keeper as a wall. It went straight into the net, completely beating 
the goal-keeper. Several boys cheered.
  "Did you mean that?" said the trainer.
  "Course I did," said Oz. "It's the wave of the hands that does it. Gives 
your body central flugal force. Roy of the Rovers does it all the time ..."
  "Can you really bend the ball?" said a boy standing beside Oz.
  "Easy peasy," said Oz. "All it takes is skill."
  "Right, you lot," said the trainer, clapping his hands. "I can see we 
have some circus performers here today. But now we'll have a game. That'll 
separate the men from the boys."
  
  This time, all the players took part. The apprentices, the youth players, 
those on trial, and the first team players who were doing special training, 
they were all split into four teams: blue, red, green and yellow.
  "We'll now have two matches," said the trainer, "both on the same pitch 
at the same time. This is to sharpen up your reflexes and mental awareness. 
So you'll all have to concentrate. Is that clear?"
  Most of the boys were utterly confused. Having two balls on the same 
pitch, and two teams both playing in the same direction, is very 
complicated. 
  The trainer enjoyed going round shouting at every player who made a 
mistake, or lost his concentration, or followed the wrong ball.
  Oz found it remarkably easy. Most of his playing career so far had been 
in the school playground, with girls all around, and with other groups 
playing at the same time. It had taught him a lot.
  "Right, that's enough," said the trainer. "You're all bloody useless. 
Except you over there, that big flash kid, what's your name?"
  "Oz, sir."
  "No need to call me sir," he said. "But do it, all the same."
  The other boys gave little forced smiles. 
  "Right, we'll just see if you are as good as Ossie Ardilles. You look 
bigger and stronger and a lot Hashier. But we'll just see."
  
  At last all the players were ready to play a proper game, on separate 
pitches, blues against the reds, greens against yellows.
  Oz noticed that most of the little groups of watchers had come to watch 
the game he was in. He was made central striker, his favourite position, 
but at first his team was defending, so he hardly got the ball.
  He decided to go back when the other team had won a corner. Oz jumped for 
it in his own penalty area, nodded the ball down to his feet, did a one-two 
with one of his own midfield players, then sprinted up field, through the 
opposing team, did another one-two and screamed for a return pass.
  He got the ball just on his own half way line, so he was on side. He beat 
three players with pure speed, which left only two defenders to beat. They 
both came at him together, which they should not have done. Oz saw them 
coming and scooped the ball over their heads and, almost in the same 
movement, ran between them, hitting the ball on the volley. It screamed 
into the net, bending round the amazed goal-keeper.
  Oz could hear the lady with the old estate car clapping gently in the 
distance. Then the trainer started shouting at everyone. He was blaming the 
two full backs for both going for the same player. 
  He stood screaming at them for a long time, holding the match up as he 
demonstrated how a forward should be covered, how one defender should have 
forced Oz out on to the wing and away from danger, and how the other player 
should help. Oz was getting cold waiting.
  "Oh, hurry up!" he said to himself. "Skill players don't have to bother 
with all that stuff."
  The other team managed to get a goal back, a scramble in the penalty area 
when Oz had been injured, making it 1-1.
  From the kick off, Oz noticed that their goal-keeper was off the line. 
While still in the centre circle, Oz shot so suddenly and so fiercely that 
it went fully thirty metres, right over the goalie's head. It all happened 
so quickly that the trainer said he never saw it, but he gave the goal just 
the same. 
  "I bet he did see it," thought Oz. "Just jealous." The other team got a 
penalty. Unfair, thought Oz, the trainer just gave it to them, to make it a 
more even game. Oz was determined to show some of his real tricks this 
time.
  He got the ball deep in his own area and did a little back flick, sending 
the ball over his own head and so beating two of their men.
  He was going very near the touch line, right on the line, but just as the 
ball appeared to be rolling out of play, it hit Bimbo on the head, and 
stayed in play. Or had Oz meant it?
  Oz ran down the wing, beating another three men by sheer speed. At the 
corner flag, he did some juggling with the ball, before putting it through 
the legs of their largest defender.
  He then cut inside, keeping the ball very close to his feet, 
side-stepping several lunges, body-swerving his way to the edge of the 
penalty area. From a very acute angle, when it seemed impossible to even 
see the goals, he sent a rocket of a shot which roared into the top 
right-hand corner of the net.
  The trainer whistled for the goal-and for the end of the match. The 
little crowd of onlookers gave a big cheer. Several players rushed up to 
pat Oz on the back.
  Oz walked away modestly, determined not to be big-headed, not like some 
players he could mention.
  Going over to the touch-line, he saw the old lady with the dog who had 
given him a lift. 
  "Jolly well done," she said.
  "Thanks, Bimbo," said Oz.
  
  Oz was sitting in the dressing room, putting on his clothes. He had had a 
shower with all the players.
  Quite a few of the Spurs senior team came up and said, "Well played, well 
done." 
  "It was just luck," said Oz. "One of those days."
  "Would you like me to recommend an agent?" said one of them.
  "Oh, I don't think I want to be one of those. Spies, secret agents, never 
appealed to me. When I grow up, I fancy being a detective, if I can't be a 
footballer."
  They all laughed, thinking it was some new, eighteen-year-old humour.
  Oz picked up his dirty football clothes from the floor, as his mother had 
always told him to, though he usually forgot.
  He saw that the rest of the players were putting the dirty clothes in a 
big wickerwork skip. It would immediately be taken away and all the clothes 
washed that morning, so he was told.
  "I could do with that in our house," thought Oz. 
  Just as he was putting his clothes away, and packing his boots in his bag 
to take home, two of the trainers came up to him.
  "What you doing this afternoon, son?" said the oldest of them, a man with 
a broad Yorkshire accent.
  "Might go to the school jumble," said Oz. "Or play in the street with my 
friends." 
  The trainers were looking at each other, rather puzzled.
  "Or I might read my comics," said Oz. "Champ and Eagle come out today. It 
is Saturday, isn't it?"
  "Forget all that rubbish," said the older trainer. "I mean, what might 
you be doing at three o'clock this afternoon? It looks as if we could have 
problems. We've got our three centre forwards injured and ..."
  "Oh no," said Oz, getting up. "My grandad's! I've forgotten to do his 
shopping! I meant to do it this morning. It's my Saturday job. I'll have to 
get home quickly before the shops shut."
  Oz got up, grabbed his bag, and ran out of the pavilion and down the 
lane.
  Behind him, he could hear the trainers shouting after him. It sounded 
something like "signing forms", or it might have been signing autographs, 
but he wasn't quite sure ...
  
  It was tea-time in the Osgood household. Ossie was making the tea for his 
sister and mother: beans on toast.
  "Oh, is that all?" said Lucy.
  "Well, it's more than you can make," said Ossie. "You need a recipe book 
just to boil some water."
  "What's for afters then?" asked Lucy.
  "Oh, Lucy," said her mother. "That is very greedy. Just wait and see what 
Ossie has done. I can smell something lovely in the oven."
  It was rock cakes, though Ossie was keeping it a secret, just in case. He 
had learned to make them at school that week.
  Ossie had got home just in time to mix up the flour, butter, egg, sugar 
and currants and then shove them in the oven. He realized when he put them 
on the tray that he had not washed his hands after travelling back on the 
train and then hurrying to do his grandad's shopping.
  It had all been a terrible rush, but he had got it all done. He had even 
managed to ring Desmond and find out the school's score.
  "I dunno," said Ossie. "I just rush round all the time, looking after 
people. If it's not Grandad, it's you lot. It's just go, go, go."
  "Aren't we lucky, Lucy?" said Mother. "Having such a treasure."
  "If only he did this more often," said Lucy. 
  "He's just putting it on. I know him. He'll be horrible to you again 
soon."
  Ossie was whistling to himself, standing in front of the oven with the 
oven gloves on. He took a quick look at the rock cakes. They were almost 
ready and had turned a rather dark brown colour, darker than they had been 
at school.
  "How did the match go, Ossie?" asked Mother.
  "Oh, triffic," said Ossie. "Really good. I was brilliant."
  "I didn't know you played," said Mother.
  "I heard they got beat nine nil," said Lucy.
  "Oh, I mean," said Ossie, "I mean I did very well. Going all that way and 
supporting them. It wasn't fair really. The other team were so much bigger. 
You can't do much, after all, if you're small and weedy, like poor little 
Desmond."
  "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it, dear," said Mother.
  "It was interesting, anyway," said Ossie. "A good experience."
  "After tea, Ossie," said Mother, "I'm going to put on the washing machine 
again and do another load. So if you want your jeans done now, get them 
out."
  "Oh, that's good," said Ossie. "Can you wash this shirt as well, please?"
  Ossie went to his room and brought down a dirty Spurs shirt.
  When he had got back to his grandad's, he found he had brought it home by 
mistake. Very strange.
  "That looks rather big for you, doesn't it?" said his mother.
  "Oh yeh, miles too big," said Ossie. "I got given it."
  "What?"
  "Someone I met at the match. A sort of present. It will do for when I'm 
eighteen. I'll just keep it as a sort of souvenir till, you know, till I'm 
eighteen ..."
  
  `ty
  * * *
  `ty
  
  Ossie Osgood ate like a horse, but he never seemed to grow any bigger or 
fatter. His grandfather told him that ifhe exercised on a coat-hanger every 
day for ten minutes after school he'd soon develop muscle, but Ossie 
couldn't wait ... and one day he discovered a much quicker way to grow up!
  
  Hunter Davies, creator of the irrepressible Flossie Teacake, has written 
four stories about the ambitions of Ossie Osgood, who also longs to be 
eighteen.  `pa
  `tc+
  Margaret MahyÑ
  "The Boy With Two Shadows"
  `tc
  
  `rp
  (c) J. M. Dent
  and Sons Ltd
  Aldine House,
  33 Welbeck Street,
  London W#aÒ$m 8$l$x
  `rp
  
  There was once a little boy who took great care of his shadow. He was 
quite a careful little boy with buttons and shoes and all the odd pieces. 
But most especially he was careful with his shadow because he knew he had 
only one, and it had to last him all his life.
  He always tried to manage things so that his shadow didn't trail in the 
dust. If he just couldn't keep it out of the dust he hurried to get to a 
clean place for it.
  The boy took such care of his shadow that a witch noticed it.
  She stopped the boy on his way home from school.
  "I've been watching you," she said. "I like the way you look after your 
shadow."
  "I don't want to wear it out," said the boy. "It's the only one I've 
got."
  "True! True!" said the witch approvingly. "Always look after your shadow! 
Now, I want someone reliable to look after my shadow while I'm away on 
holiday. You know what a nuisance a shadow can be when you're trying to 
have a good time."
  "My shadow isn't any trouble," said the boy doubtfully.
  "I need a good shadow-sister," the witch declared. "But I'm not going to 
leave it with just anybody. I've chosen you to take care of it."
  The boy did not like to argue with a witch.
  "All right," he said, "but hurry back, won't you?"
  The witch bared her teeth in a witch smile, which was quite 
wicked-looking, though she was trying to be pleasent.
  "If you look after my shadow properly," she promised, "you shall have a 
whole magic spell of your own. I'll choose a good one just for you.
  Then she fastened her shadow on to the boy's shadow, climbed on to her 
broom, and made off - light and free as thistledown, with sunlight all 
around her and no bobbling black patch chasing at her heels.
  The boy now had two shadows. One was his own. The other was the fierce, 
crooked, thorny shadow of the witch.
  The witch's shadow was the worst-behaved shadow in the world. Usually, 
shadows have to copy their people - but the witch's shadow had ideas of its 
own. When the little boy went to buy apples, the witch's shadow rummaged 
among the shadows of the fruit. It put the shadows of all the oranges 
beside the bananas and mixed up the shadows of the peaches. Everything was 
higgledy-piggledy.
  The man in the fruit shop said, "Bananas with the shadows of oranges! 
Oranges with no shadows at all! People will think I'm cheating them. Throw 
that shadow out!"
  The little boy didn't like to turn the witch's shadow loose on its own. 
He rushed out of the shop without his apples.
  At home, during tea, the witch's shadow stretched itself long and leaped 
all over the wall. It took the shadow from the clock, and the clock 
stopped. Then it terrified the parrot into fits, and pulled the shadow-tail 
of the dog's shadow.
  "Really!" said the little boy's mother. "That wicked shadow is making me 
spill my tea and cut the cake crooked. Couldn't you keep it outside?"
  The boy didn't want his mother to spill her tea, but he was determined to 
look after the witch's shadow. From then on he had his tea in the kitchen 
on his own.
  He became so clever at keeping the witch's shadow from getting into 
mischief and wickedness that at last it couldn't find anything wicked to 
do.
  Naturally this made it very cross.
  Suddenly it thought of something very, very mean - so mean that you would 
think even a witch's shadow would be ashamed. It started teasing and 
terrifying the little boy's own shadow. It was terrible to see. The boy's 
shadow had always been treated kindly. It did not know what to do now about 
this new, fierce thing that pushed it out of gardens and gutters, that 
pinched it, prodded it, poked it - treading on its heels as they hurried 
down to road.
  One day the boy's shadow could bear this no longer. In broad daylight the 
boy, going home to lunch, saw his two shadows - short and squat - running 
beside him. The witch's shadow nipped his own shadow with her long witch 
fingernails. It gave a great bound and broke free from his feet. Away, away 
it flew on its own, leaping silently, tumbling off like a bit of wastepaper 
blown by a secret wind.
  Then it was gone. The little boy ran after it, but it was nowhere to be 
seen. He stood still. He listened. The warm summer afternoon was so quiet 
he could hear the witch shadow laughing - or rather, he heard the echo of 
laughing (because, as you know, an echo is the shadow of sound, and 
sometimes the sound of a shadow).
  So there was the little boy with only one shadow again - but it was the 
wrong shadow. His real shadow was quite gone, and now he had only the 
witch's left.
  It was more like having a thorn bush at his heels a proper shadow - a 
thorn bush that could pull faces, too. People started and pointed, and 
shrank away. As for the boy, he felt sad and lonely without his own shadow. 
He tried to enjoy having the witch's shadow, but it was like trying to pet 
a wild wolf or thistle.
  At last the witch came back. She wrote the boy a letter in grey ink on 
black paper, telling him to meet her that night at midnight and to be sure 
to bring her shadow with him.
  (Thank goodness it was a bright moonlit night or it might have been 
extremely difficult to find that wretched shadow, which sometimes hid away 
from him.)
  "Aha!" said the witch when she saw it, and she whisked it back in 
half-a-minute less than no time - or even faster.
  "And here's your spell," she said. "Defrost it, baske it, and then eat 
it." The spell was written on a quick-frozen sausage-roll.
  "What will it do?" saked the boy.
  "Turn you into a camel," said the witch. "A white racing camel - or a 
Bactrian, or any sort of camel you like - but just for an hour or two."
  The little boy didn't really want to turn himself into a camel - even for 
an hour or two. He wanted his own shadow back again.
  "Your fierce shadow has chased mine away," he told the witch sternly. 
  The witch sniggered a bit in a witch-like fashion.
  "Well, my dear," she said, "you can't expect everything to be easy, you 
know. Anyhow, I feel I've paid you handsomely for your trouble. Run off 
home now."
  And off she went, taking her shadow with her. It didn't even bother to 
wave goodbye.
  The boy went home shadowless through a moonlit world of shadows. Trees 
had shadows. Fence posts had shadows. Sleeping cows had sleeping shadows 
around them. The boy felt very lonely.
  But as he walked home, something dark and mysterious came to meet him. It 
copied everything he did. He took a step and it took a step. He waved, and 
it waved back. Softly and shyly, as if it were ashamed of itself, his own 
shadow sidled towards him. It had been hiding among other shadows, keeping 
an eye on him. Now it slipped along toe-to-toe with him just as it had 
always done.
  The little boy thought for a moment. The wicked witch-shadow was gone. He 
could turn into any sort of camel he liked - and a mischievous camel could 
have a lot of fun at the school fancy-dress ball - just for an hour or two. 
Best of all, he had his own shadow back again.
  He was so pleased he did a strange little dance in the moonlight while, 
toe-to-toe, his shadow danced beside him.  `pa
  `tc+
  Martin WaddellÑ
  and Patrick BensonÑ
  "The Tough Princess"
  `tc
  
  `rp
  (c) Walker Books Ltd
  87 Vauxhall Walk
  London S$e 11 5Ò$h$j
  `rp
  
  Once upon a time there lived a King and a Queen who weren't very good at 
it. They kept losing wars and mucking things up. They ended up living in a 
caravan parked beside a deep dark wood.
  The King is the one with the frying pan. The Queen is the one with the 
hammer, trying to fix the roof.
  One day the Queen told the King that she was going to have a baby.
  "Have a boy!" commanded the King.
  "He will grow up to be a hero, marry a rich princess and restore all of 
our fortunes!"
  "Good idea!" said the Queen.
  But when the baby came...
  ... it was a girl!
  "Never mind," said the King.
  "She will grow up to be a beautiful princess.
  I will annoy a bad fairy and get the Princess into bother, and then a 
handsome prince will rescue her, and we'll all go off and live in his 
castle!"
  "Good thinking!" said the Queen.
  "We'll call her Rosamund."
  "Ba!" said Rosamund.
  The Princess grew up and up and up and up, until at last there wasn't 
room in the caravan to hold her.
  The King got her a tent and pitched it outside.
  "It's time you were married, Rosamund," the King told the Princess on her 
seventeenth birthday.
  "Yes, Dad," said the Princess, "but..."
  "I'll go off and arrange it," said the King.
  The King went off into the deep dark wood to annoy some bad fairies.
  The first fairy the King met was no use.
  She was a good one.
  She didn't even get angry when the King called her names.
  The second fairy was bad, but she was only a beginner.
  She turned the King into a frog for making faces at her cat, but the 
spell wore off.
  The third fairy was very bad.
  This is her.
  The King was awfully rude to her.
  "Aha!" cried the Bad Fairy.
  "What do you love most in the world?"
  "My daughter Rosamund!" cried the King hopefully.
  "I will cast a spell on her!" cackled the Bad Fairy, who wasn't very 
bright, and she darted off to do it.
  "Good-eee!" cried the King, because his get-the-princess-a-rich-prince 
plan was working.
  The Bad Fairy came upon Princess Rosamund picking buttercups in a glade.
  "Aha!" she cried. "I am the Bad Fairy come to cast a spell on you.
  
  Seven years shall you lie 
  Till a prince comes riding by..."
  
  Biff! went Princess Rosamund, and she knocked the Bad Fairy out, bent her 
false teeth and bust up her glasses.
  "You rotten, ungrateful thing, Rosamund!" said the Queen, picking up the 
Bad Fairy.
  "I'll catch my prince my own way!" said Princess Rosamund.
  The next day she borrowed the King's bike and rode off to seek her 
prince.
  Rosamund had a lot of adventures.
  She slew dragons and great worms and black knights. She rescued several 
princes who were quite rich, but she didn't like them, and so she threw 
them back.
  She did all the things a heroine ought to do, but she didn't catch her 
prince.
  Princess Rosamund grew tired of rescuing princes and killing dragons,    
and her front wheel got buckled in a fight with a hundred-headed thing.
  In the end she set off sadly for home, carrying her bicycle.
  "Hello, Mum. Hello, Dad. Hello, Bad Fairy," said Princess Rosamund when 
she got home.
  "Where's your prince then?" said the King and the Queen and the Bad 
Fairy, who had moved in by this time.
  "Haven't got one," said Princess Rosamund.
  "I'm not going to marry a ninny!"
  "What about us!" cried the King and the Queen and the Bad Fairy.
  "What are we supposed to live on if you can't come up with a prince?"
  "That's your problem!" said Princess Rosamund.
  "I'm not going to..." and then she saw the sign. (This way to the 
enchanted prince)
  "I'm doing this for me!" said Rosamund firmly, and she set off into the 
deep dark wood.
  "You lot can look after ourselves!"
  She bashed up several goblins and ghouls and the odd fairy (including 
several good ones by mistake), and finally she won through to the Enchanted 
Castle.
  On a flower-strewn bed in the castle lay a beautiful prince.
  Rosamund gave him a big smacky kiss.
  The beautiful prince opened his eyes and took a look at Princess 
Rosamund.
  "Cor! What a liberty!" he cried, and he biffed her one, right on her 
beautiful nose.
  And Rosamund biffed him one right back!
  It was love at first biff.
  They biffed happily ever after.
  The King and the Queen lived happily ever after too, and the Bad Fairy 
got even worse.  `pa
  `tc+
  James Herriot'sÑ
  "Animal Storybook"
  `tc
  
  `rp
  (c) Michael Joseph Ltd
  Published by
  the Peguin Group
  27 Wrights Lane
  London W#h 5Ò$t$z
  England 1992
  `rp
  
  `tc
  Introduction
  `tc
  This is the first omnibus of my children's books and as I look through 
the pages I bless my luck yet again that they should be so brilliantly    
brought to life by Ruth Brown's illustrations.
  When my adult books first became popular, I began to receive letters    
from all over the world and I soon realised that many of them came from    
children. These young people seemed to respond eagerly to the accounts    
of my experiences as a vet, confirming the truth that children have a    
special rapport with animals. They not only find them attractive - be it 
the family dog or cat, or animals on the farm - but they have an uncanny   
feeling for their needs and respond naturally to the unswerving affection   
which the animals dispense.
  I know that I write again and again about the care of these four-legged   
creatures who share and enhance our lives; after all, that is what a vet's 
life is about. Most animals are totally vulnerable and are therefore wholly    
dependent on our kindness and willingness to look after them and this, I 
believe, is at the root of the deep pull they have upon our emotions. They 
can be pretty, funny, charming in a thousand ways, but behind it all is the 
unalterable fact that they rely utterly on us to care for them, and when we 
betray that faith with neglect or cruelty their reaction is one of 
bewilderment.
  When I began to write books especially for children, the letters I  
received reflected their intense interest and affection for the animals, in   
particular when the creatures concerned were in any form of distress. I   
regularly receive packets of letters from school classes, each one telling 
me about the things which appealed most to them in the books, touched them   
or made them laugh, and I derive great help and satisfaction from reading    
them and looking at the little drawings which are often sent as well.
  My own children were devoted to their pets and found great pleasure in    
accompanying me on my veterinary rounds, and now my grandchildren who are 
growing up with yet another generation of cats and dogs are discovering 
that special happiness which comes from loving and being loved by all 
creatures great and small.
  
  `tc
  The ChristmasÑ
  Day Kitten
  `tc
  Christmas can never go by without my remembering a certain little cat. I 
first saw her when I called to see one of Mrs Pickering's much-loved Basset 
hounds.
  
  I looked in some surprise at the furry creature moving quietly down the 
hall.
  "I didn't know you had a cat," I said to Mrs Pickering, who was a 
plumpish, pleasant-faced woman.
  Mrs Pickering smiled. "We haven't really. Debbie is a stray. She comes 
here two or three times a week and we give her some food. I don't know 
where she lives."
  "Do you ever get the feeling that she wants to stay with you?" I asked.
  "No." Mrs Pickering shook her head. "She's a timid little thing. Just 
creeps in, has some food, then slips away. She doesn't seem to want to let 
me help her in any way."
  I looked at the little tabby cat again. "But she isn't just having food 
today."
  "It's a funny thing, but every now and again she pops through into the 
sitting-room and sits by the fire for a few minutes. It's as though she was 
giving herself a treat."
  
  The little cat was sitting very upright on the thick rug which lay in 
front of the fireplace in which the coals glowed and flamed. The three 
Bassets were already, lying there but they seemed used to Debbie because 
two of them sniffed her in a bored manner and the third merely cocked a 
sleepy eye at her before flopping back to sleep.
  Debbie made no effort to curl up or wash herself or do anything other 
than gaze quietly ahead. This was obviously a special event in her life, a 
treat.
  
  Then suddenly, she turned and crept from the room without a sound, and 
was gone.
  "That's just the way it is with Debbie," said Mr, Pickering, laughing. 
"She never stays more than ten minutes or so, then she's off."
  
  I often visited the Pickering home and I always looked out for the little 
cat. On one occasion I spotted her nibbling daintily from a saucer at the 
kitchen door. As I watched, she turned and almost floated on light 
footsteps into the hall, then through into the sitting-room.
  
  Debbie settled herself in the middle of the pile of Basset hounds in her 
usual way: upright, still, and gazing into the glowing fire.
  This time, I tried to make friends with her but she leaned away, as I 
stretched out my, hand. However, I talked to her softly and I managed to 
stroke her cheek with one finger.
  
  Then it was time for her to go and, once outside the house, she jumped up 
on to the stone wall and down the other side. The last I saw was the little 
tabby figure flitting away across the grassy field.
  "I wonder where she goes?" I murmured.
  "That's something we've never been able to find out," said Mrs Pickering.
  
  It was three months later that I next heard from Mrs Pickering - and it 
happened to be Christmas morning.
  "I'm so sorry to bother you today of all days," said Mrs Pickering 
apologetically.
  "Don't worry at all," I said. "Which of the dog, needs attention?"
  "It's not the dogs. It's...  Debbie. She's come to the house and there's 
something very wrong. Please come quickly."
  
  I drove through the empty market square. The snow was thick on the road 
and on the roofs of the surrounding houses. The shops were closed but the 
pretty coloured lights of the Christmas trees winked in the windows.
  
  Mrs Pickering's house was beautifully decorated with tinsel and holly, 
and the rich smell of turke, and sage and onion stuffing wafted from the 
kitchen. But she had a very worried look on her face as she led me through 
to the sitting-room.
  
  Debbie was there, but she wasn't sitting upright in her usual position. 
She was lying quite still - and huddled close to her lay a tiny kitten.
  
  I looked down in amazement. "What have we got here?" "It's the strangest 
thing," Mrs Pickering replied. "I haven't seen her for several weeks and 
then she came in about two hours ago, staggered into the kitchen, and she 
was carrying the kitten in her mouth. She brought it in here and laid it on 
the rug. Almost immediately I could see that she wasn't well. Then she lay 
down like this and she hasn't moved since.
  
  I knelt on the rug and passed my, hand over Debbies body which Mrs 
Pickering had placed on a piece of sheet. She was very, very thin and her 
coat was dirty. I knew that she didn't have long to live.
  "Is she ill, Mr Herriot?" asked Mrs Pickering in a trembling voice.
  "Yes... yes, I'm afraid so. But I don't think she is in any pain."
  Mrs Pickering looked at me and I saw there were tears in her eyes. Then 
she knelt beside Debbie and stroked the cat's head while the tears fell on 
the dirty fur.
  
  Oh, the poor little thing! I should have done more for her"
  I spoke gently. "Nobody could have done more than you. Nobody could have 
been kinder. And see, she has brought her kitten to you, hasn't she?"
  "Yes, you are right, she has" Mrs Pickering reached out and lifted up the 
tiny, bedraggled kitten. "Isn't it strange - Debbie knew she was dying so 
she brought her kitten here. And on Christmas Day."
  I bent down and put my hand on Debbie's heart. There was no beat. "I'm 
afraid she has died." I lifted the feather-light body, wrapped it in the 
piece of sheet and took it out to the car.
  
  When I came back, Mrs Pickering was still stroking the kitten. The tears 
had dried, and she was bright-eyed as she looked at me.
  "I've never had a cat before," she said.
  I smiled. "Well, it looks as though you've got one now."
  
  And she certainly had. The kitten grew rapidly into a sleek, handsome and 
bouncy tabby cat and Mrs Pickering called him Buster. He wasn't timid like 
his little mother and he lived like a king - and with the ornate collar he 
always wore, looked like one too.
  
  I watched him grow up with delight, but the occasion that always stays in 
my mind was the following Christmas Day, a year after his arrival.
  I was on my way home after visiting a farmer with a sick cow, and I was 
looking forward to my Christmas dinner. Mrs Pickering was at her front door 
when I passed her house and I heard her call out, "Merry Christmas, Mr 
Herriot! Come in and have a drink to warm you up."
  
  I had a little time to spare, so I stopped the car and went in. In the 
house there was all the festive cheer of last year and the same glorious 
whiff of sage and onion stuffing. But this year, there was no sorrow - 
there was Buster!
  
  He was darting up to each of the Basset hounds in turn, ears ricked, eyes 
twinkling, dabbing a paw at them, and then streaking away.
  Mrs Pickering laughed. "Buster does tease them so. He gives them no 
peace."
  She was right. For a long time, the dogs had led a rather sedate life: 
gentle walks with their mistress, plenty of good food, and long snoring 
sessions on the rugs and armchairs.
  Then Buster arrived.
  
  He was no dancing up to the youngest dog again, head on side, asking him 
to play. When he started boxing with both paws, ot was too much for the 
Basset who rolled over with the cat in a wrestling game.
  "Come into the garden," said Mrs Pickering. "I want to show you 
something."
  She lifted a hard rubber ball from the sideboard and we went outside.
  
  She threw the ball across the lawn and Buster bounded after it over the 
frosty grass, his tabby coat gleaming in the sun. He seized the ball in his 
mouth, brought it back to his mistress, dropped it at her feet, and waited. 
Mrs Pickering threw it and again Buster brought it back.
  
  I gasped. A retriever-cat!
  The Basset looked on unimpressed. Nothing would ever make them chase a 
ball, but Buster did it again and again as though he would never tire of 
it.
  Mrs Pickering turned to me. "Have you ever seen anything like that?"
  "No," I replied. "He is a most remarkable cat."
  
  We went back into the house where she held Buster close to her, laughing 
as the big cat purred loudly. Looking at him, so healthy and contented, I 
remembered his mother who had carried her tiny kitten to the only place of  
comfort and warmth that she had ever known.
  Mrs Pickering was thinking the same thing because she turned to me and, 
although she was smiling, her eyes were thoughtful. "Debbie would be 
pleased," she said.   
  I nodded. "Yes, she would. It was just a year ago today she brought him 
in, wasn't it?'
  "That's right." She hugged Buster again. "The best Christmas present I've 
ever had."
    `tc
  Bonny's Big Day
  `tc
  
  On sunny morning in early September, I drove to see old John Skipton at 
Dale Close Farm since he had telephoned to say that one of his carthorses 
was lame.
  
  As I got out of the car, the untidily-dressed figure of the farmer came 
through the kitchen door of Dale Close.
  
  John always seemed to look like a scarecrow, and today was no different. 
He was wearing a tattered buttonless coat which was tied round his waist 
with string. His trousers were much too short and, as he hurried towards 
me, I could see that he was wearing socks of different colours - one was 
red, and the other was blue.
  
  By working very hard when he was a young man, Mr Skipton had saved enough 
money to buy his own farm with its handsome stone house. He had never 
married and because he was always so busy looking after the sheep and                 
cows on the hill, bringing in the harvest from the fields, and picking the 
apples in-the orchard, he had been much too busy to worry about himself - 
which is why he was always dressed in such very old clothes.
  
  "The horses are down by the river," he said in his usual gruff manner. 
"We'll have to go down there." He seized a pitchfork and stabbed it into a 
big pile of hay which he then hoisted on to his shoulder. I pulled my large 
Gladstone bag from the car and set off behind him.
  It was difficult to keep up with the farmer's brisk pace even though he 
must have been fifty years older than me. I was glad when we reached the 
bottom of the hill because the bag was heavy and I was getting rather hot.
  
  I saw the two horses standing in the shallows of the pebbly river. They 
were nose to tail, and were rubbing their chins gently along each other's 
backs. Beyond them, a carpet of green turf ran up to a high sheltered 
ridge, while all around clumps of oak and beech blazed in the autumn 
sunshine.
  "They're in a nice place, Mr Skipton," I said.
  "Aye, they can keep cool in the hot weather, and they've got the barn 
when the winter comes."
  
  At the sound of his voice, the two big horses came trotting up from       
the river - the grey one first, and the chestnut following a little more 
slowly, and limping slightly.
  They were fine big carthorses, but I could see they were old from the 
sprinkling of white hairs on their faces. Despite their age, however, they 
pranced around old John, stamping their enormous feet, throwing their heads 
about and pushing the farmer's cap over his eyes with their muzzles.
  "Get over, leave off!" he cried.
  
  He pulled at the grey horse's forelock. "This is Bonny, she's well over 
twenty years old." Then he ran his hand down the front leg of the chestnut. 
"And this is Dolly. She's nearly thirty now, and not one day's sickness 
until now."
  "When did they last do any work?" I asked.
  "Oh, about twelve years ago, I reckon," the farmer replied.
  I stared at him in amazement. "Twelve years? Have they been down here all 
that time?"
  "Aye, just playing about down here. They've earned their retirement."
  For a few seconds he stood silent, shoulders hunched, hands deep in the 
pockets of his tattered coat.
  "They worked very hard when I had to struggle to get this farm going," he 
murmured, and I knew he was thinking of the long years those horses had 
pulled the plough, drawn the hay and harvest wagons, and had done all the 
hard work which the tractors now do.
  
  "I noticed that Dolly was a bit lame when I came down with their hay 
yesterday," he said. "Lucky I come down each day."
  "You mean that you climb down that hillside every single day?" I asked.
  "Aye - rain, wind or snow. They look forward to me bringing a few oats or 
some good hay."
  I examined Dolly's foot and found an old nail embedded deep in the soft 
part of her foot. I was able to pull it out quite easily with a pair of 
pincers, and then gave her an antitetanus injection to eliminate any risk 
of later infection.
  
  Climbing back up the hill, I couldn't help thinking how wonderful it was 
that old John had made the long journey to see the horses in all weathers, 
every day for twelve years. He certainly loved those great animals.
  A thought struck me, and I turned to him. "You know, Mr Skipton, it's the 
Darrowby Show next Saturday. You should enter the mares in the Family Pets 
Class. I know they are asking for unusual entries this year. Perhaps you 
should only take Bonny since Dolly's foot will be a bit sore for a few 
days."
  The farmer frowned. "What on earth are you talking about?"
  "Go on," I said. "Take Bonny to the show! Those horses are your pets, 
aren't they?"
  "Pets!" he snorted. "You couldn't call one of those great big 
clod-hoppers a pet. I've never heard anything so silly."
  When he got back to the farmyard, he thanked me gruffly, gave me a nod 
and disappeared into his house.
                                                                         
The following Saturday, it was my duty to attend Darrowby Show as the 
vet-in-charge. I had spent a pleasant time strolling around the showground, 
looking at the pens of cattle and sheep the children's ponies, the massive 
bulls, and the sheepdog trials in the neighbouring fields.
  Then over the loudspeaker came the following announcement: "Would the 
entrants for the Family Pets Class please take their places in the ring."
  
  I was always interested in this event, so I walked over and stood by the 
Secretary who was sitting at a table near the edge of the ring. He was 
Darrowby's local bank manager, a prim little man with rimless spectacles 
and a pork pie hat. I could see that he was pleased at the number of 
entrants now filing into the ring.
  He looked at me and beamed. "They have certainly taken me at my word when 
I asked for unusual entries this year."
  
  The parade was led by a fine white nanny goat which was followed by a 
pink piglet. Apart from numerous cats and dogs of all shapes and sizes, 
there was a goldfish in its bowl, and at least five rabbits. There was a 
parrot on a perch, and some budgies having an outing in their cage. Then to 
an excited buzz of conversation, a man walked into the ring with a hooded 
falcon on his wrist.
  "Splendid, splendid!" cried Mr Secretary - but then his mouth fell       
open and everyone stopped talking as a most unexpected sight appeared.
  
  Old John Skipton came striding into the ring, and he was leading Bonn - 
but it was a quite different man and horse than I had seen a few days 
before.
  John still wore the same old tattered coat tied with string, but today I 
noticed that both his socks were the same colour and on his head, perched 
right in the centre, was an ancient bowler hat.
  It made him look almost smart, but not as smart as Bonny. She was dressed 
in the full show regalia, of an old-fashioned carthorse. Her hooves were 
polished and oiled, the long feathery hair on her lower limbs had been 
washed and fluffed out; her mane, tail and forelock had been plaited with 
green and yellow ribbons, and her coat had been groomed until it shone in 
the sunshine. She was wearing part of the harness from her working days and 
it, too, had been polished, and little bells hung from the harness saddle. 
It quite took my breath away to look at her.
  
  "Mr skipton, Mr Skipton! You can't bring that great thing in here. This 
is the class for Family pets!" cried Mr Secretary leaping up from his 
chair.
  "Bunny is my pet," responded the farmer. "She's part of my family. Just 
like that old goat over there."
  "Well, I disagree," said Mr Secretary, waving his arms. "You must take 
her out of the ring, and go home."
  Old John Skipton put on a fierce face and glared at the man. "Bunny is my 
pet," he repeated. "Just ask Mr Herriot."
  I shrugged my shoulders. "Perfectly true. This mare hasn't worked for 
over twelve years and is kept entirely for Mr Skipton's pleasure. I'd 
certainly call Bonny a pet."
  "But... but..." spluttered Mr Secretary.
  Then he sat down suddenly on his chair, and sighed, "Oh, very well then, 
go and get into line."
  
  So John turned and led Bonny to a place right in the middle of the other 
competitors. On one side of them was the little pink piglet, and on the 
other side a tortoise. It was a most curious sight.
  
  The task of judging the pets had been given to the district nurse who was 
very sensibly dressed in her official uniform to give her an air of 
authority. Judging this class was always difficult, and when she looked 
along the line and kept seeing the great horse, she knew it was going to be 
very difficult indeed.
  She looked carefully at every competitor, but her eyes always came back 
to Bonny. All the rabbits were very sweet, the falcon was impressive, the 
dogs were charming, and the piglet was cute - but Bonny was "Magnificent!"
  "First prize to Mr Skipton and Bonny," she announced and everyone 
cheered.
  
  As the rosette was presented, a man came to take a photograph for the 
local newspaper. It looked as though the great horse knew all about her 
prize as she posed there, dignified and beautiful. John too stood very 
erect and proud - but, unfortunately, every time the photographer clicked 
the camera, Bonny pushed the bowler hat over the farmer's eyes. 
  It was the mare's way of showing her love, but I couldn't help wondering 
how the picture would come out. 
  
  After the show, I went back to Dale Close to help John "undress" Bonny - 
and I went with them down the hill to the field by the river.
  As we approached, Dolly came trotting up from the river, whinnying with 
pleasure to see her friend and companion again.
  "Her foot is quite healed now," I said, noting the horse's even stride.
  
  In the gentle evening light we watched the two old horses hurry towards 
each other. Then for a long time, they stood rubbing their faces together.
  "Look at that," said old John with one of his rare smiles. "Bonny is 
telling Dolly all about her big day!"
    `tc
  Blossom Comes Home
  `tc
  I arrived at Mr Dankin's farm just outside Darrowby on a warm April 
morning. The green hillside ran down to the river, and the spring sunshine 
danced on the water. The birds were singing and lambs played on the 
flower-strewn pastures.
  
  I saw Mr Dakin in the cow byre and went across to him. The farmer had a 
long face, made even longer by his drooping moustache. He was a kind man 
but he always looked mournful, and this morning he looked sadder than ever.
  I had come to examine a litter of piglets who had upset tummies but Mr 
Dakin seemed in no hurry to leave the byre. He was gazing at his old 
Shorthorn cow, Blossom.
  "She's got to go, Mr Herriot."
  "Old Blossom? Why" I asked.
  "It's not paying me to keep her any more. She's not givin enough milk 
now, and I have to sell plenty of milk to keep my farm going. Jack Dodson 
is coming this mornin to take her to market."
  He rested his hand briefly on the old cow's back. "I'm right sorry to see 
her go. She's like an old friend. She's stood in that stall for twelve 
years and she's given me thousands of gallons of milk. She doesn't owe me 
anything."
  
  There were only six cows in the old cobbled byre with ots low roof and 
wooden partitions, and they all had names You don't find cows with names 
any more, and there aren't many farmers like Mr Dakin who somehow scratch a 
living from a herd of six milking cows and a few calves, pigs and hens.
  As if she knew she was the topic of conversation, Blossom turned her head 
and looked at him. She was certainly very ancident: her pelvic bones jutted 
out from her skinny body and her udder drooped almost to the ground. But 
there was something appealing in the friendliness of the eyes and the 
patient expression on face. 
  
  Mr Dakin had fallen silent as he looked fondly at his cow. I was about to 
suggest that we might see the piglets when I heard a clattering of boots in 
the yard and Jack Dodson, the drover, hurried into the byre.
  "Now then, Mr Dakin," he cried. "It's easy to see which one you want me 
to take. It's that skinny old thing over there."
  He pointed to Blossom and, in truth, the unkind description seemed to fit 
the bony creature standing among her sleek neighbours.
  The farmer didn't reply for a moment, then he went between the cows and 
gently rubbed Blossom's forehead. "Aye, this is the one, jack." Then he 
undid the chain round her neck. "Off you go, old lass," he murmured, and 
the cow turned and made her way placidly from the stall.
  "Come along, come along!" shouted Jack Dodson, prodding the cow's rump.
  "Don't hit her!" barked Mr Dakin.
  Mr Dodson looked at him in surprise. I never hit 'em you know that. Just 
help 'em along, like."
  "All right," Mr Dakin replied. "But you won't need your stick for this 
one. She'll go wherever you want, always has done."
  
  Blossom proved him right and ambled across the yard. She turned up the 
track to join a group of fat bullocks and cows standing on the road high 
above. A boy and a dog circled them, keeping them together.
  The farmer and I stood watching as Blossom made her way unhurriedly up 
the hill, Jack Dodson following behind her. As the path wound behind an old 
grey barn, man and beast disappeared - but Mr Dakin still gazed after them, 
listening to the clip-clop of the hooves on the hard ground.
  When the sound had died away, he turned to me quickly. 
  "Right, Mr Herriot, we'll get on with seeing those little pigs."
  
  There were twelve squealing piglets in the sty with their mother. The 
farmer gently picked each one up and held it while I gave it an injection 
which would make it better. This took me about fifteen minutes and I tried 
to pass the time by talking about the weather, cricket and other things, 
but Mr Dakin replied only with a series of grunts. I could see that he was 
still sad about Blossom.
  
  I, too, was thinking about the old cow as I drove away from the farm, up 
the track and on to the road above. On my way home, I had to pass through 
the nearby village of Briston, and as I arrived, I saw the herd of cattle 
at the far end of the street. Mr Dodson was making another collection, and 
the boy was hatting to some friends by the roadside. I could see Blossom at 
the rear of the group, with her head turned, looking back.
  
  Briston was where Mrs Pickering lived with her three Basset hounds and 
Buster the cat who was once her Christmas Day kitten. One of the dogs had 
broken his leg a month before and I had to remove the plaster cast this 
morning.
  
  I lifted the dog on to the table and while I was cutting away the 
plaster, Buster kept frisking around, pawing playfully at my hand as the 
solemn-faces Bassets looked on pisapprovingly.
  After I had taken off the cast, I could see that the leg had set very 
well. "He'll be fine now, Mrs Pickering," I said.
  Just then, I saw a single unattended cow trot past the window. This was 
unusual because cows always have somebody in charge and, anyway, there was 
something familiar about this one. I hurried to the window and looked out. 
It was Blossom!
  "Please excuse me," I said to Mrs Pickering. I packed my bag quickly, and 
rushed out to my car.
  
  Blossom was moving down the village street at a good pace, her eyes fixed 
steadily ahead as though she was going somewhere important. What on earth 
had happened? She should have been at Darrowby market by now. People in the 
street were staring at her and the postman nearly fell off his bike as she             
pushed past him. Then she disappeared round the corner and out            
of sight.
  
  I had to turn the car, and then I drove after her at top speed - but when 
I rounded the corner, there was no sign of her and the road that stretched 
ahead of me was empty. She had vanished - but where had she gone?
  One thing was certain. I had to go back to Mr Dakin's farm and tell him 
that Blossom had broken away and was loose in the countryside.
  I urged my little car as fast as I could and when I reached the farm, I 
met Mr Dakin carrying a sack ofgrain across the yard.
  
  He looked at me in surprise. "Hello, Mr Herriot. Have you forgotten 
something?"
  I was about to blurt out my story when he raised his head suddenly, and 
listened. "What's that?" he said.
  From somewhere on the hillside above us, I could hear the clip-clop of 
hooves. As we stood in the yard and listened, a cow rounded a rocky out 
crop and came towards us. It was Blossom, moving at a brisk trot, great 
udder swinging, eyes fixed purposefully on the byre door.
  
  "What on earth..." burst out Mr Dakin , but the old cow brushed past us 
and marched without hesitation into the stall she had occupied for the oast 
twelve years. She sniffed enquiringly at the empty hay rack and looked 
round at her astonished owner.
  Mr Dakin started back at her. The eyes in the weathered face were watery, 
and he began to pull thoughtfully at his long moustache.
  
  The silence was broken by the sound of heavy boots on yhe cobbles of the 
yard, and Jack Dodson panted his way through the door.
  "Oh, there you are, you old scallywag!" he gasped. "I'm right sorry, Mr 
Daking. I left that lad in charge for a few minutes and he let her escape." 
Than he moved towards Blossom. "Come on, lass, let's be having you out of 
there."
  But he halted as Mr Dakin held an arm in front of him.
  
  There was a long silence as Dodson looked in surprise at the farmer who 
continued to gaze at yhe cow. There was a quiet dignity about the old 
animal as she stood there against the crumbling timbers of the partition, 
her eyes patient and undemanding.
  Then, still without speaking, Mr Dakin moved unhurriedly between the cows 
and the faint click of metal sounded as he fastened the chain around 
Blossom's neck. Next he strolled to the end of the byre and returned with a 
forkful of hay which he tossed expertly into the wooden rack.
  This was what Blossom was waiting for. She snatched a mouthful and began 
to chew with quiet satisfaction.
  
  "What's going on?" cried Jack Dodson in bewilderment.
  "I will be late for market."
  "I'm sorry I've wasted your time, Jack," the farmer replied slowly, "but 
you'll have to go without her." 
  "Without her... but...?" spluttered Mr Dodson.
  "Aye; you'll think I'm daft, but that's how it is. The old lass has come 
home and she's staying home."
  Mr Dodson shook his head, and left the byre to get back to the market.
  
  "Mr Herriot," he said, "do you ever feel that sometimes when unexpected 
things happen, they were meant to, and that it works out for the best in 
the end?'
  "Yes," I said, "I often think that."
  "Well, that's how I felt when Blossom came back down the hill." He 
reached out and scratched the old cow's back. "She's always been my 
favourite and I'm glad she's back."
  I was still puzzled. "But I can't understand how she got here. Why didn't 
I see her on the road? Where did she disappear to?"
  A smile spread slowly across Mr Dakin's face, and he pulled again at his 
long moustache. "Oh, there's another way to the farm. A little path which 
starts near the village."
  "And Blossom knows that path?"
  "Oh aye, the old girl knows everything about this place."
  
  I looked at the six cows in a row. "Didn't you say that you couldn't 
afford to keep her?" I asked, worried.
  "That's right, but I've had an idea," the farmer replied. "I can put two 
or three calves on to her instead of milking her. The old stable across the 
yard is empty and she can live in there quite happily."
  "What a wonderful idea, Mr Dakin. She'll be very comfortable there and 
she'd suckle three calves easily. She would probably pay her way."
  "Well, I'm not worried about that," said the farmer smiling.
  "After all these years, she doesn't owe me anything. The important thing 
is that Blossom has come home."
    `tc
  The Market Square Dog
  `tc
  On market days I used to take a walk across the cobbled square to meet 
the farmers who gathered there to chat. One of the farmers was telling me 
about his sick cow when we saw the little dog among the market stalls. The 
thing that made us notice the dog was that he was sitting up, begging, in 
front of the stall selling cakes and biscuits.
  "Look at that little chap," the farmer said. "I wonder where he's come 
from?"
  
  As he spoke, the stallholder threw him a bun which the dog devoured 
eagerly, but when the man came round and stretched out a hand the little 
animal trotted away. He stopped, however, at another stall which sold eggs, 
butter, cheese and scones. Without hesitation, he sat up again in the 
begging position, rock steady, paws dangling, head pointing expectantly.
  I nudged my companion. "There he goes again. I always think a dog looks 
very appealing sitting up like that."
  The farmer nodded. "Yes, he's a bonny little thing, isn't he? What breed 
would you call him?"
  "A cross, I'd say. He's like a small sheepdog, but there's a touch of 
something else - maybe terrier."
  
  It wasn't long before the dog was munching a biscuit, and this time I 
walked over to him, and as I drew near I spoke gently. "Here, boy," I said, 
squatting down in front of him. "Come on, let's have a look at you."
  He turned to face me, and for a moment two friendly brown eyes gazed at 
me from a wonderfully attractive face. The fringed tail waved in response 
to my words, but as I moved nearer he turned and trotted away among the 
market-day crowd until he was lost to sight.
  
  I was standing there, trying to see where he had gone, when a young 
policeman came up to me.
  "I've been watching that wee dog begging among the stalls all             
morning," he said, "but, like you, I haven't been able to get near him."
  "Yes, it's strange. You can see he's friendly, but he's also afraid. I 
wonder who owns him."
  "I reckon he's a stray, Mr Herriot. I'm interested in dogs myself and I  
fancy I know just about all of them around here. But this one is a stranger 
to me."
  I nodded. "I'm sure you're right. Anything could have happened to him. He 
could have been ill-treated by somebody and run away, or he could have been 
dumped from a car."
  "Yes," the policeman replied, "there are some cruel people about. I don't 
know how anybody can leave a helpless animal to fend for itself like that. 
I've had a few tries at catching him, but it's no good."
  The memory stayed with me for the rest of the day. It is our duty to look 
after the animals who depend on us and it worried me to think of the little 
creature wandering about in a strange place, sitting up and asking for help 
in the only way he knew.
  
  Market day is on a Monday and on the Friday of that week my wife Helen 
and I had a treat in store; we were going to the races in Brawton. Helen 
was making up a picnic basket with home-made ham-and-egg-pie, chicken 
sandwiches and a chocolate cake. I was wearing my best suit and I couldn't 
help feeling very smart because country vets have to work mustly in the 
fields and cowsheds and I hardly ever got dressed up. Helen, too, had put 
on her best dress and a fancy hat I had never seen before. As a vet's wife, 
she too had to work very hard and we weren't able to go out together very 
often.
  We were just about to leave the house when the doorbell rang. It was the 
young policeman I had heen talking to on market day.
  "I've got that dog, Mr Herriot," he said. "You know - the one that was 
begging in the market square."
  "Oh good," I replied, "so you managed to catch him at last." The 
policeman paused. "No, not really. One of our men found him lying by the 
roadside about a mile out of town and brought him in. I'm afraid he's been 
knocked down. We've got him here in the car."
  
  I went out and looked into the car. The little dog was lying very still 
on the back seat, but when I stroked the dark coat his tail stirred 
briefly.
  "He can still manage a wag, anyway," I said.
  The policeman nodded. "Yes, there's no doubt he's a good-natured wee 
thing."
  I tried to examine him as much as possible without touching because I 
didn't want to hurt him, but I could see that he had cuts all over his body 
and one hind leg lay in such a way that I knew it must be broken. When I 
gently lifted his head, I saw that one eyelid was badly torn so that the 
eye was completely closed. But the other soft brown eye looked at me 
trustingly.
  "Can you do anything for him, Mr Herriot?" asked the policeman. "Can you 
save him?"
  "I'll do my best," I replied.
  
  I carried the little animal into the surgery and laid him on the table.
  "There's an hour or two's work here, Helen," I said to my wife. "I'm very 
sorry, but we won't be able to go to the races."
  "Never mind," she replied. "We must do what we can for this fellow."
  Rather sadly she took off her fancy hat and I took off my good             
jacket. Dressed in our white coats we began to work.
  Helen was used to helping me and she gave the anaesthetic, then I set the 
broken leg in plaster and stitched up the wounds. The worst thing was the 
eye because even after I had stitched the eyelid it was still bruised and 
tightly closed and I was worried that he might lose the sight in that eye.
  By the time we had finished, it was too late to go out anywhere, but 
Helen was quite cheerful. "We can still have our picnic," she said.
  
  We carried the sleeping dog out to the garden and laid him on a mat on 
the lawn so that we could watch him as he came round from the anaesthetic.
  Out there in the old high-walled garden the sun shone down on the flowers 
and the apple trees. Helen put on her fancy hat again and I put my smart 
jacket back on and as we sat there, enjoying the good things from the 
picnic basket, we felt that we were still having a day out. But Helen kept 
glancing anxiously at the little dog and I knew she was thinking the same 
thing as I was. Would he be all right after all that we had done for him 
and, even then, what was going to happen to him? Would his owners ever come 
to claim him, because if they didn't, he had nobody in the world to look 
after him.
  
  Since he was stray dog, he had to go into the kennels at the police 
station and when I visited him there two days later, he greeted me 
excitedly, balancing well on his plastered leg, his tail swishing. All his 
fear seemed to have gone. I was delighted to see that the injured eye was 
now fully open, and the swelling down.
  The young policeman was as pleased as I was. "Look at that!" he 
exclaimed. "He's nearly as good as new again."
  "Yes," I said, "he's done wonderfully well." I hesitated for a moment. 
"Has anybody enquired about him?"
  He shook his head. "Nothing yet, but we'll keep hoping, and in the 
meantime we'll take good care of him here."
  
  I visited the kennels often, and each time the shaggy little creature 
jumped up to greet me, laughing into my face, mouth open, eyes shining.  
But nobody seemed to want him.
  After a few more days it was clear that no owner was going to claim him, 
and my only hope was that somebody else would take him and give him a home.
  There were other stray dags in the kennels, and on one visit I saw a 
farmer calling to collect his wandering sheepdog.
  
  Then a family was overjoyed at being reunited with their handsome golden 
retriever.
  
  Finally a little old lady came in and tearfully gathered her tiny 
Yorkshire terrier into her arms. But nobody came for my little patient.
  
  Various strangers came too, looking for a pet, but nobody seemed to be 
interested in him. Maybe it was because he was only a mongrel and the 
people who visited the kennels wanted a more elegant dog - yet I knew that 
he could make a perfect pet for anybody.
  
  A week passed before I went again to the police station. The little dog's 
kennel was empty.
  "What's happened?" I asked the policeman. "Has somebody taken him?"
  The policeman looked very grave. "No he replied, "I'm afraid he's been 
arrested."
  "Arrested?" I said in astonishment. "What do you mean?" 
  "Well," he said, "it seems that it's against the law for a dog to go 
begging in the market square so he has been taken into police custody."
  I was bewildered. "What are you talking about? A dog can't be arrested."
  The policeman, still very solemn, shrugged his shoulders. "This dog was."
  "I still don't know what this is all about," I said. "Where is he now?"
  "I'll take you to him," the policeman replied.
  We left the police station and walked a short way along the road to a 
pretty cottage.
  
  We went inside and there, in the sitting-room, curled up in a big new 
doggy bed was my little friend. Two small girls were sitting by his side, 
stroking his coat.
  The policeman threw back his head and laughed. "I've just been kidding 
you, Mr Herriot. This is my house and I've taken him as a pet for my two 
daughters. They've been wanting a dog for some time and I've got so fond of 
this wee chap that I thought he'd be just right for them."
  A wave of relief swept over me. "Well, that's wonderful," I said and I 
looked at his kind face gratefully. "What's your name?' I asked. 
  "Phelps," he replied. "PC Phelps. And they call me Funny Phelps at the 
police station because I playing jokes on people."
  "Well, you certainly took me in," I said. "Arrested indeed!"
  He laughed again. "Well, you've got to admit he's in the hands of the law 
now!"
  I laughed too. I didn't mind having the joke played on me because, funny 
Phelps or not, he was obviously a nice Phelps and would be a kind master 
for my doggy friend.
  
  It was a happy day when I took the plaster off the little dog's leg and 
found that the break had healed perfectly. All the nasty cuts had healed, 
too, and when I lifted him down from the table, the small girls held up a 
beautiful new red collar with a lead to match. Their new pet liked the look 
of them because he sat up in that position I remembered so well, his paws 
dangling, his face looking up eagerly. The begging dog had found a home at 
last. 
  
  `ty
  * * *
  `ty
  
  James Herriot has just retired as a practising vet after more than fifty 
years of devoted work. Although his favourite animals are dogs and cats he 
has spent much of his life caring for cattle, sheep, pigs and horses on the 
Yorkshire farms. He is married and has two children: Jimmy, who is now 
senior partner in the veterinary practice, and Rosie who is a doctor.
  James Herriot has written many bestselling books about his life as a vet 
in the beautiful Yorkshire Dales, and his latest book, "Every Living 
Thing", has just been published. He has written eight books for children, 
six of them gloriously illustrated by Ruth Brown. James Herriot and his 
wife live in a village in the North Yorkshire hills - imagining no other 
place they would rather be.
    `tc+
  Graham OakleyÑ
  "Henry's Quest"
  `tc
  
  `rp
  (c) Micmillan Childern's
  Books - Great Britain
  `rp
  
  Once upon a time there was a very small country surrounded by a very 
large forest. The people who lived there often told stories about the days 
when there were open fields and villages where the forest now grew, but no 
one knew whether they were true or not. Anyway, the forest was now so dense 
that not a soul within living memory had travelled through it and nothing 
at all was known about what lay on the other side.
  This small country was ruled over by a king. One day, when the king was 
still only a very small prince, he found two books. They had been used to 
prop up the back of the nursery cupboard and so when, years before, the 
prince's great-great-great grandfather had ordered the burning of all books 
to improve the minds of his people, they had been overlooked. They were now 
the only books in the whole kingdom. One of them was King Arthur and the 
Knights of the Round Table. The prince was so enthralled with this book 
that after he had been crowned king he changed his name from George Xxxxvii 
to Arthur Ii and had the book copied hundreds of times so that everyone 
could read it. Before long all his subjects were as keen on chivalry and 
knight errantry as the king himself.
  Now, King Arthur Ii had several daughters and the time came when the 
eldest, Princess Isolde, should have a husband. The king, of course, 
resolved to find for her the most chivalrous and knightly lad possible.
  When he had decided on the best way of doing this he issued a 
proclamation. His proclamation would probably have pleased even King Arthur 
I himself. It certainly pleased Henry, who was in town doing his shopping 
when the proclamation went up.
  Henry was a shepherd, and there were two things that particularly 
interested him: one was his flock and the other was Aunty Mabel's Fairy 
Tale Book, which was the second of the two books found by the king so long 
ago. King Arthur only had a few copies made of this book because the rats 
had eaten a lot of it while it did duty as a cupboard leg, and he thought 
people wouldn't be very interested in stories with beginnings and no ends, 
or ends and no beginnings. But enough of the stories was left to show that 
in the Old Days an ordinary chap could find caves full of treasure, or win 
the hands of princesses, or even become king. Henry didn't really fancy 
being a king, but he rather liked the idea of winning the hands of 
princesses. And now here was a princess whose hand was vacant.
  That afternoon as Henry watched over his sheep he thought seriously about 
the matter. Here was a chance to travel with good matrimonial prospects 
thrown in. He could take time off from his questing to look at some of 
those glass palaces described by Aunty Mabel and perhaps even meet a few of 
the beautiful princesses, though they would probably be a bit past their 
prime by now. Then there was always the chance of coming across a golden 
egg or piclung up a useful spell from a wandering wizard. By the end of the 
afternoon he had definitely decided to go questing.
  Next morning Henry went to the palace and joined the queue of suitors 
waiting to see the king. When his turn came he was shown into the king's 
private museum and was a bit embarrassed to find not only the king there, 
but the queen and the princesses as well.
  The king greeted him very affably and asked him if he knew what the shiny 
objects standing about the room were. Henry replied that they were family 
heirlooms that had been in the royal family ever since the Old Days.
  "Yes, yes, yes," said the king patiently, "but do you know what they were 
for?"
  Henry said they were for keeping chickens in and the queen and the 
princesses tittered. But the king just looked superior and told Henry what 
they were really for.
  When he had finished he asked, "And do you know what it was that made 
them move by themselves?"
  Henry said it was magic.
  The queen and princesses all nodded in agreement and smiled smugly at the 
king with "I told you so" written all over their faces. But the king 
ignored them and, looking even more superior, said solemnly and slowly, 
"It... was... PETROL"
  He waited a few moments for that to sink in. Then he went on to say that 
he believed that PETROL sill lurked about somewhere, either in the forest 
or beyond, and that the purpose of the Quest was to find it and bring it 
back alive. If Henry could do that, Arthur said, he would be a knight 
worthy of a place at the Round Table and the Princess Isolde would be his 
bride.
  Princess Isolde looked as if she definitely liked the idea and the queen 
looked as if she definitely didn't. Henry just smiled sheepishly and 
blushed.
  The king had drifted into a little world of his own and was murmuring 
softly about how PETROL would bring his beautiful heirlooms to life and how 
they would carry him about among the people who would all be terrified and 
really think he was somebody and not just a harmless old twit. Then the 
queen dug him in the ribs and he came to himself with a start. He wished 
Henry good luck and Henry left, wondering if Princess Isolde smiled like 
that at all the suitors as they walked out.
  As Henry rode home he thought about PETROL. He hadn't asked what it 
looked like because he didn't want to show his ignorance in front of 
Princess Isolde. He knew it must be very powerful to move those things, but 
whether it pushed, pulled or blew them along he couldn't fathom out. For 
some reason he imagined that it looked like a large, luminous caterpillar. 
Then he stopped thinking about it and thought about Princess Isolde 
instead.
  When he got home he arranged for his sheep to be looked after while he 
was away and then he got together all the things he would need on the 
Quest. Next morning he put on his knight's outfit, harnessed Frederick, and 
started out. Questers were setting off in all directions and Henry soon 
fell in with a bunch of rather well-to-do knights. He tagged along in the 
hope of learning something about PETROL and of picking up a few hints about 
questing. But the knights talked more about Princess Isolde than about 
PETROL, and as for picking up hints Henry soon found that the boot was on 
the other foot.
  Before the day was out Henry was as much a shepherd to them as he was to 
his sheep.
  By next morning they'd had their fill of questing and they departed for 
home. Henry was sad to see them go but at least there was a bit less 
competition.
  For days and days Henry and Frederick plodded on through the forest. He 
kept his eyes peeled for PETROL but all he saw was trees. The days turned 
into weeks and he was starting to think the forest would never end when 
quite suddenly, it did. The place he'd arrived at was a funny kind of place 
but at least there were people there.
  Somevere friendly and some weren't. Henry asked the friendly ones about 
PETROL, but not one of them had ever heard of such a thing.
  The next day Henry came upon a situation that any self-respecting knight 
simply couldn't walk away from. So he had a go, and it all turned out 
rather well. The traders rewarded him by giving him a lift which took him 
further in three days than he would otherwise have gone in three weeks. At 
the end of the voyage the traders warned Henry that if he went on he would 
meet a horrible death due to the abundance of monsters. But Henry said that 
such was the lot of knights, waved them goodbye and set off feeling as 
cheerful as was possible under the circumstances.
  One evening, five days after leaving the traders, Henry and Frederick 
stumbled upon a place that looked very much like a certain picture in Aunty 
Mabel's Fairy Tale Book. Henry got quite breathless with excitement and 
scouted about, almost certain of what he would find. Sure enough he spotted 
a beautiful girl, snoozing away peacefully. It could only be the Sleeping 
Beauty.  
  He felt very guilty about Princess Isolde but a chap had to think about 
his future. After all, some other quester might have found PETROL already 
and claimed her, whereas here was a princess allready to hand. 
  He seemed to remember that the bestower of the awakening kiss had to be a 
prince, but he reasoned that as the Sleeping Beauty had beenlying about for 
so long the spell had probably grown weak and anordinary common kiss would 
do the trick. She'd be sure to marry him and then he'd be a prince, without 
any more bother or risk. 
  The first thing that Henry noticed when he entered the princess's chamber 
was a most horrible snoring. He thought sadly of Princess Isolde and he 
somehow knew that she didn't snore. But then he saw all the Sleeping 
Beauty's attendants hanging about, sleeping, just as Aunty Mabel's book 
described and he realised, with relief, that the snores must come from one 
of them. Still, when he reached the princess's side he checked, because a 
chap has got to be sure what he is letting himself in for. But she was as 
quiet as anything, so he wiped the dust off her forehead with his sleeve 
and stooped to bestow his kiss.
  He was within an inch of becoming a prince when the snoring turned into a 
snuffling and the snuffling into a dreadful roaring. Henry looked up. The 
first thing he thought was that he'd strayed into the wrong palace and was 
about to kiss the other Beauty and that this was the Beast objecting. Then 
he remembered that the Beast must have been changed back into a prince 
years ago. Then he ran for his life.
  The next few minutes were the worst that Henry and Frederick had ever 
been through and they were very lucky to escape with their lives But 
afterwards Henry realised that he'd been taught a very good lesson. A 
knight must be constant to his Quest and to his princess and stick to the 
right road, and not go sneaking off down side roads just because they 
seemed to be smoother.
  Henry took his lesson to heart and searched and questioned even harder. 
After several weeks his enquiries led him close to a great city, where, if 
what he had been told was true, PETROL lurked.
  A cottager agreed to look after Frederick for a day or two and Henry 
travelled the rest of the way to the city alone. He saw that it wouldn't be 
wise to try to enter the city through the gates so he looked around for 
another way in.
  He soon found one, but for a moment his courage failed him. Then he 
remembered how Jack, without a moment's hesitation, had shinned up the 
beanstalk. So he took a deep breath and up he went.
  The city seemed a fabulous place to Henry. He'd never seen such brilliant 
lights or such lofty palaces, and he started to wonder if it was Fairyland. 
It was certainly like the description in Aunty Mabel's book. But, in the 
end, he decided it wasn't. Fairyland probably smelled nicer But it was 
wonderful just the same and it drove all thoughts of PETROL out of his head 
for a time.
  He'd been wandering about for hours and he was just trying to pluck up 
courage to enter one of the glittering palaces and join in the fun, when a 
particularly noisy crowd of merrymakers came racing by and above their 
cries he heard a sound he had never heard before. He started to struggle 
against the crowd towards the corner to see what it was but he had a 
feeling he knew already.
  And he was right. The power that moved such a monstrous thing could only 
be PETROL. The thing lurched to a halt and Henry, screwing up his courage, 
strolled up to it, hoping to have a friendly and informative chat about 
PETROL with the men who clustered all over it. He shouted a cheery good 
evening and they replied by leaping down, grabbing hold of him and shaking 
and pummelling him. Their leader said he must be a foreign spy because he 
looked much too healthy to be a local so they'd better take him back to the 
palace for questioning.
  Henry was bundled into the thing and it trembled and roared and lurched 
forward. He quickly changed his mind about PETROL being a luminous kind of 
caterpillar. It was definitely more of an evil-smelling, raging, fiery 
beast. He couldn't see anything, but he guessed it must be imprisoned under 
the floor, because he could feel the iron plates shuddering beneath his 
feet. He started worrying about how, when he had got PETROL, he could 
possibly get such a terrible thing home and he was still worrying when they 
arrived at the palace.
  Henry was thrown into a nasty little cell and the gaoler told him that 
the emperor, being interested in all foreigners, would question him in 
person. He also said that, by and large, emperors don't like people who 
disagree with them and this one particularly didn't so Henry had better 
bear this in mind if he valued his well-being. Henry passed a very uneasy 
night and next morning was hauled off to his interview.
  Actually, the emperor seemed quite a nice chap and almost had good 
manners. He was very keen to hear all about Henry's homeland and asked if 
it was very rich; if it had strong walls around it; if it had a powerful 
army and if Henry could tell him exactly how to find it. Henry's answers 
were respectively, yes, no, no and no, he'd lost his sense of direction, 
upon which the emperor went slightly purple and shouted that thumbscrews 
would probably restore it pretty quickly. But he soon got a grip on himself 
and even apologised, saying he was just a humble student at heart and got 
carried away by his thirst for knowledge. So Henry told him about the Quest 
and the emperor said affably that he'd come to the right shop because he 
had plenty of what Henry wanted and he would gladly give him some to cement 
relations between their two countries.
  That night there was a banquet. Henry sat at the emperor's right hand, 
more or less, and felt very important. He felt even more important when the 
emperor introduced him by saying that he was a knight in the service of a 
fabulously rich king and that, as a mark of His Esteem, He would personally 
accompany Henry to the Imperial Petrol Repository and present him with some 
petrol with His own Royal hands. As an even greater mark of His favour He 
would send two hands. As an even greater mark of His favour He would send 
two trusted servants to help carry the petrol back to Henry's homeland. 
Henry saw the emperor dig the minister of war in the ribs and they both 
sniggered nastily. He wondered at that.
  After that they all got down to the business of enjoying themselves and 
soon all the guests except Henry were more or less unconscious.
  Then the minstrel came over and sang Henry a song.
  It was all about a thoroughly decent minstrel who wanted to overthrow a 
thoroughly rotten king, but couldn't, because the king had some magical 
stuff which gave him immense power. One day a knight visited the king and 
the king made much of him and promised to take him to the cave where he 
kept this magical stuff and give him some and he would order a servant to 
carry it back to the knight's home for him. But the minstrel knew this was 
just a trick to find out where the knight's home was so that the king could 
send his army to pillage it. So he warned the knight and gave him a secret 
weapon and with it the knight destroyed the cave and the magical stuff. 
Then all the king's power was gone and the minstrel became king and they 
all lived happily ever after.
  Henry thought it was a daft song. There was no tune to speak of and the 
words didn't even rhyme. But he hated hurting people's feelings so when the 
minstrel thrust his funny-shaped collecting bowl into his hands, Henry, 
with great difficulty, pushed a coin into the narrow neck and handed it 
back. But the minstrel wasn't at all grateful and stumped off, muttering 
something about idiots deserving all they get.
  The morning after the banquet found the emperor and his staff feeling 
very queasy. And as the road to the Imperial Petrol Repository was very 
bumpy and the Imperial car very stuffy and the morning very muggy, by the 
time they reached the end of the journey, tempers, particularly the 
emperor's, were very frayed.
  They all trooped groggily after the emperor into the petrol store. He 
ordered a guard to take down an iron bottle and open it. Henry held his 
breath in anticipation of the aweinspiring thing he would see rush out. All 
he saw was clear water.
  His disappointment, after months of searching, was too great to keep in.
  "I suppose you think that's funny?" he cried. "It's just water!" 
  The emperor's eyes goggled. No one had ever spoken to him like that 
before. The ministers backed away so as to be out of range of any stray 
death sentences.
  "Smell it," ordered the emperor. "Does water smell like that?"
  "Smelly water does," said Henry.
  "Taste it," shouted the emperor. "Does water taste like that?"
  "Taste it yourself, I'm not that daft!" bawled Henry.
  There was a long pause while the emperor's face turned royal purple. Then 
he gave a blood-curdling shriek and flung his cigar into the pool on the 
floor. With a despairing howl the ministers fled.
  "See!" shrieked the emperor triumphantly. "Does water do that?"
  Henry generously admitted that it didn't and then he fled.
  The emperor took another look at his handiwork and then, with the feeling 
that somehow he hadn't thought things through, he fled.
  With the burning of the petrol the emperor's power vanished. His soldiers 
knew it and they knew also what to expect at the hands of the people they'd 
bullied for so long, so, using what petrol remained in the machines, they 
vanished as well. They knew too that their future would be hard and that 
they would have to give up all their little luxuries, so they made a start 
by giving up emperors, generals and ministers of state.
  Henry found himself surrounded by a sea of angry, howling faces, but 
suddenly the minstrel appeared and greeted him warmly.
  "You've done it after all!" he cried. "I don't know how, but you've done 
it" 
  Henry tried to explain that he hadn't done anything, but the minstrel 
wouldn't listen. He shouted to the crowd that Henry wasn't the idiot he 
appeared but was a national hero so they stopped howling and cheered 
instead.
  That afternoon the new emperor held a parade just to show everybody he 
said, they had a certain substance so powerful that petrol was that the bad 
old days were gone and that from now on things would be ditchwater by 
comparison. Any king who had it now would really different. After that he 
took Henry to see something. In the Old Days, make neighbouring kings bite 
their nails. And he had it. Well, almost.
  That evening Henry was guest of honour at another banquet and sat at the 
emperor's right hand, more or less. He didn't feel so important this time 
because he knew he was there under false pretences. He'd told the new 
emperor that the old emperor had set fire to the petrol himself because 
temper had clouded his judgement, but the new emperor just looked 
philosophical and said that was the story of all tyrants. Henry left it at 
that.
  Halfway through the banquet, after the fourteenth course to be precise, 
the emperor rose and after saying a word or two about the Birth Pains of 
Infant States, Self-sacrifice and the Tightening of Belts he announced that 
Henry was now an official National Hero and presented him with the last two 
tins of petrol in the whole world. Henry was overjoyed. He said that now 
his Quest was over and that he could return home in triumph and claim his 
bride and would it be rude if he went first thing in the morning. The 
emperor said that would be fine and Henry saw him smirk in a particularly 
nasty way at the minister of war and something clicked in his mind.
  That night, when he thought that everybody must be asleep, Henry took his 
two cans of petrol and crept from the palace. But the emperor must have 
guessed that Henry would remember his song and put two and two together, 
because before he had gone far Henry noticed that he was being followed. 
But he wasn't worried: he remembered Jack again and how he'd got rid of his 
pursuer. It's true he didn't have an axe but he had something just as good.
  An hour later Henry collected Frederick and several weeks after that they 
arrived back in their own country and glad they were to see it.
  Henry took the petrol straight to King Arthur and demanded the hand of 
Princess Isolde. But the king said it wasn't as easy as that; the stuff had 
to be tested first since for all he knew the tins could be full of 
foulsmelling water. At that, Princess Isolde put her foot down. She said 
the tins could be full of raspberry jelly for all she cared; she fancied 
Henry and she was jolly well going to have him and that was that.
  That afternoon the petrol was tried out on the royal heirlooms and 
several tempers got pretty frayed. The king was just beginning to have 
serious thoughts about Henry and was wondering if he could slip flogging 
back into the statute books when things suddenly looked up.
  The following day King Arthur demonstrated the power of petrol to his 
people. They absolutely loved it and shouted for an encore.
  But the queen said it was nasty stuff, and she said it so emphatically 
that the king had to agree. So what was left of the petrol was put in the 
palace cellar, where it slowly vanished into thin air.
  Henry and Princess Isolde were duly married and went to live in Henry's 
old home. Being almost royal didn't go to Henry's head in the least. The 
house was altered just a little to make it a fit home for an heir apparent 
but apart from that not much changed. Sometimes Henry would look at his 
princess and think about the other princess sleeping in the forest 
surrounded by her dragons, and most times he would thank his lucky stars 
that he'd been prevented from waking her up. Once in a while he would think 
about the emperor and wonder if he'd ironed out the problems with his 
terrible new power and then he would look nervously at the dark edge of the 
forest. If it hadn't been for that he would have lived not just happily but 
very happily ever after.