Long Lankin by Lindsey Barraclough Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lindsey Barraclough
only get a bit of the writing on.”
As I’ve already torn one page out, I don’t suppose the sin will get worse if I pull out hymn number 113 as well. Roger hands me the rubbing he’s finished and starts on the next.
Jagged white capital letters stand out against the rough grey scribble: CAVE .
“What’s
cave,
then?” I say.
“We all know what a blinking cave is,” says Roger, “but there aren’t any round here. Can you pass up another bit of paper? I’ve run out again.”
“Can’t make head nor tail of it,” I say, looking at the second sheet he’s given me. “It says
best
.”
Pete looks over. “Doesn’t make sense,” he calls up to Roger. “
Cave best
. Are you sure you did it right?”
“’Course I did.” Roger comes down off the chair with the last page. “Anyway, it definitely doesn’t say anything about Derek Meacock and Sylvia Sparks. This is it. There’s no more. It says
iam
.”
“
Cave best iam,
” I say. “It’s a load of rubbish if you ask me.”
“I expect he’s got bad breath,” says Pete thoughtfully.
“What are you going on about now?” says Roger. “Who’s got bad breath?”
“Derek Meacock. That’s why Sylvia Sparks won’t go to the pictures with him.”
“Oh, leave off, will you?”
We stare at the paper.
“Hmm,
Cave best iam,
” says Roger, scratching his head. “
Cave best iam
. No idea.”
“It must be foreign,” I say. “Oh, that’s funny. I said that before. Yesterday. At Auntie Ida’s.”
We were really nervous, Pete and me, going over the bridge to Guerdon Hall. I got a nasty dry taste in my mouth, and I could see Pete looking around with eyes as big as Ping-Pong balls.
“Where’s the dog?” he whispered.
“Auntie Ida said she was going out,” said Cora. “She’s most probably taken him with her. Look, Mimi, promise me you won’t tell Auntie we’ve been down the church.”
“Why?”
“Because she said we wasn’t to go, remember? If you tell, I’ll — I’ll chuck Sid down the toilet.”
“All right.”
“It’s here, the writing,” Cora said to us, pointing up as we got close to the house.
A cracked piece of wood was nailed up over the porch at a wonky angle. It had a rough carving of a baby’s face on it. Underneath, all worn and chipped, were the same words as on the gate down at the church: CAVE BESTIAM .
“That’s not a very nice thing to have on the front of your house, a blinking crying baby, so you have to look at it every time you go in,” said Pete.
“We don’t go in here,” said Cora. “We go round the back. Come and see.”
We were a bit worried about this, to be honest. Round the back was where the chickens were. Pete and I sort of dragged our feet a bit.
“What’s the matter?” said Cora. “Ain’t you coming?”
“Well,” I said quietly, “it’s the chickens.”
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of a load of flippin’ chickens!” said Cora.
“Well, for a start, are you sure they’re chickens?” said Pete.
“What do you mean,
sure they’re chickens
? What else would they blinkin’ well be — blimmin’ vultures?”
“Nah, well,” said Pete, “we think they’re children Mrs. Eastfield’s put a spell on.”
“Pete does,” I said quickly.
“What a load of stupid rubbish,” Cora said, annoyed. “We had their eggs for tea yesterday.”
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t children first, before they laid eggs,” said Pete. “If you’re turned into a chicken, you couldn’t be a real one if you didn’t lay eggs.”
“It’s still rubbish,” said Cora, and we might have stood there talking about this a lot longer, but there came the sound of barking, and the big dog bounded over the bridge and down the path. Pete jumped behind me.
Then Mrs. Eastfield appeared, carrying a huge, scruffy leather suitcase with its straps straining. She had to lean to one side to balance herself.
“Crikey! We’re trapped!” Pete whispered to me.
Mrs. Eastfield saw us and
As I’ve already torn one page out, I don’t suppose the sin will get worse if I pull out hymn number 113 as well. Roger hands me the rubbing he’s finished and starts on the next.
Jagged white capital letters stand out against the rough grey scribble: CAVE .
“What’s
cave,
then?” I say.
“We all know what a blinking cave is,” says Roger, “but there aren’t any round here. Can you pass up another bit of paper? I’ve run out again.”
“Can’t make head nor tail of it,” I say, looking at the second sheet he’s given me. “It says
best
.”
Pete looks over. “Doesn’t make sense,” he calls up to Roger. “
Cave best
. Are you sure you did it right?”
“’Course I did.” Roger comes down off the chair with the last page. “Anyway, it definitely doesn’t say anything about Derek Meacock and Sylvia Sparks. This is it. There’s no more. It says
iam
.”
“
Cave best iam,
” I say. “It’s a load of rubbish if you ask me.”
“I expect he’s got bad breath,” says Pete thoughtfully.
“What are you going on about now?” says Roger. “Who’s got bad breath?”
“Derek Meacock. That’s why Sylvia Sparks won’t go to the pictures with him.”
“Oh, leave off, will you?”
We stare at the paper.
“Hmm,
Cave best iam,
” says Roger, scratching his head. “
Cave best iam
. No idea.”
“It must be foreign,” I say. “Oh, that’s funny. I said that before. Yesterday. At Auntie Ida’s.”
We were really nervous, Pete and me, going over the bridge to Guerdon Hall. I got a nasty dry taste in my mouth, and I could see Pete looking around with eyes as big as Ping-Pong balls.
“Where’s the dog?” he whispered.
“Auntie Ida said she was going out,” said Cora. “She’s most probably taken him with her. Look, Mimi, promise me you won’t tell Auntie we’ve been down the church.”
“Why?”
“Because she said we wasn’t to go, remember? If you tell, I’ll — I’ll chuck Sid down the toilet.”
“All right.”
“It’s here, the writing,” Cora said to us, pointing up as we got close to the house.
A cracked piece of wood was nailed up over the porch at a wonky angle. It had a rough carving of a baby’s face on it. Underneath, all worn and chipped, were the same words as on the gate down at the church: CAVE BESTIAM .
“That’s not a very nice thing to have on the front of your house, a blinking crying baby, so you have to look at it every time you go in,” said Pete.
“We don’t go in here,” said Cora. “We go round the back. Come and see.”
We were a bit worried about this, to be honest. Round the back was where the chickens were. Pete and I sort of dragged our feet a bit.
“What’s the matter?” said Cora. “Ain’t you coming?”
“Well,” I said quietly, “it’s the chickens.”
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of a load of flippin’ chickens!” said Cora.
“Well, for a start, are you sure they’re chickens?” said Pete.
“What do you mean,
sure they’re chickens
? What else would they blinkin’ well be — blimmin’ vultures?”
“Nah, well,” said Pete, “we think they’re children Mrs. Eastfield’s put a spell on.”
“Pete does,” I said quickly.
“What a load of stupid rubbish,” Cora said, annoyed. “We had their eggs for tea yesterday.”
“Doesn’t mean they weren’t children first, before they laid eggs,” said Pete. “If you’re turned into a chicken, you couldn’t be a real one if you didn’t lay eggs.”
“It’s still rubbish,” said Cora, and we might have stood there talking about this a lot longer, but there came the sound of barking, and the big dog bounded over the bridge and down the path. Pete jumped behind me.
Then Mrs. Eastfield appeared, carrying a huge, scruffy leather suitcase with its straps straining. She had to lean to one side to balance herself.
“Crikey! We’re trapped!” Pete whispered to me.
Mrs. Eastfield saw us and