OFF TO SCHOOL AGAIN!

(A story I am writing. It's an homage to Enid Blyton and Anthony Buckeridge. It belongs to me, you write your own, the very cheek HOW DARE YOU!) (All rights reserved, preserved and eaten with lashings of cream.) By the way, I started writing this 31 years ago; I apologise for any offence caused by anything non-PC; unfortunately that's most of it.

OFF TO SCHOOL AGAIN!

It was a calm, clear September morning, with a light sprinkling of dew on the grass, and an orange sun rising in a pale grey sky. Fidelity Waters leaped out of bed with a little squeal of joy and danced on tippytoes across the pale blue carpet to fling open the shutters of her tiny window under the eaves of Daisy Cottage.

“Oh jolly jolly JOLLY day!” she sang, spinning gollywog around by his one tattered arm. “Today’s the day daddy takes me by motor all the way back to jolly old school, golly. Aren’t you excited? Isn’t it just wonderful?”

“Ha! Ha! Just past six o’clock in the morning and you’re up already, old girl? You must be jolly keen!” said Daddy, coming in in his pyjamas. He was smoking a pipe and juggling with a set of Indian clubs. At his heels yapped little Buffy, the wiry one legged terrier who had been Fidelity’s best friend since she had found him in a sack by the river many years ago.

“Well it’s not often you become a fourth former at the best school in England for the very first time, is it Daddy darling?”, said Fidelity, flinging Buffy around by his one wiry leg for joy. “Yippee!”

“Gosh,” Daddy ejaculated, uncharacteristically. “Poor Buffy! He’ll be good for nothing but scrubbing floors if you treat him like that, won’t you old boy?”

But Buffy was fond of Fidelity and didn’t mind at all. He whimpered happily and licked at Fidelity’s face with a funny little pink tongue.

“See, he likes it, daddy, don’t you darling? Golly!”

“Don’t expostulate,” chided Daddy, sternly, although there was a twinkle in his kindly brown eyes. Fidelity did not hear, for she was busy staring out of her tiny wee window with its blue frame and pretty chintz curtains.

“Fidelity, I spoke to you!” Daddy did not like to repeat himself and his voice sounded cross.

“Sorry, daddy- I was just watching that strange raggedy little ragamuffin in the garden. I do believe it was stealing some of our yumptious-scrumptious blackberries. You know, the ones Mrs. Smeggory makes into such jolly decent summer puddings.”

“What?!” exfoliated Daddy, with a sharp turn to his voice. “Dashed cheek!”

Fidelity almost fainted with shock. Daddy never swore, not even when he was super-duper angry, so he must be jolly cross. He marched out, wielding his clubs, with Buffy slithering and yapping along behind him.

The things Mrs. Smeggory didn’t know about eggs weren’t worth knowing, Mother always said; and Fidelity agreed as she tucked into a huge boiled one, with soldiers.

“Scrumbliumptious,” she said, with her mouth full, crumbs falling from her mouth into the half grapefruit which was to be her second course.

“Fidelity, don’t speak whilst you masticate,” chided Mother gently, as she wiped her fingers delicately on a pretty linen napkin with matching lace bordered egg cosy.

“’Nother lashin’ ma’am?” grumbled Mrs. Smeggory, in her gruff voice, her face crumpling into what she called her ‘henquirin’ hexpression’.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. S?” Mother raised a ladylike eyebrow at the fat old servant.

“’Nother lashin’ o’ ginger ale, ma’am?”

“Goodness Gracious Dearie No!” exacerbated Mother. “I shall have a nasty tummy ache if I do!”

“Be burpin’ as well, shouldn’t doubt,” muttered Mrs. Smeggory, bumbling away to throw the remains of a brace of pheasants to Buffy, who yipped and yapped, and pranced around Mrs. Smeggory’s heels on his one darling little hoppity leg.

“Lawks-a-mercy and dash me away with a smoothing iron!” Mrs. Smeggory suddenly expectorated. “If it isn’t Mr. Waters coming up the garden path with Mr. Posset the local village policeman!” she said, using an improper subordinate clause and gesticulating wildly with a pheasant.

“Grammar! In front of Fidelity, indeed!” said Mother.

“That is incorrect too, Mother”, reproved Fidelity. “One should say, “One must not speak improperly in front of one’s mistress.”

“Don’t correct me please, Fidelity. It isn’t ladylike.” Mother said, coolly.

“An’ it weren’t no grammar in any case; I failed the test. I were straight down the pit soon as I left mixed infants,” Mrs. Smeggory murbled with misty eyes. “OI!!!”

Buffy, bored with the chatter, had jumped up suddenly to whisk the pheasant carcass from her chapped old hands, and was dragging himself down the garden path as fast as his little leg could pull him. “Bless that dog, ‘e’ll be the death o’ me”.

“Ha! Ha!” laughed Daddy, coming in with the policeman. “A game old bird from a game old bird, hey? Ha! Ha!”

“Now, then, Mr. Waters, what’s all this then?” said Mr. Posset, extracting a pencil from behind his ear and licking it. “Yes, I would like a nice cup of your nettle tea, please, Mrs. Smeggory.”

“Well, it’s like this,” said Daddy, and he began to explain about the ragged gypsy he had seen stealing fruit.

Mr. Posset was very kind, and when Daddy had finished his explanation he promised that he would go off straightaway and investigate. “And if this ‘ere gyppo comes back, you ‘ave my full permission to pump it full o’ slugs, Mr. Waters. If a person ain’t got no privacy to attend to ‘is own raspberries then what’s the world coming to?”

“Yes,” agreed Mummy, with a primp of her tidy bun. “If the child was hungry then it should have trotted straight home for some hedgehog. My Goodness! There it is again!”

At the bottom of the garden, Buffy, with a yap and a yip, was desperately trying to pull half of his pheasant remains from the mouth of the dirtiest child you ever did see. The child was a horrible sight, with wild eyes, sunken cheeks and bony ribs poking out of the holes in its ragged clothes. Mother let out a terrible scream and Mrs. Smeggory began to rap on the window.

“Hoi! Ragged child! You leave that dog alone, you nasty thing! Stealing food from a poor crippled puppy dog what never did no-one no harm, nor never it did in all its life, I do declare, and no mistake. Well, I never did!” Palpitating, Mrs. Smeggory collapsed into a heap on the floor and began to weep.

“You cruel thing! See what you’ve done! Our serving woman has had a palpitation! Sic ‘im, Buffy! Shoot it, Daddy! Kill it, Mr. Posset!” Fidelity yelled.

But before Daddy had time to aim, the ragged urchin was up and running down the lane as fast as its thin little legs would carry it.

“Not to worry,” said Mr. Posset, grimly. “There can’t be that many gyppo around ‘ere with an ‘ump and gallopin’ himpetigo. Soon ‘ave it in prison where it belongs. Aye well, I’ll be biddin’ you good day. Duty calls. Best be getting’ along. Smashin’ cup o’ nettle tea, Dolly.”

A MYSTERY TO SOLVE!

Fyffe Fynde-Outter stood up and ran an agitated hand through his sleek blond locks. He had grown during the summer, and his head almost touched the low slope of his little attic room ceiling with its locomotive wallpaper.

“Dash this weather,” he growled angrily, causing Dog’s ears to prick forward and droop slightly. Dog did not like it when his master was angry, but Fyffe scarcely noticed. His handsome young brow was furrowed as he strode across the room to close the little sash window. The rain dripped off the ivy and plopped noisily into the water-butt below, and the wind billowed the green cambric curtains.

“It’s bad enough that I have to stay at home in quarantine for the whooping cough for the entire first half, when I was bound to be picked to captain the remove, without it raining. I say!…” His tone changed to one of indignant excitement. “I do believe there’s an oik fighting with one of Dawson’s prize-winning sheep! Why, it’s stealing its turnip! What cheek!” In a moment the enterprising hero had grabbed a catapult from the bookshelf and fired a superb shot out of his window. It seemed bound to find its target, but a moment later there was a crash, a thud, a howl, and the unmistakable uniformed legs of Constable Posset could be seen waving from the ditch.

“Hit’s a serious hoffence, hinterferin’ with an hofficer of the law”, coughed the policeman, as he stood, muddy and dripping, on the doorstep. “Hi’d be within my rights to give you a thrashing, young man.” A faraway look softened his stern eye, and his ruddy features reddened slightly.

Fyffe waited politely for a few minutes and then, fearing that the village bobby might be concussed, interjected loudly. “AHEM!”

Constable Posset jumped, and rallied himself. “What would your parents make of your shenanigans, that’s what hi’d like to know!”

Angry spots appeared on Fyffe’s chiselled cheekbones, and he gazed levelly at the man facing him. “I can’t say, Sir. As you may recall, I haven’t seen my parents for some time.”

“That’s right, you haven’t. I’m sorry, boy. I’ll let it go on this hoccasion, but any more from you and it’ll be the birch, parents or no.” He gave a little shudder. “So watch it. Right, I’ll be on my way. There’s a no-good thieving gypsy roamin’ the village, what’s stealing food from animals and it’s me what has to catch it, so I’ll bid you good day.”

Remembering what he had just seen, Fyffe almost blurted his story out to the policeman, but caught his breath. After all, this was a proper mystery, and he had nothing better to do than to solve it.

“…And no meddlin’!”, said the bobby, climbing onto his bicycle. “Crimes is my job and hit would do you well to remember that, though with you quarantined and the rest of your gang at school you can’t do much harm I suppose”. He ruffled the boys hair and gave him a wink, before cycling away in the direction of Dawson’s Farm.

Fyffe watched him go, and then with a merry laugh he ran up the stairs, with Dog barking happily at his heels. “You know something’s up, don’t you, old boy?”, said the lad, sitting back down at his desk and pulling a sheet of almost clean paper towards him.

Half an hour later the lad and his faithful pet were racing towards the Post Office, where Mrs. Doddery was counting elastic bands. “104,105. With you in a minute, dear, 106, 107, is it a stamp for that letter you’re after? 108, 109, 110. There. Drat the things, they don’t stay still, wriggly nuisances.”

She handed Fyffe a stamp, and watched as he pressed it down hard in the right hand corner of the envelope. “That’ll be tuppence my dear, and you’re just in time. Here comes Humphrey Boggert the village postman round the corner, so your letter will be on its way faster than you can skin a whippet.” Dog, who understood everything perfectly, yelped and tried to hide under the counter, but Mrs. Doddery gave him a pat and a big juicy bone. “That’s all right, boy, you’re a big chocolate labrador as ever there was one. Take a while to skin you!”

At that moment in came Humphrey whistling cheerfully.

“That for me, young man? Letter is it? To Mr C. Kretseven, Lower Fifth, Dimcourt School, Cloutbury-under-Whittlestick. Righty ho, I’ll have it there quick as a flash and twice as speedy or I’ll be a lop-eared bandicoot.” He ruffled Fyffe’s hair and gave him a wink. “Now then, Mrs. Doddery! What about my sack? Round the back or over the counter? Golly, full today, have to be careful or that’s going to spill everywhere. Still, best get on. I’m falling behind, had to stop to shout at some gypsy type what was trying to steal fish off a heron down at Mill End Pond. Nerve of some people. Whoa, watch out there!” He was nearly knocked of his feet as the fourteen year old sleuth and his faithful hound raced off in the direction of the latest sighting.

It was very disappointing. Fyffe had searched Mill End high and low. He’d been up to Dawson’s, and past the village shop where he’d overheard Mrs. Smeggory telling anyone who’d listen about a gypsy stealing bones from Buffy the terrier. Fyffe hadn’t dared to follow her up to Daisy Cottage, as Mr. Waters hadn’t yet forgiven him for involving Fidelity in that last mystery, but Mrs. Smeggory had given a detailed account. The gypsy was, apparently, dirty, smelled appalling, was offensively thin, and had gold hoops in its ears. He almost vomited at the thought of such a vile person. What would he do if the ragged creature came to his house to steal a pie? He grinned as he imagined how Kretseven would feel, locked up back at school whilst Fyffe himself had an exciting bit of detective work to do, but than let out a sigh as he realised that so far he had no clues at all.

As he strolled back along the High Street, the intrepid seeker of clues suddenly saw something that made his eyes almost pop out of his head. It couldn't be, could it? But, yes, it was! There was an elephant coming around the corner, ridden, if his eyes were to be believed, by a beautiful dusky maiden wearing a long pink sparkling veil.

“Outrageous!” muttered a voice at his ear. “They come over here, taking all our jobs, riding our elephants, spreading cholera and amoebic dysentery to all and sundry, and they’re all lazy. And they have RABIES!”

Fyffe looked round in surprise. “Do they?”

“Of course they do”, grumbled Reverend Snod, the minister. “I was in India, and I saw it for myself. Shocking.”

“I hope you weren’t taking our jobs and riding our elephants”, said a lovely tinkling voice. Another Indian maiden, this time dressed in shimmering blue, had come up behind the Reverend, who almost jumped out of his skin.

“No, indeed I was not!” said the unfortunate man of the cloth, mopping his brow. “And that’s more than can be said for some people! It’s a disgrace! A travesty, no less, and I shall see what the parish council has to say about it.” With that, he hurried off.

The dark skinned woman laughed, a mysterious tinkling laugh that reminded Fyffe of exotic mysteries. “Mind your back, son, you’re about to be trampled by an elephant,” she said cheerfully as the graceful animal drew close. Fyffe was delighted as the magnificent beast lowered its trunk, allowing the woman to step lightly onto it. Fyffe noticed her delicate silver jewelled sandals and painted toes. She was clearly rich beyond imagination. Her slender arm, jingling with many gold bands, lifted as a sign to the lady dressed in pink, and the elephant slowly raised his trunk again. As the beautiful woman mounted the gentle animal behind her companion, she reached into a basket and pulled out a paper which fluttered down and landed at Fyffe’s feet. It said ‘THE CIRCUS IS COMING’.

KRETSEVEN THICKENS THE PLOT!

Ventricle, Porrage and Stoat were bouncing on the beds in No.3 dorm. Ventricle had convinced the others that the springs in his bed were so old, they were bound to dump him on the floor in the night, and Porrage and Stoat were finding out whether their own beds were this unreliable. As there was a firm rule of No Bed Swapping, the point was a moot one, but term always started with a fight over beds, and this term was pretty much the same as any other.

“I say, Kretseven! What’s the state of your springage? Mine’s a health hazard,” shouted Ventricle.

“Mmm?” The taller boy looked up from the letter he was perusing. “Fine, thanks. I say chaps, what do you make of this? Fynde-Outter has found a mystery. Some grotty cove has been stealing food! Can you imagine?”

“What on earth would anyone do that for?”, yelled Ventricle, executing a triple salko and landing on the floor beside his trusted friend.

“It can have our school grub with pleasure!” howled Porrage, leaping from bed to bed.

“And Porrage’s tuck box!”, boomed Stoat, whose voice had recently broken.

“What’s all this noise?” The gentle, well spoken tones of Mr. Smart, their house master who was leaning on the doorframe smoking a pipe, drifted into the room. “Stoat, you aren’t even in your pyjamas; and Ventricle, your hair is dry. Why haven’t you washed?”

“But sir, my bed’s broken, and Kretseven is reading a letter from Fynde-Outter, sir.”

“Fynde-Outter, eh?” Mr. Smart flushed slightly. “Not bedridden with the pox yet, then?”

“No sir. Quite the opposite in fact! He says he’s going to the circus.”

“The circus? Goodness.”

“And he says that there’s a weird person stealing food in his village, sir”, Stoat squeaked, suddenly.

“Weird?”

“Yes, sir. A smelly type. A gypsy no doubt. Fyndde-Outter thinks that the circus could help.”

“I see.” Mr. Smart looked thoroughly flummoxed and exhaled a smoky plume. “Well, I daresay there will be some travelling folk at the circus, but I can’t imagine they’ll admit to taking Fyndde-Outter’s tuck. Anyway, it’s time you lot were in bed. Mr. Snidely is on duty tonight and he’s been telling everyone in the staff room that some ghastly fourth former has nailed his desk shut, so I shouldn’t think he’ll take kindly to being disturbed.”

Kretseven climbed underneath his grey woollen blanket with red stitching, and said, thoughtfully, “I think Fyndde-Outter was going to consult a fortune teller, actually, Sir. But you’re right. Maybe I should warn him to be discreet.”

“Maybe.” Mr Smart sighed a little and switched off the light. “We wouldn’t want Fyndde-Outter to commit an indiscretion.”

As soon as the footsteps receded down the corridor, Ventricle beamed a powerful torch into Kretseven's cubicle.

“So, what happens now?” he whispered excitedly.

“I shall have to go and solve the mystery myself, of course.” The dark, curly haired young man replied. His voice was level, but his heart was secretly pounding with excitement.

“You’re running away from school already?” Ventricle said, bouncing up and down so that his springs creaked excruciatingly.

“Precisely, my dear Venters. We have a new form master, and a new Matron. All I need to do is alter her notes to say I never arrived because I’ve got whooping cough, and she won’t remember who I was. You lot will tell Mr. Smart and Mr. Snidely that I’ve gone to see Matron, Matron will tell them I’m at home at deaths door and Bob’s your uncle”.

A second beam of light, this time from Stoat’s contraband torch, hit Kretseven in the face. “That’s a terrible plan!”

“Yes, I know, Stoat, you oaf. It’s a delaying tactic. When I arrive at home, I shall develop whooping cough like nobody’s business. My parents will ring the school and say that I’m unable to return due to being horribly afflicted.”

“But won’t the doc be called?”, asked Porrage, almost blinding Kretseven with a halogen lamp that appeared to have been stolen from a lighthouse.

“I’ll deal with that later”, said the boy, rubbing his clear hazel eyes crossly.

FIDELITY GAINS A POUND!

As Form 4A climbed the magnificent mahogany staircase of main school, they were more quiet than usual. Miss Greybeard’s assembly had been a sombre one that morning, and Green Dormitory were in no mood for chatter.

“I can’t believe that Wynette won’t be back this term.”, Fidelity said, quietly. “It must be terrible to be so poor all of a sudden.”

“Yes, I know”, Chlamydia Howling agreed. “Mummy says that they have had to move into the most abysmal little house. It only has two bathrooms, and Mr. Bottomley has had to give up his golf club membership.”

“Well I for one shan’t miss her,” Acidity Clockhouse said, unpleasantly. “I always thought that that family had ideas above their station. She once came to school in a skirt that had belonged to her cousin. Can you imagine? She probably had fleas and lice and worms.”

“Oh do be quiet, Ass.” Fidelity’s best friend Prune said in her clear honest tone. “We all liked Wyn. It’s not her fault that the bottom fell out of rubber.”

“Well said,” Fidelity agreed. “Anyway, in one way she’s lucky- she won’t have to be weighed by matron.”

“I can’t believe it!”, wept Fidelity, throwing herself down onto the bed and burying her face in the pillow. “I knew I shouldn’t have had a lashing of Mrs. Smeggory’s ginger beer! A whole pound! Now I weigh nearly 8 stone!! Matron says I can’t have my tuck box back, and I have to have an early swim every morning. Mummy will be so ashamed of me!”

“Cheer up, Fi”, said Prune, comfortingly. “You can always be sick. Look!” She opened her little locker drawer, displaying several little parcels of vomit tidily wrapped in paper handkerchiefs. “Just wait until after lights out, then you can drop them in the loo.”

“Gosh, thanks, Pru.” Fidelity blew her nose loudly, and admired her friends lovely thin body with its slender legs and delicate ankles. “I’ll give it a go.”

Just then, in dashed Windolene Richards, panting and flushed. “I say! You’ll never guess! Labia Rinstead weighs almost ten stone! Miss Greybeard says there’s an outbreak of fat in the school. She’s put a notice up…. Just come and look!”

Crowding round the noticeboard, the girls craned their necks to read the terse note.

“SCHOOL TAKE NOTE” it began. “Many girls have returned to St. Mallardy Towers suffering from Fat. Fat is a revolting curse which causes spots, diarrhoea and prevents young ladies from marrying.

As you all know the Ministry of Inspection will be visiting the school this term; any indication that our girls may be victims of this horrendous affliction could damage our reputation beyond repair. As a result of this, I have arranged for anyone weighing more than seven-and-a-half stone to be returned home, in quarantine for Lassa Fever which claimed the life of Surfinia Hoople last term. When those listed below return to school after the inspection, they must fit neatly into the regulation uniform or steps will be taken.”

“I just can’t believe it, daddy!” Fidelity wailed, with a swish of her chestnut brown ponytail. “I’ve only been back at the best school in England for a week, and I’ve been expelled for being fat!” She threw her lacrosse stick into the boot of the car with a crunch.

“Never mind, darling. You’ll be back at home with mummy and me- and Mrs. Smeggory has promised not to lash any of the dinner. You’ll be normal within a shake of a lambs tail.”

“But I’m so embarrassed! What will the neighbours say?”

“They won’t say anything my dear. Mummy’s told them you’re in quarantine, and they’re all far too polite to comment. Anyway, there’s a special treat waiting for you at home… The Circus is Coming!”

“A circus!” Fidelity’s face lit up for a moment before crumpling again. “But all my friends will be back at school. A circus won’t be any fun without them.”

Daddy’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and his moustache bristled.

“That dashed Fyndde-Outter has been loitering. Quarantine apparently. I don’t want him near the house but I expect he can help you burn off some fat at the circus.”

“Fyffe!” Fidelity brightened. “How simply splendiferous, daddy! Two Noseyblighters is better than none! I wonder if there’ll be a mystery! Do you remember the mystery of Baffin Island? Wasn’t it FUN!?”

“Fidelity, I don’t know whether you understand the stress that parents go through when their only child is taken hostage by Inuit; or when the father has to travel a round trip of 16,000 miles to ask his bank manager to stump up a ransom; not to mention the inconvenience it causes to the British Government when they have to avert a major International incident- but in a word, No.”

“Oh Daddy, don’t be cross! It was simply lovely! And it was so kind of the Fyndde-Outters to let Fyffe come with us!”

Daddy’s knuckles whitened and his voice sounded strange as he spoke through gritted teeth.

“It was slightly less kind of them to leave home whilst he was gone; a mystery which the combined skills of MI5, The Ministry of Unexplained Events and Constable Possett have failed to untangle.”

Fidelity smiled, showing beautiful even white teeth, and her blue eyes sparkled like seawater.

“Well, I think it’s absolutely super-duper-lemon-squooper.”

“Fidelity, Daddy has a headache, darling. Please can we have some quiet time?”

THE CIRCUS HAS COME!

The circus had been set up on the village green, and what a circus it was! The World’s Smallest Giant, The World’s Biggest Midget, The Amazing Bearded Man, and The Bear Lady (Cancelled due to typographical error) read the posters. Fyffe had been lurking around the stalls for nearly a week in the hopes of seeing the monstrous starving oik, but there were no clues. He had, however, become very friendly with Karen and Raquel, the beautiful dusky maidens, and their elephant Simon.

“I say, Simon,” he said, stroking the rough skin of the mammoth beast, “What are we going to do about this mystery, hey?”

“Mystery?” tinkled Karen, cartwheeling past in a shimmering outfit.

“Yes! Surely you’ve heard? Some rogue child is stealing food all over the village. It took some corn from Farmer Whiteley’s hencoop and some hazelnuts from Hazelnut Copse yesterday.”

“Child?” Karen did a surprised handspring. “And has this….Child…left a trail of any kind?”

“It most certainly has.” Fyffe’s face paled slightly and contempt rode across his features. “Dr. Gillibrand says it has left a trail of the most appalling kind ever seen in these here parts, and that if it were possible to know the state of a persons health from such a matter the likes of which has never been seen around these here parts, he would say it were most badly fettled and no mistake.”

“Badly fettled?”

“I think it’s a medical term for poisoned.”

“Who’s poisoned?” Raquel somersaulted by with the grace of a young gazelle, and gave Simon a delicious cream cake, which he gently waved in the air as if to say “Thank you”.

“There’s a … child… on the loose.” said Karen.

“A…child?” Raquel’s graceful eyebrows arched elegantly and her bracelets tinkled delicately as she ran a slender brown arm through her lustrous coal black hair scented with exotic eastern spices and oils.

“Yes.”

The ensuing pause was shattered by a sudden trumpeting and the unmistakable sound of running feet. Simon reared up, a look of heartbreaking despair in his tiny eye.

“What is it? What happened?” yelled Fyffe, as Karen and Raquel flick-flacked away like a pair of gymnasts.

“Someone stole his bun!” shouted Chico the clown, hurtling by in his enormous shoes.

“And I bet I know who,” Fyffe thought to himself. “I just bet it’s that dirty little raggedy child.” He stroked Simon, comfortingly. “Never mind old boy. We’ll soon have it brought to justice, never you worry.”

A SHADY DEAL

The smoke-filled shed on top of Owl Hill was silent, but for the puffing of woodbines and the wheezing of the two unpleasant types who sat within. They were playing cards, and neither noticed the door opening and a small ragged urchin creeping in.

A card was slapped down on the rickety tea chest that served as a table. Yellow fingers snatched it up. It was the four of clubs.

“Snap!” The hook-nosed ne’er-do-well snatched up all the cards, and laughed an evil laugh. “Ha! Haha! HA! Ha!”

“Drat it, Bill, how does ya do it? Seventeen years I known ya and never won a game of cards wiv ya yet” said the shorter scrote.

“I keep telling you, Graham, they’re all in pairs to start with,” said Bill.

“Ahhhhh!” Graham’s face lit up. “I gets yer, Bill.”

But Bill wasn’t listening any more. He was sniffing the air, with a look of disgust.

“What the…what’s that smell? Is that you, Graham?”

“No. it’s me.” The urchin appeared from the shadows and grinned, showing sharp pointy teeth.

“Jiminy, Keef, you honk! You ain’t been eatin outta bins again has yer?”

“’snot my fault I crave things”. Keith took a large bite of the rat he was holding. “It’s called pica. Pregnant women does it all the time.”

“Pregnant women don’t eat no rats, boss, nor no heron-birds.” Graham shook his head sadly.

“An’ you ain’t no pregnant woman, Keef. You’re a kid. I’m sure you should be eating five fruit and veg a day like other folk.”

“I eat pie.”

“Yeah, but out of bins, guv. It ain’t right, you blocked the toilet big-time after that pheasant.”

Keith sat down at the packing crate, and produced a fish, which he began to eat hungrily, from the pocket of his grubby trousers. After he had finished the fish he took a dusty bun from another pocket and stared at it for a moment. It was slightly slimy, and he felt a bit queasy remembering that elephant. But then he remembered Fyffe’s face, and a slow grin spread across his dirty features. He opened his mouth as wide as he possibly could and crammed the bun in, whole.

“So”, he said, wiping his mouth with his torn trouser leg. “Remind me; what’s the plan?”

Graham looked slightly confused,and Bill even more so. They looked at each other.

“Keef, you ain’t told us the plan yet”, said Graham, with a bemused look on his ruddy unpleasant face. “You just told us to meet you in the hut on Owl Hill.”

“Yeah,” said Bill. “We didn’t have no plan. You was meant to be the brains of the outfit”.

Keith wiped his mouth, grinned fiendishly, and said, cheerfully “I want you to kidnap the Five Noseybleeders and Dog.”

THE NOSEYBLEEDERS IN TROUBLE.

Karen and Racquel sat in front of a small paraffin heater in their caravan, and stared dismally into it's gassy blue flame. It was against the circus rules, they knew, but they were tired. Being gymnasts was hard work.

"I am SO sick of this," Karen sighed, pulling off her dainty satin slipper and rubbing her foot. It was red and swollen. "I think we should tell the Super that it's a dead end."

"We can't." Racquel stood up and struggled out of her shimmering costume. "We have to file a proper report. The boss said if we mess this one up he's busting us back down to Tufty Club and Cycling Proficiency. We can't risk it; the stakes are too high."
"But we haven't any clues at all", Karen grumbled, rubbing a painful corn. "If we are going to mess it up anyway, we might as well quit."

"QUIT?" Racquel expectulated, with an angry gesture that nearly tipped the paraffin heater over. "I wasn't head girl of St Mallardy Towers for nothing! I have never quat before and I shan't now. There's no smoke without fire." 

Across the field and feeling equally dismal, Chico the Clown sat in his caravan in front of a small paraffin heater, making toast. It was hard to make toast on a paraffin heater, but he was hungry, and there didn't seem to be any other food in his cupboard. It was against the circus rules, he knew, but he was tired. He ate the toast slowly. It was cold and gassy.

"I am so sick of this", he thought, taking of his size 24 shoes and rubbing his dainty feet. "These are desk feet.They should be doing admin tasks, not falling over podiums and honking air horns." 

He pulled off his nose, and peered sadly into a small mirror. He hardly recognised himself. 

"Cripes, Derek" he said, "What on earth happened? How did you get into this mess? If the guys at Hendon could only see you now..." he shook his head sadly.

Half an hour later he was dressed in ordinary clothes- a smart grey suit, crisp white shirt with starched collar, and good quality silk tie- and was feeling brighter. He pulled a pad from under his mattress and began to jot down some notes for his report. He thought about the Superintendent's face when he cracked the case, and smiled a little. He was definitely in line for a promotion.

In his secret hideaway in shrubbery behind Daisy Cottage, Keith smiled. It had been a good day,he felt. He pulled out a battered case from among the rhodendrons and opened it. He took out his sharp pointed teeth and slipped them into a washbag inside the case. He snagged a brush through his unkempt hair. He removed his ragged clothes and- Best of all! He removed the corset which held in his ample belly. The relief! He could breathe at last! This had to be the best disguise ever!
Washed to the best of his ability, and dressed in his most comfortable lounge suit, Fatty, for of course it was he, lay back on his blanket and looked at the warm evening sky. He felt content. Soon he would have all the evidence he needed to prove that he was the greatest Noseybleeder of all.

In his little attic room ceiling with its locomotive wallpaper and green cambric curtains Fyffe was tossing, and turning in his bed, to which he was confined as a punishment for wandering about the village when he might be contagious. He was thinking of Kretseven. The boy was more sensible than Ventricle, Porrage and Stoat put together...but was he really a match for Matron and Mr Smart? Could he possibly escape from Dimcourt School with so little time for planning? And then there was Fidelity. She was the prettiest person he knew, but was she any good in a sword fight? He didn't know whether there would be a sword fight, but he suspected that something might happen involving dangerous manly things; and in that event would Fidelity step up and grow a pair? He thought about it, and tossed until he fell asleep.

Later that night Kretseven sat alone on platform 4 of  Buddington Station, reading a gentleman's magazine he had found in the waiting room. By the time he had arrived there, having commando-crawled through the school grounds, it was already dark and cold, but he was sure he could handle that. He had a bag of mints donated by Porrage, and Stoat had given him some ginger beer for the journey.. .and after all it was only a few hours until the mail train which would take him home to Tattlestone Stump.
If he had known that he was being watched, he might have felt less comfortable.

Fidelity could not sleep for a long while either. She lay in her pretty little bedroom under the eaves of Daisy Cottage, holding Buffy's little paw for comfort. "Oh Buffy", she sighed; "Nothing is ever going to be the same again"
Outside the open window, clinging to the Virginia Creeper, Graham let out a silent chuckle. "You Betcha it Hain't", he thought. 

WHERE IS KRETSEVEN?

The dawn broke, pink and purple, and in the Shrubbery hideaway Fatty had made for himself, a blackbird was singing. The boy woke and synchronised his watch. It was almost breakfast time. 

He shook himself and yawned. It was getting so hard to fit into his disguise that he wondered, briefly, whether to give up altogether; but then he heard the unmistakeable sound of Constable Possett's bicycle squeaking by, and was spurred on. He fought his way into the costume, and took out the sharp little teeth from his washbag. Soon he was Keith once more. Getting into character, he stuffed the blackbird into his mouth and scuttled off to Owl Hill. Hopefully, the gang would have arrived back at base; and he would have the Noseybleeder's back together at last. He chuckled, imagining their scowls at being kidnapped and their mirth at discovering that their kidnapper was none other than Fatty himself.
As he approached the ramshackle hut, he could hear voices. Two of them he recognised as Graham and Bill, but there was a third- a deep melodic lilting voice which had authority and spunk. Fatty/Keith felt a curious mixture of excitement and dread.
He crept closer and peered through a crack in the rotten wood of the wall. Who was it? The tall imposing stranger with his smart grey suit and fedora hat looked familiar and yet Fatty couldn't place him. If only he would turn around.......

TO BE CONTINUED......