Uncle Shawn and Bill and the Almost Entirely Unplanned Adventure Page 4

  SECTION ELEVEN

  In which all our chums spend a sleepless night for different reasons. And Uncle Shawn thinks up almost the whole of a very good plan.

  For the whole of Friday night – which he spent in the draughty fighting cage – Badger Bill couldn’t sleep. He was scared and feeling sick. He was also wondering if he could thump even one of the big bullying dogs even a tiny bit before they ate him all up. And he said to himself, “Oh, please, I need a friend. I do. Maybe one with a helicopter. Or some soup. Or a bed. Or just a sleeping bag. Or a big woolly jumper.”

  And for the whole of Friday night – which they spent in the draughty wet field being rained on – the llamas couldn’t sleep. They were scared and feeling sick.

  Brian Llama whispered, “I wonder if the people who wear me as shoes will get sore feet because of the shoes being made of very unhappy llama leather…” And then he felt even sicker.

  They were all very unhappy llamas. And Guinevere Llama said, “I hope everyone who uses us as wallets gets sore fingers.”

  And Carlos Llama said, “I hope everyone’s belts are too tight and give them indigestion.”

  But that didn’t cheer them up.

  And for the whole of Friday night Uncle Shawn didn’t sleep. He was busy. He drew all kinds of plans in chalk on the walls of the caravan where he was staying. The walls of the caravan were very dirty, so the chalk was very easy to see. And he whistled to himself and hummed and sometimes sang, because that helped him think. “Oh, the llamas and the badger must be freeee … and happeeee…” He wasn’t very good at songs.

  He also wasn’t very good at making plans – they made his head spin. But he kept on pondering and mulling and puzzling anyway.

  And sometimes he would chat with the mother mole he had taken out of his pocket and who was eating a dish of slugs and listening to him. While she listened, she mainly shook her head at him and told him to start all over again. Which he did.

  On the outside, Uncle Shawn’s caravan was painted many kinds of colours, as if he couldn’t decide which was his favourite and so wanted to have them all. It was a very nice wooden caravan and was drawn by Paul the horse – who didn’t mind pulling it, because it was quite light and he was really strong.

  And before the sun came up, Uncle Shawn went outside and woke Paul and whispered to him, “Here we go, then.”

  And Paul grumbled, “Already? Last time you woke me up you didn’t even have a plan…”

  “Well…” mumbled Uncle Shawn.

  “Do you have a plan?” Paul didn’t want to pull the caravan all the way over to the McGloones’ for no reason and was always a bit grumpy when he’d just woken up.

  “I have a sort of plan…” explained Uncle Shawn, pulling his fingers through his hair and making it wake up and wriggle as if it was having several ideas of its own. “Almost the whole of a plan. Or more than half. A good plan. An excellent probably plan … it’s nearly perfect … I mean, I wouldn’t want to give the game away.” And he gave a little shuffle with his feet and winked.

  Paul couldn’t see the wink, because it was still dark, and he thought this was all too disorganized. “This is all too disorganized,” he said, and he huffed with his whiskery, horsey lips, the way that horses do when they think you might not have a clue what you’re doing.

  Uncle Shawn patted Paul to make him feel better. “Yes, but if we don’t set off now, we won’t be in time and if we’re not in time we’ll be too late … and if we get there soon enough and we are in time and my plan works and then the bits I haven’t quite tidied up yet also work and nothing goes wrong and we don’t make any mistakes and the wind is from the south-west and we cross our fingers … then we could do amazing things.”

  “I don’t have any fingers. I’m a horse,” said Paul. He wasn’t always the jolliest horse to take on a life-saving adventure.

  “Well, that’s true,” said Uncle Shawn. “Could you cross your eyes instead?”

  “Only if you want me to pull the caravan in the wrong direction.” Paul huffed again. “I shall just wish us luck. Because I feel we shall need it. A lot.”

  Uncle Shawn jigged about a little because he was excited and in a hurry. “Well, luck would be very handy. Thank you. And maybe we won’t be taken prisoner, or locked up and then covered in gravy and nibbled, or put into pies. And even if we are – it will have been an adventure. I’ve always wanted an adventure. An adventure with friends.”

  And so Paul shook his head and huffed some more, but then started to pull the caravan very quietly. He had already told Uncle Shawn to wrap his hooves in pieces of blanket and old pullovers, and so he didn’t clip and he didn’t clop. And the wheels of the caravan had been oiled so that they didn’t squeak and didn’t squook. And Uncle Shawn walked along beside Paul with his mahogany shoes around his neck so that he would be extra stealthy, because that was part of the plan. And he thought to himself that it was excellent to be going on an adventure and to have (most of) a plan for amazing things.

  SECTION TWELVE

  In which Uncle Shawn and Badger Bill meet for the very first time, but Bill doesn’t quite get rescued. Not yet… But that’s all part of the plan. Maybe.

  By the time it was just before dawn on Saturday, Badger Bill hadn’t slept one bit, not for the whole night. And he had spent so long pulling at his whiskers with worry that they’d almost come loose. From somewhere not very far away, he could hear McGloone shouting and McGloone laughing and the clumping of McGloone boots and a noise that sounded like what you might hear if someone was sharpening big knives. This all made his tummy feel bad.

  He could also smell a strange scent – as if there was a horse and a tall person nearby. And he could hear the sound of something very big making no sound at all. This was confusing and on top of all his other fears and confusions it made his head hurt. “This will be horrible,” he said to himself. “I don’t want to get thumped and then eaten and I especially don’t want to get thumped and then eaten when I have a headache.” He snuffled and wiped his nose on the back of his paw because he didn’t have a handkerchief. (He was a neat badger.) “I do wish I had even just one friend. Just one.”

  Then, while he was staring sadly at the bales of tripe next to his cage, he saw the light from a torch. And something gingery and wriggly was sneaking and darting behind the tripe bales. He wondered whether this was some new, very ferocious tall ginger dog that was going to tease him. “Oh dear…” thought Bill. Then he noticed a pair of very blue eyes looking at him from out of the shadows.

  And now he could smell toffee and helpfulness and the torchlight was shining into his cage. “Ow.” And straight into his eyes, which made them hurt.

  And then a voice that sounded like a good voice whispered, “Sorry.” And the torch shone back on a stranger’s face and those two blue eyes. One of the eyes winked happily.

  Bill whispered to himself, “Something that wanted to thump me and eat me wouldn’t wink at me … at least, I don’t think so.” And Bill kept looking at the eyes and they looked back at him and he thought that these were the friendliest eyes he had ever seen.

  Bill started to feel a bit … almost … nearly … happy.

  Then Bill heard a definitely good and warm and kind sort of voice whisper, “You are not going to be thumped or eaten. You are going to be rescued.” And before Bill could ask any questions or say anything else at all, the whole of the tall, thin shape of Uncle Shawn jumped out fast from behind the tripe. Then he started to dance a highly peculiar dance.

  “Oh, thank you,” whispered Bill.

  “You’re welcome.” Uncle Shawn jiggled and wiggled and stamped – Bill could hear feet banging and stamping. He could also see some of what Uncle Shawn was doing because the torch was moving about and lit up jiggling elbows and bouncing knees and swinging ankles as they moved.

  “Umm…” said Badger Bill. “Am I going to be rescued soon – because you seem to be just dancing…”

  “Dancing and rescuing are
the same thing. And I’m Uncle Shawn, by the way,” announced Uncle Shawn, and then he stood on one leg and waved his free foot and then he did the same again, only the other way around. “Pleased to meet you.” And he swayed his arms backwards and forwards like washing on a line.

  “Er…” Badger Bill had been hoping for a team of men in balaclavas with grappling hooks or canoes to come and save him. This was all a bit odd. And he was still locked in a cage. “Well, I’m Badger Bill,” he said. “William J. Badger for special occasions.” Bill hoped this was a special occasion. He hoped it was when he would get out of the cage and end up safe and cosy and snuggled with hot chocolate and slippers and sandwiches with earthworms and peanut butter. Badgers love earthworms and peanut butter.

  Uncle Shawn stopped dancing and grinned a huge grin as the sun started to rise. “Really? I have never had a friend called Badger Bill before. This will be wonderful.” And then he skipped and hopped and then started to wriggle all over very fast, which made his hair wriggle even faster, so that it just looked like the colour red in a big blur all round his head. And the birds started to sing in a more than usually cheerful way, as if they knew something wonderful was happening.

  But Bill – who was tired and still in his cage – had started to worry that this strange Uncle Shawn person was another McGloone who had just come to make fun of him. Although Uncle Shawn seemed much too nice to be a McGloone.

  And then Uncle Shawn – who was a bit out of breath by now – announced, “I am dancing my Summoning Dance and this is the start of the rescue. I have a plan and everything. Mostly.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a very dirty piece of paper with jam on it and lots of scribbles and some big letters which read: PLAN.

  This did not make Bill feel happier. “But I need to get out right now. Before I have to fight one, or two, or probably three of the hugest dogs in the world.” The idea of this made him miserable and shivery all over and his fur ruffled up sadly. “This is the start of Saturday.”

  “Oh, I’ll be back before you need me. Honestly.”

  “Back? That means you’re going! You can’t go!” squeaked Badger Bill.

  “I have to. But I will be back. Really. Trust me.” Uncle Shawn’s very blue eyes were really easy to trust. “And I’m so glad to meet you, William J. Badger, and I think we will be best friends. I really do. And remember – you never know what might happen until it’s happened – so don’t worry.” And Uncle Shawn kept on dancing, but danced further and further away until he was out of the yard and had disappeared.

  And Badger Bill slumped down where he was sitting and thought, “It’s not much use starting to be someone’s friend if you’ve only got part of a Saturday left before you’re made into pies. He’ll look silly holding a pie and telling people it’s his best friend. And I’ll be a pie… That won’t be silly. That will be TERRIBLE.”

  Not far away, there was the sound of three enormous dogs starting to bark and shouting, “We’re coming to get you! Hrrrr! Not long now! Hrraaarrr!” And then they laughed three enormous laughs.

  SECTION THIRTEEN

  In which Uncle Shawn dances as no uncle has ever danced before. And it will turn out that this section is very unlucky for the McGloones because it contains their last chance and they miss it. They don’t even notice when it goes by.

  And Uncle Shawn danced furiously and happily and crazily and quickly and wildly. He danced beside the McGloones’ farm, along this wall and that wall and then the other wall and the other wall over there. Uncle Shawn danced and danced until he was getting really hot and dizzy.

  Since he’d put his shoes on to help with the stamping parts of his dance, the McGloones could hear him, and eventually seven sausage-lipped, meat-eared McGloone faces were peering out of the window and looking at him.

  Because they thought Uncle Shawn might be dancing because he was happy, and because they hated other people being happy (and because they were naturally rude), the McGloones shouted at him.

  The McGloone children shouted, “You smell! We hate you!” And then Socket Wrench yelled, “Cat lover!” and Small bellowed, “Weird knees!” and Bettina screamed, “Big poo face!” Fred didn’t shout anything. Fred never did.

  And Mrs McGloone shouted, “You’re trespassing! And there’s an extra charge for dancing! You can’t dance here unless you want to buy pies! Give us your money!”

  And Uncle Shawn looked up as the sun rose higher in the sky and made his eyes seem very fierce and shiny and he called back and asked, “Would those be llama pies and badger pies?”

  And Farmer McGloone yelled, “Get on out of it, before I cut your ears off with my llama knives – coming round here and dancing and laughing without permission!”

  And for a moment Uncle Shawn looked up at all of their oily, hating eyes and he said quietly, “Well, you did have a chance to do better and be nicer and kinder. Everyone does…” And then he nodded and danced away from the farmhouse and along the path that led to the llama’s field, stamping so hard that a big cloud of dust followed him.

  SECTION FOURTEEN

  In which Badger Bill gets almost more worried than a badger can and the McGloone sisters wear clothes that should be illegal in all sensible countries. And you never know what might happen until it’s happened. And this is when it will start to happen.

  The two dreadful sisters had eaten a hearty breakfast of gravy and mouse ears in their own damp and ugly house behind the tripe barn. Now they were busy at the fighting cage. They were dressed in their Saturday finest. Ethel was wearing a lemon-coloured silk miniskirt – which showed off her scaly and bumpy knees – and a puce velvet top and red snakeskin high-heeled shoes. Anyone who’d seen her without expecting to would have screamed and been sick. And Bill felt like screaming and being sick anyway.

  Maude was even more frightening. She was dressed in a wide, round skirt of purple chiffon and lace and bows and an orange leather jerkin and high-heeled pink-and-black cowboy boots. This made her look like something you might dream if you were feeling really ill.

  Bill was feeling really ill, but he knew he wasn’t dreaming. He was still locked inside the cage. Meanwhile, crowds of people were gathering. They were all parking their cars and walking to watch the badger fight, as they did every Saturday, unless it was too snowy or too wet.

  Ethel and Maude were laughing and teetering about on their heels and shaking hands with lots and lots of people who were crowding into the little yard and sneaking looks into the cage and pointing at Bill and screeching with laughter.

  It seemed that Bill’s fight was going to be a popular event. He’d never been a popular event. He’d only had an audience once, when he’d recited a poem at school and forgotten the end. “I especially don’t want an audience now,” thought Badger Bill. “I want to be rescued! Where is that Uncle Shawn?”

  But there was no sign of Uncle Shawn, only more and more people who were squeezing into the yard. In fact, there were visitors’ cars parked right the way up the lane.

  (Bill didn’t know this, but just at that moment, Uncle Shawn was dancing along that very lane and slightly scratching the paintwork of each car as he went.)

  “Place yer bets!” yelled Ethel. “Who thinks the badger will last three minutes?”

  Maude yelled, too: “How long will the badger lassst? Do I hear forty ssssecondsss?”

  Bill tugged at his shorts and scuffed his boots on the floor of the cage, and all of his insides seemed to be flapping about and interfering with his heart.

  Suddenly, Ethel reached into her top and pulled out a surprisingly large bell, which she rang loudly and wildly. Then Maude screamed out, “THREE MINUTESSS TO GO, LADIESSS AND GENTLEMEN, BEFORE BATTLING BADGER BOB FACESSS RIPPER!” Many of the people in the crowd put up umbrellas while Maude hissed, because this produced a good deal of spray. “THE FAMOUSSLY SSSAVAGE RIPPER!”

  At this point the crowd cheered.

  “AND SSSNAPPER!” By now Maude’s chin was dripping with saliva – as if she
was a snake trying to drink lemonade and missing.

  The crowd cheered some more.

  “AND CRACKER!”

  There was a huge, final cheer and then Bill could see that everyone in the yard was shuffling or jumping out of the way to leave a wide path that led between the entrance of the yard and the fighting cage.

  Then, with a flash of claws and far too much barking, Ripper pranced in, snapping and glaring. He was bigger than Bill remembered. His coat was gleaming and his claws and teeth were shining and clattering.

  Ripper was followed by Snapper – who was even bigger than Ripper – and who growled like a cellar full of lawnmowers and tried to bite someone’s trousers.

  And then – Badger Bill couldn’t believe it – here came Cracker. He was only a little bit taller than Bill. He had quite small paws and quite short claws. But when Bill looked into his eyes he knew that Cracker was the scariest animal you could meet and that he had no mercy and would punch grandmothers and nip off squirrels’ tails and steal ice cream from lonely orphans, just for fun.

  The crowd fell silent.

  Cracker always made crowds fall silent. Everyone he looked at flinched and backed away. Even his brothers seemed scared of him and his small, very, very sharp needle teeth and his tiny, very, very sharp claws and his big, nasty, nasty mind full of terrible ideas, all flickering about at the backs of his eyes. Meeting his eyes was like looking into two pools of hate that went down and down into forever.

  Bill knew that in less than three minutes Cracker’s eyes might be the last things he would see…