Werepuppy and the Werepuppy on Holiday Page 10

  ‘Go on, Whimsie-Mimsie-Pimsie, that daft old bat’s calling you.’

  Micky swallowed hard.

  ‘She’s not a daft old bat,’ he said shakily. ‘She’s my gran.’

  ‘Well, she looks pretty daft to me, and she’s certainly old, and she’s flapping her arms around at you like a bat,’ said Guns’n’Roses.

  ‘Cooooeeeee,’ shrieked Iron Maiden, doing a very unkind imitation of Granny Boot.

  ‘You cut that out,’ said Micky, trying to sound stern and resolute.

  It made them laugh harder than ever.

  ‘Hark at little Whimsie here!’

  ‘Going to clock us one, are you?’

  They started jostling Micky, their big hot hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Micky?’ Granny Boot had seen what was going on. ‘Come over here.’

  ‘Go on, little Whimsie, batty old Granny wants you.’

  ‘Yes, she doesn’t want you to play wiv us wough boys,’ said Guns’n’Roses, putting on a silly accent.

  ‘Oh-oh, she’s coming over here. Oooh, will she spank us?’ said Iron Maiden, sounding equally silly.

  ‘What are you two louts doing to my grandson?’ Granny Boot demanded, rushing up. ‘Take your hands off him.’

  Guns’n’Roses and Iron Maiden cackled with laughter.

  ‘Ah, shut up, you daft old bat,’ said Guns’n’Roses.

  ‘Yeah, bog off,’ said Iron Maiden.

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to my gran like that,’ Micky shouted, red-hot with rage, so angry now that he forgot to be scared. He itched all over and there was a roaring in his head that got louder and louder. There was a snarl and a growl and Micky wondered if they were coming from his own lips. But he was gently nudged aside by a familiar grey friend, grown huge and fierce and ferocious.

  Wolfie leapt up at Guns’n’Roses and Iron Maiden and they started yelling like a heavy metal band themselves. They turned and ran, which was a mistake. Wolfie saw two denim bottoms and decided he wanted a bit of fun. He leapt up and gave their jeans several interesting new designer slashes. Guns’n’Roses and Iron Maiden ran on, shrieking.

  ‘Help, there’s a mad dog on the loose!’ people yelled.

  ‘It’s not a mad dog, it’s just my puppy,’ said Micky. ‘Here, Wolfief

  Wolfie decided to be obedient for once. Perhaps he’d had enough fun already. He happily skidded to a halt, gave one small snort at the retreating boys, and then trotted back to Micky and Granny Boot.

  ‘Well I never!’ said Granny, shaking her head. ‘So where on earth did you spring from, young Wolfie?’

  ‘Did I wake you up when I posted those sausages down the chimney?’ said Micky, hugging Wolfie happily.

  Wolfie had smelt the hot dog stall and was sniffing the air urgently, demanding another breakfast immediately.

  Granny Boot sportingly bought them all a hot dog, and while they munched Micky explained about Wolfie’s Tremendous Trek.

  ‘You will help me keep him hidden from the others, won’t you, Gran?’ said Micky. ‘I can’t send him back now when he’s been so clever to find me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know how we’re going to keep him hidden – but I’ll do my best to help,’ Granny promised.

  At Sunday lunch Granny seemed to demolish her plate of roast beef almost at one gulp. She asked for a second serving.

  ‘The sea air’s certainly done you a lot of good, Mum,’ said Micky’s mum. ‘You’ve really got your appetite back.’

  ‘That’s not all we’ve got back, eh, Micky?’ Granny whispered, secretly showing him the roast beef she’d tucked into her handbag for a special Wolfie snack.

  8…

  It was an almost impossible task keeping Wolfie hidden away, out of sight. Once he was fully recovered from his long tiring trek he didn’t want to be stuffed back into the pink playhouse. He wanted to be up and doing. He especially wanted to be out on the prowl at night, like any normal werepuppy with a full-moon gleam in his golden eyes.

  ‘You must try to be good, Wolfie,’ Micky said, wishing he could risk taking the puppy to sleep in his hotel bedroom, where he could keep a proper eye on him. But if Marigold got one little whiff of Wolfie then she’d blab straight to Dad.

  So Wolfie spent the night outside – and didn’t spend much time in the playhouse. The next morning there were many wrecked gardens in the little seaside town, and a long queue of pet-owners outside the veterinary surgery, clutching traumatized cats and terrorized dogs.

  The guests in the hotel started talking about strange howlings and growlings that had woken them in the night. Micky started fidgeting anxiously but Granny Boot developed a sudden and spectacular coughing fit that diverted everyone’s attention.

  ‘Oh dear, Mum, I thought you were completely over that bronchitis,’ said Micky’s mum anxiously.

  ‘I think I need a long walk along the cliffs to get some sea air,’ Granny spluttered. ‘You’ll keep your old gran company, won’t you, Micky?’

  They managed to get away from the others and sneak Wolfie out of his temporary kennel.

  ‘Though you obviously weren’t in it much last night!’ said Micky sternly. ‘What am I going to do with you, Wolfie?’

  Micky and Granny took Wolfie for a very long walk, hoping to tire him out. Wolfie didn’t tire a bit, even though he’d been up all night. Micky tired a little and poor Granny Boot tired a lot. She had to have a long nap after lunch. Micky tried to stay with her but Mum wouldn’t hear of it. He was forced to join the rest of the family on the beach.

  Wolfie had to be left to his own devices. Micky worried a great deal, wondering what on earth he was up to. He also worried on his own behalf because Dad wouldn’t just let him mooch about the beach doing his own thing. He had to join in all the silly ball games even though Micky always managed to miss the ball completely. Everyone got very hot running around in the sunshine. Dad got red in the face shouting at Micky to keep his eye on the ball. Micky burned all over because everyone on the beach seemed to be looking at him.

  It was almost a relief when Marigold reminded him that he’d promised to make her some sand stables for her Little Pony. Micky set to work with a spade and had soon built her an elaborate pony palace with separate shell-studded individual stalls and a practice paddock.

  The artist who’d been painting on the pier came strolling along the sands and stopped to admire Micky’s efforts.

  ‘Gosh, that’s really great,’ he said, shaking his head admiringly.

  Dad came panting up, trying to catch a ball that Mandy had hit for six. He was running sideways, keeping his eye on the ball so steadily that he couldn’t see what his feet were doing.

  ‘Hey, watch out!’ shouted the artist, but it was too late.

  Dad’s feet bulldozed half the pony palace, and caused a minor earthquake in the seaweed ornamental gardens.

  ‘Dad, you’ve wrecked my palace!’ Marigold yelled.

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry, love,’ said Dad. ‘Sorry, Micky. Still, you can make another sand-castle, can’t you?’

  ‘He’s very good at sand modelling,’ said the artist quietly. ‘You’ve got a very talented son.’

  Dad looked astonished. But pleased. Maybe Micky’s hands were useless when it came to catching balls but they could also be clever at making castles.

  ‘Yes, he’s a good lad,’ said Dad, ruffling Micky’s hair.

  The artist smiled and gave Micky a wink when Dad wasn’t looking. Micky winked back and then cheerily started rebuilding the shattered sand palace. He almost started to enjoy himself, although his ears were still pricked on red alert for distant howls.

  Granny came on the beach after her nap.

  ‘Did you see Wolfie?’ Micky whispered. ‘Is he staying hidden in the pink playhouse?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Granny. ‘When I went to check up on him he was having the time of his life playing catch-the-towel with the hotel’s washing line. I went after him but he was off like a grey streak. The towels have got a few gr
ey streaks too, I’m afraid.’

  Micky started worrying again, getting hot and bothered.

  ‘Let’s go in swimming,’ said Mona, wanting to show off her new talent.

  ‘Good idea. Off you go, all of you,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll watch the bags.’ She smoothed sun-tan oil on herself and settled back on the sand, a smile on her face.

  Granny was game for a paddle though, wriggling out of her tights as coyly as she could and then splashing through the shallows. Micky and Marigold played either side of her, while Mona and Mandy swam properly and Meryl stood posing in her bikini at the water’s edge. She was soon surrounded by eager language students who enticed her away to play quoits with them.

  Dad wasn’t too happy about this, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He decided to concentrate on the rest of his family. He made a fuss of Mona because she could swim so well. Mandy could swim well too, and was paddling around on a piece of board, trying to do a spot of improvised surf riding.

  ‘So how about you lot coming in further than your kneecaps?’ said Dad eagerly, addressing the paddlers.

  ‘If I tuck my frock up any higher I’ll be showing my knickers,’ said Granny Boot.

  ‘I meant Micky and Marigold,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, kids, it’s time you learnt to swim properly.’

  Micky sighed and started shivering in spite of the hot sun. Why did Dad always want to do things properly?

  Dad forced Micky and Marigold to wade in further up to their waists. He tried to encourage them to duck down to get used to the water.

  ‘My bottom bit isn’t quite used to the water yet, so my top bit wants to stay warm and dry just for the moment,’ said Marigold, who wasn’t at all sure she wanted to learn to swim either.

  Dad showed them how to push out with their arms and kick with their legs. He shouted ‘One two three, one two three,’ while they did their best to copy his actions out of the water, feeling foolish.

  ‘Now let’s try it for real. Don’t worry, I’ll hold you up,’ said Dad. ‘Who’s going to go first?’

  Micky and Marigold fought to go second.

  ‘Oh, why don’t you leave the kiddies be?’ said Granny. ‘They’ll swim in their own good time, just like our Mona. It seems daft to force them when they just want to have fun.’ She splashed her feet a little. Some of the splash went straight in Dad’s face.

  Dad went rather red.

  ‘Swimming is fun,’ he said shortly. ‘Come on, Micky. Let’s show your gran, eh, son?’ Dad waved his arms about as he spoke. The waving sprayed water. Quite a lot of the spray soaked Gran’s frock.

  Gran retreated. Micky had to advance.

  ‘Now, Micky, I’ll put my hand under your chin like this, to keep it well out of the water – and my other hand will be under your waist, so you can’t possibly sink. Right? So all you’ve got to do is push with your arms and kick with your legs and then you’ll be swimming.’

  Dad made it sound reasonably simple. It didn’t work that way. Micky pushed and kicked frantically, but Dad’s hand under his chin didn’t stop the water sploshing straight in his face and making him splutter. He stopped pushing and kicking.

  ‘Come on, son, swim,’ Dad said, trying to push him upwards.

  Micky opened his mouth to tell Dad he didn’t want to swim any more. It was a mistake. He drank a huge mouthful of salty sea water and spouted it out like a whale, coughing and choking.

  ‘For goodness sake, you’re drowning him,’ said Granny, wading right in and getting her frock wet. She caught hold of Micky and plucked him out.

  Dad snorted in disgust. This made Marigold suddenly determined.

  ‘I’ll have a go at swimming, Dad,’ she said. ‘I’m not a silly scaredy-cat like Micky.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Dad delightedly. ‘Come on then, pet. Push and kick, right? I won’t let you go, I promise.’

  Granny and Micky retreated back up the beach to where Mum lay sleeping.

  ‘Here, you’re shivering fit to bust. Let’s get you dry, ducks,’ said Granny, wrapping Micky in a big towel. ‘Where’s my hanky? You need to blow your nose.’

  ‘I’ve blown it with Dad,’ Micky spluttered sadly. ‘I wish I couId learn to swim.’

  Mandy came running out of the sea to get Granny to dig a splinter out of her finger.

  ‘I’ll teach you to swim, Micky,’ she said. ‘Come on, we’ll go over the rocks round to the next bay, right away from Dad.’

  ‘I don’t think I like swimming,’ said Micky, but he went off arm in arm with Mandy, while Granny settled down on the sands, spreading out her skirts to dry.

  The next bay was rather small and rocky and almost deserted, which was a relief. Micky didn’t want another audience. There was only one other swimmer in the sea. He was a strong swimmer, too, although his strokes weren’t very stylish. He didn’t do breast-stroke or freestyle. He did doggy-paddle.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ said Mandy, blinking in the bright sunshine and squinting out to sea. ‘Isn’t that Wolfie?’

  ‘Mmm, I think it might be,’ Micky agreed. ‘I didn’t know Wolfie could swim.’

  ‘I didn’t know Wolfie was here,’ said Mandy.

  Wolfie barked joyfully at the sight of them and came ploughing through the waves. He bounded up to Micky and shook himself vigorously, so that it suddenly seemed to be raining heavily.

  ‘Shoo, Wolfie, you’re soaking me,’ said Micky.

  Wolfie seemed to think that if Micky was wet he might just as well come in the water. He nudged at Micky’s knees, pushing him gently but firmly into the shallows. He barked once or twice, as if telling him what to do.

  ‘Micky, how come Wolfie’s here on holiday?’ said Mandy, but she soon saw it was time for a swimming lesson, not a long boring explanation.

  Wolfie took it upon himself to be the main swimming instructor. He didn’t care about pushing and kicking and doing it properly. He just hurled himself into the water and waggled all four paws at once. He managed perfectly.

  He barked at Micky, telling him to have a go too.

  Micky was careful to stay in very shallow water, with Mandy hovering just in case. He hurled himself forwards. His head went under– but his arms and legs scrabbled. His head came up. His arms and legs went on scrabbling.

  ‘I’m swimming!’ he shouted.

  It was a mistake. He took another great gulp of salty water.

  But he’d still swum several strokes all the same. And with Wolfie and Mandy’s encouragement he tried again and again and swam several more. Then Wolfie ran off up the beach and Micky and Mandy went over the rocks round the bay to show Dad that Micky could swim after all.

  Marigold could only do one stroke, and that was with one foot on the ground.

  Micky could do six strokes all by himself.

  Granny Boot and Mum sat up and cheered him, and Dad said he’d make a real swimmer of him yet.

  9…

  Now that Mandy knew about Wolfie too it made things a little easier. Mum and Dad were used to her wandering off by herself, so she could take Wolfie for long secret walks. She tried fashioning him a makeshift lead from Marigold’s skipping rope, but Wolfie was a dab paw at ducking his head and escaping whenever he wanted. He frequently fancied a dip in the sea – and on one of these impromptu dips he swam out round the bay, dived under a floating tangle of seaweed, and surfaced nose to nose with Mona.

  She shrieked, understandably startled by this shaggy grey creature with seaweed trailing from its snout. Wolfie snuffled and woofed to show her he was no sea-monster from the deep, and then swam companionably by her side for a few minutes before doggy-paddling back around the bay. Mona followed – and saw Mandy wading through the shallows shouting to Wolfie to come back.

  So now Mona was in on the Wolfie secret too –and then Meryl came back from a sunset beach disco telling her sisters about this wild dog that streaked along the sands and snatched half the steaks from the barbecue.

  ‘I know it sounds crazy but he was the
spitting image of Wolfie,’ said Meryl. ‘I called him and he looked round at me. You know that way he’s got of cocking his head to one side. Even though he had a mouth full of stolen steak he still managed to grin at me – but then he ran off before I could catch him. Could it have been Wolfie, do you think?’

  ‘We don’t think,’ said Mandy, grinning.

  ‘We know,’ said Mona, giggling.

  Mum was the next to find out. When the rest of the family went on the sands she hung back, stopping to chat to the artist at the end of the pier.

  ‘You were admiring my son’s sand-castle the other day,’ Mum said. ‘Do you really think he’s got artistic ability?’

  ‘Yes, I think he’s a very talented lad,’ said the artist.

  ‘Well, certainly his school teacher did tell us he’d done some lovely paintings that she’d put up on the wall,’ Mum said happily. ‘I wonder if he’ll grow up to be a proper artist like you? I do love the way you’ve done that beach scene. I like the little humorous touches – especially that naughty dog running away with the towel just as that gentleman is changing into his swimming trunks!’

  ‘That really happened,’ said the artist, chuckling. ‘That dog’s a real character. I’ve seen it several times, and it’s always getting into mischief.’

  ‘We’ve got a dog just like that at home,’ said Mum. Then she looked more closely at the painting. ‘In fact we’ve got a dog exactly like that.’

  Mum said nothing more – but she took careful note of the fact that one or other member of her family were frequently disappearing. She watched out at mealtimes and saw that three of her daughters, her son, and indeed her mother were all surreptitiously stowing part of their meal into their laps, pockets and handbag. She saw scratches on her children’s legs and curly grey hairs decorating her mother’s cardigan. She heard several trips up and down the stairs at night, and distant howling. Mum saw, Mum heard, but she said nothing.

  Dad didn’t need to know. He was so happy and peaceful and relaxed. It would be such a shame to spoil his holiday.