Eating Things on Sticks (14 page)

He tried to hide his groan. ‘Yes, I suppose I must.'

But as we drove along, we both had time to think. And perhaps it was the simple magic attraction of eating things on sticks, but by the time we came across a phone by the side of the road, we'd clearly hatched the very same idea.

‘Now keep it brief!' he warned. ‘No more than a few seconds at
most
. If anyone attempts to ensnare you in conversation, pretend you can't hear a thing. Simply repeat that we're both safe and well and will be home tomorrow. And then
hang up
.' So Morning Glory wouldn't get suspicious, he added vaguely, ‘After all, we don't want to be late at the fair.' He scoured the sky anxiously for helicopters. ‘And while you're doing that, I might just pull that old tarpaulin back over the top of the car.'

‘Top plan,' I said. And so that Morning Glory would think nothing of it, I added, ‘The seagull poo is really bad on this side of the island.'

A REAL OLD FOX STOLE WITH TEETH

We gazed around the fairground. Between the faded tents there were a few drab-looking trestle tables and battered food stands. Their signs were curling with age and peeling with damp, and made a rather good guessing game:

That sort of thing.

The beards were out in force. Mr Appelini's goatee was being whipped upwards by the wind. George gave me a look of the deepest suspicion through his great mass of I'm-a-mad-prophet beard, and clapped his hands over his trouser pockets as if he thought I might be an excellent pickpocket as well as a skilled arsonist. I thought at first that one of the attractions was a gorilla, but it turned out to be Old Joe, resting on an upturned bucket. Ted Hanley's yew hedge-style beard must have grown even wider since we last saw him. Certainly everyone seemed to step hastily aside as he walked past them.

At the far end of the fairground there was a brand-new gleaming sign that sported every word in full.

‘So
that's
why they've all showed up!' said Uncle Tristram. ‘What is the prize?'

‘I'll go across and ask.' Pulling her luminous rainbow poncho closer around her black leather bodice, Morning Glory brushed down her pink tutu skirt and picked her way through the puddles towards the trestle table in her diamanté slippers.

A ripple of excitement ran through a group of people standing close by. Suddenly one of them rushed over and stopped Morning Glory in her tracks by seizing her hand and pumping it up and down.

‘Congratulations! Oh, very well done! Excellent!'

Morning Glory looked a bit baffled.

The other people in the group were catching up now. ‘Yes, very well done! Brilliant! You've won again, Morning Glory!'

‘Won what?' I asked Uncle Tristram.

He jerked a thumb towards a sign propped up against another of the tables.

In my opinion, Morning Glory was very gracious about it. She didn't tell them she had won again simply by wearing the clothes she had put on that morning. She accepted her prize – it was a real old fox stole with teeth – with a curtsey that would have done credit to Titania. She didn't even slip away to the adjoining field to dig a hole and bury the poor fox in harmony with the universe until the judges had all wandered off.

Uncle Tristram and I drew closer to the Best Beard Competition trestle table. ‘Now, Harry,' Uncle Tristram warned. ‘We must avert suspicion. So when we speak to people, do try your very, very hardest not to look like a fuzzy grey blob.'

As we approached, the man sitting behind the table looked up and inspected us gravely.

‘Frankly,' he said, ‘I don't think either of you should bother to enter. I very much doubt if you'll win.'

‘We only wanted to know what you were offering as a prize,' said Uncle Tristram.

‘It is a nit comb,' the man said proudly.

‘A
nit
comb?'

‘They're very useful,' said the man. ‘And this one's made from a rather attractive mock tortoiseshell.'

‘Still,' Uncle Tristram said, ‘it isn't a prize you'd want to flash around much, is it? A
nit
comb.'

And shrugging his shoulders, he took off to get in line for our own competition, the Eating Things on Sticks.

HONOUR UNRIVALLED!

The rules were pretty strict. First, we were herded into a tent to have our photos taken.

‘Why?' Uncle Tristram asked.

The bearded lady at the check-in table explained. ‘To stop you cheating. You have to find a warden to watch you eat your things on sticks. They take your entry card from you, check your face matches the photograph as you are eating, and when you've swallowed the last of whatever it is, they tick it off your list and put their signature beside it.'

‘All a bit
complicated
,' complained Uncle Tristram. ‘I was just fancying eating a few things on sticks.'

I took a look at the list printed inside my card. There they all were: pork pie, hot dog, salami, ice lolly . . . I counted twenty-four. I couldn't
wait
to get started. ‘How do you recognize a warden?'

‘They're in the yellow jackets.'

I peered out through the tent flap. And sure enough, there did seem to be a good few men and women in yellow jackets milling about the fairground. Just as I turned back, out of the corner of my eye I saw the gable ends of a beard I thought I recognized passing the entrance to the tent.

I nudged Uncle Tristram's arm. ‘Hey! Look over there. Isn't that Morning Glory's father?'

He glanced across. But whatever I'd seen had vanished.

‘Can't see him myself.'

I shrugged. ‘Oh, well. Probably just a shadow.' A rubber stamp came down on my hand to distract me. ‘Ouch!' My hand glowed purple. ‘What's all that about?'

‘That's so you can't sneak out of the grounds,' said the official who had branded me. She brought the purple ink stamp down on Uncle Tristram's hand just as he asked her, mystified, ‘Why would we want to sneak away from the fair if we are busy eating things on sticks?'

‘In order to be sick,' said the official.

‘That is
disgusting
.' Uncle Tristram shuddered and turned to the other entrants to ask rhetorically, ‘Do they hang cameras in the lavatories as well?'

I noticed nobody piped up to say they didn't.

‘It's all a bit
formal
, don't you think?' asked Uncle Tristram. ‘All these rules. Just for a simple good fun blow-out?'

Everyone gasped.

‘It's not just a simple blow-out!' the man beside us protested. He spoke so forcefully his silken beard lifted like a net curtain in a draught. ‘There is a lot at stake!'

‘What?' Uncle Tristram challenged. ‘What's the prize?'

‘Didn't you know? It's a whole week on the mainland.' His face went dreamy. ‘Just imagine! Supermarkets! Cinemas! Banks! A choice of restaurants!'

‘Trees!' I suggested.

‘We have a tree on the island.'

We didn't tell him the bad news.

‘What I don't understand,' said Uncle Tristram, ‘is that there's such a splendid prize for winning Eating Things on Sticks. Yet all you get for being the Best Beard on the Island is one measly nit comb.'

Everyone round us gasped again. Some even shrank back in horror.

‘
All?
'

‘
All
you get?'

‘Did he say, “All you get is one measly nit comb”?'

Uncle Tristram determinedly stood his ground. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘One measly nit comb.'

Everyone looked to the man with the silken beard to put us right again.

‘It isn't just the
nit
comb,' he explained. ‘Enchanting as that is. It is the
honour
. Honour unrivalled!' He spread his hands. ‘Think of it! Best Beard on the Island! And not just
any
old island. Here! Here where there were no razor blades at all during the Fifty Year Skirmish. Here where there was a scissor shortage during the Nine Year Ferry Strike. Here, where the Great Shaving Cream Shortage lasted for almost a decade.
Surely
you can imagine the sheer undiluted glory of being crowned the Best Beard on this Island? Why it will be more of an honour even than – than . . .'

He waved a hand, as though scouring the air around us for the perfect example. Again, moving along the back of the tent wall, I saw that shadow of what looked like an exploding haystack.

‘Than winning the Olympics?' I offered tentatively.

‘Oh, at least! At
least
.'

As the man said these words, the shadow of what looked like an exploding haystack stopped dead behind the tent wall. It was such a
strange
silhouette that I was tempted to step out of line to track down its source. But we'd been waiting for so long already, I didn't want to risk losing my place.

It was another ten minutes before the check-in lady at the trestle table announced that everyone was stamped and photographed, and we were ready. ‘Off you go!'

We all spilled out of the tent. ‘Where's Morning Glory now?' demanded Uncle Tristram. ‘It can't have taken her all this time to give one little fox stole a decent and harmonious funeral.'

I looked across the fairground. In the far corner, Morning Glory was about as close as you can get to a police officer who is supposed to be busy doing his duty. They had their backs to us, and they were staring at a cottage that had a
FOR SALE
sign leaning against its wall.

I pointed. ‘There they are.'

Uncle Tristram scowled. ‘I certainly don't intend to miss that ferry this evening. So if they're going to borrow my car to go back and barricade that stream, they'd better get on with it.'

Almost as if she'd heard him all the way across the fairground, Morning Glory turned. She took Officer Watkins' arm and, pausing only once to blow a kiss back over her shoulder at the pretty little cottage, she led him off towards the car park.

Uncle Tristram lifted anxious eyes to the helicopters circling above us. ‘I certainly hope he doesn't take off the tarpaulin.'

‘Those helicopters won't be up there long,' I said. ‘Mum's bound to tell them it's all been a terrible mistake.'

‘You're sure you didn't spend too long explaining?'

‘No, no,' I told him. ‘Under ten seconds.'

‘Good lad. We should be safe then.' He turned to face me and stuck out his hand. ‘Right,' he said. ‘Though we may stroll together amiably through this great wonderland of things on sticks, we are as though sworn enemies with daggers drawn. In your own time! And may the toughest stomach win!'

EATING THINGS ON STICKS