Matty and Bill for Keeps (5 page)

Bill felt very sorry for Crispin. After Mrs Townsend had informed Aunt Victoria about the Farquay-Jones situation, she had been furious with Crispin. Bill assumed it was because Aunt Victoria had found out about Crispin tying Isabelle to the tree, but Crispin said it was something worse than that. He wouldn't say, except that it was to do with ‘family honour'.

Crispin was very quiet for the rest of the school week. As part of his punishment, Crispin had to walk home every afternoon to his aunt's farm. It was a very long walk up the hill and over a couple of valley ridges. It took him about an hour and a half. By Saturday morning, his aunt had softened a bit. When Tessa, at Mat's urging, rang to invite Crispin to spend the day, she relented. ‘He may stay from 10am to 3pm precisely,' she told Tessa.

‘Can you ask her to let me speak to him for a sec?' whispered Mat to her mother.

‘Mat would like a word with Crispin, if that's okay,' said Tessa. She handed the phone to Mat.

‘Hey, Crispin. Just in case you need to prepare for your tests or bring any essential equipment, I thought I'd sum them up for you,' said Mat. ‘Nan will get you to eat something disgusting, then Bill and I are getting you to do an Athlon . . .'

Mat paused to listen to something Crispin was saying.

‘You see,' explained Mat, ‘we were going to get you to do a triathlon, but your aunt's time restrictions mean we have to cut it down from three athletic challenges to one – an Athlon.'

Mat paused to listen to Crispin's reply. ‘Good,' she said, ‘I'm glad you're feeling more positive about your chances of passing. Anyway, the third test is to scare this bully called Freckles McCann. He's a big kid from the local high school who hangs around Dewey Creek Primary on weekends with his mates. A total creep. Doesn't play by the rules. I thought you should at least have a chance to think about what strategies you might use against him.'

An hour later, Aunt Victoria delivered Crispin to the front door. Mat and Bill greeted them.

‘Morning, children. I'll be back after the sheep drenching,' she announced.

Nan heard Aunt Victoria's voice from all the way down in the family room. ‘Come in and have a cuppa, Aunty!' she called.

‘I'd love to Nan!' Aunt Victoria called back. ‘But I have a man waiting to help with the sheep.' She turned to Crispin. ‘I have a dirty, stinky job ahead of me. I won't be looking fit to walk into the house, so make sure you're waiting here.'

‘Certainly will, Aunt Victoria,' said Crispin politely.

Once his aunt had marched off, Crispin turned to his friends and said, ‘Well, let's get cracking!'

Mat and Bill led Crispin through the house to the family room. Nan was sitting in her rocker, crocheting as usual.

‘So the sacrificial lamb has arrived!' she laughed.

‘You're going to get me to eat something disgusting, apparently,' said Crispin. ‘But nothing could be as disgusting as an oyster, so I'm ready.'

Nan put aside the rug she was working on and stood up. ‘Come with me,' she said.

Mat, Bill and Crispin followed Nan onto the verandah. Uncle Len, sensing an adventure, bounded out with them. They walked down the steps, past the bath, the vegetable garden, the chook shed, the fruit trees and down a hill to the very back of the Grubs' property. Some scrubby wattles grew here and behind them towered a clump of tall eucalyptus trees. Crispin was looking confused. Mat and Bill were trying not to smile. Nan walked up to one of the trees, took a penknife from her cardigan pocket and started digging away at the bark. Very soon she had a huge white grub in her hand. It was about four centimetres long.

‘Good heavens!' exclaimed Crispin. ‘What on earth is that?'

‘A witchety grub,' said Nan.

‘Please, no,' said Crispin, shaking his red, curly head. ‘It looks dreadfully poisonous.'

‘You couldn't be more wrong,' said Nan, looking affectionately at the grub. ‘It's very high in protein. My people have always regarded these dear things as a most important part of their diet.'

‘What does it taste like?' asked Crispin.

‘Raw or cooked?' asked Nan.

‘Cooked, of course.'

‘Well, if you cook it lightly in hot ashes, it tastes chickeny on the outside and like fried egg on the inside,' explained Nan. ‘But it's much more nutritious raw.'

‘You have to have it raw, Crispin,' said Mat in a stern voice.

‘Surely that's a bit cruel?' suggested Crispin, searching desperately for a way out of eating an uncooked grub.

‘Not at all,' said Nan. ‘Much more cruel to throw it in hot ashes.'

Bill was feeling sorry for Crispin. He was remembering back to the time he had to eat a snake. He was so scared he'd be poisoned. On the other hand, at least he'd been allowed to eat the snake after it had been fried. And it tasted like roast chicken.

‘Bush tucker tastes much better than you'd expect,' said Bill encouragingly. ‘Maybe you could just have a nibble.'

‘No nibbles,' objected Mat. ‘He has to eat the whole thing. Minus the head, of course.'

‘That grub has a head?' asked Crispin, unable to hide his horror.

‘Naturally!' said Nan. ‘It's an insect at the pupae stage. It eventually turns into a moth.'

‘I have to eat a grub that will turn into a fluttering winged creature?'

‘Stop thinking about it,' said Mat. ‘You're just making it worse for yourself.'

‘Come on,' said Nan, holding the witchety grub closer to Crispin. ‘Take hold of it.'

Crispin screwed up his face as he gingerly took the grub.

‘Thatta boy,' said Nan. ‘You're holding it just
right – by the head. Now hang it over your mouth and bite it. But do it respectfully. It's sacrificing its life so that you can live. Every living thing we eat should be eaten with respect.'

‘I'd rather the witchety grub wouldn't go to so much trouble,' said Crispin, trying to hand back the grub to Nan. ‘Both he and I would be happier if he didn't sacrifice himself.'

‘Stop talking and put it in your mouth,' said Mat.

Crispin dangled the witchety grub over his open mouth. He paused. His mind was desperately searching for a way out of this torture. He had a sudden inspiration. ‘Grub!' he said. ‘Maybe I'm eating your family totem. This could bring bad luck on everyone.'

‘Grub is an English name,' explained Mat in an exasperated voice. ‘It's from Saxon times. Dad's father, Charles Henry Grub, came out on a ship from England in 1949. Stop stalling, Crispin.'

‘Well, it just seems very unfair on this poor grub,' said Crispin. ‘I'm so much bigger than it is. It doesn't stand a chance.'

Nan laughed. ‘If you keep on with your excuses, that grub stands a very good chance!'

‘Crispin,' said Mat. ‘You are going to get strong support from me and Bill if you make it into our club. But I can't promise you the same level of support if you fail your very first test.'

Crispin weighed up his situation. The witchety grub was hideous. But Isabelle Farquay-Jones and her parents were planning an even more hideous revenge for him. Crispin shut his eyes, lowered the grub into his mouth and crunched. At the same time, he hurled the head away. He had a momentary taste sensation of eggs and almonds, but he wasn't about to savour the taste. He swallowed. Then he bellowed, ‘Aaaargh!!!' for such a long, long time that it echoed around the valley. Uncle Len got really excited. He ran in tight circles and started howling.

Mat observed Crispin: feet slightly apart, arms rigidly straight, hands clenched by his sides, and his fiery red head thrown back as he yelled his lungs out. She thought how very much he must look like a Viking in the full flight of victory, after he'd ransacked a village. Nan, Mat and Bill clapped and cheered loudly. Uncle Len smiled and barked.

‘Right,' said Crispin. ‘What next?'

‘The Athlon,' said Mat. ‘You have to run backwards up the hill we've just walked down, but if you fall, then you fail.'

‘Very well,' said Crispin. ‘I'll draw on the energy I've just gained from eating witchety grub protein and fly to the top. See you there.'

With these parting words, Crispin started trotting backwards like a tough mountain pony – if mountain ponies moved backwards. His head swung from side to side as he carefully judged the lay of the land behind him. Because he was wearing his usual short shorts, long socks and sandals, you could see his bony knees pumping up and down like car pistons. The others watched, holding their breaths. There was one moment when Uncle Len, not understanding the seriousness of the situation, ran right behind Crispin and jumped away at the last moment. An even more perilous time was when Crispin's foot hit a tree root. He stumbled, but didn't fall. The onlookers called out, ‘Hooray!' Up, up, up ran Crispin until he reached the flat area of the orchard. Mat and Bill ran to meet him.

‘You did it!' said Bill.

‘One more test to go,' said Mat.

The three friends and Uncle Len waited for Nan to reach them and then the group walked back to the house. Bill fetched Crispin a glass of water from the kitchen. ‘Sorry, mate,' he said. ‘We have to head for the school straight away or we'll run out of time.'

‘Right,' said Crispin before gulping down his water. ‘I just need my backpack.'

‘What for?'

‘Matty told me I could bring any equipment I wanted,' said Crispin.

‘What on earth have you got in there?' asked Bill.

‘You'll have to wait and see,' said Crispin with a smile.

As the children walked along the road towards the school, Bill told Crispin about his own tests of courage and endurance. The snake story was a great comfort to Crispin, but the description of Freckles and his gang worried him. He'd come as prepared as he could, but victory would all be in finding the right position to accost Freckles and in the timing of his attack.

Once around a bend in the main road, they could see the whole school in the one glance. The buildings, the oval and the play areas were nestled into a large flat area at the bottom of a long slope of tree-lined lawns and garden beds. And from here, Crispin saw the enemy.

Freckles was also red-headed. Crispin recognised him immediately from the detailed description that Mat and Bill had given. But it wasn't just his colouring and his huge size and height that made him stick out; it was the fact that Freckles was engaged in his favourite pastime – bullying. He was holding a basketball over the head of a young girl. She was leaping as high as she could to reach the ball. His three mates, holding their skateboards, had encircled the girl. She was pleading with them to give her ball back.

Crispin went into action immediately. With his pack on his back, he slid from behind one tree to the next. Mat and Bill lowered themselves behind a tall pile of mulch and occasionally peeked out. Bill thought Crispin looked like a spy in a movie. He timed his moves from one tree to the next with precision, making sure all the while that Freckles and his gang were preoccupied.

At the bottom of the slope, Crispin picked something off the ground and threw it like a grenade. It flew right over the heads of Freckles and his gang. At first Mat and Bill had thought Crispin had mis-aimed, but then they saw his clever plan. The missile had crashed to the ground and caused the enemy to look away. They even stopped tormenting the girl and went to investigate. ‘Cunning,' muttered Bill with approval. The girl grabbed her ball from Freckles and tucked it under one arm. She ran away, full pelt. He bellowed, but didn't follow.

Crispin, crouching low, scuttled behind the toilet block. ‘What's he up to?' Mat whispered.

‘Don't know, but he obviously has a plan,' Bill answered.

A crash followed. Something heavy had fallen on the tin roof of the toilets. Mat and Bill watched as Freckles swung round. Then there was a mournful, low hoot of an owl. It vibrated, then died away. It seemed to come from the opposite direction to the toilets, over near the assembly hall. Freckles' gang turned to face that direction. It was a still afternoon and there were no other sounds. The quietness was eerie. Freckles was gesturing in a range of directions, spreading his men out to investigate.

He walked carefully towards the shady front porch of the school office. Mat and Bill felt tense. They didn't know where Crispin had got to. They watched Freckles mount the first step of the porch. Next there came a blinding flash of afternoon sun reflecting off metal and a trumpet blast rang out like a fog horn. Freckles tumbled backwards off the step onto the cement pathway and landed awkwardly on one arm. A figure dressed in a flowing, black cloak with a woolly sheepskin draped over his head stood on the steps. He blew his trumpet again. Even from where Mat and Bill hid, it was dreadfully loud. Freckles, who had been writhing in pain, covered his ears and then struggled to his feet and limped away. He looked back over his shoulder – but his vanquisher had disappeared.

Crispin met up with Mat and Bill in the hiding spot behind the mulch. Bill clapped Crispin on the back. ‘You did well, mate.'

‘That trumpet really spooked Freckles!' said Mat with admiration.

‘Can't claim the credit for that one,' said Crispin modestly. ‘I've always been intrigued by the story about Joshua destroying the walls of Jericho with his mighty trumpet blasts.'

‘Who?' asked Bill.

Mat was silent. She, too, didn't know what Crispin was talking about.

‘Joshua was an Israelite leader who got his priests to blow rams' horns and his soldiers to shout when they marched round and round the walls of this town called Jericho. The walls crumbled down,' explained Crispin.

‘Noise as a weapon,' said Bill.

‘There'd be a scientific explanation behind it. Vibrations or something,' said Matty.

‘It's brilliant. Now back to business. We have our first meeting next. We'll have one or two items on the agenda, of course. Then we'll let you know if you're in,' said Bill.

‘I'm not part of the club yet?' asked Crispin.

‘Not quite. We have some preliminaries to deal with,' said Mat.