idle chitchat in the kitchen! This is never going to work! Never!’
‘Get a wiggle on!’ I wound Boodle the Poodle’s lead round the left handlebar and got on the bike to follow, water bottle clutched in my right hand. It all felt very precarious. Pushing the pedals till we were whizzing along comfortably, we were soon on Arnold’s tail. Despite his complaints he was making good progress. I lifted the bottle to my teeth and pulled up the pop top. As we got right behind Arns, I squeezed it hard at him and a perfect triangle of sweat darkened the shirt between his shoulder blades.
‘Weergh!’ he yelled, and jumped away.
‘Watch out for oncoming traffic,’ I commented, and came up alongside to squirt at his chest.
‘Oh, f-f-f-!’ Arnold’s lips were a little blue and shivery. ‘Is that really necessary, Lula?’ he panted.
The shirt clung perfectly. ‘Seven eighteen, corner of Stanton and Mason,’ I instructed, one final time.
‘I know where PSG’s dining hall is, Tallulah,’ puffed Arnold, too much malevolence in his tone for this early hour.
I pulled away. ‘Dunno if that’s a good thing, Arns,’ was my parting shot before I wheeled into a U-turn. ‘And Stanton is the corner
before
the hall – okay?’
Arns flapped his hand at me.
I stood up on the pedals to get some speed going – Boodle the Poodle had to be tuckered out before the planned onslaught up Mason Road. If she didn’t play her part properly, the plan would be shot.
Chapter Eight
Early Wednesday, but time running out . . .
Mr Kadinski was still standing despondently at the top of the Sun’s steps when I came wheeling back round to head up the hill into the woods. I waved cheerily at him and steeled myself as his plaintive cries carried clearly through the cold morning air. There was no way I could have helped anyway, I told myself, with Boodle on the loose and keen for a run. There would have been a terrible accident. Images of old man, ten-ton hairy dog, sixteen steps and tangles of lead flashed through my head, making me shudder.
‘Mr Kadinski,’ I muttered, ‘it’s for the best. Really.’
Despite the pale fingers of sunlight pointing through the trees on to the rough road ahead, it was still cold. The skin on my bare legs pricked up in goosebumps and I wished I’d worn my beanie to cover my burning ears. I kept my hands tightly glued to the handlebars; Boodle was pulling me along, despite my vigorous pedalling, and if we skidded into a pothole I wanted to be prepared. Cycling past PSG with bleeding knees would be too humiliating to contemplate.
‘Take it easy, Boodle,’ I called.
She showed no sign of slowing down.
Oh, frik
, I thought.
Is there time to take her into the trees? That’ll use up some ofthis energy
. I snatched a look at my watch: 7.02. Boodle suddenly raced after a squirrel and I nearly lost my balance completely. There’d have to be time. I geared down and pumped the pedals even harder.
We climbed up and up the track, every now and again catching glimpses of Hambledon below. Usually I loved coming out here. It felt completely isolated and if you didn’t look west, down the slope where the town began, you’d think you were in the middle of nowhere. But there wasn’t a moment to lose in day dreaming now.
At the top of the hill the track ended in a wide circle and the trees had been felled here and there so you could see right across to where the sea sparkled on a distant horizon. This morning there was nothing visible in the mist. I let Boodle off the lead for a minute – we could do a little loop through the trees, then back into town after Arnold.
Boodle was ecstatic. She darted back and forth, her feathery tail whacking vigorously to and fro, in search of more squirrels and whatever had made those strange holes at the base of tall beech trees. And then she was gone.
‘Boodle!’
Snuffle snuffle, happy bark . . . from far away. 7.06.
Frik!
‘Boodle! Get your hairy butt here right
‘Get a wiggle on!’ I wound Boodle the Poodle’s lead round the left handlebar and got on the bike to follow, water bottle clutched in my right hand. It all felt very precarious. Pushing the pedals till we were whizzing along comfortably, we were soon on Arnold’s tail. Despite his complaints he was making good progress. I lifted the bottle to my teeth and pulled up the pop top. As we got right behind Arns, I squeezed it hard at him and a perfect triangle of sweat darkened the shirt between his shoulder blades.
‘Weergh!’ he yelled, and jumped away.
‘Watch out for oncoming traffic,’ I commented, and came up alongside to squirt at his chest.
‘Oh, f-f-f-!’ Arnold’s lips were a little blue and shivery. ‘Is that really necessary, Lula?’ he panted.
The shirt clung perfectly. ‘Seven eighteen, corner of Stanton and Mason,’ I instructed, one final time.
‘I know where PSG’s dining hall is, Tallulah,’ puffed Arnold, too much malevolence in his tone for this early hour.
I pulled away. ‘Dunno if that’s a good thing, Arns,’ was my parting shot before I wheeled into a U-turn. ‘And Stanton is the corner
before
the hall – okay?’
Arns flapped his hand at me.
I stood up on the pedals to get some speed going – Boodle the Poodle had to be tuckered out before the planned onslaught up Mason Road. If she didn’t play her part properly, the plan would be shot.
Chapter Eight
Early Wednesday, but time running out . . .
Mr Kadinski was still standing despondently at the top of the Sun’s steps when I came wheeling back round to head up the hill into the woods. I waved cheerily at him and steeled myself as his plaintive cries carried clearly through the cold morning air. There was no way I could have helped anyway, I told myself, with Boodle on the loose and keen for a run. There would have been a terrible accident. Images of old man, ten-ton hairy dog, sixteen steps and tangles of lead flashed through my head, making me shudder.
‘Mr Kadinski,’ I muttered, ‘it’s for the best. Really.’
Despite the pale fingers of sunlight pointing through the trees on to the rough road ahead, it was still cold. The skin on my bare legs pricked up in goosebumps and I wished I’d worn my beanie to cover my burning ears. I kept my hands tightly glued to the handlebars; Boodle was pulling me along, despite my vigorous pedalling, and if we skidded into a pothole I wanted to be prepared. Cycling past PSG with bleeding knees would be too humiliating to contemplate.
‘Take it easy, Boodle,’ I called.
She showed no sign of slowing down.
Oh, frik
, I thought.
Is there time to take her into the trees? That’ll use up some ofthis energy
. I snatched a look at my watch: 7.02. Boodle suddenly raced after a squirrel and I nearly lost my balance completely. There’d have to be time. I geared down and pumped the pedals even harder.
We climbed up and up the track, every now and again catching glimpses of Hambledon below. Usually I loved coming out here. It felt completely isolated and if you didn’t look west, down the slope where the town began, you’d think you were in the middle of nowhere. But there wasn’t a moment to lose in day dreaming now.
At the top of the hill the track ended in a wide circle and the trees had been felled here and there so you could see right across to where the sea sparkled on a distant horizon. This morning there was nothing visible in the mist. I let Boodle off the lead for a minute – we could do a little loop through the trees, then back into town after Arnold.
Boodle was ecstatic. She darted back and forth, her feathery tail whacking vigorously to and fro, in search of more squirrels and whatever had made those strange holes at the base of tall beech trees. And then she was gone.
‘Boodle!’
Snuffle snuffle, happy bark . . . from far away. 7.06.
Frik!
‘Boodle! Get your hairy butt here right
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