~~The cumquat tree~~
©1999
“Shh! Don’t move!”
The branch groaned;
trembled; settled—in silent conspiracy with the two pairs of grubby, bare feet
that hung down from it. Not tucked up quite high enough, they might have given
their owners’ presence away to anyone who chanced to look up, but Jake and
Billy, the two boys attached to them, were blind to such an unwelcome
possibility.
They’d climbed up
into the topmost branches of the cumquat tree, the one behind the police
station, and as far as they were concerned the advantage was all theirs. The
leafy foliage that surrounded them gave them a secret power—one that all boys
bent on making mischief longed to have. They were convinced they were
invisible, and any boy worth his salt understood the importance of that.
It meant you were as
good as invincible. That you couldn’t be caught: an attribute that came in
pretty handy when you were plotting mischief. Which, of course, they were.
Though Jake was
getting sick of the same old boring stuff.
Chucking bungers in
people’s letterboxes just after the postie had been—turning their mail into
confetti, or even better, setting fire to it—had been fun while it lasted, but
it was old-hat now. And old Bun, the headmaster—okay, so his real name was Mr.
Baker, though none of the kids called him that except to his face—had
confiscated his shanghai last week. Just because he’d knocked the heads off all
of Mrs. Baker’s prize Dahlias with the bloody thing.
Well, it seemed like
a good idea at the time. His hand was still smarting, though, from where old
Bun had given him six of the best—and worse than that, the picture of Mrs.
Baker’s stricken face gave him a twinge of guilt every time he thought about
it. Hell, she wasn’t a bad old stick, and those dahlias were her pride and joy.
“I suppose I
deserved to get the cuts,” he murmured, but his remorse didn’t last very long.
A wicked grin creased his features as he remembered. Old Bun wasn’t around to
cramp his style for the next two weeks.
The Bakers were away
right now; one of those caravan trips they took every school holidays and bored
the school stiff with slides of when they got back. And Jake’s reputation was
at stake.
His name was a
byword throughout the bay for the mischief and mayhem he dreamed up. He
couldn’t let the holidays go past without coming up with a stunt that made him
and Billy the talk of the town. As always, he’d have to be the instigator, the
one who dreamed up some new nefarious scheme to enact, though he had to admit
Billy was usually his loyal accomplice.
True, he wouldn’t
have anything to do with using Mrs. Baker’s dahlias for target practice. But
he’d been right in the thick of things when they’d whitewashed the statue of
one of the town’s forefathers—the one that stood in the middle of Main Street.
“How on earth could
a Sergeant of Police wind up with a bloody little delinquent of a son like
you?” Billy’s father had raged after that little episode.
‘That was the best
one so far,’ Jake thought with satisfaction—but this time he needed something
different. Something original. Something that would make him more than just
food for gossip.
Something that would
make him a legend!
He peered down
through the branches and caught a glimpse of a blue uniform entering the
outhouse below them—and like a flash of lightning Jake was struck by one of his
brilliant ideas.
“Hey, Billy,” he
hissed to his companion in crime. “I just saw Boots go into the lav. The
dunny-cart doesn’t pick up the pans till tonight, so it should be nice and
full. Why don’t we drop a couple of cumquats down the stink pipe?”
“What are we waiting
for?” Billy hissed back, his eyes sparkling with glee at the thought of such a
satisfying revenge. They didn’t call the new constable “Boots” for nothing.
Both their posteriors had been on the receiving end of those size twelves when
he’d caught them lighting bungers to chuck into the Headmaster’s letterbox the
day before yesterday; a pay-back for that caning Jake had received.
“Okay, Boots—today
it’s payback time for you!” Jake crowed triumphantly. Now his posterior
was going to be on the receiving end of something unpleasant—namely the
contents of the pan! And the true beauty of the scheme, and they both grinned
widely at the thought, was that with his pants down round his ankles, Boots’
pursuit would be delayed, giving them plenty of time for their getaway!
They proceeded to
carry out their plan, each selecting a nice juice cumquat of just the right
dimensions; small enough to drop down the stink-pipe without getting stuck;
large enough to make a satisfying splash as it landed in the pan.
“Bombs away!” they
cried in unison, and splat! The cumquats hit their target. A roar of rage
shattered the hot stillness of the afternoon.
“Cripes no! It’s not
Boots—it’s Dad!” gasped Billy, as they slithered down the tree and fled for
their lives. With a sinking feeling, he knew he’d only postponed the
inevitable, especially when he heard the door swing open. Heard the heavy thump
of a pair of police boots in pursuit. Pants down round his knees or not, his
father was after them!
“Come back here, you
bloody little mongrels. You bloody little limbs of Satan!”
“Maybe he didn’t see
us,” Jake said consolingly. Billy didn’t answer him. He was saving his breath
for a more pressing need—making sure his father didn’t catch him.
Still running, he
looked back over his shoulder, and to his relief there was no-one in sight.
Maybe Jake was right…maybe he hadn’t seen them. Then a roar like a
bull-elephant split the stillness of the afternoon.
“Billy! Jake. I know
it was you pair. Just wait till I get my hands on you!”
‘That means me,’
Billy thought in despair. His father couldn’t do anything to Jake. Oh, he’d go
around to his house, in his official capacity as Sergeant of Police: tell
Jake’s father what he’d done. But Billy knew from experience that nothing would
happen to Jake.
“It’s not fair—he
always gets away with it ‘cause his Dad’s at the pub all the time. He doesn’t
care what Jake gets up to,” he moaned under his breath. “I’m always the one who
gets punished—and God knows what Dad’ll do to me this time...”
Why, oh why did he
always have to go along with what Jake said?
The next moment,
though, the memory of that satisfying splat! brought a reluctant grin to his
lips, along with an unexpected pang of sympathy. Jake’s dad wasn’t always
at the pub. And when his old man did come home, Jake never knew what the hand
that reached out towards him was likely to do: scruff that unruly head of
white-blond hair with affection or knock him flat on his arse.
Maybe Jake wasn’t so
lucky after all...
As he raised his
eyes and met the devil-may-care gleam in Jake’s, Billy’s grin
widened. Soon both he and Jake were rolling on the ground, helpless with
laughter; pummelling each other with glee.
“Did you see the
look on his face?” gasped Jake between paroxysms—and it had been pretty
funny, even Billy had to admit that. He had a sneaking suspicion—more than a
suspicion, he thought with a twinge of anticipated pain—that before the day was
through his father wouldn’t be the only one with an uncomfortably warm
posterior.
But maybe, just
maybe, it was worth it!
THE END
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