Eating Things on Sticks (6 page)

‘Fine!' I said. ‘Fine! What sort of tea is this?'

‘One of my own blends. Catnip and marjoram.'

(Well, that explained it.)

‘I have to work today,' she told me. ‘I was just wondering if you and Tristram would like to come along.'

‘I didn't know you had a job.'

‘It's not a
real
job,' she explained. ‘It doesn't pay. But once a week I drive round dishing out the meals-on-wheels to the old people. I take the van down dozens of odd little cart tracks, and I thought it would be a very good way for you and Tristram to see a bit more of the island.'

I'd rather be grateful to a van engine than to my own tired feet, so I was up for it. ‘When do we leave?'

‘Straight after breakfast.'

That wasn't long. (She ate a parsnip pancake, and Uncle Tristram and I settled for pork pies again.) Then we piled into Uncle Tristram's car to get to the meals-on-wheels distribution centre.

Morning Glory pressed one of the buttons and her seat slid down. She pressed another. It slid up again. ‘This is
luxurious
,' she said. She tugged her glittery woollen legwarmers up as far as her taffeta ballet skirt. ‘Usually I have to hitch a ride to get to the centre.'

I didn't quite see how. The island was
deserted
. You'd think some plague had swept across the land and every living creature except seagulls had crept into a hole to die. Finally we reached the place where Morning Glory picked up the meals. It was a vast tin shed, almost a hangar, with wide-open double doors. Round at the back, a van was parked outside. I thought at first that someone had decorated it all over with blobs of grey and greenish paint, but it was bird mess.

Inside the shed there was a pile of packaged trays, still cold from the fridge. Morning Glory swept up the van keys one of the other volunteers had left lying on top. ‘We'll leave your car here,' she told Uncle Tristram.

Uncle Tristram stared at the van, spattered all over with droppings. Then he looked up. The sky was swarming with seagulls and helicopters. The seagulls were just waiting, you could tell.

‘I think I might just move the car safely inside.'

We waited while he drove his yellow Maverati into the shed and then, as a special precaution against particularly nosy seagulls, closed the shed doors. Then we took off.

It was a tour of beards, really. The first lady only had a few proud wisps that floated on the breeze as she snatched her pile of meal trays and scuttled back into her cottage.

I started grumbling to Uncle Tristram. ‘Yesterday, Morning Glory made us thank our feet for practically
nothing
. You'd think she might insist that rude old trout says thanks for a week's free grub.'

‘Harry,' said Uncle Tristram, ‘I fear that you and I are not the sort cut out for charity work.'

‘Well, I'm not,' I admitted. ‘I would be very tempted to snatch the trays back.'

Morning Glory drove on. The second lady looked more sinister. Her beard had matching eyebrows. She was unpleasant, too. When Morning Glory handed her the stack of trays she said, ‘So what's it this week, eh? More of that foreign muck – all lumps of yak fat and camel lard?'

‘I know that Thursday is macaroni cheese,' said Morning Glory helpfully.

‘If I live that long,' muttered the foul old crone, hurrying back inside to barricade the door in case any more kind people put themselves out to drive along her overgrown and rutted drive and offer her something for free.

‘Blimey,' said Uncle Tristram once we were all three safely back in the van. ‘That one could start a fight in an empty house.'

‘Wait till you meet George,' Morning Glory warned.

We pressed on with the tour. Mr Appelini's beard turned out to be a spindly goatee. George had a ‘bushy prophet'. He told me I was swimming in sin and would soon drown in sorrow. I asked him how he knew and he told me that you could see the face of the criminal in the cradle. I said I wasn't
in
a cradle. He said he could still see that I was a bad lot. I turned to Uncle Tristram, expecting him to stick up for me, only to find that he was narrowing his eyes in my direction.

‘Yes,' he agreed with George. ‘There is a sort of born malefactor look about his physiognomy. And he's already a skilled arsonist. Burned down his mother's kitchen only last week.'

‘I wish you'd stop harping on about that,' I snapped. ‘It was an
accident
.'

‘The typical criminal defence!' scoffed George.

I left them both agreeing and stormed back to the van. Then we drove on to Mrs Mackay's. If you were fair, she didn't really have much of a beard at all, and was only a bit ‘back to nature'. Mr Fisher's beard was all over the place, and curly with it. Old Joe's was brilliant – sort of forceful and wild, all at the same time. Ted Hanley's beard was thicker than a hedge and looked as if it might have fledglings nesting inside it. He actually said, ‘Thank you.' I didn't hear the words myself, but Morning Glory and Uncle Tristram both swore to it. It made their day.

‘The Devil has a beard,' said Uncle Tristram as we got back to the main road. ‘A spiky little number, as I recall.'

‘I like the wild ones,' I admitted. ‘I can't
wait
to be old enough to grow one as all over the place as Old Joe's.'

‘Don't grow a beard,' said Uncle Tristram. ‘They're shifty and unhygienic.'

‘And tickly,' said Morning Glory.

‘How do you know?' asked Uncle Tristram. ‘Have you been kissing any of your meals-on-wheels clients?'

Morning Glory shuddered. ‘No.' She turned all wistful. ‘But I did have a boyfriend once. He had a beard until he had to shave it off for his new job.'

‘There you go!' Uncle Tristram trumpeted. ‘Shave for Success!' He patted Morning Glory's legwarmers. ‘Are you sure you're not getting too warm in these?'

‘There's only one more house,' said Morning Glory.

It was a hovel really. Standing in front of it watering his tomatoes was the hairiest man we'd seen that morning. Straggling grey locks sprouted in all directions. The beard went down to his knees.

‘Impressive,' Uncle Tristram observed. ‘Brutish, yet somehow thoughtful. Barbaric, and yet shapely. Yes, I think that this one takes the prize.'

Morning Glory turned round to stare at Uncle Tristram as if he'd just solved some massive problem that had been troubling everyone on the island for years.

‘Prize for the best beard?'

Uncle Tristram shrugged. ‘If you could herd the pack of them together. To me, they looked a rather antisocial lot. Especially that one who told Harry he was swimming in sin and would soon drown in sorrow.'

‘They'll all be at the fair, though.'

Uncle Tristram stared. ‘What fair?'

‘The Annual Island Fair on Saturday.' In her excitement Morning Glory bounced up and down. ‘We always need a special competition. Best Beard is perfect.'

‘Why can't you do the usual things?' asked Uncle Tristram. ‘You know. Firmest fruit. Tastiest vegetable.'

‘Not this year.' Morning Glory shook her head. ‘We've had West Island Pulp Rot.'

‘Finest carved turnip?'

‘The school had a knife amnesty only last month and took away all the sharp ones.'

‘Best dress-up?'

‘We used to do that, but I always won without even entering, so they got rid of it.'

‘So are there any competitions left?'

‘Only the Eating Things on Sticks competition.'

‘Eating Things on Sticks?'

‘Yes,' Morning Glory said. ‘You know. The usual. Sausage on a stick. Cream puff on a stick. Pizza on a stick. Toffee apple on a stick. Fish finger on a stick—'

Uncle Tristram had already stuffed his fingers in his ears, but I kept listening.

‘Hot dog on a stick. Steak on a stick. Ice lolly on a stick. Pork pie on a stick—'