Kisses for Lula (8 page)

‘Mwehadmmhrry,’ I spluttered.

‘Finish the apple first. Nice bike. Bit big for you.’

I swallowed. ‘My legs are longer than you think. What’s your watch say?’

‘Six fifty-five.’

I twisted dials till mine said exactly the same, grabbed an ancient tennis ball and Boodle the Poodle’s lead and then explained the cunning Arns + Mona plan as we headed out of the back gate, Boodle waving her tail triumphantly.

‘. . . So you see, when Mona knows you’re a science whizz, that will be your perfect in! She’ll be unable to resist! She’s
desperate
, apparently! Oh. Not that a girl would have to be desperate to . . . uh, you know . . . want to go out with you . . .’

I stopped.

Arns was shaking his head. He was pale. ‘Tallulah, you’re telling me this mad idea
now
? Is it
safe
? I sense personal embarrassment close at hand. We should spend more time preparing.’

‘We have inside info, Arns. If we keep to the right timings, there’s’ – I looked over at Boodle – ‘um not much that can go wrong. Just remember that Boodle will drop
anything to get to the tennis ball, and don’t panic. And if the shirt doesn’t give way, you need to help it.’

‘No chance. You’re crazy.’

‘Arnold,’ I said warningly, wheeling the bike up the side road round to the front of the house. Mr Kadinski waved from the Setting Sun’s front veranda.

‘Don’t look at the pensioner,’ I hissed at Arnold. ‘He needs a hand down the steps and we don’t have time.’

‘But –’

‘Run, Arnold, run!’

He set off at a loping pace, a worried look on his face, checking his watch. ‘I’m never going to get to the dining hall by seven twenty!’ he muttered. ‘I should have demanded the details of your plan immediately. What was I thinking? All that 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

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 of
this 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 now!
’ I shrieked. Dammit. Now we’d have to go through the woods and cut
back into the town through the crematorium yard. Thank goodness it was morning. What could be scary about a crematorium yard in the morning?
If there is smoke, I can just tell myself it’s mist
, I thought, admiring my courage.

Wrapping the dogless lead into a circle round my shoulder, I rode as fast as I dared through the trees, whistling sharply for Boodle. At last she galloped over, then ran alongside the bike happily.

I followed a small rough path cut deep into dry earth, trying not to waggle the wheel off course. I was no mountain biker. Kids from school loved coming up here to try out the trails and there was a bunch of homemade ramps and jumps in a dell nearby that was a crush of flying bikes on a Saturday afternoon.

I could see the enormous stone chairs of Coven’s Quarter up ahead, looming out of the morning mist like something out of
The Lord of the Rings
. Massive slabs of rock just higher than the ground that could seat about three adults side by side, with great boulders on either side for armrests. The backrests were the standing stones, reaching up four or five metres. There were seven chairs in all, placed in a rough circle at the bottom of a vast hollow that the pines and beech trees kept a respectful distance from. I always felt that my chair was the narrowest one with the highest backrest. ‘Thronelike,’ Tam had commented when I’d declared my spot at a picnic we’d had here last summer.

My stomach twisted at the thought of the development that might take its place. Grandma Bird would never have let it happen. Never. She always said it was one of the few places left where real magic was still possible.

No time to absorb its energy today. I lurched through the undergrowth, Boodle right at my side now, her tongue at last lolling out the side of her mouth, and whisked my hand across the back of my chair as we sailed by.

‘Give us luck,’ I said softly, and then we were off at a diagonal downhill. I could just make out the tips of the tall peaked rooves of the Setting Sun Retirement Home below, then nothing until the immense chimneys of Cluny’s Crematorium. No smoke wisped from the top of them this morning, but Boodle slowed with a whimper anyway. I didn’t waste a moment. Throwing down the bike, I clipped the lead back on, rolling it up till it was bunched in my left fist, and took stock of the best way down.

‘Ready, Boodle?’ I asked. She turned her head and blinked her big brown eyes, tongue still lolling. I grinned and got back on the bike. This could work.

‘Let’s go!’ I whooped, and we were off.

We sped downhill at a million miles an hour till at last the tarmac of North Road appeared through the trees. Skidding to a halt, I checked my watch.

7.13.

Frik, frik. Seven minutes! But the hardest part was over.
Slipping and sliding in haste down the bank, I caught my forearms and shins on a thousand nettles and Boodle had a trail of some green creeper round her neck, like I’d garlanded her specially. No time to address her accessories. We threw ourselves out on to the road and pelted down the hill, wheels a-blur, Boodle’s breath starting to gasp faintly. Then left into Stanton. I could see Arns just ahead: he was early, brilliant boy, jogging slowly now on the approach to the corner.

I curved my mouth into a piercing whistle and blasted twice. Arns didn’t even look back. From what I could see the fake sweat patches had widened, though he eased effortlessly into one-hundred-metre-sprint pace before I’d even started the second whistle. I slowed the bike and pulled Boodle in hard. The timing had to be perfect. By the time we’d got to the corner, Arns was halfway up the hill and far closer to the dining halls than I’d thought.

Fffff! I gave it everything, which took some doing, because I couldn’t adjust the gears while trying to keep Boodle on a tight leash, and balance and steer at the same time. Boodle sensed some kind of urgency and got Arns in her sights. She started to pull ahead.

I glanced up.

Girls had all but exited the dining halls now and hung around in groups under the trees, or sat on the outside walls, just like the St Alban’s guys had done yesterday.
You could see the best spot to sit straight away and, being one of the popular ones, Mona had prime seat. I glimpsed her laughing at something a friend was saying before I put more muscle into pedalling.

The approach to the hall on Mason was a killer uphill and I’ve got no idea how I came abreast of Arns at the critical moment.

He was on the pavement now, coming up to Mona. I made sure I was a little past him, just opposite Mona, before I yelled, ‘Hey, Arns! Thanks for helping me with the relativity stuff yesterday. You’re a science genius!’

Arns raised his hand in acknowledgement as I braked elegantly and unleashed Boodle.

It was too, too perfect.

Boodle had already twisted round and she leapt towards Arns just as he loped past Mona. Girls scattered in every direction and Mona twisted to drop her legs over the other side of the wall as Arns thumped hard against it, his head sounding on the grey stone with a painful
thwack!
, two furry paws once again firmly on his chest.

He pushed away from the wall with one hand, dazed, the other hand holding the back of his head, and Boodle’s paws raked down his chest.

‘Nyargh!’ yelled Arns as the shirt gave way, two huge rips showing off fabtastic – fab
tastic!
– pectorals to their best advantage.

‘Boodle!’ I called feebly. ‘Get back here now! You okay, Arnold?’

Arns staggered, both hands on his head now, chest totally visible.

Then, to my shame, Boodle jumped again, and ripped that precious Stones shirt from neckline to hem, scratching ribbons of blood across Arns’s torso.

I got to him first, bike thrown down on the verge, and tried to haul Boodle off him, but no chance.

‘Bad dog!
’ I yelled when she refused to move.

‘Blood,’ whimpered Arns, and passed out.

I stepped back and pulled the manky tennis ball from my pocket. How could Arns breathe with Pen’s hound on his chest? My fingers fumbled. Damn this tiny pocket! I pulled and swore till the ball came loose and then I bounced it once, twice, three times, on the pavement.
Pock, pock, pock
. At the first bounce Boodle was at my feet grovelling for a game of throw and fetch. I pulled back my arm and threw as hard as I could along the pavement.

Boodle the Poodle was off.

Mona, to her credit, had swung back over the wall and now reached out for Arnold’s forehead.

‘He’s very hot,’ she said.

Duh
, I thought.
Like he hasn’t just sprinted up this cliff face of a hill
.

‘He certainly is,’ tittered a tall blonde specimen.

‘He needs medical attention,’ I said urgently.

Mona turned to the blondie. ‘Hurry, Barbie!’ she said. ‘Call Nurse Wilton now!’ (BARBIE? Seriously?)

Barbie The Useless But Incredibly Beautiful just stood there, but several others set off at a run, their perfectly highlighted hair flying out behind them like the locks in a salon shampoo ad.

‘Thanks,’ I said to Mona, who was now expertly checking for a pulse.

‘Your
dog
!’ she said.

‘She’s usually so good!’ I lied. ‘I can’t believe this happened!’ I looked down at Arns’s chest. The scratches were mainly welts, not deep at all, and only bleeding here and there. Impressive wounds for the moment, though.