Read Online Fizzlebert Stump by A. F. Harrold - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A. F. Harrold
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smiling.
‘Does she ever let you join in?’ he asked. ‘I once had a clown for my birthday, but he wasn’t a real clown, he was just a friend of my dad’s who dressed up and did some tricks. He tried making animals out of those long balloons.’
‘Oh, my mum can do that too, except she’s not very good and they all come out looking like snakes.’
Kevin laughed. ‘Well, this clown could only make balloon worms. He wasn’t any good either.’
Fizz laughed too.
‘She doesn’t let me join in with the clowns very often, but last night I did the lion act with Captain Fox-Dingle.’
‘Lion act?’
‘Yeah, I had to put my head in Charles’s mouth. Charles is Captain Fox-Dingle’s lion.’
‘You never!’
Kevin stared wide-eyed at him.
‘I did. And I’ve done it before,’ Fizz said proudly.
‘That’s amazing. Really? You stuck your head in? Weren’t you scared?’
‘No, not really. Charles is an old softie really. He has rubber teeth. But even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t worry, he’d never bite me.’
Kevin just shook his head, stunned by his new friend.
‘But I’ll tell you what,’ Fizz added, ‘his breath doesn’t half stink!’
Right then there was another loud banging on the wall and Mrs Stinkthrottle shouted, ‘You boys! Less chatter, more dinner! Come on, come on!’
Kevin suddenly looked serious again. The laughter had stopped and they both remembered where they were. How they were all alone, locked in this strange house with these horrible old people.
Kevin sniffed again but quickly pulled himself together, wiped his nose on the silvery part of his school jumper’s sleeve and emptied a can of baked beans into a saucepan. He popped a couple of slices of stiff stale bread in the toaster and switched it on.
Fizz looked at the letter Kevin had found in the night.
It was from the local council and, as far as Fizz could understand (a lot of it was written in long words and jargon), it said that they had received complaints from some of the Stinkthrottles’ neighbours about the horrible smells coming from their house. An inspector had been dispatched and a report had been filed which said that if the Stinkthrottles didn’t sanitise (which just means clean, but really thoroughly) their house, the council would have to do it for them (which sounded like a good thing until . . .) and put the two old people in an old people’s home while they did so. If they could get the house cleaned up themselves then that would prove to the council that they were still quite capable, thank you very much.
But it was clear to Fizz that, instead of doing it themselves, they had begun recruiting (or kidnapping) a workforce of kids to do it for them.
As the beans cooked Fizz told Kevin what he thought was going on.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought too,’ Kevin agreed. ‘It was me yesterday, you today and who knows how many more kids she’s gonna get?’
The idea was terrifying. Fizz thought of the fairytales his dad had used to tell him (his mum, not surprisingly, preferred reading nonsense poems). Kids like Hansel and Gretel got stolen away by witches, but the kids always won in the end, didn’t they? But how? Fizz couldn’t remember. And what he could remember wasn’t much use: if he was going to stick Mrs Stinkthrottle in her own oven, he’d have to empty out the snooker balls, telephone directory, porcelain figurines and month-old remains of a roast chicken that were currently filling it up. But he didn’t want to kill her (she wasn’t planning on eating him, like a witch might do), he just wanted to escape.
An idea failed to pop up with the toast, which was soon buttered with butter from the only corner of the tub that wasn’t filled with crumbs and blue things (he didn’t look too closely). Kevin ladled the beans on top and opened the door so they could take lunch through to the old couple.
The Stinkthrottles were sitting side by side on the sofa, each surrounded by rubbish that
‘Does she ever let you join in?’ he asked. ‘I once had a clown for my birthday, but he wasn’t a real clown, he was just a friend of my dad’s who dressed up and did some tricks. He tried making animals out of those long balloons.’
‘Oh, my mum can do that too, except she’s not very good and they all come out looking like snakes.’
Kevin laughed. ‘Well, this clown could only make balloon worms. He wasn’t any good either.’
Fizz laughed too.
‘She doesn’t let me join in with the clowns very often, but last night I did the lion act with Captain Fox-Dingle.’
‘Lion act?’
‘Yeah, I had to put my head in Charles’s mouth. Charles is Captain Fox-Dingle’s lion.’
‘You never!’
Kevin stared wide-eyed at him.
‘I did. And I’ve done it before,’ Fizz said proudly.
‘That’s amazing. Really? You stuck your head in? Weren’t you scared?’
‘No, not really. Charles is an old softie really. He has rubber teeth. But even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t worry, he’d never bite me.’
Kevin just shook his head, stunned by his new friend.
‘But I’ll tell you what,’ Fizz added, ‘his breath doesn’t half stink!’
Right then there was another loud banging on the wall and Mrs Stinkthrottle shouted, ‘You boys! Less chatter, more dinner! Come on, come on!’
Kevin suddenly looked serious again. The laughter had stopped and they both remembered where they were. How they were all alone, locked in this strange house with these horrible old people.
Kevin sniffed again but quickly pulled himself together, wiped his nose on the silvery part of his school jumper’s sleeve and emptied a can of baked beans into a saucepan. He popped a couple of slices of stiff stale bread in the toaster and switched it on.
Fizz looked at the letter Kevin had found in the night.
It was from the local council and, as far as Fizz could understand (a lot of it was written in long words and jargon), it said that they had received complaints from some of the Stinkthrottles’ neighbours about the horrible smells coming from their house. An inspector had been dispatched and a report had been filed which said that if the Stinkthrottles didn’t sanitise (which just means clean, but really thoroughly) their house, the council would have to do it for them (which sounded like a good thing until . . .) and put the two old people in an old people’s home while they did so. If they could get the house cleaned up themselves then that would prove to the council that they were still quite capable, thank you very much.
But it was clear to Fizz that, instead of doing it themselves, they had begun recruiting (or kidnapping) a workforce of kids to do it for them.
As the beans cooked Fizz told Kevin what he thought was going on.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought too,’ Kevin agreed. ‘It was me yesterday, you today and who knows how many more kids she’s gonna get?’
The idea was terrifying. Fizz thought of the fairytales his dad had used to tell him (his mum, not surprisingly, preferred reading nonsense poems). Kids like Hansel and Gretel got stolen away by witches, but the kids always won in the end, didn’t they? But how? Fizz couldn’t remember. And what he could remember wasn’t much use: if he was going to stick Mrs Stinkthrottle in her own oven, he’d have to empty out the snooker balls, telephone directory, porcelain figurines and month-old remains of a roast chicken that were currently filling it up. But he didn’t want to kill her (she wasn’t planning on eating him, like a witch might do), he just wanted to escape.
An idea failed to pop up with the toast, which was soon buttered with butter from the only corner of the tub that wasn’t filled with crumbs and blue things (he didn’t look too closely). Kevin ladled the beans on top and opened the door so they could take lunch through to the old couple.
The Stinkthrottles were sitting side by side on the sofa, each surrounded by rubbish that
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