table!”
“Mum?” Jack said. “Next time, can I help Old Drumble and Andy take the mob down the end of Cemetery Road?”
“First it’s just down the bottom of the street, then it’s just as far as the church corner, and then just to the railway crossing. There’s no satisfying the boy!”
Jack looked at his mother.
“We’ll see,” she said. “And what cock-and-bull story did Andy fill you up with this time?”
“He didn’t tell me any cock-and-bull stories, Mum. He told me about how Nosy can climb trees, and how she comes down them.” Jack looked at his father, who looked down at his plate and shook his head ever so slightly.
“She climbs telegraph posts, too.” Jack looked desperate. “Once she climbed a lawsoniana five hundred feet high and slid down the outside.”
“I’ve never heard such rubbish in all my life. Where does the man get such ideas?”
Jack picked at his lunch. Perhaps he’d better not say anything else. His father carved a crunchy bit off the cold meat, and put it on Jack’s plate.
“Old Drumble,” said Jack. “He climbs trees, too, only he gets stuck up in the branches and doesn’t know how to come down. He sits up there and barks, and Andy has to ride Nosy underneath, stand on her back, and lift Old Drumble down.”
“Eat your lunch,” said Jack’s mother. “I don’t suppose you noticed if Mrs Mitchell’s rose is out, the one on her front fence? ”
“I meant to tell you,” Mr Jackman said quickly. “It’s got a couple of buds opening.”
“Old Drumble eats roses,” Jack told his mother. “Can I go down as far as the railway crossing by the cemetery, next time Andy comes through?”
“And how do you think you’re going to get home, from right down at the cemetery crossing? If I know you, you’ll find a horse sitting up a tree, stop to help it climb down, and forget your way home.”
“I’ll have a word with Andy,” said Mr Jackman. “If he’s going to be at the cemetery crossing about midday, I can get away a couple of minutes early, bike down there, give Jack a double, and we’ll still be home in time for lunch. Now, I’d better get back to work before the one o’clock whistle blows.”
Jack watched his father put the bicycle clips on his trouser cuffs, so they wouldn’t get caught in the chain. “Be careful you don’t say anything else,” said Mr Jackman. “You know, about…Goodbye, dear!” he called and rode off.
Halfway down Ward Street, he caught up to Mr Sunderland.
“I saw young Jack at the crossing, midday,” said Mr Sunderland.
“He’d been giving Andy the Drover a hand,” Mr Jackman told him.
“He laughed at me. I’ve no idea why.”
“Andy told him a story about that mare of his, Nosy, about her climbing up an apple tree, and being unable to get down, and Jack would have been laughing to himself about her.”
Mr Sunderland grinned. “That Andy tells some yarns!” They rode on together.
Back home, Jack was giving his mother a hand, drying the dishes. “And she ate all your dahlias, Andy said. And all your roses, and Dad’s cabbages.”
“I don’t know about the roses. But somebody left the gate open once, and she got in and ate my dahlias, and your father’s cabbages.”
Jack laughed, polished a plate with the tea towel, and said, “And she ate all Dad’s onions and farted. Giant farts.”
“Are my ears deceiving me? Did I hear you say—? No, there’s no need to go repeating it. If I hear you using language like that again, I’ll wash out your mouth with soap, young man.
“Are you trying to rub the pattern off that plate? Put it in the cupboard and get another. At the rate you’re going, the dishes will dry themselves.”
“Mum, why don’t we just let them dry themselves? It’d be a lot easier.”
“First you start off with horses climbing trees, then you use bad language, and next thing you’re wanting the dishes to dry themselves. No, you’ve said quite enoughfor one day. And
“Mum?” Jack said. “Next time, can I help Old Drumble and Andy take the mob down the end of Cemetery Road?”
“First it’s just down the bottom of the street, then it’s just as far as the church corner, and then just to the railway crossing. There’s no satisfying the boy!”
Jack looked at his mother.
“We’ll see,” she said. “And what cock-and-bull story did Andy fill you up with this time?”
“He didn’t tell me any cock-and-bull stories, Mum. He told me about how Nosy can climb trees, and how she comes down them.” Jack looked at his father, who looked down at his plate and shook his head ever so slightly.
“She climbs telegraph posts, too.” Jack looked desperate. “Once she climbed a lawsoniana five hundred feet high and slid down the outside.”
“I’ve never heard such rubbish in all my life. Where does the man get such ideas?”
Jack picked at his lunch. Perhaps he’d better not say anything else. His father carved a crunchy bit off the cold meat, and put it on Jack’s plate.
“Old Drumble,” said Jack. “He climbs trees, too, only he gets stuck up in the branches and doesn’t know how to come down. He sits up there and barks, and Andy has to ride Nosy underneath, stand on her back, and lift Old Drumble down.”
“Eat your lunch,” said Jack’s mother. “I don’t suppose you noticed if Mrs Mitchell’s rose is out, the one on her front fence? ”
“I meant to tell you,” Mr Jackman said quickly. “It’s got a couple of buds opening.”
“Old Drumble eats roses,” Jack told his mother. “Can I go down as far as the railway crossing by the cemetery, next time Andy comes through?”
“And how do you think you’re going to get home, from right down at the cemetery crossing? If I know you, you’ll find a horse sitting up a tree, stop to help it climb down, and forget your way home.”
“I’ll have a word with Andy,” said Mr Jackman. “If he’s going to be at the cemetery crossing about midday, I can get away a couple of minutes early, bike down there, give Jack a double, and we’ll still be home in time for lunch. Now, I’d better get back to work before the one o’clock whistle blows.”
Jack watched his father put the bicycle clips on his trouser cuffs, so they wouldn’t get caught in the chain. “Be careful you don’t say anything else,” said Mr Jackman. “You know, about…Goodbye, dear!” he called and rode off.
Halfway down Ward Street, he caught up to Mr Sunderland.
“I saw young Jack at the crossing, midday,” said Mr Sunderland.
“He’d been giving Andy the Drover a hand,” Mr Jackman told him.
“He laughed at me. I’ve no idea why.”
“Andy told him a story about that mare of his, Nosy, about her climbing up an apple tree, and being unable to get down, and Jack would have been laughing to himself about her.”
Mr Sunderland grinned. “That Andy tells some yarns!” They rode on together.
Back home, Jack was giving his mother a hand, drying the dishes. “And she ate all your dahlias, Andy said. And all your roses, and Dad’s cabbages.”
“I don’t know about the roses. But somebody left the gate open once, and she got in and ate my dahlias, and your father’s cabbages.”
Jack laughed, polished a plate with the tea towel, and said, “And she ate all Dad’s onions and farted. Giant farts.”
“Are my ears deceiving me? Did I hear you say—? No, there’s no need to go repeating it. If I hear you using language like that again, I’ll wash out your mouth with soap, young man.
“Are you trying to rub the pattern off that plate? Put it in the cupboard and get another. At the rate you’re going, the dishes will dry themselves.”
“Mum, why don’t we just let them dry themselves? It’d be a lot easier.”
“First you start off with horses climbing trees, then you use bad language, and next thing you’re wanting the dishes to dry themselves. No, you’ve said quite enoughfor one day. And
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