Catesby, but theyâd stopped in the music shop to chat up some girls (one of them with a dull, little three-strand braid and the others with no braids at all). After a few moments, Tom had drifted off and left them to it. He was too restless to stand still for long.
He slouched to the square in the middle of town and worked his way along the shops, peering in the windows and watching the customers. One shop had a couple of braided belts (five and six strands, plaited flat) in the window and another had a rack of hair ornaments made of braided ribbon (only four strands). That was it. There was nothing else. Nothing remotely like what he was searching for. But he figured there must be loads of them around. If Robbo could do it, it had to be easy to make them. All he had to do was find one....
It was almost lunchtime when he saw the boy with the sports bag. He was sitting on the bench by the fountain, in the middle of the main square, with his fat knees spread wide apart. Normally, Tom would have gone by without a second look, but heâd just bought himself a Coke, and he wanted to sit by the fountain to drink it.
But the boy had gotten there first.
He was only about eleven or twelve, with a pale, bloated face and a belly that hung over the top of his trousers. There should have been room for two more people on the bench, but heâd planted himself right in the middle, with his sports bag on one side and a row of little white paper bags on the other. The paper bags were full of candies, and he was eating his way steadily through them.
Dap, went his fingers, first into one bag and then into another. He wasnât taking one sweet at a time. He was gathering them in handfuls and cramming them into his mouth, so fast that he barely had time to chew. Dip, dip, dip.
He didnât even seem to be enjoying them. His eyes stared into the distance, and he shoved the candy into his mouth without looking. Without even finishing the previous mouthful. Dip, went his hand, into the bags and then straight up to his mouth. And his mouth opened automatically, just wide enough to let him push them in. Then it clamped shut again and he went on chewing.
It made Tom feel sick. He was about to walk away when the boy suddenly screwed all the paper bags together and dropped them under the seat. Then he heaved himself off the bench, unzipped his sports bag, and took out a couple of bills. With the money in one hand and the sports bag slung over his shoulder, he lumbered across the squareâheading straight for the nearest sweet shop.
He was going to buy more candy? Tom was so astounded that he turned around to watch. And there was no doubt about it. The boy pushed the shop door open, with his pudgy hand on the door and his sports bag hanging against his back.
And on the sports bag, hanging down from the zipper toggle, was a neat little blue braid.
Not a big braid. Nothing showy. Tom wouldnât even have noticed it if he hadnât been watching out for things like that. It was just a little square plait made of blue woolen threads, with a few flecks of brown twisted through it, appearing and disappearing at odd intervals. There was nothing remotely special about it.
But it looked like a twelve-strand braid.
9
FOR A SECOND, Tom COULDNâT BELIEVE IT WAS ACTUALLY there. Was he imagining it? Was he so obsessed that his poor, exhausted brain had started conjuring up hallucinations? He blinked and looked again.
The braid was still there. So it was real. And it was exactly the right shape, even though it wasnât long and golden orange. Neat and tight and square. He just had time to imagine how the pattern would feel under his fingers. Then the boy and the bag and the braid all disappeared into the sweet shop.
He wanted to shout triumphantly. Got you, Robbo! Thereâs nothing special about that braid of yours. Any old sausage-fingered kid can make one like it!
That would make Robert think, all right. And it would fix
He slouched to the square in the middle of town and worked his way along the shops, peering in the windows and watching the customers. One shop had a couple of braided belts (five and six strands, plaited flat) in the window and another had a rack of hair ornaments made of braided ribbon (only four strands). That was it. There was nothing else. Nothing remotely like what he was searching for. But he figured there must be loads of them around. If Robbo could do it, it had to be easy to make them. All he had to do was find one....
It was almost lunchtime when he saw the boy with the sports bag. He was sitting on the bench by the fountain, in the middle of the main square, with his fat knees spread wide apart. Normally, Tom would have gone by without a second look, but heâd just bought himself a Coke, and he wanted to sit by the fountain to drink it.
But the boy had gotten there first.
He was only about eleven or twelve, with a pale, bloated face and a belly that hung over the top of his trousers. There should have been room for two more people on the bench, but heâd planted himself right in the middle, with his sports bag on one side and a row of little white paper bags on the other. The paper bags were full of candies, and he was eating his way steadily through them.
Dap, went his fingers, first into one bag and then into another. He wasnât taking one sweet at a time. He was gathering them in handfuls and cramming them into his mouth, so fast that he barely had time to chew. Dip, dip, dip.
He didnât even seem to be enjoying them. His eyes stared into the distance, and he shoved the candy into his mouth without looking. Without even finishing the previous mouthful. Dip, went his hand, into the bags and then straight up to his mouth. And his mouth opened automatically, just wide enough to let him push them in. Then it clamped shut again and he went on chewing.
It made Tom feel sick. He was about to walk away when the boy suddenly screwed all the paper bags together and dropped them under the seat. Then he heaved himself off the bench, unzipped his sports bag, and took out a couple of bills. With the money in one hand and the sports bag slung over his shoulder, he lumbered across the squareâheading straight for the nearest sweet shop.
He was going to buy more candy? Tom was so astounded that he turned around to watch. And there was no doubt about it. The boy pushed the shop door open, with his pudgy hand on the door and his sports bag hanging against his back.
And on the sports bag, hanging down from the zipper toggle, was a neat little blue braid.
Not a big braid. Nothing showy. Tom wouldnât even have noticed it if he hadnât been watching out for things like that. It was just a little square plait made of blue woolen threads, with a few flecks of brown twisted through it, appearing and disappearing at odd intervals. There was nothing remotely special about it.
But it looked like a twelve-strand braid.
9
FOR A SECOND, Tom COULDNâT BELIEVE IT WAS ACTUALLY there. Was he imagining it? Was he so obsessed that his poor, exhausted brain had started conjuring up hallucinations? He blinked and looked again.
The braid was still there. So it was real. And it was exactly the right shape, even though it wasnât long and golden orange. Neat and tight and square. He just had time to imagine how the pattern would feel under his fingers. Then the boy and the bag and the braid all disappeared into the sweet shop.
He wanted to shout triumphantly. Got you, Robbo! Thereâs nothing special about that braid of yours. Any old sausage-fingered kid can make one like it!
That would make Robert think, all right. And it would fix
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