Matty and Bill for Keeps (2 page)

Mrs Townsend had sat Crispin next to Bill. The new kid rocketed through the maths on page thirty-seven. Now Bill was no slouch when it came to maths, but Crispin knew his times tables up to fifteen and didn't once need to use a calculator to reach his answers. With the leftover time, the two boys started to chat.

‘So what do you do when you're not doing school stuf
f
?' asked Bill.

‘As a matter of fact, quite a lot,' answered Crispin.

‘Like?'

‘Like learning Saxon and Old Icelandic,' said Crispin. ‘I also like to knit and—'

‘Now listen to me,' Bill whispered fiercely. He didn't know what Saxon meant or where it came from. Nor could he point to Iceland on a map. But he did know that if Crispin told anybody else in the class that he spent his precious free time learning this crazy Saxon and Iceland thing as well as knitting, then his few weeks at Dewey Creek Primary would be made a misery. ‘The bell for recess is about to go. Follow my instructions and you'll survive.'

‘I beg your pardon?' asked Crispin, looking perplexed.

But Bill never got the chance to tell Crispin what he had to do. The bell started ringing, Mrs Townsend instantly dismissed the class, and a circle of girls surrounded Crispin at his desk.

‘Can we show you around the school, Crispin?' invited Isabelle Farquay-Jones, fluttering her long eyelashes.

‘I'd be honoured,' said Crispin.

Bill, alone, could do no more to save Crispin de Floriette. With Isabelle involved, it would be a blood bath. There was only one person Bill could think of who might rescue the new boy – Matilda Grub. Bill rushed from the room to search for her.

Bill found Mat practising her bowling down in the cricket nets.

‘I thought you'd decided to give cricket a miss at school,' said Bill.

‘Jimmy Chan was short of a partner, so I offered.' Matty stepped away, took a run towards Jimmy who was at wickets, and then bowled as smoothly as if she practised every day. Bill watched in admiration, then realised he was on a mission.

‘I need your help. It's urgent,' he called to her.

Jimmy had returned the ball and Mat was rubbing it on her shorts, preparing for another bowl. ‘Can't it wait?'

Bill watched Mat bowl again. The ball clipped the wicket and Mat gave a delighted whoop. ‘My turn to bat!' she called to Jimmy who started walking towards her to swap positions.

‘There's a new kid in our class. Lives in some castle tower in England.' Bill was trying to be as clear, but as brief as possible. By now Mat had been handed the bat. Bill rushed on, ‘The whole class laughed at him because he calls his father
Daddy
. And . . . and he dresses like a dork. Like Pinocchio, in fact. He's into crazy stuff . . . speaks something called Saxon and he enjoys knitting . . . and Isabelle and a bunch of other girls have latched onto him this recess.'

Mat stopped. ‘That's potentially serious,' she said. ‘Jimmy! I'm handing the bat over to Bill. Urgent business.'

Bill watched with relief as Mat sprinted towards the playground. As he fielded Jimmy's balls, his mind was distracted by thoughts about whether Mat had any hope of rescuing Crispin. Even with Mat in charge of the operation, he didn't like her chances.

The bell to start class again seemed to ring too quickly. Bill returned to the Grade Six classroom to discover that Crispin was now sitting next to Isabelle Farquay-Jones. There he was, his red curls bobbing as he politely spoke to Isabelle. Isabelle no longer looked venomous, but she wore an expression that was potentially as poisonous – she was looking sickly sweet and seemed enraptured by everything Crispin was saying. Although she had gone from cruel-faced to lollipop nice in the space of a morning, Bill knew Isabelle had plans for Crispin. He, himself, had been tricked and trapped by her in the very same way before. Bill had never dreamt he would betray as good a friend as Matty, but Isabelle had brought out the worst in him – and it had shocked him. What might she do with this strange kid from England?

Bill felt as if he was on a dangerous rescue mission to save an endangered species from poachers. Yes. That just about summed it up. Crispin de Floriette was an endangered species – probably even over there in England. Maybe he had to stay in his tower or he'd be slaughtered. The world could be a scary place for anyone who was a bit different.

Bill and Mat were walking home from school along their dusty road. The new kid was still the main topic of conversation. Isabelle had seemed to take control of Crispin. There was no getting near him. It had been impossible for Bill to figure out how to help Crispin, or even if Crispin wanted help. Maybe he was already under Isabelle's spell, just as Bill had once been. Bill couldn't blame him for that, but he would have liked to warn him.

Mat and Bill had just reached Mrs Mabel Flint's house when Mat stopped and said, ‘I did get close to that Crispin kid today, you know.'

‘You did? I thought the bell must have gone too soon,' said Bill.

‘Not before I figured out what was going on,' said Mat. ‘I mean, when I got up to the playground, there was this huge ring of girls trapping him in the middle. All I could see was his red curly hair.'

‘And?'

‘Well, first I thought he was getting pushed around or teased. I wriggled my way to the front of the pack. But everything was different to what I was expecting.'

‘How come?'

‘I thought I'd find the girls making fun of Crispin. You know, his posh English accent and all that. But they weren't. They were just asking him loads of questions like did he know the queen. Stuff like that.'

‘And does he?'

‘No, but his uncle, the lord guy, gets to meet her at important events.'

‘I bet that impressed Isabelle.'

‘Impressed her enough to invite him to her house tomorrow after school.'

‘Oh, boy,' said Bill, looking very worried, then he shrugged. ‘Maybe Crispin will feel at home in the Farquay-Jones' mansion.'

‘No,' said Matty. ‘I don't think so.'

‘Why don't you think so?'

‘Just don't,' said Mat.

Bill was certain she was wrong. Surely, Crispin de Floriette – who had a nanny and governesses and who lived in a medieval tower and whose uncle knew the queen – had lots in common with the Farquay-Joneses who had a housekeeper and a ginormous house with an indoor pool. Anyway, there was no point challenging Mat. Firstly, Bill knew better than to question Mat when she had her mind set. And secondly, Mr Herbert Riley had just appeared in his front driveway.

‘You two cooking something up between yourselves again?' Mr Riley asked, leaning on his rake.

‘Just discussing some unexpected news,' explained Mat.

‘School business,' added Bill.

‘Whatever it is, if you two are involved in any way, shape or form, it will make life interesting for us all,' said Mr Riley. ‘By the way, that was a great film night you put on the other day.' Mr Riley looked at Bill. ‘Has your mum flown off to Sydney yet to spend that weekend with your dad?'

‘Not yet. She has to organise a shift swap at the laundromat.'

‘She should go as soon as possible.' It was Mrs Flint's voice, followed by her head peering over the hedge. ‘I was doing some weeding, so I couldn't help hearing,' she explained, ‘but I always say men don't manage well on their own for too long.'

‘What about this man here?' called Mr Riley. ‘I'm doing fine. That is, until I catch you eavesdropping on my conversations.'

‘I don't eavesdrop,' said Mrs Flint, ‘but I do like to keep an eye out for people. It's called caring for your neighbours.'

‘Maybe you could show your love and concern for me by keeping that cat of yours out of my property.'

Mrs Flint and Mr Riley were at it again. Mat and Bill giggled. It was no longer upsetting to hear these two old people get cross with each other. Once upon a time, they were real enemies and hadn't spoken for more than twenty years, but now it seemed like their cranky talk was just a game. In fact, Bill suspected that Mr Riley and Mrs Flint really did care for each other.

Mat and Bill strolled on. Just before they parted at their respective driveways, Mat said to Bill, ‘If we can possibly get to school early, we might find a way to get to Crispin before Isabelle does.'

‘Do you mean ask him if he wants our help?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Alright,' said Bill doubtfully.

‘Just in case Isabelle intercepts our rescue mission, we'll—'

‘
Intercepts
?' asked Bill.

‘Gets in the way,' explained Mat. ‘We should write a note that we could secretly pass him. In code would be even better.'

‘Okay,' said Bill. ‘What sort of code?'

‘Pig Latin.'
1

‘Latin spoken by
pigs
?' queried Bill.

‘It sounds like a basic form of Latin,' explained Mat, ‘but there's no connection. You take the first letter off a word and put it at the end with an “ay” attached.'

‘Oh,' said Bill.

‘Meet me tonight at 9pm. Climb through my bedroom window.'

‘Why through your window?'

‘Because coded letters need to be written in the utmost secrecy.'

Bill knew better than to disagree. But later that night when Matty came up with the idea to write the letter in lemon juice so that the writing was invisible, he dared to say, ‘If, like you said, you have to use a hot iron on a letter to read the lemon juice ink, then someone in grave danger isn't going to have the time or the hot iron to find out what the letter says.'

Mat gave in, and the lemon juice idea was dropped.

This is what the letter said:

Earday Ispincray,

Ouyay areyay inyay angerday. Ifyay ouyay antway otay escapeyay omfray Isabelleyay, Illbay andyay Attymay illway elphay ouyay. Unray otay ethay oadray extnay otay ethay oolschay, ethay oneyay ithway ethay eadday-endyay ignsay, alkway otay ethay optay ofyay ethay illhay andyay alkway intoyay ethay ardengay atthay isyay ikelay ayay unglejay. Erehay ouyay illway ebay afesay.
2

When Bill dared to ask how someone under stress was going to decipher a coded letter, Mat simply answered, ‘If he's telling the truth about all those people who come to his tower – professors and so on – to teach him stuff, then he'll know.'

Bill found this a very confusing answer, but it was late at night and he needed to climb back out of Mat's window and head for his bed, so he didn't ask her to explain.

The next morning, the two friends were at school before any of the other kids. They sat on a dew-damp bench at the drop-off point. A few kids who normally walked to school arrived, then a couple of cars pulled up and kids jumped out.

‘I suppose his aunt will drive him in a Rolls-Royce or something,' said Bill.

Mat didn't have time to answer. Another car pulled up. It was possibly the smallest car Mat and Bill had ever seen. Bill half expected a circus clown to jump out of it. For such a tiny car, it made a terrible noise. ‘Hole in that exhaust pipe,' commented Bill. The engine sputtered and died as the car drew up. An old lady with a huge mop of frizzy grey hair stepped out of the driver's side.

‘Crispin's aunt!' said Mat.

‘Why's she getting out?' Bill wondered aloud.

The reason became quickly obvious. The aunt heaved and shook the passenger door. It wouldn't open. Then she took aim with her boot – yes, she was wearing huge, black, lace-up farm boots – and the door creaked open. Out stepped Crispin de Floriette with his schoolbag. The aunt slapped Crispin on the back, curled herself into her car and, after a few noisy false starts, drove off.

‘Hey, Crispin!' called Bill.

Crispin turned to Bill and gave him a big smile.

‘Hello there, Bill,' said Crispin. He looked at Mat. ‘I don't think we've been introduced. Crispin de Floriette at your service.'

‘Matilda Grub at yours,' she said and thrust the letter into his hand.

The timing was perfect because just as Crispin was glancing down at the letter, Isabelle Farquay-Jones appeared beside him. Crispin quickly slipped the letter into the pocket of his shorts.

‘Oh, Crisp dear. There you are!'

Did Bill detect a slight spasm of irritation on Crispin's face? He couldn't be sure. Isabelle placed herself right in front of Crispin so that she completely cut off Mat and Bill. The message was clear. Keep away.