Fleas! Read online

  For Jane, for all your scootering across London on your moped to collect and deliver Bertie bits and pieces.

  A big thank you ~ D R

  For Laurie, who’s not as dirty as he’d like to be ~ A M

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  FLEAS!

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  DARE!

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  FIRE!

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  SCRATCH! SCRATCH! SCRATCH! Bertie was reading his comic at the table.

  “Bertie, do you have to do that?” asked Mum.

  “What?”

  “Keep scratching like that. You’re worse than a dog.”

  “I can’t help it, I’m itchy,” said Bertie.

  He went back to his comic.

  Scratch! Scratch! He scratched his leg under the table. Scratch! Scratch! He scratched under his pyjama top. Scratch! Scratch! He itched his arm.

  “BERTIE! What’s wrong with you?” said Mum.

  “Sorry,” shrugged Bertie. “I’m itchy all over.”

  “Let me take a look at you,” said Mum. She rolled up his sleeve to inspect his arm. A look of horror appeared on her face. “Oh no! Fleas!”

  “FLEAS?” cried Suzy.

  “FLEAS?” cried Dad.

  “Where? I can’t see them!” said Bertie, peering at his arm curiously. Mum pointed at the tiny red dots above his elbow.

  “There,” she said. “Those are flea bites.”

  Suzy shifted her chair away from Bertie. “Ugh! Keep away! I don’t want your fleas.”

  She scratched her hair. Maybe her grubby little brother had given her fleas already. Maybe she had flea bites all over her! She fled from the table and dashed upstairs to the bathroom.

  “But where did he get them?” asked Dad.

  “I bet I can guess,” said Mum, grimly.

  Whiffer was in the lounge, dozing peacefully in an armchair. Scratch! Scratch! Scratch! His back leg swished like a windscreen wiper.

  “There!” said Mum. “Just as I thought. There’s the fleabag.”

  Bertie bent over to take a closer look. It was true. Whiffer’s fur was alive with tiny black creatures hopping around like … well, like fleas.

  “Good grief!” said Mum. “He’s crawling with them!”

  “Wow! Millions!” said Bertie.

  “Enough to start a flea circus,” muttered Dad, keeping his distance.

  “What’s a flea circus?” asked Bertie.

  “Oh you used to get them years ago,” said Dad. “Performing fleas – doing tricks and things.”

  Bertie could hardly believe his ears. A flea circus! With performing fleas! What a fantastic idea! He’d already tried to train his pet earthworm, but Mum had put a stop to that when she found Arthur in his bed. But fleas? That was a much better idea. Fleas could jump and hop so surely they could be trained to do other things? Like acrobatics. Fleas turning somersaults. Fleas standing on each other’s shoulders. Fleas flying through the air on a flea trapeze! All he had to do was catch some of Whiffer’s fleas and he could have his very own circus.

  Mum had Whiffer by the collar and was pulling him out of the armchair.

  “We’ve got to do something,” she said. “Fleas spread. They lay their eggs everywhere. They’re probably all over the furniture by now!”

  Just thinking about it made Dad feel itchy. “How do you get rid of them?” he asked.

  Mum dragged Whiffer through the kitchen and out of the back door.

  “You can buy flea shampoo – but someone will have to bath him.”

  “I’ll do it!” said Bertie.

  “NO!” said both his parents at once.

  “He’ll have to go to the vets,” said Mum, eyeing Dad. “You can take him.”

  “Why me?” said Dad. “I took him last time!”

  Dad remembered their last visit all too well. The vet had tried to force a pill down Whiffer’s throat. Whiffer had spat it out three times.

  “Well I can’t do it,” said Mum flatly. “I’m taking Suzy shopping this morning.”

  “But I’ve got work to do!” protested Dad.

  “This is an emergency,” said Mum. “The house is crawling with fleas. Bertie’s already been bitten. They won’t just walk out of the door, you know.”

  “All right, all right,” groaned Dad. “I’ll take him.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Bertie waited till Mum and Suzy had gone out. He crept out of the back door, armed with his flea collecting kit. Whiffer wagged his tail, pleased to see him.

  Bertie crouched beside him with a toothbrush and a matchbox. With a little coaxing he managed to get a few of the fleas on the end of the toothbrush.

  He shook them into the matchbox and slid the lid shut quickly.

  “BERTIE!” called Dad from indoors. “Can you come here a minute?”

  Bertie stuffed the matchbox into his pocket and went inside.

  Dad was working at the computer in the back room.

  “Bertie,” he said. “Are you busy right now?”

  “Not especially,” said Bertie.

  “I was thinking. Maybe you’d like to take Whiffer to the vets? He’s your dog.”

  “No thanks. Can I go now?”

  “Wait!” said Dad, desperately. “I’ll pay you.”

  Bertie paused in the doorway. “How much?”

  “Two pounds.”

  Bertie thought about it. As usual he’d spent all his pocket money.

  “Three,” said Dad. “Okay, five pounds – that’s my last offer.”

  “Done!” said Bertie. He held out his hand.

  “Oh no,” said Dad. “You don’t get paid until the job’s done. And you’d better ask Gran to go with you.”

  Bertie nodded. Five pounds – he could do a lot with that. He was already planning what he needed for his flea circus.

  DING DONG! Bertie rang Gran’s doorbell.

  “Hello, Bertie!” said Gran, opening the door. “What a nice surprise. Come in!”

  “I better not,” said Bertie. “Dad wants me to take Whiffer to the V-E-T-S.”

  “The what?” said Gran.

  Bertie lowered his voice. “The vets.”

  “Oh, the VETS! Why are you whispering?”

  “Because I don’t want Whiffer to hear. He hates the vets.”

  Gran looked behind him. “Who’s going with you?” she asked.

  “Ah,” said Bertie. “Well…”

  “I see,” said Gran. “I’d better get my coat then.”

  “So what’s the matter with Whiffer?” asked Gran, as they headed up the road with Whiffer on his lead.

  “Oh, nothing much. He’s just got fleas.”

  “FLEAS?” Gran stopped dead.

  “Yes,” said Bertie. “Loads of them! You should take a look, Gran – it’s like a flea party!”

  “No thanks,” said Gran. “I’ll take your word for it.” She shook her head. “No wonder your dad didn’t want to come. Typical! ‘Ask your gran. She’ll go to the vets with you!’”

  “Shhh!” said Bertie. “Not so loud!”

  “Don’t be daft, Bertie,” said Gran. “He’s a dog! He can’t understand a word we’re saying!”

  The dog lead suddenly yanked her backwards and they both turned around. Whiffer had stopped and was lying down on the pavement.

  “See?” said Bertie. “You said the word. Now we’ll never get him there.”

  He clapped his hands. “Come on, Whiffer! Let’s go!”


  But Whiffer wouldn’t budge. Bertie pleaded with him. He spoke in his dog-training voice. He tried to drag Whiffer along by his lead but Whiffer dug in his heels and refused to budge.

  “Now what?” sighed Gran.

  Bertie tried to think. If they didn’t get Whiffer to the vets there’d be no five pound reward.

  “Maggots!” he said suddenly.

  “Maggots?” said Gran. “The poor dog’s got fleas already! Bertie, this isn’t one of your harebrained ideas, is it?”

  “No,” said Bertie. “Trust me, Gran, this will work. When Dad goes fishing he uses maggots. The fish come after them. So what we need is something that Whiffer will come after!”

  Gran looked at him. “Why do I get the feeling I’m going to regret this?”

  “You won’t,” said Bertie. “I promise. Just lend me your key.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Ten minutes later Bertie was back. Gran stared. He was wearing his helmet and roller blades, and pulling a bag that trundled along on two wheels.

  “That’s my shopping bag!” said Gran.

  “I know,” said Bertie, beaming. “It’s perfect! And look what I found in the fridge!”

  He unzipped the bag to reveal a string of sausages. “And that’s my supper!” said Gran. “What are you up to?”

  “It’s simple,” explained Bertie. “I skate along with the sausages in the bag. As soon as Whiffer sees them he’ll start chasing me. He loves sausages!”

  “And what am I doing while you’re zooming off with my supper?” asked Gran.

  “You hold on to Whiffer’s lead,” said Bertie. “Don’t let him catch the sausages or it won’t work.”

  Gran shook her head. “I must be barmy to listen to you.”

  Bertie’s plan worked perfectly – at least to begin with. Bertie whizzed off on his roller blades with the sausages trailing from the shopping bag. As soon as Whiffer spotted them he barked and sprang to his feet. Then he was off, dragging Gran behind him at turbo speed.

  “Hang on, Gran!” Bertie called over his shoulder.

  “I am hanging on!” puffed Gran. “Can’t you tell him to slow down?”

  Bertie skated through the precinct, weaving in and out of shoppers. Whiffer bounded along behind, tugging at his lead and barking excitedly. People stopped to stare at the old lady chasing a dog who was chasing a string of sausages.

  Everything might have been all right if Whiffer hadn’t barked so loudly. But Whiffer always barked when he was excited and he was excited now. As they came tearing down Riddle Road, the Alsatian at Number 12 heard Whiffer barking. Seeing some escaping sausages, he eagerly joined the chase. Further down the road they met the terrier at 47 and the scruffy mongrel at 72. Both of them were fond of sausages and even fonder of a good chase.

  “Help!” cried Gran. “Bertie stop! I’m being attacked!”

  Bertie looked behind him. Gran had a pack of dogs snapping at her heels. She was red in the face and skidding along like a tomato on water-skis. Whiffer was gaining on the sausages. Bertie skated faster. He could see the vets at the end of the road.

  “Hang on Gran, we’re almost there!” he yelled.

  Turning sharp left, he whizzed into the drive, up a ramp and through the open door. The receptionist met him in the hall with a pile of files in her arms. Her mouth dropped open.

  “I CAN’T STOP!” warned Bertie. He ploughed straight into her, scattering papers everywhere. The shopping bag did a somersault over Bertie’s head and the sausages came flying out. A warm, wet tongue licked his face as Whiffer bounded on top of him.

  Gran arrived soon after, panting heavily. “Well that worked a treat,” she said.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Have they gone?” asked Bertie.

  Gran glanced out of the window. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  They were sitting in Mr Cage’s waiting room. Outside the Alsatian and his friends kept watch by the door. They had been thrown out once but they weren’t giving up that easily.

  The receptionist seemed to think it was all Bertie’s fault. She said he had no business bringing every dog in the neighbourhood. Bertie tried to explain they weren’t his dogs but the receptionist went on telling him off. Then Gran got cross too, and said if she didn’t get a glass of water soon they’d have to call an ambulance.

  At least I got Whiffer to the vets, thought Bertie. Whiffer was sitting at his feet, happily slobbering over the sausages. It seemed to have escaped his notice that he was in a vet’s waiting room. Bertie glanced round the room at the other pets. There was a parrot, a hamster, a snake curled up in a box, and a poodle that looked like a powder puff on legs.

  Scratch! Scratch! Scratch! Whiffer’s back leg was itching again.

  The owner of the poodle looked down her nose at Bertie. “What’s wrong with your dog?”

  “Oh he’s fine really,” said Bertie. “Just a few fleas.”

  “Fleas? I hope you’re joking?”

  “No,” said Bertie, “I can show you if you like.” He reached into his pocket. But the woman got up from her chair and quickly backed away. She called to her poodle.

  “Fifi! Fifi, darling! Get away from that filthy fleabag.”

  “He’s not a filthy fleabag!” said Bertie. “He had a bath last month.”

  The woman picked up her poodle and sat down on the other side of the room. Bertie and Gran were left sitting by themselves. Gran was chuckling to herself. Bertie hoped that Whiffer had managed to pass a few of his fleas to Fifi.

  Just then the door to the street opened and a woman entered, carrying a fat ginger cat. Whiffer looked up and growled. Bertie noticed the door had been left open.

  “’Scuse me!” he said. “You’d better shut that! There’s some…”

  But the warning came too late. The Alsatian and his friends had seen their chance. In a few seconds the waiting room was full of barking, yapping, growling dogs. The Alsatian chased the ginger cat round a table. Whiffer and the terrier snarled and fought over the string of sausages. And the parrot flew over their heads squawking, “Give us a kiss! Give us a kiss!”

  “What’s the plan now?” shouted Gran in Bertie’s ear.

  “I’m working on it!” replied Bertie. He tried to catch Whiffer as he ran past.

  Hearing the bedlam, Mr Cage came running in and soon wished he hadn’t. The cat sprang off the table and sunk its claws into his leg. Whiffer, seeing his old enemy, jumped up and knocked him to the floor. The cat and the barking dogs then used the vet as a roundabout as they chased each other in circles. Finally they escaped out the door with Whiffer leading the way.

  There was a long silence as Mr Cage sat up and stared at the wreckage of his waiting room. Bertie bent over him.

  “Um, I was wondering,” he asked. “Do you know anything about fleas?”

  Dad was still working at the computer when Bertie got home.

  “How did it go?” he asked, not looking up.

  “Oh,” replied Bertie. “It was okay, but—”

  “You did get Whiffer to the vets?” Dad interrupted.

  “Oh yes, I got him there.”

  “And you told Mr Cage about the fleas?”

  “Yes I told him, but the thing was—”

  Dad held up a hand to cut him off. “Tell me later, Bertie, I’ve just got to finish this.” He pulled out a five-pound note from his wallet. “Thanks. And don’t mention it to Mum, eh? It can be our secret.”

  Bertie took the five-pound note and left. He’d tried to explain but that was the trouble with grown-ups, they never had time to listen. Anyway he had a feeling Mum and Dad would find out the truth soon enough. Perhaps when Mr Cage phoned about the damage. Or when they noticed that Whiffer was still crawling with fleas. So it was probably best to spend the money while he had the chance.

  Bertie took the matchbox from his pocket and slid it open a fraction.

  “Now,” he said, peering inside. “Where could we buy a trapeze?”

  CHAPTER 1

  Bertie’s
class had a new teacher. Mr Weakly was young, pale and very nervous, with round glasses that made him look like a startled owl. He was standing in for Miss Boot while she was off sick. Bertie thought she probably had a sore throat from all that shouting she did.

  He sat at the back of the class whispering with Darren. They were playing the Dare Game. They wouldn’t have risked anything so dangerous if Miss Boot had been around. Miss Boot could see you even when her back was turned. But Mr Weakly didn’t shout or go purple in the face like Miss Boot; he hardly seemed to get cross at all. Darren had already dared Bertie to burp loudly and Bertie had dared Darren to “drop dead” on the floor. Mr Weakly had merely looked up from his book and asked them not to be silly.

  “So?” said Bertie. “What’s the dare?”

  “I’m thinking,” said Darren. Darren never won the Dare Game because Bertie was daring enough to do anything. Darren had once dared him to shout “Pants!” in assembly and Bertie had yelled it at the top of his voice. But this time he was going to think of something much harder, something that even Bertie wouldn’t dare to do. A smile slowly spread across his face. He had it.

  “Okay,” he said. “I dare you to lock Mr Weakly in the store room.”

  Bertie gaped at him. “What?”

  “That’s the dare,” said Darren. “I did mine, now it’s your turn. Unless you’re chickening out.”

  “Who says I’m chickening out?” said Bertie.

  Bertie glanced over at the store room. It was little more than a tiny cupboard which Miss Boot kept locked at all times. Bertie had been in there once to get some computer paper. It was stuffy and the light didn’t work. He wondered if Mr Weakly was scared of the dark… Still, a dare was a dare and he wasn’t about to back down.