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  “Bertie, please! You can’t go to school like that.”

  “Why not?” asked Bertie. “Miss Boot said to come as a Victorian, so I am. I’m coming as a beggar.”

  “But you look like a scarecrow.”

  “That’s how beggars look,” said Bertie. “No one said anything about having to be smart.”

  Mum looked at her watch. They were late already.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Victorian Day turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. Bertie had been hoping they might play some Victorian games or try some Victorian sweets, but Miss Boot had other ideas. To get into the spirit of the day she had brought a cane. She made them sit in rows and practise their handwriting in silence. If anyone spoke or laughed or burped they had to go and stand in the corner. Bertie spent quite a lot of time in the corner.

  After school Mum collected him and they stopped off at the supermarket. Bertie usually liked helping with the shopping. If he pushed the trolley and didn’t bash into anyone, Mum let him have chocolate cake at the cafe. But today they had Whiffer with them.

  “Sorry,” said Mum. “He’ll have to wait out here.”

  “Why?” asked Bertie.

  Mum pointed at a sign by the door. It said ‘NO DOGS ALLOWED’ in big red letters.

  Whiffer whined and wagged his tail at Bertie.

  “I’ll stay with him,” said Bertie. “He gets lonely on his own.”

  “All right,” said Mum. “But don’t go anywhere. And Bertie…”

  “What?”

  “Please take off that horrible hat.”

  Bertie took off his hat and sat down beside Whiffer. Whiffer rested his head in Bertie’s lap and closed his eyes.

  Shoppers passing by glanced down at the ragged, dirty-faced boy and his dog, sitting on the pavement. Some of them tutted to themselves while others shook their heads and gave him pitying looks. Bertie didn’t notice people were staring – he was busy checking Whiffer’s fur for fleas.

  Suddenly a woman bent down, smiled and dropped a fifty pence coin into his hat.

  Bertie looked up in surprise. People didn’t usually give him money. At least not total strangers. Did they think he was begging or something?

  He looked down at his ragged clothes and muddy shoes. Of course, he was still dressed as a beggar! The woman must have thought his hat was there to collect money! Bertie was thrilled. This is fantastic! he thought. I bet Eugene doesn’t get mistaken for a real butler!

  Wait till he told his friends about this tomorrow! His costume was even better than he thought.

  Bertie tried out his sad face, waiting for someone else to pass by.

  It worked. The next person, a man in a smart coat, dropped twenty pence into his hat. Fifty plus twenty that made um … seventy pence already! At this rate he would be rich – and all he had to do was sit on the pavement looking sorry for himself.

  CHAPTER 3

  For the next fifteen minutes, Bertie tried out different expressions on the shoppers passing by. Smiling, he found, was no use at all. It was better to look as if your pet earthworm had just died. Some shoppers hurried on past without paying any attention, but several stopped and soon Bertie’s hat was filling up with shiny coins.

  He was just about to count what he’d earned, when a woman stopped in front of him. She was wearing a brown fur coat and a matching hat.

  “You poor child,” she tutted. “Where is your mother?”

  “Oh, she’s not here,” stammered Bertie, putting on his sad face.

  “You mean she’s just left you by yourself? Is she coming back?”

  “Well … I expect so,” said Bertie, glancing towards the supermarket. “I expect she’ll be back later.” (He hoped it would be much later.)

  “And does she know you are – begging?” asked the woman.

  “Oh yes, it’s okay, she doesn’t mind,” said Bertie. “She wants me to beg.”

  “Good heavens!” said the woman, sounding horrified. “Are you saying she forces you to do this?”

  “Oh no, not forces me no, but if I don’t do any begging we won’t get any supper,” said Bertie. “Cos my family are very, very poor. Poor as anything. My dad’s actually a chimney sweep,” he added by way of explanation.

  The woman bent closer. She stared at the ugly red blotches on Bertie’s face.

  “You poor boy. How long have you been living like this? You don’t look well at all,” she murmured.

  “I’m okay, really,” said Bertie. “It’s probably just a bit of plague or something.”

  The woman quickly took a step back. “You stay there,” she said. “Stay there while I go and fetch someone.”

  Bertie waited till the woman had gone into the supermarket. He felt it would be wise to disappear before she came back. Whoever she had gone to fetch it could only lead to trouble. He picked up his hatful of coins. But, just at that moment, the woman reappeared from an exit to his left. She was followed by a tall security guard in a brown uniform. They were both marching towards him with a determined look. Bertie did the only thing he could think of. He fled. Jamming his hat on to his head, he darted into the supermarket with Whiffer at his heels.

  “Hey!” cried the guard. “Come back!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Bertie looked around, desperate for somewhere to hide. People were staring at his ragged clothes and tutting at the sight of Whiffer. In his panic he’d forgotten that dogs weren’t allowed in the supermarket. As he dithered, the guard appeared in the doorway and spotted him. “Hey!” he cried.

  Grabbing the nearest trolley, Bertie picked up Whiffer and plonked him in the basket. Then he set off at top speed, pushing the trolley in front of him.

  “You! Wait! Come back!” cried the guard, chasing after him.

  Bertie didn’t stop to explain. He raced down the fruit aisle, scattering startled shoppers in his path. “Sorry! Sorry! Can’t stop!” he panted.

  A woman stepped out in front of him and froze with a pineapple in her hands.

  At the last moment, Bertie swerved round her and skidded past the cheese counter. Glancing back, he caught sight of the guard puffing after him. He sped down the next aisle, narrowly missing a tower of toilet rolls. Whiffer was standing up in the trolley barking excitedly.

  Bertie looked up just in time to see a trolley parked across the aisle, blocking his way. The owner was reaching up to a shelf for a box of eggs. Her mouth fell open when she saw Bertie hurtling towards her. It was Mum.

  Bertie tried to slam on the brakes, but the trolley didn’t seem to have any.

  CRASH!

  Whiffer went flying through the air and landed in Mum’s arms. Mum’s shopping went flying, too. A dozen eggs hit the floor with a crunch, followed by a pint of milk and a shower of cornflakes.

  “Bertie!” cried Mum. “What on earth…”

  Bertie was about to explain, when the security guard caught up with them. He stood panting for breath as the lady in the fur coat appeared, along with a small crowd keen to see what all the fuss was about. Mum sat in a pool of milk, staring at Bertie.

  “Is this your son?” demanded the guard.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Mum, turning a little pink. “We’ll pay for any damage.”

  “Never mind that,” said the guard. “There’s a law against it.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself!” interrupted the lady.

  “Me?” said Mum.

  “Sending a boy of his age out on the streets to beg,” said the lady. “I’ve a good mind to report you!”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Mum.

  “Begging!” said the lady.

  “Begging?” said Mum. She looked at Bertie. “Oh, I see! I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. He’s only dressed like that for school. He wasn’t actually begging, were you, Bertie?”

  There was an awkward silence as everyone looked at Bertie.

  He pulled off his hat, hoping he might look more sorry without it.


  A shower of coins tumbled out and hit the floor, running in all directions.

  “Um,” said Bertie. “I can explain…”

  CHAPTER 1

  Mum put down the phone. “Isn’t that nice,” she said. “Simon and Jenny have invited us all to go and stay next weekend.”

  Dad groaned. Suzy pulled a face. Bertie paused with a spoonful of soggy cereal halfway to his mouth.

  “Who are Simon and Jenny?” he asked.

  “You remember, they came to visit us at Easter – with baby Molly.”

  The cereal dropped off Bertie’s spoon and splatted on the table.

  “Not them?” he said.

  “Yes, them – and please don’t wipe that up with your sleeve.”

  “But I don’t have to go, do I?”

  “Well of course you do, Bertie. We’re all invited. And Simon and Jenny are our friends.”

  “They’re not my friends,” said Bertie.

  “Well Jenny is my friend, I’ve known her since we were at school,” said Mum. “Anyway, when people invite you to stay it’s rude not to accept.”

  “It’ll be boring. There’ll be nothing for me to do!” grumbled Bertie.

  “Of course there will. You can play with Molly. She likes you – remember?”

  Bertie wasn’t likely to forget. Molly was Simon and Jenny’s little girl – a podgy baby with a mass of golden curls. She had stuck to Bertie like glue all day, crying whenever he went out of the room.

  She had sat on his lap and pulled his hair. She’d poked him in the eye and wanted to kiss him.

  Suzy looked up from her homework.

  “Mum, you know I’m at Nisha’s next weekend? We’re going riding.”

  “I know,” said Mum. “So it’ll just be the three of us.”

  Bertie’s sister grinned and stuck out her tongue at him.

  Bertie was speechless. “That’s not FAIR! Why does she get out of it when I have to go?”

  “Because Suzy is busy. It’s been arranged for weeks.”

  “I’m busy, too!”

  “You’re not, Bertie.”

  “I might be. I might be doing something important.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like…” Bertie looked around for inspiration. “…Like staying here to look after Whiffer. Someone’s got to.”

  “I don’t mind doing it,” offered Dad.

  “I thought of it first!” said Bertie.

  “Gran will take care of Whiffer,” said Mum. “We are spending the weekend with Simon and Jenny. And Bertie, I will expect you to be on your best behaviour.”

  Bertie slumped back in his chair, miserably. A whole weekend of Soppy Simon, Drippy Jenny and baby Molly. He dropped his spoon in his bowl and watched it sink beneath a sea of brown goo.

  CHAPTER 2

  DING DONG! Simon and Jenny threw open the door. “Come in!” they cried. Jenny had Molly in her arms. “Look Molly,” she cooed. “Who’s this come to see you? Who’s this?”

  “Bee bee! Da da da!” cried Molly, reaching out her chubby little arms.

  “That’s right, it’s Bertie! Clever girl!” nodded Jenny, beaming. “Show Bertie what you can do!”

  Jenny set Molly down on the floor. Last time Bertie had seen her she had been crawling around on all fours. Now she tottered down the hall on her dumpy little legs, looking back to check they were watching.

  “Walking? Goodness! Aren’t you clever, Molly?” said Mum, clapping her hands.

  “Isn’t it amazing?” said Jenny, beaming with pride.

  “Amazing!” nodded Simon.

  Mum gave Dad a dig in the ribs.

  “Oh yes, great,” said Dad. “How long has she been – you know – walking?”

  “Three weeks, two days,” replied Simon. “I was in the kitchen the day it happened. Molly was sitting just there by the fridge, playing with her bricks. The next thing I knew she’d pulled herself up and just started walking. Didn’t you, poppet? Yes you did, clever girl!”

  Bertie caught Dad’s eye. Were they going to be listening to this baby stuff all weekend? All this fuss over walking a few steps! Bertie walked miles to school and back every day and no one even seemed to notice!

  Molly had toddled into the lounge and came back clutching a small blue teddy. She held it out to Bertie, practically pushing it up his nose.

  “Bee bee!” she said. “Da da da!”

  “Oh, sweet! She wants you to have teddy!” said Jenny.

  “Bertie have teddy? Bertie look after him?” asked Simon.

  Bertie took the teddy. It had one chewed ear and its face was soggy with dribble.

  “Say thank you, Bertie,” prompted Mum.

  “Oh right. Thanks,” said Bertie, holding the teddy as far away as possible. Molly toddled up to him and hugged him round the waist.

  “Oh look!” said Mum. “She likes you, Bertie.”

  Molly tilted back her head and presented her lips. Her nose was runny.

  “Molly want a kiss? Kiss for Bertie?” said Jenny.

  There was no escape. Bertie bent down and allowed Molly to plant a big slobbery kiss on his mouth. It was worse than being licked by Whiffer. Molly giggled. She wanted to do it again. And again. And again.

  It was going to be a long weekend.

  While the parents drank coffee, Molly dragged Bertie off to the playroom. He spent an hour making towers of building blocks so she could knock them down.

  At five o’clock they gathered round the kitchen table to watch Molly having her supper. Jenny fed her spoonfuls of gloopy mush the colour of snot. Bertie thought it was hardly surprising that Molly spat most of it out.

  “She’s trying so hard,” Jenny was saying. “Simon and I think she’ll be talking any day now, don’t we, sweetie?”

  “Yes we do, sweetie,” cooed Simon.

  “Goodness,” said Mum. “Bertie didn’t start talking until he was almost two. How old is Molly now?”

  “Fourteen months,” said Jenny. “It’s still very young, but she’s so advanced. Say ‘Mum’, Molly. Mum, mum, mum.”

  “Bee bee!” shouted Molly, banging her spoon. There was green mush all over her face and even a splodge in her hair. Bertie could hardly bear to look. And his parents thought he was messy!

  “Molly’s little friend Nadia has just started talking,” Jenny went on. “We see her at Teeny-Time Song Group on Fridays. But she’s three weeks older and not half as clever as Molly, is she, poppet?”

  Bertie yawned loudly. “When’s supper?” he asked.

  His mum glared at him. “Bertie, can’t you find something to do?”

  “What?” said Bertie.

  “Do some colouring or something.”

  “I don’t have anything to colour. Can I watch telly?” “Anyway,” Jenny went on. “Simon and I have this little bet on what her first word will be. Simon thinks it will be ‘Dad’. But I know it’s going to be ‘Mum’, isn’t it, Molly? Mum, mum, mum.”

  “It could be ‘Poo’,” said Bertie, unexpectedly.

  “Pardon?” said Jenny, faintly.

  “Poo,” repeated Bertie. “I was just saying, her first word – it could be ‘Poo’.”

  “Bertie!” said Mum.

  “What? I’m only saying! Babies poo all the time.”

  Jenny covered Molly’s ears with her hands.

  “Bertie,” she said. “Why don’t you go next door and see what’s on television?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Bertie spent the night in Molly’s room. Her cot had been moved next door into her parents’ room to make way for him. Bertie slept on an air bed with a Bunny night light on top of the drawers beside him. Molly’s room was painted baby pink with a border showing the letters of the alphabet. A mobile hung from the ceiling with fluffy smiling sheep. Bertie got out of bed. If you wound up the mobile it played a tinkly version of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ and the fluffy sheep went round and round, bobbing up and down gently. He stood on a chair to wind it up to see if he could make the sheep go
round faster. The door of the room creaked open.

  “BEE BEE!” cried a voice behind him.

  Bertie was so startled he took a step back and grabbed wildly at the mobile. For a second, his foot hovered in the air, then he fell back with the tangled sheep on top of him.

  “BUM!” he said loudly.

  Molly bent over him. She was wearing her pink bunny sleepsuit.

  “BUM!” she said.

  Bertie stared at her in horror.

  “What…?”

  “Bum! Bum, bum, bum, bum…!” sang Molly, stamping her tiny feet. Bertie put a hand over her mouth to stop her.

  “Shhh!” he whispered. “Naughty Molly. You mustn’t say ‘Bum’.”

  He took his hand away.

  “Bum,” repeated Molly, squashing Bertie’s nose with her finger and giggling.

  Bertie went to the door and pushed it shut. If anyone came in, he was in major trouble. He tried to think. Babies simply copied whatever you said, so surely he could teach Molly something else? He knelt in front of her and gave her a serious look.

  “Molly,” he said. “Say ‘Bertie’. ‘Bertie’. Say ‘Bertie’, Molly.”

  “Bum,” said Molly.

  “No! No bums, okay? Look, what’s this, Molly? What’s this?”

  He waved the tangled ball of sheep in front of her. “‘Sheep’, Molly. ‘Sheep’.”

  Molly grabbed the sheep and dropped them on the floor. “Bum!” she giggled.

  Bertie stared at her. This was a nightmare. If Simon and Jenny found out their daughter’s first word was “Bum”, they’d have a fit. They’d probably pass out. Mum would go bananas – and he was bound to get the blame. It would be no use trying to explain it was an accident. Parents never believed you. He’d probably have his pocket money cancelled for a month. Or a year. Maybe for the rest of his life.