Crackers! Page 2

  Bertie considered it for a second. He loved getting presents and with a whole sackful to choose from, there was bound to be something good.

  “OK,” he said. “I’ll do it. Can I have the present now?”

  Dad shook his head. “Oh no. First you help at the fair, then you get the present.”

  Bertie waited till he heard his dad tip-tapping on the computer, then crept upstairs. Now where would Dad have hidden a whopping big sack of presents? Bertie sneaked into his parents’ room and began to rummage through drawers. Ahaa! His eyes fell on something hidden under the bed. Father Christmas’s present sack. He dragged it out. The sack was bulging with presents, each wrapped in gold paper. Bertie gazed at them longingly. Surely no one would know if he just took a little peep at one?

  RIPPP! Whoops! A bit of wrapping paper came off in his hand. Bertie peered through the hole he’d made. Inside was a Fairy Trixabelle Magic Wand. Yuck! He’d rather have a bucket of slugs. He tossed the present aside.

  RIP! A jigsaw.

  RIP! A set of felt pens.

  RIP! Wait a moment… Bertie glimpsed something smooth and shiny silver. It couldn’t be… It was! An Alien Egg from the Planet Slimos! Bertie had been begging his parents to buy him an Alien Egg for weeks. Darren had got one for his birthday. When you dunked the egg in water, out flopped a squidgy little alien in a sea of green gloop.

  Bertie thought quickly. Maybe he could just take the egg now and hide it in his bedroom? No, too risky. Mum was always sneaking into his room to tidy up. There was nothing else for it, he’d have to wait till tomorrow and claim the egg as his reward. But what if some greedy child got there first and stole his present?

  Suddenly Bertie had a brainwave. Taking a felt pen, he made a big red blob on the wrapping paper. Now he’d be able to tell it apart from all the other presents. He stuck down the torn wrapping paper with Sellotape and slipped the present back into the sack. That Alien Egg was as good as his.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Why do I have to wear this stupid dress?” moaned Bertie.

  “It’s not a dress, it’s an elf costume,” said Dad.

  “Can’t I be a goblin?”

  “No! Father Christmas doesn’t have goblins.”

  Dad was struggling into his costume. The Christmas Fair had just opened and people were already streaming into the hall. Bertie pulled back a curtain and gazed longingly at the stalls.

  “Couldn’t I just have a quick look round?” he begged.

  “Bertie, we’ve been over this! Just try and be helpful.”

  “I am being helpful!”

  Bertie perched on his stool, miserably. His tights were too tight and the pointed hat made him look like Noddy. He hoped Darren and Eugene didn’t see him dressed like this. They’d be giggling about it for weeks.

  Santa’s Grotto had been set up on the stage behind a curtain. The entrance was two screens draped with tinsel and fairy lights. Father Christmas sat waiting with the sack of presents by his side. It was Bertie who’d suggested putting a small pile of presents on the floor. He’d made sure the Alien Egg was on top where he could keep an eye on it.

  A queue of small, excited children waited outside. Bertie poked his head out.

  “Are you an elf?” asked a little boy.

  “No, I’m a goblin,” scowled Bertie.

  “Where’s Father Christmas?”

  “He’s in there,” said Bertie. “It’s fifty pence.”

  The boy handed over his money. Bertie dropped it into a tin and pulled back the curtain.

  “You can pick any present from the sack,” he explained. “But don’t touch the ones on the floor.”

  “Why not?” asked the boy.

  “Because they belong to the goblins.”

  “Oh.”

  “And if you take one the goblins will find out. And they’ll come looking for you – in the night.”

  “Eeek!” The boy gave a frightened cry and dashed into the grotto. “HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!” boomed Father Christmas.

  This is easy, thought Bertie. No one was going to get their hands on his Alien Egg.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rumble, rumble went the tombola stall. Bertie peeped out through the curtains. He watched Know-All Nick come away from the Lucky Dip, clutching a prize. Eugene and Darren were queuing at the Treasure Hunt stall. Everyone was having a great time except him. It wasn’t fair. He was stuck in Santa’s grotty grotto all afternoon and the queue of children showed no sign of coming to an end.

  “Hello, Bertie!” piped a high voice.

  It was Angela Nicely with her friend Laura. Angela lived next door and had been in love with Bertie ever since her first day at school. Bertie did his best to avoid her.

  “You do look funny, Bertie!” she giggled. “Are you Robbing Hood?”

  “I’m a goblin,” scowled Bertie.

  “Can I have a go of your hat?”

  “No,” said Bertie. “Only goblins can wear them.”

  “I won a prize,” boasted Angela, licking a lollipop. “I won it on the Lucky Dip. Have you won a prize?”

  “No,” said Bertie. “I haven’t been on the Lucky Dip. I haven’t been on anything.”

  “Oh, poor Bertie,” cooed Angela, patting his hand fondly.

  Bertie pulled his hand away quickly. He’d had an idea.

  “Anyway, who wants to go round boring old stalls?” he said. “Being a goblin’s much more fun.”

  “Is it?” asked Angela.

  “Of course,” said Bertie. “Especially if you’re the Head Goblin and you get to guard all this money.”

  “Gosh!” said Angela, staring at the large pile of coins in the tin.

  “And I’m in charge of the presents.”

  Angela’s eyes widened. “The presents?”

  “Yes. No one’s allowed to touch them, except me and Father Christmas.”

  Angela and Laura were looking at him with new respect.

  “Can I be a goblin, too?” begged Angela.

  “And me?” said Laura.

  “No,” said Bertie. “You’re not old enough.”

  “Please, Bertie.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Pleeeeease!”

  “Oh all right,” said Bertie. “You sit here.”

  Angela climbed on to the stool and Bertie put his pixie hat on her head.

  “Now you’re the Head Goblin,” he said.

  “Am I?” beamed Angela, proudly.

  “Yes, and you’ve got to take everyone’s money.”

  “What do I do?” demanded Laura.

  “You can, er … make sure people go in one at a time.”

  “But what are you going to do, Bertie?”

  “I’m, um, just going to pop out for a bit and check round the fair,” said Bertie. “You sit there and take the money till I get back. Oh, and make sure you tell people they can only have presents from the sack, not the ones on the floor.”

  “Why not?” asked Angela.

  “’Cos they belong to the goblins.”

  “I’m a goblin,” beamed Angela. “I’m the Head Goblin.”

  “Yes,” said Bertie, “but you mustn’t touch those presents.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m in charge and I say so,” said Bertie.

  He slipped out before Angela could ask any more questions.

  CHAPTER 4

  At last he was free! Adoring Angela could take care of Santa’s Grotto while he had a chance to enjoy the fair. After all, he’d slaved for hours taking people’s money, he deserved a little time off.

  Bertie had a brilliant time going round all the stalls. He bought a bag of fudge, won a Glo Glo Yo-Yo at the Lucky Dip and guessed the weight of the Giant Christmas Pudding (a ton). In fact he enjoyed himself so much that by the time he returned, Santa’s Grotto was starting to pack up.

  Father Christmas didn’t look pleased.

  “Bertie! Where have you been?” he snapped.

  “Oh, um, I just popped out for a
bit,” Bertie said through a mouthful of fudge.

  “I told you to stay on the door, not walk off and abandon me.”

  “I didn’t walk off,” said Bertie. “I left someone in charge.”

  “Yes, Angela Nicely and her friend. They let everyone in for free.”

  “Did they?” Bertie was looking around the grotto. The sack was empty and the floor was bare.

  “Um, where are all the presents?” he asked, anxiously.

  “Mmm? They’ve all gone. I saved you one, though I can’t say you deserve it.”

  Bertie grabbed the present from his dad. He turned it over looking for a red blob. There wasn’t one.

  “Where is it?” he gasped.

  “Where’s what?”

  “The present that was right there – on top of the pile!”

  “Oh, I gave it to one of the girls,” said Dad. “They were very insistent. They didn’t want presents from my sack – only the ‘special goblin ones’ on the floor.”

  “NO!” cried Bertie.

  “What’s the matter? Where are you off to now?”

  Bertie rushed out. He had to find Angela before it was too late. There was no sign of her in the hall. Or in the corridor. Outside, he spotted her in the playground with her mum. A present was tucked under her arm.

  “Hello, Bertie!” she trilled, as he dashed towards her.

  “I need that back … there’s been a mistake,” panted Bertie. “I’ll swap it for this one.”

  “No thanks,” smiled Angela.

  “This one’s much better.”

  “I like this one. Father Christmas gave it to me.”

  Bertie felt in his pocket. “I’ll give you fifty pence for it,” he offered.

  Angela shook her head.

  “Fifty pence and a bag of fudge. There’s two bits left.”

  “No thanks.” Angela eyed his Lucky Dip prize. “But I haven’t got a yo-yo…”

  Angela walked off happily down the road, clutching her winnings. Bertie breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a close run thing, but he finally had it. An Alien Egg of his very own. He couldn’t wait to get it home and dunk it in water.

  He checked the wrapping paper. No red blob. He turned the present over. The paper had been neatly opened at one end, but still no red blob. Surely it wasn’t … it couldn’t be… Bertie tore off the wrapping. Inside was a Fairy Trixabelle Magic Wand.

  “ANGELA!” yelled Bertie.

  Angela turned and waved to him as she tripped off down the road chatting to Laura. Bertie caught sight of something in Laura’s hands – something smooth and round and silver. Even from that distance, he knew exactly what it was…

  CHAPTER 1

  “Oh no!” said Mum, putting down the phone. “Great-Aunt Morag’s coming for Christmas!”

  “You’re joking!” said Dad.

  “I wish I was,” sighed Mum. “She’s arriving on Christmas Eve.”

  Dad groaned. Suzy rolled her eyes. Bertie’s mouth fell open and a piece of toast plopped on to the table. He licked it up quickly before anyone noticed.

  “What about Aunt June?” said Dad. “Great-Aunt Morag always stays with her.”

  “Aunt June’s got a bad back,” said Mum.

  “Uncle Ed then?”

  Mum shook her head. “He’s taken Gran on a cruise.”

  “There must be someone who can have her!”

  “There isn’t! They’re either away or sick.”

  “Can’t you say that we’re sick?” suggested Bertie.

  “We’re not, are we, Bertie?”

  “We will be if she comes,” said Bertie. “We’ll be sick of the sight of her.”

  Bertie stared glumly at his plate. It wasn’t fair. He’d been looking forward to Christmas for weeks and now it was going to be ruined. They might as well cancel it.

  Great-Aunt Morag was about a hundred years old and gloomier than a wet Monday morning. Last time she came to stay she’d grumbled and griped about everything. She was mean, too. Dad said that she had a padlock on her purse. Other uncles and aunts slipped ten pound notes into your Christmas card, but not Mean Aunt Morag.

  “Well, she’s not sleeping in my room,” said Suzy.

  “She’ll have to,” replied Mum. “Bertie’s room is such a mess.”

  “But where am I going to sleep?”

  “On the camp bed in Bertie’s room.”

  “NO!” cried Suzy. “His room smells!”

  “You’re the one who smells,” said Bertie.

  “You are!”

  “You are!”

  “Enough!” cried Mum. “Great-Aunt Morag is coming and we’ll have to make the best of it. So you better start thinking what you can buy her for Christmas.”

  “Why?” said Bertie. “She never gets me anything.”

  “Nonsense, she sent you a present last year.”

  “Huh!” scoffed Bertie. “Call that a present!”

  Mean Aunt Morag had sent him a Birds of Britain bookmark. It had the twenty pence price label stuck to the back.

  “Anyway,” said Mum, “it doesn’t have to be expensive. It’s the thought that counts.”

  Bertie sighed deeply. Christmas was only a few days away and he still hadn’t bought presents for any of his family. Now he had Mean Aunt Morag to think about, too. And there was another problem – the last time he looked he only had fifty pence in his piggy bank.

  Next day, Bertie trailed around the shops after his mum, looking for presents. But unless you liked paper clips, there wasn’t much you could buy for fifty pence. He was about to give up when he spotted something in the newsagent’s window. It was a box of shiny red crackers. Bertie loved crackers. He loved the presents, the jokes, the party hats, and the loud bang they made when you pulled them. The only problem was the box of crackers cost a lot more than fifty pence.

  Bertie pressed his nose to the window. Suddenly a brilliant brainwave came to him. Why pay for crackers when he could easily make his own? After all, his mum said it was the thought that counts – and Bertie had thought of this all by himself.

  CHAPTER 2

  Back in his bedroom Bertie fished out his book of 101 Crafty Things to Make. He found “Crackers” on page 48. It looked dead easy. All you needed was glue, ribbon, coloured paper and a bunch of toilet roll tubes.

  Bertie set to work. He spilled quite a lot of glue and one of the crackers stuck to the carpet, but otherwise he was pretty pleased with the results. Soon he had five fat, sticky, orange crackers. Now for the things to go inside. The party hats didn’t take long – Bertie was super speedy at cutting out. And he knew millions of brilliant cracker jokes. He wrote them on scraps of paper…

  Into the crackers they went. All he needed now was a few presents. Wait a moment – what about all the stuff he kept in his Top Secret box? Bertie dragged it out from under the bed. Perfect! There were tons of things in here that he’d love to get in a cracker. His family were so lucky. Even Mean Aunt Morag might crack a smile.

  DING DONG! Great-Aunt Morag was at the door.

  “Hello! How lovely to see you,” said Mum, cheerily. “How was your journey?”

  “Long,” scowled Great-Aunt Morag. “And tiring. I’ve got a dreadful headache.”

  “Well, you’re here now,” said Mum. “The children have been so looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Yes,” said Bertie. “When are you going?”

  “Bertie,” said Mum quickly, “why don’t you take Great-Aunt Morag’s bag up to her room? I hope you’re hungry, I’ve saved you some supper.”

  “Humph. What is it?”

  “Pasta.”

  “I don’t like pasta. It gives me wind,” said Great-Aunt Morag. “I’d like some vegetable soup – and not too hot.”

  They all sat round the table while Great-Aunt Morag slurped her way through her soup. Afterwards, she sat in the lounge and grumbled about the weather, the trains and the expense of Christmas.

  “Well,” she said at last. “Time for bed.”


  “What?” said Bertie.

  Mum glanced at the clock. “It is nine o’clock.”

  “But we’re allowed to stay up on Christmas Eve!” begged Bertie.

  Great-Aunt Morag clicked her tongue. “Children these days stay up far too late.”

  “But can’t we play a game?” asked Bertie.

  “Certainly not. Games are noisy.”

  “Or watch a film.”

  “I don’t like films.”

  “But … it’s Christmas Eve,” wailed Bertie. “I want to wait up for Father Christmas!”

  Great-Aunt Morag looked down her nose. “Father Christmas doesn’t come to naughty children,” she said. “Good children go to bed when they are told.”

  Bertie plodded upstairs to bed. This was going to be the worst Christmas ever.

  CHAPTER 3

  Bertie shot out of bed. It was Christmas Day! He almost tripped over Suzy in his haste to get to the door.

  Downstairs he peeped into the lounge. Yesssss! His stocking was bulging with presents. But where was everybody?

  “Wake up!” cried Bertie, rushing into his parents’ room and jumping on to the bed.

  Mum rubbed her eyes.

  “Urrrrgh! What time is it?”

  “Present time!” shouted Bertie. “Can I open my presents?”

  Mum squinted at her alarm clock.

  “Bertie! It’s five o’clock in the morning!”

  “Is it? Can I open my presents?”

  “No, go back to bed! And I don’t want to hear another peep from you until after seven.”

  Bertie stomped back to his room. He stared at his alarm clock. TICK, TICK, TICK. Why did they make clocks that went so slow? The minutes crept by at a snail’s pace.