‘Mmm,’ said Micky.
If he’d had his crayons and sketch book with him he’d only need one colour to reflect his mood. Black.
He couldn’t cheer up at all, even when the sun came out and they went on the sands and played French cricket and then had fish and chips for tea. Even Granny Boot got a little exasperated with Micky’s gloom and despair.
‘How many more times do I have to tell you, ducks? Wolfie will have settled in nicely now. He’ll be all tucked up with his blanket and his bone, enjoying his own little holiday.’
‘Yes, but what if…’ Micky’s face screwed up with anxiety. ‘I’m so scared he might have managed to escape, you see, you know how good he is at doing that. And then, if he’s lost…’
‘How about phoning the dog shelter then, just to put your mind at rest?’ Granny suggested.
Dad wouldn’t hear of it. He said Micky was to put Wolfie right out of his mind.
Micky was going out of his mind with worry thinking of Wolfie. He couldn’t get to sleep at all when he went to bed. Marigold cuddled down straight away, and Granny Boot soon started dozing over her blockbuster and settled down, snoring softly.
Micky tossed and turned, unable to get comfy, his sheets tangled, his pillow soggy with his secret tears. The weather outside seemed to be matching his mood, raining again. It was very windy too, the trees rustling eerily outside. The old Amber Hotel creaked and groaned, the wind whistling down the chimneys, and something started howling outside, wanting to be let in.
Something started howling…
Micky sat bolt upright in bed. Those howls were wonderfully familiar!
6…
‘Wolfie!’ Micky gasped.
The howls became deafening and insistent. There was no mistake. It really was Wolfie. And if Micky didn’t do something about him he was going to wake the whole hotel.
Micky shot out of bed. The room was dark and he wasn’t quite sure where everything was. He stepped on something warm and furry and gave a little squeak of astonishment, but it was only one of Granny Boot’s bedroom slippers.
She was snoring in earnest now, her lips smacking as if she were having a private midnight snack. Granny seemed unlikely to wake even if Wolfie howled right in her ear – but Marigold was a different matter. She was stirring restlessly already, and when Micky opened the bedroom door she called out.
‘Micky? Where you going?’ she mumbled, still half asleep.
‘Just nipping to the toilet. Go back to sleep,’ Micky whispered, praying that Wolfie wouldn’t howl again and wake her properly.
It was as if Wolfie somehow understood, because he was suddenly silent. Micky hurried off down the corridor towards the stairs, hoping that Marigold would snuggle down again. He held his breath as he went past Mum and Dad’s door, but their room seemed dark and silent. There was a gleam of light under Meryl and Mandy and Mona’s door, and muffled giggling, but at least they didn’t seem bothered about what might be happening outside.
Wolfie was howling again, his voice high-pitched, getting desperate.
‘I’m coming, Wolfie, I’m coming,’ Micky gabbled, hurtling down the stairs.
The front door was locked up for the night and it took Micky ages tugging and pulling at the heavy bolts. He heard Wolfie scrabbling and whimpering outside, as if he was trying to help. Micky couldn’t possibly reach the top bolt and had to run off in search of a chair to stand on – and even then it was such a stretch that Micky overbalanced and toppled forward, landing painfully on his hands and knees. But he was up again in a minute and having another go, though he kept looking over his shoulder anxiously in case the owners of the hotel should hear him and think him a burglar.
The top bolt was so stiff that at first it wouldn’t budge, but when Micky yanked it desperately, scratching all his fingers, it suddenly gave way and slid open. Then Micky tumbled down off the chair, pulled the door open at long last, rushed out on to the gravel pathway – and into the huge hairy embrace of his frantic best friend.
‘Oh Wolfie Wolfie Wolfie,’ Micky whispered, overcome.
Wolfie panted ecstatically, licking Micky all over. His lick was extra sticky and when Micky peered at him in the porch light he saw they were both now smeared with something dark.
‘Chocolate,’ said Micky, wiping at the matted hairs around Wolfie’s mouth. ‘Oh you ever so clever boy. You found all the chocolates I threw out of the car for you. I so hoped you’d be able to follow me that way. And yet I was so scared you’d get lost. How did you ever escape in the first place?’
Wolfie threw his head in the air and snuffled contemptuously. This was obviously werepuppy language for ‘easy peasy’.
‘But it was such a long long way for you to come too,’ said Micky. ‘I didn’t realize just how long a journey it would be. You must be so tired now – and your poor old paws must be so sore.’
Micky gently lifted Wolfie’s legs, trying to examine the pads of his paws. Wolfie winced a little, wriggling. He gave a haughty little howl to remind Micky that he was no ordinary pup. He was a weird and wondrous werewolf, capable of trekking night and day. But he yawned hugely in mid-howl, obviously exhausted.
‘My poor boy, you’re so sleepy,’ said Micky. ‘Where can we tuck you up, eh?’ He peered round the dark sodden garden.
Wolfie scrabbled indignantly at Micky’s pyjama jacket.
‘No, Wolfie, you can’t come in my bed,’ said Micky. ‘Maybe Granny would cover up for us, but we’re sharing with Marigold, and you know what she’s like.’
Wolfie growled in agreement.
‘Yes, she’d tell Dad and then he’d pack you off back to the dog shelter all over again,’ said Micky.
Wolfie shivered.
‘Don’t worry, though, Wolfie, I’ll find you somewhere safe,’ said Micky. ‘Come on, boy.’
Wolfie sprang to attention, but limped a little.
‘Here, I’ll carry you,’ said Micky, scooping him up in his arms.
Now it was Micky’s turn to stagger, because Wolfie was growing rapidly every day and now weighed almost as much as his master. But Micky was filled with so much love and pride for his faithful pet that he’d have happily hauled him along if he was twice the size. Wolfie laid his large head on Micky’s shoulder, his amber eyes already starting to droop.
‘So where can we bed you down for the night, eh?’ Micky said, stumbling about the gardens with his big burden of snoozing werepuppy.
There were hedges and shrubs, but they were nowhere big enough to hide Wolfie. There were big wooden barrels Wolfie might just have fitted inside but they were all planted with flowers. Micky made his way to the children’s play area right at the bottom of the garden. He sat down heavily on the wet swing, balancing Wolfie carefully over his knees. Then he saw the perfect holiday hidey-home for Wolfie. It was a large pink plastic playhouse, big enough for a girl Marigold’s size to stand up in.
Micky slung his slumbering great pup over his shoulder and staggered off the swing over to the playhouse. He got the door open and with great difficulty stuffed Wolfie inside. Wolfie woke up while this was going on and grumbled.
‘Hey, don’t you growl at me, boy,’ said Micky, sticking his head through the door. ‘There now. Comfy?’
Wolfie certainly seemed comfortable enough. There was some doll’s furniture and a tea-set and a teddy or two, but Wolfie swept them aside with one flick of his tail, clearing his own space.
‘That’s right, boy. Now, you settle down,’ said Micky.
He gave Wolfie a good-night hug and kiss, reaching right into the house so that his bottom stuck up in the air. Then he tried to wriggle away, but Wolfie started to howl as he withdrew.
‘Sh! Don’t start howling again. You’ve got to stay hidden, Wolfie.’
Wolfie whimpered, obviously not ready to be parted from Micky all over again.
‘I know, Wolfie, I know,’ said Micky, giving him another big hug. He wondered about squeezing right into the playhouse and spending the whole
night with Wolfie – but it was much too risky. Marigold might well still be awake. If he didn’t get back soon she might send out the alarm. Micky could sense her tick-tocking away, getting ready to shriek.
‘I’ll have to go back to bed, Wolfie. You snuggle up and go to sleep, boy.’ Micky tried to sound firm. Wolfie was not impressed. He started a high-pitched keening sound, trying to hang on to Micky with his sore paws.
‘Let me go, Wolfie,’ said Micky.
Wolfie hung on grimly, taking a large portion of Micky’s pyjama jacket in his teeth as a precaution.
‘Hey, you have the rest of myjacket too. It can be instead of your blanket. OK?’
Wolfie wasn’t particularly impressed by this idea. He wanted the whole of Micky, or at the very least the whole of his pyjamas. When Micky had struggled out of his jacket Wolfie snapped softly at his pyjama bottoms, trying to pull them off too.
‘Give over, Wolfie!’ said Micky, giggling. ‘Come on now, settle down.’
Wolfie sighed sulkily, but snuffled into Micky’s pyjama jacket, using it like a cuddle blanket.
‘That’s right. Good boy. Night night now. And I’ll whiz back to see you first thing tomorrow.’
Micky backed out of the playhouse and crept back across the garden, tiptoeing painfully along the gravel path. Wolfie whimpered once or twice. When the moon came out from behind the clouds he gave one last howl – but then he was quiet.
Micky’s heart started thumping painfully when he got to the front door because it looked as if it might have blown shut – but it was simply resting on the latch. Micky got inside and managed to get it bolted back into place. He realized he was now sopping wet, and his bare feet were very muddy. He didn’t want to leave a track of dirty footprints, so with immense presence of mind he pulled his pyjama trousers down over his feet and knotted the ends. He had to hobble back up the stairs, clutching at the waistband to keep himself decently covered.
Marigold had gone back to sleep, but she woke again as Micky blundered round her bed.
‘Where have you been?’
‘The toilet. Told you,’ Micky whispered.
‘But that was ages ago, wasn’t it?’
‘No. Go back to sleep,’ said Micky.
‘Why are you walking all funny?’ said Marigold.
‘I’m not,’ said Micky, jumping into bed. ‘Now go to sleep.’
Luckily Marigold did just that. And Micky cuddled up too, cold without his pyjama jacket, uncomfortably wet and muddy around his legs, but blissfully happy that Wolfie was only just outside in his newly appropriated pastel pink kennel.
7…
Micky crept out very early the next morning, wisely discarding his pyjama trousers and pulling on shorts and plimsolls. The hotel landlady was up before him and had unbolted the front door.
‘You’re an early bird,’ she said to Micky. ‘I haven’t started the breakfasts yet.’
‘Oh, it’s OK. I’m just going to have a little walk, that’s all,’ said Micky.
‘There’s a swing at the end of the garden,’ said the hotel landlady. ‘And there’s a playhouse too – though you’re probably a bit big for that.’
‘Probably,’ said Micky, running outside.
There was no room for any child in the playhouse now, big or little. A tip of grey tail stuck out of one window, and a paw poked out of the door. There was a gentle snoring sound from within.
Micky hoped there weren’t any small children staying at the Amber Hotel. They might well get quite a shock if they tried to toddle through the little door into the pink playhouse. Still, at least Wolfie was quiet now. It looked as if he’d be safely asleep for a long time yet.
Marigold and Granny Boot were getting dressed when Micky got back to the bedroom.
‘Where were you this time?’ Marigold asked.
‘Toilet,’ said Micky.
‘Again?’ said Marigold. ‘You kept on going to the toilet in the night, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, well, I’ve got this tummy upset, see,’ said Micky.
‘Have you, dear?’ said Granny, concerned. ‘You should have woken me up. Dear oh dear, it was obviously all those chocolate toffees. And getting all worked up and in a state about Wolfie. Tell you what, Micky. We’ll slope off after breakfast, just you and me, and we’ll phone up the dog shelter to put your mind at rest. Your dad need never know.’
‘Oh, it’s OK, Granny, really,’ said Micky hastily. ‘I’m sure Wolfie’s fine now.’
Granny Boot looked at him, astonished. Even Marigold’s mouth gaped open.
‘And I’m fine too,’ said Micky firmly. ‘I’m going to enjoy my holiday now, you’ll see.’
Everyone remarked on the new changed cheery Micky at breakfast.
‘Gran says you had a bit of a tummy upset in the night,’ said Mum. ‘You’re better now, Micky? You’re certainly tucking into your breakfast with a good appetite. Fancy you eating all those sausages!’
‘I like sausages,’ said Micky. He looked at Meryl’s plate. ‘They’re very very fattening though.’
Meryl looked alarmed and put her knife and fork down at once.
‘I’ll eat yours for you,’ said Micky, scraping them off her plate. He scraped them off his own plate too, when no one was looking. His shorts pockets were full to bursting now with a very good breakfast for Wolfie.
‘It looks as if it’s actually going to be a sunny day,’ said Dad chirpily. ‘Who fancies a game of French cricket on the sands?’
‘I’ll sit in a deck-chair and watch,’ said Mum. ‘Yes, that storm last night certainly cleared the air. Did it wake any of you up? The wind was really howling.’
Micky had a sudden coughing fit. Granny Boot banged him hard on the back.
‘Did a sausage go down the wrong way? You really shouldn’t bolt your food like that, lovey, especially if your tummy’s a bit upset.’
‘No, I’m fine, Gran, really,’ said Micky, spluttering.
‘So you’ll come and play French cricket, son?’ said Dad.
‘Er… well, maybe I’d better hang around the hotel a bit this morning, just in case my tummy starts up again,’ said Micky quickly. He was pretty useless at most sports and Dad tended to shout at him if he missed the ball.
‘I’ll play cricket with you, Dad,’ said Mandy.
‘I will too – and I’m going in swimming,’ said Mona.
‘Yes, do you think it’s warm enough to wear a bikini?’ said Meryl, who had no serious swimming plans but wanted to show herself off to any passing language students.
‘What about you, Marigold?’ said Dad fondly, as his youngest child galloped her Little Ponies round her cornflakes plate and up and over her mug of milk.
‘I want to play in the garden here. The lady says they’ve got a special playhouse,’ she said.
‘Oh, that’s just for babies,’ said Micky hurriedly. ‘You don’t want to hang around there, Marigold. Why don’t you take all your ponies down on the beach, and if I’m feeling better later on then I’ll come and build you a riding stable out of sand, and we can make them a special gymkhana field with lolly sticks for jumps.’
Marigold looked at Micky suspiciously. She couldn’t understand why he was suddenly being so helpful at providing holiday stabling for her Little Ponies, but he was very clever at making things, so she decided to take him up on this – and mercifully forgot all about the playhouse.
Granny Boot volunteered to look after Micky while the rest of the family went to the beach. While Granny was fetching her cardi Micky raced to check up on Wolfie. He was still fast asleep, although he snuffled appreciatively when Micky poked a hand through the window to give him a pat.
‘That’s it, boy. You have a nice long rest,’ Micky whispered.
‘Hey, is that why you put Marigold oft? Do you want to play in the dinky little house yourself?’ Granny said, trotting down the path and smiling at him.
‘Oh! No, catch me playing in a baby house like that,’ Micky said quickly, backing away.
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Bits of Wolfie were still sticking out of the windows and door but Granny was short-sighted, so he hoped she wouldn’t spot anything amiss.
‘I checked up with the hotel landlady – there’s a car boot sale today, up on top of the cliffs. Fancy going to it in an hour or so, if your turn’s quietened down?’ said Granny.
‘It’s quiet now, honestly,’ said Micky. ‘I’d love to go.’
When Granny Boot’s back was turned he dug in his pockets for squashed sausages and hastily dropped them down the chimney. If Wolfie woke he’d be surrounded by his favourite breakfast, so he should be happy enough.
Micky and Granny set off to the boot sale. It was a very big crowded affair, and Granny started darting around the| stalls, seizing on all sorts of bargains for her shop back at home. Micky ambled along after her. He wasn’t very interested in old clothes but he liked rootling amongst the toys and ornaments. He’d started to collect a series of small china animals called Whimsies. They were mostly only about fifty pence, and Granny Boot often helped him out if he didn’t have enough pocket money. He had a little Whimsie dog, but Granny had told him she was sure there was a special Whimsie wolf. Micky squinted hopefully at each fresh stall, looking for a tiny china Wolfie. He had to dodge and dive a bit, because he was little and skinny and lots of people pushed past him. Micky timidly tried some push and shove tactics of his own.
‘Here, what are you playing at, mate?’
‘Who are you shoving, you snotty-nosed little twit?’
Micky had accidentally bumped into two tall heavy metal fans flicking their way through a box of bootleg CDs. One had Guns’n’Roses on his T-shirt, the other Iron Maiden. They didn’t look remotely rosy or maidenly.
‘Sorry,’ said Micky hastily.
Unfortunately Granny Boot chose to shout and wave to him at that exact moment.
‘Cooeee!’ Granny trilled. ‘Over here, pet! Whimsies!’
Guns’n’Roses and Iron Maiden cracked up.
‘Whimsies! Is that the little berk’s name?’