The Third-Class Genie. Robert Leeson
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Название: The Third-Class Genie
Автор: Robert Leeson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Детская проза
isbn: 9780007400973
isbn:
“Ma’asalaama,” murmured Abu.
Alec undressed, wandered out to the bathroom to brush his teeth, but at the top of the stairs he stopped. He could hear his mother and father talking in the kitchen where they were having a cup of cocoa.
“I don’t know, Connie love. It doesn’t matter how you switch around those bedrooms, we haven’t really got room.”
“Well, I’m fed up with it, Harold. For one reason or another we’ve never had enough room.”
“We could get a four-bedroomed house if we moved out to Moorside.”
“The only way you’ll get me to Moorside is to carry me in a coffin. Miles from anywhere, freezing cold in winter…”
“All right, all right, Connie. Anyway, let’s get to bed. Is our Kim in yet?”
“Not her, still, she’s got the back door key.”
Alec heard them move their chairs down in the kitchen and shot quickly back into his own bedroom. He switched off the light and looked out of the window. The railway arch loomed up against the skyline; the Tank, hidden in the dark shadows of the arch, could not be seen. But Alec knew it was there. He had his hideout, and his new friend Abu. Ginger Wallace, Mr Cartwright and all infidels would bite the dust from now on. Flash Bowden, Scourge of the Cosmos, Defender of the Faith, Keeper of the Kan, was on the warpath.
He tucked the can carefully under his pillow and went to sleep.
ALEC DREAMT THAT he sat at a huge table in the stateroom of his elegant 20,000-ton yacht, as it floated at anchor in the Bugletown Canal. Through the porthole he could see the mate, Monty Cartwright, urging on his trusty crew. The state-room door opened and Ginger Wallace, in steward’s uniform, entered bowing and scraping.
“Alec,” he said.
“Admiral Bowden to you,” replied Alec and dismissed Ginger with a wave of his hand.
But Ginger would not go. He shouted, “Alec!”
Alec waved his hand irritably, but Ginger only went on shouting, louder and louder. Then Alec was awake and his mother was banging on the bedroom door.
“Alec, it’s half past eight!”
“HALF PAST EIGHT?”
At times like this, Alec wished he were an octopus. He’d put on his shoes with one hand (or tentacle), his trousers on with another, wash his face with a third, eat his breakfast with a fourth, pack his school bag with the fifth, tie his tie with the sixth, while the other two were busy walking down to Station Road. Mr Jameson, the biology teacher, once said that an octopus brain was just as good as a human brain. If they’d come to live on land there’d be no doubt about who would be boss.
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