KING OF THE PUMPKINS

LOOK WHAT THE CATS DUG UP

By Chris Rose

I live in a town where lots of people live, a town which is a suburb of a city where millions of people live. It’s very crowded. Where I live there is one apartment block after another. I look out of my window and if I look to the left I can see another apartment block. If I look to the right I can see the railway and the local train station, and after that there are more apartment blocks. If I look straight ahead of me I can see another apartment block. But if I look straight down, I can see something different.

If I look straight down I can see a garden. It’s not a big garden – it’s about fifteen metres long and fifteen metres wide. It’s almost square-shaped. The space is as big as a small apartment block. The garden is there like a hole in the middle of lots of other apartment blocks. It is a space left by an apartment block which was bombed in the Second World War and – unlike all the other blocks around it – never rebuilt.

An old woman lives in this garden. Well, to be accurate, she doesn’t exactly live in the garden. She has a very small two-storey house in the corner of the garden. There only seem to be two rooms in her house, one room downstairs and one room upstairs, but I don’t really know because I’ve never been in it. But that’s what it looks like from the outside.
The woman who lives is the garden looks very old, but nobody is really sure how old she is.

In her garden, she mostly grows oranges and lemons, and in the winter when the oranges are in season, the dark green trees in the garden are covered in hundreds and hundreds of tiny orange dots. It’s really beautiful. You can lean over the balcony and call the old woman, and if you lower down a basket on a piece of rope, she’ll fill up the basket for you with oranges. The oranges have quite a bitter taste, to tell the truth, they’re not sweet at all, and they’re full of pips, but I always think that the old woman is very kind to give away all her oranges anyhow.

The old woman isn’t the only one who lives in the garden, though. About ten stray cats live there too. I say “about ten”, because there always seem to be different cats there. Sometimes you can look down and there are only three or four cats lying out in the sun or in the shade of one of the orange trees. Other times, though, especially if you throw a leftover bit of fish over the balcony for the cats to have, lots of them come running, sometimes as many as twelve, sometimes too many to count.

A lot of people want to come and live where I live now. The nearby city with millions of people who live in it is too crowded, and the prices of flats in the city are very high. A lot of people want to move out of the city to the small town where I live, because it’s a bit cheaper and a bit quieter.

Some people who live in my apartment block are saying that the old woman has been looking very unhappy recently. My neighbours are worried because they say that the old woman is very old and that she isn’t well and that if she dies, someone will come and build another apartment block on the space where her small, green garden is. The people who live in our apartment block – me included – love the small garden. It’s beautiful to wake up in the morning and go out onto the balcony and look at the orange and lemon trees, and the small vine where she grows grapes to make wine in the autumn, and the stray cats asleep in the sun.

One day we saw a group of men in the garden. They were all wearing suits and carrying maps and charts. They looked like engineers and builders. Everyone in my apartment block was worried. “The old woman’s going to sell her garden”, they said. “Those men are engineers and builders and they’re going to build another apartment block where the garden is.” Some of us went to speak to the old woman.

“No” said the old woman, “I’m not going to sell my garden. I love my garden. Yes, those men were engineers and builders, but they don’t want to build another apartment block here.”
“Well what do they want to do then?” we asked.
“They want to build a road across the garden.”
“A road!?”
“Yes – because it’s near the train station. Because a lot of people are coming to live here now, they think they need to build a new road from the station to the motorway to make it easier for more people to travel into the city.”

We all went home and were very worried. But what could we do? Some of us wrote letters to the local council and the local newspapers. But the council said that it was necessary to have a new road so more people would come to our small town and bring more business with them. They said that there was too much traffic on the one small road that existed at the moment. The local newspaper agreed with the local council. The building work on the road was to start almost immediately. It seemed like there was nothing that we could do. Now, instead of living next to a beautiful, quiet green garden we would be living next to a big, noisy road.

The night before the builders and bulldozers and diggers were supposed to come it was very hot, and I stayed awake late into the night, sitting out on my balcony looking out over the garden for the last time. Even though it was dark, I could see something strange happening in the garden. I was sure I could see all the stray cats who lived there, as many as twelve or thirteen of them, and they were all digging a big hole. Sometimes cats dig holes, that’s normal, but I’d never seen anything like this. All the cats seemed to be working together, digging an enormous hole on one side of the garden. Because it was very late and very dark, I couldn’t see properly though, and thought that perhaps I was just imagining things. I went to bed thinking that perhaps I was already dreaming.

The next morning I woke up feeling unhappy because I could hear the noise of the builders and the bulldozers already. Big, loud noises of heavy machinery. “This is it”, I thought, “this is the end of the lovely garden.” But I was surprised when the noises stopped and everything went quiet.

I got out of bed, pulled on my clothes and went out onto my balcony to have a look what was happening. Why had the builders and bulldozers stopped?

When I got out onto the balcony I could see a big group of builders, one big bulldozer and an important-looking man in a suit who must have been the boss. They were all scratching their heads and looking very puzzled. The old woman was standing with them. She was looking very pleased. The stray cats were all lying asleep under the trees around the edges of the enormous hole that they had, indeed, dug.
Everyone was looking into the hole.

At the bottom of the hole was an enormous mosaic. “It’s Roman” I heard somebody say. “It’s must be ancient” said one of the other builders. The boss was looking very upset. “We can’t possibly build here” said another one of the builders. “He’s right” said another one, “This must be a historical site.” The boss walked away and threw his hat on the ground.

They never built the road. Now on sunny mornings I sit out on my balcony I sit out and look at the beautiful green garden with its Roman mosaic. The mosaic shows a picture of a huge banquet, with lots of people sitting at big tables eating, and lots of cats eating fish and sleeping under the shady tables.

THE END

THE GOLDEN BOYS

By Chris Rose

Every August. Every August for twelve years. Every August for twelve years we went to the same small town on holiday. Every August for twelve years we went to the same beach. Every August for twelve years my parents rented the same small house in the same small town near the same beach, so every morning of every August for twelve years I woke up and walked down to the same beach and sat under the same umbrella or on the same towel in front of the same sea.

There was a small café on the beach where we sat every day, and every day Mr. Morelli in the café said “Good morning!” to my parents, and then always patted me on the head like a dog. Every day we walked down to our red and white umbrella, every day my father sat on his deckchair and read the newspaper then went to sleep, every day my mother went for a swim in the sea and then went to sleep. Every lunch time we ate the same cheese sandwiches which my mother made, and then every afternoon we went up to the café and ate an ice cream while my parents talked to Mr Morelli about the weather. Every summer for twelve years I sat there and read books and sometimes played volleyball with some of the other boys and girls who were there, but I never made any friends.

It was so boring.

Every August for twelve years the same family sat next to us. They were called the Hamiltons. We had a red and white umbrella, they had a green one. Every morning my parents said “Good morning!” to Mr and Mrs Hamilton, and Mr and Mrs Hamilton said “Good morning!” to my parents. Sometimes they talked about the weather.

Mr and Mrs Hamilton had two sons. Richard was the same age as me, and his brother Philip was two years older than me. Richard and Philip were both taller than me. Richard and Philip were very friendly, and both very handsome. They were much friendlier and more handsome than me. They made friends with everyone, and organised the games of volleyball on the beach or swimming races in the sea with the other children. They always won the games of volleyball and the swimming races. My parents liked Richard and Philip a lot. “Why can’t you be more like Richard and Philip?” they said to me. “Look at them! They make friends with everyone! They are polite, good boys! You just sit here reading books and doing nothing!”

I, of course, hated them.

Richard and Philip, Richard and Philip, Richard and Philip – it was all I ever heard from my parents every August for twelve years. Richard and Philip were perfect. Everything about them was better than anything about me. Even their green beach umbrella was better than our red and white one.

I was sixteen years old the last summer we went there. Perfect Richard and perfect Philip came to the beach one day and said that they were going to have a barbecue at lunch time. They were going to cook for everyone! “Forget your cheese sandwiches”, they laughed, “Come and have some hamburgers or barbecue chicken with us! We’re going to cook!”

My parents, of course, thought this was wonderful. “Look at how good Richard and Philip are! They’re going to do a barbecue and they’ve invited everybody! You couldn’t organise a barbecue!”

Every summer for twelve years, on the other side of my family, sat Mrs Moffat. Mrs Moffat was a very large woman who came to the same beach every summer for twelve years on her own. Nobody knew if she had a husband or a family, but my parents said that she was very rich. Mrs Moffat always came to the beach wearing a large hat, a pair of sunglasses and a gold necklace. She always carried a big bag with her. She never went swimming, but sat under her umbrella reading magazines until lunchtime when she went home.

Richard and Philip, of course, also invited Mrs Moffat to their barbecue.

Richard and Philip’s barbecue was, of course, a great success. About twenty people came and Richard and Philip cooked lots of hamburgers and chicken and made a big salad and brought big pieces of watermelon and everyone laughed and joked and told Mr and Mrs Hamilton how wonderful their sons were. I ate one hamburger and didn’t talk to anybody. After a while, I left, and made sure that nobody saw me leave.

Mrs Moffat ate three plates of chicken and two hamburgers. After that she said she was very tired and was going to go and have a sleep. She walked over to her umbrella and sat down on her deckchair and went to sleep. When she woke up later, everybody on the beach was surprised to hear her screaming and shouting.

“My bag!!!! My bag!!!” she shouted. “It’s gone!!! It’s GONE!!!” Everybody on the beach ran over to Mrs Moffat to see what the problem was. “Someone has taken my bag!!!” she screamed, “Someone has stolen my bag!!!”

“Impossible!” said everybody else. “This is a very safe, friendly beach! There are no thieves here!” But it was true. Mrs Moffat’s big bag wasn’t there anymore.

Nobody had seen any strangers on the beach during the barbecue, so they thought that Mrs Moffat had perhaps taken her bag somewhere and forgotten it. Mr Morelli from the café organised a search of the beach. Everybody looked everywhere for Mrs Moffat’s big bag.

Eventually, they found it. My father saw it hidden in the sand under a deckchair. A green deckchair. Richard and Philip’s deckchair. My father took it and gave it back to Mrs Moffat. Everybody looked at Richard and Philip. Richard and Philip, the golden boys, stood there looking surprised. Of course, they didn’t know what to say.

Mrs Moffat looked in her bag. She started screaming again. Her purse with her money in it wasn’t in the big bag. “My purse!” she shouted, “My purse has gone! Those boys have stolen it! They organised a barbecue so they could steal my purse!”

Everybody tried to explain to Mrs Moffat that this couldn’t possibly be true, but Mrs Moffat called the police. The police arrived and asked golden Richard and golden Philip lots of questions. Richard and Philip couldn’t answer the questions. Eventually, they all got into a police car and drove away to the police station.

I sat there, pretending to read my book and trying to hide a big, fat purse under the sand on the beach.

That was the last summer we went to the beach. My parents never talked about Richard and Philip again.

THE END

THE KITEMAKER

By Chris Rose

In the tiny village of Jaizhar there was no cinema, no zoo, not even an old museum. There was nothing. It was not an interesting village. There were only two interesting things about it. Firstly, Jaizhar was perched on the top of a very big hill, the biggest hill in the entire region. The hill that Jaigarh perched on was so big that it was nearly a mountain. Because the little village of Jaizhar was so high up, it was possible to see the whole country from the top of it. At least that’s what people said, but Mehfooz didn’t believe them, because every time he tried to see the whole country, there were clouds all around. The only time when there weren’t clouds it was because the wind had blown them away, but even when the wind had blown away the clouds, it was still impossible to see the whole country, because it was only a few seconds before the wind brought more clouds to replace the ones it had blown away. That was the second interesting thing about Jaizhar. They said it was the windiest place in the country, and possibly the windiest place in the world.

One day the mayor of the town had an idea.
“We need to make Jaizhar more interesting!” he said. “What ideas do you have to make Jaizhar more interesting?” Everybody in the town thought of ideas to make it a more interesting place. Some people wanted to open a cinema, other people to open a zoo, some others thought they should have a museum.
“No good!” said the mayor. “Nobody will walk all the way up the hill just to go to the cinema, or see some animals in the zoo, or visit a museum. Nobody wants to come here. It’s always too windy!”
“I’ve got an idea!” said one man. “Because we have so much wind, let’s make the most of it! Let’s have a kite flying competition!”
Everybody loved the idea, especially the mayor, who liked the idea so much that he decided that it was his own idea.

Over the next few weeks everyone in the town became very excited about the competition. People came from all over the region to take part in the competition. Some of the best and most important kite flyers in the country were said to be coming as well.
“What a great place Jaizhar is!” said the visitors. “Lots of wind!”

The local kitemaker was, of course, very, very busy. Everyone wanted him to make a new kite for them. A kite that would win the competition. Mehfooz asked the kitemaker to make a kite for him as well.
“No chance” said the kitemaker to Mehfooz. “I’ve got hundreds of kites to make already, and no time. Anyway, you can’t afford to buy one of my kites.”
Mehfooz was disappointed, but he didn’t give up.
“Ok” he said, “I can’t afford to pay you, but if you make a kite which you can promise will win the competition, I’ll give you half of the prize.”
The kitemaker thought for a moment, and because the prize was a large number of gold coins, he didn’t think much more than a moment.
“Done!” said the kitemaker. And the kitemaker that afternoon started to work on the best kite he had ever made. He found the lightest but strongest pieces of bamboo to make the frame, he found the most delicate yet strong piece of red silk to make the kite. He found the longest piece of thin string for the cord. He stitched the kite together with a thread made from spiders’ webs. He put tiny pieces of mirrorwork on the kite, so that it would reflect the light as it flew.

The morning of the competition the kite was ready. Mehfooz ran to the kitemaker’s shop. The kitemaker had hidden the special kite in the back room of his shop so that no one could see it until the competition began.
“Don’t forget” said the kitemaker to Mehfooz as he handed him the beautiful red kite, “half of the prize is mine!”
Mehfooz nodded, took the kite and ran to the main square of the town where the competition was already beginning. He had never seen so many kites. The sky was filled with them. The birds had all flown away, scared by the competition. There were so many kites they looked like the clouds which the wind had temporarily blown away. When he produced his kite, people marvelled at it.
“That is the most beautiful kite ever!” they cried. “It will easily be the winner!”

Mehfooz felt very pleased with himself, already sure that the gold coins would be in his pocket quite soon. As everybody watched, Mehfooz held the kite up and got ready to launch it. He thought he could throw it very gently, and that it would start to fly on its own. He threw it, and it went thump as it hit the floor. There was silence for a moment, and then everyone started to laugh.
“It might look like a good kite, but it can’t fly!” they shouted. Mehfooz tried again. This time he held it up and threw it a bit harder. But again, the kite merely went thump and hit the ground. Again the people laughed, then started to go away, more interested by the kites that were flying. Mehfooz wasn’t going to give up. Again he lifted and threw the kite, and this time it fell, but didn’t quite hit the ground. A tiny bit of wind got under the kite and held it just above the ground. The kite began to flap its wings slowly and heavily, like an enormous sleepy crow, one of those crows that is so lazy they prefer to walk than fly. And slowly, very slowly, the kite began to fly. Its big lazy wings became lighter, and the kite started to go higher in the sky. It started to move faster until it became a pigeon, darting around the rooftops, unsteadily, stopping for a moment then starting again, getting higher and higher until it turned into a swallow, high above the town, higher than any of the other kites now, swooping and diving and circling above the heads of all the people in the town who looked up at it, amazed now, silent with wonder.

The kite continued to soar higher and higher, and Mehfooz reeled out the cord which seemed to be endless, letting the kite go further and further, higher and higher until it turned into an eagle, circling the town at the top of the hill, pulling stronger and stronger for hours until it was nearly dark. When Mehfooz thought he could fly the kite no more, it pulled once again, and became a dragon, breathing fire against the dark night sky. The dragon swooped down into the town square then soared back up again.
“Let me go!!!!” shouted the dragon. “Mehfooz! Let me go!!!!!!! Cut the cord and let me go. Let me fly free!!!”
“No!” shouted Mehfooz. “I need to win! What can I give the kitemaker if I don’t win!” But the dragon didn’t listen to him, it just pulled harder and harder until Mehfooz could hardly control it any longer.
“Mehfooz!” shouted the dragon, “Let me go or I’ll pull you up here with me!!!”

That was the first and the last time they had a kite flying competition in the tiny village of Jaizhar. If you go there today, you will still find it an uninteresting place, without even a cinema or a zoo or a museum. But there is one interesting thing about the place, though. The people who live there say that if the wind ever blows the clouds which continually circle the town on top of the hill away for long enough, it is sometimes possible to see a boy being pulled around the sky by a beautiful red kite that almost looks as if it were a dragon.

THE END

KING OF THE PUMPKINS

By Chris Rose

Deep in the middle of the woods”, said my mother, “is the place where the King of the Pumpkins lives.”

“But pumpkins live in fields, not in forests”, I said to my mother.

She wouldn’t listen to me. “I’m telling you”, she said, “the King of the Pumpkins lives in the middle of the woods, and the woods that he lives in are the woods right next to our house, the woods you can see out of the window over there”. She pointed with her hand to the woods that were, in fact, just outside the window behind our house. “He doesn’t live in a field like the other pumpkins” continued Mother, “because he’s not an ordinary pumpkin. He’s the King Pumpkin”.

I shut up and decided to believe her, like you do when you’re a kid. Firstly I knew that it wasn’t worth arguing with my mother. She always won. Secondly, when you’re a kid, you always believe what grown-ups tell you, no matter how stupid it is. Like Santa Claus and stuff like that. Kids always believe it, even though they know it’s stupid.

Still, I decided to go and find the King of the Pumpkins, partly because I was bored, partly because I was curious, and also – of course - because I wanted to know if my mother really was talking nonsense or not.

Mother often talked nonsense, I have to say that. There was the time she told me that the moon was made of cheese. I knew that was nonsense. Then there were all the stories she told me. Stories about frogs, princesses, princes and shoes. Stories about donkeys and unicorns, gnomes and elves, magic mirrors and magic cooking pots. Stories about why the stars are exactly the way they are, why the river that runs through our town has the name that it has, stories about where the sun comes from, why the sky is so far away and why the elephant has a long trunk.

Some of these stories, I think, might have been true. I was never sure, and it was difficult to find out. This time though, with this story about the King of the Pumpkins, it was going to be easy to find out if she was telling the truth or not.

Some people used to call my mother a witch, but I knew that she wasn’t a witch. Just a bit strange perhaps. And she used to talk nonsense. Perhaps it was also because of the black cat we had. People say that witches always have black cats, and we had a black cat. But Mog wasn’t a witch’s cat. He was just a regular black cat. Mog could talk, though, I have to say that. Perhaps that isn’t so regular in a cat, now I think about it.

Anyway, I was telling you about the time I went to find the King of the Pumpkins. I set off with Mog the cat into the woods to look for the King of the Pumpkins. Even though we’d lived in that house near the woods all my life, I had never gone into the middle of the woods. This was the first time. I was glad I had Mog with me. I was a bit scared, even though I didn’t really think that the King of the Pumpkins lived there. “Watch out for the wolves!” said Mog. “Yes…and the grandmothers too!” I joked. “Let’s not leave the path!” said Mog.

When people said my mother was a witch, I told them that witches don’t have children. “Yeah” they replied, “That’s true. But you look more like an elf than a regular kid.” I looked in the mirror to see if I looked like an elf or not. I think I looked like a regular kid, but you never can tell really.

“Do you think he’s real?” I asked Mog.
“Who, the wolf? He certainly is” replied Mog.
“No, not the wolf. I know the wolf is real” I said to Mog. Sometimes I could hear the wolf howling at night. I knew he was real. “No, not the wolf. The King of the Pumpkins. Do you think he’s real?”
“Don’t know” said the cat. “Guess we’ll just have to find out.”

We walked on into the forest. The trees got taller and taller and taller. The path got narrower and narrower and narrower.
“What does he do, then, this King of the Pumpkins?” asked Mog.
“I don’t know really” I said. “I guess he just kind of is head pumpkin, boss pumpkin, he decides on pumpkin rules and pumpkin laws, and punishes people who break them.”
“Oh, I see” said Mog. He was quiet for a bit, then said,
“What kind of things are pumpkin rules then?”
“Erm, how big you can grow. What colour you have to be. Stuff like that.”
“You’re making this up, aren’t you?” asked Mog.
“Yeah,” I said.

Eventually, we got to the middle of the forest. At least I think it was the middle of the forest, but it’s difficult to say exactly. There was a clearing, a big space where there were no trees. In the middle of the clearing was the King of the Pumpkins.

At least, I think it was the King of the Pumpkins. It looked like a man at first. He was quite tall and had legs and arms made from sticks. He was wearing an old black coat. His head was a pumpkin. His head was the biggest pumpkin I had ever seen.

Me and Mog went up close to him. He didn’t say anything.
“Is that it?” asked Mog.
“I guess so.” I said.
“Disappointing” said Mog.
“Do you think he’s the real King of the Pumpkins?” I asked Mog.
“Who knows?” replied the cat.

As we walked back along the path out of the forest, I started to think about what was real and what was not. Could things that were made up also be true? What was the difference between “story” and “history”? One is real and the other isn’t – is that it?
“What about all those other things that Mother talks about, do you think they’re real?” I asked Mog.
“Hmmm…I’m not sure” said Mog. “Those stories she tells sometimes…about why the night is black and the day is blue, about golden eggs and girls with golden hair, about why people have ten fingers, ten toes, two feet, two hands and two eyes…Sometimes I think she’s crazy, and sometimes I think she might be right…”
I knew what Mog meant. I felt the same way.

“Perhaps the stories aren’t true” I said, “but what they mean is.”

THE END

Date: 2016-01-14; view: 2704