Chapter 2
Nigel Finds a Secret Place
A private garden is a very fine thing, certainly, but for a
seven-year-old boy it is a bit like having a well-appointed park. It
was nice, but one couldn't really do anything with it. A boy could
leap about on the grass, hide beneath the hedges, scurry up a tree and
tree limb, or dig in the lawn. A boy needed someplace where he could
build secret caves and lagoons, mix up mud pies or paw out a tiger's
gloriously caked in grime from his ears to his toenails.
A boy simply isn't a boy unless he can find such a place and, of
course, Nigel did. It was a spot near the front of their house, deep
behind an ancient laurel bush set in a corner of an equally ancient
stone wall dividing the newer Macmillan garden from the older one next
door. Other than a few drawbacks, it was the perfect spot. Once his
initial curiosity coaxed him to dare crawl back behind the bush, he
discovered a veritable fox den of great creative possibilities.
In it, Nigel was completely hidden from outside view, yet he could
see clearly out through the branches at all who passed by. There was
a damp area of cool shade, and a sandy area warmed by the sun peeking
through overhead. In the back corner was a mysterious smooth stone,
edged with lichen, perhaps once the throne of a goblin king, where
Pooh could sit with him and not get overly dirty. Best of all, the
old and nearly crumbling stone wall in the back was overgrown in moss
others quite spacious. Best of all, this wonderful discovery seemed
or two.
Nigel very much liked the rolly-pollies. They were most congenial
creatures, even if they were easily startled. At the slightest nudge
they would curl up into a perfect ball, and Nigel could play miniature
marbles or ten pins with them and, when he'd finished, they would
simply uncurl and wander off completely unoffended. Nigel's mum had
once explained them to him, once she'd recovered from her alarm of
finding a handful of them in his shirt pocket.
"Yes, Nigel. They're pill bugs. They roll up into balls to protect
themselves. When whatever is bothering them goes away, they unroll
again and go on their way. Now, please," she had implored, "Take them
outside!"
"You can stay here in my tiger lair, rolly-pollies." Nigel proclaimed
magnanimously as he rolled them back into a corner of his hideaway.
And they unrolled, as Mum had said, and went home.
Spiders, however, were another matter altogether. They were the first
drawback to his hideaway. Nigel was terrified of spiders, as was his
mum, and if he couldn't scare them off, he'd squash them with
just as would his mum. Pooh's large rock served that purpose very
nicely, but because he couldn't bear to see the actual squashing and
feel sympathy for the poor spider, who had really only been going
about his own business, he'd look away just before letting the rock
drop, putting his toes at great risk. To his relief, the spiders soon
made themselves scarce.
The second drawback, which Nigel's nose had discovered before his
hands-thank goodness-was that his cat Poohkums favoured the sandy spot
as her personal lavvie. So Nigel promptly scooped out the offending
lumps with a discarded lottery card, tossing them into a nearby rose
bed. It was so distasteful he erected a small paper sign on a twig; a
notice boldly written in red crayon:
No katz'r Loud Here!
And hoped Poohkums might read it.
The last drawback to his secret den was potentially the most serious
one. Nigel's hideaway wasn't exactly in his family's lot, but rather
none other than Mrs. Whitby.
Although Nigel was afraid of the old woman, he was certain he'd be
invisible once in his hideout and was determined to keep careful watch
for her before attempting to crawl in. Mrs. Whitby was quite elderly
... Nigel guessed perhaps two hundred thirty-four-and-a-half-years old
(as two-hundred-thirty-four-and-a-half-years old ladies were prone to
be)
... so the boy was confident that if he'd crawl up to his lair along
the picket and hedge bordering her garden, she'd not see him even if
she were outside.
So Nigel hunkered down in his secret place with the joyful realisation
because he had accidently put a hole in the family pool. It didn't
seem to matter that he hadn't meant to. He'd plunged into the water
with his bow and arrow to shoot a crocodile and had simply missed.
Rather than put an end to the crocodile, the mishap had put an end to
his sister Claris' plans for a swim party with her girl friends. She
was quite put out.
"And she hit me right here," Nigel said grumbly-like to Pooh, nodding
at his shoulder, "And it still smarts."
There in his den, Nigel hadn't heard any of his mother's calls.
Engrossed in creating a primeval paradise for his plastic triceratops,
simultaneously building a volcano and excavating a swamp, where
made up his mind. Perhaps the tyrannosaurus would eat an Indian, and
his comrades would spear the beast, thereby saving the trapped
triceratops. But only momentarily, the boy realised. The triceratops
was so large and heavy that none would be able to pull him out of the
swamp. Nigel had a toy lorry capable of the task, but that wouldn't
do at all. It was, after all, a prehistoric world.
"Perhaps you could save him," Nigel mentioned casually to Pooh, seated
So many scenarios from which to choose!
On he laboured. Dressed in only a striped tee shirt, Nigel squatted
there with his knees on either side of his ears and his bare bottom
planted on the damp ground, occasionally pausing from his work to
scratch his leg, or tuck his penis to one side, or wipe his hands
thereby becoming slowly covered in grime.
At long last he finished. Making distressed triceratopsy noises as he
imagined they might be, Nigel prepared to toss the condemned animal
into mucky slime when it occurred to him he needed a can of water.
After all, a swamp was perfectly worthless without water. No water.
No muck and no slime, hence no plot.
He was just preparing to crawl out when a voice came hurtling down on
him.
"Get out of there!"
Incredible as it seemed to Nigel, there was no mistaking that voice.
It was Claris.
"Oh, blast!" the boy muttered, deeply disappointed at having been
discovered.
"Get on!" Claris yelled, "I know you're in there. I can see your
bum, like a little white light bulb! Mum says come to supper."
If that ruckus continued, Nigel apprehended, it would be disaster.
Mrs. Whitby would be sure to hear and discover his secret.
"Belt up!" the lad yelled back, "I'm coming. I'm coming!"
And, quite peeved, Nigel emerged.
"God!" Sis exclaimed as the grubby boy stood up, "Look at you! No way
Mum'll let you at the table. You'll have to take a bath. You're such
a bother! Come on!"
And she took his hand, but not nearly as roughly as Nigel had
expected, and they headed for the front door. Nigel gave a worried
glance back over a shoulder towards the Whitby residence, but saw no
sign of Mrs. Whitby or her husband in their parlour window. His
secret was safe.
HMSVV2010
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