Chapter 6
Mrs. Whitby Gets a Surprise
All anger is born of pain.
The Author
It is an undeniably human trait that a person who has everything but
one thing, is not to be satisfied until having that, too. And so it
was with Nigel. He played with his commando soldiers, his elephant
and ambulance and penguin and xylophone-playing kitty quite earnestly,
but wouldn't be content unless he could add one last piece to his
menagerie.
That piece, he knew, was set on top of the icebox, downstairs in the
kitchen. He knew, too, he'd have no difficulty slipping it into his
toffee box with the rest of the toys and getting it outside and into
the icebox tall.
So Nigel gathered up all the metal toys off his bedroom floor,
carefully set them in the old tin, covered them with the handkerchief
and wedged the lid shut. He thought it would be good to hide the tin
from sight, so he rummaged about in his closet until he found his long
it up securely, then drew his left arm back out of the sleeve and into
the coat beneath, so he could carry his tin and not draw any untoward
attention if someone saw him. To make the ruse even more convincing,
he donned his bright yellow rain hat. Satisfied with the cunningness
of his deception, he went out the bedroom door and onto the landing.
He padded softly down the stairs, trying very hard to not rattle, and
hesitated at the foot of the staircase. To his relief, nobody was
about. He quickly crossed the parlour, his mac making awfully loud
swishing noises, and entered the kitchen. He stopped in front of the
icebox and gazed up. Somewhere towering above was the derby man.
How to get at it?
He needed a chair to stand on. More immediately, he needed two arms,
and he had but one. So he very slowly removed the tin from his coat
and set it on the table. Slipping his arm back into the coat sleeve,
he seized the nearest chair and slowly, painstakingly, began to drag
it across the floor. He'd never moved the chair before, and it was
terribly heavy. Worse still, it made a loud scraping noise as the
legs dragged over the kitchen tiles.
"Nigel!"
He jumped despite himself. His mum's voice was calling him from
somewhere upstairs.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing, Mummy. I'm just moving a kitchen chair."
"Well, don't be rearranging the furniture," his mum replied, "Go
outside and play while you can. Daddy is coming home from work early
this evening. We're going out to Persham Park for a summer band
"Alright, Mummy," Nigel replied loudly, mostly to cover the last
squeak as he brought the chair up to the icebox door.
His coat rustled loudly as he scampered onto the chair and, stretching
like a cat as far as he could, he fished about with a hand along the
top edge of the icebox until his fingers found the derby man.
"Got it!" he breathed.
Nigel popped the toy in a coat pocket and crawled off the chair. With
a sense of urgency, he strode out of the kitchen, across the parlour
and straight out the front door. Nigel paused to peer around the
corner.
No Mrs. Whitby.
Hurriedly he rustled across the lawn to the hedge, dropped to the
ground and began crawling towards his lair. Swish, swish, swish went
the coat. He discovered an unexpected benefit to wearing his yellow
laurel bush, his elbows on the ground and his bum in the air, Nigel
suddenly stopped. He'd forgotten the tin! Too late, now. Dismissing
the thought, he pulled the derby man from his coat pocket.
"Congratulations! We've made it!" Nigel said to the derby man, and
then responded in a little fat-derby-man-voice.
"You are very smart little boy!" the little derby man said.
"Thank you!" Nigel shook the wine bottle hand vigorously up and down
several times, giggling. "You seem very happy! You've got a very big
election!"
Or something of the sort, he thought.
Gleefully, he moved the arm up and down and chanted repeatedly.
"Now you've got an election. Now you don't! Now you do. Now you
All of a sudden a shadow fell over him.
"You little delinquent!" somebody growled.
Nigel swung around so quickly his bright yellow rain hat sailed off
into the grass and his mac flew open as he fell backwards.
"What do you think you're doing here?" Mrs. Whitby demanded from
beneath her huge floppy gardening hat. She bent down, holding a pair
of pruning shears in a way that seemed very threatening. Nigel
abruptly tossed his coat flap over his private parts.
"Tearing up my garden yet again!" the old woman accused. "I wondered
who was throwing cat feces in my rose bush! I've a good mind to call
the police!"
Nigel was so petrified he couldn't even mumble that he was sorry.
Every wrinkle in her face, particularly those around her eyes and
mouth, was contorted in anger and resentment. Mrs. Whitby bent
further over to grab him by the arm, the boy wincing in anticipation
of pain, when she suddenly paused.
"What is that you've got there?" she demanded, "Did you find it on my
property?"
Nigel finally found his voice, although it was a very shaky, timid
one.
"Yes, Mrs. Whitby," he whispered, "It's a toy."
"Well, give it here!" she ordered, and thrust her knuckly-nobby hand
out for it.
The boy meekly handed it up to her, holding the derby man by his wine
arm which, of course, revealed that the derby-man, or at least a
portion of him, seemed elated to see Mrs. Whitby as well, though God
knows why.
Nigel had been frightened of Mrs. Whitby before, but seeing the effect
the derby man had on her was purely terrifying. She took it in her
trembling hand and the moment she realised what it was, she froze and
just stood there. Her eyes went wide and her mouth fell agape. She
stood, teetering back and forth, staring and staring. Just as she
seemed ready to collapse, a strange and ghostly sound came rushing
from her mouth. It wasn't a yell, or a screech, or even a cry. It
was a gasp, a deep, rasping rush of air, as if she'd been holding her
breath for ages and ages.
"Oh!" she wheezed. "Oh, no!"
It was all she could manage to say.
"No!" Mrs. Whitby suddenly cried and flung the toy into the grass.
Going as fast as her old bent legs would shuffle her along, she
stumbled back through her roses, mindless of the thorns snagging her
blouse and slacks and scratching her arms. She clattered up onto her
porch and with the bang of a door disappeared into the house, floppy
hat, pruning shears, and all.
Nigel snatched up the derby man and bolted for his front door.
Bursting through, he raced up the stairs, bounded into the bathroom,
slammed the door and sat on the toilet.
"Nigel? Are you alright?" his mother asked from right outside the
door.
"Yes, Mummy. I'm fine." Nigel panted, his voice quavering, "I just
had to go."
"Are you ill? You don't sound well."
"No, Mummy. I'm just having a pee."
"Well, get dressed," his mum said through the door. "Your dad will be
home soon."
"Yes, Mummy. Yes."
Nigel was very much afraid he'd managed to kill Mrs. Whitby, just as
surely as he'd dropped a rock on her, and it took all his strength not
to cry out loud, for he dared not risk his mother hearing him. So,
holding the derby man, he pressed his hands over his mouth, while
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