If Lucy the goat’s prepared to be tied to a pushchair in the dark, she can’t be that difficult to steal from under the noses of the Mongol Hordes or Henry’s parents, depending on how far gone they are. Assuming she’s still alive.
He says the trick with the goat is to make her believe that she thought of it, whatever it is, and that way she’ll do what you want. I wonder if that would work on Ursula. Whatever happens, I’m not letting Henry out of my sight. If Miss Primrose is going to rip his heart out, then she’ll have to deal with me first.
It’s just reaching Henry’s house that’s difficult; that and persuading Ursula that it’s worth rescuing a goat. ‘Why are we rescuing a goat, when the ancient tribes of the world are massacring each other all over the town?’
‘Why are you so worried?’ I ask, looking at Ursula. It’s not like her to show concern for other people.
‘I’d just hate to miss it,’ she says, holding up her camera.
The doors of the Parish Hall fly open as we try to pass, and the Women’s Union, with saucepans on their heads and brooms in their hands, fill the street.
‘Move,’ I hiss at Henry, who has frozen at the sight, and we throw ourselves behind a large wheelie bin peppered with what look like broken arrow shafts. Ursula follows us.
Although I can’t see very well, it’s obvious that the women are furious with something; they shout and bang and crash, and form a circle, dancing one way, then the other, faster and faster, yelping and whooping. They sound as if they’re about to go to war.
They stop. There’s silence and I poke my head around the corner to look. They’re poised, most of them with a single foot in the air, like a party of ogres. ‘Onward,’ someone shouts and they charge off down the alley, leaving the hall doors wide open.
We wait, listening.
Distant shouts echo through the streets. I crawl from my hiding place and gaze into the quiet hall. I’m not sure what I expected to find; there’s a ring of tables, a tray of empty coffee cups, some large circles daubed on the wall in what I hope is mud, and a plate of biscuits.
Jammie Dodgers.
‘Wow,’ says Henry. ‘Food!’
He charges in, but I stay in the doorway. Ursula hovers behind me. Something doesn’t feel right.
‘What is it?’ says Henry, turning towards us.
‘WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAHAHAHHAHAHAH!’
A fast and angry creature jumps from the rafters.
‘AAAAAAAGHGH!’ screams Henry, and the Jammie Dodgers fly across the room. I dive to pick them up; so does Henry.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!’ we all scream.
Then the thing from the rafters picks up a chair, and we back off.
It’s Mrs Mytych from the shop. She looks completely terrified. She’s wearing black. A black bobble hat, black trousers and a black top, like some sort of secret agent. For a second I face her in the doorway, and then as she launches the chair, I run as hard as I can.
The chair crashes behind us on the street, but we keep on running, only we’ve gone the wrong way, because when we burst out of the alleyway into the square, the women are lined up against the bookshop. They look really angry. Opposite them, the rugby club have formed a square, a bit like the thing that Mr Dent wanted us to do – only neater and with bin lids.
One of the women launches a mop, but the rugby club hold firm and the mop bounces off the bin lids.
‘Na na na na na,’ yells one of the Romans. ‘Feeblus!’
A hail of dustpans and buckets flies across the square.
‘Patheticus!’ yells another.
‘Mr Dent,’ whispers Ursula, pointing. Sure enough, Mr Dent’s brown legs are lurking underneath a dustbin lid at the back. He’s swapped his tennis skirt for a tunic.
The Romans fire back, rugby balls bouncing across the square, then break lines, chasing the women off in a wild screaming charge.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ says Ursula. ‘Henry, you first.’
Ponies stand in the street outside Henry’s house. One of them’s real, two of them are the plastic ones from the saddler’s on the high street, and there’s a rocking horse.
Henry puts his fingers to his lips. There’s shouting and laughter, and in the front garden, a kind of tent, made from doormats and blankets.
‘It’s a yurt,’ whispers Henry. Ursula raises an eyebrow. ‘Saw it in the museum.’
We flatten ourselves against the wall and squeeze down the alleyway to the back of the house. It’s blocked with heavy metal bins. Henry scrapes them over the concrete and I hold my breath waiting for someone to come outside, but the laughing and singing goes on and no one seems to notice.
We make it through to the back garden to find Lucy, the goat, lying on her back, trussed to the patio table. She sees Henry and lets out a piteous bleat.
‘Oh, Lucy,’ he says and steps forward, but Ursula grabs him, pointing at the glass doors and the dim shapes inside the house.
‘You can’t,’ she whispers. ‘They’ll see us. We’ll have to wait until dark.’ She yanks him back behind the barbecue.
‘But they might eat her before then,’ says Henry.
‘He’s right,’ I whisper. ‘We’ll have to do something before that – I mean, look, they’ve got her tied up, ready. It’s going to happen any minute.’
At that moment, the door slides open and Henry’s substantial mother steps into the garden. She’s wearing a large flowered lampshade on her head, and has squeezed herself into something that might once have been a carpet.
‘Are we ready? Or what?’ she yells back into the house. She’s carrying a bread knife.
Someone calls something to her, and she turns and goes back inside, leaving the bread knife on the table.
‘Now!’ I yell, springing forward and grabbing the knife. They’ve only tied Lucy down with bungees, but they don’t cut easily.
‘S’all right, Lucy darling,’ says Henry, stroking Lucy’s head while Ursula fiddles with a knot under the table. ‘We’ll have you out in a second.’
‘HEY!’ There’s a big shout from the house, and I slice through the last strand of bungee.
‘Run!’ yells Ursula, and Henry picks Lucy up in his arms and we crash back past the metal dustbins, racing through the startled horses and not stopping until we reach the common.