Chapter 6

Recycling

On his way home from school, Art checked at Snip-pets.

Serena was still missing.

Would Serena have followed some other birds?’ Art had been looking at Mrs.Tasker’s bird training book and the online links.

‘That happens. I just hope a hawk didn’t get her.’

So did Art.

Although he was still upset, Mr. Snip-pets was busy cleaning one of the aviaries. He put clean grit on the floor of the cage.

‘Do trained birds always come home?’ asked Art.

‘Most times. Back to the place where they’re usually fed and watered. Or to the place where they were hatched.’

Art hoped Serena wasn’t flying to India. The place not the girl.

‘Mrs. Tasker said that the Sultan of Baghdad started the first pigeon post in the twelfth century. He put a message on the bird’s leg.’

‘No kidding.’ Mr. Snip-pet was impressed.

‘Some pigeons can travel as fast as 135 kilometres an hour.’

‘They’ve racers. Serena isn’t a racing pigeon.’

‘Who else uses pigeons?’

‘Some of the Buddhists up at the monastery use bird for their ceremonies. They sset the bird free. But they always buy pigeons from me. They wouldn’t take Serena.’

‘Anyone else?’ Art felt he was a very bad sleuth. It was Wednesday and he hadn’t found anything yet.

‘Some people eat them. Pigeon meat is supposed to be like a medicine.’ It wouldn’t be right to eat a dove with a name, Art thought as he slowly walked home.

He saw piles of rubbish on the roadside grass. Cars cruised past slowly. Drivers looked closely at the rubbish. Art saw Mario in the distance, carrying something with long wires.

‘The scavengers!’ muttered Art. He was a junk collector too. Sometimes useful things like wheels or boxes or bits of furniture were thrown away. So he recycled them to his place.

‘How was the sleep-over?’ asked Mum.

’Okay.’

‘Council rubbish collection tomorrow.’ Mum put the notice on the fridge. ‘Indestructible rubbish. Hard garbage they call it.’

‘Junk,’ said Art.

His Mum nodded. ‘Give me a hand for half an hour.’

Joking, Art held out his hand.

Mum laughed. ‘The other sort of hand thank you. We’re going to pull that old rubbish out from under the house. Dad forgot to do it before he left.’

Art groaned. Collecting was fun, but cleaning out was work.

Every time some charity left a bag, Mum filled it. She made him go through all his clothes and toys. Soon he wouldn’t have anything left to wear.

‘Do you want to keep your old bike? Can you fix the bent frame?’

Ages ago, Art’s bike met a tree. The tree won.

‘I’ll keep my bike,’ said Art. ‘Dad’ll help me fix it when he gets back. “ Lately Art felt as though he was always waiting for Dad’s truck to come back. Even then, Dad was often too tired to do anything.

The phone rang.

‘You start underneath, I’ll be there in a moment,’ said his mother lifting the phone. ‘Hello.’

Underneath their house was a little door. It always stuck. In the wet weather the wood swelled.

Art tugged at the door. Because they lived on a slope, there was more space under the house at the back than the front. When he was younger, Art had been able to crawl to the front. Now he could only fit halfway.

At last the door jerked open. Daylight sliced the darkness.He bent over to get inside. He moved slowly.

‘Spidersville,’ he muttered. ‘Insect town.’

Families of creepy- crawlies lived under their house.

Now, when he tried to stand, he bumped his head.’Ow!’

A spider’s web brushed against his face. It clung to his hair.

‘Ahh.’

He brushed it away. Spiders had to live somewhere, but why didn’t they choose some-one else’s place?

He dragged the carpet outside. Then the old potato sacks.

‘Yuk!’ Insects crawled form underneath.

‘Art! Art!’ the voice came from outside. That was a relief. For a moment, he thought the spider was talking.

Mrs. Next-Door was calling over the fence again.

‘You dad is so good at fixing things. I wonder if he could fix this microwave for me?’

Mrs.Next-Door was a recycler. She was always collecting bits for Dad to “fix up.” The trouble was that most of them ended up under their house to be recycled at the next rubbish collection. Art poked his sore head out of the little door.

‘Hello. Dad’s away. But he’ll be back on Saturday.’

‘Someone left this on my grass,’ said Mrs. Next-Door, struggling to pass it over the fence.

It was a very strange looking microwave. Cords dangled from it.

‘Are you sure it’s a microwave? ‘Art was doubtful. ‘Who left it?’

‘A boy. Must have picked it up further down the street and then junked it.’

‘Okay. I’ll put it inside for Dad,’ said Art.

Mum had a long phone call. Before she’d finished, Art had piled the boxes outside their house. Old paint pots. A broken outdoor chair. The clothes dryer that even Dad couldn’t fix. He piled them onto the wheelbarrow. The wheel squeaked as he pushed it along the path to the grass at the front.

Down the street , other people’s rubbish looked more interesting. Mario had gone, but others were picking up and dropping junk. Even a police car was cruising around looking for something or someone. Perhaps they were checking for “hot burgs”. Mum must have ‘phone ears’. She finished talking just as he went outside the kitchen. ‘Thanks darling. Recycling is a great idea. What’s rubbish to one person is treasure to another.We’ll probably lose half ours before the official collector arrives.’

She put out some glasses. ‘Want a lemonade? Hey, what’s this?’ She pointed to the metal box on the kitchen bench.

‘Mrs. Next -Door’s micrwave.She thought Dad might be able to get it going again.’

There were mini cables attached. Art was not sure what these were for. This metal box sure looked different from the microwaves in the shop. Home made? A niggle was growing in his head. The box reminded him of something.

At that moment, there was a loud knock at the door.

‘Good afternoon, madam.’

There were two police officers in uniform.

‘We’re investigating the loss of some police property.’

Art listened carefully. Police weren’t supposed to lose things. They were supposed to find things like lost children or missing doves.

‘What’s missing?’

‘Police property.’

‘Would have been sold? Or given to a fence?’ Art suggested. Art had heard about ‘fences’. They bought stolen goods for half the price or less. When he first heard the word, he thought it meant someone sitting on a fence to buy things.

‘We’d like to have it back.’ The younger police man was a bit embarrassed.

‘I don’t understand. Have what back?’ Mum looked puzzled.

Did they think his mum was a burglar? Or a fence? His mum was so honest she gave back wrong change.

Then Art realised. ‘Er, was it on the grass?’

‘Yes.’

“I think someone has made a mistake,’Mum shook her head.

‘In front of number 46?’ asked Art.

The policeman nodded. ‘It was!’

‘I think there’s been a mistake,’ said Art quickly. ’Our neighbour has bad eye sight and she thought…’

‘Show us what your neighbour gave you. What she picked up from the grass.’

The shorter police officer smiled.

Art was glad to see that smile. He didn’t want his mum arrested.

‘Mum, I think he means ... the er ... er ... microwave.’

‘Oh, that strange microwave,’said Mum, puzzled. ‘My husband is going to fix it. He’s away working.’

‘Where is it?’

‘I’ll get it,’ offered Art. This was one mistake he didn’t want Mario to hear about. ‘It’s over there, on the kitchen bench.’

The police officer coughed. ‘Er…it’s not something you would ever cook your dinner in, madam.’

Art looked at the metal box. What an idiot. He should have known. The police officer continued. ’It’s not a microwave oven.’

Lawn. Road. Shape of box. Police officer.

Putting together the clues, Art said quickly, ’Is it one of your speed cameras?’

The police nodded. ‘And we’re a bit embarrassed to go back to base without it.’

Art tried not to laugh.

‘Oh , sorry.’ Mum went bright red. ‘Will I be charged?’

‘No madam. We’re just glad to find it. We won’t even mention it to the senior sergeant.’

After the police had cups of tea, Mum went in next door for a chat. Art could hear them laughing. Now Mum called her neighbour “Radar” for short. But maybe it wasn’t their neighbour’s fault.

Remembering how he’s seen Mario carrying something, Art had his suspicions. Perhaps Mario had picked up the police speed camera first, and then dropped it?