PUFFIN BOOKS
The Mighty Slide
This story is one I've not told before;
I think I might call it The Boiler-Room Door,
Or The Beast from Below, or Stan in a Sweat;
But one thing's for sure – it's the scariest yet!
Here, in verse, are stories of a mighty slide, a man who fought crocodiles, a girl who doubled, a couple of baby skinners and a thing that lived under a school; a wonderful collection from the author of Please Mrs Butler, Woof! and Happy Families, with delightful pictures by Charlotte Voake.
The Mighty Slide
* * *
Stories in Verse by Allan Ahlberg
Illustrated by Charlotte Voake
PUFFIN BOOKS
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
www.penguin.com
First published by Viking 1988
Published in Puffin Books 1989
14
Text copyright © Allan Ahlberg, 1988
Illustrations copyright © Charlotte Voake, 1988
Consultant Designer: Douglas Martin
All rights reserved
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-193158-6
Contents
* * *
THE MIGHTY SLIDE
CAPTAIN JIM
THE GIRL WHO DOUBLED
A PAIR OF SINNERS
THE SCARIEST YET
The Mighty Slide
* * *
The snow has fallen in the night.
The temperature's exactly right.
The playground's ready, white and wide;
Just waiting for the mighty slide.
The first to arrive is Denis Dunne.
He takes a little stuttering run.
Sideways he slides across the snow;
He moves about a yard or so,
With knees just bent and arms out wide;
And marks the beginning of the slide.
Then Martin Bannister appears,
His collar up around his ears,
His zipper zipped, his laces tied,
And follows Denis down the slide.
The snow foams up around their feet,
And melts, too, in the friction's heat.
It changes once, it changes twice:
Snow to water; water to ice.
Now others arrive: the Fisher twins
And Alice Price. A queue begins.
The slide grows longer, front and back,
Like a giant high-speed snail's track.
And flatter and greyer and glassier, too;
And as it grows, so does the queue.
Each waits in line and slides and then
Runs round and waits and slides again.
And little is said and nothing is planned,
As more and more children take a hand
(Or a foot, if you like) in the slide's construction.
They work without wages and minus instruction.
Like a team of cleaners to and fro
With clever feet they polish the snow.
Like a temporary tribe in wintry weather,
They blow on their gloves and pull together.
A dozen children, maybe more,
All skidding on the frozen floor.
The brave, like bulls, just charge the ice,
And one of these is Alice Price;
Her red scarf flying in the breeze,
You'd think she had a pair of skis.
Others approach more cautiously;
Denis for one (though he wouldn't agree).
His wobbly style is unmistakable:
The sign of a boy who knows he's breakable.
And now the slide is really growing,
And the rhythm of the queue is flowing.
Some keep a place or wait for a friend,
Some dive in the snow when they reach the end,
Some slide and pretend to be terrified,
Some stand in the queue and never slide.
There are children with bags and children without,
As they roll the silver carpet out;
And some in pairs and some in a bunch,
And one or two eating: an early lunch.
There's flying hair and frozen feet,
And big and little, and scruffy and neat.
There's shouting and shoving: ‘Watch this!’ ‘Watch me!’
‘I'm floating!’ ‘I'm falling!’ ‘Oh, Mother!’ ‘Wheee!’
And all the while from the frosty ground
That indescribable sliding sound.
Yes, snow's a pleasure and no mistake,
But the slide is the icing on the cake.
‘If we knocked that wall down, moved that shed,
We could slide for miles!’ the children said.
‘If we knocked it all down – wallop – bop –
We could slide for ever and never stop!’
An icy ribbon tidily curled
In a giant circle round the world.
The slide by now is forty feet long,
And a number of things have begun to go wrong.
The queue stretches back to the playground gate;
Certain boys find it hard to wait.
While tough boys like Hoskins or Kenny Burns
Are simply not used to taking turns.
Like pockets of chaos or bits of sin,
They break up the queue and muscle in.
And all the time the slide gets slicker,
And the sliders slide along it quicker.
The quickest by far is Frankie Slater:
‘When I grow up I'll be a skater!’
The craziest? Well, Colin Whittle;
He thinks the boy in front is a skittle.
There are bumps and bruises, bets and dares,
Cries, collisions, pile-ups, prayers!
But even worse than damaged kids,
The slide itself is on the skids.
The feet that brought it to perfection
Are pushing it now in a different direction.
For everything changes, that much is true;
And a part of the playground is poking through.
‘It's wearing away!’ ‘It's wearing out!’
‘We need more snow!’ the children shout.
At which point Hoskins quietly swears,
And – minus the coat he never wears –
Raises his hand like a traffic cop
And calls on his fellow sliders to stop.
Then straight away from the ranks of the queue
Step Denis and Martin and Alice, too.
With no one to tell them and no one to ask,
They tackle the urgent chilly task.
They
scoop the snow from either side
And bandage up the poorly slide.
Tread on it, trample it, smooth it, thump it.
‘If that don't work, we'll have to jump it!’
‘Jump what?’ says Denis, looking queasy.
‘The gap!’ says Alice. ‘Easy-peasy!’
Elsewhere in the playground, the usual scene:
A teacher on duty, it's Mrs Green.
A huddle of (mostly) shivering mums;
Some wondering babies, sucking thumbs
(Watching the world from way behind
As they wait in a queue of a different kind).
A gang of girls, they're shivering, too,
Discussing who'll be friends with who.
A little infant darting about,
Giving his birthday invites out.
While scattered here and there besides,
Half a dozen smaller slides.
Snowball battles, snowball chases,
Swimming kit and violin cases:
A student with a tiger skin,
And fourteen children to carry it in.
The slide, meanwhile, with its cold compress,
Restored to health, well, more or less,
Remains by far the star attraction,
As Denis and Co. glide back into action.
With breath like smoke and cheeks like roses,
Pounding hearts and runny noses,
Eyes a-sparkle, nerves a-quiver,
Not a chance of a chill or a sign of a shiver
(It's a funny thought, that – it's nice – it's neat:
A thing made of ice and it generates heat),
They slide and queue and slide again;
There's six in a line – no, seven – no, ten!
Attending their own strip of land.
‘Fifty foot long by two foot wide!’
‘By half an inch thick!’ – that's the mighty slide.
Cool and grey and, now, complete.
A work of art, all done by feet.
Then, suddenly, a whistle blows,
And all the human dynamos
(With outstretched arms and just-bent knees)
Skid to a halt, fall silent, freeze.
They stand in a trance, their hot breath steaming;
Rub their eyes as though they've been dreaming,
Or are caught in the bossy whistle's spell,
Or simply weary – it's hard to tell.
A few of them shiver, the air feels cool;
And the thought sinks in: it's time for school.
A little while later, observe the scene,
Transformed by a whistle and Mrs Green:
The empty playground, white and wide;
The scruffy snow, the silent slide.
Inside, with a maths card just begun
And his thoughts elsewhere, sits Denis Dunne.
His hands are chapped, his socks are wet,
But in his head he's sliding yet.
He sits near a window, he stares through the glass.
The teacher frowns from the front of the class.
Can this boy move! Can this boy skate!
‘Come on, Denis – concentrate!’
Yes, nothing changes, that much is true,
And the chances of sliding in classrooms are few.
So Denis abandons his speculation,
And gets on with his education.
Some plough the land, some mow or mine it;
While others – if you let them – shine it.
Captain Jim
* * *
You've heard the tales of Tarzan,
Chinese Charlie Chan,
Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street
And ‘cow pie’ Desperate Dan;
Well, now I'm going to tell you
Of another kind of man.
Yes, now I'm going to tell you,
As the light grows dim,
And we sit here in the jungle
At the wide world's rim,
Of the man who matched them all:
And his name was Captain Jim.
Where he came from is a mystery,
Where he went to no one knows,
But his talents were amazing
(From his eyebrows to his toes!),
And his brain was full of brainwaves,
And his reputation grows.
It all began one summer
Near this very spot,
When the river-boats were steaming
And the river banks were hot,
And the crocodiles were teeming,
Which sometimes a child forgot.
I was playing with my brothers,
Bertie, Joe and little Frank,
In the mangrove trees that twisted
From that mossed and muddy bank;
When young Frank climbed out too far,
Slipped and fell, and straightways – sank.
Hardly had he hit the water,
Barely had the ripples spread,
When the river started foaming
And we saw with awful dread
Half a dozen snapping snouts
In a hurry to be fed.
Well, we shouted and we threw things,
Lumps of rock and bits of wood,
And young Frank, he cried for help
And tried to swim as best he could,
But the crocs were closing in
And it wasn't any good.
Then at last when all seemed lost,
And it was looking grim,
There was a blur beside us,
And a man leapt in to swim
Like an arrow from a bow:
And his name was Captain Jim.
He was dressed, we later noticed,
In a suit of gleaming white,
And he even had his hat on;
Oh, it was a stirring sight,
Like a charge of dynamite.
With his bare hands and a cricket bat,
He gave the crocs what for;
Hit the six of them for six,
Though I doubt they kept the score.
Then he gave a tow to little Frank
And calmly swam to shore.
And that was the beginning,
The first time he was seen,
In the heat and haze of summer
When the air itself was green
And the river banks were steaming…
And he chose to intervene.
Where he came from is a mystery,
Why he stayed we never knew,
But he took a room at Macey's
And he moored his own canoe
At the wharf beside the warehouse.
And he bought a cockatoo.
Now this, I should remind you,
Was twenty years ago,
In nineteen thirty-one,
When the pace of life was slow,
And Grandpa ran the Copper Mine
And built this bungalow.
And the town was smaller then,
Just some houses and a pier,
And the Steamship Company Office
With a barber's at the rear,
And a visiting policeman
Who came by four times a year.
So it took no time at all
For the tale to get about;
How the stranger with a cricket bat
Had fished young Frankie out,
And hammered fourteen crocodiles
With one enormous clout.
And as the weeks went by,
There were other tales to tell:
How he saved the Baxters’ baby
(With the speed of a gazelle!)
And the Baxters' baby's teddy –
It was needing help as well.
How he stopped a charging wart hog
As it rampaged through the town
(Knocking bikes and fences flying,
Pulling wires and washing down),
With a matadorial flourish
And a matadorial frown.
Well, we followed him about, of course,
Or watched him where he sat
On Macey's back verandah
In his dazzling suit and hat,
With a glass of tea beside him,
And – sometimes – Macey's cat.
We listened to the gossip
Inside the barber's shop.
Some said he was a gambler,
Some said he was a cop,
And oaths were sworn and bets were laid
On just how long he'd stop.
We eavesdropped on the talk
Outside the General Store.
They marvelled at his manicure
And at the clothes he wore.
Whoever did his laundry?
What was that cricket bat for?
In time the summer ended:
The rains began to fall;
Moss clung to the houses
And creepers covered all.
The river was a torrent
And the grass grew eight feet tall.
And still he lived among us
And continued to amaze,
With his quick, explosive actions,
And his steady brainy gaze;
Though he gave no thought to wages,
And he never looked for praise.
And he showed us how to wrestle,
And he taught us how to dive,
And he saved us from the wild bees –
We had blundered on a hive –
When he walloped it to safety