The Ribbajack

It was the summer holidays. All sensible villagers had fled on vacation to the European Continent, making sure they were well out of Rosie’s reach. Her poor father seldom ventured his family on such trips, fearing an international incident. He often suffered nightmares from something that occurred on a family jaunt to London. Mr. Glegg was still paying damages to the National Heritage Trust for the depredations his daughter had caused to the Tower of London. As a result, he had to work long overtime hours repaying the bank loan. The plus side of this was that Mr. Glegg did not have to come home until Rosie was safely installed in bed.

Mrs. Edith Glegg, Rosie’s mother, was a wan-looking, long-suffering lady. Several times she had tried changing her name to Whegg, Flegg, Pegg and, even adopting a Scandinavian accent, calling herself Olegg. This did not fool the female populace, who would point her out on the High Street, whispering to one another, “Look, there’s Rosie Glegg’s mother, poor soul!”

One sunny afternoon, when the other children were off on distant holidays, Rosie was in a rare peaceful mood. She sat by the pond in the local woods, skimming flat stones across the water’s surface. She looked so placid that one or two of the bolder frogs plucked up courage to watch her from the reeds on the far bank. That was when the boy appeared on the scene. He was about the same age as her, and equally scruffy. Rosie ignored him for a while, then, on a sudden impulse, selected a flat stone and gave it a super-skilful skim. It bounced off the water seven times. Rosie nodded at the young intruder.

See that? I’m Rosie Glegg, the best stone skim merer inna world. Betcha can’t skim stones s’good as me!”

She tossed him a stone, a round bumpy one, which she knew would be useless to skim with. He tried it. Like all bumpy round stones, it vanished with a single plop. They watched the ripples spread over the pond. Rosie scoffed.

“Yahaa! See, I told ya. What’s y’name?”

Throwing himself on the grassy bank, the boy rolled over and shook himself, like a dog. He had a grin like a slice of red watermelon with a lollopy tongue. “Charlie Lupus.”

Rosie tried to keep her face straight as he grinned at her. Absently he scratched his stomach with a bare foot. She was so taken by his infectious grin that she did not even bother reaching for the skipping rope lasso. “Charlie Lupus, eh, great name. What d’you do, Charlie?”

Giggling hoarsely, he produced a piece of stick and gave it to her. “Just you throw that!”

Rosie tested the stick’s balance. “Where d’you want me to sling it?”

Charlie shrugged. “Anywhere. Go on, chuck it hard!”

Leaping to her feet, Rosie whirled and flung the stick, high and hard. Up and out it went, off into the tangled woodlands. Rosie blinked in surprise as Charlie took off like a bullet. She marvelled at his speed, and how he disregarded for bush and bramble, merely leaping over them or crashing right through.

Before she had time to think, Charlie Lupus was back, with the stick held in his mouth. He dropped it at Rosie’s feet and lay on his back, cheerfully grinning and panting, his tongue lolloping out to one side. She was impressed.

“Triffick, but why d’you carry the stick in y’mouth?”

“Dunno, s’easier, I s’pose.”

“Zoweee! Y’must be the best stick fetcherer inna world, betcha you’re better’n a dog even!”

The odd boy shook matted hair from his eyes. “Yeah, I’m better’n any ole dog!”

“Whereja live?”

“Anywhere, here mostly.”

Rosie shook her head, laughing. “Haha, I think you’re crackers, Charlie Lupus!”

His wild, dark eyes challenged her. “Crackers yourself, Rosie Glegg! Anyhow, what can you do ’sides skimmin’ stones ’cross the water?”

Rosie picked up her skipping rope. “Lasso boys.”

Charlie began dodging and stooping. “Go on then, betcha can’t lasso me!”

She shook out the noose, twirling it lazily, watching him ducking and weaving. Choosing the right moment, Rosie flicked the rope at him. It was not an ideal cast. Instead of pinning his arms to his sides, the noose settled around Charlie’s neck. He stood still, mischief sparkling from his eyes. “Good throw, Rosie, come on, let’s go for a run.”

He took off like lightning, towing her behind as he tore madly around the lake bank. Rosie galloped after him, the rope wrapped around her wrist. She was pulled frantically along, unable to stop the headlong dash. Twice round the lake they sped, then Rosie stumbled and tripped. Charlie flopped down beside her, panting and chuckling. Rosie stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Nuts, that’s what you are, y’could’ve been choked by that rope.”

Charlie pulled the tightened noose from his neck. He laughed scornfully. “Can’t choke me, my neck’s too strong!”

Kneeling on all fours at the lake edge, he began thirstily lapping up water. Rosie laughed uproariously at his antics. “Yaaahahahaha! Toldya you’re bonkers. What’s it taste like?”

Charlie licked his lips. “Smashin’, come’n’try some.”