The Ribbajack

A gamekeeper watched the scene unfold from his hideout in the bushes. Two lads—no, wait, it was a boy and girl. Children, crouching like animals, lapping up lake water. Disgusting! He strode officiously forward, shotgun tucked beneath his arm, to confront them. “Stop that, you filthy little beasts. Stop this instant!”

Rosie turned to stare at him. Charlie just sniffed and continued slurping up water. The keeper nudged him with the toe of his boot.

“You, boy, are you deaf?”

Charlie wiped the back of his hand across his chin. “Course I’m not deaf. I could hear you comin’ ages before you got here.”

Resting the gun loosely in the crook of his arm, the gamekeeper gave them his officially stern gaze. “You’re both trespassing on private land, you shouldn’t be anywhere near these woods. What’s your name, little girl?”

Rosie smiled innocently. “Little girl.”

He pointed at her warningly. “Don’t be so impudent. I know you, you’re the Glegg kid. Huh, born troublemaker. Now, where d’you live, young man?”

Charlie spread both arms in a carefree gesture. “Here.”

The gamekeeper decided that he had put up with enough insolence. He took hold of their arms, squeezing slightly, to let them know he meant business. “Now clear off, the pair of you. If I catch you ag—Yowch!”

Charlie Lupus’s teeth nipped the man’s hand. In the same movement he grabbed Rosie’s wrist and sped off. She gasped for breath as he whirled her along. Trees and bushes humming past her in a green blur, Rosie’s feet pounded the earth, fifty to the dozen. She was dragged madly onward, with Charlie’s wild laughter ringing in her ears. They charged headlong, crashing through brambles, leaping ditches, bounding through leafy glades. Behind them, the keeper’s angry cries faded into the high sunny afternoon.

Emerging from the woodlands, Rosie steered Charlie over to the bus terminal. She pointed out great horse chestnut trees, boasting that only she could climb them. Charlie Lupus shook his head, dappled sunlight playing on his tawny mop.

“Don’t like climbin’, I’m best at runnin’!”

There were big houses with driveways on the opposite side of the lane. A huge German shepherd dog came pelting out of the first one. Snarling viciously, fangs bared and back bristling, it came at them. Rosie Glegg was not afraid of dogs. She cast about for a stone to throw at it. Charlie suddenly dropped on all fours, showing his teeth. He gave voice to a weird, bloodcurdling howl, and ran at the dog.

The transformation was immediate. With a pitiful yelp, the big dog turned. It fled back up the driveway, whining, its tail curled between its back legs. Rosie stared at him in admiration. “Good ole Charlie, how’d you do that?”

Wrinkling his nose, her friend gave a funny little growl. “S’easy, I’ll teach you sometime. Hey, watch this, Rosie!”

A tabby cat with half-closed eyes was squatting on top of an ornamental gatepost, paying scant attention to them. Charlie narrowed his lips and faced the cat. He gave a short, fierce bark. The cat leapt from the gatepost into a nearby beech tree. Clawing its way swiftly into the thin upper branches, it swayed there, meowing pleadingly for help.

Rosie patted her friend’s back. “That’ll be good practice for the firemen, they like rescuin’ cats.”

Charlie lolloped up the lane ahead of her. He knew he needed to get Rosie out of the park. “C’mon, there’s a bus just ready to leave.”

The bus driver looked on despairingly as the ragged moppet boarded his vehicle. He had spent many perilous journeys ferrying Rosie Glegg around the area. Cursing his ill luck silently, he accepted the well-chewed return ticket and started the engine. Rosie was the sole passenger as the bus rumbled off. Charlie ran easily beside the vehicle with a steady lope. He called to Rosie as she clambered over the seats, opening all the windows wide.

“See you tomorrow, I’ll be by the lake!”

Rosie hung halfway out of the last window. “What about tonight? I’ll escape from home, where’ll you be?”

Charlie halted in a cloud of dust as the bus accelerated. “Maybe in the adventure playground. . . . Maybe!”

Rosie Glegg knelt on the backseat, waving, as her strange new pal diminished into the distance. She smiled, a rare and beautiful smile, imagining the fun they could have together. Then she turned and began pulling hideous faces, which the driver could see in his rearview mirror. Cramming a fistful of antistress tablets into his mouth, the object of her attention drove heedlessly through a red light, anxious to reach 152 Trafalgar Crescent, the Glegg residence.

Rosie retired to her bedroom promptly at eight-thirty every evening. Her careworn mother collapsed in an easy chair, knowing that on the dot of eight forty-five, her husband would arrive home. Mr. Glegg would tiptoe in, fervently hoping that his daughter would be asleep. Some hope! At nine o’clock Rosie shimmied nimbly down the back drainpipe, leapt onto the toolshed roof and scrambled over the rear fence to commence her night ramble.