Mr Mahli's Shed Page 3

  This thought occurred to TB just as the class was heading out for their afternoon play. He hung back from the line of children filing out of the door and sneaked over to the cupboard. ‘Dylan,’ he hissed ‘you still in there?’

  ‘Course I am boy,’ came the reply ‘just about made it comfortable. Did you happen to bring along any cigars?’

  ‘No! I’m nine!’ exclaimed TB. ‘Where on earth would I get cigars? Anyway Dylan, you really shouldn’t smoke you know.’

  ‘Why the devil not boy?’ Dylan looked down at his not-body, then back up at TB with a twinkle in his eye. ‘It’s not going to kill me is it?’

  TB snorted. ‘S’pose not. Anyway, what were you on about – you’ve made it comfortable? What’ve you been doing to Mrs Best’s cupboard?’ TB glanced around the shelves and floor, but he couldn’t see anything out of place.

  Dylan looked smug. ‘Creative thinking, lad. Creative thinking.’ His eyes stretched up to the ceiling and TB followed their gaze with his own. There, up on the ceiling of Mrs Best’s cluttered cupboard, was a perfect replica of the inside of Mr Mahli’s shed. Dylan had projected his wishes around the single hanging light bulb and created his own upside-down den.

  ‘How do you get up there?’ TB asked in astonishment.

  ‘I think it. Then I do it. You’re not a free thinker boy, that’s your problem. The only limits are the limits you give yourself,’ Dylan declared grandly. And with that, he took a deep breath, relaxed his legs and glided – almost gracefully – up to his comfy chair on the ceiling.

  The effect was spoilt, ever so slightly, by the light bulb popping as Dylan’s head drifted through it, and the cupboard plunging into darkness. But TB was suitably impressed and decided to leave Dylan there to go out to play, as he was quite safe and TB really needed a wee.

  When the class came back they finished off their science and cleared away their things and it was time for them to go home. Mrs Best called out to the children, ‘Right, the tidiest, most splendid, shiniest, smartest, most wondrous, fabulous…’ the class frantically started tidying, they knew where she was going with this, ‘cleanest table is going home first.’

  During the frenzied rush to be the tidiest, most splendid, most shiny (oh, you get the idea) table, TB spotted Dylan’s face peering over the top of the cupboard door. He looked around quickly, but no one else had noticed a thing. TB leant down to the rucksack under his desk and slowly pulled the drawstring open. When he looked up at Dylan however, Dylan was shaking his head. TB was confused, didn’t Dylan want to go in the bag? He couldn’t possibly want to stay in school all night. Urgh! Imagine that: a night in a dark, creepy, huge empty building. With spiders and rats and maths textbooks. TB shrugged his shoulders at Dylan and held the bag up towards him, but Dylan shook his head and pointed to the ceiling of the cupboard.

  TB couldn’t let it go. ‘You’re staying here all night?’ he hissed incredulously. He was a little bit too loud and Mrs Best looked up sharply from her desk.

  ‘No Tomos, I’m not staying here all night.’ The children had mostly finished tidying and they stood behind their chairs, mildly listening to the conversation. ‘Us teachers have homes to go to too you know.’ She smiled.

  TB nodded and began to explain that he knew that and that he wasn’t talking to Mrs Best but then he stopped. If he wasn’t talking to her, who was he talking to? That’d be a tricky one to explain. Anyway, it didn’t matter because Mrs Best was on a roll now.

  ‘We like to go home at the end of the day and put the telly on,’ she continued. ‘We make ourselves some yummy tea and take off our teacher masks.’ Some children tittered. ‘We like to snuggle down on our warm red sofas with a large mug of tea and a book. Even us boring old teachers enjoy getting cosy in our super-soft tiger onesies.’ Mrs Best’s hand flew up to her mouth and the class burst into giggles.

  ‘Oh no!’ Mrs Best cried, ‘I’ve said far too much! What would happen to my reputation as a Very Serious Person if they all knew about the tiger onesie?’ The class laughed again, the idea of their smart teacher in a tiger onesie was just ridiculous.

  ‘Right,’ Mrs Best began, in a stern voice, ‘Year 4, stand up straight.’ The children did as they were told (except Danny Gerard who’d found something far more interesting up his left nostril which needed all his concentration).

  ‘Put one hand on your hearts. And one hand on your dictionary.’ Hands shot out across the room. ‘Repeat after me,’ Mrs Best instructed, ‘I do solemnly swear…’

  ‘I do solemnly swear…’ chorused Year 4.

  ‘That I – insert your own name here…’

  ‘That I Alys, Jac, Tomos, Casey…’ Names were shouted out all over the classroom.

  ‘Will never, ever, not ever tell anyone…’

  ‘Will never, ever, not ever tell anyone…’

  ‘About Mrs Best…’

  ‘About Mrs Best…’

  ‘Wearing a tiger onesie at home…’

  ‘Wearing a tiger onesie at home…’

  ‘With fluffy ears…’

  ‘With fluffy ears…’ giggled the class.

  ‘And … a tail.’

  The class erupted into laughter. A deep chuckle was amongst them but only Alys and TB heard it.

  Seconds later everyone was pouring out into the yard. Another day at school done and a ghost left quite alone in the teacher’s cupboard.

  Eleven

  Toilet Monitors

  It was worrying TB and Alys that they couldn’t speak to Dylan whenever they wanted to. He had been in the cupboard for nearly a week now, and although he hadn’t caused any massive problems (Mrs Best always came out shivering and a couple of weird noises had caught some people’s attention, but that was it) the children were not entirely happy with him being there.

  The two friends sat on the wall in the yard one lunchtime and mulled the problem over. ‘I tried to get in the classroom this morning, just before school, but Mrs Best always locks the door when she’s not in there. I don’t really fancy doing another Bond-style break in,’ Alys said. ‘Look what happened last time.’

  TB looked thoughtful and rubbed his chin with his finger. Alys laughed, ‘Alright Sherlock, you don’t have to act like you’re planning a major heist.’

  ‘No, I’m not!’ protested TB, ‘I’m just getting the ketchup off.’ And to prove it he stuck a slightly orange finger into his mouth. Alys wrinkled her nose and looked the other way.

  ‘What we need,’ said TB slowly, ‘what we need, is a job.’

  ‘What like fruit-tuck monitor?’ asked Alys.

  ‘Yes, exactly, but a job that means we can be in the classroom when no one else is around.’

  ‘Good plan. What job?’

  ‘I haven’t got that far yet,’ admitted TB. The pair sat in silence, trying to think of a job that would get them in the cupboard. Luckily, they didn’t have to wait very long.

  As the class sat painting with watercolours that afternoon, Gemma Bradley’s hand shot up. ‘Mrs Best, please can I go to the toilet?’ she jigged about a bit on her chair. Mrs Best sighed.

  ‘Gemma, why didn’t you go at lunchtime? You know you’re not supposed to go in lesson time.’ Teachers always tell you this but never believe that you genuinely didn’t need to go at lunchtime. Gemma tried explaining but Mrs Best cut her off.

  ‘Also Gemma, remember that if you need to go you have to ask in Welsh!’

  Gemma was jigging a bit harder now and biting her lip with worry. Mrs Best noticed this and gestured towards the door.

  ‘Go on then, Gemma,’ she said, as Gemma dashed across the room. The rest of the class could hear her yell out as she ran towards the toilet, ‘Ga i fynd i’r tˆy bach os gwelwch yn dda!’

  Mrs Best laughed and shut the door behind Gemma. Things carried on calmly for about ten minutes until suddenly Alys looked up and realised Gemma hadn’t come back. She pointed this out to Mrs Best who sent Gemma’s best friend, Eleni, out to see if Gemma was OK.

  Eleni ca
me back on her own. ‘Mrs Best, there’s no loo roll! Gemma’s well upset, she says she’s been sitting there for ages but she can’t get up ’cos she needs to wipe and she’s got no…’

  ‘Toilet paper, yes I understand, Eleni. Hang on, I’ll get some out of the cu…’

  ‘I’ll get it, Mrs Best!’ called Alys, as she flew across the room and barged through the cupboard door. She presented the fresh roll of toilet paper to Eleni, who took it straight to her poor, stranded friend.

  Alys saw her moment. Much to Mrs Best’s surprise Alys and then TB proudly volunteered to become Singleton School’s First-Ever Toilet Monitors.

  Twelve

  A Little Close For Comfort

  Playtime was the best time of day to collect fresh toilet supplies from the cupboard. Mrs Best always went to the staffroom for ‘medicinal purposes’ (coffee) and Alys was given the classroom key. On their first day in the job, Alys and TB ducked into the classroom and shut the door firmly behind them.

  ‘Dylan? It’s OK it’s us,’ stage-whispered TB, opening the cupboard.

  ‘Oh the bog monsters is it?’ came back the deep voice. ‘Feeling a little flush are we? Just a wee bit smelly aren’t you? Look at the state urine!’ Dylan laughed heartily at himself. The children just sighed.

  ‘None of that makes any sense, Dylan. You’re hysterical,’ commented Alys, ‘and not like ha ha.’

  ‘Look Dylan, it’s only a matter of time before you blow your cover,’ said TB. ‘I think we’ve got to make a plan to get you out of here.’

  Dylan stopped chuckling straight away and folded his arms tightly across his chest. ‘I’m not ready to go,’ he announced, ‘I like it here and I’ve not been any trouble. I’m actually starting to feel a little bit more … substantial in this cluttered cupboard. I may want to stay.’

  ‘But you can’t stay!’ cried Alys. ‘You can’t possibly stay in school forever. What about Mrs Best? What about the summer holidays?’

  ‘And what about Mr Mahli?’ finished TB.

  The children stared at Dylan, waiting for his response. They fully expected an argument. But Dylan lowered his arms (or raised them as he was upside-down in his chair on the ceiling) and suddenly looked sad.

  ‘Mr Mahli,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I suppose I’d almost forgotten about him. He’s been a good friend to me that man. A good host. A man with no questions you know? A comrade.’ Dylan nodded to himself as he thought about what he should do. After a couple of seconds he brightened. ‘Well, we’ve got a week left haven’t we? If the date on that board is correct, Mahli won’t be back ’til then. So, we may as well keep me here for now. You two can come and check on me when you collect your … supplies, and I’ll stay quiet as a spider the rest of the time.’

  Alys and TB had to agree with this. One more week seemed perfectly reasonable. And if either of them were faintly suspicious of Dylan’s promise, they didn’t share it with the other and the pair left the cupboard and the classroom and went out to play, feeling ever-so-slightly uneasy for the rest of the day.

  It was during English the next day that things started to go wrong. Mrs Best was out for the morning doing some sort of training and a supply teacher called Miss Terry was teaching instead. Danny Gerard had found this very amusing and tried calling out, ‘It’s a Miss Terry!’ as the answer to every question but Miss Terry was more stern than mysterious and had quickly threatened him with a trip to the head teacher if he ‘continued with that nonsense’.

  Miss Terry had written the date and the focus for the lesson on the board and Dylan was interested to see the word ‘Poetry’ written in her neat, curling script. It was something he knew quite a bit about and his not-heart quickened a little as he thought of the possible ideas Miss Terry might give the children. Perhaps a bit of drama, a picture or an interesting object might be put before the class. Perhaps she’d read them some poems or play them some music.

  ‘What are adjectives?’ began Miss Terry. Polly Peter knew. She always knew stuff like that.

  ‘Describing words, Miss,’ she announced.

  ‘Correct,’ affirmed Miss Terry. ‘Because you are looking at our solar system in your topic work, I’d like you to write a poem, using adjectives, to describe a planet. You write the name of the planet in capital letters down the side of your page, like this.’ She demonstrated writing the word SATURN vertically down the page. ‘Then you have to think of a word beginning with each letter, to start a sentence to describe the planet. Off you go now please. And do it without a sound.’

  After this, she sat down, pulled a pile of maths books towards her and began to mark them swiftly, with harsh red pen.

  Polly had already started, as had Amelia and David. But the rest of the class looked a little stumped. Alys leant over to TB and whispered, ‘How am I supposed to describe a planet when I have no idea what it looks like or anything?’

  ‘I know,’ replied TB. ‘I haven’t got a clue. And look at Katie!’ The children glanced over to where Katie was sitting to see a big fat tear land ‘plop!’ on her book. Katie couldn’t do stuff like this on her own, Mrs Best always helped to start her off.

  Dylan watched from the cupboard. He shook his head at the stern teacher, who seemed unaware of the crying child, and at the sight of the silent classroom where the children struggled to think of anything to write. The more he watched, the angrier he became. He stared at the word ‘Poetry’ boldly written on the board, giving a bad name to his favourite thing. He heard the boy nearest to the cupboard mutter to his friend, ‘I hate poetry.’ And that was that. Dylan squeezed his body out of the crack in the door and walked to the front of the class.

  TB and Alys looked up in shock. ‘No, don’t!’ cried TB before he could stop himself and Alys leaped to her feet. Miss Terry jumped up in surprise too, but her surprise was at the children, she didn’t see the man standing by her side.

  ‘What on earth are you two doing?’ Miss Terry demanded. It took TB a couple of seconds (wide-open mouthed ones) before he could answer. Desperately looking around the class, he saw that all the other children were looking at him not at Dylan. His eyes stopped darting about and landed on Katie.

  ‘It’s Katie, Miss Terry. We were worried about her and thought she might be sick.’

  Miss Terry frowned and turned to face Katie who (luckily for TB and Alys) was still sniffling and dropping tears on her book. ‘Are you going to be sick, Katie?’ Miss Terry asked with a grimace on her face. Katie saw a way out and nodded. ‘Well then, take yourself off to the toilet, girl. Goodness me, we don’t want a classroom full of sick people do we?’ snapped the teacher. And poor Katie pushed her chair back and legged it.

  Dylan stood very close to Miss Terry as she stood before the class. ‘Everyone else get back to work,’ she ordered, ‘and no more rude disruption from you two.’ She pointed the pen she was holding directly at TB and Alys and scowled at them. They sat down slowly, watching Miss Terry and Dylan all the time. Dylan cleared his throat loudly. Alys and TB gasped quietly at the sound of Dylan’s cough and a few children looked up sharply. Miss Terry shivered suddenly and turned towards the open door. As she got up to close it, Dylan seemed to muster all his strength and swung his arm round like he was bowling in a cricket match. To Alys and TB’s surprise the pen shot straight out of Miss Terry’s hand with such force that it hit the ceiling before falling to the ground.

  ‘What … what.’ Miss Terry looked at her hand, then at the pen on the floor, then back to her hand several times. ‘Who did that?’ she demanded, and narrowed her eyes at the children closest to her. Dylan smirked and moved closer to her again. He took a deep breath and blew, as hard as he could, on the back of her neck. Miss Terry’s dark hair flew forward over her face and she screamed sharply as she ducked behind the desk. The children were confused and surprised but they couldn’t help laughing at the sight of Miss Terry cowering behind her chair.

  ‘Stop it at once!’ she shrieked. ‘Whoever is doing that, just stop it at once!’ This wasn’t
the best thing to say to Dylan, who was really enjoying Miss Terry’s reaction. With an elaborate sweep of his arms he pushed the books and papers off Mrs Best’s desk. Miss Terry screamed again and the children jumped out of their chairs to get a better look. They watched in amazement as Miss Terry flapped around amongst the books, trying to get to her feet. The ones who were looking also saw a whiteboard pen lift up from the desk all by itself and hover over to the board. They were too surprised to call out to the rest of the class and just watched with open mouths and held breath as the pen put a wobbly line straight through the word ‘Poetry’ on the board.

  Alys watched Dylan run to the other end of the classroom, holding his side and laughing like a moped engine. Suddenly he stopped and his face lit up. I don’t mean like your face lights up on Christmas morning when you see your stocking, but really and truly lit up, as though a hundred tiny LED lights had been turned on underneath his skin. Alys pulled TB towards her.

  ‘Look!’ she urged ‘look at him!’

  TB pulled his gaze away from Miss Terry. The rest of the class were transfixed by her and were torn between helping, laughing or running to the toilet because the laughing had got too much.

  ‘Woah!’ exclaimed TB, ‘what’s he doing?’ Dylan’s glowing expression had turned quite serious. He seemed to be concentrating really hard on something. His body was crouching slightly and his hands were bunched into white fists. ‘Oh no. What if it was all too much?’ TB hissed in Alys’ ear. ‘What if something’s happening to him? Should we go over?’

  ‘No! Just stay put TB. He doesn’t look upset or anything. He just looks as though he’s … I dunno … trying to do something.’

  ‘Uh, oh.’ TB said quietly.

  Miss Terry had finally managed to stand up and was ordering some of the children closest to her to pick up her books and pens. Her dark hair flew around her face wildly and her glasses sat at a jaunty angle on her hooked nose. She straightened her clothes and looked around for her left shoe. She was about to send someone to fetch the head teacher when there was a shout from the back of the classroom where Aled Phillips was sitting.