The Boy Who Grew Dragons Page 3

  The reason they live quite so close is because when I was younger I had this hole in my heart. Which sounds pretty weird, I know. I mean, what does that even look like? I always imagined being able to stare through it like my heart was a doughnut. But it wasn’t actually like that. I mean, for one thing there wasn’t pink icing and sparkly hundreds and thousands lining my insides like on a doughnut, which would at least have made up for stuff a bit. But I was pretty poorly when I was little and so Nana and Grandad moved here to help look after me while Mum and Dad were at work.

  When I was about five I had to have an operation because the doughnut hole wasn’t closing up like they’d hoped. When I heard the word ‘operation’ I thought it would be like that game where you have to fish things out with tweezers. And I couldn’t stop worrying that I’d make this horrible buzzing noise and startle the doctor so much he’d fling my heart across the room. But he reassured me that he’d played that game for years and never been buzzed, not once, so I let him do the operation, for real. And he did a good job.

  But Mum and Dad still won’t accept that it’s mended now and I’m better. They still think I’m fragile and would like to put me in one of those giant plastic balls you can bounce around in at fairs, to keep me safe. It’s a good job Grandad’s here; he’s a firm believer in ‘letting kids be kids’.

  He says I need to be allowed to find stuff out for myself. Even if sometimes that means I get a few bumps and scrapes.

  Like the time I showed him my design for roller skates after Mum and Dad refused to get me some. It involved a lot of Blu-Tack, Sellotape and biros. But he let me build them anyway. It wasn’t a total success, but I did learn how much the floor hurts when you hit it with your face. Which is in itself an important lesson, so Grandad said.

  So, like I say, I’m totally fine now. Apart from being a teeny bit on the teeny side – and the doctor said I’ll probably shoot up like a bean one day. But I’m still waiting for that.

  On the upside, it means Nana and Grandad live only two minutes and forty-five seconds away. On the downside, I can’t help wondering if all that looking after me was what made Grandad poorly. Because now he has a funny heart, and not the funny-ha-ha kind. Mum and Dad insist it’s nothing to do with me, and Nana says it’s more likely because of all the trifle and cheese he used to eat, but I still can’t help thinking Grandad was supposed to be retired and taking it easy, not running round after me. I wasn’t a patient patient. I didn’t like being poorly, and sometimes when I watched my friends all playing footie and I wasn’t allowed I used to get really cross. I even remember shouting at Grandad and hiding from him on purpose – so he had to hunt for me for ages. Which can’t have been very nice – or restful.

  But whenever I start to worry about him he accuses me of sticking him in a giant plastic ball. So even though there’ll always be this little raw bit deep down in my belly whenever I think of that, I keep it to myself.

  When I arrived that morning I headed straight round the back. I could see Nana through the kitchen window, leaning over a huge saucepan, steam swirling up around her. A sweet, fruity smell came floating out towards me.

  I gave her a wave and hurried down the garden, across the neat lawn, through the little group of apple and pear trees with their low crooked branches and on past the abandoned beehives, which Grandad is always promising to clean up but never has.

  And then I saw him in the far corner, spade poised, ready to tear up the roots of the dragon-fruit tree. I shrieked and ran towards him.

  ‘Grandad. Stop!’

  ‘Hey-up, Chipstick. Hope you’ve brought your muscles,’ he said. ‘We need to shift this thing. Then we can start planning what’s going where.’

  He pointed his spade at the dangly cactus-like tentacles.

  ‘But, Grandad,’ I panted, trying to catch my breath, ‘I found out what it is. It’s a dragon-fruit tree.’ I quickly stepped in front of his outstretched spade. ‘I looked it up last night.’

  Grandad’s face wrinkled. ‘Never heard of one of those.’

  He angled the spade again, ready to do battle.

  ‘I thought I could look after it,’ I spluttered.

  ‘But it’s taking up half the veggie plot. We could get some nice beans in there. Wouldn’t you prefer some nice beans?’

  I shook my head till I thought my brains would fall out, then blurted out the only thing I could think of that might make him change his mind. ‘Didn’t you want some fancy fruit? Think of it: dragon-fruit jam. You don’t get many dragon-fruit jam tarts, do you?’

  Grandad rested on his spade and peered across at me. He was giving me his ‘What are you up to?’ look. Then he winked and said, ‘Best tell Nana to prepare for some dragon-fruit crumble as well then, hey?’

  He turned away and began battling with a bramble. I breathed a sigh of relief. Pulling open my pocket, I stared down at the little dragon curled inside. His bright diamond eyes twinkled back up at me.

  For the next hour Grandad had me hard at work. I’d left my hoodie, with the little dragon in the pocket, on a pile of dry grass cuttings. He’d seemed happy enough to stay curled up since the excitement at breakfast. But I couldn’t help casting glances at it and smiling at the thought of what lay inside. I can’t say I was all that heroic about the digging we were doing, but every time I started moaning Grandad popped a caramel toffee in my mouth.

  We were just loading another wheelbarrow with tangled brambles when someone grunted. We both turned and saw a grim-looking man in faded blue dungarees wielding a hand fork like it was a lethal weapon. He was leaning across the wire fence that separated Grandad’s garden from the one next door.

  ‘What’d you think you’re playing at?’ he said, pointing at me.

  ‘To be fair, I’m not sure he’d say this was playing,’ Grandad chuckled.

  Too right! I had blisters on my blisters from all the digging.

  ‘I’ve had vandals in my garden, you know,’ the man said. ‘Caused all sorts of mess. Kids mucking about in those fields think they can go where they like, including my garden. No respect any more. I won’t be having it. I’ll be watching. And I’ll be taking matters into my own hands next time it happens.’ And he pointed a threatening finger at me as if I was the one to blame.

  ‘Well, this here is my grandson and he’s doing me a great favour by clearing the garden with me,’ Grandad said, still friendly but his voice firm. ‘He’s a good lad. He won’t need watching.’

  The man glared at me, like he was waiting for me to show my true colours, and eventually growled, ‘You just keep away from what’s mine, you hear?’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Grandad popped a toffee in so I couldn’t get the words out.

  Then the man pointed his fork past us towards the ugly heap of debris we’d piled up from our digging. There was lots and lots of bongleweed.

  ‘You’d better not let that lot near my garden. Blinking stuff – once it takes a hold you can never get rid of it. You won’t get anything growing in there, not after that weed’s dug its roots in.’

  ‘Well, it’s early days, but we’ll get there,’ said Grandad, ignoring the old man’s tone. He was like a chirpy robin cheerfully making its nest on a Rottweiler’s head.

  ‘Blooming disgrace this,’ the man said, waving in the general direction of Grandad’s garden, and he turned away, mumbling something else under his breath.

  ‘Who is that?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s our new neighbour, moved in a month or so ago. Name’s Jim.’

  ‘Grim more like,’ I muttered.

  We watched him stomp off towards his shed, where he wrestled with the huge padlock. He slammed the door behind him and for a second we saw his face at the window, glowering out at us. Then a piece of ragged curtain was roughly pulled across.

  ‘Poor fella,’ Grandad said. ‘Bet he just sat on a bumble bee.’

  That’s something that always amazes me about Grandad. He’s brilliant at dealing with people. Even if someone
is being horrible, he doesn’t let it bother him. Not like it always bothers me. Instead of feeling cross or being rude back, Grandad actually seems to stick up for them. ‘Poor blighter,’ he’ll say, ‘bet it was his birthday and everyone forgot.’

  Me, I reckon some people are just like that. Rude, I mean. What was Grim’s problem, pointing his bony finger at me? As if I’d go near his stupid garden.

  I was pretty sure it wasn’t vandals either – at least not the kind he was thinking of. Because I’d seen something that Grim hadn’t.

  There were dragon fruits littering the ground around the tree. They had burst open, leaving trails of messy pulp across the dirt. I counted them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Six burst fruits.

  But did that really mean there were six tiny dragons hatched and on the loose? If so, then where were they now?

  As I walked home I kept my hand in my pocket. I needed to feel the little dragon, just to check that this was all truly happening. Because everyone always says I have a great imagination, and it’s true – I don’t just daydream, I daydream in Technicolor with surround sound! So it could have all been wishful thinking, couldn’t it?

  But as I walked, I felt my dragon’s claws gently scraping my palm. And then I felt him curl up on my hand, coiling his tail around my wrist. And I knew this was no daydream. This was the real deal.

  I looked up at the clouds and imagined my dragon flying through the sky, fully grown. Soaring up into the blue, a jet of flame blazing from his mouth, me on his back … Inside my pocket, his hot breath warmed my skin, and with every puff the dream of flying flared brighter.

  But by the time I’d got home I knew that dreams of flying would have to wait. Because, let’s face it, my dragon didn’t even fill a shoebox. I wasn’t going to get far on him. And as for jets of flame, the most he spluttered out were sparks. And that was mainly because he kept sneezing. He seemed to have a cold or be allergic to everything!

  As I climbed the stairs, the dragon popped his head out of my pocket and sneezed for the gazillionth time. Covering my hand with the end of my sleeve, I caught the glowing spark before it could singe the carpet. I was going to be an ace cricketer at this rate – I’d have the sharpest reflexes in the school.

  Safely in my room, I lifted him out and settled him on my desk. He hopped about, inspecting things. I wondered what I was going to call him.

  Red? Scorch? Blaze?

  I tried them out, calling them to him. They were all good dragon names. But none of them quite fit this little shimmering creature.

  Obviously unimpressed by any of the names so far, he flew over to my cheese plant and started nibbling at the few remaining leaves. When he’d eaten his fill, he fluttered up to my shoulder and curled his tail around my neck. His scales glimmered turquoise, gold and back to ruby red. Like a contented wave of colour flickering over his body.

  Flicker. I smiled and said the word aloud.

  The dragon tilted his head and looked at me.

  He uncurled himself, rose up into the air and sent out another spray of sparks in a glittering arc. And as he did, his scales flickered again, this time in the sunlight that shone through my bedroom window.

  I laughed, racing to snuff out each spark. ‘OK then. Flicker it is.’

  Monday mornings involve a lot of running, arm-waving, shrieking and crying – it’s one of the days Mum works at the vets’, and the only day Dad doesn’t work from home – so getting me to school, Lolli to nursery and them to work can be a bit of a challenge. For them anyway. I usually just kick about in my room, avoiding all of the above until it’s time for breakfast.

  But that was before Flicker. On my first school day since the baby dragon had arrived, I was more panicked than Mum and Dad combined.

  My first job was poo patrol. I’d already learned the best way to deal with Flicker’s poos was with a pair of oven gloves and a water pistol. Just in case any had dried out to the point of detonation. Then I used one of Lolli’s little plastic spades from last year’s holiday at the beach to shovel them up and drop them down the toilet. Quick wash of the spade in the sink and the worst job was done.

  The next thing was emptying out my toy box and lining it with some fresh paper and my old dressing gown. I was planning on leaving Flicker my cheese plant and a bowl of water. On that first night I’d been so caught up in the whole ‘I have a dragon’ hysteria I’d forgotten he’d need to drink. It was only when I’d gone to the loo and turned round to see him about to nose-dive into the toilet that I figured that one out. Luckily I caught him just in time. The last thing I wanted was him thinking that was the water bowl!

  By the time I left for school I was pretty sure Flicker had everything he’d need to spend the day on his own in my room. But by the time I got to school I had a nagging feeling I had forgotten something. As I was racking my brains, Ted, Kat and Kai raced over.

  ‘Hey, Tomas. Did you know humans share fifty per cent of their DNA with bananas?’ Ted said.

  I didn’t.

  ‘And they’re herbs too, you know.’

  ‘Humans?’

  ‘Bananas! They’re herbs, not fruit.’

  I hadn’t known that either. But then I wasn’t sure anyone other than Ted knew this stuff. His head was full of it.

  I’ve known Ted since we were goldfish. I mean, not actual goldfish, but the size of them. When our mums found out they were pregnant they went to this class where you find out what to do with babies – I’ve no idea what they learned, but it had something to do with llamas, I think. That’s where they met, and so that’s when Ted and I first met – although being squished inside our mums meant our first play dates were a bit limited. We were even due to arrive on the same day – which would have been pretty cool really as we’d have the same birthday – but Ted went and barged his way out early, so he had a full two weeks with no best mate, which kind of serves him right.

  Kat and Kai we met on our first day at school. They’re twins. Like me and Lolli, they genuinely seem to like each other. It doesn’t stop them arguing, mind you, but if push comes to shove, if you mess with one, expect the other to come wading in for them.

  So there’s the four of us – and it’s been like that since forever.

  ‘You OK, Tomas?’ Kat asked. ‘Where’d you get all those scratches?’

  I rubbed my arm. Until Flicker had got the hang of his tail, every time he batted it about, the arrowhead end had gouged into my skin.

  ‘Er … Tomtom,’ I said hurriedly.

  ‘What about that?’ she asked, pointing at my hand.

  I fiddled with the plaster. It was just a mild burn from my first poo patrol – before the oven glove.

  ‘Er …’

  I’m rubbish at lying. I panic and then my overactive imagination gets involved. For some reason right then, Nana’s tortoise, Jacko, popped into my head. Only he was a ninja tortoise with a jetpack. I was just about to blurt out that I’d been attacked by a torpedo tortoise when luckily I was saved by Mr Peters ringing the bell.

  I lunged for the door, just managing to get in front of Liam ‘I-rule-the-universe’ Sawston.

  ‘Oi!’ he wailed. ‘Sir, Tomas just elbowed me.’

  I’d actually brushed his arm with the tip of my littlest finger, but Liam’s not one to bother with details.

  Without hanging about to see if ‘sir’ was going to call me back, I ducked inside and made for our classroom.

  I’m not known for my brilliant concentration in class. In fact Miss Logan has repeatedly said she wishes there was an Olympic medal for daydreaming because I’d win gold. By the time I’d absent-mindedly glued Amira’s sleeve to the table and painted stripes across Seb’s left hand, it wasn’t just Miss Logan raising her eyebrows. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Flicker was doing and if I’d been right to leave him alone at home.

  It was then that I noticed Ted’s nose wrinkling. He leaned closer. Was he smelling me?

  I edged away, giving my arm a snif
f and scanning my clothes, wondering if I’d got so used to the whiff of dragon poo that I hadn’t noticed I’d got some on me.

  ‘Dude, what is with you today?’ Kai whispered. ‘You’re being off-the-scale weird.’

  But before I had the chance to blame any rogue tortoises Mr Firth strode into the classroom.

  ‘Ready for the rounders competition, Miss Logan?’ he bellowed. ‘We’ve been looking forward to this all term. I hope you’ve had your class working on their skills after last term’s netball fiasco.’

  Miss Logan smiled serenely.

  ‘I think we’re ready for you, Mr Firth.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that, Miss Logan, but I suppose we must admire your optimism. Of course, my lot depend on ability more than wishful thinking. Anyway, the match has been scheduled for 2 p.m. I’ll be taking Lightning Class out for warm-up beforehand. You’re welcome to join us, if you don’t think we’ll scare the opposition.’

  From the look he gave us as he said the word ‘opposition’ it was clear he didn’t think we qualified as a serious threat. He didn’t throw back his head like some dastardly villain and scoff outright, but we all knew Mr Firth thought his class was going to wipe the floor with us.

  And even Miss Logan didn’t look quite so serene after he’d left.

  I could tell Ted, Kat and Kai wanted to quiz me properly when we were on our way out of class, so I hung on behind, pretending I’d lost my pen under the table. Part of me would have liked to tell them everything, but another part wanted to keep Flicker all to myself. I’d never had anything as cool as Flicker before and I wasn’t sure I was ready to share him. Not yet.

  But I was beginning to realise that, with my terrible lying skills, keeping him a secret might not be as easy as I’d thought. The exploding poo didn’t help either.

  It happened while we were getting into our PE kits. I lifted out my shorts, and my heart sank. There were dark scorch marks across the bum. But it was the smell that everyone else noticed first. One of Flicker’s dried-up poos had exploded, covering every inch of the bag.