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- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
Life could be better for Conor Corcoran. Class bully Damian Deegan is always teasing him about being small and having no friends – when in fact Conor has the only friend he needs in Charlotte 'Charlie' Finch, the toughest girl in school. But when Conor and Charlie accidentally uncover a prehistoric man who was flash-frozen in a block of ice, life suddenly gets a bit too interesting! How long can Conor keep his huge, hairy (and rather smelly) new 'uncle' a secret from his mum, his teachers and a gang of ruthless scientists?
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FOR THEO, AND FOR SAM, THE EXPERT LISTENER
Contents
Chapter One
Ice Cold near Annamoe
Conor Claypole Corcoran was a quiet sort of boy. He was the sort of boy who wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose. Let me explain: even if it was Hallowe’en and he was all dressed up with a sheet over his head pretending to be a ghost, and the door he bing-bonged on the doorbell of was opened by an actual goose wearing a cardigan, smoking a pipe and holding a large, tempting wooden bowl of fizzy jellies and fruity chews, he still couldn’t bring himself to say ‘boo’.
Mind you, that’s a pretty unlikely scenario. It has probably only happened in real life one or two times. Three at most. Whoever heard of a goose smoking a pipe? A cardigan I can understand – especially for Canadian geese. Canada can be chilly – but a PIPE??
I think gooses (or ‘geese’, if you must) on the whole prefer chewing bubblegum to smoking pipes. It explains the large amount of dried-out bubblegum found on the roofs of bus shelters.
And those pink, round things you see floating up high in the sky from time to time – escaped weather balloons? Nope. Gooses (or ‘geese’. Sheeze! Have it YOUR way!), GEESE, blowing bubblegum bubbles as they fly north for winter. Or south, if they fancy a sun holiday instead.
But where was I? Oh, yes. Conor.
SSSSSHHHHHHH!!! Did you hear that?
Neither did I: it was the sound of Conor not saying very much.
He really was a quiet chap.
And, unfortunately for Conor, being quiet was a personality trait that didn’t help much in scouts, especially at meal times. ‘Who wants a sausage?’ the shout would go up. ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ the scouts would cry, each one competing to be the loudest, to get the juiciest, most succulent sausage they could. But from Conor? No sound at all. Not a sausage. Which, incidentally, is what he usually got for his dinner on scout trips: zero sausages. He was too quiet and shy to speak up, so he went hungry instead.
Or at least, he would have gone hungry if he hadn’t learned the first rule of scouts: to be prepared. Before every weekender he packed into his capacious rucksack his toothbrush, his pyjamas, his slippers, his knife and fork and spoon and plastic dish, his compass, his pillow, his yoga mat, his sleeping bag, his flashlight, his shovel and his map. And because he was a conscientious scout who remembered the scout motto (and because he didn’t want to starve), every week he also packed sandwiches, bars of chocolate and cartons of juice that he ate and drank by himself. Quietly, alone, and in a corner, like a little mouse. A little mouse with a very quiet squeak.
It was on one of these fairly food-free scout weekenders that our story began.
A trip to Lough Dan! Up in the lovely Wicklow Mountains! Two days away from home and, more importantly, homework! Two days of outdoor fun filled with games, sing-songs and sunshine!
At least, that was what it would have said in the travel brochure, if the scouts had one. (Spoiler alert: they don’t.)
The reality was a bit different. Lough Dan was there alright, and it looked lovely. Or at least it would have looked lovely if you could have actually seen it through all the rain.
It was PELTING down; had been since they got there. The moment the last of the convoy of mums and dads performed a seventeen-point turn, beeped the horn and waved goodbye to the precious cargo they had safely delivered (i.e. their kid), the heavens opened and the scouts all ran for cover. And it wasn’t just normal rain. It was the kind of rain that made you suspect that evil, child-detesting hobgoblins were hiding in the trees, pouring down buckets of icy water on unsuspecting, innocent juveniles.
The familiar shout of ‘ALL HANDS ON DECK!’ went up, and the scouts very reluctantly left the imperfect sanctuary of the trees and started to hammer in pegs and erect their tents.
Conor kept his eyes on the tree branches for hobgoblins as he (quietly) hammered in the tent pegs, freezing-cold water dripping down his neck and soaking his scout shirt. Ah, the outdoor life!
Once the three tents were up, all of the scouts took shelter in the girls’ one, shivering and shuddering with the cold.
Their scout leader, Dennis Deegan – a tall, skinny Corkman with a big head of unnatural-looking orange hair that Conor suspected he ordered from a catalogue – looked at them with squinty eyes. ‘Ye bitter get used to bean in here, gurls and byes,’ he said, smirking as he did so. ‘Shur, I wouldn’t send a dog out on a day like dis …’ His eyes glinted. ‘Conor! Run out to the car there and get my tea flask!’ He flung his keys at Conor, who yelped (quietly) as they narrowly missed his head.
‘Mr. Deegan!’ cried Charlie Finch, a smallish girl with freckles, a furrowed brow and a missing tooth, as she stuck her chin out like a weapon. ‘You can’t send Conor out in that rain!’
‘Ah, sure, Conor doesn’t mind it. Do yeh, Conor?’
Conor, being Conor, said nothing.
‘You see? Out ye go, Conor, and don’t be there til you’re back.’
Conor did as he was told.
Charlie seethed, embarrassed for Conor. She fancied the strong, silent type, and as Conor was one of those things, she supposed she half-fancied him.
‘Look at it this way, cupcake,’ said Damian Deegan, a lanky boy of twelve with a weasel face. ‘Some people are born to be a general, giving orders, and some are born to be the privates who follow them. Conor is just one of those privates.’
‘If you weren’t the scout leader’s son, I’d bash YOU in the privates,’ snarled Charlie. ‘Lay off Conor!’
Damian’s sidekick, Gulliver Quinn, a huge lad for twelve, with broad shoulders and a scout shirt that looked like it was two sizes too small for him, grunted and giggled at the same time – I suppose it would be called a ‘griggle’. Damian looked around at him sharply, and Gulliver stopped griggling immediately; he put a finger to his slightly blue-tinged lips to silence himself. ‘Sorry, Damian,’ he said. ‘Won’t happen again, Damian.’
‘Come on,’ said Damian, ‘we’re going. Dad’s gone to the boys’ tent already and the smell of perfume and scented candles in here is horrible.’
A few minutes later the tent flap opened, and Conor came in holding a red tea flask and looking like he had been swimming in the lake. He wiped the rain from his eyes.
‘GET OUT!’ shouted the girl scouts in unison – all except Charlie, who looked apologetically at the half-drowned boy and silently mouthed, ‘Sorry.’
Conor, again, did as he was told.
Chapter Two
A Beautiful Noise
The next morning, the scouts woke to the thunderous sound of heavy rain on the canvas roofs of their tents. Conor opened one eye sleepily, only to be greeted by the round mound of Gulliver Quinn’s pyjama-clad bottom. Despite his large size, Gulliver had wriggled around in his sleep until he was head first in his sleeping bag, with his sizeable backside sticking out the top. Sticking out the top and sharing pillow space with Conor’s face.
‘Yeeee-uck,’ whispered Conor quietly. But not quietly enough. PAAAARRRRRRRPPPPPPP! went Gulliver’s bum. The beast had awoken! The other scouts, roused by the horrendous noise of flabby bum cheeks flapping together, scrambled out of their sleeping bags and ran from the tent. They would prefer to be on the side of a mountain in a downpour than in an airless tent surrounded by pongy, greeny, eggy gas. And I, for one, can’t blame them. A rude awakening indeed.
After breakfast (Conor had a bowl of dry cornflakes and half a sausage that someone had left behind them on their plate), scout leader Dennis ran his hands through his big orange hairdo and daintily picked his nose with the tip of his little finger. He reached over and pulled the tent flap aside. It was still scuttling down with rain.
‘Right, so,’ he said, standing up and looking at his clipboard. ‘Sittle down, lads and lassies, and lissen up. We’re only here for the one day, so we’re goin’ to make the most of it. We’re doing orienteering, and I’m going to be splittin’ ye up into teams of four, two gurls and two byes on each.’ He went down the list of names on the clipboard and named the teams. ‘And last but not least, Damian (grand lad, stand up straight now), Gulliver Quinn, Charlotte Finch and Conor Corcoran.’
‘That’s the way, Dad,’ said Damian. ‘Two boys on each team, and two girls. Isn’t that right, Conor?’
Charlie – who, by the way, hated being called Charlotte – squinted at Damian and growled, but she did it quietly so Dennis wouldn’t hear. Damian heard it though, and took a half step behind Gulliver. She may have been a girl, but everyone knew Charlie was one tough cookie.
‘This is what I want ye to do,’ continued the ginger scout leader. ‘I want yis to take one of these’ – he held out four different-coloured flags – ‘and do ye see that peak up there?’ He opened the tent flap again, and they all peered out. Dennis stuck his hand out the tent opening and pointed almost directly upwards. ‘Do ye see it?’
The scouts all looked up. Through the heavy multitudes of falling raindrops, they could just about make out the outline of the hill rising up from Lough Dan. The bit that wasn’t covered in thick cloud, that is.
‘That’s where I want yis to go,’ said Dennis. He took his arm back in; it was dripping wet.
‘Team A, you take the northern route up, Team B the western, Team C the eastern path, and Team D …’ He winked at his son, Damian. ‘D for Deegan, what? Good man, shoulders back. Team D will take the southern route.’
