Lauren Child - Catch Your Death

She was attempting to scale a cliff face; a pack of wolves was snapping at her feet: she could smell their fur, feel their claws. She felt a tug on her sleeve and hot breath on her cheek. She let out a squawk and snapped the light on.

‘Jeez Bug, what are you doing creeping up on me like that?’ Ruby sat up and scratched the husky’s head and he licked her cheek again before lying down on the mat next to her bed.

Ruby sighed, shut her eyes for a second time and didn’t open them until daylight crept into the room. The first thought that crossed her mind, the very first thought, was: I failed .

STRANGELY FOR RUBY, she had found herself waking early. It was probably to do with having slept in damp undergrowth for three nights – her body had got used to the idea that it didn’t want to lie down for longer than was totally necessary. Or maybe it was due to the lurking fear that gnawed at her dreams and caused her to stare up at the ceiling, wondering if this was the day when LB would kick her out for good; the Spectrum Field Agent Training Programme did not deal in failures.

She was shaken from her troubles by the marvellous smell which drifted up the stairs, reminding her that grubs and boiled-up bark weren’t on the menu in the Redforts’ architect-designed home.

Ruby pulled on jeans, a pair of Yellow Stripe sneakers and a T-shirt bearing the words don’t even ask. She secured her hair neatly with a barrette and put on her spare glasses. Then she made her way downstairs and into the kitchen.

‘Well, you could knock me over like a bowling alley skittle,’ said Mrs Digby, her hands on her hips and lips sucking in air. The sight of Ruby up before the crows always made the housekeeper react this way. Ruby was no early bird and it was more usual to see her go to bed at five in the morning than arise at that time.

‘How was camp?’ asked Mrs Digby, who was under the illusion that Ruby was on some scouting type of a trip organised by Twinford Junior High – she had been training for it off and on for the past several weeks.

Hitch had taken over all the liaising with the school regarding trips, holidays and general arrangements so the Redford household was in the dark about Ruby’s movements. It hadn’t occurred to Mrs Digby to wonder why on earth the scouting training should take place during school hours, rather than in summer vacation; if Hitch said it was so, then she didn’t question it.

‘It was pretty terrible,’ said Ruby.

Mrs Digby studied her face. ‘You do look terrible, I can see that with my own two eyes, but why is the question I ask myself – don’t you know how to have fun?’

‘Ah, you know what it’s like Mrs Digby, sleeping on bedrolls and eating oatmeal. What’s fun about that?’

‘You had bedrolls?’ exclaimed the housekeeper. ‘You young people don’t know you’re born. When I was a child, we would have thought it was Christmas to sleep in leaves let alone bedrolls. And as for hot oatmeal. . .’ She tutted and left the thought there.

Like Mrs Digby, Ruby also would have been grateful to have found some leaves to bed down in, but she knew if she mentioned how she had really slept and what she had really eaten, or rather not eaten , then the housekeeper would have by now been dialling the scout leader to give him a piece of her mind.

Ruby grabbed the pitcher of orange juice – she could use the vitamin C, her throat was bothering her and she was beginning to feel a bit feverish.

Hitch looked up from where he sat, reading the paper.

‘Nice to see you again kid,’ he said as if he hadn’t seen Ruby for several days. ‘Camp fun, was it? I’m guessing you kids spend your whole time singing and toasting marshmallows.’ He winked at her and she gave him a sideways look as if to say, You’re some comedian .

Mrs Digby tutted again at the mention of marshmallows and it set her off muttering about the privileged generation that was Ruby’s.

Hitch pushed a mug of something hot in Ruby’s direction. ‘This might help, at least for a few hours,’ he said.

Ruby gave it a sniff: it was the Hitch cure-all, his own familiar concoction and one that seemed to alleviate most ailments. He called it the nine-hour rescue because it would see you through for pretty much that time and then you would feel terrible again.

After Ruby had downed some pancakes and a quarter bottle of maple syrup (maple syrup being the reason for eating the pancakes), she headed off on her bike to the oak tree on Amster Green. She climbed it swiftly and was out of sight before anyone (if anyone had actually been around) could spot her.

She and Clancy had arranged via one of their long-distance telephone calls to meet early on Saturday morning, Clancy not wanting to wait a minute longer than necessary to hear about the survival training and, more importantly, to moan about his dad.

But Clancy wasn’t there – she guessed it was too early even for him.

Ruby searched the hollow in the trunk to see if he had perhaps left a message – he had. As usual, it was folded into a complicated origami shape (this time a weasel) and written in code, a code to which only she and Clancy knew the key.

Tau bs grm pqxi ybbqd, dg wifmsz Zmggc orraleq bh – EEIMVL.*

Ruby sighed. ‘Makes me glad I don’t have a sister,’ she muttered. She looked at her watch and thought she might wait it out. Hitch’s nine-hour rescue had kicked in and she had stopped shivering. It was a nice day and she wouldn’t mind the luxury of sitting still for an hour or two. Only thing was her mind kept circling round her failure, reminding her that all was not so rosy in Ruby world.

CLANCY, MEANWHILE, was wheeling his forlorn-looking, beat-up bike to the cycle store. He was furious with Minny; it was typical of her: first total her own bike then wreck his. Can it even be fixed? he wondered. He wasn’t feeling too optimistic about the prognosis. When he was within a couple of yards of the store, he stopped.

He’d seen it in the magazines a few times, he’d heard it was coming to Twinford, the bike guy had told him about it, but he hadn’t known that it was going to be in the store this weekend.

He stood there and looked up at the poster, just taking the thing in.

‘Some beautiful machine,’ he whispered. The poster, which showed the bike in fabulous colour with arrows pointing out all its good points, was displayed large in the bike store window. In huge print the poster warned: The Windrush 2000. ONLY available while stocks last .

Clancy gazed at it for some minutes before uprooting himself from the sidewalk and pushing his way into the store. He needed to get his old bike fixed (if indeed it could be fixed), but more than that he needed to know when the Windrush 2000 was coming and just how few were being delivered. I mean just how long did Abe the bike guy think stocks would last?

‘Ah, around a few days,’ said Abe. ‘If this bike is all they say it is, then I imagine it’s going to, you know, like whizz out the store.’ He made a whizzing motion with his hand as he said this. ‘I ordered what was available, but this baby’s in demand.’ He looked at Clancy with a serious expression. ‘You know what I’m saying man? It ain’t gonna stick around.’

Clancy did know what Abe was saying and he was beginning to panic inside. As a result, he was there a lot longer than he had meant to be and once he caught the time he ran like crazy all the way to Amster Green.