Jean Ure - Harriet Strikes Again

Harriet was going to live in it whenever her mother turned nasty. She had turned nasty just the other day, carrying on like a lunatic about the state of Harriet’s bedroom.

“Said it was a pigsty!” Harriet set about, indignantly, with her bendy shovel. “Went on and on and on about it.”

Harriet had been going on and on and on about it, too. Harriet tended to go on about things. If it weren’t cans of paint being left where they could fall on top of flower pots, it was her mum having a go at her about her bedroom. This was at least the fifth time Stinky had heard the tale.

“I said to her,” said Harriet, “it’s my bedroom. And anyway, I happen to like pigs.”

“Not indoors,” said Stinky.

Harriet turned on him. “Who said anything about them being indoors?”

“You said your mum said your bedroom was like a pigsty.”

“I didn’t say there was a pig in it! Did I?’

Stinky squatted with his trowel, jabbing at the earth. “Can’t think what else’d live in a pigsty.”

“Are you calling me a pig?” shrieked Harriet.

“I thought you liked pigs.”

“Oh, shut up!” said Harriet. “Get on digging.”

When the hole was deep enough they were going to cover the floor with some old lino that Stinky’s mum had thrown out and make a roof with plastic sheeting. They were going to have to buy the plastic sheeting, but they both agreed it would be worth it.

“It’ll be a refuge for battered children,” said Harriet, “same as they have for battered wives. And we’ll put up a notice saying ‘Private. No Trespassers’.”

“Yeah, and ‘Knock Before Entering’.”

“And we’ll keep cans of Coke and stocks of food and things to do.”

“And something to sit on,” urged Stinky, who liked to be comfortable. “We’ll make it like a real house.”

Before it could be like a real house it had to be dug deep enough for them to stand up in. There was a long way to go …

By tea time, when they had dug for four and a half hours, there was still a long way to go. A very long way. Their backs were aching and their hands were sore.

“It’s going to take weeks at this rate,” said Harriet.

Stinky was alarmed. He couldn’t wait weeks! Goody-goody Giles was coming next weekend. The hole had to be dug by then.

“Well, I’m not digging any more today,” said Harriet. “I’m tired. I’m going home to have my tea.”

“See if you can get into your dad’s garden shed and get a proper spade and fork,” said Stinky.

“See if you can get into yours!” retorted Harriet.

It wasn’t any use: Harriet couldn’t get into the garden shed. Dad had put a padlock on it and hidden the key.

“I’m not having you kids,” he said, “messing about with my tools.”

Harriet’s sister Lynn said loftily that she never went anywhere near his tools, thank you very much. Harriet said neither did she, and it wasn’t her fault if people went and left cans of paint dangerously balanced on the edges of shelves waiting to fall on top of flower pots.

Her dad said that was quite enough of Harriet’s smart mouth and that Harriet shouldn’t have been in the garden shed in the first place.

“And that is that. Flat and final. My last word on the subject.”

Harriet’s mum then said, “Yes, and what about that bedroom of yours? I thought I told you to tidy it up?”

Harriet said, “I did tidy it. I can’t put everything away or I won’t know where it is.”

“Well, if it’s still a pigsty by the weekend,” said Harriet’s mum, “that will be a second week without any pocket money.”

They had to get that hole finished! But how?

Next morning, Stinky said gloomily, “So you didn’t manage to get in there, then?”

“Doesn’t matter! I’ve had an idea. We don’t need spades and forks,” said Harriet. “We can get other people to dig for us!”

Stinky digested Harriet’s idea in silence. It seemed to him there was a flaw in it.

“How’d we get ’em to do that?” he said.

“Easy!”

Harriet always had the answer to everything. “We just put up a notice. ‘Historical Site. Ancient Remains.’ Then everyone’ll come flocking ’cause they’ll think they might find something valuable.”

“But there isn’t anything valuable,” said Stinky. “It’s just earth.”

“How do you know?” said Harriet.

“’Cause you said so,” said Stinky. “Yesterday. You said it was just earth.”

“Yes, and you said it might be special earth!”

“Well, that’s what I thought but it obviously isn’t. All that digging,” said Stinky, “and we didn’t find a thing, hardly. Just an old tin can.”

“That’s it!” said Harriet. “That’s the remains!”

“Remains of what?”

“ Ancient remains.”

“Doesn’t look very ancient to me.” Stinky prodded at the can with his trowel. “Looks like it might have come from Sainsbury’s.”

“You only think that ’cause you’re ignorant. You don’t know how to tell. Could be from the Stone Age for all you know. That’d make it ancient remains.”

“Ancient remain,” said Stinky. “Remains is more than one.”

“One’s enough,” said Harriet. “We could bury it right deep down so’s they won’t discover it till the hole’s practically dug. Or wait till it is practically dug and then discover it ourselves.”

“Maybe we ought to put in a bit of buried treasure to sort of encourage them,” said Stinky. “I’ve got some old pennies upstairs – we could put them in. They’re not worth anything.”

“All right,” said Harriet. “Let’s go and get them and write out a notice.”

They wrote out several notices, all neatly printed in their best hand.

Historical Sight Ancent Remane and Berrid Tresure Come and dig!! (Bring own tools)

At the foot they stuck one of Stinky’s mum and dad’s address labels and added the words, ‘Come to back gate’.

“Now we’ll go and fix them on lamp posts and things,” said Harriet. “Get some Sellotape!”

After they had fixed the notices on lamp posts all up and down the road they went back to their hole to wait. They did a little digging, but not very much. Stinky scattered his old pennies and Harriet rubbed the tin can in the compost heap to try and make it look properly ancient. Then they settled back confidently to await the arrival of the diggers.

The first one to turn up was Wendy Williams, carrying what looked like a toy spade.

“Is this it?” she said pointing at the hole.

“Yes,” said Harriet. “That is it.”

“And it’s really and truly got ancient remains in it?”

“Remain,” said Stinky. “And buried treasure.”

Wendy looked at him, challengingly. “How do you know?”

Stinky opened his mouth, but Harriet firmly stepped in. She wasn’t having any of that sort of nonsense.

“It’s a historical site. It’s bound to have things in it. And anything you dig up,” she added, “is yours to keep.”

“So I should hope,” said Wendy. “Not going to all the trouble of digging things up just for someone else, am I?”

Salim Khan was the next to arrive. Salim was carrying a proper fork and bucket, and looked as if he meant business.

“What’s the bucket for?” said Harriet.

“To take away the treasure and the remains.”

“Remain.” Stinky said it weakly. He was beginning to foresee that there might be trouble.

Other people began to arrive – Gerry Mander and Hake-Face Heneghan with garden spades almost bigger than they were, Alison Leary and Snobby Clark with rubber gloves and a dustpan and brush because Alison (who always knew everything) said that when you were on historical digs you didn’t dig , you brushed and swept and, “felt with your fingers. Otherwise you could ruin things. And historical isn’t spelt like you’ve spelt it, and neither is buried and neither is treasure.”