Baggy

Baggy

  Barbara Jaques

  Copyright 2016 Barbara Jaques

  The Last Tiger (Novel)

  The Cult of Following (Novel)

  Nathaniel's Waiting Room (Novel)

  Love of Grace & Angels (Novel)

  The Front Door (Short Story)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  BAGGY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Baggy

  Danny is running fast again. The mess of russet that yesterday jumped about his face is unmoving, because today his hair is annoyingly short. Last night there had been a fight and the hefty weight of his father’s arm had won. The prize: Mum’s scissors doing their thing.

  Smiling broadly, Danny looks to his friend as they skid to a halt. The plan is to climb the big old chestnut tree outside Mr Nash’s walled garden. From there, they can look in and spot anything worth scrumping. Mr Nash always has lots of apples that he never shares, apart from the big sacks he gives to the grown ups. Danny is bent double for a moment, waiting to catch his breath.

  Soon he is high in the branches, peering down into the oasis; freckled face serious. The garden below looks lush and green, though the tree he stands in has already begun turning to autumn with a colour that matches his cropped hair. The girl who dared inform Danny of this fact was made to take it back, which in turn made her cry. Danny isn’t sure what he thinks of this girl now.

  He looks about and chooses the best available exit, an open gateway on the far side, ignoring the fact he could also enter using this more accessible point. Then he aims a finger, so his friend can see which tree is the target, which one is loaded with the fruit they like. Danny is about to step across from a thick branch to the capped top of the high stone wall, when Mr Nash appears. The old man snatches up a faller, and looking to Danny throws it. Danny ducks. Mr Nash shouts, but he is only saying that Danny was meant to catch it. Preferring to think of war than friendship, the boy scurries down the tree and away as if under fire. Another apple lands nearby and he picks it up, offering it to his friend first before biting into its sweet, crisp, flesh. It doesn’t look like a faller.

  The apple is munched until nothing more than a thin core remains. Still studded with pips, he offers it to his friend because Danny thinks there might possibly be a bite left in it. His friend doesn’t want it, so Danny tosses it into a bush. It’s okay to throw fruit, he knows, because it will rot, but it is not okay to throw empty crisp packets or broken things. It is nearly lunchtime. Time to go home.

  Walking back through the village, he spots a light on in old Mrs Bailey’s tiny dark cottage. He looks to his friend and grins, and then picks up a freshly shed magpie feather before placing it carefully on Mrs Bailey’s doorstep. She won’t be going out today, he thinks. Mrs Bailey is not superstitious. She has a phobia. Any feather would have done.

  He asks his friend what he’d like to do later, after lunch, but it is Danny who decides. They’ll go to the woods, he says, and hunt squirrels. He’ll bring his penknife to sharpen some sticks into proper spears. He has never caught a squirrel, not a live one; not one that didn’t require imagination to reanimate it.

  *

  ‘You’re late,’ calls Mum the moment the front door opens.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I said twelve thirty.’

  ‘I thought you said one.’

  ‘Did you now. Come on, wash your hands and sit up. Hurry, it’s gone dry enough as it is.’

  Danny does as instructed, but his friend is still with him. ‘Can Baggy stay for lunch?’

  Mum nods, ‘Sure.’ She plants a mound of fish fingers, chips and peas in front of Danny. Next to it lands another plate, but it is empty.

  ‘Baggy doesn’t eat air,’ he remarks, squeezing ketchup.

  Mum sighs. Her hair, like Danny’s, is russet. But unlike his, it is long and groomed, the fading warmth of its hue recovered once every six weeks at the hairdressers. She has no obvious freckles, only neatly applied foundation. ‘Does your friend eat biscuits?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  Mum faces the vacant seat, ‘Do you eat biscuits?’ her eyes flick to meet her son’s.

  ‘He does,’ Danny confirms.

  She places one on the plate. ‘So how is your new friend, Danny? Apart from quiet.’

  He shrugs, and with fingers shoving a fish finger into his mouth while talking, says, ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Knife and fork, please. So what have you been up to this morning? Anything nice?’

  Danny swallows and then glugs an enormous mouthful of squash. ‘Helping Mr Nash.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ but Mum’s expression suggests a different thought. ‘Be good, won’t you.’

  Danny fills his mouth with a thick pinch of chips.