After graduating from Cambridge University and working

as a children’s television presenter in Hong Kong, Sadie

lived and worked as a TV presenter, writer, filmmaker and

actress in London, Paris and Los Angeles. She now presents

comedy as ‘Miss Adventure’ for Radio Television Hong

Kong, while producing her own documentaries. She

recently acted in a couple of movies in LA, “West of

Thunder” and “FLIM”. She is the artistic director of non-

profit arts organization Art Saves Lives International and an

ambassador for several youth charities, including Child

Builder, the Prince’s Trust and Reformed Foundation.

For more on Sadie, visit: www.sadiekaye.tv

Dedicated to “the real” Mia and Kaz

S a d i e K a y e

T H E W I S H I N G M A C H I N E

Copyright © Sadie Kaye

The right of Sadie Kaye to be identified as author of this work has

been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 978 184963 938 5

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2014)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, I’m beyond grateful to my friend and

illustrator Charlotte Farhan for creating the sublime

illustrations for “The Wishing Machine”. Charlotte, you’re an

artistic genius and I hope this won’t be our only book

collaboration! Readers, if you are unaware of Charlotte’s

sensational and distinctive artwork, I urge you to visit

www.charlottefarhanart.com.

My family: Especially my inspirational and supportive parents,

who have read every draft of TWM, flagging up some of my

most inappropriate humour (for a kids book) and correcting

some choice spellings. I am also indebted to my sister Amy,

bro, Rasheed, and wonder-woof (aka Hobo-dog Kaye!)

However, I am especially indebted to my cheeky niece, Mia,

and my angelic (comparatively) nephew, Kaz. Thank you for

inspiring me to write this book and also for enabling me to

misuse your identities for humorous purposes.

My publishers: for their unstinting support and encouragement.

I would also like to acknowledge my parents’ rambling house

in Devon on which Old Dump is based. It has now been

restored and renovated, although this took them over twenty

years!

I also have a few important extra dedications to some of my

favourite kids who have helped and inspired me!

Foremost, my delightful little Goddaughter, Luna

Robson, her adored parents Anna and Ken, and, for

the sake of quelling future sibling rivalry, the equally

delightful Niko Robson!

Alphie and Edwin Dandridge-Walker and the entire

incredible Cunningham-Dandridge-Walker clan for

their boundless encouragement and love.

Skye Deguttola, 9, and her wonderful parents, Raff

and Simone, who have been so unstinting in their

friendship and made me laugh until I wet myself on

more than one embarrassing occasion.

Jasper and Sebbie Sherry-Hampel and family.

Zreh and Ariya Dhillon and all Shroffs!

Last, but by no means least, I would like to acknowledge my

magnificent friends as yet unmentioned. You may be surprised

to find I’ve sat down long enough to write a book (albeit a kids

book), but you have all enriched my life, made me laugh and

contributed more than you know. Big love to Kelly Field,

Richard Saul, Kate Young, Jody Marriot Bar-Lev, Geoffrey

Nga’nga, Charlotte Hudson, Dan Davies, Katia Michael,

Kushan Zefari, Greg Flynn, Naomi Sherry, Alex & Jen

Giannini, Jacqui Blandford, Niall Fraser, Robert Young, James

Daly, Dean Stalham, Jonny Summers, Ashe Foster, Hugo

Jackson, Melissa Davies, Rupert ‘Foggy’ Foster, Howard

Raymond, David Frederick, Jess Kedward, Ben Evans, Dave

Flynn, Melanie Bradley, Romy Lisners, Jasmine Flagg, Steve

James, Hugh Chiverton, Johnny Lambe and Jonathan Douglas.

Contents

1. The ‘Devon Dream’ 11

2. Down in the Dump 26

3. A Funeral and a First Day 33

4. Bear Scare 38

5. Speech and a Mini-Announcement 50

6. The Tinkerbell Theory 60

7. Hurricanes and Heartbreak 70

8. Groomed and Doomed 75

9. Magik Moment 82

10. The Little Boy Who Knew Everything About Everything

89

11. The Curse of Celebrity 95

12. The Hex Factor 101

13. University Challenged 107

14. Triumph and Treason 110

15. Dumping the Old 117

16. The Final Wish 121

1. The ‘Devon Dream’

“Just imagine! There’ll be loads of fun things to do in the

summer!” trilled Dad, as he swerved the Skoda around a

hairpin bend in the lane, rattling Mum’s nerves and

everyone’s teeth.

“Summer? But it’s nearly the end of September, Dad!”

Mia protested. “What are we supposed to do till June?”

“Oh, it won’t take that long to warm up!” Dad claimed,

confidently. “This part of Devon is known as ‘The English

Riviera’. They even have palm trees! Imagine that, Mia!”

As Dad drove through the sleepy Devon village of

Tippleden, Mia tried to imagine it was California, but it

wasn’t easy. Faced with the fading leaves on the row of

mournful, wizened oak trees they were passing, her

imagination soon surrendered to bleak reality. Moodily, she

argued, “There’s no surfers, no film stars, no limos…

There’s not even an ice-cream van. Are you sure this is the

right village, Dad?”

Mum scrunched her face as Dad carelessly parked the

Skoda, battering the underside as he unwittingly drove over

a clutter of garden gnomes. Mia elbowed Kaz awake and

the family tumbled out the car, gasping their relief to stretch

cramped legs after the abominable journey down from

London, and exuberant to glimpse their new home, for the

very first time, through an overgrown hedge.

By the time the family had heaved back the rotten green

gates and wandered up the imposing, semi-circular drive,

Mum and Dad looked like half-wits, so gigantic were their

smiles.

“Am I dreaming, Dave?” giggled Mum, her full-moon

face shimmering with enchanted approval.

Even Mia had to admit it: the house looked very

impressive from the outside. It was nearly as majestic as

Buckingham Palace.

“We’re home!” Dad declared proudly as he knocked on

the door.

“Yome,” Kaz echoed wistfully, translating Dad’s

declaration with ease into his own unique language.

“What’s he saying, Mia?” demanded Dad.

“Home,” scowled Mia and pursed her lips. When Dad

wasn’t even trying to understand his son, it vexed her more

than she could possibly describe in words. What if Kaz had

been born first and Dad hadn’t had Mia to translate for

another five years?

To speak like Kaz, you’d need to replace the first letter

of any word you wished to use in conversation with the

letter ‘y’. Kaz also detested the letters ‘f’ and ‘s’. These

letters he’d therefore cunningly, and somewhat deviously,

replaced with the letter ‘d’.

Unfortunately, Kaz’s unusual speech impediment meant

that he had a real problem pronouncing his own name. His

full name was Casey Finchley Fishlock. Mum and Dad had

decided that Kaz calling himself ‘Yaz’ was cooler

(comparatively) than ‘Yadey’.

“Old Dump?!” Mia scornfully exclaimed. She pointed

to the house’s dusty name-plaque, which did indeed read

‘OLD DUMP’.

“Not Old DUMP, Mia! Old PUMP!” chuckled Dad,

before pointing and saying, “Look, you can see where the

bottom of the P’s rusted off.”

“Did Great Aunt Sadie ever live here?” Mia raised a

suspicious eyebrow. It was almost inconceivable to her that

a member of her family had ever been able to afford a

palatial home like this.

“She did, briefly. But then she won a fortune gambling

on horses and moved to Australia. The details are foggy and

the stuff of Fishlock family legend, but she blew her vast

fortune in an impressively short period of time and died

alone in a mental hospital,” Dad imparted cheerfully.

“A charming story to tell two impressionable children,

Dave!” Mum hissed at him.

“Who lives here now?” Mia inquired, engaged and

impressed at last.

Dad shrugged. “No idea, but Sadie stated in her will that

they should be allowed to live here for as long as they

wished before I inherited her house! Wasn’t that kind of my

Aunt Sadie? Although she was certified as containing 99%

nuts.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Dave!” Mum barked at Dad.

“Let’s hear no more about her!”

Pressing his ear to Old Dump’s front door to listen for

signs of life beyond it, Dad griped to Mum: “There’s no-one

here. They’re out.”

And so the Fishlocks were already morosely trudging

back to the car when the front door was finally flung open

by a spectral old man. In a faint, wheezing voice, the

decrepit old man stutteringly introduced himself as Mr.

Dawes.

To Mia and Kaz’s utmost wonderment – and

embarrassment – Dad insisted on carrying Mum over the

threshold like a new bride, nearly buckling from the strain.

But as they walked through the door and into the hall, Dad

dropped Mum like a sack of mouldy potatoes.

“Oh. My. God.” Mia groaned with horrified delight. No

wonder Great Aunt Sadie wound up in a funny farm.

Mum was in such a state of stupefaction herself, she

was unable to physically shove Mia back out the door and

shout at her for her disgraceful use of the G-word.

Meanwhile, Dad was clearly struggling to stifle the A, B, C,

D, E and F-word.

Mia took odious satisfaction in watching her parents’

beaming smiles distort revoltingly into gruesome masks of

horror as they surveyed the crumbling stairs, the decayed

splintered floorboards, and the weaving maze of wires that

encrusted every surface like creeping ivy.

The inside of the house looked like a bombsite! At least

now Mia was certain Mum would pack her and Kaz back in

the car and the family would gratefully make their escape

back to London. Her parents’ Devon Dream was finally

over! Yesssss!!!

But to Mia’s utter horror, her mother gathered herself up

from the broken paving stones, dusted herself down and

proceeded to rhapsodize, “Ooh, it’s lovely Mr. Dawes!

What do you think, Dave?”

At which point, Dad was pulled out of his funereal

reverie and instantly returned to his usual overly optimistic

self. “It certainly reeks. Of potential!” Dad agreed with

Mum. “And plenty of character too.”

As if the house of horror had a personality.

To Mia’s shame and disgust, she saw that Kaz looked

every bit as enchanted with the repellent house as her

parents. This was despite her brother making an immediate

beeline to pick up some wires and receiving a sharp electric

shock that propelled him across the hall like a firework –

and made his Afro hairdo look even bigger than usual.

So this was Old Dump. Never had a house been so

appropriately, if accidentally, named, decided Mia.

The old man, Mr. Dawes, looked to be about three

hundred years old. The tour of the house took nearly as

long, as the hunched Mr. Dawes tried his best to straighten

his crumbling frame with every miniscule step.

Once they had viewed the living room (shambles),

bedrooms (deathtraps), kitchen (almost non-existent) and

toilet (outside – and little more than a hole in the ground),

Mr. Dawes led the family up the rickety staircase to the

attic.

There were so many floorboards missing from the

creaking stairs that Kaz kept plummeting through the gaps

and having to be rescued by Dad. In the end, Dad stuck Kaz

on his shoulders. Which meant it was Kaz who had the first

glimpse, across the broken floorboards, of the top floor

attic.

“What’s it like, Kaz?” demanded Dad.

“Yat! Yat!” shrieked Kaz.

“Rat! Rat!” translated Mia, without even needing to be

asked by Dad.

Mum’s face dropped. She hated dirty rats. But when

they finally tumbled into the attic, scratching themselves

furiously, they realized it was just a silly bat that had flown

in. Dad shooed it out like Batman.

Feeling Kaz had let her down abysmally by siding with

Mum and Dad over the house, Mia erupted with rage at her

brother: “Why can’t you talk proper, you stupid baby!”

“Talk properly, Mia.” Mum automatically corrected her,

making Mia seethe.

Kaz, who could understand English perfectly, while

choosing not to speak it himself, called Mia a “Yig!” and

pulled her long, wavy hair hard, just as Mum and Dad were

engrossed in admiring a rail of moth-eaten 17th Century

(Mia guessed) clothes.

“OWW!” howled Mia. Then ratted on her brother: “Kaz

pulled my hair and called me a pig, Mum!”

“No, he was saying ‘wig’, Mia. I’m sure of it. Look!”

Mum was pointing to a grotty old wig. Kaz, also, followed

Mum’s pointing finger to the wig. Then he shot Mia a

wicked smile and gave her long hair another agonizing yank

while nobody was looking.

“OWWWWWWWWWW! Bum off, Kaz!”

Mum pursed her lips, hearing Mia say this. Having been

banned from swearing by her parents, Mia had taken to

inventing her own rude expressions. “Bum off!” was her

cheeky new favourite.

Mr. Dawes led the family through the dust and rubble

towards the top floor’s only window, which was small and

arched. They all scrunched their eyes to peer through it into

the mist.

“There!” Mr. Dawes proudly exclaimed. Everybody

followed his trembling finger out the window, desperately

trying to figure out what it was they were supposed to be

admiring.

“Ah yes, the chimney!” Dad remarked eventually,

evidently hoping a wild guess might move the tour along.

“NO!” Mr. Dawes bellowed, with alarming strength.

“That there be Dartmoor.”

“Where?” Mia snapped. She was weary listening to her

parents humour Mr. Dawes, just because he had one gnarled

foot in the grave. All she could see was some big blobby

black clouds.

“If you can see the moors, it’s about to rain. If you can’t

see the moors, it’s already raining,” Mr. Dawes predicted

pessimistically. And accurately! The rain suddenly started

to hammer down – straight through the ceiling.

“Is it raining in the house, Dave?” Mum whimpered.

“Don’t worry, love. Just a bit of damp, I expect.” As

Dad muttered these reassuring words to Mum, Mia could

plainly see he had his fingers crossed behind his back.

“So much for the ‘English Riviera’,” grumbled Mia.

“Mia!” Mum hissed warningly, for what felt like the

millionth time that morning. “Can you please stop being

such a Moaning Minnie for five minutes?”

“I’ll try one minute,” Mia reluctantly compromised.

After inhaling the stench of damp rotting wood in the

house for so long, the family was relieved when Mr. Dawes

eventually led them to fresh air and a chance to view the

untamed wilderness outside.

“Lovely garden, Mr. Dawes,” cooed Mum, as they

admired the ten-foot weeds and crinkled their noses at the

fetid reek of blocked drains.

They were baffled by the giant wire structure, which

dominated the garden and reminded Mia of a prisoner of

war camp she had once observed on the News.

“What’s that?” Dad meekly inquired of Mr. Dawes. The

old man stared at Dad in disbelief. “Fruit cage,” he

disclosed with a grimace that conveyed These Londoners

know nothing.

“Ah, yes.” Dad nodded sagely, as if it was obvious now.

Kaz, of course, had rushed to pick up the biggest of the

garden’s carpet of monstrous sticks. He was now running

around like a wild thing, assassinating fruit trees and

smashing the few remaining panes of glass the dilapidated

greenhouse boasted.

“Lots of character,” enthused Dad, although it was

unclear whether he was talking about the garden or Kaz.

“Urgh. I hate it here,” moaned Mia, a mere fifteen

seconds since she had declared this the last time.

“How well did you know Dave’s Aunt Sadie, Mr.

Dawes?” Mum chatted on, pointedly ignoring Mia. But Mr.

Dawes’ reply was completely drowned out by Kaz’s

unearthly wail of terror.

After charging deep within the fruit cage with his new

best stick, Kaz had been petrified to discover a heinous old

hag crouching amidst the tangled brambles. The hag looked

like she had blood smeared on her hands and around her

mouth.

“YAAAAAUHHHHYHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

A!” yelled Kaz, as he legged it out of the barbed wire cage

door and leapt into Mum’s arms.

Kaz’s hasty retreat from the fruit cage was immediately

followed by the appearance of the wrinkled old hag who

had scared him. As the old woman ambled towards the

family, she wiped her bloodied mouth on her sleeve.

“Is that your wife?” squeaked Mia to Mr. Dawes.

“No, that be my daughter, Bertha,” Mr. Dawes chortled.

Mia’s jaw dropped. Her estimation of Mr. Dawes’ age

had obviously been wildly inaccurate: Mr. Dawes must be

at least four centuries old to have a daughter this geriatric.

“We’ve loved living here,” the ancient woman who was

Mr. Dawes’ daughter said brightly to Mum and Dad. As

Bertha offered Dad her knotty and bloodied hand to shake,

Dad looked repulsed, until Mum hissed at him that the

stains on Bertha’s mouth and hands were from picking and

scoffing redcurrants.

Feeling braver, Mia snidely retorted to Bertha, “If you

love it here so much, why are you leaving?”

“All our wishes have come true. It’s time to make way

for new folk now.” As Bertha uttered these maudlin words,

Mr. Dawes nodded his agreement with his daughter.

What a strange and unsettling answer. Who could

possibly live in Old Dump for four centuries and believe all

their wishes had come true?

As if reading Mia’s mind, a secretive smile spread over

Bertha’s face, instantly making her look younger and

marginally more attractive. Though she still had a smile that

reminded Mia of broken tombstones, perhaps Bertha was

not quite as old as three hundred? Perhaps she was 40, or

41?

‘Yan yee yo yow, Yummy?’ begged Kaz.

“What’s he saying, Mia?” demanded Dad.

“He says he wants to get out of here and never look

back!” Mia translated, not altogether untruthfully. Thank

God. Kaz had finally seen Old Dump as the sinister… well,

dump it was.

“It’s certainly a charming garden!” Mum gushed again,

before apologising to Bertha and Mr. Dawes that the kids

were getting tired. “Is there anything else we should see

before we go home?” By “home”, it was obvious to Mia

that Mum meant the car.

“Follow me!” Mr. Dawes chortled, with a wink to

Bertha.

Mia groaned inwardly (and outwardly) as the family

traipsed off to see what Mia desperately hoped would be the

final stop on the depressing tour. Ahead of them was a

narrow wooden staircase, which crookedly descended into

darkness.

2. Down in the Dump

“And now,” announced Mr. Dawes, with a flourish of his

bony old wrist, “my favourite room in the whole house: the

cellar.”

As Dad helped the weedy old man shove open the heavy

iron door to the cellar, Mr. Dawes beamed, showing nearly

all of his false teeth. His wrinkled old eyes were gleaming

in what little daylight remained.

The Fishlock family dutifully followed Mr. Dawes into

the swirling, inky blackness beyond the door. Kaz held

Mum’s hand firmly – he was only five and still frightened

of the dark. Dad punched the light switch, but no light

obeyed his command.

Mia decided that Mr. Dawes must be madder than a box

of frogs if this was his favourite room in the whole rotten

house. What was he hoping to achieve, forcing them down

here? There was nothing to see and no light to see nothing

with.

“I’m only part way through wiring the house for

electricity,” Mr. Dawes apologised. It was all Mia could do

not to dissolve into greedy guffaws hearing Mr. Dawes utter

this. Who in 21st Century Britain had ever heard of a house

with no electricity? It was cracked. Nuts. Potty. Cuckoo.

Moonstruck. Mental. Barmy. Screwy. Daft. Fruity. Bonkers.

Bats in the Belfry!

“There’s not electricity throughout the house, then?”

From the little Mia could see of Dad’s face in the dark, it

was clear Dad found this just as disturbingly absurd as she

did.

“Not yet. I only started wiring in 1974. My late wife

didn’t trust electricity.” As Mr. Dawes divulged this, he

struck a match and lit a candle. His face looked hollow and

even more ghoulish in the candlelight. Mia shuddered and

Kaz leapt up into Mum’s arms and buried his face in her

shoulder.

“Riiiiiiiiiiiight,” said Dad, speaking for everyone.

Lurking in the leaping shadows of the murky cellar was

what looked like a large black metal box. “Is that a washing

machine?” demanded Mia, though when she thought about

it, it was obvious. It had a round window on one side, and a

row of dials and switches above it. “How do you power that

thing if you don’t have electricity?”

“Oh, we have power for that,” Bertha cackled. “It may

be an old model, but it does the job perfectly.”

“And what kind of a job is that?” muttered Mia.

Glowering at her daughter, before expertly changing the

subject and breezing on to Bertha, Mum claimed, “I haven’t

seen a machine this size since I was a little girl!”

“Yeah, it’s practically prehistoric,” sniped Mia, even

louder than she intended.

“MIAAA!” screeched Mum. Her hand was itching to

smack Mia’s bum.

But Bertha just grinned at Mia as she loaded dirty

washing into the machine and with one deft flick of her

wrist, switched it on.

The washing machine juddered and shuddered into life,

producing a deafening, clattering noise, like a million bums

being smacked. The family suddenly had to dodge out of

the way, as the machine lurched menacingly towards them.

“That’s why we keep it in the cellar,” Bertha cackled

raucously. Mum and Dad laughed heartily, as if the old

witch had just recounted the wittiest joke in the world.

Mia groaned despairingly. “Mum, you’re not seriously

thinking of using this crummy old thing, are you?” To

demonstrate her disapproval, Mia gave the machine a

petulant kick.

This was the last straw for Mum. “Mia, I wish you’d put

a sock in it!” she fumed.

That’s when the magic happened. Right in front of

them. Only they were too blind to see it in the dark and

dingy cellar.

As Mia rolled her eyes sarcastically and opened her

mouth wide to make a point of yawning, a balled-up sock

flew across the cellar and stuffed itself into Mia’s gaping

mouth. The sock burrowed its way deep in Mia’s throat,

causing her to choke and splutter simultaneously!

As Bertha chattered on about spin cycles to a blank

Dad, Mum spun around to give her daughter a fierce

warning look. But Mum’s expression changed to shock and

dismay as she realised Mia had stuffed a dirty sock into her

mouth and seemed to be in serious danger of choking to

death.

Mum was livid. Absolutely furious! “Mia Fishlock, will

you take that sock out of your big mouth and stop behaving

like a spoilt brat?” Mum prised open Mia’s mouth like a

dentist and removed the sock. “What do you think you were

doing? You could have choked, you silly girl.”

“I didn’t do it and I was choking!” Mortified, Mia burst

into a torrent of tears. “Kaz did it!” she bawled. It was the

only explanation Mia could think of. And just the sort of

cruel, diabolical thing that Kaz might do.

“Kaz was holding my hand!” Mum scolded her, her

patience worn to a thread. “So unless he’s got bendy arms

that stretch like an old piece of Blu-Tack, you’re a big

fibber, Mia Fishlock!”

As Mum glared at Mia, Mia glared at Kaz. But Kaz was

looking genuinely puzzled, still innocently clasping Mum’s

hand. How did Kaz do it? How could he even reach Mia’s

mouth? He was only five and Mia was nearly eleven.

“I didn’t do it, Mum. It was KAZ,” railed Mia.

“Yi yidn’t yoo yit, Yia!” Kaz put his little foot down

firmly.

“YES, YOU DID!”

“Yo, Yia. Yoo yid yit. Yoo yere yeing dilly, Yia!”

“He’s lying, Mum. Why would I put a stinking, foul-

tasting sock in my own mouth?”

“Because I told you to put a sock in it and you thought

you were being clever, you silly girl.” After exasperatedly

declaring this, chin jutted and teeth clenched so hard her

molars might crack, Mum gave a little nod and folded her

arms (Nod + Arms = Subject Over).

Mia felt a prickle down her spine. Her arms and legs

were covered in goose bumps. In her shock and abject

horror, Mia had completely forgotten that Mum had used

those exact words. Of course, Mum hadn’t meant for Mia to

put an actual sock in her mouth. Mum just wanted Mia to

stop moaning.

The washing machine had somehow done a 360-degree

turn. Its flashing button eyes were blinking madly at Mia.

Something was not quite right about this washing

machine. Something was not right at all.

3. A Funeral and a First Day

Less than three weeks later, the Fishlock family had moved

into Old Dump, while continuing to sleep in the car for

reasons of comfort.

One of the very first things the family had to do was

bury the cat in the wilderness garden. Unfortunately, Tipsy

had not survived the long car journey from London to

Devon. Mum claimed Tipsy was an old cat. Mia suspected

the cat had deliberately died to avoid having to live in Old

Dump.

Fortunately, nobody (except Mum) had really liked the

cat. It had always been a biting, scratchy thing. While it

would be an exaggeration to say that Mia and Kaz were

pleased the cat had perished, it was quite obvious that Dad

was delighted.

It was a Fishlock tradition that Dad would always fib a

few words to God at family pet funerals, telling God how

the dead pet would never be forgotten, before shovelling

earth on the poor pet’s shallow grave and instantly

forgetting about it.

In the case of Tipsy, Dad was clearly struggling to find

the words to tell God anything about the cat that would not

upset and infuriate Mum. She had always rightly referred to

Tipsy as “my cat” and was now blubbing all over the multi-

coloured moggy, whose fur had never fully recovered from

Kaz’s well-intentioned paint job two years before.

“Dear God, please look after Tipsy,” Dad prayed,

glancing nervously at Mum. “She was a… pet of ours”, he

declared diplomatically, “and she will never be forgotten.”

Dad then muttered, “Thanks to that big ugly scar she left

above Kaz’s right eye!” before continuing in a reverent

voice, “Please ensure our vicious…”

“Dave!” hissed Mum.

“Sorry love, precious little cat always has a good

selection of brand new sofas and curtains to destroy in

Heaven…”

“DAVE!” hissed Mum.

“Sorry, love. Tipsy loved us so much, God, she would

leave dead mice and other creatures you created as presents

for us each morning. Though her fine hunting ability would

have come in handy now we’ve discovered a rat’s nest in

the basement. But that was Tipsy. She died just before she

could have been any use to us – the little…!”

“DAAAVE!” screeched Mum. After that, Mia and Kaz

followed Mum as she ran sobbing into the house, leaving

Dad to fill in the hole and then do a little dance on Tipsy’s

grave.

Mia and Kaz were quickly enrolled at Tippleden

Primary School and several weeks passed, during which

time Mia and Kaz both had birthdays. Making new friends,

Mia quickly discovered, was not nearly as fun, or as easy, as

Mum and Dad had made it sound.

There was one nasty boy who wouldn’t stop teasing Mia

about her “posh” London accent, even though “posh” was

the last thing Mia’s accent was. Mia thought Nasty Boy’s

teasing of her accent was a bit rich, considering he had a

stupid Devon accent. But Mia was bright enough to realise

that saying this out loud was unlikely to make her any new

friends in Devon. Ever. Period. Full stop.

But for all her mischief and cheekiness towards Mum

and Dad, Mia was a sensitive girl and the constant teasing

was more than she could bear. She started to hate school.

She desperately wanted all the other kids to like her, even

though they didn’t know her. But this was impossible

because Nasty Boy was a bully and the other kids were all

frightened of who he’d torment next.

School was a very different experience for Kaz. If there

were children that Kaz, with his innate respect for fairness,

didn’t like, he would either punch them or hit them with his

stick. He was probably the only kid in school who wasn’t

afraid of anyone (except, occasionally, Mum).

Seeing Mia was upset, Kaz kindly offered to hit Nasty

Boy with his stick. Mia considered Kaz’s generous offer for

a very long time, throughout lunch-break in fact, before

deciding no, she was eleven now, and she really didn’t want

her silly six-year old brother and his childish stick winning

her battles for her.

Mia didn’t know how, but she would find a way to

make Nasty Boy like her. Even if it killed her, or before Kaz

killed him.

4. Bear Scare

Like most kids, and many adults, Mia and Kaz cherished

favourite teddy bears they’d had since birth. Mia’s bear was

called Star Bear and Kaz’s was called Mr. Cuddles.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just Tipsy the cat who had not

survived the interminable car journey from London to

Devon in particularly great shape. Star Bear and Mr.

Cuddles were barely recognisable.

Mia had dropped Star Bear onto the road when Dad had

lurched the car off the hard shoulder before Mia had

managed to shut her door. Poor Star Bear had then been

inadvertently run over by a lorry that had advertised boring

old washing machines.

And Kaz had managed to spill a litre of sticky, purple

Ribena all over Mr. Cuddles when Dad had crashed the car

into a hedge after spotting a sign for Tippleden that

confusingly appeared to be pointing to a field of cows.