Betsey Biggalow Is Here! (2 page)

“And I hate you and your smelly shoes too,” May stormed.

Betsey and May stared and glared and scowled and growled at each other.

Then Betsey started to smile, then to laugh, then to hold her stomach she was laughing so much.

“What’s so funny?” May asked, still annoyed.

“Botheration! Imagine hating a pair of shoes!” Betsey laughed. “You hate my shoes and I hate your shoes. And both pairs of shoes are probably laughing at us for being so foolish.”

“All this fuss over a pair of trainers,” May agreed with a giggle.

“Come on! Let’s have a run. Things are always better after a run on the beach,” said Betsey. “I’ll race you to that palm tree yonder.”

“Ready . . . steady . . . go!”

And off they both sprinted, faster than fast. They leapt over the sand and through the lapping water, kicking up the spray as they went, laughing and laughing. Until finally, they both collapsed in the shade of the palm tree Betsey had pointed to. Who won the race? Neither May nor Betsey cared.

Betsey glanced down at her wet shoes. They were all right! Not the ones she’d wanted, but a present from her mum just the same. A special present. A wonderful surprise.

“Look at that!” said May, surprised. May pointed to her trainers. The red colour in her laces was running down the white front of her trainers and over the black writing. May’s trainers didn’t like getting wet – not one little bit. Betsey glanced down at her own trainers – still grey and pink and no running colours anywhere. She jumped up.

“May, let’s walk along the beach for a bit longer,” said Betsey. “We can collect shells and paddle. Never mind our trainers. Let’s walk along in our bare feet.”

“Yeah! It’s much nicer walking on the sand in bare feet anyway,” May agreed.

And May and Betsey ran over the white sand and through the blue water, their trainers knotted at the laces and dangling around their necks.

Betsey Biggalow had another of her bright and shiny ideas! Today would be her HELP THE WORLD day! The question was, who should she help first? She ran into the living room. Sherena was sitting at the table, books, books and more books spread out in front of her.

“Have no fear! Betsey Biggalow is here!” said Betsey proudly.

“Not now, Betsey. Can’t you see I’m busy?” said Sherena.

Betsey walked across to peer over her sister’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

Sherena looked up, annoyed. “I’m trying,
trying
to revise for my maths test on Monday.”

“I’ll help you,” Betsey insisted.

“You can help me by disappearing,” Sherena said crossly. “Go on! Vanish! Depart! Leave! Go away!”

“All right. You don’t have to go on,” said Betsey. “If you don’t need my help, I’ll go and find someone who does.”

“You do that!” said Sherena, burying her head back in the book in front of her.

Betsey ran out into the backyard to see her brother. Desmond was feeding the chickens which clucked and pecked and pecked and clucked.

“Have no fear! Betsey Biggalow is here!” said Betsey. “I’ve come to help.”

“I don’t need the help of a shrimp like you,” Desmond scoffed. “Besides, how come you wait till I’ve almost finished, before coming to help me?”

“Well, I’m here now,” said Betsey. Helping the world was turning out to be more difficult than she’d ever imagined.

“Betsey Biggalow, what are you up to?” Gran’ma Liz came out into the yard. “If you’re seeking useful employment, I can soon find a hundred and one things for you to do.”

Betsey shuddered. She was looking for one interesting something to do – not a hundred and one boring things!

“No thanks, Gran’ma Liz,” said Betsey. “I was just about to go and see my friend May.”

“Hhmm!” said Gran’ma Liz. “Well, just make sure you’re back before supper.”

Betsey didn’t need to be told twice. It was time to scarper before Gran’ma Liz decided that her one hundred and one things should come before a visit to May.

So off Betsey went, down the track, along the road, to May’s house. The evening sun was still hot, hot, hot and the sugar cane in the fields on either side of the road cast long, evening shadows.

“Botheration! So much for ‘Have no fear, Betsey Biggalow is here!’” Betsey muttered with disgust.

And so much for helping the world. You just couldn’t help the world when it didn’t want your help! Betsey was so deep in thought that she almost didn’t hear it. She stopped and frowned and looked around. Then it came again.

“Help . . . oh, please help me . . .”

Frightened, Betsey looked around. “Who’s that? Who’s there?”

“Over here . . .” the faint voice said.

Slowly, oh so slowly and oh so carefully, Betsey crept over towards the voice. Then she saw him. There, lying in a ditch by the side of the road, was a man with a moustache. He was lying half on his side, half on his back. And there, on top of his left leg, was a motorbike.

“I . . . I think I’ve broken my leg,” the man whispered. Betsey could see the perspiration all over his cheeks and his chin. His wet face glistened in the evening sunshine. His shirt was damp and sticking to him just as closely as Gran’ma Liz’s Sunday hat stuck to her head.

“Wait . . . wait there. I’ll go and get my gran’ma,” Betsey said. “I’ll be right back.”

“What’s your . . . your name . . .” asked the man.

“Betsey. Betsey Biggalow.”

“Hurry, Betsey . . .” the man gasped, before his eyes closed and his head nodded down towards the ground.

Betsey ran. She raced like the wind.

“Gran’ma Liz! Gran’ma Liz! There’s a man. And he’s broken his leg. And he’s lying in a ditch. And his motorbike is lying on his leg. And his eyes are closed. And . . .”

“Calm down, child.” Gran’ma Liz frowned. “Now what’re you saying?”

So Betsey explained all over again. The words fell over each other, each one in a rush to be heard. Desmond came in from the garden and Sherena left her books in the living room to listen. By the time Betsey had finished explaining she was out of breath.

“You’d better take us to him,” Gran’ma Liz said. Gran’ma Liz got a blanket and off they all went. At last they reached the part of the road where Betsey had seen the man and his motorbike in the ditch. And he was still there, his eyes closed, his body as still as Sunday morning.

“Sherena, run back to the house and phone for an ambulance. Desmond, Betsey, help me move this motorbike off his leg.” Gran’ma Liz got busy at once.

“Is he all right?” Desmond puffed as they tried to shift the motorbike.

“He’s still breathing and that’s something,” said Gran’ma Liz. “He’s unconscious. The pain was probably too much.”

“Should we move him?” asked Betsey.

“No. When someone’s been in a road accident you shouldn’t move them. The paramedics will know the right way to move him,” Gran’ma Liz said. “I’ll cover him with this blanket I brought with me.”

“Why does he need a blanket? It’s hot-baking!” said Betsey.

“Anyone who’s had a shock should be kept warm. You can get cold very quickly when you’ve had a serious accident. We’ll stand and watch over him until the ambulance arrives.”

“Look, Gran’ma Liz. The front tyre of his bike is flat.” Desmond pointed. “He must have got a puncture and skidded off the road.”

“If the good Lord had meant for us to go tearing around to up, down, below and above, we would have petrol in our bodies, not blood,” Gran’ma Liz sniffed. Gran’ma Liz didn’t approve of fast cars and faster motorbikes.

After what seemed like ages an ambulance finally arrived, its lights flashing, its siren wailing. Betsey watched, holding her breath, as the paramedics lifted the man with the broken leg onto a stretcher. The injured man’s eyes fluttered open and saw Betsey.

“It’s OK. You’re going to the hospital now,” said Betsey.

“Thank you, Betsey.” The man smiled. “I’m going to be fine now.” And he closed his eyes as he was carried over to the ambulance. In only a few moments, the ambulance went roaring away towards the hospital, its siren wailing.

“Will the man and his leg be all right?” asked Betsey.

“He’ll be fine. At the hospital they’ll fix him up in no time.” Gran’ma Liz smiled. “Betsey, you did very well. You were right to come and get me.”