Free Belly Flop by Morris Gleitzman Page A

thought it was you, Doug.
    Making your appearance a bit late and in slightly the wrong place.
    Which would have been fine.
    Even geniuses with super powers beyond the reach of mere mortals can’t be expected to read maps right every time.
    When the cloud of dust everyone was pointing at got a bit closer and I saw it wasn’t you, I wasn’t too disappointed.
    Not when I saw what it was.
    â€˜Jeez,’ yelled a farmer next to me, ‘look at the size of them.’
    Actually, as road tankers go, I don’t reckon they were that much bigger than the one that brings petrol to the Gas ‘N’ Gobble on the first Wednesday of each month.
    They were shinier, that’s all.
    And they didn’t have Shell written on the side.
    Or black smears all over them like the one that delivers the council water. The one that everybody reckons used to carry road tar.
    People just thought your tankers were bigger, Doug, because they were so gleaming and mysterious.
    And there were three of them.
    We don’t get many mysteries in these parts.
    Not ones that don’t involve banks or governments.
    That’s why everyone ran along the main street next to your tankers yelling and hollering even before they knew where the tankers were going.
    I knew where they were going.
    That’s why I yelled and hollered louder than anyone.
    Because I was so happy.
    When the tankers stopped at the pool and the first one backed up to the gate and the driver connected a huge hose to the rear, everyone else got pretty happy too.
    Except Mr Bullock.
    He must be the most depressed mayor in Australia, I reckon.
    â€˜You can’t fill this pool without council permission,’ he said to the driver.
    The driver hesitated.
    The rest of us ignored him and jumped into the pool and started clearing out the rubbish.
    Mr Bullock knew he was beaten.
    â€˜Alright,’ he said, ‘but the council’s not paying for this water.’
    â€˜It’s taken care of,’ said the driver.
    For a heart-stopping sec I thought he was you, Doug.
    He didn’t have wings, but if crumb-trays on toasters can be detachable, I don’t see why wings can’t be too.
    Then Matthew Conn tried to turn the big tap at the back of the tanker and the driver gave him a slap on the head.
    So I knew it wasn’t you, Doug, cause you’d never hit a kid.
    When the driver turned the tap and the jet of water hit the wall of the pool, I held my breath in case the tired old concrete exploded.
    It didn’t.
    All that exploded was the loudest cheer I’ve ever heard in this town, including the day we got satellite TV and Mr Conkey sold Mars Bars at half price.
    Mr Bullock had one last try for the tide of Australia’s Grumpiest Mayor.
    â€˜No swimming,’ he yelled at a couple of kids who were about to jump in. ‘Council health regulations. No swimming without pool chemicals in the water. It’s unsanitary.’
    When the drivers opened the storage compartments under the tankers and started dragging out the drums of pool chlorine, the cheer that went up was almost as loud as the first one.
    Would have been louder, probably, if some of the farmers hadn’t been using their energy to chuck Mr Bullock into the pool.
    Thanks, Doug.
    I’d hug you if I could.
    I’m hugging my wardrobe and pretending it’s you.
    When I’m a champion diver I’ll mention you in all my interviews.
    Plus, when the pool opens for swimming this afternoon, I’m gunna tell everyone who provided the water.
    They’ll want to name the pool after you, no risk.
    Have angels got second names?
    Don’t worry if you haven’t, Doug.
    You can use mine.

 
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    I hope you can see this, Doug.
    The view from up here on this diving board is incredible.
    I can see the whole town, and the abattoir, and the Gas ‘N’ Gobble who need to repaint their roof pretty soon, and every property Dad’s ever dobbed