Free How Kirsty Jenkins Stole the Elephant by Elen Caldecott Page B

the pipes that meant the heating was switching itself on. She shovelled another spoonful into her mouth, splashing milk down her chin. It seemed easier to think when the house was so still . . . like a monastery in a kung-fu film. She was a monk in a mountain fortress. Eagles soared above and the whole misty valley opened before her. She was seeking wisdom, and deadly fighting skills. She put down the bowl and pulled her legs into the lotus position, each ankle tucked under the opposite knee. She took a breath of cold, fresh air and focused her mind.
    There were two problems, both part of a bigger picture. First, Dad. Last night, in his room, Kirsty had realised that he was moving further and further away. Time and space just weren’t helping, whatever Mum said. The second problem seemed easier, but still impossible: how to stop the row that was bound to happen when Mum called the council.
    The bigger picture was how everything had changed since Grandad died. The two problems were like the yin-yang painting on Grandad’s shed – different, but fitting together somehow. Both had happened because Grandad died. Could they be solved together?
    If there was a huge, colossal row it might get Dad out of bed. He’d have to get involved in things again.
    But that was no good. She had to stop the row so that she could keep her promise to Grandad.
    If she took Dad to the allotment she might be able to persuade him to take her side and stop Mum calling Mr Thomas.
    But there was no way she could get him out of bed. It would take the strength of an elephant to drag him down there.
    And then, suddenly, a vivid ray of sunshine pierced through the clouds, and the valley was illuminated in gold light. The eagles cried in triumph. The strength of an elephant. Kirsty had had a brilliant idea.

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    Chapter 24
    â€˜Wake up,’ Kirsty whispered into Dawn’s ear. It was tricky to stand on the bunk-bed ladder and hold a cup of tea and try to wake Dawn. She shook Dawn’s shoulder. The tea – which was the colour of polished brown school shoes – spilled over on to the floor. ‘Rats.’
    â€˜Wha’ matta’,’ Dawn mumbled.
    â€˜Wake up. Tea for you.’
    â€˜Lea’ me ’lone.’
    Kirsty rolled Dawn over to face the day. ‘Come on, it’s morning. Time to get up.’
    Dawn’s angry T-rex glare nearly stopped Kirsty, but not quite. It was pretty scary, but Kirsty felt way too excited to stop. She shoved the cup towards Dawn, who took it with a scowl. She slurped at it, then coughed. ‘Yuck! That’s stronger than the Incredible Hulk.’
    â€˜Are you awake yet?’
    â€˜God, I hate sharing a room with you. You’re like an evil alarm clock. What time is it anyway?’
    Kirsty grinned. ‘Er, quarter to seven.’
    â€˜What?’ Dawn shoved the cup back at Kirsty. ‘I don’t believe you! Go away. Scram. Vamoose. It’s Saturday. Let me sleep.’
    â€˜No, come on, Dawn. I need to speak to you. I’ve had a brilliant idea.’
    â€˜I don’t listen to brilliant ideas before ten o’clock at the weekend.’ Dawn threw the covers over her head and crawled down into the warm bed. Kirsty sipped at the tea. Dawn was right. It was horrible. She left to go and wake Ben.

    The front room was in darkness, but Kirsty could tell from the moment she opened the door that he was awake. He was breathing quietly, not the regular deep sound of sleep. He had his grey duvet pulled high up over his head.
    â€˜Morning,’ Kirsty whispered.
    â€˜Hello.’ Ben’s reply was dull and flat, as though he were speaking from far away. Kirsty let her eyes get used to the murky dark, then stepped inside. At the weekend, the front room became a tangle of clothes and books as Ben spread out. Kirsty was careful not to trip over the draught excluder or tread on any of the more radioactive-smelling socks.
    â€˜I’m glad