The Boy, the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce Read online

  O, let me find some day

  Before I go,

  One little scrap of truth

  That I may truly know.

  It need not be a blazing sun

  On worlds to shine;

  A candle stub would do,

  If it were mine.

  Sarah Osgood Grover

  Novels and Stories

  The Bear Nobody Wanted

  The Better Brown Stories

  The Giant Baby

  The Improbable Cat

  It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

  Jeremiah in the Dark Woods

  My Brother's Ghost

  Woof!

  Verse

  Friendly Matches

  Heard it in the Playground

  The Mighty Slide

  Please Mrs Butler

  THE BOY, THE WOLF, THE SHEEP AND THE LETTUCE

  A Little Search for Truth* by

  ALLAN AHLBEKG

  with illustrations by

  JESSICA AHLBERG

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2004

  Published in this edition 2005

  3

  Text copyright © Allan Ahlberg, 2004

  Illustrations copyright © Jessica Ahlberg, 2004

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-192805-0

  CONTENTS

  Author's Note

  1 The Boy, the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce

  2 The Boy's Version

  3 Currants from a BUN

  4 The Sheep's Version

  5 Space, Time and Grandma Pumfrey

  6 The Wolf's Version

  7 A CLEARING in the Forest

  8 Invisible Stars

  9 The Lettuce's Version

  10 The Answer is IN the Cart

  11 Little Sister

  12 A Book in a Book!

  13 Errors and Omissions

  14 The Spider in the Rose

  15 Down the Road

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  My name is John Smout. I am – LORD HELP ME – a writer of children's books. I have written a few in my time; not few enough, some say. Full of low comedy and foolishness, most of 'em. (Good illustrations, though.) Now, however, as I begin to descend the hill of life, I feel the urge to set down something halfway… sensible. Yes, sir, mature work, that's what I'm aiming for; a little SEARCH for truth.

  This book required much toing and froing on the author's part and never would have reached its end (or ends!) without help. Thus, thanks are due to Mrs McFirkin for her unstinting hospitality and free firewood, ‘Grandma Pumfrey' (my saviour with a shotgun) and little Rosalind McFirkin for access to her remarkable diary. The Book of Courage (Edwin Osgood Grover) and The Paradox Box (Redstone Press) jointly supplied many of the quotations used herein. (I like a good quote.) The Collected Poems of Sarah Osgood Grover, sister to Edwin, have been my constant inspiration. To my old mum, MOVER of WARDROBES, I dedicate this book.

  J.T. S.

  March '04

  [1] The Boy, the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce

  I have never but once succeeded in making G. E. Moore tell a lie and this was by a subterfuge. ‘Moore, I said, ‘do you always speak the truth?’ ‘No,’ he replied. I believe this to be the only lie he had ever told.

  Bertrand Russell

  You may think you know this story, it has become famous after all, but I am here to tell you now you DON'T know it. No, sir – no y'don't. Don't argue.

  Y'see, what most boys and girls (I guess you're one or the other), what most people know is only the boy's version, farmer's boy supposedly, though he never was. Well, for starters even this version is not up to much, and in any case there are OTHER POINTS OF VIEW.

  But there you are. We think we know, and we don't know. We think we don't know, and we do. Lies, confusion, subterfuge etc. are all around us. Not to worry. I am here to sort it out, lead you through the maze, so to speak. You can rely on me.

  P.S. There's a girl in the book too; it's not all boys. Oh, yes, and one other thing. If your parents or teachers, they're a nosy lot, ask what you're reading, tell them it's educational. Intellectual. Yes, tell 'em you're reading Bertrand Russell.

  So, here it is, the famous version, the one we all know. As I've explained, it's not the whole story, the whole truth (Your Honour), not by any means. But it will do to be going on with, set the wheels in motion, so to speak, set the ball rolling, set the scene, set the jelly (no – not that). Anyway, here it is:

  THE BOY, THE WOLF, THE SHEEP AND THE LETTUCE

  Once, not so long ago, a farmer's boy had to deliver a wolf, a sheep and a lettuce to a nearby town. By and by he came to a river which it was necessary to cross in a boat. Unfortunately, the boat was only big enough to take the boy and one other at a time. The problem was, he couldn't leave the wolf alone with the sheep because the wolf would eat the sheep.

  He couldn't leave the sheep alone with the lettuce because the sheep would eat the lettuce.

  So the question is, how did the boy get all three of them and himself over the river to the other side?

  Well, ‘easy-peasy’, I hear you say. We all know that, or think we do. The boy – you remember – the boy takes the sheep over first and then comes back and takes the…and so on. And so on. But – and this is the point I want to make – this version is just that, a version, and not much of one either. For a start there's almost no detail, is there, likely to persuade us, any of us – man, girl, chicken even – that THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED. For instance, why only one lettuce? What use is a single, solitary lettuce? At least let's have a pack of three. And (this is one for the grown-ups) what sort of parent is it who sends their child off all alone to deliver some monstrous great wolf to… anywhere?

  But you must forgive me – Oh, dear! – I get worked up at times.* It's the sheer preposterousness of some so-called stories that agitates me, blows me off course and, er… makes me forget what I was going to say.

  What was I going to say? Where was I? Oh, yes. The point is, y'see, there could be other versions. There must be. Th
ere are! Yes, sir, and I am here to tell you now… er, all of'em. Starting with the boy himself, young Percy.

  [2] The Boy's Version

  Father, I cannot tell a lie. I did it with my little hatchet.*

  George Washington

  I have talked to this boy, or rather listened to him. He's a bit of a chatterbox, no shortage of detail here. This is a simplified version – he's a bit of an exaggerator too – of what he says, what he claims happened. It's a version all right, but keep that pinch of salt handy.

  The boy's name was Perseverance McFirkin, a ridiculous name, I'll grant you, but what passes for normal in our part of the world. (Wait till you hear the wolf's name. Wait till you hear the lettuce's!) The boy, as mentioned earlier, was not a farmer's boy at all, he was a woodcutter's boy and his mother was the woodcutter. His father was a partner in a window-cleaning business.

  So here we are on the day in question, early on a bright and fragrant morning, with marigolds blooming in the window box and little larks out on the sill. Young Perseverance arose from his bed, washed his face, ate his breakfast and attended half-heartedly (he was reading a comic) to his mother's instructions.

  ‘Now Percy,’ she said, ‘I require you to get dressed and run a few errands. Take this lettuce to your Auntie Joyce, this sheep to Mr Bodley – Oh yes, and drop this wolf off at Grandma Pumfrey's.’ Grandma Pumfrey was the local vet. What business a wolf had with a vet, you will presently hear.

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Percy. Whereupon, up he leapt and away he flew, like a pip from an apple, according to him. Up the stairs to throw some clothes on. Out into the yard to hitch up the donkey. Round to the front of the house, plus donkey, plus cart for loading:

  lettuce

  sheep

  wolf

  football boots

  fizzy drink

  comic.

  Kiss for his mother, blown kisses for his little sister (told you there was a girl), still in her nightie and waving at him from an upstairs window, brisk ‘Giddy-up!’ for the elderly and somewhat deaf donkey, thence through the gate,

  down the cowtrack,

  round the bend and off…

  into the forest.

  The FOREST. This boy had much to say about the forest. It was his favourite place, apparently. A place of ancient trees and clearings – flickering sunlight – high winds – snow at times. A place of tigers and bears, according to him, and bandits. I see from my notes that he was in the forest for twenty minutes or so and that it took him three quarters of an hour to tell me about it.

  But let us move him on. The road through the forest to the town rose and fell with the contours of the ground. From time to time little racing streams cut across it. It was the width of a cart, no more. (You must hope on your journey not to meet one coming the other way!) The boy sat up on the cart, whistling. On his left, in a wooden tray, the Lettuce; on his right, with his lead – yes, lead – wrapped round the iron frame of the seat, the Wolf. And in the bed of the cart, curled up on an old blanket and gazing back the way they had come, the Sheep.

  Actually, to be fair to this boy, to Percy, this is his version after all, let me quote a little from his actual words. It is not necessary to believe everything he says, though some of it, surely, is likely to be true.

  ‘It were an easy trip' (he has an open, smiling face, gingerish hair, freckles), ‘I were never scared. I know that old forest.’ He whistles at this point. ‘Seen a polecat up a tree – I never minded it. Seen a bandit or a robber or somebody, off in the trees.’ Whistles. ‘Stood up in the old cart and picked me a pear off a pear tree. Seen another man with an eye patch and a wriggling sack. I never minded.’ Whistles.

  ‘But what about your companions?’ I asked. ‘Can you tell me anything about them?’ I didn't want to put words into his mouth, you understand. It was the TRUTH I was after. In any case, his mouth was fairly well full of words as it was.

  ‘Well, see, that sheep I was taking to Mr Bodley, it were his sheep. The Wolf was going to Grandma Pumfrey's. I was supposed to leave him there and my dad would pick him up after. I had it all writ down. See, he needed his claws clipping, his teeth scraping – a build up of tartar or something – and his booster wolf-flu jab.’

  ‘But a wolf –’ I could hardly contain myself, ‘– to a vet?’

  ‘Oh, he were some old wolf. Tame enough. I was never scared of him. Not like the tigers. See, the tigers –’

  ‘What about the Lettuce?’

  ‘The Lettuce was for Auntie Joyce, I forget what for. Don't believe she was supposed to eat it, though. There was something else. I forget.’ Whistles.

  On went the cart (we will get there) with its effervescent boy, patient donkey and UNLIKELY PASSENGERS. By and by the trees thinned out and the track widened. Small fields appeared (broccoli mostly), the odd cottage, telegraph pole, bus stop. Then, straight ahead and glittering under the rising sun, the river. And beyond the river, right up against its further bank, the green slate roofs and smoking chimneys of the town.

  There was a bridge which was closed off, on account of an unfriendly, blackmailing troll, according to Percy, but it was roadworks, really. I checked it out.

  ‘So how did you get across?’ I asked. ‘Was there a boat?’

  ‘There was – a ferry boat. Warn't there, though – disappeared – and the ferryman – and his missus. Kidnapped, I heard, or gone on holiday, somebody said.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  Percy smiled, and I saw that he had a tooth missing. ‘I Percy-vered!’ he cried. (An old family joke, apparently.) ‘That's what I done. Found this titchy little boat with a paddle – like a tennis bat.’

  And thus the tale, or the disentanglement of the tale, as it were, continues. Young Perseverance McFirkin, in the peace and solitude of his own orchard at the side of the house, in the swing and serenity of his own hammock stretched out between two plum trees, expands on and delights in his own cleverness – coolness – presence of mind. (I sit there, taking notes.)

  ‘I think to m'self, this'll do it. I'll take 'em over one at a time. Only trouble was –’ He flicks a moth away from his nose. ‘Only trouble was, I couldn't leave the Wolf with the Sheep, and I couldn't leave the Sheep with the Lettuce. Tricky that.’

  But solvable, apparently, for what young Percy did, or so he says, was grab his old woodcutter's axe (or hatchet) out of the cart, chop a few trees down and make himself a raft. Found a pole. Drove the donkey plus cart onto the raft… and floated over. And the Sheep fell overboard and he rescued her. And a crowd gathered on the further bank with much cheering. And the Wolf, Sheep, Lettuce all got to where they were supposed to. (I am rushing a bit here. We had been in that orchard half a day, my notebook was full and it was getting dark.) And (too many ‘ands‘, sorry about that)* Percy played football, and scored, you guessed it, the winning goal. Had tea at his friend's house, spent the night at Auntie Joyce's… and slept the sleep of the just, whatever that means.

  P.S. All in that rush there at the end, and in my natural eagerness to REACH THE END, I must confess I skipped a couple of things. Allow me to rewind a little. As I mentioned, it was darkening in the orchard. Pinholes of starlight appeared to hang in the branches of the trees. The earlier heat of the sun, soaked down into the earth, was rising up again full of the smells of fallen fruit and grass. Percy was expanding on his heroics in that river crossing. The Sheep was overboard, the brave boy poised to rescue her.

  I should add that Percy's little sister had joined us at this time, back in her nightie again, ready for bed and up there in the hammock with him. Anyway, Percy was telling his tale. I was sat there in a folding camp chair. Rosalind, that was his sister's name, was dangling her chubby little legs over the edge of the hammock. The rescue was in progress, yes, the crowd cheering. And then… a movement in the shadows. A cough. A voice. ‘Not true,’ it said, so deeply and yet quavering too. ‘A fiction altogether. I am the best of swimmers.’

  [3] Currants from a BUN


  A lie can be halfway round the world before the truth has got its boots on.

  Old Dutch Proverb

  There we have it: the boy's version, and much good may it do us. It is as full of holes as a Swiss cheese, a sieve, a MOTH-EATEN OLD… something or other. Carpet. I mean, he has given us all this STUFF (hardly a tenth of what he told me) and you'd require to pick the truth out of it, if there was any, like currants from a BUN.

  Oh, dear, I am getting carried away again. I can feel it. I mean, I ask you: bandits – tigers – TROLLS. All that business with the raft. I have been to the river, both banks. Searched high and low. There is no raft. That boy, that Percy – is Perseverance really his name, I am beginning to wonder – has a truly (!) vivid imagination. Or as his little sister was later to say, ‘That Percy, he is a big fibber.’ I would scarcely trust him to tell me what socks he was wearing. There again, on the other hand (or foot), the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce, that bit's true, sort of. I mean, they WERE in the cart and he DID take them.

  Incidentally (I should've mentioned this earlier), this text, these pages you are presently (pleasantly?) reading, is based on a mountainous amount of notes made within a week or so of the alleged events, interviews mostly, with the participants themselves. The book itself, however, has taken much longer to complete. I am a slow worker. Sometimes days passed when all I had to show was minus fifteen words, crossed out, that is, from the day before. Such is the writer's lot.

  Let's move on.

  [4] The Sheep's Version

  UNCLE EDITH

  This poem, I regret to say

  Is quite untrue.

  Uncle was really Auntie, of course

  And Edith, actually, Hugh.

  Allan Ahlberg