Day 3. Get your #FREE copy of Charlie while you can!



Can life really be that difficult when you’re the size of a thumb?
…Oh, yes!

Here’s another extract to whet your appetite:

Three hours later, the tent was up, sturdy and waterproof thanks to our earlier efforts.

‘Come on. Let’s have a cuppa,’ suggested Mum. ‘I think we deserve it. Don’t you?’ Her high-pitched laugh filled the canvas. We sat around the little camping table on some rather wobbly striped chairs. Suddenly, a voice called from outside.

‘Hello? Anybody there?’

I darted up from my seat and undid the zip which was to be our door for the next week.

Outside, stood a ginger-haired, freckled boy. I recognised him as the one from the tent next door.

‘Oh, hi!’ I said politely.

‘Coming out to play?’ he asked.

‘Can I, Mum?’

‘Course you can, Sam. Off you go and play with–‘

‘Richard,’ chipped in the boy.

‘Richard,’ nodded Mum.

I ducked through the tent flap, Charlie in my pocket, and followed Richard who began to race around in figure of eight movements.

‘Nee-ow,’ he droned, as he held his toy blue aeroplane aloft, making it swoop and dive in his hand. I chased after him.

Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and turned to face me.

‘Never guess what.’ Richard seemed to be expecting a response, so I obliged with a forced tone of curiosity.


‘My dad’s got a model aeroplane. Wanna see it? It’s operated by remote control. I’m allowed to play with it whenever I want.’

‘OK. If you’re allowed.’

Richard jogged over to his tent, put his finger to his lips and gently pressed his ear to the blue canvas.

‘They’re out. C’mon.’

Looking over his shoulder, he pulled up the tent zip in a trice and pulled me inside. Their bedroom section had not been zipped shut. I could see a heap of dishevelled sleeping bags inside. In the space where we were standing were numerous holdalls, the volcanic contents spilling out, and an array of clothes was strewn, confetti-like, all over the groundsheet.

Richard rummaged around until he found his dad’s plane. It was in a battered cardboard box underneath a leather jacket.

‘Got it!’ he proclaimed triumphantly as he bounded back through the tent flap, apparently unaware that he still had my company.

Again, I followed him. He ran at full pelt over to the other side of the campsite to an area where there were very few tents or caravans. This was probably because the ground was quite uneven here. Richard scrambled up a small slope, lay flat on his stomach and laid the aeroplane on the ground in front of him. He still seemed oblivious of my presence as he fumbled about with the remote controls. Suddenly, it took off… and flew straight into a bush.

‘Go and get it then,’ he ordered.

As I obligingly ran towards it, I found myself stumbling over a small hump. Embarrassed, I stood up, brushed the grass off my bleeding knee and automatically felt in my pocket for my chum. My pocket flattened beneath my palm.


I crouched down and peered into the grass, separating the blades in order to look for him. I caught sight of him just a little way to the left of my foot and so placed a flat palm next to him so that he could climb up. He was on his back, rubbing his head as if to say, ‘Oh, no! Not again!’ As he was clambering on, I was suddenly aware of a presence behind me and warm breath on my neck. I remembered Richard. Oh no! My secret was out.

‘What the…?’ I heard him gasp over my shoulder.

I swung round to face him.

‘You must promise not to tell anyone, Richard.’ I looked at him earnestly, then stared him in the face to show that I meant it.

‘Wow!’ he exclaimed, and before I could react, his grubby little freckled hand had reached out and grabbed Charlie roughly.

I heard a muffled yell from my little friend as Richard raced back up the slope with Charlie in one hand and his aeroplane in the other.


Author: helenlaycock

The tiniest detail can spark off an idea. I collect them, like butterflies. They can be strange or beautiful...and, as they flutter around, I pluck them out and use them to write. Sometimes they turn into poetry, sometimes into stories, but a lot of them have grown into something much bigger - books. I have not yet decided whether I am a children's or adults' author as I write for both. So, I'll just call myself a writer.

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