Jack Merryweather was an ordinary boy to whom extraordinary things never happened. In fact, Jack had never had a proper adventure in the whole of his life. It wasn’t that he didn’t want an adventure: Jack wanted one very much. He read about adventures; he dreamed about adventures; he even tried writing his own adventures. Recently Mrs Bubble, his schoolteacher, whom Jack suspected didn’t believe in adventures at all, had set an assignment entitled ‘Description of Trees in the Summer’. Jack had managed to avoid the main subject of trees in the summer or winter or at any other specified time. Instead he had created an ugly, man-eating tree and a wonderful gory adventure. Mrs Bubble had written the remark “Excellent imagination for adventures, although not much content about trees” on the assignment. It was the first time that Jack had received an ‘excellent’ for anything and he was pleased it was for an adventure. He didn’t mind the remark about trees at all; anyone could write about trees; not many people could write a good adventure.
Jack grabbed his spy watch from his bedside table as Mum once more called up the stairs. “Time for school, Jack,” she said. “You really will miss breakfast if you’re much longer!”
Jack stuck his spy watch in his pocket. He picked up his school rucksack and stopped only briefly to look out of his bedroom window. This was a habit of his. He liked to imagine that unknown creatures lived in the huge leafy tree outside of the window. He hadn’t exactly seen any, but a couple of times he had climbed the tree, right to the top branches, and examined small holes and marks which might mean that something lived there. But today he could see no movement to indicate anything remotely unknown; he could only see rays of sunshine shining brightly from a cloudless blue sky, right through the green leaves.
It didn’t seem fair to spend such a hot summer day at school when Grandad might be working on his combine harvester today. Grandad had promised Jack that he could help steer the monstrous machine through the fields of wheat and barley, where it gobbled up the grain and stripped everything completely bare. But at least it was Friday. All of Saturday Jack might sit with Grandad far above the sea of waving stalks, feeling like a king in charge of the world. And, if he managed it, at lunchtime today he could perhaps sneak away for a moment to the gap in the hedge at the edge of the school, where Grandad’s fields and big sheds joined onto the playground. Perhaps Grandad was combining today.
It was day-dreamy kind of weather in the hot, stuffy classroom. The sun streamed through the windows and the teacher, Mrs Bubble, looked hot and cross and bothered. Nearly everyone, apart from Marigold Goody who never did anything wrong, was restless, and two boys had already been sent out of the classroom for bad behaviour. Jack wondered what they were doing and if they had managed to sneak away to the big tree on the playing fields. Perhaps he should get sent out of the classroom too. He tore off a corner of his exercise book, which contained unfinished sums, and scrunched it up nice and small. He considered Marigold Goody’s yellow pigtails and bent head. She was a very easy target.
Mrs Bubble, who even when hot and bothered seemed to have several invisible eyes in her head, suddenly materialised behind Jack. “It’s nearly lunchtime, Jack,” she said. “I don’t suppose you would enjoy spending it indoors, would you?”
Mrs Bubble had a curious way of asking very obvious questions.
“No,” said Jack, trying to squash his paper pellet beneath his hand. “No, I wouldn’t.”
“I rather thought not,” said Mrs Bubble.
Mrs Bubble always knew the answer to her obvious questions. Jack didn’t know why she asked them at all.
“Finish up to number ten in the book, please,” said Mrs Bubble.
Jack sighed. Number ten seemed so far away, and he was not convinced of his need to know how many tomatoes he would be left with if he started with 57 and sold 29 of them at the market. He didn’t like tomatoes, so he was hardly likely to grow them and sell them, was he? And if he did have 57, and sold 29, then he would give all the remaining ones to poor people or leave them in a ditch or something because he certainly didn’t want to have any left. That would leave him with none at all. He wrote the answer in his book, along with his reasoning. It seemed to take up much more space than that allotted for a number, but he had learnt in the past that it was best to explain his answers. Mrs Bubble was sure to ask how he had reached a big fat ‘0’. It would save him explaining later.
The explanation covered the next two sums, which left only two more. They were about similarly irrelevant things so it didn’t take long to finish. He was in the process of drawing illustrations along the margin of his book when the bell rang for lunch and Mrs Bubble began to say, “Alright, time to...”
Jack was up in a flash, part of the melee of boys and girls who were thrusting exercise books at Mrs Bubble, pushing pens and pencils into cases, and tripping over each other, desperate to escape, knowing that every precious second counted. Jack felt a slight misgiving as he thrust his own exercise book at Mrs Bubble and met her beady eyes.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said.
Jack had an uncomfortable prickly feeling that he didn’t actually deserve Mrs Bubble’s thanks. He knew that he hadn’t tried his hardest and that his answers, reasoned though they were, were not really what she wanted.
He picked up his rucksack that had his lunch – his favourite marmite and cheese sandwiches – inside and headed out into the sunshine. It was hard, this nagging prickling in his mind. It kept reminding him that he was a Christian and that he ought always to be trying his best because that’s what would please the Lord Jesus. And ever since Jack had trusted in the Lord Jesus who had died for him, and asked for all the wrong things he had done to be forgiven, he had these funny nagging feelings that he ought to be doing the right thing to please the Lord Jesus.
Jack had told Grandad about Mrs Bubble and how hard it was to be good at school. Grandad told Jack that he should think about doing everything he did for the Lord Jesus1. So you could be nice to someone, and it would be for the Lord Jesus; and you could be polite to Mrs Bubble, and it would be for the Lord Jesus; you could do what you were told, and it would be for the Lord Jesus; and you could work hard on your maths sums…
Jack was walking thoughtfully down the path to the school playing fields when he was interrupted by a shout from a big boy called Timmy Trial. Timmy was not Jack’s friend. He was older than Jack and in a different class: in fact, the oldest class in the school. But no one at school ignored Timmy for long: partly because he was the biggest boy in the whole school, partly because he had the loudest voice, and partly because he was the school bully.
“Merrywhatsit!” shouted Timmy. “Come here!”
Jack, who could be surprisingly courageous even when he trembled inside, pretended he couldn’t hear Timmy. He wanted to be invisible and go to the secret gap in the hedge to see if Grandad was combining close to the big sheds. He might take his friend Alfie with him, but he did not want Timmy.
“I said Merry-boy!” Timmy was never long ignored. And if Jack didn’t want a black eye after school when the teachers couldn’t see and no one dared to tell, he had better comply.
“What?” demanded Jack as boldly as he dared.
“I said come here!” hollered Timmy.
“I’ve got things to do,” said Jack, and he began to walk faster in the direction of the outskirts of the school playing field, wondering at his own temerity. He knew that he could just about outrun Timmy Trial. Although Timmy was much bigger than he was, he was much bulkier too and Jack Merryweather was one of the fastest runners at school. Perhaps, if he managed to avoid Timmy today, Timmy might have forgotten Jack’s behaviour by Monday. And Monday seemed a long time away.
Jack set off at a run. He heard the roar of Timmy Trial; vaguely heard the laughter of Timmy’s so-called friends who were all scared of him; and he knew that no one would interfere to stop Timmy. He did not falter or slow his sprint for the gap in the hedge until he reached it and then, without even a backward glance, he plunged through.
It was like a different world on the other side of the hedge. Of course, Jack had not intended to leave the school grounds: that was strictly forbidden. But the need to escape from Timmy had precipitated this disobedience and he stood, suddenly alone, on the edge of Grandad’s field of golden barley which waved and rippled gently in the warm breeze. The big farm sheds were close by and, without another thought, Jack set off at a jog to reach them and rounded the first massive structure with nothing but safety in his mind.
It was nearly silent here. There was no combine harvester working in the field today; no reassuring presence of Grandad tinkering with something in the sheds; there was only the faint sound of children calling to each other as they enjoyed their lunch break in the school grounds, and the screechy call of a lone pheasant, hidden safely in the standing barley. The large sheds were closed and ominously silent.
Jack wondered whether he might hide with the pheasant in the field of barley, screened by the thick, standing grain. But the path he would make trampling down Grandad’s crop would give him away. His only hope of hiding was somewhere in the big sheds which were stacked with all kinds of interesting farm implements and last season’s leftover bales of straw. He was on familiar territory here, and, as the angry shout from Timmy got closer, he made for the big shed door and prayed frantically that it might somehow, magically, against all of Grandad’s usual careful habits, be open.
And then he saw the chain and padlock hanging from the door.
It was big and strong and most definitely locked.
