Elephants Don't Sit on Cars by David Henry Wilson

Author:David Henry Wilson [Wilson, David Henry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781509818778
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

CHAPTER SEVEN

Timothy

Timothy lived next door, and he was Jeremy James’s best friend, and Jeremy James didn’t like him very much. The trouble with Timothy was that he was spoilt, and anything Jeremy James had, Timothy had too but even more so. If Jeremy James had a train set to go round the living room, Timothy had a train set to go round the living room and the dining room and the hall. If Jeremy James had a tricycle with a bell, Timothy had a tricycle with a bell and a hooter and a saddlebag. And if Jeremy James went to the zoo on a Saturday, Timothy had already been there on Friday, which was the only day when the elephants were allowed to escape and little boys were allowed to ride on them.

Timothy was one year older than Jeremy James, and he was taller, stronger, richer. Timothy had red hair, and told Jeremy James over and over again that red hair was the best thing anyone could have on top of his head. Timothy had freckles on his face, and as everyone knows, a face without freckles can hardly be called a face. But worst of all, Timothy went to school, and anyone who hasn’t been to school simply doesn’t know what life is all about. Timothy did all kinds of marvellous things at school, like eating all day long, teaching the teachers how to do reading and writing, making pictures which were the best pictures anyone had ever made because his Daddy said so, and fighting ten boys at a time and knocking them all out with a single punch. Timothy knew everything, could do everything, had done everything.

Timothy had a great big tent in which he and Jeremy James could play Cowboys and Indians. Jeremy James had a tent, too, but there was only room for one Indian in his tent. Timothy’s tent could hold a tribe. And so they always played Cowboys and Indians in Timothy’s tent in Timothy’s garden, which was bigger than Jeremy James’s garden. Timothy was always the chief – after all, it was his tent and his garden – and Jeremy James was either a miserable Indian tied to a stake, or he was a miserable cowboy tied to a stake. The only time he was allowed to tie anyone else to a stake was if little Billy from over the road came and played with them, or his baby sister Gillian, but they were so small that you couldn’t really enjoy capturing them because it was too easy.

Now the first Sunday after Jeremy James had been in bed with liquorice allsort flu, he and Timothy were out in Timothy’s tent, and Jeremy James had just been tied to the stake for the twentieth time.

‘Please can I tie you up after this?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Timothy. ‘It’s my tent.’

‘It’s not fair,’ said Jeremy James for the twenty-first time.

‘And it’s my garden, too,’ said Timothy.

‘Well let’s go and play in my tent in my garden,’ said Jeremy James.

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