A funny and heart-warming tale of friends sticking together when the going gets tough!
“Austin is an extremely enjoyable and exciting book. It follows in the grand tradition of anthropomorphic animal stories. From the first page, it draws the reader in completely with its carefully drawn characterizations of the animals.
The story is also fast-paced and fun, with great flourishes of humour. Young readers will fully engage with the animal characters and the vintage car. It is simply a great read.”
Andrea Rayner School Library Association
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Smashwords Edition
Exciting Stories. 6A High Street, Chatham, Kent. ME4 4EP
Email: Austin@exciting-stories.co.uk
Website: www.exciting-stories.co.uk
Copyright 2008 Stuart Taylor
Covers and illustrations copyright 2008 Stuart Taylor
The moral right of the author has been asserted
A catalogue record of this book is available from
The British Library
ISBN 978-1-4658-4837-6
“Couldn’t put it down!”
Fred Potstick – Stick Tester - Acme Glue Company
“A tale of extraordinary pluck!”
Bernie Broiler – Egg Mender – Acme & Sons (Organic) Chicken Farm
“Kept me guessing!”
Hilda ‘I see no ships’ Futtock – Clairvoyant.
“Sheer Brilliance!”
Edison Watt – Luminary - Acme Light Bulb Co
Chapter 2-An Urgent Matter of ‘Health & Safety
Chapter 5-The Very Urgent Meeting
Chapter 17-Wishing Well Cottage
Chapter 18-For Whom the Bells Toll
Chapter 19-Caught in the Headlights
Chapter 20-The Garage and the One Handed Clock
Chapter 1
Landslide!
It was a flaming June afternoon and the bus to Piddle Wallop was late. Mrs Patience Butterbee stood boiling at the bus stop behind Oats’ Farm and despite her first name being Patience; she glanced at her watch every second and tutted decidedly impatiently. She was about to look at her watch for at least the one hundred and twenty seventh time, and no doubt tut yet again, when a brown blackbird hen landed on the rickety stone wall beside the bus stop. Mrs Butterbee wondered if the tiny bird landing might cause the old wall to collapse - such was the wall’s precarious lean over the pavement.
The blackbird promptly began singing and Mrs Butterbee was quickly captivated by its delightful melody. She soon forgot all about the bus being late and relaxed into a deep and enchanted daydream.
The blackbird’s blissful harmonies suddenly turned into screeches of distress, as a big marmalade tomcat leapt from nowhere and amid squawking, pecking, and a flurry of claws, teeth, and flying feathers, it seized the poor blackbird in its jaws. The struggle seemed over. The blackbird stopped moving. Then, with a banshee wail, Mrs Butterbee leapt into action - lunging and swinging her handbag at the vicious tom. The startled cat glared angrily at Mrs Butterbee, but shocked by a near miss from the swooping handbag, opened its mouth just long enough for the blackbird to escape. The fear stricken bird fluttered lopsidedly away and the cheated tom stood angrily hissing and spitting at Mrs Butterbee.
“DON’T you swear at me!” cried Mrs Butterbee taking another swipe at the cheeky cat with her handbag. This time the tom took flight, kicking out a small stone from the wall as it went.
The loose stone fell and rolled across the pavement stopping at Mrs Butterbee’s toe. After a moment, another slightly larger stone fell from the wall. The larger stone was followed by another, even bigger stone, and then another and another, until what started as a trickle of stones became a landslide.
“STONE ME!” yelled Mrs Butterbee jumping backwards to avoid being buried alive.
When the landslide finally stopped, Mrs Butterbee found herself staring eye to headlamp at a rusty old car through a big hole that had appeared in the old stone wall.
The car was overgrown with weeds and brambles and it stared forlornly back at her. From somewhere inside it, Mrs Butterbee heard the sounds of baby birds squeaking for their mother.
Suddenly a loud chugging and clattering from the road caught Mrs Butterbee’s attention. The number seven bus, desperately trying to make up time, was puffing and blowing its way toward the bus stop. With a start, Mrs. Butterbee turned toward the bus and began frantically waving at it. The bus squealed to a stop and Mrs Butterbee scrambled over the pile of loose stones to clamber aboard.
“Well! What’s ‘appened ‘ere then?” said the bus, glancing sideways at the remains of the old wall. “This great ‘ole wasn’t ‘ere this morning when I did the school run. And look! What’s that behind it? Well I never! It’s an old banger all overgrown with weeds and brambles. To think,” went on the bus thoughtfully, “I’ve been doing the Piddle Wallop route for years and I bet you’ve been hiding behind that old wall all the time. My name’s Omni; what’s yours, my friend?”
“Austin,” replied Austin, feeling rather hurt at being called an ‘old Banger’.
In truth, Austin had lived in the overgrown gap between the old stone wall and Farmer Oat’s dilapidated barn for longer than he could remember. All he knew, it was many, many summers and many, many winters. Now he could see Omni; the winding lane that ran behind Oat’s Farm; the bus stop; a shady wood beyond the bus stop and last but by no means least - Mrs Butterbee’s ample rear disappearing on the bus.
“Oh well. Can’t stand here ‘gassing’ all day,” said Omni. “I’m late and I won’t meet my Punctuality Targets at this rate. I don’t want to be replaced by a newer faster bus and end up on the …,” Omni’s voice trailed away as if he’d said more than he should have. He glanced pitifully at the overgrown old car behind the wall for the last time. “Well, jolly nice to meet you, Austin. Good luck!” and with a ring of his bell, Omni revved his motor and chugged away.
Despite being able to see so much more of the world than just the mossy stones of the old stone wall and weeds and brambles and the parched, cracking wooden planks of the old barn – it didn’t make Austin any happier. In fact, seeing more of the world only made him feel sad. He watched Omni disappear into the distance and thought sadly: “I’ll never drive on the open road again, and Omni was right; he was nothing but a useless old banger. Why, it was only yesterday his left headlamp had finally rusted right through and fallen off. Now it dangled forlornly in the breeze held only by a frayed electric wire from his equally rusty front mudguard.” A tear welled up in his other headlamp and sploshed to the ground.
“Hey! Watch it, Austin!” called a squeaky voice from below, “some of us are trying to sunbathe, you know. You’ve soaked me right through! I’ll have to put on more sun-blocker now.”
Austin peered down from his hanging headlamp. It was Vole. Vole was only tiny and Austin’s tear had soaked him right through. Vole stood on his hind legs to shake himself dry.
“What are you crying for, Austin?” he asked.
“I’m not! It’s a fly making my headlamp water,” replied Austin, unable to stop his bumper quivering.
“Yes you are. You’re blubbering! What’s the matter?”
“Well, since you ask - plenty. Just look at the state of me!” began Austin. “My left headlamp’s hanging off - so I can only see the ground on that side. I’m rusty. I’m overgrown with brambles. I’m not a car anymore - I’m just a dilapidated, old hotel. Blackbirds nest under my bonnet. You live in my boot. Hedgehog lives in my glove box. My tyres are flat like pancakes. My seats are all torn and their stuffing’s been nicked by thieving Chav-Finches for their nests, and to add insult to injury, my paintwork‘s all dull and flaking off! In short Vole,” continued Austin at last taking a breath to point at the old stone wall with a drooping wing-mirror. “I’ll never be driven again by an owner who loves me – I’ll be stuck here for ever – and just like this old stone wall – I’ll slowly fall apart!”
Vole rather wished he hadn’t asked Austin what was wrong now, and although he tried, he couldn’t think of anything helpful to say. It was sadly true. Austin was a wreck.
Vole was relieved when, after an uncomfortable silence, Brownie Blackbird landed with a bump on Austin’s bonnet. She was limping and carrying a couple of juicy worms wriggling in her beak for the Twins. Brownie lived with her husband, Blackbird and their chicks in a nest inside Austin’s bonnet, behind his radiator.
“Mmmm! ”Mmmm!” She nodded politely at Vole. “Mmmm! Mmmm!” she nodded at Austin, before fluttering inside Austin’s bonnet to her nest. At once her hungry fledgling twins, waiting for their long overdue afternoon feed, began squeaking. Brownie unceremoniously stuffed each of their open beaks full of worms and hopped back out onto Austin’s bonnet before they had the chance to start squeaking again.
“Phew! I’m pooped!” she gasped, wiping her forehead with the back of her wing. “They’re ALWAYS hungry! I’ve quite forgotten what a good night’s sleep is,” she chirped. “And… Do you know? I was nearly eaten alive by Marmaduke this morning!”
“NO! Really! Oh dear,” said Austin, forgetting all about his hanging headlamp for a moment.
“Yes. All I saw was this flash of orange fur and he leapt at me from nowhere! Look! I’ve lost loads of tail feathers. Goodness knows what Blackbird will say when he gets home from work today. Tell me honestly. Does my bum look big now or what?”
“That bully of a cat caught me once,” said Vole solemnly. “All teeth and claws he was. Big hairy and mean! I thought I was a goner for sure! He kept tossing me in the air until I was quite dizzy. Then the farmer’s wife called him in for his dinner and I escaped. I’m only thankful the rust hole in Austin’s boot is too small for Marmaduke to crawl through.”
“Me too!” agreed Brownie. “We’re all safe inside you Austin.”
Austin cheered up a bit. The rest of world might think he was a useless old banger, but at least his friends still thought he was good for something.
“Well, this won’t get the Twins their supper will it!” groaned Brownie, wearily launching herself from Austin’s bonnet to find yet more worms. She hadn’t been gone long when Hedgehog woke up. He stretched and yawned in his cosy nest behind Austin’s dashboard.
Hedgehog usually slept until evening. Then, as the sun went down, he would go out looking for insects and the daily saucer of drinking water the nice-lady-next-door left in her front garden for him. Hedgehog poked his head out from his front door (Austin’s glove box) and sniffed the scented summer air. He felt drowsy and as the sun was still too high and it wasn’t quite time to get up yet, he turned over and started snoring again.
Eventually the long, hot afternoon was over and the blazing orange sun began sinking slowly behind the barn. Vole had given up sunbathing and was on his way back to his nest for a tasty supper of tree bark and a leftover snail (that would be too dry by tomorrow), when he pricked up his ears.
Two humans were approaching from across the farmyard. They were speaking heatedly and whatever it was they were talking about sounded very serious. Cocking his head to one side, Vole strained to hear what they were saying.
Chapter 2
An Urgent Matter of ‘Health and Safety’!
Just then a grasshopper began chirruping - which really wasn’t surprising, as he always chirruped when the sun went down.
“Shhh!” hissed Vole crossly to the grasshopper. “Some of us are trying to hear what the humans are saying!”
The grasshopper frowned at Vole and hopped away. Vole could just see the two men were being followed by Marmaduke, who was desperately trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. The big man, Vole knew was Farmer Oats. The smaller man was tubby and wore a dark grey suit, a white shirt, a bright red tie, and very, very shiny black shoes. A black bowler hat, a size too small, wobbled on his head when he walked. He carried a briefcase in his left-hand and a blue clipboard tucked under his right arm.
“I’m sorry Farmer Oats,” the small, tubby man insisted, squinting up at Farmer Oats as they walked, “but we’ve had a complaint at the Town Hall from a Mrs Patience Butterbee about…,” and he put on a pair of pebble-like reading glasses to peer closely at his clipboard. “Quote! ‘Nearly being buried alive under your old stone wall!’” The tubby man then took off his spectacles and, like a judge passing sentence on a naughty felon, pointed with them at the offending hole in the old stone wall.
“This is an emergency, Farmer Oats!” the tubby man said sternly. “An urgent matter of Health and Safety!”
“What you mean is, oi gota rebuild moi waall, Mr Gray.”
“Precisely Farmer Oats! It might only be a hole today, but the rest of wall is so old and unsafe it might collapse at any moment!” said Mr Gray gravely, turning and dramatically brandishing his specs at farmer Oats. “And we don’t want innocent bystanders waiting for a bus to be crushed under tons of loose boulders, do we now!”
“An’ what am oi s’posed to do about this ‘ole’ thing!” groused Farmer Oats, crossly kicking Austin’s rear mudguard. The rusty mudguard promptly fell off with a loud clang and Vole ducked behind Austin’s back wheel to avoid being squashed. The sudden noise woke Hedgehog with a start and the Blackbird Twins immediately began squeaking with alarm.
“Ouch! That was painful!” cried Austin, shuddering as the fraying wire holding his dangling headlamp finally snapped sending it clattering to the ground. Now he could only see from one headlamp!
“Poor old car,” said Mr. Gray sympathetically. “Looks to me like it’s seen better days and wouldn’t be out of place in a scrapyard.”
An icy shiver ran through Austin’s chassis. Whatever a scrapyard was, he didn’t like the sound of it.
Mr Gray then took a pen from the breast pocket of his suit and began scribbling on his clipboard. After a moment, he tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to Farmer Oats.
“There,” said Mr Gray triumphantly, “that’s an official Council Repair Order! It means you must rebuild this wall to make it safe before the end of the month.”
Farmer Oats began counting on his thick, stubby fingers.
“But that’s only three days away!” he protested.
“That is as may be, Farmer Oats. But you’ve neglected your wall like you’ve neglected this poor… old Banger!”
Austin winced, he felt hurt being called a ‘poor old Banger’ again, but Mr Gray was now in full flow and continued pompously: “This wall is a public menace, Farmer Oats and must be repaired as a matter of urgency! I’ll be back on Thursday afternoon to inspect it. And I warn you, Farmer Oats, if the repairs are not carried out to my satisfaction, I’ll send in our council builders to repair the wall and then, rest assured, we will send you a huge, HUGE bill for the pleasure. Good afternoon Sir.”
And with that Mr Gray straightened his wobbly bowler, tucked his blue clipboard firmly under his arm and picking up his briefcase walked briskly back across the farmyard, narrowly missing a squishy, brown cow pat as he went. Having avoided the first stinky obstacle, Mr Gray peered back over his shoulder and smiled smugly at Farmer Oats. His expression suddenly changed from smug smile to appalled grimace as he skidded in a second, far smellier cow pat nearer the farmyard gate. Red faced with embarrassment, Mr Gray stood hopping on one leg for several moments, sheepishly shaking the steaming, slimy brown muck from a once very shiny black shoe.
Despite Mr Gray’s rather satisfying mishap, Farmer Oats was now very angry about Mrs Butterbee’s complaint to the council and the expense of having to rebuild the old wall before ‘Thursdee’. Austin waited anxiously for the farmer to give him another painful kick - wondering which part of him might fall off next. He felt quite relieved when after muttering lots of naughty words under his breath and stamping on the ground for a fair bit, Farmer Oats stormed back to the farmhouse - no doubt to telephone the nearest scrapyard.
When he thought the coast was clear, Vole peered out nervously from behind Austin’s wheel where he’d been hiding. Marmaduke was leering at him with evil, glittering green eyes. Then, baring rows of sharp, white teeth, the tomcat hissed and pounced - but Vole was too quick and darted up Austin’s exhaust pipe and disappeared through a small rust hole into the safety of Austin’s boot.
“Hah! You might get away this time, Vole - but I’ll get you all soon enough!” cackled Marmaduke, licking his lips. “When they take Austin to the scrapyard you’ll have nowhere left to hide. Then I’ll have Vole for breakfast! Hedgehog for lunch! And Blackbirds baked in a pie for dinner!”
Chapter 3
The Glimmer of Hope
The new day was greeted as it always was at Oats’ Farm - noisily, by the crowing barnyard cockerel.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
This was the signal for the chickens to wake up and brace themselves for Mrs Oats’ icy hands fumbling around their nether regions to gather eggs for farmer Oats’ breakfast.
Austin woke, stirred and yawned. He glanced nervously around the farmyard. Blackbird had gone to work as usual; Brownie Blackbird was searching for worms as usual and nothing else seemed untoward. Maybe Farmer Oats had decided not to send him to a scrapyard after all. Austin was just deciding whether or not to go back to sleep for another hour or two when he heard gravelly human voices from across the farmyard.
“We can make a start clearing up the boulders from the pavement and the loose stones from the wall, but Dave and me will need you to shift that Old Banger before we can finish rebuilding the wall, Farmer Oats,” said one of the men. Austin winced at his choice of the words: ‘Old Banger’.
The man was tall with hands like big spades and tattooed arms, and the bushiest, jet-black moustache Austin had ever seen.
“Don’t worry Harry,” replied farmer Oats, “the scrapyard truck’s comin’ to tow it away this morning. You and Dave should ‘ave a clear run at rebuilding the waall by the toime you’ve 'aad your elevensees.”
Austin’s heart sank. The scrapyard truck was coming to tow him away after all. He began wondering what life at a scrapyard would be like without his friends to talk to and keep him company. It seemed a lonely and sad prospect.
“Seems a shame to get rid of the old car, if you ask me,” said the second workman called Dave. “It’s sort of cute in a way and I bet an Old Banger like that would be worth a bob or two if it were done up.”
Dave was thin with dusty jeans, a faded green and yellow checked shirt, and having called him an “Old Banger”; Austin thought just how easy it was to go off people.
“Why don’t you buy it then, Dave?” demanded Farmer Oats. “It’s yours for thirty quid if you can take it away today!”
“Nah! Sorry. Don’t do old cars!” replied Dave, “but I bet someone would pay a pretty penny for it - even as an old wreck.”
This seemed to irritate Farmer Oats, because he’d only just agreed to pay the scrap-men thirty five pounds to take Austin away. He went quite red.
“I dare say someone might,” said Farmer Oats acidly, “but if I don’t get this ruddy waall repaired by Thursdee it’ll cost me a lot more than this old banger’s worth!”
Dave went on regardless of Farmer Oats’ obvious annoyance: “In fact, I’ve SEEN a bloke driving an old car exactly like this one, through the lanes at Piddle Wallop. You should see his old car! Beautiful! Shiny blue paint - polished brass - the works! Now, I bet he’d pay hundreds for this old banger!”
Farmer Oats went even redder, thinking about how much money he might have got for the old wreck if only he could find this mysterious bloke Dave was talking about.
“Where does this ‘ere bloke live then?” asked Farmer Oats, considering cancelling the men from the scrapyard and selling Austin to the bloke for more money.
Austin’s spirits rose.
“Dunno. Sorry,” replied Dave shrugging his shoulders.
Austin’s spirits sank.
“Must be over Piddle Wallop way. I could always flag him down if I see him again and tell him about the Old Banger, Farmer Oats,” said Dave trying to be helpful.
Austin’s spirits rose.
“IF you see ‘im! It’ll be too late by then, won’t it!” snapped farmer Oats. “This waall’s got to be finished by next Thursdee. THURSDEE!” And with that Farmer Oats stormed off back to the farmhouse for his bacon and newly laid eggs.
Austin’s spirits sank.
“Blimey Harry. What an old grouch,” said Dave when farmer Oats was out of earshot. “I was only trying to help.”
“Come on,” replied Harry wearily. “There’s no helping some people. Let’s make a start or we’ll never get the job done in time. Then the old git won’t pay us.”
Austin watched the two workmen begin stacking the loose stones from the pavement and the top of the old wall into a neat pile. Everything seemed hopeless. He really didn’t want to go to a lonely scrapyard and leave all his friends behind. And soon Austin began daydreaming that once he had polished brass and shiny paint, like the car Dave had seen the bloke driving through the lanes at Piddle Wallop. Poor Austin, he’d stood so long neglected between the barn and the old stone wall, he’d almost forgotten what it was like being driven on an open road. He might be old and rusty, but he was still a car with all of a car’s feelings, and yes, he belonged on the open road.
He began imagining what it would be like to be done up by the bloke from Piddle Wallop and driven out on sunny Sundays again. Open fields and trees and hedgerows and small villages would flash by as he, with the bloke behind the wheel, sped along through the country lanes gleaming in the bright summer sun.
Austin was woken from his daydream by a small boy peering through the hole in the wall. It was summertime when children don’t to go to school. The boy had come from the wood and was carrying a fishing net and a jam-jar filled with tiddlers he’d caught in the stream.
Austin had seen lots of people staring at him through the hole in the wall, but this little boy seemed different. He didn’t look down his nose at Austin, as if Austin were a hopeless wreck, like the other people – this little boy gazed at Austin with wonder in his eyes.
“Is he yours, mister?” called the boy to Dave.
“Nah. He belongs to farmer Oats,” gasped Dave lifting a particularly heavy stone.
“He’s beautiful,” said the boy.
“You think so?” said Dave. “Make the most of him. He’s off to the scrapyard to be crushed this morning.”
“Crushed!” thought Austin. He was terrified and his oil pump began fluttering ten to the dozen.
The boy’s expression changed as if Dave’s words had wounded him like a knife. Before the boy could say anything more, the number seven bus to Piddle Wallop drew up.
Austin watched the little boy wave and stare fondly at him from the back window of the bus as it drove away.
The bus hadn’t been gone long when Austin heard the loud roar of a diesel engine in the farmyard. He looked nervously toward the noise. A giant black truck, belching black smoke from its exhaust stacks was rattling clumsily across the cattle grid at the farmyard gate. Dave and Harry both looked up from their stone-stacking and watched the greasy tow-truck lumbering menacingly toward Austin.
Suddenly Austin felt very alone and an icy shiver ran right down to his big ends. The words: ‘Butchers & Sons Scrap.’ were daubed like blood in runny, red paint on the doors of the huge black truck.
Chapter 4
The Butchers
The black truck stopped in front of Austin amid a hissing and squealing of brakes.
“We’ve come to take you away,” the brakes hissed loudly.
Austin’s big ends and tappets began knocking uncontrollably in fear. Suddenly both of the truck’s doors flew open and two filthy-looking men leapt out.
“Blimey Wayne, when was the last time you saw one of these?” shouted one of the men, pointing his grimy finger at Austin. The man’s once navy blue overalls were black and smeared with old engine oil and his hairy arms and shaved head were covered in tattoos. Gold rings in his ears, nose, and eyebrows glinted against his greasy skin, and days of dark, stubbly beard sprouted like scrubbing brush bristles from his chin.
“Strike a light! I can’t remember. What do you reckon it is then, Gervaise?” replied Wayne.
Wayne wore similar grease caked overalls to his brother Gervaise and big black, scuffed boots, with no doubt equally big black, unwashed feet inside them! An oily baseball cap, with its peak turned backwards sat on top of his greasy quiffed hair.
“Now you’re askin’,” said Gervaise cocking his head and squinting curiously at Austin’s rusty radiator badge. His black stubble made a rasping noise as he stroked his chin. “I fink it’s an old Austin of one sort or anuvver.”
“Hmmm,” mused Wayne. “It looks well past it to me.”
Austin didn’t care much for the look of these two grimy characters, or their grimy black truck come to that and he thought he’d rather have hot dipsticks poked in his headlamps, or rather headlamp, than go with them to their scrapyard.
“Well, we can’t stand ‘ere gawpin’ all day,” said Gervaise. “We’ve got crushin’ to get on wiv’ back at the yard.”
Austin wondered uncomfortably what ‘crushin’ might entail and he watched, with oil pump pounding, as Gervaise clambered back in the truck’s driving seat. The truck whined and started up with a roar and a stinking cloud of oily smoke.
“They’re going to hang you up from my big hook, my big hook, my big hook!” the truck sneered as it reversed towards Austin. “Then I’ll tow you back to the yard, back to the yard, back to the yard.”
As the truck reversed, Austin could see a big black hook, glistening with grease, swinging from the jib of the truck’s crane. Wayne waved the truck backwards and slapped its side when it was in position. It stopped with its glowing red tail lights staring straight into Austin’s remaining headlamp.
Wayne then began pulling levers and pushing buttons on a control panel at the back of the truck. Slowly, with a clanking of chains, the greasy hook lowered. Austin felt its icy touch as Wayne hooked it under his front axle. Slapping the back of the truck once more, Wayne yelled: “All right take her away, Gervaise!”
The black truck revved even more loudly; belching even more black smoke from its great, black exhaust stacks. The chains began clanking and tightening, and with a terrific ripping and rending of brambles and weeds, and a violent jolt, Austin’s front wheels flew up from the ground and into the air. And there he hung helplessly from the truck’s greasy hook, with his radiator and headlamp pointing alarmingly skywards.
The Blackbird fledglings squeaked in terror and Hedgehog and Vole were jolted from their slumbers. Marmaduke smiled maliciously and licked his lips as Hedgehog and Vole both leapt for their lives from their nests.
“All right. That’ll do ya, Gervaise!” yelled Wayne.
The crane stopped clanking and the black truck began ticking over: “Now I’ve gotcha. No escape. Now I’ve gotcha. No escape. Now I’ve gotcha. No escape,” it chugged menacingly.
“’Ere Wayne!” yelled Gervaise through the open window of the truck.
“Wot Bro?”
“Go an’ get the old farmer’s thirty five quid an’ we’ll be on our way.”
Wayne strode across the farmyard and pounded on the farmhouse door.
Farmer Oats answered it.
“You got our money?” demanded Wayne rudely.
The farmer reached inside his jacket pocket for his wallet and produced a handful of banknotes.
“What about moi receipt?” said Farmer Oats, eyeing Wayne cagily and keeping a firm grip on his money.
“’Ang on!” said Wayne, and he strode back across the farmyard to the black truck.
“What’s going on?” cried Hedgehog to Vole. They were hiding together behind one of the stones in the ever growing pile the workmen were taking from the old stone wall.
“I think the scrap men have come for poor Austin,” replied Vole, “and they want their ‘the money’.”
“Look out!” cried Vole.
“What?” replied Hedgehog.
“I can smell Marmaduke.”
“Has he seen us?” asked Hedgehog.
“I don’t know? I can’t see.”
“What’s happening now?” said Hedgehog.
“I can hear the scrap men are talking. The one inside the truck sounds cross,” said Vole sniffing the air nervously for Marmaduke.
“He wants what?” yelled Gervaise flinging open the truck’s door and leaping out.
“A receipt,” said Wayne sheepishly shrugging his shoulders, “or he won’t cough up the money.”
“That’s all I need!” yelled Gervaise throwing his hands into the air, “more PAPERWORK!” and he shot a withering glance in Farmer Oats’ direction before rummaging around inside the truck’s cab.
After muttering lots of naughty words under his breath about paperwork being the bane of the small businessman these days, and rifling through dozens of parking tickets, he eventually produced an oily, fingerprint-smudged pad of printed receipts.
“There! Give ‘im this! It’s an official, printed Butcher’s Scrapyard receipt so the miser can’t say we’ve diddled ‘im, or nicked his precious old banger!” shouted Gervaise, angrily scribbling on the pad with a well-chewed pen. He handed the oily sheet to Wayne, who took it to the farmer.
“Here’s ya ‘receipt’, Guv!” said Wayne.
Farmer Oats pulled a revolted face and held the oily scrap of paper by one corner as if it were infected with something nasty.
“Receeved with thanks £35 to take away and skrap Ostin Seven Reg No A23IT.” He read aloud slowly, “So you think it’s an Austin Seven do you?” said the farmer, before grudgingly handing Wayne the cash.
“That’s wot Gervaise finks, Guv. It’s the only old car we know,” replied Wayne, greedily snatching the cash, licking a filthy finger and thumb to count it on his way back to the truck.
The truck revved up: “We’re off! We’re off! We’re off!” it laughed, pulling away slowly leaving one of Austin’s mudguards and his other headlamp behind.
As Austin rattled over the cattle grid at the gate of the farmyard, the twins began squeaking in panic under his bonnet and Brownie Blackbird swooped down with a slug in her beak to give chase.
“My Babies!” she shrieked, dropping the slug to pursue Austin and the oily black truck up the farm track to the main road. The truck began accelerating hard and she had to fly faster.
“Stop! You’ve got my babies under Austin’s bonnet!” she squawked, flapping frantically.
“Help! Help! Mum,” squeaked the fledglings from inside Austin’s bonnet.
With all the jarring, jolting and bumping around, the nest had become dislodged and, when they looked down, the twins saw the ground rushing below them at a perilous rate. The truck was approaching the main road at an alarming speed. Its brakes hissed loudly as it juddered to a halt at the main road in a red glow of brake lights.
Brownie landed clumsily on Austin’s bonnet with a thump. Almost immediately her claws lost their grip as the black truck bumped and leapt out onto the open road and turned sharply to speed away. As it swung, Brownie was thrown from Austin’s bonnet to land in an undignified, feathery bundle in the middle of the road. She sat stunned, blinking and shaking her head for a few moments, and looking up she found herself staring straight into headlights of an oncoming, speeding red car. Mustering her wits as best she could she tried to hop into a hedge at the side of the road. She was too late! The red car was driving straight over her head. She bumped and rolled and thumped beneath it, and was finally tossed like an autumn leaf in its wake as it sped away.
Gulping in great beakfulls of air to catch her breath, she sat dazed in the middle of the road.
Brownie stared helplessly after the black truck. She watched as it disappeared in a haze of oily smoke over the brow of a distant hill.
As the smoky haze slowly cleared, Brownie Blackbird froze in horror! The truck was gone, but her nest was tumbling back down the hill into the path of the speeding red car!
Chapter 5
The Very Urgent Meeting
“Marmaduke! Marmaduke! Dinner!” called Mrs Oats from the back door of the farmhouse. Marmaduke scowled at Hedgehog and then Vole before stalking off for dinner- his tail erect and quivering.
Hedgehog peeped out from the pile of stones and listened for the cat-flap swinging in the farmhouse kitchen door.
“Is-Is it safe to come out?” stammered Vole.
“Yes. Marmaduke’s gone inside,” replied Hedgehog. “I bet he’ll be curled up on Mrs Oats’ lap in front of the telly before long.”
Timidly Vole stuck his head out and his nose began twitching.
“Do you know where Brownie went?” he asked.
“I think I heard her. She went chasing after the black truck,” replied Hedgehog, peering at Austin’s headlamp and mudguard, and the now empty space where he once stood.
“We’d better wait for her to come back,” cried Vole.
“We’d better find somewhere to hide in case Marmaduke comes back!” said Hedgehog.
***
In less than the blink of an eye the red car too had vanished over the brow of the hill, leaving the Blackbird’s nest bouncing and tumbling in its wake. Brownie Blackbird took flight to where it lay.
“Oh my goodness! The Twins! Where are the Twins?” she squawked. But the twins were no where to be seen. She took off to try and find them, flying slowly in low circles at the top of the hill. There was still no sign of them and the red car and the truck had both vanished. She began singing: “Twins! Twins! Where are you?”
Her heart sank and she held back a tear when no replies came back.
“Oh whatever will we do?” she wondered, flying back to drag her battered nest to the safety of the kerb. “What will Blackbird say? At least the twins haven’t been squashed in the road by the red car,” she thought and a shiver ran through her at the gruesome idea. There was nothing else for it than to go home to the farm. Home? Their home was lying empty and in tatters in the gutter. She began sobbing, “Crying won’t help find them,” she thought: she urgently needed post traumatic stress counselling and taking a deep breath she took off for the farm.
***
It was getting quite dark and the moon was beginning to bathe the farmyard in its silvery light when Brownie landed back on the barn roof. She looked down at the rusty mudguard and headlamp - all that remained of Austin.
“Blackbird’s late home from work today,” she thought, looking around the farmyard for him. “I hope he’s all right. I think I’ll try and find him.” And she took off and flew away.
The evening was clear and full of the heady scents of a balmy summer night. Brownie could see far across the open fields where foxes dodged between hedgerows and hunting owls hovered over the tall corn listening for the heartbeats of tasty mice and voles to pounce on.
She wondered if Vole was safely tucked up in Austin’s boot. Then she remembered Austin was gone. She began worrying whether she and Blackbird would ever see the twins again and where everybody would live now Austin had been taken to scrapyard. She was starting to worry whether they would ever find somewhere safe from Marmaduke, when a familiar song cheered her up. Blackbird was standing on a chimney pot calling her. She fluttered down to perch beside him.
“Hello, dear,” he sang. “Sorry I’m late. It’s been meetings all day and the M25’s been murder!”
Brownie burst into tears.
“Hey. Whatever’s the matter, Love?” asked Blackbird, taking her under his wing.
“Oh. It’s been a terrible day. The farmer’s started rebuilding the old wall. He’s sent poor Austin to a scrapyard. The Twins were trapped inside Austin’s bonnet - so they’re gone too! We’ve got nowhere to live! Marmaduke’s on the prowl and - oh, Blackbird. It’s all a complete disaster!”
A pang of terror struck Blackbird’s heart when Brownie told him about the missing Twins.
“Shhhh. ”We’ll sort it out.” he said, trying to put a brave face on things.
Blackbird’s mind began racing, trying to think what to do. The rooftop was silent but for the whispering breeze, gently rustling leaves and the hooting of a distant owl.
“We must try to think of a plan,” he said after a while.
“Oh! A plan! What a good idea, Blackbird. You are clever! What sort of a plan?”
“A plan to save Austin and the Twins - and a plan to keep a bonnet over our heads, my dear.”
“Two plans! Even better!”
“Yes we’ll call a meeting and put our thinking caps on,” sang Blackbird.
“Who will come?”
Blackbird looked thoughtful: “We’ll ask Hedgehog and Vole,” he said, pausing to gaze at the moon.
“Yes. I see,” said Brownie enthusiastically. “We’ll have to call the meeting soon, dear. Before the Twins starve to death!”
“Hmmmm,” said Blackbird, he hadn’t thought of that. “We haven’t much time to think of a plan, have we? In fact, there’s no time to lose! We’ll find Vole and Hedgehog and call the meeting tonight.”
***
The waxing moon shone brightly through a big hole in the barn roof. The old owl that lived in the barn had gone hunting in the fields, so Vole and Hedgehog were safe, at least until he returned. Vole looked nervously around the hay bales for prying eyes. Every so often he would scurry off to check if they were still alone. He glanced particularly nervously at one loose plank, fixed with a single nail, in the side-wall of the barn. He’d once spied Marmaduke push it to one side with his paw, to use as a private cat door, to shelter inside the barn when it was raining.
The last to arrive at the meeting was Hedgehog. He’d been out hunting for worms and slugs and grubs which he washed down with the water, the nice-lady-from-next-door left out for him every night, on her front lawn.
“Sorry I’m late,” he puffed.
“Now we’re all here,” said Blackbird eyeing the late-comer disapprovingly. “I declare this very urgent meeting open,” he paused a moment for everybody to stop fidgeting and start paying attention. “Now. As you all know Austin was sent to the scrapyard today and the Twins were trapped inside his bonnet and are probably still trapped inside him now.”
Vole, Hedgehog and Brownie all nodded solemnly together.
“We have, therefore,” continued Blackbird, “got to think of a plan to save Austin and the Twins.”
“Here! Here!” cried Vole clapping excitedly.
Blackbird frowned: “Does anybody have any suggestions?”
The barn fell silent. Vole looked at Hedgehog. Hedgehog looked at Brownie. Brownie looked at Vole and Blackbird looked at them all hopefully.
Eventually Hedgehog spoke: “Perhaps we could buy Austin from the farmer? Give him some of what the humans call ‘the money’. After all, humans love what they call ‘the money’, don’t they? They talk of nothing else. I’ve heard them. If only I had ‘the money’, they say. Oh I wish I had ‘the money’ to buy this and that. They talk about nothing else.”
“Good thought,” chirped Blackbird. “Make a note please Brownie.”
“I don’t think it’s a good thought at all,” argued Vole. “After all, we don’t have any of ‘the money’ of our own and even if we did, we’re only small animals. The farmer would probably lick his lips, take our ‘the money’ and still send Austin to the scrapyard. I mean, what could we do to stop him?”
“Fair point,” Blackbird was still trying to sound cheerful.
Brownie looked a little crestfallen and began to sob.
“Chin up, dear,” said Blackbird, smiling at her encouragingly.
“Well I don’t see why we can’t all go to the scrapyard and live inside Austin there?” said Hedgehog. “After all, when they took Austin, they took our nests with him, didn’t they?”
Blackbird began shaking his head solemnly, “No - No we can’t do that,” he sighed, “I flew over a scrapyard once and I saw exactly what goes on inside them.”
“What goes on inside them? PLEASE tell us what goes on inside scrapyards, Blackbird,” cried Vole, bursting with curiosity.
Blackbird took a deep breath. “Scrapyards are ghastly places,” he began. “They’re places old cars are taken when their owners don’t want them anymore. Sometimes they’re cut up with white hot welding torches or hacked apart by greedy people who rob them for their body parts; and when there are no more body parts left to rob, they’re dumped inside giant machines called crushers, with great iron jaws that close and crush what’s left of them into compressed, metal blocks. At night, flesh-eating rats and great savage guard dogs roam scrapyards and the dogs and rats have big red eyes and long sharp teeth. In short, Vole, scrapyards are horrific, frightening places where old unwanted cars like Austin are taken to die.”
A dreadful hush fell over the barn. Hedgehog and Vole stood open mouthed and Brownie stood open-beaked in shock.
“So that’s why we can’t live with Austin at the scrapyard,” said Blackbird, “because if we do, we’ll all be crushed in the machines along with poor Austin.”
“What about the Twins?” cried Brownie, “if they crush Austin, surely they’ll crush the Twins too, won’t they?”
Blackbird said nothing. Brownie was right. They had to rescue the Twins, or they would both surely die inside Austin.
“There must be something we can do,” said Hedgehog.
“If there is I don’t know what it is,” cried Blackbird. “Look there’s light in the east. We’re all tired. I think we should all try to sleep and think some more in the morning.”
Suddenly, a shadow fell over them and the hole in the barn roof was filled with the dark shape of the owl returning after his night’s hunting. Vole huddled up to Hedgehog as, with flapping wings, the owl landed next to them. He swivelled his head from side to side staring wide eyed at each of them in turn. Finally his unblinking gaze settled on the cowering Vole.
“M-m-my knees are knocking, Hedgehog,” whispered Vole.
“Don’t worry, Vole. If he tries to eat you he’ll get a beak-full of my spines first,” said Hedgehog.
“Look. I’m not hungry,” hooted the owl. “I’ve eaten well already tonight.”
The owl burped and Vole breathed a sigh of relief.
“What are you all doing in my barn in the small hours of the morning?” asked Owl.
“We’ve been trying to think of a plan to save Austin and the Twins from the scrapyard,” squeaked Vole mustering all his courage.
The owl swivelled his head to stare once more at Vole. “Yes I heard tell the farmer sent poor Austin to a scrapyard,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve thought of a plan, have you?”
They all shook their heads sadly.
“No,” sobbed Brownie. “We’re all feeling pretty miserable.”
“Well don’t be miserable,” said Owl, puffing out his chest. “I’m a very wise old owl and I can tell you that plans aren’t always easy to think of. Sometimes the more you try to think of a plan, the harder it is to form. Sometimes you must wait patiently and a plan will pop into your head like magic.”
“I hope you’re right,” cried Blackbird, “or this time tomorrow the Twins might be dead and Austin crushed into a metal cube!”
“And we might all be on the menu for Marmaduke’s dinner!” squeaked Vole.
Chapter 6
The End of the Road
Austin was worried. He’d seen the Blackbird’s nest fall in the road behind him in his wing mirror. He’d desperately wanted to stop but couldn’t. The black truck laughed and mocked him as it pulled him ever further away. He’d tried to look for the twins again, but try as he might they were nowhere to be seen. His mirror was dirty and dim with its silvering flaking off, and he couldn’t see far behind anymore. He’d called out to the Twins trying to make them hear:
“Twins! Twins! Hang on tight! Do not move you’ll be all right!” but the din of the truck, as it roared along, drowned out Austin’s feeble cries.
“Now I’ve gotcha! Now I’ve gotcha! Now I’ve gotcha!” panted the Truck maliciously as it sped along.
Austin hoped more than anything, the twins had managed to escape the nest before it fell in the road. He hoped they were safe, clinging somewhere under his bonnet. Oh, how he wished he was back on the farm, overgrown with brambles and tucked safely between the old wall and the barn with all his friends around him. He worried what would become of them all now he’d been taken away and they had nowhere to escape from Marmaduke.
He tried to think of something else. He’d quite forgotten what the open road was like. After his tow behind the truck he began remembering happy days of long ago, when his owners wanted him, and washed and polished him and checked his oil level and tyre pressures, and took him out on lazy Sunday afternoons for picnics in the countryside, or sunny holidays under clear blue skies for sandwiches at the seaside. Oh. The romance of the open road!
Suddenly his beautiful day dream was shattered by the black truck taunting him: “Now we’re here! Now we’re here! The end is nigh! The end is nigh!” it snarled, braking hard, with a nasty hiss of its brakes and bumping poor Austin roughly over a high kerb into the scrapyard.
“Now we’re here I’ll drop my load. For you my friend it’s the end of the road!” laughed the Black Truck loudly. Its doors burst open and Gervaise and Wayne jumped out. Gervaise began pulling levers and pushing buttons on the control panel at the back of the truck. Austin heard again the clanking of chains and he shut his headlamp, as with a jerk, he felt himself plummeting through the air. He landed with a loud crash on the oily smelling ground. Cautiously opening his headlamp once more and blinking, he began looking around. Wayne was bending down removing the truck’s icy hook from his axle, and Austin watched as Gervaise pulled a big red lever that made the hook rise until it hung in its place beneath the jib of the crane once more.
“I’m gaspin’ for a cuppa!” announced Gervaise. “You put the truck away, Wayne and I’ll put the kettle on.”
And with that Wayne drove the truck away and Gervaise lumbered like an oily ape, to a ramshackle hut with a huge iron padlock on the door. Fumbling in his pocket, he produced a large, medieval-looking iron key and unlocked the huge padlock. Cautiously he inched open the door and peeked nervously through the crack. Almost immediately, loud snarls and barks came from inside the hut.
“Get down! GET BACK! Get down!” yelled Gervaise, as three huge black, barking dogs hurled themselves at the door, and bursting through, knocked Gervaise flying.
Austin’s big ends started knocking and his tappets rattled in fear as one of the dogs stopped barking and coldly started stalking him. It stared with mad yellow eyes and greeny- grey saliva dripping from its big broken teeth and twisting black lips. The other dogs, noticing their companion had stopped barking, began staring and creeping toward Austin as well. As they drew near, Austin could see their spiky steel collars and feel the dampness of their hot smelly breath on his bodywork.
Without warning the first of the dogs bared his fangs and lunged at Austin’s back wheel. Austin winced with pain as its sharp teeth sank deep into his tyre. He’d never felt such pain. Nobody had ever bitten him before.
“LEAVE HANNIBAL!” shouted Wayne from across the yard. He’d put away the truck and was coming back for his tea. The dog growled and continued disobediently chewing on Austin’s tyre.
“Get inside!” yelled Wayne, brandishing a large knobbly club he’d picked up from beside the hut. Two of the dogs eyed Wayne, and cowering sheepishly, sloped back to the ramshackle hut with their tails between their legs. After a defiant moment longer they were followed by Hannibal.
Austin breathed a sigh of relief. Now the Black Truck and the guard dogs were gone he was able to take a better look around the scrapyard.
The ramshackle hut stood beside a telegraph pole with two huge red bells about half way up it. Sagging telephone wires led from the pole, across the yard and over a high fence, topped with vicious coils of barbed wire, to another telegraph pole outside the yard by the road.
Behind him in his rear view mirror, Austin could just about see two high, grey-stone gateposts, standing like mourning sentinels either side of the track leading into the yard.
The
words:
formed an archway of big, rusty iron letters, which spanned the stern
grey gateposts. The ground - a sea of oily mud, was littered with
discarded bits of old cars - some lying on the surface and others
half buried in the mud. In front of him, Austin could see a muddy
track with a strange hotchpotch of blurred coloured shapes on either
side. “Who else lives here? Was he alone?” he wondered.
“Welcome to Butcher’s Graveyard, old boy,” said a deep and rather upper-crust voice from a nearby blurred blue shape.
Austin strained his headlamp to see where the voice was coming from.
“I SAID. ‘Welcome to Butcher’s GRAVEYARD’,” repeated the voice. Austin strained his headlamp even more to try and see the voice’s owner.
“I say! You are in a bad way,” the voice said. “I’M OVER HERE, Chum!”
Then Austin saw it - on his right. The voice came from a twisted and rusty faded blue M.G. sports car, balancing precariously on the crushed-in roof of a silver Citroen.
Now Austin could see the blurred coloured shapes were in fact, row upon row of dented, misshapen and miserable looking old cars, all piled higgledy-piggledy on top of one another.
“Welcome to Butcher’s…”
“Sacré bleu! ‘Ee knows. ‘Ee knows for goodness sake! ‘Ee ‘erd you ze first time, and so did I,” interrupted the silver Citroen, flashing an angry look up at the blue M.G. with its glaring headlamps. “Why must you keep on about zis place being a graveyard?”
“Well, that’s jolly well what it is, isn’t it?” insisted the blue M.G., “None of us will ever drive out of here on our own wheels will we?”
“We all know zat! Eet’s bad enough being in zis dump wizout you going on about it being a graveyard all the time.”
“Touchy. Touchy,” said the blue M.G., and looking Austin up and down, changed the subject: “I see you’ve had a brush with Hannibal, my friend.”
“Hannibal?” replied Austin.
“He means ze… Ow you say?... Chien? Dog!” interrupted the silver Citroen flatly.
“I don’t want to worry you, Old Chap,” said the blue M.G., “but unless they get you off the ground, Hannibal will come back when they let him out on guard duty tonight and rip your tyres to shreds. Still, once he’s ripped them all off, I don’t suppose the pain will be so bad. By the way, what are you in for, Old Boy?”
Austin thought for a moment.
“I’m not sure?”
“Not sure!” scoffed the silver Citroen, “I should think zat’s obvious isn’t it? You are an old Banger, Austin, mon veux saucisson!”
Austin felt hurt, and flinched at the Citroen’s choice of words: ‘Old Banger’, but the silver Citroen was a right, he was an old Banger. And a very frightened old Banger at that.
“I suppose I’m in here because I got too old and I was in the way,” answered Austin after a moment.
“Well I shouldn’t be in here at all,” announced the blue M.G. indignantly.
“Hah! Zat is what ‘zey all say,” mocked the silver Citroen. “If you believe zat, mon amie, zis place would be empty!”
“It’s true. It’s true I tell you,” persisted the blue M.G., his bumper beginning to quiver. “I got a tiny scratch in a road accident and they decided I wasn’t worth repairing. Cheek! There’s no justice in this world ….I was framed…Fitted up I tell you! By the way what’s your name, chum?”
“Austin,” replied Austin.
“A leettle scratch!” sneered the silver Citroen. “Don’t believe a word of it. He looked zen just like he does now, Austin mon amie. Like ee’s been driven off ze top of a cleeff!”
“I’ll have you know I was Classic Car Magazine’s car of the year in 1964,” protested the blue M.G... “There’s no way I should have been scrapped. I was fitted up I tell you.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes now,” moaned a yellow Mini, peeping out from under the wheels of a dirty white Transit van next to the blue M.G.. “We’re all doomed.”
“Great!” snapped the silver Citroen. “Zat’s all we need - a mooning Mini!”
“Do you see that big chimney over there, Austin?” persisted Mini, paying no heed to the Citroen and pointing with a shattered wing mirror towards a tall, red brick stack on the far side of the yard.
Austin peered as hard as he could through his remaining weak headlamp. Sure enough he could just see the dark chimney looming beyond the rows of old cars. “Yes, I think I see it,” he replied.
“Good!” said Mini, “because that’s the boiler house for the Giant Steam Crusher and when you see it smoking it means Gervaise and Wayne are about their grisly work….”
“Sacré bleu! DON’T TELL ‘IM!” yelled the silver Citroen.
“Why not? He’ll find out soon enough, won’t he?” said Mini.
“Find out what?” asked Austin.
“That when you see the chimney smoking it means one of us is being crushed to death. And do you know what’s worse?”
“Oh! eet’s a laugh a minute in zis place,” scoffed the silver Citroen, rolling his headlamps skywards in despair.
“What’s worse,” continued Mini, without waiting for Austin to ask him what was, indeed worse, “is that when we’ve been crushed into an unrecognisable cube of twisted metal, we’re sold to be put in a white hot, fiery furnace and melted down!”
“Don’t you pull any, ow you say?.. Punchees, will you,” scolded the silver Citroen.
“Shhh! Quiet, Chaps,” said the blue M.G.. “Men approaching from the Ramshackle Hut.”
Austin looked anxiously for Hannibal. There was no sign of him.
“They usually keep ze dogs inside during the day in case they bite ze customers,” confided the silver Citroen in a hushed tone through his radiator.
Gervaise disappeared behind the hut and Wayne walked over to Austin. After several minutes Austin heard the sound of a big engine starting somewhere in the yard. A column of black smoke rose from behind the Ramshackle Hut and Austin heard a chug-chug-squeak- squeak- chug-chug-squeak-squeak and Gervaise suddenly reappeared in the cab of a large crane on silver caterpillar tracks. Wayne was standing in front of Austin and began giving hand signals to Gervaise. The crane inched forward until Wayne held up the palm of his hand for it to stop. Austin glanced up nervously. A huge, swinging metal disc was lowering steadily over him, stopping only inches above his roof. Suddenly, as if excited by the noise of the crane, Hannibal burst out through the door of the Ramshackle Hut and bounded at Austin.
“INSIDE HANNIBAL! Inside the hut!” shouted Wayne, but as usual Hannibal took no notice. His teeth were bared and his mad yellow eyes glared wildly at Austin. If Austin had got hair, it would certainly have stood on end now, because Hannibal sprang at him.
Suddenly Austin heard a deafening hum from the metal disc above him. A strange tingling vibration shook through his rusty body right down to his chassis and almost immediately he felt himself growing lighter and lighter- until he was hovering just above the ground.
Then with a clank he was stuck fast, like glue, to the crane’s metal disc. With a wave from Wayne, the crane began lifting Austin high into the air. Austin wondered if he was flying like the Blackbirds did when they flew off from his bonnet. Peering at the ground, he started feeling very dizzy.