The Third-Class Genie
Alec didn’t hesitate; Ginger Wallace was at least three disasters.
Strictly speaking, numbers four and five were just one disaster. That is, five couldn’t be a disaster but for four. Life without trainers is hard. Life without pocket money is disastrous.
Number six was a disaster all right. It hadn’t happened yet, but neither had one, two, or three, and that didn’t make him feel any better. Number seven he decided to cross off the list. After the telling-off in line-up that day he’d heard no more and Mr Cartwright did not usually brood over past crimes. So that made the score six so far, or five if you counted numbers four and five as one. Five for disasters so far, while the other side hadn’t even crossed the half-way fine.
It was the highest score for disasters since that black day when he’d got all his home works mixed up and collected five detentions in a row. As he thought of this, his eye fell on his school bag. He should really take a last look at his history project on the Crusades before he handed it in tomorrow. He tipped out his books on to the bed and for the thirty-fourth time that day, his heart stopped.
Across the cover of his history project was a green stain. He opened the cover. Almost every page was a sodden green wreck with drawings, cut-outs, and writing all awash with Bugletown Canal gunge. This must have seeped through the side of his bag where the stitching had given way.
It would take ages to look up all that stuff again, let alone write it. That made disasters leading six nil. Almost a rugby score. Was there nothing today remotely like a triumph? He thought for a while. There was that funny, sealed but empty, beer can he had found in Boner’s Street. He could investigate that.
Bowden, he said to himself, you’re entitled to a treat. Give yourself the evening off. Tomorrow’s a disaster from the word go. Let’s save what we can of today. With that he jumped from the bed, took off his school clothes, put on his old jumper and jeans and quietly opened the bedroom door. As he crept down the stairs he heard them still at it in the front room. No trouble at all to sneak out.
“Alec, is that you?” called his mother.
“Yes, Mum. I’m just going out for a bit.”
“What about your homework?”
“I’ve just got some work left to do on my history project, and I’ll do that when I get back.” Alec always had trouble telling complete porkies.
“No telly then, mind you.”
“Shan’t want any.”
“What’s the matter with Mastermind?” That was Kim’s mocking voice.
Alec thought of a crushing retort, then remembered that he’d have to ask Kim for a loan. So with a “won’t be long”, he shot through the back door and was out in the street before you could say antidisestablishmentarianism!
Holding firmly on to his jeans pocket, where the can was wedged rather awkwardly, he ran down the slope and past the allotments. To his surprise, there was Granddad digging away, dressed in his old black suit. Alec waved, but did not stop, and headed for the tall fence round the Tank. If Granddad saw him slip through the loose planking, the old man gave no sign.
Alec paused for a second inside the fence, as he always did, to run his eye over the little kingdom amid its silent wilderness of elder bushes and weeds. The setting sun flashed on one of the few panes left in the window of the crane house, and cast giant shadows between the crumbling ivy-covered walls. Alec was heading for the canal when he remembered that the plank had collapsed under him that afternoon. He would have to cross by the old travelling crane gantry and enter the crane room through the window. Although this was a day of disaster and it seemed unsuitable to take the triumphal route, he couldn’t be bothered to find a new plank for his bridge just now. He turned right and ran along the towpath to the gantry.
Climbing the uprights by the steep steps was easy enough; the difficult part was when you had to cross the girder fifteen feet up above the canal. One false move and you would never be seen again. The safest but slowest way was to straddle the iron and edge your way over a foot at a time. The quickest and riskiest way was to balance on the six-inch-wide girder and walk boldly over like a tight-rope man. Crouching and waddling like a duck, Alec settled for a mixture of the two. Halfway over, it became easier because of the iron arm of an old hand crane which stretched alongside the main gantry.
At last he was across and wriggling his way through the broken window of the crane room. He put one foot on the lever and chain drum which were still linked to the hand crane and then he was down on the floor. He gave a jump and skip and looked around him. Now he was in command. He turned and faced the canal, peering through the dusty broken window. Then he seized the hand crane lever and slowly pushed it forward. He had spent many a Saturday afternoon greasing and oiling the mechanism, so that it moved. With a rattle the chain began to run through the pulley at the end of the crane and drop towards the canal. Alec threw the brake and stopped the chain just above the water. Then he bent down to the drum and taking the handle, carefully wound the chain up again.
When he worked the hand crane, he could imagine anything. He was loading a ship, rescuing a trapped submarine crew, hauling up treasure from a mine, replacing the piles in a nuclear reactor. He finished winding in the chain and put on the brake. Then he heaved himself on to the table and sat a moment looking out of the crane room window.
Now he was ready to investigate the mystery of the sealed, empty can.
“The question is, Watson, not why the can was empty, but why it was sealed?”
“Amazing, Holmes, I mean, Bowden. But what is the answer?”
“I’ll have to open it, won’t I, you plonker?”
Alec held up the can and inspected it. Then he raised it once more to his ear, as he had done that afternoon.
It was fantastic. There was the same noise, a sort of growling as though someone were snoring. It was crazy. Alec shook the can and again the noise stopped.
He slipped his finger into the metal ring at the top of the can and pulled. At first it would not budge. Alec tumbled from the table, placed the can on the floor, held it down with one hand, and pulled at the ring again.
There came a sudden tremendous whistling rush of air, like Concorde landing, and a voice thundered…
“Alec!”
Chapter Three ARE YOU SITTING COMFORTABLY?
“ALEC!”
Alec fell off the crane room table and looked round in amazement. The can, now opened, rolled to and fro on the floor, making cronking noises. But there was no one in sight.
“Who said ‘Alec’?” he squeaked.
There was silence. Then Alec got back his normal voice and repeated: “Who called my name?”
No answer. Alec carefully picked up the can and shook it. No snoring sounds. Nothing. But someone had definitely called his name, as well as made noises like Concorde. His ears were still buzzing. He tiptoed to the door and pushed it open to look down the rickety stairs to the ruins of the main factory. Nothing in sight. Shoving the creaking door back into place, Alec came back to the table and looked once more at the strange can standing upright there.
“I must be going round the twist. All these disasters have finally been too much for me. I was sure someone shouted ‘Alec’.”
“Ah, ing’lizi walad. You English.”
Alec leapt away from the can, as the voice boomed out again. It was like the school tannoy, when Mr Cartwright did his “do-not-resist-or-you-will-be-annihilated” routine.
“Yes, of course, I’m English. But who are you?” said Alec, still alarmed.
“I am slave of lamp – sorry, jug, no, sorry, plate… I don’t know…” The booming voice faded away.
“Don’t go,” cried Alec.
“I don’t go. Worse luck,” the voice gave a hiccup.
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“Aiee, well may you ask.” The voice faded away again muttering in a language Alec could not understand.
“You’re not the slave of the lamp, you’re the slave of the beer can,” he said. Then he had an inspiration. “If you come out of the can, you’d feel better and your voice wouldn’t sound so funny.”
There was a fizzing sound, another burst of hiccups and a pop.
“Shukran jazilan, Effendi.”
“No need to be offended,” replied Alec, who had now got into the swing of the game, whatever the game was. Whoever it might be speaking to him, it was good fun and a change from the gloom and misery of the day so far.
“Not offended, Effendi. Effendi, Master.”
“Oh, don’t call me master,” said Alec. “It reminds me of school. Besides,” he went on, “you started calling me Alec. Can’t you carry on like that? It’s more friendly.”
“Alec?” The voice was puzzled.
“Yes. When I opened the beer can, you said ‘Alec’.”
The voice began to laugh.
“Not ‘Alec’. I said, ‘Salaam Aleikum, peace be with you!’”
“That’s nice,” said Alec. “I could use some peace just now.”
“May your enemies be destroyed, your crops increase, your camels grow fat and your wives never quarrel.”
“Well, thanks very much, or what was it you said? Shukran jazilan. But my troubles aren’t quite like that,” said Alec.
“Tell me, O master, and they shall vanish like dust before the khamsin wind.”
“Oh, great,” said Alec. “You are just what I need. But please don’t call me master. My name’s Alec. And, by the way, what is your name? And just how do you come to be hiding inside a beer can?”
There was silence for some moments, then a sigh.
“If my master – Alec – is sitting comfortably, I will begin.”
Alec hoisted himself on to the table and sat down.
“Know, Alec, that my name is Abu Salem, Genie of the Third Order of rank and merit in the courts of Baghdad, Damascus and Cairo, one of the slaves of the lamp.”
“But, Abu,” interrupted Alec, “there was only one slave of the lamp.”
“In the days of Aladdin, that was true. But the story does not end there. For when Aladdin became Sultan and the wealthiest man in the world, the magician who was his enemy decided to take his revenge. He used his magic powers to make hundreds of small lamps, each one with a third-rank genie, and he gave these to people in the city.
“Instead of working, all these people began to use their magic lamps to make gold, food or clothes, as they fancied. Soon it seemed that everyone in the kingdom was imitating Sultan Aladdin. There was so much gold that no one cared for it any more and they used it to make buckets and feeding troughs. Aladdin became furious and, thinking that the world was laughing at him, sent his soldiers to seize the lamps and to melt them down.
“But now the people became furious too. They said,‘If our lamps shall melt, so shall yours.’Aladdin had to agree. So all the lamps were melted down, and the great lump of metal was put into the palace storeroom and forgotten.
“Many many years later, when all this had been forgotten and Aladdin was no more than a story for children, there was a great war. The metal in the storeroom was made into shots for cannons and fired from the palace walls. Some landed in the sand and was forgotten again and some was buried in the ruins of the palace. Only a few pieces were found. One was used by a poor man to hold open his door and for all I know the genie sleeps within it to this day. Happy man.
“But one was found by a metal-smith who used it to make a jug. With the handling and knocking and rubbing and polishing of daily use, the genie within it awoke. That unlucky spirit, O Alec, was I.”
Alec leaned forward. He wasn’t quite sure where Abu the genie might be, in spirit so to speak, so he spoke to the beer can.
“How long did all this take?”
“I know not. A few hundred years perhaps. This time the owner was a poor man, like Aladdin in the beginning, and being poor, he was hungry too. When first I told him to make his wish, he asked for food. And food I brought him. Soon, he who had been poor and hungry became rich and very fat. And being rich, he was also vain, and being vain, he wished he were not fat.”
“So, couldn’t you help him lose weight?” demanded Alec.
“Indeed, I could and so I did. He became as light as a feather, but, alas, he said nothing about size. Thus, he rose in the air, like a balloon, and the east wind carried him slowly away over the mountains and he was never seen again.
“It has been my fate, O Alec, to give my masters what they did not want. Be warned. Be warned.”
“Oh, I’ll take my chance,” said Alec. “Go on, what happened next?”
“The jug which had brought such evil into the house was cast out. I slept happily on the rubbish dumps of old Baghdad for a few centuries more. Ah, what bliss…” The voice yawned, and for a moment Alec feared that Abu might go to sleep again. But no.
“I was found by a scavenger who sold me with some other vessels to a smith, who again melted down the metal and made plates. This time I was bought in the local bazaar by a British soldier who planned to polish the plate and send it home to his wife.
“Awakened once more from my sleep, I was at his command. His first order was that I should make him colonel of the regiment and this I did. He immediately turned the officer who had commanded the regiment into a private soldier. Indeed, when I saw the transformations which he brought about, I knew I had met my match.
“Next he commanded the officers of the regiment to do all the duties of the camp. They had to stand guard at night, to make food in the cookhouse, and to polish the great brass cannon that stood at the camp gate. The sergeants of the regiment were made to serve the private soldiers with tea in bed each morning, to press their uniforms and clean their equipment.
“For weeks the soldiers of the camp enjoyed the life of idleness, but soon news of the strange happenings in the regiment reached London. A high-ranking officer was sent to put matters right, or wrong, if you look at it through the eyes of my master.
“But he outwitted them. He rubbed on the plate, called me to his aid and made himself a general. Then he ordered the regiment home to England, much to the joy of the soldiers. But he had been too clever. Unless he could find someone of higher rank to order him home, he had to remain a soldier. His one hope was to find an accomplice. The only man left was the former colonel whom my master had confined to camp for his rude and impudent behaviour. My master offered him his freedom and also to make him field marshal, if he would give the order that would send my master home. Alas for human wickedness and folly! No sooner was his prisoner made field marshal, than my master was once again made a private and confined to camp, where he was ordered to stand guard at night, make food in the cookhouse and polish the great brass cannon at the camp gate. For all I know, they may still be there in that lonely desert camp.”
“But what about you?” demanded Alec.
“Did I not speak of human wickedness? Another soldier, having seen the plate and admired it, took it with him when the regiment sailed for England. He gave it to his wife but she believed that eating from metal plates was bad for the digestion and gave the plate to the passing rag and bone man in exchange for two goldfish, a balloon for her baby and a pair of silk stockings for herself.”
“But how did you come to be in the beer can?” insisted Alec.
“Alas, I know not, neither care I. I know that my pleasant sleep is at an end and I have a new master whom I must serve according to the rules of the Order of Genies, Third Class.”
“Well, don’t look at it like that,” said Alec. “I won’t ask you to do daft things like the others did.”
“Speak not too soon, O Alec. But as you will, so must I do. What is thy will, O Alec?”
“First of all, I want to see who I’m talking to.”
“Your wish cannot, alas, be granted. As a genie of the Third Rank, I have not the power to appear and disappear as well as perform tasks. Ask me another.”
“How about something smashing to eat? Like a Super Atomic Blast Sherbet Bag?”
“Sherbet,” replied Abu, “is not food.”
“Food, ah, food…” Alec could almost imagine Abu rubbing his stomach. “Food!” The voice rose to a roar.
“Go easy,” said Alec, “you’ll have half of Bugletown round here in a minute.”
Abu laughed. “None can hear me but you, O Alec. But food, ah food…”
“Get on with it,” said Alec in desperation.
“Food.”
Out of the air came a white sheet that spread itself over the dusty crane room table. Abu began to chant…
“Nazin Tofa, eggs in wine sauce; Toyla Shorbasi, soup from Paradise; Uskumru Pilaksi, baked mackerel; Kirasili Sulun, pheasant with cherries,” he went on as the dishes, steaming and bubbling, began to crowd the cloth.
“Hold on,” said Alec, “what about the pud?”
“Ah, Sutlach Sharapli; rice pudding with wine.”
Oh, no, not rice pudding! Just like school dinner, thought Alec. But he didn’t wish to offend Abu and so he simply invited him to join the meal. Abu readily agreed; several centuries in a jug or a beer can make anyone peckish. Alec stared as the various dishes rose in the air, emptied themselves and then floated down to the table again. But he was busy enjoying the feast himself. So this is what it was like in the days of the Arabian Nights. Oh, clever stuff, Bowden.
Soon the meal was over, and Alec noticed that it was growing dark outside.
“Time we were getting home, Abu.”
He had barely time to pick up the can, when the table cloth, table, crane room and all had vanished with a rush and he was back in his bedroom again, sitting on the bed, still in his school uniform.
Had he been sitting there all the time? He looked out of the bedroom window. The sky was clear and down in the yard he could hear Granddad pottering about in the caravan. But the can was in his pocket and it was open.
Chapter Four KEEPER OF THE KAN
BAFFLED AND BEWILDERED, Alec held the can in his hands. Was he dreaming? Was Alec Bowden truly the master of Abu Salem, Genie Third Class, approximately 975 years old? Or was Alec Bowden off his trolley? Had the strain of the day been too much? There were his trainers with a big hole burnt in them by helpful old Granddad. There was his project on the Crusades, all soaked in eau de Canal. The disasters were real enough. But what about the triumph?
He held up the can to the light; it gleamed. He held it to his nose; it smelt beery. He held it to his ears and heard a distinct snoring sound. That could mean only one thing. Abu was sleeping off that enormous meal. Was it mackerel and rice pudding, or pheasants and sherbet? Still the memory was clear. His mouth watered.
He rubbed the can briskly and held it up again. The snoring had stopped. He rubbed it again. No sign. Inspiration struck him. Bending his mouth close to the can opening, he said firmly, “Salaam Aleikum, O Abu Salem.”
The familiar voice repeated sleepily, “Peace to you, Keef Haalak, How are you?”
“I am well, apart from about two thousand problems,” said Alec.
“Aieee, I feared as much. No peace for the genie. Speak, O Alec. What is thy will?”
“My first will is a new pair of trainers.”
“Trainers? What are trainers?”
“Slippers.”
In a flash the scorched trainers had vanished from Alec’s feet, and were instantly replaced by the most elegant pair of pink and gold, plush, satin slippers with curled toes.
“You Great Arabian Plonker,” said Alec, “you’ll have me drummed out of Year Nine!”
“Are the slippers not to your liking?” Abu sounded a little offended.
“They’re lovely, they’re gorgeous, but they’re not me,” said Alec. “I want rubber-soled PE shoes.”
“What is rubber?”
“Good grief,” said Alec. Then he thought. What is rubber? How do you make it? How do you explain it to a 975-year-old genie, who hasn’t had the benefits of Western civilization? All he could remember was a description of plantation life in his geography book. He told Abu. Immediately in front of him there was a tall, smooth-trunked tree, standing in the middle of the room, with white liquid seeping from a cut in the bark and flowing down on to the bedroom floor. Alec bent down and poked the liquor which seemed to be setting like a jelly. Now, what to do? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the next stage in rubber-making.
Did you fry it, or hang it out of the window, or beat it? He wished he’d listened properly in geography or chemistry.
“Ah well, Abu,” he said, “let’s have my old trainers back. I’ll have to buy a new pair.”
“Thy will is my command,” said Abu, as though he’d worked miracles.
“Now, you see my project book over there on the bed. I want it cleaned up.”
For a second the project book vanished, or seemed to. Then it reappeared. But what had that raving genie done now? The front of the book and the first ten pages, which had been stained with canal mud, had been cleaned up. They’d been wiped clean, completely. There was nothing on them.
“Put it back, Abu, put it back,” he yelled.
There was silence for a second.
“Come on, genie-us,” demanded Alec, “make with the project.”
From the front room Alec’s mother knocked on the ceiling.
“A bit less noise up there, our Alec.”
Alec groaned. Then Abu said hesitantly, “I fear I cannot put back what you wrote. For I cannot know what it might have been.”
Alec stared. That hadn’t occurred to him. It wasn’t Abu who was daft; it was he. He’d just have to be more careful what he asked. Abu had warned him about all the disasters that had happened to his previous masters.
“It was a story of the Crusades,” he said.
“Crusades?”
“When King Richard and the other knights went out to the Holy Land to drive out the Saracens and fought Saladin.”
“Aha, Sultan Salah ad-Din Yusuf, Lord of Ishshaan, might hammer of the faithless. Who does not know that great story?”
“Do you? It took me an awful time to look it up in the school library. If I have to do all that again…”
“Fear not, Alec. Take up thy pen. I shall tell, you shall write and the empty pages shall be full once more with great truth. Let us begin with the mighty victory for the true faith at the battle of Hattin…”
Alec rushed to his desk, got out his fountain pen, and began to write, while Abu tirelessly told of sieges, battles, storms of arrows, flash of scimitar and sword, thunder of hooves, and burning sand and sun. There was still much to tell when Alec had filled up the blank space in his project book. But his mother knocked on the ceiling again which was the signal for him to get ready for bed. Outside it was dark now and Alec was tired, but he felt happy again. His project was rescued. True, his trainers were still in a disastrous state, but surely with Abu’s aid he could put that right.
Now that he had Abu Salem, genie of the fight brown ale on his side, nothing was too much. From now on, triumphs would hammer disasters ten nil every day Thanks to Abu. Good old Abu.
“Well, Abu, I’m off to bed, if you’d like to climb back into your can. I’ll leave the lid up slightly to give you some fresh air. It must smell like a brewery in there. Cheerio for now.”