Partners in Crime

Enjoy Finlay George's drawing of Raymond in this chapter. Other illustrations by Maria. GR

Chapter Four: Raymond Makes a Steal

Raymond braced himself for the powerful jet of water which must surely come. Nothing! The man in

 the cap did not even notice him. He stomped around the tank and then removed a black cap and inserted the nozzle.  There was a droning sound as the tank filled and then it was all over and the lorry was gone. On the ground were a few drops of black sticky oil and size eleven boot prints.
Raymond surveyed the scene. All that was left of his den were some squished leaves and a broken nutshell which he had been using for a pillow.
Dear oh dear, he thought.
‘Dear oh dear,’ echoed a voice above him.
Smudge the squirrel was watching from a nearby branch. 
‘I feel right sorry for you,’ he said, looking down his nose.
Raymond noticed that Smudge had a funny accent as well as attitude. 
‘It’s as if you don’t really belong here,’ he went on. ‘My ancestors have been here since 1873, wreaking havoc in orchards and market gardens; destroying bulbs; damaging roofs and electricity cables. We have really carved out a place for ourselves.’
‘Where did you come from?’ asked Raymond.
‘North America,’ drawled Smudge.
‘That explains the accent,’ said Raymond.
‘I don’t have an accent,’ said Smudge, indignant. ‘It’s you Irish who have the accent!’
‘Northern Irish,’ corrected Raymond.
Suddenly Smudge jumped up onto one of the bins which sat along the garage wall. He managed to open the lid of the blue bin and pulled out a box which he plonked down beside Raymond.  It was long and narrow with a picture of a lady’s summer sandal on the side.
‘Will this do?’ asked the squirrel.
‘For what?’
‘Your new home, dumb-ass.’
‘Language, please!’ said Raymond sniffing the box.
‘We’ll have to furnish it,’ he said.
‘Less of the “we,”’ said Smudge, but as Raymond headed off across the lawn, the squirrel was not far behind.
In the centre of the garden stood a large wooden structure with a sturdy platform. Raymond had absolutely no idea what it was for, but underneath it was a square pit of dry sand. Well, dryish. It was compacted but with a bit of digging it would make a perfect lining for the box. How to get it over to the oil tank, though? That was the problem.
Sticking out of the sand were several abandoned vehicles: children’s toys bleached by the sun and winter days’ neglect.  Smudge was pulling at a lorry – a dump truck.
‘Perfect!’ they said in unison.
What a comical sight! Smudge did all of the digging and heavy lifting. He also pushed the truck across the resistant grass. Raymond, however, was director of operations; he sat at the tiny steering wheel shouting instructions. It was a mammoth effort, but they got there.
‘No thanks to you,’ said Raymond to Orange Cat who was watching them with her eyes almost shut as she draped herself along a low hanging branch.

‘There now,’ said Raymond pleased with his efforts. The box was lined with fresh sand and good to go – except for one thing. I need a bit of home comfort, he thought, maybe a blanket. He looked round for inspiration.
Above the lawn the washing was snapping and waving. At one end of the fashion parade was a foundation garment belonging to Missus Daisy.  A pair of white bloomers trimmed with pink lace flapped in the breeze for all the world to see. Size large.

Has she no shame?’ muttered Smudge.
‘I have an idea,’ said Raymond.
The friends stood looking up at the forked pole which vaulted the washing line high into the air. 
‘I’m not going up there,’ said Smudge.
‘Me neither,’ said Raymond.
Raymond had not got as far as praying and yet his prayers were suddenly answered when a sudden downpour sent Missus Daisy running from the back door, bareheaded and in her carpet slippers. She pulled the pole down, grabbed at her washing, snapping coloured pegs all over the place, and dumped her damp smalls into the wicker basket.  She did not notice Raymond and Smudge crouching under the crimson azalea. Orange Cat had dawdled off in search of cover.
A distraction was needed and Raymond was happy to oblige. He didn’t even have to do anything; he simply sauntered along the low patio wall, making sure he was seen.
Getting wet was worth it. As hoped, Missus Daisy screamed, dropped the basket (running, no doubt, to fetch Himself, or the rolling pin) while Smudge casually swiped her knickers. The pals retreated quickly, draped the stolen underwear on the oil tank to dry and high fived each other. Job done!
The rain persisted all afternoon and Smudge crept high into the tree for shelter. Raymond was on his own and struggling to keep dry. Time to investigate the garage.
The garage door was a heavy brute on a roller which always closed with a loud clang.  Himself had been out washing the car when the rain came. 
‘No need to rinse,’ he chuckled as he carried the bucket and sponge indoors.
He was in a hurry because the rain slid too easily off his bald head and dribbled into his eyes, so he did not pull the door down quite far enough. There was about an inch of a gap at the bottom which was more than enough space for an inquisitive rat with a flexible skeleton.  Raymond tested it out with his whiskers and squeezed underneath, flat like a lollipop, before you could say wet Wednesday.
There was a large window in the garage, but it was still quite dark and gloomy inside. Untidy too. There were tools arranged on the walls but tins of paint and bags of turf were scattered on the rough cement floor.  The lawn mower was sleeping in the corner so without disturbing it, Raymond climbed its handle to reach the windowsill.  Something brightly coloured had caught his attention: a small jar lid had been placed on the ledge and it was filled with little blue sweets.
‘For me?’ he said. ‘Did they know I was coming?’
Raymond sniffed the sweets warily. It had been a while since breakfast so he thought he would allow himself a tiny treat.  If I want to get back in here, he thought, I need to watch my figure.  He snaffled one of the sweets and then dropped down to search for somewhere dry to have a nap. At the back of the garage was a wooden box containing chopped sticks. This will do, he thought, with a sleepy yawn.
A short time later he woke. His tummy ached and he needed a drink. He felt so poorly.
‘I’m too young to die,’ he whimpered.