Wilf the Mighty Worrier--Battles a Pirate Read online

  New York • London

  © 2015 by Georgia Pritchett

  Jacket design and illustration by Jamie Littler

  First published in the United States by Quercus in 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to [email protected].

  eISBN 978-1-68144-319-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016031524

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10104

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  For my boys

  Contents

  Chapter 1: The Beginning

  Chapter 2: The Beginning (Again)

  Chapter 3: The End

  Chapter 4: The Beginning (Wait, That Can’t Be Right)

  Chapter 5: The Middle

  Chapter 6: The Beginning (This Is Getting Silly)

  Chapter 7: This Looks Like The End But Then It Isn’t

  Chapter 8: I’ll Be Honest, Things Aren’t Looking Good for Wilf

  Chapter 9: Eek, Now It’s All Gotten Worse

  Chapter 10: Nervous Readers Should Not Read This Chapter

  Chapter 11: The End

  Chapter 12: The End (Again)

  What do you think you’re doing? Close this book and put it back on the shelf right this minute. Close it, I said. Right, I’m going to count to ten.

  One, two, three, four, five, six . . .

  I mean it . . .

  Seven, eight . . .

  I’m not saying it again . . .

  Nine . . .

  All right, I’ll say it one last time. Close the book . . .

  Well, you’re clearly a very naughty person. Why are you still there? Look, I’m doing this for your own good—because you do not want to know what happened last week. Trust me. There was a big kerfuffle—and you know that big green-and-blue thing? Yes, the world, the great big old world—that almost ended. So, do as you’re told and stop reading. I mean it. STOP reading.

  All right, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you insist on reading what happened, don’t come running to me when you find out it’s a book full of sea monsters and pirates and people with big spiky poky things and the baddest, the baddest, the biddly boddly baddest most evil man in the whole wide world—Alan. And his right-hand man, Kevin Phillips.

  So. You know that boy at school? Wilf. Yes you doooooo. Yes you do. The one with scruffly hair and pingy ears and a brain so full of ideas it’s like a pan of popping popcorn. Well, he only went and saved the world. Again.

  Admittedly, Wilf isn’t your typical superhero. He’s not called Super-Wilf. He can’t climb up buildings. And he’s never been bitten by a spider THANK GOODNESS, because Wilf is scared of spiders so if one actually bit him he wouldn’t have time to turn into Spider-Man, because he’d be too busy fainting.

  In fact, Wilf is scared of lots of things:

  Wilf has a little sister named Dot. What she lacks in size she makes up for in smells. She has a pig that has odd ears. When I say odd, I mean odd as in different from each other although, come to think of it, they are also odd as in odd. So the pig has odd odd ears. Some of you will know why Pig’s ears are different—in which case, high five—and some of you won’t—in which case, you’ve only got yourselves to blame.

  Anyway, one ear is dirty and the other ear (and rest of Pig) is absolutely filthy. That’s how you know which is the new ear.

  Last week, Wilf received some mail. It was a brand-new “How to Stop Worrying” leaflet. Wilf was so pleased when it arrived because he had been worrying that his “How to Stop Worrying” leaflet had gotten lost in the mail, and then he would never be able to stop worrying about how to stop worrying. But here it was, all shiny and new and smelling of shiny newness.

  He opened the envelope carefully, worrying that he might tear his “How to Stop Worrying” leaflet if he did it too quickly.

  His mom walked past and saw him sniffing his new leaflet and said, “You’ll never stop worrying. You come from a long line of worriers. My father was a worrier, his father was a worrier, and his father’s father was a worrier. We’ve been worrying for generations.”

  This gave Wilf an idea. He could look up his family tree and see all the worriers in history who he was related to. No sooner did he have the idea, he went straight to the computer (stopping only to give the screen a good wipe, to vacuum the crumbs from the keyboard, and to disinfect the mouse).

  Once he had printed out his findings, he took the family tree out into the yard to show Dot.

  “Look, Dot,” he said, placing the paper carefully on the ground and holding it down with some stones. “We are related to Freddie the Fretful. He invented the undershirt because he was worried people would catch chills.”

  Dot picked up one of the stones and tried to fit it up her nose.

  “And we are also related to Annie the Anxious,” said Wilf. “She invented antibacterial hand gel because she was worried about germs.”

  Dot popped one of the stones into her diaper.

  “And our great-great-great-grandfather, Norman the Neurotic, made the very first ‘Mind the Step’ sign because he was worried people might trip as they went into his house,” said Wilf.

  Dot pulled one of her socks off and wiped her nose with it.

  “And going even further back,” continued Wilf, “there is evidence to suggest that we are related to the caveman who lived next door to the caveman who invented the wheel. Our ancestor invented the brakes,” explained Wilf proudly. “What do you think of that?”

  Dot chewed thoughtfully on the corner of the page, then scrumpled the whole thing up into a ball and threw it over her shoulder. The ball of scrumple landed in Alan’s yard. And THAT was when the started.

  “There’s a ball of scrumple on my lawn!!!” screeched Alan. “Somebody doooo something!”

  Kevin Phillips tilted his head to one side and studied the ball of scrumple. He said nothing.

  “Pick up that ball of scrumple!” commanded Alan.

  Kevin Phillips turned and stalked off as though he had far more important things to think about.

  “You are supposed to be my right-hand man and that means doing things like picking up balls of scrumple!” shouted Alan after Kevin Phillips.

  Alan sighed.

  He went and picked up the ball of scrumple and took it into his house to show his wife Pam.

  “Pam, look at this,” said Alan.

  Pam was watching reality TV.

  “Look, it seems to be some kind of family tree,” said Alan, unscrumpling the paper.

  Pam didn’t respond.

  “I wonder what my family tree is,” wondered Alan.

  “Shh. I’m wat
ching reality TV,” said Pam.

  “Well, can you stop watching reality TV and watch some reality instead?” asked Alan.

  Pam sighed and turned to look at Alan.

  “I think I’m going to look up my family tree,” said Alan.

  “Yeah, there’s a show where celebrities do that,” said Pam.

  “Yes, but I’m going to do it. For me,” said Alan.

  Pam got out her phone. “What’s the phone number?”

  “What phone number?” asked Alan, confused.

  “Where I can vote you off?” asked Pam.

  “Vote me off? You can’t vote me off. I’m here. I live here. You can’t just vote me off!” he said and stomped down the stairs to his evil lair.

  Alan spent the next few hours looking up his family tree.

  Alan discovered that he had come from a long line of very evil people.

  His great-great-grandfather had invented dentistry and had caused untold misery to countless people around the world.

  His great-great-great-grandfather had invented school and ruined the childhoods of every child who had ever lived.

  His great-great-great-great-grandfather had invented broccoli and had ruined the school lunches of all those children who had to go to school.

  And his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was Long John Alan, the fiercest pirate on the seas. He was feared by everyone who’d met him. And by people who hadn’t met him but had heard of him. And even by some people who hadn’t even heard of him.

  Alan sighed. He wished he could be like Long John Alan and be feared and respected. All he had managed to do was scorch some eyebrows and spend all his money on a with which he had failed to destroy the world (see Wilf the Mighty Worrier Saves the World).

  Alan marched out into the garden.

  “Kevin!” he called. “Kevin?” he shouted more loudly.

  “Where’s my right-hand man?” asked Alan.

  “He saw a squirrel and he went running off,” said Wilf, who was pushing Dot on her swing.

  “Doggy woggy,” agreed Dot.

  “Shh!” said Wilf. “Kevin Phillips doesn’t know he’s a dog. He thinks he’s one of the family.”

  “Doggy woggy woof woof,” said Dot.

  “Shh,” said Wilf.

  “DOGGY WOGGY WOOF WOOF!” said Dot, much louder.

  “Dot, I want you to stop that,” said Wilf firmly.

  “DOGGY WOGGY WOOF WOOF,” replied Dot.

  “If you see Kevin,” said Alan, attempting to ignore Dot, which was not an easy thing to do because . . .

  “DOGGY WOGGY WOOF WOOF.”

  She kept shouting “DOGGY WOGGY WOOF WOOF” every time he opened his mouth to “DOGGY WOGGY WOOF WOOF” say anything.

  “Could you tell him I need him,” said Alan . . .

  “DOGGY WOGGY WOOF WOOF.”

  “. . . because I have a plan.”

  “Is it a lovely plan—to skip around the yard or pick some flowers or toast a marshmallow?” asked Wilf hopefully.

  “No. It is an evil plan,” said Alan.

  “Yes, I thought you might say that,” said Wilf sadly.

  “I am going to be a pirate. Not just any pirate but the most fearsome pirate in the world.”

  “But don’t you need a boat to be a pirate?” asked Wilf. “And a parrot? And an eyepatch?”

  “Yes, yes, I know that,” said Alan crossly. “But just say it again so that I can write it down.”

  “A boat and a parrot and an eyepatch,” repeated Wilf.

  “Yes, obviously,” said Alan. “And I’m getting all of those things tomorrow. And then I will be the baddest, the baddest, the biddly boddly baddest pirate in the whole wide worlderoony.”

  And that is when the

  started.

  “DOGGY WOGGY WOOF WOOF.”

  The next day was—oh I don’t know, it’s exhausting describing things. You decide. Sunny? Rainy? Whatever you think. I wasn’t really paying attention.

  Luckily someone was paying attention. It was Wilf. Wilf was giving Stuart a run in the yard. Stuart is Wilf’s pet woodlouse. But he is also his best friend. And the person Wilf tells all his secrets to. Wilf loves Stuart—all ten millimeters of him. He loves every single one of his fourteen legs. And each little shiny segment. And Stuart loves Wilf, from the top of his scruffly hair, past his pingy ears, past his knocky knees right down to his tickly toes.

  The other reason Wilf was in the yard was because he was worried. Well, there’s nothing new about that, but this worry was an EXTRA BIG worry about what Alan had said about the whole pirate thingy. He had tried knitting the worry away, but it hadn’t worked. He had tried whistling a very long and complicated tune, but the worry was still there when he had finished. So he had come out into the garden to try to keep an eye on Alan.

  Wilf and Stuart were practicing hopping and while they were practicing they were trying to look over the fence.

  Stuart is tiny so he could see nothing at all, but if Wilf did a great big hop he could just about see between hops . . .

  that something

  Hop

  Something big

  Hop

  had arrived

  Hop

  in Alan’s backyard.

  Hop

  It was a huge

  Hop

  wooden crate

  Hop

  with the words

  Hop

  Hop

  on it

  Hop

  and a picture of

  Hop

  a pirate ship.

  Oh no. Wilf was staggerblasted. He felt all shivery and blurry. His neck went all hot. And his knees felt like they might bend the wrong way. What was he going to do? He wanted to roll up into a ball like Stuart, and he wanted to knit himself a big woolly hat that went over his eyes so he couldn’t see what happened next.

  But he didn’t do any of those things. He had a great big old worry and then he had a great big old think and then he thought so hard that his brain needed a lie-down.

  And then he had an idea.

  First, he would change his pants. If this wasn’t a time for lucky green pants then he didn’t know what was. Then he would go next door and try to find a way of stopping Alan from building his pirate ship. The only problem was that in between hops Wilf had noticed that Alan had also bought himself a garden gnome. Wilf was scared of gnomes. He was worried that they would come to life and bite his kneecaps.

  Wilf went up to his bedroom and got out his shoebox of precious private things. Inside was his brand-new “How to Stop Worrying” leaflet. It had ten suggestions of things to do that might help. Wilf looked at

  1. Draw a picture of the thing you are worried about.

  Wilf drew a picture of the gnome.

  2. Think of the worst-case scenario.

  Wilf tried to think about what would be worse than having his kneecaps bitten by a gnome. Maybe if the gnome was holding a nutcracker and cracking nuts. Wilf was scared of nutcrackers and hated the sound of cracking nuts because it made his eyes feel all scrunchy and his teeth feel all zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzingy in a scratchy way.

  3. Make affirmations.

  That meant saying positive things about yourself out loud to the mirror. The leaflet had some examples. Wilf tried one of these.

  “I am a beautiful independent woman and I deserve to be loved,” he said. That didn’t seem right. He looked for another one.

  “I am a mature and successful man and my life is a miraculous adventure.”

  That didn’t sound right either.

  Wilf felt depressed. He wasn’t a beautiful woman, he wasn’t a successful man, he was a small boy who was about to have his kneecaps bitten off. And he had to do something about it right now otherwise he would never grow up to be a beautiful woman or a successful man or anything.

  Wilf got his backpack and he packed some knee pads to protect his knees, a magnet to attract the nutcracker, and a big plastic bag to put the gnome in. Then he kissed Stuart and Dot g
ood-bye and he climbed over the backyard fence.

  Wilf plopped down into Alan’s yard and ducked behind a duck. An ornamental duck, you understand, not a real one. And then he had a peep. A real peep, not an ornamental one. He eyed the gnome. The gnome eyed him back.

  Meanwhile, Alan had opened the big crate and was standing studying the instructions and scratching his head.

  “Put plank A into slot B,” said Alan.

  Kevin Phillips scratched his ear and then tentatively sniffed his paw.

  “This is the kind of job I need a robot for,” said Alan.

  He went to the door of his house and shouted, “Mark III? Mark III? Mark III?”

  No response.

  Alan then used Mark III’s full name, to show he was getting cross.

  “LRX2FL309version8.4markIII!”

  A few moments later, a tall gangly robot galumphed down the stairs.

  “What?” he said bad-temperedly.

  “I need some help,” explained Alan.

  “I’m busy,” said Mark III.

  “Doing what?” asked Alan.

  “Playing a computer game. And don’t tell me to stop because I’ve only been playing for five hours and I’ve almost beaten my high score.”

  “The whole point of having a robot,” said Alan, “is so that things will get done quickly, efficiently, and silently.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t ask to be invented!” said Mark III and he stomped off toward the house, accidentally tripping over the gnome.

  The gnome smashed into a hundred tiny pieces.

  “My gnome!” screeched Alan.

  “Sorry,” said Mark III, and he stomped back up the stairs to his bedroom.