Adventures in Numberland: a story of numbers in life and in business

By Paul Georgiou and Doreen Lang

Adventures in Numberland is a fairy story about numbers in life and in business. The target audience is adult but will work for older children as an introduction to business and the importance of numeracy

The hero is Piff, the wood-cutters daughter, a beautiful , strong-minded young girl who is thrown out of her home by her fat and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Panarc International Ltd
• Release date: Nov 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995463769

Paul Georgiou

Paul Georgiou has combined a business career with writing poetry, short stories, novels and and non-fiction works

Book preview

1

Once upon a time there was a girl called Stephanie, living in a forest in the county of Numberland in the far north of England.

Before we go any further, I need to clarify three points.

Although the girl’s name was Stephanie, she preferred to be called Piff, so that is what I shall call her from this point on. Why she preferred Piff, you may wonder, but it must remain a secret. (On the other hand, by the end of the story you will discover why all numbers are interesting and, in particular, why the number 999 came to be of such importance in Numberland and, indeed, elsewhere.)

Secondly, when I say Piff lived in the forest, I don’t mean she survived unprotected, roughing it under the trees on the forest’s ferny floor. No, she had a home, the cottage of her father, Jack, the woodcutter.

Thirdly, she lived in the county of Numberland. That’s Numberland, not Northumberland. Numberland was a small English county sandwiched between Northumberland, to the north-east; Scotland to the north-west and Cumberland to the south. Sadly, Numberland no longer exists, having been abolished in some boundary changes in the second half of the last century.

Of course you would like me to get on with the narrative but it is always important to be clear about everything if you’re telling a story.

2

So Piff lived in the cottage in the forest with her father, Jack, and her stepmother, Jill.

Jack was a woodcutter. He made a living by cutting wood in the forest and selling it to the villagers who dwelt in the nearby village.

I should explain that Jack, who was a very thin person, was hard-working but not ambitious and lacked drive. Jill, on the other hand, was very fat and lazy. When they were courting, they had both sustained some serious head injuries whilst engaged in a water collecting exercise which, if we’re feeling generous, could explain their total lack of initiative. Why on earth they were climbing a hill when wells tend to be low down, rather than high up, remains a mystery to this day.

Anyway, the point is that the family was poor and getting poorer, as a result of a decline in the price of wood and an increase in rent imposed by the cruel and rapacious Prince Baltigral, the owner of the cottage and almost everything else in Numberland.

3

One day, Jill sat Jack down and demanded to know what her husband planned to do about their financial situation. More precisely she wanted to discuss the allocation of sausages.

Like everyone in Numberland, the family lived on a diet of bread and Numberland sausages. When times were good, dinner consisted of a thick slice of bread and a varying number of large Numberland sausages, washed down with the cheap but nutritious befangle juice. In the good times, Jack and Jill had three sausages; Piff had two. When the price of wood fell and times had got harder, Jack had dropped his quota to two; Piff to one. Jill insisted her body would cease to function if she had less than three. Further cuts in the sausage ration became necessary, so Jack said he would drop down to one. Jill, who was a bit of a glutton, continued to insist on her quota of three. While they could afford five sausages, all was well, although obviously Jack and Piff were hungry most of the time.

Then the day came when they could afford only four sausages a day. It looked very much as though Jill would have to give up one of her sausages. This prospect did not please Jill and, since it was Piff who had said it was obvious she must relinquish a sausage, Jill’s anger was focused on Piff.

I don’t see why you and Piff can’t share a sausage, Jill had suggested to her husband.

That’s not possible, my dear, Jack had objected. I am already so weak I find it hard to cut the wood. If I can’t cut the wood, there will be no sausages.

In that case, Jill replied, if your daughter’s so keen you should have a whole sausage, perhaps she should give you hers.

Jack objected. That would mean Piff would have to live on bread alone.

Or she could leave home, get a job and feed herself, snapped Jill.

Now Jack loved his daughter but it was true that, from the time he had remarried following the death of Piff’s mother, there had been a good deal of tension in the cottage, and not just about the allocation of sausages. Jill and Piff didn’t get on. Truth to tell, Jill was jealous of her beautiful stepdaughter who had been blessed with light auburn hair, blue/grey eyes, a lovely face and a perfect complexion.

She’s a little young to set out on her own, Jack objected.

She’s 14 years old, Jill replied sharply. When I was her age, I’d already been befangle mangling for three years.

In passing I should tell you that the befangle was a fruit, native to Numberland, which Numberlanders put through a befangle mangle to extract the vitamin-laden juice. There was even a popular Numberland befangling song:

When, from trees, befangles dangle

and you’ve coin enough to jangle,

whether you be blest or cursed,

be the first to quench your thirst

and see the knot of life untangle.

’Tis so easy, all you do

is take the fruit, plump, round and true

and, whether you be cursed or blest,

turn the handle of your mangle

through the perfect squelching angle;

wind and grind and do your best

or, failing best, pray do your worst,

to crush to mush the fruit befangle.

Never worry, what’s the use?

Life’s a gift, there no excuse.

Do not argue, carp or wrangle,

grab each bonus you can wangle.

Always wear your tunic loose.

In these words you are well versed:

"Take the cup of golden juice

and drink befangle till you burst".

The fruit was plentiful and befangle juice was therefore cheap. You could buy a flagon of befangle juice for not much more than half the cost of a single Numberland sausage.

Anyway, back to the story. Jack was uneasy about Jill’s suggestion that Piff should leave home and fend for herself but Jill was undeterred; she would talk to Piff and see what she said.

4

That afternoon, while Jack was out cutting wood, Jill cornered Piff and told her that she and Jack had been discussing the future.

Given the circumstances, your father and I have agreed it would be best if you left home, said Jill.

Is that what Dad wants? Piff had asked, quite shocked.

I just told you that’s what we agreed, said Jill.

And when am I supposed to go? asked Piff, now seriously worried as well as shocked.

Now’s as good a time as any, said Jill.

But I haven’t got any money, said Piff.

What a surprise! snapped Jill. Could that be because you don’t work? You live here in our house eating our sausages. Befangle fruit may grow on trees but money doesn’t. It’s time you took some responsibility for yourself rather than leeching off me and your father.

Now it has to be said that Piff had a bit of a temper and a great deal of pride. She wasn’t going to be put down by her stepmother.

Very well, said Piff. I will go but if there’s anyone leeching around here, it’s you. I help Dad with wood gathering, clean the house and cook the sausages. What do you do? I think Dad was mad to marry you. You don’t love him. You’re a mean, greedy person. If you loved him, you’d give him one of your sausages.

And if he didn’t love me, said Jill, he would take it. So there.

Piff didn’t really understand the point Jill was making, but she was too upset to continue the exchange of views.

I’ll just collect my belongings and then I’ll be on my way, said Piff.

What belongings? enquired Jill. There’s nothing here that belongs to you.

I’ll take the abacus that Dad gave me last Christmas, said Piff defiantly. That’s mine because it was a present.

Take the useless thing, said Jill, eager to be rid of her stepdaughter before Jack returned.

It’s not useless, said Piff, just to have the last word.

Of course, it was useless but she wouldn’t admit it. Last December, before the bottom had dropped out of the firewood market, her father had found the abacus mixed up with some second-hand shoes in a cart boot sale, and bought it for her. He had liked the beads on the wires, thinking it was a toy.

5

It was late afternoon when Piff set off into the forest. It would take a couple of hours on foot to reach the nearest village and she was not entirely sure of the way. When, in the past, she had travelled through the forest with her father to sell their firewood, they had taken the horse and cart. Her father had driven and Piff had not paid much attention to the route. To the untutored eye, one pathway through the trees looked much the same as any other.

The sun was sinking low in the sky. Piff had two worries; first that, even if she was on the right path, she might not reach the village before darkness; secondly, that she was lost and might have to wander the forest for days, weeks, years or, possibly, for ever.

She found a tree stump, sat down with her only possession held tightly in her hand, and began to cry. A large tear trickled down her cheek and then dropped on to one of the beads on the top row of the abacus.

6

W hy so glum? enquired a high-pitched, melodious voice, as clear as a bell.

Piff almost fell off the tree stump. Who said that? she managed to say.

There’s only you and me here, apart from the innumerable but inarticulate squirrels, rabbits, birds and spiders, said the voice. So, if it wasn’t you, it must have been me.

Piff looked everywhere. There was no one.

Up here, said the voice. There, sitting on the low branch of a nearby tree