The Wolf Garden: A Totally, Completely and Utterly Bodacious Adventure with Unicorns and Gnomes

By Sedley Proctor, Tony Henderson and F M Frites

Dreamy tomboy, Laila meets Cyril, a rebellious gnome and passes through a charmed gate into the Wolf Garden. Here, she does battle with the shape-shifter Smarm and his army of wolves. When Smarm captures her gnome friends and steals the magic strawbs, Laila and Cyril help the Mistress Dido win them back.

A Cautionary Note<

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leopard Publishing Ventures Ltd
• Release date: May 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780995708532

Sedley Proctor

Sedley was born in Poole, Dorset and grew up in West London where visits to the local library instilled in him a life-long love of books. Sedley always loved writing and English. In fact, when he was eleven, he began a historical novel, now lost to posterity, but, if memory serves, in the style of Henry Treece and Ronald Welch. At school in Winchester he started to dream about a writing career, and was even lucky enough to win a prize for a short story, the title of which he has now forgotten. For some reason, however, the final line sticks in his mind. "Was it a living or waking dream? - No, she must be dead." After a brief flirtation with archaeology, he studied English at Nottingham University where he was tutored, for a term, by the Northern Irish poet, Tom Paulin. In the 1990s, he worked in fringe theatre and was involved in productions of Macbeth and Bertolt Brecht's In the Jungle of Cities. His own play, Salt Lake Psycho about the notorious murderer, Gary Gilmore was put on at the now defunct Man in the Moon theatre in Chelsea. Salt Lake Psycho was directed by Sean Holmes, current associate artistic director at Shakespeare's Globe. For the best part of two decades, Sedley lived and worked as a teacher and translator in Southern Italy. Here he collaborated with French writer, Claude Albanese on the screenplay of Dirty Waters. Dirty Waters, which is a political thriller, written with Italian blood, English sweat and French tears, received a commendation at the 2003 Montpellier Festival. In Italy Sedley continued to experiment with his writing, devising an invented dialect for a novel about a young female brigand of the Risorgimento. He also experimented with performance poetry, accompanying local blues band, Big Daddy Lawman on their tours of Apulian taverns, churches and bars. Returning to Britain in 2013, Sedley wrote The Half Days (2015), an ex-pat adventure set in Southern Italy. He struck up a writing partnership with Tony Henderson. Together they quickly published two books: Over & Under i (2015) and Over & Under ii (2016), a series of naughty tales, inspired by the tales of the Arabian Nights. The Over & Under Series has subsequently morphed into the Naughty Stories Series. The first in this series, Ten Naughty Stories was published in 2019 under the pen name, M. T. Sands. Sedley has also published the sequel to The Half Days under the title, Accidental Death of a Terrorist. Accidental Death of a Terrorist (2019) is the second part of the Mezzogiorno Trilogy. Sedley and Tony have written a children's book, The Wolf Garden, under the alias F. M. Frites: A Totally, Completely, and Utterly Bodacious Adventure with Unicorns and Gnomes.

Book preview

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THE WOLF GARDEN SOUNDTRACK

How to enjoy this book to the voracious max: you will need a smart phone with a QR Reader and an account on Spotify: https://www.spotify.com. It is FREE for THREE months.

Go to the QR Code at the end of the book or here:

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Scan the QR code and play the songs each time you start a new chapter. Then carry on reading the completely, totally and utterly bodacious story of the Wolf Garden.

The Wolf Garden

A Totally, Completely and Utterly Bodacious Adventure with Unicorns and Gnomes

F.M. Frites

F

.M. Frites is a member of the Italian Order of Magicians and Illusionists. He grew in a small village in Sicily and attended the university of Sarcastica where he had a holiday job in the Hilton hotel. Known to his friends as Umberto, he trained with the Bengali Circus of Sandokan and his burning tigers. Now he travels the world performing his tricks and sleights of hand under the watchful eye of striped beasts.

To my friends in the Magic Circles everywhere.

Contents

The Wolf and the Girl

A Gnome without a Cause

An Adventure in the Woods

Grown Ups in the Garden

Beautifully and Handsomely

The Huntress and the Helmet

Don’t Stray from the Path

Chapter Eight

A Picnic in the Woods

The Eye of Billy Brownlow

The Pathless Paths

Case of the Missing Strawbs

Jeu Du Mal

The Biking Gnome

Anatole and the Coconuts

Siege at Flor Cottage

Watcher in the Trees

A Feast of Tales

Back Through the Garden Gate

Utterly Cool Extra Stuff

A Skivvy at Smarm Lodge

***

A Cautionary Note

W

hen you enter the Garden, inevitably, and perhaps none too surprisingly, you will find that you leave something behind. When you are in the Garden, you may find – to your surprise or indeed unwittingly - something different. That something different you may take out of the Garden if you so please. Some people may be lost in the Garden. And yet some people may find themselves in the Garden. Others may leave the Garden and never come back. Not all people will remember the Garden. Although if they do, they may find they will be curiously, indeed remarkably enriched by having visited it.

From Mr. Whizz’s Notebook: Concerning the Garden, a thing rarum

***

Peter and the Wolf

Just My Imagination

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The Wolf and the Girl

T

he moon was out, and Laila was wide awake when she saw the wolf crossing the side of the lawn. She watched it as it paused and sniffed the air.

The solitary wolf tipped its nose at the moon. Was it going to howl?

Then it disappeared behind some bushes. She watched, amazed, as it reappeared around the trunk of the tree they all knew as the Beech House.

Laila had to pinch herself - not once, twice but thrice. She looked down the side path where the bins were, and the collection of Dad’s bottles waiting to be recycled when she saw it the final time slinking off into the shadows. The house was in a shallow valley of the Green Belt, and she could see the tops of the trees from the woods where thither she imagined it was headed.

Was it really a wolf she had seen? If it was all the wrong colour and far too big for a little fox, it could have been a big dog, one of those strays they were talking about in the neighbourhood watch.

But what if it really was a wolf?

She got back into bed and hunkered down under the bedclothes with her torch and penknife until she fell asleep.

If, generally speaking, nothing could be further from her thoughts than wolves, the question was still nagging Laila when she sat down at the breakfast table the following morning.

Dad, Mum, I have a question.

A question at this ungodly hour.

I want to know if there any wolves around here?

Wolves?

Yes, wolves. - I thought I saw one last night in the garden.

Rummaging, I imagine, around the compost.

Seriously, Mum. I saw it by the Beech House.

Don’t tell me, said Dad from behind his newspaper. It climbed onto the platform and howled at the moon.

Oh, Dad!

Anyway, he went on, Wolves don’t go for treehouses or composts. They go for small girls.

Grr, went Timmy.

And small boys.

Oh, honestly, Tony, said Mum. You’ll be putting ideas in her head again.

I was forgetting, said Dad, turning to his daughter. Laila, you can’t have seen a wolf. They died out a long time ago. At least in this country. Certainly not in a place like Sherwood.

Anyway, said Laila, muttering, it looked like a wolf to me.

Grr! went Timmy, who was now holding up a soldier with a musket.

He looked up and around at everybody at the breakfast table. But Dad had his nose back in the newspaper, and Mum was looking down at the page of her magazine. And his sister was staring into space.

Grr, he went once more.

Oh, do shut up, Timmy.

Laila got up from the table and went off in a huff.

How the wolf got into her mind was a mystery. Parents, the Collins being no exception, would no doubt attribute it to a hyperactive imagination (Mum). She was going through phases (Dad). In fact, she was getting far too independent, and yet still rather random and dreamy (Mum again and Dad agreeing).

Last year it was unicorns. And this year, I don’t know what it is this year.

I think it is still unicorns.

Of course, there was that pony – what was its name?

Whisper.

That’s right. Whisper, the clumsiest, noisiest and nosiest pony in the stable.

Dad chuckled.

Grr! went Timmy, holding up the soldier at his father.

Timmy, said Dad, I don’t think a soldier like that goes grr. If anything, he goes crack, crack!

Timmy squinted at the soldier with the musket and finger pistoled it with a crack, crack!

It was a matter of some urgency; a wolf was loose in the woods. And being loose in the woods, he could get into the garden.

Whatever you do, said Dad. Don’t go out the gate. You don’t want the wolf to eat you.

By the way, said Mum, don’t forget to take your apple.

She went out the door, but the wolf was already in the garden.

She turned tail and ran.

I must reach the Beech House, she told herself. It won’t get me in the Beech House.

The wolf snapped at her heels as she scampered up the tree and onto the platform of the Beech House.

After a while, the wolf went away. She climbed down from the tree and ran back towards the house, but the wolf was waiting for her.

There you are! he cried. I was wondering where you got to.

What are you doing here? she said. This is my garden.

It may be your garden, said the wolf. But once I turn you, you’ll be in my garden.

The wolf took a step towards her and bared its teeth.

Don’t eat me! she cried. Eat this.

She threw the apple at its gaping mouth.

Suddenly, she woke up.

The light was on her bedroom; the book was still in her hand, but the apple was lying on the floor.

Laila, I saw you left the light on again last night.

Sorry, Mum. I fell asleep reading.

Not those manga comics again.

It wasn’t a manga comic, it was a book.

You shouldn’t read so late on school nights.

Yes, Mum.

Well, in future make sure you turn out the light.

Mum, if you are going to turn out the light, can you please leave the light on in the landing?

Promise you won’t turn your light on again.

Yes, Mum.

If truth be known, and, though nothing, generally speaking, could be further from her mind than wolves, Laila could not keep the wolf at bay. Time and again she would see him in her mind’s eye. Time and again he would try to catch her out.

The light was still on outside her room, and she could see him, smiling in the scrolls of the wallpaper. She was not exactly afraid but struck by the strangeness of his expression. He seemed, after all, to wink at her with amusement.

Aren’t you going to sleep? he would say.

Not if you are going to catch me turning.

The wolf seemed to laugh.

I can’t catch you turning, he said. It’s you who will do the turning… Just like the absurd creatures in those comics of yours.

But I like my comics. I love unicorns.

The wolf chuckled.

I don’t doubt it, he said. They lead you off into unexpected places and unexpected adventures.

Oh, shut up, silly wolf. I’m going to sleep now.

This was a moment of truth. Laila knew it from the stories she had been told and the books she had read. If wolves did not exist in Sherwood anymore, there was something in the woods of Sherwood that she had to find out. And into the woods of Sherwood she knew she must go.

Chloe, are you going to come with me?

I don’t know.

But it’ll be fun climbing the trees.

I don’t like climbing trees. Anyway, the woods are scary.

Oh, please, Chloe. Come with me. We’re not exactly going to meet any wolves.

You shouldn’t say things like that, Laila.

"You’re right. I shouldn’t, but still it would be fun, don’t you think?

I’m not in the mood, Laila.

Oh, alright then.

Laila hung up and went into the kitchen where her mother was cooking.

I’m going out now, Mum.

Where are you going?

Round to Chloe’s.

Which, of course, was partially true, if Laila could be bothered to go and beg her again.

Well, said her mother, as she filled a saucepan with water from the sink, what time will you be back?

Supper time.

That’s quite late. - Here, why don’t you take an apple with you?

I’m fine, Mum.

And don’t go into the woods.

No, Mum, I know.

Laila went back up to her room to fetch her penknife and torch.

I heard you, said Timmy, coming out of his room with a soldier in his hand. You’re not going to Chloe’s. You’re going to the woods.

Go away, she said.

I’ll tell! said Timmy.

No, you won’t. I’ll bury your soldiers in the garden if you do.

You wouldn’t.

Yes, I would. Dad’s just bought a new spade, too.

You’re horrid! said Timmy.

Mind your own business next time, said Laila, as she closed the front door.

What a relief it was to get away, even if she couldn’t be sure she was running into a wolf trap.

***

On Gnomes

G

nomes, according to legend, live underground or in little holes in the mountains. The gnomes of the Garden, however, love trees. The trees and indeed the bushes are all very talkative. Ash trees are known as Russells because of the sound they make. Willow trees go swish or wish and so are Wishes. Sometimes the gnomes will stand underneath them when they really truly want something. The fir trees are ghost trees because everyone knows they go WOO, and they haunt the gnomes by dropping sticky goo, known as Woo Goo on them.

From Mr Whizz’s Notebook: Concerning the Garden: a thing rarum.

***

The Gnome

La Banda

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A Gnome without a Cause

T

he Bole Hall was a large hollow trunk where the gnomes often used to come and play on account of its amazing echo.

Gnomes whooped and wailed. They clapped and slapped each other on the back. They laughed and giggled, especially when one of their number tried to do a dance.

CHA CHA CHA! he went.

OH! CHA CHA CHA! went the others.

To tell the truth, it was not much of dance, more of a wiggle. But the gnomes seemed to find it hugely funny and they all started doing the same chachacha wiggling kind of dance.

One gnome, whose name was Cyril, however, was not joining in. In fact, he was quietly congratulating himself – having found himself a most comfortable spot away from all the talk and noise.

Hey, Cyril! What are you doing?

Yeh, Cyril, are you coming to play?

But Cyril did not hear them.

Cyril, mate!

A gnome called Vigo came over and shook him.

Hey, leave me alone, will you? I’m reading a book.

Hey, everybody, Cyril’s reading a book again!

That is borin’ of you, Cyril!

Cyril, you bore.

You hear, bookworm. You’re supposed to be playing with us, not reading your borin’ old book.

Well, maybe I don’t want to play.

Anyway, what is this book about?

Another gnome called Figo pulled the book out of his hand.

Hey, give that back! It’s mine.

Guess what, everyone! said Figo, holding the book out of Cyril’s reach as he tried to grab it back.

Cyril’s book is about cheese.

Cheese! went a chorus of voices.

Oh, I fancy some of that!

ANYONE FOR CHEESE!

OH, YES, PLEASE!

It’s not about cheese! said Cyril. It’s about building a bicycle.

A bicycle? What’s that? – Can you eat it?

Now, don’t be cheese paring! said Vigo, laughing. If Cyril wants to pretend he’s reading a book about building a bicycle, let him. We know it’s about building cheese.

All hail, the cheese builder!

Ignoramuses! cried Cyril, as he snatched the book back from Vigo. I said it’s about building a bike. Anyway, you don’t build cheese. You ferment it.

See what I mean, said Vigo. It wants its cheese.

OH! YES, PLEASE!

Ignoramuses, you’ll see! when I build my bike with the help of this book.

Ignoramuses we may be, said Figo, but we need to practice this number, or else you know who won’t be best pleased. Isn’t that right, boys?

Get on with it then. And leave me alone.

Someone, it happened to be Vigo, crashed the cymbals over his head.

Hey, are you trying to make me go deaf! That is noise pollution, that is!

The cymbals came crashing over his head once again.

It makes a nice sound, said Vigo.

Positively echoey! said Figo. Let’s incorporate it into the number.

Excellent idea, Vig.

You tuneless wonders! cried Cyril. You couldn’t hold a beat if it sat up and looked you longingly in the face.

Ah, diddums!

"Poor