Conor's Caveman Read online

  FOR THEO,

  AND FOR SAM, THE EXPERT LISTENER

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Ice Cold near Annamoe

  Chapter Two: A Beautiful Noise

  Chapter Three: Slip Sliding Away

  Chapter Four: Walk Tall

  Chapter Five: Ogg’s Duvet Day

  Chapter Six: A Dog-gone Dilemma

  Chapter Seven: The Caveman from Uncle

  Chapter Eight: Ogg Job Man

  Chapter Nine: No Place like Home

  Chapter Ten: Almost a Fair Cop

  Chapter Eleven: A Lark in the Park

  Chapter Twelve: Let’s Be Frank

  Chapter Thirteen: Home Sweet Cave

  Chapter Fourteen: The Obnoxious Anthropologist

  Chapter Fifteen: Row, Row, Row Your Log …

  Chapter Sixteen: Bridge over Troubled Water

  Chapter Seventeen: Family Tree

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books by Alan Nolan

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Ice Cold near Annamoe

  Conor Claypole Corcoran was a quiet sort of boy. He was the sort of boy who wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose. Let me explain: even if it was Hallowe’en and he was all dressed up with a sheet over his head pretending to be a ghost, and the door he bing-bonged on the doorbell of was opened by an actual goose wearing a cardigan, smoking a pipe and holding a large, tempting wooden bowl of fizzy jellies and fruity chews, he still couldn’t bring himself to say ‘boo’.

  Mind you, that’s a pretty unlikely scenario. It has probably only happened in real life one or two times. Three at most. Whoever heard of a goose smoking a pipe? A cardigan I can understand – especially for Canadian geese. Canada can be chilly – but a PIPE??

  I think gooses (or ‘geese’, if you must) on the whole prefer chewing bubblegum to smoking pipes. It explains the large amount of dried-out bubblegum found on the roofs of bus shelters.

  And those pink, round things you see floating up high in the sky from time to time – escaped weather balloons? Nope. Gooses (or ‘geese’. Sheeze! Have it YOUR way!), GEESE, blowing bubblegum bubbles as they fly north for winter. Or south, if they fancy a sun holiday instead.

  But where was I? Oh, yes. Conor.

  SSSSSHHHHHHH!!! Did you hear that?

  Neither did I: it was the sound of Conor not saying very much.

  He really was a quiet chap.

  And, unfortunately for Conor, being quiet was a personality trait that didn’t help much in scouts, especially at meal times. ‘Who wants a sausage?’ the shout would go up. ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ ‘Me!’ the scouts would cry, each one competing to be the loudest, to get the juiciest, most succulent sausage they could. But from Conor? No sound at all. Not a sausage. Which, incidentally, is what he usually got for his dinner on scout trips: zero sausages. He was too quiet and shy to speak up, so he went hungry instead.

  Or at least, he would have gone hungry if he hadn’t learned the first rule of scouts: to be prepared. Before every weekender he packed into his capacious rucksack his toothbrush, his pyjamas, his slippers, his knife and fork and spoon and plastic dish, his compass, his pillow, his yoga mat, his sleeping bag, his flashlight, his shovel and his map. And because he was a conscientious scout who remembered the scout motto (and because he didn’t want to starve), every week he also packed sandwiches, bars of chocolate and cartons of juice that he ate and drank by himself. Quietly, alone, and in a corner, like a little mouse. A little mouse with a very quiet squeak.

  It was on one of these fairly food-free scout weekenders that our story began.

  A trip to Lough Dan! Up in the lovely Wicklow Mountains! Two days away from home and, more importantly, homework! Two days of outdoor fun filled with games, sing-songs and sunshine!

  At least, that was what it would have said in the travel brochure, if the scouts had one. (Spoiler alert: they don’t.)

  The reality was a bit different. Lough Dan was there alright, and it looked lovely. Or at least it would have looked lovely if you could have actually seen it through all the rain.

  It was PELTING down; had been since they got there. The moment the last of the convoy of mums and dads performed a seventeen-point turn, beeped the horn and waved goodbye to the precious cargo they had safely delivered (i.e. their kid), the heavens opened and the scouts all ran for cover. And it wasn’t just normal rain. It was the kind of rain that made you suspect that evil, child-detesting hobgoblins were hiding in the trees, pouring down buckets of icy water on unsuspecting, innocent juveniles.

  The familiar shout of ‘ALL HANDS ON DECK!’ went up, and the scouts very reluctantly left the imperfect sanctuary of the trees and started to hammer in pegs and erect their tents.

  Conor kept his eyes on the tree branches for hobgoblins as he (quietly) hammered in the tent pegs, freezing-cold water dripping down his neck and soaking his scout shirt. Ah, the outdoor life!

  Once the three tents were up, all of the scouts took shelter in the girls’ one, shivering and shuddering with the cold.

  Their scout leader, Dennis Deegan – a tall, skinny Corkman with a big head of unnatural-looking orange hair that Conor suspected he ordered from a catalogue – looked at them with squinty eyes. ‘Ye bitter get used to bean in here, gurls and byes,’ he said, smirking as he did so. ‘Shur, I wouldn’t send a dog out on a day like dis …’ His eyes glinted. ‘Conor! Run out to the car there and get my tea flask!’ He flung his keys at Conor, who yelped (quietly) as they narrowly missed his head.

  ‘Mr. Deegan!’ cried Charlie Finch, a smallish girl with freckles, a furrowed brow and a missing tooth, as she stuck her chin out like a weapon. ‘You can’t send Conor out in that rain!’

  ‘Ah, sure, Conor doesn’t mind it. Do yeh, Conor?’

  Conor, being Conor, said nothing.

  ‘You see? Out ye go, Conor, and don’t be there til you’re back.’

  Conor did as he was told.

  Charlie seethed, embarrassed for Conor. She fancied the strong, silent type, and as Conor was one of those things, she supposed she half-fancied him.

  ‘Look at it this way, cupcake,’ said Damian Deegan, a lanky boy of twelve with a weasel face. ‘Some people are born to be a general, giving orders, and some are born to be the privates who follow them. Conor is just one of those privates.’

  ‘If you weren’t the scout leader’s son, I’d bash YOU in the privates,’ snarled Charlie. ‘Lay off Conor!’

  Damian’s sidekick, Gulliver Quinn, a huge lad for twelve, with broad shoulders and a scout shirt that looked like it was two sizes too small for him, grunted and giggled at the same time – I suppose it would be called a ‘griggle’. Damian looked around at him sharply, and Gulliver stopped griggling immediately; he put a finger to his slightly blue-tinged lips to silence himself. ‘Sorry, Damian,’ he said. ‘Won’t happen again, Damian.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Damian, ‘we’re going. Dad’s gone to the boys’ tent already and the smell of perfume and scented candles in here is horrible.’

  A few minutes later the tent flap opened, and Conor came in holding a red tea flask and looking like he had been swimming in the lake. He wiped the rain from his eyes.

  ‘GET OUT!’ shouted the girl scouts in unison – all except Charlie, who looked apologetically at the half-drowned boy and silently mouthed, ‘Sorry.’

  Conor, again, did as he was told.

  Chapter Two

  A Beautiful Noise

  The next morning, the scouts woke to the thunderous sound of heavy rain on the canvas roofs of their tents. Conor opened one eye sleepily, only to be greeted by the round mound of Gulliver Quinn’s pyjama-clad bottom. Despite his large
size, Gulliver had wriggled around in his sleep until he was head first in his sleeping bag, with his sizeable backside sticking out the top. Sticking out the top and sharing pillow space with Conor’s face.

  ‘Yeeee-uck,’ whispered Conor quietly. But not quietly enough. PAAAARRRRRRRPPPPPPP! went Gulliver’s bum. The beast had awoken! The other scouts, roused by the horrendous noise of flabby bum cheeks flapping together, scrambled out of their sleeping bags and ran from the tent. They would prefer to be on the side of a mountain in a downpour than in an airless tent surrounded by pongy, greeny, eggy gas. And I, for one, can’t blame them. A rude awakening indeed.

  After breakfast (Conor had a bowl of dry cornflakes and half a sausage that someone had left behind them on their plate), scout leader Dennis ran his hands through his big orange hairdo and daintily picked his nose with the tip of his little finger. He reached over and pulled the tent flap aside. It was still scuttling down with rain.

  ‘Right, so,’ he said, standing up and looking at his clipboard. ‘Sittle down, lads and lassies, and lissen up. We’re only here for the one day, so we’re goin’ to make the most of it. We’re doing orienteering, and I’m going to be splittin’ ye up into teams of four, two gurls and two byes on each.’ He went down the list of names on the clipboard and named the teams. ‘And last but not least, Damian (grand lad, stand up straight now), Gulliver Quinn, Charlotte Finch and Conor Corcoran.’

  ‘That’s the way, Dad,’ said Damian. ‘Two boys on each team, and two girls. Isn’t that right, Conor?’

  Charlie – who, by the way, hated being called Charlotte – squinted at Damian and growled, but she did it quietly so Dennis wouldn’t hear. Damian heard it though, and took a half step behind Gulliver. She may have been a girl, but everyone knew Charlie was one tough cookie.

  ‘This is what I want ye to do,’ continued the ginger scout leader. ‘I want yis to take one of these’ – he held out four different-coloured flags – ‘and do ye see that peak up there?’ He opened the tent flap again, and they all peered out. Dennis stuck his hand out the tent opening and pointed almost directly upwards. ‘Do ye see it?’

  The scouts all looked up. Through the heavy multitudes of falling raindrops, they could just about make out the outline of the hill rising up from Lough Dan. The bit that wasn’t covered in thick cloud, that is.

  ‘That’s where I want yis to go,’ said Dennis. He took his arm back in; it was dripping wet.

  ‘Team A, you take the northern route up, Team B the western, Team C the eastern path, and Team D …’ He winked at his son, Damian. ‘D for Deegan, what? Good man, shoulders back. Team D will take the southern route.’

  Dennis threw some maps at the four teams. ‘The routes are marked on the maps. Have ye all yer compasses?’

  The teams nodded.

  ‘Grand, so. And remember to be back by three o’clock – yer mammies and daddies are picking ye all up then. I’m going back to me sleeping bag.’

  The teams pulled on their windcheater jackets, put up their hoods, tightened the strings under their chins, and very … slowly … and … very … reluctantly … they set off on their task. Damian’s team (Team D for Deegan!) were the last to leave.

  Conor and Charlie’s jackets were both a bit threadbare and covered in patches – only a few of which were scout-achievement ones. They weren’t great for keeping out the rain, but they pulled them on anyway. Damian’s jacket was much fancier. His dad, as well as being scout leader, was a stockbroker, dealing in stocks, shares and big-money deals. He used to be one of those guys in the stock exchange shouting, ‘Buy! Buy! Buy!’ and ‘Sell! Sell! Sell!’, but nowadays he worked from home on his laptop. And you couldn’t blame him. If you had a house as big and fancy as Dennis Deegan’s, you would never want to leave. In fact, the house was so gi-normous, it would be hard to find the way out without a map. Which is maybe what drew him and his son to join the scouts – they needed to learn orienteering and compass skills to find the kitchen.

  Damian pulled up his hood and lowered its infra-red visor over his eyes. He clicked the button on his sleeve to activate his jacket’s battery-powered central heating function, then sighed in satisfaction, happy in the knowledge that not one drop of rain, icy cold or otherwise, would get through the Teflon microfibre of his coat’s lining. No matter how wet it got outside, inside his jacket he would be as dry as the desert and as warm as toast.

  Gulliver Quinn didn’t put on a coat at all. Conor and Charlie had actually never seen him wear one, and both doubted that he actually owned a coat of any kind. He was just too tough to wear one. Or maybe too thick. Either way, he marched off up the hill without even looking at the map.

  ‘The other way, Gulliver!’ shouted Damian sharply. He looked at his compass and gestured for Conor and Charlie to follow him. ‘Come on, come on. I have the flag, I’m the leader. The southern route is this way. Let’s get this over with.’ He turned to look at them. ‘And keep behind me, Conor, won’t you? I don’t like being downwind of poor people.’

  Wearing their rucksacks, they all trudged along the steep, muddy path that marked the southern route up the hill. The rain had eased off a little, but the path was still very slippery. Charlie fell a couple of times, prompting Damian to snicker quietly. (He may have been an arrogant twerp, but he knew better than to laugh out loud at Charlie’s misfortunes.) Conor was more sure-footed, hopping from rock to rock to tuft of grass like a mountain goat and helping Charlie to her feet when she slipped. Gulliver simply marched upwards in a straight line, walking right through heather and gorse bushes with his eyes on his compass. Every so often he took a bottle of ink from his scout trousers and took a quick swig. Weird thing: Gulliver had gotten a taste for ink after drinking a bottle by mistake back when he was a greedy five-year-old; now he spent almost all his pocket money each week on ink. His favourite flavour, sorry, colour, was called Japanese Blueberry. He wiped his mouth with his hand after each gulp, leaving long, blue (berry) streaks across his fingers and up to the sleeve of his navy scout shirt.

  Mercifully, the rain stopped completely as Team D reached the halfway point, and they paused to take a breather and look down at the lough. They were pretty high up on the side of the hill, and the view was spectacular. The sun, much to their surprise, came out from behind a dark cloud, and its faint rays played across the ripples in the water far below.

  ‘You know what?’ said Damian. ‘I believe Gulliver and I may stop for a spot of lunch.’ He handed Conor the red-and-white flag from his rucksack. ‘You two keep on going – we’ll wait for you here. Gulliver, the picnic blanket!’

  As if from nowhere, Gulliver produced a tartan picnic blanket, waved it around his square-shaped head with a theatrical flourish, and spread it out on the ground. Damian sat down on it with a sigh and started laying out the contents of his rucksack: a flask of tea, some hard-boiled eggs and half a roast chicken. Conor’s stomach started to rumble.

  ‘Keep that noise down, can’t you, Corcoran? We don’t want you to cause a landslide, now do we?’ He waved his fingers to dismiss them. ‘Now then, tiddle-ee tiddle-oo with you.’

  Damian nibbled daintily on a chicken leg with his little finger sticking out and threw a boiled egg towards Gulliver, who caught it in his mouth like a large, hungry Labrador. ‘And don’t forget to stick that flag in the top of the hill when you get there. My dad will be checking from base camp with his binoculars.’

  Conor and Charlie kept on going, figuring that they didn’t have any choice – after all, Damian WAS the group leader, as well as being the scout leader’s son. But that didn’t stop Charlie from calling him every bad name she could think of (and inventing new ones) with every step she took up the steep slope. ‘Stinky doo-doo snots’ was the most imaginative.

  Conor thought he could actually see steam coming out of her ears, but it may have been the mist that seemed to be coming down on them as they climbed. Another fifty metres up and the mist had become a thick fog.

  Charlie stopped giving ou
t as she noticed that she could only just about see Conor, who was no more than a couple of steps ahead of her. ‘Hold on, Conor,’ she said. ‘This fog is too thick. I think we’re going to get lost.’

  ‘Well,’ said Conor, ‘the summit of the hill has got to be upwards, so if we keep going up we’ll get there eventually.’

  As much as she loved arguing, Charlie couldn’t argue with that logic. And besides, she was much too surprised to argue – other than the rumbling stomach, that short sentence was the first sound she had heard Conor make all weekend.

  ‘Shut up. You talk too much,’ she said, and they started up the slope again, moving carefully through the dense fog.

  Just as Conor had predicted (there were no flies on this boy), they eventually reached the top of the hill, emerging from the mist into beautiful, warming sunshine.

  ‘That fog was as thick as Gulliver,’ laughed Charlie, relieved to have reached the summit in one piece. ‘I think we’re the first to get here! Yay, us! Let’s plant this dumb flag and get back down.’

  They propped up the red-and-white flag with stones. ‘Dennis will never see it from down there at base camp,’ said Conor. ‘That fog is too thick.’

  ‘I thought I told you to be quiet,’ said Charlie with a smile. Conor smiled back. ‘But you’re right, Deegan will never see it. It looks like only the very top of the hill is poking through the fog.’ She took out the map. ‘Now, which way do we go for the southern route?’

  They looked around the top of the hill, rubbed their chins and pointed in opposite directions. Charlie took out her compass. The needle was spinning wildly. ‘Hmm. I think the battery in my compass is flat. This way!’