Mr Tiger Betsy and the Blue Moon Read online

  MR TIGER, BETSY AND THE BLUE MOON

  Sally Gardner

  illustrated by

  Nick Maland

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.readzephyr.com

  About Mr Tiger, Betsy and the Blue Moon

  ‘Tigers have their secrets and their whiskers, their tales and their tails.’

  Once upon a time, on an island left off the map of the world, a little girl called BETSY K GLORY meets the mysterious MR TIGER.

  Together, they face a giant challenge… a moon to turn blue, berries to collect and wishable-delicious ice cream to create… the sort that makes wishes come true.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Mr Tiger, Betsy and the Blue Moon

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Frog Note

  Preview

  Author’s Note

  About Sally Gardner and Nick Maland

  About Zephyr

  Copyright

  For my darling Sylvie, who is too small to read this yet. When she does I hope, like you, she enjoys it.

  – SG

  For Eloise and Aldo.

  – NM

  .← 1 →.

  A is from an island that has been left off the map of the world. It is the place where all the letters of the alphabet come from. And this is where our story begins. With a Mr Tiger and a little girl called Betsy K Glory and a rather large moon.

  The letters of the alphabet had asked Mr Tiger if he would like to help them write down this story. He was far too busy. The letters of the alphabet also asked Betsy. She said she was far too young. As for the moon, well, that would have just been plain silly, so it was left up to the letters of the alphabet themselves to tell the story. For there are more than enough letters to make every word ever needed. They decided that as O is the first letter of many a fairy tale, O should begin – with…

  Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Betsy K Glory. She had purple hair, bright, shiny green eyes, rosy cheeks and a sweet, freckly face. Her mum, Myrtle, was a mermaid. Alas, she had not taken well to dry land and didn’t have freckles.

  Her father, Mr Alfonso Glory, had done his very best to make his mermaid bride happy. But there is such a difference between sea and pavements, between having two feet and a mermaid’s tail that, in the end, Betsy’s dad and Betsy’s mum both agreed to a parting of the waves. Betsy’s mum went back to her home under the water. While Betsy, who didn’t have a mermaid’s tail, stayed on land with her dad.

  They lived in a tall windy house above Mr Glory’s café. It was built on the quayside overlooking the sea. It was the most famous café on the island. Mr Glory was known for making the most wondrous ice creams. More delicious than any you have ever tasted. His crackle-galore flavours, his Chocolate Cream Wizards, his Ribble Raspberry Wonder, were the stuff of dreams.

  So famous was Mr Glory’s ice cream that people came from every corner of the island to eat there. Even though the island had been left off the map of the world, it hadn’t stopped word spreading that Mr Glory was the king of ice cream makers.

  Betsy lived a charmed life. The island was a peaceful place to grow up. It had sandy beaches, a blue ocean and nothing horrible ever happened. Her mum often came to visit and on warm days they would go off swimming together in the sea.

  We agree, it was somewhat sad that Betsy’s mum couldn’t live with them. In all honesty, it wasn’t so sad that Betsy wasn’t happy, or she didn’t feel loved. And although it would be good to always write stories that are about pleasant things, unfortunately, there would be very little to say. Except that the sun shone every day. That the rain rained every night and that Betsy’s favourite day was Wednesday.

  .← 2 →.

  But, before we go any further, the letters of the alphabet want to say they were always busy. Not just writing this story. They were needed for all sorts of other important things, like the daily news. That is how Dad and Betsy first heard that Mr Tiger and his circus were to arrive on Wednesday. But the trouble was, the letters of the alphabet weren’t quite sure which Wednesday. Or more to the point, what kind of circus he would bring with him. Perhaps they didn’t know because when Wednesday came, there was neither sight of Mr Tiger nor sound of his circus.

  Wednesday was the day Betsy’s mum would pop out of the sea. Betsy would wait for her on the harbour steps and together they would dabble feet and fin in the water. That is, until Dad turned up to carry Mum back to his café. Here she would sit at one of the little tables, under a shady umbrella, with her tail in a bucket.

  Betsy wondered if Mum knew anything about Mr Tiger and his circus. But Mum had a faraway look in her eyes that had more to do with orcas and oceans than circuses.

  ‘Do you think Mr Tiger has animals?’ asked Betsy. Before Mum could answer Dad appeared with an ice cream he’d made especially for her. He had called it Myrtle’s Minty Mumbo Marvel.

  ‘It tastes of wishes,’ said Mum. ‘Delicious, mouthwatering wishes.’

  ‘What would you wish for, Mum?’ asked Betsy. ‘If you had a wish.’

  Mum thought about this for a minute and said, ‘I have everything I could wish for – a beautiful daughter, a loving husband – what more could a mermaid want?’

  ‘Legs,’ suggested Betsy.

  Mum laughed. ‘Then I wouldn’t be me, and you wouldn’t be you.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Betsy.

  ‘That’s why,’ said Mum, ‘you have to be careful what you wish for.’

  Betsy asked her dad what he would wish for.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I have Mum and you. Anyway, a wish is very hard indeed to find.’

  Betsy wondered if there was a place where wishes were made. If there was, said Dad, he didn’t know about it.

  Mum knew of an island where Gongalong bushes grew. It was said that if the fruit was made into ice cream, you could make a wish from just one scoop and whatever you wished for would come true.

  ‘Then we should go there,’ said Betsy. ‘And we can pick Gongalong berries when they are ripe. Dad could make them into ice cream.’

  ‘Why,’ asked Mum, ‘would we need to do that when we have everything we want here on the seashore and in the tall windy house on the island left off the map of the world?’

  ‘I just thought a spare wish might be useful.’

  Mum gave Betsy a hug. ‘But the island is as far away as Sunday,’ she said. ‘And I hear on the seaweed line that a bossy giantess rules it.’

  ‘That wouldn’t stop Dad, would it?’ said Betsy.

  Dad was good at making ice cream but not so sure about giants, bossy or not.

  ‘Wait a minnow,’ said Mum. ‘There is something else important, but what it is I can’t remember. It has something to do with how you pick the Gongalong berries.’

  She thought long and hard, but it had, for the present, swum away from her.

  Later that day, as the sun was putting on its red pyjamas and settling down f
or the night, Dad carried Mum back to the sea. He and Betsy waved farewell and watched as she disappeared beneath the white-kissed waves.

  Betsy looked out of her window and up into a sweetshop of stars. There shone a white chocolate moon. She was about to climb back into bed when, to her delight, she saw a star whizz across the black treacle sky. Closing her eyes, she said, ‘I wish Mr Tiger and his circus would come tomorrow.’

  .← 3 →.

  ‘Crumble cakes,’ said Betsy, for next day, a ship had arrived in port. It was unlike any other she had seen before. Painted in blue and white stripes and festooned with flags. She wondered if her wish might have come true, without even one Gongalong berry.

  Betsy went downstairs for breakfast and the first thing she wanted to know was if it was Mr Tiger’s ship. Dad was busy putting tubs of ice cream into the tricycle icebox. He was proud of his tricycle. It had been made especially so that he and Betsy could ride it together. On the side of the icebox, Mr Glory had written the name of his latest creation: Myrtle’s Minty Mumbo Marvel. And on the front was written: Stop me if you want to buy one. It was this notice that made the going rather slow. Because wherever they went, they were always stopped. Especially when news spread that there was a new flavour to be tried.

  The island, which had been left off the map of the world, wasn’t very large. In fact, Dad and Betsy could cycle around it easily in a day. At lunchtime they would stop halfway up the tallest hill. In a field overlooking the harbour they would eat their picnic. Below, they could see the blue-and-white-striped ship festooned in flags.

  ‘Do you think that it belongs to Mr Tiger?’ asked Betsy.

  ‘Search my socks,’ said Dad. ‘If we were to start talking about tigers then we’d be here until moonrise and that would never do. When we’re home you can ask Mum, perhaps she might know.’

  The hardest part of the bike ride was pedalling up to the cave. It was on the steepest side of the hill. Here lived one of the ugliest toads you ever did spy. The toad was seated, as it always was, at the entrance to the cave, on a grey slimy stone.

  Betsy would never go anywhere near it. So, it was Dad who would take out a tub of ice cream, open the lid, and then stand well back. They both watched as the toad flicked its long tongue into the ice cream. It would roll a scoop into its broad mouth, smile and point to a gold coin.

  ‘It’s too much,’ Dad would say as he did every time they visited the toad. But, as always, the toad would puff itself up as large as it could, which was the toad way of saying, ‘Worth that and more.’ Today being no different, Dad took the gold and climbed back on to the tricycle.

  Then the toad who never spoke suddenly spoke!

  .← 4 →.

  ‘This is probably the most delicious ice cream I have ever wrapped my tongue around,’ said the toad. ‘It tastes of wishes.’

  Dad and Betsy stared, open-mouthed.

  ‘You speak?’ said Dad.

  ‘Of course, most princesses do.’

  ‘A princess?’ said Betsy, as she dared to go a little closer.

  ‘Yes, what did you think I was?’

  ‘A toad,’ said Betsy.

  ‘Is it really that bad?’ asked the toad.

  Betsy nodded. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘Oh dear, I still see myself as a princess with a rather long tongue. You don’t happen to have a mirror?’

  ‘No,’ said Dad.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said the toad as she flicked out her tongue to take another helping of ice cream.

  ‘This is wishable delicious,’ said the toad.

  Betsy wasn’t sure if it would be rude to ask how a princess had become a toad, instead she said, ‘Why have you never spoken before?’

  ‘I was lost for words,’ said the toad. ‘But now the Gongalongs desperately need my help.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Betsy. It didn’t make sense that a Gongalong bush needed help.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Betsy, thinking it was perhaps best not to ask any more questions, if they were worth nothing more than silly answers.

  ‘Are you going to leave just like that?’ asked the toad. ‘Are you not an incy-wincy bit interested in why I am here, on this slimy stone?’

  ‘Yes, of course we are,’ said Dad and Betsy together.

  ‘Good,’ said the toad. ‘It is a very sad story. My half-sister, Princess Olaf, believes that only a big person, with big feet, can rule Gongalong Island and the Gongalong people. She has huge feet and shoes that need a lot of space. I, on the other hand, am the eldest and smallest princess. I only have tiny feet and tiny shoes. So she turned me into a toad.’

  While the toad was speaking, Betsy was sure she saw hundreds of glinting eyes, peeping out of the darkness of the cave.

  ‘Can the spell be undone?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Yes, with a wish,’ said the toad. ‘All you need is to make ice cream from Gongalong berries.’

  ‘That is what I have heard,’ said Dad. ‘I could do that.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said the toad. ‘Although, thank you for offering. As I said, it is a very sad story as the berries only grow when the moon is blue.’

  ‘When is there a blue moon?’ asked Betsy.

  ‘A very button-bright question, if I may say,’ said the toad. ‘They will not ripen under a pink moon. They will not ripen under a red moon. They will only ripen under a blue moon. But blue moons happen sometime never. And even when there is a blue moon you have hardly any time to pick the berries before the sun comes up.’

  Betsy let out a sigh. ‘Crumble cakes.’

  .← 5 →.

  Dad felt exhausted when he and Betsy returned to the café, but Betsy had as much energy as a jumping bean. She ran straight down to the sea. Mum had given her a shell that she could whisper into any time she needed her. Betsy put the shell to her lips and waited. It always seemed to Betsy that Mum was never far away. For no sooner had she blown into the shell than there she was.

  Betsy couldn’t wait to tell her about the toad. She was jammed full of questions. Where was Mr Tiger? Who did the ship, festooned in flags, belong to? And the crown of all questions, when is a moon ever blue?

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Mum, ‘a blue moon happens sometime never.’

  ‘So that means,’ said Betsy, ‘Gongalong-berry ice cream is impossible to make.’

  ‘Unless,’ said Betsy’s mum kindly, ‘you believe in magic.’

  Mermaids, Betsy thought, always were a little watery when it came to answering questions. Off she went to the harbour-master, who had a bushy beard, and asked if he had seen anyone on board the ship. The harbour-master said he hadn’t, for if he had seen Mr Tiger, he would know. Mr Tiger was quite unforgettable.

  Betsy asked the lady in the flower shop, who didn’t have a beard. She said she remembered seeing a ship like that in a glass bottle, bobbing up and down on cardboard waves.

  The baker and the candlestick-maker were both sure they had seen that ship when they were children. But the butcher thought it was a load of rubbish. He didn’t believe anyone had ever seen Mr Tiger.

  ‘He belongs to fairy stories,’ said the butcher.

  It was, thought Betsy as she walked home, a mystery.

  After tea that evening, Dad found a guide-book to Gongalong Island. In it was a recipe for Gongalong ice cream. The pages had turned yellow. Betsy loved the smell of old books. This one smelled of an island as far away as Sunday. In the middle of the book was a fold-out map. It showed where the Gongalong berries grew, but said they could only be harvested under a blue moon, which happened sometime never. The X on the map marked the spot where the berries could be found. She turned the page and there was a more detailed drawing of a mountain, underneath was written, The Mountain of Perpetual Mist.

  ‘What does perpetual mean?’ asked Betsy.

  ‘It means mist that never goes away. It is there forever and ever,’ replied Dad.

  ‘Crumble cakes,’ said Betsy as she continued to look through the book.

  Th
e guide-book said that the island was the home of the Gongalong people, who are even smaller than a quarter of the size of your average human being. They are as delicate as china cups and as strong as cement. Known far and wide for their amazing acrobatic skills.

  ‘But it says nothing about the two princesses, not a word,’ said Betsy.

  ‘It is an old guide-book,’ said Dad. ‘It might be out of date.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ said Betsy, ‘is how the toad came here, from an island as far away as Sunday.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Dad.

  ‘Also,’ said Betsy, ‘I don’t understand who those glinting eyes belonged to.’

  ‘What eyes?’ said Dad.

  ‘The ones I saw in the cave behind the toad,’ said Betsy.

  ‘Very odd indeed,’ said Dad.

  That night, the lights on the blue-and-white-striped ship lit up. Yet still no one could be seen on board. Not until…

  .← 6 →.

  The following morning when Betsy looked out of her bedroom window, there in the distance she could see the top of a circus tent. She washed and dressed as fast as you could say, frantic frogs fizzle on Fridays. She brushed her teeth, before sliding down the banisters of the tall windy house. Betsy landed, as she always did, in a heap at the foot of the stairs. Picking herself up, she ran to find Dad. Calling out all the while, ‘The circus has come to town!’