Fred Boggitt and the Shakespeare Plot

By Jenny Tuxford and Jenny Brazier

Fred and Granny are back. This time they are trying to prevent the ruthless Sir Creasy Piles and the hen-pecked brothers, Hamlet and Romeo Macbeth, from getting their greedy hands on a newly discovered masterpiece by the great William Shakespeare.

In this very funny story, of course, nothing goes to plan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496999825

Jenny Tuxford

This is the fourth story in the Fred Boggitt series. The authors, Jenny Tuxford and Jenny Brazier, met while teaching at a school in Harefield, Middlesex, and realised that they shared a love of writing and storytelling. While teaching top juniors, they quickly discovered that one of the best ways to encourage the reluctant reader was through humour. And so, with this in mind, they began writing their funny stories about Fred Boggitt and Granny, and these two characters and their escapades succeeded in putting a smile on every child's face.

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© 2015 Jenny Tuxford and Jenny Brazier. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/29/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9979-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9977-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9982-5 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

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

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Also written by Jenny Tuxford and Jenny Brazier

Fred Boggitt and the Loch Ness Monster

Fred Boggitt and the Great Garden Centre Plot

Fred Boggitt and the Isle of Wight Adventure

And by Jenny Tuxford

A Mystery Unearthed - a Roman mystery for children

This book is dedicated to Holly Davis, with a huge thank you for all her wonderful support.

Chapter 1

T he Boggitts were off to Stratford upon Avon to spend a few days with Mr. Boggitt’s brother, Albert, and his wife Albertina.

Mr. Boggitt was driving his family along a narrow little street, he wasn’t sure exactly where, in his battered green Corsa.

Dad, you’re going the wrong way… Fred shouted suddenly, as he looked up from his ‘I-Spy on a Journey’ book.

Fred, I really wish you’d stop shouting at me like that. It’s very irritating and you nearly caused a nasty accident, Mr. Boggitt snapped, turning round to glare at his son.

The boy’s right though, Fred senior, Mrs. Boggitt said, looking up from her knitting to glance at the map book, which was busily trying to slip off her lap. This is Snotterfield not Stratford.

Snitterfield you mean, Granny corrected, sucking noisily on a mint humbug. Stratford’s back that way. I saw the sign ages ago.

It might have been quite helpful if you’d told me at the time, don’t you think? Mr. Boggitt said sarcastically.

The boy told you sixteen times, but you didn’t take any notice. And he’s just told you again, Granny replied calmly.

Well - it’s not the end of the world, Mr. Boggitt remarked through gritted teeth, glaring at the line of motorists who were heading towards him, honking their horns and flashing their lights. "Stop driving down the middle of the road! Move over to your own side! he yelled, winding down the window. Road hogs!"

He turned back to his family with a sigh.

Honestly, the way you all go on anyone would think I’d killed someone, instead of just taking one little wrong turn.

I didn’t mean you’d taken a wrong turn again, Dad, Fred explained. I meant you’re going the wrong way down a one-way street.

At once, Mr. Boggitt’s face and ears turned the same red as the traffic light he had come through just a few seconds earlier.

Well I’m not reversing, so they needn’t think I am! What a stupid place to put a one-way street.

As the gathering crowd of onlookers began calling out suggestions (not all of them kind and helpful) Mr. Boggitt began a bungled attempt at a fifteen-point turn.

At once, there was a loud bang as the car reversed at speed into a post box, knocking a huge dent in it and scattering the startled shoppers.

Monty, Fred’s dog, who had been sprawling across both Fred and Granny, fast asleep, woke up with a jolt. He shot up in the air, letting out a loud howl of disgust as his head made contact with the roof of the car.

Watch out! Granny spluttered. I nearly swallowed my humbug.

Oh bother! Mrs. Boggitt exclaimed. I’ve just dropped another six stitches.

Great! Fred shouted triumphantly, filling in his I-Spy points and writing the date. That’s a post box and… let me see…another ten points. I wonder if you’re still allowed them, though, if your dad’s just destroyed it.

Mrs. Boggitt began gathering up the stitches she had dropped, keeping her head down to avoid looking at the growing crowd of onlookers, some of whom were shaking their fists and calling out some very rude remarks.

Hooligan! one old man shouted.

Vandal! another one yelled.

He shouldn’t be allowed out on the roads, someone else said crossly.

But he’s not exactly on the road is he? I mean, technically, he’s on the pavement, another shopper replied.

How are you feeling Granny? Mrs. Boggitt whispered over her shoulder, trying hard to ignore everybody, whilst her husband fiddled with the gears and tried to move the car forwards. The bang was even louder this time as the Corsa shot back, finishing the job it had started of demolishing the post box.

I’m exactly the same as when you asked me five minutes ago, Granny replied grumpily, breaking off a piece of fruit and nut chocolate and popping it into her mouth. Not good.

Well it was your own fault, Mr. Boggitt hissed unsympathetically, finally managing to manoeuvre the car out of a shop doorway and off the pavement. You shouldn’t have been poking around in the woods in the rain. It was asking for trouble.

Were you truly bitten by a real live python? Fred asked, rummaging in his back pack for his ‘I-Spy in the Countryside’ book. Only I couldn’t actually see what it was on account of you collapsing all over it.

At long last, Mr. Boggitt managed to reach the end of the street, where he turned left, retracing the part of the journey they’d made several minutes earlier.

You don’t tend to get too many pythons in Slough son. I’d have thought you’d have known that. And in any case, pythons don’t bite, they…

It would most likely have been an adder, the nurse at the hospital said, Mrs. Boggitt interrupted.

Aw! Fred groaned, an adder’s only thirty-five points. I bet a python would have been a whole lot more.

I was only looking for some mushrooms for your tea, Granny explained in a weak little voice. I was going to make you all a nice mushroom strogawatsit, like that Jamie Oliver made on telly last week.

And look where it got you! her son exclaimed. Straight into Accident and Emergency!

Granny had some toadstools in her basket as well, Fred added excitedly. I spied them. There were three red and white spotty toadstools. It shows you pictures of them in my book, and they’re each worth twenty-five points. That gives me… a grand total of… um…

It’s just as well Gloria came along when she did and took you to hospital, Mrs. Boggitt said.

It’s just as well the adder came along if you ask me, Mr. Boggitt replied. Those red and white toadstools are poisonous I’ll have you know. Were you trying to poison us, Granny, or what?

Don’t be unkind Fred senior, Mrs. Boggitt said, looking across at her husband. She’s had a nasty shock.

Not just any old shock either, Granny said proudly. The nurse said it could have been hanaflactic shock.

She means anaphylactic shock, Mr. Boggitt corrected.

What’s that Dad? What’s hanaflactic shock?

Well, son, I’ll tell you, Mr. Boggitt said, slowing slightly as he approached a large roundabout. You know what shock is, or at any rate you should do, because that’s what I get every year when I look at your school report. Anaphylactic shock, however, is what you get if you’re unlucky enough to be bitten by an adder in Slough …ha…ha…ha!

Dad, you’re missing the turning again! Fred shouted suddenly.

Oh no, I’m not, Mr. Boggitt cried, swerving sharply on squealing tyres and missing an Eddie Stobart lorry by millimetres.

Are we nearly there yet? Granny gasped, covering her eyes and struggling to sit upright. Only I’m too young to die.

Have I stayed in Auntie Albertina and Uncle Albert’s house before? Fred asked, scratching the top of Monty’s head.

You’ve stayed with them before, but not in this house, Poppet. When you were little you stayed at their house in Wittering.

And you haven’t stopped wittering ever since, Mr. Boggitt spluttered, laughing at his own attempt at a joke.

They haven’t been in this house very long, Granny explained, ignoring her son. Even I haven’t seen it. Your uncle’s a vicar, as you know, and when a vicar goes to a new church he gets a vicarage to live in. This one’s pretty grand by the sound of it.

By this time, they had reached the outskirts of Stratford. The sun had drifted out from behind a cloud so that it could shine on the new born lambs in the fields and the daffodils dancing in the hedgerows.

Do you want to know what book I’m reading at the moment? Mr. Boggitt asked suddenly, with a laugh in his voice.

Not particularly, Granny said, but she smiled at Fred as she said it, knowing that they were going to hear about it anyway.

Mr. Boggitt ignored her. ’Look after Your Skin’ by Ivor Pimple. Ivor Pimple… ha… ha! I’ve a pimple. Do you get it Fred? Well, do you?

Everybody groaned.

Or how about this one: ‘Listening to gossip at the garden gate’ by Eileen Over. Or, hang on a minute, ‘How to rob a bank’ by Eva Brick.’ Ha ha! Now what do you say to that, Freddie?

How about this one, Dad: ‘This Car’s Heading for the River’ by Mandy Lifeboats, Fred said nervously. You should have turned right at the junction, Dad, instead of going straight on.

Mr. Boggitt wiped his eyes and turned the wheel sharply.

Sometimes, son, you are so irritating, he said.

Yes, I know Fred agreed happily. My teacher says that to me a lot.

Chapter 2

A FEW MONTHS EARLIER

T oday was a very exciting day. In Stratford Town Hall, a group of people had gathered to discuss the piece of writing that had recently been discovered in one of the town’s Tudor buildings.

The big question was: Could the writing possibly be the work of the great playwright – William Shakespeare?

Experts from all over the world had come to see the document for themselves and were sitting on carved oak chairs with high backs, around a highly polished oak table.

Let me see this … this bit of writing, Mayor Cecil Peabody demanded impatiently, dusting some specks of dandruff from the shoulders of his new dark grey jacket. He had an appointment with a roast pork dinner – with all the trimmings - in just over an hour and his stomach was already rumbling at the very thought of it. I just hope this isn’t somebody’s idea of a joke, because I, for one, am not amused.

Not so fast your Worship, the Right Honourable, Sir Basil Crisp MP replied, removing a dirty, creased piece of paper from a metal briefcase. Before you touch a work of such great historical importance, I must ask you to put on a pair of gloves.

A look of annoyance flashed across the mayor’s scarlet face, but he snatched up the white gloves from the table and tugged them on grudgingly. What could be the point of wearing gloves to examine a filthy piece of rubbish?

Whilst the crowd of spectators looked on in silent suspense, Sir Basil leaned across the table and handed the piece of paper across as carefully as if he were delivering a new born baby to its mother. Then, turning his head, he glanced across at Sir Creasy Piles.

Sir Creasy smiled a nervous smile.

For several seconds, the mayor’s pale, piggy eyes bored into the paper. The onlookers watched as the expressions on his face changed from disbelief … to total disbelief and were not surprised, when, after only a few seconds the mayor shook his head - and his three chins. What, he asked himself, could possibly be so special about this piece of grubby paper? Why, there was even a piece of something that looked like pink chewing gum sticking to the bottom of it.

Feeling certain that he was wasting everybody’s time, as well as his own, very unwillingly, he decided to hold the piece of paper up to the light in order to study it more thoroughly. Let no-one say that he hadn’t taken his duty seriously. A murmur of expectation rippled round the room.

Somebody coughed. Someone sniggered nervously. A few impatient words were uttered.

Rather helpfully, the watery beams of a pale, weak sun chose that moment to struggle through the town hall window in order to shed its light on the page. And lo and behold, by squinting hard through his one good eye, to his great surprise, the mayor just about managed to make out some lines of rather spidery, grey writing. But what did they say? He looked again. Holding the paper aloft, he began turning it first one way and then another. He tipped it sideways and then upside down. He twisted it this way and that way. He turned it over and then over again, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not work out what the writing actually said. He shifted his position on his hard wooden chair to see if that would help; then eased his tie away from a neck that was sticky with sweat.

Bother! He knew he was supposed to say something to the waiting crowd, but what? There were