“Next he commanded the officers of the regiment to do all the duties of the camp. They had to stand guard at night, to make food in the cookhouse, and to polish the great brass cannon that stood at the camp gate. The sergeants of the regiment were made to serve the private soldiers with tea in bed each morning, to press their uniforms and clean their equipment.
“For weeks the soldiers of the camp enjoyed the life of idleness, but soon news of the strange happenings in the regiment reached London. A high-ranking officer was sent to put matters right, or wrong, if you look at it through the eyes of my master.
“But he outwitted them. He rubbed on the plate, called me to his aid and made himself a general. Then he ordered the regiment home to England, much to the joy of the soldiers. But he had been too clever. Unless he could find someone of higher rank to order him home, he had to remain a soldier. His one hope was to find an accomplice. The only man left was the former colonel whom my master had confined to camp for his rude and impudent behaviour. My master offered him his freedom and also to make him field marshal, if he would give the order that would send my master home. Alas for human wickedness and folly! No sooner was his prisoner made field marshal, than my master was once again made a private and confined to camp, where he was ordered to stand guard at night, make food in the cookhouse and polish the great brass cannon at the camp gate. For all I know, they may still be there in that lonely desert camp.”
“But what about you?” demanded Alec.
“Did I not speak of human wickedness? Another soldier, having seen the plate and admired it, took it with him when the regiment sailed for England. He gave it to his wife but she believed that eating from metal plates was bad for the digestion and gave the plate to the passing rag and bone man in exchange for two goldfish, a balloon for her baby and a pair of silk stockings for herself.”
“But how did you come to be in the beer can?” insisted Alec.
“Alas, I know not, neither care I. I know that my pleasant sleep is at an end and I have a new master whom I must serve according to the rules of the Order of Genies, Third Class.”
“Well, don’t look at it like that,” said Alec. “I won’t ask you to do daft things like the others did.”
“Speak not too soon, O Alec. But as you will, so must I do. What is thy will, O Alec?”
“First of all, I want to see who I’m talking to.”
“Your wish cannot, alas, be granted. As a genie of the Third Rank, I have not the power to appear and disappear as well as perform tasks. Ask me another.”
“How about something smashing to eat? Like a Super Atomic Blast Sherbet Bag?”
“Sherbet,” replied Abu, “is not food.”
“Food, ah, food…” Alec could almost imagine Abu rubbing his stomach. “Food!” The voice rose to a roar.
“Go easy,” said Alec, “you’ll have half of Bugletown round here in a minute.”
Abu laughed. “None can hear me but you, O Alec. But food, ah food…”
“Get on with it,” said Alec in desperation.
“Food.”
Out of the air came a white sheet that spread itself over the dusty crane room table. Abu began to chant…
“Nazin Tofa, eggs in wine sauce; Toyla Shorbasi, soup from Paradise; Uskumru Pilaksi, baked mackerel; Kirasili Sulun, pheasant with cherries,” he went on as the dishes, steaming and bubbling, began to crowd the cloth.
“Hold on,” said Alec, “what about the pud?”
“Ah, Sutlach Sharapli; rice pudding with wine.”
Oh, no, not rice pudding! Just like school dinner, thought Alec. But he didn’t wish to offend Abu and so he simply invited him to join the meal. Abu readily agreed; several centuries in a jug or a beer can make anyone peckish. Alec stared as the various dishes rose in the air, emptied themselves and then floated down to the table again. But he was busy enjoying the feast himself. So this is what it was like in the days of the Arabian Nights. Oh, clever stuff, Bowden.
Soon the meal was over, and Alec noticed that it was growing dark outside.
“Time we were getting home, Abu.”
He had barely time to pick up the can, when the table cloth, table, crane room and all had vanished with a rush and he was back in his bedroom again, sitting on the bed, still in his school uniform.
Had he been sitting there all the time? He looked out of the bedroom window. The sky was clear and down in the yard he could hear Granddad pottering about in the caravan. But the can was in his pocket and it was open.
Chapter Four KEEPER OF THE KAN
BAFFLED AND BEWILDERED, Alec held the can in his hands. Was he dreaming? Was Alec Bowden truly the master of Abu Salem, Genie Third Class, approximately 975 years old? Or was Alec Bowden off his trolley? Had the strain of the day been too much? There were his trainers with a big hole burnt in them by helpful old Granddad. There was his project on the Crusades, all soaked in eau de Canal. The disasters were real enough. But what about the triumph?
He held up the can to the light; it gleamed. He held it to his nose; it smelt beery. He held it to his ears and heard a distinct snoring sound. That could mean only one thing. Abu was sleeping off that enormous meal. Was it mackerel and rice pudding, or pheasants and sherbet? Still the memory was clear. His mouth watered.
He rubbed the can briskly and held it up again. The snoring had stopped. He rubbed it again. No sign. Inspiration struck him. Bending his mouth close to the can opening, he said firmly, “Salaam Aleikum, O Abu Salem.”
The familiar voice repeated sleepily, “Peace to you, Keef Haalak, How are you?”
“I am well, apart from about two thousand problems,” said Alec.
“Aieee, I feared as much. No peace for the genie. Speak, O Alec. What is thy will?”
“My first will is a new pair of trainers.”
“Trainers? What are trainers?”
“Slippers.”
In a flash the scorched trainers had vanished from Alec’s feet, and were instantly replaced by the most elegant pair of pink and gold, plush, satin slippers with curled toes.
“You Great Arabian Plonker,” said Alec, “you’ll have me drummed out of Year Nine!”
“Are the slippers not to your liking?” Abu sounded a little offended.
“They’re lovely, they’re gorgeous, but they’re not me,” said Alec. “I want rubber-soled PE shoes.”
“What is rubber?”
“Good grief,” said Alec. Then he thought. What is rubber? How do you make it? How do you explain it to a 975-year-old genie, who hasn’t had the benefits of Western civilization? All he could remember was a description of plantation life in his geography book. He told Abu. Immediately in front of him there was a tall, smooth-trunked tree, standing in the middle of the room, with white liquid seeping from a cut in the bark and flowing down on to the bedroom floor. Alec bent down and poked the liquor which seemed to be setting like a jelly. Now, what to do? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the next stage in rubber-making.
Did