Giggleswick: The Amadán Map
Matthew Mainster
Cover illustration by Lindsey S.M. Loegters
Lee Press, U.S.A
Copyright © 2012 by Matthew Mainster
Illustrations by Lindsey S.M. Loegters © 2012
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Lee Press
First Paperback Edition: June 2012
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN-13: 978-0615621920
ISBN-10: 0615621929
Library of Congress Number: 2012906455
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
For Mom-Lew
Chapter One: The Perfect People
Wally Noodle was pleased to see that styles hadn’t changed much in the course of a year. As he glanced around the building paying particular attention to the apparel of the adults and children, he assured himself that, besides his perky pink bow-tie –– a fad which indeed appeared to have faded out –– he looked much like everyone else.
Often prone to distraction, Wally probably should have had his mind on more urgent matters. He was currently on special assignment for the SMR, an agency he was in charge of back home. Head Officer of the SMR was a prestigious and very important position, and in order to perform the job properly one had to look and act the part, which, of course, Wally did seamlessly. He was a tall, broad-chested man, with wispy blond hair and sharp blue eyes. Although too humble to admit it himself, many found him to be strikingly handsome and debonair. Being so terribly gorgeous did have its downsides though. Back home, despite the fact that everyone was well aware of his lovely wife, Lilly, and of their beautiful twelve-year-old daughter, Eliza, women couldn’t help but constantly flirt with him.
Here, he wasn’t as highly regarded, however, and hardly anyone seemed to notice his existence as he meandered down the hall, not entirely sure where to go next. He had already spent two whole days in Maine and had yet to find anyone suitable. Yesterday, he’d met with a lovely couple that had been married just three months, both seemingly wonderful people, but no –– they wouldn’t do; they just weren’t quite right. Perhaps he was deterred due to the fact that they had expressed a desire to have twelve children, but he couldn’t say for sure. Then, earlier this morning he thought he’d found the perfect person: an enthusiastic, middle-aged man devoted to a cause –– though, alas, it wasn’t quite the cause Wally’d had in mind. Two others he’d seen the day before might have worked out well, but once he’d described the situation to them, they quickly sent him on his way, calling him a “nutter” or something of the sort. It wasn’t meant to be, he supposed.
Now as Wally walked away from yet another unworthy candidate, a young schoolteacher who had expressed great interest, but for the wrong reasons –– selfish reasons –– he was left with no one to evaluate. He had to find someone soon ... he was only ever given five days to find the perfect person and he didn’t want to wait until the last minute! Last year hadn’t been so easy either, he supposed, and he felt slightly more relaxed having remembered this. Then again, he was never all too happy with the outcome of last year’s expedition, but Constable Humphrey had insisted that Wally need not look any further; the perfect person had been found.
As he headed down the first floor hallway of St. Bartholomew’s Middle School, he glanced in through the classroom doors, comparing the many different moods and impressions of the teachers and students. In one room, he could count on a single hand the number of children with their heads up; in another, nearly half the class was waving their arms wildly about the air, begging to be called on. A history class was discussing the First World War –– a very depressing topic for Wally, and the students in a chemistry class were engaged in a film about the atomic bomb –– an even more depressing subject for him. He walked by and shook his head as the sound of an explosion, surely depicted with mind-blowing images, provoked many shouts of “cool,” “wow,” and “yeah!” from the class. Wally was thankful that Eliza didn’t have to know these things. She, unlike these children, did not know war. But before he could ponder this thought any longer, the building suddenly erupted at the tone of a bell.
Nearly knocking him over, children came bustling out of every classroom, talkative as ever after having been cooped up in one class or another for the past hour. Once he’d gotten out of the way and was no longer being pushed about, he snapped the collar of his sports coat, brushed his shoulders, and checked his reflection in a classroom window, giving himself a quick smile before his attention was again deterred.
An impish older woman holding a megaphone to her lips had come storming around the corner, nipping at the heels of two boys who’d instigated a spit ball fight between themselves and a pack of girls. The female co-conspirators were now in a fit of giggles as the boys were led away.
“Stop! HOOLIGANS! Starting a spit ball fight in the middle of the hall –– Have you gone MAD?!!!” the older woman bellowed through the megaphone, surely deafening the boys as she poked and prodded them with the tip of her pencil every step of the way.
“We’re sorry, Principal Bundy,” said one of them, still sniggering and not sounding sorry at all.
Wally stifled a laugh as the parade marched by, the principal’s voice echoing down the hall. He definitely would not be talking to her –– she was the exact opposite of what he was looking for. Though he doubted she would ever consider leaving her chiefly duties anyway, for she looked like she rather enjoyed yelling at students all day long.
As Principal Bundy dragged the boys away, they both appeared to be looking particularly proud of themselves. Wally thought it odd they should seem happy to have been caught ... unless, perhaps, this had been their intention from the start.
His concentration was then broken from the spectacle when he noticed two other boys standing by a water fountain whispering back and forth with wide conniving grins spread across their faces. Wally wondered what they were up to, though he surmised that whatever it was could not be good. He stared intently for a few seconds; meanwhile, several other students had joined in the charade, all of them gazing in eager anticipation at a bathroom door near the end of the hall that had yet to budge.
Wally thought he knew just what might happen when that door opened, as it was sure to do, and unfortunately it seemed that all the teachers had vanished back into their classrooms. The only people left in the hallway were the ten or so students who’d hung around to see what was about to happen.
It wasn’t long before Wally’s fears were confirmed. Suddenly all the whispering stopped and the bathroom door creaked open bit by bit. Wally couldn’t see much from where he stood, but eventually he was able to distinguish a pair of beady eyes peering out from behind the door. It was a scrawny boy of medium height that began to appear from the dimly lit bathroom, his nervous grasp on the edge of the door turning his knuckles white. The boy’s audience seemed to be taking direction from a brazen, blond-haired kid who had his hand cupped firmly against a bulging grin. They stood silent, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.
The door continued to inch its way open until, with apparent newfound bravery, the boy abruptly swung it the rest of the way and strolled out into the hallway. Nervously clutching at his books and straightening his horn-rimmed glasses, he walked with his head parallel to the floor. He was just two steps past the blond boy when, with a nod, two beastly adolescents boasting World-Wrestling-Federation tee-shirts were summoned to block his path. Having had his eyes glued to the ground, the boy hadn’t known to stop, and he dove head first into the human barricade, bouncing backwards in response and collapsing to the floor. His glasses flew across the black and white tiles, but before he could grab them up, a sneaker came crushing down in one swift stomp.
“So, Joshy,” said the blond in his snarl of a voice, “fancy meeting you here today.” He lifted his shoe off the shattered pair of glasses and kicked them towards the whimpering form lying amidst a slew of textbooks upon the floor.
Wally was awestruck. He didn’t know whether to run for help, try to stop them, or remain a feeble spectator. It really wasn’t his place to do anything but the latter, and he couldn’t risk people asking too many questions. He seemed to go unnoticed standing beneath a distant classroom doorway.
Josh continued to stir and moan on the floor but made little effort to get up, probably hoping his tormentors would leave first. Wally doubted he would be so lucky, however. From the look of things, nobody was leaving –– not until they’d had their fun.
“Did your mommy pack you anything good for lunch?” the blond asked, bending down and picking up a brown paper bag. “Why don’t we find out,” he added, and he turned the bag upside down allowing the contents to spill to the floor. An orange went rolling down the hall, a bagged sandwich was soon squashed by someone’s sneaker, and a pint-sized carton of milk landed temptingly in front of the blond boy’s foot.
A student standing to the left of the blond egged him on. “Go for it, Nate!” he said with a laugh.
Wally couldn’t have felt worse for Josh, who now had no glasses, lunch, or life left at St. Bartholomew’s. Where had all the teachers gone? he wondered angrily.
Nate obviously couldn’t resist, and with one quick swoop he had the carton of milk in his hand and was cracking it open at the top. “I think Josh would like his milk now,” he stated, gaining a host of laughter from the spectators. “What do you think, Joshy?”
Josh rolled his tear-streaked eyes and gave a low moan, clearly wondering when all this would end. He had very little option but to sit and bear the brunt of it. There was nowhere to run –– not with a hall full of people waiting to stop him if he tried. “Please ... don’t,” he said halfheartedly. But anyone could see it was no use.
Nate was just about to drench Josh in milk when two students arriving on the scene pushed their way through to the front of the crowd. “Don’t do it!” one of them shouted when he saw what was about to happen.
Nate was taken by surprise but seemed only all too pleased to have the extra company. He turned his head toward the naysayer and sneered. “And what do you think you’re going to do about it, Bisby?” he spat.
“Well, I –– I ...” he was clearly trying to come up with something clever, “I don’t think you’d want to find out.” It was obvious to Wally that it was taking every bit of this boy’s gumption to keep from stepping back and swallowing his tongue. But bravery prevailed, and with a nervous gulp, Bisby took one step closer.
Nate looked at him as if he were a freak. “You don’t think I’ll do it, do you? You’re as big a wuss as your dirt-bag father. Him and his hotdog stand. Are you going to beat me up with a hotdog, Bisby?” He smiled daringly and started to tip the carton of milk so that a few drops trickled onto Josh’s head. “I don’t look too scared now, do I?” he added and began to pour the rest of the contents from the carton.
Wally could have seen it coming a mile away, and before he knew it, Bisby had gone charging with his shoulder into Nate’s side, sending the boy flying backwards through the air until he landed with a thud, his butt breaking his fall.
For a moment, no one spoke. Everyone was waiting to see who’d react first and how. But nothing could have prepared them for the unexpected visitor who had shown up at precisely the wrong time.
Having sensed her presence, Bisby raised his eyes from where Nate had landed upon the floor to meet squarely with the cold, calculating gaze of Mrs. Tilly Bundy, who had returned from escorting the two spit ballers to their impending detention in just enough time to witness Bisby attacking Nate.
The silence was menacing.
“Elliot, you will accompany me to my office –– the rest of you back to class,” she ordered as calmly as she could muster, clapping her hands twice to signify an immediate dismissal from the hallway. “And you, Mr. Rutledge,” she stammered, turning to Nate, “don’t ever let me find you on the floor again!”
And with that, she was gone, dragging Elliot Bisby down the hall by his ear.
Josh, who’d gotten up from the floor just as Mrs. Bundy’d arrived, looked woe-begone having not been able to thank Elliot for his help, and Nate, now smirking, gave the boy a wink before shoving past him on the way to his next period. Then, the hallway empty, a half-blind Josh was left all alone to pick up his books and make it to class.
Although he wished there was something he could do, Wally didn’t dare approach Josh to lend him a hand. From all that had transpired over the last few minutes, the boy was clearly distressed, and Wally feared that any further excitement might leave more than milk drenching the front of his pants.
The commotion seemed to have cleared up, and the next scheduled class had begun, and so, with nothing left to stay for, Wally made his way to the front of the school and pushed through the doors, stepping out into the sunny New England afternoon. St. Bartholomew’s was just off the main street, and he followed the small driveway out until he reached the heart of town. He still felt a bit shook up from the scene he’d witnessed, but his melancholy temperament was beginning to improve.
The day seemed to be as ordinary as any other for the locals. Everyone was bustling around the busy streets going about their business. Wally walked slowly along the sidewalk whipping his head in every direction so as not to miss a single detail. Though the people appeared to be engaged in typical daily activities, they were certainly going about them rather differently, he thought.
Every year when he visited he saw more and more fascinating things, and he knew there was no way he could ever dream of seeing it all –– he wasn’t given long enough to do so. The constable only allowed him five days once a year to “keep up with the times”, and while Wally often wished to stay for weeks, the constable was the wisest and most fair man Wally knew, and he’d surely had his reasons for insisting on such a short sojourn. Where Wally came from, no man’s opinion was ever respected more.
Suddenly, he was snapped out of his trance when a car honked at him and a rather frazzled looking woman behind the steering wheel started shouting obscenities out her window, all the while waving her arms back and forth as if wanting him to move.
Confused, Wally walked across the strip of pavement over to where the sidewalk began again. There, he stopped and stood beside a large exit sign that faced out from the food market parking lot. He turned around and waved politely to the woman, but to his astonishment, this only seemed to frustrate her more, and with an oddly symbolic flick of her hand, she sped off, leaving a trail of exhaust behind her.
“Well! I must say I’m not accustomed to that!” he said out loud, slightly maddened by the woman’s unpleasant disposition. But, determined to keep in good spirits, he puffed out his chest and pressed on down Main Street wearing a somewhat forced smile.
“Good-day!” he greeted a man walking a dachshund in the opposite direction. But he was disgruntled when the man failed to return the gesture, and instead looked as though he worried Wally might bite.
This really was all beyond his comprehension. This sort of thing would never have happened back home. No –– no, there was definitely something different about people here. No matter how many ingenious inventions they may have created, Wally thought that perhaps they may not be quite as ... well, as levelheaded as his kind. Nevertheless, he was still in awe of their accomplishments. That computator invention of theirs was awfully impressive –– he wished he could figure that one out!
Wally continued to stroll along, admiring the park and the many different shops and markets. He was particularly fascinated by a long and wide superstructure-type building that sat back a bit from the road. The store’s name, although misspelled, suggested that it sold walls. He’d always assumed walls were built right on the spot, but apparently America had begun to market them.
Either way, he didn’t dare go in to see for himself what this Wal-Mart was like. He’d never make it –– the parking lot itself looked nearly as long as the English Channel! The store also seemed a bit out of place in this small town setting, Wally thought, but he supposed the building needed to be rather large if it meant to keep enough walls in stock.
Farther along, there was a perplexing little shop nestled in-between a candy store and a beauty parlor. Wally glanced up at the engraved wooden sign that read Finola’s Finds, and on the window, the word “Antiques” was painted across the glass in cursive. He walked through the door, which jingled at him like the shops back home did, and was greeted by an older woman with frizzy, white hair. She had a small jeweler’s magnifying glass stuck in her left eye, and there were a bunch of coins sprawled in front of her across a glass countertop. The woman identified herself as Finola and asked if Wally needed help finding anything, but he declined and told her he’d just have a look.
He didn’t look for long, however. It turned out the place was full of old things, and based on his currency conversion charts, it was all being sold for extravagant prices. One-hundred dollars for a beat up looking chair that a mouse wouldn’t dare break wind on?! Rubbish, he thought, and he scurried out of the place, determined to find either the perfect person or at least something interesting to look at in the meantime.
Continuing on, he soon found that he was losing his drive. His feet felt like two large calluses, his legs felt like mush, he was beginning to feel a trite bit faint, and his stomach –– oh his stomach! Abruptly, a thunderous low moan emitted from his abdomen, and to his horror, it appeared that several people had heard and were now staring blankly in his direction.
As his stomach continued to groan, Wally started looking around for someplace to eat. Something light, he thought, for he didn’t wish to spoil his dinner, which was only three hours away. He and Lefty Scrum, his only traveling companion, had been dying to try the restaurant with the golden sign that boasted how many billions of people it served. They thought it must be really popular, though neither one of them could figure out why anybody’d name a restaurant just the letter M.
The town had many places to eat, but so far every place he’d passed was either a fancy restaurant or pub, and what he really needed was something quick. At last his eyes spotted a little vendor outside the local bookstore. Whatever it sold, there were a lot of people waiting in line to buy it, so Wally got closer till he could see that the name “Bisby Dogs” was painted across the front of the cart, and a picture of a hotdog was painted beneath the name.
Having once had a hotdog a few years back on his annual visit, Wally decided it would do the trick and stepped into the line. The man dishing out hotdogs seemed to be in a very pleasant mood and was greeting his customers in the friendliest of manners. He was a rather short, thin man with light-brown hair combed neatly atop his benevolent face, but his features were slightly diminished by the worn and faded clothing he was wearing. Wally doubted that running a hotdog stand paid very much, though he also doubted that anybody would ever consider doing so as a primary occupation.
As he neared the front of the line, he was able to make out the prices of the different items, and, wanting just the plain hotdog, he found its price on the chart. Then, as he was removing the money from his wallet, his eyes happened upon a small sign that had been adhered to the cart. It read simply: Promote World Peace! Wally was delighted to see such a wonderful message displayed. This was what he was all about. It was something he could relate to.
He glanced at the name on the hotdog stand again.
“Bisby Dogs.”
Where had he heard that name before? It was just recently too. The boy, perhaps? Yes! Elliot Bisby from St. Bartholomew’s Middle School ... and hadn’t that Nate Rutledge teased him about his father selling hotdogs? Why surely this was Elliot’s father’s stand! Yes, it must be, he thought.
And at that precise moment, Wally was struck by a brilliant idea. Maybe he had found them. Maybe he had found who he’d been looking for. The more he pondered it, the more he thought they were perfect! He could hardly contain himself. The boy had shown remarkable bravery and courage that afternoon, standing up for what was right. And his father seemed a peaceful sort of fellow. Wally’d have to make sure of course, but he thought it quite likely that he’d not only stumbled upon the perfect person, but the perfect persons. The constable had allowed him to choose more than one in the past, although it had been several years since he’d done so. In fact, back in 1993, he’d taken a family of eight! Then again, he had been severely ridiculed by the community for that one, and even Constable Humphrey had suggested that in the future Wally should stick to no more than four.
Brimming with excitement, he awaited his turn in line.
“Can I help you?” Mr. Bisby asked kindly as Wally stepped to the front.
“Erm –– I’ll have a plain Bisby Dog and a can of Coke,” he answered.
“Diet?” Mr. Bisby asked before digging into the tiny refrigerated compartment of his stand.
Wally wasn’t sure what that meant and figured he better stick with what he knew. “No, thank you,” he replied. He was busy bouncing ideas around in his head, wondering just how he was going to approach Mr. Bisby on this most delicate situation. He certainly couldn’t do it here, he thought. No, that was definitely out of the question. But finally he had an idea ...
“Here you are, sir,” said Mr. Bisby, sliding the order across the counter. “Will that be all?”
“Yes,” Wally replied, having been snapped from his thoughts. He handed over the money and picked up his hotdog and Coke. “Well, actually ...” He waited to continue until Mr. Bisby had finished punching the buttons on the cash register.
“Mm hmm?” the man hummed brightly.
“My son –– er, he’s about to turn six, you see, and we’re having a little party for him in a few weeks, and ... well, I was wondering whether you might be able to pop round with your cart? I’d pay you handsomely, of course!”
It was a long shot, but the only way Wally could think to get Mr. Bisby’s address.
“I’ve done birthday parties in the past, yes,” the man replied. “Why don’t you take my business card, and you can give me a call when you work out the details.” And with a smile he handed Wally a card from his shirt pocket and proceeded to greet the next customer.
It was exactly what Wally needed. At the bottom was Mr. Bisby’s name and address, and now all he had left to do was to decide how he was going to explain everything carefully enough in a letter. He had to be extremely cautious not to give too much away until he was sure the Bisbys would agree to the proposition. If he were too explicit in his explanation, everything could be lost.
He would have to deliver the letter personally, he resolved –– the mail would take much too long. His feet, however, were in no condition to walk to the Bisby home, and so, upon spotting a yellow taxi-cab heading in his direction, Wally turned to face it in the middle of the road and raised his hand in what must have looked quite unfortunately like a Nazi salute.
The already banged-up Buick came to a screeching halt directly in front of him, its bumper kissing his kneecaps. Wally nodded to the bug-eyed man seated behind the steering wheel and walked around to the front passenger door to get in. And, as he lowered himself into the seat, he greeted the driver and flashed him one of his stunning smiles.
The older gentleman stared at him from under his tweed cap. His eyes were still wide open, and Wally couldn’t help noticing the beads of sweat dripping down from his forehead. He was sitting oddly in his seat too, and his hands looked as though they were glued to the steering wheel. Really, if Wally hadn’t know any better, he might have thought the man looked rather ... well, constipated, though he preferred not to think of such unpleasantries.
“You alright, chap?” he asked, feeling a trifle concerned.
The driver gasped and wheezed, and his thick gray mustache puffed out around the edges. “B-Bloody hell ... yo’ mad,” he sputtered, confirming Wally’s hunch that he was an Englishman. Lower class. “Like ter pop m’heart right out of me bosom!” he added, clearly winded.
“I –– I’m terribly sorry.” Wally didn’t know what else to say. He’d begun to wonder if he hadn’t mixed up the cab-hailing directions he’d learned in a recent SMR study, and, gaging by the waxen look of his chauffeur, he now felt pretty sure that he had.
The cab driver rubbed at his eyes, returning them to their normal proportion, but when the car behind them then tooted its horn, it was any wonder the man’s head didn’t puncture the roof. Gasping once more for air, he shifted the car into gear and slammed his foot against the accelerator, and then they were off, speeding into the sunset.
It was a few minutes before either one of them said anything. At first, Wally feared even the sound of his voice might startle the man. “I –– suppose you’d like to know where I want to go?” he asked finally, attempting to break the ice.
The driver grunted.
“Well, the address is right here on this business card,” he said, handing it to him.
The man took his eyes off the road just long enough to memorize the address. “I’ll ‘ave yeh there in about five minutes,” he muttered.
“I’m Wally, by the way.”
“That’s nice,” the driver said with a nod.
The ensuing silence made it pretty clear the man was not about to offer his own name.
“And you are?”
There was a hesitation. “Everett.”
“Oh,” said Wally, and in searching for some other topic of conversation, he decided to mention the Bisbys. “I’m not from around here. Do you––”
“Yeh could ‘ave fooled me!” Everett interjected, his mustache twitching.
Wally didn’t know what to make of this comment, and so he continued, “Do you know the Bisbys?”
“Of course, who doesn’t?” the man exploded. “Ruddy people. Not like us!”
Wally wasn’t sure what “ruddy” meant, but he didn’t think it sounded much like a compliment. “Do most people like them?”
“Nah, they’re strange. Too nice fer their own good. Just plain phony, if yeh ask me.”
“That’s why people don’t like them? They’re too nice?” Wally didn’t understand ... he rather enjoyed nice people himself.
“Yep. The woman, she’s always runnin’ dem soup kitchens and making blankets for the ‘omeless and such, yet they barely ‘ave two pennies to rub together themselves. Bet me tax dollars are coverin’ their behinds! And Mr. Bisby, ‘e pretty much keeps to ‘imself, but he’s always so dang bubbly, yeh feel like shovin’ one of dem ‘otdogs up ‘is ... well, ‘is nose!”
Wally thought they sounded absolutely delightful. “What about the boy?” he asked.
“Well, don’t know much ‘bout ‘im me’self, but me youngest –– grandchild, that is –– goes to school wit ‘im. Say’s he’s just as awful as ‘is parents. Nate though, he’s great. Just won county wrestlin’ champ!” he added. This proud comment was cause for the first and only toothy grin he would display the whole evening.
“How nice,” said Wally before the man could boast any further. He now knew exactly who he was talking to. It seemed rather ironic that Nate Rutledge should be ragging on a hotdog vender’s son when his own grandfather was a taxicab driver!
“Guess yeh can find out fer yerself now. We’re ‘ere,” said Everett, and he pulled the car up alongside the curb.
It was almost dinner time, and Wally didn’t want to be late meeting Lefty. So, as much as he’d have rather drug a three-ton elephant back into town, he knew he would have to ask Everett to wait for him. He’d be needing a ride to the restaurant once he’d slipped a letter into the Bisbys’ mailbox.
Wally quickly scrawled a short message on a piece of notepaper he’d brought with him and slid it into an envelope. He’d been thinking of what to say ever since he’d bought the hotdog and had finally come up with something safe but informative. Then, licking the envelope shut, he addressed it simply to “The Bisbys” and got out of the car.
The house was shabby and small, unlike the homes where Wally was from. The shutters were mostly crooked, and the paint was peeling, but Wally couldn’t help noticing the bold window boxes full of carnations, or the slightly sloppy garden filled with all sorts of colorful flowers. Somebody, likely Mrs. Bisby, had tried to give the home a loving touch.
Though it was clear the Bisby family had very little money, Wally thought it looked like they were making the most of things. In fact, the more he came to think of it, the more he actually admired their little home and its modesty. And it was with this thought that Wally slipped his letter into the Bisbys’ mailbox and hoped it’d find them well.
Not a moment later, he was being honked at by his increasingly impatient driver, and so he quickly slid back into the car, barely managing to buckle his seat-belt before Everett had stomped upon the gas pedal.
Then, as they sped away, Wally turned around in his seat for one last glimpse of the Bisbys’ house before it faded into the glowing sunset. Now it was up to them to decide, he thought. He could only hope that he’d made his letter enticing enough for them to respond. The Bisbys seemed perfect –– possibly the most perfect people he’d ever chosen.
Everett, having clearly sensed Wally’s fascination with the Bisbys, groaned and shook his head. “Bloody awful, they are,” he declared.