Stig of the Dump Read online

  Some reviews of

  Stig of the Dump

  ‘Though first published many years ago, this book still enchants’ – The Times

  ‘A great read’ – Sunday Times

  ‘In simple terms, what the author has done in this splendid story is to juxtapose ancient and modern . . . the book is natural, fast and exciting . . . but it is the imaginative unity that makes it so good’

  – Growing Point

  ‘This story has wonderful appeal to a small boy because it is a wonderful fulfilment of their conviction that they could easily make a chimney out of tin cans’ – Guardian

  ‘Its understanding of behaviour is truly imaginative, and this story of an entirely contemporary scene is a book of strong personality’

  – The Times Literary Supplement

  ‘There have been few stories in the past half-century which seem, from their fist appearance, to be destined more certainly for immortality’ – Junior Bookshelf

  PUFFIN MODERN CLASSICS

  Clive King was born in Richmond, Surrey, in 1924. When he was young his family moved to a village called Ash, near Sevenoaks in Kent, which is the setting for Stig of the Dump. He was educated at King’s School, Rochester; Downing College, Cambridge; the School of Oriental and African Studies; and the University of London. He then served in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. His service as a sailor and his work as a language teacher took him all over the world. Clive King has attempted to learn ten languages, including Tamil, Bengali, Gaelic and Anglo-Saxon. He has not been incredibly successful with any of them, but many of his stories deal with language difficulties of one sort or another.

  Clive King comes from a family of DIY fanatics. In his home you can see such things as a homemade built-in ironing board, a panelled kitchen and an oak staircase. He lives with his family in Norfolk and is a full-time writer.

  CLIVE KING

  Illustrated by

  Edward Ardizzone

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published 1963

  Published in Puffin Modern Classics 1993

  This edition reissued 2010

  Text copyright © Clive King, 1963

  Illustrations copyright © Edward Ardizzone, 1963

  Introduction copyright © Julia Eccleshare, 2003

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-141-96060-9

  Introduction

  by Julia Eccleshare

  Puffin Modern Classics series editor

  When Barney fails over the edge into the chalk pit he embarks on an original fantasy adventure: a fantasy sited on the doorstep of reality, which is not reached by time machine or unusual method of transport – a detail that makes it even more likeable and accessible.

  Who is Stig and does he really exist? Who knows?

  Central to Barney and Stig’s story are two of the core elements of childhood experience: friendship and play. Living in another time, or even out of time, Stig is free from all the restraints that beset Barney and the book’s readers. In Stig’s world there are no deadlines for meals, no rules about clothes and, above all, no fears about the dangers from the environment in which he lives. With Stig, Barney can play freely, whether it’s in a practical way, as in Barney’s attempts to improve the quality of Stig’s life by using tin cans for a chimney and old jam jars for windows, or in the final, more ambitious fantasy when Barney is carried completely into Stig’s time and world.

  Stig of the Dump celebrates freedom to live in your own way; something children are rarely allowed to do. Stig lives and, above all, thinks freely. Through him and Barney, children are empowered to do the same.

  Clive King was brought up in Kent, living in a house on the edge of a chalk pit, just like the one where Stig lives. After the success of Stig of the Dump he wrote several other children’s books, including The Night the Water Came and Me and My Million.

  Contents

  1 The Ground Gives Way

  2 Digging With Stig

  3 It Warms You Twice

  4 Gone A-Hunting

  5 The Snargets

  6 Skinned and Buried

  7 Party Manners

  8 Midsummer Night

  9 The Standing Stones

  Chapter One

  The Ground Gives Way

  If you went too near the edge of the chalk pit the ground would give way. Barney had been told this often enough. Everybody had told him. His grandmother, every time he came to stay with her. His sister, every time she wasn’t telling him something else. Barney had a feeling, somewhere in his middle, that it was probably true about the ground giving way. But still, there was a difference between being told and seeing it happen. And today was one of those grey days when there was nothing to do, nothing to play, and nowhere to go. Except to the chalk pit. The dump.

  Barney got through the rickety fence and went to the edge of the pit. This had been the side of a hill once, he told himself. Men had come to dig away chalk and left this huge hole in the earth. He thought of all the sticks of chalk they must have made, and all the blackboards in all the schools they must have written on. They must have dug and dug for hundreds of years. And then they got tired of digging, or somebody had told them to stop before they dug away all the hill. And now they did not know what to do with this empty hole and they were trying to fill it up again. Anything people didn’t want they threw into the bottom of the pit.

  He crawled through the rough grass and peered over. The sides of the pit were white chalk, with lines of flints poking out like bones in places. At the top was crumbly brown earth and the roots of the trees that grew on the edge. The roots looped over the edge, twined in the air and grew back into the earth. Some of the trees hung over the edge, holding on desperately by a few roots. The earth and chalk had fallen away beneath them, and one day they too would fall to the bottom of the pit. Strings of ivy and the creeper called Old Man’s Beard hung in the air.

  Far below was the bottom of the pit. The dump. Barney could see strange bits of wreckage among the moss and elder bushes and nettles. Was that the steering wheel of a ship? The tail of an aeroplane? At least there was a real bicycle. Barney felt sure he could make it go if only he could get at it. They didn’t let hi
m have a bicycle.

  Barney wished he was at the bottom of the pit.

  And the ground gave way.

  Barney felt his head going down and his feet going up. There was a rattle of falling earth beneath him. Then he was falling, still clutching the clump of grass that was falling with him.

  This is what it’s like when the ground gives way, thought Barney. Then he seemed to turn a complete somersault in the air, bumped into a ledge of chalk halfway down, crashed through some creepers and ivy and branches, and landed on a bank of moss.

  His thoughts did those funny things they do when you bump your head and you suddenly find yourself thinking about what you had for dinner last Tuesday, all mixed up with seven times six. Barney lay with his eyes shut, waiting for his thoughts to stop being mixed up. Then he opened them.

  He was lying in a kind of shelter. Looking up he could see a roof, or part of a roof, made of elder branches, a very rotten old carpet, and rusty old sheets of iron. There was a big hole, through which he must have fallen. He could see the white walls of the cliff, the trees and creepers at the top, and the sky with clouds passing over it.

  Barney decided he wasn’t dead. He didn’t even seem to be very much hurt. He turned his head and looked around him. It was dark in this den after looking at the white chalk, and he couldn’t see what sort of a place it was. It seemed to be partly a cave dug into the chalk, partly a shelter built out over the mouth of the cave. There was a cool, damp smell. Woodlice and earwigs dropped from the roof where he had broken through it.

  But what had happened to his legs? He couldn’t sit up when he tried to. His legs wouldn’t move. Perhaps I’ve broken them, Barney thought. What shall I do then? He looked at his legs to see if they were all right, and found they were all tangled up with creeper from the face of the cliff. Who tied me up? thought Barney. He kicked his legs to try to get them free, but it was no use, there were yards of creeper trailing down from the cliff. I suppose I got tangled up when I fell, he thought. Expect I would have broken my neck if I hadn’t.

  He lay quiet and looked around the cave again. Now that his eyes were used to it he could see further into the dark part of the cave.

  There was somebody there!

  Or Something!

  Something, or Somebody, had a lot of shaggy black hair and two bright black eyes that were looking very hard at Barney.

  ‘Hallo!’ said Barney.

  Something said nothing.

  ‘I fell down the cliff,’ said Barney.

  Somebody grunted.

  ‘My name’s Barney.’

  Somebody-Something made a noise that sounded like ‘Stig’.

  ‘D’you think you could help me undo my feet, Mr Stig?’ asked Barney politely. ‘I’ve got a pocket-knife,’ he added, remembering that he had in his pocket a knife he’d found among the wood-shavings on the floor of Grandfather’s workshop. It was quite a good knife except that one blade had come off and the other one was broken in half and rather blunt.

  Good thing I put it in my pocket, he thought. He wriggled so he could reach the knife, and managed to open the rusty half-blade. He tried to reach the creepers round his legs, but found it was difficult to cut creepers with a blunt knife when your feet are tied above your head.

  The Thing sitting in the corner seemed to be interested. It got up and moved towards Barney into the light. Barney was glad to see it was Somebody after all. Funny way to dress though, he thought, rabbit-skins round the middle and no shoes or socks.

  ‘Oh puff!’ said Barney, ‘I can’t reach my feet. You do it, Stig!’

  He handed the knife to Stig.

  Stig turned it over and felt it with his strong hairy hands, and tested the edge with a thumb. Then instead of trying to cut the creepers he squatted down on the ground and picked up a broken stone.

  He’s going to sharpen the knife, thought Barney.

  But no, it seemed more as if he was sharpening the stone. Using the hard knife to chip with, Stig was carefully flaking tiny splinters off the edge of the flint, until he had a thin sharp blade. Then he sprang up, and with two or three slashes cut through the creeper that tied Barney’s feet.

  Barney sat up. ‘Golly!’ he said. ‘You are clever! I bet my Grandad couldn’t do that, and he’s very good at making things.’

  Stig grinned. Then he went to the back of the cave and hid the broken knife under a pile of rubbish.

  ‘My knife!’ protested Barney. But Stig took no notice. Barney got up and went into the dark part of the cave.

  He’d never seen anything like the collection of bits and pieces, odds and ends, bric-à-brac and old brock, that this Stig creature had lying about his den. There were stones and bones, fossils and bottles, skins and tins, stacks of sticks and hanks of string. There were motor-car tyres and hats from old scarecrows, nuts and bolts and bobbles from brass bedsteads. There was a coal scuttle full of dead electric light bulbs and a basin with rusty screws and nails in it. There was a pile of bracken and newspapers that looked as if it were used for a bed. The place looked as if it had never been given a tidy-up.

  ‘I wish I lived here,’ said Barney.

  Stig seemed to understand that Barney was approving of his home and his face lit up. He took on the air of a householder showing a visitor round his property, and began pointing out some of the things he seemed particularly proud of.

  First, the plumbing. Where the water dripped through a crack in the roof of the cave he had wedged the mud-guard of a bicycle. The water ran along this, through the tube of a vacuum cleaner, and into a big can with writing on it. By the side of this was a plastic football carefully cut in half, and Stig dipped up some water and offered it to Barney. Barney had swallowed a mouthful before he made out the writing on the can: it said WEEDKILLER. However, the water only tasted of rust and rubber.

  It was dark in the back of the cave. Stig went to the front where the ashes of a fire were smoking faintly, blew on them, picked up a book that lay beside his bed, tore out a page and rolled it up, lit it at the fire, and carried it to a lamp set in a niche in the wall. As it flared up Barney could see it was in fact an old teapot, filled with some kind of oil, and with a bootlace hanging out of it for a wick.

  In the light of the lamp Stig went to the very back of the cave and began to thump the wall and point, and explain something in his strange grunting language. Barney did not understand a word but he recognized the tone of voice – like when grown-ups go on about: ‘I’m thinking of tearing this down, and building on here, and having this done up...’ Stig had been digging into the wall, enlarging his cave. There was a bit of an old bed he had been using as a pick, and a baby’s bath full of loose chalk to be carried away.

  Barney made the interested sort of noises you are supposed to make when people tell you they are going to put up plastic wallpaper with pictures of mousetraps on it, but Stig reached up to a bunch of turnips hanging from a poker stuck in the wall. He handed Barney a turnip, took one for himself, and began to eat it. Barney sat down on a bundle of old magazines done up with string and munched the turnip. The turnip at least was fresh, and it tasted better to him than the cream of spinach he’d hidden under his spoon at dinner time.

  Barney looked at Stig. Funny person to find living next door to you, he thought. Stig did not seem much bigger than himself, but he looked very strong and his hands looked cleverer than his face. But how old was he? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? A thousand?

  ‘You been here long?’ asked Barney.

  Stig grinned again. ‘Long,’ he said. ‘Long, long, long.’ But it sounded more like an echo, or a parrot copying somebody, than an answer to his question.

  ‘I’m staying at my Grandmother’s house,’ said Barney. Stig just looked at him. Oh well, thought Barney, if he’s not interested in talking I don’t mind. He stood up.

  ‘I better go now,’ he said. ‘Thank you for having me. Can I have my knife back, please?’

  Stig still looked blank.

  ‘Knife,’ said Barn
ey, and made cutting movements with his hand. Stig picked up the sharp worked flint from the floor of the cave and gave it to Barney.

  ‘Oo, can I have that?’ exclaimed Barney ‘Thank you!’

  He looked at the stone, hard and shiny, almost like a diamond and much more useful. Then he put it in his pocket, said good-bye again, and went out of the low door of the shelter.

  It was getting late in the autumn evening, and it was already dark and gloomy in the pit. Barney knew there was a way out right at the other end of the pit, and by going a long way round he could get back to the house. There were rustlings in dry leaves and muffled sounds from the middle of bramble patches, but somehow Barney found he didn’t mind. He felt the hard stone in his pocket and thought of Stig in his den under the cliff. You weren’t likely to find anything stranger than Stig wherever you looked. And, well, Stig was his friend.

  When he got back to the house his Grandmother and his sister Lou were just coming in from feeding the hens.

  ‘Where have you been all the time?’ asked his Grandmother.

  ‘I went to the chalk pit,’ said Barney.

  ‘All by yourself!’ exclaimed Lou.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ his Grandmother asked.

  ‘Well, I fell and bumped my head.’

  ‘Poor old Barney!’ said Lou, and laughed.

  ‘But it was all right,’ Barney went on. ‘Because I met Stig.’

  ‘Who’s Stig?’ they both asked together.

  ‘He’s a sort of boy,’ replied Barney. ‘He just wears rabbit-skins and lives in a cave. He gets his water through a vacuum cleaner and puts chalk in his bath. He’s my friend.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed his Grandmother. ‘What funny friends you have, dear!’

  ‘He means he’s been playing Cave Men,’ Lou exclaimed helpfully. ‘Stig’s just a pretend-friend, isn’t he, Barney?’