The Flat Stanley Collection. Jeff Brown
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For a while Stanley Lambchop was a famous name. Everywhere that Stanley went, people stared and pointed at him. He could hear them whisper, ‘Over there, Harriet, over there! That must be Stanley Lambchop, the one who caught the sneak thieves . . .’ and things like that.
But after a few weeks the whispering and the staring stopped. People had other things to think about. Stanley did not mind. Being famous had been fun, but enough was enough.
And then came a further change, and it was not a pleasant one. People began to laugh and make fun of him as he passed by. ‘Hello, Super-Skinny!’ they would shout, and even ruder things, about the way he looked.
Stanley told his parents how he felt. ‘It’s the other kids I mostly mind,’ he said. ‘They don’t like me any more because I’m different. Flat.’
‘Shame on them,’ Mrs Lambchop said. ‘It is wrong to dislike people for their shapes. Or their religion, for that matter, or the colour of their skin.’
‘I know,’ Stanley said. ‘Only maybe it’s impossible for everybody to like everybody.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Lambchop. ‘But they can try.’
Later that night Arthur Lambchop was woken by the sound of crying. In the darkness he crept across the room and knelt by Stanley’s bed.
‘Are you okay?’ he said.
‘Go away,’ Stanley said.
‘Don’t be mad at me,’ Arthur said. ‘You’re still mad because I let you get tangled the day you were my kite, I guess.’
‘Skip it, will you?’ Stanley said. ‘I’m not mad. Go away.’
‘Please let’s be friends . . .’ Arthur couldn’t help crying a little, too. ‘Oh, Stanley,’ he said. ‘Please tell me what’s wrong?’
Stanley waited for a long time before he spoke. ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I’m just not happy any more. I’m tired of being flat. I want to be a proper shape again, like other people. But I’ll have to go on being flat for ever. It makes me sick.’
‘Oh, Stanley,’ Arthur said. He dried his tears on a corner of Stanley’s sheet and could think of nothing more to say.
‘Don’t talk about what I just said,’ Stanley told him. ‘I don’t want the folks to worry. That would only make it worse.’
‘You’re brave,’ Arthur said. ‘You really are.’
He took hold of Stanley’s hand. The two brothers sat together in the darkness, being friends. They were both still sad, but each one felt a little better than he had before.
And then, suddenly, though he was not even trying to think, Arthur had an idea. He jumped up and turned on the light and ran to the big storage box where toys and things were kept. He began to rummage in the box.
Stanley sat up in bed to watch.
Arthur flung aside a football and some lead soldiers and aeroplane models and lots of wooden blocks, and then he said, ‘Aha!’
He had found what he wanted – an old bicycle pump. He held it up, and Stanley and he looked at each other.
‘Okay,’ Stanley said at last. ‘But take it easy.’ He put the end of the long pump hose in his mouth and clamped his lips tightly about it so that no air could escape.
‘I’ll go slowly,’ Arthur said. ‘If it hurts or anything, wiggle your hand at me.’
He began to pump. At first nothing happened except that Stanley’s cheeks bulged a bit. Arthur watched his hand, but there was no wiggle signal, so he pumped on. Then, suddenly, Stanley’s top half began to swell.
‘It’s working! It’s working!’ shouted Arthur, pumping away.
Stanley spread his arms so that the air could get round inside him more easily. He got bigger and bigger. The buttons of his pyjama top burst off – Pop! Pop! Pop! A moment more and he was all rounded out: head and body, arms and legs. But not his right foot. That foot stayed flat.
Arthur stopped pumping. ‘It’s like trying to do the very last bit of those long balloons,’ he said. ‘Maybe a shake would help.’
Stanley shook his right foot twice, and with a little whooshing sound it swelled out to match the left one. There stood Stanley Lambchop as he used to be, as if he had never been flat at all!
‘Thank you, Arthur,’ Stanley said. ‘Thank you very much.’
The brothers were shaking hands when Mr Lambchop strode into the room with Mrs Lambchop right behind him. ‘We heard you!’ said Mr Lambchop. ‘Up and talking when you ought to be asleep, eh? Shame on –’
‘GEORGE!’ said Mrs Lambchop. ‘Stanley’s round again!’
‘You’re right!’ said Mr Lambchop, noticing. ‘Good for you, Stanley!’
‘I’m the one who did it,’ Arthur said. ‘I blew him up.’
Everyone was terribly excited and happy, of course. Mrs Lambchop made hot chocolate to celebrate the occasion, and several toasts were drunk to Arthur for his cleverness.
When the little party was over, Mr and Mrs Lambchop tucked the boys back into their beds and kissed them, and then they turned out the light. ‘Goodnight,’ they said.
Goodnight,’ said Stanley and Arthur.
It had been a long and tiring day. Very soon all the Lambchops were asleep.
Once upon a very long time ago, way before the beginning of today’s sort of people, there was a magical kingdom in which everyone lived forever, and anyone of importance was a genie, mostly the friendly kind. The few wicked genies kept out of sight in mountain caves or at the bottoms of rivers. They had no wish to provoke the great Genie King, who ruled very comfortably from an enormous palace with many towers and courtyards, and gardens with reflecting pools.
The Genie King took a special interest in the genie princes of the kingdom, and was noted for his patience with their high spirits and desire for adventure. The Genie Queen, in fact, thought he was too patient with them, and she said so one morning in the throne room, where the King was studying reports and proposals for new magic spells.
‘Training, that’s what they need. Discipline!’ She adjusted the Magic Mirror on the throne-room wall. ‘Florts and collibots! Granting wishes, which is what they’ll be doing one day, is serious