Ch 3. continue of 3rd chapter

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice

to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with

his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, "There's

another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive --'"

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the

hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the

ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact

that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a

minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the

Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with

Harry's letter clutched in his hand.

"Go to your cupboard -- I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry.

"Dudley -- go -- just go."

Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out

of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first

letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time he'd make sure

they didn't fail. He had a plan.

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry

turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the

Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and

get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept

across the dark hall toward the front door --

Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on

the doormat -- something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the

big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been

lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making

sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He

shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make

a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the

time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap.

Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink.

I want --" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into

pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didnt go to work that day. He

stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if

they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not

like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the

piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they

couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door,

slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small

window in the downstairs bathroom.

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got

out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and

back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips"

as he worked, and jumped at small noises.

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to

Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each

of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt

Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious

telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone

to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry in

amazement.

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking

tired and rather ill, but happy.

"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade

on his newspapers, "no damn letters today --"

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught

him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys

ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.

"Out! OUT!"

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall.

When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their

faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters

still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling

great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back

here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some

clothes. No arguments!"

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared

argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the

boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway.

Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the

head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and

computer in his sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they

were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and

drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'em

off," he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was

howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he'd

missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone

so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the

outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds

and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on

the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and

wondering....

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for

breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the

hotel came over to their table.

"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk."

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out

of the way. The woman stared.

"I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following

her from the dining room.

Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested

timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly

what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the

middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in

the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle

of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of

a multilevel parking garage.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that

afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside

the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud ley

sniveled.

"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I

want to stay somewhere with a television. "

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday -- and you

could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of

television -- then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's eleventh birthday. Of

course, his birthdays were never exactly fun -- last year, the Dursleys

had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks.

Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long,

thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd

bought.

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what

looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was

the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was

certain, there was no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his

hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his

boat!"

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather

wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below

them.

"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their

necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like

hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding,

led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind

whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was

damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four

bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked

and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance

of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately

agreed, though the thought didn't cheer him up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the

high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the

filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle

Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find

the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest,

most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry

couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable,

his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley's snores were drowned by the

low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of

Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat

wrist, told Harry he'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. He lay and

watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would

remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the

roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of

letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like

that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was

the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten...

nine -- maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him -- three... two...

one...

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the

door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

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