Bad Becky in Trouble

by Gervase Phinn

  That's my school, thought Becky staring up at the towering figure.

  The tall man smiled. ‘I seem to have got myself a little lost. The school must be somewhere near here.’

  Before either of the twins could answer, Becky snapped, ‘No!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said the man looking very surprised.

  ‘No,’ repeated Becky. ‘We can't tell you. Go away!’

  The tall man peered down at Becky. He tried again. ‘I am looking for Parks view School and wondered if one of you children –’

  ‘If you don't away,’ warned Becky, placing her hand firmly on her hips and giving him her most horrid stare (the one which could turn milk sour and freeze soup in pans), ‘I'll scream and scream.’

  ‘Becky!’ said Ben. ‘Don't be so rude.’

  ‘It's just over –’ began Bernard.

  ‘Mum and Dad have told us not to talk to strangers in parks,’ interrupted his sister.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed the man.

  ‘We're not supposed to speak to strangers,’ repeated Becky. ‘So go away! Clear off!’

  ‘B-b-b-but –’ stuttered the man.

  ‘Go away or I'll kick you, really really hard.’ Becky was getting impatient and wanted to get to school.

  ‘You are a very, very rude little girl,’ said the man angrily, glowering at her. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Mary Poppins. What's yours?’ replied Becky, sticking out her tongue. Before the man could answer she skipped off, kicking leaves in every direction and crunching acorns. ‘Come on,’ she shouted to her brothers, ‘or we'll be late.’

  The twins shrugged and followed their sister, knowing it was pointless arguing with Becky when she was in one of her determined moods. They left the man on the path standing with his small mouth open, staring after them.

  ‘You shouldn't speak like that to adults,’ said Bernard when he had caught up with his sister.

  ‘We've been told not to talk to strangers,’ said Becky. ‘He might have wanted to kidnap me.’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Ben. ‘Kidnap you? If he did, he'd soon be paying Mum and Dad to take you back.’

  There was something different about grumpy Mrs Groucher, the head teacher, that morning. For a start, instead of wearing her old baggy brown skirt and lumpy cardigan, she had on a new bright flowery dress.

  And, instead of glaring at the children and shouting at them to be quiet as they filed into assembly, as she usually did, the head teacher had a silly smile on her face and was acting very strangely.

  ‘Good morning, children,’ she trilled. ‘What a lovely day. How smart and well-behaved you all are.’ Even when she caught sight of Becky stomping into the hall, her pockets bulging with conkers, Mrs Groucher didn't stop smiling. ‘Rebecca, dear,’ she said, ‘why don't you come and sit down at the front?’

  ‘I want to sit at the back, Mrs Groucher,’ said Becky.

  ‘Well, I would like you to sit at the front, dear.’ Mrs Groucher's voice sounded just the tiniest bit sharp. ‘Down here, Rebecca, please, where I can see you.’

  ‘Oh, phooey!’ grumbled Becky under her breath.

  As she stamped her way down to the front of the hall, the conkers in her pockets spilled out and bounced across the floor. The other children scurried to pick them up.

  ‘They're mine!’ cried Becky.

  ‘My goodness,’ said the head teacher, ‘what a lot of conkers you have, Rebecca. Just leave them there and you’ can have them back at morning break.’ Becky paused, waiting for the head teacher to begin her usual shouting, finger pointing and telling off, but it didn't happen. ‘Come along, Rebecca, dear,’ she said, smiling instead.

  There is something very odd about grumpy Mrs Groucher this morning, Becky thought to herself.

  Then, as she plonked herself between Simon and Araminta in the front row, she caught sight of him. Until now he had been hidden behind the piano. There he sat, with his wrinkled face, snow-white hair, small green eyes, sharp nose, large red ears and narrow slit of a mouth. Next to him was the big black bag. It was the stranger who had stopped them earlier that morning in the park.

  ‘We have a visitor, today, children,’ chirped Mrs Groucher. ‘A very, very important visitor.’ She beamed in the direction of the strange man. ‘This is Mr Scruple and he's a school inspector. He's come to see all the lovely, lovely work you are doing. The children here, Mr Scruple,’ said Mrs Groucher, in a sing-song sort of voice, ‘are extremely well behaved, hard-working and polite.’

  ‘Really?’ said the school inspector, staring hard at Becky.

  She pulled her most horrid face. If he thought he was going to make her shiver with fear and go red with embarrassment, he was wrong.

  ‘Mrs Groucher,’ Becky called out, waving her hand in the air like a daffodil in a strong wind.

  ‘Yes, dear?’ said Mrs Groucher, her silly, silly smile becoming slightly strained.

  ‘Mrs Groucher,’ asked Becky, ‘we're not supposed to talk to strangers on our way to school, are we?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ exclaimed the head teacher. ‘If anyone approaches you, anyone at all who you do not know, you must not, under any circumstances, talk to them.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Becky, smiling wickedly.

  ‘Police Constable Catchum came into school last week,’ Mrs Groucher informed Mr Scruple proudly, ‘and told the children never to talk to strangers.’ The school inspector went a deep shade of red. Becky grinned.

  *

  Later that morning Mr Scruple arrived at Miss Drear's classroom. He turned a shade paler when he caught sight of Becky splashing paint on a big piece of paper. She had red paint on her hands, yellow paint on her face and green paint on her dress. She was having a marvellously messy time. Becky loved painting. Her pictures were bold and colourful and usually featured man-eating monsters, many-headed aliens, bloodthirsty pirates and killer sharks.

  The school inspector moved as far away from her as he could.

  ‘What delightful work,’ he said to Araminta, as he flicked though the pages of her writing book. ‘It is so neat and tidy.’

  ‘I like writing,’ Araminta told him sweetly. ‘That's my story about the beautiful Princess Charisma and the handsome prince.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said the school inspector.

  ‘And I did all the illustrations,’ said Araminta, boasting.

  ‘Lovely,’ said the school inspector, wishing that all children were as polite and well behaved.

  When he looked up Becky was at his side. ‘I've come to show you my story,’ she said, grinning.

  ‘Oh, it's you,’ said Mr Scruple, pulling a face. ‘Mary Poppins.’

  When his beady green eyes rested on Becky's book, the school inspector gasped. He had never seen anything quite so bad in all his life. It looked as if a spider had climbed out of a bottle of ink and scuttled across the pages. The writing was so untidy and the pages were crumpled and covered in grubby marks.

  ‘I have never seen a book like this before,’ he murmured.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Becky.

  ‘And is your story about the beautiful Princess Charisma and the handsome prince?’ asked Mr Scruple, still in shock.

  ‘Yes,’ said Becky, ‘but in mine a slimy green monster with sharp teeth and long claws climbs up the castle wall and swallows the beautiful Princess Charisma in one gulp. Then it chases after the handsome prince and gobbles him up on the little wooden bridge.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all the school inspector could bring himself to say.

  ‘Look at my illustration,’ said Becky, waving a paint-splodged finger in Mr Scruple's direction. In her picture, which filled a whole page, the only part of Princess Charisma that could be seen was her head, complete with little crown, popping out of the monster's mouth. ‘She's screaming,’ Becky told him. Then she stared for a moment at the stunned school inspector. ‘Oops,’ she said, ‘I've got paint all over your jacket.’

  At morning break Becky found the school ins
pector walking around the playground. She thought he looked lonely and felt a bit sorry for him. It would be all right to talk to him now. After all, he wasn't a stranger any more. She skipped up to him. ‘Do you want to play conkers?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Mr Scruple replied, and headed for the school entrance.

  Becky followed him. ‘Why are oranges round?’ she asked.

  ‘I don't know,’ he replied, quickening his pace.

  ‘Why are holes empty?’ asked Becky, skipping by his side.

  ‘I don't know that either.’

  ‘Why are bananas bent?’

  ‘I don't know!’ snapped Mr Scruple, speeding up.

  ‘Why are your ears so red?’ asked Becky.

  ‘Why don't you go and ask somebody else,’ he groaned, ‘and leave me alone?’ Becky skipped off to play conkers with Gareth, thinking to herself that school inspectors didn't seem to know very much.

  Mr Scruple wiped his forehead and sighed. He had never met a child like Becky before and would be glad to be on his way.

  At lunchtime, Becky found Mr Scruple in the dining room eating his lunch. When she sat down next to him he made a sort of funny strangled noise. It was the sort of noise her father made when Mr Whinger from next door came round to complain about her, or the noise that Miss Drear made when Becky interrupted her stories.

  ‘I can talk to you now,’ said Becky brightly, ‘because you're not a stranger any more.’

  ‘I don't want you to talk to me,’ said Mr Scruple, his small green eyes flashing. ‘I want to be left alone.’

  ‘I like baked beans,’ said Becky, ignoring him and digging her fork into a huge mound on her plate. ‘They're my favourite.’

  ‘Really?’ said the school inspector, scraping back his chair as he got ready to make his escape.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ asked Becky.

  ‘I'm going to the school library,’ Mr Scruple told her, ‘and I don't want you to follow me.’

  ‘It's over there,’ Becky told him, waving her fork in front of him.

  SPLAT! Mr Scruple received a faceful of baked beans. They dribbled down his sharp nose and dripped on to his tie, down his shirt and then on to his suit.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, glaring at Becky. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Becky bit her lip and tried hard not to smile.

  *

  In the afternoon, the school inspector listened to the children reading. Araminta read her book about little lambs frisking in the meadow. Simon read his book about the helpful elf. Becky hated those sorts of stories. They were soppy. She liked a bit of action and adventure.

  When Mr Scruple saw Becky heading towards him with her book under her arm he screwed up his face as if he were sucking a lemon. ‘Oh no, not her,’ he groaned to himself.

  ‘I've come to read to you,’ said Becky.

  Mr Scruple didn't say a word but she noticed that he looked at her with a very sad and sorry expression.

  ‘You've got a big stain down the front of your jacket and on your tie and shirt,’ Becky informed him.

  ‘Is that right?’ Mr Scruple said through gritted teeth.

  ‘I like reading,’ Becky told him.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘My story is about a man-eating shark with big sharp teeth.’

  ‘I thought it might be,’ said Mr Scruple.

  ‘It gobbles people up,’ said Becky.

  ‘I guessed it would.’

  ‘Shall I start?’ asked Becky cheerfully.

  ‘Go ahead,’ the school inspector sighed, rubbing his forehead as if he had a really bad headache.

  Becky read, putting in extra gruesome details and making blood-curdling crunching and slurping noises as the shark gobbled everyone up.

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered the school inspector when she had finished, his face as white as the paper in the book.

  ‘Shall I read you another about the killer alien from outer space?’ asked Becky, feeling pleased with herself.

  ‘No, no, thank you,’ spluttered Mr Scruple. ‘That's more than enough.’

  ‘I'm a good reader, aren't I?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Mr Scruple, glancing at his watch to see how much longer he would have to remain in the school and endure this impossible child.

  ‘Is that your job,’ asked Becky, ‘going round schools listening to children read?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Mr Scruple, staring at the dried orange stain on his tie and the paint stains on his jacket.

  ‘And do you get paid for it?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Don't you have a proper job?’

  Mr Scruple was now trembling. He looked quite ill.

  Becky scratched her head, deep in thought.

  ‘I think I'd like to be a school inspector when I grow up,’ she said eventually, snapping her book shut like the mouth of a man-eating shark and making Mr Scruple jump. ‘It seems to me to be a really easy job and you get to meet lots of nice people.’

  Mr Scruple picked up his big black bag and headed for the classroom door without so much as a goodbye to Miss Drear. Becky smiled to herself and opened her favourite book about killer aliens.

  Becky the Hero

  There was a sharp rap on the front door.

  ‘Whoever can that be, at this time?’ said Dad.

  It was eight o'clock on a Saturday morning and the family had just sat down for breakfast.

  ‘I'll go,’ said Bernard, jumping up excitedly and heading for the door. ‘It will be the postman. I'm expecting a letter from my penfriend in America.’

  Becky dug her spoon into the mountain of cornflakes in front of her and crunched noisily. She had an idea who it might be but she carried on eating, hoping against hope it would be the postman. But it wasn't.

  At the door stood the next-door neighbour, Mr Whinger, holding a bunch of broken stalks. There were no flowers on the end – they were just stalks. He was bright red in the face and breathing heavily. Becky hunched down in her chair, concentrating on her cereal.

  ‘Is your mother or father in, Benjamin?’ he asked Bernard angrily, getting the twins mixed up as usual.

  Both Mum and Dad hurried to the door. ‘Good morning, Mr Whinger,’ they said together.

  ‘It's not a good morning at all,’ he told them, glowering. ‘It's a bad morning, a very bad morning, that's what it is.’ He held up the broken stalks and waved them in Mum and Dad's faces. ‘Just look at these! My lovely flowers all ruined.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mum.

  ‘You had better come in,’ said Dad, sighing deeply.

  Mr Whinger strode into the kitchen. Becky slid down further in her chair. When Mr Whinger caught sight of her, he ballooned with anger. ‘And that young lady,’ he exclaimed, jiggling the broken stalks in front of him and going even redder in the face, ‘is the reason it's a bad morning!’

  ‘I didn't mean to tread on your flowers, Mr Whinger,’ said Becky in a very small and sugary voice.

  Becky was used to putting on her angelic face and smiling her sweetest smile. She could often win Mum and Dad over like that. But it clearly wasn't working with Mr Whinger, who continued to screw up his bright-red face as if he were wearing really tight shoes that were pinching his toes.

  ‘No, and I suppose you never meant to climb over my fence and break it, or push through my hedge and leave a big hole, or kick your ball into my garden and smash my greenhouse window, or let your rabbit wander into my vegetable patch and eat all my radishes.’

  ‘Oh, Becky,’ sighed Mum.

  ‘Oh, Becky,’ said Dad, shaking his head.

  Becky never meant to cause any damage in Mr Whinger's garden. It just seemed to happen whenever she was out having fun.

  ‘If I had a penny for every time I tell your Becky not to come into my garden,’ said Mr Whinger, shaking the stalks, ‘I'd be a millionaire by now.’

  ‘We are very sorry, Mr Whinger,’ said Mum.

  ‘And we'll pay for any damage,’ Dad added.
>
  ‘Just keep her out of my garden!’ cried Mr Whinger, marching out. Before anyone had a chance to draw breath he marched back in. ‘And there's another thing.’ He stabbed his finger in Becky's direction. ‘When you pass my house on your way to school, young lady, stop peering in at my window. You're a nosy girl as well as a naughty one,’ he said. ‘Why can't you be more like your brothers?’ And on that note Mr Whinger marched back out.

  Becky took another massive mouthful of cornflakes and crunched noisily. She thought Mr Whinger was being very unfair.

  For one thing, it was a rickety old fence anyway, and the hedge had lots of holes in it already and she didn't mean to kick her ball into Mr Whinger's soppy old garden and smash his greenhouse window. And it definitely wasn't her fault that Bumper, her pet rabbit, had wandered into his vegetable patch and eaten all his radishes. The trouble with Mr Whinger, Becky thought, was that he just liked complaining.

  ‘When you have had your breakfast, Rebecca,’ said Dad, ‘I would like a serious word with you in the front room.’

  ‘OK,’ mumbled Becky, spitting out bits of milk and cornflakes.

  Later, staring out of her bedroom window after the predicted telling-off from Dad and the warning never to go into Mr Whinger's garden again upon pain of being sent to her room every night with no television and a stop to her pocket money, Becky began to think about things. Mr Whinger, she decided, was one of those people who never smiled, was always mean and bad-tempered and was horrible to children. He would get on really well with her head teacher, Mrs Groucher. She wondered what he was like when he was a little boy. I bet he told tales, she thought, never shared his sweets and was probably cross all the time and absolutely no fun whatsoever.

  Anyway, Becky thought grumpily, Mr Whinger and her dad were both wrong. It really wasn't her fault. It was her rabbit that was the cause of all the trouble.

  Bumper was a huge, flop-eared, pale-brown creature with long white whiskers and great round eyes. Every morning, before school, Becky took Bumper out of his hutch for his exercise. There wasn't much of interest in Becky's garden for a lively, hungry rabbit in search of adventure but there was next door.