by Debi Gliori
Twelve:
Daylight robbery
For the third day in a row, the Nose is trying to make some money. Rather than go to the dump to find the raw materials to make gold or have another go at forging banknotes,*19 she’s decided to go to the bank and steal some. So far, all she’s done is wait in a long queue. Today, thanks to more advice from the Toad, she is wearing camouflage trousers, a hoodie and a pair of rose-tinted ski goggles. She is getting some very strange looks from other people in the queue, but she doesn’t notice because she can hardly see. It took her over an hour and a half walking in the rain to reach the bank, and now, in the warmth, her goggles have steamed up so much it’s like trying to see underwater.
As the Nose inches closer to the counter, she is growing more and more nervous.
This is her first attempt at a life of crime and already it’s not going too well. She blinks and tries to focus, but she can’t see. If only she hadn’t worn these blasted goggles.
The queue edges forward. With each step closer to her goal, the Nose’s heart beats faster and faster until she is convinced it’s about to leap into her throat, pop out of her mouth and bounce across the floor, beating madly and alerting everybody to the real reason she is there.
‘All RIGHT! Everybody on the FLOOR, NOW!’
The Nose jumps. Hang on a minute, she wants to say. That’s exactly what I was about to say. All of a sudden there’s an ugly man standing in the middle of the bank, waving a gun around and yelling at everyone.
Oh, Hiss, the Nose thinks. Trust me to pick a bank that’s already got its very own robber. Hiss, spit and mutter. She’s just wondering if she should leave and try to find another bank when the robber notices that she’s still standing up.
‘Right, missus,’ a voice grates in her ear. ‘Don’t mess me about or I’ll turn you into mince.’
The Nose is a bit confused by this, and turns round to peer blindly through her goggles at whoever is speaking. Something cold and hard is jabbed into her ribs, and a hand grabs her arm.
‘Awwwright. Do it the hard way.
Everybody, face DOWN. Cover your eyes, or Big Nose here gets it.’
Big Nose? The Nose’s blood pressure soars. Big Nose? How DARE this rude little robber refer to her like that? Despite the Chin’s orders about spur-of-the-moment spells, the Nose is unable to stop herself. There’s a shriek … then the bank robber’s gun falls to the floor with a clatter. The gun lands on a cockroach*20 which didn’t exist two seconds ago and squashes it flat.
Sensibly, the Nose decides that now is the right time to make herself scarce. Now, before any of the people obediently lying on the floor of the bank open their eyes and discover what really happened. Dragging the useless ski goggles onto her forehead, the Nose makes for the door and runs out onto the street. Fortunately, because it’s raining hard, there’s no one around to see her, so she heads for home for the third day in a row, empty-handed.
It’s morning break and I really miss Vivaldi. It’s raining again, which means we have to spend the time stuck inside. I’m pretending to read one of Jack’s music magazines, but it’s hard going. I thought I’d look very cool and grownup reading it, but I probably just look bored to death.
‘Good Lord. What is that thing you’re reading?’
Oh great. Jamie-the-gun. I’m not in the mood for dealing with him today. Go away, I will him silently, but it doesn’t work.
‘Ughhh. What band is that? They look like they never wash their hair. And they’re so ugly. D’you really like that kind of music? I would’ve thought you’d have been into bagpipe bands. You do play the bagpipes, don’t you? That’s why you drew the pipes on your name badge, isn’t it?’
Shut up, Jamie, I silently beg him, but it’s no use. On he goes, wiffling on about bagpipes, loud enough for everyone in our class to hear what he’s saying. Craig and Shane smirk at each other. Oh, sigh. Thanks to Jamie, now the whole class knows that Lily Macrae (the New Girl With No Friends) plays the pipes. Great. Annabel is pulling faces as if she’s just found out that I eat rats for breakfast and Donald’s mouth has opened even wider. Shane’s laughing so hard his nose is running and Craig is grinning so I can see his fillings.
All of a sudden something inside me goes SNAP. I’m completely fed up with this. I hate this school. It’s full of rude and stupid people and I wish I was anywhere but here. Nobody’s ever going to be friends with me, and right now I don’t care. I don’t want to be friends with this lot. I don’t care. I DON’T—
‘Hey, Lily,’ a soft voice says, ‘do you want to share my snack?’
I spin round. It’s Yoshito, and she’s holding out a packet of prawn cocktail crisps. Wow. That’s really, really nice of her, especially since she’s normally so shy. It’s really kind too. It’s as if she sensed how cross and miserable I was feeling and tried to do something to help. I’m just about to reply when the big boys interrupt.
‘Pee-yeeew,’ says Shane. ‘You don’t want to eat any of her smelly crisps.’
‘Nah,’ adds Craig. ‘Too right you don’t, because I want them.’ And he pushes his chair back and stands up.
Craig is enormous. He’s almost as tall as Mrs McDonald and he makes Yoshito look like a shrimp. He leans over her and me and says, ‘Come on. Hand them over.’
Now he’s so close to us, I can see what he’s drawn on his name badge, except I don’t know what it is.*21 Whatever it is, it’s hideous and there’s a speech bubble beside it saying ‘RRRRRRRRRRRR’. Any second now, Craig looks like he’ll go ‘RRRRRRRRRRRR’, too. Poor Yoshito. I can’t just stand by and watch while Craig bullies her. I’m about to say something that will probably make sure Craig eats me after he’s polished off Yoshito’s crisps, when Shane steps in.
‘Oi,’ he yells. ‘I want her crisps.’ And he stands up so fast, his chair falls over with a crash. His name badge flashes in the light. Shane the shark. Shane the squirt, more like. He may be the oldest in our class, but he’s tiny.
Craig swings round to face Shane, and for a moment I think Shane might be in real trouble … when the door opens and Mrs McDonald comes in.
‘BOYS!’ she roars. ‘I need some muscle to help me carry in the hot lunches. Craig, Shane and Jamie. Stir your stumps, lads, and come and give me a hand.’
It’s every bit as magical as one of Daisy’s spells. Mrs McDonald must have worked her Hairy Eyeball trick again. Craig and Shane are transformed from dangerous, hulking, crisp-stealing bullies into helpful boys who meekly follow Jamie out of the classroom. Yoshito and I are left to share her crisps, but it’s really hard work talking to someone who’s so shy. I know I’m being totally ungrateful, but I’d rather be on my own. I’m almost as shy as she is, and by the time morning break is over we’ve run out of things to say.
Pets? Yoshito’s dad keeps koi carp in an ornamental pond in their garden.
Favourite food? Fish fingers.
Favourite story? The Little Mermaid.
Favourite film? Finding Nemo.
I’m beginning to understand why she drew a fish on her name badge. Yoshito is really sweet, but she’s not Vivaldi. I feel lonelier than ever.
We have art in the afternoon and I ask Mrs McDonald if I can make a get-well-soon card for Vivaldi. Mrs McDonald thinks this is such a good idea, she suggests that everyone in the class makes one. Craig and Shane pull hideous faces, but eventually they settle down and draw monsters covered in oozing spots. Ah, I think. Self-portraits, then I immediately wish Vivaldi was sitting next to me to share my feeble joke. However, if she was sitting next to me, we wouldn’t be spending the afternoon making get-well cards, which is actually rather good fun. The little ones in our class love anything that involves paint, glitter and glue, so they make card after soggy card for Vivaldi. Yoshito draws a beautiful fish with spots, Annabel sighs and looks out of the window, and Jamie draws a pretty feeble stick-man, tears it up, draws another, tears that up too, then spends the rest of the afternoon staring at his fingernails.
W
hen everyone has finished, Mrs McDonald gathers up all the cards and gives them to Vivaldi’s little sister Mozart to deliver. I wish I could deliver the cards myself, but I’m still not allowed anywhere near Vivaldi in case she’s infectious. We’re all waiting to see if Mozart breaks out in a rash of spots, but so far she hasn’t. I’ve got my fingers crossed that this means that Vivaldi isn’t infectious and will be able to come back to school really soon. My card is a drawing of WayWoof standing outside Vivaldi’s house, with a speech bubble coming out of her mouth that says:
AWOOO!
I really miss
YOUUUUUU!
And just in case Vivaldi thinks this is too soppy for words, I draw a cloud hanging over WayWoof’s tail, and inside it I write:
PEE-YEWWWWW!
Was that
YOU?
I hope she likes our get-well cards and I hope she gets well soon. And last but not least, I hope it stops raining.
Thirteen:
Brewing up a storm
It’s only the end of her third day at nursery, but the Chin is barely able to drag herself home. She is completely pooped. Looking after small humans is a lot harder than she expected. Looking after small witches is even worse. Much as the Chin hates to admit it, precious, wonderful Witch Baby is turning out to be a complete monster. The Chin shudders. Her skirt is streaked with paint, her blouse is torn and her long white hair has come undone.
For two pins, she thinks, I’d let Witch Baby grow up as a normal human.
Every time she turned her back on Witch Baby, the tot would cast a spell. First of all she turned all the books in the book boxes into birds. The birds flew around the room raining poo from the ceiling, which made all the other children shriek like banshees. And no sooner had the Chin turned the birds back into books than Witch Baby started blowing pink bubbles.
Thousands of bubbles began floating around the nursery, sticking to everyone and everything before exploding in a hail of sherbet. Finally, to add insult to injury, Witch Baby sneaked up behind the Chin, clapped her tiny hands, and before the older witch could do anything to cancel the spell, she found herself floating up into the air.
Remembering this, the Chin has to stop on her way home and take several deep breaths to calm herself down.
When did Witch Baby become so powerful? She wonders. And what, if anything, can the sisters of Hiss do about it? These questions remain unanswered when the Chin arrives home. To her annoyance, she finds that supper is not ready, and for the third day in a row the Nose hasn’t managed to make any money at all.
‘Again?’ The Chin cannot believe her ears. ‘You’re kidding. Tell me that you haven’t failed again!’
‘Failed?’ the Nose squawks. ‘What is this? An exam in Making Money? YES. I failed to make money. NO. I do not wish to try again. Frankly I’d rather eat raw rat.’
‘That’s tomorrow’s supper,’ mutters the Toad, slicing a pizza into cubes and realizing too late that the little bluey-green speckles are mould, not Italian seasoning.
‘Supper?’ says the Chin. ‘Now you mention it, where is my supper?’
‘Supper is off,’ says the Toad, tipping the mouldy pizza into the bin and adding insincerely, ‘Sorry.’
Smoke begins to trickle out of the Chin’s ears. This is not what she hoped to hear. There has to be something to eat, surely? What has the Toad been doing all day? The Chin is so tired and hungry that she feels like throwing a tantrum. She learned how to do this at nursery today. Tantrums are what human children throw when things don’t go Their Way. Human children scream blue murder, hold their breath till they turn purple, then fling themselves down and drum their heels on the floor. However, the Chin doesn’t have the energy to throw a tantrum right now. Looking after Witch Baby and her classmates is more than enough for one day.
‘I’m starving,’ she says. ‘I don’t care if supper is off, on or sideways. Just put something on a plate and get a move on. Some of us have been working today …’
At this, the Toad quivers and tiny flecks of foam appear at the corners of her mouth. ‘I would have made supper,’ she says, ‘but there’s no more food left. Someone was supposed to be making money to buy some food, but someone failed to make so much as a single penny.’
The Nose turns purple. Steam whistles out of her ears like a boiling kettle. Her heels begin to drum on the floor. ‘Are you talking to me?’ she says, in a menacingly soft voice.
‘Yes,’ says the Toad, thrusting her chin in the air. ‘And? What if I am? What’re you going to do about it?’
‘Er, um, hang on, Sisters? Dear Sisters? Shall we talk about this … ?’ says the Chin, sensing too late that there’s about to be a fight.
The Chin is right. There’s about to be a huge fight. Woo, hoo. Here it comes. Head for the hills. RUN! HIDE! A Witch fight is like thunder and lightning but a squillion times more frightening.
The Nose turns bright red and sparks shoot out of her nostrils.
She hurls a stream of oaths and curses at the Toad, then spins round and flings a few more in the Chin’s direction. Immediately the Toad and the Chin erupt with rage; one in a torrent of green lava, the other in a blazing tower of flame. RUN! HIDE! Don’t stop to pack. Just GET OUT OF RANGE! When the sisters of Hiss fight, their rage spills across the neighbourhood like ink spilled across a page. Already their fury has caused a vast thunderstorm to build in the skies above Arkon House. Fingers of lightning flicker along the horizon, heavy spells rumble and crash in the distance and the ground trembles in sympathy.
BANG CRASH !! RRRRRRRRRRRUMBLE …
FLASH!
Then, as quickly as it began, it’s over.
The Sisters of Hiss pick themselves up, dust themselves down and peer around at the damage they’ve done. In their RAGE, they have made a terrible mess. Their living room is trashed. Bits of the sofa are embedded in the ceiling, bits of the ceiling are scattered across the dining table, and apart from the computer, the only things that appear to have survived are the cat and the sparrow. One of these is cowering in a corner; the other is clinging to the curtain rail.
Outside, lightning flashes and thunder rolls deafeningly across the horizon from east to west. A year’s worth of rain will fall in the space of the next few hours. Weather forecasters will scratch their heads in puzzlement. Where could this bad weather have come from? Only the Sisters of Hiss know, and they’re not telling. Despite their promises about not using magic, the Sisters are extremely proud of the raw power they can command. As the Chin remarks later that evening, ‘This storm is proof that we, the sisters of Hiss, are still the bees’ toenails, the cats’ knees and the sparrows’ pyjamas.’
No sooner has this boast left her lips than there’s a HUGE flash of lightning and the lights go out.
Fourteen:
Big weather
I am fed up. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so bored or lonely. This is even worse than when we moved here from Edinburgh, although that wasn’t a whole lot of fun either. But school without Vivaldi is the pits. Even Daisy’s got more friends than me. Tonight she’s going to the little snakes-as-laces boy’s house for tea. She’s been invited to two parties at the weekend and she keeps on taking the party invitations off the fridge and cooing at them. Although I’m really happy that everyone likes Daisy, I’m beginning to feel like some sort of sad Lily-No-Friends. Watching my little sister getting ready to go out reminds me that I have nowhere to go. Sniff.
Jack’s babysitting until Mum comes back after driving Daisy the Party Animal to her dinner date. Unfortunately, his idea of babysitting involves turning on the TV, sticking his earbuds in both ears - Tss tsss - and slinging one of Mum’s frozen tubs of lasagne into the microwave to heat up for supper.
TSS, TSS
Boring.
I’m upstairs practising my pipes. Out of consideration for Jack’s eardrums, I’m only using my chanter (the wee mouthpiece thingy) without the bag and drones attached. That way, Jack won’t bleed from both ears when I start
playing. Plus there’ll still be glass left in the windows of our house when Mum comes back.
I should be practising with the full set — chanter, drones and bag. To do that, I’d have to go down to the other end of our garden; the noise I make up here in my bedroom is so loud, I would blow the windows out. I’m not kidding. The bagpipes are LOUD. When I play them outdoors, I’m pretty sure they can hear me in the Outer Hebrides, if not in Norway. All the birds for miles around fall out of the trees and lie sobbing on the ground. Crops wilt, fruit withers and insects explode in midair. However, that isn’t going to happen tonight because it’s pouring with rain and I heard a rumble of thunder just a minute ago. There’s no way I’m going outside to play my pipes now. Imagine - there I’d be, in full swing, going, Waily, waily Dweeeeeee, waily, waily Dweeee, Pweeeeee, and then, FLASH frizzle, frizzle, Dweeeeeeeeeee.
No thanks. I choose life. I’ll play inside tonight, even if it’s not as much fun. Although I’m embarrassed to admit I play the pipes, I really LOVE them. I LOVE making such an enormous sound. Tonight it’s a concert for bagpipes and thunder.
CrAsH! RrrumBLE! Waily waily waily dweeeeeeeeeee
As I play, I think about Daisy. I’m hoping she doesn’t cast any spells while she’s away from home - or is this thunderstorm a little something that Daisy has magicked up to impress her friend? I can hardly bear to think what might happen if it is. Imagine - the little boy will show Daisy his collection of soft toys: his furry lion, his pink penguin, his dangly monkey, his …
Daisy will smile sweetly, WayWoof will begin to fade and then the fun will begin. She will show the little boy how she can bring all his toys to life. Before her new friend can blink, his bedroom will be knee-deep in lion poo and there’ll be penguins diving into the bath and monkeys swinging from the curtain poles.
