The trouble was that Stinky enjoyed doing smells. It gave him a feeling of power, and relief, of course. It made him smile. If Stinky found himself surrounded by people choking and kids throwing up, it was a good day.
Of course, Mrs Hammond, the school principal, was not happy. She called Stinky into her office.
‘I’m not quite sure how to put this,’ said Mrs Hammond, ‘but it’s come to my attention that you have a small problem downstairs.’
Stinky didn’t understand.
‘A problem with wind,’ continued Mrs Hammond. ‘In fact, if I’m to believe the stories, your wind is bordering on scary. “Like a punch in the face” is how one of our teachers described it. It has to stop. Diet can be a big help. Tell me what you had for breakfast this morning.’
‘Mum says I need building up, so she’s been giving me big breakfasts,’ replied Stinky. ‘Today I had stewed prunes, then leftover cauliflower cheese and cabbage fried like hash browns, two eggs, bacon, two pork sausages, a whole can of baked beans…’
‘Enough, enough!’ said Mrs Hammond.
‘Oh, no,’ said Stinky.
‘What?’ asked Mrs Hammond.
‘Talking about food like that gets me excited. I think I’ve just done another smell,’ said Stinky.
Now, smelling a fluff out in the open is one thing, but trying to get away from it in a small space like a principal’s office is another.
Mrs Hammond didn’t even make it to the door. The last thing she remembered was being hit by a stench that was almost too bad to describe. ‘Try to imagine,’ she said later to the ambulance officer, ‘opening the back doors of a truck that has been sitting in the hot sun for two weeks – and finding a dead elephant inside.’
Mrs Hammond was only away for a week, but in that time the school really changed. And all because of Stinky. Kids were organised to track his movements during lunchtime so they could warn others to steer clear of him and, just like fire drills, teachers taught everyone how to leave the building quickly and safely if Stinky let one go inside.
Mrs Hammond didn’t dare call Stinky into her office for another chat – one brush with death was enough – so, until Stinky’s old school was rebuilt, they would just have to put up with him. Kids began wearing coats inside because the windows were always open, and some even had gas masks that their parents had bought for them.
Then one day, Mrs Hammond got some even worse news. The government had decided to test every kid in the country so that they could work out which were the best and worst schools.
Mrs Hammond was immediately against the idea because it was so unfair. Schools in some areas might have a lot of kids whose parents worked long hours to put food on the table, which might mean they didn’t have much time to help their kids with schoolwork and reading and stuff. And other parents might be in trouble or going through a really hard time. So when the test results came through, that school would get a bad rating – even if the teachers were doing a fantastic job helping those kids to keep up. Which made it a good school!
‘So,’ said Mrs Hammond to her teachers, ‘our school is not going to take part in this test because it’s wrong.’
‘But the government will insist,’ said Mr Brown, one of the teachers. ‘Won’t you be putting your job at risk?’
‘I don’t care,’ said Mrs Hammond.
‘There might be another way,’ said Mr Brown, looking slightly nervous. ‘But it’s disgusting.’
Well, Mr Brown’s idea was worse than disgusting. But Mrs Hammond agreed to it. She had no choice.
Mr Brown’s plan was this: the government would definitely send someone along to supervise the test, to make sure things were done properly and no-one cheated. ‘But,’ he said, ‘what if the supervisor couldn’t stay in the room?’
‘And how might that come about?’ asked Mrs Hammond.
‘Stinky Adams,’ replied Mr Brown.
Mr Brown needed the kids’ help for this plan, and he explained to them that Mrs Hammond thought the test was unfair. It would be tough, he said, but the plan was for Stinky to let one go during the test so that the supervisor was forced to leave the room.
But! The kids would have to pretend that nothing had happened. If the supervisor smelt a rat, the trick wouldn’t work.
The supervisor could never say that she left because of a terrible smell – that would just sound too rude. So, with a bit of luck, the school’s test results wouldn’t make it on to the list.
Of course, the big question was how to get the kids to stay in the room during one of Stinky’s smells.
‘Practice is the answer,’ said Mr Brown. ‘We can become immune. Every day for the next month, I’m going to ask Stinky to do a really bad smell – I can’t believe I’m saying this – and I’m going to ask you all to last a minute longer than the day before. I’m sure we can do it, but I should warn you. On the day of the test I’m going to ask Stinky to do one of his worst – something truly frightening.’
‘Oh, no!’ the kids said to each other, gagging already. But they liked Mr Brown and Mrs Hammond, and they were determined to help.
So, the very next day, the practice sessions began. At first, most kids could only last a few seconds before collapsing and gasping for air. But Mr Brown was right. Slowly but surely they got to the stage where they could last a full thirty minutes, which was probably the length of the test.
Finally, the day arrived. Luckily it was on Stinky’s birthday and Mr Brown suggested that he ask his mum for a special breakfast. Two bowls of prunes, four eggs, two bits of bacon, three thick pork sausages, three fried potato cakes and four bits of toast with a really thick layer of peanut butter. That would do the trick.
It certainly did. As the kids sat down to do the test and the supervisor took her place at the front, everyone could tell that Stinky was just about bursting. Stinky looked over to Mr Brown, who nodded. Then, silent but deadly, Stinky let it rip.
Now we’ve all come across the odd bad smell but this was something else. Something evil and twisted. A very sick puppy. Nothing could help you imagine what it was like – not even the smell of a thousand dead rats, or a hole-in-the-ground dunny, or the breath of someone who had just smoked a hundred cigarettes after not cleaning their teeth for a year, or rotting fish-heads in a bin.
Kids shifted in their seats, held their breath or tried to think of something else – anything except getting up and leaving.
The supervisor’s eyes widened as the horrible smell wafted over. What was that foul stench? And how come no-one else seemed to notice it? Was it her imagination?
Beads of perspiration began to form on her brow and she went white. She held a handkerchief to her mouth and staggered to her feet. She realised she hadn’t taken a breath for well over a minute and panic set in. Lurching all over the place, she zig-zagged towards the door.
Kids were twitching in their seats, desperate for her to leave. But there was one more surprise in store. As the supervisor got closer to the door, she got closer to Stinky.
Now, I’ve seen some huge vomits before, but this one was a ten. All over the blackboard, all over the floor and even on the ceiling. Finally, the poor supervisor crawled out the door on her hands and knees, and stumbled towards her car in the parking lot.
You could hear the sigh of relief from all the kids. At last, they could leave too!
But it wasn’t just a sigh everyone had heard. Stinky had let another one go!
Brian and Keith Taylor used to fight like no other brothers before them. They fought from the moment they woke up until last thing at night, when their poor parents would drag them apart and force them to bed. Even then, Brian would still sometimes sneak into Keith’s room for one last punch, or maybe to pull his pillow away or rip his blankets off.
Why they fought so much, their parents could never work out. If Keith had a mate around to stay, Brian would crack the nasties and try to spoil their fun. Perhaps by throwing golf balls at Keith’s head. Or pushing him. Or punching hi
m. Or changing the TV to another channel. Or wrecking the cubby-house they’d just spent hours building. Or insisting that whatever they were playing with was his and that he needed it right now!
And the same when Brian had a mate. One day, Brian was mucking around with his friend Steven when they decided to play bockers. That’s when you take it in turns to punch each other on the arm. As hard as you can. The first one to say he can’t take it anymore is the loser. It’s terrific fun. Especially when the other kid gets tears in his eyes.
Anyway, with each punch, Brian was saying to Steven, ‘Is that the best you can do?’ Or, ‘That didn’t hurt.’ Suddenly, Keith appeared with a cricket bat and, as hard as he could, went bang, right on Brian’s shoulder.
‘I bet that hurt,’ said Keith.
Brian and Keith’s fighting drove their parents mad, but never more so than when they started in the car. Sometimes their mother would lean over to give them a smack but they would flatten themselves against the back seat.
‘For the life of me, I’ll stop the car and leave you here!’ their father would scream.
‘It’s not my fault,’ Keith would yell. ‘Brian hit me.’
‘Bull,’ Brian would shout. ‘He had his leg over my side!’
And so it would go.
One night, when the boys were being unusually quiet, their father put his arm around both their shoulders and said, ‘When you boys stop fighting for a minute, like now, it makes me and your mum so happy. Doesn’t it feel nice? Have you ever realised that deep down you might actually like each other?’
Brian and Keith looked at each other and for the first time in ages they agreed on something.
‘Dad, you’re weird,’ said Brian.
‘A real sicko,’ added Keith.
And off they went to their room for a really good fight.
Strange as it might sound, Brian and Keith really did like fighting and in a few short years they found themselves grown up and fighting again. This time, in a war! You see, Brian and Keith had seen ads on TV for the army and straight away both had thought, Yes! This is the life for me.
Like many other brave Australians, they were soon sent overseas to a country where they were fighting to keep the local people safe.
Then came a terrible day.The officer in charge said that ten men were needed to sneak into an enemy weapons supply and blow it up. It would be dangerous – very dangerous – but it was their only hope.
Spies had found out that the enemy had three times as many weapons, and unless the Aussies could take some of them out with a surprise attack, there’d be trouble.
‘Any volunteers?’ asked the officer in charge. ‘Anyone want to put their hand up?’
Straight away, Brian shouted, ‘Yep, count me in.’
‘Me too,’ said Keith. ‘Hate for Brian to get shot and not be there to see it.’
That night, just before they set out, loaded up with bombs, the officer in charge said there was one order that they must stick to no matter what. If someone got shot, the rest were to leave him there to die. That might sound shocking, but there was just no way a single man could be wasted trying to help another.
‘Is that clear?’ he thundered.
‘Yes, sir,’ they replied.
Brian and Keith might never have said so, but they were scared. Scared of dying, scared of even thinking about the possibility that they might never see their mum or dad or Australia again.
Well, they had spread out over several hundred metres when a shot went crack in the night and Keith went down. Without having even seen the enemy weapons supply, Keith had copped a sniper’s bullet right in the stomach.
Although panic gripped him, he lay silent. He wanted to scream out from the pain but he knew what the rules were. So, as the other men moved forward, knowing they couldn’t stop to help, Keith looked down and saw blood, everywhere. Unable to move, he knew that he would bleed to death.
As Keith lay there in the dark, he thought about his family. Particularly about Brian. He loved his brother so much, but he realised he’d never said so. Just like their dad had said.
Suddenly, a hand. A hand was pulling at his shirt. Pulling him up. Was he imagining it? No. It was a hand that he knew. A hand that had wrestled and held him down and punched him a thousand times.
It was Brian hauling him up and over his shoulder, and saying softly, ‘Didn’t think I’d leave you, did you?’
‘But the orders,’ Keith managed to whisper.
‘Guess they forgot we’re brothers,’ said Brian. ‘Hang on tight, keep your head down and your mouth shut. Get any blood on me and you’re dead.’
As Brian crawled across the ground with Keith clinging desperately to his back, bullets whizzing above their heads, Keith whispered, ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you. My guts are bad, Brian. Really bad. In case I don’t make it, you know I’ve always loved you, don’t you?’
‘Not going to cry on me as well, are you?’ replied Brian.‘Anyway, you are going to make it. Because I love you too.’
Robert Clark loved his dad heaps. In fact, thought Robert, he’s probably the best dad in the world.
So, when Robert’s dad died suddenly in a car accident, Robert wanted to die too.
At the funeral, Robert couldn’t stand it. He wanted to race up to the coffin, rip off the lid and scream, ‘Dad, wake up. I love you!’
Somehow, Robert thought there might still be a chance that his dad would come back. That maybe he could bring him back. His mum was always saying how useless doctors were. But what’s a kid to do when the adults have given up already?
During the bit in the funeral where there’s lots of talking and stuff, the minister said it was a time of great sadness but also a time for happiness. Because the memories of his dad would live on forever. Everyone had to be very strong, he said, because Rob’s dad wouldn’t want them being sad all the time.
So, when it came time to put the coffin in the hole, little Robert Clark took a deep breath, called on all the strength he could find in his ten-year-old body, and said, ‘Goodbye, Daddy.’ He tried very hard not to cry. But he did.
A long, sad, lonely time after the funeral, Robert’s mum said they were going to have to live with her brother Dave. That way they’d save money and, since Dave had never married, it would give him some company, too.
Anywhere but Daggy Dave’s, thought Robert. He’s such a loony.
Daggy Dave had two big problems. He never stopped talking. And he thought he was funny. But he wasn’t.
His favourite way to get people laughing was to make up silly poems – rude poems, mostly – and when that didn’t work, he’d play tricks like putting plastic blowflies in your breakfast or holding his throat and pretending to choke to death. Four days in a row.
When Rob and his mum arrived, Dave straight away told them three of the worst ‘funny’ poems Rob had ever heard, and then talked for three hours and ten minutes about what a hilarious day he’d had.
What would be funny, thought Robert darkly, is if Dave really did choke to death.
Finally, Dave showed Robert his new room. And do you know what? Rob felt guilty. Because Dave had done it up for him, just how he had it at home. All his favourite footballers were up on the wall and there was a bag of lollies on his pillow.
And something else. A present. Just about the best present a kid could ask for.
A tiny little puppy.
Robert slept as soundly that night as he had for months, with his puppy in his arms and its sweet, warm breath against his neck. Although Robert missed his dad terribly, life with Dave wasn’t as bad as Robert thought. Even though Dave never, ever shut up, and even though he told the same rotten poems a hundred times, at least it was never quiet. Robert hated quiet times because that’s when he thought about his dad.
One Saturday morning, Dave said the best way to make life interesting was to start each day differently. So he tipped his breakfast on his head. Robert really did laugh at that one. And he even laughe
d at one of Dave’s poems:
There once was a man
from the Rises,
Whose ears were two
different sizes.
One ear was so small
It heard nothing at all,
And the other so big it won prizes.
‘While we’re all sitting here having a good time,’ said Dave, ‘I might tell you a story.’
Oh no, thought Robert, his smile disappearing. Here we go again.
‘Once upon a time,’ began Dave, ‘there was a boy called Robert Clark. And Robert Clark’s dad had died.’
I don’t want to hear this, thought Robert, putting his head in his hands.
‘Robert and his mum went to live with his wacky uncle,’ continued Dave. ‘Now, this uncle really was off the planet, except for one little thing. He knew how to enjoy himself. And knowing how to enjoy yourself means knowing all about death. It’s like this, young Robert.Your dad is in heaven. I know that for sure because we all go to heaven.’
‘Even you?’ asked Robert, trying to be funny, but then wishing he hadn’t.
‘Especially me,’ replied Dave. ‘Someone’s got to do the jokes. And I’m not talking about religion, either. I’m talking about things fitting together. Making sense. Think about rain. Rain makes things grow, and then the extra rain runs back into rivers and into the sea. The sun heats the sea, which makes a type of steam, which makes clouds, which makes more rain. And so it goes. Perfect. In fact, everything on this earth is perfect. Except for people. People can be cruel to each other. They kill each other and they let people starve. So it makes sense that there must be another place where we’re nice to each other. To make it all fit together. And that’s where your dad is. Heaven.’
Rob lifted his head. ‘Would he be able to get the footy on TV?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Dave. ‘I don’t know why some people go to heaven early, like your dad.
That Dirty Dog and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls Page 2
