That settled it, he was definitely going.
On Saturday morning Dad dropped them in town at the coach pick-up point. Bertie had brought everything he needed for the day – swimming trunks, towel, rubber ring, bucket and spade, plus enough sweets to last a month.
“Are you sure you’re going to need all that?” Gran asked.
“I always bring this stuff to the seaside,” replied Bertie.
He looked around at the crowd waiting to board the coach. Everyone seemed to be ancient.
“They’re even older than you, Gran,” he said.
“SHH! Not so loud!” hissed Gran.
Sherry spotted them and came bustling over.
“Hello, Dotty,” she cooed. “And I’ve met this handsome young man before. Are you sitting next to me, Bertie? Hee hee!”
Bertie shrank back as Sherry planted a big sloppy kiss on his cheek. He hoped it wasn’t going to be like this all day. If everyone wanted to kiss him, he’d have to wear a bucket over his head.
“Right, are we all here?” asked a loud voice.
A tall, prim woman holding a clipboard stood at the coach door. She had a beaky nose and a stern expression.
“Who’s that?” asked Gran. “Where’s Gerry?”
“Oh, didn’t you hear? He’s poorly,” sighed Sherry. “They’ve sent us this one, instead – her name’s Miss Stickler.”
Gran stared in dismay. “But Gerry always takes us to Skegby,” she said. “He’s the reason it’s so much fun!”
Bertie didn’t think Miss Stickler looked like she’d heard of fun. She was making everyone form an orderly line as if they were back at school.
“Goodness – who’s this?” she asked, when she saw Bertie.
“This is my grandson Bertie,” explained Gran.
“Isn’t he a bit young for the Sunset Club?” said Miss Stickler. “I hope he’s going to behave himself.”
“Of course he is,” said Gran. “Bertie’s never any trouble, are you, Bertie?”
“No,” said Bertie, which was partly true. He never meant to be any trouble, it was just that trouble had a habit of following him around.
The coach set off. To Bertie’s relief, Gran sat down beside him while Sherry took a seat with a chap called Ted. Once they were on the motorway, Miss Stickler stood up.
“Good morning and welcome,” she said. “As you may know, Gerry has lost his voice and sadly can’t be with us. But the good news is – I’m going to be your tour guide for the day. I have drawn up a timetable of activities and I’m sure we’ll all have a wonderful day. Are there any questions?”
Bertie raised his hand. “When do we go to the funfair?” he asked.
Miss Stickler pulled a face. “I hardly think anyone wants to visit the funfair,” she sniffed. “In any case, it’s not on my timetable.”
Bertie blinked. Not go to the funfair? But that was the whole point of coming!
Gran patted his hand. “Don’t worry, Bertie,” she whispered. “I’m sure we can pop along there at some point.”
At last the coach arrived at Skegby-on-Sea. Bertie and Gran waited to get off. It had been a long journey with about a hundred stops for the toilet. Miss Stickler had spent the whole time telling Bertie off – for kicking the seat in front, dropping sweet wrappers and making rude noises with his rubber ring.
As they got out, Miss Stickler handed everyone a printed sheet.
“What’s this?” asked Gran.
“Our timetable for today,” replied Miss Stickler. “There’s one each so that everyone’s clear what we’re doing and at what time.”
Bertie read down the list. There were visits to tea shops, an antiques market, a church and the Skegby Pencil Museum. There was no mention of paddling, sandcastles or going anywhere near the funfair.
“It’s the seaside!” Bertie grumbled. “We have to go to the beach.”
“It’s far too windy,” said Miss Stickler. “I don’t want anyone catching a cold.”
“We could play football,” suggested Bertie. “That would warm us up!”
“This is a trip for the elderly,” sniffed Miss Stickler. “I think you’ll find my programme has something for everyone.”
“Not for me,” muttered Gran. “Where’s the bingo?”
“And the crazy golf?” added Sherry.
“Gerry always takes us to the pier,” grumbled Ted loudly.
“Well, Gerry isn’t here,” snapped Miss Stickler. “I think you’ll find the Pencil Museum is really quite exciting. Now follow me, please, and try to keep up.”
She set off, marching down the road with her umbrella held high.
Gran shook her head. “You can go off people,” she muttered.
“I didn’t like her from the start,” said Sherry.
Bertie trailed along with Gran, wearing his rubber ring and dragging his bucket and spade. He stared longingly at the beach, where a few children were playing on the sand.
“Can’t I stay here?” he moaned.
“Sorry, Bertie,” sighed Gran. “I promised your mum I wouldn’t let you out of my sight. Maybe we’ll have time for the beach or the funfair later?”
But Miss Stickler had other ideas. She marched them from one boring place to the next. The Pencil Museum had a thrilling display of 300 pencils, while the antiques market had endless stalls selling piles of old junk. As they walked along the seafront, Bertie could see the bright lights of the funfair and hear the occasional snatch of music. It was torture being so close.
“Mum promised me the funfair!” he grumbled.
“Believe me, I’d love to go,” sighed Gran. “But it’s not on the blooming timetable.”
Later that afternoon they made their second tea stop. Bertie looked around the café gloomily. Ted seemed to have nodded off while the rest of the party looked dead on their feet. The coach was due to leave at five, which meant they had less than two hours.
“Can’t we go to the funfair now?” Bertie begged Gran.
Gran sighed. “I’m sorry, Bertie, I’ve told you – I’m not in charge.”
“Pity,” sighed Sherry. “I do love a good funfair!”
Ted suddenly sat up and opened his eyes. “A funfair? I haven’t been to one of those in years!” he cried.
Bertie glanced over at Miss Stickler, who was nibbling a teacake. If she wouldn’t take them then they’d just have to find another way.
“Why don’t we escape?” he whispered.
“ESCAPE?” asked Gran.
“Yes,” said Bertie. “If we can give her the slip, what’s to stop us? We can all go.”
Gran and Sherry looked at each other.
“How exciting!” giggled Sherry. “It’ll be like one of those films where they break out of prison.”
“Do we have to dig a tunnel?” asked Ted.
Bertie shook his head. “No. We just need old Sticklepants out of the way for five minutes.”
He explained his plan while the other three listened, nodding their heads. The Great Escape was on, but they’d have to move fast. Smuggling fifty pensioners out of a teashop right under Miss Stickler’s nose wasn’t going to be easy!
“Oh dear! Oh no! Where can it be?” wailed Gran, her head in her hands.
Bertie thought that she was overacting but it did the trick – Miss Stickler was coming over.
“What’s the matter?” she demanded.
“I can’t find my purse,” said Gran.
“Well, where did you last have it?” asked Miss Stickler.
“Um, let me think … in the toilets … yes, that was it,” said Gran.
Miss Stickler sighed. Old people were always losing things. If it wasn’t money, it was their keys or their false teeth.
Gran led the way to the Ladies toilets and opened the door.
“After you,” she said politely.
Miss Stickler went in. There was no sign of the purse by the basins. She opened a cubicle door and looked on the floor.
“Are you sure you—?”
WHAM!
Suddenly the door to the Ladies toilets slammed shut. Miss Stickler stared round in surprise.
“HEY! WHAT’S GOING ON?” she cried, trying the door handle. It refused to open.
Outside, Bertie helped Gran to wedge the door shut with a chair.
“Quick!” said Bertie. “Let’s go before she gets out!”
Gran and Sherry rounded up the rest of the party, which wasn’t easy. Some of them protested they hadn’t finished their tea.
“Sorry, there isn’t time,” said Gran, glancing at the toilets. “Please do hurry!”
THUMP! THUMP!
“LET ME OUT!” yelled Miss Stickler, banging on the door.
“Come on!” urged Bertie, herding the group out of the café. “Head for the funfair. It’s time we enjoyed ourselves!”
“The bus fare?” said one lady. “I thought we came by coach!”
THUD! THUD! CRASH!
The door to the Ladies toilets finally burst open and Miss Stickler stumbled out. She was astonished to find the café deserted. Toasted teacakes sat on plates half eaten, with the tea still warm in the cups.
A waitress appeared holding a tray.
“Where did they all go?” demanded Miss Stickler. “The old people!”
“I’ve no idea,” replied the waitress. “They just got up and left all of a sudden. But someone will have to pay the bill.”
Miss Stickler glared and fished out her purse. She had a pretty good idea who was behind this.
“Wheee! Hold tight, Bertie!” squealed Gran.
Bertie hung on as the big wheel took them round again. The funfair had proved a big hit with the Sunset Club. Many of them said they hadn’t had such a great time in years. They’d whooped on the dodgems, screamed on the ghost train and had to sit down after getting dizzy on the merry-go-round.
“That was a hoot!” giggled Sherry, as the big wheel came to a stop. “What shall we do next?”
Bertie lifted the safety barrier and climbed out. His face fell. A tall, stern woman was marching towards them.
“STOP RIGHT THERE!” shouted Miss Stickler. “I knew you were behind all this.”
Bertie gulped. Miss Stickler’s face was bright red. She looked like she’d run a marathon.
“How dare you?” she stormed.
“Locking me in the toilets. I’ve had to chase all over town looking for you!”
“Oh dear!” said Gran. “You poor thing. You’d better sit down.”
Gran nudged Bertie, who took a moment to catch on.
“Yes, have a seat,” said Bertie, taking Miss Stickler’s arm.
He helped her into a padded seat, framed by coloured lights.
“You should be ashamed,” Miss Stickler panted. “Behaving like schoolkids.”
“I am a schoolkid,” replied Bertie. “Now hold on tight.”
“What?” asked Miss Stickler, confused.
CLUNK!
The safety barrier came down over her head and music began to play.
Miss Stickler looked around in panic. Her seat was slowly rising off the ground. She was on the big wheel and it was taking her up!
“HEEEELP!” she squawked. “GET ME DOWN!”
“Bye, bye, Miss Stickler!” cried Bertie, waving from below.
“Well, that ought to keep her busy for a while,” smiled Gran. “So what’s next then, Bertie?”
“The helter skelter!” cried Bertie. “Come on, I’ll race you!”
Bertie had seen the worm farm in a shop window when he was passing with his mum. He could hardly believe his eyes. Who needed sheep and cows when you could own a farm with real live worms? He’d decided there and then he had to have it.
Bertie loved worms and they made the perfect pets. He still hadn’t forgotten Arthur, his pet worm who’d lived in his bedroom until Mum discovered him. But a worm farm was even better – you got a whole family of worms for just £9.99!
The only problem was, Bertie didn’t have £9.99. He’d spent all his pocket money on sweets and it was no good asking his family to help. Dad said worms belonged in the garden, Mum thought they were revolting, while Gran screamed if she came near one.
On the way to school, Bertie asked his friends to help.
“Ten pounds? For a bunch of worms?” said Darren. “You must be joking!”
“It’s a worm farm,” explained Bertie. “You can watch them squirming about.”
“Yuck!” said Darren. “Anyway, I haven’t got ten pounds.”
Bertie sighed. “What about you, Eugene?”
“I’m not that keen on worms,” said Eugene.
“Yes, but can you lend me ten pounds?” said Bertie.
Eugene shook his head. “Sorry, Bertie, I’m saving up for a new violin case.”
Bertie rolled his eyes. So much for friends! Didn’t they know how important this was? It might be his one and only chance to own a worm farm!
There had to be someone who would lend him ten pounds. It was no use asking Know-All Nick – he wouldn’t lend Bertie a used hanky. But what about Royston Rich? He had pots of money! He was always boasting that his dad was practically a millionaire.
There was just one snag – Royston and Bertie weren’t friends. Royston had never forgiven him for ruining his swimming party when Whiffer left a present in his pool.
Still, it was worth a try – Royston was probably the one person in his class who actually HAD ten pounds.
At school Bertie tracked down Royston in the playground.
“Hi, Royston, old pal,” said Bertie.
“What do you want?” Royston scowled.
“Nothing,” said Bertie. “Only, I was just wondering – how much pocket money do you get a week?”
“Loads more than you,” boasted Royston.
“Great,” said Bertie. “In that case, could you lend me ten pounds?”
“TEN POUNDS?” cried Royston.
“Yes, to buy a worm farm,” explained Bertie. “I’ll pay you back.”
“No chance!” snorted Royston. “I wouldn’t lend you ten pounds if you got down on your knees and begged!” A sly look crossed his face. “But if you REALLY want the money…” he said.
“I’ll do anything,” said Bertie.
“Okay then, what if I pay you ten pounds – to be my slave for the day?” said Royston.
Bertie gulped. “W-what?”
“You heard me,” said Royston. He pulled out a ten pound note from his pocket and waved it in the air.
“Uh-uh,” he said, as Bertie reached out. “You have to earn it first. Do we have a deal?”
Bertie thought fast. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than being Royston’s slave. He’d rather marry Angela Nicely! On the other hand, it’d take him years to save up enough pocket money to buy the worm farm himself.
“Okay, it’s a deal,” he said.
Royston gave a goofy grin as he shook Bertie’s hand.
“Super!” he said. “Of course my slave has to do anything I want – all day.”
“Just until the end of school,” said Bertie.
“Let’s say four o’clock,” said Royston.
He rubbed his hands with glee. He’d always wanted his own slave. Bertie had no idea what he’d let himself in for!
“What was all that about?” asked Eugene when Bertie returned.
“I’ve just agreed to be Royston’s slave,” said Bertie.
“Are you MAD?” asked Darren.
Bertie shrugged. “He’s paying me ten pounds.”
“Yes, but you have to be his slave!”
“Only for today,” said Bertie.
“You wouldn’t catch me being Royston’s slave!” said Darren. “You know what he’s like.”
Bertie knew only too well. Royston was born ordering people around. He probably had servants at home to fold his clothes, do his homework and brush his teeth.
“It can’t be that bad,” said Bertie.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Eugene. “He’ll pro
bably treat you like dirt.”
“OH SLAVE!” sang a voice. “Where has my slave got to?”
Darren raised his eyebrows. “Better not keep his lordship waiting,” he said.
Bertie trailed over.
“Where were you?” demanded Royston.
“With my friends,” answered Bertie.
“I didn’t give you time off,” said Royston. “And call me ‘master’ or ‘your highness’.”
Bertie frowned. He could think of a lot of other things to call Royston.
“What do you want then, master?” he asked.
“And bow when you’re speaking to me,” said Royston.
Bertie glared. This was pushing things too far. He ducked his head, hoping that no one was watching.
“My shoes are dirty,” said Royston.
“They look fine to me,” said Bertie.
“If I say they’re dirty, then they’re dirty,” said Royston. And to prove his point, he stepped in a big muddy puddle.
“Clean them, slave,” he ordered.
Bertie gaped. “What with?”
“That’s your problem,” said Royston. “When I give you an order, I expect you to do it – and I told you to call me master.”
Bertie was about to tell Royston to clean his own stupid shoes – but slaves weren’t allowed to answer back. He kneeled down and wiped Royston’s shoes with a grubby tissue.
“There, all done,” he said.
Royston folded his arms. “I want them polished, slave,” he said. “I want to see my face in them.”
Bertie got back on his knees. Luckily, just at that moment, the bell rang. For once Bertie couldn’t wait to go into school. At least Royston wouldn’t be able to order him around in class.
Disco! Page 2
