by Duncan Ball
As the cameras turned away, Mrs Trifle ran up and took Selby out of Cool Jules’ arms.
‘Is he okay?’ she asked.
‘The grommet? Sure. He’s fantastic! I mean I’m here talking and like I could be — know what I mean — still out there havin’ a surf nap. But like it’s not like that cuz he’s like, “Hang onto me!” and like … weird man. Double weird. Hey, thanks for the board. It was really filthy, mate.’
‘He’s not a bad guy, Cool,’ Selby thought as Cool Jules walked away shaking his head. ‘I’m just glad he’s a better surfer than he is a talker.’
Paw note: This is a question-comma. You can use it in the middle of sentences.
S
SELBY STUCK
‘Look how sharp this is!’ Dr Trifle said, stabbing the dagger he’d just made into his workbench.
‘Goodness! That is sharp!’ Mrs Trifle said, pouring some new Dry-Mouth Dog Flakes into Selby’s bowl. ‘Here, try some of these, Selby. You seem to like Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits so you should love these.’
‘Only I hate Dry-Mouth Dog Biscuits,’ Selby thought as he stared at the bowl. ‘So I know I’ll detest these.’
‘And now watch this,’ Dr Trifle said, pointing the dagger towards himself.
‘Gulp. What’s he doing?’ Selby thought as he looked up from sniffing the Dog Flakes.
‘Please don’t joke,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘It makes me nervous when you pretend like that.’
‘So who’s pretending?’ Dr Trifle said. ‘I’ve had enough. Goodbye, oh terrible world. Goodbye. Goodbye.’
Selby watched in horror as Dr Trifle stretched his arm out ready to stab himself.
‘Don’t do it!’ Mrs Trifle screamed. ‘I’ll make your favourite lunch! Stop!’
A sad look came to Dr Trifle’s face and then he plunged the knife into his chest before collapsing backwards to the floor. A spot of blood spread outward from the dagger until it covered the front of his shirt.
‘What have you done?!’ Mrs Trifle screamed. ‘Don’t move! I’ll ring an ambulance!’
Selby took a quick breath, nearly inhaling a Dry-Mouth Dog Flake.
‘He’s killed himself!’ Selby squealed to himself. ‘Dr Trifle just stabbed himself in the chest with that dagger! I can’t believe it! This is awful!’
Suddenly Dr Trifle opened his eyes and let out a big laugh.
‘Oh, you,’ Mrs Trifle sighed. ‘You gave me a terrible fright. Don’t ever play that sort of game again, do you hear?’
‘Sorry but it wasn’t a game. I was just testing my newly-invented trick dagger. I had to know if it looks real. I could tell from your face that it did.’
‘So who needs trick daggers?’
‘We do. It will be perfect for You Know Who, the murder mystery play that we’re going to act in with the Bogusville Stagestompers.’
‘But there’s blood all over your shirt,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘How did you do that?’
‘It’s only red ink; the oldest trick in the trick dagger book,’ Dr Trifle said, pushing the point of the dagger with his finger. ‘The blade slides up into the handle. It only looks like it’s gone into the victim. When the blade goes up it squeezes a sponge that’s filled with ink and the ink comes squirting out. Don’t worry, it’s the sort of ink that washes out easily.’
‘But I saw that dagger stick into your workbench.’
‘Ahah! That’s the second oldest trick in the trick dagger book. Do you see this little knob on the handle? If it’s in this position, the blade slides in. If it’s in this position, it locks and can’t slide into the handle.’
‘That’s marvellous,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Which character gets stabbed in the play? I haven’t even got round to reading the script yet.’
‘The murderer does. At the end of the play, the detective — that’s me — discovers who the murderer is. The murderer then grabs the murder weapon — the dagger — and tries to kill the detective.’
‘That sounds awful.’
‘It’s a comedy, really. It’s all just fun. Anyway, the detective manages to grab the murderer’s arm and turn the dagger around and, well, the baddie gets it.’
‘So who plays the part of the murderer?’
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘You Know Who is one of those plays that has a surprise ending.’
‘A surprise ending?’
‘Yes, there’s a different murderer every night.’
‘How is that possible?’
‘Towards the end of the play, the detective stops the show and asks the audience who they want the murderer to be. They vote by putting up their hands. Let’s say they choose Postie Paterson. Then the detective points to Postie and says, “I know you’re the one who committed this terrible crime. You gave yourself away when you said such and such.” And then I list all the other clues. The murder weapon is there, sticking into the kitchen table. Postie then grabs the dagger and has a go at me.’
‘I see,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘So you have to remember lots of different clues because the audience might choose Postie one night and Melanie Mildew the next night.’
‘Or Mrs Poppycock,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘Which is you.’
‘Since I’m the mayor they’ll probably choose me every night just for fun. Please make sure you grease the blade of that dagger well. If it doesn’t slide up into the handle Bogusville will be looking for a new mayor.’
‘Don’t you worry about a thing. Hmmm, the handle’s coming apart,’ Dr Trifle said. He took the two sides of the handle off. Then, grabbing a can of Glu-It-All glue from the shelf over his workbench, he glued them back together.
‘There, now it’s perfect,’ he said.
* * *
For the next two weeks, whenever they had time, Dr and Mrs Trifle paced around the house practising their lines. And so they did right up to the day the play opened.
‘It had to be you, Mrs Poppycock,’ Dr Trifle said, pointing his finger at Mrs Trifle. ‘All the evidence points to you. You gave yourself away when you said that you’d taken the four o’clock train to Adelaide. There’s a three-twenty train and a four-fifteen train but no four o’clock train. There’s never been a four o’clock train to Adelaide.’
‘Okay, you’ve found me out, Inspector Wembley,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘But she deserved everything she got. She never should have said all those terrible things about me. And now it’s your turn!’
With this, Mrs Trifle grabbed the dagger and she and Dr Trifle wrestled with it until it plunged into Mrs Trifle’s chest.
‘Okay, okay,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘I think we’re ready for tonight’s performance. But before that, I’ve got a council meeting. Want to come along?’
‘I’d love to,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘If I keep rehearsing I’ll only make myself more nervous.’
‘That Dr Trifle is so clever,’ Selby thought when the Trifles were safely out of the house.
Selby crept into Dr Trifle’s workroom and had a good old play with the dagger. He stabbed it into the workbench and then flipped the knob to the other position.
‘Goodbye cruel world,’ he said, holding the dagger over his chest. ‘I’ve eaten my last Dry-Mouth Dog Flake.’
With this he stabbed himself in the chest.
‘Ouch! That hurt!’ he said, inspecting the blade. ‘It didn’t slide into the handle as easily as it should have. I think it needs some grease.’
Selby grabbed the can of Grease-It-All grease from the shelf and dropped some drops of it on the knife blade before sliding it in and out again.
‘That slides more easily,’ he said. ‘Now no one can get hurt. Oh, I wish I could see the play tonight.’
Selby was in luck. After the council meeting Dr and Mrs Trifle picked him up, took him to the theatre and left him backstage with a bowl of Dry-Mouth Dog Flakes.
‘I’m so nervous,’ Mrs Trifle said before the curtain went up. ‘I’m afraid I’ll forget my lines. And I’m a little frightened of that dagger too.’
‘It’s fi
ne,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘You worry too much.’
Selby watched the play quietly from backstage. ‘This is great!’ he thought. ‘I wonder who the audience is going to choose to be the murderer tonight!’
At the end of the play, Dr Trifle gathered all the suspects together and then turned to the audience.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ he said. ‘Who do you think was the murderer? I’ll bet that you know who.‘
‘Oh, this is sooooo tense!’ Selby thought as he took another mouthful of Dog Flakes. ‘I can’t stand it!’
Suddenly the audience chanted loudly ‘Mrs Poppycock. Mrs Poppycock. Mrs Trifle! Mrs Trifle!’
‘And Mrs Poppycock it is!’ cried Dr Trifle. ‘You guessed it.’
‘Okay, you’ve found me out, Inspector Wembley,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘But she deserved everything she got. She never should have said all those terrible things about me.’
Mrs Trifle pulled the dagger from the table.
‘And now it’s your turn, Inspector!’ Mrs Trifle screamed.
Dr and Mrs Trifle wrestled for the dagger.
‘This is sooooo scary!’ Selby squealed in his brain. ‘It’s like the real thing! Their acting is soooooooo good. They’re like proper actors.’
All four hands gripped the dagger and slowly it turned away from Dr Trifle and poised above Mrs Trifle’s chest.
‘Oh, no! Now she’s about to be stabbed,’ Selby thought. ‘It’s only pretend. It’s only pretend. It’s only pretend.’
Just then, a terrible thought started making its way through Selby’s brain.
‘Uh-oh! What if I put Glu-It-All glue in the dagger instead of Grease-It-All grease?! What if I took the wrong can without noticing? I was in a hurry and the names are almost the same. They were right together on the shelf! What if the blade won’t slide in? No, I couldn’t have made such a stupid mistake. But maybe I did. No, I couldn’t have. But what if I did? Couldn’t have. Could have. Couldn’t have. Could have.’
The thought went round and round in Selby’s brain like a toy train on a track to nowhere. Finally it burst out the other end.
‘I can’t take the chance!’ he squealed to himself. ‘If anything happens to Mrs Trifle it will be all my fault! It’ll be on my conscience forever! I have to stop them and there’s only one way to do it! Who cares if everyone (gulp) finds out my secret?!’
Selby leapt onto the stage and jumped between the Trifles, pushing them apart. He was about to cry ‘Stop! Don’t do it!’ in plain English when suddenly a Dry-Mouth Dog Flake caught in his windpipe. He began coughing and wheezing, trying to get the words out. In a minute he was clutching his throat and his whole face turned bright red.
The audience burst into laughter at the sight of the coughing dog.
‘The dog did it!’ someone screamed.
For a moment, Dr Trifle and the cast just stood there wondering what to do. Finally it was too much and the Trifles, along with the rest of the cast, started laughing along with the audience. Then someone lowered the curtain.
‘This is a disaster!’ Mrs Trifle said to Dr Trifle.
‘I know. What do you suppose got into Selby?’
‘He thought we were really fighting, poor dear,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Dogs get upset when they think their owners are fighting.’
When the curtain went up again the actors bowed to wild applause.
‘They loved it!’ Mrs Trifle whispered. ‘It was a success after all!’
‘We certainly gave them a surprise ending,’ Dr Trifle said. As he held Selby up to cheers and even wilder applause, he accidentally dropped the dagger.
‘My goodness!’ Mrs Trifle gasped, as she saw the dagger stick firmly into the floor where it had fallen. ‘The blade didn’t slide! It looks like it was almost a surprise ending for me! That silly invention of yours would have killed me if it hadn’t been for Selby! It would have stuck right into me!’
‘And luckily for me,’ Selby thought, suddenly happy that he’d held the Trifles apart. ‘I was stuck too — only I was stuck for words.’
Paw note: If you want to read a story about me actually acting with the Stagestompers, read ‘The Enchanted Dog’ in the book Selby’s Secret.
S
SELBY’S LAMINGTON DRIVE
Selby worked frantically all day and through the night making hundreds of lamingtons. First he baked dozens of sponge cakes. Then he sliced them into little squares and put them in the fridge. When they were cool he dipped them in chocolate and rolled them in dried coconut.
‘Wow! These are fantabulous! They’re just like real lammos,’ Selby thought as he gobbled one and then another. ‘What am I talking about? They are real lammos,’ he added, scoffing down a third one. ‘Lammo bammo! Yummo bummo! These are delicious!’
Selby was just finishing his baking when he caught sight of himself in a mirror.
‘Is that me?’ he wondered. ‘I can hardly recognise myself. I’m covered from head to toe in chocolate and coconut! I look like a big lamington with ears and a tail! I’d better get cleaned up before Aunt Jetty catches me. How did I ever get myself into this mess?!’
Getting into the mess had been simple: it all began the day he overheard Mrs Trifle telling Dr Trifle about a letter she was waiting for that never arrived. Someone had put the wrong address on it.
‘The problem is that no one ever remembers the name of our street,’ she explained. ‘Bunya-Bunya Crescent is such a strange name. It’s hard to spell and easy to forget. People are always writing things like Bunions Crescent or Bumpkin Crescent or even Bungle Bungle Crescent. Who decided to name the street Bunya-Bunya Crescent anyway?’
‘You can blame my great-grandfather, Terfle Trifle, for that,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘He built this very house back when the street was just a dirt road and there weren’t any other houses on it. Then he named the street after that beautiful old Bunya-Bunya tree down the road. He loved Bunya-Bunyas.’
‘It’s a pity he didn’t like oaks or wattles or bluegums instead,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘We could be living on Oak Crescent or Wattle Drive or Bluegum Street. They would be so much easier for people to spell — and for people to remember. I’ve got an idea: why don’t we rename the street?’
‘But what would we name it? Bogusville already has a Wattle Street and an Oak Avenue and even a Bluegum Lane,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘So we couldn’t use those names. Besides, street names are street names — you can’t change them.’
‘Of course you can.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am the mayor of Bogusville, remember,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘I ought to know.’
‘So how would we do it?’
‘Simple, all we’d have to do is choose a name and get our neighbours to sign a petition saying that they all agree. Then give it to the council for approval.’
‘That sounds easy.’
‘You have to fill out a form, of course,’ Mrs Trifle added.
‘I hate council forms,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘They’re always so complicated. They use so many big words that I have to look up in the dictionary.’
‘We’ve just changed all the council’s forms. They’re now written very simply and clearly. They’re absolutely idiot-proof.’
‘You mean even I could fill one out?’
‘Of course you could, dear.’
‘Okay, then let’s do it,’ Dr Trifle said, getting excited. ‘What’s a good name for our street? Think of one.’
‘Oh, I forgot to say that there’s a street renaming fee of one hundred dollars,’ Mrs Trifle said.
‘One hundred dollars? Why so much?’ asked Dr Trifle, as he suddenly thought of all the things he could buy if he had a hundred dollars.
‘Someone has to pay for the new street signs,’ Mrs Trifle explained. ‘And if we’re the ones who want to change the name, we’re the ones who should pay for it. It’s only fair.’
‘Bunya-Bunya Crescent is beginning to sound good again,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘Let’s just leave it the way it is.’
<
br /> Selby had been lying on the floor listening to all this but it was later that day, when the Trifles were away, that he got his idea — an idea so brilliant that it took his breath away.
‘I’ve just thought of the perfect street name!’ he gasped. ‘Why not call it Trifle Terrace after the Trifles?! They’re such dear sweet wonderful people. It would be lovely to name the street after them. Besides, Trifle is easier to remember than Bunya-Bunya. I am so clever. Sometimes I scare myself.’
Selby scratched his head and looked out the window.
‘Of course I’ll have to get the name changed without the Trifles knowing. They’d be too embarrassed to change it to their own name themselves. But I think they’ll love it once it’s done.’
Selby jumped to his feet and began pacing the floor.
‘Hmmm. How will I get the neighbours to agree to this? They may not be so keen on naming the street after the Trifles. Hey, now! Hold the show! I’ll tell everyone that we’re not naming it after the Trifles. We’re naming it after the first person to live in the street — Terfle Trifle. And because Terfle Trifle Terrace is too long I’ll tell them that we decided to shorten it to Trifle Terrace. Oh, Selby, you are a brilliant dog! Now how will I come up with the hundred smackeroos?’
Selby paced faster and faster, his mind racing like a jet engine.
‘I know!’ he cried, trying to snap his toes the way people snap their fingers when they have a brilliant idea. ‘I’ll use the oldest money-raising trick there is — I’ll sell lamingtons! I’ll have a lamington drive!’
And so it was that Selby’s brilliant idea started him off on a road to total disaster. But I won’t spoil the story by jumping ahead …
The next thing Selby did was ring the council offices, put on his best Dr Trifle voice, and ask to be sent a copy of Street Renaming Form Number 142b/66. The day it arrived, Selby waited in a bush near the mailbox. When Postie Paterson dropped off the day’s mail, Selby quickly grabbed the envelope with the form in it and hid it so the Trifles wouldn’t see it.
