So Grotty!

by J A Mawter

  For Bonnie.

  Love always to David, Tullia, Shevaughn and Hugh.

  J.A.MAWTER

  For Robert.

  Thanks for the babysitting duties.

  Hope you get back from Greenland!

  GUS GORDON

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  And They’re off!

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  A Sole to Bare

  The Palace

  The Palace Grounds

  The Forest

  The Palace Again

  Back in the Forest

  Return to the Palace

  A Nice Sort of Vase

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  All That Glitters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  And They’re off!

  Chapter One

  ‘Suck eggs!’

  A body bolts past. I don’t look up. I know who it is. The weed with speed. I grip onto my spoon. Gotta concentrate. Gotta reach Ollie before it’s too late. My legs pump hard—pump-i-i-ing, pump-i-i-ing. My fingers ache. Eggie lurches, threatening to jump. Hang in there. I send telepathic messages. You come from a good home. You’re too young to die. I grip my spoon harder.

  Eggie writhes around, protesting, busting to go over the edge. I check out the others, knowing full well that precious seconds will be wasted. They’re close, so close that my ears vibrate to the thud of their feet.

  Not far now. I do this secret deal with Eggie. Hang in there and you won’t get hurt. Do the bolt and I eat you for breakfast.

  I risk another glance. Ollie’s still ahead. But now he’s stopped. Stopped? ‘No-o-o-o-o!’ I cry out loud. And then? Disaster! I stumble. I arch my back and sidestep, trying beyond hope to keep my hand steady. Too late. I’m falling—down, down. Turf rises to meet me. Ooomph! Knees hit first. There’s pain. Thighs next. More pain. Down go the hips. Aaaagh! Major face plant. There’s grass in my mouth, more grass than you’d see in a golf course commercial. I stagger to my feet. I’m spitting dandelions!

  ‘Suck eggs!’ yells Ol again, only this time he’s grinning fit to bust and pointing at my sports shirt.

  I look down and groan. Scrambled egg. Yuck! So much for winning the first novelty race.

  Our sports teacher comes running. Mr Cassius. We call him Mr Cass. His voice booms over the track. ‘If I’d’a known we were making omelettes I’d’ve brought my own frypan.’

  ‘Ha, ha, Mr Cassius,’ I say picking eggshell out of my bellybutton. ‘You’re such a clown.’ If Mr Cass can make omelette jokes I can do a bit of name-calling of my own. Actually, he could be a clown—all bald head and tummy. A real eggshell blonde with a BYO eggcup. I want to say it out loud but I don’t. Mr Cass isn’t a bad egg. Not really.

  Just then Stella Mazoni walks past. Stella’s with Karina Nelson and Ella Quinn, Miss Quinn’s precious niece and a boil on my butt.

  ‘I never realised we had such an egghead in our school,’ says Ella. With her try-hard smile she looks like an egg-bound budgie.

  ‘Egghead?’ says Karina. ‘More like egg roll.’ And together they laugh. What is it with this school? Everyone’s a comedian! I feel like marching up to Karina and Ella. Egg? I’ll give them egg—a great big fat eggy right in their faces. But then I think of Miss Quinn and I shut up. At least Stella’s not in with them.

  ‘Go and have a wash,’ says Mr Cass flicking some shell off my shirt. ‘There’s plenty of time. Next race is in twenty minutes.’

  Stella interrupts saying, ‘Mr Cassius. You missed a bit.’

  My clothes start to prickle, and it’s not the eggshell.

  ‘How so?’ asks Mr Cass, turning to her with a good-natured frown on his face.

  Stella points to my forehead. ‘Up there, sir.’ She and Karina and Ella are all straining not to laugh. Their lips are so tight they look like they’ve been zipped up. Stella goes on. ‘I believe the saying goes…there’s egg all over his face.’ The three of them fizzle up. Cackling like the evil witches from Macbeth.

  I look up. Where’s thunder, lightning and rain when you need them? Even the sun takes a pot shot, beaming down on me like a jolly yellow giant. I keep picking off eggshell, praying for this sports day to end.

  ‘If you lot don’t let up,’ I warn Stella, Karina and Ella. ‘You’re gonna wear egg flip!’ I glare at them, daring them to cross the line.

  ‘Calm down, Kris,’ says Mr Cass. ‘Don’t get so egg-cited!’ He stands there, clapping at his own joke, his great big head wobbling in the sunshine. Reminds me of a Jack-in-the-Box I had when I was a kid. ‘Girls,’ he adds, ‘you best…scramble,’ which sets them all off again.

  ‘You okay?’ asks Ollie after they’ve left.

  I shrug and scowl as I look at my splotchy shirt.

  ‘Could be worse,’ says Ol, flinging an arm round my shoulders.

  ‘Yeah? How?’

  ‘Coulda been an emu egg.’

  Despite myself I smile. Trust Ol to see a bright side. ‘Better get on with it,’ I say, stepping towards the tap. ‘Wheelbarrow race is soon.’

  Ol ’n me line up at the start of the wheelbarrow race. I’m back and Ol’s front. His legs are tucked up under my armpits. All he’s got for balance are these scrawny little arms.

  ‘Ready!’ calls Mr Cass, holding up the starter’s gun.

  Quickly, I check out the opposition. Sam’s paired with John, Mark’s with Lewis, and Alex is with Eb. Swe-e-e-et! Ol ’n I should romp home.

  ‘Set!’ calls Mr Cass.

  I adjust my grip on Ol and focus on the finish line.

  ‘Ease up,’ growls Ol and he wriggles his legs to loosen my stranglehold.

  ‘Go!’

  Ollie starts moving, armsticks pumping, faster than spokes on a wheel. So fast we’re churning grass!

  We’re half-way to the finish when I notice something. Uh, oh! With all that thrashing and squirming Ol’s gym shorts have started to ease down. There’s more bum crack than a herd of hipsters.

  I keep going. There’s nothing I can do. If I stop to yank them up I’ll drop him. But with every step the shorts retreat further. Ollie’s showing more groove than Grandpa’s gramophone records. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He hasn’t faltered. We’re winning and that’s all that counts.

  ‘Ol,’ I gasp. ‘Your duds…’

  ‘Forget ’em,’ gasps Ol. He gets a minor case of the wobbles but doesn’t stop his stride.

  We power along. My eyes drag down. Not that I’m a perve. I just can’t help it. Ollie’s cheeks look like…eggs! Two eggs in a carton jammed together. I didn’t know he had that mole! Ollie wriggles harder. Finish line here we come.

  ‘Yes!’ we cry, collapsing over the finish line, panting and sobbing with relief.

  We look up, waiting for our blue tag to say we’ve won. But there’s no blue tag. Miss Quinn holds up a white card.

  A white card? No-o-o-o!

  ‘Disqualified!’ she announces. ‘For lewd and disgusting behaviour.’ She says lewd like there’s a ‘y’ in it. L-yewd.

  I can’t believe it. ‘We won that race fair and square,’ I say, turning to Mr Cass as he ambles over.

  Miss Quinn gets slits for nostrils. ‘In all my 35 years at this school,’ she begins, ‘I’ve never, I repeat never seen anything so rude as Mister Grant baring his backside!’<
br />
  ‘We didn’t mean it,’ I try to explain. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Hmmph!’ says Miss Quinn. ‘You did it on purpose. No more races for you. Oliver, Kris, for the rest of the day you two can stand with me.’

  Barred!

  Just for being egg-sposed.

  Chapter Two

  For the rest of the morning Miss Quinn sticks to us like toilet paper. We can’t scratch ourselves without bullet eyes ripping right through us. The funnest day has turned into the fattest day.

  Since morning tea we’ve been on ‘Infant’s’. If I have to watch one more kindie kid splat herself in a sack race or one more Grade Two trip over his own shoelace, I’m going to spew. I check out the time. Another hour till lunch!? I don’t think I’ll make it. Just then, Jennifer appears calling, ‘Miss Quinn. Miss Quinn. Mindy’s landed on a stinging nettle and she needs your help.’

  Ye-e-e-s! I light a big one on Jennifer and mouth the word, thanks.

  Mindy’s wailing louder than a bereaved banshee.

  Miss Quinn starts blinking and twitching. She’s meant to be running and fixing but she’s blinking and twitching. ‘Go!’ I tell her. ‘Ollie ’n I can look after the infants.’

  Miss Quinn hesitates. She hurls a look at me that makes me want to duck.

  ‘We know how to pick first, second and third,’ I say. ‘Easy.’ I spread my lips into a smile.

  Mindy’s going for a decibel record.

  Miss Quinn’s left eyebrow is doing a death throe impersonation. ‘You stay with them, Jennifer,’ she eventually says. ‘And watch they don’t get up to mischief.’ And with that she jitterbugs her way down the oval to the dying Mindy.

  ‘You owe me.’ Jennifer looks smug. ‘Big time.’

  ‘Sure,’ says Ollie, looking more relaxed now Miss Quinn’s gone.

  But I can’t relax, wondering what the payback’s gonna be.

  There’s no more time to think as sets of kids, trussed like plucked chooks, hurtle past in the three-legged races. Whoever said it was easy to pick a winner was lying. I decide to watch one lane and guess the rest. It’s as good a system as any. And it works, too. Until the last race. In the last race, the finish line looks like a Siamese twin Convention.

  Ol ’n I decide to give it to Lane Four.

  ‘Wrong!’ calls Ella from the sidelines. ‘Lane Three beat Lane Four.’

  Which starts a ding-dong that will go down in the annals. One kid from Lane Four takes a swipe at another from Lane Three whose mate retaliates with gale force. Lane Four meets the grass. Lane Four pulls his stocking off and comes back swinging. It’s Lane Three’s turn to eat dust. Lanes One, Two, Five and Six are scrabbling out of the way. But with legs tied-up it’s impossible. Down they go. We have eggnog! Masses of squealing, screaming howling kids. Ollie ’n I try to sort it out but as we pick up one we knock over another. They’re like skittles. Miss Quinn’s back. She’s standing to the side, screeching instructions, and making the whole thing worse. I grab Mr Cass’s whistle and blow my hardest.

  Everybody stops.

  Even Miss Quinn.

  ‘Jennifer,’ I call, ‘you help up the two in blue. Ol, you’re getting greens. Miss Quinn. You’re on browns, Mr Cass reds and I’m doing yellows.’ I don’t wait for any objections. I march in there and peel off two little butterballs, untie their stockings and brush them down.

  Five minutes later all that’s left is a few dried tears.

  ‘You’re all a winner,’ I announce.

  Everyone cheers. Except Miss Quinn. She’s busy doing a lemon sucking impersonation. One eye and both lips are in spasm. Finally, she spits out, ‘Kris, Oliver and Jennifer! For the rest of the proceedings you will be on field events. Shot-put, discus and vortex.’

  Not field events! Field events means standing out in the hot sun while some puny kid dribbles the equipment out of his hand and cries when you call, ‘Two centimetres’. Field events is what always gets pushed to the back while the running races are on so you have to hunt down all these missing kids and drag them to have their turn. Field events is always the last to pack up and the last to get on the bus!

  ‘It’s not Jennifer’s fault,’ I say to Miss Quinn.

  ‘Yeah’, agrees Ol. ‘It was Ella who called out.’

  Miss Quinn does not listen. She drags the whistle out of my hands, leans into my face and lets rip.

  My eardrums split.

  Chapter Three

  Point eight of a metre! Can you believe it? That’s how far some kid threw the shot-put. Mind you, ‘throw’ is a gross exaggeration. She stands at the line, holds out her palm—like she’s feeding carrots to a horse—and lets the ball roll over her fingertips. And for this I have to expire!?

  ‘C’mon guys,’ I say to my line of nine year olds. ‘Put a bit of oomph into it.’ I hold an imaginary shot put and cup it under my chin. I do an imaginary run-up and throw an imaginary winning shot. Shame about the jet propulsion.

  ‘Kris!’ barks a voice. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  Miss Quinn! Trust her to be at the right place at the wrong time.

  Ol and Jennifer start to laugh. Miss Quinn starts to look mad. The little kids turn into a line of giggling gremlins. Miss Quinn starts to look madder. She turns to me. ‘I was going to come over and relieve you of your duties so you could run in your age races but there is no reason to do so now.’

  That stinks.

  Miss Quinn continues. ‘Seeming as you’re having such a wonderful time you three can stay on field events for the rest of the day. You won’t be leaving until every ten, eleven and twelve year old has finished.’

  Ol shrugs and ambles over to retrieve the shot-put. I grit my teeth. I am so over this. Why should I care about some dumb sports day!

  But Jennifer? She looks shocked. She grabs Miss Quinn’s arm. ‘I’m the fastest in my age division,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a great chance of getting to the Districts—even to the Zone. Please don’t stop me from racing.’ Her voice is trembly, like her bottom lip.

  I join in. ‘Please don’t stop Jennifer racing, Miss Quinn. It’s not her fault. I’m the one with the wind problem.’ I look around the oval and spy Mr Cass combing up and down the spectator stand. ‘See. Mr Cassius is looking for her.’

  Miss Quinn pauses. She watches Mr Cass striding up and down, obviously looking for someone. We wait. Seconds drag then scoot past.

  Ollie adds his bit begging, ‘Let her race. Ple-e-e-ase.’

  Miss Quinn sniffs. ‘Jennifer should have thought of that before she started to laugh.’

  Jennifer shrinks. Her shoulders and head cave in to her chest.

  I stride up to Miss Quinn and say in my steadiest voice. ‘Please, Miss. She hasn’t done anything.’

  Miss Quinn looks me in the eye. Her top lip starts to jerk. Her eyebrow twitches. She looks from Jennifer to the group of students waiting at the start. And then it hits me!

  Stella’s at the start. So’s Karina. And so is Ella. Ella Quinn, who only ever comes second. Second to Jennifer.

  Jennifer sees them, too. She gives a little sob.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ I whisper to Miss Quinn.

  But she would. And she does.

  Jennifer slumps to the ground as the girl’s Senior Champion race leaves the blocks. I hold my stomach. I want to look away but I can’t. Neither can the others. Every kid has frozen to the spot, their eyes glued to the race.

  It’s no contest. Ella leads from the first stride. She has this weird way of throwing out her leg as she runs. I hope it falls off. Stella tries to catch her but she runs out of puff. As Ella flings herself at the tape I hear Jennifer whimper.

  It sounds like a nail ramming into my spine.

  I go up to her and squat down, putting my arm round her shoulders. She’s shaking. I feel like scum, like dog poo under a shoe. I don’t know what to say. Sorry just won’t cut it.

  Ollie’s hovering nearby looking as comfortable as a queen on a camel.

  The nine year olds are wat
ching, eyes and mouths rounded, waiting for something to happen.

  Miss Quinn is cheering. All roar and teeth. Suddenly, she remembers where and who she is. She looks at us and blinks. There’s silence. With a quick shake of her head and a ‘Carry on,’ Miss Quinn marches off.

  For a few seconds I watch her go. And then I get an idea. I have to find Mr Cass!

  ‘Keep going with shot put,’ I call to Ollie. ‘Be back in a minute.’ I turn and start to run. There’s Mr Cass, raising his arm at the starting line.

  ‘Mr Cassius,’ I pant as I pull up. ‘You have to re-run the girls’ championship.’

  Mr Cass lets his arm drop. He frowns, like a judge at a murder trial. ’Cause that’s what this feels like. Like Jennifer’s been murdered. ‘Why?’ he finally asks.

  I explain about Jennifer being stopped from the race. Mr Cass lowers his head as he listens. He stares at the ground. But when I finish up with, ‘Miss Quinn did it on purpose so Ella could win!’ he starts to shake his head.

  ‘Miss Quinn wouldn’t do that,’ he says. But I notice his voice is flat and lifeless. ‘I’m sorry Kris, the race stands.’

  I can’t believe it! Traitor!

  By now, Ollie and Jennifer and all the nine year old shot putters have come over. Miss Quinn has, too. She stands a metre away, balancing on her toes, her hands clasped in front of her chest. She reminds me of a vulture.

  Miss Quinn addresses the crowd but I know her words are aimed at us. ‘Anyone disrupting our sports day will pay the consequences. My decision is final.’ She looks menacing. ‘Kris, Oliver and Jennifer are to come with me. The rest of you back to your places.’