So Grotty!

by J A Mawter

  Mr Cass looks grim as he strides back to the start. His bum wobbles as he goes. Somehow, I can’t laugh.

  Miss Quinn’s words jab my brain. ‘On Friday you three will be giving a report to the assembly.’ I moan under my breath. ‘Given that it is a sports day your topic will be Racing.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘How can one little thing like having your shorts ride down give us so much grief?’ I say, quietly. Ollie, Jennifer and I are sitting up the back of the bus.

  ‘The domino principle,’ says Jennifer with a sigh. ‘One thing leads to another, which leads to another, which…’

  ‘More like the snowball principle,’ interrupts Ollie. ‘We start off with some piddly little snowflake and end up with a crime as big as Mount Kosciusko.’

  Suddenly, a voice butts in. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that you asked for it?’

  Ella!

  I can’t help myself. My mouth opens and my thoughts pour out. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that you don’t deserve to be senior champion?’

  There is a sharp intake of breath. Ella goes as red as her sports shirt. She looks shocked but with her you can’t tell if it’s genuine or not. A little voice in my head says, Maybe she didn’t know? But I push it away and continue. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that you only won your race because it was rigged?’

  Ella gets to her feet. She towers over me. She looks like a cross between Barbie and the Hulk. Saliva pools in the corner of her lips as she says, ‘And hasn’t it occurred to you that you are making a grave mistake.’ Her voice rises, loud enough to travel to the front of the bus. ‘Kris Kadaicha!’ she yells. The rest of the bus falls silent. The yelling bounces off the walls of the bus and echoes over heads, all the way to the front. ‘Are you saying I come from a family of cheats?’

  Those up the front freeze. Mr Cass feels the need to do an urgent head count. Stella and Karina take an interest in hemming. And Miss Quinn? Miss Quinn morphs into a hyena. I can almost see her ears point upwards and her nose twitch as she comes down the aisle, tracking down her prey. I groan to myself. Is this day never going to end?

  ‘Problem?’ growls Miss Quinn. She stands with her feet planted, her arms crossed over her chest.

  ‘No,’ I manage to blurt. Unless you count having to face a carrion-eating carnivore in sports clothing.

  Miss Quinn turns to Ella. ‘I repeat, is there a problem?’

  Ella nods with such enthusiasm that her ponytail jerks out of its elastic. Pushing her hair off her forehead she snaps, ‘Kris says I shouldn’t be senior champion.’ She pouts. She has a snout like her aunty. Ella continues. ‘He says that the race was rigged and that you ’n me are cheats.’

  I wait, hovering over an abyss, but all I hear is, ‘You and I, dear. You and I.’ I’m stunned. Miss Quinn is giving a grammar lesson! It must be a reflex thing.

  Ol comes to my rescue saying, ‘It’s nothing, Miss Quinn. Just a few words between friends.’ I know why he added that last bit but I don’t much like it.

  Miss Quinn takes a breath. She huffs up so much that I flinch as she hisses her words out. ‘When we return to school, Kris, I shall be summonsing your parents. To discuss your—attitude problem.’

  My attitude problem? She and her skanky niece are the ones with the attitude problem.

  ‘Yours too, Oliver, should you choose to say any further on the matter.’ Ol shrugs, like I knew he would, and eases back into his seat. Ol’s dad always says, Choose your battles wisely, boys. Today, Ol is being wise. Miss Quinn turns to Jennifer. ‘And what are your thoughts on the matter?’

  Jennifer is backed into a corner. There’s nowhere to go and she knows it. I can almost feel the steel of the armrest pressing into her back. My heart starts to pound. I send her silent messages of support. Miss Quinn’s gonna take her apart. I pray it’s quick.

  Jennifer throws back her shoulders. She lifts her head and she begins to speak. ‘It is only one race on one day.’

  I like it! I find myself nodding, urging her on.

  Jennifer pauses. I can see her cheeks clench as she waits for the right moment. ‘In that one race on this one day, Ella is the winner.’

  How good is that?! Jennifer wins but takes no prisoners.

  After a fifty-eight seconds glare Miss Quinn backs down the passageway, conceding defeat.

  I let out my breath. Jennifer did it! She really did it. Said what she wanted to say without really saying it. ’Cause that’s what you’ve got to do sometimes. Say what you have to say but do it in such a roundabout way that no-one realises what you’re up to, except the people that count.

  And that gives me an idea…

  Chapter Five

  We’ve all agreed. We’re gonna do another Jennifer. Make our point about how ridiculous this whole thing is but in this underhanded way. We’ve decided to target the assembly. If they want Racing talks, we’ll give them Racing talks—only different.

  We file into assembly and take our places down the front near the stage.

  Jennifer goes first. She steps up to the mike and clears her throat. She looks at Miss Quinn who nods at her to start. ‘Races,’ she begins. ‘There are many kinds of races. There are drag races and camel races, power boat races and go-kart races. Foot races and horse races…’

  At the mention of horse races my eyes light up. I can’t wait till it’s my turn.

  ‘…pigeon races and lawn mower races and bike races and…’

  ‘That’s enough, Jennifer,’ calls Miss Quinn. ‘You’ve made your point.’

  I flinch. Does Miss Quinn know what we’re up to?

  Jennifer holds up her hand. ‘Please can I finish?’ she asks. She waits for a reaction from Miss Quinn. Blink and you’d miss it but finally Miss Quinn nods again.

  ‘And cross-country races and iron-man races and cheese races…’

  ‘Cheese races?’ interrupts Mr Cass.

  ‘Yup!’ It’s Jennifer’s turn to nod. ‘Let me tell you about cheese races. Competitors line up around a barbie, not the blonde sort of barbie, the flame and charcoal sort of barbie. At the starter’s signal they all throw a slice of cheese on the barbie. Not your freshly sliced deli number, but a plastic cheese slice with a raincoat, like you buy in the supermarket.’

  ‘The girl’s rambling!’ exclaims Miss Quinn, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  I look up. The whole assembly is rapt. Even Mr Cass. ‘Anyway,’ continues Jennifer, ‘the slice is on the barbie and the cheese starts to bubble. Funny, but the plastic doesn’t melt. It’s steel reinforced plastic, you see. You can boil cheese in it for a week and it won’t break down. It’s called Safety Standards. That plastic’s gotta be strong.’

  ‘Strong enough to survive being strapped on a spaceship on a mission to the sun,’ I call out.

  ‘Or nuclear fusion,’ adds Ollie in encouragement.

  Jennifer smiles at us.

  I look around the assembly. All the kids are glued to the story—a bit like the cheese. Ella has moved forward to sit beside her aunt. Their heads are locked together and the air whistles with their whispering.

  Jennifer doesn’t notice. She is just warming up. ‘At a certain temperature the cheese is boiling furiously, so furiously that little bubbles of air get trapped within the plastic. Suddenly, there’s a pop! But not a splat sort of pop. Because the plastic’s still holding. No, the cheese slice now looks like a puffer fish. In cheese racing, the first contestant to create this calcium enriched balloon wins.’

  Mr Cass laughs. Miss Quinn has pursed her lips so hard her moustache stands out like toilet brush bristles. Ella’s got the same moustache.

  ‘Jennifer,’ hisses Miss Quinn. ‘When I asked you to report on races, I didn’t mean cheese races.’

  ‘Oh?’ says Jennifer, feigning surprise. ‘Sorry. There is just one more thing I’ve gotta say.’ She holds up her hand for quiet. ‘Kids! Cheese racing is dangerous. You should never do it on your own. Only with a grown-up present.’ Jennifer looks at Ollie and me. The w
ink says it all.

  I wink back. She’s done it. Taken the mickey out of this dumb punishment.

  Now, it’s Ollie’s turn. He stands up and goes to the mike, tucking his shirt in on the way. ‘Today I’m going to talk about running races,’ he begins.

  I can see Miss Quinn settle back in her chair, relieved that the assembly is back on track. Ella settles back, too, so close she looks like she’s snuggling.

  ‘Actually,’ says Ol. ‘I’m going to talk about training for a running race.’

  Miss Quinn folds her arms across her chest and looks at Ollie in expectation. Ella wriggles, then nestles close into her aunt’s arm. Mr Cass rolls into a more comfy position in his chair, his eyes half-closed.

  Ollie launches off with this dead-pan voice. ‘The Fartlek Grunt.’ When he says, Fartlek, he drags it out—like far-r-rtlek. ‘For Race training.’

  Miss Quinn and Ella sit up straight in their chairs. Mr Cass’s eyes fling open.

  ‘With far-r-rtlek training we’re not talking about gas-powered training, folks,’ says Ollie. He chuckles at his joke. ‘We’re talking about the far-r-rtlek running training technique that was developed in Sweden.’

  Kids are starting to grin. I’m counting as he says them. That’s three farts so far.

  ‘In a far-r-rtlek training session, the speed is varied. You see, far-r-rtlek means ‘speed play’ in Sweden. A person doing far-r-rtlek training will keep changing their routine, chopping from fast, to slow, to an intermediate speed.’

  I can’t help smiling. Ollie’s on six and loving it. I wonder if he’ll do the ten?

  Mr Cass is looking confused, like he’s not sure whether to be angry or not. Miss Quinn looks flammable. Ella is trying to fan her.

  Ollie’s looking pretty calm in the face of a fire storm. ‘The Swedes developed the far-r-rtlek training manoeuvre to help cross-country runners and skiers improve their fitness. With far-r-rtlek, you can vary your activity as well as your speed—run, swim or cycle—they’re all good.’

  Miss Quinn’s cheeks have gone from rosy to a roaring red. Ella’s flapping her arms like a hummingbird on heat.

  ‘Far-r-rtlek…’

  ‘Stop!’ yells Miss Quinn. ‘That is quite enough, Oliver.’

  But Ol can’t stop. He’s gotta go the tenner. The last sentence he rushes and the words burble out. ‘The far-r-rtlek racing training session! Guaranteed to turbo charge your day!’ He gives a sideways punch to the air to emphasise his point.

  By now, Mr Cass has had enough, too. ‘Thank you for your very, um, informative talk, Ollie.’

  Ollie beams at me. He waves, his fingers extended in a ‘v’.

  Mr Cass goes on. ‘I think I’ll be trying out that training session this afternoon…on young Oliver, here.’

  Ollie’s beam fades a bit but then he holds up all his fingers, mouthing, Ten!

  My turn now and I’ve gotta say I’m nervous. I look around the hall. Stella and Karina are whispering behind their hands and giggling. Slowly I get to my feet and drag myself to the microphone. I swallow. Ol ’n Jennifer have pulled theirs off. Pressure’s now on me. Can I beat Ollie’s record?

  ‘Racing,’ I say in this small voice. ‘I’m going to talk about horse racing. Horse race calling to be exact.’ I clear my throat again and begin using my best race-caller’s voice:

  ‘A-a-a-nd they’re off!

  ‘Major Bummer gets a good break, with Bite Your Bum on his tail. Bum Steer, Phar Ting, and Call It Squits aren’t far behind. Then comes the gelding, Bum’s Rush, closely followed by Country Bumkin and Bum Deal. Mr Bollocks is up the rear.’

  I am relieved that I have finally started. I look around the assembly. Karina’s wearing this fat smile. Stella is too. Jennifer and Ollie are laughing and waving. Ella has that forced smile look about her—a bit like a matron on a cancer ward.

  I go on.

  ‘As they round the bend it’s soft underfoot. Major Bummer gets bumble footed and pulls back. Bite Your Bum pulls up then runs off. Call It Squits also gets a bad case of the runs. Oh, oh! Bum Steer has veered into Phar Ting who runs in front of Bum’s Rush. Bum’s Rush keeps on going. Country Bumkin, the old bumble puppy, sidesteps nicely in hot pursuit. Then it’s Bum Deal with Major Bummer coming second last. Poor old Mr Bollocks needs to bum a ride to win it.’

  Mr Cass gets to his feet. He’s following the microphone lead, searching for the power point. Miss Quinn is trying to get out of her seat but Ella’s wedged her in on the left and the wall’s to her right. She’s struggling, her face jiggling like a trowel in wet cement.

  I keep going. ‘It’s anybody’s race! Phar Ting is moving fast. He shoots a bunny. No stiff track for him. Bite Your Bum is giving chase. Call It Squits is doing just that. He’s unloading a major dump. The poor Bums! Bum Steer, Bum’s Rush and Bum Deal are wearing an extra two kilos of manure! Major Bummer! He’s not bumming around. And still coming last is Mister Bollocks.’

  The whole hall is convulsed with laughter.

  Ella and Miss Quinn are convulsed, too, but differently. They’re in such a spin they look like twin cement mixers. They’re on their feet and are staggering up to the stage.

  I keep going. I’m going for a record. ‘Coming to the line is Phar Ting, closely followed by Call It Squits and Bite Your Bum. It’s neck and neck for the other Bums. Bum Steer just pips Bum’s Rush and Bum Deal as he crosses the line. Looks like second last will be Mister Bollocks and Major Bummer for last.’

  Just then Ella and Miss Quinn reach the stairs up to the stage. They both make a lunge for them at the same time. I get a second burst.

  ‘A-a-a-nd they’re racing!’ I say, pointing to Miss Quinn and Ella. ‘Who will it be, folks? Who’ll reach the stage first? Will it be that pretty young mare, Ella?’ Everyone is killing themselves laughing. Especially, Mr Cass.

  Ella is yanking her aunt out of the way. Her foot’s on the top step when Miss Quinn drags her down.

  ‘Or the older nag, Miss Quinn?’

  I’m so excited, I’m nearly losing my voice.

  Miss Quinn and Ella stumble onto the stage. Miss Quinn lunges for my mike. Ella lunges, too. They both grab each other as I scream my parting shot. ‘Folks, we have a QUINN-ELLA!’

  A Sole to Bare

  The Palace

  Once upon a time in a land far, far away there lived the most beautiful princess in the whole wide world. She had eyes as green as slime, cheeks as round as ringworms and hair as shiny as an oil slick. She was kind and thoughtful, so thoughtful that she’d dust the snow off snail shells and help little old worms to cross the road. Her name was Gladys, which is somewhat unfortunate as every time someone said, ‘Glad it’s Friday’ or ‘Glad it’s sunny’ or ‘Glad it’s…anything’ she’d think they were calling her and answer, ‘Here!’, to which there would be much raising of eyebrows and gnashing of teeth as everyone thought she was crazy.

  Though, indeed, Gladys was the fairest child in all the land she had one big problem—her feet. When removing her shoes Gladys had to wear a nose peg. And taking a bath caused no end of problems. Even when those dreaded feet were underwater, bubbles would rise to the surface releasing their foul-smelling odour into the air. The ones that didn’t pop were the worst. They would float to the ceiling and stick there, leaking gases and leaving unsightly smears.

  Now, all poor Gladys wanted was a husband. Someone she could cook for, someone she could clean for, someone who could take her to the Mardi Gras or the races on a Saturday (ten big ones on Lance-A-Lot). So Gladys let it be known to all the land that she was searching for her Prince.

  ‘Hear, ye! Hear, Ye!’ announced the town crier. ‘All men between the ages of 18 to 35, or up to 40 if you’re not ugly and don’t snore (except maybe if you’ve got a cold—but only if you’re not prone to ’em), are to present yourselves at the Palace this Friday between the hours of eleven and four, during which time Princess Gladys will select a husband. Wedding’s at five.’

  There was much cheering and
jeering as the men greeted the news. The fat old ugly ones were jeering and the young, handsome, muscular, incredibly athletic and charming ones who could hold an intelligent conversation and were anosmic (that is, no sense of smell) were cheering.

  Now, in the kingdom of Princess Gladys there lived the family of The Three Bares. There was Roly Poly Papa Bare who walked around like a hairy version of a sumo wrestler. There was Mama Bare, affectionately known as Skinny Minnie—or Broomstick. And lastly, tiny teeny Baby Bare with an inferiority complex as big as Mount Edna because everyone called him Wee Willy Winky which wasn’t very fair because as everyone knows, eventually you do grow to be as big as your father (bigger in these times of growth hormones in the chicken).

  On hearing the news Mama Bare rushed up to Princess Gladys saying, ‘Glad it’s…’

  ‘Here!’

  ‘Glad it’s…’

  ‘Here!’

  ‘Glad it’s finally happening.’

  Princess Gladys giggled with a laugh so pretty it sounded like ice cubes tinkling in a cup or, for that matter, like ice slivers spearing rocks just before the avalanche starts. While Princess Gladys was giggling, Papa Bare came up and extended his big hairy paw (he didn’t believe in waxing) and said, ‘A hearty congratulations to you, my lady. May you be as conjugally blessed as Mama Bare and I.’

  Gladys smiled, not because she had a clue as to what he was talking about but because it was part of Princess training—Lesson One: How to Greet and Meet (Even the most Commonest and Loathsome of Subjects). Gladys, herself, had added that bit. ‘Here!’ she answered, finding the word useful in all situations.