by Helen Brain
20
A fat lip
It was supper time. The prof stomped through from the kitchen with the pie pan gripped firmly between floral oven gloves.
He plonked it down on the table and the quiche quivered for a minute and then collapsed in a watery heap.
A strong smell of fish wafted off the wobbling remains. It looked like a rotting jellyfish.
Jamie cleared her throat. “It looks quite small, Dad. I don’t mind having toast if there isn’t enough for me,” she said hopefully.
“Fiddlesticks,” said the prof. “There’s plenty. The recipe says this feeds eight to ten people.”
The prof dished up for everyone and sat down. “I’m rather proud of this,” he said. “It’s turned out very well. Very well indeed.”
“Aren’t you eating, Dad?” asked Tick prodding the quivering mass with his fork.
The prof patted his chest. “Too much cholesterol. Doctor’s orders. No more eggs. I’m giving mine to Ilona.”
Fifi glared at him from behind her thick glasses.
“What’s wrong, Fifi?” he said dangerously. “You don’t like my quiche?” He stared pointedly at Snoopy and ran his knife against his throat.
Fifi gave a little yelp, piled her fork high and gulped it down. Her face went bright red. The prof tapped his knife on the table. “See, children, it’s delicious. If Fifi’s eating, it must be the best quality. Isn’t it, Felicity?”
Fifi nodded and shovelled in another huge mouthful.
The prof looked smug. “Ha, you see, Fifi,” he said triumphantly. “You don’t need all this mollycoddling and special food. Your allergies are all in your head.”
“My mouth ith tickling,” Fifi whimpered. “It feelth funny.”
“Oh wow,” Toby exclaimed. “Look at Fifi’s lips. They’re getting bigger. She looks like Angelina Jolie!”
“You’d better call Mom,” Jamie said, checking out her cousin’s face. Her lips were swelling like a puffer fish.
“I can’t thee,” Fifi wailed. “My eyeth are thwelling too.”
Tick began to giggle. He took out his phone and started to video her. “I’m going to put this on YouTube and make money,” he chortled.
At that moment Arabella came home. “Call Mom about what?” she said, coming into the kitchen. “Oh my goodness! David I told you that Fifi’s tofu squares were in the fridge. Don’t tell me you gave her the tuna quiche! We’ll never hear the end of it if she keels over from anaphylaxis.”
“I’m keeling, I’m keeling,” Fifi wailed. “The thhock is thtarting. The anaphylaxthic thhock is thtarting.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, you won’t keel over!” snapped Arabella. “It was just a figure of speech. Now stop performing while I go and look for an antihistamine. I’m sure this will go down in an hour … or two.”
She gave the prof a filthy look and hurried off to find Fifi’s medical chest. Fifi was still wailing and making Snoopy yap. The prof threw down his napkin, grabbed the dish and stalked off to find Ilona. Maybe she’d be grateful for the hours he’d spent slaving over a hot stove.
Ilona’s face lit up as he walked into Reception and handed her the pie dish. “I’m just on my way home, Prof,” she said. “Your quiche looks delicious. I can’t wait to taste it.” She broke off a little piece and put it in her mouth. “Wonderful. Tastes just like Dr Knight’s fish pie.” She popped another piece into her mouth, picked up her knitting and waddled off to her car.
The prof was in his lab looking everywhere for his spanner. “Darn it,” he muttered, slamming his Bunsen burner down on the workbench. “Where in blazes has it gone? If I didn’t have to spend all afternoon cooking for those ungrateful children, I might occasionally get some work done. I’ll bet my bottom dollar Nicholas has been stealing things from my lab again. He’s probably left it in the shed. It’s like living in a blimming zoo, except the humans are worse than the animals …”
Muttering angrily he stomped off down the garden and wrenched open the door of Tick’s shed.
“Why the dickens do they want to block off the window?” the prof muttered, bumbling around in the dark … “Ah, to allow the fermentation process to occur faster. Good thinking. I wonder how my ginger beer is getting along.”
He picked up a bottle and held it to the evening light to see how it looked. “Hmm, nice lot of fermentation going on in here,” he said. “Good lot of effervescence building up … not too shabby, not too shabby at all … hope that cork’s strong enough to hold in all the fizz …”
Fifi had seen the prof heading towards the shed. “At latht,” she whispered to herself, “a chanth to thee what my mithchievouth couthin doeth in hith thhed.”
Clutching Snoopy in her weedy little arms she crept across the lawn and up to the door. Uncle David was standing holding a bottle up to the fading light.
“Hi, Uncle David, what are you doing?” she piped.
The prof hadn’t heard her approaching. He turned around and saw her huge lips looming out of the dark. “Ahhhh!” he yelled, dropping the bottle. It exploded. The cork hit the wall and shot back at the prof’s face, hitting him in the eye.
“Ahhhh!” he screamed and grabbed his face. “I’m blind, I’m blind!”
Fifi was ecstatic. She pushed the prof to the floor. “Lie thtill, Uncle David,” she snuffled. “I can do firtht aid. You mutht have fractured your thkull and poththibly got thome brain damage, so I’m going to give you thome mouth to mouth rethuthitathion.”
The prof opened his one eye. Fifi’s huge swollen lips were coming towards him, ready to latch onto him like an eager octopus. He screamed again. “Get away, get away, you hideous hobgoblin!” he shouted.
Arabella burst into the shed. “What on earth is going on in here?” she demanded.
“Uncle David hath been thhot and I am thaving him. I’m like Doctor Thhepherd in Grey’th Anatomy,” said Fifi. “Can I uthe your thtethothcope, pleathe? I want to lithten to hith chetht.”
“I got one of Tick’s damn fool corks in my eye,” the prof roared. “I don’t need resuscitation. Get her off me!”
“Fifi,” Arabella said. “Good idea. Run to the surgery and bring me my stethoscope. Now stop being such a baby,” Arabella said to her husband as Fifi trotted off. “Let me have a look.” She carefully examined the injured eye. “Well, David, it’s very bruised but you’ll live. Come to the surgery and I’ll put a patch on it.”
“As long as you don’t give me an injection,” grumbled the prof, feeling very sorry for himself. “I don’t like needles. They make me feel all woozy …”
“If you make a fuss I’ll put a buster collar round your neck to stop you scratching,” said Arabella. “Now come along. It’s getting dark.”
21
An untimely explosion
The next morning Jamie was up early. It was the day of the horse show, but she wasn’t looking forward to it. She was coming out of the bathroom half asleep when the prof came barging down the passage, wearing a string vest and a pair of Arabella’s beige granny panties. His right eye was covered with a black patch.
Jamie covered her eyes. “Jeez, Dad,” she groaned. “You’re looking worse than something from a horror movie.”
“Your hobgoblin of a dog has taken all my underwear again! Not a pair left,” the prof grumbled.
“It wasn’t Fungi. HE hasn’t learnt to flush the toilet yet.”
The prof scowled. What was she talking about? “Well, where are my underpants then? I said from day one that dog is like a fungus. Stinky and hard to get rid of.”
Arabella came up the stairs carrying two mugs of tea. “Don’t be so crabby, David,” she said. “Jamie, I’ve brought you some tea, and there’s a letter for you.”
“A letter? Who from?”
“It looks like the ad agency.”
Eagerly Jamie tore it open.
“What is it?” Arabella asked.
“They’ve sold the commercial Fungi made last year to an agency in France, so they’re depositing anoth
er ten thousand rand into my account.”
“Jamie, that’s wonderful news,” Arabella exclaimed, pulling her into a hug. “I’m so happy for you.”
Jamie shrugged. “It’s okay I suppose.”
“But I thought you’d be excited.”
“If only this had come last week, Mom. I’ve got the money at last, but it’s too late. Shardonnay’s bought Oreo.”
“There will be other horses, Darling.”
“It’s Oreo I want,” Jamie said, trying not to cry. “And today I’ve got to ride in the show and watch Shardonnay take all the rosettes and I’m a much better rider than she is. It’s just not fair.”
Arabella sighed. “Life is hard sometimes, isn’t it? I’m proud of you, Jamie. I know you’ll do your best, and it’s not always about winning, is it? It’s about taking part and giving it your all. Now I have to run along for morning surgery. Good luck. Hopefully I’ll be finished in time to see you compete.” And off she hurried to see her first patient for the day.
Jamie stared miserably at her riding clothes hanging from the end of her bed. Arabella may have been great at stitching animals back together but she was useless at altering clothes.
Oh well, I’m going to look like a complete idiot on McTavish anyway, so what do cruddy jodhpurs matter, she thought as she pulled them on. But she sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror. This was not the impression that she had been hoping to create.
She was just finishing breakfast when the prof came into the kitchen, fully dressed this time. He had the black eyepatch over one eye. “Right, kids,” he said cheerfully. “You ready to go?”
“Gothh, Uncle David,” said Fifi. “You look like Jack Thparrow. You must be thpecially careful in cathe you catth thcurvy.”
“Dad,” Jamie said. “Do you really think you should be driving? Can you see properly?”
“I’m right as rain,” the prof said. “Now hurry up you lot. Get into the station wagon.”
“Can’t we go in your car?” Jamie said. “Please, Dad.”
“No way,” said the prof eyeing the cardboard box filled with bottles of ginger beer that Tick and Chanza were bringing out of the shed. “I’m not having you lot messing up my nice clean car.”
“Okay, but I’m in front!” said Jamie shoving Toby out of the way.
Toby grabbed her shoulder. “Really? You’re in the front seat? Would you like me to consult MY DIARY to check on that?”
“You’re a horrible human being, Toby,” Jamie snarled. “Do you know that?”
Toby sniggered as Jamie pulled open the back door and she, Fifi, Chanza and Tick piled into the back.
Jamie pulled the handle to shut the door. Nothing happened. “Dad!” she called. “The door’s stuck.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes,” said the prof in exasperation. He got out and gave it a sharp shove. It wouldn’t budge.
“Dad, I’m going to be late,” Jamie said, looking at her watch. “Please do something.”
The prof gave the door a hearty kick and it slammed shut with a crunch. “There you go,” he said, getting into the car. “All it needed was a firm hand.”
“Or foot,” Tick said. He and Chanza high fived each other.
A few minutes later the station wagon pulled into the car park at the stables. There was only one parking place left – next to Liberty’s SUV.
“Watch out, Dad, there’s a huge pothole …” Jamie said.
The prof peered through the windscreen with his one good eye. “Where?” he muttered. “I can’t see anything.”
He tried to brake, but the car lurched forward, hitting the pothole just as Tick opened his door. The ginger beer bottles clanged together, there was a loud bang, and a fizzing bottle shot past Jamie’s head, out the door and straight through the window of Liberty’s SUV. There was ginger beer and glass everywhere.
The prof picked a bloated raisin out of his ear. “Hell and Damnation, look at Mrs Poker-Pile’s car.”
“Barker-Polls,” Jamie muttered.
“Think you might have over fizzed it, old chap,” the prof said, examining the broken window.
Chanza punched Tick’s arm. “Told you so, you idiot,” he hissed.
“It wasn’t me, it was HIS special ingredient that made it explode,” Tick said, pointing at his father.
“Dad,” Jamie said, rattling the handle. “I’m going to be late, and the door won’t open.”
“I’ll deal with it later,” the prof said irritably. “Just get out on Tick’s side.”
“I’ll get full of ginger beer. It’s all over the seat.”
“Well, there isn’t any option. Now hurry up. I’ve got to get to work.”
“I thought you were thtaying to watth the horthe thhow, Uncle David,” Fifi said.
“Not today. Too much to do. Aunty Arabella will be along soon. She can explain to Mrs Poker-Pile. Now hurry up, Jamie.”
22
Toby is a twerp
By the time Jamie got out of the car there was a huge wet patch on her jacket, her hair was dripping with a sticky mess and she smelled like a beer brewery. She sighed. Could this day get any worse?
Just then Shardonnay came sauntering around the side of the stables. She looked magnificent in expensive jodhpurs, a blue velvet riding jacket, knee length boots and a smart leather crop.
She stopped to examine Jamie, starting at her feet (she was wearing an old pair of trainers) and her crooked legged jodhpurs that sagged at the hip, and … when she saw the wet splodge on the sleeve of her ancient tweed jacket and her stringy wet hair she began to giggle.
“It’s not a fancy dress event,” she said, pointing at Jamie with her crop.
“I told her so,” Toby sniggered. “But she insisted on coming dressed as a homeless person.”
Jamie went bright red. She couldn’t believe Toby. He was a total twerp. He should be defending her.
Tick marched up to Shardonnay. “Listen here,” he said, shoving his finger in her face. “You don’t be mean to my sister or I’ll … I’ll …”
“You’ll what,” Shardonnay drawled. “Oh, I’m so terrified.” Then she linked arms with Toby. “Come on, Tobias. Let’s leave the kids to play dress up.”
Toby wriggled with pleasure. He was blushing all over his face and his ears lit up like LED lights.
Jamie hurried across to the show ground.
“We will begin the fifty centimetre accumulator,” announced the commentator. “Can we please have Holly-Hannah Jacobs on Jellytot in the ring, with Pandora February on Whistle waiting on standby?”
The judges sat at their table as the bell rang and the first rider began her course.
“Good luck, Jamie,” Pan called as she trotted out of the yard on Whistle. Whistle was always beautiful, but today he looked magnificent. His mane and tail were plaited, and his coat had been washed and brushed until it shone.
“I’m going to need it,” Jamie said, swinging into the saddle. Next to Pan and Shardonnay she felt ridiculous. McTavish was so short that her feet were nearly dragging on the ground. His mane was very thick and difficult to plait and bits of hair kept popping out and standing up. He looked like he had a mohawk.
“You all right now, Jamie?” Lee called. “You ready to go and warm up?”
Jamie nodded. She was too busy trying to control McTavish to say anything.
She rode out to the warm up area. Tick and Chanza were there, arguing with a bossy looking man with a red tie, while Fifi watched, breathing loudly through her mouth.
“You can’t just arrive and sell things,” the man was saying. “There are rules and regulations. You need a license. What have you got there anyway? Ginger beer? Have you had it certified by the Health Department?”
“It’s very good,” Tick said, giving him a cheerful grin. “Me and Chanza made it, and my dad tested it. He’s a science professor.”
“Hmm,” said the bossy man, stroking his moustache. “Are those old wine bottles? Did you sterilise them?”
“Of course we did,” Tick said.
“He’th lying!” Fifi exclaimed. “He never thterilithed them. A perthon could catth the thtreptococcuth viruth from them.”
Tick glared at her. “Streptococcus isn’t a virus, you little know-it-all.”
The man picked up a bottle and held it to the light. “Hmm. I think the little girl is right. We can’t allow these on the premises. Now take them away before I pour them all down the drain.”
“But …” Tick began.
Chanza nudged him. “Come on, Tick. Let’s go and put them in the car.”
“Okay,” said Tick brightening up. “We can sell them to the neighbours when we get home.”
“You will poithon them,” Fifi gasped. “You’ll get arrethted.”
“There’s Jamie,” Chanza said. “Look, she’s about to ride her round.”
“I’m gonna watch this,” Tick said, putting the box down. “That horse she’s riding is very fat, isn’t it?”
“And has short legs,” said Chanza. “In fact, he hardly looks like a horse at all.”
“You’re right,” said Tick, putting one foot up on the railings. “He looks like a hippo. Poor Jamie, having to ride a hippo. Hey, there’s an idea for our next scheme. We could start a hippo riding club. I’m sure lots of kids would rather ride a hippo than a horse. It would be cool because they’re amphibious. They could ride on land and in the water.”
“You can get Bilharthia from laketh and vleith …” Fifi began.
“Ag, Fifi, put a sock in it,” Tick said. “You’re getting on my nerveth … I mean nerves.”
“Look,” said Chanza. “The hippo’s giving Jamie a hard time.”
Jamie held on tight to the reins as McTavish bucked and lashed at the gate. The only way she could control him was with a martingale, but you couldn’t use them for dressage.
Lee was standing by the side of the arena to read Jamie’s test for her. “Enter at A in working trot. At X, halt through walk and salute.”
“Go on, Boy,” Jamie urged him. “Please McTavish, please go nicely. I’ll bring you a whole bunch of carrots …”
