by Lou Kuenzler
LOU KUENZLER was brought up on a remote sheep farm on the edge of Dartmoor. After a childhood of sheep, ponies, chickens and dogs, Lou moved to Northern Ireland to study theatre. She went on to work professionally as a theatre director, university drama lecturer and workshop leader in communities, schools and colleges. Lou now teaches adults and children how to write stories and is lucky enough to write her own books, too. She has written children’s rhymes, plays and novels as well as stories for CBeebies. Lou lives in London with her family, two cats and a dog.
www.loukuenzler.com
To the British Museum – for being there! LK
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgements
More Shrinking Violet Titles
Copyright
My name is Violet Potts.
This story begins as I was trying to solve a brain-ticklingly tricky wordsearch. It was the Competition of the Week in my gran’s favourite puzzle magazine. There were supposed to be ten hidden words all about Ancient Egypt.
“This puzzle is as tough as a mummy’s toenail,” I groaned, taking a of the hot blackcurrant drink Gran had made for me. I was visiting her at the Sunset Retirement Centre, where she lives.
“The prize-winning ones are always tricky,” said Gran.
Gran is TOTALLY puzzle crazy and I’ve done loads of crosswords and wordsearches with her before. But this one was impossible. There were pictures of birds, cats and sacred scarab beetles all down the side of the page. I knew these were hieroglyphs, or Ancient Egyptian writing. But there was no list of the hidden words we were meant to find or any clues to guide us.
“We’re not doing too badly,” said Gran. “We’ve found eight words already, I think.”
I counted. She was right. We had:
Mummy
Tomb
Pharaoh
Pyramid
Papyrus
Hieroglyph
Scarab beetle
and River Nile.
“Look,” cried Gran suddenly. “There’s ‘sarcophagus’, right underneath ‘scarab beetle’.”
“Oh yes,” I groaned, annoyed I hadn’t spotted that one.
We had studied Ancient Egypt at school, so I knew a sarcophagus is like an Ancient Egyptian coffin. We had to do a special project and I wrote a gory diary of a mummy-maker. It was totally gruesome. Do you know they used to poke the dead person’s brain out with a hook? My best friend Nisha said it made her feel sick.
“Isn’t it funny with wordsearches, Gran?” I said as I ran a bright purple highlighter through the letters of ‘sarcophagus’. “The minute you see a word, you can’t believe you missed it.”
“Life’s a bit like that sometimes,” laughed Gran. “People don’t see what’s right under their own noses.”
“I suppose so,” I said. But I wasn’t really listening. “Look,” I cried, pointing to what was right underneath our noses. “If we find all the words, there’s a really amazing prize.”
I read out the information printed just below the puzzle. “Win an all-expenses-paid cruise down the Nile and take part in an archaeological dig at a real Ancient Egyptian temple.”
“I only ever do the puzzles for fun,” said Gran. “Hundreds of people must send in the right answers. I expect they just pick one out of a hat.”
“But you have to do a tie-breaker too,” I said, reading on. “Listen: finish the following sentence in no more than ten words to help us find the best winner.”
Gran looked at where I was pointing. “I should win a trip to discover the wonders of Ancient Egypt because …”
“…because my school project was AMAZING and GORY!” I cheered.
Gran raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know if that’ll convince them,” she said. “I think you’re supposed to make a joke or something. Not that it matters anyway. We still haven’t found the tenth hidden word.”
“Tutankhamun?” I said hopefully. “He was a famous boy pharaoh.”
“I think we’d have noticed a long word like that,” said Gran.
“I suppose so,” I agreed as we stared at the page.
“Tut,” I gasped.
“Tut-tut,” agreed Gran. “It is frustrating…”
“No,” I cried, jabbing my finger at the puzzle. “Here. T-U-T spells ‘Tut’. As in ‘King Tut’ – that’s what they call Tutankhamun for short.”
“Well, I never,” said Gran. “No wonder we didn’t see such a tiny word tucked away in the corner there.”
She took the stubby highlighter and marked the three letters in purple.
“Gran,” I said, grabbing her arm. “I miss my mummy…”
“Really?” Gran looked worried. “If you want to go home now, you can.”
“No.” I giggled. “You know I love being here with you. It’s my answer to the tie-breaker, silly. Listen: I should win a trip to discover the wonders of Ancient Egypt because … I miss my mummy.”
“Ha!” Gran started to giggle until her shoulders shook. “I get it … I miss my mummy! Like an Egyptian mummy. That’s actually pretty funny, Violet. A little corny but…”
“It’s I said. “Pack your bags, Gran. We’re off to Egypt. With a line like that we’re sure to w … w …
My toes had started to tingle.
I knew this feeling all too well.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Gran. “I shouldn’t think they even read all the entries and…” She looked up from the puzzle. “Are you all right? Violet…?”
“Not exactly,” I cried, clinging to arm of Gran’s chair. The tingling in my toes had moved past my knees. “I’m
“Careful!” Gran’s hands shot out as I tumbled forward.
The edge of the chair, Gran’s knee, a plug socket in the wall all whooshed past me in a blur.
“Got you,” cried Gran, catching me like I was a falling leaf, a moment before I hit the ground.
“Oops!” I grinned. “That was a close one.”
Gran opened her fingers. I was so tiny, I was standing on her outstretched palm. I had shrunk to exactly the same size as the little purple marker pen she was holding in her other hand.
“Honestly, Violet.” Gran’s eyes were twinkling with laughter. “You should know better than to get in a fizz like that. Especially over a silly old puzzle. You know you shrink when you get yourself overexcited.”
She didn’t even look surprised. She knows my little secret. I’ve shrunk lots of times before. Gran used to be just the same when she was a girl. Back then, she was a shrinker too.
“Do you think we might actually win the competition?” I asked as Gran lifted me close to her ear so she could hear my tiny voice.
“I’D LOVE TO GO ON A TRIP DOWN THE RIVER NILE. WOULDN’T YOU?” I bellowed.
Gran was right … I should never have got so excited.
I grew back to full size after just a coupl
e of hours but it was silly to have got my hopes up in the first place. A whole week went by and, even though I phoned Gran every day, there was still no news from I’d been convinced they’d get in touch to tell us we were the winners.
“Are you sure you posted our entry?” I asked Gran when I telephoned her that Friday night.
“Honestly,” sighed Mum, wagging her finger at me across the kitchen table. “You’ve asked poor Gran that same question five times already this week.”
“You never know, Mum,” I whispered, putting my hand over the receiver. “Old people can be a bit forgetful…”
“Violet Potts!” Gran’s voice boomed down the line. “I might be old but I am not forgetful. And I am not deaf either. If you are going to talk about me, you’ll have to whisper a lot quieter than that.”
“Sorry, Gran.” I blushed. She had a point. I have never known Gran to forget anything – she says all those puzzles help keep her brain . Although she’s old, she’s one of the liveliest people I know. That’s why we get on so well. We’re always looking for our next amazing adventure.
“It’s a pity you think I’m so forgetful,” she chuckled. “I seem to have forgotten the exciting news I had to tell you…” It was obvious she was going to make me suffer. “What was it now…?”
“Gran,” I begged. “Please tell me.”
“It not about the competition,” she said quickly. “I really haven’t heard anything about that.” I could tell Gran was worried that if I got too excited, I’d shrink in front of Mum.
The rest of my family have no idea about my little shrinking secret. The very first time I shrank, I tried to tell them – several times – when I grew back to full size. We were at a theme park. But Mum and Dad just got cross and said I was making things up. That’s when Gran explained it might be better to keep it to ourselves. She’s right, of course. Mum would get in a terrible panic if she knew. She already worries that I don’t eat enough fruit and veg. She worries that I ride my bike too fast. And she worries that I climb trees too high … go to bed too late … brush my teeth too quickly. It would definitely not be a good idea to add shrinking to the size of a lollipop to her list of worries.
“How do you spell ‘hieroglyph’?” said Gran from the other end of the phone.
“Why? Is it a crossword answer?” I asked.
“No – I just think it would be a very good idea if you tried to spell it for me,” said Gran.
“Ah,” I said, catching on at last. Gran knows that boring things like spelling – or disgusting things like eating Mum’s spinach and broad bean bake – are always a great way to make sure I don’t get overexcited and shrink.
“You just spell,” said Gran, “and I’ll tell you my plan.”
“OK – hieroglyph,” I began. “That’s H … erm.” I really wasn’t sure what came next. “H-E…? H-I…? H-Y…?”
“How would you like to go to London tomorrow?” said Gran. “I don’t suppose we’re really going to win that trip to Egypt, so the British Museum is the next best thing. They have a huge Ancient Egyptian collection. They’ve got mummies and jewellery and statues and real hieroglyphs too.”
“That would be I cheered, taking huge yucky bite out of a raw cabbage leaf that was lying on the kitchen worktop. “F-A-N-D-A-B-B-Y-D-O-S-E-Y.”
That evening I stood on tiptoe, looking into one of the million mirrors that hang on Tiffany’s – my terrible teenage sister’s – side of our bedroom.
I was holding a thick toilet roll in one hand and the long dangling end of it in the other. I turned slowly in a circle, trying to wrap the paper around my legs.
“Violet, what are you doing?” roared Tiffany, coming through the door. “Why have you crossed The Line?”
“The Line” is an old dressing gown cord which Tiffany pinned to the floor to keep me out of her side of the room.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I said, tripping over the end of the toilet roll and falling into a heap on her bed. “I’m trying to dress up as an Ancient Egyptian mummy, of course.”
“Dressing up? You’re such a baby,” sighed Tiffany, grabbing me by my feet and trying to pull me back to my side of the room.
“You dress up in miniskirts and shoes you can’t even walk in,” I yelped. But as Tiff tugged me across the floor, I realized I was going about this all the wrong way.
“Tiffy?” I said, super sweetly, sounding like the cutest, most helpless little sister in the whole world. “Won’t you help me, Tiffy? Please.”
“No.” Tiffany didn’t bat a long, mascaraed eyelash as she dropped me on my side of The Line and turned back to look at herself in the mirror. “Why should I help you?”
“Because it will be fun?” I tried. But Tiff just snorted. That’s her trouble. She has no imagination. “If you help me, I’ll give you an Ancient Egyptian beauty tip,” I said, thinking fast. I coughed and put on a deep, mysterious, fortune-teller sort of voice. “I will reveal the precious secrets of skin as smooth as marble…”
“Fine.” Tiffany turned towards me with her hands on her hips. I knew that would get her attention. She spends hours in front of her million mirrors huffing and puffing if she has even the tiniest spot… Today she had a huge pink one, shining like a Christmas light, right in the middle of her forehead.
“Nile mud,” I said simply. “Everyone knows it’s good for your skin.”
The only person I had ever actually heard say that Nile goo was the best sort of mud to squish on your face was Barry Bling, the horrible beautician who used to do treatments for Gran and the other old ladies at the Sunset Retirement Centre. Knowing Barry, he probably made it up.
“Nile mud?” gawped Tiffany.
“Yes,” I smiled. “Just rub it on your face, relax for half an hour and zing!”
“Where am I supposed to get Nile mud from?” groaned Tiff.
“The Nile?” I shrugged. “A deal is a deal. I gave you the beauty tip, now you have to wrap me up.”
“You haven’t even got any bandages,” said Tiffany. “That’s just a toilet roll.”
See what I mean? No imagination.
“Please, Tiff,” I begged. “I’ll dig you some mud from the garden later. I’m sure that will be just as good as the real thing.”
“Fine,” she sighed and began to wind the toilet roll around my ankles. “What I don’t understand is why you want to look like a mummy in the first place?”
“I thought you could take a funny picture on your phone and text it to Gran,” I explained. “To thank her for taking me to the British Museum tomorrow.”
“If I was going to London, I’d head straight for the shops,” said Tiffany. “What’s the point in spending the whole day in a stupid museum?”
“The museum is not stupid. It’s awesome,” I said. “They have real-life mummies… Well, real dead ones, anyway.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Tiff.
“Whoooo!” I giggled, peering into the mirror. I had to admit, Tiff had done a pretty good job of wrapping me up.
The toilet roll was wound all the way up over my head, just leaving a gap for my eyes and mouth.
It would have made a perfect picture, except just then Chip – my scruffy, naughty little dog – came into the room.
he growled at the sight of me looking like a spooky mummy. He grabbed a loose corner of toilet roll and shook his head, yapping and throwing mouthfuls of paper all around Tiffany’s side of the room. It looked as if a toilet-roll tornado had blown across her bed.
“Out!” screamed Tiffany as Chip and I fled for the door. The of an Egyptian mummy may be scary … but Tiff in a tantrum is far worse.
By ten o’clock next morning, Gran and I were sitting on the top deck of a big red London bus.
I peered out of the window as crowds of people bustled along the busy pavement below us, jostling past each other with shopping bags, briefcases and baby buggies.
“Imagine on a street like that,” I whispered. “Just think of all those feet. I
’d be flat as a pancake … if I wasn’t eaten by a pigeon first.”
“Don’t even joke about it,” Gran shuddered. “We’ll have no shrinking today, Violet Potts.”
“Don’t worry.” I opened my bag and showed Gran a little plastic sandwich box. “There are six pickled gherkins in there,” I explained. “They’re really vinegary, with a horrible super-sour tang.”
“Ooh.” Gran held out her hand. “I love pickled gherkins.”
“I hate them,” I said, lifting the box out of her reach. “That’s the point. The minute I feel excited, I’ll eat one whole. The taste is so totally disgusting, I won’t be able to think about anything else. And I won’t shrink.”
“Good plan,” laughed Gran. “Better wave one under your nose now. This is our stop.”
We clambered down the stairs and jumped off the bus.
“There’s the British Museum,” said Gran, pointing to a huge building with tall stone pillars.
“It’s so big,” I gasped, popping a whole pickled gherkin in my mouth. “Yuck! Good job these taste so horrible or I’d be the size of an Ancient Egyptian shabti already.” I shuddered.
“What’s a shabti?” asked Gran.
“Follow me and I’ll show you,” I said.
Gran and I peered into a big glass case. We were staring at a row of tiny blue stone people, each about as tall as a clothes peg.
“So these are shabti,” whispered Gran. “What amazing little things. You’re right, they’re exactly the same size you are when you shrink.”
“That’s why I wanted to show you,” I said. “The Egyptians used to put them in their coffins alongside the mummies.”
“Perhaps they knew all about shrinking back then,” Gran whispered.
Before I could answer, a plump man with a huge cowboy hat squeezed in between us. The brim of his hat was pulled right down over his face. All I could see was a long, droopy moustache poking out from underneath.
