One Big Wacky Family

by Jackie French

  CHAPTER 8

  Grub’s Little Invention

  ‘So much for that idea,’ said Bran gloomily.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ began Horace.

  Snidge shook his head. ‘It’s not your fault. You tried. Your Mum tried too,’ he sighed. ‘I guess there’s no spell in the world powerful enough to make us handsome!’

  ‘I’m sure Mum will work the spell out some time,’ said Horace hopefully, glancing out the window where Mum was practising the spell on the chooks, or what had been the chooks an hour ago. Now three good looking goats, a pretty pink monkey and a very handsome banana with legs clucked around the hen yard. ‘How about we do the hundred-page essay instead?’

  Horace opened the dresser drawer and pulled out five feather pens, a bottle of ink and a sheet of blotting paper. Bernard took the one hundred sheets of manuscript paper from his satchel.

  ‘Right,’ said Horace. ‘Snidge, you do the start, Bran you do the bit about how broadswords are made nowadays and I’ll do the last hundred years. Pol, you do how to look after your broadsword and Bernard, you write about famous battles. That’s just twenty pages each!’

  ‘Ye Historie of Ye Broadsword,’ began Snidge.

  Five heads bent over the table as they got to work.

  Silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the scratch of pens on paper.

  ‘How do you spell “decapitate”,’ muttered Bernard, dipping his pen in the ink pot again.

  ‘D-e-k…, um no, d-i-c…Just say, cut his head off,’ suggested Horace, slipping blotting paper over the last paragraph before it smudged.

  ‘Blast,’ muttered Snidge. ‘I’ve blotted a page.’

  ‘So have I,’ admitted Pol.

  Bernard looked up in dismay. ‘But Sir Sneazle said no blots!’ Snidge looked down at the page helplessly. ‘It’s impossible to write a hundred pages without a single blot! Even the King’s own calligrapher couldn’t do it!’

  ‘Everyone makes blots!’ agreed Pol. ‘It’s what feather pens do! They blot!’

  ‘No essay,’ mourned Bernard, ‘and no damsel.’

  No dragon either, thought Horace unhappily. We’re doomed.

  ‘What are you lot doing?’ Horace looked around as Grub wandered into the kitchen. She had a new stain on her overalls and her plaits were tied up in a greasy rag around her head. She bent down to rummage in the cupboard.

  ‘Homework,’ Horace muttered. ‘It’s boy stuff. You wouldn’t understand.’

  Grub looked up at him. ‘What wouldn’t I understand?’ she flared. ‘Just because I don’t go to school—can’t go to school—it doesn’t mean I can’t do anything you can do!’

  ‘Can you write a hundred-page essay on Ye Historie of Ye Broadsword?’ demanded Horace.

  Grub deflated. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t know anything about broadswords.’

  Snidge sniffed. ‘Well, we can’t write a hundred pages either.’

  ‘We can write it,’ corrected Bernard. ‘We just keep leaving blots.’

  ‘Blots?’ Grub peered down at the messy pages on the kitchen table. ‘I can fix those.’

  ‘Look, little sister,’ said Horace patiently. ‘This is no time for your silly inventions.’

  ‘Silly? Huh. It would serve you right if I just let you blot away all day,’ sniffed Grub. ‘But I won’t, because I’m a kind, generous little sister. You lot stay here and I’ll be right back.’

  Snidge stared after her. ‘What’s she going to do?’

  ‘Probably get one of her dumb inventions,’ said Horace. ‘She invented this strange speaking device the other day. You hold one bit to your ear and talk into the other bit. She said people could use it to talk to their friends in other villages. How dumb can you get?’

  ‘Why would we want to do that?’ wondered Bernard. ‘If I want to talk to anyone I just have to walk over to their place.’

  ‘I said they were dopey inventions,’ said Horace. ‘She’s just a girl, after all. You should have seen the flash box she said that could take instant pictures of things. She called them photographs and…’ he stopped as Grub returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Look,’ she said proudly, holding up five long, thin objects. ‘Just what you need!’

  The boys stared at the things in her hand. ‘What are they?’ demanded Pol.

  ‘No-drip pens!’ declared Grub.

  ‘What are no-drip pens?’

  ‘They’re like feather pens, but they don’t drip all over the page, you drip. And you can write fast with them,’ she added, handing them one each.

  Horace took his cautiously, in case it exploded like the firecrackers Grub had invented last week. He dipped it into the inkwell, then watched as the ink ran off in a stream onto the table.

  ‘Yuck,’ he said, blotting the ink quickly and hoping it wouldn’t leave too much of a stain. ‘These things don’t work at all!’

  ‘Not like that!’ said Grub impatiently. She grabbed the pen from him and began to write. ‘See? You don’t have to dip these pens in the inkwell! You just write!’

  ‘Hey, this works!’ exclaimed Snidge.

  ‘It’s really great!’ cried Pol. ‘No blots!’

  ‘Even I can write with one of these,’ yelled Bernard happily. ‘It makes writing easy! Hey, look at me everyone, I’m writing!’

  Horace stared at his friend affectionately, then turned to Grub. ‘You did it this time,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a fantastic invention, little sister.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Grub proudly. ‘Maybe you’d like to try my new fire starter,’ she added hopefully. ‘It’s a little long tube and you flick a small round thing—you don’t have to bother with flints and tinder at all.’

  ‘Er, not today,’ said Horace hurriedly.

  ‘We have to finish this essay,’ explained Snidge.

  ‘And rescue a damsel,’ said Pol, the happiness draining from his face. ‘Er, Grub.’ Suddenly he looked hopeful again.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘You don’t have an invention to make us handsome do you? Like, to get rid of pimples?’

  ‘I might,’ said Grub cautiously.

  ‘Really? How about an invention to get rid of pig smell?’ inquired Bran.

  ‘Or make me handsome?’ added Snidge.

  Grub looked Snidge up and down. ‘I think you’re alright as you are,’ she said finally.

  Snidge blushed as red as strawberry jam.

  ‘But if you really want to get rid of your pimples and your pig stink,’ continued Grub, ‘I do have an invention that may help.’

  ‘What?’ cried Snidge.

  ‘Really?’ cried Bran.

  ‘Yes, it’s in the shed,’ said Grub. ‘You’ll have to look at it there.’

  CHAPTER 9

  It’s a What?

  The boys stared at Grub’s invention.

  ‘It’s very…inventive-looking,’ said Snidge, giving Grub a hopeful smile. ‘It’s the most inventive invention I’ve ever seen. It’s a really nice colour, too.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Bran bluntly.

  ‘It’s a bath,’ said Grub. ‘You fill it with hot water and you get into it.’

  ‘Gadzooks! Get into it!’ cried Pol in horror. ‘You’d cook!’

  ‘No, not that hot,’ said Grub dismissively. ‘Then you take this stuff,’ she held out a yellow block for them to see.

  ‘It’s not gold is it?’ whispered Pol, awed.

  ‘No, it’s soap,’ said Grub. ‘You rub the soap onto your skin and then you wash it off.’

  ‘And that gets rid of pig’s pong?’ asked Bran dubiously.

  ‘Yes,’ said Grub.

  ‘And pimples?’ asked Pol.

  ‘I promise your pimples will have almost vanished by tomorrow,’ said Grub.

  The boys stared at the bath and soap doubtfully.

  ‘Maybe I should try it first,’ offered Horace courageously. After all, Grub was his sister.

  ‘I’m sure it works perfectly!’ said Snidge quickly, glancing up at G
rub. ‘Let’s go and get the cauldron of hot water and, and…’

  ‘It’s called having a bath,’ Grub finished for him.

  ‘Yes. One of those,’ said Snidge, risking another hopeful smile at Grub.

  Grub grinned back. ‘There’s just one other thing,’ she warned.

  ‘What?’ asked Horace cautiously. ‘It’s not going to bite like that grass-cutting machine you invented?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have poked your best jerkin into it,’ said Grub sternly. ‘No, this invention doesn’t bite.’

  The boys breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘But you do have to take your clothes off before you get into it,’ she added.

  The boys looked at her in horror. Grub grinned. ‘And that’s why it’s tucked out of sight in the shed! Give me a yell when you’re finished.’

  CHAPTER 10

  A Damsel is Rescued

  Bran sniffed an armpit. ‘I smell strange,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t smell at all!’ said Pol.

  ‘That’s what’s so strange,’ said Bran. ‘I’ve never not stunk before.’ He looked at Pol’s pimples. ‘Hey, they look better already,’ he added. ‘Not as red as before.’

  Snidge looked down at his gangly body. ‘My knees still stick out,’ he said despondently, ‘and so do my ears and…’

  ‘Are you dressed yet?’ Grub poked her head around the door.

  ‘You might have waited till we said, Yes,’ complained Horace.

  Grub ignored him. ‘See, I told you it would work,’ she said proudly.

  ‘Do you use this thing?’ asked Horace curiously. ‘Every day,’ said Grub.

  ‘No wonder you smell so nice,’ said Snidge, then blushed even redder.

  Grub looked at him kindly. ‘Well, does that take care of your homework? You’ve got pens that don’t blot and now you don’t smell.’

  ‘We’ve still got to rescue a damsel,’ said Horace. And kill a dragon, he added to himself. But there was no point worrying about that till they’d got the other problems solved.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where there’s a damsel?’ asked Pol hopefully.

  Grub sighed. ‘Boys!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘What’s wrong with boys?’ demanded Horace.

  ‘Sometimes you don’t look beyond your noses,’ said Grub. ‘You lot wait here.’ She tromped out of the shed and down the path.

  ‘I wonder what she’s gone to get now?’ wondered Bernard.

  ‘You’ve got a cool sister,’ added Bran.

  ‘Yeah,’ breathed Snidge, staring at Grub before she vanished into the house.

  ‘It’ll just be another of her inventions,’ said Horace. ‘Perhaps she’s invented a mechanical damsel, you know, like a doll that talks and walks.’

  ‘Sir Sneazle would guess it’s not a real damsel,’ said Bran.

  ‘Or maybe they’re glasses that make Sir Sneazle just think there’s a damsel. Or…’

  ‘No!’ Snidge stared out the window. ‘Look! It’s a damsel! A really, really beautiful damsel!’

  Horace shouldered his way past Snidge and looked out the window too.

  A genuine damsel was floating down the path between the guinea pig bushes. She wore a green silk dress and a high hat with a veil that floated in the breeze. Her golden hair flowed down her back and her tiny slippers went pat, pat, pat on the gravel.

  ‘It’s a genuine damsel!’ muttered Bran.

  ‘And she’s sooo beautiful!’ cried Snidge.

  ‘Gadzooks!’ yelled Horace. ‘It’s Grub!’

  ‘She doesn’t look like a Grub now,’ muttered Pol, still staring at her.

  ‘Well, her real name’s The Fayre Elayne,’ began Horace, as The Fayre Elayne floated through the door.

  ‘Well?’ she asked, in a soft, ladylike voice.

  Horace let out a breath. It really was Grub! ‘You look…different,’ he muttered.

  ‘I changed my clothes and brushed my hair and washed the grease off,’ said The Fayre Elayne, and suddenly she sounded just like Grub again. ‘That’s all a damsel is,’ she added. ‘A girl with fancy clothes on. Well, how do I look?’

  ‘Wonderful!’ breathed Snidge, staring at her.

  Grub looked at him kindly. ‘Well, all you have to do now is rescue me,’ she pointed out.

  ‘What from?’ asked Bran.

  Grub sighed. ‘Do I have to do everything around here? Oh dear! Look!’

  ‘What?’ Five heads turned around.

  ‘Help, help!’ said Grub calmly. ‘There’s a guinea pig out there! A savage, ferocious guinea pig!’

  Horace blinked. ‘But they can’t save you from a guinea pig!’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Grub. ‘Help, help,’ she added. ‘The horrible guinea pig is about to attack! Rescue me!’

  ‘But, but…’

  ‘Sir Sneazle didn’t say what we had to rescue her from,’ Snidge pointed out. ‘He just said we had to rescue her!’

  ‘Well, hurry up with the rescue,’ said Grub impatiently. ‘It’s nearly lunch time!’

  CHAPTER 11

  You Have to Kill a What?

  Lunch was mince. Mum had magicked it up accidentally while trying to conjure up a handsome knight. Horace had to admit it was the most handsome mince he had ever seen, all made into patties with herbs from Mum’s magic garden. The herbs mightn’t work very well in spells, but the boys agreed they tasted good.

  Horace glanced at Dad. Thank goodness he’d remembered to change before he came out of the cave and into the cottage. He looked quite normal—except for a faint smell of brimstone—sitting at the head of the table and joking with Bernard, Snidge, Bran and Pol.

  Grub had changed back into her overalls, to Horace’s relief, and no longer looked like The Fayre Elayne. It was a bit of a shock finding your baby sister turned into a damsel, he thought, without even a magic spell to make the change.

  After apple pie and cream Mum went back to the hen yard to work on her handsome knight spell—the boys no longer needed it, but like Mum said, you never know when you may need a handsome knight.

  Dad stood up from the table too. ‘I’ll be off now, boys,’ he said giving a gentle burp—an apple pie burp, thought Horace thankfully, without any flash of flame.

  Horace heard Dad’s feet tread down the hall, then the faint smell of cold and earth which meant he’d opened the door to the cave under the hill, then shut it again.

  What did Dad do all day under the hill? Horace wondered. Snidge’s dad made swords and gates and cooking pots at their forge. Bran’s dad looked after their pigs, Pol’s dad made barrels and Bernard’s dad looked after Badger’s Bottom (the lands at the bottom of Badger’s Hill).

  But Horace’s dad just disappeared back into his cave. Horace sighed. He had more important things to worry about now.

  ‘Well,’ said Grub. ‘Have you got all your homework done yet?’

  ‘One hundred-page essay on Ye Historie of Ye Broadsword,’ said Snidge, ticking off his fingers. ‘One damsel rescued—well, she will be a damsel when she changes out of her overalls again and that leaves…’

  ‘Er, nothing much,’ said Horace hurriedly.

  Pol stared at him. ‘Nothing much? You have to kill a…’

  ‘Nothing much at all!’ interrupted Horace loudly. ‘Really! You can go back to your inventions Grub. And thank you very much,’ he added.

  Grub stared at him. ‘Exactly what do you have to kill, big brother?’

  Horace sighed. There was no getting away from it now. ‘A dragon,’ he said and waited for Grub to scream or faint.

  Grub just stared at him. ‘Your dopey teacher wants you to kill a dragon?’

  Horace nodded miserably. ‘It’s not as silly as all that,’ he admitted. ‘We are training to be knights, after all. And knights kill dragons, or they used to, anyway.’

  ‘But you’re still a kid!’ Grub pointed out.

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ said Horace gloomily.

  Grub sat thinking silently for a minute. Horace wait
ed for her to say something dumb, like Mum could conjure up a dragon, or protest that No, no, dragons are ‘special’ to our family. Finally, all she said was, ‘Bother’.

  ‘Bother?’ repeated Horace.

  Grub nodded. ‘I can’t see any way out of this one. We just have to find you a dragon.’

  ‘We? But it’s my homework!’ protested Horace.

  Snidge shook his head. ‘You helped us with our homework, now we have to help you with yours.’

  ‘But mine’s dangerous!’ protested Horace.

  ‘We might have been savaged by fierce guinea pigs,’ Bran pointed out. ‘So you have to let us help you now too!’

  ‘And I found the solution to the other stuff, so if you have any sense you’ll let me help you hunt a dragon,’ added Grub.

  Horace bit his lip. ‘But dragon hunting can kill you,’ he said weakly.

  ‘Exactly!’ said Grub. ‘That’s why we’re not going to let you do it by yourself!’

  CHAPTER 12

  Dragon Hunting

  The six of them trooped out the door.

  ‘That’s the way,’ said Doorknocker gloomily. ‘Don’t mind me. You go and enjoy yourselves. Don’t give me a thought. I’ll just sit here on my own hoping someone will pass by and give me a knock. You go and have some fun.’

  ‘We’re not going to have fun,’ said Horace. ‘We’re doing my homework.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Doorknocker even more miserably. ‘Rub it in. You get to go to school. I just have to hang out here, day after day.’

  ‘Look!’ said Horace irritably. ‘If you really like, Grub can unscrew you and you can come with us.’

  ‘Leave my door!’ cried Doorknocker, aghast. ‘No doorknocker ever leaves his door!’

  ‘Well we’re not taking the door for a walk too!’ Horace informed him. ‘Come on everyone, let’s go!’