by R. A. Spratt
‘I suppose Loretta could move in with us too,’ said Dad, chewing his bottom lip nervously.
‘What!’ exclaimed Joe.
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Fin.
‘Noooooo!’ bellowed April.
‘You can share April’s room,’ said Mr Peski.
‘No way!’ yelled April. She was starting to hyperventilate.
‘N-n-not a good idea,’ said Joe. ‘There’s a reason why they don’t put two bull elephants in the same enclosure at the zoo.’
‘April, be reasonable,’ said Mr Peski.
‘She can share my room,’ offered Fin.
‘She can have my room,’ said April. ‘I refuse to share with her, not with all her girly ways, and her ironed clothes, and her clever comments. I’ll go and live in the attic!’
‘I’m p-p-pretty sure there are b-bats in the attic,’ said Joe.
‘There are bats in your belfry if you think I’ll put up with sharing with her,’ said April.
‘But it would be fun,’ said Loretta. ‘It would be like we were sisters. I’ve always wanted to have a sister.’
‘Well, I’ve always been a sister,’ said April. ‘And two brothers is quite enough siblings for me, thank you very much. I’m sleeping in the attic.’
April stomped off to start moving her stuff.
Loretta beamed and bounced on the spot excitedly. ‘I’m sure I’ll win her over. She’s just emotional about getting a new mother. This is going to be so much fun. I’ll call the removalists.’ She hurried back towards her own house.
‘But this is just temporary,’ Dad called after her anxiously. ‘Surely removalists don’t need to get involved.’
‘Of course they do, Mr Peski,’ Loretta called back as she entered her front door. ‘I’d hate for you to sprain your back lifting one of my aquariums.’
Loretta disappeared inside the house. Ingrid followed her at a slower pace.
‘What have I done?’ muttered Dad. He had started to quiver with fear. The only thing more terrifying to him than an international spy agency were females, and he had just agreed to allow two more into his house.
‘Expanded the family,’ said Fin.
‘I’d better file all this paperwork,’ said Ms Klaus, checking her watch. ‘I’ll throw in a complaint about excessive force and brutality just to spice things up.’
‘But I haven’t been brutal to anyone,’ said Dad in alarm.
‘Not you, Dad,’ said Joe. ‘The i-i-immigration people.’
‘No one is filing a brutality complaint against you, Mr Peski,’ chuckled Ms Klaus. ‘Unless the Viswanathans try to regain custody of Loretta, then that would be a good tactic. I’ll keep it in mind.’
She got in her car and drove away.
‘What now?’ asked Joe.
‘The carrot bed needs preparing,’ said Dad. He started walking towards his own garden.
‘Aren’t you going to help your new fiancée move her stuff?’ asked Fin.
‘I’m sure I’d only get in the way,’ said Dad. ‘But soil doesn’t till itself.’
‘But …’ began Fin.
Joe put his hand on Fin’s shoulder. ‘Let him go. He needs to r-r-regress. It’s going to take Dad a while to p-process all this.’
‘He’s going to need to process it before he actually says “I do”,’ said Fin.
‘I think he’s better off focusing on his v-veg,’ said Joe.
At school the next morning all the kids in Fin and April’s class were openly staring at them. Even the teacher was staring at them. And they sat in the back row, so there was nothing subtle about it. Every kid in the class had swivelled in their seats to stare at the two Peski kids.
‘Shouldn’t we be studying a poem or something?’ demanded April.
‘Well, we could,’ said Mr Sturgess, their English teacher. ‘But I don’t think anything Shakespeare wrote could be as dramatic and exciting as what’s going on in your family.’
Mr Sturgess was an overweight, balding middle-aged man. He had been worn down by twenty years of attempting to teach English literature to the children of Currawong. A town with no bookshop and no library. But he was a kind man and in his own way happy enough, mainly because he spent every moment he could reading a book, so his brain at least could get out of Currawong.
‘It’s none of your business,’ said Fin.
‘This is a small town,’ said Kieran, a straightforward boy who saw life with a simplicity that wasn’t there. ‘Everyone here knows everything about everyone.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather we discussed it with you, rather than behind your back?’ asked Matilda. She was a girl with perfectly braided hair who was so desperate to be perfect in every way that she frequently stooped to disgraceful behaviour to achieve her goals, like cheating in the cockroach races and setting snails on her opponent’s daffodils.
‘I’d rather learn about poetry,’ snapped April.
‘You hate poetry,’ Fin pointed out. ‘You say it’s boring and irritating because it rhymes and you find yourself remembering it even when you don’t want to.’
‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ said April. ‘I didn’t say I “liked” poetry. I said I’d rather study it than endure this gaggle of gob-breathers gawping at me.’
‘Excellent use of alliteration,’ said Mr Sturgess. He couldn’t help himself. He was always delighted when a student used the mechanics of expression properly, even if it was to abuse him.
‘I’d rather have a hole drilled in my head by a power drill than put up with this,’ said April, waving her arm at the whole class.
‘And nice use of metaphor,’ commended Mr Sturgess.
‘It wasn’t a metaphor,’ said April. ‘I would literally rather take a power drill to my head than be in this class.’
Mr Sturgess sighed. ‘You’d be surprised how many teachers feel the same way.’
‘So is your dad really adopting Loretta Viswanathan?’ asked Kieran, trying to draw the conversation back to the nitty-gritty of the gossip at hand.
‘Can he do that?’ asked Matilda. ‘After all she’s … you know … different, isn’t she? Culturally to you, I mean.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked April.
‘I think she means Loretta is Sri Lankan,’ said Fin.
‘No,’ said Matilda. ‘I mean Loretta is rich. Really, really rich. And rich people are different.’
‘She’s got a point,’ conceded Fin.
‘Dad isn’t adopting her,’ said April.
‘I’d adopt her if you were my daughter,’ said Kieran. Everyone else in the class sniggered, even Mr Sturgess had to suppress a smirk. April had a gift for getting on even the most patient person’s nerves.
‘Parents don’t get to swap out their kids,’ snapped April.
‘I bet your dad wishes he could,’ said Animesh.
There was more sniggering. Animesh was Kieran’s best friend. He was equally annoying but in a more nerdy way. His black hair was slicked in a style that had not been fashionable for decades, but it suited Animesh’s personality so well that no one ever made fun of him for it. If Animesh and Kieran had a time machine and travelled to the 1950s, they would both have fit in perfectly.
‘Yeah, he’s already swapped out their mum with that Swedish woman,’ added Kieran.
There was no sniggering this time. As soon as he said it, even Kieran realised he’d gone too far. Mainly because Fin had launched himself at Kieran’s throat.
Pumpkin enjoyed a good fracas and had soon sunk his teeth into Matilda’s ankle.
April had used the distraction as an opportunity to tip Animesh’s pencil box over his head.
‘Take that back!’ bellowed Fin.
‘What?’ pleaded Kieran. It was hard to talk because Fin was attempting to strangle him with his own school tie.
‘Don’t you say that about my mother,’ growled Fin.
Strong hands grabbed hold of Fin and pulled him off. It was April. ‘Let him go,’ she ordered.
&n
bsp; ‘Did you hear what he said about Mum?’ demanded Fin.
‘Yes,’ said April. ‘That’s why you have to let him go. Because I’m going to kill him.’ She leapt on Kieran and took hold of his tie herself.
Just then, the PA system crackled. ‘How do I turn this on?’ There was a mumble of response. ‘It’s on already? Blast! I mean, good morning, Currawong High,’ said Mr Lang.
The students froze, mid brawl.
‘Leave your bags and school supplies where they are,’ said Mr Lang. ‘All students and staff are to walk to the Daffodil Gardens for an announcement, immediately. Attendance is mandatory.’ There was the click of the microphone being turned off, then another click as it was turned back on. ‘Mandatory means that you have to go.’
All the local Currawong kids abandoned the fight and started heading out the door.
‘What’s happening?’ asked April.
For once, Kieran didn’t have a smart answer. He was too busy trying to restore oxygen flow to his head.
‘The big announcement,’ said Matilda. ‘They do it every year, to kick off the festivities.’
‘What festivities?’ asked Fin.
‘Duh,’ said Animesh, as if Fin’s question was too stupid to be believed. ‘The Mud Run Festival.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said April. ‘The Daffodil Festival was strange but believable, and the Cockroach Festival was downright weird. But now you’re saying the next festival in this crazy town is to celebrate mud?’
‘Yep,’ said Kieran between gasps for breath.
‘We may not have a lot in Currawong,’ said Matilda proudly, ‘but we do have dirt. And where there’s dirt you can soon have mud.’
‘So long as there isn’t a drought,’ observed Fin.
Everyone gasped.
‘What now?’ asked Fin.
‘Don’t say the “D” word,’ said Animesh.
‘It’s cursed,’ added Matilda.
‘Which “D” word?’ asked April.
‘Drought,’ said Fin.
Matilda slapped Fin on the arm.
‘Hey!’ cried Fin.
‘Quick! Spin around three times saying “Thguord, thguord, thguord”,’ ordered Matilda. ‘To take the bad luck back.’
‘Hurry up, you lot,’ said Mr Sturgess. They were the last five students in the room. ‘It’s a big day for Mr Lang. We don’t want to let him down.’
‘Why is it a big day for Mr Lang?’ asked April.
‘I don’t know,’ said Matilda. It was rare for her not to know something that was a point of potential gossip, so this was quite a concession for her.
‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Fin as they made their way out across the quadrangle.
It didn’t take long for the entire school to trudge over to the Daffodil Gardens. They were literally one block away. So even with the slowness of a group of three hundred sullen teens, they were standing within the white picket fence of the gardens in under eight minutes.
The daffodils were over now. Sad, bedraggled brown petals drooped on their stems, but the gardens were still neat and the lawns immaculate. The big difference was the rotunda. Two huge TV screens had been set up and pumping generic dance music was playing over massive loudspeakers. The Currawong High students were not the only people who had assembled. The students from St Anthony’s, Currawong’s elite private girls’ school, were also there. They all looked just as posh as Loretta, although none of the other students managed to look as staggeringly beautiful in a straw boater hat and a school uniform that hadn’t changed since the 1920s. A large crowd of locals were milling around too. The shops had all shut so staff could come to the announcement. Even Joy, the perpetually sullen waitress from the Good Times Cafe, was there.
‘What’s going on?’ asked April.
‘I think this is where they reveal that the entire town is actually part of a weird cult,’ said Fin.
‘That would explain a lot,’ said April.
‘It’s not a whacky religion,’ said Loretta. She’d left the group of St Anthony’s students and come over to say hello. ‘It’s much more fun and messier than that.’
Mr Lang made his way up onto the rostrum. He was always confident as he went about the school in his job as guidance counsellor, but here in the public gardens he was out of his element. He looked nervous to be in front of such a large group of people. Mr Lang was always neatly, if unfashionably dressed, but nerves made him preen. He kept adjusting his bifocals, fiddling with the seam of his jacket and straightening his brown woollen tie.
‘Why is he even up there?’ asked April. ‘He looks like a goose. A goose that’s about to go in the cooking pot.’
‘Didn’t you know? He’s the new acting mayor,’ explained Loretta. ‘They had to get someone to fill in while Mayor Albright is awaiting trial.’
The former Mayor of Currawong was facing serious charges of attempted animal cruelty to a bear (for further information see The Peski Kids 2: Bear in the Woods).
‘But why did they choose Mr Lang?’ asked Fin. ‘School guidance counsellor seems like a random pick for local political leader.’
‘It was a random pick,’ agreed Loretta. ‘That’s the way it’s done in Currawong. It was written into the town constitution two hundred years ago. When an interim mayor has to be selected, they take the names of all local residents over the age of eighteen who have no outstanding parking fines, no criminal record, no dangerous pets, no overdue library books and no long-running family feuds. Then they put all those names in a hat, pull one out and that person gets to be mayor until the next election.’
‘So it was sheer luck that Mr Lang landed the job then?’ said April.
‘Not much luck,’ said Loretta. ‘There were only three people in town who met all the criteria. One of them was old Mrs Banks from up the hill. She took off in her caravan as soon as she heard what was going on. So that only left Mr Lang and Joy the waitress. It’s a shame really. It would have been fun having a miserable, sullen mayor.’
‘Ahem,’ began Mr Lang as he shook out several sheets of folded paper and began reading his speech into the microphone. ‘Thank you all for coming here today.’
‘We didn’t have a choice!’ Fin said loudly. ‘You said it was “mandatory” remember?’
‘Shhh,’ said Joe. ‘You c-c-can’t always correct and question p-people.’
‘Why not?’ questioned Fin.
Joe didn’t reply. He just took a calming breath and tried to summon the strength to endure his brother’s and sister’s personalities. He found himself doing this a lot. It never worked.
‘Um,’ said Mr Lang, checking his notes.
‘Get on with it!’ heckled April.
‘Shhhh,’ said half the crowd.
‘As Currawong’s acting mayor,’ read Mr Lang, ‘it gives me great pleasure to …’ He turned the page of his speech, ‘… use the bathrooms responsibly, always remembering to wash your hands …’
Everyone looked perplexed. People began to mutter among themselves.
‘Oh goodie,’ said Loretta. ‘The strain is too much for him. Mr Lang has only been acting interim mayor for two days and he’s snapped already.’
‘Huh?’ said Mr Lang. He shuffled his notes again. ‘Sorry, I skipped a page. As Currawong’s acting mayor it gives me great pleasure to introduce Brad Peddler from the “Mad as Mud” company.’
‘That makes more sense,’ said Loretta.
Everyone in the crowd dutifully applauded as a musclebound man in a too-tight polo shirt leapt up onto the stage.
‘Gooooood mooorning, Cuu-raaaa-wooong!’ he bellowed over the microphone.
People cheered.
‘Let me hear you say – mud!’ cried Brad.
The whole crowd bellowed as one. ‘MUD!’
‘Let me hear you say – run!’ called Brad.
‘RUN!’ roared the crowd.
‘Now put that together!’ cried Brad.
‘MUD RUN!’ yelled all the gathered residents of Currawo
ng.
‘I can’t hear you!’ yelled Brad.
‘Then he must have seriously impaired hearing,’ muttered Fin.
‘MUD RUN!!’ roared the crowd.
‘Say it again!’ urged Brad.
‘MUUD RUUUUN!!’ yelled the crowd.
‘Wow, it doesn’t take much to brainwash the residents of Currawong, does it? Probably easier than getting them to actually wash,’ said April.
‘Who is that guy?’ asked Fin.
‘Brad Peddler,’ said Loretta. ‘He grew up in Currawong. But he ran away from home when he was sixteen. Then he came back again because it was too far to walk to Bilgong. Then when he was eighteen he bought a car and drove off. He came back a couple of years ago to take over the Mad Mud Mud Run. It’s huge. They hold them all over the world.’
‘So he hated Currawong,’ said Fin, ‘and now he comes back once a year to cover it in mud?’
‘I know. And the residents cheer with delight about it. It’s wonderful living here!’ said Loretta. ‘So much irony.’
‘That’s right, Currawong,’ continued Brad, his voice booming over the speaker system. ‘The Mad Mud Mud Run is back. In just four weeks your town will be covered in mud!’
Everyone cheered.
‘That’s a good thing?’ asked April. ‘I thought the people here were neat freaks.’
‘They’ll do anything for a good festival,’ explained Loretta.
‘So we want you all to enter!’ yelled Brad. Everyone cheered.
‘Even the old people?’ asked April.
‘This year there will be a special seniors’ category!’ cried Brad, as if reading April’s thoughts.
Elderly wavering cheers could be heard from seniors throughout the crowd. A walking stick flew through the air and nearly struck Brad on the head. He had to duck to avoid it. But it didn’t put a dent in his impressively white-toothed smile. He just wagged his finger at the elderly lady who had thrown it.
‘Is that you, Agnes Dalrymple?’ asked Brad. ‘I can’t believe you are still alive and haven’t been put in jail for assault yet.’
‘Constable Nitwit is too scared to try and arrest me,’ called the former mayor’s wife.
