When she got out to the playground, Minnie was standing there, waiting for her.
“Elizabella,” she called to her.
“Oh, hi, Minnie.”
“Listen,” Minnie continued. “I know you didn’t put tomato sauce in the eraser.”
Elizabella paused.
“I know you didn’t do it . . . because I did it.”
Elizabella’s eyes widened. “You did it?” She was genuinely shocked.
“Yep. Thanks for taking the rap. I owe you one.”
Elizabella didn’t know what to say.
“You have proven yourself to be a good Prank Soldier,” Minnie said.
Elizabella found herself feeling a little offended. She wasn’t anyone’s Prank Soldier, just yesterday she had created an entire pool!
“I’m not a soldier,” said Elizabella. “I’m a Prank Master . . . or Constable . . . wait, what’s higher than Soldier?” Army officer titles were not Elizabella’s speciality.
“The highest active rank in your nation’s army is General,” said Minnie.
“Well, I’m that,” said Elizabella.
Minnie shrugged. “Gotta go,” she said, “I’m off to put thumbtacks in the hula hoops so they prick people when they take them for a spin.”
Elizabella gasped in horror.
“Just joking!” said Minnie with a laugh. “I’m not evil.”
Relieved, Elizabella smiled.
“See you tomorrow,” said Minnie.
As Minnie turned around to leave, Elizabella noticed she had wrapped her long black hair into a bun. And stuck through the bun was none other than a Fairy-Wren Blue Pickles Pencil!
When Elizabella got home from school she went straight to the fridge. She needed to eat something to process everything that had happened. What was good processing food? She settled on fairy bread. She went to the breadbin and pulled out two pieces of fluffy white bread, then pulled the butter out of the fridge and the hundreds and thousands out of the pantry. Then she had another thought. What if I use strawberry jam instead of butter? That would make the tastiest fairy bread in the entire world! She sat down at the dining table with her Extreme Fairy Bread, making a mental note to copyright that name, and started to think.
Her dad Martin came in from the garden where he’d been watering hydrangeas and feeding worms. Larry the Lizard was perched on his shoulder. When she saw her dad she half expected to get in trouble, which is why she was surprised when he simply said, “Elizabella! How was your day?”
Of course Martin didn’t know anything of what had gone on, and really, Elizabella hadn’t got in all that much trouble. Martin noticed the Extreme Fairy Bread (although of course he didn’t know that’s what it was called; nobody would until Elizabella released her first cookbook, which would be at least ten years from now). He knew that Elizabella sometimes ate fairy bread when she had thoughts to sort through, so he sat down with her at the table.
“What’s on your mind, my darling?” asked Martin.
“Dad, what would happen if somebody did something naughty, and you took the blame for it?”
Martin remembered something that had happened back when he was a student at Bilby Creek High School.
“You know, that’s exactly what your mum did for me!”
“Really?” asked Elizabella. She loved hearing stories about her mum.
“Yes!” said Martin, excited by this memory. “Back in English class in Year Twelve, I had snuck a caramel milkshake into the room after lunch. I was slurping at it behind my copy of Romeo and Juliet, which we were reading at the time. Now, as you know Elizabella, Romeo and Juliet is often considered to be the greatest love story ever told.”
Elizabella nodded. Even though she hadn’t read Romeo and Juliet, she got the gist. Two teenagers fall in love, their love is forbidden because their families hate each other, blah blah everybody dies. She was pretty sure most Shakespeare plays ended with blah blah everybody dies.
Her dad continued: “The teacher asked Bobby Grim what he thought the meaning behind Romeo and Juliet’s relationship was, and he said – get this – that they were faking being in love to get presents! Imagine that! It doesn’t even make any sense! No one was going to get them any presents – everyone was trying to split them up! Anyway, I was so shocked by this ridiculous idea that I involuntarily spat out a giant mouthful of caramel milkshake, right on the back of Bobby Grim’s head, which was right in front of me.”
Elizabella was enthralled. “Then what?” she asked.
Martin smiled. “The teacher, who had been scrawling on the blackboard, turned around and saw what had happened. I was just about to confess when your mother, who was sitting next to me, piped up. ‘That was me, I’m sorry!’ she said, sweetly as a kitten. ‘You?’ The teacher couldn’t believe it – because of course your mother never did anything wrong, or at least she never got caught. Your mum looked at me and winked. I didn’t know what to say. The teacher sent her out to see the principal and as she walked outside I think I fell in love right there.”
Elizabella took this all in. She wasn’t exactly looking to fall in love with Minnie, but she would like to be like her mum . . .
Suddenly Martin looked a bit concerned. “Elizabella, you haven’t let someone take the blame for something you did, have you?”
“No!” said Elizabella. “Still, say that I had, isn’t that what you did? And therefore legally you couldn’t get me in trouble for doing the same thing?”
“Elizabella, that’s not how the law works. And also haven’t you heard of ‘do as I say, not as I do?’ It’s every parent’s right to tell you what’s right and wrong even if they haven’t always followed the rules themselves.”
“That’s a silly rule,” said Elizabella. “Besides, it’s not what happened. It was actually the other way around.”
“Ha-ha,” a sarcastic laugh could be heard through Toddberry’s hair curtains. He’d been sitting privately playing noughts and crosses with himself on his arm.
“It’s true!” said Elizabella.
Why wouldn’t anyone believe that someone else was being naughty for a change?
Mr Gobblefrump couldn’t read the time on his digital clock as it had fogged up with steam from his cooking. He wafted the steam away with his oven-mitted hands, then realised his glasses had fogged up too. So he took them off and wiped them down, only to find the clock had fogged up once more. Eventually he thought to open the kitchen window, which slowly cleared the steam from the clock. He realised it was 7 pm. 7 pm! Mr Gobblefrump only had one hour to prepare everything, tidy the house and collect Miss Duck! This was going to be tight.
As he left his stroganoff to simmer and began chopping up the apples and celery for the Waldorf salad, he realised that he hadn’t even asked Miss Duck if she had any dietary requirements. Or allergies! Or aversions! Did she have any false teeth?
He sliced through a hard piece of apple and glanced over at the walnuts . . . He suddenly had an image of her trying to bite through all the crunchy elements of the salad, and a set of false teeth flying across the dining room. This could be a disaster!
There was no time to worry about that now. He went to his bedroom and put on the outfit he had been planning: a pair of neat denim jeans and a purple button-up shirt. He considered himself in the mirror, pleased. I look like a beetroot, he thought. And I LOVE beetroot!
Elizabella had been following her dad around the house all night demanding more Mum Stories. Elizabella knew lots of things about her mum – she was messy, she was a terrible gardener, she would stick up for you and she liked reading. But Elizabella always wanted to hear more about her. And the more she learned, the more she wanted to learn. She had a picture of her mum in her head and with each story the picture grew bigger and brighter.
Tonight she’d learned more about the little apartment where her mum had lived before she moved in with Elizabella’s dad. It was so small it didn’t even have an oven, just an electric frying pan, which she used to make omelet
tes. Omelettes were Audrey’s favourite thing because you could eat them for breakfast lunch and dinner. She made savoury omelettes and sweet ones, too.
“Name me something that doesn’t go with egg!” Audrey would say to Martin. He could think of a hundred things, but would always say, “Nothing, my darling,” and lovingly eat whatever she had concocted, even if it made him gag.
“Yep, she loved a kitchen experiment, your mum, just like you!” said Martin now. Elizabella beamed.
“Don’t remind me,” groaned Toddberry, swishing his hair out of his face briefly, revealing a sour expression. “When I asked for a gingerbread house for my sixth birthday cake, she made me a regular bread house instead,” he said, shuddering at the memory.
“Yes, look, it was a bit structurally unsound . . .” Martin said.
“When she put the candles in the whole thing collapsed and caught on fire!” said Toddberry.
“Cool!” said Elizabella, mentally adding a smashed-up house made out of soft white bread set ablaze to the ever-expanding picture of her mum. She couldn’t wait to make one herself.
Miss Duck had showered and powdered and plucked and perfumed and was ready for Mr Gobblefrump to come and pick her up. Now she sat in the front room, peeking through the curtain and impatiently waiting for her date.
Even though Miss Duck had been fairly indifferent to dinner with that strange fellow, Mr Gobblefrump, a few hours before, as she got herself ready she felt herself becoming all aflutter. She glanced at her watch. 7.55 pm. One more trip to the toilet? she asked herself. Yes, one more should see him arrive. And just as she’d got all the clothing down required to do her business she heard the doorbell ring.
“Fiddlesticks!” she hissed to herself as she finished and tried to pull her stockings up with both speed and also the carefulness required to ensure she didn’t snag them and create ladders.
She answered the door. There stood Mr Gobblefrump in a big purple shirt with a little sprig of lavender affixed to the breast pocket.
Mr Gobblefrump looked at her, wearing bright red lipstick and a lovely dress that was covered in pictures of cats wearing sunglasses. He had never seen her out of her school uniform apron before.
“Miss Duck, you do look ravishing,” he said.
Miss Duck blushed. “Thank you, Mr Gobblefrump,” she replied. “Now, where are we off too? The Sailor’s Inn? Ristorante Ferrari?”
“No, tonight we will dine at a brand-new restaurant!” he declared.
“Oh?” she said, curious.
“Yes, its opening has been widely anticipated in the food section of the Bilby Creek Gazette.”
“Really?” said Miss Duck, who was getting very excited. What could this place be?
Mr Gobblefrump paused for a moment.
“It’s called Chez Gobblefrump!”
“Oh . . .” said Miss Duck, a little disappointed. She saw a flash of pain in his face. “I mean . . . Oh, goodie! I hear great things about that establishment!”
Mr Gobblefrump beamed.
“And where is your car?” she enquired, innocently.
“You shall be transported via the most romantic vehicle of all.”
Miss Duck looked around for a horse and carriage, or at the very least a Cadillac. Then she saw it.
“Oh no . . .” she said, this time unable to mask her feelings.
“It’s a bicycle built for two!” said Mr Gobblefrump, proudly gesturing to his wheels. He’d bought the thing many years ago at a vintage fair, but had never had cause to use it before. And he hadn’t really thought about whether Miss Duck had any degree of bicycle proficiency.
He was about to find out!
Miss Duck somehow mounted the bicycle with a lot of assistance, but was unable to keep it steady while Mr Gobblefrump climbed aboard. Eventually, Mr Gobblefrump propped the thing against a tree so that once Miss Duck was on it, it could not move. Now, finally, they were on their way – despite having seven near-crashes before either of the wheels were in motion, which must have been some sort of record.
Mr Gobblefrump was astonished to learn that Miss Duck had never ridden a bike in her entire life. As he peddled down the street, he was all too aware of what felt like ten bee stings piercing his back. It was actually Miss Duck’s fingernails.
Away they rode, Miss Duck with her eyes pinched shut and her knuckles white, Mr Gobblefrump trying not to yelp every time the woman changed her grip. For one brief moment, Miss Duck had opened her eyes and allowed herself to feel the wind in her hair as they rode through the Bilby Creek Square. She almost, almost enjoyed herself for a second. Then the fear flooded back in and she gripped onto Mr Gobblefrump’s back even tighter.
The dismount was less graceful than the mount, but at this point all decorum had gone out the window. Miss Duck wanted off, whatever it took, as quickly as possible. She walked slowly and bow-leggedly up to Mr Gobblefrump’s front door. He was several steps behind her.
Half an hour later, they were sitting at the dining room table. Miss Duck was recovering. She had got to the bottom of a glass of water and could feel her heart resume a more human pace.
Now she was ready for her date.
“How about something a bit stronger?” she called to the man in the kitchen.
He was delighted. “Coming right up!”
Mr Gobblefrump pulled a bottle out of the fridge, dramatically popped the cork, which flew across the room and hit a picture of his dear old mother right in the eye, and poured two glasses of sparkling red wine. Then he went to the sound system and put on the Romantic Hits To Make Her Swoon compilation he’d purchased at the Bilby Creek Good Time Supermarket that afternoon, before coming back to the table.
“Cheers!” he said, raising his glass to Miss Duck.
“Cheers,” she replied, taking everything in. Miss Duck couldn’t help feeling a little bit girly about the effort that somebody was going to just for her.
Mr Gobblefrump had everything ready: the salad was prepared, the stroganoff was simmering, the ice cream – well, that was waiting in the freezer to be scooped out when the time came for it to play its part. This was going extremely well. All that was needed was some witty conversation and they’d really be in business. Of course, as soon as he’d had that thought, his brain turned to mashed potato.
“So, ahhh, Miss Duck . . .”
“Please, call me Petunia,” she said.
“Right, Petunia, so, Petunia, do you . . . umm . . . like . . . working at the tuckshop?”
“Well, umm, Mr . . .?” Miss Duck was waiting for an invitation to call Mr Gobblefrump by his given name, but he was so nervous it took him a moment to pick up the hint.
“Chester!” he exclaimed eventually, as though he had solved a cryptic crossword puzzle. “You can call me Chester.”
Miss Duck smiled. “Chester, I do like it very much. The women in my family have been working at the Bilby Creek Primary School tuckshop since television was in black and white.”
“Astonishing!” said Chester. “What’s your favourite TV show in black and white?”
“That’s no contest,” said Miss Duck.
“Wait, may I guess?” asked Mr Gobblefrump. “Was it . . . I Love Lucy?”
“Yes!” cried Miss Duck.
They both said in unison: “I LOVE I Love Lucy!”
And with that, the ice was broken.
Elizabella couldn’t believe all the awesome things she had learned about her mum in one short night.She wanted to call Huck to tell him about it, but it was after dinner, which meant no phone calls. Of course this was hardly an impediment to Elizabella, who was always able to find solutions to everything, including communication issues. Elizabella walked down to the bottom of her garden and started yelling over the fence.
“Oi, Huck! Huck!!”
“Is that you, Elizabella?” came a woman’s voice. It was Huck’s mum, Leanne.
“Umm, yes Leanne, sorry to yell so late. I just wanted to tell Huck something.”
She heard a
loud sigh. “Okay, make it quick. Huck has homework to finish.”
“Yep, sure thing!” said Elizabella, even though she’d never managed to tell a story quickly in her life, let alone the billion stories she wanted to tell Huck about her mum right now. There was one main thing she wanted to talk about. She’d had an idea . . .
“Elizabella?” Huck’s voice came over the fence.
“Huck, have you thought about what food you’re going to make for the Bilby Creek Fete?” Elizabella yelled.
Each year, Miss Duck would have a big spread of food for everyone to eat, and kids were invited to contribute too.
“I thought I might just make some cookies again,” said Huck.
“You could make cookies . . .”
“Or . . .?” yelled Huck, anticipating there was more to come.
“Or you could help me make a bread house?” finished Elizabella.
“You mean a gingerbread house?”
“No, a regular bread house!”
“I don’t think that’s a real thing,” said Huck.
“Oh, it’s a real thing. And you set it on fire!”
“Really? It sounds very cool!”
“It is,” said Elizabella. “It’s a really rare delicacy. I just have to figure out the recipe.”
“You don’t have a recipe?”
“No, it was my mum’s secret, so it was never written down! We’ll have to work it out.”
“Huuuuuck!” Elizabella heard the distant yells of Huck’s mum from inside his house.
“I better go, Elizabella! Goodnight!” said Huck.
“Goodnight!” she said and listened as his footsteps crunching on fallen leaves got quieter and quieter as he neared the back door of his house.
It was a plan.
When the stroganoff had gone down a treat, and Miss Duck had made many positive comments about the Waldorf salad despite his earlier concerns, Mr Gobblefrump thought it was high time to bring up the poem.
Elizabella Meets Her Match Page 5
