by Jim Smith
I thought of Irene, lying squidged on my pillow at home, and put my hand into my pocket. I’d picked the straw up out of the fireplace that morning and plopped it in my trousers, to keep me company.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I mumbled, giving the straw a little strokeypoos, and we walked to school in silence, apart from the noise of my blowoffs.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it!’ smiled the art teacher, Mrs Wisses, when we got to school, and everyone nodded apart from me.
Mrs Wisses isn’t our normal teacher, Miss Spivak is. But Miss Spivak was away for a week, so we had Mrs Wisses as our teacher instead.
‘Today you can draw whatever you like!’ she said, slotting a prawn cocktail flavour crisp into her mouth.
I looked around for the quickest thing to draw, seeing as I wasn’t really in a drawing sort of mood, and decided on the blowoff floating up from under my desk. ‘Fi-nished,’ I said, signing it at the bottom, and Anton Mildew opened his mouth.
‘I know what I can draw!’ he said, scrabbling about in his rucksack and lifting out a blue metal box with a yellow lock on the front. He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a tiny key, poked it into the lock and twisted.
‘Behold, the last of the Beryls!’ he beamed, slipping a pair of white cotton gloves on to his hands and lifting the lid. Inside, surrounded by cotton wool, sat his carton of Beryl. ‘Please don’t stare directly at the carton,’ he warbled, as everyone gathered round.
Darren Darrenofski slurped on the Tropical Mango and Coconut Fronkle he was drawing. ‘I wouldn’t look at it even if you paid me a million Fronkles,’ he burped, looking straight at the carton, and Sharonella bonked him on the nose.
‘Where’s your carton of Irene, Barry?’ smiled Anton.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I sighed, holding in my poo at the same time.
Bunky stopped drawing his drawing of Darren’s drawing and turned around. ‘That’s what he said to me too!’ he said, and I rolled my eyes to myself.
‘All that scrabbling around on your hands and knees to find your filthy little 50p, and now you don’t even want to talk about your precious carton?’ sneered Gordon Smugly, not even looking at me. He was too busy peering into a mirror, sketching his smug, ugly face.
‘Yeah Barry, talk to Shazza, it’ll make you feel better!’ smiled Sharonella, and she swaggered over, wafting her stinking perfume up my nostrils.
‘I DROPPED IT AND TROD ON IT AND THE WHOLE THING SQUIRTED ALL OVER MY MUM’S STUPID DRIED FLOWERS, OK?!’ I screamed, and I was just getting ready to hear everyone laugh when the fire alarm started clanging.
‘Do not panic, children,’ choked Mrs Wisses, getting up from her chair and stuffing the rest of her prawn cocktail crisps in her mouth. ‘I’m sure this is just a practice alarm!’
She slurped her tea and pointed at the door out to the playground, which was already open with everyone screaming and running through.
Anton picked his carton of Beryl up and started putting it away in its box. ‘Not so fast, Mildew,’ spluttered Mrs Wisses. ‘Everything stays exactly where it is during the fire alarm, thank you very much,’ she shouted, stuffing a packet of cheese and onion crisps into her pocket and grabbing her coat and bag.
‘B-but Mrs Wisses, you don’t understand,’ stuttered Anton. ‘I can’t leave Beryl here . . .’
Mrs Wisses slung her bag over her shoulder and marched Anton out of the classroom. ‘I’m sure Beryl will be fine,’ she chuckled, shaking her head as if he’d gone stark raving bonkoids.
I waddled out behind them, clenching my bum together so I didn’t do a poo right there and then on the spot, and got in line behind Bunky.
‘Nothing to worry about, children, this is just a false alarm,’ boomed Mr Koops, the sports teacher, and everyone groaned.
‘All that for nothing,’ whined Anton, whose voice is pretty whiney anyway. ‘If anything happens to Beryl . . .’
Gordon chuckled and opened his smugly mouth. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Mildew,’ he drawled, looking over at me. ‘At least it’s still full . . . unlike Barold’s!’ he laughed, and I felt a blowoff trying to squeeze its way out of my bum.
‘Shut your mouth, Smugly!’ I shouted, and the blowoff popped out.
Darren Darrenofski was standing behind me, so he was the first to smell it. ‘POOWEE!’ he screamed, spitting Tropical Mango and Coconut Fronkle into Sharonella’s face.
‘PPFFAHH!!’ cried Sharonella, spinning round and bonking noses with Bunky.
‘What’s going on here?’ spluttered Mrs Wisses, spraying cheese and onion flavour crisp crumbs into Anton’s hair, and I zagzogged off towards the toilets, before it was comperleeterly too late.
‘Aaahhh, thank keelness for that!’ I smiled, as I reached out for the toilet roll. I was in the furthest cubicle along in the boys’ toilets, which is my favourite spot for emergency poos like the one I’d just done.
The smell of a plug-in air-freshener wafted under the cubicle door and mixed in with my poo, making quite a nice smell actually, thank you very much indeed amen.
Suddenly my smile turned upside down. ‘Nope . . . Nope . . . NOPE!!!’ I cried, sounding like Feeko’s Mike, except more panicky. ‘THERE’S NO TOILET ROLLLLL!!’ I shrieked, which is the worst sentence you can say out loud in the history of saying sentences out loud.
I closed my eyes and scrunched my brain up, trying to squeeze one of my brilliant and amazoid ideas out. ‘By the power of keelness!’ I cried, but it was no use, I couldn’t think of anything.
I put my head in my hands and stared at the little gap that goes all the way round the bottom edge of the cubicle, wondering if I could slide underneath and steal the toilet roll from next door. And that’s when the mirakeel happened.
At first all I saw was a flash of white appearing under the door. ‘It’s nothing Barry, you’re just going bonkoids,’ I whispered to myself.
Then I saw the whole end of a toilet roll poking into the cubicle, like a pig’s snout except with only one nostril.
I reached out to grab it, but it disappeared again, and I heard a little sniggle. ‘OK, very funny. Now pass me the toilet roll!’ I said, wondering if I really had gone comperleeterly bonkoids.
The toilet roll poked its snout under the door again and this time it stayed there.
‘Thank you, whoever you are!’ I beamed, and I grabbed the toilet roll and wiped my bum and flushed the toilet.
I creaked the cubicle door open and peered out into the room. ‘Hel-loo, any-bo-dy ther-ere?’ I cooed, but everything was normal. Apart from the plug-in air-freshener had disappeared!
I was the first one back in the classroom, so I put my feet up on the desk and thought about how loserish my life had been recently. First my stupid baby brother had stolen my mum and dad, and now I was never going to taste my favourite drink in the whole wide world amen.
‘Oh well, I spose it can’t get any worse,’ I muttered to myself, feeling sleepy, so I closed my eyes.
The next thing I knew, Anton was screaming in my face. ‘MY TEARS OF GRANNY LAUGHTER!’ he cried. ‘YOU DRANK MY PRECIOUS BERYL!’
I opened my eyes and realised I must have nodded off. ‘How in the why what when who where which?’ I said, not knowing what the unkeelness was going on.
Anton was holding his carton of Beryl, his hands shaking. The little hole at the top had been pierced, and one side was comperleeterly crumpled up, just like my Irene. I could smell Beryl’s tears wafting out of the little hole, and my nostrils did a snuffle, like a dog’s.
‘It wasn’t me!’ I said, wondering if I’d sleep-drunk it without realising, and I swiped my tongue around my mouth to see if it tasted of anything, which it didn’t, apart from boring old spit.
The whole class had gathered behind Anton, staring at me like I was a baddy in an episode of Detective Manksniff. ‘Barold, Barold, Barold,’ Gordon smiled. ‘I know you were upset about your own carton being squidged, but you didn’t have to drink Anton’s!’ he sneered.
My ears couldn’t believe themselves. ‘Th-that’s not true!’ I wailed, in a waily kind of way. ‘S-somebody must’ve drunk it before I came back in!’ I said, wondering how I hadn’t noticed the crumpled carton earlier, seeing as I’m the world’s number one expert at spotting cartons of Tears of Granny Laughter.
Anton collapsed to the floor sobbing, Tears of Anton Sadness pouring out of his eyes, and Mrs Wisses wobbled over.
‘Children, children, children,’ she spluttered, tearing open a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. ‘What IS going on?’
‘Barry killed Beryl!’ burped Darren, pointing at the crumpled carton and then at me, and Mrs Wisses shook her head like she thought the whole class had gone stark raving bonkeroids.
‘Is this true, Loser?’ she said, bending down and peering into my eyes the way Detective Manksniff peers into a baddy’s.
‘No,’ I mumbled, not that it was going to make any difference.
A brand new stack of Daily Poos towered next to the school gates as I trundled through them with Bunky five hours, twenty-seven minutes and thirty-four seconds later, heading for home.
Bunky picked up a copy and looked at the front cover. ‘BARRY LOSER DRINKS ANTON’S LAST BERYL!’ boomed the headline, with a photo of the crumpled carton underneath.
He folded the paper in half and stuffed it in his back pocket, not saying anything at all. He’d been acting weird like that all day, looking at me out of the corner of his eye like he thought I’d drunk Anton’s carton of Beryl when I comperleeterly hadn’t.
‘Poor little old keelness me,’ I sighed, carrying a pile of homework to deliver to Nancy, which was my punishment from Mrs Wisses. ‘My mum and dad don’t love me, the whole class thinks I’m a liar, and I STILL haven’t tasted Tears of Granny Laughter . . .’
‘I don’t think you’re a liar, Barry,’ said Bunky, but I comperleeterly didn’t believe him.
‘Tell Nancy I’ll be round later,’ I said at the top of my road, and Bunky gave me a mini-salute from inside his pocket.
‘At least my mum doesn’t know about Anton’s carton,’ I mumbled to myself as I opened the front door and saw my mum standing in the hallway carrying Desmond in one hand and the phone in the other. ‘Thank you for telling me about Anton’s carton, Mrs Wisses,’ she said, hanging up and giving me an evil stare.
‘I-it’s not true! I didn’t drink Beryl!’ I cried, but I could tell she didn’t believe me.
‘If it’s not one thing it’s the other with you, isn’t it, Barry?’ she said, stroking Des’s cheek.
‘Oh I’m so sorry I’m not perfect like Desmond Loser the WORST!’ I screamed, secretly quite pleased with my nickname for Des, even though WORST rhymes with FIRST, not SECOND, so it’s not exackerly perfect.
Desmond stuck his bottom lip out and started to grumble. ‘I haven’t got time for this, Barry,’ sighed my mum. ‘Your gran’s down at Mogden Hall setting up the jumble sale for Saturday. Why don’t you go and help her,’ she said.
So I grabbed Nancy’s homework and headed for Mogden Hall, which was on the way to her house.
I opened the door to Mogden Hall and felt like I’d walked into Desmond’s mouth in the middle of one of his screams. Eight million grannies, all of them identikeel, were unpacking boxes and nattering to each other at the same time.
Mr Hodgepodge was up on stage, practising his magic show. His shaky hand was holding a saw over a coffin-sized box, and he was talking to Granny Harumpadunk. She was dressed in her glamorous assistant’s costume, which was a spangly gold leotard with a yellow tutu, and feathers in her hair.
‘. . . then you climb into the box and I chop you in half !’ smiled The Great Hodgepodge, looking at the coffin.
Madame Harumpadunk smoothed her feathers down and mumbled to herself nervously.
‘Granny!’ I shouted, and she smiled.
‘Coowee, Barry Warry!’ she cried, tottering down the steps from the stage, looking relieved to get away from Mr Hodgepodge.
‘My mum sent me down to help,’ I grumbled, flipping my skateboard up and slotting it under my arm with the pile of Nancy’s homework.
Granny Harumpadunk’s best friend Ethel trundled over in her wheelchair and ruffled my hair, peering into my eyes through her greasy glasses. ‘Ooh, is that our little Barry? Last time I saw you, you were this high!’ she croaked, holding her hand up about three millimetres lower than the top of my head, because I’d only seen her last week.
‘What’s wrong, Barry?’ said Granny Harumpadunk, cuddling me into her spangly leotard, and the spangles scraped against my cheek. Granny Harumpadunk’s good like that, always knowing when I’m upset about something, which is most of the time.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand,’ I mumbled. ‘It’s just that my carton of Irene got squidged, and I was doing a poo when the toilet roll ran out, then I fell asleep in the classroom and when I woke up, Anton said I’d drunk his Beryl,’ I jabbered, all in one breath.
I looked around at the grannies, waiting for them to start shaking their heads to themselves like I’d gone stark raving bonkoids.
‘Ooh, that blooming Anton!’ warbled Granny Harumpadunk, cuddling me tighter.
‘Outrageous! As if our Barry would do a thing like that!’ scoffed Ethel, pulling a Detective-Manksniff-style hat out of a box.
‘You’ve got to get out there and prove they’re wrong, Barry, that’s what you’ve got to do!’ shouted The Great Hodgepodge from the stage, and he waggled his eyebrows at my Granny. ‘Excuse me, Madame Harumpadunk, but I can’t practise chopping you in half when you’re standing around nattering,’ he said, and Granny Harumpadunk sighed.
‘Hodge is right, Barry, you’ve got to fight for your name,’ she mumbled, clip-clopping up the steps in her high heels, and before I knew it Ethel had marched me out of the front door and plonked the Detective Manksniff hat on my head for good luck.
I stood outside Mogden Hall and looked up at the sky. ‘Now what?’ I muttered to myself, wondering how somebody goes about fighting for their name, especially when their name’s as loserish as mine is. Then I remembered Nancy’s homework.
‘Nancy’ll know what to do!’ I said, zooming round her house in three seconds flat and knocking on her door, doing my face I do when a door’s about to open.
‘Hello, Barry,’ sighed Mrs Verkenwerken, sounding tired, and a familiar-looking toddler appeared behind her in a stroller.
I peered down at the toddler and flicked through my brain, trying to remember his name. The last time I’d seen Nancy’s brother he was still a tiny little baby, just like Desmond.
‘Keith Verkenwerken!’ I smiled, pushing my hat back, and I glanced at Nancy’s mum, to make sure I’d got it right. ‘Why, aren’t you a swell little fella!’ I said in my Detective Manksniff voice, and a brilliant and amazekeel idea popped out of my head into my hat.
‘That’s it!’ I mumbled to myself, scrabbling my hand about in my pocket. I pulled out the Irene straw I’d been carrying around for company and stuck it between my lips, just like Detective Manksniff does when he’s trying to solve one of his mysteries. ‘I’ll become a detective and find out who crumpled Anton’s carton!’
Keith rolled off down the hall, comperleeterly not interested in my idea at all. ‘Nancy’s in her room,’ said Mrs Verkenwerken, running after him, and I bounded up the stairs on all fours.
Nancy was sitting in front of her bedroom window, her bad leg propped up on a stool. The sun was setting behind her, so all I could see was her silhouette. She was stroking her pet cat, Gregor, and reading a big green book with X-rays of human bones in it.
‘Barry, so nice of you to visit,’ she murmured, stroking the cat like a film baddy, and I started to worry she hated me for not helping when she hurt her foot.
‘How you feeling, Nance?’ I said, and Gregor hissed.
Nancy’s eyebrows flickered and my heart started to jump. ‘Fine!’ she smiled, looking up from her book, and I sighed with relief. The door behind me
opened and I quickly did my door face, turning round to see Bunky walking through it, zipping up his flies.
‘Oh. Hi Barry,’ he said, giving me a look like he thought I’d drunk Anton’s carton.
I turned back to Nancy, who was reading her X-ray book like nothing had happened. ‘Spose Bunky’s told you all about today,’ I said, trying to see if she thought I was guilty too.
‘No, he hasn’t said anything about it . . .’ she said, which I thought was weird, seeing as it was the biggest news ever.
‘Well . . .’ I said, and I started to tell her everything that had happened, which was really boring for me and Bunky, seeing as we’d already heard it all before.
‘. . . and that’s why I’ve become Detective Loser,’ I smiled, once I’d finished explaining everything to Nancy.
