Princess BMX

by Marie Basting

  A MESSAGE FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  Most of us dream of escaping to fairyland, but in Princess BMX our lovable heroine can’t wait to escape her perfect (but boring) world of unicorns and dragons! She travels to our grimy real world where she can bike, adventure sport and be her true self . . . When she returns, she’ll shake up her kingdom – and sort out a spot of nastiness too! Thank the good goblin Marie Basting decided to tell us about this brilliant girl and her fantastical adventures.

  BARRY CUNNINGHAM

  Publisher

  Chicken House

  contents

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  For Mary Girl and the three generations of radical dudesses she inspired.

  Always in our hearts, Nan xxx

  Trust me, the fairy tales have it so wrong. Dingy towers and wicked stepmums are the least of my worries, it’s the boredom that will kill me. Sure, there are worse things than being a princess. I mean, it’s not like I have to shovel dragon dung for a living. But, honestly, apart from the endless supply of cupcakes, being a princess is pretty rubbish.

  There are certain expectations as my dad is always telling me. Ridiculous expectations like sticking my pinkie out when drinking tea and never needing the toilet in public. How can I not need the toilet with all that tea? Then there are the princess lessons. Like, ugh! The hours I’ve spent walking around balancing a blancmange on my head, you wouldn’t believe it. Seriously, being a princess is so dull I used to think about locking myself in a tower and throwing away the key.

  Thank the good goblin then for potato sacks. Because if I hadn’t been sliding down the stairs in a potato sack, I’d never have discovered the portal. And if I hadn’t gone through the portal, I wouldn’t have got my BMX. And if it wasn’t for BMX nothing would have changed . . .

  The day everything changed started out like every other day. I was in trouble again. I shut my eyes, but it was no use. When I opened them Dad was still there in the Grand Hall with his nose curled up like he’d just stood in something nasty. I call this his troll-poop face. He pulls it a lot. Today, as well as pulling the troll-poop face, he was doing the finger wag. The finger wag means I’m in real trouble.

  I sighed and climbed out of the potato sack I’d been sliding down the stairs in. My silver shoes clacking on the mosaic floor, I traipsed across the Grand Hall to where Dad was standing in his fur-trimmed cape next to a polished suit of armour. Clack. Clack. Clack. My footsteps sounded out my doom. I was so in for it now.

  Dad looked at my crumpled gown and shook his head.

  ‘Whatever next, Avariella!’ he said, taking his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and flicking open the lid. A tiny red cuckoo popped out of the watch face.

  ‘You’re late,’ it said.

  Dad took a deep breath. It seemed ages before he let it out again. ‘You were supposed to be ready ten minutes ago. What do you think you’re doing, sliding down the stairs in a vegetable sack?’

  I smoothed down my pink gown and gave him my best puppy-dog eyes – you know, the wide-eyed cute look that’s always a winner with grannies? Well, it wasn’t a winner with Dad.

  ‘And don’t look at me that way!’ he said, wagging his finger again. ‘I was very clear with my instructions – we must arrive at the Bubblegum Bazaar before the crowds.’ He pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘Really, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.’

  This was a lie because he clearly did know what to do with me. He did the same thing he does every time I’m in trouble, which is send me to my chambers. Originality is not one of Dad’s strong points. Mind, I can’t talk because I did the same thing I do whenever he grounds me. I pulled a sad face and made my way slowly up the stairs.

  Oh, don’t worry, I was only sad on the outside. Inside I was like yay, oh yay with unicorn bells on! I mean, what a result. What’s the point of travelling miles across the kingdom to a fete when you’re not allowed to join in with the fun stuff anyway? Much better to stay home sack-racing. But first I needed to make sure the coast was clear.

  I flung open the door to my room, kicked off my sparkly shoes and zoomed round the four-poster bed to the window. The second sun was rising and the sky was streaked with pink and orange. I opened the window and breathed in the sweet scent of chocolate blossom that grew in Biscotti all year round.

  Ooh, as well as having his best togs on, Dad was taking the fancy gold carriage. He was standing in front of the four white horses with my brother, Bertie, waiting for Mum. Bertie’s satin knickerbocker suit was the same shade of turquoise as the horses’ feathery headdresses. As for Mum’s latest fashion disaster, she looked like she’d borrowed her outfit from Little Bo Peep.

  She had Doreen tucked under her arm. The micro-unicorn’s long mane was brushed perfectly straight and the pearlescent bump, where her horn was yet to grow, glistened in the sun. Dad glared at Mum. It didn’t matter how cute Doreen looked with her gold-painted hooves: there was no way she was getting in the carriage with them. Last time we took Doreen with us on a royal visit, she bit the Earl of Bourbon and weed on his wife’s shoe.

  Dad wagged his finger at Mum – yep, I wasn’t the only one who got the finger wag! She put Doreen down and, laughing, shooed her back towards the palace. They all climbed into the carriage and the coachman cracked his long leather whip and pulled away. I waved, but they didn’t wave back.

  Sighing, I shut the window, tracing the route of the carriage on the leaded glass as it left Castello di Cannoli and raced across the drawbridge. Through the pink haze, I could see far across the kingdom: the colourful gingerbread houses and shops of Amaretti town; scattered villages formed of thatched cottages and farms; the stinky swampland where the giant ogres live; and far off in the distance, on the other side of the Black Forest, the cornfields and rolling meadows that lined the Limonadi River.

  The carriage was almost at the edge of town now. Some kids about my age chased it up the street. I turned away, fighting the familiar empty feeling in my chest. There was no point wishing. A princess is not expected to play with her subjects.

  Oh, whatever. It was time to get my potato sack back. And with the servants given the day off to go to the bazaar, this time nobody was going to ruin my fun.

  I don’t want to sound like a show-off, but I’m brilliant at sack-sledging. It’s all in the position. The lower your body the faster you go. Making sure I was sitting under the chandelier that marked the exact centre of the grand staircase, I climbed into my sack and popped the cushion I used as a bum protector into place. I pulled the rough fabric tight around me. Re
ady. Steady . . . Go for it!

  Yay, a most excellent take-off. Tugging the sack, I lifted my feet and flew off the bottom step hitting the floor with a thump. Whoosh! I sped past the stuffed grizzly bear and through the waiting area, lined with long wooden benches, until I reached the giant free-standing candelabras. There, I twisted the sack to the left and prepared for impact. Boom! Right on target – my feet hit the door to the ballroom with a thud and it creaked open.

  Mmm, what was that smell? It was sweet like toasted marshmallows. I climbed out of the sack and poked my head around the door. My puppy, Sir Jeffrey Bobbersons – Jeb for short – was standing in front of the marble fireplace which was decorated with the unicorn emblem of Biscotti.

  ‘Stop licking the hearth, Jeb.’ I scooped him up and hugged him, ruffling his long, dark curly fur. Yes, a curly-haired dog! I’d never seen one either until Mum gave me Jeb on National Jelly Bean Day. He’s a very rare breed though nobody seems to know what it is.

  ‘What has she dressed you in now?’ I said, straightening the mahoosive pink bow on his collar. His T-shirt was pink too. ‘Party Time’ said the slogan on the back.

  Jeb woofed and laid a sloppy kiss on my nose. A princess is not expected to let an animal lick her face, but like anybody could resist Jeb. Plus, he wasn’t just a dog, he was my best friend – my only friend, thanks to Dad.

  What was that marshmallow smell? Whoa – a weird purple mist was oozing from the fireplace.

  ‘Cool,’ I said. Mum and Dad must have decided to go ahead with the Bubblegum Ball this evening after all. Marshmallow mist, what a great way to decorate the room—

  There was a frantic bleating sound – a bit like a drowning goat – and something hit my shin: Doreen.

  ‘Careful, Do-Do,’ I said, putting Jeb down and extracting her head from my petticoat. ‘Go on, shoo.’

  Doreen bared her goofy teeth and butted me.

  ‘I mean it. Out of here before you get me into even more trouble.’

  Doreen is only allowed in certain rooms in the castle because, according to Dad, ‘she’s a ruddy liability’. She is pretty clumsy. I mean, microcorns are cute, but they were at the back of the queue when brains were handed out.

  ‘Help me, Jeb,’ I said. ‘Get her out of here.’

  Jeb woofed at Doreen and they pootled off, Jeb’s nails clicking on the parquet floor. He woofed a warning, but Doreen still managed to bump into the birdcage stand.

  ‘I am a potato,’ said the startled midnight mynah bird.

  The animals in Castello di Cannoli were not the brightest. Good job I had Jeb to rely on. He was always there for me, no matter what.

  The mist was thicker now, the smell of marshmallow so strong I could almost taste it. I ran my fingers through the shimmering haze and stuck my tongue out. Tiny drops of sweet marshmallow fizzed in my mouth. Arms out at the side of me like maypole ribbons, I twirled round and round in the sparkly party mist. It was so totally cool, like bouncing about inside a giant violet candyfloss . . .

  Erg, or maybe not . . . it was now more like being swallowed by the stuff. The sugar stuck in my nose and throat and made it hard to breathe . . . Oh my giddy goblin, I was drowning . . . drowning in a sea of candyfloss! I had to get out of there. I stumbled towards the door.

  And I mean literally stumbled. Suddenly, I was on my knees, my palms pressing against a cold, smooth surface. The fireplace – I’d tripped over the fireplace and landed on the hearth. I pushed myself up . . . That’s when I saw it: the mahoosive hole where the grate should have been. I swished the fog away to get a better look. It was like peering through a telescope: in the distance, beyond the tube of darkness, there was a perfect circle of light where I could see blue sky, grass, a river and buildings . . . It was just like being in the palace watchtower looking down across the kingdom.

  Only this wasn’t Biscotti I could see. There were way too many buildings. Thousands of them, packed tightly together along the banks of a curiously straight river. My heart beating like fairy wings, I thought about the stories Great-aunt Maude had told me about bad magic – bad magic that never ends well for princesses. I edged away from the hearth.

  There was an excited bark behind me. Claws clicked on the wooden floor and a bundle of black fluff emerged from the fog.

  ‘No!’ I shouted.

  But it was too late. Jeb ran straight towards the fireplace and jumped into the hole.

  OK, thinking about it, following Jeb into the hole probably wasn’t the most sensible thing I’ve ever done. But I didn’t get a chance to think about it. Jeb jumped, I followed, and next thing I was sitting on the floor in a patch of weeds waiting for my tummy to catch up with the rest of my body. Like, what had just happened? I felt as if I’d been fed through the laundry mangle, twirled around and spat back out again.

  I poked my head above the weeds and took a look around. My neck hairs prickled. Where in the name of the good goblin was I? The river I’d seen through the hole was in front of me. It was dirty and covered in algae. On the opposite bank there were some tall, rectangular houses with flat roofs. Cool, but like totally strange.

  ‘Jeb, are you OK?’ I called. ‘Jeb?’

  My heart was going to burst out of my chest – I couldn’t see him anywhere. It didn’t exactly look like ogre territory, but you never knew . . .

  ‘Jeb—’

  And then I saw him. He was sniffing around under an arched bridge. The bridge was covered in weird paintings and people had written their names all over it in big letters. It must have been some kind of charm or something. It gave me the shivers.

  ‘Jeb, come here, boy,’ I called.

  Jeb lifted his head but then ran off down the flat paved riverbank.

  Growling griffins, that puppy of mine was spending too much time with Doreen. I picked up the hem of my petticoat and legged it after him. He stopped sniffing and wagged his tail, but when I tried to grab him, he ran towards a black-and-white signpost, where he stopped and did a wee. The sign pointed to somewhere called King’s Cross. Panic over! The king of the realm was bound to know Mum and Dad.

  ‘All right, princess,’ a voice called to me from a pea-green boat covered in pots of flowers. Princess? Maybe the person on the houseboat knew Mum and Dad. I picked Jeb up and stepped towards it.

  I stepped back again. The voice belonged to the scariest man I’d ever seen. The sides of his head were bald, and he had a line of green spikes running from the back of his neck to his forehead. He stared at me, wearing the same quizzical expression as Bertie when he’s studying advanced algebra.

  ‘You all right, luv?’

  Oh my giddy goblin, one of his teeth was made of gold. Yes, I know, gold! Honestly, I’m not making this up.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Been to a fancy-dress party, have we?’ He pointed at my gown.

  Fancy dress? What was with this strange man? My dress had been made by the finest tailor in Biscotti. But I didn’t bother to tell him that. I figured someone wearing a ripped vest and trousers held together with safety pins probably wouldn’t care.

  Plus, I wasn’t allowed to talk to strangers unless I was with Mum or Dad. I continued along the path.

  ‘Wait,’ he called out behind me.

  Unlikely. This was one of those occasions when even Dad wouldn’t expect a princess to remember her manners.

  There weren’t as many houseboats now, instead the path was lined with tall, flat-fronted buildings with metal balconies. Some of the buildings were covered in weird drawings like the bridge: a purple skull, an eye with a gold crown on it and a giant fist. What did it all mean?

  Still, not to worry, according to the signs I’d soon be at King’s Cross. I just needed to find the king, tell him who I was and everything would be as cool as a snow-troll with no clothes on. I could tell I was getting close because there were more people about now. It must have been some sort of festival because they were dressed in really weird outfits. Oooh, maybe there’d be cake! I tr
otted along the bank as fast as I could without running. A princess is not expected to run in the street.

  The path climbed upwards towards a metal footbridge. To my left there was a busy marketplace and to the right some shops with tables outside where people sat in the sunshine eating and drinking. Right it was, then. No way was I going through the market. A princess is not expected to fight her way through the crowds.

  Halfway across the bridge, I stopped. There was a strange humming noise. I stood up on my tippy toes, trying to see over the wall opposite, but all I could see was people’s heads and a sign that said ‘Camden Lock’. Troll poop, I really hoped I hadn’t gone the wrong way. I lifted my skirt tail and scurried past the shops and through the narrow gap at the end of the wall.

  Oh. My. Curly. Candy. What magic was this? A line of metal carriages with no horses moved slowly along a smooth grey road. I’d seen pictures of these noisy, mechanical carriages called cars in storybooks but I thought they were make-believe. The books said cars could travel really fast, but these didn’t. They crawled along.

  And it wasn’t just the cars that were strange. There were shops all around me. They were three storeys high, but the stuff they were selling was outside on the street. The shops were painted different colours – purple, turquoise, pink and orange – but they didn’t look pretty. Everything was too higgledy-piggledy. The shopkeepers would never get away with that in Biscotti. Not with Dad’s rules and regulations.

  And why was everyone in such a hurry? Lines of people pounded along the pavement. They were much quicker than the cars, which made zero sense.

  ‘Watch it,’ said a girl with short, pale pink hair.

  Like you watch it – you’re the one who just bumped into me. But I didn’t say that to her. She was far too scary. She rubbed her elbow and blew a strawberry-scented chewing-gum bubble right in my face. She had a silver ring through her nose. Yes, a nose ring like a bull! I repeat, a nose ring like a bull!

  I walked on down the high street. It was kind of cool, but, like the girl, everything was really shouty. Music – if you could call it that – blared from a parked car and people hung around outside the shops talking in loud voices. Even the shops themselves had opinions: SUPERIOR PIERCING AND TATTOO, DON’T MISS OUR UNBEATABLE OFFERS, THE BEST FISH AND CHIPS IN LONDON. None of it made sense.