by Adam Baron
‘You’re scratching your head.’
‘So?’ I turned back to Bart and Homer. ‘It’s itchy and scratchy.’
Mum frowned. ‘How itchy and scratchy?’
I said it was pretty much TOTALLY itchy and scratchy, actually, and Mum groaned.
‘I thought we were done with those!’
‘Those?’
‘Nits,’ she exclaimed. ‘Head lice. Now I think of it, Mabel’s been scratching too. Come on!’
And I had to stop watching The Simpsons and go up to the bathroom. Mum washed my hair and again I wished I was a Tudor, only getting this once a year. Mum’s done this loads of times, though she still managed to get LOADS of soap in my eyes.
‘That’s your fault! For wriggling.’
‘But I always wriggle,’ I said. ‘How come you haven’t got used to it by now?!’
After that, she made the hair washing pointless anyway, because she practically yanked it all out with this evil steel comb. She showed me all the creepy-crawlies she’d found and there were loads of them – all from Mabel. And they’d been living there, scurrying about and laying eggs, on MY head! The idea was DISGUSTING, as if my head was some sort of nit hotel. My only consolation was that Ellen and Mabel had to have their hair done too.
Though NOTHING could make up for what happened on Thursday night. So, if you found the nits revolting, I’d advise you to skip the next bit.
On Thursday night I was getting ready for bed – excited about the next day. But I started feeling itchy again, and this time it wasn’t my head.
It was somewhere else.
Mabel started it. We were in the bathroom, cleaning our teeth, only she was cleaning hers with one hand and scratching herself (somewhere else) with the other. When Ellen came in to clean her teeth, I saw that she was scratching herself too (somewhere else). And that made me want to scratch myself (somewhere else). I did, and Mum saw us all doing it. And she took me off into my bedroom.
‘Cym,’ she said, ‘I’m …’
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘Going to have to check your bottom.’
I stared at her. ‘My …?’
‘Bottom, Cym. It’s itching, isn’t it?’
‘Probably just sore. From football.’
‘I don’t think so. It’s probably Mabel again.’
‘What is?’
But Mum didn’t answer. She just knelt down behind me and pulled my PJs down. Then she said, ‘Yes, thought so.’
‘You thought what?’
‘Well, it’s … worms.’
‘WORMS?!’
‘Yes. Mabel probably brought them …’
‘Wait!’ I said, not really able to believe what I was hearing. ‘You’re telling me that you can see worms?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘In my bottom?’
‘Yes. Nematode worms. Though not in. I can’t look in your bottom, obviously. They’re more …’
‘What? WHAT, MUM?’
‘Crawling out,’ she said.
‘THERE ARE WORMS CRAWLING OUT OF MY BOTTOM?!!!!!!!!!! BECAUSE OF MABEL?!!!!!’
‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘I’m sorry to say that there are.’
And she made me put pants on before forcing me to drink this DISGUSTING yellow liquid.
‘Night, Thimbeline!’ said Mabel ten minutes later.
I slammed my bedroom door. Then I got into bed, the following thought hammering through my brain until I was asleep.
…
And they all
look like Mabel.
On Friday morning, though, I forgot about it because it was polling day.
And, if my plan came off, then this hideous life I’d been living for what seemed like years now would soon be over.
I didn’t say anything at breakfast about Dad coming with us to Hall Place. I just stayed in my pyjamas, to demonstrate to Ellen that I was not in ANY sort of hurry that morning (unlike her, ha ha ha, etc.). Stephan chivvied her and Mabel to go and get dressed while I just smiled.
‘Have a gr-e-a-t d-a-y,’ I said, when they were ready. ‘At sch-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-l.’
‘Aren’t you sad?’ Mabel wondered, as Stephan zipped her coat up. ‘School is WONDERFUL.’
‘I’ll get over it,’ I said, before going up to Ellen, whose face was like a plank. ‘Here. Take this for your packed lunch. I found some after all.’
I handed her a chocolate finger and then they left for school.
‘Right,’ Mum said, looking a little nervous for some reason. ‘I suppose we’d better get going then, hadn’t we?’
I nodded and ran upstairs to wake Dad up. After that, I got dressed and grabbed a bag, sliding my picture of the Phoenix Medal inside. I also stuffed some of my favourite Subbuteo men in, plus Not Mr Fluffy.
‘What are you bringing those for?’ Mum asked.
‘Safety,’ I said. I had no idea when we’d be back and whether Ellen would be home before me.
We had to wait for Dad, but eventually he was ready. I thought we’d drive, but Mum said she didn’t want to make unnecessary car journeys. I was glad – it meant that we’d have more time together, which we did – on the top deck of the 53. And Dad was SO funny. When the bus stopped in front of us, we clambered up the stairs, me sitting next to Mum, Dad in the seat in front.
‘D’you know something about buses, Cym?’ he asked, turning round.
‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘What?’
‘Well.’ Dad looked round at all the seats. ‘The bus has wheels. And these wheels, which are ON the bus, go ROUND. They go round and round, round and round. The wheels on the bus go …’
‘Dad,’ I said.
‘And round and round and round and round. Then they go round and round. Did you know that?’
‘Dad! Don’t be silly …’
‘And –’ he held up a finger – ‘that’s not all. Sometimes there are babies on the bus. What you may not know is that they go, “Wah, wah, wah!” Can you believe that?’
‘Dad! That lady can hear you.’ I ducked behind him because someone really was looking at us.
‘Well, I’m glad because she looks to me like a mummy. And the mummies on the bus do something too. They go, “Nod, nod, nod”.’
‘This mummy does,’ Mum said, trying not to laugh for some reason. I was laughing, though, and so was the lady who’d overheard us. ‘What do the Out-of-Work Actors on the bus do?’ Mum asked.
‘Phone their agents,’ Dad said. ‘ALL DAY LONG.’
I asked what an agent was, but Dad didn’t hear. Instead, he did loads of other people on the bus, including me (‘Charlton, Charlton, Charlton’), Mr Fells (‘Stop that, stop that, stop that’) and Mabel (‘Unicorn, unicorn, unicorn’).
‘What does Stephan do?’ I laughed. Dad thought about it.
‘He goes, “Hammer! Hammer! Hammer!” And not just all day long. He does it most evenings too.’
I really laughed then because that was SO true, though for some reason Mum didn’t get into it. She was being a bit stiff, like she wasn’t quite there with us. Or pretending not to be there. She couldn’t pretend at Hall Place, though, because when we got there Dad was SPECTACULAR.
The bus dropped us off about ten minutes’ walk away. I was in the middle, holding Mum and Dad’s hands. My mum and dad split up when I was a baby and I’d never, EVER, not ONCE walked with them like that. It was so GREAT, especially when Dad ran forward and they swung me. After that – and probably because Mum wasn’t laughing anyway – Dad stopped being silly. Instead, he pointed out this big bird in an oak tree.
‘The one with blue on its wings?’
‘That’s right, Cym. It’s a jay,’ Dad said.
Mum frowned. ‘Didn’t know you were into birds.’
‘Played a birdwatcher once,’ he explained. ‘Had to gen up.’
‘Was that on TV?’ I asked.
Dad said it was, and told us about all the things he was ‘up for’ at the moment, the acting jobs that he was hoping to do.
�
��And if you get in that film,’ I asked, ‘will you be rich?’
‘Minted! What colour yacht shall I buy?’
‘Red, because of Charlton. Though it can’t be too big.’
‘What?! Why not?’
‘Because then no one can invade it. It’ll just be for us. Make sure there’s an art studio for Mum, though.’
‘Sure,’ Dad said, and he smiled across at Mum, though she bit her lip for some reason, and looked away. After that, he pointed at a robin.
‘I know that one!’ I said.
‘And that’s a dog.’
‘Dad!’
‘And that’s a lamp post, in case you were wondering.’
I shook my head and kept hold of both their hands and it was brilliant, though at Hall Place there was a PROBLEM.
There were two coaches outside the big Tudor house and I should have realised what that meant. I didn’t until we were standing at reception.
‘Sorry,’ the man behind the desk said, as Mum was reaching for her purse. ‘It’s just school visits on Mondays and Fridays.’
‘Really?’
‘It does say on our website.’
Mum sighed. ‘We’ve come a long way, though. Couldn’t we just tag on to a school?’
The man looked horrified. ‘Insurance,’ he said. ‘Quite impossible.’
‘I am a teacher,’ Mum said. ‘At a different school, yes, but …’
‘Sorry. Only official school visits are—’
‘But we are here for a school visit,’ Dad said.
Mum and I turned to Dad, and so did the man. ‘You are?’ He looked behind Dad for a line of kids, which obviously wasn’t there.
‘Indeed,’ Dad insisted. ‘I’m …’
‘Yes?’
Dad swallowed. ‘Henry the Eighth.’
‘You’re …?’
‘Henry the Eighth. In the … story workshop. I’m booked from eleven to one.’
‘Booked?’
‘Yes,’ Dad insisted, before turning to Mum. ‘Janet, did you bring the booking confirmation?’
‘What?’
‘She’s forgotten.’ Dad sighed. ‘My agent. She’s new. And this is my son. His school’s a polling station today so I’ve had to bring him along.’
‘Right. I see. Well, I need to check.’
The man turned to his computer screen, which I thought would obviously get us thrown out. But Dad did something SO cool. He slid a hand through to the back of the screen while the man wasn’t looking, and unplugged it from the rest of the computer! The man frowned.
‘Oh!’
‘What is it?’ Dad asked, his voice all cheerful. ‘Have you found me?’
‘No. System’s gone down. Third time this week.’
‘Really?’ Dad sighed. ‘Technology, eh? Probably the hard drive.’
‘The …?’
‘Hard drive. Yes. Terrible things, hard drives. Anyway, we’ll just mooch around until it’s up and running again. This way, is it?’ Dad pointed towards the main room where kids in blue jumpers were already filing in.
‘Yes. Though …’
‘Don’t worry,’ Dad said. ‘We can find our way.’ And, with that, he drew Mum and me away from the desk and in through the big doors.
‘You’re outrageous,’ Mum hissed, as our feet clomped across the wooden floor.
‘You’re brilliant!’ I said.
Dad tricking us in felt great. I grabbed an activity board from a hook on the wall and told Dad where we needed to start. We went up this narrow back staircase into a room with an amazing tiled ceiling. I was about to tell Dad some of the things I’d learned before, but I didn’t need to. He told us things.
‘The Tudors often had two sleeps,’ he said. ‘They went to bed really early because it was expensive to light their houses. They’d wake up in the night and do things for a couple of hours, before going back to bed again.’ He told us what they ate, and how their clothes had holes in the armpits for the sweat to go through. He knew it all because of a different acting job, though it wasn’t on Horrible Histories unfortunately. Still, I was dead impressed, though Mum wasn’t (or at least she wasn’t admitting it). I was annoyed with her. Why couldn’t she just get into it? It was so fabulous being here together, but she was being all sniffy with Dad, and suspicious of him, when all he was being was funny. She couldn’t resist him for long, though.
‘Ah,’ the man from the reception said, finding us down in the kitchens. ‘There you are. You’d better come along or you’ll be late.’
‘Late?’ Dad said.
‘For your workshop.’
‘My …?’
‘Workshop! Henry the Eighth. Computer’s still on the blink and I can’t confirm, so we’d better just go ahead. Wouldn’t want you to waste the journey. I’ve spoken to the teachers who are here and fixed it up with them. We’ve got four schools waiting in the main hall and the fifth are just sitting down. All very excited. Did you bring your own costume, or do you want to use one of ours?’
Dad stared at the man and went SO white. The man was obviously waiting for Dad to answer, but he couldn’t, so Mum did it for him.
‘Fabulous!’ she said. ‘We’ll come right along, won’t we? The kids are in for a real treat! It’ll be just like going back in time.’
‘Excellent. Well, come on then,’ said the man.
Dad jerked into life and, with a look of horror on his face, he followed the man out of the room. Mum and I followed too – NO WAY we were missing this – until the man took Dad off into some back rooms. Mum and I went into the main hall again where the kids from the five schools were kneeling on the floor, their different-coloured jumpers making them look like a giant, fidgety flag. It was strange to see them all in uniform and me not, and I felt a bit shy, especially as we didn’t sit on the floor but on a couple of chairs at the side. It only lasted a few minutes, though, because Mum suddenly grabbed my arm, her eyes like MOONS as she stared –
At Henry VIII.
Dad had a full costume on: yellow tights, padded trousers, puffy jacket and ginger beard. He jumped on to a little stage, put his hands on his hips and ROARED.
‘Bow! I am your king! Bow, you naughty knaves!’
Dad glared at us all and we had no choice: we all scrambled to our feet (adults included) and bowed.
‘Now,’ Dad said, once we were sitting down again, ‘I am going to tell you about my life. You will sit there and be impressed. Meanwhile, I expect your full attention. And that means EVERYONE!’
Dad bellowed the last word out and strode towards the edge of the room where a teacher had snuck her mobile phone out.
‘Sorry,’ she said, looking a bit scared. Dad nodded as she shoved it into her handbag.
‘So,’ Dad said, ‘I am the King of England, old Henry’s second son. Who can tell me which Henry he was?’
A boy at the front said, ‘Seventh?’
‘Excellent,’ Dad said. ‘You are very clever. You can be my Lord Chancellor. You will build a big house like Cardinal Wolsey did, and I will steal it from you. Meanwhile, we are at my palace in Greenwich. My brother Arthur has just died. Cry, you knaves!’
We all cried.
‘That’s enough. I am king now so you must all be very happy. I have a problem, though. I have a kingdom and many palaces, but I need something else? What?’
A girl put her hand up this time and Dad nodded. ‘Yes, my dear?’
‘A wee.’
‘What? I need a wee?’
‘No,’ the girl said. ‘I do.’
We all waited until the girl came back (she was bright red). Dad asked her again if she knew what HE needed.
‘A wife?’
‘Indeed! I need a wife. Madam, if you will?’
Dad was still standing near the scared teacher – and he held his hand out. The teacher shrank back and said, ‘No way,’ – but there was no denying Dad. He turned to the teacher’s school.
‘You lot, in Yorkist white. Should this maiden be my wife?’
‘YES!’ they all screamed.
And so, blushing like mad, the teacher let Dad lead her on to the little stage. First he looked her up and down, and then he grimaced.
‘What does Adidas mean?’ he said, staring at her hoody. Then he just shrugged and did the most embarrassing thing. He started this RIDICULOUS dancing, all round the teacher, which he told us was something called ‘courtship’. Then he declared that the teacher was actually Catherine of Aragon and that she had a job to do.
‘We are now married. I’m sure you’re very pleased. So I want a baby, and I want one FAST. Go over there and have one, please.’
The kids all laughed and the teacher blushed again. She did as she was told, though, scurrying in the direction Dad was pointing, which was actually towards us. Mum lifted up my bag.
‘Give her your teddy,’ she said. ‘For a baby!’
That was a great idea and I pulled out Not Mr Fluffy. I handed him to the teacher who took him back to Dad. Dad was delighted, but, after he’d pretended to inspect Not Mr Fluffy, his look turned to horror.
‘But this is a GIRL!’ he said (though Not Mr Fluffy is a boy!). ‘Never mind. We shall call it Mary but, Madame, I am not pleased. I probably should have made it clear – I need a BOY baby. Go away and have another one. A BOY this time.’
The teacher, however, shook her head.
‘What?’ Dad said. ‘No boy?’
‘Sorry.’
‘I see. Well, in that case …’ Dad stuck his finger out like that man on the telly. ‘You’re fired! Go and live in a country house somewhere while I find a new wife. Go on, go on!’ He shooed the teacher off the stage and then stared round the audience.
‘You’ll do!’ he said.
The teacher Dad was pointing at now was fairly round, and quite old. I expected her to resist – like the first one had – but she was UP for it. She said, ‘Yippee!’ and skipped up on to the stage. Dad immediately did his prancing again, which was even more hilarious than before. The teacher started acting all coy, though, turning her head away and refusing when Dad puckered his lips up and closed his eyes, clearly wanting a kiss. Dad had to dance even more, shouting out that her beauty was beyond compare – before having an idea. He started to sing ‘Greensleeves’. He belted it out in fact, his voice echoing round the big room until the teacher melted. Dad took hold of her hand.