by Various
The Frog-Footman pounded out of the library, almost squashing the Dormouse into a dormouse-patty, which I would’ve been most upset about, since trampled-dormouse does have the unfortunate habit of staining the floor.
It had been some time since I had seen the Dormouse. He rarely leaves his residence at the Mad Hatter’s tea-party table.
‘Dormouse!’ I exclaimed. ‘How can I help you, my little friend?’
The Dormouse looked around the library to make sure he wasn’t about to be trodden on before clearing his throat.
‘I’m looking for a book on tea,’ he said. ‘Specifically tea parties.’
‘I have seven books here,’ I said. ‘I know just the book for you.’
‘If you just point me in the direction of the “T” aisle, I am sure I can find what I’m looking for,’ he said hurriedly.
‘That won’t do, Dormouse. Books can be a terrible thing without proper guidance,’ I explained. ‘You see, the “T” books contain a lot of information about golf tees but very little about tea parties.’
‘Oh,’ the little creature said. ‘Where would the tea-party book be, then?’
‘Now, this is quite the conundrum,’ I continued. ‘You may need a book about leaves—’
‘But I don’t want to find out about trees. I want to find out about tea,’ the Dormouse said.
‘And how would you make tea without leaves?’ I questioned.
‘Ah,’ the Dormouse said. ‘So in which section will I find the books about leaves?’
‘I’m afraid the leaves book has no information about parties. The party books are, of course, in the section for Partlies.’
‘Partlies?’ the Dormouse scoffed. ‘Surely, that’s not a word!’
‘Of course it is. And there is a whole book dedicated to it,’ I explained slowly to the simple mouse. ‘It’s a rather large book, I’m afraid – far too big for your paws, as it covers parties but also partly covers other things.’
‘What other things?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I replied, shrugging my shoulders. ‘I’m only partly the way through it.’
‘Do you have a smaller book about parties?’ he asked, shaking his head. The whiskers above his nose trembled like guitar strings as he got increasingly agitated. ‘This library makes no sense at all!’
‘Don’t despair, Dormouse,’ I reassured him, though I was quite miffed about his comment on my library. I chose to forgive the creature, as all good librarians do. ‘I have books about small parties. Small books about parties. Small books about small parties—’
‘This sounds like a lot more than seven books,’ the Dormouse interrupted.
I leaned in close to the furry creature. ‘That’s because there are stories within stories, and stories within those.’
The Dormouse threw up his tiny arms. ‘Never mind, Mock Turtle. I shall find what I need myself.’
‘A book, you must understand, can be a terrible thing,’ I repeated, calling out after him.
He darted across the library, through section after section, scampering over the spines and hopping between my seven books as I hurried behind.
He settled on the book about leaves. A good book. A leading book on the subject of leaves. But when a book does not have the information one is looking for, one can be sucked into the wrong story, and what lies beyond can be mind-goggling.
As all inexperienced knowledge-seekers do, the Dormouse opened the book and disappeared inside.
‘Dormouse?’ I called out as the book closed shut behind him.
As I suspected, he had fallen into the wrong book, lost in a web of words and sentences he didn’t need, and it would be some time until we saw him again.
If ever.
That is why you must trust your librarian guide. A good library needs a good librarian and, without one, what awaits can be quite terrible.
‘Dormouse?’ I called again. ‘Dormouse?’ I scoured the pages, one by one, looking for a lost creature among the leaves.
The library doors swung open again, and the Pigeon swooped in, bustling her babies for the toddler singalong and story time. She was a friendly bird, and we got along well, though I always had to remind myself not to mention my friend Alice as the Pigeon did not share my sentiment for the girl. Silly Alice had made the mistake of saying she enjoyed eating an egg or two when she’d met the Pigeon. She may as well have said, ‘I’d rather like to eat your babies, alongside a cheese-and-pigeon-feather sandwich.’
‘I must apologize,’ I said to the Pigeon. ‘I’m running rather late for the babies’ sing-song. The Dormouse has disappeared into a book.’
‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘In fact, I came across a book that needed returning, so perhaps I can help by putting the book away for you.’
‘I don’t believe this book is one of mine,’ I said, glancing momentarily at the book but continuing to turn pages, trying to locate the lost Dormouse. ‘I can account for all the books in my library. Perhaps someone else is missing a book?’
I left the Pigeon to tend to her squawking babies and continued to search for the Dormouse.
The Pigeon and her babies didn’t stay long. The thing about squabs is that they are often hungry, and in a library like mine, full of juicy bookworms, I will not stand for beaks pecking at book spines, hunting for food. The Pigeon knew this, having been fined in the past, and herded up her children quickly before they could sniff out the juiciest of the worms.
The close of the day crept up on me, as it often does, and I did what every good librarian does at that time after leaving their readers deep within the pages of their chosen books (where I was sure the Dormouse was probably feeling quite at home): I selected a book for myself and headed down to the beach.
What had I missed? What hadn’t I noticed? Who would want to commit such a crime? I replayed the day leading to the missing book again.
The Gryphon. The Frog-Footman. The Dormouse. The Pigeon.
The Gryphon. The Frog-Footman. The Dormouse—
Just then, the library doors swung open, and the Gryphon burst in. ‘I have read the stories you gave me yesterday, and I greatly enjoyed them,’ he announced. ‘Now, I would like to borrow another.’
The tears began to roll down my cheeks, soaking my flippers as I wiped at my eyes.
‘Oh, Gryphon,’ I sobbed. ‘There is a missing book.’
He waited for me to dry my eyes. I filled him in on all that had happened the previous day and the sudden appearance of the missing book.
‘How could this happen?’ he demanded.
I told him about how I had counted the books, one through to seven, and how I had then seen a book on the Missing Book shelf. And how seven books were no longer seven but instead seven and one.
‘Have you retraced your steps?’ the Gryphon asked.
‘Well, of course I have,’ I snapped. ‘It’s only the first thing one must do in their search for a lost item.’
I spoke of the visits from the Frog-Footman, the Dormouse and the Pigeon, and how they’d only led me right back to the Missing Books shelf and my unsolved conundrum.
‘What kind of librarian allows a book to go missing?’ I wailed.
I bawled a while longer as the Gryphon was unusually tender and rubbed my shell, like a mother soothes her child. He then tapped my head and cleared his throat.
‘This shelf?’ he asked gently, waving a wing at the ledge. ‘This shelf right here?’
My gaze followed the direction of the Gryphon’s large wing.
It was empty.
EMPTY!
The shelf was clear, hollow and dark. I jumped up and stuck my head right through the gap. In fact, the entire shelf was missing, just as any good Missing Book shelf should be. No spines, no pages, not even a splinter. The missing book was no longer on the missing shelf, which meant only one thing: it had been found. The book had an owner, a reader, someone to peruse its pages. This, as all librarians would agree, is truly a joyful moment.
‘The book
has been found!’ I cried with glee.
The Gryphon grabbed my flippers, and we danced in circles as the tears that rolled upon my cheeks danced their own happy dance.
‘What was the name of the missing book?’ the Gryphon asked, as we slowed to a waltz.
I sat a moment and thought. ‘I think it was a book stamped Return to Wonderland,’ I replied slowly. I suddenly remembered the Pigeon saying she had found a book that needed to be returned.
I turned to the Gryphon and smiled. ‘I believe now it has found its reader.’
Roll of Honour
by Patrice Lawrence
I first read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland more than forty years ago and one of the most memorable scenes is the croquet game. What must it be like pottering around a grass field waiting to be thwacked by a flamingo? So, I thought, what if you were from a family of renowned croquet balls? How do you prepare if you know you have to face a very cross Duchess, an even crosser Queen and a positively furious flamingo? Suddenly, Honour Roll was born!
Patrice Lawrence
Dear Diary,
You now belong to me. I’ve written my name – Honour – across your front, in case you forget. You are the last diary that Nana’s ever going to get me. She says that time has a habit of running away from her, and all that chasing diaries up and down our street is making her joints hurt. Luckily you’re quite a tame diary and happy for me to write in you. Please don’t close your pages too quickly. I’ve got a fresh bottle of ink, and I’m using my best quill. I don’t want everything to smudge.
I’m going to start by telling you about my family. We are the Rolls. I live with Mum, Dad, my nana and most of my brothers and sisters. My baby brothers are called Tuckan and Rockan. My older brother, Cheese, left the nest last month. He’s on his nap year, trying out new hibernation spots across Wonderland. I share a bedroom with my older sister, Spring, if sharing a room means I get a patch about the size of Tuckan’s nose, while Spring takes over the rest of it.
And there’s me, of course. I’m Honour. Honour Roll.
We live along High Hedges with an array of other hedgehogs and curious animals. Mr Simeon, our neighbour on the right, is a skink. He does house repairs around Wonderland with his friend Bill. They’re usually over at the Duchess’s mansion because the cook’s got a bit of a temper and keeps breaking things.
Mr Simeon’s granddaughter, Taliqua, is in my class at school. The first time I met her, she stuck her tongue out at me. I almost drop-rolled on the spot. Her tongue’s blue! She’s not as weird as her friend Gertrude, though. She’s a gecko and licks her own eyeballs.
High Hedges is a long street on the top of a hill with fields sloping down either side. Rockan and Tuckan’s bedroom is at the back of the nest, and all the fields you can see out their window belong to the Queen of Hearts. Mine and Spring’s room looks out over the Duchess’s fields, right down to her pepper orchard at the bottom.
The Queen and the Duchess are always arguing. Nana says that they’ve been like that for as long as she can remember. Luckily they haven’t had a battle since I’ve been born. I’m glad of that. High Hedges would be right in the middle of it.
But that’s enough about my family and my home. There’s something important happening this week. It’s Wonderland’s Spiky Animal Try-outs. Yes! The SATs. In Teardrop Bay, the urchins are learning their quadrilles to see who will get to dance with the turtles. Down past the Queen’s palace in Wellington Deep, the spiny mice are running tale-telling competitions to see who can tell the most boring story. Last year, the winner was so boring that the dormouse who was judging it fell asleep and never properly woke up.
We hedgehogs are trying out for the Queen of Hearts’s croquet game. The Queen’s croquet games are special. The mallets are elite fighter flamingos from the Queen’s private flock. The hoops are soldiers, who keep shuffling about. And we – we are the balls. It’s a long-standing tradition that a member of the Roll family is always selected for the top team. When Mum and Dad were hoglets, they were part of the High Hedges Sonic Six, famous for their speed and swerving skills. Last year, Spring won the Best Shot trophy, when the King of Hearts sent her flying through three hoops in a row. Even Cheese made it to the top team and managed to stop the Duchess from winning by spiking a hoop’s ankle. The soldier had to go to first aid for a plaster.
The Queen has to win. All hedgehogs know that, and so do the flamingos. That means the flamingos should pretend to hit us and trust us to roll the right way. Unfortunately, some flamingos really do like hitting us.
Dad’s final game was famous. A really grumpy flamingo called Fred was the mallet. Fred really hated hedgehogs. Mum told us it was horrible to watch – Fred would arch his neck back as far as possible and swing down, beak first, like he was trying to chop Dad in half. Dad always managed to get away, except that last time. One of his prickles got caught on a clump of mud and wouldn’t budge. He just had to curl up as tightly as he could.
Fred really wasn’t expecting that. He was used to Dad rolling away at the last second. Fred slammed right into Dad and, well, Dad said he never knew that flamingos could make sounds like that. They had to take Fred away on a stretcher. Mum reckoned he looked like a giant pink salt shaker.
Fred retired, but he has a granddaughter called Inigo. She’s playing in this year’s competition. She hates hedgehogs as much as her granddad does.
Please don’t tell anyone, Diary, but I don’t know if I want to try out for the SATs. I’m a bit scared. I’m not fast or brave or clever like everyone else in my family. I don’t want to face a frumious flamingo looking for revenge.
Dear Diary,
Thank you for opening at the right page. I’m really sorry I shut you in the drawer for the last couple of days. I’ve been trying to practise my croquet moves, but I’m still terrible.
The SATs are tomorrow.
After school today, I met up with my best friends, Dua and Duo Hartley. They’re the Queen’s butler’s niece and nephew. They’re also cards, so they know the deal. We found a spot near a deserted bandersnatch burrow halfway down the slope between High Hedges and the Duchess’s pepper orchard. The fields near the pepper orchard can get a bit sneezy if the wind’s blowing the wrong way. Today, there was just a little tingle, but not much else.
We started with the easy rolls. Duo and Dua took three steps away from each other, lifted their arms and leaned forward until they were palm to palm. I practised rolling towards them and going through. Except, I couldn’t go through, no matter how wide apart they were. As soon as I got to the top of the hill, I couldn’t control how fast I came down again and whizzed straight past the hoop. Every time.
As I trundled up the hill for the eleventh time, I heard a honk.
‘Nice try, Spike Head.’
Inigo the flamingo swooped down and landed on the slope between me and the twins. She clapped her wings together slowly.
‘I heard you Rolls were supposed to be the best! You’ve definitely gone downhill. That’s going to make my granddad so happy.’ Inigo swished her neck to and fro. ‘You will be pleased to know that I’ve been making my own preparations for the game.’
Inigo lunged forward and headbutted the ground. It made a loud thud. As she straightened up, the sun glinted off her head. She was wearing a pink crash helmet.
Dua clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘That’s cheating!’
‘How can it be cheating? I belong to the Queen, and the Queen makes the rules.’ Inigo tapped the helmet with her wing tip. ‘This is made from the strongest jabberwocky claw. It’s completely hedgehog-proof and very, very hard.’
I felt myself bristle. ‘I still think it’s cheating.’
‘Are you scared?’ Inigo hopped closer to me and pushed her beaky face close to mine. ‘Because you should be.’
Inigo soared up and away towards the Queen of Hearts’s palace.
‘Well,’ Dua said. Her face was creased and red. ‘That was just rude!’
I nodded, bu
t I didn’t feel like practising any more. Now I was even more scared than ever.
Dear Diary,
I’m sorry it’s been three days. I haven’t got bored and forgotten you like Nana said I would. Please believe me.
So much has happened since the last time I wrote. Well, first, I got through the SATs! I think I should feel happier about it than I do, but then I’m not so sure because everyone got through. Madame Pierce, my teacher, says they need more hedgehogs this year because there’s going to be an epic battle between the Queen and the Duchess. That’s because of the second thing that happened.
I was woken up the day after my rolling practice by a blast of trumpets. It sounded like they were coming from the pepper orchard. I peered out of my window. And then I sneezed so loud I woke up Spring. She rubbed her eyes and started sneezing too. It wasn’t just us. I could hear Mum and Dad – and little baby sneezes from Tuckan and Rockan.
We rushed outside. I thought I was still asleep because the pepper orchard wasn’t at the bottom of the hill any more. It was halfway up and moving closer to us. High Hedges was filled with the sound of animals chattering and sneezing, trying to work out what was going on.
Mr Simeon emerged from his burrow. He slapped his hand to his forehead, making his eyes pop. ‘So, it’s really happening, then.’
The animals stopped chattering. (Though none of us could stop sneezing.)
‘What do you mean?’ Mum asked.
‘You know I’ve been fixing things at the Duchess’s house? Well, there I was, hammering in some brackets in the kitchen, when who should come on a visit? The Knave of Hearts. He acts the joker, but I’ve never trusted him. He hands the Duchess a scroll. The Duchess reads it, looks like she’s going to explode and then tears it into tiny pieces. I catch the Knave as he’s on his way out. This time, the Queen’s said that if she wins she’s going to take the Duchess’s house and pepper orchards as a prize—’
Mr Simeon had to stop talking then because the sneezing was getting too loud.
‘If she wins?’ Mum said. ‘The Queen always wins!’